Warrior's Embrace (21 page)

He left her bedroom and went back to his
hiding place in the wine cellar.

o0o

Elizabeth was missing a piece of cheese and a
small amount of milk. She knew the food was gone because only that
morning before she had left for the bank, she had taken stock in
order to prepare her grocery list.

The day before, the blood, and now the food.
She could no longer blame the stray cat. Cats couldn’t open
refrigerators.

The first thing she did was go to her pantry
and get her .44 Magnum. Then she sat at her kitchen table and
decided what to do. It was already dark outside. Sheriff Wayne
Blodgett wouldn’t be in his office, and she was reluctant to call
him at home on such flimsy evidence. After all, she
could
be mistaken about the food. But not the blood. There was still a
small stain in the grout around the tile. She was going to have to
buy a special cleaning product to remove it.

She could rule out Aunt Kathleen, drop-in
friends and nosey neighbors. Her feisty, ageless aunt was in Paris,
her nearest neighbor was two miles away, and her friends were not
the drop-in kind. Since coming home to Mississippi, Elizabeth had
discouraged anyone who’d tried to get too close. The people who
came into her home were
invited
—or had been until the day
before. Apparently there was an uninvited guest in her home, and
she intended to route him out.

Picking up her pistol, she made another
careful inspection of her house, starting with the second floor.
She had her head in the bedroom closet when her phone rang.
Elizabeth kept up her search. She was not expecting a business
call, and she was in no mood for a social call.

Her answering machine kicked in. “Elizabeth,
this is Kenneth... Kenneth Spain... the guy who has been calling
you for the last three weeks.” Elizabeth felt her temper rising.
Didn’t that man ever give up?

He continued his pitch, his voice amplified
by the receiver. “Listen, I know all the stories about you, but I
don’t believe any of them. I think you’re just waiting for the
right guy... and I’m the perfect one. Call me.”

Elizabeth would not return his call, just as
she hadn’t returned the call of the half dozen other men who had
pursued her the last few months. Summer seemed to bring out the
beast in men. But it wouldn’t bring out the beast in her. Of that
she was absolutely certain.

The search for an intruder proved futile in
the main part of the house. That left the wine cellar. Gripping her
gun and her flashlight, Elizabeth started down the staircase,
taking the bold approach.

“I know you’re down here, and I intend to
find you.” Standing on the second step from the bottom, she trained
the light around the cellar. She saw nothing except dust, cobwebs,
a mouse, and the wine racks holding bottles dating from the time
her parents had occupied the house.

“I’m holding a gun and I’m a deadly shot.”
She waited, listening. There was no sound, but she had the eerie
feeling that she was not alone.

Prickles of awareness danced along the back
of her neck.

“I’m going to give you to the count of ten to
come out. After that, I start shooting.” She was bluffing. The
bullets would ricochet on the concrete walls, but she hoped the
intruder wouldn’t know that. She laid the flashlight on the bottom
steps, pointing the beam into the darkness, then got into a
shooting stance, holding onto her gun with both hands.

“One... two... three...”

The arm hooked around her from behind. A hot
hand clamped over her mouth, and the cold steel of a knife blade
rested against her throat.

“Don’t shoot, Elizabeth McCade, or you might
get both of us killed.”

Even though she was holding a gun, she knew
her throat would be slit before the bullet had found its mark. She
forced herself to breathe normally and to stand perfectly still.
She didn’t want to give the stranger any excuse to use his
knife.

“I’m not going to hurt you unless you create
a commotion.”

That qualified as good news. The bad news was
that he knew her name. She had read that most violent acts occurred
between people who knew each other. Fear rose up in her. She knew
she would be helpless if she didn’t bring it under control.

“I’m going to take my hand off your mouth now
and take your gun. Don’t try to turn around and don’t make a sound,
or you’ll be dead.”

The knife blade inched away from her throat,
and she nodded her head slightly to show she understood. His hot
hand left her mouth and took her gun.

“That’s good, Elizabeth McCade. You’re a
smart woman.”

Her captor had one of the richest, most
melodic voices she’d ever heard. Her fear began to abate, and anger
took its place. A criminal had no business with a voice like that.
It could be a powerful weapon against the unsuspecting.

“What do you want?” she asked, surprised that
her own voice was strong and controlled.

“I have to stay here for a few days, and you
must tell no one.”

“Why?”

She started to turn around, but he pressed
the knife blade against her throat again.

“Don’t,” he said.

“Who are you?”

“I’m not a criminal.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I studied your personal belongings last
night while you slept.”

“You came into my bedroom?”

“Yes. Your hair was spread across the pillow,
and you were wearing red. I was tempted to take more than your
personal belongings.”

A shiver ran through Elizabeth. She was
suddenly aware of the man’s body, of his muscular arms around her
shoulders, of his broad chest bracing her back, of his hard legs
pressing against hers. He was tall and solidly built. If it came to
a test between his strength and hers, she would be the loser.
Nevertheless, she couldn’t contain her fury.

“You had no right to invade my privacy. This
is
my
home. This is
my
sanctuary.” Anger made her
struggle against him.

“Don’t move, Elizabeth.” Suddenly the knife
was withdrawn from her throat. There was small movement behind her
back, then the stranger’s hands were in her hair. Her hairpins fell
to the concrete floor, and her heavy hair unfolded.

She felt his hands caressing, lifting,
smoothing her hair.
Stop that,
she wanted to scream. But
she dared not push him too far. He had said he was not a criminal,
but he hadn’t identified himself, and she had no reason to believe
him.

“Who are you?” she asked once more.

He didn’t answer. Instead his hands played
through her hair for a small eternity.

“Your hair smells like the rest of you,
exotic and mysterious.” His hot breath seared the back of her neck.
“Are you exotic and mysterious, Elizabeth?”

“Not nearly as mysterious as you.” There was
a strange, mesmerizing power about this invader. She felt almost as
if she knew him, as if they knew each other. “Who are you?”

There was a long, dark silence. The sounds of
their harsh breathing mingled, giving the cellar a sense of hushed
expectancy. Elizabeth called on all her resources to be strong
against the man who had invaded her home. Sweat dampened her palms
and popped out on her brow.

“I am Black Hawk, and I seek refuge with you
for a few days.”

Slowly she turned around. Black Hawk. He was
the leader of the Chickasaw resistance to progress without
conscience, owner of one of the largest cattle ranches in
Mississippi, both a hero and a target of the press, a man of
mystery and danger and intrigue, and he was standing in her cellar
injured and bleeding. His strong, fierce face had graced many a
front page of the newspaper, and his voice had thundered from the
late-night television news shows in defense of his Chickasaw
nation.

She knew him—not as a person, but as a symbol
of all that was brave and fearless. He was a crusader, a man out to
preserve the dignity of the world he lived in.

In the feeble glow of her flashlight she saw
a crude bandage on his upper right arm, and angry scratches and
bruises on his chest and arms. No longer afraid or angry, she
reached out and put her hand on his forehead. He stared silently at
her with eyes as black as night.

“You have a fever,” she said. She supposed
the fever accounted for his hot hands, although seeing him now,
even dimly, she knew he was the kind of man whose hands would be
that hot with passion.

Not since Laton had a man caused such a
tumultuous physical response in her. And Mark Laton had nearly
destroyed her.

Black Hawk watched her with searching dark
eyes. She had the crazy sensation that he was reaching out and
touching her. This man had danger written all over him. If Mark had
been a henchman from hell, Black Hawk was the very devil
himself.

She turned her back on him in order to
release herself from his spell.

“Come with me,” she said.

“Where?”

“I have a small spare bedroom on the first
floor. I’ll take care of you.”

“Both of us will be in danger if I’m
seen.”

“Don’t worry. I live apart.” When he made no
comment, she added, “I’m not antisocial, but no one comes here
without an invitation. We’ll be alone.”

He smiled then. “Captivity has its
rewards.”

“Who’s the captive? You or me?”

“Both of us.”

He took her hand and led her to the
bedroom.

Black Hawk didn’t release her hand at the top
of the cellar stairs, and Elizabeth didn’t try to pull away.
Although he shouldn’t have known where her spare bedroom was
located, he led her right to it.

She supposed he had either explored her
entire house, or she was communicating with him by ESP and body
language. For a moment she thought she was back at Yale, holding
onto the hand of Dr. Mark Laton, heading to the small cot in his
office in the musty old building where he taught Chaucer.

She slid her glance sideways at her captor.
He was nothing like Mark. Mark had been a small man, blond and
compactly built. Black Hawk was lean and angular with looks that
bordered on handsome but could have been called rugged and
untamed.

“Draw the curtains,” he said suddenly,
stopping outside the bedroom door.

Elizabeth walked swiftly across the bedroom
and drew the heavy curtains. Then she snapped on a small lamp on
the bedside table. Its feeble glow illuminated an iron bedstead,
spread with a simple white comforter.

Black Hawk came into the circle of light and
then turned to stare at her. Not even Mark Laton, with his silver
tongue and his skilled hands, had made her feel the way this
strange warrior did. She had spent years running not only from Mark
but from her own passions. Suddenly, she was face-to-face with her
past.

“Have you slept here, Elizabeth?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He turned his back to her and began
to strip off his jeans.

She watched him with unabashed pleasure. His
body was a work of art. When he had rid himself of every stitch of
clothing, he turned to face her.

“Take care of me, Elizabeth.”

She stood still, her gaze roaming over him.
He was neither embarrassed nor self-conscious nor arrogant in his
nakedness.

Steeling herself, she strode to the bed and
ripped back the covers. When the sheet was exposed, she turned to
Black Hawk.

“Lie down.”

He stretched upon the sheets, a tall man who
made the bed look small.

“The first thing you need is to have your
wounds cleaned,” she said, then hurried toward the small adjoining
bathroom.

Inside the bathroom, she shut the door and
leaned over the lavatory. Her stomach was churning, and her chest
felt as if a huge weight were pressing against it.

She brought herself under sharp control, then
set about doing what she must. Her sympathies had long been with
Black Hawk as she had followed the news stories about him. He was
right about progress. It was
not
raping the land with no
thought for the past or the future; it was a harmonious blending of
the past with the present, of man with nature.

She would give him refuge. She would bind his
wounds and give him food, drink, and shelter. And when he was ready
to face the enemy, she would let him go and forget about him. It
would only be a few days, no more. Surely she could control the
dark side of her nature for a few days.

Armed with towels, washcloths, a bottle of
peroxide, and a basin of warm water, she went back into the
bedroom. Black Hawk hadn’t moved a muscle. He was as still as a
bronze carving... and just as beautiful.

She hesitated in the doorway, admiring him.
Slowly he turned his head and looked at her. Passion crackled in
the stillness.

“Do you have what you need?” he finally
asked.

“Yes.”

“Then come.” He held out his hand. “Take care
of me.”

She came to his bed and bent quickly over
him, leaning so that her hair made a curtain that shielded his
lower body. She wasn’t about to draw the sheet over him. Not by
word or sign would she betray her feelings.

“You need not make this sound so erotic. It’s
strictly clinical.” He didn’t flinch as she started rubbing at the
angry gash across his chest.

“Do my words sound erotic to you,
Elizabeth?”

She didn’t answer, didn’t look at his face.
He lay perfectly still as she worked. Every time her breathing
threatened to become shallow, she bit down hard on her lower lip.
Tomorrow it would be bruised, maybe even swollen. She couldn’t help
that. It was a small price to pay for sanity.

As she cleaned his chest and arms, she tried
to keep the washcloth as a shield. It was impossible. Occasionally
her fingers glided along his skin. It was remarkably satiny, with
hard muscles just beneath the surface.