do was lean over and place his mouth against hers. The driving desire almost shattered his massive control.
Pilar murmured in her sleep and rolled onto her left side. The blanket slipped, revealing her shoulder. Her white blouse was wrinkled, but Culver didn't care. Pilar could wear the most expensive of gowns or nothing at all and she still looked just as beautiful in his eyes. Her hair tumbled gently downward, caressing the curves of her face and slender neck. Her hand stretched outward, connecting softly with Culver's chest, his skin tightening instantly where her fingers rested. He marveled at her reaching out for him, even in sleep. Then he scowled. Probably for Fernando, not him. It hurt to be realistic about it, but Culver strove to be ruthlessly honest with himself . It didn't pay to be an idealist, as he knew from hard experience. Pilar had taught him well.
Her breath was shallow and moist against his skin. He'd shed his shirt last night in the heat of the hut. Now her breath tickled strands of hair on his chest. Her fingers lay slightly curled against him. So innocent. The words, the feeling, flowed through Culver. In sleep, Pilar trusted him. Taking in a deep, ragged breath, he recalled as if it were yesterday how Pilar used to sleep in his arms—peaceful as a newborn baby. She'd felt completely safe, protected by him. Even with the danger that had swirled around them, she had slept quietly in his arms.
They had had each other, he realized, sadness blanketing him as he studied her small, delicate hand. An automatic trust had sprung up between them, and it had translated into the abandon with which they had made love. He released a long, painful breath as he stared down at Pilar. What could he have done differently to keep her? How many times had he asked himself that question? What had he done wrong to chase her away?
It was true that he wasn't rich or aristocatic. As he studied Pilar, he tried to be sensitive to the plight of a South American woman. The husband was the autocratic ruler here. Marriages knew no equality. Women became so much chattels, allowed no life of their own, no hopes or dreams outside their kitchens and the raising of large broods of children. A husband was considered macho if his wife had many children, for that showed his sexual prowess. And the concept of machismo included making the wife bow to the husband's needs and demands.
Culver sighed. He'd lived in South America off and on for a decade now, and he'd often been disgusted by the way men treated women. Among the Quechua, women were respected as equals, so they didn't suffer as the rest of South American women did. It was a Spanish problem, not an Indian one. Intellectually he could understand that Pilar had been no less trapped by the male-dominated environment than any other South American woman. Her only hope was to marry someone rich and affluent and thereby escape some of the worst of the daily drudgery. Money would provide the services of a maid and housekeeper, and among the rich, families tended to be smaller.
Culver knew how intelligent Pilar was. He'd always respected her savvy—a combination of her American Liberal-arts education and her deeply rooted Incan heritage. Still, how could she be expected to come back to this village with her royal blood and marry a dirt-poor farmer? She lived precariously between two opposing worlds.
Leaning over, unable to help himself, Culver lightly touched Pilar's arm, the skin firm, warm and velvety beneath his fingers. So she had married some old man for his money. Fernando had probably been promised Pilar, anyway, falling for her blazing beauty and youth. How could Culver blame her for finding her own way to avoid the cultural quagmire that threatened all women down here? His mouth tightened. Maybe that was why he had such a hard time staying angry with her.
"Mi querida," he whispered near her
Pilar murmured in her sleep and rolled onto her left side. The blanket slipped, revealing her shoulder. Her white blouse was wrinkled, but Culver didn't care. Pilar could wear the most expensive of gowns or nothing at all and she still looked just as beautiful in his eyes. Her hair tumbled gently downward, caressing the curves of her face and slender neck. Her hand stretched outward, connecting softly with Culver's chest, his skin tightening instantly where her fingers rested. He marveled at her reaching out for him, even in sleep. Then he scowled. Probably for Fernando, not him. It hurt to be realistic about it, but Culver strove to be ruthlessly honest with himself . It didn't pay to be an idealist, as he knew from hard experience. Pilar had taught him well.
Her breath was shallow and moist against his skin. He'd shed his shirt last night in the heat of the hut. Now her breath tickled strands of hair on his chest. Her fingers lay slightly curled against him. So innocent. The words, the feeling, flowed through Culver. In sleep, Pilar trusted him. Taking in a deep, ragged breath, he recalled as if it were yesterday how Pilar used to sleep in his arms—peaceful as a newborn baby. She'd felt completely safe, protected by him. Even with the danger that had swirled around them, she had slept quietly in his arms.
They had had each other, he realized, sadness blanketing him as he studied her small, delicate hand. An automatic trust had sprung up between them, and it had translated into the abandon with which they had made love. He released a long, painful breath as he stared down at Pilar. What could he have done differently to keep her? How many times had he asked himself that question? What had he done wrong to chase her away?
It was true that he wasn't rich or aristocatic. As he studied Pilar, he tried to be sensitive to the plight of a South American woman. The husband was the autocratic ruler here. Marriages knew no equality. Women became so much chattels, allowed no life of their own, no hopes or dreams outside their kitchens and the raising of large broods of children. A husband was considered macho if his wife had many children, for that showed his sexual prowess. And the concept of machismo included making the wife bow to the husband's needs and demands.
Culver sighed. He'd lived in South America off and on for a decade now, and he'd often been disgusted by the way men treated women. Among the Quechua, women were respected as equals, so they didn't suffer as the rest of South American women did. It was a Spanish problem, not an Indian one. Intellectually he could understand that Pilar had been no less trapped by the male-dominated environment than any other South American woman. Her only hope was to marry someone rich and affluent and thereby escape some of the worst of the daily drudgery. Money would provide the services of a maid and housekeeper, and among the rich, families tended to be smaller.
Culver knew how intelligent Pilar was. He'd always respected her savvy—a combination of her American Liberal-arts education and her deeply rooted Incan heritage. Still, how could she be expected to come back to this village with her royal blood and marry a dirt-poor farmer? She lived precariously between two opposing worlds.
Leaning over, unable to help himself, Culver lightly touched Pilar's arm, the skin firm, warm and velvety beneath his fingers. So she had married some old man for his money. Fernando had probably been promised Pilar, anyway, falling for her blazing beauty and youth. How could Culver blame her for finding her own way to avoid the cultural quagmire that threatened all women down here? His mouth tightened. Maybe that was why he had such a hard time staying angry with her.
"Mi querida," he whispered near her
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