Merline Lovelace (18 page)

When she finally understood that he refused to spill his seed in her body to spare her a pregnancy, Julia took him in her mouth. She’d never performed such a service before, had never dreamed of performing it. Now she could only wonder why!

The simple act bestowed the most incredible power on a woman and reduced even a man of Andrew’s iron will to a state resembling quivering pork jelly. When she said as much one afternoon during a stolen
hour in his quarters after classes, a rumble of laughter started low in his belly.

“This is the kind of power a man gives a woman most willingly.”

“Is that so?”

She glanced up at him from her reversed position. He lay like some foreign potentate, smug in his nakedness, while she sprawled along his length. She knew his body now almost as well as she knew her own. Scars and hard ridges marred his skin, but the muscles beneath were sleek and smooth to her touch.

Very sleek and smooth.

With a smug smile of her own, she took his rigid shaft in her hand. Catlike, she rasped her tongue along the satiny length.

“It doesn’t seem to me that this is so much something you give—” she paused for another delicate lick “—as something I take.”

Grinning, he clasped his hands behind his head. “I’m hardly in a position to argue the matter right now.”

“No,” she murmured, scraping her teeth along a blue-ridged vein, “you’re not.”

His grin vanished on an indrawn hiss. To her delight, his rod jumped in her hand.

“Julia!”

“Mmm?”

“Be careful, woman. I don’t… I can’t…”

“Can’t what, Andrew?”

Her only answer was a strangled grunt.

The heady knowledge that she could bring him so quickly from lazy playfulness to incoherence flowed through Julia’s veins like heated wine.

She’d been so young, all those years ago. So untutored. Andrew had initiated her to a woman’s passion with what she now recognized as incredible gentleness. But this…this was a journey to uncharted lands, a voyage to erotic delights she’d never imagined.

Andrew showed no shame in his reactions to her touch, allowed her no shame in his. To sprawl head to toe like this, in the light of day no less, without so much as a stitch of clothing between them, went beyond anything Julia had experienced. Philip had never played with her like this. He’d bedded her with such gentleness, always so careful of the proprieties. She couldn’t remember ever removing her nightdress in his presence, either in bed or out.

The feel of Andrew iron-hard and flame-hot in her hand, against her lips, in her mouth, drove all thoughts of Philip from her head. Drove out everything, in fact, except the growing dread of leaving Fort Laramie, and leaving Andrew.

That dread added a spur of urgency to her need. Her fingers tightened on his shaft. Her body arched over his. As her lips closed over the hot, satiny flesh, she knew she’d take the taste of him with her whenever she left, wherever she went.

G
eorge Beauvais arrived at Fort Laramie on the second of October. The whole post buzzed with speculation about the details of the one-time trader turned peace ambassador’s mission…and with the fact that he came accompanied by several freight wagons hauling gifts for the Sioux and Cheyenne chiefs who would agree to meet with the commission.

Andrew and Colonel Cavanaugh stayed closeted with Beauvais for hours on end. The colonel made no secret of his opposition to the peace mission. Nor did Cavanaugh hesitate to deride Beauvais for kowtowing to the “heathen savages.” The more agitated the colonel became, the more he laced himself with laudanum. Finally, Andrew was forced to step in and issue the necessary orders for the couriers Beauvais wanted dispatched to the various chiefs. The post rang for a day and a half with the sound of bugles announcing the patrols’ departures.

All this Julia learned in bits and snatches from An
drew. He came by Suds Row each evening to check on her and Suzanne, but the press of duties made his visits brief. Not until the following week, when Julia encountered him by chance after classes, did they have time to talk privately about the rocky start to the peace negotiations.

She was alone. Suzanne and Little Hen had already made their way to the stables, where they’d find Daisy harnessed to the pony cart and ready for her afternoon trot. Julia had voiced doubts about letting the girls drive out this afternoon, as the day had turned gray and restless, but Suzanne had pleaded her cause with such a marked return to her old self that her mother couldn’t refuse.

Great, humped clouds now galloped across the sky like a herd of ghostly buffalo. A frisky wind tugged tendrils of Julia’s hair loose from its braided coronet as she made her way along the path fronting the white clapboard buildings of Officers’ Row. She was on her way to the surgeon’s quarters to visit Maria Schnell. If Maria’s husband was there, Julia would consult with him about the tincture of cinnamon water infused with two drops of creosote and a half-ounce of thick mucilage he’d prescribed for Suzanne. Now that the color was blooming in her daughter’s cheeks again, Julia wondered how much longer she’d have to force the noxious mixture down her throat.

Strange how eager she was for the day the surgeon would pronounce Suzanne fully recovered…and how reluctant she was to admit that day had almost ar
rived. A hollow sensation formed in the pit of her stomach at the thought of packing her belongings in her humpedback trunk, climbing into a wagon and driving away from Fort Laramie.

And away from the man who emerged onto Old Bedlam’s lower veranda just as Julia approached.

Her pulse skipped when she caught sight of him. Tall, lean, the brim of his campaign hat pulled down low on his forehead, he stood at the top of the steps. He didn’t see her at first, which gave her time to note the square set to his chin. Another session with Cavanaugh, she guessed. Five minutes with the colonel could wind Andrew tighter than a bullwhip.

His expression lightened when he saw her, but not even his slow, welcoming smile could disguise the tight lines bracketing his mouth.

“Out for a stroll?” he asked.

“I have an hour while Suzanne’s exercising Daisy. I’m on my way to visit with Maria Schnell.”

The smile eased into his eyes, and with it came something else, something so tender that Julia’s heart thumped against her stays.

“I have an hour before the buglers sound watering call. Care to visit with me instead?”

As quickly as that, she knew she’d come full circle. Once again, she’d lost her head as well as her heart to Andrew Garrett. She didn’t want to love him, had convinced herself this greed for his touch sprang from the desire he could always wake in her, nothing more.

Yet mere desire couldn’t explain her sudden, fierce
urge to retire to his room, sit him down in a chair and knead the tension from his shoulders. Lust didn’t explain her burning wish to ease his mind with lighthearted chatter, or kiss away the lines of strain on his face, or provide any of the homey comforts a woman can give her man.

“Yes,” she answered with an ache in her throat. “I’d far rather visit with you.”

Gathering her skirts, she mounted the front steps. The veranda’s weathered boards creaked as Andrew escorted her inside. Now-familiar scents of tobacco and boot polish welcomed Julia, as did the lieutenant who tipped his hat respectfully when they passed him in the hall.

This early in the day, Private O’Shea was still at his military duties, as were most of the other officers and their strikers. Undisturbed quiet surrounded her and Andrew when he ushered her into his sitting room and closed the door. Still gripped by the overwhelming need to ease his tension, she tossed her shawl on one of the folding campaign chairs and ordered him to take the other.

She knew her way around his apartments well enough now to feel comfortable reaching for the decanter on one of the shelves. In deference to Julia’s less hardened palate, Andrew had filled the decanter with port instead of the turpentine that passed for whiskey on the frontier.

“Can you take a little wine, or are you still on duty?”

His hat joined her shawl on the chair.

“I’m still on duty, but with the colonel swimming in laudanum and George Beauvais crawling up my back, I’m damned if I’m going to worry about a glass of port.”

“Why is Mr. Beauvais angry with you?”

“I put one of his drivers in leg irons.” Shaking his head in disgust, Andrew claimed one of the chairs and thrust out his legs.

“The driver and his scurvy friends got drunk as wheelbarrows last night and busted up the billiard table at the sutler’s store.”

“It’s been broken before,” Julia commented mildly. “Every payday, I understand. You usually just fine the men involved and make them pay enough to cover the cost of repairs. Why did you put this particular culprit in leg irons?”

“Most likely because he didn’t take kindly to the officer of the day’s suggestion that he open his pockets to pay for the damage. He jumped on the captain’s back and took a bite out of his ear before the troopers could haul him off.”

“Good Lord!”

“It took three men to subdue him. He won’t be biting down on anything else for a while,” Andrew finished grimly, accepting the tumbler Julia handed him.

“Why in the world would Mr. Beauvais hire someone like that to accompany him on what’s supposed to be a peace mission?”

“George swears he had no choice. After the Wagon Box incident last month, few civilians are eager to climb up behind a team of mules and risk their scalps out here in the heart of Sioux country. Beauvais emptied the jail cells in St. Louis to hire this lot. I had to request he bivouac them upriver, away from the main part of the post, and keep them there. But enough of Beauvais and his crew.”

Hooking an arm about her waist, he drew her down to his lap.

“Let’s talk about other things. Or better yet,” he murmured, pressing the tumbler to her lips, “let’s not talk at all.”

The suggestion sent the wine down the wrong pipe. Andrew waited politely until Julia had finished coughing to set the glass aside.

“You’re tired,” she protested when he nuzzled her neck. “And we have only an hour.”

“I’m not that tired, and we’ve made good use of less time than that. Here, turn around a bit on my lap and let me show you one of the cavalry’s more interesting mounts.”

“This chair’s too rickety for such maneuvers!”

“It’ll hold us,” he said with more confidence than Julia felt the wobbly chair legs warranted. “We just have to distribute our weight evenly.”

She grabbed at his shoulders for balance while he spanned her waist and lifted her up and around. “Andrew, this won’t work!”

“We won’t know until we try. Hook your leg over
mine, sweetheart. There, just like that. Wait, let me remove my pistol. Raise your bottom a bit.”

“And your sword,” she protested, laughing helplessly. “It’s at a most awkward angle.”

“All right, but you’ll have to—”

The sudden crash of thunder just outside the window caught them both by surprise. Julia jumped a good three inches in the air. Andrew smothered an oath and looked past her to the shuttered window.

Twisting around, she saw that the tiny bits of sky visible through the slats had darkened to an ominous gray. Wind rattled the windows and had gathered so much force that Old Bedlam’s timbers began to groan in protest. Another earsplitting crack brought Julia scrambling off Andrew’s lap.

“I’d better find Suzanne and Little Hen. I don’t want them caught out in her pony cart in a storm.”

“I’ll come with you.”

When they stepped outside, the force of the wind knocked the breath back in their throats. Dirt and bits of debris whirled through the air. The sky roiled like an angry gray sea. Lightning forked, fast as a serpent’s tongue and twice as deadly.

The first, fat bullets of rain fired down as Andrew and Julia fought their way along the dirt path that divided the row of officers quarters from the parade ground. Within moments, they were both soaked.

“I’ll check the stables,” Andrew shouted over the wind when they reached the fork in the path. One branch curved around the north end of the parade
ground, past the long, single-story infantry barracks, to the river. The other led to the cavalry barracks and the stables beyond.

“You go back to Suds Row,” he yelled. “The girls would have seen the storm coming. They’re probably huddled safe and snug at home.”

Julia certainly hoped so. Flinching at another flash of lightning, she picked up her skirts and abandoned her dignity to make a dash for the laundresses’ quarters.

Suzanne wasn’t at their quarters. Nor, Julia discovered when Andrew appeared at her door fifteen minutes later, was her daughter at the stables. None of the men had seen either her or Little Hen since they’d driven off in the pony cart a half hour earlier.

“They must have taken shelter,” Andrew said, his deliberate calm in direct contrast to Julia’s increasing worry. “I’ve got men out looking for them. The pony cart will be easy to spot.”

“I hope so.”

“I’m going back to join the search. I just rode over to make sure they weren’t here with you. You’d better change,” he suggested when shivers racked her. “You’re soaking wet.”

“So are you.”

He’d thrown an India rubber poncho over his uniform to deflect the rain, but water dripped from his broad-brimmed slouch hat in a series of continuous splats.

“Just get changed and stop worrying,” he ordered brusquely. “Every trooper on the post knows the little soldier girl by now. They’ll watch out for her and Little Hen.”

Julia forced a smile and lifted her face for his quick, hard kiss. He left her with a promise to return soon with the girls.

Chewing on her lower lip, she started for the bedroom area behind the partition. The thought that the girls might have taken shelter with Walks In Moonlight had her changing directions. Snatching up her sopping shawl, she draped it over her head and went out into the storm again.

Mud weighted the hem of her skirt and petticoats as she dashed across the footbridge. Blinking in the heavy rain, she wove her way through the tents and tipis strung along the riverbank. A few wretched dogs slunk past her, ears flattened against the rain, tails tucked between their legs. Refuse floated by on the rivulets that had already formed in wagon ruts.

By the time Julia reached Walks In Moonlight’s tipi, she was panting with the effort of dragging her feet out of the mud with each step. Larger and more artistically decorated than any of the other tents, Walks In Moonlight’s home reflected her status as both niece to a chief and wife to an army scout.

Answering Julia’s anxious call, the Sioux woman raised the buffalo hide tent flap with one arm. “Come inside.”

Ducking under the flap, Julia pulled the dripping
shawl from her head and breathed a sigh of relief at escaping the rain. Although she’d visited Walks In Moonlight several times, the efficient use of space inside the buffalo hide tent always amazed her.

Beds draped with buffalo robes circled the inside walls. Backrests made from peeled willow twigs and supported by wooden tripods converted the beds to comfortable chairs. Colorful, beautifully decorated calfskin storage pouches, such as the one Walks In Moonlight had made for Julia, hung from antelope gut lacings above the beds. Lone Eagle’s spare saddle and bridles were kept on the “men’s” side of the tent, Walks In Moonlight’s cooking utensils on the other.

Julia scanned the neat, orderly interior quickly. Her initial relief at escaping the rain turned instantly to disappointment.

“Suzanne and Little Hen aren’t at my quarters or at the stables,” she told Walks In Moonlight. “I’m worried they may have been caught out in the storm.”

“A wetting will not harm my daughter. She is as strong as a young sapling. But Suzanne…” Concern flickered in the Sioux’s dark eyes.

“Andrew—Major Garrett—and some of the men are out looking for them.”

“Do they look north along the riverbank, where the rivers join?”

“Why would the girls go there?”

“Little Hen promised earlier she would gather the moss I need for yellow dye. For the new saddlebags I make for Lone Eagle.”

With a graceful gesture, Walks In Moonlight indicated the square of buffalo hide pegged out in the workspace at the center of the tipi. Intricate vermilion squares already decorated the hide. Like the other bags, shields and personal items hanging throughout the interior of the tent, this bag would reflect Walks In Moonlight’s exquisite artistry.

“The moss grows best where the two rivers join,” she explained.

Julia swung the dripping shawl back over her hair. “I’ll look there.”

“I will go with you.”

Snatching a decorated buffalo calfskin from one of the low beds, Walks In Moonlight pressed it on Julia.

“Here, cover yourself with this instead of your wet cloth. The hide is oiled. It will protect you from the rain.”

With a murmured word of thanks, Julia traded her sopping shawl for the furry robe. Draped over her head and shoulders, it proved a very effective shield as she and Walks In Moonlight hurried across the footbridge and turned to follow the Laramie to its juncture with the Platte. Swollen by the rain, the mountain stream bubbled and frothed. Julia gave a silent prayer that Suzanne and Little Hen hadn’t strayed too close to the rain-soaked banks and tipped into the rushing water.