White Apache

by tiffy

  She dropped deeper into the pool, cursing the clarity of the water and trying uselessly to shield what she knew he had already seen.

  ʺWere you trying to frighten me to death, diving in that way?ʺ

  ʺItʹs fearful cold to do it any other way.ʺ He moved a bit closer, rubbing grimy rivulets of water from his eyes.

  ʺIf I scream, Spybuck will come charging over that rise,ʺ she said as calmly as she could manage.

  He arched his eyebrows. ʺAnd see your beautiful naked body the same as I? Is that what you want, Elisean audience?ʺ

  ʺGo away, Monsieur Quinn.ʺ She watched him warily. ʺI donʹt think so. I claimed this long ago as my own private pool, and I need a bath.ʺ With that, he turned away from her and swam for the shallows, where he began to suds himself vigorously with a small bar of soap.

  She watched as he worked the lather through his shoulder‐length hair, then moved those long, lean fingers down, gliding over the bunched muscles in each arm. When he began to suds the tawny pelt of hair on his chest, she could feel the heat stealing through her in spite of the coolness of the water.

  Unable to tear her eyes away, she waited as he washed the trail dirt from his body. What was about to happen had been inevitable since that first kiss in the Chouteausʹ garden.

  Although he seemed to pay her no heed, Santiago could feel those violet eyes staring and knew she would not leave the water. He could take her now. She wanted it as much as he did. Something niggled at the edge of his conscience, warning him away. He dismissed it. She was neither a young girl nor a virgin, but a woman of sophistication who no doubt had had many affairs over the years.

  But he suspected that her lovers had all been fine gentlemen who traveled in the rarified circles of polite society, not hardened outcasts like the White Apache. If that was the reason for her attraction to him, Elise Louvois would not be the first lady to be tantalized by the forbidden. For some reason unfathomable to him, he did not want this woman that way. Angrily, he forced the thought aside and plunged beneath the cold, clean water to rinse off.

  When he surfaced, he was directly in front of her. They both remained silent, treading water and staring into each otherʹs eyes. Then she raised one dripping arm and touched the thin white scar on his cheek with her fingertips. ʺPlease,ʺ

  she said softly, not certain if it was a question or a command.

  He reached out and swept her against his body with one arm, then quickly propelled them to the shallows. As soon as he gained his footing, he carried her ashore where she had carelessly tossed her towel. Laying her on it, he leaned over her, letting his fingertips trace the beaded droplets of water running in tiny rivulets from the curves of her breasts.

  She gasped softly and arched against the butterflylight touch, amazed to feel the tight puckering of her nipples when he caressed them.

  ʺYour breasts are very beautiful.ʺ

  ʺTheyʹre small.ʺ

  ʺYouʹre slim and theyʹre quite perfect,ʺ he murmured.

  Edouard had only hurt her when he bothered to touch her breasts at all. Santiago smiled down at the hardened, rose‐brown points, then lowered his mouth and laved the water around one with his tongue. When he circled the nipple with the tip of his tongue, she cried out. He repeated the caress on the other breast, then drew the thrusting point into his mouth and suckled it. She buried her hands in his hair, urging him on.

  His hands pressed the rounded sides of her breasts, cupping one while he suckled the other. Then his questing mouth moved upward, nuzzling her collarbone and trailing light, nibbling kisses up the slender column of her golden throat. Where the sun had caressed it, so did he, pausing over the pulse at its base, feeling it beat wildly.

  ʺEasy, querida, letʹs go slow,ʺ he murmured low as he felt her clutching his shoulders in desperate want. His hand grazed her jawline, then held her chin while his lips centered over hers. Wrapping his other arm around her waist, he rolled her atop him. Still their mouths had not touched. ʺKiss me, Elise,ʺ he commanded as her wet hair fell around them like a black silk curtain.

  She hesitated, uncertain of what to do, wanting to please him. Edouard had always told her she was not skilled in the ways of loving a man, but she felt the force of Santiagoʹs will compelling her and read the passion in his eyes. She lowered her head to his and pressed her lips against his. At once his mouth opened, and his tongue swept the seam of her lips, demanding entry. She complied, feeling a thrill as her tongue darted boldly inside, tasting of him as he did of her.

  The kiss moved from a delicate exploration to a hungry quest. He sucked on her tongue, drawing it deeply inside his mouth, then waited until she reciprocated.

  Their lips savaged each other as their breathing grew swift and erratic. Her hands clawed at his shoulders while his cupped her milky buttocks. His fingers dug into the soft flesh, lifting, kneading and moving her hips against his. He forced himself to slow down, running his palms up the curve of her spine, gentling the fierce kiss as he took her head in both hands. Burying his fingers in the thick satin of her hair, he brushed his lips softly over her cheeks and eyelids.

  His sudden switch from rough passion to tenderness surprised her. She was certain that he was ready to do what Edouard had done and plunge into her quickly, ending the act. Now, as Santiago kissed her and murmured low love words in Spanish, she found herself unable to wait longer, actually wanting him to bury his flesh deeply inside her.

  With a boldness born of burning hunger, she squeezed his staff between her thighs and began to move in a slow languorous circle until he was the one who gasped and groaned. He rolled her over once more onto her back and covered her with his body, pressing her into the soft, mossy earth beneath them.

  Instinctively, she opened her thighs as he raised his upper body and looked down at her. Her pale, silky flesh was flushed with passion now, the skin dried by a flame of hot desire that consumed him, too. His fingers grazed her breasts and traced the curve of her slim waist.

  She forgot to breathe as he positioned himself carefully between her thighs and ran his hand down her small flat belly to the mound of black curls, then deeper.

  A fleeting thrill of fear raced through her as his hand touched that place, always so dry and sore before. Now it felt wet and throbbing. His fingers slid over the smooth dampness, testing, teasing. She writhed as intense, indescribable pleasure lanced through her.

  He felt her readiness and knew he must have her now. ʺOpen your eyes,ʺ he commanded. ʺI want you to look at me when I come into you, my beautiful Elise,ʺ he said, switching to French.

  Her lashes fluttered and her eyes opened, hazy with newly awakened passion.

  Santiago took her hand and wrapped it around the velvety hardness of his staff, guiding the tip as it circled her nether lips, slicking the way for his penetration with her own moisture. Then he pulled her hand away and plunged into her. She felt as small and tight as a virgin. Her thighs clamped on his hips, as if signaling him that she needed time to accommodate him. He held himself still, embedded deeply inside her, and lowered himself onto his elbows so his chest pressed against her breasts. Then he kissed her, murmuring into her mouth softly in Spanish.

  The slick, hot delight of a moment ago had now changed into an incredible burning pressure as he filled her. Too long. I have been untouched too long. Then, as he continued to kiss her, the pressure began to ease, and the tightness dissolved in a softening wet warmth. She felt the crisp hair on his chest tease and abrade her sensitive breasts, yet he did not move inside her. She raised her hips slightly, attempting to accommodate herself to him. She could feel her tight sheath stretch, making her restive.

  Santiago could sense her melting. He began to move in slow, careful strokes.

  When her fingers dug into his shoulders, he whispered, ʺWrap your legs around my waist . . . yes, like that!ʺ His hips ground into hers with fury, and he let go of all restraint as her nails raked his back and she arched to meet him with every thrust.

  Elise was c
aught in a whirlpool, swept into a spiraling frenzy of ecstasy. The pleasure built and built toward some nameless elusive end that she had never known. All thoughts of Edouardʹs cruelties and her own inadequacies evaporated. She buried her mouth against the curve where his neck and shoulder met and bit down on the bunched muscle, muffling her cry of desperate hunger.

  Mindless, blind, she worked toward the goal, sweating and straining along with the man who held her so fiercely. Then a sudden surge of white‐hot pleasure rippled through her, the waves widening and throbbing as she clung to him and sobbed. Elise Louvois knew at last what it was to be whole.

  Santiago felt her entire body stiffen, then begin to undulate, wracked by the convulsive force of her release. He took a deep breath and held it, letting himself join her. As he shuddered in the throes of a hard, deep climax, he could feel her flesh enveloping him, hear her gasping sobs as they both slowly returned from the maelstrom to consciousness. ʺNever . . . I never imagined . . .ʺ Her voice, muffled against his shoulder, faded away.

  Santiago held Elise and rolled them to their sides, still intimately joined. He was oddly unwilling to break this union, a most unusual experience. He had wanted her for long weeks and knew her slender, long‐legged body would give him great pleasure, but he, too, had never imagined the intensity of the act.

  They were both soaked with perspiration and had rolled off the small towel. He rubbed a green stain on her hip and smiled, kissing the tip of her nose. ʺI think another bath is necessary,ʺ he said, pulling her up and leading her by the hand to the edge of the pool, where he scooped up the soap as they waded in.

  He held the bar between his hands and worked up a lather, then held his open palms out to her and asked, ʺAllow me?ʺ

  Blushing and uncertain of what to say, Elise nodded, letting him suds her sweaty body with gentle skill. The smell of musky sex clung to them, What a wanton, bold female she had been, yet she felt not a whit of regret.

  It was not my fault, but Edouardʹs. All those hellish years, even when her mind had told her so, her spirit had feared that she was inadequate. How wrong she had been to hold that fear for so long. Yet if she had not, she would not have traveled the path she had chosen and would not have met Santiago Quinn.

  Santiago watched the play of emotions cross her face as he bathed her. ʺWhatʹs going on behind those magic eyes?ʺ he asked, once again reverting to English.

  Just as he asked the question, he remembered the Spanish love words he had used in the heat of passion. It was just as well she did not know his native language. His question brought her from her troubling reverie. What was she to answer? He did not love her, nor she him. This was simply the inevitable result of a slowly simmering mutual attraction between a man and a woman trapped alone in the wilderness. The pain and humiliation of her past was hers alone, the shame to be shared with no one. She smiled and took the soap from him, boldly washing him as he had her. ʺYou have never trusted my devious mind, have you, Santiago?ʺ

  He laughed. ʺYou are still answering questions with more questions.ʺ Then he sobered as he gently lifted a gleaming lock of raven hair from her shoulder.

  ʺHow old are you, Elise?ʺ He raised his hand to forestall her obvious rejoinder. ʺI am thirty‐one.ʺ

  ʺTwenty‐seven,ʺ she replied.

  ʺYou didnʹt say how long youʹve been widowed, but I could tell you have not known a man for a long time. For a woman of twenty‐seven, one of your considerable beauty . . . Why? Do you still grieve for your Frenchman?ʺ

  She stiffened in anger. ʺHow dare you presumeʺ

  ʺThe only time you lose that cool self‐possession is when I make you spitting mad. The interesting thing is what angers you.

  ʺWhat I felt for my husband is no concern of yours.ʺ She turned and headed toward the bank.

  He shrugged and dove beneath the water. Rising and shaking away the excess water, he followed her. Her one towel was woefully dirty, wrinkled, and covered with stains from the mossy bank. When she threw it down in disgust, he laughed.

  She shot him a killing glare and began to struggle into her clothes without benefit of drying off first. Santiago watched her fight with a sheer camisole and underdrawers as they clung to her wet skin. ʺThe air will dry you in a few moments if youʹre patient.ʹʹ He stretched out on a large flat rock, partially shaded by a plum bush. Picking a piece of ripe fruit, he began to eat it.

  She was aware of the nonchalant ease with which he handled his naked body and it angered her. Arrogant womanizer. He knew how his presence affected her and was using it, trying to pry into her past, to get her to reveal feelings she must keep buried. Then his words startled her.

  ʺIʹm sorry about your husband, Elise. If you cared for him so much that you denied yourself this long, itʹs a matter better left alone.ʺ With that, he rose and began to climb the stone facing above the pool, where he had left his horse and clothes.

  When he returned, he was dressed, leading his bay. Elise had just finished struggling into her own clothes. She bit her lip, then said, ʺI did not love Edouard. Iʹm happy to be free of him.ʺ

  ʺThen why . . .ʺ Comprehension dawned on him. He dropped the horseʹs reins and walked over to her. ʺYou never found pleasure in his lovemaking, so you never again triedʺ

  She could not bear his pity, he who could not even begin to guess the whole sordid truth. ʺDonʹt let your success where other men failed swell your head, Spaniard.ʺ She shrugged carelessly. ʺSomething like this was bound to happen sooner or later.ʺ

  ʺAnd Iʹm dismissed now? Is that it?ʺ His smile was hard. ʺWe still have weeks of traveling before we reach Santa Fe. If you had planned to bestow your favors on any of my men, donʹt even think it.ʺ He could see her back stiffen. ʺI wonʹt have them cutting each otherʹs throats over you. That was what I warned you about back in the Osage village. For better or worse, youʹre my woman until the end of the trip.ʺ ʺAnd what if I choose to be no oneʹs woman?ʺ She turned to the path where Spybuck waited, then froze.

  Santiagoʹs soft, mocking laughter indicated that he already knew what she had just realized. ʺYes, you and I have been alone together for a long time. Even my Muskogee friend will believe now what the others have thought for weeks.

  Youʹre safer sharing my blankets, Elise.ʺ

  She turned unwillingly and faced him. ʺOnly until we reach Santa Fe.ʺ

  Chapter Fifteen

  Washington, October 1806

  Thomas Jefferson sat at his desk with the waterstained dispatches spread across it. Those from Elise and her brother, sent from St. Louis, had been delayed for over two months during an arduous trek up the Ohio River and across the Appalachians. One courier had nearly drowned carrying them.

  ʺThank God he did not,ʺ the president murmured as he shuffled them into a stack alongside other materials from Commodore Truxton and Postmaster Grangerand a pile of correspondence from that imbecile, Kentucky Attorney General Daveiss. He had spent the night reviewing the evidence about the conspiracy to start a war with Spain. The presidentʹs informants did not agree about General Wilkinsonʹs role in the plot. Secretary of War Dearborn was still Wilkinsonʹs staunch ally and would not hear of removing the wily intriguer.

  Jefferson smiled grimly. Hopefully, the information from the Shelbys should provide sufficient evidence to convince Dearborn that his favorite required watching. Then his thoughts turned to Samuel and Liza out in the trackless wilderness. Lieutenant Shelby was a professional soldier even if he had taken a foolish risk, but his sister was a civiliana lady who had no business being involved in this deadly tangle.

  ʺI should never have allowed her to go to St. Louis in the first place.ʺ On the other hand, if he had been able to prevent thata highly unlikely event with the headstrong and clever Lizathen he would not have received the invaluable information from her and Samuel regarding Wilkinsonʹs activities.

  ʺDamn, the plot does thicken.ʺ Jefferson rubbed his aching temples and decided on a course of action. ʺI shall dismiss him as governor of Up
per Louisiana.ʺ

  Much as the president would have loved to relieve Wilkinson of his military command as well, with the generalʹs powerful friends in Washington, that was impossible.

  He wrote the executive order, removing Wilkinson and naming John Graham as governor, then composed a letter to the general, at present rattling his saber somewhere between Nachitoches and the Sabine River. The missive contained a strong and unequivocal message: There was to be no war with Spain and no glory in it if the general deigned to instigate such a dangerous contest. The president prayed Wilkinson would not call his bluff.

  ʺGod save this fragile union and keep Liza safe,ʺ he said as he sealed the documents.

  Between the Arkansas and Cimmaron rivers, October 1806 Santiago listened to the even cadence of the horsesʹ hooves plopping through the sandy soil. The sun beat down with scorching heat, but it was more than welcome after the torrential rains they had endured the past week. He had crossed the vast plains and prairies between Santa Fe and St. Louis over a dozen times and never suffered such delays. They had endured storms, onslaughts of insects, even a destructive downpour of hail in the midst of sweltering September heat.

  He watched Elise as she rode ahead of him, talking with Spybuck. It was amazing how she survived the rigors and actually seemed to bloom in spite of them. He wondered if her brotherif she had a brotherwould recognize this woman with her sun‐tanned skin and braided hair. She could pass for an Indian squaw of mixed blood, and had done so in their encounter with the Kiowa a week ago.

  Soon they would finally reach Santa Fe. He had grown used to awakening each morning with her soft body lying beside his, to smelling the subtle sweet essence that clung to her without artifice of perfumes. He would miss her shrewd wit and keen intelligence, her stoic endurance of discomfort and her coolness in time of frightful danger. But if he were honest, Santiago was forced to admit he would miss their idyll of lovemaking most. Of all the women he had shared passion with, none had made him feel what Elise did. When he squarely owned up to that fact, he was not happy with the admission. She fascinated him, beguiled him, and wove a sensual web about him. Yet he did not trust her.