by Martha Hix
The waiter said something that was unintelligible to Hawk; Charity answered as unintelligibly; apparently in her mother’s native tongue.
“What did you say to him?” Hawk asked as the man disappeared behind a swinging door,
“I said we aren’t interested in eating here.”
“You got that right.”
They left. But instead of returning to the hotel, they walked past the town square and continued on a westerly course through the streets of Uvalde.
“Why, that looks like a park,” Charity said, pointing to an area that in no way resembled the lush beauty of Washington’s public grounds, in Hawk’s estimation.
It did, however, sport an area cleared for ball games, though no players were in sight. A mother launched her chortling child on a rope swing. Large and scruffy and barking to high heaven, a black dog chased a white cat. A young boy, pushing a hoop by a stick, ran amid the oleanders and ancient oaks. From the trees a chorus of birds got in their last squawks before sundown.
“Let’s have a seat, shall we?” Hawk motioned to a bench. “There looks good.”
Charity sat down in the middle. Hawk squeezed one hip against an armrest. He fidgeted. Wah’Kon-Tah! Why am I not brave enough to speak?
A vendor pushing a cart plodded down the path in Hawk and Charity’s direction. “Raspas. Muy delicioso. Raspas!”
“Mmm.” Charity waved a hand and called to the man in Spanish. “I’ll have one.” She jumped to stand, then turned to ask, “Would you care for an iced treat, Hawk?”
“No, thanks.”
The vendor, a diminutive Mexican with a thin mustache that curled at the edges, made a show of packing the concoction of shaved ice and purple syrup into a makeshift cup of brown sack paper. Charity, clapping her hands, squealed in excitement with each of his movements. Hawk smiled at her childlike enthusiasm.
Singing a Spanish song of love, the vendor pushed the cart down the path. Between bites of the raspa, Charity joined him in song; she danced as she ate. Did she realize how lovely she was? Hawk doubted it. She had no idea of the power she had over him.
He noticed that the park was beginning to clear out, that the sun was turning to ribbons of orange and blue against the western horizon. Twilight fell.
Hawk concentrated on Charity. A woman wrapped in the giddiness of a girl, with the wildness of the untamed and probably untamable thrown in for good measure–that was Charity McLoughlin. As a boy he’d had no use for giggling girls. How strange, life. At the age of seven, he had chosen a wife. And the boy hadn’t wanted one who giggled. Twenty years later, the man yearned for Charity’s girlishness and high jinks.
She wouldn’t be so merry, once he explained himself. For the first time, Hawk wondered at the wisdom of his plans as well as Maisie McLoughlin’s. It might not be a good idea, forcing Charity to face her family. She didn’t need the McLoughlins. You have me. Together, they could face anything the world threw at them.
And that was how he intended to approach the truth: with an alternative.
“Charity . . . why don’t you sit down?”
“Mmm, soon as I’m finished with this.” Dancing before him in the muted light, she leaned forward to give an ample view of two charming attributes. “Would you like a lick, my darling?”
Yes. “No.”
“It really is tasty.” She smiled.
He loved her smile. He loved her nice teeth. He loved the way she looked . . . and felt. And what about her crazy, undisciplined ways? Realization hit him. Hit Hawk hard. He loved this crazy woman.
The luckiest day of his life had been the afternoon in ’69, when Lisette had visited his village. No, that was the second luckiest. The most fortunate day of Hawk’s life was when he had said yes to Maisie McLoughlin’s strident appeal to rescue her great-granddaughter.
Charity’s tongue flicked over the ice. Her free arm moved upward, as if reaching for the sky. “It’s a wonderful evening, isn’t it, Hawk?”
If not for the truth that must be told.
“Did you want to talk about something?”
“Later,” a craven voice replied. His voice.
Finished with the shaved ice, she crumpled the paper cone in her hand, then reached to place it on the park bench. He got a whiff of rose water.
Don’t do this to me, Charity. I ought to be telling you–“Let’s see if we can’t find a decent cup of coffee somewhere,” he said.
“Rather warm, isn’t it?” She patted her bosom. “That raspa did nothing to cool me down. How about you? Are you hot?”
What a question. Again he fidgeted on the bench.
She stepped toward him. “Look at you, all dressed in leather. You must be burning up.” Her fingers worked his vest away from his shoulders. “Take this old thing off.”
“Don’t.”
“Hush.” She knelt between his legs. One hand flattened on his shirt, her fingers inching between the buttons. “You have such a nice chest. So hard, so manly.”
“Please don’t.”
By now, the buttons were unfastened to his waist, and she pressed forward. Her parted lips settled against his breastbone; her forefinger fiddled with his neckchain. He felt the tip of her tongue on his heated flesh. As if infused with a pint or more blood, his rod stiffened.
A quick glance across the park assured Hawk of their privacy. Yet wouldn’t it be better, he wondered, if someone were to interrupt them? To hell with better. He needed to do the interrupting.
He grabbed her up and to him, pressing them both against the back of the bench. “Have mercy, Charity. Don’t do this.”
“Me? Those are your fingers on my breast. And you’re me holding me so close . . . Not that I’m complaining, you understand. Besides, what difference does it make, who is the aggressor? We’re partners.”
“We shouldn’t do this.”
“Balderdash.” She squirmed onto his lap, and her fingers maneuvered to the hard evidence of his arousal. Stroking and cupping him, she whispered, her voice husky with emotion, “I’ve heard men enjoy being played with. I find it exceedingly enjoyable. Do you like it, Hawk?”
“Yes.” The word hissed past his constricted throat. “Yes.”
And then he was kissing her. Or was it, she was kissing him? What did it matter? Before he knew it, he had her on the ground, darkness covered them. Somehow her clothes were gone. Somehow he had gotten out of his. The grass soft beneath them, Charity soft beneath him. And fiery hot as an oven beneath his fingers. All his longings erupted into a frenzy of want and need, passion and desire. He adored her—his glorious mixture of innocence and minx.
“My hellcat angel,” he murmured raggedly and swept his fingers to her jawline.
“My darling savage.”
He touched her bottom lip with the side of his thumb. “I have wanted this for so long.”
He knew what they were doing was wrong. There was nothing settled between them. It shouldn’t be this way. Charity was a white woman of means, a woman to be revered. The woman he loved. She deserved her first mating to be in a soft bed, with legal bindings.
But no matter what his head said, his body was done with listening.
Chapter Seventeen
It thrilled her, the imminent success of her seduction, knowing that Hawk would continue with their lovemaking. The clement breezes of the dark gray evening whispered over her flesh, the soft grasses cushioned and cradled her, and the insistent touch of her man sent a fire of passion raging within her.
Naked beside the hard, hot strength of him, she heard him ask, “Would you trade me now . . . for Fierce Hawk?”
“You’re all I want.” She inhaled deeply as his fingers caressed her arm, her breast. “Only you, my darling.”
“Remember that, angel mine. Remember that.”
“Remind me.” As Eleanor had schooled, Charity moved her fingers in a bold circle around one manly nipple. “Am I all you want? Just me for me?”
“I’ve waited a lifetime for you and you alone.”
Her
heart seemed too large for her chest, so swollen was it for him. He guided her to her back, his lips seeking the peak of her breast. With strong, sure strokes he suckled her; her fingers held him there. Her nerves came alive at his touch. It felt good, and right, the two of them together.
Her fingers delved into his hair, which had been cinched at his nape, freeing the raven-black strands from their binding. Likewise, his hands worked the pins from her head.
His raspy voice tickled her ear. “Don’t ever put your hair up again. I like it wild and free–like you are, my hellcat angel. Wild and untamed and perfect.”
“Who is the most wild here? Surely not I.”
He was caressing her body with sure and experienced fingers, with sure and experienced lips. For a split second she recalled wanting to lose her virginity to a husband as inexperienced as she was, but what a foolish notion that had been. No man but Hawk could thrill her this way. She marveled at his skill as a lover. Thanks to Eleanor’s advice, she didn’t need much coaching herself, at least in arousing him.
Charity’s fingers smoothed over the taut lines of her adored savage, resting on the turgid, hooded tip of him. “You like this, don’t you, Hawk?”
“You know I do,” he replied hoarsely.
She sighed at the thrill of discovery, at the wonder of him. How differently they were made, yet Nature had matched them ideally. Her fingers moved downward, encircled him. “I’ve never felt anything so hard, yet so satiny,” she admitted in an awed whisper, wishing for light so that her eyes might feast upon him.
“Your innocence refreshes and pleases. And now I shall please you.”
She murmured low trills of satisfaction at the feel of him . . . at the feel of what he was doing to her. No inch of her flesh did he leave untouched. He explored the shape of her breasts, her waist, her hips, her legs. She yearned for more. And then his inquiry moved between her thighs . . .
“Open for me, sweet hellcat. Ah, yes.”
Never had she imagined that lovemaking would be so splendid, not even in her girlish fantasies, not even in her womanly thoughts of Hawk. Her head spun, her senses whirled at the gentle, sure movement of his forefinger at her kindled nub. Hotly, intensely, from the dip of her throat to the lobe of her ear, he blazed a trail of kisses. She quivered at the sensation.
“Kiss me,” he whispered in her ear.
Her lips parted for him, and his seized hers. He tasted of peppermint, sweet and hot. Instinctively, she met the movements of his ardent tongue. They played with each other–darting, challenging, retreating only to taunt each other again. The ache that had begun low in her body spread throughout her limbs, begged for something–something!
“I hurt,” she murmured when he rose up to cup her face with his hands and look into her eyes. “I need . . . Oh, Hawk, I don’t know what I need.”
“Me. You need me. As I need you.”
In the dark of night, she knew he looked at her searchingly.
“Take me, Hawk.”
The hard, long length of him settled at the mouth of her most private place. The silver ornament around his neck, heated by his flesh, fell to the cleft between her breasts, seeming to brand her as his. His fingers curled around her shoulders. Once more his lips met hers. And then–his thumbs and fingernails dug into her shoulders, causing a flash of instant agony, as he thrust hard . . . branding her for real, as no bauble could.
So intense was the pressure of his grip that she barely noticed the searing pain of his entry, yet she cried out.
He didn’t move. Lodged high inside of her, he released his grip on her shoulders. “I knew it would hurt you. I figured it would be better if I took your attention away from the tearing.”
“I–I’m fine. Very fine.” To be filled so fully, oh, my, it was a miraculous feeling. Yes, her virginal body protested the invasion, but now she knew what it was like to be a woman. Hawk’s woman. “Give me more.”
He did. He thrust; he pulled back; he thrust again. And again and again. She wanted to meet his rhythm, but was that what she was supposed to do? Eleanor hadn’t said anything about it, their chat having been cut short when Hawk had gotten the carriage wheel fitted firmly in place. Should I do as my body suggests? After all, there had been some talk of going on instincts.
As if he read her mind, Hawk reared up to look down insistently at her face. “Give me more, my Charity. Meet my lovemaking. Move with me.”
Oh, yes.
Their tongues tangled anew as they moved together in life’s most beautiful cadence. Wild. They were wild with the need for each other, and her blood continued to throb hotly through her veins, as if Hawk were her very life source. Her toes inched over and between the back of his thighs to curl and anchor at the top of his calves. “I can’t seem to get enough of you,” she moaned, gasping for breath.
“You’ve got all I can give,” he said. “And honey, I don’t think you could find anything much bigger.” He bit her lip playfully.
“That’s not what I mean. I am filled to my limit, yet I seem to be on a precipice, on the verge of tumbling over.”
He chuckled, or was it a growl? “That’s exactly what is happening.”
One long, sure stroke accompanied his words. She bucked beneath him, and he growled his approval. Whirling, whirling, whirling . . . she lost the ability to make sense of anything except for Hawk. Hawk, her darling Hawk. And then it was as if something burst within her. Something wonderful and luscious and infinitely satisfying. She tumbled into it.
“I love you,” she cried.
At that same moment she heard Hawk groan harshly and felt him pulsate within her. He said something in his language that she knew must be an expression of release and gratification.
With a shudder he gently lowered his body atop her. She nestled her head into the crook of his uninjured shoulder; he rested his cheek low at her ear. His lips settled against her throat. It seemed as difficult for him to breathe as it was for Charity.
“Thanks be to Wah’Kon-Tah, you’re wonderful.” He rolled over slowly, guiding them to their sides, sliding out of her. “So wonderful.”
“So are you.”
Tenderness in his tone, he asked, “Are you all right?”
“Why, yes. Why wouldn’t I be? Good gravy, I’ve never felt better in my life!”
She intended to write Olga and divulge her own information. Olga ought to know just how much she was missing by her adherence to Victorian mores!
“Charity, I want to give you something.” When she assured him that he’d already given her the best possible thing, he shook his head. “I mean this.” He pulled the silver neckchain over his head and wrapped her fingers around it. “Wear my totem, Charity.”
“I will be honored to,” she replied, her heart bursting with happiness.
He slipped the silver, turquoise-adorned chain around her neck, the heat of his flesh transferring to hers. “It matches your eyes, you know. Turquoise is a special stone to some Indians. Your eyes are special to me.”
Her fingers flattened over the chain as well as its warmth. “May I tell you something? My mother used to tell a story of a dear Osage lady. Red Dawn. When my parents were guests in her village, Red Dawn loaned Mutti a turquoise necklace. She had traded an Apache for it.”
“I traded an Apache for this one.”
“Why do you sound troubled?”
“Didn’t mean to.” He rolled to his knees at her side and reached for his shirt. There was a note of regret in his voice when he said, “Let’s get dressed.” Bending over her, he added, “We’d better get you cleaned up first.”
Without another word he gently rubbed the folded shirt between her legs. His touch was soothing. Marvelous. And it left her aching for more of his attentions. A glance at his again-stiffened shaft–how lovely it was, limned by the moon and the stars in the heavens and the stars in her eyes–assured her that he was likewise inclined.
“Charity ...” He swallowed, then tossed the blood-stained shirt aside. “Char
ity, did you mean it? When you said you love me.”
“It may have been spoken in passion,” she replied honestly, scanning his dear and savage features. “But it was spoken from my soul.”
“Will you promise me something? No matter what happens, remember I meant you no harm.”
She looked at him questioningly.
“We’d better get back to the hotel,” he said. “We need to talk.”
Earlier, he’d said a hotel room was no place for a chat. But everything had changed between them. She had realized the depth of her feelings for Hawk, and they had been together in the most intimate of ways. A hotel-room conversation with her beloved would suit her just fine.
“Is this the time you’re going to tell me everything about yourself?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Maisie McLoughlin had been waiting in the lobby of the Wayfarer Hotel for over an hour. It was a high-priced inn, considering the amenities–Maisie liked value for her dollar. The rooms were spartan at best.
“Highway robbery, if ye ask me,” she groused to her driver, “the asking price of these rooms.”
Heinrich Weingard flushed. “Please, meine gnädige Frau. the clerk . . .”
She didn’t care if that money-grubbing, air-sniffing room peddlar heard her. The man–probably English, being that laziness was all over him like a second skin–had kept his own counsel about Charity until a whole quarter had crossed to his greedy palm. Once the coin was tucked in his dungarees, he had become quite talkative.
Charity was indeed registered. And town gossip had reported that a lovely young woman, a stranger had been seen at a local eating establishment with a strapping young man who fit the description of Fierce Hawk of the Osage. Maisie had marched right over to the café where they had been spotted, only to find it closed.
Where were the lass and the lad?
Maisie marched to a horsehair sofa in a corner to the left of the door and sat down. A spring pinched her behind. “The stuffing is worn out,” she complained to Heinrich. “Go fetch my folding chair.”
The Fredericksburger nodded and quit the lobby.
“Ye got any cigars?” she asked the desk clerk, who was picking his nose and reading a book.