Comanche Moon Page 7

  If he went into his own lodge to sleep, he would not be able to resist pulling her beneath his robes, and he had to prove to himself that he could stay away from her. A faint, wry smile slanted his mouth. It had come to this, then, that he would allow a woman to dictate his habits. And she didn’t even try. In fact, she would be astonished if she had any idea that her presence disturbed him to the extent that he avoided her.

  A hard knot coiled in his belly, and Hawk fought a surge of anger at himself and the woman who governed his actions without knowing it. She was a sickness, and he would ease himself on another. That would blunt the edge of his need, and put him in control again. Yes. That is what he would do.

  There were women in camp who found him favorable.

  Sunflower thrust a basket at Deborah. “Kima.” By now, Deborah knew that meant to come. She nodded, and slid her feet into the soft deerhide moccasins she’d been given. Hawk had brought them to her, shoving them into her hands without a word, his face set and hard. Only Sunflower’s muffled giggle had alerted her to the fact that his thoughtfulness meant more than just protecting her feet. It was thought-provoking.

  “Panatsayaa,” Sunflower said when Deborah rose to her feet and took the empty basket.

  Blackberries. Or raspberries. Deborah grew confused at the similarity of names. She assumed it would be blackberries they were to pick. And she was never certain when one of her attempts to mimic Sunflower’s Comanche language would send the girl into peals of laughter. Sometimes, she was able to understand what she’d said wrong—as in wura for “thank you” when it really meant mountain lion. It would be easy to get into real trouble in a conversation, she could see that.

  The sun beat down fiercely, and Deborah wondered with a sigh why Sunflower had chosen such a hot morning to search for berries. Late afternoon would have been better. It was cooler then. Insects buzzed annoyingly close, and she was grateful for the cool clothes she wore. If she’d still been clad in petticoats, drawers, chemise, and high-necked dress, she would have fainted from the heat. There were some things that the women she’d known could benefit from, and that was the comparative freedom of dress the Comanche women enjoyed.

  But Deborah’s simple skirt, blouse, and moccasins kept her much cooler, and allowed her to walk through the high grasses. The blackberry bushes ranged along a crest overlooking the camp. To get there, they had to cross the stream and pass the meadow where the horses roamed.

  Deborah watched curiously as young boys played in the tall grass, pretending to be warriors, she supposed. They had small bows and arrows and gave chillingly realistic whoops that reminded her of that night at the Velazquez hacienda. Some of the horses snorted and shied away, and a man shouted angrily at the boys as they played too near.

  Ropes trailed from many of the animals, and Deborah watched as the man caught one of the horses by the end of the braided leather. It seemed that the horses most often used were haltered with a rope and allowed to roam free, while the others grazed in the high, lush grass. It gave Deborah an idea that was both startling and terrifying.

  She was still lost in thought when they reached the prickly line of bushes atop the crest, and paused to sink down on a flat stone. Sunflower sat down and removed her moccasin, frowning at a stone she shook out. She muttered something in Comanche and slid her foot back into the shoe. Then she looked up at Deborah.

  “I’m ready,” Deborah said slowly, and saw the comprehension in the girl’s face. Sunflower could understand some English, she’d decided. She wasn’t certain how much, but there were times Deborah had made herself well understood.

  “Kima.” Sunflower rose, dusted off her skirt with one hand, and picked up her basket.

  They walked carefully down the line of bushes. Some of the limbs were so heavy with fruit they brushed along the ground. Laughing, both of them ate almost as many berries as they picked. Sweet, sticky juice smeared their hands and mouths and stained their clothes. It was a satisfying morning, with the heat of the sun and the delicious taste of berries on her tongue.

  Deborah grew drowsy, her eyelids drooping. She saw that Sunflower was sleepy also, and they sat down in the shade of a cottonwood to rest. Birds sang loudly overhead, and the wind cooled clothes that had grown damp with perspiration. Deborah loosened her hair, as it had become tangled in the long thorns of the blackberry bushes and pulled loose from the neat braid. She lifted it from her neck and closed her eyes for a moment, heavy strands spilling over her hands and arms in a light, tickling wave.

  “It’s beautiful out here,” she said softly, not knowing if Sunflower could understand all her words but compelled to offer conversation. “I understand why people would want to live so simply. Before, it was always a mystery to me. I’m afraid that my people consider Indians— all Indians—to be little more than savages. They’re wrong.” She curled her arms around her drawn-up knees and smiled at the listening girl. “Haitsi. Haa?” Sunflower smiled back at her. “Haitsíi—haa.” She’d made some sort of distinction in the word, and it had taken on a different meaning, Deborah realized. Sunflower’s sweet smile and soft eyes conveyed only friendship, so she knew it had been a pleasant difference.

  “Ura. Thank you.”

  Sunflower looked away from her, back toward the valley where the tipis were scattered beside the cool waters of the stream. Deborah sensed that she was troubled, and wished the language barrier could be bridged.

  “I don’t know what is the matter,” she began hesitantly, “but I wish I could help. You are very pretty, and very nice to me, and I do not like to see you sad.”

  Sunflower flashed her a startled glance. Surging to her feet, the girl seemed about to say something, her mouth quivering slightly. Then she gave a shake of her head, and the long, dark tails of hair over each shoulder swung violently.

  “Yaa,” she muttered. There was confusion in her eyes, and Deborah lapsed into silence.

  She wondered how it would affect this girl when she and Judith managed to escape. She prayed that escape was possible, prayed that no one would be hurt. A lingering doubt jabbed at her, the doubt that they would even be able to find the way back to civilization. Surely, by now soldiers should have been able to find them. Had any been alerted? Was anyone still looking for them? It had only been three weeks since they’d been taken from the Velazquez hacienda, and rescuers could not have given up yet.

  Though not quite certain where they were, Deborah knew they were within a few days ride of Texas. Probably in New Mexico. If she and Judith managed to escape and went south, they could possibly find a main trade route. But if they were caught—the possibilities were frightening. Deborah had no illusions about her captor. He may not have treated her as harshly as he could, but there was a steely core to him that would not endure an escape attempt.

  When they made their attempt, she and Judith would have to be ready to accept whatever fate might bring them, and not turn back. The reprisals would be harsh.

  Sunflower handed Deborah a skin of water, and she drank deeply. It was best, she’d discovered, not to examine some of the containers and even the food too closely. Suspicious differences from what she had been used to would have rendered her unable to eat anything, and so she simply took what was offered without close examination. The water skin, for instance, reminded her of an animal intestine, and she dared not look too closely. She gave it back, and Sunflower took it without comment.

  Some of the easy companionship of the morning was gone, and Deborah wasn’t sure why. Perhaps her words had somehow disturbed Sunflower.

  “Kima,” the girl murmured, and Deborah followed her back into the blackberry bushes.

  Now the sun was directly overhead, burning down with a fierce intensity. Even the birds had quieted, and the droning of the insects seemed louder than before. Soft rustlings in the tall grasses seemed furtive, though Deborah thought it must be only the wind.

  She plucked a particularly juicy berry, dropping it atop the others in her basket. Her fingers were staine
d a purple so dark as to be almost black, and her hands and arms were scratched in dozens of places by the thorns. Her skirt snagged on a vicious thorn, and she turned, muttering softly about the inconvenience.

  A low rumble made her head snap up, and she’d opened her mouth to speak when Sunflower put a warning hand on her arm. The girl was stiff and tense, radiating a sense of urgency and fear.

  Deborah trembled. She’d seen the Comanche return with women from another tribe, and knew that the tribes often warred against one another, stealing women and horses with utter disregard. It would not be unheard of for a warring tribe to do the same here.

  Her heart pounded fiercely in her chest, and her knees went weak with fright. She hadn’t realized it, but her hand was on Sunflower’s arm, her fingers digging deeply into the girl’s skin. Sunflower tugged silently at her, and Deborah eased her grip.

  The rumble came again, and this time it was discernible as a male voice, deep and husky. It sounded amused, and there was a soft, feminine squeal.

  Deborah felt faint. Had an enemy caught someone unawares? Were there many of them? She followed Sunflower’s example, and sank slowly to the ground as noiselessly as possible. Thick berry branches hid them from sight of a casual observer and she prayed no one would know to look for them.

  Crouched under the thorns and fruit, they waited, and it seemed as if the voice grew nearer. Deborah sliced a glance at Sunflower and saw her eyes widen with sudden recognition. She gave Deborah a startled glance, then put a finger to her lips in warning.

  Puzzled, Deborah could not imagine the reason.

  Until the man came into view, and she saw Hawk. He was with a woman, one of the Mexican-Comanche women, and they did not seem to be fighting, as she’d first thought. Instead, Hawk had an arm around the woman’s waist, and she was giggling. Deborah stiffened.

  There was an unmistakable meaning to their actions. Even before she saw Hawk pull the woman’s loose blouse away, his hands dark and bold against her plump curves, she knew what he was doing. The memory flashed through her mind of the afternoon he’d touched her similarly, and how he had sparked a fire in her.

  He was lighting fires in this woman now. Deborah closed her eyes, but she could not block out the sounds. They crashed against her ears like thunder, the woman’s giggles turning to groans, then gasps, and Hawk’s growling voice sounding strained and labored. It seemed to go on forever.

  Then he made a rough sound that grew into a panting groan, and the woman cried out loudly. Silence fell.

  This silence was more deafening than the first. It lay in thick clouds over her, until finally she opened her eyes. To her surprise, tears streaked her cheeks.

  She could not imagine why.

  Chapter 7

  Hawk swore softly under his breath, startling the woman beneath him. She stared up at him with wide brown eyes full of fear, and he touched her cheek with a gentle hand. It was all the assurance he was in the mood to offer.

  A slight sound in the bushes just beyond the grassy knoll where he’d chosen to lie with the woman had alerted him to another’s presence. His sharp eyes had caught the bright motion of a cotton skirt, and he’d known, then, who hid in the bushes.

  Though he wasn’t quite certain why it should bother him if Deborah and his sister saw him with the woman, it did. He waited until the two crept away, then rose to his feet, readjusting his breechcloth. His partner looked up at him, her blouse still down around her waist and tangled with the hem of her skirt. The bare brown curves that had excited him only minutes before, left him cold now.

  Growling at her to dress, Hawk pivoted on his heel and strode down the slope toward the village. He didn’t wait on the woman, but left her to follow him. She would be used to such brusque behavior. Her tipi was at the edge of the village, and saw many men come and go.

  Hawk thought of Deborah, her wide hazel eyes and soft white skin, and found that his spent passion had left him more on edge than before. He should not have tried to replace one need with another. It wasn’t just that he wanted to lie with a woman. He wanted Deborah.

  Ahead of him, almost at the village now, he saw her, her bright hair streaming behind her as she ran. Sunflower’s dark head was close beside her.

  Hawk swore again, an oath in English, low and vicious. There was no comparison in Comanche, nothing vile enough.

  His mood worsened, and when his foot struck something in the tall grasses, he looked down and saw an abandoned basket. Ripe, gleaming berries spilled across the ground in a narrow stream.

  Hawk paused. Now he knew why Deborah and Sunflower had been in the bushes, and it eased his anger. He bent to retrieve the basket with the few berries still in it, then continued down the slope and into the village.

  The hot sun beat down, and sharp shadows cut across the bare earth.

  Dust lay in a heated haze along the ground, stirred up by passing feet.

  Someone called out to him as he passed their lodge, but he didn’t bother to reply. When he reached his tipi, he ducked inside and paused, tossing the berry basket to the floor. Deborah stared up at him, but when he reached out for her, she shrank back.

  Anger spurred him, drowning out his first surprise at her reaction.

  Uttering a sharp comment, he slapped a hand on her wrist and yanked her to her feet, jerking her up against his chest. He could feel the rapid thunder of her pulse under his fingertips, the surge of fear in her trembling body.

  Their eyes met, and he wondered what she saw in his face that made her react violently. She lunged sideways to escape, but he kept his hard grip on her wrist, and his hold swung her around.

  Her small, berry-stained hand came up as she was swept back, and before he could move, her palm smacked against his cheek with a loud crack.

  Stunned into immobility, Hawk just stared down at Deborah with shock.

  Her lips were parted, her breath quick and tortured, and her wide eyes were glazed with tears. Russet strands of hair framed her pale face in a tangle, and he could feel her brace herself.

  No one spoke. Beyond a small gasp from Sunflower, no sound was made. The silence was heavy and fraught with tension. Hawk felt a muscle leap in his jaw with the strain of holding back, and it took him a moment to regain control.

  Then he moved in a swift motion, lifting Deborah and tossing her over his shoulder. He bent, ducked out the open flap of the tipi, and strode back through the village.

  Deborah had the good sense to remain still. If she had made a noise, fought him, he would have lost his tenuous grip on restraint. But she lay limp over his shoulder, and no one dared call out to him as he carried her back up the grassy slope he’d just traveled.

  Fury made him rougher than usual, and he didn’t care if she was terrified. She should be. No woman should dare strike a man, especially a captive woman. If any but Sunflower had seen her, his pride would have demanded immediate and harsh retaliation. As it was, her blow had pushed him to the very limits of his control.

  Now, he just wanted to force her to lie with him, to put himself inside her and erase all the memories. He wanted to hear her voice in his ear, whispering soft words of encouragement, hear her cries of pleasure.

  The need was growing stronger every day, and he wondered if his father was not right when he’d said he should take her. She was a captive. Pu kwuhupu— his captive. And she should learn that lesson well.

  But Deborah Hamilton was also a lady. She had dignity and courage and compassion, and those were rare qualities in one woman. He wanted to hold her to him, let her come to know him slowly. He wanted time, yet time pressed him hard. He wanted—Deborah. Yet he did not trust her not to find a way to escape the village. He’d seen her talk to the golden-haired woman, knew that was her cousin. And he knew that Deborah Hamilton had the courage to defy the odds and try to leave this remote camp in the mountains.

  It would be just like her to go with no thought to the consequences.

  Hawk knew all of that. Just as he knew that the sharp press
of his desire for her would launch him into something he might regret. But he couldn’t go back. He’d seen her, he’d bought her, and he wanted her. There was no denying any of that, no forgetting it now.

  When he stood beneath the shade of a grove of pines, Hawk swung her to the ground. One hand curled around her upper arm to steady her. She flung back her hair with a proud, defiant gesture and met his heated gaze with angry eyes.

  Her anger amazed him. She should be terrified. He’d been rough with her, yet she glared up at him as if he was not twice as large and much stronger.

  “I suppose now you’ll rape me,” she said in a cold, caustic tone that made his jaw clench. “It’s to be expected, I assume. After all, that is what you’ve wanted to do since you first saw me. Shall I lie down for you?” When he said nothing, but stared down at her through hot, narrowed eyes, she seemed to lose some of her bravado. Her small, round chin quivered slightly, and he saw the quick, nervous flutter of her hands. Yet she would not look away from him. Her soft brown eyes, hiding sparks of gold in the centers, held his gaze as if challenging him.

  “Kwabitu?” she said, jerking a hand toward the ground, her pronunciation mangled but understandable. “Do you want me to lie down for you?”

  There was such an expression of angry contempt in her tone and eyes that Hawk felt a surge of shame. It was quickly followed by anger. She should not provoke him. She was not sitting in an elegant drawing room somewhere, but was his captive. If he were any other man, he would throw her down and toss up her skirts as she was challenging him to do. Did she think her contempt made her safe?

  Slowly, deliberately, he drew her to him. Her eyes grew large and dilated, but she refused to look away. Good. He wanted her to see his anger, see what he could do if she was foolish enough to continue.

  With the same deliberation, he began to pull away her blouse, baring her creamy skin. There were faint red patches on her body above the neck.