No Other Man (12 page)

He held still for a moment, chagrined, both his temper and a
sense of shame he told himself he didn't have to feel growing. He couldn't say
how many women he had known, Indian, white, respectable, experienced, just
beyond the bounds of innocence. But he'd never had an encounter end like this,
with the woman politely asking him to remove himself from her person.

But then again, he'd never been so incensed as to come
to
something so very close to force as this. It
didn't seem
to
matter that he'd offered her
every possible way out.

"No, I don't think so," he told her.

Her eyes opened. In them he thought he saw confusion, pain,
and astonishment as if she'd just gained some startling new knowledge. Which he
supposed she had.

"You could have told me you hadn't engaged in intimate
relations before."

"Intimate relations!" she choked out. "Oh,
God, coming from you that sounds so strange...." Fire filled her silver
orbs once again. "You have everything set in your mind; why in God's name
would I tell you anything? What you want to know, you can just find out on your
own every damned time!" she promised him vehemently.

She had a way about her. A way of creating a wicked,
unbearable rise in his temper and his blood.

He smiled grimly. He smoothed back a tangled lock of her
hair, then rose, shedding his tangled clothing at last.

She'd
created such a knot within him that he hit the mantle with one boot, the door
with the other, the ground with his trousers and shirt. When he turned back to
her, she was seated against the bedpost, furs drawn around her, her arms
wrapped protectively around her knees, her eyes wide with alarm at last. Her
silver eyes slid over the length of him. She trembled, flicking her eyes back
to his.

"I've
been a wife, right?" she demanded. "I'm so very tired—"

"You
can sleep soon enough. But for the moment..."

"What?"

"Well,
I'm curious. I think I want to find out just how long it will take me to arouse
you a second time."

"Arouse
me? Oh, you are a conceited and arrogant man. I never—" she began
indignantly.

He smiled wickedly. "You liar. You did."

"No!"

She let
out a shriek when he caught hold of her ankles, dragging her down the length of
the bed. She brought her fists flying against his chest when he laid his body
over hers.

But
when he forced his kiss upon her, her arms stole around his neck.

And he was convinced that there was no pain.

Only pleasure.

Seven

Waking was painful.

She'd
been right. He'd drunk far too much. It had been a downfall of his people
before.

And last night...

He
didn't think, in the whole of his life, that he'd ever felt more ashamed of
himself. He groaned, wishing that his eyes didn't burn, his head didn't hurt,
and he didn't feel such complete and utter self-disgust.

Dawn
had become day. Light fell into the room, causing a riotous dance of dust
motes. He could see them falling from the ceiling, playing in the air above her
naked shoulder. A shoulder that lay against his chest. His arm encircled her,
drawing her against him. Her silky blond hair was tangled beneath his nose.
Her back was curved to him, her buttocks against his groin, her legs entangled
with his. His hand, dark copper against the pale ivory of her flesh, lay upon
her abdomen. They slept like a long-married couple.

Married.

Indeed,
he'd done it now. It was unlikely he could entice her into filing for an
annulment at this point.

Did he
really want an annulment? Didn't he feel, just on awakening, on feeling the
softness of her against him, that she was not so bad a creature to possess?

He quickly disentangled himself from her, determined that his
actions would not be ruled by his anatomy again. Naked, his head pounding, he
stumbled to the tub by the fire, glad to use the now icy cold water to sluice
his face and body and give him a truly rude awakening. He toweled himself dry
quickly, eschewed the clothing he had scattered over the floor, found a pair of
Mr. Levi's button-fly jeans and a cotton shirt in his trunk, and dressed
quickly. He kept his eyes from the still-sleeping woman all the while, until he
had started coffee perking, and drew up a chair at the table to wait until it
had brewed.

Then he found himself staring at her once again. She was
really exceptionally beautiful.

With the devil's own temper, he throught wryly.

And now. ..

She was his. He still didn't know a damned thing about her.
He didn't know what had happened between her and David. Of course, he did know
that she hadn't slept with his father.

Maybe she'd been willing to do so, just as she had been
willing last night. But maybe David had expired before they'd gotten to the
point where they'd gotten last night.

And maybe, just maybe, she hadn't caused David's heart attack
at all.

Skylar opened her eyes to see the white of the sheets. She
started to move, but even as she did so, she became aware that she was sore
from head to toe. She winced, shifting just slightly, then met the steady green
eyes staring at her from across the room. She went still, watching him in turn,
unnerved by the intensity of his gaze.

He was up and dressed, hair queued back. He wore a white
cotton shirt, just slightly open at the throat, and blue pants that hugged his
muscled form. A form that she now knew very well. Broad, uncompromising
shoulders, powerful arms and chest. The copper flesh of his chest marked by several
unusual scars. Waist lean, and taut as a drum. Trim hips...

She stopped, her breath catching. She didn't want to think
about the rest of him. It brought too much color to her face. Made her
remember. Not that he had pinned her to the bed. Not that he had forced her to
choose. Not that he had insisted on their playing their roles as man and wife.

Rather it made her remember the way he had made her feel, the
hunger she had found in turn. The longing to touch his body in turn, explore
it, taste it. Move with it...

Indians were supposed to do nothing more than couple, like
wild animals. She had heard it said among cavalry wives, whose husbands had
said that it was so.

This Indian was an extraordinary lover. As wild as any
creature on the plain, but adept as well, she was certain. Yet David Douglas
had told her that Indians were just as human as white men, and all men, red,
white, and black, were the same when taught the same things. David had actually
taught her quite a bit about the Plains Indians. He had simply neglected to
tell her that he had a son who happened to be one. Or that he was really
marrying her to that son.

He'd neglected to tell the son as well. And so he was now
studying her, watching her with those deep, fire-green eyes that seemed to promise
he'd have much preferred slitting her throat and scalping her to taking her as
a wife. No matter what expertise he had brought to the undertaking.

"You're awake. Good. Get up. Get dressed. We need to
move on," he told her, rising from his chair and going to the fire.
"I'm afraid I slept late myself, but we've things to do and we're going to
reach Mayfair tonight, no matter how late."

She gazed at the floor. It remained strewn with clothing, her
robe where it had so fatefully fallen the night before. He'd made coffee again,
this coffee straight, she was quite certain. This morning, he was all business
and impatience. Not that he had been anything but brusque, even at the height
of passion. The best he had offered her was his skill at taking a woman. No tenderness
had entered into it.

Yet, she knew .. .

She hadn't allowed herself to be tender, either. Nor would
she ever allow it when she knew what he thought of her.

Tears suddenly sprang to her eyes unbidden. She blinked
furiously, knowing that she'd soon be under his scrutiny once again. He would
probably find them amusing, part of the payment she must make for being a gold
digger.

She rolled away from him, realizing he was turning back from
the fire.

"I said to get dressed."

"I don't give a damn what you said," she replied.
"I'll get up—"

She broke off because his hand was on her arm, pulling her
around. Both their gazes fell upon the tangle of bed- sheets that gave credence
to her innocence and to the night they had spent together. Skylar pulled free
from his touch, her cheeks on fire. God, don't let him say anything! she
prayed. Don't let him—

But he wasn't about to apologize for what had happened.

"I want to get back to Riley's. My father's body should
have arrived by now. You can go with me or stay here, but I'll be gone in
twenty minutes."

"I can't get dressed!" she hissed at him.

"Why not?"

"You ripped up the only clothes I had!"

"So I did," he responded. Again, there was no hint
of apology in his tone whatsoever. He walked around to the foot of the bed to
the trunk and looked through it. She drew the furs around her, watching him.
His features were burnished a true copper. They were so cleanly defined, the
cheekbones broad, his nose strong and straight. She bit her lips, intrigued at
the combination of heritages that had created his face. He looked both white
and Indian. The Sioux in him was clearly apparent in his ink-dark hair. But his
eyes were indeed his father's. It seemed amazing now that she hadn't recognized
his eyes immediately.

When he looked up at her, she flushed, unnerved that he had
caught her studying him so intently.

"I hope that these will do," he said, handing her a
pile ol clothing. "I'm not quite sure what exactly is required of women's
fashion these days but... your trunk will be back .11 Riley's, and you can
change there if you desire."

Skylar looked at the clothing on the bed: pantalettes, chemise,
shirt, skirt. She couldn't help but wonder where the clothing had come from and
whom it had belonged to. The style of the shirt was that of the simple frontier
clothing sold in many stores in the East for those planning to take on the
hazardous journey west. It had remained the same lor many years.

She looked up at him.

"I do suppose your gown was much grander. You are, after
all, Lady Douglas."

"This will do just fine. In fact, it's absolutely
lovely, and I would have adored it had you given me this to wear rather lhan
that robe."

He smiled slightly. ' 'If you are determined to stay, what
difference does it make that your marriage was consummated last night? You
were given a choice. You couldn't have assumed that you could have remained any
man's wife and not shared his bed."

Her eyes fell. "It just..."

"What?" he demanded. He lowered himself before her,
his face angry, his voice completely hostile once again. "Do you think
that things will change? You are an interloper in my life; you came here
thinking that you could lake everything. Well, you cannot do so, and I will not
suddenly forget that you came here to claim my father's estates. You wished to
take on a role; you've taken it on. What's done is over. We are both spared the
discomfort of discovery again. Now, if you are coming with me, get
dressed."

"You are not just despicable: you are
mean; you are cruel!" she hissed to him.

"Yes, well, you have made your bargain with the devil,
haven't you?" he demanded.

So she had. She turned her back on him, rising and dressing
as quickly as possible. She longed for a bath. To soak in hot water until.. .

Until she could wash away the past. How many years could she
wash away?

That wasn't really the question. How much time did she have
left to save Sabrina? No matter how horrid Hawk might be to her, he could not
be as bad as what had nearly ensnared her. They were, after all, a married
couple.

As soon as she'd donned the clothes, she turned. The skirt
was a little short, a tiny bit loose. Otherwise, it fit well.

Hawk was back at the table, finishing his coffee. She ignored
him, searching through the remnants of her clothing for her stockings. She was
startled when he joined in her search, offering the stockings to her. She
snatched them from his hands.

"Tell me, Lord Douglas, had I not proven to be your
wife, had my marriage license not been legal, would I have walked freely from
this place?"

He arched a brow at her. "Are you asking if I would have
raped you? Slain you—scalped you?"

"You ripped my clothes to shreds. Would I have walked
out of here naked?"

He merely shrugged. "You'd have walked out dressed as
you are now. I'd have seen that you received whatever sum was necessary to
replace your clothing and get you home. Generous, had you been an impostor
other than a gold digger."

"Generous!" Skylar exploded. "Well, then, had
it been that way, I'd have sued the pants off you. I'd have prosecuted. I'd
have taken you to court for kidnapping and rape. I'd have—"

"You did inform me of all the torture you'd have dealt out
had you been able. Get your stockings and shoes on; have coffee if you wish.
I'll saddle Tor and call Wolf."

He left the cabin. She stood there, shaking, enraged with her
own impotence to act against him.

But she couldn't go back....

She finished dressing, then discovered that the black coffee
was delicious, that it raced warmly into her system, and she was grateful for
it. He had cleared the soup dishes from the night before. She had taken the
coffee pot, ready to discard the grounds, when he came back in. He broke up the
fire in the grate. He turned to her. "Ready?"

"I—should I dump these? And the water... in the tub will
grow stagnant."

"Someone will be out to look after it all," he said
briefly. "Let's go." He took the coffee pot from her hands, indicating
the door. She walked on outside.

A bark greeted her. She jumped back alarmed, but the dog,
Wolf, was wagging his tail furiously. He was huge, half her own size, Skylar
thought, and looked as if he could shred her into numerous pieces. But even as
her heart seemed to stop and she hung back, he came close to her, shoving his
wet nose against her hand.

"He just wants attention," Hawk said, coming out
and closing the door behind him. He hunkered down on the balls of his feet,
petting the dog. "Good boy. Let's ride, eh? Let's get Tor."

Wolf barked and leaped on ahead. Skylar hurried down the
steps, realizing the copse where they'd come was very pretty. High oaks shaded
a trail down to a clearing where Tor waited. Wildflowers grew at the base of
the trees. There were pines as well as the oaks, lending a sweet fragrance to
the air and a soft carpeting to the earth.

Skylar reached the horse and came to a halt. He was saddled
and bridled, though she hadn't seen a saddle on him the other day when she'd
first taken a wild ride across his haunches. She glanced at Hawk, who read her
thoughts. "Stable is right back there," he said, pointing down a path
that lead toward the right of the cabin. She nodded. He leaped up on his horse,
reaching a hand down for her. She hesitated, wondering if she could manage such
a leap, but she needn't have given her own abilities any thought. He reached
down impatiently, grasped her arm, and easily swung her up in front of him. His
horse instantly began a trot that sent her slamming against his chest time and
again.

A few moments later, it was worse. They were racing across
open plains. The breakneck speed terrified her, while it seemed that Hawk
barely held her, barely kept her from flying from the mount. She grasped the
horse's mane, clinging for dear life.

If she died, he'd be free again. The thought was not a
comforting one. Yet even as Tor slowed his gait, she felt Hawk's hand against
her waist, the rock wall of his chest behind her. She had been safe all the
time. He didn't intend to kill her. Not yet, at any rate.

When they reached Riley's, Riley and Sam were sitting on the
long bench in front of the inn and stagecoach stop. Sam, his white whiskers
twitching, his face red, rose quickly, coming forward to help Skylar down from
Hawk's horse. "Afternoon, Lady Douglas. I'm glad to see you, I am—"

"You should be!" Skylar told him.

He stood duly chastised as Hawk leaped down to stand behind
her. Wolf barked, wagging his tail, and Sam quickly patted him on the head in
welcome while addressing Skylar. "Ma'am, I've got to admit, none of us
here had an idea of who ye might really be—"