by Cindy Nord
The couple paused before Dillon. For several minutes they conversed in the guttural language of the tribe.
Finally, Dillon smiled and nodded, glancing at her. “Of course she will. You have my blessing.”
An odd spark shot through the wondrous haze of her mind. “I will what?”
Mirth sparkled in Dillon’s eyes. “Honor his request.”
What request? Her gaze shifted to the warrior.
“Come, brave one,” the man said. “You must join women in the Bear Dance. Morning Bird will teach you the steps.”
Wisps of panic slid through her, but the veil from the Shrug smothered her doubt. She frowned at Dillon. “I don’t know the moves.” The strange dance looked similar to a Virginia reel’s opening steps, but without the reel, and registered somewhere on the extreme opposite range of a waltz.
“It’s not hard,” he urged with a smile, “you just step forward and back and shuffle around a bit.”
It sounded simple enough, and his confidence in her left her further emboldened. She took another fortifying gulp. “A-Are you going to dance?”
“Women go first, so we men can ogle all of you.” He winked at her, and the magnificence of his smile sent bubbles of pleasure through Alma.
Must be the Shrug.
For a moment she could envision dancing before him, turning, catching his smile. Her mind shifted from following the movements to something more alluring. Pulse racing, she eyed him for a long moment, then banked the flood of desire. Her courage faded, and she took another gulp of the drink. “I-I think I’ll pass.”
A shadow crossed his face, and Dillon’s gaze narrowed. “Think again.” The hard glint in his eyes assured her that he’d not allow her to back out.
The swarthy beast.
Hospitality be damned! As if she had another choice? Fine, she’d dance. Her gaze riveted on his, and she raised the bottle. “Here’s to finding courage.” She downed several more long pulls, then passed the vessel back to him. The fortifying swirl flowed through her veins as she climbed to her feet.
And swayed.
Morning Bird reached over and steadied her. “Koon-ah-pah. Whiskey too strong.” She motioned to Alma’s dusty traveling gown. “And this too long.” Before Alma could step back or protest, the woman bent forward, scooped up a handful of emerald brocade, and shoved the excess fabric into the skirt’s waistband.
Startled, Alma glanced down at her cloth-clad limbs, the delicately embroidered bottoms of her pantalets visible for all to see. The thought of impropriety swirled in her mind only to disappear beneath a hazy blur.
With a giggle, she glanced toward Dillon. “Oooh, look. I’m now ready for the ball.” Another laugh followed, along with a tiny hiccup. “Oh dear,” she whispered, her fingers fluttering across her lips. “I do apologize.” She scrunched her nose and blew a wayward strand of hair away from her check. Trying to fend off how her thoughts clouded, she inhaled and straightened her shoulders. “All right,” she announced, sending Dillon her prettiest smile. “I am ready to sally forth.”
He chuckled, his eyes dark, shadowy pools. “Behave yourself out there, Princess.”
“I shall surely try,” she whispered as she peered deep into his eyes. “But you, my stalwart protector, must promise to ogle me.”
Heat burned in his eyes as he slowly scanned her body from head to toe before reconnecting his gaze to hers. “I promise.”
His deep, throaty assurance oozed over her, igniting a searing want up Alma’s spine. With a skewed nod, she swerved on her heel and faced the woman, her hand motioning forward in pronounced exaggeration. “Lead on, sweet Morning Bird…the Bear Dance awaits.”
***
Each step Alma took toward the dancers, lush hips swaying in coquettish rhythm to the beat, further heated Dillon’s desire. Lured against what he damned well knew was right, he again raked his gaze over her curves…her perfect breasts just right for cupping, and a waist he could almost encircle to draw her close. He swallowed hard as his gaze dipped to long, coltish legs that went from here to next week.
Dillon cursed, then tipped the bottle and gulped.
Better go easy on this, or I’ll forget my duty.
Duty? With a scowl he stared at the saucy minx who made his blood pound hot. A temptress so at odds to the social correctness of the stiff Boston debutante he’d met at the Washington train station; that woman he could ignore.
His gaze narrowed on her. Arms high, she swayed in circles to the beat of the drums, her body relaxed. With the amount of Shrug she’d consumed, no doubt any hint of propriety had long since drowned.
The steady beat of the music continued, and with each turn toward him, she rocked her hips and laughed. Repeatedly, Morning Bird interrupted Alma’s twirling to demonstrate the correct steps. Moments later, his wayward waif resumed the dancing to her own sensual rhythm.
Unable to look away, held by the pull of attraction he watched, wanted, needed with his every breath. With another mumbled oath, Dillon downed another swig in an attempt to squelch the yearning.
His Indian friend laughed.
Startled to have forgotten his presence, Dillon silently let loose another curse. Served him right. Though he’d only ogled Alma, his mind had traipsed over every damned boundary forbidden to him.
Humor glittered in the warrior’s eyes. “I see your woman has taken well to the spirit of the evening. She is causing Morning Bird much frustration, as well as catching the eye of several young braves across the way.”
Sonofabitch!
Dillon slowly stood. The rush of the drink temporarily blurred his mind. With a grimace, he planted a hand atop the man’s shoulder, steadying himself. “My woman has a spirit all her own that would frustrate even an emerging bear.”
“You have spoken the truth, my friend. But we like our women spirited, do we not?”
“Yes,” he said, dropping his hold. The corners of his mouth drew down in a frown. “Before she does something foolish, I’ll go rein her in.” The heels of his boots crunched the ground as he strode toward his dancing sprite.
On her next spin, Alma spied him and brightened her smile. “Did you come to dance with me, my darling?” She gyrated closer and slipped her palms up his chest.
An easy pull on his shoulders brought her up against him.
Dillon gazed down at her. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough dancing for one night, Princess?”
“Never,” she purred as her gaze sunk into his. “I’m just getting started.” Lost in an inebriated world all her own, her words were carried on a teasing pout. She began to writhe against him.
He unwrapped her arms from his shoulders and clasped his hand in a tight hold over hers, tugging. “Come along, I think you’re finished for the night.”
“Where are we going?” she whispered as she stumbled along behind him.
“Home.” At their teepee, Dillon swept aside the animal pelt covering the entrance.
Alma glanced over her shoulder and with a tipsy grin toward Morning Bird said, “Goodnight, my new friend. My man is taking me to bed.”
Smiles wreathed the Indians’ faces.
Dillon cursed, his mind not needing to go where her words dragged him. So much for her prudish society standards. This conflicting woman drove him mad.
With another sharp oath, he ducked through the opening, and hauled her inside.
Chapter Twenty-One
The steady flow of music, flickering fires, and chanting outside the teepee infused their humble abode within a muffled cadence of undulating tones and shadows. Dillon swept his gaze across several blankets and buffalo pelts stacked into a pile.
They’d make a nice pallet for her.
“Now you stay put while I make up a bed.”
“I promise not to move a muscle, my brave protector,” she replied, her attempt at solemnness undermined by another giggle.
Every nerve in Dillon’s body tingled. Too aware of her, of how her dress which should be by any man’s stan
dard drab and unappealing, flowed across her every curve with mouthwatering appeal. On a mumbled curse, he headed toward the coverlets, unfastening his gun belt in stride. He swung the holstered Colt away from his hips and settled the weapon on the ground.
Determined not to look at her, he dropped to his knees and reached for an animal pelt. Getting Alma away from the ogling Indian braves had been his top-priority.
He snorted, not that she was all too safe with him at the moment.
He wanted her, from her full, pouting lips to her every taste. But that was never going to happen. Once he had her situated, he’d hightail it from the teepee before things shifted into the danger zone for either of them. A cool night under the stars would not alleviate his damnable lust for her, but the distance might do wonders for his self-control. “I think you’ll find this more comfortable than the floor of the cave,” he said, refusing to look back.
“I’m sure I will.”
Pleased he’d resisted her siren’s call at the dance, Dillon tugged on the bedding until he’d crafted a berth fit for a queen…or rather, his much-too-tipsy princess. “All right, I think you’re ready.”
“I know I am.”
Relieved, he pushed to his feet. Good. He turned to face her, and his eyes widened. An intense rush of desire ripped through him, playing hell with his resolve.
Paces away, clad only in her half-buttoned chemise and pantalets, her unpinned hair cascading in a flaxen curtain over her shoulders, Alma smiled at him.
Blood rushed straight to his groin. With a hard curse, and knowing he’d be damned come morning, his gaze cut to the flimsy linen outline of her nipples.
J-e-e-z-u-s. He clenched his fists at his sides, terrified if left unchecked, his hands would be on her, all over her, touching her everywhere. Too easily her gasps of pleasure as she writhed against him outside returned to tangle his mind.
He needed to be gone from this teepee…now. “Uh…I s-see you’re ready for bed. Excellent idea.” Sweat beading his brow, his body pounding with need like a battering ram, he pointed to the pile of clothing beside her. “You’ll sleep better without all those trappings.”
“My thoughts exactly,” she whispered, her fingers continuing their slow skim down her chemise. She tipped her head sideways, and with a provocative smile, slipped free the last pearl button. On a whisper, the garment slid free, leaving her naked from the waist up. The muffled drumbeats vibrated from outside as shadows danced across her flawless skin.
Dillon couldn’t move.
He couldn’t breathe.
His heart pummeled his ribs in throbbing blows as every part of him begged to reach out and touch her perfection. On a hard swallow, he took in the curve of her shoulders, the slope of her breasts, the silken sweet smoothness of her skin. A tremor shook his body, then another as the hellish need for her burned him where he stood.
Three steps brought her to him, satisfaction darkening her eyes. She leaned forward, pressing her breasts against his chest.
“Don’t do this, Alma,” he growled.
“Do what?” she whispered, unbuttoning his shirt. “Want you?”
His hands clasped hers. “Come tomorrow, I promise you’ll regret this.”
“I’ve given this much thought…and I choose you.” With a soft giggle she slid her hands free and reached for his shirt.
Savoring the slide of her fingers against his skin, his muscles bunched as she slipped free his last button. The material parted. Cool air met his heated flesh. Pulling in a rough breath, he fought to quell the fire racing through his veins. Damn the liquor for weakening his discipline, eroding his duty to protect her…even from him.
A quick push on the chambray and Alma shoved his shirt off his shoulders.
A soft giggle followed. “Before you, I’d never wanted to be with a man…like this.” Her hands skimmed his bare chest, pausing as she flicked her fingertips across his nipples.
He hissed, unable to rip his gaze from hers. Dancing blue eyes held him captive, and a moment later, she yanked the shirt down his arms and tossed the chambray aside. Heat stormed Dillon as desire burned hot and palpable in her eyes.
She swayed against him, her soft breath feathering his lips. “Now…stop talking, and just kiss me again.”
Sweet Jeezus… every single part of this was wrong, but he knew he fought a losing battle. The damnable pull across his denims commanded him to take what she offered.
On a guttural groan, Dillon closed his eyes and surrendered, crushing his mouth over hers. His heart pounded, his head spinning. Overcome by the taste of her, the scent of her, control vaporized beneath the lushness of this woman. Like a rush of demons, his hands swept down her sides to the curve of her waist. He dragged her against him.
A soft moan sounded as she responded in kind, climbing his body to get ever closer. Dillon staggered back, dropping to one knee, nipping, suckling, until her taste filled every part of him.
Mother of God…he wanted her beyond all things. Body on fire, his hands slid to her breasts, and palmed them. Soft. Warm. A perfect fit. His thumbs flicked over her nipples.
With a gasp, Alma tore free and arched beneath his touch. “Oh Dillon,” she said on a throaty moan, “that feels s-so good.”
Like a serenade to this moment, drumbeats echoed their bodies’ response, her gasps and cries driving him wild. Passion ran rampant as his need for her nearly burst inside him. He wanted to make love to her. To make her heart sing. To make her his forever…
Forever?
Like an ice-cold bucket of water splashed in his face, reality washed over him. His eyes snapped open. J-Jeezus. Stop. STOP!
What was the hell was he doing? This angel belonged to another. She could never be his for even one day.
Get away from her.
His gaze bored into hers.
He wouldn’t…couldn’t take her innocence this way. Dillon scraped his eyes over each luscious curve, memorizing every precious part of this temptress. His jaw tightened as he surged to his feet, drawing her with him.
A frown tugged at her mouth as she frantically reached for him.
“Damnit…Alma. Stop,” he snapped, stumbling backward. He held her away, his grip on her upper arms digging deeper.
“But, I-I don’t want to stop,” she said, a pout reclaiming her kiss-swollen lips. A sadness smoldered in her striking eyes.
Dillon eased out a shaky sigh. He wasn’t as drunk as she…he damned well knew better than to touch her.
Sonofabitch! He’d spent his entire life avoiding such entanglements.
His body still aching with need, before he did something foolish like finish what she started, he settled her upon the buffalo hides, then tossed a blanket atop her nakedness. Out of sight, but forevermore in his mind.
She blinked, her eyes narrowing beneath the hazing effect of the alcohol. “D-Don’t you want me?” she asked, her voice beginning to slur as she clutched the blanket to her chin.
“God, yes, Princess,” he hissed, “more than you’ll ever know. But, what I want
isn’t important here.” With each passing second she slumped deeper into the blankets.
“B-But…I wanted you to want me…”
“Getting to your fiancée is what you really want.”
She wrinkled her nose. “But, h-he’s nothing like you.” She lowered to her elbows, peering at him. Blessedly, the blanket remained across her body. “You’re s-so much stronger…and…virile…and…” her gaze drifted to the side of the teepee, her words fading as she stared at the firelight climbing the canvas wall.
Dillon scrunched his eyes to gain control while the swirling in his head subsided. The ache in his groin was another matter. He let loose a long groan. The only comfort he’d find from this damnable mess was that come morning, she probably wouldn’t remember a blasted thing.
The thought protected her, but what the hell did it do for his lost soul?
On a curse, he grabbed his shirt and gun belt, unable to dislodge the boulder
that clogged his throat. Three steps took him to the entrance; a glance back proved she was fading fast. “Do not leave the teepee,” he rasped. “Do you understand?”
Nodding, she stretched across the animal pelts, and then tucked her hands beneath her head. Flaxen hair tumbled around her face. On a sigh, her eyelids drifted closed.
For a long moment he stared at her, aware her angel-sweet touch was as close as he would ever get to heaven. My God… you’re beautiful.
The truth burned a hole in his heart.
On another curse Dillon pushed through the opening and strode outside. Inhaling deeply, he shoved his arms into the sleeves. She was safe. For now, but doubts lingered that he would ever outrun his need for her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The ten mile ride down Blanca Peak took Dillon and Alma the entire day, the journey toward Fort Garland covered in complete silence.
Dillon frowned at the image of Alma, irritable as hell this morning as she had stumbled from the teepee. Hands clutching her head, she’d squinted at the rising sun before accepting the cup of coffee he’d proffered. As he’d suspected, and to her salvation, she remembered little of the previous night.
He, on the other hand, wasn’t to be spared.
Not that he was going to waste time thinking about the softness of her skin, the feel of her perfect body against his, or how easily he could have sated his need in her warmth. As far as he was concerned that subject was more than closed. After a quick breakfast during which his short-tempered charge did little more than nibble at her fare, they’d said their goodbyes and then ridden from the camp.
Dillon shifted in the saddle staring at the army post shimmering on the late-afternoon horizon. Another mile separated him from settling Alma into comfort in the fort’s guest quarters, except the thought of taking her to another man now turned his guts inside out. Yet, however much he wanted things to be different, he’d made the right decision in leaving her untouched.