Comanche Moon Read online

  Sunburn. Sunflower should not have taken such a fair-skinned woman into the heat of the day without adequate protection. Hawk hesitated, but Deborah made the mistake of trying to pull away, and he renewed his determination.

  “Puaru” he growled when she tugged harder. His hand tangled in her hair to hold her, while his other hand began the methodical stripping away of her garments. If she wanted to resist, she was given the opportunity.

  But she went still and quiet, closing her eyes as he peeled off her clothing, her lips quivering with suppressed screams. Somehow, it was not quite the victory Hawk had envisioned. There was no satisfaction in subduing a compliant antagonist.

  He released her hair and stepped back, watching her through narrowed eyes as she stood with her arms at her sides and her eyes closed. The wind lifted her hair in a drift of dark fire strands, curling one around the peak of her breast. Hawk watched her nipples tighten into small, pebbled buds.

  She was so beautiful. He’d never dreamed she would be so perfectly formed. There was nothing to hide her from his view now, no shredded clothing or shadows. Sunlight gilded her pale body with light, made it gleam dully like unpolished marble.

  Small, firm breasts tilted impudently, and her narrow waist flared into gently curving hips. Slender thighs and shapely calves narrowed into slim ankles, and her bare feet were small and delicate. She was so finely made, so fragile and patrician, that she made him feel clumsy and coarse. And she renewed the desire he’d thought stemmed for the moment.

  Despite Hawk’s recent release, he felt the surge of lust hit him again, as strong and hard as if he had not been with a woman in months. He swallowed, and wondered if he had not chosen the wrong vengeance.

  “Nananisuyake,” he muttered in a voice so hoarse he almost didn’t recognize it as his own. Pretty. No, she was more than that.

  He looked up at her face again, her still, white face and closed eyes. Heat was rising in him, undeniable and strong, yet he felt strangely reluctant to force her now. There was a rather pathetic courage about her rigid stance and refusal to plead. She waited. And he burned for her.

  Knowing he was pushing himself to the limits, Hawk took a step closer and touched her. His hand rested on the curve of her breast, and he felt her flinch. His thumb dragged over the tempting bud of her nipple, sun-warmed and deliciously pink. He had wanted to punish Deborah for daring to strike him when he had only come to comfort her, but now he found that his vengeance had turned on him.

  It was he who was in torment, he who suffered the most. She had not known a man, and did not know the ache of denial as he did. And it occurred to him again that he did not need to deny himself what he wanted when it stood before him in lush, naked surrender.

  But that was not the way he wanted her surrender, not with grief and resistance. No, he wanted her willing and warm and arching into his touch, not shrinking away from it. There were ,embers of passion glowing in her; all it would take was the right spark to ignite them into flames, and he wanted to be that spark.

  Hawk curled a finger under her chin, his thumb brushing over her skin lightly. “Punitu nue,” he muttered, and tapped her cheek with a soft flick that made her open her eyes. When she was looking at him, he bent his head and kissed her, his mouth gentle. Her lips were sweet, juicy, the taste faintly familiar. He lifted his head and a slight smile slanted his mouth. “Panatsayaa.” She blinked, then flushed. “Yes . . . blackberries . . . we were eating them earlier.” She was shaking so badly he put one arm around her back to hold her close, so that she fit him from breast to knee.

  That was torture. Her skin was satiny beneath his palm, soft and warm, luxuriant to the touch. He let his hand drift down to the small of her back, then spread his fingers over the curve of her buttocks. He pressed, and her belly rubbed against his almost painful erection. It was exquisite torment. He fit her close to him, his breath coming in harsh, ragged pants for air.

  He’d thought his release on the Mexican-Comanche woman would ease his need, but knew now he’d only been fooling himself. There would be no release, no satisfaction, until he eased himself inside Deborah.

  He slid his hands down her arms to grasp her wrists, then he lifted her hands and put them on his chest. Her palms were cold, surprising him. He felt shivers rack her entire body, and saw the telltale quiver of her lower lip.

  Hawk glanced up. The sun was bright and searing, heating his skin, yet Deborah was shaking as if chilled. Why was it he felt on fire, yet she was shivering?

  Tucking her into him, he lowered his body to the ground in a smooth motion. Deborah lay beneath him, cushioned on a lush tuft of grass, her hair fanned out in a silky dark fire over the ground. Hawk levered his torso up on one arm, his hand spread on the grass. Slowly, slowly, he drew his other hand down over her body, caressing her.

  “You don’t have to do this,” she whispered when he met her gaze again, and Hawk grew still. “Oh, God—if you can understand me at all, please . . . keta!” Keta. Don’t.

  Hawk sat frozen in place. His gaze was caught by the pleading in her eyes, the soft hazel pools that caught sunlight in splinters and reflected his own face.

  Deborah lifted her hand, touched his face with a tentative finger. Her hand was shaking, and she could see the indecision in his stark blue eyes as he looked down at her. It was almost too much to hope that he would not do what it was obvious he intended. She could feel the hard thrust of him against her thighs, the tension in his muscled frame.

  He shifted slightly, and his face moved into shadow, with the sun behind him. The curve of his shoulder gleamed a dull bronze, slick and powerful and intimidating. She tried to hold to her resolve, but it was growing noticeably weaker the more she was around him.

  What was it about this man that lured her at the same time it repelled her? She should be horrified, terrified, yet she sometimes found herself wondering about him. After hearing him with that other woman, hearing the primitive sounds that were shocking and arousing at the same time, she had run just as much from herself as from him.

  His touch kindled a flame in her she couldn’t deny. She wanted to. She wanted to pretend herself inviolable, but she knew she wasn’t. He could have her. It would be easy. All he had to do was kiss her and caress her, and talk to her in that soft, husky tone he’d used before.

  The unfamiliar words could vibrate all the way to her toes, coupled with the intense, shimmering blue ice of his eyes. She felt enveloped by him, absorbed, as if she was inside him, as if her skin was heated bronze and muscle. The air she breathed smelled of him, of wind and leather and the now-familiar musk of his skin, warm and arousing.

  But she wasn’t ready, didn’t know if she could survive the yielding of body and soul to this man who filled her days with seduction and her nights with dreams. What had been so brief and frightening with Miguel was different with Hawk, was intense and arousing and potentially devastating. It was strange, the way he made her feel, as if she should cling to him, as if she should allow him the freedom of her body without protest. There was a fevered pleasure in his caresses, in the sweet torment of his touch.

  Odd, but she had always thought there had to be a basis of love and friendship between a man and a woman for there to be this intense an attraction. It was obvious she was wrong. All her long-held standards crumbled in the face of his desire and her response.

  Her only defense now was surrender.

  And it worked. Hawk held her gaze for a long time, his eyes shadowed by his lashes, his mouth a straight, harsh line. Then he rose in a lithe motion and gestured for her to dress.

  While she did, he walked a little away from her and stood with his back to her, as if he could not watch. She slid him a quick glance as she hurriedly dressed, and saw that his back was rigid, his muscles taut with strain. The black silk of his hair brushed against his broad shoulders in a light, swinging motion. She thought of the hawk she’d seen, and how its wings had swung in lazy motions as it flew overhead.

  She smoothed the
folds of her skirt over her legs with trembling fingers, then cleared her throat. Hawk turned. His hard gaze swept over her, and a faint, sardonic smile curved the erotic line of his mouth.

  “Kima.”

  Come. Yes. She supposed she would have to follow him. She had no other choice. If not for his unexpected mercy, she might have much more to worry about than being commanded to follow like a pet dog. It would, Deborah thought as she picked her way down the grassy slope in Hawk’s footsteps, be unnerving to see how much longer she could hold off his determined assault on her senses.

  Chapter 8

  A week passed, dragging dusty heels of time so slowly that Deborah despaired. Since the day she’d struck Hawk, he had not approached her again.

  He came to his tipi to eat, and to speak with his sister, but he said nothing to her. She felt his gaze on her, though, even when he was a distance from her.

  It burned into her, hot and blue and searing, making her ache with some nameless emotion. Just when she thought it was fear, her feelings had turned into something entirely different.

  When he was near, even ignoring her, she trembled. A hot flush rose inside her, and her legs grew weak. Hawk invaded her dreams more vividly now, and sometimes—God help her—when she dreamed, she dreamed that she was the woman beneath him on a grassy slope. The moans were hers, the soft cries and gasps came from her lips.

  He had awakened something inside her, some demon that made her wonder what it would be like to be possessed by him.

  Judith was appalled.

  “You can’t mean it,” she whispered one morning when they were washing wooden bowls in the stream. Their watchers were not far away, and the noise of the rushing water caused their voices to rise a bit to be heard.

  Deborah flushed. “But I do. He’s not as bad as I’d first thought.”

  “For God’s sake, Deborah! I admit he is handsome, as Indians go, but he’s a ruthless savage! How can you even think he might be gentle, or kind, or even decent? Haven’t you seen how many captives there are in this camp?

  And we’re part of them . . .”

  “Judith, he could have done to me what he wanted, yet he listened to me and did not.”

  “Listened to you!” Judith’s blue eyes were wide with amazement and shock. “How could he even understand you? None of these savages can understand English.”

  Deborah swished a wooden bowl through the water. “I wonder.

  Sometimes, I think they understand more than we guess. Yet, if they did, I suppose they would speak to us. It becomes quite inconvenient at times for them to try and give orders in a language we don’t understand.” Her smile was faintly wry. “Even Sunflower gets frustrated.”

  “You’re very fond of that girl.” Judith’s voice was accusing, and Deborah forgot that she was supposed to be more discreet and looked up at her cousin. “Yes, I am. She’s sweet, and full of life and fun. If she were white, she—”

  “But she’s not white.” Judith’s motions were abrupt and irritated, and Deborah sighed.

  “No, she’s not.”

  “I hope you haven’t grown so enamored of your captors that you no longer want to escape,” Judith said a few moments later.

  “No. I haven’t. In fact, I think I have a plan.” For the first time, Judith’s voice was eager and full of hope. “Tell me!” Deborah glanced around. The other women were busy with washing and chattering, and Sunflower sat on a flat rock with reeds she was soaking to make more pliable. The girl seemed entirely engrossed in what she was doing.

  “The horses are kept in a meadow just beyond camp. I’ve gone through there to gather berries. Do you know where I mean?” Judith nodded. Her head was bent so that her hair hung down in golden streamers, hiding her face. “Yes. I’ve seen them when I’ve been out looking for firewood.” She splashed some water over her bare, scratched arms. “I’ve also noticed that many of the men keep their horses tethered close to their tents.”

  “Only the favorite ones, I think.” Deborah paused. It was true. Even Hawk had his favorite horse, a huge gray stallion with black mane and tail, and a thickly muscled chest. She’d seen him brushing it, talking to it, feeding it as if it were a pet. “But that’s only at night. The others are left free to roam.”

  “Yes, I saw a lot of them grazing in the high grass.”

  “Then maybe you noticed that they run free except for a rope halter. If we could manage to catch two of them, we’d be able to ride out of here.” Judith was silent for a moment. “How would we do that? We’re both watched too closely. Your handsome admirer never takes his eyes off you, and when he’s away, that girl is your keeper.”

  “There will come an opportunity. We just have to be ready when it presents itself.” Deborah glanced up and saw that Sunflower had waded nearer, bending in the stream to soak the green reeds she used to weave baskets.

  She edged away from her cousin and tried to appear as if she was engrossed in washing bowls. After a moment, she whispered loudly enough for Judith to hear, “Gather as many things as you can for a long journey. Hide them. Be ready. I will do what I can, also. Perhaps the time will come soon.” Judith flung her long hair back from her eyes and cast Deborah a quick look. “I will. We’d better move apart now.” They did so as unobtrusively as possible.

  The women began to straggle back to camp slowly, bearing washed garments in woven baskets. Deborah saw Judith not far ahead of her, her back bent under a heavy load. It was frustrating, not being able to help her cousin. She wished she knew enough Comanche to plead with Hawk to purchase her cousin. Life couldn’t be kind to her, not with the bruises she’d seen on Judith’s fair skin.

  A loud cry caught Deborah’s attention, and she glanced up to see her cousin being yanked along by a tall brave she didn’t recognize. Judith was trying to resist, but her blond hair was caught in a brown fist. The man laughed cruelly and made a crude gesture that provoked laughter from others watching. Deborah started forward, but Sunflower grabbed her arm and shook her head.

  “I have to help her!” Deborah snapped, and pushed the girl’s hand away.

  She’d gone no more than three steps before a stout woman barred her way, dark eyes glittering with a threat Deborah didn’t like. She paused and said calmly, “Get out of my way,” but the woman didn’t budge.

  Sunflower began chattering, obviously pleading for her, and by the time Deborah managed to look for Judith again, her cousin had disappeared.

  There was no sign of the man who had been tormenting her, and she stood helplessly.

  After a moment, the surly Comanche woman walked away, and Sunflower plucked anxiously at Deborah’s sleeve. She made signs to reassure her, but her obvious wish to ease Deborah’s mind helped only slightly. She felt helpless to assist her cousin, helpless to assist herself. What could she do but make things worse for both of them?

  She could only pray for Judith, pray that she was not being used roughly.

  When they returned to the camp, Sunflower ducked into the tipi and brought out a large bolt of cotton. She knelt down and put it in Deborah’s hands. Her dark, liquid gaze would not meet Deborah’s as she communicated her wishes. Deborah understood that she was to sew a dress.

  The material was soft and pliable, and she threaded a long needle and began working it through the material, punching holes with swift, certain movements. The stitches were small, the seams neat. She’d been taught well in her childhood, but she’d never dreamed those lessons would one day be performed in a Comanche camp. Sunflower had admired her earlier handiwork and been quick to produce a paper full of silvery needles.

  Most of Deborah’s days the past week had been spent in sewing, though occasionally Sunflower brought out a game played with sticks and a blanket.

  The object, Deborah had learned, was to be the first one to move her awl—a sharp, pointed instrument used in piercing thick animal hides—all the way around the blanket. Positions were marked, and sticks were tossed to determine the number of points given. It had taken
Deborah nearly three days just to understand the rules, and her dismal showing at the game had elicited much laughter from the other players.

  Though the days were not as harsh as they could be, it was the nights that tormented her. Frequently, she caught a glimpse of Hawk nearby. He made no overt effort to avoid her, nor did he seek her out. Yet she knew that he had not forgotten her. He was only waiting.

  That night, Deborah sat outside Hawk’s lodge with Sunflower. Insects stung her skin, and she slapped at them idly as she watched the men gather in the middle of the camp. There was something going on. Men laughed and talked, and an air of excitement pervaded the entire village.

  Hawk stood to one side, his face impassive in the flickering firelight, his features as cold as if carved from stone. Her heart lurched. He was so handsome, and she wondered if she had truly lost her mind as Judith seemed to think. How could she have come to care for a Comanche? A man so far removed from everything in her normal sphere that it was ludicrous to even think of him in any way but as an enemy? Yet she did.

  Impossible, of course. He would never fit into her world, and she did not want to fit into his. Though she was truly fond of Sunflower and felt a bewildering lure to Hawk, she knew she could never be content away from everything familiar.

  In the past week, the need to flee had grown so strong as to be almost overpowering. Every glance Hawk gave her, every smoldering stare that scorched her soul and left her aching, made her aware that he would not wait much longer. Soon, he would take her. The brief, heated touch of his eyes on her only marked the passing of time.

  Beyond the bright fire-glow and leaping shadows, Deborah could see her cousin’s bright head. She stood with some of the other captives, idly for once, watching the activity of the camp. Deborah wished she understood more of their language than she did. Then, perhaps she would understand the reason behind the increased activity.