Secrets of a Midnight Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book One

by Jane Bonander

  “You look perty good,” Two Leaf complimented, crossing his arms over his chest and nodding his approval.

  Anna schooled in her anger at Nicolas. “Thank you, Two Leaf. Now,” she added, trying not to grit her teeth, “I really must go.”

  “Oh, please stay!” the children shouted as Anna turned to leave.

  “Don’t beg, children.”

  Anna tossed him a private, angry glare. Lord, but he was an insufferable, big-headed, self-important bore. With her head high, she picked up her clothes, left the hill and crossed to her cabin, anxious to get out of the dress that had begun to cause a rash on her body every place it touched. The whore’s dress.

  She stood at the dead, cold fireplace and let the dress drop to the floor. Angrily, she kicked it away from her, but it was caught around her other ankle. The buckskin clung to her leg, sticking to her skin like a suffocating parasite. She worked harder at freeing herself from the repulsive leather, kicking and shoving the garment away from her until it finally lay rumpled in a corner.

  She stared at it, her eyes narrowing in anger and her body shaking with fury. Marching to the corner, she picked up the dress, whipped it against the wall and watched the black beads and pearlescent shells shatter on impact and fly in all directions. She gulped back angry sobs and heaved the dress against the roughened cabin walls again and again until the skin over her knuckles was taut and white.

  Nicolas’s mocking smile and contemptuous laugh rang in her ears, and she beat the wall with the dress one last time, then flung it away from her in disgust.

  She strode to her trunk and yanked out clean drawers and a camisole, tugging on the latter with so much force that she tore the lace around the bodice. She looked down at her old, worn brown dress, a dress that had seen so many washings in harsh soap and hot water that the seams were white and barely held together. With jerking movements she pulled it on over her underwear, not caring that the seams in one armhole split and left a gaping hole at her shoulder.

  As she was buttoning the three remaining buttons up the front of her dress, she remembered the nightgown. Rummaging through her bedding, she jerked out the thin, lawn gown with the blue ribbon trim, rolled it into a ball, and tossed it across the room, next to the dress.

  Bum them. The angry little devil that buzzed in her ear coaxed her to toss both garments into the cooking pit. No. How much more satisfying to fling them into his arrogant face.

  As she left the cabin and headed across the grassy compound, her anger refused to die. The idea that he might have thought she’d worn the dress to please him made her even angrier. The whore’s dress. The toe of her moccasin hit a loose rock in the path, and she gave it a belligerent kick, wishing it were Nicolas’s shin. She winced as pain shot through her foot from the impact, but didn’t break stride as she marched toward her pile of dirty clothes.

  Despite her mood, once she arrived at the laundry tub she carefully removed the stones that had heated her water. She dumped the stones on the ground and shoved one of them with her foot, wishing it were Nicolas’s head.

  She picked up her gray gingham gown and rubbed the harsh bar of homemade lye soap over the soiled spots under the arms and at the bodice. As she scrubbed, she glanced up and saw Sky, and as he walked toward her, she remembered the letter she’d given him to mail weeks ago. By now her mother at least knew that she was alive, even though Anna’d had to stretch the truth about where she was. Quickly dipping the soap into a small bowl of warm water, she continued to attack the gown, trying to appear calm.

  Sky stopped in front of her and watched her work. “That looks like quite a job.”

  She tried to smile, but didn’t look up. “I’m afraid it’s a lost cause,” she answered as she rubbed the soap over the dirty, frayed hem of the dress. “How long are you going to be here this time?”

  ‘1 will be here a few days.” He watched her lift the gown into the water and push it to the bottom with a paddle.

  “And Nicolas?” She tried to sound casual, as if she was merely making conversation. If Nicolas was lucky, he’d leave before she had a chance to toss the whore’s dress into his face.

  “He leaves again tomorrow.”

  Her stomach dropped. She wanted desperately for him to hang around just long enough so she could wrap the odious dress around his neck and strangle him with it.

  “Oh,” she answered evenly. She stabbed her gown with the paddle and dragged it through the water. When she was sure it was thoroughly wet, she laid the paddle over the tub and attacked the stains on her apron, furiously rubbing them with soap. “He … he must have many responsibilities at home.” She tried hard to keep her feelings from showing, for she could feel Sky’s eyes on her.

  “One day he will have. For now …” Sky shrugged, then grinned. “It seems you are very angry with your clothes.”

  Anna stopped scrubbing, suddenly realizing she’d nearly rubbed a hole right through her apron. Embarrassed, she answered, “I hate dirt.” Lord, what a stupid answer.

  Suddenly remembering the wounded child, she looked up at Sky. “I … it’s probably not my business, but Nicolas brought a baby into the compound earlier. It was … its throat was cut. Nicolas was so angry. All he’d tell me was that the child’s mother had been killed, and that … that a white man had done it.”

  Sky straddled a chair. “That’s all he said?”

  Anna stopped washing and leaned on the paddle. “Yes.” She looked toward the hill where the children were still listening to Nicolas, then swung her gaze back to Sky. “Will you tell me what really happened?”

  Sky gave her a cautious look. “Are you sure you want to know?”

  A prickle of fear nudged her spine. “Yes.”

  “It isn’t what innocent white female ears like to hear.”

  She slapped her paddle angrily on the water. ‘Try me.”

  After a dragging moment of silence, Sky got up and tossed another log on the cooking pit fire, then stood and watched the blaze. “He found an entire village of our people killed this afternoon.”

  Anna’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, dear Lord …” The vision of brutally murdered Indians singed her brain. Terror-stricken feces of men, women, and children erupted in her thoughts. She looked up at Sky and saw the anguish flickering in his eyes. A thickness plugged her throat when she realized that as horrible as this news was to her, it had to be devastating to Nicolas.

  “Does he know … who killed them?”

  Sky nodded. Slowly he told her of the massacre by the vigilantes. When he’d finished, Anna sank to the chair and stared at her shaky hands. White hands. It had been hands the color of hers that had killed Nicolas’s people. Not just one woman, although that would have been bad enough, but they’d killed an entire tribe. She quickly looked away and rubbed her hands against her thighs over and over again, until the calluses on her palms burned. No wonder he’d been so angry with her. She was one of “them.” She was the enemy.

  She absently picked at one of the empty buttonholes on her dress, and stared off into the woods. The picture of Nicolas having to bury people from an entire village throbbed behind her eyes.

  The Nicolas who’d had to face all that death was surely a different Nicolas than the one who treated her like a whore. She wanted to hate him. Oh, God, she wanted to! But in spite of what he’d done to her, she knew she couldn’t.

  “I’m so sorry, Sky.” Her eyes were wide and filled with an answering pain. “I … I’m ashamed of … of what my own kind have done to you.”

  “I’m sorry, too.” He studied her, as if suddenly realizing she had merit, depth, soul.

  As he walked away, Anna turned back to attack her laundry, but found that her anger was gone. Shakily, as if she’d just awakened from a nightmare, she pulled her dress and her apron from the water and draped them, soaking wet, over a wide, lowlying juniper bush. Suddenly exhausted, she dragged herself to her cabin to get ready for bed.

  Sometime later Nicolas let himself into her cab
in and closed the door quietly behind him. She was standing in front of the fire, gazing into the flames and warming her arms with her hands. Her hair fell in deep, cascading waves down her back, and the reddish light from the fire framed her head like a halo. Sensing she was no longer alone, she dropped her arms to her sides and slowly turned to face him.

  He was surprised to see her wrapped in that heavy, ugly “shroud” he’d seen her in months before. But now the ugliness of the garment dimmed as the fire cast its shadow behind her, revealing to him the outline of her delicate waist and the contrasting curves of her hips and her long, slender legs.

  “What do you want this time?”

  Her voice was low and hard, and her eyes narrowed in defiance. But Nicolas detected a glimmer of fear, and wasn’t surprised. He walked slowly toward her.

  “I said, what do you want?” She scurried to the bed and slipped into her dressing gown.

  He could almost smell her fear. He silently cursed himself again for ever hurting her. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  Anger flared in her eyes. “Get out! No man, not even the great Nicolas Gaspard, is going to force his way into my cabin or into my bed ever again.”

  “I don’t want to force you, Anna, I came—”

  “You conceited bastard,” she hissed as she backed away from him toward the corner of the room. She turned and quickly picked up something from the floor. “Here.” She threw the garments at him. They landed at his feet. “I can’t stand to touch them. Get them out of my sight!”

  Nicolas knelt and picked up the buckskin dress. He saw the shattered and broken shells hanging from delicate threads at the bodice and felt a new wave of guilt spill over his conscience. He remembered the look of surprise on her face when he’d told the children he’d given her the dress. Sorrow pierced his heart when he realized she wouldn’t have worn either the dress or the nightgown if she’d known they were from him.

  He dropped the dress and picked up the white lawn gown, brought it to his face and pressed it against his cheek. Traces of her scent lingered on the cloth, and he inhaled the heady smell deep into his lungs.

  “Find another way to assuage your guilt.” Her voice was laced with disgust as she turned away from him. “You treated me like a whore. I’ll never forgive you for that.”

  She could throw angry words at him all day long, and they wouldn’t wound him nearly as much as the hurt he’d seen in her eyes before she turned away. Nicolas continued to touch the thin lawn gown with gentle fingers. He’d been a fool to leave these things for her. They, like the bath, had been meant to satisfy his guilt.

  “I don’t want them back.”

  “Get out of here and take them with you, or I’ll burn them.”

  He looked up at her, her fury heightening her color, leaving her cheeks stained with warm, pink circles and her eyes shining. She looked magnificent. “Burn them, then. No one should wear them but you.”

  She looked at him. He saw her expression change from anger to confusion. She became cautious, wary, like a helpless jungle animal looking for an escape. “What do you want?”

  His shoulders slumped wearily. He felt penitent, but still couldn’t bring himself to bare his soul “I want you.” He lifted his head and pierced her with his heated gaze.

  Anna’s breathing became labored and she swallowed convulsively. “No,” she said, shaking her head, her eyes flaring with fear. She stood stiffly as he approached her, pushing his hands away when he reached up to pull open her gown.

  “Anna,” he whispered, gripping her wrists gently.

  She tugged against him, surprise in her eyes when she was able to pull free so easily. “No! Please, no.” She rubbed her skin where he’d touched her, as if trying to rid herself of any evidence of his loathsome caress. “Just … just leave me …”

  “Anna,” he whispered again, unable to hide the ache he felt in his soul as he brought her hands to his lips. He kissed her fingers, then turned her hand over and pressed his lips against her palm. A sharp stab of anguish punctured his heart when he discovered the calluses on her delicate flesh.

  “Nic—Nicolas.” Her voice shook with confusion. “What do you want from me?”

  He dropped her hands, drew in a ragged breath and reached out to touch her soft cheek. “I want you to want me.”

  His gaze slid over her honey-colored hair and her wide, confused eyes. With one finger he tracked the hoydenish trail of freckles that graced her cheeks and her nose, then he bent and touched her soft, parted lips with his. A tremor passed through him as their lips met, and he forced himself not to drag her against him and crush her exquisite mouth under his. Instead, he began slowly, softly.

  Tiny, whimpering sounds rose from her throat as he kissed her. The sweetness of her rushed through him, for there was never a moment that he hadn’t remembered how she tasted. Finally, he lifted his face from hers and stared down into her eyes.

  She pulled away and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Please,” she whispered shakily, “I can’t stand it anymore. I … I can’t stand to. have you come in and seduce me with soft words and gentle touches, then, when you’ve gotten what you want, treat me like … like you hate me, like I’m something despicable.”

  Her words scorched his heart, but he knew they were true. “Is that what I do?”

  “Yes. Yes, you … one minute you’re tender and loving, and the next minute you’re making me feel dirty, and … and filled with shame. What am I supposed to think?” She groped in her pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. “I can’t take it, Nicolas,” she said, blowing her nose and wiping her cheeks. “I won’t let you treat me like a whore. Not ever again. I promised myself I wouldn’t be used that way, and I meant it.”

  He felt her anguish deep in his soul. He knew that without her, the rest of his life would mean nothing. “I’m sorry.”

  She sniffed and blew her nose again. “So am I.”

  “You don’t understand, Anna. I know it’s not enough, but I am sorry I hurt you. I can’t explain why, and I have no excuse.” Of course he knew why. But in exorcising Sarabeth from his system, he’d punished Anna for the other woman’s sins.

  Anna reached down and picked up the garments he’d dropped on the floor. A tiny, ragged sigh escaped through her softly parted lips. “I still want you to leave.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Nicolas,” she cried, pressing the handkerchief to her eyes, “don’t do this to me!”

  He gently touched her hair, pulling back when she jerked away from him. “Do you want me to beg? I don’t beg, Anna. I never have.” He saw the agony on her face and pressed on. “From the time I left my mother dead in a ditch, I promised myself something, too. I’d never beg. Not for anything. I don’t know how, don’t you understand? I want you. I want you more than I’ve wanted anyone in my life. But I won’t beg. I can’t. I don’t know how.”

  She stood quietly before him, staring into the fire, the garments clutched to her chest.

  All hope left him. There was nothing else he could say. He turned and walked to the door.

  “I … I’m sorry I ruined the dress.” Her voice was soft.

  He turned, watching her touch the broken beads with shaky fingers. “It … I shouldn’t have. …” Fresh tears pooled in her eyes.

  Relief spread through Nicolas like medicine. He took the dress from her. “It’s all right.”

  She stood before him, nervously twisting the sash on her wrapper. “It … it really was the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen.”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  She continued to roll up the ends of her sash, carefully avoiding his gaze. “I noticed that … that it wasn’t new.”

  Nicolas smiled, remembering. “It was my mother’s.”

  “No,” she gasped, stumbling to the bed.

  He swore. The comment had just slipped out. Dammit, he hadn’t meant to punish her with it. His mother had worn the dress when he’d been just a small child, but he no longer
had any special attachment to it.

  He rushed to the bed and sat down beside her, pulling her hair away from her face. “Shhh,” he soothed. “Please, don’t cry. Dammit, it was just a dress.”

  “B-But,” she sobbed, “it was your mother’s dress, and I ruined it!”

  He touched her back and could feel her wrenching sobs. “It’s my fault. I should never have left it for you. At the very least, I should have been open about it.”

  She sat up and slid off the bed, crossing slowly to the fire. An occasional shudder shook her small shoulders, and she finally turned to face him.

  Nicolas went to her. But when he saw her eyes, wide and questioning, and her lips, trembling uncontrollably, he had to look away. Suddenly her hands were on his cheeks, turning his face back toward her. Her eyes were wide and shiny with unshed tears, and she mouthed his name but no sound came out.

  His heart pounded with joy when she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his neck, his chin, and finally his mouth. He didn’t think it was possible for this kiss to be sweeter than the last, but it was. It was because she wanted it, and in her desire, he sensed she needed it as much as he.

  When the kiss ended, she slid her dressing gown off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor behind her. The pulse at her throat beat wildly, and he touched it, willing her gentleness to pulsate through the tips of his fingers and into his empty soul.

  When she reached up and pressed her small hand against his whisker-roughened skin, he fought the urge to cry like a child, for her touch was like a forgiving balm. He watched her as she traced his puckered scar with her slender fingers, her eyes still shining and tears rolling down her cheeks. Once again he pulled her palm to his lips and kissed her, then dragged his mouth over her delicate wrist and on up the inside of her pale arm. Before he let go, he drew her hand inside his tunic and pressed it against his pounding heart, drawing in a deep breath as she moved her fingers over his flesh.

  While he still had presence of mind, he removed her hand and gently ran his fingers over her soft upper arms, his thumbs grazing her nipples. She shivered, her nipples puckering and pressing proudly against the fabric of her gown. He moved his hands slowly, down over her slightly flared hips and gently rounded buttocks, pulling her close, loving the feel of her against him. As he lifted and gently squeezed the creamy mounds of her bottom, he pressed himself against her abdomen, moving in small circles and rejoicing at her answering response.