And One Rode West (33 page)

“He’s not a monster, Christa! Jesu, madam, he did his best! Stanton tried to have him barred from riding at the head of his army when it passed the review stands in Washington because of his efforts! He risked his own career, and was as angry, I’ve heard, as a caged lion when Washington forced him to renegotiate his peace with Joe Johnston. Hell, Christa, if you want to crucify someone, let me try to get Phil Sheridan out here! He’s a firm believer in a ‘scorched earth’ policy!”

“What difference does it make who you get out here?” she hissed. “We’ll never agree. I just decided that I needed to take a walk.”

“A walk! In the dead of night? In Indian territory?”

“I needed to be alone—”

“Like hell. You were hoping that I wouldn’t find you. That I’d give up and go to sleep before you came tiptoeing back. That I wouldn’t strangle you over what you did.”

“I will never be afraid of you!” Her chin was high, her words scornful. Maybe the wine she had drunk was giving her an added boost of bravado. She still seemed flushed. “Never!” she repeated.

His eyes narrowed on her. “You’d best be—tonight.”

She was breathing hard, both defiant and uneasy. He wished that wanting her, aching for her, desiring her so desperately would not plague him so when he longed to shake her. He couldn’t keep his hands off her, despite
his most stalwart efforts. He shot out, gripping her wrists, wrenching her toward him. It might have been a mistake. He could feel the trembling in her now. Her eyes were luminous with her fury. Her hair tumbled about her shoulders and fell down her back in a wild disarray. Her scent was sweet against the rich, earthy smell of the river and the breeze and the embankment.

“You let go of me, Jeremy!” She jerked free from him and started to walk away. She stumbled and caught her balance. Was it a root in her path, or a reminder of the wine she had drunk.

“Get back here!” He jerked her back into his arms. Her eyes went wide. Maybe she wasn’t frightened.

“Let go of me!” she insisted.

He smiled crookedly. Let her go? Never, not tonight. He wasn’t quite sure what seized hold of him, but he knew he would never let her go. Not tonight. Maybe it was her defiance, her passion, maybe it was even the depths of the hatred she seemed to bear him. But it felt as if an inferno had suddenly found roots within him, streaks of the blaze tearing throughout his body. Tonight? He wouldn’t let her out of his sight again.

“You’re not afraid of me, remember?”

“Jeremy—”

He lifted her up, flinging her over his shoulder despite her outraged shriek of protest. He instantly started his way back to camp.

She pounded fiercely against his back. “Put me down! Your friends might still be awake. What would they say, what would they think?”

“One, I don’t give a damn. Two, any friends of mine would probably want to thrash you as well after that marvelously stirring rendition of ‘Dixie.’ ”

She thudded his back again. She started to bite his shoulder and he gave her a sound whack on the buttocks, certain that he hurt the bustle—and her pride—
far more than he hurt her. They had reached the outer rim of the tents.

“Damn you! Put me down!” she whispered fiercely.

“Soon enough, my love.”

She fell silent, braced against him as he strode his way to their tent. In seconds he had set her down hard on the bed. He tried to walk away from her. He spun around. She lay there in the blue gown, her face flushed, her eyes flashing, her hair a magnificent spill around her, her breasts heaving over the velvet bodice of the gown. She sat up, then stood quickly, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “I won’t stay here, Jeremy. I can’t. I told you that I couldn’t be expected to entertain Sherman—”

“You did nothing, in fact. I took no chances on your cooking for him, lady. He might well have left here poisoned. And I never asked you to entertain the man. You took that on all on your own!” He stripped off his dress military frock coat, then removed his cuff links. “ ‘I’m a Good Old Rebel’! My God, you do have bravado, ma’am, I’ll grant you that!”

She started to walk past him. “I have really tried to be an excellent wife—”

He interrupted her with a loud snort.

She stood still, stiffening. Her eyes were blue fire. “Since it appears you are determined to sleep here tonight, I shall find other accommodations.”

“Oh? And where will you go?”

“Elsewhere!”

“I see. Perhaps that dear charming Captain Clark—who reminds you so much of your poor deceased Liam—will be willing to take you in.”

“Perhaps I’d even prefer the Comanche tonight!” she hissed back furiously.

He caught hold of her wrist, throwing her back toward the bed. “Sit down. You sure as hell aren’t going anywhere tonight.”

She lay flung atop the bed, watching him, catching her breath. She wasn’t about to stay down. Not yet.

She sprang up easily again, determined on walking out of the tent. She was no fool. He could see her weighing her options. Since the opportunity to best him was probably not going to come her way, she was seeking her ever majestic lady-of-manor dignity to use against him. She inhaled, as if with a great deal of patience. “I will not stay here and listen—”

“Sit down,” he repeated, stripping his shirt over his head.

She swallowed hard, gritting her teeth. He knew she was fighting to think of some way around him. He was far stronger.

She tossed back her hair, smoothing it down. Her words were polite enough, but he heard the grate of her teeth that preceded them. “Perhaps this thing can be discussed at some later date. If—”

“It will be discussed right now. I warned you to be courteous, Christa. I warned you.”

She stood once again, her chin up, her hands folded before her. He hated the stance. It was her lady-of-Cameron-Hall stance, and it was so damned superior. “You’ve had a fair amount of whiskey with your Yank cronies—”

“Oh, that’s rich!” he exclaimed. “From the delicate belle who was downing wine like water? No, Christa. That won’t work. I’ve had some whiskey, but I’d need a hell of a lot more to forget your performance this evening!” He kicked off his boots and pulled off his cavalry pants.

She seemed to pale somewhat. She was accustomed to the sight of him naked. Tonight it seemed to disturb her.

She pressed a hand dramatically against her temples. “I have a tremendous headache and you’re making it far worse. I’m leaving!” she said flatly. “You’ll just
have to pretend you’re capable of being a gentleman for once. I mean it, Jeremy. It was a wretched night!”

“Christa! The war is over!” he growled. “You’re married to a cavalryman, and my future is at stake here. Did you ever think about that?”

Maybe she hadn’t. For a second, she was silent. “I’m not terribly worried about your future, Jeremy. From what I understand, you’re an excellent swordsman, you know the Indians better than their own mothers do, and you’re even a friend to the buffalo! You’ll rise high—with or without me being decent to Sherman.”

“How amazing! I never knew I had such a vote of confidence from you. Especially after following in the wake of such men as your sainted brothers!”

“Don’t you dare speak about—”

“Madam, leave it be!”

“Yes, leave it be!” she whispered. “Let the great Indian hunter have the last word! And the war is over, is it? Daniel still hasn’t received a pardon, carpetbaggers are passing themselves off as politicians in Richmond, and the entire South is being run by Yankee riffraff opportunists! Don’t tell me the war is over!”

“Christa—”

He moved toward her, at that moment wanting to comfort her, no matter how angry he was himself about the evening. But she backed away quickly. She was still too upset to accept anything from him. She jerked back. “Touch me and I’ll scream. I’ll scream and scream—”

He reached out with such a vengeance that his hold upon her sleeve tore the gown. She glanced down where the sleeve and bodice gaped from her body. “How dare you …”

He’d never meant to hurt her, or to rip her gown. The damage was done.

She wasn’t going anywhere, and she wasn’t going to threaten him with screaming ever again, he determined
fiercely. Eyes on hers, he caught the fabric once again and ripped harder. She gasped as the whole of the garment began to fall from her, exposing her corset and petticoats. She tried to slap him and he caught her wrist. “I gave you fair warning, Jeremy, I’ll scream—”

“Then start screaming!” he advised. She gasped out instead, her fists slamming against his chest as he plucked her up and threw her down on the bed, straddling over her. “Despicable Yank!” she hissed. “You’d rape me—”

“Not on your life, lady.”

“Then—”

“Buck naked, darling, you might decide to stay in the tent!”

He flung her over on her stomach, trying to loosen her corset ties. The petticoat resisted him and he ripped it impatiently, only to be greeted with another flurry of her venom. “You’re wrecking my things! You’re—”

“Christa, for a poor vanquished Reb, you’ve still got more clothing than most birds have feathers! And you’re damned lucky I’m ripping fabric, and not your irresistible, delicate, wonderful southern flesh!”

She stiffened, going dead still for a second. He used the opportunity to untie her pantalets. When she choked and began swearing again, fighting to unseat him from his perch atop her, she afforded him the chance to strip off the last of her garments. She lay facedown and bare, still fighting. Her back was sleek, her hips and rump rose smooth and delectable—and tempting.

“Despicable Yankee bas—” she began.

“One more word, my love, and—”

“And!” she cried in desperate challenge.

He tensed, swallowing hard. He didn’t want the battles. What could he do when it seemed that something
from the past always arose to come between them? Tonight, it was Sherman.

Damn Sherman. Couldn’t he have traveled to some more northern Indian district this year?

Christa was shaking. Never, ever ready to surrender, never ready to call a truce. He bit into his lower lip and pressed a gentle kiss against the small of her back.

He might just as well have burned her with a branding iron. She shrieked out with rage, bucking against him and turning beneath him. Tears of fury stung her eyes. Her fists landed against his chest. Very suddenly, she went still. He became aware that he was straddled over her now with his sex laid low against her stomach and it was aroused and hard against her softness.

Her eyes narrowed on his. She moistened suddenly dry lips. “I hate you, Jeremy. I hate you for Sherman, and I hate you for the war. I—”

“Listen to yourself, Christa! You
hate me
for
Sherman
!”

Tears stung her eyes. “Can’t you understand?”

“I can’t change the past. And I’m not sorry that the North won, that slavery is dead and the Union preserved!”

“Get—”

“Christa! You don’t hate me—”

“Trust me, I do!”

He shook his head again vehemently, his eyes dark and intense. “I don’t really believe that. And I want you, Christa. I want to touch the spark of magic that is always there, just below the surface. So let’s pretend that you don’t hate me tonight. Lie still beside me. You claim that you are such an excellent wife. Be one for me.”

“Jesu!” she rallied. “I ride the trail, I sleep in a tent. I have encountered tarantulas and buffalo. I lie with you night after night—”

“You are here, yes!” he continued for her. “And you
refrain from protesting when I exercise my matrimonial rights. Dammit, Christa! The fire is there, I can feel it! I can nearly touch it. But you deny me and yourself, again and again!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she cried.

He pulled her up by the shoulders, searching out her eyes. “But you do, Christa, you do! You fight me, you fight yourself. You could taste the sweetness of fulfillment, but you deny yourself the chance. It’s there within you, I know it. You possess a rare passion. Why fight me so?”

Her eyes were liquid. With emotion, with anger? “Perhaps I do not fight you!” she whispered vehemently.

“I know that something rich lies locked within you!”

“Perhaps, Yank, you haven’t the key to unlock it!”

He eased his weight back, holding her still, shaking his head slowly. “No, Christa, it’s not me. Maybe I’m not your Rebel lover. Maybe I am your Yankee husband. But in every way, I swear to you, I’ve sought to give what I would take. And I know that I’ve touched your senses. You hold back because you would continue to wage war in our bed. But I tell you, my love, no more. No more, after this night!”

“Don’t—” she began.

“Jesu, Christa! Give me a chance, give us both a chance!”

“Jeremy—” she began anew. But he was done arguing.

His lips touched hers. For a moment, he felt her resistance, tasted the salt of her tears. Her fists banged against his shoulders and she tried to writhe out of his hold. No! He could not let her go!

“A chance, Christa!” he whispered, lifting his lips just a breath from hers. His voice was low, rich, deep. Demanding, pleading.

She inhaled on a ragged little sound.

He touched her lips once again. Tasted them, pressed past them, felt the desire in him flame wildly as he took in the sweetness and warmth of her. He wanted her so badly. She was in his arms, and he could have her. They’d waged this battle before. All he need do was take her. Ease the hunger.

He lifted his lips from hers. Thought himself insane. Her sky-blue Cameron eyes were on him, her lips were damp from his touch, still so tempting.

He smiled ruefully. “Your choice, Christa.”

“What?” she whispered, amazed.

“I will not force the issue.”

He rolled beside her. She quickly turned her back on him. He ran a finger seductively down the length of her back. Up again, down again. What was the matter with him? What if this didn’t work?

It had to work!

The most seductive touch he could manage, down the bareness of her back, caressing the very base of her spine. Softly, gently, over the rise of her hip. The fullness of her buttocks. He drew circles with his fingertips.

Pressed his lips to her back. Followed the touch of his fingertip down her spine. Up again.