Savage Heat (12 page)

“On the bank,” he said matter-of-factly.

She glared at him. “I’d go forever without a bath before I’d allow you to …”

“Makes no difference to me, Captive. I thought refined white ladies bathed daily.”

“They do,” she quickly retorted. “What about you, Indian?” She’d heard the stories of their disgusting filth.

“Ah, well, you know us heathens,” he said, “we rarely bathe.” Then: “What about some food. You hungry?” He urged her inside the cabin.

It was the first she’d thought about food, though she’d not eaten for more than twenty-four hours. Despite the circumstances, she was starving, but was not about to share a meal with a dirty, ruthless savage.

“I’m not hungry,” she said haughtily, watching as he lifted his saddlebags from a shadowed corner.

She expected him to pull out some rancid buffalo meat or an ear of too-hard corn or something equally unappealing. She stared, unbelieving, when he placed two clean china plates on the table, laid napkin and silverware beside each, then drew from the bags a perfectly delicious-looking prime roast beef.

Shaking her head in confusion, Martay stood there watching as the Sioux sliced the beef, then a loaf of French bread, and some cheese. From a canteen he splashed red wine into a couple of long-stemmed crystal glasses and motioned for her to sit. She loftily refused. He shrugged disinterestedly, slid down onto the bench, picked up a white linen napkin, shook it, placed it on his left knee, and said, “Sure you’re not hungry? I had assumed your appetite for food was as healthy as your other appetites.”

She paid no attention to what he was saying. Her busy mind had quickly deducted that the food, china, and silverware she saw before her had undoubtedly been stolen. She envisioned her cool captor sneaking into some wealthy rancher’s remote mountain home in the dead of night and taking what he wanted. And she wondered, Had he calmly slit the throats of the sleeping family while he was at it?

Instinctively taking a step backward, Martay’s hand went to her aching throat as the Sioux, ignoring her, began his meal. Expecting to see him tear large chunks from the meat and gluttonously wolf it down, she grudgingly admitted, after silently watching him, that his table manners were impeccable; far, far better than those of many white people she had dined with in the past.

Save for the fact that he was naked to the waist and his skin was darker than that of any man she’d ever known, he might have been a handsome, aristocratic gentleman seated across from her at an elegant banquet. She could almost picture him in a delighted hostess’s tall-ceilinged dining room with perfectly tailored evening clothes draping his tall, lean frame, his raven-black hair gleaming in the candlelight.

Martay shook her head as though to clear it.

Such thoughts were foolish. This strange man was a ruthless Sioux, wild and dangerous, no matter how polished he appeared as he calmly cut the beef with a stolen sterling knife and sipped his wine from a stolen crystal flute. Chances are he’d be just as mannerly when he coldly slit her throat with that same gleaming silver knife.

The hand at her throat automatically tightened and Martay felt as though she might be sick. Eyes never leaving the Sioux, she moved backward toward the cot, not stopping until she felt its edge against the backs of her legs. Fighting the uncontrollable fear that was rising to choke her, she sank down on the cot, determined she’d get hold of herself, figure a way out of this nightmare.

Almost at once she realized the careless Indian had allowed her to get behind him. He sat with his back to her, leisurely enjoying his meal, irresponsibly giving her an opportunity to attack. Her heart began to pound with elation.

His Winchester stood against the doorframe. The Navy colt lay on the table, out of his reach. Absorbed with his food, he was vulnerable, perhaps more vulnerable than he would be again. Now was the time to strike.

Biting her lip, Martay looked about for something she could use to hurt him. If only she had that other sharp knife lying, unused, beside her empty plate. What a dunce she was; she could have had that knife in her hands if only she had agreed to eat and had sat down at the table. No matter. She’d have to find something else. Something to strike him on the head with.

Her eyes swept hopefully around the room. Everything that could inflict a deadly blow was out of reach. Soon he’d be finished with his meal and up from the table and her opportunity would be forever lost. Her shoe! That’s all she had; it would have to do. She’d bash him over the head and hope it would at least stun him until she could grab one of the guns. Once she had the Colt, she’d blow his brains out and climb on the big black stallion tethered outside and ride away.

Martay cautiously lifted her feet and took off her white satin slippers. Laying one aside, she lifted its mate in her right hand. Then, heart drumming against her ribs, she rose. She remained standing where she was for a moment, watching, getting up her courage.

The Sioux continued with his meal, arrogantly, stupidly, neglecting her. Shoulder blades slid and lifted beneath sweat-slick dark skin as he cut small bites of the rare roast beef and raised the wineglass to his lips.

Martay gripped the white slipper tightly, holding it so that she could bring the sharp heel down on his head with all the strength she possessed. As silently as if she herself were the Indian, she crept forward, almost lightheaded with the anticipation of freedom. In seconds she stood directly behind him and, not daring to draw a breath, she raised the shoe above his bent head. Instantly she brought it down, putting the full force of her body behind it, striking a blow sure to render her captor senseless.

It happened so fast, it was a blur.

A dark arm shot up and long fingers stayed her hand an inch from his skull. Silverware clattered to the china plate and wine spilled from the overturned glass and Martay was jerked down across the Indian’s lap. Too startled even to scream, she found herself looking straight into those cold black eyes as he held her cradled there in the crook of one powerful arm. His fingers cutting into the flesh of her wrist, he said in a low, slow voice, “Turn loose.”

A tiny little whimper escaped her open lips as she surrendered her useless weapon to him. He took the satin slipper from her and brought it up close to her face. He said, “I see you’ve a lot to learn.” She trembled against him, dreading the sure punishment, wondering what he would do. “Shoes,” he said, looking at the raised slipper, “are something you wear on your feet.” He dropped the slipper noisily to the floor. “That’s all shoes are for. You were coming to the table, so I can only assume you meant to dine.” He reached over and picked up the sterling knife from beside her plate.

Holding it directly before her frightened face, he said, “I believe this is the instrument you’ll need to enjoy your meal. Take it.” Martay looked at him, her green eyes wary, fearful. “Take the knife, Captive, and use it instead of the shoe,” he said, a dangerous edge to his voice.

Afraid to take it, afraid not to, Martay finally held out her hand. He placed the sharp, gleaming knife atop her open palm and let his hand fall to her knees.

Slowly Martay’s cold fingers closed around the knife’s carved hilt. Hope springing up inside her again, she swiftly assessed the tricky situation. She was draped across his lap with one of his arms wrapped securely around her. His other hand was resting on her knees.

As though he could read her mind, the Sioux said, “What are you waiting for? Try it.” And they both knew what he meant.

Her spirit as untamed as his, Martay quickly rose to the goading challenge. Wild-eyed, she screamed and plunged the knife straight into his bare belly. And did nothing more than scratch him.

His hand was swifter than a striking reptile. He stayed the blade just as it touched his bare skin. His eyes, and hers, went to where the sharp point had pricked the flesh. As they watched, a tiny circle of bright red blood appeared.

“Look at me,” he commanded, taking the knife from her, tossing it back to the table. Martay, terrified, slowly raised her eyes from the surface wound where a tiny trickle of crimson blood oozed onto his dark, smooth skin. Their gazes locked, his hand covered hers, and he guided her forefinger directly to the superficial wound.

She felt the wetness of his blood on her fingertip and recoiled in distaste, trying to pull free. But he would not let her. He forced her to leave her finger pressed to him until it was smeared with his warm, wet blood. Only then did he lift it up before her face.

And he said, “Let me offer congratulations. You’re the first person who’s tried to kill me”—he paused, his black eyes on her bloodstained finger—“that I’ve allowed to live.” Cruelly he urged her finger toward her parted lips. His eyes narrowed into slits of black fire, he said, in a voice coldly commanding, “Taste it, Captive. I assure you it’s the last taste of my blood you’ll ever get.”

On the verge of hysteria, Martay, sure he was insane, dutifully licked his blood from her finger, the taste salty to her tongue, the act repugnant. When her finger was free of blood, the Sioux urged her off his lap and rose. Casually he examined the small cut on his belly, picked up the table napkin, and blotted away the remaining blood.

“The sun will set soon,” he said evenly, as though the past few electrifying moments had never taken place. “Sure you don’t want a cool bath before bedtime?”

She could only shake her head no as, dejectedly, she stood holding to the table for support, her legs weak. Through the open door the last precious rays of a lowering sun streamed in, bathing them with gold-red light. Fighting back fresh tears of despair, Martay sadly watched the fading light and felt that her hopes were fading with it. Soon darkness would settle over the mountains and her father and Larry and the rest of the troopers searching for her would make camp for the night. And she would be defenseless and alone with this strange, paradoxical savage whom she’d just tried to kill.

And had failed.

11

“S
ir, with all due respect, it would be foolhardy to press on in this darkness.”

General William Kidd turned in the saddle to look at Colonel Thomas Darlington. Squinting in the moonlight, he thundered, “Goddamnit, Colonel, my little girl is out there somewhere in the night!”

“I know, General,” replied the heartsick Colonel, feeling he was directly responsible for Martay’s disappearance. The girl had been enjoying his hospitality, was in his care, and he had failed to ensure her safety. For that, he would never forgive himself. “We’ll find her, General, come sunrise.” Even as he spoke the words, they sounded hollow.

General Kidd, his sun-creased face haggard, his green eyes clouded with agony, wearily nodded. “Give the command, Colonel. We’ll camp here for the night.”

The two officers, along with a force of armed troopers, had reached Eldorado Springs, fifteen miles northwest of Denver. It was well past midnight. It had been almost forty-eight hours since the general had last slept.

Within moments of making camp, the majority of tired troops were fast asleep, but the middle-aged general remained awake. Staring into the fire, his shoulders slumped, his big hands wrapped around a mug of hot coffee, General Kidd worried. Worried as only a parent can about a beloved child. Worried that his precious daughter was lost and cold and frightened. Worried that some unscrupulous cad attending the Darlington party had found Martay so luscious and innocent, he’d taken her against her will.

General Kidd ground his teeth, and hot, stinging tears again filled his tired eyes. His chest constricted with pain and he felt impotent and helpless for the first time in his life. He who had led valiant warriors into many a rousing battle, had struck fear into the heart of his enemy, had killed more men than he could count, was powerless against this faceless foe who had stolen from him the only thing worth fighting for, the only person left on earth he truly loved.

The general was not the only worried soldier out in the field on that August evening. No less than three hundred mounted cavalrymen were camping in the distant hills and plains surrounding Denver; their mission the same as the general’s. Find Martay Kidd.

Major Lawrence Berton had been in the saddle most of the day. His detachment was camped fifty miles east of the general, on the banks of Horse Creek. He, too, was wide awake, though the hour was late. Lying on his back, his head resting on his saddle, the big blond man stared up at the rising moon and wondered if Martay was somewhere nearby watching the moon come up. Or was she already dead? He shuddered and clenched his teeth.

And in her mansion in the foothills of West Denver, Regina Darlington was also wide awake. In her lace-and-silk-hung bed, she sat propped up against the tall headboard, sipping hot milk from a delicate cut glass. She hoped it might help her to sleep. She’d slept only fitfully since the terrible tragedy had happened more than twenty-four hours ago.

She sighed and looked out on the moonlit balcony. Setting the milk aside, Regina climbed down from her big soft bed and padded across the specially woven Turkish rug to the open French doors. She stepped out onto the broad balcony, mindless of the fact she was barefoot and wearing only a thin, gauzy bed gown.

Cool night breezes pressed the frothy gown to Regina’s ample curves and lifted tendrils of her unbound auburn hair. She stood at the railing and worried. She worried, of course, about the missing girl, whose body might even now be lying hidden somewhere out there on the estate grounds in the brilliant moonlight. She worried also that it was from her home, her party, that the flirty little brat had been taken. Through no fault of theirs, she and Colonel Darlington might be considered responsible in some way. Why, it could even hurt the colonel’s career, and she did so long to be a general’s wife.

Something else worried her as well.

Only moments before the Kidd girl was reported missing, Regina had bumped into the handsome Jim Savin in a deserted back corridor. Overjoyed that he had finally shown up, she’d rushed up to him, glanced hurriedly about, and said, “Darling, you did come! I’m so glad; why don’t you make it a point to introduce yourself to Martay Kidd, then meet me in the summerhouse in half an hour.”