Sweet Savage Love

by Rosemary Rogers

  His eyes travelled very slowly over her, and the way they did so made her flush with rage. Instinctively, she crossed her arms over her breasts, half-sobbing with reaction.

  “No use doing that—ain’t no way to hide anything, the way your petticoat’s soaked through,” he drawled wickedly, and took a hasty backward step when she struck out at him blindly.

  Like a vengeful cornered animal she made a grab for the rifle, lying just a few tempting feet away, but he put his booted foot over the barrel and yanked her up to face him by her hair, now as angry as she.

  “Reckon I’ve told you before about guns—you leave ’em alone unless you’re damn sure you can use one, and must.”

  “Oh, you—you bully!” she hissed at him. She pushed wet hair from her face and glared at him, panting with rage. “How dare you come spying on me? How dare you treat me like a—like—”

  “You’re damn lucky I happened to choose this way to get back to camp,” he said bluntly.

  He didn’t tell her he’d had the same thing in mind that she’d had—taking a bath.

  She was so mad she was shaking—mad enough to spit—or to kill. And in spite of himself, Steve couldn’t keep his eyes off the curves and hollows of her body, outlined so revealingly under the outrageously thin petticoat which was all she had on. Her nipples, hard and pointed, seemed to strain against her bodice, and he could glimpse the slightly darker triangle where her legs met—and she had noticed what he was looking at, of course, and was getting madder by the minute.

  If she’d been a girl like Frenchy now, or even some young Indian girl, taken unawares, he’d have thought about tumbling her backwards onto the long grass under the trees and making love to her. But she was Miss Virginia Brandon, and he’d better remember that; hadn’t he stayed away from her deliberately these past few days? Ever since he’d kissed her that night and had felt the swell of her breasts under his fingers, he’d desired her, and now—

  She had gone quiet, watching his eyes, and he knew quite suddenly, without any words being said, that she was thinking about the same thing. For an instant her eyes looked into his, a bright, hard emerald green, and then she’d veiled them with her lashes.

  “Would you—will you please go away and allow me to get dressed, now that you’ve said what you had to say?”

  He had to admire the way she’d controlled her temper, pulling a cloak of dignity around herself with an effort.

  He was angry with himself now, for letting his guard slip.

  “Better hand Miss Brandon her dress,” he said harshly to the frightened mulatto girl who stood silently by, watching them both.

  Bending, Steve scooped up the rifle and walked a little way off, turning his back on the women.

  “I’ll give you five minutes to get dressed, before I turn around. And then I’ll see you back to camp. Damn it,” he exploded violently, not able to help himself, “there was Indian sign about two miles upstream! If some young brave had come by here like I did, and saw you—” he bit off the words when he heard her startled, indrawn breath, and because he didn’t quite trust himself, walked to where his horse stood, contentedly snorting into the water.

  It took her less than five minutes.

  He heard her voice, as brittle as breaking glass, “You may turn around, Mr. Morgan. I hope I don’t offend your sense of decency now.”

  Wheeling around, he saw that she was still damp-looking, but fully dressed—and braiding her hair, as cool as you please.

  It was getting quite dark, and he followed Ginny and Tillie all the way to the camp, with all three of them quite silent; turning off only when they were close enough to see the wagons and the firelight.

  11

  It did not in the least improve Ginny’s temper to discover, the next morning, that there really had been Indians prowling around the previous night. A small band of them, accompanied by a few squaws and young children, overtook the wagons soon after they had broken camp, begging for coffee and sugar; and, as Ginny remarked scornfully to Sonya, they did not look dangerous at all.

  “Perhaps that is only because they see we have so many armed men to protect our party,” Sonya said gently, and Ginny was forced to concede that this might indeed be the case, for acting on Steve Morgan’s instructions, several of the men had ridden up and sat their horses casually, holding loaded rifles across saddles.

  It was Morgan himself who had ridden back with the Indians, and had suggested to Pop Wilkins that it might be best if they gave the Indians what they wanted and sent them on their way. When Pop would have protested he added quietly that there might be useful information to be gained from these same Indians, and, indeed, while the bargaining was going on, Steve sat his horse some distance away, with a scar-faced, rather disdainful-looking Indian who was obviously the chief of the small band. Pop said rather sourly that these were Wichitas, and that the gesturing that was going on was sign language.

  Against her will, Ginny found her eyes straying towards Steve Morgan, who with his hard brown face and black hair could have passed for an Indian himself. What kind of man was he? Unlike Carl, or any of the other men she had met, he was not the type one could neatly label or categorize; to say, he is this, or that, or that, type of man. She had not forgotten his almost brutal lovemaking the first evening they had met, nor the desire he had evidenced for her then. And yet, ever since, he had all but ignored her, except to criticize her. And then, last night, in spite of his anger and the biting, sardonic way he had spoken to her, she had seen the look of desire in his eyes again. He finds me desirable, Ginny thought, frowning unconsciously, merely because I am a woman. That is how men are, they have no wish to see what lies beneath a woman’s face or figure—they would prefer it, no doubt, if women did not have minds at all!

  Sonya and Tillie seemed fascinated by the Indian women, and especially by those who had tiny babies strapped to their backs, but Ginny, lost in her thoughts, now looked up again and directed a glance of resentment and dislike at Steve Morgan—a glance that he, turning away from his sign conversation with the Indian chief at that moment, happened to intercept.

  She had half-expected the usual sarcastic lift of an eyebrow with which he usually greeted her when their paths happened to cross, but this time, to her surprise he actually smiled, making her notice all over again the startling blue of his eyes.

  Taken aback, and ashamed of her own sudden confusion, Ginny looked away quickly, but a few moments later, when Morgan cantered his horse over to their wagon, there was no way in which she could ignore him.

  Fortunately, Sonya spoke first, her voice anxious.

  “Are you sure that they will go—and leave us in peace?”

  “Oh, they don’t mean us any harm, ma’am. In fact, they’re in a hurry to get back to their own camp. The chief was telling me he wants no brush with the snake people.”

  Before Sonya could question him, Steve Morgan glanced at Pop Wilkins, who stood by with a sour face. It was common knowledge that Pop hated Indians, ever since a marauding band had wiped out his family while he was away.

  “He told me there’s Comanches about—a small war party. Guess Paco and I will ride out ahead after a while; split up and see what sign we can find.”

  Sonya gave a small, smothered exclamation, and Morgan grinned at her, his teeth flashing white in the brown face.

  “I don’t think the Comanche will bother us, ma’am, not if they’re only a small raiding party. But that’s what Paco and I want to find out for sure.” He gestured ahead of them, and glanced again at Pop. “Maybe we ought to make camp kind of early tonight. There’s a place up ahead that would make an ideal spot for a defense, if it comes to that. You’ll know the place I mean when you get up there—used to be an old creek bed. I’ll ride over to the herd and warn Hoskins right now.”

  “The Indians we saw today didn’t strike me as looking very dangerous,” Ginny said scornfully, unable to help herself. She saw darting glints of laughter in Steve Morgan’s eyes, but it was
Pop Wilkins who answered her.

  “Them Comanches ain’t like most other Indians, miss—they’re devils! But don’t you worry none—” he gave her a reassuring look. “I’m gonna have some of the boys ride along with you from now on. They ain’t too close by, or them Wichitas wouldn’t have stopped like they did.”

  Ginny hardly heard what he said, she was too conscious of the way Steve Morgan’s eyes stayed on her, warm and faintly amused. And why, she wondered annoyedly, did he have to stare so? Involuntarily, her hand crept upward to brush loose tendrils of hair off her face. She remembered that she had not taken the trouble to brush her hair before she had braided it hastily that morning—and no doubt, her bonnet was askew and he had noticed it. She remembered the way he had looked at her last night, the bold way his blue eyes had travelled over her body, making her feel as if she had nothing on. Even when he was acting half-way civilized, he gave the impression that there was something savage, something primitive and dangerous barely held in check under the surface he presented to them all.

  Morgan had turned away to talk to Pop, and Ginny noticed that from time to time he rubbed the side of his face, where the black stubble of an incipient beard had begun to show. Bearded, he’d look more like a buccaneer than ever, she thought. He looked like an outlaw, with those two guns he wore on his hip, that dangerous rakehell face. He wore his usual buckskins, but the shirt was open almost to the waist, and the kerchief knotted around his throat was of rich, deep brown silk.

  The black stallion moved impatiently under him, and she watched the way he controlled it easily, merely with the pressure of his knees. Unlike most of the other riders she had seen, he didn’t wear spurs.

  Perhaps Sonya had been noticing too. Ginny felt the touch of her cool hand as Sonya whispered, “He rides a horse like an Indian, doesn’t he? There is something strange and unreadable about him—he didn’t upset you too much yesterday, did he?”

  Ginny shrugged and picked up the reins.

  “I don’t think about him, because I don’t like him! Do you want to get some rest now, Sonya? It’s my turn to drive the wagon, you know.”

  Already, Pop Wilkins was yelling “Stretch ’em out—streetch ’em out!” down the length of the strung-out wagons.

  Steve Morgan’s horse whirled around and came alongside.

  “Either of you ladies care to come along for a ride as far as the herd?” he asked surprisingly. “Hoskins will be glad to escort you back, I’m sure. Paco and I will be getting us enough grub to last a couple of days, and then we’ll be on our way.”

  “A couple of days? You are difficult to understand, Mr. Morgan!” Ginny burst out. He had looked directly at her when he had made his calm invitation, how dare he imagine that after his vile behavior she would be willing to go meekly along with him, for a ride, of all things—as if this was just an ordinary day like any other?

  She caught Sonya’s startled look, but went on, her dislike for him making her voice taut.

  “You said these Indians are dangerous, and yet you’ll go chasing after them alone? And are we supposed to sit around and wait until you decide to get back—if you get back?”

  His eyes assessed her coolly, while a small, mocking smile twitched the corner of his mouth.

  “Miss Brandon, your concern is really touching! But I assure you that I can take care of myself, and that you certainly won’t have to sit around and wait for my return. You didn’t seem very frightened last night, when I told you there were Indians around,” he added wickedly, “but since the thought seems to make you nervous this morning, then perhaps Mrs. Brandon would care to ride with me?”

  “Ooh!”

  Ginny’s face reddened, and her lips formed a gasp of pure rage. Narrowed, emerald green eyes like a cat’s seemed to spit fire at him.

  But he was ignoring her now, as if she didn’t exist any longer, and his eyes rested on Sonya instead.

  “I—why—yes, I would enjoy a ride I think, and I haven’t seen the cattle close up yet. Thank you, Mr. Morgan!” Sonya’s voice was soft with a mixture of confusion and pleasure, and Ginny was forced to pretend complete indifference while Steve unhitched Sonya’s gray mare, which trotted behind the wagon. Ginny pulled back viciously on the lines—the mules slowed down to an amble, and with a murmured warning, Steve Morgan swung Sonya by the waist from the wagon seat onto the horse.

  Ginny watched them go, a strange mixture of anger and frustration making her breath catch in her throat for an instant as she flapped the reins viciously and swore at the mules as she had heard some of the men do.

  How dare Steve Morgan take her father’s wife out riding?

  He had meant his invitation for her, and although of course she had turned him down with the scorn that he deserved, it was too bad of Sonya to accede so eagerly. For the first time, Ginny felt an unreasonable flash of what was almost dislike for her stepmother. She should not have gone with him, she thought angrily. She should have refused—and then, sneaking, unbidden—I should have been the one! It’s just the right time for a ride, and I would have enjoyed it, even with him along. And now he probably thinks I’m afraid either of the Indians, or of him!

  Ginny hardly noticed the country through which they were passing, although the distant, forbidding-looking mountains seemed closer today, their bare peaks covered only with stunted bushes and twisted trees. Armed men rode by the wagons, as Pop had promised, and after a while, Ginny made idle conversation with one of them, seemingly almost a boy. His name was Zack Merritt, and he was very shy and blushed easily.

  Ginny told herself that her feeling of relief when she finally saw Sonya and Carl cantering towards them stemmed from the fact that trying to draw Zack out into talking about himself had proved a positive strain.

  Sonya looked unusually pretty, with her blond hair escaping from its smooth chignon; her face was slightly flushed from the sun and fresh air, and she was laughing and more animated than usual. Ginny supposed she should be flattered, though, at the way Carl’s eyes went straight to her and lingered—and a few moments later, when he suggested that she might enjoy a short ride she went willingly with him.

  Carl was handsome, and attentive, and it was not difficult to draw him into talking about himself. He was too much of a gentleman to try to rush matters or take advantage of their being alone, but he let Ginny see quite clearly that he was more than a little interested in her.

  “You’re—you’re really the prettiest girl I’ve ever met, you know,” he said to her quite shyly, and her green eyes sparkled teasingly at him. Some spirit of devilry made her tear her unbecoming bonnet from her head, and the heavy braids of hair she had stuffed under it so carelessly that morning swung free, catching the sunlight.

  She galloped her horse forward, leaning over its neck, and when Carl caught up with her he felt his heart begin to thud as she turned her head, laughing up at him. Without thinking, he caught at her mare’s bridle, halting it, and he could not take his eyes from her lips, with the small white teeth gleaming invitingly between them. What a mouth she had! Perfectly formed, poutingly sensual in repose. Before he could stop himself, Carl leaned forward and kissed it. He heard her little “mm!” of surprise and then she was leaning quite pliantly against him until the nervous movements of their horses took them apart.

  She was staring at him, with her eyes wide and fathomless—without a word to show whether she was angry or pleased.

  “Ginny—Miss Brandon, I—I couldn’t help myself,” he stammered. “I’m sorry—”

  “Are you, Carl?” Her mouth curved into a knowing, teasing smile, and her lashes dropped, veiling her eyes for a moment.

  Before he knew what to expect, she had turned her horse around, and was cantering back towards the wagons.

  “Never tell a girl you’re sorry after you’ve kissed her!” she called back over her shoulder, and he found himself wondering how many other men had kissed her, and if she’d responded in the same way.

  They were silent for the rest of th
e way back to her wagon, and after he had left to go back to the herd, Carl did not see Ginny again until after they had made camp that evening.

  They had built their cookfires in the shallow, natural depression formed by a long-ago stream, now dry, with the wagons on the higher ground around them. Tonight, Pop Wilkins had arranged for the men to take it in turns to watch for the approach of Indians or anyone else, and Ginny heard him admit almost grudgingly that this place was almost perfect for defense; situated as it was in the center of an almost flat plain, where anyone who approached would be in plain sight for miles. About two miles off to the west, where the cattle were bedded down, the small fires that the cowhands had built looked like tiny, sparkling fireflies. Overhead the stars looked larger than usual, and brighter—Ginny found it hard to believe that danger could lurk somewhere in those bleak-looking mountains that were now merely a blurred outline against the night sky.

  “In about two days, mebbe three, we’re gonna have to travel through a pass up there,” Pop said, pointing towards the hills. “If there’s Injuns about, that’s where they’d plan to attack us—if Morgan don’t find ’em first and cook up some plan to get us through.”

  “But isn’t there another way around the mountains?” Ginny asked, and he shook his head dourly.

  “Could be—but it would lose us a heap of days goin’ around. With all the men we got with us though,” he added hastily, “it ain’t likely they’d try too hard to stop us. Injuns are smart enough sometimes to realize when they’re outnumbered—though Comanches are worse than most.”

  One of the men who was standing guard outside the circle of wagons called out that there was someone coming, almost at the same moment that they heard Paco Davis’ voice shouting “hola the camp—I’m coming in!”