Innocent Fire (7 page)

Miranda stole another glance at Bragg. He was eating rapidly, using his fingers, gnawing on a bone. He’s an animal, she thought, unable to look away. He was squatting in what looked like a very uncomfortable position, but he always ate in that position on the trail. He suddenly tossed the bone into the fire, rubbed his hands on his thighs, and looked over at her.

She wanted to look away, but couldn’t. His gaze had been masked, but as she stared at him, even from across the fire, she could see it changing. She could see his expression of raw hunger, as if he hadn’t just eaten half a haunch of venison. Miranda realized that she was holding her breath. She expelled it, forced her eyes away, and daintily picked up a bone with her fingers. She was starved for the first time in ages, it seemed, and she had already tried to carve the meat, unsuccessfully, with a knife and fork.

Bragg had almost killed a man today! A man who had simply touched her arm. She still could not get over it. His hypocrisy astounded her. At least she thought that was why her pulse raced whenever she thought of the incident. Bragg had done much worse to her. He had kissed her and held her while she was clad only in her underclothes. But he had beaten a man badly, and been only a second away
from slitting his throat, all because the man had held her arm intimately.

She had not realized Bragg was so lethal. Good heavens, she thought, what kind of a man is he? Her glance slid to him again. A savage, an animal, her mind whispered. A beautiful animal, another voice said.

Startled, Miranda dropped her plate with a cry.

“What is it?” her aunt asked solicitously, while Bragg and Welsh stared at her with open curiosity.

“Nothing,” she said quickly. Wherever had that thought come from? Then, as her mind raced, she grew calm. Bragg’s stallion was a beautiful animal. A wolf, a bear, they were all beautiful beasts. They were beasts, and they were beautiful. Bragg was the same. It was all right to see him that way, as dispassionately as she saw his stallion. Yes, he was beautiful, but frightening, because he was crude and uncivilized.

“Miranda? Are you listening? I asked if you are ill.”

“Oh no,” she said hastily, looking away from those golden eyes. But when he got up, her glance was drawn to him again, and she watched him leave the glow of the small, smokeless fire.

The next day, as usual, Bragg rode ahead, disappearing from sight. By high noon, he had not returned, which was unusual. Several hours passed, and there was still no sign of him. The garrulous Welsh had ceased his chatter some time ago, his face wearing a dark frown, and Miranda and her aunt had begun exchanging very frightened glances. Lady Holcombe finally asked what had happened.

“He’s run into trouble,” Welsh said bluntly.

Miranda gasped, a crazy, sudden fear tearing through her. “What do you mean?” she cried. “How do you know?”

“Because we’d already discussed this,” Welsh said. “Don’t worry. Bragg probably ran across a raiding party of Comanche, and the plan was for him to lead them away. A decoy, so to speak.”

“Oh God,” her aunt moaned.

Miranda’s heart was pounding. “What if they catch him?” she whispered, her eyes wide with fright.

“That won’t happen.” Welsh smiled reassuringly. “You
watch. We’ll make camp like usual, and he’ll come riding in by dawn.”

Miranda didn’t believe him. “But he’s only one man! How many Comanche ride in a raiding party?”

Welsh didn’t tell her that he had lied and that Bragg had probably run across a war party. “Ten to fifty,” he said.

Miranda gasped.

“Now don’t you worry,” Welsh said, reaching over her aunt and patting her hand. His impropriety was lost in the shock of their fear. “Bragg’s half Apache. No Comanche can track an Apache unless he wants him to. Bragg will lose them when he’s good and ready.”

Elizabeth had begun to mop her brow with her handkerchief. “Half Apache?”

“Half Apache?” Miranda echoed. “Captain Bragg is half Apache?”

Welsh was annoyed with himself for revealing that fact. “His ma was Apache. Mescalero. Mostly up in the New Mexico Territory. Don’t you worry, ma’am. Everything will be fine.”

Miranda was dazed. She was worried for Bragg, as worried as she was for herself, because suddenly she felt very insecure and unprotected without his presence. Half Apache. No wonder he was so savage.

“We’ll make camp here,” Welsh said. “No fire tonight, ladies, as an extra precaution.” He slowed the team.

They made a silent, small camp. They ate dried beef and cold beans. Miranda wasn’t hungry. She kept thinking about Bragg leading fifty fierce, savage Comanche away from them, risking his own life to do so. Dear God, protect him, she prayed.

She was sleeping when they attacked. She felt hands upon her, strong hands, male hands, and then something was being shoved in her mouth. Sudden awareness electrified her. She was being abducted from her own tent! She began to struggle, but she was being held in an iron grip, against an iron body. One of her feet kicked over a pitcher and it clanged against an unlit lantern.

“Miranda?” her aunt asked sleepily.

Miranda screamed into the gag, making muffled noises.

Lady Holcombe saw a tall, dark form in her tent holding Miranda, clad only in a white cotton nightgown, and she shrieked.

The man carried her out the back of the slitted tent with rapid strides. A shot sounded. Miranda twisted wildly to see over the abductor’s shoulder. Welsh lay sprawled on his face on the ground, yards from the front of her tent. A man stood over him, sheathing his pistol in a holster.

She looked ahead, squirming wildly, pounding on the man’s back. He chuckled. Three men were holding horses.

“Chavez!” one of them cried.

Chavez turned to look just as one of his men shot Lady Holcombe. She crumpled to the ground, a small derringer slipping uselessly from her hand. Miranda saw her aunt murdered, and with a muffled cry, she fainted.

Still holding Miranda, Chavez leaped onto his stallion, and he and his four men rode away into the night.

Miranda awoke to the early morning sunlight. Something wet and cool was on her forehead, and then it slid down to her throat, to her chest. She sighed. The cool cloth went lower, over her breasts, making her nipples harden and tingle. She was suddenly wide awake, and her eyes flew open as she cried out.

A dark face with glittering black eyes was peering at her. “So you are awake,” he said.

Miranda realized she was lying on a bed in a pine-planked room, clad only in her flimsy nightgown, which had been unbuttoned to her waist. The man was holding the damp cloth that had been touching her breasts. With a cry of anger, she clasped the edges of her gown together.

“So beautiful,” he murmured. “Miranda. Even your name is beautiful.”

Her momentary outrage fled as everything came back. Her face crumpled as tears of pain streamed down her cheeks. “Aunt Elizabeth,” she moaned. She rolled onto her side. “Dear God. No,
non, pas man tante. Mon Dieu! Je vous en pries
…” She broke into huge, heaving sobs.

Chavez regarded the beautiful girl silently for a moment, understanding her grief. He was sorry that his impetuous man had killed the older woman. In fact, he had backhanded the man when they had reached their hidden camp, causing him to lose two teeth. He had given strict
orders that the elderly woman was not to be hurt. Now he understood that the dead woman was the girl’s aunt. He stroked her shoulder.

“I am sorry, little one, about your aunt. It was an accident.”

Miranda ignored him and kept crying.

Her sorrow did not ease his desire. He had rarely seen such beauty, and he had been able to think of little else except this girl since he had seen her the other day in Nacogdoches. The moment he had seen her, he had known he would have her. But he was human, after all, so he decided he would give her time to grieve.

“You are going to be my woman, little one,” he told her as she lay on her stomach, sobbing. “Maybe even my wife. I have no wish to harm you. You are too rare, too precious. My men will not touch you. But there is no escape. You are constantly watched; do not even try to leave.” He rose and regarded her steadily. He was taut with desire. He had been that way all night as they rode southwest toward Coahuila.

Miranda didn’t seem to hear him. He shrugged, reached down, and covered her with a blanket, for he had no wish for his lecherous men to stare at her delicately beautiful body visible through the thin gown. He left.

Miranda cried all morning. Eventually, when she had no tears left, she rolled to her side and peered with swollen eyes at the crude room. She saw that she was in a shack, lying on the single bed. There was a table with two chairs, a fireplace, a dull iron pot, and that was all. Miranda wondered what was going to happen to her.

She also wondered what had happened to Bragg. He must be dead, she thought dully. A new stab of pain pierced her. Then she remembered what Welsh had said. Bragg was half Apache. No Comanche could track an Apache. If Bragg was alive, would he be able to track the men who had abducted her? It was her only hope.

She sat up and walked to the shack’s one window. Outside, she saw two Mexicans sleeping. She tried to remember what her abductor looked like. All she could remember was that he was tall, and his voice had been soft and slightly guttural.

“So you are better.”

Miranda gasped and turned, pressing her back against the wall. He was as tall as Bragg, and as dark as Bragg was golden. He was sinister, she thought, shuddering. His eyes had a naked, hungry look.

“You are cold,” he said, striding over to her. He took her hands and chafed them.

Stiffening, she tried to jerk them away.

“No,
cara
,” he murmured, and lifted them up to kiss them. He nibbled her knuckles. Miranda choked on a huge sob.

Chavez stopped and looked at her. “Don’t be afraid,” he said.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please, let me go. I beg of you.”

He smiled. “No,
querida
. That is not possible.”

Miranda began to cry.

“Why are you so eager to leave?” he asked, looking angry. “Am I not handsome? I am rich, too. Did I not tell you I would marry you? You could do no better, believe me!”

She gazed at him through tear-filled eyes, startled.

“Or are you already married?” His eyes flashed. “To that Ranger? Eh? Is that it? I think not. I think you are a virgin. You have that innocent look.”

“I can’t marry you,” she whispered, seizing the opportunity. “I am already married, to Bragg.”

His face grew taut and rage flooded his features. “So be it,” he said harshly, pulling her into his arms.

“No!” she screamed as he lifted her and carried her to the bed.

“You will be my mistress, my woman, eh?” He placed her on the bed, holding her still as he leaned over her.

“Bragg will kill you,” she cried, unable to move beneath his hold.

“No,
cara
. Bragg is far from here. Your husband—if indeed he is such—has been taken prisoner by Comanche.” At her frightened look, Chavez grew angrier. “So you do care for him! Is he a good lover, eh? Do you think I do not recognize a dangerous man when I see him?” He shook her. “I arranged for my friends, led by
my half brother, to lead him away from you,
cara
. I am no fool!”

Miranda had no time to absorb that before his mouth came down on hers, hard and demanding. He clasped her in his arms as he plundered her tightly pressed lips. She lay beneath him like a board.

“Open your mouth,” he said harshly, lifting his head. He slid his hand over her breast, rubbing her nipple.

“No! No! Please!”

Chavez laughed, rolling the hard nub between his thumb and forefinger. “I think you lie,
cara
. I think you are very innocent.” His lips found hers again.

Miranda struggled, overwhelmed with revulsion and horror. This was so different from how she had felt about Bragg. She felt bile rising in her throat and writhed uselessly.

His hand caressed her breast while he rained kisses over her frozen face, ignoring the tears that streamed down her cheeks. “
Madre de Dios
!” he cried, ripping open her gown. “I am like a boy…I cannot wait!”

He tossed the gown aside, breathing raggedly. Miranda screwed her eyes tightly shut as he ran his hands up and down her body, over her breasts, her belly, her hips. He stroked the hair over her secret woman’s place, and she knew that she was going to throw up at any second.

“Open your thighs,
cara
,” he cried. He pried them apart. “So beautiful,” he breathed.

She flinched and began to moan in agony as his hand touched her most intimate spot. Her moans were half sobs, and no man could mistake them for passion.

“You’re bone dry,” he said angrily. “Am I so distasteful? Eh?”

Miranda lay limp and sick and tried to block her mind from what was happening. But when he pushed his fingers into her—actually inside her!—her eyes flew open and her nails came up with a scream of rage. She slashed his cheeks, drawing blood.

Chavez growled, catching her wrists and pinning them over her head. He searched her again, thrusting his fingers inside her. Miranda turned her head, panting as the bile tried to rise again.

“You are a virgin,” he said harshly, withdrawing his hand. “I knew it!” It was a triumphant cry.

Miranda vomited over the side of the bed. When her heaves became dry and finally stopped, she was aware that he was no longer touching her, aware of her naked body on the bed, of her vulnerability, of the horror…. She slowly raised her face.

Chavez was standing rigidly beside the bed, his face dark and tense. “I disgust you.”

She collapsed weakly, her face buried in the pillow.

“I do not like rape,
cara
,” he said, after a long moment. “Maybe if I court you, you will find me not so ugly, eh?” His words were bitter. “In my country, even with my Comanche blood, I am considered a prize catch among the noble young ladies. Women are eager to give themselves to me, even out of wedlock.” He studied her beautiful, slim curves. His voice grew harsh. “God, I want you,” he rasped, running a gentle hand over her smooth flanks.

Miranda shuddered at his nauseating touch. She felt his breath on the back of her spine, and then he was moving her hair aside and kissing the nape of her neck. The bed creaked with his weight. No, God! And she felt his trousers, the muscles of his thighs, as he pressed himself on top of her with a moan. Something hard and rodlike pressed through his trousers against her buttocks, and found the valley between them. He groaned. “I don’t know…I don’t know if I’m strong enough…”

An instinct honed by thirty years of survival made him look up.

Standing in the doorway, Bragg fired.