Comanche Moon

by Virginia Brown

Did he mean to harm her? Perhaps he wanted to take her out of the camp so that he could rape her without being seen, but then she reasoned that he probably didn’t need to hide anything like that. She had the distinct impression that captives were dispensable, and could be dealt with any way the captor chose. Her throat tightened, and she managed to walk without stumbling only by sheer determination.

  “Tobo-ihupiitu,” he said finally, pulling on the back of her blouse to indicate that he wanted her to stop. She did, and couldn’t help a sudden shiver.

  They were in a remote, wooded copse, with the camp far behind them.

  Water splashed and gurgled over muddy banks and smooth stones only a few feet away. Tall pines swayed with a loud, swishing noise that made her think of taffeta skirts rustling in church. Deborah closed her eyes and shivered again. “Nakaru-karu,” he muttered, his hand pressing her down to a thick tuft of grass. “Kahtu.”

  She was grateful. Her knees had grown weak, and her legs too flimsy to support her much longer. This man terrified her; there was no evidence of any emotion in his stark features, no hint that he might be gentle in any way.

  If not for that fleeting impression of uncertainty she’d had earlier, Deborah would have thought him as unemotional as the pine trees shading them. That brief hint that he might be human was heartening, though not very comforting.

  Tosa Nakaai knelt down beside her, and she felt his gaze burning into her. She felt unclothed without the armor of her undergarments, and briefly regretted their loss as much as she had recently enjoyed her new freedom. It felt as if he could see through the thin material covering her, and she resisted the impulse to rearrange her clothing.

  Deborah tried not to look at him, but the pull of his eyes finally drew her reluctant gaze. They were so blue, so cold and yet so warm, with the fire she’d seen before lighting them with a need so strong she almost felt it. Deborah swallowed her dismay. He seemed to sense her response, a quick flutter of her pulses when she met his eyes that she couldn’t explain.

  “Please,” she whispered when he reached out to touch her, one finger stroking along the sweep of her jaw, “don’t do this.” Ridiculous, of course, to bother pleading with him. Even if he could understand her, he would do what his nature dictated. He was a Comanche, and they were savages, were they not? She’d heard tales, but had not believed how true they were until lately.

  And now—now, the Comanche who’d bought her was stroking her face. His features were taut with purpose, his voice soft and raspy.

  “Keta? nu kuya?a-ku-tu.” His dark head slowly bent, and he kissed her above the bronze curve of his hand. His mouth was warm, soft, and she shook with reaction. When his lips grazed her own, barely brushing over them in a whisper as light as the touch of the wind, Deborah closed her eyes.

  He murmured something and tilted her head back. She opened her eyes to look at him.

  “Muhraipu,” he said softly. “Muhraipu.” Deborah stared at him. He wanted something; she saw the expectation in his eyes.

  “I don’t know what you want,” she began, but his fingers tightened slightly, not painfully, and he gave her head a slight shake.

  “Muhraipu.” He kissed her again, more firmly this time, his mouth lingering over her lips before he drew back. His voice was a husky whisper.

  “Muhraipu.”

  Deborah was shaking, but she thought she understood. “Kiss? Is that what you’re saying? Muhraipu. Kiss.” He smiled, a faint curving of his hard mouth that held a hint of good humor. “Haa. Muhraipu. Kiss.” His hand drifted down to cup her chin in his palm, and Deborah felt the subtle shift of his muscles as he leaned forward again, was not surprised when his other hand moved behind her to cradle her head. This kiss was different from the others; there was no driving passion, or hesitancy, but a gentleness that amazed her. So, this hard-faced savage with hostile eyes and harsh manners could be tender when he wished to be. It was a startling revelation to her.

  Deborah did not try to avoid his kiss, but she did not participate. Rather, she allowed him to tease her mouth with his tongue and lips, testing the limits of her endurance as if he knew how he made her pulse race. Surely, he couldn’t tell. Surely, this man could not sense that his touch destroyed many of her preconceptions about him. If he could be this tender, this kind, then perhaps he could not be the rough, fierce captor she’d thought him until now. And perhaps he would not make her ease that driving hunger that vibrated just below his surface.

  He broke off the kiss abruptly, his brick-brown chest moving in a brisk tempo as he stared at her, and Deborah saw the male hunger in his eyes again.

  Despite his gentleness, there was still that to contend with, that masculine need that stood between them as palpably as if it was carved in rock. She swallowed her dismay, her faint protest, and knew that it would do no good to protest against a force as strong as the desire of a man to mate with a woman.

  A drift of wind lifted a curl of her hair from her forehead so that it teased her nose, and she brushed it away. Tosa Nakaai watched, then took her hand in his. It was dwarfed by his large hand, his long, blunt fingers and rough palm, and somehow made her feel more helpless than anything he had yet done. There was an odd expression on his austere face, a faint shifting of facial muscles that gave the impression he was remembering something or someone else. Perhaps it was the way he held her hand, cradling it gently in his broad palm as if he held a small, live creature. He began to stroke the heel of her palm in light touches, tracing along her slender fingers in feathery caresses that made Deborah catch her breath. She felt oddly drawn to him, although he was a Comanche, and he would very likely force her to do things she’d never dreamed existed until recently.

  Yet, somehow, she didn’t mind.

  He looked up at her, his gaze riveted on her face. What he saw there must have prompted him to action, because he took her hand and drew it to his face. She was trembling. Her fingers shook as he touched the tips to his mouth, and there was a soft huskiness in his voice.

  “Tuupe.” He dragged her fingertips over his mouth and repeated,

  “Tuupe.”

  “Tuupe.” Her voice shook slightly. “Mouth— tuupe.” He watched her as he slid her fingers up his face. “Koobe.” He raked her hand over his face. He was warm, his skin rough and soft at the same time.

  “Koobe,” she whispered. “Face.”

  “Pui.” He touched her hand to his eye. Ka-ibuhu was his eyebrow, puitusii his eyelashes. Muubi, his nose. He gave her a lesson in Comanche anatomy, and Deborah forgot to be afraid.

  Until he sat back on his heels, his eyes holding her smiling gaze, and reached out to put his hand on her breast.

  “Pitsii.”

  Paralyzed, Deborah could not force the echo past her lips. His palm felt suddenly too hot against her skin, and he caressed her breast while he watched her. When she sucked in a deep breath, the motion pushed her breast into his palm, and she saw the starburst of reaction in his eyes. There was a quick flare, like a shooting star, then his lashes lowered to hide his eyes.

  Quivering, Deborah felt trapped. The lowering sun took with it the warmth of earlier, and there was a loud, piercing cry overhead that drew Tosa Nakaai’s attention. He glanced up, then sat back on his heels.

  “Tosa Nakaai,” he said softly, and pointed.

  Deborah looked up and saw a huge hawk circling gracefully overhead.

  Its wings were outspread, and it seemed to just glide on the wind currents, almost as if suspended. The setting sun gilded the wingtips with lucid light.

  There was a lethal beauty to it that left her admiring and frightened at the same time, and she realized suddenly that this man had the same effect as the bird for which he had been named.

  “Tosa Nakaai,” she whispered, startling him. “Hawk. We call that a hawk in English. They’re lovely. And deadly, just like you are. Hawk. The name fits you. You’re a predator, just as that bird of prey is a predator, and I’m afraid of you.” He was looking at her coldly, and Debor
ah tried to speak but couldn’t.

  There was no anger in his eyes, but she was suddenly afraid she had said too much. Maybe he understood her tone, and she had somehow betrayed her fear and inexplicable longing. It was not a combination of emotions that would leave any woman comfortable, and the fact that she was this Comanche’s captive did not help.

  Tosa Nakaai—Hawk—looked away from her. His profile was etched against the fading light like a cameo, pristine, pure, sharply defined. Shining black hair framed his face. The single braid and dangling feather brushed the muscled curve of his shoulder when he finally turned back to face her, and Deborah was startled by his frustrated expression.

  “Kekunabeniitu,” he said in a growl that left her in no doubt that she’d somehow touched a nerve. He rose in a fluid motion that made her cringe back toward the rough trunk of the pine tree.

  He bent, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her to her feet in a swift move that made her gasp with fright. But he did not try to hurt her, only turned her around and took her with him back down the grassy slope to the camp.

  When he left her at the entrance to his tipi, Deborah looked at Sunflower and wondered why. What had she done that had made him change so swiftly?

  Chapter 6

  Hawk caught his swiftest horse and vaulted astride the broad back, drumming his heels against its sides. The animal snorted, huge hooves digging into the earth and sending up thick clods as it broke into a run.

  Both seemed to feel the need for a run, and the ragged edges of the moon offered plenty of light across the prairie as they flew like loosed arrows.

  There was a fierce, exultant pleasure in the run, the release of pent-up energies and frustrations.

  The night smells were familiar. Sharp-scented sage, the brisk fragrance of spruce, the hot smell of dust, all filled his nostrils and heightened his senses.

  Deborah.

  Her name was the driving beat of his horse’s hooves against the earth.

  De-bor-ah, De-bor-ah, De-bor-ah, the rhythm grew faster and faster, her name echoing in his mind with each strike of hoof, each fluid stroke of leg. Names were powerful; all Comanche knew that a person’s name had a special meaning, a special power all its own. That was why it was considered bad form to use a person’s name, an invasion of their privacy, or a way of lessening their power.

  Hawk wasn’t that superstitious. A result of his earlier upbringing, no doubt. Yet, when she’d said his name, both in Comanche and in English, she’d somehow touched a part of him that no woman had yet glimpsed.

  And he hadn’t taken her.

  He’d meant to. After all, that was why he had taken her from the tipi up to the privacy of that slope, so that if she resisted, no one would hear. To resist was not shameful, but he’d not wanted others to hear her cries.

  And he hadn’t taken her.

  He wasn’t sure why not. He knew how to play the game of courtship, teasing, touching, and he knew enough about white women to know what made them respond. Yet, he had not been able to finish what he’d begun.

  Somehow, her words had formed a wall around her that he could not bridge.

  It would have shamed him.

  Was there more to his attraction to her than just her delicate beauty? He wondered. For a moment, holding her small hand in his, marveling at the fragile delicacy of her bones and soft, creamy skin, he’d been reminded of his mother. Her hands had not been soft; hard work had roughened them through the years. Yet she had taken care of them, had rubbed them with ointment and cream and sometimes cried at the calluses marring palms and fingers.

  It had been a searing memory, long-buried and presumed forgotten.

  Until Deborah Hamilton had dredged it up for him, like a ghost from his past. He’d thought he could run from the memories, run from the things he did not want to confront, but he was wrong. He could not run from himself, and all the yesterdays had formed his todays.

  Resentment flared in him, that he could cope with the brutal way of life, yet flinched at childhood disappointments. It made him feel less a man, and weak. Reining his horse to a slow trot, Hawk knew that he would have to come to terms with the woman. She could not be allowed to affect him.

  Deborah wiped at her damp forehead with the back of her hand. She was helping Sunflower with the never-ending tasks, and found it much more difficult than chores in Natchez. Of course, in Natchez there had been modern conveniences to ease the backbreaking labor involved in washing clothes. Paddle-boards and huge tubs, and even a machine that could be turned by use of a large crank made life easier at home.

  But, washing clothes against rocks in a swift-moving stream was almost as effective. The soap was some sort of combination of animal fat and plant roots. They were far downstream from where the drinking water was drawn, and today, Deborah caught a glimpse of her cousin not far away. Her heart pounded fiercely, and she felt a surge of excitement. Had Judith seen her?

  She had, and slowly, trying to disguise their intentions, the two managed to work their way toward one another.

  “Judith,” Deborah whispered when they were close; she was bent over and pretending to concentrate on scrubbing a square of cotton. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m surviving.” Judith’s bright hair was combed, but looked dark with dirt. Her face was pale, and there were scratches and bruises on her arms and face. “That she-wolf who keeps me close likes to pinch, but that’s the extent of my injuries. So far.”

  “No, don’t look at me,” Deborah warned softly when her cousin started to turn toward her. “Pretend to drop something, and we can both bend again.”

  “How are you faring?” Judith whispered. “I saw that tall Comanche drag you from camp one afternoon.” How did she explain? Deborah hesitated. “He hasn’t hurt me. Not like . . . like he could, I suppose. I mean, he only tries to talk to me, but he sounds so fierce, that he scares me at times.” Shuddering, Judith murmured, “He looks so savage that he scares me just looking at him!”

  “I don’t think he’s that savage,” Deborah said, then could have laughed at her words. Was she defending him? The strange look Judith threw her made her flush and try to explain. “He’s been kind at times, though I know that sounds odd.”

  “Somehow, I thought he was . . . uh, taken with you. I mean, I’ve seen him looking at you so intently.” Deborah pushed at a wave of hair blocking her vision and slanted a glance at her cousin. Judith looked concerned and puzzled, and she had to laugh ruefully.

  “I have no idea what’s in his mind. All I know, is that he has not harmed me. Yet.” A frown furrowed her brow. “At times, when I wake up, there are unexpected gifts. A hairbrush, for instance. Moccasins when my shoes fell apart. Two satin ribbons for my hair. I know he brought them. No one else would. Yet I know he’s waiting for something.”

  “We need to escape before something happens to you,” Judith said. She glanced around cautiously. “So far, we’ve been lucky.”

  “Let’s try to meet again soon. Can you get close to me at the stream tomorrow morning?”

  “I’ll try. But we have to be careful. If one of them notices us talking together, they’ll be more watchful.” With a quick, soft good-bye, the cousins moved apart in an aimless motion. To a casual observer, it would have seemed innocent.

  To the man standing up on the hill, it was a forewarning.

  Sunflower studied the toes of her moccasins, and Hawk watched the pouting curve of her lower lip as she reflected. Her head lifted, dark eyes appraising him.

  “But why can’t I practice my English on her? It could do no harm.”

  “I do not wish it.”

  “It would make things easier.”

  “Easy is not always the best way.” Hawk felt a surge of impatience.

  Normally, he was quite patient with his young sister. It surprised him that he suddenly felt like boxing her ears. “Do not disobey me,” he warned when the girl gave a heavy sigh and looked away from him. Her startled reply was evidence that she was aware of his tensio
n.

  “I would not do so.”

  “You like her.”

  Sunflower nodded. “Haa.” She seemed to struggle for words, then said,

  “She is kesósooru— very gentle. And she does not screech, or whine, or complain like others I have known. She is different.”

  “Yes. She is different. Do not allow your sympathy to make trouble for her. I have not hurt her.” Sunflower looked suddenly very adult and flashed him a sly glance. “But you want her in your robes.” Making his voice stern, Hawk growled, “It is not seemly for a young maiden to speak of such things. Shall I tell old grandmother and have her take a switch to you?”

  Sunflower laughed, mischief dancing in her dark, liquid eyes. “She would have to catch me first.”

  “I could catch you for her.” Sobering, Sunflower said uncertainly, “You would not do that.”

  “Do you wish to test me?” She shook her head, disappointment shadowing her pretty face. “I do not think so. You look very fierce when you speak of Eka-paapi.” Hawk stared at her. Eka-paapi. Red head. It was appropriate enough, but he would not have given her a Comanche name. It was too personal. Too permanent. Irritation made his voice harsher than usual, and Sunflower backed away from him when he spoke to her.

  “Go back to my tipi and stay with her. Do not let her from your sight. It will go bad for you if she leaves here, and you could have stopped her.” Sunflower paused. “That is why you are so angry? Do you think she will leave you?”

  “This is not a matter to discuss with children,” Hawk said stiffly, and saw the hurt flare in his sister’s eyes. He said nothing to ease it. She must believe that he would be very angry with her if Deborah escaped the village.

  That would make her doubly vigilant.

  Hawk watched as Sunflower stomped toward his tipi. It was set slightly apart from the others, and those in the village had come to accept his strangeness. He did not stay with his father, sister, and the old mother of his father’s late wife, but had always kept his own lodge. He liked his privacy, liked being alone. Since Deborah had come to the camp, however, he’d spent his nights in his father’s lodge, or outside on a robe beneath the stars.