She leaped up, lifting her bound hands before her, ready to throw herself against the door. What did she do once she was free with her bound hands? What if animals attacked in the night?
How would that be different from the fate that awaited her here?she shrieked silently to herself.
But again, it didn’t matter. He may have seemed to be at ease bathing in the tub. But he could not have been so very relaxed, for he was out of the water even as she hurled her weight against the door.
“I will not stay here. You cannot keep me here!” she cried. He flung her around. She stared into his eyes, afraid to let her eyes wander down the length of him. “You think that you can keep me captive watching you mimic a murdered settler in his bath? I am the one who needs to bathe. I am the one who needs to wash away your touch! I—” She broke off. His wet hands were upon her arm, wrenching her back with such a force that she heard the delicate silk and lace of her black mourning gown rip and tear. She screamed, trying ridiculously to free herself from his hold. Both hands upon her shoulders, he shook her firmly. She gasped for breath and stared into his strange green eyes once again, and for the first time, saw his face. Really saw his face.
She couldn’t ascertain his age, but she thought he was somewhere near thirty—not a very young man, certainly not an old one—one indisputably in the very prime of life and at the height of his strength and power. His skull was ruggedly sculpted, his jaw square, his cheekbones high, his forehead broad. His unusual eyes were large and bright against the bronze of his flesh, while his brows, as well as his hair, were blue black and cleanly arched. Were it not so fierce and menacing, it would have been a fascinating face. Compelling, intimidating, masculine, hard but so cleanly lined that among any race itwould be considered handsome. His nose was long and straight, his mouth full, his lips oddly curled in a mocking smile that sent chills racing throughout her body once again. Skylar was quite certain then that many a beautiful young Indian maid had worn her heart upon her sleeve for this ruthless warrior, and yet there was something in the mocking eyes that made her wonder if there wasn’t something dark and deadly in this savage’s past that might make him deal as callously with one of his own as he dealt with her.
No. He’d not slay an Indian woman when he had finished with his taunting of her…
Taunting. He was naked now. Buck naked. Dripping upon her as he held her.
“Savage son of Satan! Bastard!” she shrieked. Hands tied, shoulders caught in his iron grip, she fought the only way she could, trying with all her remaining strength and energy to kick him. She caught a shin yet didn’t draw so much as a grimace from him. A second passed while they stared at one another. Then she shrieked in real terror, for he plucked her up again and threw her down upon the bunk. As she struggled to inch away from him and rise, her fear began to escalate in leaps and bounds, for he caught her by one foot, and despite her thrashing and struggling, removed the black lady’s boot from it.
“God, no. No!” she breathed, trying wildly to kick and fight, again to no avail. Both boots were stripped from her and thrown to the floor. She tried to slam her bound hands against him. Then she gasped, inhaling on a half sob when he plucked a wicked-looking Bowie knife from the floor beneath the bed, bringing it to her chest, straight against her heart. She stared at him in silence, wondering when the blade would find its way into her body, wondering what the pain would be like, how hard it would be to die. Oh, God…
“They’ll kill you!” she lashed out, determined not to cry even as tears burned against her eyes. “The whites will come for you and slice you to ribbons, they’ll disembowel you, they’ll cut off your head—scalp you. Oh, yes, they’ll scalp away all that black hair of yours and leave you bleeding until you die!”
She thought his lips twitched, but his eyes were unyielding. He moved his hand slightly, and she closed her eyes and screamed, waiting for the knife to pierce her flesh.
Instead…
She heard the methodical ripping of material.
Her eyes flew open, and she realized that he had rent the fabric of her mourning gown from throat to hem.
“No!” she cried out, shaking, trying to remind herself that it was better to bear torn clothing than torn flesh. She tried to use her bound hands as a weapon against him, only to find herself flung face down into the covers as he chopped away heedlessly at all the fabric covering her. While she shrieked and struggled, gasping for breath against the bed, he ripped and tore away the black silk and lace of her gown, chemise, and top petticoat, then the white cotton and linen of her corset and pantaloons, even the soft, pink-ribboned bows of her garters. With one hand he flipped her again so that she faced him, naked in the tattered remnants of her elegant apparel, and stared down at her.
“They’ll cut out your heart!” she cried to him, still fighting tears and renewed terror. “Then you know what they’ll do? They’ll cut off your big, wretched, savage sex and feed it to the hogs, you bastard!” She was going to start crying or lose her mind to sheer hysteria. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it myself. Just you wait until I get my hands on a knife. You’ll be so sorry, you’ll?—”
She shrieked because he was up and lifting her. She didn’t know now in what form death would come.
And she was heartily startled when she found herself dropped into the tub.
He meant to drown her.
He was going for her hair again. He was going to use it to force her under…
But he merely lifted her hair from her back, letting it fall down the outside of the tub. He turned back to the hearth for the cauldron of water.
He was going to scald her to death.
But he poured the water so that it warmed the bath without burning her. He replaced the cauldron, throwing a bar of soap her way.
“You want me clean when you kill me?” she snapped out bitterly. “No—” She began to gasp again, for he had hunkered down by the tub. The knife was suddenly glittering in his hands again.
She shrieked again, closing her eyes.
But he merely used the knife to snap the rawhide binding her wrists. In panic, Skylar instantly took the soap and started to throw it at him. She cried out as he caught her wrist. His eyes were on hers then with such warning that she went dead still except for the furious pounding of her heart. “Fine!” she said, trying to keep her lips from trembling. “I’ll scrub myself clean for that moment when you decide to murder me.” She stared into his eyes. Crouched down beside her, he was more terrifying than ever. His own nakedness seemed not to bother him in the least, while she was ever more tormented by the nudity he had enforced upon them both. He was terrifyingly sexual, so perfectly honed and physically powerful, not to mention that he was surely exceptionally endowed, no matter the color of his flesh.
He let go of her and stood again, turning from her to move about the hearth. For the moment, she clutched the soap, suddenly glad of it. Time. She was buying time here. She furiously washed the trail dust and dirt and grime from her face.She scrubbed her arms, legs, torso, desperately thinking about how to escape.
She realized then that she smelled coffee.
The scent of it tantalizing, delicious…
There were no more sounds coming from the hearth. She turned to discover that he had decked himself out in a white man’s long smoking jacket and that he was leaning against the wooden mantel over the hearth, his arms crossed over his chest, watching her, his green eyes as hard as emerald chips and giving away nothing of his thoughts.
