Comanche Moon (42 page)

The priest, momentarily confused by the unusual response when he had expected an ‘‘I do,’’ sputtered a moment, seemed to consider, then nodded his assent and finished the ceremony. Loretta and Hunter were married, according to his beliefs and hers. Hunter instructed his friends to return the priest to his mission, stressing that he would have their heads if the man didn’t arrive there unharmed. Then he sent Amy to his mother’s lodge. When everyone had been dispatched, he turned to Loretta, one dark eyebrow cocked, his indigo eyes twinkling with laughter.

‘‘One wife and only one wife, forever with no horizon?’’

Loretta’s gaze chased off, and her cheeks went scarlet. Clasping her hands behind her, she rocked back on her heels, then forward onto her toes, pursing her lips. ‘‘I told you, Hunter, I refuse to play second fiddle.’’

He smiled—a slow, dangerous smile that made her nerves leap. His heated gaze drifted slowly down the length of her. He grasped her arm and led her toward his lodge. ‘‘Now you will show this Comanche how good you play number one fiddle, yes?’’

‘‘I—’’ Loretta’s mouth went as dry as dust as she tripped along beside him, her arm vised in his grip. ‘‘Surely you don’t mean right
now.
’’ Her startled gaze focused on the lodge door. ‘‘It’s not even dark yet. People are still awake. You haven’t eaten. There’s no fire built. We can’t just—’’

He lifted the door flap and drew her into the dark lodge. ‘‘Blue Eyes, I have no hunger for food,’’ he said huskily. ‘‘But I will make a fire if you wish for one.’’

Any delay, no matter how short, appealed to Loretta. ‘‘Oh, yes, it’s sort of chilly, don’t you think?’’ It was a particularly muggy evening, the kind that made clothing stick to the skin, but that hardly seemed important. ‘‘Yes, a fire would be lovely.’’

He left her standing alone in the shadows to haul in some wood, which he quickly arranged in the firepit. Moments later golden flames lit the room, the light dancing and flickering on the tan walls. Remaining crouched by the flames, he tipped his head back and gave her a lazy perusal, his eyes touching on her dress, eyebrows lifting in a silent question.

‘‘Do you hunger for food?’’ he asked her softly.

Loretta clamped a hand to her waist. ‘‘You know, actually I
am
hungry. Famished! Aren’t you? What sounds good?’’ She threw a frantic look at the cooking pots behind him. ‘‘I’ll bet
stew
would strike your fancy, wouldn’t it? After traveling so far and eating nothing but jerked meat. Yes, stew would be just the thing.’’

Hunter’s mouth quirked. ‘‘Blue Eyes, a stew will take a very
long
time.’’

All night, if she was lucky. ‘‘Oh, not
that
long. It’s no trouble, really!’’ She made a wide circle around him toward the pots. ‘‘I make a wonderful stew, really I do. I’m sure Maiden has some roots and onions I can borrow. Just you—’’

Loretta leaped at the touch of his hand on her shoulder. She turned to face him, a large pot wedged between them, her hand white-knuckled on the handle.

‘‘Blue Eyes, I do not want stew,’’ Hunter whispered, his voice laced with tenderness. ‘‘If you hunger, we will have nuts and fruit, eh?’’

Loretta swallowed a lump of air. Fruit and nuts were better than the alternative. Maybe, if she ate one nut at a time . . . ‘‘All right, fruit and nuts.’’

He spread a buffalo robe beside the fire while she put the pot away and dug up a parfleche of fruit and nuts from his store of preserved edibles. Kneeling beside him, Loretta munched industriously, staring into the leaping flames, aware with every bite she took that Hunter watched her. When she reached for her fourth handful, he clamped his long fingers around her wrist.

‘‘Enough,’’ he said evenly. ‘‘You will sicken your gut if you eat more.’’

Loretta’s gut was already in sorry shape. She swallowed, trying to avoid his gaze and failing miserably. When their eyes met, she felt as if the ground fell away. There was no mistaking that look in his eye. The moment of reckoning had come.

She had known it would, of course, sooner or later. She had just hoped for later—much later. Clearly that was not to be. In return for Amy’s rescue, she had promised herself to him. It was nothing short of a miracle that he had waited this long to claim his reward. It was even more incredible that he had brought a priest here to marry them. She should be relieved, even pleased to know their union was blessed, but she didn’t
feel
married. All she felt was fear, sheer, black, mindless fear.

Unfortunately for her, she didn’t come to the marriage bed ignorant, as a bride should. She
knew
what was in store for her and how horribly painful and degrading it would be. Even Aunt Rachel hated it. She had admitted as much, and even if she hadn’t, Loretta had heard her whimpering enough times through the cracks in the floor to know, beyond a doubt, that coupling hurt. It was bound to be a thousand times worse in the arms of a brutal savage who thought women could be bought and sold like so much baggage.

Brushing her hands clean on her skirt, Loretta stared dismally at the fire.
Light.
Merciful heaven, why had she asked for a fire? He’d be able to
see
her, which somehow made the thought of undressing in front of him all the more horrid.

Her skin prickled. He was staring at her, waiting, like a man expecting his supper to be served. And what was even more awful, she
felt
like his supper. A hundred thoughts raced through her mind, running away from him foremost, but her sense of honor forestalled her. She had
promised
him, and a promise was a promise. She wouldn’t break her word. She’d see this through, with her head held high. She
would.

With trembling hands, Loretta tackled the long line of tiny buttons on her bodice. With each flick of her fingers, her cheeks grew hotter. The firelight cast too few shadows, making the interior of the lodge seem as bright as day. She tried to draw comfort from the fact that he had seen her nude the night of her fever, but that was a century ago and did little to ease her embarrassment as she slid the sleeves of her dress down her arms.

If only he were a white man.
He would at least douse the fire. Or maybe have an attack of conscience and realize how barbaric it was to force a virtuous young woman into marriage. But he wasn’t a white man, and conscience wasn’t a word in his vocabulary. He
owned
her. Now they were married, even in the eyes of
her
people. For forever.

The thought panicked her as she pushed her dress down her hips and stood to step out of it. She would have to go through this disgusting ritual not just once, but thousands of times. Now she wished she hadn’t tricked him into promising he would take only one wife. Plural marriage might have its benefits. With several wives he might lose track of her in the shuffle and never bother with her . . .

Watching Loretta, Hunter swallowed an amused chuckle. She looked like a little field mouse about to be eaten by a great hawk. Her blue eyes were enormous and brilliant with fear. A flush crept up her pale neck, as pink as— His gaze dropped to her chemise. Through the thin muslin, he could see the shadowy peaks of her nipples. His belly knotted with longing. Cactus blossoms and moonbeams. Perhaps she was right to feel like a small creature about to be devoured. He yearned to possess her, to suckle her breasts, to nibble tantalizing paths along her thighs, to find the sensitive places on her body and tease them with his tongue and light caresses from his fingertips until her passion peaked.

As she struggled with the ribbon sash that held up her petticoat, her hands growing more tremulous by the second, Hunter’s amusement changed to a tenderness that nearly overwhelmed him. Though painfully afraid, she was going to honor her promise and give herself to him. His throat tightened, nearly closing off his breath. Memories of Willow by the Stream washed over him, of their first time together and how gently he had eased her into lovemaking. Remembering made him feel ashamed. It had been a long while since he had lain with a maiden, too long if he could be amused by such painful shyness.

Swinging to his feet, Hunter scattered the fire so the flames licked feebly at the wood and threw the lodge into gentle shadows. Then he turned to regard his wife, forcing his hands to curl loosely at his sides, his stance deliberately relaxed. ‘‘Blue Eyes, come here,’’ he whispered softly.

She threw up her head like a startled doe, her eyes huge and wary. Hunter’s guts clenched, and with one stride he closed the distance between them. Catching her by the chin, he tipped her head back and feathered his thumb across her quivering bottom lip.

‘‘I—’’ Her voice shook and broke. She swallowed and tried again. ‘‘I’m sorry, Hunter. I know I promised. It’s just that—I’m a little nervous.’’

Hunter bent his head and lightly pressed his forehead against hers, nudging her hands aside so he could untie the pink ribbon that cinched her small waist. With deft fingers he loosened the petticoat and let it fall in a heap at their feet. ‘‘There is nothing to fear,’’ he whispered, ‘‘nothing.’’

Her breath caught when he untied the first small bow that held her chemise closed. He untied the others quickly and feathered his fingers over her shoulders, skimming the muslin aside and drawing it down her arms. Shame washed over her, hot and pulsating, as the evening air touched her bare breasts. She closed her eyes, wishing she could die on the spot. An instant later she opened her eyes again, terrified of what he might do when she wasn’t watching.

Loosening the drawstring waist of her pantalets, he crouched before her, tugging the breeches down her legs, pulling off her high-topped shoes as he divested her of the garment. As he stood back up, it was his turn to catch his breath. His memories didn’t do her justice. For a moment he couldn’t drag his gaze from her, so fascinated was he by the glowing whiteness of her skin, the delicate curves, so long hidden from him by chin-high calico and multiple layers of muslin. Settling his hands on her narrow waist, he drew her toward him, his heart slamming as the pebbled tips of her small breasts came into contact with the flesh over his ribs. In the dim light he could see tears shimmering on her pale cheeks. He bent his head to catch their saltiness with the tip of his tongue.

‘‘Ah, Blue Eyes,
ka taikay, ka taikay,
don’t cry. Has my hand upon you ever brought pain?’’

‘‘No,’’ she whispered brokenly.

Determined to finish what he had begun, Hunter swept her slender body into his arms and strode to the bed. Lowering her gently onto the fur, he stretched out beside her and gathered her close, his manhood throbbing with urgency against the confining leather of his pants. He half expected her to struggle, and perhaps if she had, he could have continued, his one thought to consummate their marriage, to put her fears behind them and ease the ache in his loins. But instead of fighting him, she wrapped her slender arms around his neck and clung to him, so rigid with fear that she felt brittle, her limbs quivering almost uncontrollably.

In a voice thick with tears, she said, ‘‘Hunter— would you do one thing for me? Just one small thing. Please?’’

He splayed a hand on her back and felt the wild hammering of her heart. ‘‘What thing, Blue Eyes?’’

‘‘Would you get it over with quickly?
Please?
I won’t ever ask again, I swear it. Just this time,
please
?’’

Hunter buried a smile in her hair and closed his eyes, tightening his arms around her. His father’s voice whispered.
Fear is not like dust on a leaf that can be washed away by a gentle rain.
The words no sooner came to him than a dozen forgotten memories did as well. For an instant the years rolled away, and Hunter saw himself running hand in hand with Willow by the Stream through a meadow of red daisies, their laughter ringing across the windswept grass, their eyes shining with love as they drank in the sight of one another. He remembered so many things in that instant—the love, yes, but mostly he remembered the friendship he and Willow had shared, the trust, the silliness, the laughter. Ah, yes, the laughter . . . He and his little blue-eyes had laughed together so few times that Hunter had difficulty recalling
when
they had. Suddenly he knew that without the laughter, their loving would fall far short of what it should be. Especially for her.

In a voice that rasped with frustration as well as tender amusement, Hunter said, ‘‘You have such a great want for me that we must hurry, yes?’’

Her spine snapped taut, and she leaned her head back to look at him. He met her gaze with a lazy smile, trying not to think about how her nipples grazed his skin, how torturous it was to feel her hips pressing forward against him. Working one hand loose, he carefully brushed the tears from her cheeks.

Giving a low chuckle, which he punctuated with a defeated sigh, he said, ‘‘Blue Eyes, we have many nights to lie with one another. Forever, yes? Until we die and rot.’’

‘‘Until death do we part,’’ she amended.

‘‘Ah, yes, until death do we part.’’ He shrugged one shoulder. ‘‘A very long time, yes? If I strike such fear into your heart that we must be quick, it is wisdom to wait. It is enough that you will lie beside me. That I can put my hand upon you.’’

Her expression went from wary distrust to incredulity. ‘‘And do nothing?’’

Hunter shared her sentiments. It was the most
boisa
idea he had ever come up with. Never had he ached quite so sharply with wanting a woman. ‘‘You would like to do something? You say it and we will do it.’’ Hoping to make her feel less self-conscious about her nakedness, he tugged a fur over them and loosened his arm around her, allowing her some room to get comfortable. ‘‘Make a story for me, yes? About my Loh-rhett-ah when she was small like Blackbird.’’

She stared at him, clearly unable to believe he meant it. He forced a yawn, and from the look that crossed her small face, he knew he hadn’t been very convincing.