“Polite!” he murmured, his whisper very close to her ear, his tone amused. He seemed to think it over. “Well, I have considered it upon a number of occasions.”
“And?” she persisted.
He moved his cheek gently against her temple. The warmth flamed more deeply within her. The gesture made her feel both very comfortable and stirred.
“Do you remember the very first time we met?” he asked her softly.
“Vaguely,” she said. “You were ready to hang my brother. You were looking for Callie. What does this have to do with being polite?”
“I wasn’t ready to hang your brother. I had to find out what had happened to my sister. Now—”
“You were a Yank deep in Rebel territory.” She reflected on that for a minute. “Definitely an idiot,” she told him frankly.
“Maybe. Callie is my only sister. We were always close. But that’s beside the point. The very first time we met, you were ready to shoot me.”
“Daniel wouldn’t let me,” she said regretfully.
She felt his smile.
“Let me see,” he continued. “I think it was the same occasion when you left the dinner table simply because I was at it.”
“There was a war on,” she reminded him. “And we might have all been shot as traitors for entertaining you.”
“Jesse was there.”
“It was his house.”
“Not during the war.”
“What is your point?” she asked him, not really seeking an answer. For once, it seemed nice just to be with him. His touch upon her was easy, light. She felt secure in his arms, almost like a sleek cat being very nicely stroked. She closed her eyes. Maybe it was a time of truce.
“The point,” he said, and again the hot whisper of his words touched her earlobe, sending little shivers down her spine, “is that there was always something between us.”
She shifted slightly, smiling incredulously. She wanted to see his eyes. They were very silver. Amused. Tender. “The fact that I wanted to shoot you meant that there was something between us?”
His smile deepened. He nodded. She arched a perplexed brow, but eased back against him when his arm encircled her, pulling her back. “Anger, hostility—but sparks. Anyway, once in a while, I’ve wondered what it would have been like if I’d met you before the war.”
Callie hesitated a moment. “Perhaps, if I hadn’t met you as the enemy you would have been quite tolerable.”
He laughed. “But then again, I might not have been all that tolerable. I can just imagine the type of occasion when I might have met you. Your brothers and I never met at West Point, but just say we could have. Jesse might have brought me home for one of your big barbecues. There would have been fellows all over the place, just tripping over themselves to get near you. Daft fellows with stars in their eyes. They would have been begging for dances, dying to bring you some punch, standing on their heads just for one little smile.”
“Jeremy—”
“And there I would have been. Some poor farm boy from Maryland!”
“McCauley, we never judged any man by his money—”
He laughed, his knuckle running over her cheek. “No, I’m certain that you didn’t,” he assured her, and she bit her lip, pleased, because he seemed to mean it. “But you’re not seeing the picture I’m painting! All those fine young strapping fellows! They would have all been as nice as was humanly possible! And you would have twirled every single one of them around your little finger. You would not have listened to a word any of them had to say. You would have thumbed your nose at any one of them who might have even thought of telling you what to do! And they would just have kept on being nice, begging and pleading and falling in love like a pack of fools—and never, never once managing to get you to do a thing by being polite!”
She shifted again, meeting his eyes. “Well, you are mistaken, McCauley!” she said with her nose just a bit in the air. “I always responded politely in return—”
“You were nice as can be—and went about doing just as you damn well pleased. I can’t always afford to be nice, Christa. And heaven help me, I certainly can’t afford to act like those poor boys so mesmerized by your beauty and your smile!”
“We didn’t meet before the war—” she began.
He interrupted her with soft, husky laughter once again. “If we had, Christa, you wouldn’t have given me the time of day!”
“If you had been nice—”
“I would have loved being nice,” he whispered. “Very, very nice …”
His lips touched her damp shoulder. His teeth slightly grazed it, his tongue bathed the region. His kiss moved closer to her ear. Little raindrops of sensation danced through her flesh. She gripped the rail of the tub tightly. His palm was fully against her breast now. Cradling it. Tenderly cupping its weight, the center of his hand going round and round her nipple. Her breath caught.
“Jeremy, it’s not even supper yet,” she breathed. “Sergeant Jaffe is sending buffalo stew. It’s even light out. It—”
“It will wait,” he told her. “Believe me, no one will disturb me now. Robert Black Paw is aware that I have joined my wife at her bath. If the Comanches raided, he would fend them off.”
Perhaps the last was an exaggeration, Christa wasn’t really sure.
And she wasn’t sure in the least if she cared. She was always fighting him. This afternoon she was weary of the fight.
And she was so very aware of the way that she was feeling. Sweetness and fire seemed to pervade her to the depths of her soul. She was amazed that the tip of his tongue could create such havoc all through her. She didn’t mind just lying back, feeling his arms, feeling his caress.
She felt his arousal hardening against the base of her spine, hotter than the water, exciting. She closed her eyes, catching her breath. She wanted him. She’d felt the sweet promise before. Now something golden and wonderful seemed to stretch before her. He had made comments enough about her refusal to give in to him.
Maybe this time it would be different.
She closed her eyes. He was stroking her, his touch sliding through the water, down along the flesh of her inner thigh. Closer and closer to intimate places. Touching her there. She froze, afraid to breathe, then exhaled in a gasp. She heard a soft groan behind her. He buried his face against the wet hair at her nape. “This is wonderful, but I think my body is breaking.” He balanced her weight and stood, crawling from the awkward tub before reaching down to sweep her up, dripping.
“Do that again,” he murmured.
Her arms locked around his neck as he held her. “Do what?” she whispered.
“Sigh. Softly. As if you wanted me too.”
Color touched her cheeks, and he laughed. There was something different in his expression. Something anxious and pleased as he watched her.
She lowered her lashes. A drop of water came trickling down the center of his chest. She wanted to lean against him. Taste it with her tongue. Panic seized her suddenly. She couldn’t surrender to him, no matter how sweet the feelings. Her distance was all that she had left of her pride and heart. Daily, she forgot more and more the look and feel and texture of Liam’s face.
And daily, she came to discover more about Jeremy and his feelings toward her. He must have resented her heartily when he had married her. He had been in love before. He had been expecting a child. She’d been a southern girl, so he must have loved her very much. And he must surely lie awake beside her at times, feeling that bitter disappointment with her that he did, and wonder why God had chosen to take the woman and the child he had wanted, and saddled him with Christa and her baby.
“I … there’s so much we need to discuss,” she said.
“There’s suddenly so much to discuss?” he said, laughing. “I don’t think so. I don’t want to talk,” he said, walking her over to the bed. He pulled back the blankets that Nathaniel had so meticulously prepared for them.
“Jeremy, Nathaniel spent a lot of time—”
“Umm.”
Maybe he knew just how close to surrender she was at that moment. Maybe he even sensed that she wanted him. Really wanted him at that moment, for the first time. He didn’t intend to be dissuaded.
His tongue skimmed down the valley of her breasts, rimmed her navel. An ache was burning between her thighs. She was dying for him to touch her.
In anguish, she pulled upon his hair. “Jeremy!”
He came up against her. His smile was sensual. The silver gleam in his eye was wicked. Luxuriously lazy. “I can’t believe it. My little ice maiden so warm. Trembling.”
She moistened her lips, shaking her head. His smile remained. He stared at her mouth and then seized it in a sweetly savage kiss. She loved the feel of his mouth and the taste of it. Loved the way that he raked hers with his tongue, filling it, again and again. She was breathless when he broke from her. Breathless and staring at him. Her hands were upon his shoulders. She hadn’t even realized it. She was stroking his arms. Her heart was thudding at a frantic rate. Her nipples were taut and hard, teased by the hair on his chest, delicate, taunting pinpoints against him. She flushed, the length of her feeling the hard pulse of his arousal.
His knee urged her thighs apart. He held himself above her. She trembled with a surge of anticipation for the silver in his eyes, a fire unlike any she had seen before. The feel of his hardened sex pressed against her own was dizzying. “Jesu!” he whispered, both tender and urgent. “Damn General Sherman! Were he due in ten minutes, my love, I could not leave you now!”
He pressed his lips to her throat, thrusting smoothly into her body.
Sherman!
The name went off like a burst of cannon in her head.
“Sherman!” She gasped it aloud.
The feeling of desperate desire that had been so strongly aroused in her slid from her like bathwater sluicing from her body. She braced herself, trying to deny him. It was too late. She had so nearly been the seeking force in this tempest. She clenched her teeth, twisting her head to the side. Tears stung her eyes and she held herself rigidly against him, not protesting, not even hating him, but becoming once again his ice queen. She closed her eyes. In time she felt the hardness of his constriction, felt his body tense rigidly from top to bottom. The warmth from him spread into her and she bit her lip, longing to run her fingers through his hair, to cradle his head.
But he had uttered the enemy’s name.
“Sherman?” she repeated coldly.
He groaned, falling wearily to his side. Damn. What an absolute idiot he had been. So seduced and so enchanted that he hadn’t even thought of what that name meant to her, he had spit it out just as if he were one of her prewar beaux, tripping over his own tongue in his desire for her.
He’d come so damned close!
“Jesu, you couldn’t have waited to discuss this?” he demanded irritably.
“You brought up that name!” she cried, coming up on an elbow.
But he didn’t look at her, and he didn’t seem to care to have her staring at him either. He rose angrily and walked back to the tub and used the water to strenuously wash his face. When he was done he grabbed her towel and wiped his face and body and began to dress impatiently. Christa watched him, her anger growing.
“Sherman?” she said again, her teeth grinding.
He buckled his scabbard on, swinging around to meet her. Oh, God, no. This was going to turn into another battle. A serious one. He should have been more prepared.
Sherman hadn’t gone into Virginia. But that didn’t matter. He’d come through her precious Confederacy and had definitely done severe damage.
Dear Lord, he didn’t want to hurt her and he did understand her feelings. But she was going to have to deal with them. She was going to have to accept the man. Sherman was his superior officer and they were both military men. He had no choice but to entertain the man when he came to the camp.
“Sherman,” he said flatly. He didn’t dare give her even an inch of leeway.
“As in William Tecumseh?” she demanded.
“The very same.”
She leapt up, heedless of her nudity. She flew at him, slamming her fists furiously against his chest. He caught her wrists. She grit her teeth. “You expect me to entertain General Sherman?” she nearly screeched.
“Dammit, Christa, you should be used to Yankees by now!”
“Yankees, yes!” she spat out. “But not Yankees like Sherman! He ravaged the South! He raided it, raped it, destroyed it. He made women and children starve and freeze—”
“He fought an all-out war to win. He had a ‘scorched earth’ policy and it worked. And he did his damnedest to give Confederate General Joe Johnston the best surrender terms possible. He was called a traitor by Stanton for the terms he tried to offer—”
Christa could hear him. “How dare you!” she gasped. “How dare you even think that I will entertain that man.”
“Because you’re my wife, that’s why!” he thundered. “I am the commanding officer here and you’re my wife!”
“No! I won’t do it.”
“You will!”
“I won’t!” she vowed, breaking his hold on her. “You can’t expect this of me! I’ve done everything that you wanted. But I won’t, I mean it, I won’t have Sherman to dinner!”
“You will.” He reached out for her, bringing her hard against him. His fingers were taut, he was shaking her and her hair tumbled down her back. Tears stung her eyes and she began to laugh.
“I will not do it!”
“Jesu! You will!”
“You can beat me black and blue—”
“I’m not beating you!”
“You’re damned close!”
He stopped. He stared at her, his eyes silver and narrowing like daggers. He swept her up and deposited her back on the bed. “Damn you!” he cried. His eyes swept over her and he inhaled sharply. “And damn me for a fool!” he added. He turned on his heels and left the tent behind him.
Thirteen
Jeremy didn’t return to his tent until it had grown very late.
Sergeant Jaffe had seen to it that his buffalo stew made its way around the camp and so there was no reason for him to go hungry. He ate with Celia and Jimmy Preston, then made his escape because Celia couldn’t say enough about his prowess against the buffalo and Jimmy just couldn’t quit shaking his head with wonder at the magnificent way Christa could handle herself in any situation.
For a while he walked along the river, glad of the spot he had chosen for their camp. There were two things the army needed when they camped for a stay of any duration—water and grass. He’d found both here in abundance. The river ran strong and pure here, surrounded by endless plains where the grass was deep green, rich, and abundant.
It was beautiful out here. The air was dry and cool, the horizon seemed to stretch for miles while mountains rose in the distance. It was a rougher place than his home, perhaps. Maryland was so very green, shaded with blues and purples. Out here, the landscape was tinged with earth hues, golds and tans, deep burnt oranges and scorching reds.
This was Comanche land, he reminded himself. He was in Buffalo Run’s territory. It could be as wild and savage as the Comanche themselves, and as strangely beautiful.
He paused, listening to the run of the river at his side and looking back at the low burning fires of his camp. A sentry saluted him and he saluted in return. Fourteen men were on guard watching the perimeters of their camp. In four hours they would switch with others. They were spaced fairly tightly together, and they were wary.
Jeremy had been warned by his superiors
at Little Rock that Buffalo Run was on the warpath.
But he knew Buffalo Run. He had met the Indian when they had both been quite a few years younger. Buffalo had not yet risen to become the great war chief that he was today. He had just been one of Gray Eagle’s many sons, a handsome Indian, sleek, lean, as cunning as a fox, as strong as a bear.
Jeremy would never forget the first occasion he had met the Comanche. Cavalry and Indians had met in a skirmish just north of the Texas borderline. The cavalry had been doing well enough, until their commander had realized that they were running out of ammunition.
They had made a break for it. Jeremy had been bringing up the rear. They’d raced long and hard, losing the majority of the Comanche following in their wake. But then Jeremy’s horse had suddenly and silently dropped beneath him and Jeremy had gone plunging into the dry dirt. Before he had much managed to catch his breath, he’d been attacked by a man like a five-armed creature out of hell.
He’d managed to dislodge the knife that nearly slit his throat from the Indian’s hand, but the fistfight that had followed between them had gone on endlessly. It had felt like hours.
They very nearly killed one another, but when the sun went down they were both still breathing. Jeremy looked over to see that the Indian had closed his eyes. He picked up a large jagged rock and came up on his knees, ready to strike the weapon against his enemy. For some reason he held still, unable to kill such an enemy in such a way.
He dropped the rock and began to walk away.
It was a good thing that mercy had tempered his decision. The Indian opened his eyes. The two of them stared at one another for a long while. Then Jeremy felt a creeping feeling at the nape of his neck. He turned.
Around them were grouped five Comanche braves who had come for Buffalo Run. Jeremy was certain that he had breathed his last. His scalp tingled.
But Buffalo Run called out to them and stood slowly and painfully. He spoke again and someone trotted up with a paint pony. The pony was offered to Jeremy. Hesitantly, Jeremy took the reins, still staring suspiciously at the Indian.
And One Rode West Page 22