Gypsy Moon

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  Tears filled her eyes. He knew who she was! At least that was something. Bending over him, she took hold of his shoulders and forced him to lie back.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Mateo. Not until you’re better.”

  “I hurt you,” he managed to say.

  “You didn’t mean to.”

  She continued bathing his brow while he was calm. Busy at her task, she never noticed that the wind had blown open the unlaced tent flap and one silver streak from the full moon was inching its way in. Slowly it crept, feeling its way—searching, probing, intent on evil.

  When Mateo’s body strained in another spasm, Charlotte leaned forward, pressing with all her weight to hold him still. She wrestled with him, pinning his arms to his sides. She was heaving with exhaustion by the time the spell had passed.

  Then, for a time, he grew too still. His eyes were closed. His body felt cold and there was a silvery pallor about his face. Charlotte leaned close to his open mouth, terrified that he might have stopped breathing. Suddenly his arms closed about her, bruising her ribs, and he ravaged her with a brutal kiss. She struggled against him, but there was no freeing herself from his crushing embrace. He seemed to be trying to draw the last breath from her body. She felt dizzy, disoriented. This was not Mateo, but some savage stranger, unleashing his brutal lust upon her. Clawlike hands tore at her clothes, she felt her blouse being ripped away, felt her bare breasts cool against Mateo’s fevered chest. She fought desperately. But she might as well have been a day-old kitten fighting a raging lion. Mateo was a strong man. His moon madness tripled that strength.

  She lay against him panting, not knowing what she could do or what he would do next. For the moment, he seemed calm again. Although he still held her prisoner in his arms, his head was thrown back and he was breathing deeply and evenly. He appeared to be recovering himself.

  “Mateo?” she ventured.

  At the sound of her voice, his head shot up again. He glared at her with wild, unfocused eyes. Letting his big hand slide down her body, his fingers bit into her waist and he forced her onto her back beside him. The skins that had been tangled about him fell away. For the first time, Charlotte realized that Mateo was naked. A harsh beam of moonlight silvered his belly and made a thick, gleaming dagger of his erect penis. She gave a startled cry. He echoed and intensified the sound with another pained scream. Doubling up, he fell over her, writhing and clutching at her breasts with pain-cramped fingers. Charlotte could only lie there and pray that the moon would wane before Mateo destroyed them both.

  Again he forced her mouth to obey his savage will. Still his hands kneaded her soft, bruised flesh. Then, slowly, his fingers moved down her torso, gripping the waistband of her skirt. She heard the sharp rip before she realized what was happening. An instant later, Mateo raised himself from her long enough to yank the rest of her clothes away.

  Flesh met flesh with a shattering impact. Charlotte’s resistance was feeble at best. Her body ached from trying to fight him off. It was no use. Besides, wasn’t this what she had wanted all along? If he was less than gentle, did that matter so very much?

  Yes, dammit, it did matter!

  The man Charlotte desired was the tender, passionate Gypsy Rom she had come to love. If this savage, lust-filled stranger took her, it would mean nothing. Would Mateo even know that he had made her his when the last moonbeam faded with the dawn? That was what hurt most of all.

  “Please, Mateo, love me, but love me gently,” she begged.

  Already he was poised for the thrust. Through her tears, she could see the outline of his hard body straining above hers. He hunched over her—a beast about to mount its mate. The hot pulse pressed between her thighs jerked and prodded at her in anticipation. A moment more and it would be done.

  “Mateo, can you hear me? It’s Charlotte. Please don’t hurt me!”

  He hesitated, seemingly trying to understand or make up his mind. Charlotte took hope. Perhaps the madness was wearing off. Perhaps he had some inkling of who she was and what he was about to do to her.

  “Charlotte?” he said, his voice sounding almost normal.

  “Oh, yes, Mateo!” she cried, frantic now with relief and happiness. He was coming around.

  Just then, a vicious gust of wind whipped the tent flap back. Squarely framed in canvas, the small, pale silver sphere cast its dying light upon them. Mateo gave an anguished cry. Charlotte watched the muscles bunch in his shoulders, gathering strength—shuddering, straining, making ready.

  This is Mateo, she told herself. You have nothing to fear.

  Charlotte closed her eyes and gripped the coarse fur rug beneath her, steeling herself. She forced her mind to think of him as he had been that night by the stream—as he had always been… except for now. She could endure anything at his hands. She loved him. She would welcome him; for to fight him would be madness on her own part. She willed her body to relax. Now, though still crying softly, she smiled. She was ready.

  A strange fever seemed to enter her mind the moment Mateo forced his way into her body. Her senses reeled crazily. She felt disoriented and filled with a wild, inexplicable panic. This was a torture like none she had ever imagined. But oddly enough, as this terrible spell seized her, Mateo grew calm. It was almost as if through her love she was drawing the torment from his body and soul into her own.

  Soon her terror vanished with her pain. Each new thrust soothed her torn flesh and righted her confused mind. She tensed once more, but this time with a new sensation. Mateo had brought her through the cruel gate to some new and fantastic realm. Here they walked together, hand in hand, body in body, and the sun, not the moon, shone down on them in all its glory. Charlotte had no idea where he was taking her, but she knew that she had been searching for this unknown paradise all her life.

  He rode her expertly, with the same combination of fiery command and loving gentleness that he used in handling his Black Devil. And Charlotte responded to the great graiengeri’s touch.

  His lips and tongue had lost their harshness. His hands on her breasts no longer bruised, but pleasured. She felt her nipples straining to be stroked. And the battering of his hips had become an undulating series of waves, smashing on her ready shore. She rose and fell to meet him. She welcomed him, drawing him deep into her body, feeling his caresses in the very core of her.

  Suddenly, the sun inside her head and heart became blinding. She thrust at Mateo with a fury, begging him for something—she knew not what. And then she felt it coming—ever nearer, ever sweeter. A tidal wave of sensations rose within her, dashing all else in its wake. Her sweating, love-scented body quaked under the impact. A feeling totally new to her surged through every muscle, bone, and sinew. She shuddered against Mateo, holding him close, kissing him, adoring him for what he had given her.

  Her lover clutched her tightly, and she could feel the throb of him deep inside her. Suddenly he held very still. A tremor ran through him. A spasm jerked his hips. The next instant she felt the precious deluge filling her with his princely seed. A new kind of pleasure washed over her and trembled through them both. Now, as never before, they were one.

  Mateo held her a moment more, then rolled away. He lay on his back, breathing heavily, one arm thrown over his eyes. He sighed and reached out to touch her breast. For a long, silent time he stroked the full nipple. She lay very still, marveling at the way she felt—full, warm, loved.

  The sun’s first rays penetrated the opening of the tent. Charlotte heard birds outside chirping their waking songs. Somewhere a Gypsy mongrel barked, a kettle clanged, a horse neighed sleepily. The terrible, beautiful night of the full moon was past.

  Mateo reached out and took Charlotte’s hand. “Oh, my sunaki bal, what have I done to you?”

  “Only what Fate intended, my darling.”

  She leaned over and touched his lips in a gentle, loving kiss.

  Chapter 11

  Major Winston Krantz stood in his sparsely furni
shed quarters at Fort Leavenworth, perspiring mightily as he donned his battle garb. The whole idea of this expedition irked him. He wouldn’t have minded so much if a band of scalp-stealing Indians had been the day’s intended quarry. That was what he was out here for, after all. But this… this was uncivilized madness!

  Krantz pulled on his new fringed buckskin jacket, identical to the one Colonel Custer always wore. He looked at himself in the mirror over his washstand and grimaced. His mother, back home in Boston, would have shuddered in horror at the sight; his father probably would have said Winston looked like a red-skinned savage himself. The garment certainly did nothing to enhance the outdoorsman image he had hoped to create. Even if no one else thought so, he’d hoped to make the damned buffalo they were about to go after think he looked threatening, if not downright dangerous. But the picture he presented—at least to his own eyes—was more that of an overstuffed deerskin with tassels.

  “Blasted fringe!” he muttered as his sleeve tangled in his cartridge belt.

  This was just the latest in a series of frustrations since he’d joined up with Custer’s 7th Cavalry. He was half glad Charlotte Buckland had run out on him before the wedding. Fort Leavenworth, with all its pretense of civilization, simply wasn’t his idea of the proper place to begin a happy marriage. The rough quarters, the heat, the constant threat of Indian attack… well, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it certainly hadn’t been what he’d found.

  He’d never dream of bringing a wife here to endure such hardships. But many of the men had wives, children, sisters, even mothers living on the post. Mrs. Custer wasn’t in residence at present, but only because the 7th Cavalry was here on temporary duty. Still, the colonel swore that his Libbie might just pop in any day. He vowed that she loved every minute of army life and hated being left behind when her “Autie” rode out.

  The “boy general” himself, as Custer had been called after his field promotion during the war, was Krantz’s second shock. The man was not made of the tall, muscular stuff one envisioned in connection with heroes. In fact, had it not been for George Custer’s manly swoop of mustache, those long golden locks might have made the officer look quite effeminate. Granted, he was a keen strategist when it came to fighting these bloody savages. His idea last year of mounting a campaign during the winter months, when the Indians were off their guard, had been a stroke of genius. But Custer’s interests were so unorthodox for a West Point man—writing poetry, taking part in amateur theatricals, holding mule races. Why, some of the men even whispered that he consorted with Gypsies! It all smacked of the bizarre to Krantz. And perhaps the man’s strangest quirk was the menagerie that always traveled in his company.

  Krantz harrumphed loudly into his fist and reprimanded his own thoughts. “Not including Mrs. Custer, of course.”

  Winston didn’t mind the dozen or so dogs—although he was sure some of them were full-blooded and still vicious wolves—or even the assorted raccoons, squirrels, and smaller furry vermin. It was that damned obnoxious pelican that got his goat. The thing was always following Krantz about, flapping its big wings and begging in its irritating, voiceless fashion at the mess.

  Krantz was trying on his new broad-brimmed felt hunting hat when a voice outside his door announced, “Mail call, Major Krantz, sir.”

  A sudden pang of nostalgia raced through him. He thought of home and the cool New England fall that would soon be descending upon his beloved Boston. The first letter from his mother must have arrived with all the latest news and gossip about family and friends. He could hardly wait to read her detailed account.

  “That dear lady,” he murmured, thinking of his prim, gray-haired mother as he hurried to open the door for the mail orderly.

  The soldier thrust one envelope into Krantz’s hand and said, “Colonel Custer says we’ll be mounting up in ten minutes, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Krantz turned away, anxious to read his letter before joining the others.

  A strong waft of verbena perfume pervaded the room. Odd! He’d never known his mother to wear scent. He glanced down at the evelope—a woman’s dainty handwriting, but certainly not Prudence Barclay Krantz’s clean, economical, no-nonsense script. He tore into it, most curious now.

  Fairview Plantation

  September 1, 1870

  My Dear Major Krantz,

  I cannot begin to tell you how devastated I am over Charlotte’s unforgivable behavior. The only excuses I can offer for such rash, unfeeling rejection of you and your most kind and generous offer are her youth and impetuosity. I fear, too, that her grandmother aided and abetted her in defying me and disappointing you. Their actions are inexcusable! Were I not a Christian woman, I am sure I should never be able to find it in my poor, sad heart to forgive either of them. But you and I must trust in the preordination of all things and believe that this has happened for the best.

  Winston Krantz stopped reading for a moment to nod his head in agreement. Hadn’t he thought these same things only moments before? He must write to Jemima Buckland and put her mind and heart at ease.

  A warning bugle sounded outside. He hurried back to the letter, anxious to read all that Charlotte’s mother had to say before it was time to leave for the hunt.

  I am sure you must realize, dear Winnie, that I thought my daughter too young and too flighty for you from the beginning. Such a strong, distinguished, and honorable gentleman, in my humble estimation, should have a wife fit to the task of helpmate as well as heartmate. Such was the relationship between myself and my dear, departed husband. I hope, if I ever decide to marry again, I will find a man very much like yourself—with your courage, strength, virility, and understanding.

  Krantz stopped to reread that sentence. He was smiling broadly—fairly preening. He hadn’t realized before what a keen judge of human nature Jemima Buckland was. Perhaps he should have spent more time gazing at the mother instead of the daughter.

  Charlotte is still unaccounted for. Her grandmother tells me she took the train for California to seek her fortune. Neither of us may ever see her again, I fear. But whatever she finds in that wild country, she richly deserves!

  In conclusion, I would like to plead with you to stay in touch with me. I worry far more about you than I do about my unfeeling daughter. How have you taken all this? What kind of life are you living in that dangerous, heathen land? Do you ever think of Fairview—of us? Please write, Winnie. A scribbled note will be met with heartfelt gratitude. I promise to answer back.

  Until that time, I remain…

  Ever sincerely,

  Jemima Lewis Buckland

  He stared at the page for a long time, breathing in Jemima’s perfume and visualizing the golden hair that framed as pretty a face as her daughter’s. The added maturity was no detriment, he decided. He could even see her blue eyes. Funny, until this very moment he hadn’t realized that Jemima Buckland had blue eyes. Perhaps he’d taken more note of her than he’d thought.

  A second, louder bugle call aroused him from his reverie, thrusting him back into the unwelcome reality of camp life and the buffalo hunt about to take place. Groaning slightly, he hoisted his gear and started out of his quarters. He turned back, smiling suddenly, and took the letter, slipping it inside his shirt. It would be nice to feel Jemima Buckland’s warm words close to him during the coming hours.

  Fort Leavenworth was caught up in a flurry of activity. Horses, in their anxiety to be off on the chase, tramped the parade ground into an all-encompassing cloud of dust. Soldiers shouted back and forth to one another. Scouts lounged about, chewing tobacco and looking bored, waiting for more taxing sport. Custer’s ever-present pack of hounds added to the morning’s confusion, chasing this way and that and yapping excitedly. In the midst of it all, Col. George Armstrong Custer, his golden locks and red neck scarf blowing in the breeze, sat his favorite hunter, Custis Lee, issuing orders right and left. Only Custer’s pet pelican look
ed totally unconcerned, perched on the railing outside its master’s quarters where it could view the whole scene without fear of being trampled or getting nipped by an excited hound.

  Krantz shook his head, wondering how this bunch of farmhands and city boys could ever be whipped into shape. The batch of raw recruits that had arrived at Fort Leavenworth just days ago knew nothing of army life. Many of them had never even been on a horse. But that’s what he was here for, to help train them. And Colonal Custer swore that the best way to keep a brand-new cavalryman in the saddle was to take him buffalo hunting.

  “Damned if they don’t learn how to ride mighty quick when they see that herd thundering down on them!” he’d said, laughing.

  “Here’s your mount for the day, sir,” said a young soldier to Krantz, handing over the reins of a horse as dark as Custer’s own Custis Lee.

  “Soldier!” Winston Krantz barked at the private’s retreating back. “This isn’t my palomino. Bring me Old Ironsides.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but I can’t do that. You see, Colonel Custer’s ordered the troops divided into two groups today as a sort of contest. Those riding with him will be mounted on dark horses like Jock here. The others will be on light ones. That way everybody will know who’s riding with whom, and we’ll know which side won when it comes time to count tongues.”

  “Count tongues?”

  But the private never got a chance to reply as Custer called through the chaos, “Major Krantz! Mount up! I’m ready to lead them out.”

  Winston Krantz pulled himself up into the saddle and urged his horse through the mob until he was alongside Custer.

  “I’m ready, sir,” he said, feeling anything but ready.

  Custer looked at him with cool blue eyes and said, “By God, sir, you are not! Where’s the Hawken rifle I had issued to you?”

  “I’m used to my old Kentucky. It got me through the war without so much as a scratch.”