No Other Man (3 page)

She
began speaking quickly and breathlessly. "However, if you were just to let
me go at this moment, I could speak in your defense. I could—"

"You're
not listening to me. Who the hell are you!" he thundered. She felt her
limbs trembling despite her determination not to show fear.

"My name is Skylar Douglas."

"You're a liar!"

There
was such rage and conviction in his voice that

Skylar was startled into silence, staring up into his unusual
green eyes. Desperate confusion filled her. What did her name matter to this
Indian who might speak English amazingly well but was nonetheless a savage?
Once again, she began to feel the physical discomfort of being naked and
pressed to the bed by a powerfully muscled man whose rage was directed at her.

"Are you going to kill me?" she demanded suddenly.

His gaze slid over her face, down the length of her. She felt
as if her flesh were being scorched by it. She willed herself not to tremble
and shake, but she seemed to have no control over the chattering that seized
her teeth, the way her blood seemed to race madly throughout her.

"I haven't quite decided yet. I want to know who you
really are and what you think you're doing out here."

"Who the hell are you?" she flared, her temper
briefly overriding her fear.

"A man ten times larger and stronger than you who is
also in possession of a knife. Let that suffice for the moment. I'm the one
asking the questions."

She closed her eyes, swallowing hard, still confused,
frightened, trapped in anguish. She couldn't bear this any longer, feeling his
flesh, the threat of his strength, the fury that created the staggering heat
within him. This was worse than before. Somehow more intimate. Because he understood
every word she said. And she clearly understood him.

"If you're going to kill me, get it over with," she
forced herself to say with an even, calm voice.

"But I want an answer to my question."

"I've answered you!" she whispered.

He swore, then to her amazement and relief, suddenly rose,
jerking his robe closed and rebelting it as he walked to the fireplace. Both
hands on the mantle, he stared into the flames.

"You're not Lady Douglas," he said flatly.

"I am." Dear God, she thought, what difference did
it make to him?

"You're not!"

"How can you be so sure?" she cried, starting to
rise as well, then, recalling her nakedness, falling back and grappling for a
pillow to hide behind. To her dismay and reawakened fear, he pushed away from
the mantle, striding toward her again. She gasped, hopping up-—with nothing—
flattening herself against the wall on the opposite side of the bed.

Again, to her vast surprise and relief, though his green eyes
did flick over the length of her, they bore nothing more than a glint of
contempt.

And he didn't actually come near her.

He paused at the foot of the bed, threw open the trunk there,
and tossed her a robe similar to his own. Shaking, she slipped into it,
maintaining her position across the bed from him. He stared at her a moment,
turned away, and walked back to the hearth. There he bent and poured the
brewing coffee she had smelled earlier into two earthenware mugs. He set the
mugs on the table, took a whiskey bottle from the shelf, and poured its
contents liberally into both mugs. When he finished, he raised an arm, offering
one of the mugs to her. She remained frozen to her spot.

"If I do decide to kill you, it won't be by
poisoning," he informed her dryly.

She still couldn't move. She could barely swallow. She prayed
that he could not see that, yet she was aware that the pulse at her throat was
pounding.

He crooked a finger her way. "Can't use a drink? I
surely can," he said pleasantly enough. But then the tone of his voice
changed. "Get over here. I'm really not going to poison you, and I know
damned well that you can really use a drink."

She bit her lower lip, feeling again a rise of temper that
nearly vanquished her fear, walked carefully around the bed and halfway across
the room, keeping as far away from him as she could manage while accepting the
cup at the same time. She took a sip. The coffee was hot and delicious with
just enough whiskey in it to add a reassuring warmth to her system each time
she swallowed. She swallowed more quickly. Closed her eyes. Drank it down.

The cup was taken from her fingers, and a moment later given
back, full once again.

Coffee. It seemed a touch of
normalcy
in the midst of insanity.

Or maybe it was just that the whiskey in it was blurring the
madness of her situation.

She felt him staring at her again, studying her intently. She
backed away uneasily. She didn't really realize that she was doing so until her
calves touched the edge of the bed. She didn't think she planned to sit; it was
just that her knees wouldn't hold her upright anymore. She sank down, sitting
on the edge of the bed as primly as possible. "I can't begin to understand
what's going on here. I've done nothing to you! If you would just tell me who
you are, explain—"

"I'm asking the questions, remember?" he said
sharply.

"Then tell me
what
you
are!" she cried. "You pretended to be an Indian, a complete savage—''

"Oh, I am an Indian. Sioux!" he interrupted, his
tone deceptively soft. "And I suggest you not forget it. And as to being a
complete savage ... well, I have always found that some men are, by nature,
savage, and some are not, race having no bearing on the issue whatsoever."

She swallowed another sip of coffee, amazed—unnerved. Not
only did he speak English, he was a damned philosopher. How in God's name had
she fallen in his path?

"Perhaps you'd best change your behavior then,"
Skylar suggested sweetly. "For so far, it has been completely detestable,
heathen, and savage."

"Really? I don't think I stated that I was among the men
who weren't complete savages," he informed her with a sardonic smile.
"I was merely making the point that 'savage' is often how the whites
choose to view a society different from their own, when often white behavior
is far more cruel and heinous. And frankly, I don't give a damn whether you
consider me to be a savage or not. Now, back

to basics. Who the hell are you, and why are you claiming to
be Lady Douglas?"

Skylar
warmed her hands around her mug, inhaling deeply. "I have told you the
truth! I am Lady Skylar Douglas—"

"Married to—?"

"Lord Douglas, naturally."

"Naturally?" he grated.

She
drained her coffee mug, grateful then for the riveting warmth that seemed to
put some steel back into her own limbs. "Naturally. Well, actually, I am a
widow now. Lord Douglas—died."

"After you married him?"

"Obviously,"
she heard herself snap. "That is the way one becomes a widow."

"When and where did you marry him?"

"That's
none of your damned business," she informed him coolly.

But he
started to take a step toward her, his green eyes sharply narrowed. ' 'I ask
you again, when and where were you married?" he demanded.

Skylar
stiffened, afraid and indignant. She assured herself it didn't matter in the
least if she did or didn't give him information that was actually public
record.

"I
married Lord Douglas a little more than two weeks ago in Maryland."

"And then he died. How damned convenient."

"How dare you—"

"Easily.
Now, you married Lord Douglas—Lord
who
Douglas."

"What?"

"What was your husband's given name?"

"Andrew."

"You're certain."

"The name is on my wedding license."

"But your husband died."

"Yes."

"You're quite certain." "I was there!"

"Ahhhh .. . !"

The drawn out exclamation had a damning sound to it. As if he
seemed to find it perfectly natural that Lord Douglas might have died—and that
perhaps she might have had something to do with his death.

"Don't you dare look at me like that; don't you dare
sound like that!" she exploded, feeling pain welling up within her.
"I was there with him, I was there—" she choked out.

"I'm sure you were!" he interrupted derisively.

"You heathen bastard!" she hissed. "How dare
you—"

"No! How dare you!" he breathed back through
clenched teeth.

She leaped up. "You've no right to accost me like this.
You've no right to make any judgments about me. You want to talk about not
caring? Well, I don't know who— or what!—you are anymore, but do you know what?
I don't care! I'm an American citizen. I don't have to sit here and lake this
from you or anyone!"

She stood purposefully. She slammed her mug down on the table
before the hearth, staring at him with daggers in her eyes. With her chin high
and her heart hammering, only the whiskey giving her the courage she needed at
the moment, she strode smoothly toward the door, determined that her manner
alone would set her free.

But then she heard his voice. "Oh, Lady Douglas! I don't
think so!" And even as she opened the door, his hand reached over her
shoulder, slamming it shut again. She spun against the door, only to find
herself blocked there, the imposing size and strength of his body before her, a
hand on either side of her head, his bronzed arms caging her in.

She stared at him with all the cool authority she could
muster. "I grow weary of this game!" she insisted.

"You think it a game?" he inquired softly.

"I think you need to let me out of here!"

"I think not!" His hand upon her arm drew her back
into the room and sent her spinning toward the bed once again. She caught
herself before she could fall against it. The robe was slipping off her. She
drew it back together, drawing the belt tighter. She placed a hand against the
poster at the foot of the bed for support.

"The army is in residence out
here!" she cried. "And when they finally come, I swear I'll see to it
that you are hanged!"

"They might just hang you."

"What?"

"For murder. The murder of Lord Douglas."

The night was insane; it was all insanity. Perhaps that's
what caused her to snap and, in a moment of sheer madness, pit herself at him
again. Instead of running, sensibly keeping her distance, she flew across the
floor, raising a hand to slap him. When he caught her right hand, she was ready
with her left. When she was deterred from his face, she did her best to beat
against his chest. Sobs shook her body. She was only barely aware that she was
lifted from the floor. Her head was spinning now. He must have poured half the
bottle of whiskey into her cup the second time he filled it. It had given her
courage and strength. Now she was paying for that false bravado.

"Stop it!"

She dimly heard his voice. No matter how rough the command,
it didn't seem to penetrate to her mind. She couldn't stop fighting or sobbing,
hysterically pummeling him with a strength born of raw fear and rage.

"Stop it!"

Her feet were off the ground. She was lifted, flying— and
suddenly on the bed again. He was straddling her hips, pinning her wrists high
above her head to keep her from hitting him. She inhaled raggedly, trying to
get a grip on herself. She could barely breathe. Her robe had fallen open. So
had his. The ridiculous intimacy of their situation fueled her hysteria.

"Please, please... !" she gasped out. She tossed
and writhed, twisting against him, trying to throw him off her.

The fur
bedcover and the sheets became tangled beneath her. His bare flesh pressed
against her, as hers did against his. The pounding of her heart was growing
louder and louder, along with the desperate sounds of struggling that escaped
from her.

The
pounding ... it wasn't her heart. It was a knocking at the cabin door.

The door .. .

It was suddenly thrown open.

"Hawk?" said a worried, masculine voice.

The man
atop Skylar twisted at the sound of his name being called. Skylar stared past
him to see that there were two men standing in the doorway.

Two men in uniform.

Uniform!

One was
young with sandy hair and a clean-shaven face; the other man was older, with a
graying set of whiskers, the mustache perfectly waxed and groomed.

Oh, God! The cavalry had come.

She let out a shriek.

"Oh,
sweet Jesu, sorry, Hawk!" the older man said. He punched the other, his
face turning beet red. "He's—occupied! With a lady."

Occupied
... with a lady! The words echoed in her mind. Then the realization struck her.
They thought that...

"No!"
Skylar gasped, inhaling raggedly.
He
was
still on top of her. He leaned down upon her. Close. His breath all but fanning
her cheeks.

She couldn't
get enough air to explain. She was mortified; she was more than half naked;
his flesh was solidly pressed against hers; it did look like ...

She
stared with horror into those strange green eyes that now carried a wicked
glint of pure amusement. Eyes so close to hers ...

"Hush,
hush!" he assured her, his voice mockingly tender. "My dear, the
soldiers are gallant men, they'll say nothing."

"The
soldiers will say nothing!" she exclaimed. "Dear

God,
they will certainly—" she began furiously, but a shift in his weight cut
her off as what air she had managed to inhale was exhaled beneath his weight.

"Darling, please. You mustn't be so upset. It's really
going to be all right. Shh..." came his whisper, his lips atop hers.

Then upon them. Forming perfectly over hers. His tongue
demanding entry. She found her mouth parted with a startling force, the
mercurial, hot thrust of his tongue. The taste of coffee and whiskey. She tried
to twist away, but his fingers were threaded through hers and brought close to
her skull, holding her so taut she couldn't begin to resist. She couldn't
breathe; the room was spinning . .. black stars burst before her ...