CHAPTER 2
She was going to quit shaking. She was not going to die a coward.
Please, God, she was not going to do so…
“What difference does it make to you who I am!” Skylar cried, pressing her hands against him and finding him still immovable.
Courage! she reminded herself.
That lacking, bravado would do.
“You’ve murdered the stagecoach driver and abducted me. You’ll surely hang no matter how good your English may be!” Perhaps threats were the wrong tact to take at this time. If he understood her, she could attempt to reason with him.
She began speaking quickly and breathlessly. “However, if you were just to let me go at this moment, I could speak in your defense. I could?—”
“You’re not listening to me. Who the hell are you!” he thundered.
She felt her limbs trembling despite her determination not to show fear.
“My name is Skylar Douglas.”
“You’re a liar!”
There was such rage and conviction in his voice that Skylar was startled into silence, staring up into his unusual greeneyes. Desperate confusion filled her. What did her name matter to this Indian who might speak English amazingly well but was nonetheless a savage? Once again, she began to feel the physical discomfort of being naked and pressed to the bed by a powerfully muscled man whose rage was directed at her.
“Are you going to kill me?” she demanded suddenly.
His gaze slid over her face, down the length of her. She felt as if her flesh were being scorched by it. She willed herself not to tremble and shake, but she seemed to have no control over the chattering that seized her teeth, the way her blood seemed to race madly throughout her.
“I haven’t quite decided yet. I want to know who you really are and what you think you’re doing out here.”
“Who the hell are you?” she flared, her temper briefly overriding her fear.
“A man ten times larger and stronger than you who is also in possession of a knife. Let that suffice for the moment. I’m the one asking the questions.”
She closed her eyes, swallowing hard, still confused, frightened, trapped in anguish. She couldn’t bear this any longer, feeling his flesh, the threat of his strength, the fury that created the staggering heat within him. This was worse than before. Somehow more intimate. Because he understood every word she said. And she clearly understood him.
“If you’re going to kill me, get it over with,” she forced herself to say with an even, calm voice.
“But I want an answer to my question.”
“I’ve answered you!” she whispered.
He swore, then to her amazement and relief, suddenly rose, jerking his robe closed and retying it as he walked to the fireplace. Both hands on the mantel, he stared into the flames.
“You’re not Lady Douglas,” he said flatly.
“I am.” Dear God, she thought, what difference did it make to him?
“You’re not!”
“How can you be so sure?” she cried, starting to rise as well, then, recalling her nakedness, falling back and grappling for a pillow to hide behind. To her dismay and reawakened fear, he pushed away from the mantel, striding toward her again. She gasped, hopping up—with nothing—flattening herself against the wall on the opposite side of the bed.
Again, to her vast surprise and relief, though his green eyes did flick over the length of her, they bore nothing more than a glint of contempt.
And he didn’t actually come near her.
He paused at the foot of the bed, threw open the trunk there, and tossed her a robe similar to his own. Shaking, she slipped into it, maintaining her position across the bed from him. He stared at her a moment, turned away, and walked back to the hearth. There he bent and poured the brewing coffee she had smelled earlier into two earthenware mugs. He set the mugs on the table, took a whiskey bottle from the shelf, and poured its contents liberally into both mugs. When he finished, he raised an arm, offering one of the mugs to her. She remained frozen to her spot.
