Savage Heat (44 page)

Night Sun tenderly pulled the covers up over her shoulder.

She thought she would be happy in Dakota with him, but would she? Could a beautiful young woman who had been raised in a mansion with servants really be content in a crude tipi on the plains? Would the love she now felt for him quickly turn to resentment and hate?

Troubled, Night Sun rose as the first light of dawn tinged the eastern sky a gunmetal-gray. Shivering in the chill morning air, he stood for a moment, naked, yawning and stretching, his legs apart, hands clasped behind his head. Eyes locked on the changing sky, he flexed the muscles of his upper body. His tight stomach caved in under his ribs, his chest expanded.

Night Sun abruptly drew a startled breath and looked down. Martay, as naked as he, was kissing the arch of his bare right foot.

“Wicincala,”
he said, “what are you doing?”

She gave no answer. She continued to kiss him, her lips moving from the smooth flesh of his foot up his hair-dusted leg as she crouched there before him, hands spread out on the soft grassy ground. Speechless, hardly daring to breathe, Night Sun remained motionless as her lips, open and warm, continued traveling slowly upward to his tensed thigh as she rose to her knees before him.

Night Sun’s black eyes rolled back in his head as flames of heat licked at him and his body responded to the burning fire rapidly engulfing him. Already his erection was fully formed and aching for her touch.

Martay’s lips were brushing kisses to the inside of his thigh, and Night Sun, groaning, put a hand to the crown of her head, his long fingers flexing involuntarily in the silky locks.

His dark face hardened with passion, he said, “You don’t have to do that.”

She inhaled deeply of his clean male scent. “I want to,” she whispered. And nuzzling sweetly, her lips and nose pressing ever closer to that stiff, surging proof of desire, she continued to tease and toy with him, brushing kisses up over his taut belly, licking a path along the line of thick raven hair leading downward from his navel, murmuring softly, “I love you, Night Sun. I’ll always love you.”

Kneeling there before him, Martay put her hands to his lean hips, clasped him possessively, threw back her head, looked up, and gently commanded, “Look at me, darling.”

His legs apart, his hands restlessly touching her shoulders, every muscle in his tall bare body tautened with sweet agony, Night Sun looked down at her, his eyes shining with a hot light.

“Don’t,” she whispered, “think that I’ll ever be sorry you took me.” She hesitated, then finally touched her lips to the straining, throbbing masculinity rising directly before her face. He shuddered violently and could not quell the moan that tore from his chest. “I won’t be,” she told him, and licked a wet, hot line up the rigid length of him. “And you won’t be either.”

Night Sun rocked back on his heels and let out a loud groan of ecstasy when her warm, wet mouth enclosed him. Both his hands anxiously came back to clasp her head, and any doubts he had entertained were swept away; quickly forgotten in the face of physical pleasure. He stood there in the rising sun with his beautiful naked woman kneeling between his legs, loving him so sweetly, so intimately, he felt as though he could stand there forever, looking down on the golden head bent to him, feeling the tug of soft, warm lips on his blood-filled flesh, marveling at the exquisite touch of her tongue licking and lifting him dangerously close to exploding fulfillment.

Drawing a strangled breath, Night Sun reluctantly urged her head away, forcing her mouth to leave him. He fell to his knees to face her, his black eyes tortured, his chest heaving, perspiration dotting his hairline despite the chill of the morning.

Martay knew the man she loved was more aroused than he’d ever been before. Armed with the knowledge, she wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered pleadingly, “I know my father. I’m afraid you’ll be killed. Don’t go back.” She pressed her burning cheek to his. “If you love me, say you won’t go back.”

40

B
ut Night Sun would not agree.

As much as he loved Martay, he refused to give in to her wishes that he remain safely with her; that he not return to Colorado. And as they rode back to the village that warm afternoon, Martay, casting loving glances at his handsome copper face, smiled wistfully at the irony of his refusal.

This proud, stubborn man she so loved, the one person on earth she could not live without, was the only male she had ever known whom she could not bend to her will. And that was why she so adored him. From their first minute together, he had been unmovable.

He still was.

There on her knees at sunrise she had handed him her very soul, had offered her body for any kind of pleasure he desired, had willed him to lose himself so completely in her he would agree to anything. Wildly, ravenously, he had made love to her, loving her more fiercely than ever before, taking her again and again to frightening heights of ecstasy, and all the while she had pleaded with him to say he wouldn’t go to Colorado. That he would honor her wishes. He would stay with her.

He never did.

Throughout the prolonged lovemaking he remained mute, his black eyes speaking for him, telling her he loved her, but that he would not budge from his decision. And even when, near hysterics from the continuing carnal pleasure that was spiraling her yet again toward that awesome pinnacle, she began to cry, Night Sun took her skillfully over the top, but promised nothing save the fact that he would love her for as long as he lived.

They reached the village at four that afternoon. Standing silent sentinel outside their lodge, was Speaks-Not-At-All. It was the first time Martay had seen the old warrior since the morning she had effected her escape.

A sudden rush of affection, mixed with guilt, came over her, and dismounting, she hurried to him, put a hand on his stooped frame, and said over her shoulder to Night Sun, “Tell Speaks-Not-At-All that I am sorry. I ask his forgiveness for hitting him; I would like to be his friend.”

Night Sun, winking at Speaks over Martay’s head, said, “Tell him yourself,
Wicincala.”

Turning, she questioned, “How can I? He is mute.”

Night’s wide, sensual lips turned up into a satanic grin and he told her, “Speaks reads lips. And”—he crossed his arms over his chest to deliver the final blow—“he understands English.”

Horrified, Martay looked from Night Sun to Speaks-Not-At-All. Smiling sheepishly, the old Indian bobbed his gray head. Her gaze flew back to Night Sun. He was laughing aloud.

“You are the devil incarnate!” she accused angrily, her face aflame, and through her mind ran the times she had talked openly to the old warrior about Night Sun.

Untouched by her insult, Night Sun pulled her, struggling and incensed, back against him, locking his arms around her slim waist. Both faced the still-smiling Speaks-Not-At-All. From above Martay’s ear, Night Sun teased, “That’s your own guilty conscience bothering you, my love.” Then to the old warrior, “Speaks, have you ever repeated anything a person told you in confidence.”

Violently the old man shook his head, his watery eyes looking straight at Martay. She softened at once. Putting out her hand, she smiled, and speaking very slowly, very distinctly, said, “Will you be my friend? I’ve a feeling there will be many occasions when I wish to say things about this exasperating man that I don’t want repeated.”

A bony old hand gripped hers with surprising strength, and Speaks, without uttering one sound, assured Martay that all her secrets were safe with him.

“How is Grandmother?” Night Sun abruptly changed the subject.

At once the old warrior’s face took on a worried expression. Night Sun, releasing Martay, said, “She’s ill again?”

Speaks nodded.

“Will you see to the horses, old friend,” said Night Sun, and taking Martay’s hand, led her directly to Gentle Deer’s lodge, his face reflecting his worry.

Inside, Windwalker looked up, nodded to them, rose, and silently vanished. Gentle Deer’s weathered face broke into a wide grin when she heard the handsome pair, and immediately she struggled to rise.

Dropping to one knee beside her, Night Sun stayed her with a firm hand to her shoulder. “Lie back, Grandmother,” said he, “Martay and I will sit here close and tell you of our wonderful adventures in the Hills.”

The concerned pair stayed with Gentle Deer for the rest of the afternoon. As dusk came on, Martay rose, kissed Gentle Deer’s cheek, and thoughtfully giving the old woman a few moments alone with her grandson, went outdoors, where the Mystic Warrior waited in the shadow.

When she had gone, Night Sun, holding Gentle Deer’s hand, said, “I could wait to leave for Colorado until you feel better.”

She smiled, her dark eyes disappearing into the wrinkled folds of tissue-paper-thin skin. “You might have a long wait,
Hanhepi Wi.”

Gentle Deer had not called him by his Lakota name in years. It was as though she knew she would not be calling his name after today. When several minutes of talking quietly together had passed, Night Sun lifted her thin hand up to his chest, covering it with his own, and said, “I will leave at daybreak tomorrow. You and I will say good-bye now.”

“Yes,” she croaked, “we say good-bye now,
Hanhepi Wi.”

Night Sun squeezed her hand, then gently placed it under the covers. He kissed her cheek, rose, and crossed the tipi. Gentle Deer stopped him, softly speaking his Lakota name again.

Night Sun paused, pivoted, and looked at her.

She said, squinting, her blind eyes watering, “Stand there for a moment and let me look at you.”

A tremor of unease shooting up his spine, Night Sun asked, “Which one, Grandmother. You or me?”

She understood the question. He, like her, had the strong premonition that they would not see each other again in this life. He was asking which one of them was to die.

Through sightless eyes she studied his dear, dark face for long, silent moments. And saw a squalling, healthy baby that had brought such joy into all their lives. She saw a brave ten-year-old boy at Sand Creek with blood running down his thin chest. She saw the a slender twenty-year-old sullenly going away to learn the white man’s numbers. Lastly, she saw a strong, handsome warrior returning to his tribe with a beautiful golden-haired child who would become his woman. A woman who would give him every reason to live.

But she had never lied to her grandson. She would not lie now.

“I do not know,” she said tiredly. “I hope it will be me.”

It was past midnight.

Night Sun and Martay lay quietly in the cozy firelight of their tipi. They had remained at Gentle Deer’s lodge while she had slept, never knowing they were there, until Windwalker returned at eleven o’clock and gently commanded Night Sun to leave the sleeping sick woman in his care for the night. To go and rest for the long ride that was ahead of him come morning.

In silence they had returned to their lodge and Night Sun, going directly to his pine chest, had removed some paper and a pen. Face harsh in concentration, he had written out his will. Then, folding it neatly, he had tied a leather strip around it and put the packet back inside the chest.

Martay knew she didn’t have to question him. He would tell her if it was something that concerned her, so she went about preparing the things he would need for his trip. When she placed the bundle beside his Winchester, she looked up and saw him watching her.

He held out his arms. She went into them.

“I made out my will,
Wicincala,”
he said.

“No,” she began, “please …”

“You will find it in the top drawer of the chest,” he continued, as though she had not spoken. “I left a half of everything to you”—he pulled back to look at her—“and I hope you’ll not mind; I left the other half to a new school they are starting back east this year to educate Indians. The Carlisle school in Pennsylvania is meeting in an old army barracks and I want …”

“Giving money to them is a wonderful idea,” she said quietly.

He smiled. “You’re a very understanding woman. I love you.”

“If you do, will you …”

“No,
Wicincala,
I won’t.” He dropped his arms away and stepped back.

“Wait,” she said, advancing on him. “You’ve not heard me out. I was going to ask if you’d allow me to cut your hair before you leave.”

Night Sun grinned and lifted a lean hand to the flowing raven locks. “I thought you liked my hair. What about those times when …”

“I do, but … you’ll be safer if you look more like … like …”

“A white man?”

“Yes. More conventional.” She gripped his upper arms. “You’ll be riding into Denver and I’m so afraid someone will …” the words trailed off.

Her emerald eyes looked so worried, Night Sun said, “There’s a small pair of scissors in my chest.” He touched her upturned chin. “I brought them back from Boston for Grandmother and she refused them.”

“Get undressed,” ordered Martay, and went for the scissors. While Night Sun made faces, Martay, on her knees behind him, snipped away the long midnight locks. When she had finished, the Lakota warrior, Night Sun, once more looked like the learned law graduate, Jim Savin. Admiring her work, Martay said, “When you get to the outskirts of the city, promise you’ll change clothes. I packed the things that—”

“You are getting mighty bossy,” he said, running his hands through his newly cut hair. “And, I, sweet, have an order for you.”

“Yes?”

He reached out and curled a long finger down into the opening of her shirt. “Take off your clothes.”

“Anything you say.”

So now the naked lovers lay in pensive silence, each carefully memorizing the sight, smell, and feel of the other. Night Sun’s warm hands moved slowly, searchingly over the soft curves and tempting hollows of Martay’s slender frame, as a blind man might study an intriguing surface with his fingertips.

It was the same with her.

She stroked his chest, his sculptured shoulders, his rib cage, wondering, with choking terror: Would this be the last time she would be allowed to feel the pleasing texture of his smooth, bronzed skin; to run her fingers through the thick, shorn black hair; to marvel at his strong, steady heartbeat beneath her fingers?