not lie. You are sweet.’’
He gave the conjuncture of her thighs a farewell caress, then traced the curve of her hip with a hand that skimmed the painfully burned flesh there so lightly that she scarcely felt it. The pressure of his palm increased when it gained purchase on her ribs where the sun had not reached. His hand tightened its grip, squeezed, and released so rhythmically that it seemed to keep time with the strange, blood-pounding beat inside her. It was as if he had begun the rhythm within her, as if he somehow knew the thrusts, the lulls, better than she.
Held captive now by more than bonds and strength of arm, she turned her face to study his, fascinated by the sleepy innocence that clouded his half-closed eyes. The merciless killer was gone, replaced by a drowsy, mischievous boy who stroked her as if she were a newly acquired pet. A slow smile curved his mouth, a dreamy smile that told her he was more asleep than awake. He moved closer to whisper something unintelligible against her cheek. Her lips tingled, then parted. She found herself wondering how it might have felt if he had kissed her, then cringed at the wayward thought. Comanches didn’t kiss, they just took. And her time was running out.
With the tip of his tongue, he outlined her ear. ‘‘Topsannah, tani-har-ro.’’ The words came out so slurred, she doubted he even knew he was saying them. ‘‘Prairie flower,’’ he muttered, ‘‘in springtime.’’
He fell silent. His arm around her waist went lifeless and heavy. His breathing changed, becoming measured and deep. The mahogany fringe of his eyelashes rested on his cheeks. Loretta stared, incredulity sweeping over her in waves. He was fast asleep. And she was pinned beneath his arm and leg. She wrinkled her nose. The fur of the buffalo robe tickled, and it smelled sharply of smoke and bear grease. Probably full of lice and fleas, too, she thought with disgust, then promptly began to itch, which was sheer torture because she couldn’t scratch.
His hand rested on her ribs like an anchor. Though escape was impossible, bound as she was, being so close to him made her feel claustrophobic. Slowly, ever so slowly, she tried to ease out from under him, only to have him go tense again and pull her back into the crook of his body. ‘‘Sleep,’’ he murmured. ‘‘We will make war tomorrow, no?’’
Loretta strained her neck to see over the fur. Some distance away, the other Indians stood in groups around small fires, some yawning, some wide awake with tin cups in their hands. One man was staring in her direction. She quickly ducked her head under the robe, but not fast enough. Moments later she heard the faint whisper of moccasins approaching. Leather swished. She sensed the presence of someone beside her and slitted her eyelids. Through her lashes, she saw obsidian eyes looking down at her from a dark face framed by blue-black hair. She recognized this Indian. He was the one who had spoken in her behalf that first day, the one who had not wanted her killed. It didn’t make her fear him less.
To her horror, the man lifted the edge of the robe to look at her shoulder. Frantic, she jerked at the leather that held her hands behind her. This was her worst nightmare. Comanches. Not one, but two. And she couldn’t even fight them. If he yanked the robe off her, there would be nothing she could do but lie there in shame.
Hunter stirred and yawned, then rose up on one elbow to bark in Comanche, ‘‘What is it, tah-mah ? Can’t you see I’m trying to sleep?’’
‘‘I just came to check the woman.’’
Hunter squinted at the sun and sighed. ‘‘So, how does she look?’’ He sat up and drew the robe farther down her shoulder, taking care not to uncover her breast, laughing softly at the horrified expression on her face. Of all the men, his brother, Warrior, would be least likely to harm her. He was a fierce fighter but otherwise gentle, more apt to defend her than attack her.
He gave the conjuncture of her thighs a farewell caress, then traced the curve of her hip with a hand that skimmed the painfully burned flesh there so lightly that she scarcely felt it. The pressure of his palm increased when it gained purchase on her ribs where the sun had not reached. His hand tightened its grip, squeezed, and released so rhythmically that it seemed to keep time with the strange, blood-pounding beat inside her. It was as if he had begun the rhythm within her, as if he somehow knew the thrusts, the lulls, better than she.
Held captive now by more than bonds and strength of arm, she turned her face to study his, fascinated by the sleepy innocence that clouded his half-closed eyes. The merciless killer was gone, replaced by a drowsy, mischievous boy who stroked her as if she were a newly acquired pet. A slow smile curved his mouth, a dreamy smile that told her he was more asleep than awake. He moved closer to whisper something unintelligible against her cheek. Her lips tingled, then parted. She found herself wondering how it might have felt if he had kissed her, then cringed at the wayward thought. Comanches didn’t kiss, they just took. And her time was running out.
With the tip of his tongue, he outlined her ear. ‘‘Topsannah, tani-har-ro.’’ The words came out so slurred, she doubted he even knew he was saying them. ‘‘Prairie flower,’’ he muttered, ‘‘in springtime.’’
He fell silent. His arm around her waist went lifeless and heavy. His breathing changed, becoming measured and deep. The mahogany fringe of his eyelashes rested on his cheeks. Loretta stared, incredulity sweeping over her in waves. He was fast asleep. And she was pinned beneath his arm and leg. She wrinkled her nose. The fur of the buffalo robe tickled, and it smelled sharply of smoke and bear grease. Probably full of lice and fleas, too, she thought with disgust, then promptly began to itch, which was sheer torture because she couldn’t scratch.
His hand rested on her ribs like an anchor. Though escape was impossible, bound as she was, being so close to him made her feel claustrophobic. Slowly, ever so slowly, she tried to ease out from under him, only to have him go tense again and pull her back into the crook of his body. ‘‘Sleep,’’ he murmured. ‘‘We will make war tomorrow, no?’’
Loretta strained her neck to see over the fur. Some distance away, the other Indians stood in groups around small fires, some yawning, some wide awake with tin cups in their hands. One man was staring in her direction. She quickly ducked her head under the robe, but not fast enough. Moments later she heard the faint whisper of moccasins approaching. Leather swished. She sensed the presence of someone beside her and slitted her eyelids. Through her lashes, she saw obsidian eyes looking down at her from a dark face framed by blue-black hair. She recognized this Indian. He was the one who had spoken in her behalf that first day, the one who had not wanted her killed. It didn’t make her fear him less.
To her horror, the man lifted the edge of the robe to look at her shoulder. Frantic, she jerked at the leather that held her hands behind her. This was her worst nightmare. Comanches. Not one, but two. And she couldn’t even fight them. If he yanked the robe off her, there would be nothing she could do but lie there in shame.
Hunter stirred and yawned, then rose up on one elbow to bark in Comanche, ‘‘What is it, tah-mah ? Can’t you see I’m trying to sleep?’’
‘‘I just came to check the woman.’’
Hunter squinted at the sun and sighed. ‘‘So, how does she look?’’ He sat up and drew the robe farther down her shoulder, taking care not to uncover her breast, laughing softly at the horrified expression on her face. Of all the men, his brother, Warrior, would be least likely to harm her. He was a fierce fighter but otherwise gentle, more apt to defend her than attack her.
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