His eyebrow went up. “And where will you go?”
“Home. Back to the twenty—”
He leaned toward her so quickly that her nose burrowed into his hair as he whispered in her ear. “Do not, repeat not, bring up this craziness tonight. These men are officers. They do have the power to have you locked away.” He straightened, his eyes intent on hers.
Elizabeth swallowed hard, her nose still mesmerized by the softness of his hair and its fresh, clean scent. Did the man have to be so sexy? He was right, although she hated to admit it. He was trying to protect her—if only he would just believe her.
“All right. I have amnesia; I don’t know what happened to me or where I’m from.” She looked up at him suddenly. “So, am I going to stay here then, until I ‘remember’ something? Are you going to keep me?”
His eyes flickered with amusement, although he did not smile. “Keeping you, Red, is exactly what I plan to do.”
• ♥ •
God, she was lovely, especially when her eyes flashed in anger. Miguel enjoyed goading her just to see it. Such passion. He wondered how wild she would get in the throes of lovemaking. He wanted to find out. First, to taste her nectar, then to suck on the nub, bringing her to the peak of ecstasy. She’d wrap her legs around him, arch her back to take him, beg for more and he would honor that request, drawing out her pleasure until her body trembled and shuddered in his arms, every nerve ending crying for release. An unusual sensation surged through him—he wanted to make her forget every other man who’d ever bedded her.
Or even flirted with her. Seated at the dinner table, he watched as the lawyer from Virginia who Tate-Johnson had brought along talked to her. He didn’t like at all the way the man kept glancing at her breasts. Miguel frowned. Those breasts were too exposed. Thank the gods, the wives hadn’t attended this dinner. He hoped Elizabeth wasn’t being taken in with all the flattery the dandy was passing out. Christ, he hadn’t heard such flowery speeches since he’d attended a Shakespearean play in New Orleans with Elena on their honeymoon.
“You not only have a beautiful face, Miss Elizabeth; I find your mind fascinating,” the lawyer, Beauregard Cartier, was saying. “Imagine thinking the South could do away with slavery!”
“But they do,” Elizabeth said earnestly. “In a few more years—”
Miguel reached under the table and placed his hand on her thigh, shocking her into silence. He longed to let his fingers glide upward, but this was not the time.
She gave him a sideways look and then turned back to the lawyer. “What I meant was, perhaps it is somewhat inhumane to own other people. Don’t you think black people have rights?”
“Blacks?” he asked. “You mean darkies?” He laughed. “No, ma’am. We’ve always bought, sold and traded them, just like livestock.”
Miguel could see the warning signs in her eyes that he was becoming accustomed to. He squeezed the soft flesh of her leg through the satin dress in warning.
Her breathing hitched, and he felt her hand trying to push his away. He managed to keep from grinning as he caught her fingers and intertwined them with his. She tugged once, but then returned to her conversation. She was tenacious; he had to give her that.
“They’re humans. You don’t have the right to own another person.”
Colonel Johnson leaned forward across the table. “Miguel tells us you don’t remember where you’re from, but ma’am, I don’t think you understand slavery. I’ve got a cotton plantation that needs those people to work it. I treat them well, I provide for them. They have food. They have clothes. When they’re sick, a doctor attends them. Why, they wouldn’t know what to do if I freed them. And who would pick the cotton?”
Elizabeth was ignoring the pressure Miguel was putting on her hand. He had to admire her: the woman was stubborn if she believed in something. And she obviously felt strongly about the slaves. His great-grandfather hadn’t taken to the idea of slavery either, and they’d never owned any, but they weren’t farmers. They were ranchers and he paid his vaqueros for their work. The Mexicanos from south of the Rio Grande were a proud people who had come freely to him.
“You hire people to pick your cotton. You pay them. Free your—darkies—and pay them. I’ll bet you get more production and more yield per acre,” Elizabeth said.
Silence met her statement and Miguel groaned inwardly. Colonel Johnson was a powerful man and not used to being dressed down, especially by a woman and, it seemed, an intelligent one. How did she know anything about crops? She probably consorted with more than one rich landowner. He didn’t dare squeeze Elizabeth’s fingers any harder, afraid he’d break one of them, but he had to get her to cease this line of conversation. For her sake.
“Fire Woman is right,” Swift Hawk said from the far end of the table.
All heads turned to him. The Indian was rarely seen when the soldiers visited, and he talked even less. Even now, he nearly sneered at them.
“She is right,” he said again. “My own people fight for their freedom to stay off the reservations the white man provides. It, too, is a form of slavery.”
“Now, son,” Colonel Johnson said firmly. “That’s not the same at all. We have made treaties with your people.”
“You have taken our land,” Swift Hawk answered.
“It’s the government’s land. First, Spain, then Mexico, and now, the Republic of Texas. We have provided for you to remain on it.”
“It was our land before the white man came.” Swift Hawk leapt to his feet. “It will remain forever ours. Our ancestors’ spirits sent Fire Woman here. She is right. You will see.” He turned and walked from the room so swiftly he seemed to have vanished into thin air.
Miguel released Elizabeth’s hand with one more squeeze. He hoped she would remain quiet. Enough damage had been done.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “May I suggest we retreat to la sala for French cognac and cigars?”
As the men nodded their heads and pushed back from the table, Miguel bent down to Elizabeth. She stared at him defiantly.
“I did nothing wrong.”
He cupped her chin in his hand. “You and I are going to have a long talk. Later.” He let his thumb graze the contour of her cheek lightly before he straightened. “So, either you wait up for me, or I’ll come to you—wherever you are.”
• ♥ •
Elizabeth took a deep breath, glad to be rid of the corset. Cactus Flower had assured her the soldiers would not expect either of them to reappear for the evening and the meetings that went on behind closed doors lasted well into the night, so Elizabeth had changed into the plain homespun she had worn earlier.
As much as she wanted to explore the huge casa, she didn’t think Miguel would want her to bring any more attention to herself by wandering around. Still, this was a magnificent home, a far cry from the chinked and daubed double-room log cabins and shotgun houses she’d seen in the history books. The dining room furniture had been real mahogany Chippendale. To her surprise, the house even had indoor plumbing, although bathwater was still hauled to the large wooden tubs in the dressing rooms. She had noticed a pump by the kitchen sink earlier, too.
She took a back staircase and let herself into a room near the rear of the house and looked around. Miguel’s study. Oil lamps burned softly in each corner. A huge fireplace filled most of one wall and bookshelves lined the other three. A large, lamb’s wool rug covered most of the hardwood floor. In the center of the room stood a huge, black walnut desk, polished to a sheen. Behind it was a well-padded leather chair and in front, two over-stuffed horsehair armchairs.
Elizabeth wandered along the shelves of books and stopped in front of a shelf that had to do with Indian tribes. Some of the books were historical, regarding territories and conflicts that had risen since pioneers had begun moving westward. They would make for interesting reading having been written from a late eighteenth century viewpoint. She took down a slim volume simply titled Legends and opened it to a story of the dream catcher an
d began reading.
I am the maker of dreams and the weaver of spells.
Once, a young, white woman was captured by the Comanche and brought to their camp by a handsome young warrior named Black Eagle. Meant as a prize for his father, the shaman, her hair was the color of copper, reflecting the life force of Fire. Such a woman would bring much power to a man. But this was an ill-fated match, never meant to happen.
The shaman had other ideas. Bad ones. Mingling Fire with Earth would please the Great Spirit and their tribe would be blessed in keeping their land. He laid the girl on a herkee, a brush arbor frame made of poles, binding her hands and feet and slashing them, so her blood might drip slowly into the ground, solidifying the bond. She lay all day under the grueling sun.
Black Eagle had fallen in love with her while she was his captive and tried to ease her pain and bring her drink. He was beaten for it.
Hers was an ancient soul. Weakly, she called me by the name her Celtic ancestors knew: Brighid. Swiftly, I found Black Eagle. “Go to her again,” I said, my voice just a whisper on the breeze that gently brushed his face. “If the shaman wants fire, I shall provide it.”
The sun dipped then, its slanting rays emblazoning the maiden’s head, sparking flames which sprang to the ground, the fiery tongues forming a circle around the bier.
“Go,” I whispered again. “The flame will be cool, ‘tis but an illusion.”
Black Eagle didn’t question me, although I was unseen. The wall of fire produced much smoke, hiding their escape. I watched as they rode away, satisfied these two, who had known each other in other lifetimes, would finally fulfill their love. What is intended must be.
And then I brought the rains down, heavy and hard, sloughing the road into a murky quagmire, making pursuit impossible, even for the swift-footed Comanche.
To this day, women with hair the color of fire are held both in awe and fear.
Comanche still see me in the smoke of the sacred pipe and the sweat of the Medicine Lodge. Dressed in white leather, with my own flame-colored hair braided, I come to them in peyote-laced dreams. In those dreams, wishes can come true. That is why I am known to them as Dream Catcher.
Elizabeth had not read that myth before, only thinking of dream-catchers whose webs were supposed to keep bad dreams from children. She smiled as she closed the book and placed it back on the shelf. It would make good reading for another time.
She continued looking at titles on the shelves. Some of the books were practical: cattle and horse breeding, architecture and building. She stopped again when she came to the second wall of leather-trimmed books. Miguel had classics here: Shakespeare, Homer, Chaucer, Cervantes. More modern writings too: Jonathan Swift, Alexander Pope, Robert Burns. Poetry? It seemed that don Miguel was an educated man. Interesting. She had thought he only had a one-track mind that focused solely on women. Or, more precisely, bedding them.
She moved on and then stopped again. Sir Thomas Malory, Chrétien de Troys, Lord Tennyson. Arthurian legends. She smiled. These made more sense. Miguel shared the same sensual qualities that Lancelot, the ultimate bad boy, did. And the lesson, she reminded herself soberly, was to avoid such dangerously appealing men.
Elizabeth turned away and rubbed her arms for warmth, for the night was becoming chilly, and then noticed the kindling already laid for a fire. She walked over to the hearth and picked up the tinderbox. How did they start fires in the mid-1800s? Surely not by still using flint! To her relief, she found wooden matches, but what to strike them on? She experimented on the tile with no luck. She tried again on the rougher adobe brick of the fireplace; the match broke. On her third attempt, a spark sputtered and then flamed. She grinned triumphantly and ignited the kindling beneath the logs, watching it catch, spreading upward with crackles of blue and yellow and orange. A faint pine scent filled the room and then she saw the pinecones thrown in with the wood. Olga’s doing, maybe? Anyway, it reminded Elizabeth that Christmas was just a week away. Would she be back in the twenty-first century by then?
She moved over to the credenza next to the fireplace. A bottle of French cognac and a crystal goblet stood on a silver platter next to a tiered candelabra. She considered lighting the candles, but decided not to push her luck with lighting another match. She undid the stopper on the brandy, poured herself a generous portion, and then nearly choked on the first swallow, the fiery liquid burning a searing path to her stomach.
“Swirl and sniff, then you sip,” Miguel said from the doorway.
She whipped her head around. Miguel leaned against the doorframe, one leg bent, the foot crossed over the other. His shirt was open at the throat and he had his jacket flipped over his shoulder, hooked on one finger. Strands of dark hair fell down across his forehead. Elizabeth inhaled sharply, ignoring the heat flaring through her body that had nothing to do with the brandy. She couldn’t help but think Lancelot would have met his match with Miguel.
He moved into the room, tossing the jacket on one of the chairs and came to her. “Here.” he said as he covered her hand with his and swirled the golden liquid lightly. “Now, sip slowly.”
She wasn’t sure she could swallow, as conscious as she was of his touch. How could his hand be so hot? Then she caught his look of amusement and reminded herself he knew exactly what he was doing. She wasn’t about to be seduced. No way. She took a gulp. Tears sprang to her eyes, but she kept from gasping.
Miguel shook his head and took the glass from her and set it on the table. “You don’t have to fight me on everything, Red.”
“What do you mean?” Her voice was raspy, her throat raw from the liquor.
He gave her a lopsided smile. “I can tell when a woman is attracted to me.”
Her face flamed, and she was very glad she had her back to the fire so that she was in silhouette. Was she that transparent, or did he expect women to fall at his feet? Probably. With an effort, she ignored the remark and moved toward the bookcase. “I must say, I’m surprised at your collection.”
He came to stand behind her and reached around her shoulder to tap the leather trim on the Shakespearean book. Although he didn’t touch her, Elizabeth could feel his seductively mesmerizing presence. Too late, she realized she was trapped between the bookcase and his incredibly muscular body.
“These were my mother’s books,” he said. “She used to read them to me when I was a child.”
“Your mother read Shakespeare and Homer to you?” Elizabeth turned around in surprise. Whoops. Bad move. Their bodies brushed against each other.
Miguel nodded, changing the subject. “You almost said too much tonight at dinner. The colonel is a straight-thinking man, not given to foolishness. You need to be careful.”
“Well, I’m sure you won’t mind groping me again if I say something inappropriate,” Elizabeth said with a trace of sarcasm.
He ignored her tone. “Did you like it?”
She turned back to the bookcase. No way was he going to know how much she had enjoyed having his hand on her thigh and then those strong, callused fingers intertwined with hers. And when he’d rubbed his thumb in her palm— “Did your mother read the Arthurian legends to you, too?”
“Of course. I even had a wooden sword I played with. I would run around the place shouting, ‘I’m King Arthur and this is Excalibur!’ to anyone who would listen.”
She looked up at him, trying to envision him as a child. “Arthur? You mean Lancelot, don’t you?”
“Why do you say that?”
As if he didn’t know! Elizabeth refrained from rolling her eyes—she did owe him some courtesy. “Because you’re every bit as much of a womanizer as he was.”
Miguel shook his head. “I think Lancelot has been much maligned by history. I doubt he chased women at all. His love for Gwenevere was too strong. More likely, Arthur, being king, tumbled a wench or two when he felt like it.”
She tilted her head, considering what he’d said. Suddenly, she laughed. “And you thought you were Arthur? I rest my case.”
A glint came into his eyes and she knew she was in a danger zone. That sensuous mouth was only inches from hers. In a near panic, she turned her back to him and studied the books again. “When I saw these, I thought you were an educated man.”
“I am. Harvard. Didn’t cotton to the Easterners, though. I like Texas and the wide-open spaces.”
Elizabeth inhaled sharply as he stepped closer to her and put his hands lightly on her shoulders. Dear Lord, what was it about his touch that inflamed her body so? She felt as though a hundred tiny arrows had pricked her skin. Then he laid his head beside hers, his breath warm in her ear.
“There’s some education that can’t be learned in school,” he whispered and let his hands glide slowly down her back and rest at her waist.
Elizabeth’s knees went weak and for a moment she thought they wouldn’t support her. Sweet Mary! Was she going to swoon like the ladies did back then?
He encircled her waist and pulled her back against him. “I like experienced women who know what they want. Let me make love to you, Red,” he said as he lightly nibbled her ear and then softly kissed the nape of her neck.
She shuddered in response, her traitorous body not obeying her mind. How had he known that was her most vulnerable spot? Good thing he was holding her, for her legs had definitely given out. He had taken an open stance, one of his thighs on either side of hers and nudged his hard erection between her buttocks. Was all of that him? She tried to wiggle free which was a mistake. A really big mistake. He slid one of his hands over her belly, pressing her to him. She felt a sudden wetness between her thighs, and trembled in his arms.
“Ah,” he murmured and laved her ear. “I knew you’d like this. You’ll probably even remember who you are.”
Who she was? Or what she was? Elizabeth felt as though she’d been doused with a bucket of icy water from the horse trough outside. She had almost forgotten he still thought she was a hooker. Nothing more. With an effort, she pulled his hands away. “Stop. Now.”
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