"Good friends?" she heard herself croak out.
Earth Woman smiled. Her ink-dark lashes swept her beautiful cheeks. "I am not young. Many years ago, when Sea-of-Stars had died and I was lonely and broken as well, we were very good friends. That was long ago. Don't be mad at me."
"I'm not mad. I was—hurt. I was even—afraid."
Earth Woman smiled. She came toward Skylar and hugged her. "The Sioux do not show much emotion. But you are white, and I am Cheyenne. You are welcome here. And do not be afraid of me. Your husband has no desire for me. He very much desires you. You must see that."
"Does he?"
Earth Woman rolled her eyes.
"Most Human Beings are not so blind!" she said, laughing, and departed quickly. Even then, there was a natural sway to her hips as she left the tipi.
Skylar hoped that her husband desired her. Because if he didn't, Earth Woman was definitely worthy competition.
They came back with several elks. Sloan had taken down two and Hawk had slain the same. Neither of them needed the food, so their kills were delivered to the poor of the tribe: two windows with children who had no brothers or brothers-in-law left to help them, and two very old warriors with very old wives. Hawk had just finished with the courteous routine of giving his kill away when he saw that Crazy Horse had gone to his tipi.
"Oh, hell!" he swore softly in English.
Sloan, at his side, spun around.
"Finish here, will you?" Hawk asked quickly. He turned with a last smile for the old woman who was going on and on thanking him, and raced for his own tipi.
He jerked up the flap, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the firelight within.
Crazy Horse was seated, awaiting him.
To Hawk's amazement, his pipe and tobacco awaited him in the center of the tipi, laid out so that he could share a smoke with his guests. The aroma drifting throughout the habitat was delicious. Skylar was standing near the rear of the tipi, as far back as she could manage without bending. She met his eyes as he entered. There wasn't anything particularly humble in her gaze.
In fact, she looked rather amused.
But she lifted her hand, indicating where he should rightfully take his place as host. He narrowed his eyes at her, in warning, hoping that she had no tricks up her sleeve.
Soon after he entered, Sloan arrived, then Willow, Ice Raven, and Blade. Crazy Horse's friend He Dog arrived as well, and the tipi was quite full.
They smoked and they drank brandy that Hawk had brought from Mayfair. Skylar served them the liquor, and she served them stew in wooden bowls. She never looked ilirectly at any of the men—except at Hawk once.
And still there was that glint of amusement in her eyes, which made him a bit uneasy, but...
She was beautiful, graceful, so very quick to serve—and most mercifully, silent. She couldn't have been more charming and subdued.
Which was why he was so startled when her revenge befell him.
He noted that He Dog was behaving strangely at first, gulping down brandy as if it were water. Crazy Horse, who had appeared to savor Skylar's stew, was suddenly doing the same. Skylar was quick to serve more and more brandy, but it never seemed enough. His guests stopped eating and kept drinking.
Hawk took a bite from his own stew bowl. Skylar really was an excellent cook, the stew was very good, but...
Hot. Burning. There was enough pepper in it to season half the buffalo kill in the West.
Crazy Horse was wheezing. He Dog was coughing. Even Sloan was choking. Hawk grabbed his own brandy—guzzling it. He set his stew bowl down and rose, staring at Skylar.
She stared back blankly. With complete innocence. He excused himself to his company striding toward the back of the tipi where she was standing. His mouth, his throat, his eyes, nose, and body all still seemed to be burning from the pepper. None of his guests said a word, of course. Crazy Horse was being courteous, assuming Hawk's wife could do no better.
"Lady Douglas," Hawk said, keeping his voice low so that he could not be heard by those among his company who understood English. He opened his mouth to continue. He was afraid to talk, afraid to move, so furious that he was afraid he would hurt her. He reached to the ground, picking up a large skin gourd and shoving it into her hands.
"Water!" he ground out.
Her brows shot up. "What is the matter with you? I've done everything—"
"In the world to humiliate me. Get water, now!"
Her lips pursed, her eyes burned silver. She started to shove the gourd back. "Get your own damned water—" she began.
But never finished. He caught her wrist, twisting it around with such speed and determination that he had forcefully pressed her before him and was on his way out of the tipi with her. He excused himself to his guests, explaining that his wife wasn't as familiar with the use of her Mayfair seasonings in different surroundings as she was at her customary home.
"This time, Lord-Wretched-Manhandling-Douglas, I have had it!" she cried out, still propelled forward as they left the tipi. She cried out, swearing at him, as his rush toward the river caused him to press harder upon her arm. "I spent the entire day trying to entertain squaws who spoke no English, I welcomed one of your ex-mistresses into the tipi—since it seems you and Sloan apparently never minded sharing before. I worked the entire day and now—"
"You worked the entire day!" he exploded, shoving her forward and free from his grasp. "You plotted the entire day, is what you did!"
They'd come to the same alcove in the trees by the river where Sloan had been with Earth Woman that day. Night had brought a definite chill to the air and Skylar was shivering. "Plotted! I beat the meat, seasoned it—"
"Enough to kill a herd of buffalo!"
"I did not!" she snapped back indignantly.
"You almost ended the entire Sioux problem all by yourself, choking to death half the leaders of the resistance!"
"I did not!" she repeated, appalled, her indignation growing, along with her tremors.
"I hope you're freezing," he told her, "because I'd like to shake you until every bone in your body rattles, slap your perfect little derriere. String you up—"
"Me!" she shrieked, suddenly approaching him. "You ungrateful, swaggering egotist! How dare you!"
She came before him. Directly before him. She suddenly slammed both fists against his naked chest with a power that hurt.
"You get your own damned water and kiss your own damned butt! I've had it!"
She slammed her fists against him again and turned im- periously on her heels to walk off. Incredulous, he watched her for a moment. Then it seemed that his fury ignited, sending him tearing after her, not knowing what he was doing, but damned determined she wasn't going to just walk away. He caught her by the hair. She shrieked. He grabbed hold of her shoulders, spinning her around. He was down upon a knee, not really intending to drag her over it, but she tripped and fell there and was shrieking like a wild cat before he made a conscious move. "Don't you dare, don't you dare—" she cried.
He dared. Her doeskin dress had been dragged up her body. His hand fell upon naked flesh.
She bit his knee.
To free himself of her teeth he shoved her down to the ground, then pounced hard upon her. She was inhaling and exhaling in a rapid fury, her eyes silver daggers, her fingers clawing at him. He caught her hands, then found himself staring at her, realizing in dismay that he wasn't just furious, he was aroused. More than aroused. He was in agony.
"Bastard!" she hissed. Yet her fingers unclenched. She was reaching for him still, touching his shoulders, fingers digging into them, but not to draw blood. Tears stung her eyes; she brushed them away. His lips fell upon hers, and she responded wildly, her mouth crushing his in return.
Their lips parted. "I'm going to kill you," she promised him.
"Only when I finish with you," he responded.
"You'll be on your knees to apologize," she told him. Her lips moved over his throat, his chest, hungrily. Her hands.
Oh, God. Fingers running up his thighs. Beneath the breechclout. Stroking, rubbing, caressing ...
He caught her hands. Pressed her back hard into the earth. The stars above them danced madly in the heavens. She thrashed, undulated, strained against him. The stars erupted. He climaxed in a wave of passion, need, fury, and confusion, crushing her against him and feeling the same response within her as she jerked with each little after- climax that seized her body, bringing them both back down to the dirt on the forest floor in the cool night by the river.
She stared up at him, her eyes misted. He felt like an ass. A fool. Still angry, and yet.. .
He heard a rustling behind him. Close.
Damn her! He should have heard it before!
With lightning-quick reflexes, he instinctively leaped to his feet, drawing her dress down the length of her body as he did so. He felt her halfway rising behind him as he swiftly scanned the brush and the night-shadows surrounding them.
She inhaled sharply, looking past his shoulder. He turned to her quickly, just as she began to scream out a warning. It was too late. Even as she cried out, the back of a war club struck him at the back of his head, and he knew no more.
Her scream was abruptly cut short as suffocating fingers clamped over her nose and mouth. Skylar had seen that the brave coming out of the darkness wasn't alone; the other came from behind her. She struggled insanely, trying to free herself, trying to see Hawk. Darkness and shadows seemed to be closing in around her. Her attackers didn't seem to care in the least that they might suffocate her. The world was spinning, turning black, stars were dotting the blackness ...
No! She couldn't lose her senses. Hawk!
She twisted. Saw her husband's body, fallen on the earth. She bit into the fingers pressing so brutally against her mouth. The grip upon her slipped. She let out a long, shrill scream.
Another hand clamped down upon her, more brutal, more punishing. She was vaguely aware of the face atop hers. Dark-eyed, dark-skinned, a scar running atop the forehead. "Another sound, I slit your throat."
English. He was speaking English. He looked like a Crow. Or did he? Something about him was subtly different. She hadn't been here long enough to learn the different ways of dress and manner and adornment between the tribes.
The fellow holding her so tightly dragged her to her feet. She threw an elbow back into his ribs with all the force within her. He gasped. For an instant, he released his hold. She flew forward, trying to reach Hawk. She nearly touched him but was drawn back before she could do so, drawn back by a hand around her throat. Yet even as she gasped and choked, seeing stars again, she thought that she saw Hawk's chest move. She thought that he breathed.
Someone snapped out an order in an Indian language. Not Sioux! she thought. Not Sioux.
She was dragged back, unable to breathe. She saw stars. She heard the man whisper in English again. "A sound, and I take my knife where my arm wraps around your throat. I slice the vein where I see it pulsing now. Watch the blood flow down your breast..."
She was certain they meant to kill her anyway—but they weren't taking chances on her now. There were a number of men; how many, she wasn't sure. Four ... five ... six.
The man's left hand slipped from her throat as they reached his horse. He kept his right pinned firmly over her mouth. Another man was there to help him get her quickly up on his horse; within seconds, they were racing away from the camp.
They slowed after twenty minutes of nearly breakneck speed. One of the other men came up by them as they rode. She didn't understand his words, but she saw his movements and realized the fellow was saying that she needed to be tied. The other disagreed, looking back.
They were in a hurry. A desperate hurry. As well they should be. When someone within the camp realized that Hawk had been attacked, that she ...
Oh, God, would anyone come after her? Any of the men who assumed that she had peppered their meals to humiliate her husband? And if Hawk lay dead, did any of it matter? Would she ever be rid of the terrible pain in her heart?
The Sioux warriors would come, she thought. They would come because they were warriors, because they were proud, because they wouldn't let such an insult go unavenged. They would come because ...
They had to!
Oh, God, they had to. This could not happen. Not now. She was desperate to live if Hawk lived. If they had killed Hawk, then . ..
She didn't dare think.
She abhorred the smell of the man holding her so cruelly as they rode; she despised the sound of his voice, the look in his eyes. He meant to kill her, she was convinced. Somehow she knew these men were ... evil.
Monsters.
Twenty-one
Hawk awoke with a groan. Crazy Horse was hunkered down at his side, his long fingers moving over Hawk's skull. His head throbbed with pain, but he sat up to discover that he remained in the little forest alcove and he was now surrounded by his friends.
"Where is she?"
"Gone. Sloan and the others went for the horses. We'll start after them."
"Who?"
"Crow."
"Crow. Here in your camp?"
"Dead Crow. They will be dead Crow, very soon, I vow it," Crazy Horse said. "Can you ride? We will go for your woman. There is no shame in your not coming when your head is battered. Strange, they didn't make sure you were dead. They didn't take your scalp."
"They didn't take the time," Hawk commented, coming carefully to his feet. Crazy Horse steadied him when he would have staggered. He was completely perplexed and worried sick. It was his fear, far more than the pounding in his head, that was making him feel nauseated. "Damn, what the bloody hell is going on here?" he swore.
"The horses," Crazy Horse said.
Sloan, He Dog, Willow, Blade, and Ice Raven were mounted, along with a dozen warriors who had joined them as they bridled their horses. Sloan led Tor for Hawk while He Dog led Crazy Horse's mount.
"You're sure you can ride?" Crazy Horse began, but Hawk had already swung himself atop Tor's back, a fistful of mane in his hand. Crazy Horse leaped atop his own mount, and they started out, Blade leading. He had already tracked the enemy across the river, a futile attempt to lose trackers who knew the Black Hills as well as the Sioux.
They rode fast across the river, picked up the trail again, and galloped hard across the terrain toward an outcropping of hills and brush. Willow raised a hand; Blade leaped down from his horse when the trail seemed to split. Hawk started to follow. Sloan caught his arm.
"What the hell happened?"
"Damned if I know. This is insane behavior—"
"On your part, too," Sloan said gruffly. "You can usually hear a twig snap in the next territory. If you hadn't been so damned busy manhandling your wife—"
"I wasn't manhandling my wife!" Hawk exploded, amazed to realize that he was in such a blind fury he was ready to tear into the one man who was not only a solid friend but an associate who knew the world of red-and- white he lived in as he knew it himself.
Sloan arched a brow. "I wasn't manhandling my wife," Hawk repeated more quietly. "I was simply—completely involved with her." He groaned. "Damn it, Sloan—" he began, then he shook his head, squared his shoulders, and hurried toward Willow, hunkering down close to the ground to study the tracks with him in the pale glow of moonlight. "To the left," he said.
Willow nodded. The trail of hoofprints had split, but they were deeper to the left. They'd gamble that meant there was a horse in that party bearing the weight of two riders.
They leaped back on their horses. "We'll get her," Sloan assured him. "We're breathing down their necks now."
"I don't know how long I was out—" Hawk began.
"Not long," Sloan assured him.
"How do you know?" Hawk demanded.
Sloan glanced at Crazy Horse. Crazy Horse shrugged. "I went to find you. Cougar-in-the-Night suspected your wife knows how to cook better than she did. He left when you did and came back with Earth Woman. Earth Woman dumped the spice
s into the food. I was looking for you when I heard a woman screaming."
Hawk thought that he would die if something happened to Skylar. Go mad, bury himself in ashes, tear his hair out. It was his fault. He never should have let down his guard. He had survived the war and every danger on the plains by never letting down his guard. She'd seeped into his blood. And it was dangerous.
Because in discovering that he needed her, he was going to lose her. He couldn't. Wouldn't.
Damn, by every concept of heaven and hell, he wouldn't lose her now. He'd kill every Crow in the West if that was what it took to get back.
"Ahead!" Crazy Horse cried suddenly. "Just ahead! Listen!"
They kept up a brisk pace. The Indian riding with Skylar had held her tightly at the beginning of the ride, but then his hold had begun to ease somewhat. She tried to wriggle from it. If she could test his hold, she could perhaps break free when the right time came.
The right time ...
What would that be? she asked herself hysterically.
When they rode through a wooded area. When she could run into brush. When she could escape ...
She couldn't escape.
The Indians had split their party. Two of them had gone down one trail, while three remained with her and the man who held her now. Still, four altogether against her. If she leaped down, they'd come after her. They were far from the Sioux camp now ...
One of the other Indians rode up close to the man riding with her. He indicated the path behind him. He spoke in his own language.
Skylar realized that someone was following them. "Help! Help me!" she shrieked.
A dirty hand fell upon her mouth. "Damn it, I'd just as well kill you sooner than later, bitch!" he hissed to her.
His vise upon her mouth was so tight that she had to lean back against him to keep her neck from breaking. The pain was unbearable. She grasped his leg to steady herself and felt the sheath at his calf.
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