He smiled wickedly. “You liar. You did.”
“No!”
She let out a shriek when he caught hold of her ankles, dragging her down the length of the bed. She brought her fists flying against his chest when he laid his body over hers.
But when he forced his kiss upon her, her arms stole around his neck.
And he was convinced that there was no pain.
Only pleasure.
CHAPTER 7
Waking was painful.
She’d been right. He’d drunk far too much. It had been a downfall of his people before.
And last night…
He didn’t think, in the whole of his life, that he’d ever felt more ashamed of himself. He groaned, wishing that his eyes didn’t burn, his head didn’t hurt, and he didn’t feel such complete and utter self-disgust.
Dawn had become day. Light fell into the room, causing a riotous dance of dust motes. He could see them falling from the ceiling, playing in the air above her naked shoulder. A shoulder that lay against his chest. His arm encircled her, drawing her against him. Her silky blonde hair was tangled beneath his nose. Her back was curved to him, her buttocks against his groin, her legs entangled with his. His hand, dark copper against the pale ivory of her flesh, lay upon her abdomen. They slept like a long-married couple.
Married.
Indeed, he’d done it now. It was unlikely he could entice her into filing for an annulment at this point.
Did he really want an annulment? Didn’t he feel, just on awakening, on feeling the softness of her against him, that she was not so bad a creature to possess?
He quickly disentangled himself from her, determined that his actions would not be ruled by his anatomy again. Naked, his head pounding, he stumbled to the tub by the fire, glad to use the now icy cold water to sluice his face and body and give him a truly rude awakening. He toweled himself dry quickly, eschewed the clothing he had scattered over the floor, found a pair of Mr. Levi’s button-fly jeans and a cotton shirt in his trunk, and dressed quickly. He kept his eyes from the still-sleeping woman all the while, until he had started coffee perking, and drew up a chair at the table to wait until it had brewed.
Then he found himself staring at her once again. She was really exceptionally beautiful.
With the devil’s own temper, he thought wryly.
And now…
She was his. He still didn’t know a damned thing about her. He didn’t know what had happened between her and David. Of course, he did know that she hadn’t slept with his father.
Maybe she’d been willing to do so, just as she had been willing last night. But maybe David had expired before they’d gotten to the point where they’d gotten last night.
And maybe, just maybe, she hadn’t caused David’s heart attack at all.
Skylar opened her eyes to see the white of the sheets. She started to move, but even as she did so, she became aware that she was sore from head to toe. She winced, shifting just slightly, then met the steady green eyes staring at her from across the room. She went still, watching him in turn, unnerved by the intensity of his gaze.
He was up and dressed, hair queued back. He wore a white cotton shirt, just slightly open at the throat, and blue pants thathugged his muscled form. A form that she now knew very well. Broad, uncompromising shoulders, powerful arms and chest. The copper flesh of his chest marked by several unusual scars. Waist lean and taut as a drum. Trim hips…
She stopped, her breath catching. She didn’t want to think about the rest of him. It brought too much color to her face. Made her remember. Not that he had pinned her to the bed. Not that he had forced her to choose. Not that he had insisted on their playing their roles as man and wife.
Rather it made her remember the way he had made her feel, the hunger she had found in turn. The longing to touch his body in turn, explore it, taste it. Move with it…
Indians were supposed to do nothing more than couple, like wild animals. She had heard it said among cavalry wives, whose husbands had said that it was so.
This Indian was an extraordinary lover. As wild as any creature on the plain, but adept as well, she was certain. Yet David Douglas had told her that Indians were just as human as white men, and all men, red, white, and black, were the same when taught the same things. David had actually taught her quite a bit about the Plains Indians. He had simply neglected to tell her that he had a son who happened to be one. Or that he was really marrying her to that son.
He’d neglected to tell his son as well. And so he was now studying her, watching her with those deep, fire-green eyes that seemed to promise he’d have much preferred slitting her throat and scalping her to taking her as a wife. No matter what expertise he had brought to the undertaking.
“You’re awake. Good. Get up. Get dressed. We need to move on,” he told her, rising from his chair and going to the fire. “I’m afraid I slept late myself, but we’ve things to do, and we’re going to reach Mayfair tonight, no matter how late.”
