Deborah slid a glance toward her cousin Judith, who had accompanied her to Texas. An orphan, Judith had left nothing or no one behind. Perhaps Judith would find a husband soon, too. She was certainly pretty enough, with pale gold hair and bright eyes as blue as the wildflowers strewn across the wild Texas hills. Deborah prayed the move to Texas would be good for her.
A faint smile curved Deborah’s mouth as she saw her cousin flirt with a handsome young caballero, who bent over her hand with a gallant flourish.
There was a world of difference between her and Judith. Judith was ebullient and vivacious, where Deborah was quiet and reserved, betraying her mother’s English heritage. Deborah even spoke in the same soft, cultured tones her mother had used, with a trace of the English accent that Elizabeth Hamilton had kept until the day she died. Deborah’s quiet gentility often seemed at odds with the brilliant mane of russet hair she’d inherited from her father, and the soft brown eyes that could regard the world with a hint of mischief.
That gentility had made her acceptable to Miguel Velazquez, she knew.
Ordinarily, he would have wed a woman of his own class, who’d grown up in the strictures of Spanish life.
Miguel wrapped a heavy arm around Deborah and leaned close to whisper in her ear. His breath was spiced with tequila, and she turned her face slightly away as he said, “The night drags on, amanté, and I grow anxious for you. Come—let us hide from the others for a while.” A pang of nervous fear shot through Deborah, and she looked at him with glazed eyes. No one had told her exactly what happened on a girl’s wedding night. All she knew, was that it involved extreme intimacy, and that little fact she’d overheard from one of the servants. Only her innate dignity kept her voice cool and steady.
“It would be an insult to leave our guests, Don Miguel. They expect us to lead the dancing shortly.” Loud music filled the air; guitars throbbed and horns soared while brightly attired guests whirled across the stone tiles of the huge patio lit with colorful lanterns.
“There are to be fireworks before the customary dance,” Miguel coaxed softly. His dark eyes flared with hot lights that made her quiver. “We can rejoin them then, and no one will even know we have been gone.” Deborah suppressed the urge to refuse, pressing her lips tightly together as she stared at him in dismay. Miguel was her husband. If he insisted, she must obey. It was what she’d been taught from childhood, what she expected.
Yet she had not expected that he would lead her to the shady arbor where grapevines curled tightly on wooden frames. It was remote and private, but she had thought he would take her to their elegant bedchamber.
“Don Miguel—here?” she murmured doubtfully as he stopped and pulled her close. Her head began to ache, and fear pounded through her even harder. She had thought there would be a maid to help her undress, to brush out her long russet hair and tie pretty ribbons in it. Then she would don the lovely nightdress she’d brought with her from Natchez. But this—this was so sordid, so demeaning.
“Sí,” he was muttering thickly as he pushed her up against the wall of the arbor. His hand tugged clumsily at the bodice of her elaborate gown. “Here is just as good as anywhere else, my lovely wife. And we don’t have to wait for everyone to pay us compliments first. Or for the endless toasts that will be drunk before we can find our pleasure in bed.” Deborah tried to reconcile herself to the fact that he would not be dissuaded, but couldn’t keep from stiffening as he pawed at her. His hands pushed impatiently at her gown, ripping it in his haste and tearing off the intricate roses sewn onto the bodice and sleeves. She ground her teeth together and tried to think of anything but the moment and what he was doing.
Her lovely gown with seed pearls and silk roses adorning the skirt in tiers was pushed up around her waist, bunched in looping folds over her many petticoats. Miguel swore softly in Spanish, and his motions grew rougher and more impatient.
“All these clothes— Madre Díos! Take them off now.”
“But Miguel—” Deborah gasped when he jerked at the laces holding her soft cotton drawers around her waist, and heard the rip of material. His fist closed around a wad of cloth as he tugged it free.
When his hand seared across the bare, quivering flesh of her stomach, Deborah closed her eyes. She barely felt his mouth on her lips, her cheek, and the arch of her throat as he tilted back her head. Night air whisked over her shrinking flesh when he pulled down the bodice of her gown, ripping the exquisite embroidery in the process. Miguel’s mouth traced hot, wet trails over her skin, and Deborah shuddered at the invasion, wondering how much worse it could get.
Even as her mind screamed No!, she knew that the worst was yet to come. She heard Miguel fumble with the buttons of his trousers, heard his panting breath as he swore softly at the delay. Then the hot, rigid press of his flesh against her bare thighs made her jump. Revulsion shot through her, and despite her vow not to protest, not to plead, she shoved hard at him with the heels of her hands.
“Miguel! Stop that—you must stop at once, please. Listen—the fireworks have begun. They will be looking for us to lead the dance . . .” He groaned. “Not yet, not yet. I go too fast . . . and you are not ready for me . . . I understand. Let me kiss you, so that you will be ready for me . . .” Not understanding what he meant, Deborah knew only that he wanted to kiss her, and she lifted her lips with a kind of desperation. That much she did not mind. A kiss, after all, was proper between a husband and wife.
Miguel’s mouth was wet, and his kiss searching as he held her close, her bare breasts crushed against his ruffled shirt front. Gold buttons on his vest dug painfully into her skin, and she tried to ease the sting by twisting away.
That only made Miguel hold her more tightly, his hands closing cruelly around her upper arms. He ground his hips against her, and reached down with one hand to lift up her skirts and stroke the downy triangle between her legs. When she shuddered, he grew more excited. Ignoring her cry of horror, he slid a finger into the soft heat of her body.
Never had Deborah imagined such shocking pain. It shot through her like a flame, and her nails dug into Miguel so hard she should have brought blood. He didn’t seem to notice it. He was panting, and dear God—he was trying to push his swollen organ into her, shoving her up against the wall of the arbor so hard she couldn’t move or even draw a breath.
As he strained against her, Deborah tried to remove herself from time and place. She heard Miguel curse vaguely, the words mixing with the loud pops of fireworks that Don Francisco, Miguel’s uncle, had bought for the evening’s festivities. They sounded faraway, muffled by the harsh rasp of Miguel’s breathing and her own smothered cries. Delighted screams rose in the distance as the fireworks exploded, and she felt a detached sense of dismay that she was not there to see the display.
The dark shadows in the arbor grew lighter, and she could see Miguel’s face now, taut and straining as he tried to plunge his rigid staff between her thighs and into her body. Her flesh resisted, her nails dug more deeply into his back as he shoved against her, and she heard him swear again.
Half-sobbing, Deborah saw Miguel lift his head, his dark eyes focusing on her face.
“Díos,” he muttered, “I am sorry to hurt you.” He put up a hand to cup her cheek in a soft caress. She gave a moan that made him flinch.
Deborah saw his mouth open, but no words came out. He looked faintly surprised, a little puzzled, and then he was sliding limply toward the floor of the arbor. She stared numbly, not quite able to comprehend the swiftness of this change, unable to understand the small, neat hole just above his left ear.
Blood spurted from it, dripping down Miguel’s face as his body sagged uselessly against her legs. She stared at him stupidly.
“Miguel . . . ?”
Fireworks exploded again, a rattling firestorm that popped and popped.
Screams pierced the night more loudly, and this time Deborah understood.
They were not the screams of delight she’d thought, but screams of terror and pain. As Deborah cr
ouched, frozen in the darkness of the arbor with her wedding gown still hanging from her bared breasts, she saw a shadow silhouetted against the bright background of rising flames and death.
Tenor stilled her voice, and she sat paralyzed as a painted, half-naked warrior stepped into the opening and looked down at her. Smoke filled the air and stung her eyes, and Deborah heard the jubilant yells of the raiding warriors rise high above the screams of death.
Chapter 2
The nightmare went on and on. Deborah Hamilton Velazquez was numb with exhaustion and fear. She was not alone. There were others who were captives, mostly women, and a few small children. All of them had passed the point of screams or protests in the past days, and simply endured. It was enough for the moment that they were alive.
Judith was tied on a horse just in front of her, and looked back as they rode along single file. Her blue eyes were dazed when she whispered hoarsely,
“They’ll kill us, you know. Or worse. Oh God, Deborah, what can we do?” Forcing the words past dry, stiff lips, Deborah murmured, “Be brave.
And pray. I don’t think hysteria will help us now.” When Judith nodded numbly, Deborah turned her weary thoughts to her questionable future. In the space of a few minutes, her entire life had changed. Gone was her husband, dead in a grape arbor, and gone, too, were most of the men attending the wedding fiesta. She’d glimpsed the bodies sprawled like broken dolls on the hacienda grounds. Then the descent into pure terror had erased everything from her mind but the need to survive.
That survival instinct kept her going now, in the face of exhaustion, hunger and cold. Fear had been relegated to the background. More important needs had surfaced.
Chestnut strands of her hair hung limp and tangled in her eyes, masking her vision as she tried to keep up with the steady pace set by the men she’d heard one of the other captives call Comanche. Her legs were sore and aching, and her body bruised from several falls. Only the driving certainty that soldiers would give pursuit kept her from surrendering to despair at times. Surely, there had been at least one survivor from that night to alert the Army.
By the time the Comanche warriors rode their horses down into a pine-choked valley, it was almost a relief. Even if death awaited them at the journey’s end, it had to be better than this nightmare of bruising travel and constant threats in a language none of the captives understood.
They were dragged from their horses and bunched together in the center of a village of tall, hide-covered tents. The captives huddled miserably. The returning warriors whooped as they greeted their families, and the air was filled with noise. Comanche children ran and squealed, and dogs barked while the white captives waited, kneeling in the dirt, some with tears, some with dry sobs, some shivering with apprehension.
In the ensuing melee, Deborah stood with her head held high, too numb to react. The tatters of her lacy wedding dress hung in folds from her slender frame. Her eyes focused on a spot far distant from the chaotic village. Bright streamers of her hair draped loosely over her shoulders, and her face was calm and composed as she seemed not to notice those around her. She alone stood stiffly upright.
That was how Hawk first saw her.
Seated beside the chief, he watched as those who had gone on the raid returned victorious. They laughed and boasted of their prowess, the easy victory they had enjoyed. The men had been drunk, the raid almost too easy.
Hawk’s gaze swung inevitably toward the captives. As was common on such a foray, only some women and a few children had been brought back.
Most of the women were dark-haired, which was as expected. Not many whites had settled in the area where the war party had gone to steal horses; the raiders’ target had been a huge Spanish hacienda on the border.
Yet, one of the women had bright tresses the color of the sun. And the woman who stood so quietly in the center of the captives had richly hued hair of a deep auburn. It was unusual, and caught Hawk’s attention. His gaze grew sharper as he noted the elegant dress clinging in stained white satin to her slender curves. It had once been beautiful, but was now torn and dirty. The skirt hung limply, and Hawk knew enough about the clothes such women wore to see that the many petticoats she’d once worn had been discarded, whether by necessity or accident was pure conjecture.
He allowed none of his thoughts to show on his face. It remained expressionless, eyes fathomless, his mouth set in a straight line of indifference. Hawk felt no sympathy. It was simply the way of things. Life and death were an unending cycle, and it didn’t matter where a person lived, but how a person lived. Happiness was an abstract emotion, something he hadn’t thought about since he was a young boy. He was a man now, and thought as a man. A man was not to think of only personal satisfaction, but of the good of his people, his father said, and he followed that advice.
Yet Hawk’s gaze returned repeatedly to the young woman standing stiffly with her chin tilted and her eyes grave. There was something about her that arrested his attention. Perhaps it was that she showed no fear. Nothing showed in her face, no reaction at all. The rest of the women were sniveling and weeping, but that one slender girl stared straight ahead in an unblinking gaze.
Night fell, and the village celebration went on. Fires leaped high, and the raiders danced and bragged beneath the sky. Deborah had ceased to think.
She’d ceased to feel. Her arms were numb where the ropes had been tied too tightly on her wrists, cutting off circulation. Some of the women had fallen asleep, yielding to exhausted fear. The children who had been captured were taken from the group by some of the Comanche women.
Deborah’s head turned, and she called softly, “Be brave, little ones.” It had not escaped her notice that the children were treated kindly for the most part, with the women touching their small heads and crooning to them in soft voices. Maybe the children would be allowed to live, perhaps even adopted. Deborah harbored no such hope for herself or her cousin, who drifted into exhausted slumber with the others. The other women were Mexican, some of them servants, some of them guests who had come to attend her wedding.
Her wedding. That seemed like years ago, not days. Why had she never considered that something like this might happen to her? It had seemed so farfetched then, even when her friend LuEmma had warned her about the hostiles in Texas. Of course, having lived in Natchez all her life, LuEmma considered any other part of the world primitive and uncivilized. Now Deborah was inclined to agree.
She shifted position, her legs aching with the strain of remaining upright. She didn’t sleep for the simple reason that she was too frightened.
Fires punctuated the darkness of the camp, red-gold flames lighting the camp and the figures of the dancers. It was a scene she’d never imagined, and Deborah felt fear prickle up her spine with malicious swiftness.
Gathering her fortitude, Deborah remained erect and watchful. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw a man approaching the captives. He walked with a lithe, powerful stride, and her throat tightened when she realized he was looking directly at her.
He looked so fierce, with jet-black hair worn long and loose. A feather dangled from a small braid over one ear, and the rest of his hair brushed against his shoulders. His face was dark and coppery, and he was tall, much taller than the others, she noted distractedly. Like the others, however, he wore only a large square of cloth between his legs, tied at his waist, leaving his broad chest bare. Knee-high moccasins clung to his calves, and he wore some kind of amulet on a rawhide thong around his neck.
Deborah was frighteningly aware of his presence, of the danger evident in his loose, fluid stride. When the Comanche stopped only a few feet away, she refused to avert her gaze. She met him stare for stare, her chin lifting in that quick gesture of pride that was inborn in the Hamiltons.
His eyes were clear and cold, his expression so indifferent that she almost lost her nerve. Fear pulsed through her nerves in singing waves, and her knees began to quiver.
It took all her self-control to keep calm, but
Deborah felt that if she revealed the depth of her fear, it would only hasten the inevitable. Smoke from the campfire stung her eyes and nose, and there was an indefinable odor in the air that she couldn’t identify. She tried to concentrate on anything but the predatory gaze of the Comanche only a few feet away. He stood watching her without speaking for several moments, seeming to assess her, then turned and walked away. Deborah felt a wave of relief wash over her. Perhaps he would leave her alone, at least for a while.
But then she knew she had erred, for he returned with a buckskin-clad woman in tow. The woman looked to be Mexican, but he spoke to her swiftly in the deep guttural language Deborah had come to recognize as Comanche, and the woman nodded. She turned toward Deborah.
“That one wishes to know your name,” she said in halting English that Deborah had difficulty understanding. The woman had to repeat it twice before she was understood, and her voice grew sharp with irritation.
Deborah’s chin lifted slightly. “My name is Deborah Hamilton. May I ask what is to be done with us?” The words were out before she realized she should have given her married name. It was only natural, she supposed, as she had been wed and widowed in a matter of hours. If she was to be ransomed, she needed to give her married name, and she opened her mouth to correct her mistake, but the woman had turned back to the cold-eyed Comanche.
At the man’s prompting she asked Deborah, “Where is your husband?”
“Dead.”
No emotion betrayed her, not by the slightest quiver of her voice. It did not seem like an odd reaction, not considering the other incredible events that had so drastically changed her life in such a short time. Her gaze focused on the Comanche. She deliberately met his steady stare again, and was struck by a difference she hadn’t noted before.
“You—you have blue eyes,” she blurted, startled at the discovery. She hadn’t thought about a Comanche having blue eyes, but it was obvious some of them did. At least, this one did. Flames reflected from a blue so intense as to be almost indigo, and the blue eyes in such a dark face were both frightening and familiar. She didn’t realize she was staring until he spoke, his voice a harsh, rasping growl.
Comanche Moon Page 2