Rather shyly, her pretty companion motioned for Deborah to be seated on a pallet of hides and blankets; then she ducked back out the open flap of the tent. As Deborah knelt slowly on the pallet, she wondered what would happen to her now, and where her new captor had gone. He was not inside, nor had she seen him outside as they’d approached from the stream.
Nervous and afraid, she waited. Insects buzzed annoyingly close, and she swatted at them. Children laughed outside, sounding like children anywhere. Deborah smiled at the thought. She shifted position when her feet began to grow numb from kneeling, and sat down with her legs drawn up in front of her chest.
Something brushed along the back of her neck, and she half-turned, squinting at the unfamiliar drifts of fur hanging from the framework. It was varicolored, in different shades of brown and black, some of it long, some short. The strips seemed to be attached to ovals of hide that dangled from a thin, bent-willow circle.
Deborah stared until an uneasy feeling crept over her, and she began to feel a tightness grow in her chest. Those fur strips—they were too long to belong to an animal. Not any animal she’d ever seen. Her mind refused to accept the logical explanation, and all the color drained from her face as she tried to find a more acceptable interpretation of what her eyes told her she was seeing.
Scalps. Dear God, she was looking at human scalps. The long, silky strands of some of the hair was unmistakable, and she bent her head and gasped, fighting nausea. As the nausea receded, panic blossomed, and she had to curb her desire to run screaming from the tent out into the camp. That would do her no good. And it would only attract unwanted attention. She closed her eyes until the faintness passed, and wished she’d never come West.
Not that wishes did much good. If they did, she would be at home in Natchez and sitting on the porch sipping cold lemonade from an elegant glass. The air would be thick with the sweet fragrance of magnolias and honeysuckle instead of the stench of burning meat. And she would not be terrified that her own hair would soon hang from a pole in one of these odd-looking tents.
Deborah closed her eyes again and recited Bible passages from memory.
If God was listening, He needed to do something quickly, she thought, then chastised herself for her hasty prayers. She should have learned patience as well as humility.
Time passed, and Deborah’s reluctant survey of her surroundings grew more curious. There were no more grisly discoveries, though she did not search very hard. Mostly, she sat and waited. And tried to repair her garments. Her torn gown gaped open revealingly. She tried to tie the torn edges of her bodice together. It was no use. It covered her, but only barely.
Light slowly filled the interior as the sun rose higher, and Deborah looked around her with interest. A variety of items were stacked neatly at the sides. Blankets were folded in an orderly manner, and gourd vessels sat in tidy rows. A few wooden bowls, scoured clean, were wedged in among carved cups and loosely woven baskets filled with some kind of berries. Her stomach growled at the visual reminder of food. Would they ever think to feed her?
And what about her cousin and the others? Were they to be starved, too?
Deborah tucked strands of her tangled hair behind her ears as she struggled for composure. It wouldn’t help to grow upset. She would need all her self-possession to get through this ordeal.
Footsteps sounded in the dirt outside the opened flap, and Deborah steeled herself. Relief made her almost weak when the slender girl entered, and she sighed.
The girl looked up and smiled, as if she knew how Deborah must feel.
“Ihka puni tuihu,” she said in a soft voice, her smile widening when Deborah just stared at her. She lifted the bowl in her hands, and a curl of tantalizing steam rose in the air. “Kuhtsu?maru.” The unfamiliar words were simply gibberish, but the girl’s meaning was clear as she held out the bowl. Deborah took it gratefully. There was no spoon, just a bowl of some sort of stew. Chunks of meat and vaguely familiar vegetables bobbed in a thick, fragrant gravy, and with a sigh between pleasure and dismay, Deborah dipped her fingers tentatively into the bowl.
A soft giggle made her look up. Mischief danced in the young girl’s eyes, and she held out a shallow spoon carved from bone. It had a rough wooden handle. Deborah smiled at the look of delight on the girl’s face as she reached for the spoon. She forced herself to eat slowly instead of wolfing down the food, but it was difficult. When the bowl was half-empty, she looked back up at the watching girl.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
Kneeling, the girl looked at Deborah with her head tilted to one side like a small, interested bird. Her thick shiny hair gleamed in the soft light, and a smile curved her lips.
“Ura.” When Deborah looked mystified, she repeated in a slow, hesitant voice, “Ura—thank you.”
“Do you speak English?” Deborah asked immediately, but the girl only stared at her without answering. Well, it was too much to hope that she’d know more than a phrase or two of English, she supposed. Probably learned from a trading post. At least the girl was friendly and seemed to like her. She cleared her throat.
“Wura,” she said in an effort to mimic her, and that sent the girl into peals of soft laughter. Deborah laughed, too, wondering what she’d said.
“Uruu?” she tried again, and more laughter greeted her effort.
When she’d finished the stew, the girl took the bowl and gave her a gourd of cool water to drink. With her basic needs satisfied for the moment, Deborah studied the Comanche girl, wondering if they could possibly communicate successfully. It would be helpful to have a sympathetic ally in camp, especially when she recalled a pair of hard blue eyes and an even harder face. Deborah smiled, and the girl smiled back, obviously ready to cooperate in the business of making friends.
Putting her palm against her chest, Deborah said, “Deborah.” Then she reached out to indicate the girl, tilting her head to one side and lifting her shoulders questioningly.
A smile curved her mouth as the girl chirruped, “Ohayaa.” She put her hand on her chest and repeated, “Ohayaa.” Deborah repeated it several times until the girl was satisfied, and felt a sense of accomplishment. Then Ohayaa pointed a finger up toward the patch of sky visible through the smoke hole. Pantomiming, she spent several minutes translating her name into English for Deborah, pointing to the sun, mimicking the role of a plant, until finally Deborah exclaimed, “Sunflower!” and the girl nodded eagerly.
“Sunflower,” she said, smiling at Deborah in triumph. A shy gleam lit her eyes, and she leaned close, her voice a soft whisper. “Haitsi.”
“Haitsi— what does it mean?” Deborah asked, then said strongly when it became apparent that Sunflower was saying she was a friend, “Haitsi. Yes, we are friends.”
Sunflower nodded wisely, and there was a gentleness in her that tugged at Deborah. “Friends, haa. Friends.” A harsh voice intruded suddenly, and both Deborah and Sunflower looked up in alarm as the flap to the tent was thrust aside. The blue-eyed Comanche was briefly outlined against the sunlight as he ducked in, and it was obvious he wasn’t pleased.
“Miaru,” he said again, more harshly than before, and Sunflower looked unhappy as she scrambled to her feet. There was a brief exchange, in which it was apparent to Deborah that he was berating her for being too friendly with his captive, then Sunflower left without glancing back.
Deborah’s hand clenched in her lap, and she sat in stiff, apprehensive silence as her new captor hunkered down on his heels next to her. His eyes were cold and hard, and she tried to study him without being obvious.
His knee-high moccasins had long fringe hanging from the cuff and along the sides; the wide strip of cloth belted around his waist and hanging loose in the front and back looked clean. The bare expanse of his chest was smooth and dark, gleaming a dull bronze in the dim light, and his long legs were hard and muscled.
He was much too briefly clad, and she looked away from him, feeling the heat rise to her face. She’d not been this close to a
man so scantily clad before, except for the brief moments with her original captor. It was unnerving.
Even more unnerving was the cold blue gaze directed at her, studying her closely. Deborah flushed as his gaze dropped to the expanse of skin visible beneath her torn bodice, and her hand rose involuntarily to cover her breast. He reached out with a leisurely motion and captured her wrist in his strong, hard fingers.
“Keta.”
When she stared at him uncomprehendingly, he met her eyes with the suggestion of a smile and released her arm. Then he reached behind him and lowered the flap to the opening. It fell in a soft rustle, blocking out bright light and the world, leaving them alone in the tent.
Deborah stared at him with growing comprehension. When his gaze drifted down her body again, then back up to her face, she instantly knew what he intended.
Chapter 4
“No!” Deborah tried to back away, but Hawk’s hands flashed out to grasp her wrists. He held them in one hand, slowly pulling her to him, enjoying the feel of her soft skin beneath his fingers. She was so soft, her skin as smooth and rich as butter, gliding beneath his hand when he slid his palm up one arm.
He could well understand the man who had taken her in a grape arbor, knew that a soft, lovely woman such as this one would tempt a man to impetuous action. Spotted Pony had told him how he’d found her in the arbor with a man, that they’d not heard his approach or understood the commotion because they were making love.
Hawk also understood that this woman would not have instigated it.
There was an innate dignity to her that would have submitted to a husband, but not initiated the act in so public a place.
The tipi was private, and Hawk intended to take this woman, to taste her sweetness for himself. There would be no shame involved, only pleasure. He would treat her gently, but she would lie with him.
“Kima habiki,” he murmured softly. He wanted her to lie down with him willingly, and his tone of voice was gentle. A faint tremor shook her, and he forced himself to go slowly.
She was frightened, and he knew he should probably speak to her in the language she understood, but he didn’t. There was an unwillingness to admit to being anything but Comanche, even in this girl’s eyes. He had come back to his father’s camp with the intention of staying usúni—forever. He’d spent too long living a lie in the white man’s world, a world that he had tried to make his own. He’d never felt comfortable there, no more than he did here.
There were too many slurs thrown at him, slurs that had made him too quick with a gun, too quick to retaliate. Maybe here, in his father’s camp, he could find the peace that had been denied him in his mother’s world. He’d walked a shaky line between them for so long it had begun to seem natural.
The year he’d spent riding with the Pony Express had given him a keen instinct for survival and made him expert with a sidearm. He didn’t regret the experience, though it had left him with more scars and a healthy respect for the Apache and Comanche. That experience had been what prompted him to find his father, to seek acceptance.
There would be no more living in two worlds. Not any longer. No, he would make this shivering girl understand him with actions, not familiar words.
Hawk’s gaze shifted from the girl’s wide eyes and fear-stretched mouth to the soft mound of her breasts. They were warm, like heated velvet, a miracle of pink and ivory with only a suggestion of blue veins just beneath the translucent skin. Small rosy nipples hardened to tight buds when he pushed aside the torn material of her gown, and Hawk’s mouth curled in a faint smile.
“No,” she whispered again, desperation making her voice thick when he reached out to cup a firm, round breast in his palm.
Hawk ignored her. Soon he would make her want him as he wanted her, once he got past her initial resistance. It was inevitable that she feel resistance, just as it was inevitable she lie with some man. Being a captive entailed certain duties, and for a woman, lying with a man was one of them if she was comely.
“Kima,” he said again, urging her toward the pallet on the floor of the tipi. She began to struggle, panic flaring in her eyes as he pushed her gently but firmly backward. With a show of strength he did not expect from so delicate a woman, Deborah fought him furiously. She kicked at him, making him grunt with irritation as her feet struck his shins. Fortunately, her long skirts hampered her movements, and he was able to shift her to one side, sliding an arm around her waist to hold her up against his hip and thigh. Her legs flailed harmlessly, occasionally brushing against the back of his leg but doing no damage.
No novice at subduing an opponent, though admittedly it was usually an angry male, Hawk put a deft foot behind her ankle and jerked. Deborah sank rapidly backward, and he used his weight to carry her to the ground. His movement did not deter her in the least from her struggle; indeed, it grew more violent in intensity as he lay atop her.
She began kicking again, her legs freed as her skirts were tossed up around her thighs. Panting with effort, she managed to land a blow to his inner thigh, and he grunted with pain this time.
“Puaru . . .” he muttered harshly, not finishing his sentence as she managed to free one hand. It came up in a slashing blow that caught him on one cheek. His head snapped back with the force of it, and he caught her hand again in a cruel grip. Pulling her arms up, he pinned her to the floor.
He glared down at her. Her hair was in wild tangles in her eyes and across the pallet of blankets and soft robes, a bright contrast against the dark fur. Her face was pale with fear and desperation, and her eyes blazed up at him with a look so condemning he was startled. Didn’t she understand that she would be taken by some man in the camp? It should make little difference to her who. At least he would be gentle with her, if she would allow it.
She kicked and twisted beneath him, trying to get away. Hawk subdued her easily, with her hands pinned over her head and his body weighing her down. He shifted so that his legs controlled hers, his thighs clamping hers together. Then he waited for her to tire.
When she finally paused in her struggle, panting for breath with soft sounds of distress coming from her throat, he eased his grip on her wrists.
His body fit against her curves from hip to breast, and he knew she had to be aware of his erection nudging her soft belly. Her movements had made it impossible for him not to react, and the slide of female flesh against his brought the inevitable results.
She grew very still. Her long, curved lashes flew up and she gazed at him with fear and something else, a look almost of confusion. Hawk stared back at her. She had been a married woman, and she had to know what came next.
Slowly, so slowly that he felt the tension grow between them, Hawk lowered his head to kiss her. She accepted the kiss, but did not return it as his lips brushed lightly over her mouth. First, he kissed the corners of her mouth with light, fluttering caresses, then touched the tip of his tongue to the swell of her upper lip. Her breath came in shuddering gasps for air.
“Pihnákamaru,” he murmured. It was an understatement. She was more than sweet. The teasing satin of her mouth lured him farther, and his tongue gently washed the outline of her lips in quick strokes that sent a flash of heat through him. Her breath quickened, and she squirmed under him.
Desire speared him when she moved, and he shifted so that his thighs wedged between her clenched legs. He felt her resistance, saw the protest well in her eyes, and bent his head again to kiss it away.
Murmuring low, reassuring words that he knew she could not understand, Hawk nuzzled the side of her neck below her ear. She smelled like woodsmoke and warm woman, and he clung to his restraint. The touch of his mouth against her neck made her jump under him, and he soothed her when she cried out and twisted her head away.
It took all his self-control not to remove his breechcloth and just take her, but Hawk did not want a screaming, struggling woman on his robes. He wanted her willing and warm and wrapped around him like a soft cocoon, opening body and mind to him.
Hawk shifted control of her wrists to his other hand, then cupped Deborah’s chin in his palm and lifted her head to look at him. Her eyes were glazed with fright, a warm honey color with golden specks that absorbed the sunlight coming through the smoke hole of the tipi. He smiled with appreciation of her courage in the face of fear, and rotated the pad of his thumb in a gentle, caressing motion against her cheekbone.
Then, slowly, he drew his hand down over the arch of her throat to her collarbone, his fingers tracing a light pattern in the delicate scoop between the bones. His hand moved downward, to that tempting valley between her breasts, the silky skin luxuriant and pliable beneath his fingers.
He levered his body to a slant, still holding her down with his weight on her, his hand moving to cup her breast. She shuddered, and he felt an exquisite tightness in his groin.
Hawk brushed his thumb across the tight rosebud that looked delicious and fragile and oh so sweet and felt her vibrate with reaction. He concentrated on that tiny nub, dragging his fingers over it in teasing flicks that made her squirm. Her breath came quickly now, and not from exertion.
There was a flushed, dazed expression on her face that turned to shock when he bent to draw her nipple into his mouth.
She cried out, arching upward as if seeking the source. Hawk flicked his tongue around her nipple, listening to her distressed whimpers with growing anticipation. Her hips moved, and he wedged her legs farther apart, fitting himself into the notch of her thighs.
He shifted his attention to her other breast, giving it the same washing with his tongue and lips, and felt the awkward motion of her hips beneath him. She gave another soft cry, and it made him shudder with desire for her.
She was almost ready for him, almost to the point where she’d open willingly.
Comanche Moon Page 4