Comanche Moon

by Catherine Anderson

  ‘‘You will make trade?’’ he whispered.

  Loretta’s breath snagged, and she swallowed. As horrid as Hunter’s memories were, her own were far worse. They would haunt her always if she didn’t purge herself of them. She knew that. But talking about them was impossible. ‘‘I can’t. So many men, Comanche men, like you. When I think about it, I can’t breathe.’’

  ‘‘Not Comanche men like me.’’ He repositioned his back against the post. ‘‘I should blame you for what a blue-eyes did to my woman who is dead?’’

  ‘‘No, but—’’

  ‘‘I did not lift my hand against your mother, little one. Do not have hatred for me, eh? Hate the men who killed her, but not this Comanche.’’

  ‘‘Oh, Hunter, I don’t hate you.’’

  ‘‘Then you will make a picture?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know where to start.’’

  ‘‘You saw the Comanches coming, yes? There were many? You were afraid? There was sunshine? Darkness? You will tell me. A little bit, yes?’’

  Memories slammed through Loretta’s head with blinding clarity. She went rigid, her ears clamoring with echoes from the past. In a halting voice, she began. There was a roaring in her temples that made her voice sound distant. At first she wasn’t sure if she was actually saying the words that formed in her mind. Then she saw the grim set of Hunter’s mouth and knew she was indeed speaking.

  His arm tightened around her shoulders. With one large hand he clasped both of hers, squeezing her fingers, rubbing as if to chase away a chill. His strength flowed into her, comforted her, warmed her. She could face anything with him holding her, she thought. Anything . . . even her nightmares.

  Hunter’s heart twisted as he listened to her. He tried to see her as she had been then and imagined she must have looked very like Amy, a frail child, frozen with horror, witnessing the unspeakable. He found himself wishing he could walk backward to that day and be there with her in the cellar, to hide her face against his shoulder, to cover her ears so the screams wouldn’t haunt her. Since that was impossible, he held her more closely, trying in the only way he knew to make the telling easier for her.

  The Comanches had not only raped Rebecca Simpson, but had invaded her body with foreign objects, venting their hatred for her and all her kind, mutilating her in accordance with their religious beliefs, so she could not pass from this world into the land of the dead. Hunter had suspected this, had known it, but hearing the story from Loretta’s lips took him outside his own skin, no longer a Comanche, but a white child, seeing his world through a haze of horror. In those minutes Rebecca Simpson became real to Hunter, no longer a faceless yellow-hair, but the mother of his woman, someone Hunter would have loved. His people had killed her, not mercifully, but slowly and horribly.

  Hunter could only marvel that Loretta had come to trust him as much as she did, enough to let him hold her as he was, enough to have come to him for help when Santos stole Amy. Was it any wonder that Red Buffalo’s lies had terrified her? Or that she trembled with dread at the thought of lying with a Comanche man?

  ‘‘Before she died, she begged God to forgive them,’’ Loretta cried brokenly. ‘‘She was so good, Hunter. I can’t remember a single time when she was cruel— not to anyone. She didn’t deserve to die like that.’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘And she deserved far more from me! I stayed hidden, Hunter. She screamed and screamed and screamed for help! And I did nothing. Nothing!’’

  Tears burned in Hunter’s eyes. He hunched his shoulders around her. ‘‘You were a child.’’

  ‘‘A coward, I was a coward!’’ A horrible, tearing sob erupted from her. She slid her arms around his neck and buried her face against the side of his throat. ‘‘That’s what I can’t forget! Hiding down there, hearing her scream. Oh, why didn’t I do something?’’

  ‘‘You would be dead, Blue Eyes. The Comanches would have killed you—just as slowly, eh? One small girl against many braves? You could do nothing.’’

  ‘‘I could have died with some dignity!’’

  ‘‘Not with dignity—with great pain. You are no coward.’’

  ‘‘Oh, yes, I am! Look at me! I’m terrified to let you, my husband, touch me. You’ve been so kind to me and Amy. I should’ve overcome these feelings! And I haven’t! I don’t know why you even want me!’’

  A sad smile twisted his mouth as he recalled how she had walked out alone to face a hundred Comanches, one small woman against an army. ‘‘You make a smile inside me, that is why I want you. The way a man wants his wife.’’ He ran a hand up her back, kneading her tense muscles. ‘‘You will trust this Comanche? As you did when you rode in a great circle back to me? This one last time, you will trust? No hurting after the virgin pain—and no shame. It is a promise I make for you, for always.’’

  Her breath came out in a rush. ‘‘Hunter, I’m afraid.’’

  ‘‘There is nothing to fear. You will trust, and I will chase your fear away, yes?’’

  A tremor shook her.

  ‘‘I have made lies to you?’’

  ‘‘No, never.’’

  ‘‘Then you will trust—one last time?’’

  ‘‘What will you do if I say no?’’

  Hunter prayed she didn’t. ‘‘I will eat you and pick my teeth with your bones.’’

  She laughed, the sound shrill, nervous, and wet with tears. ‘‘Or sure enough beat me?’’

  ‘‘Ah, yes, I will beat you, sure enough.’’ He pressed his lips to the wild pulse in her temple, taking measure of her fear. His body tensed as he waited for her answer. ‘‘Blue Eyes, you will say yes to me?’’

  ‘‘Tonight? Now?’’

  ‘‘Yes, tonight. Before this time between us passes.’’

  When she sat, silent, watching, Hunter lifted her off his lap and rose, drawing her up beside him. She studied his every move, poised as if for flight. Hunter’s hands shook as he unfastened her braids and ran his fingers through the intertwined strands of gold, combing them into a shimmering cloud about her shoulders. Then he framed her face between his palms and slowly bent his head. He wanted so badly to make a glad song inside of her. In his way, he was as terrified of her memories as she was.

  As his lips drew close to hers, Loretta’s nerves leaped. This was it, no turning back. His mouth came within an inch, then nearer. Her eyes widened. Then their lips touched, silk on silk, their breath mingling, their lashes fluttering closed. Her mind screamed a warning as her senses spun out of control. Something deep within her belly quickened, sending shocks of longing through her. She twisted her face aside, shivering as his mouth trailed across her cheek to her ear.

  ‘‘Hunter?’’ She grasped his shoulders for support, digging her nails into his flesh. ‘‘Hunter?’’

  ‘‘I am here. Be easy.’’ He slid a hand to the nape of her neck and turned her face back to him. ‘‘Be easy.’’

  Loretta’s legs felt like wet clay. As his mouth again claimed hers, a hundred possibilities ran through her mind, all frightening. Then sensation wiped out everything. There was only Hunter, solid and warm and gentle, holding her in rock-hard arms, his body bracing hers.

  Even in her inexperience, she sensed that kissing was new to him, that he was doing it only to please her. But after a few experimental nibbles, he mastered the art, claiming her mouth with a shattering thoroughness, his tongue thrusting deep, the sensuous rhythm he struck as old as time. Loretta leaned into him, sliding her hands into his hair, forgetting for a moment to be afraid. Looping an arm under her bottom, he lifted her against him. She could feel his heart slamming. Or was it hers? It didn’t matter. All that mattered were the feelings sweeping through her.

  When at last Hunter drew back for air, his dark eyes were cloudy with tenderness. He smiled a slow, thoughtful smile and, sliding her down his thighs, let her feet touch the floor. With infinite slowness he grasped the tails of her overblouse and skimmed the leather lightly up her ribs, grazing her s
ensitized breasts. Loretta glued her gaze to his, bracing herself.

  ‘‘I’m frightened,’’ she said shakily.

  ‘‘I am frightened beside you,’’ he murmured.

  ‘‘You? But why are you—’’

  ‘‘Because you are sunshine. Because you make a glad song inside me. I have great fear that you will go away from me.’’ He drew the blouse over her head and tossed it aside. Smiling, he smoothed her hair, then lifted its heavy length to resettle it around her white shoulders so it covered her breasts. Skimming his palms down her slender arms, he found the drawstring that held up her skirt and made fast work of untying the knot. ‘‘Nei com-mar-pe ein.’’

  She clutched her skirt. ‘‘What does that mean?’’

  ‘‘I love you.’’

  ‘‘Oh, Hunter.’’

  He tugged the skirt from her grasp and let it fall, then knelt on one knee before her, taking care not to look at her body while he unlaced her moccasins. Slipping a hand behind her knee, he bent her leg to draw her foot from the leather and, before she could guess his intent, dipped his head to kiss the inside of her thigh. She clamped her hands over the triangle of golden hair at the apex of her legs.

  ‘‘Hunter, don’t do that.’’

  Smiling, he removed her other moccasin, stealing another taste of milky thigh, this time keeping a hold on her leg, so she stood precariously on one foot, while he trailed his lips up to her white-knuckled hands.

  She jerked and hopped to catch her balance. ‘‘What are you— Hunter, don’t!’’

  He nibbled lightly at her fingertips, butting her off balance with his shoulder. She squeaked in dismay and hopped again, trying to stay upright. The thrust of his weight against her leg made that impossible. Instinctively she grabbed his shoulders to right herself, leaving the place that he sought momentarily unguarded. Hunter, with the unfailing accuracy of an expert marksman, homed in.

  Grabbing handfuls of his hair, Loretta shrieked and toppled backward onto the bed. The next instant she was anchored there by two hundred pounds of bronzed muscle. Her nipples thrust through the curtain of her hair, their tips skidding down his chest as he moved up on her. His arms spasmed, and his breath caught. Heart tripping, she stared up at him. A mischievous grin slanted across his mouth.

  ‘‘Hunter—don’t do that ever again. It’s—shameful.’’

  ‘‘No shame,’’ he whispered, bending to kiss her neck, his fingertips trailing down her arm, setting her skin afire. ‘‘Sweet, Blue Eyes. Pe-nan-de, honey. Trust this Comanche.’’

  Following the rawhide string that held her medallion, his mouth began a downward trek toward her chest, his long hair trailing across her breasts, tickling and sending waves of sensation over her. She cupped her palms over her nipples. When he encountered the barrier of her tense fingers, he circled, his lips feathering as lightly as butterfly wings, finding exposed breast where the span of her palms and fingers didn’t reach.

  ‘‘Trust this Comanche, little one.’’

  She quickly repositioned her hands to thwart him, and just as quickly he changed tactics and kissed the newly exposed area she had just abandoned. Shards of fire stabbed through her, warming her skin, taking her breath. Loretta knew what he wanted, and the thought appalled her. She clutched her breasts even tighter, only vaguely aware of the bruising dig of her own fingers because her senses were riveted on the touch of his lips, the liberties he was taking.

  They continued to parry until, much to Loretta’s dismay, she moved one hand far enough off center to bare a pink peak. Hunter’s mouth latched on to it, hot and wet, the drag of his tongue sending jolts through her. She drew in a draft of air, going rigid.

  Instinctively she tried to push him away, only to find that he was too strong to be so easily dispatched. By the time she realized that, the delicious pull of his mouth swept her mind clean of all rational thought. Instead of shoving, she made fists in his hair and drew him closer, her body arching against the solid wall of his. He slipped an arm around her waist and drew her even nearer, one large hand splayed on her buttock. The familiarity of his touch and the shocking heat of his skin against hers jerked her back to reality. Glancing down, she saw what was to her unthinkable, a man suckling at her breast, her white body clasped to his bronzed chest.

  ‘‘What are you— White people don’t do things like this. I’m sure they don’t. Stop! Please?’’

  Alarmed by her tone, Hunter lifted his head to search her eyes. The last thing he wanted was to frighten her. The tosi tivo had strange customs, especially when it came to women’s bodies. At this point he wasn’t concerned with how he made love to her, as long as he got it done. ‘‘You say it, and I will do it.’’

  Confusion played upon her face. ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘You say to me how.’’

  Scarlet dotted her cheeks. She nibbled her lip, staring at him. ‘‘I don’t know how. It’s just, well, there are certain things I’m sure no decent woman would—’’ Her pupils flared, turning her eyes dark. ‘‘Just get it finished.’’

  Finished? Hunter regarded her for several charged seconds. Then an amused twinkle crept into his gaze. ‘‘Blue Eyes, if you do not know the tosi tivo way, we must do it the Comanche way.’’

  ‘‘Well . . . yes, I suppose. It’s just that I— Hunter?’’ He bent his dark head and trailed his lips to her other breast, nibbling and nudging her rigidly cupped fingers. ‘‘H-Hunter?’’

  ‘‘Be easy,’’ he whispered. ‘‘It is well.’’ He dipped his tongue between her knuckles, searching for the sensitive, throbbing nubbin that she guarded so protectively. When his plunging tongue grazed what he sought, she snapped taut. He made another pass and another. A cry crawled up her throat. She couldn’t think when he did this.

  ‘‘It is mine,’’ he whispered raggedly. ‘‘Give it to me. No pain, little one. Trust me.’’

  As if of their own volition, her fingers parted. Her rosy nipple popped through, its pebbled peak thrusting upward eagerly to meet him. Hunter seized it gently between his teeth and worried it until she began to shiver and moan. His uncertainty fled. No matter how odd her customs, her body, though more lovely than most, responded like any other.

  With no further hesitancy, Hunter drew her aureole into his mouth and took a long, hard pull until it swelled against his tongue. Smiling, he lifted his head and blew softly. When the vulnerable nerve endings there responded to the wash of cool air and her flesh sprang taut, he once again teased her with his teeth, then pulled her into his mouth. He worked her until a glazed look crept into her eyes and she began to writhe against him.

  Loretta turned toward him, lost in a swirling haze of indefinable yearnings. With feverish urgency, uncertain what it was she sought, she ran her hands over the bunched muscles in his shoulders, drawing him closer, needing him closer. Hunter. The fear was gone, replaced by a fiery heat, low in her belly, that radiated outward in shivering starbursts to ignite her every nerve ending, making her tremble. Hunter. Dizzy, her mind reeling . . . only he provided anchor, his hands and mouth lifting her on wave after wave of sensation.

  Cautiously, gently, Hunter skimmed his hand down her belly to the golden apex of her thighs. Her abdomen spasmed under his arm when his fingertips dipped into the crevice of her womanhood. She leaped and stiffened, trying to sit up, but he rode her back down to the fur and carefully slid his finger into the throbbing, narrow passage. His guts knotted with urgent longing.

  ‘‘Toquet, mah-tao-yo.’’ Claiming her lips with his to muffle her protests, he reveled in the sweet taste of her breath, in the way she parted her thighs for him even though she was frightened. He trailed his mouth to her ear, whispering to keep her calm. A pounding began in his temples. He lost track of what he said, whether he spoke in English or Comanche. She seemed to be soothed by either, responding, not to the words, but to his tone. An aching tenderness welled inside him. Loretta, his bright one. She was as golden as sunshine, warming him, searing him wherever she touched.
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  Working his hand up to a steady rhythm, Hunter plied her, withdrawing, plunging deep. Her breathing became quick and shallow. Then he felt a spasm in the tight passage of muscle, and a hot rush of moisture welled up from within her. His own breathing ragged, he covered her lips with his. Eyes closed, face shimmering, she whimpered softly into his mouth as passion rocked her for the first time.

  Drawing back, Hunter gazed down at her, wishing he could lose himself in mindless abandon as she was, knowing he couldn’t. Not this time. He wanted this first experience to be as painless as possible for her, as pleasurable as he could make it, total surrender, total giving. When he finished with her, there would be nothing left for her to fear.

  Shifting his weight onto one elbow and knee, Hunter wedged a leg between hers and inched back, trailing kisses in his wake to keep her senses spinning so she wouldn’t surface to awareness and grow frightened. He had fear enough for both of them. He spread her thighs with the breadth of his chest, trailing his mouth lower . . . and lower, to the sweet place he had coveted for so long.

  She cried out and bucked when his tongue found its mark. Not to be dissuaded, Hunter caught her wrists so she couldn’t hinder him. He found the vulnerable flange of flesh he sought and took it, ignoring her startled protests, using his greater weight to keep her hips anchored to the fur. Knowing what he wanted, he went after it with single-minded intensity, until a hoarse moan ripped from her and she arched toward him, her body jerking with every pass of his tongue. His, at last.

  Hunter rose over her, his gaze riveted to her flushed face and dazed blue eyes. Skimming his breeches down his hips, he undressed quickly and took off his medicine pouch. Then, positioning himself over her, he seized her hips and drew her toward him. Carefully and with a slowness that was agonizing for him, he pressed himself into her. As he feared, the passage was tight, so tight that he nearly pulled back. His guts clenched, and a tremor crawled up his spine. There wasn’t any way he could spare her pain this first time. She was a slightly built woman, narrow of hip. He was not a small man. Sweat sprang to his brow.