His lips moved slowly and lingeringly from her mouth to her earlobe and she could feel him, for a moment, bury his face in her hair. She could feel the stirring in him and in her, and she wanted to speak, to tell him that she was afraid, and then his mouth covered hers again and it was too late.
His hands moved over her breasts and down the length of her body, exploring its curves and hollows through the thin cotton gown. When his fingers began to unfasten the hooks and buttons that held it together she shivered, but could no more move to resist him than he, at this moment, could have stopped himself.
With her mouth still clinging to his and her arms around his neck Ginny forced herself by an effort of will to lie acquiescent under his hands. She had wanted this—with one part of her mind she realized dimly that perhaps she had wanted to lie with him just this way from the very beginning, when he had first seized her and kissed her so brutally. But none of her imaginings had ever been like this reality—“the thing that men and women do together” that she and her friends had discussed in whispers at the convent as something terrible and frightening but inevitable, had surely nothing to do with what was happening now!
Gentle, still kissing her, he was easing her arms from around his neck, and again Ginny shivered as she felt her gown, her last defense, slip from her body. She had not thought that he’d want her completely naked, and it was only by closing her eyes tightly and gritting her teeth together that she could control her own instinctive shyness and the protests that welled up in her throat.
At least, thank God, he seemed to know exactly what to do, exactly how to still her unspoken fears. For all his previous roughness and harshness, he was now only gentle with her, his hands patient with her shrinking flesh.
His own fully clad body half covering hers now, his leg thrown over her to keep her still, his hands resumed their exploring—his fingers brushing like fire against her skin.
She felt his mouth on her breasts, lips and tongue teasing her nipples until she groaned, a muted, strangely incoherent sound, and at the same time, taking her by surprise, his hands moved lower.
“Don’t, love—don’t cross your legs against me. Your body is so beautiful you’ve no need to be ashamed of it…”
He kissed her hair and eyes and face and the pulse that beat in the hollow of her throat and then her breasts again until she was flushed and shaking with a recurrence of the same wild and thoughtless emotions that had swept over her before when he had held her and kissed her the last time, up in the hills.
Suddenly his hands were between her thighs, stroking the soft inner skin very gently, moving upward—she gave an instinctive, incoherent cry as his fingers found her and he muffled it against his mouth.
“Be still, love—I’ll be gentle—just be still now—”
He spoke to her as softly and coaxingly as if she were a mare to be tamed and gentled for her first mounting, and after a while she forgot who she was and who he was and gave in, letting his fingers have their way, her body writhing and straining upward against his, aching for something she couldn’t yet understand or recognize until she found it at last; her arms going upward to hold him closer, closer, her body straining against his until she came floating, shuddering back to reality, her eyes flying open.
She was aware, without actually seeing them, of the blueness of his eyes, the shape and texture of his lips against hers as he kissed her tenderly, caressingly, his arms now holding her cradled against him.
“Oh God,” she started to whisper, “I didn’t know…”
“You don’t know—not yet, my sweet,” he told her softly. “There’s more. You’re going to undress me now.”
“I—I can’t!”
“Yes, you can. There’s nothing to be afraid of, you know that now, don’t you? And you’ve come too far to back off…”
But in the end, because her fingers were shaking and clumsy, he had to help her. Ginny kept her eyes closed until he forced her to look at him.
“A man’s body isn’t half as mysterious as a woman’s is,” he teased her. “You have the advantage, love, of being able to keep your feelings better hidden.”
“Oh!” she said softly, half-afraid, when he put her hand on him; and he laughed.
“Is that all you have to say? You were more vocal a short while ago.”
“Oh, don’t! I—you make me feel—I am embarrassed, I suppose. Is that so strange?”
“All right, honey—I won’t rush you. Let’s start from the top. Touch me—or aren’t you curious any longer?”
Shyly, hesitantly, she reached out with both hands and put them against his chest, under the shirt he still wore, running her fingers along muscles that ridged under them. Her exploration stopped abruptly.
“You—there is a scar, right here—you’ve been wounded?”
“Bullet wound. And if you keep on you’ll find more scars—mostly knives or bullets. You see what a reckless life I lead?”
“You make me feel reckless too.”
She whispered the words and he turned over onto his side and began kissing her again, his fingers moving very lightly over the skin of her back and thighs.
This time, when she had found her breath again, she became bolder, she found herself wanting to touch him, wanting to become as familiar with his hard man’s body as he was with hers. Her hands moved impatiently, pulling the shirt away from him, finding more scars, muscles that moved under her fingers, and then finally, more slowly, over his flat, hard-muscled belly, feeling him stiffen and catch his breath.
The knowledge that she, with her untaught hands, could excite him as much as he’d excited her, made her brave. Her hand slipped lower, hesitated, and then touched, held him.
“Oh, Ginny!” he half-groaned, and then added more lightly, “there—that wasn’t too bad, was it? No—don’t take your hand away, not yet—not until I’ve taught you what to do with it when you have it—”
His hand taught her the motion and he began kissing her again; hard and almost brutally this time.
She felt him nudge her over onto her back and her hands dropped away from him as his tongue started to trace patterns over her flesh, making it tingle. This time, she let him part her thighs without a murmur, and his hands were gentle between them. But when his head moved lower, Ginny felt her body arch with shock—her fingers caught his hair and she could almost have screamed.
“No! Oh, please, Steve, don’t—I don’t think—”
“For God’s sake, Ginny, you’re as beautiful down there as—ah, hell—” he seemed to catch himself, and his body slid, slowly and reluctantly upward over hers, his weight pinning her down helplessly.
“I’m going too fast for you, I guess, but it’s damned hard not to—it’s damned hard to remember you’re—”
She felt the molding of his body against hers, the hardness and impatience of him, and she was suddenly as tired of the waiting as he was.
“I don’t want to be a virgin any longer. I want to know, Steve—”
“All right honey, all right—let’s put an end to your damned virginity then—”
His knees were between her thighs, holding them apart. His hands held hers, and she felt his body rest against hers for a moment before it was lifted, poised, and then, as he began to penetrate her, his mouth stopped her moans.
He was gentle at first, as he’d promised, and very slow—lulling her into an almost-security until that final, terrible thrust like a knife inside her, making her body heave upward in agony, her scream lost and muffled against his encroaching lips. He stayed inside her without moving, embedded in her, his body a part of hers, and then, in another minute he began to move again, inexorably and steadily, ignoring her struggles which gave way, gradually, as the pain lessened and finally disappeared, to a kind of stunned complaisance.
Why had he changed so fast, from gentleness to that final, fierce hurt? Ginny lay under him, panting, her eyes open and staring up into his face until he released her wrists and told her to put her arms
around him.
“You—but you hurt me!” she whispered accusingly, even while she was already obeying him, her arms clinging to him.
“It’ll never hurt again, love—it’ll only get better…”
She felt his hand on her breasts—his movements quickened, and then suddenly her body was moving with his, matching his pace and his rhythms, and she was discovering that he was right—there was no more pain; only the urgent, driving motion of his body as he took her with him.
Lying there against him with his arms still around her, holding her closely, she thought, Nothing can ever be the same again—nothing, and then, listening to the sound of his quickened breathing, Now I know what it is, to have a man—this is what it’s like….
It felt strange to remember that only a few weeks ago he had been a cold, hard and rather frightening stranger—a man she had disliked and mistrusted; and tonight, he was her lover. Ginny found herself wondering about all the other women he must have had, might have made love to as tenderly as he had made love to her. Had it been this way with that woman, the one he’d called Frenchy? And then while he still held her cradled in his arms she felt him begin to move within her again, and she did not want to think of anything but the fact that he wanted her, and he had made it wonderful and not at all frightening, and he must love her, he must, or he would not hold her this way, kissing her softly, calling her “love.”
Her hands slipped down his back and felt the tensing and untensing of his muscles—up again to touch the long hair at the back of his neck that curled against her fingers.
Very gradually, Ginny felt the cadence of his breathing and his thrusting into her increase, and by instinct, she matched her movements to his. She felt again the now familiar warmth and pulsing in her loins and her own body’s arching twisting movements as he took her to forgetfulness and fulfillment and back.
And afterwards she was so weak, her limbs so lifeless that she had hardly the strength left to return his kisses or to protest when he took a clean neckerchief, wet it from his canteen and sponged her hot, perspiring body very gently—the cold wetness making her gasp as he drew the damp cloth across her breasts, over her belly, and even between her thighs.
He helped her dress, over her inarticulate murmurings that she did not want to move yet, she was too tired….
“If you stayed here with me, I’d be tempted to make love to you all night,” he said softly, half teasingly. And then, more soberly, “Have you forgotten the Apaches out there? Better go to your wagon and try to get some sleep.”
He took her as far as her wagon, kissing her lightly, and she had to be content with that—that, and the fact that he stood there watching until she had crawled back inside and pulled the flap down behind her.
15
The Apache attack came with the first streaks of light—seeming no more than a kind of vapor that turned the edges of dark blue night sky to a paler, more translucent blue. They were already under the wagon then—Ginny and Sonya and Tillie—still half-asleep, protesting at having been awakened so long before dawn. Heavy boxes and cases protected them, with only the merest slits between them for rifle barrels. It was safer under the wagon, Pop Wilkins had explained. And there would be men with them. They were prepared for the Indians—waiting for them.
And yet, when the attack came, its initial onslaught coming from all sides, it only seemed as if it was a herd of wild horses that galloped towards them. There was a slight, puzzled pause until someone, Steve? Paco? yelled:
“Start shooting, you damned fools! This is it!”
Peering through one of the slits, Ginny saw the brown, squat bodies of the Apache warriors who led the horses, running almost as fast as the animals until they swung their bodies onto horseback with derisive yells.
The fusillade of rifle fire that followed deafened her. She was aware of being pushed aside and told to stay out of the way, and after that, for a while there was fortunately no more time for thinking or being afraid, for she and Tillie were too busy reloading the hot, smoking guns and rifles that were tossed aside when their chambers were emptied.
It became automatic, after the first fumbling efforts. No time to feel hands blister and burn from touching hot metal, no time to wonder what might happen if somehow a bullet or an arrow found its way into the wagon.
Sonya, too, was using a rifle; and after the first time that Steve Morgan had snapped, “Take your time—make sure every shot counts!” she seemed quite cool and calm, although her shoulders must have been sore and bruised from the recoil of the rifle each time she fired.
Ginny had no time to feel jealous over Sonya and Steve being so close—their shoulders were almost touching. At least he was here, with them—she had never been more relieved than when she had seen him come sliding under their wagon in a kind of a running leap from outside.
Once or twice she was aware of the thud of bullets striking the boxes that protected them—the firing seemed continuous, intermingled with wild shouts and yells from Indians and defenders alike.
There was a short lull in the firing after the first two or three waves of attackers had been beaten back, with several brown bodies lying quite close to the wagons. Ginny did not even dare think how many of themselves might be dead as well—some of the same men who had exchanged smiles with her or touched their hats when she passed—it was still not quite believable that this was happening.
“They’ve gone already?” she heard Sonya ask excitedly, and it had been on the tip of her tongue to ask the same question, but now she was aware that Steve Morgan was shaking his head grimly as he reloaded his revolver.
“They’re not through yet. They’ll be back—so don’t take your eyes off that tall grass out there. No Indians will leave their dead behind if they can help it.”
The Apaches had obviously not been prepared for the strength nor the preparedness of the wagon train’s defenders, but caution did not in any way dim the fury of their next wave of attack. This time they used more guile. Some of the warriors dashed forward on horseback, but others, hidden by clumps of long grass, snaked forward half crouched on foot, or on their bellies under cover of the more obvious attackers.
This time, some of the brown-skinned warriors gained the inner circle, crawling between the chained wagons with screams of triumph. From somewhere Ginny heard a man scream—then a rattling burst of shots and a cry, “We got him!”
“Keep firing!” Steve Morgan said quite calmly to the suddenly shaking Sonya. His eyes swept over Ginny. Crouched almost frozen, her nerves still jangling from the shouts of pain and anger that seemed to come from everywhere.
“You too—you can shoot at anything you see—let Tillie reload.”
Without waiting for her reply he had already swung around to guard their soft underbelly—the “safe” side of their small, improvised shelter.
It seemed unbelievable that she, who had been in Paris, safe and happy, only a few months ago now sat crouched under a wagon in the middle of nowhere with blistered hands and powder smudges on her face—trying to fire a gun at enemies she could not even see.
“Keep firin’, keep ’em off!”
Was that really Pop Wilkins’ voice, now hoarse and almost unrecognizable in the heat of the battle?
There was a thud, like that made by a body, against their wagon and Sonya screamed. Ginny felt the empty gun drop from her hands, she had barely the strength to take the freshly loaded rifle that Tillie handed her.
In spite of her orders, in spite of her own fear she turned around, and Steve had disappeared. There was a strange, almost liquid, rattling scream just outside, and Ginny’s face blanched with fear.
“Oh, Gawd, someone jes had his throat cut,” Tillie moaned, and above the sound of firing, Sonya, no longer neither calm nor composed, screamed at her, “Will you shut up, you silly creature?” And then as Ginny, the loaded rifle gripped in her hand, started to crawl outside, Sonya called again, her voice high with fear, “Ginny—no!”
She kept cr
awling, driven by some instinct outside herself that was stronger than fear, to freeze, still on her knees just beyond the shelter of the wagon.
Not two yards from her lay the still, twisted body of an Apache, the streaks of war paint garish, his eyes staring sightlessly. He was an old man; there were streaks of gray in the hair held by a headband elaborately patterned with beads.
Just beyond, two men locked in a silent, gasping combat, rolled over and over on the dry, sandy ground. She saw the glint of knives—and noticed for the first time that one of the men was Steve Morgan, the other an Apache.
“Oh God!” Ginny whispered aloud. She lifted the gun in her hand, and it felt so heavy she wanted to let it drop. For she didn’t dare use it…and then something made her look up, and she saw Carl Hoskins standing watching, from just a short distance away.
“Carl—do something!” she screamed, but he didn’t move—there was a strange, almost gloating expression on his face.
“Morgan can take care of himself,” he muttered, and then in an almost dazed voice, “You all right, Ginny? I heard a scream.”
She ignored him, her eyes again fixed on the silent struggling combatants. Steve’s shirt was cut to ribbons—she could see the straining of his muscles as he and the other man grasped each other’s wrists, each denying the other the chance to use his knife. What had he done with his revolver? There was blood everywhere—on him, on his antagonist, and they fought, the two of them, like wild animals, engaged in their own private war while another one went on all around them.
An arrow missed Ginny by inches, and she did not even scream, merely looked at it stupidly until Carl, diving across the space that separated them, knocked her backwards.
“Ginny, for God’s sake, take cover!”
Pushing her ahead of him, he crawled into the small space where Sonya and Tillie lay huddled.
“Start firing! Here, give me that gun!”
Carl snatched a gun from Tillie and began to fire through the slitted opening, and Ginny stubbornly taking advantage of his preoccupation, peered outside again.
Sweet Savage Love Page 15