Nan Ryan (21 page)

Yet some foolish, feminine part of her still wanted the hard-faced Ranger to be attentive. To really notice her. To be aware of her as a woman. To be physically attracted to her.

To desperately desire her, so that she could turn him down cold!

If
she could turn him down.

The princess stole a brief look at the Ranger. Her heart began to race when from out of nowhere came the thrilling thought that this tall, imperial-looking Texas Ranger with his aggravating, cocksure manner and forceful masculinity would make an excellent sovereign! He could rule a kingdom and its subjects with the same ease and nonchalance with which he had conquered these wild, god-awful deserts into which they were now riding. And, imagine the offspring he would sire.

Princess Marlena’s face reddened at the guilty thought, and she was suddenly genuinely afraid. Afraid of this big, cold-eyed, black-haired, devilishly handsome Texan. Afraid of his rugged masculinity. Afraid of his unique ability to easily conquer her. Afraid as she had never been afraid of any man.

Afraid because she was absolutely fascinated by him. He was an exciting, mysterious man, and try as she might, she could not seem to forget how she had felt that first night when he took her in his arms and kissed her before she could stop him. Inwardly she shivered, knowing that if tonight he were to take her in his arms and kiss her, she wouldn’t—couldn’t—stop him.

That sobering knowledge convinced her she could wait no longer.

She
had
to escape today.

22

On a low, sunbaked mesa
, in the Tularosa valley’s wide corridor, an Apache warrior sat unmoving on his dancing, snorting mustang. Directly behind him, a dozen mounted Apache braves were silent. Totally silent.

None dared speak. None dared ride up alongside the young, sulking chief. Their volatile leader was in a black mood, had been in a black mood for weeks. Each long hot day that passed without a drop of rain made him grow more gloomy, more menacing.

The chief prided himself on his ability to make rain. He bragged how he had only to lift his arms to the skies and call for the rain to fall. A great downpour would follow. It always had.

However, to his great despair, he had, for long months now, been unable to make it rain. No matter how many times he stood under the cloudless skies and called for a cloudburst, nothing happened. Not a sprinkle fell on the dust-dry desert. Not a single dark cloud billowed up in the summer sky. Precious water holes were drying up, and there was no longer any gama grass for the horses.

His braves dared not mention his failure to bring the rain. To do so would risk his wrath. Nor did they dare mention what they knew was bothering him as much, if not more, than his inability to bring the rain.

They knew, too well, the danger this hot-blooded chief posed when he had been too long without that most favored prize that meant more to him than any other pleasurable diversion. More than stealing horses. More than burning out pesky settlers. More even than scalping blue-coated soldiers or the hated
Tejanos diablos.

It was common knowledge that the big bronzed warrior, though married to three young, comely Apache, relished nothing quite so much as raiding a remote farmer or rancher’s spread and finding a young white woman. A
pretty
white woman. He had no taste for sturdy, raw-boned, sunburned wives whose hard life showed on their plain, wrinkled faces. He shunned homely, calico-clad matrons with big, billowy breasts and spreading behinds. He paid no attention to any woman, pretty or plain, whose hair was dark like his own.

Discriminating in his taste, he searched ceaselessly for just the right woman. Young, but not a child. She had to be fully grown, totally mature, preferably between the ages of eighteen and thirty.

He, himself, had passed his twenty-fourth winter.

The sulking young Apache who sat astride his dancing mustang upon that barren New Mexico mesa was called Chief Thunderfoot.

Chief Thunderfoot was proud that his name struck cold fear in the hearts of all the despised white-eyes. His reputation grew with every surprise raid he led and every successful stage holdup and every white man’s scalp he added to his war lance.

And, with each white beauty he claimed for his own personal prize.

Chief Thunderfoot was at the height of his physical prowess. His strength and endurance were legendary. He could run on tireless legs for twenty or thirty miles. He could snap a strong man’s neck with one quick twist of his huge bronzed hands. It was rumored that he had once—on a dare—lifted a well-tied, blind-folded, one-thousand-pound mustang off the ground.

Chief Thunderfoot stood six foot six in his big bare feet, with wide, well-proportioned shoulders, a very deep chest, and long, muscular arms and legs. His forehead was very broad and high and his mouth was large. When his wide lips stretched in a rare smile of pleasure, strong white teeth flashed in his copper face. His nose was of the Roman order, too large and too broad for his face. His nostrils were expanded and seemed to pulsate when he was angry.

As he was now. Or, when he was electrified, as when he led a raid. Or, when he was sexually excited, as when he pleasured himself with a woman.

His large, lean body was nothing short of beautiful. But his big, broad face with its too large mouth and Roman nose was ugly. Menacing. Unsightly. Frightening. Chief Thunderfoot was aware that his looks alone scared people. That pleased him. Nothing was quite so satisfying as having cowardly white-eyes quake and tremble before him.

Naked now, save for the soft chamois loincloth covering his groin, Chief Thunderfoot’s oiled chest and arms and legs glistened in the strong New Mexico sunshine. His thick raven hair, worn long, was held back off his ugly face with a white head band and fell around his bare, broad shoulders and down his back. Gusts of warm southerly winds lifted strands of the coarse black hair and blew them against his high cheekbones and into his flat black eyes.

He never noticed.

At the moment, he was absorbed. Consumed. Totally immersed in thought.

Those silent, nervous braves mounted directly behind him knew exactly what was on their young leader’s mind. And they knew that until he found what he yearned for, there would be no rest for any of them. They had seen him this way before. It was like a vile disease that came upon him. A wild craving that had to be satisfied if he were to keep his sanity.

The sickness was upon him now. Had been upon him for many moons, growing steadily worse, causing him to behave ever more unwisely. When he was like this he took too many wild chances, thereby putting them all in danger. If he did not soon find that which he sought, he would become increasingly reckless until they might all lose their lives.

If they were to survive, Chief Thunderfoot
had
to have—very soon—a woman. A special woman. A young, beautiful white woman with whom he could spend a few enjoyable hours or days before he finally tired of her. A slender, fair-skinned beauty to make his blood run hot. A terrified, helpless human toy whom he could strip naked to admire with eager eyes and hold in his powerful hands. To tease and taste and take and torture until there was no life left in her.

Chief Thunderfoot suddenly raised his large right hand.

A responsive brave immediately kneed his paint forward, handed his chief an old pair of field glasses taken in a long-ago ambush.

Thunderfoot raised the glasses to his glittery black eyes and stared. Through the magic lens he spotted, far, far away, a small plume of dust rising from the eastern edge of the valley floor. Curious, patient, he watched and waited. While the gathered warriors began to fidget and squirm, their leader sat as still as a statue, peering through the raised field glasses.

While the braves looked at each other, shook their heads, and wondered if they were to stay there on this mesa in the hot morning sunshine forever, Thunderfoot continued to look through the glasses.

A full hour had passed when the young Apache’s belly contracted and his broad, bronzed chest swelled. A smile of pleasure tugged at his wide lips. With his eagle’s eyes enhanced by the magic of the lens, he saw what he hoped might be the prize for which he was searching.

Pleasant visions immediately filled his head. A brightly burning fire in the inky darkness of the hot desert night, it’s shooting flames illuminating the pale, soft flesh of a beautiful naked female captive. He envisioned the fire’s intense heat causing her bare, trembling body to grow so wet with sweat his big hands glided and drifted easily over her slippery flesh. All that pale, damp flesh, licked and pinkened by tongues of shooting orange flames.

And then, licked and pinkened by his own fiery tongue.

The princess’s opportunity to escape came sooner than expected.

By early afternoon they had left the mountains far behind and were well into the dry, hot Tularosa Valley. The princess noticed that Virgil looked extraordinarily tired and sleepy. His sinfully long black lashes kept drooping down over his habitually squinted, sky-blue eyes. A couple of times she considered attempting her escape then and there.

But his warning words came back to her.
Noche could overtake the mare in thirty seconds.
She would wait until the time was right.

Her pulse fairly leaped with excitement when, upon reaching a small copse of scattered cottonwoods about one o’clock in the afternoon, he suggested they stop to rest. She was quick to agree. And when, stretching out in the sparse shade, Virgil admitted how badly he needed a nap and asked if he could trust her to stay put, she assured him that he could.

Sensing how uncommonly sleepy he was, the princess yawned dramatically and said, “I need a nap myself.”

“Fine,” he murmured, his eyelids already closing, “let’s get an hour’s sleep, then we’ll push on.”

“Shall I lie down next to you and—”

“No!” he answered too quickly, gruffly, his eyes opening. Needing an hour’s rest, not more tiring torment, he suggested, “Why not stretch out there in the shadiest spot.” Leaning up onto an elbow, he pointed to a place near—but not too near—him. So impossibly sleepy he could no longer stay awake, Virgil lay back down, cocking one eye slightly open to watch her.

She made a big show of sighing, yawning, and lying down, acting as if she could hardly hold her eyes open. Virgil exhaled heavily. He’d have to trust her. He
had
to have a few minutes sleep. He placed a spread hand on his black-shirted chest, gingerly checked his tightly taped ribs, and fell instantly to sleep.

Lying on her side facing him across the short distance of some forty feet, Princess Marlena’s emerald eyes opened like a dozing cat, and she watched the reclining Ranger for several long, tense minutes. She could tell by his deep, even breathing that he was asleep. Still, she lay for a few more tension-filled moments, warily watching him, afraid to move.

Even in slumber he looked dangerous. Like a sleek, powerful animal, all coiled power and deceptive gentleness. As if she so much as moved, he would come instantly awake and pounce on her.

Princess Marlena stayed as she was for several more long, agonizing minutes. Finally she whispered his name.

“Virgil,” she murmured ever so softly. “Virgil, are you asleep?”

No response.

Nothing but the continued heavy breathing, his broad chest moving up and down rhythmically. Her gaze slowly crawled up to his dark face, strikingly handsome despite the dense growth of black beard. Long jet lashes rested in spiky crescents on his high, slanted cheekbones. His sensual lips—slightly parted over straight white teeth—looked soft and warm and incredibly inviting. For one insane second, the princess was overwhelmingly tempted to scoot over close, bend down, and press a quick good-bye kiss to that beautifully shaped mouth. That marvelous male mouth that had sent jolts of such unbelievable pleasure through her when it closed so commandingly over her own.

She couldn’t think about that. Not now. She had to remember that this darkly handsome man with such stunning blue eyes and exquisite lips was a heartless Texas Ranger who was taking her to jail.

“Captain Black,” she whispered, “are you asleep?”

He was.

Her heart beating fiercely, the princess very slowly, very silently, eased up onto her knees, her unblinking eyes fixed on the sleeping Ranger’s face. She pushed to her feet and held her breath. He slumbered on. She tiptoed away, heading for the still-saddled horses.

When she neared the stallion and mare, both began neighing loudly. Frowning, she put her finger perpendicular to her lips and tried to shush them. Her heart pounding, she looked anxiously around. Virgil was lying just as she had left him.

“Please, pleeeeease, be quiet,” she whispered to the ground-tethered horses.

When she picked up the mare’s reins, she considered taking the black stallion as well. That’s exactly what she should do, she reasoned. Leave the Ranger afoot. That would give her plenty of time to reach the little settlement of Alamogordo, which he had promised was no more than five or six miles to the south.