Comanche Moon (6 page)

She grew very still. Her long, curved lashes flew up and she gazed at him with fear and something else, a look almost of confusion. Hawk stared back at her. She had been a married woman, and she had to know what came next.

Slowly, so slowly that he felt the tension grow between them, Hawk lowered his head to kiss her. She accepted the kiss, but did not return it as his lips brushed lightly over her mouth. First, he kissed the corners of her mouth with light, fluttering caresses, then touched the tip of his tongue to the swell of her upper lip. Her breath came in shuddering gasps for air.

“Pihnákamaru,”
he murmured. It was an understatement. She was more than sweet. The teasing satin of her mouth lured him farther, and his tongue gently washed the outline of her lips in quick strokes that sent a flash of heat through him. Her breath quickened, and she squirmed under him.

Desire speared him when she moved, and he shifted so that his thighs wedged between her clenched legs. He felt her resistance, saw the protest well in her eyes, and bent his head again to kiss it away.

Murmuring low, reassuring words that he knew she could not understand, Hawk nuzzled the side of her neck below her ear. She smelled like woodsmoke and warm woman, and he clung to his restraint. The touch of his mouth against her neck made her jump under him, and he soothed her when she cried out and twisted her head away.

It took all his self-control not to remove his breechcloth and just take her, but Hawk did not want a screaming, struggling woman on his robes. He wanted her willing and warm and wrapped around him like a soft cocoon, opening body and mind to him.

Hawk shifted control of her wrists to his other hand, then cupped Deborah’s chin in his palm and lifted her head to look at him. Her eyes were glazed with fright, a warm honey color with golden specks that absorbed the sunlight coming through the smoke hole of the tipi. He smiled with appreciation of her courage in the face of fear, and rotated the pad of his thumb in a gentle, caressing motion against her cheekbone.

Then, slowly, he drew his hand down over the arch of her throat to her collarbone, his fingers tracing a light pattern in the delicate scoop between the bones. His hand moved downward, to that tempting valley between her breasts, the silky skin luxuriant and pliable beneath his fingers.

He levered his body to a slant, still holding her down with his weight on her, his hand moving to cup her breast. She shuddered, and he felt an exquisite tightness in his groin.

Hawk brushed his thumb across the tight rosebud that looked delicious and fragile and oh so sweet and felt her vibrate with reaction. He concentrated on that tiny nub, dragging his fingers over it in teasing flicks that made her squirm. Her breath came quickly now, and not from exertion.

There was a flushed, dazed expression on her face that turned to shock when he bent to draw her nipple into his mouth.

She cried out, arching upward as if seeking the source. Hawk flicked his tongue around her nipple, listening to her distressed whimpers with growing anticipation. Her hips moved, and he wedged her legs farther apart, fitting himself into the notch of her thighs.

He shifted his attention to her other breast, giving it the same washing with his tongue and lips, and felt the awkward motion of her hips beneath him. She gave another soft cry, and it made him shudder with desire for her.

She was almost ready for him, almost to the point where she’d open willingly.

Hawk slid one hand down to her belly, sliding his palm beneath the torn material of her gown, gathering her skirts up around her waist. She was heated silk beneath his fingers, hot and damp with need, and he dragged his hand through the tight nest of curls that hid her from him.

Crying out, she bucked and heaved with renewed panic, and he caught her mouth with his and kissed her deeply, his tongue mimicking the sex act as she strained against him. When she was limp and quivering, he lifted his head to stare down at her with a raging need he couldn’t remember feeling so intensely before.

Caught in a snare of her long hair and his hands, Deborah tried to interpret that steady gaze. His eyes had changed to the color of smoke, hot and gray as raw steel. New emotions raged inside her, battling with shock and fear. Somehow, her first resistance had melded into something else. Never had she dreamed he would make her feel anything but fear or revulsion, yet there had been a response to his touch that she couldn’t deny. Disbelief rendered her momentarily motionless. She lay still and helpless, watching his eyes—cold, clear eyes beneath a fan of thick, spiky lashes.

What he was doing was similar to what Miguel had done, but there was a vast difference in how she responded. It was baffling. It was terrifying.

He moved, and she felt the quick, cold slice of a knife whisper over her skin, then her gown just fell away from her in limp folds. Deborah couldn’t move. She felt his intent gaze on her, studying her naked body. A flush warmed her skin from her stomach to her eyebrows, and she knew that this
 
was only the beginning of her humiliation. There was no compromise in the icy eyes watching her.

A haze of tears mercifully blurred her vision when he rose to his knees over her and untied the leather thong that held his brief garment around his waist. Deborah closed her eyes as it fell away. That one brief glimpse was enough to acknowledge her worst fears, making her doubt that she would survive what he intended to do to her.

For a moment she considered going for his knife, to use on him or herself. But she knew she couldn’t. Her situation had been reduced to the basics. She wanted to live, however badly he hurt her. An instinct stronger than herself and older than time made her lie still for him.

Muttering something in the low, rough language that made no sense to her, he lowered his body back over her and spread her thighs apart with his knees. Deborah willed herself to remain limp. Perhaps it would make him gentle.

But when he put his hand on her, raking his fingers through the tight nest of red-gold curls at the juncture of her thighs, she couldn’t help a sudden jerk. Oddly, his voice sounded almost tender when he said something to her again, and Deborah shuddered as he stroked her intimately. Would this never end? She felt helpless, exposed, humiliated.

A choked sob caught in the back of her throat, and her body arched helplessly when his hand pressed inside her. It was like a knife-thrust, and her eyes flew open to stare up at him accusingly.

There was an odd expression on her tormentor’s face, almost one of shock, and Deborah had the fleeting impression that she’d somehow surprised him before he withdrew his hand and sat back on his heels. He stared down at her without speaking, his chiseled features impassive again.

She wished she dared cover herself; there was something so tense about him, almost as if he were uncertain, that she dared not move at all.

Light caught in his dark hair, glittering in the sleek strands like trapped sunbeams, and Deborah saw his lashes flicker for a moment, brushing down over his eyes as if to hide his thoughts. Then he looked down at her again, growled something she was glad she didn’t understand, and rose in a swift, lithe motion.

Deborah was caught by the stark beauty of his muscled body, the play of bronze skin and power as he moved to pick up his brief garment. She watched silently. His long hair swung forward in a gleaming fall that hid his face, and when he straightened, she flushed at the look he gave her. A faint half-smile touched the corners of his hard mouth.

“Sua yurahpitu.”
He said the words slowly, distinctly, as if to reassure her, and for some reason, Deborah’s fears began to fade. Maybe he wouldn’t harm her now. She wasn’t certain why he’d stopped, but gratitude made her nod slowly in reply to the questioning look he gave her.

He bent, grasped a blanket from the neat stack at one side, and flung it over her. She grabbed it gratefully. He tied the strip of cloth around his waist again, picked up his knife, and left.

Deborah stared after him. Her body ached from their struggle and his brief invasion of her, but she knew that there was much he could have done.

Had wanted to do. Why had he stopped?

Hawk wondered that himself.
Why had he stopped? Because she was stil untouched there, still a virgin? He’d been too startled to react at first. Spotted Pony was obviously wrong about what he’d seen. That didn’t surprise him. In the chaos of a raid, many things could be misinterpreted. But she had said her husband was dead, and he knew that Deborah Hamilton was not the kind of woman to lie without reason. Perhaps she’d thought he would not hurt her if she could gain his sympathy, but that idea was as farfetched as the notion that she could be a married virgin.

He didn’t understand it.

And more—he didn’t understand why it had made a difference to him.

Maybe he wasn’t as callous as he thought. Maybe there was a part of him that remembered the early lessons his mother had taught him long ago. Oh, so long ago. Too long to remember, he’d thought until today.

Twelve years. Twelve years of riding, looking, running, and riding again.

The only respite had been here, in the camp of his father, where he’d gained some acceptance at last. It had meant putting his white blood behind him, forgetting what he’d done and who he’d been, but he’d managed to do it. Not many in the camp had been inclined to challenge White Eagle’s son to prove himself, though there had been those warriors who had tested his strength.

Tested his prowess as a man and the son of the chief. So far, he’d managed to prove himself.

Yet even here, lost in the cool mountains of New Mexico, where no white man could find their camp, Hawk often questioned his own motives.

Why was he here? He had another life in the white man’s world, one that had earned him a certain notoriety. But it had not eased that restless yearning inside him, that need for something that he couldn’t even name. Here, at least, he was not constantly badgered with choices.

Until now.

Until this one woman had come into his life and presented him with an unexpected choice.

Hawk walked upstream, stripped, and went for a swim in the icy waters of the stream.

“If you want her,
my
tua,
take her.” White Eagle looked at his only son with a trace of amusement glittering in his dark eyes. “A man should not deny himself the comfort of a woman’s company. Especially that of a captive.”

“If she were—” Hawk stopped and looked away.

“If she were not white?” His father laughed softly. “You have strange requirements,
Tosa Nakaai.”
Hawk flinched. His father had used his name, a very personal, private thing to do. No Comanche would presume to use his name thusly, so White Eagle must be trying to make a point of the differences between their cultures. He looked away when his father spoke again.

“Would you feel better if she were
wia?”
Hawk’s mouth tightened. The Mexican-Comanche women were available to all, unless taken to wife. No, his father knew very well that he would not feel better if Deborah were one of those women.

“Kee!”
he spat, and White Eagle shrugged.

“Then take her. Make yourself feel better. It is only because of your past that you do not do so. If she were
wia
you would have already taken her.” He looked off toward the ridge of the mountain peaks gnawing at the darkening sky. “This one is weary of having you growl like the bear these past two days.

Take her, and ease my ears.” The small branch he was whittling into a flute broke between his fingers, and Hawk tossed it aside. “She has never known a man.”

“Aiie.”

There was a wealth of comments in that one exclamation, and Hawk almost smiled. White Eagle was not the most verbal of men. For him to offer this much advice was beyond his normal practice.

“The woman is only a captive,” White Eagle said after a long moment of silence, and Hawk stiffened.

That was true. For him to deny it would give her a more important status. For him to agree, would keep her such. He said nothing, and felt his father’s disapproval.

Wind blew through the pines, and they swayed with a majestic dignity that only old trees exhibit, gently, as if caressed by the wind. Hawk closed his eyes and let the music of the pines seep inside him.

“A long time ago,” his father began, “I took a white woman from her husband. It was not meant to be. I did not see what I was shown, or hear what was said. Many died. There was much trouble.
Subetu.”
Hawk opened his eyes. He knew what his father meant. It would cause trouble if he kept her and did not use her. There were others in the camp who watched her, young men who did not find her pale skin and hair of dark fire to be ugly. He saw them, and he knew what they would say if he did not make the woman his. Damn. His desire for Deborah grew more complicated everyday, and it was frustrating and irritating at the same time.

He resisted an angry reaction, knowing White Eagle would be disappointed in him. It wasn’t the Comanche way to reveal that kind of emotion, especially not over a captive woman.

His eyes shifted to his tipi, where Sunflower visited with Deborah. He should end that friendship before it went too far. There would be no good come of it, but he hated to deny his young sister anything that pleased her.

And he saw the faint gratitude in Deborah’s eyes when she glanced at him, and knew that if anyone could ease her stay in the camp, it was Sunflower.

But it was unfair. Things would not stay the same, and he knew that.

And he must be the one to change them.

Hawk rose to his feet in a smooth motion that gained his father’s attention, and their eyes briefly met. Then he strode in the direction of the tipi where Deborah waited.

Chapter 5

Afternoon light spilled through the triangular opening onto the hard-packed dirt floor, and Deborah gazed idly at the tiny dust motes swimming in the trapped sunbeams. She’d smoothed blankets and furs, hung clothes that she assumed were
his
from the poles, examined baskets lined along the walls, and braided her hair. Time still dragged in a slow pull that seemed like eternity.