Wild Dawn

by Cait London

  Regina’s shift drew higher with her movements, the slender muscles of her legs gleaming, though her soles had not moved from the tanned buffalo hide. A sweep of raven hair fanned out as she moved, circling the outer perimeter of the hide. Bending, turning, arching back until her hair swayed and brushed the hide, she moved in front of MacGregor.

  Black Buffalo leaned toward MacGregor. “She is like the flame, burning, moving. She sees herself inside the flame and you outside. You trouble her heart, for there is something in you she fears, yet she cannot stay free. She fights you like a warrior. This is her battle dance.”

  Rotating her hips in a sensuous movement slowly, then faster, Regina’s purple eyes stared at him above the slender waving motions of her hands. The horn bits clicked slowly as she swayed, opening her thighs just inches from his face.

  Slanting him a knowing look, she lifted the shawl to cover her face. Above the vivid cloth, a winged brow lifted, and her eyes half closed as though drowsy and sated from love-making. The horn bits clicked faster and the cloth swayed, clinging to a slender thigh. Turning slowly, keeping her heavy-lidded gaze on him, she allowed MacGregor to trace the sensuous swaying of her rounded hips beneath the light shift.

  Above him her breasts shifted, quivering with the movements of her body.

  MacGregor’s throat dried, his body hardening as the shift tightened, presenting him with the flowing movements of her buttocks. “Damn it, Violet,” he erupted, standing and catching her wrist.

  Lifting her in his arms, he carried her the short distance to their lodge and placed her carefully on her feet. An old woman who was tending the fire nodded and slid into the night. MacGregor adjusted the buffalo hide covering the opening, then turned to Regina. “You were heating blood back there, woman.”

  Looking up at him sensuously, she began dancing again, following the beat of the drums from the meeting lodge. Nudging MacGregor with the brush of her swaying hips, she guided him to sit on their pallet.

  Seconds later her shift lay at her feet, the flame-colored shawl barely concealing the curves of her body. Turning, clicking the bone bits faster, Regina’s breasts quivered above him. The darkened tips peaked against the soft fabric, swaying as she danced. A pale soft belly and softer hips quivered near his face, her arms and hands weaving a sensuous story.

  Turning, looking back at him over her gleaming bare shoulder, Regina’s half-closed eyes sent him an age-old message. Her slender waist moved like a willow swaying in the wind.

  MacGregor reached to stroke a quivering shapely buttock, caressing a slender muscled thigh, and her motions quieted. His palm ran higher on her inner thigh, just touching the fragrant nest of curls there before she moved away.

  The cloth slipped, and firelight gleamed on a rounded breast, quivering and pale around the darkened nub that swayed close to his face. The taut crest slid along his cheek before he could touch, and she moved away, holding him with a promising gaze.

  Easing lower to the skin covering the ground until her knees rested on a blanket, Regina lifted her arms and hands toward him, beckoning. Undulating her hips, her thighs spread within reach, she held his eyes.

  The cloth slipped from her breasts, the pale gleaming softness quivering. Her hair spread around her, a single fat curl circling the dark tip of her left breast.

  “Violet!” MacGregor muttered, unable to look away from the shadows playing within her thighs. The soft flesh across her stomach quivered and gleamed, the cinnamon and softer musk scent rising to tantalize him.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing, woman,” he whispered harshly, his body screaming for release.

  For an answer she rose, clicking the bone bits faster, and the shawl slipped away to reveal gleaming pale curves, undulating, quivering faster and faster.

  He wanted to be gentle. He wanted to give her the soft words and please her. But suddenly she was in his arms, her desperate kisses raining down his face to his throat and lower.

  In another moment her small hand curved around him intimately, stroking his trousers from him.

  She was all that her dance had promised. Hot, liquidy velvet, clinging to him, wanting more. Hungry for him.

  Regina wanted this man desperately, wanted his trembling body sheathed in hers. Wanted his large hands holding her as though she were china and flower petals. “MacGregor,” she whispered against his damp chest, licking at his hardened nipples.

  “I’m trying to be a gentleman about this, Violet,” he managed between his teeth, his tall body quivering in her arms. “You’re so soft—”

  Nibbling his bottom lip, Regina closed her eyes, reveling in the tender caress of his rough palm on her breast. She ached as his fingers foraged slowly down her stomach, then lower to her intimate damp opening.

  His kisses were soft and seeking, his body shivering with the need to enter her. Clinging to him, she luxuriated in the hard muscles of his chest and arms tightening around her. MacGregor’s lips nibbled at her lobe, and he whispered unevenly, “Hell of a way for a woman to come at a man.”

  He inhaled deeply and stiffened when she ran the tip of her finger across his erect manhood. “Damn, Violet—” he exclaimed breathlessly after a moment. “Watch those hands!”

  Despite his passion, MacGregor took her carefully. At the last his teeth nibbled lightly at her breast, his tongue laving the sensitive tip before he suckled her deeply. Tightening around him, holding him close, Regina’s body reached the heated summit, myriad colors bursting over her at the very moment MacGregor shuddered his release.

  Later, curled around her as they watched the fire, MacGregor nuzzled her throat lazily. “Tsiso, little one, that is no way to come at a man.”

  She smiled softly, placing her hand over his as it kneaded her breast beneath the shawl. “No? You seemed to enjoy it.”

  He snorted roughly. “Damn near killed me. It’s a wonder the sweet grass beneath us didn’t catch fire.”

  Turning slowly in his arms, she lifted her face for a long, sweet lingering kiss. Looking up at him through the shadows, she stroked his rough cheek. “I’ve been cold for two nights, sir. ‘Tis your duty to warm a poor woman’s flesh, you know.”

  She arched against him, enjoying the crisp whorls brushing her breasts. “Aye, MacGregor, you are a lovely man.”

  Kissing her moist, swollen lips, he asked, “You’ll stay with me, won’t you, Violet?”

  Then her small hand guided him inside the heat, holding him tightly, and he forgot she hadn’t answered his question.

  ~**~

  Chapter Thirteen

  The girl’s innocence snared Lord Mortimer-Hawkes like fresh blood drawing a shark.

  Within miles of St. Louis, the way-station’s rough customers framed the serving maid’s shy youth. The marquess followed the movements of the tavern maid while he sipped on his ale. He needed her fear, the tart taste of power seeping inside his belly as she whimpered. Running his finger around his mug, he studied the family crest on his ring. The golden wings of a preying hawk glittered in the light of the crude tallow candle.

  “Martha,” a customer called to the serving maid. Mortimer-Hawkes’s eyes slid to the girl as she balanced a tray filled with platters of roast deer, baked potatoes, and hominy. The heavy tray almost slid from her plump shoulder onto the passengers’ laps. Mortimer-Hawkes smiled leisurely at her; he needed Martha’s soft brown eyes and rounded, tempting body to sustain his strength until he found Alfred Covington.

  Lifting his mug with a smile, Mortimer-Hawkes signaled the girl to him. The wench’s memory of his usage would be soothed with a coin, he decided, smoothing his trousers beneath the plank table.

  Martha’s luminous doe eyes warmed as she approached him, reminding him of Mariah. At the end his wife wasn’t worth tormenting... a dull bit of trash, unaffected by the pain he needed to bring him sexual release.

  Pagan. The name stirred him afresh.

  Pagan. Already in her mother’s womb when they married, Pagan was destined to be his.r />
  Mortimer-Hawkes’s patrician features hardened, his molded lips curving in a cruel expression. Pagan was not the issue of his body, but that of a drunken cousin; a wealthy duke had paid him to marry the foreign woman. Then Mariah’s immense dowry added to the attraction.

  Pagan had taken the family’s amethyst eyes; the resemblance to his shade was remarkable. But her eyes held a savage fire that burned despite her refusal to fight openly.

  Pagan’s flight had proved her worthy of his attention. Breaking her to his hand and body would be a pleasure he’d denied himself in England. Once tamed, he’d bring her back to the family estate as his daughter. No one would know how she served him.

  He smiled at a flickering candle, pleased with his plans. Pagan’s return could be easily explained, once Alfred Covington was dead. Everyone would believe that after mourning the earl’s unfortunate accident in the American wilds, Pagan would choose spinsterhood and reside at her father’s estate. With the Mariah Stone’s magic and the woman belonging to him, he would live forever....

  In a dark corner of the inn, a frontiersman dressed in fringed buckskins talked quietly to an Indian wearing a blue uniform jacket. Mortimer-Hawkes studied them stealthily. The breed of the untamed country, they would know of ways to find Englishmen hunting in the western mountains. The Indian stared at him, and Mortimer-Hawkes nodded. When the black man returned, the marquess would approach these men or men like them to outfit and guide him to Covington and Pagan.

  Pagan. He dropped into his obsession of her. Her quiet rebellions had begun early, marking her as a woman who could excite him. He’d brought her mother’s costume with him, the gauzy heathen affair decorated with coins across the low bodice and hips. The costume left the woman’s midsection and navel bare to incite passion.

  Mariah’s quivering, swaying body floated behind his closed lids, and for a moment his breath caught in his lungs. She had been beautiful, a flame to his passion.

  He ached then. A quick stab of sadness that he pushed away with a long swallow of cold ale.

  The marquess ran his finger around the cool moisture on the mug’s rim. The heat in a woman’s body rose when she was truly frightened, allowing him to harden. He used his manhood like a sword then, hurting, stabbing, heightening his arousal until the glorious explosion.

  If the woman fought well, he could wound her again and again.

  Pagan would fight him. With her and the Mariah ruby returned to his grasp, his power would return.

  The marquess’s eyes swung to Martha. Tonight he would feed on the girl.

  Later, he would savor Alfred Covington’s terror.

  ~**~

  MacGregor stared at the china cup’s small curved handle and wondered if his finger would slide through the narrow opening. Two weeks after leaving Black Buffalo’s camp, the afternoon tea party Regina had planned lurked ahead of him.

  For the hundredth time, he glanced down at the tiny embroidered violet on his new shirt’s cuff and swallowed the tight wad of emotion in his throat.

  In the past he’d paid for his clothing or traded an Indian woman for buckskins and moccasins. Regina’s small hands had fashioned the shirt, studded with shell buttons and delicate stitches that fashioned pockets over his chest.

  The shirt was a peace gift and the reason he’d agreed to the formal afternoon English tea.

  Jack sighed sleepily in his cradle, and Regina bent to smooth his blankets over him. She’d wound her thick, twin braids over her head like a gleaming crown. Wearing a lacy blouse and voluminous plaid skirt drawn from her traveling chest, she fascinated MacGregor.

  He eyed the ruffled blouse intently. Despite the full, “muttonchop-style” sleeves, the starched cloth stretched tightly across Regina’s round breasts. Just thinking about her fancy lace underwear set his teeth together and caused his face to heat.

  Damn. In his passion at the Indian camp he’d agreed to Regina’s demands to leave at the first snow melt.

  In the war, MacGregor had seen men pushed too hard under fire. The aftereffects were deadly. When least expected, their emotions could erupt at any time. If Regina needed a small time to calm her nerves, she would have it.

  Once she put this womanly nonsense behind her, they could begin their marriage.

  MacGregor circled the fragile cup in the curve of his long fingers. Damn. He didn’t want to own her. The thought rankled, turned his stomach sour and gnawed at his pride.

  Taking a deep breath, he pressed his lips together and scowled at the cup perched in its fragile saucer. They’d made a fair bargain on the blanket. Marriage to Regina was like being caught in white-water rapids without a paddle.

  He shifted on the chair, and the smooth cotton fabric tightened on his shoulders. The tiny purple violet on his cuff caught the lamplight. The fragile design fascinated him, and he touched it again.

  “Goodness, what a scowl, MacGregor.” Regina leaned to pour tea into his cup. “Is having tea such a torture?”

  “It’s damned silliness.”

  She smoothed a fold on the shirt, running a small hand over his shoulder, and MacGregor tensed instantly.

  When she adjusted the collar, studying the fit around his muscular neck, he swallowed heavily. Her actions pleased him; they spoke of caring and possession. He shifted, uncomfortable with the depth of his feeling. “Stop fussing, woman.”

  Shadowed beneath her thick lashes, Regina’s purple eyes darkened. She stared at him a moment, then winked and placed an ironed napkin across his knee. Smoothing the cloth high on his thigh, she winked at him again and slid into her chair. “You’re a grumpy old bear, Mr. MacGregor.”

  “You’re planning to pack up and light out as though a preacher’s words weren’t binding,” he accused, watching her spread jam on a thick slice of freshly baked bread.

  “Buzzard’s wedding ceremony certainly wasn’t formal,” she answered quietly, handing him the bread. “Eat that and stop grumbling. You’re ruining the lovely tea I’ve set out.... You might think of it in my terms, MacGregor. We were both in a bad situation—you needed help with Jack and I needed you to survive. Both ends of the bargain have been met. Now we’ve made a new bargain, and when the first snow melts you’ll take me to a town. I intend to purchase a homestead of one hundred and sixty acres for my sheep.”

  “I have a claim right here. One hundred and sixty acres of mountain filled with game for trapping. You could use the bottoms for your sheep.”

  She smiled at him serenely, smoothing the paisley shawl across her breast. “I want my own land. I’ll need more meadows.”

  MacGregor glared at her. “What kind of man do you think I am? Own you? Let my wife go chasing dreams alone? A woman alone is easy game to any man who wants her.”

  She returned the intent look. “I have found that to be true. I’ve learned from you since we met.”

  “I keep what’s mine, Violet MacGregor,” he stated flatly. “One way or another.”

  Arcing a narrow dark eyebrow, she said quietly, “I’m asking for my earring back.... I was never yours.”

  The flat of his hand struck the table, causing the china set to quiver. “The hell you say. We’ve mated. You are my wife.”

  Lifting the delicate cup to her lips, she sipped quietly, then looked at him. “There are moments when a woman is more vulnerable. She’s easy prey—”

  The cords in MacGregor’s jaw hardened, fury running through him like fire. “You’re saying that I circled ‘round your backside when you weren’t looking.”

  When she didn’t answer, MacGregor took a deep breath and promised huskily, “You’ll see me coming from now on, wife. I’ll take you to that damn town on the condition that the first sign of trouble, you send for me. You’re mine, and I’ll be back to claim you. Jack needs you.”

  “You should hire Jack a nurse, or take a wife, MacGregor. We could easily overlook Buzzard’s ceremony. Perhaps once I’m settled, I could look for someone to properly fill the position. I’d never bring bigamy charges
if you did take a second wife.”

  “Violet MacGregor, you are as hardheaded as a mule, and you got that crazy promise out of me while—” He stopped and glared at her. “A man will say anything when a woman comes at him like that.”

  “And you, MacGregor, look quite handsome when you’re dressed for tea,” she returned easily. “I know you’ll honor your promise to take me to a town and let me seek my dreams.”

  “Dreams. I have them every night until I hurt. When are you moving back to my bed?” he demanded, slashing aside her attempt at peace. “You cry in the middle of the night, enough to make a man ache.”

  Looking into the flames, Regina’s expression was thoughtful. “I know.... Don’t you understand, MacGregor? I’ve got to find a measure of peace from the past. I’ve been controlled and owned by one man, and now a second takes his place.”

  “Hell!”

  After the evening meal, MacGregor leaned against the cave’s wall and stared at Hercules, who stood apart from the lambs and ewes. “Women.”

  He lifted Regina’s book and studied it by the flickering light of a candle. “The Poetry of the Romantics,” he muttered aloud. “Thees and thous. Talk about hearts fluttering and swooning. No man would talk to a woman like that. Words, just silly words. With their heads full of this fluff, no wonder women have strange ideas. Knights in a showdown wearing a woman’s colors....”

  Taking the purple ribbon from his pocket, MacGregor remembered how Regina had tied it on his arm before the Covington raid. “Damn. She dressed me up like her knight.”

  Running his finger over the tiny violet on his cuff, MacGregor leaned back and closed his eyes, thinking about the Englishwoman. He liked wearing her mark, signifying that she owned him—

  Owned him? He owned her? He frowned, chafed at her remark. Was there more?

  “Love, sweet love is a piece of buffalo dung,” he muttered to Hercules. “Violet is messing in fluff that has no place between a man and a woman. A man and his wife,” he amended curtly.