No Other Man (10 page)

"That's
your misfortune," she said sweetly. Then she almost backed into the
fireplace, she was so certain that he was going to come and do her bodily harm.

He did
not, turning instead to slam a fist against the wall with such fervor that it
seemed the entire place shook. "You intend to stay?" he roared.

"I
have to stay!" she told him determinedly. He continued to stare at her
with such leashed fury that she found herself hurriedly going on. "I will
stay. I've come out here; I must stay. I won't get in your way, I promise.
I—"

"How do you know?"

"How do I know what?"

"That you won't get in my way?"

"Because I won't. I—"

He
strode toward the table, slamming the whiskey bottle upon it as he leaned
toward her. ' 'What if there are women I choose to have in my life?"

"Then—"
She faltered, her eyes falling. She raised them, meeting his cleanly.
"Then you must keep them in your life."

He
crossed his arms over his chest, looking as if he liked her all the less the
more she spoke.

"If
you'd been about to take a wife, surely your father wouldn't have married you
to me," she said hastily. "And as to anyone else ... I'll stay out of
your way."

"Really?"

"Completely."

He took
a long swig from the whiskey bottle and leaned against the table again. This
time his eyes looked as if they were on fire. "What if I wanted you in my
way."

"What?" she whispered.

"What if I wanted you to be a wife to me?" "I—I..."

"I
believe I could get either an annulment or a divorce on the grounds that you
were denying me conjugal rights."

The
fire was hot behind her, but she knew that she flushed a crimson that was
hotter than the blaze. He started to smile. He was trying to unnerve her. A
strange trembling

did
seize her. Not because she was afraid. But
because of something that was compelling about him. The way he moved, perhaps.
The subtle scent of him, the hot gaze of his green eyes. Don't give an inch!
she thought. For he would not. She lifted her chin. Then she allowed her eyes
to sweep over him in cold assessment. She shrugged.

"If you want a wife, you've got one," she said
evenly.

He was silent for a moment, watching her. He drew the whiskey
bottle to his lips once again, his eyes never leaving hers. He lowered the
bottle, placing it on the table, his hands on his hips.

"Lady," he said very quietly, "you really are
one gold- digging little whore!"

The words seemed to lash out at her with greater violence
than any of the actions he had taken against her. No matter how the force of
them hit her, she willed herself to remain perfectly still, returning his
stare. She weighed her reply carefully, speaking in an equally soft tone,
"And you are a selfish, self-righteous, judgmental ass with all the
manners of a sniveling piglet. You've no right—"

"You're giving me every right in the world, aren't you,
Lady Douglas?"

She narrowed her eyes on the whiskey bottle. "You're
drunk and insulting."

"I'm trying very hard to get drunk, and I'm calling a
spade a spade. Besides, I would think 'drunk and insulting' an improvement over
what you considered my previous potential for being murderous and
scalp-raising."

Skylar knew she tread upon very thin ice. His temper was
explosive—and he was convinced she had hastened his father's death.

She wondered if anything she could ever say would change his
conviction.

There had to be a way to fight him. A place to strike.

"If I'm not mistaken," she murmured, meeting his
eyes once again, "hasn't whiskey led to the downfall of a number of
Indian tribes?"

He stared at her, smiled slowly, and came forward.

"Yes,
it has. But I'm not a tribe. Just one Indian. Who also happens to be the son of
a misguided English lord who discovered himself in love with a landscape and a
people. Who also happens not to want a wife! Ah, but it seems that I have one,
right? Drink with me then, my dear. Let's celebrate making each other's
acquaintance!"

Suddenly he was in motion again, coming around the table.
Skylar quickly circled away from him. The table wasn't big enough. She wasn't
fast enough. His fingers caught her wrist, and he drew her around to crash
against his body.

"Baltimore, eh? Tell me, Lady Douglas, do you come from
a family deeply Southern at heart? Have I come upon a belle who wouldn't dream
of swilling whiskey straight? I don't believe so. I think you're tough as
nails. Have a swallow."

She closed her eyes briefly. She could be done with this. She
could agree to his annulment, give him no more reason to taunt her.

She took the bottle from him. Took a sip. She wasn't used to
straight liquor. She coughed and wheezed but quickly gained control of herself
and slammed the bottle back into his chest. "We've celebrated," she
said coolly.

"Have we?" He set the bottle on the table. His
hands were suddenly upon her cheek and throat, his long fingers splayed along
her chin, lifting it. His breath just fanned her lips, then his mouth touched
down upon hers, forcing a full, open-mouthed kiss, his tongue plunging deeply
into her, liquid fire, decadent in the extreme. His fingers slipped beneath
the robe, touching her collarbone and throat. She was drawn inexorably nearer.
His hand slipping down to cup her breast, his palm moving over her nipple. She
was startled by the lightning rip of sensation that tore into her from the
touch. Such shocking warmth, so mercurial, so sweeping, touching where he
touched, touching where he did not.

She brought her hands between them to protest, to push away.
But his lips had moved just a breath away from hers.

His fingers then threaded through her hair, and his whisper
was soft and taunting against her ear.

"What
if I wanted a wife, eh, Lady Douglas?
Then I'd have
a wife, so you say."

She
went still, her heart pounding, hating him, hating herself. She wanted so badly
to pull away.

Because
she was so appalled by the feelings that engulfed her. At the simmering warmth
that filled her. At the way she felt when he touched her, brushed her nipple,
forced his tongue into her mouth, stroking with a strange insinuation that
seemed to leap inside her as well as without ... oh, God, she needed to be free
from him!

But she
didn't need to pull away. He suddenly thrust her from him.

"You
are for sale to the highest bidder, aren't you, Lady Douglas?" he
demanded.

She
stared at him, shaking, realizing her robe hung open. She raised her fingers to
her damp, swollen lips, drew the robe more tightly against her.

"You
have his eyes but nothing else," she said. "There is nothing else of
your father about you at all," she told him heatedly.

"Don't
you tell me about my father," he warned her.

"I might have known him better than you."

"One
has the feeling you've known many men. But now that we are wed, thanks to my
father's efforts on my behalf," he said sardonically, "the only man
you'll know is
me."

"You bastard!" she hissed.

But he
didn't hear her. He had turned away and slammed out of the lodge.

And once again, she was alone.

Six

Wolf was an
extraordinary dog.

He was the best guard dog in the world, ready to rip to
shreds any enemy who might come near his master. Yet when Hawk came outside the
lodge, slamming the door in his wake only to sink down and sit on the wooden
porch, Wolf was beside him instantly, whining softly, sticking his wet nose
next to Hawk's face.

"Hey, dog, good dog," Hawk said softly, rubbing his
pet's fur strenuously. Wolf settled down beside Hawk, his nose on his master's
knee. Hawk patted him absently. He leaned his head back against the lodge wall.
He had swigged down way too much whiskey.

He didn't appreciate her informing him of the fact. Nor
reminding him that yes, the Indians had been made fools of time and again over
liquor.

He didn't, in fact, appreciate her very existence.

A dull pain struck him again. What had his father been
thinking when he'd married him to this woman? He had known that David Douglas
had been deeply concerned about U.S. policy in the West because he was
convinced that generals were, running the government. Grant was president, and
therefore commander in chief of the army. Sher- man and Sheridan, who had done
their share of devastating the South in order to win the war, had been turned
loose on the American West for some time now. Each year, the conflicts
increased the determination of the whites to open the West. Indians were to
live where they were told or be considered hostiles. But there was nothing good
about reservation living. The whites wanted the best lands. The buffalo were
being hunted to extinction. When the Indians couldn't hunt enough game, they
starved. Unless they could grow enough food. But the Plains Indians survived
mostly off their hunting. And if they had been natural farmers, it wouldn't
have mattered, because any time the land was good, the whites eventually wanted
it. On the reservations, far too often, the men grew lazy and indolent. They
drank. ..

Until their pride drove them from the
reservations. And then they became hostiles. And hostiles were to be exterminated.

David had warned his son of this frequently. Just as he had
often enough urged his son to marry again, to heal the breach in his heart.
Marry a white woman. One who would not be a sister or a daughter of a hostile.
One who would not bring him more heartache.

He wished he hadn't left the whiskey inside.

He wished his head wasn't pounding.

He wished ...

It was his cabin. What was he doing slumped down with his dog
on the porch while she resided comfortably inside? Especially after he'd ridden
through half the night to reach Gold Town and had spent a good part of today
riding back.

Why wouldn't she go back home? Perhaps she knew the terms of
his father's will. Knew that she had far more to gain if she remained here as
his ...

Wife. The woman was his wife. He almost laughed aloud,
remembering how Henry had asked if there was something wrong with her. No,
there was nothing wrong with her. Her eyes were almost pure silver; her hair
was almost pure gold. To touch her was to feel a stroke of silk.

To lie
against her was to feel the greatest sensual pleasure. To...

His thoughts broke off as he realized that the pounding that
had been in his head seemed to have filled the length of him. His groin was hot
and hard. He could remember the taste and feel of her lips, the full curve of
her breast.

Too damned had she was his wife.

Bought and paid for, so it seemed. There was no returning
her.

Even if she was his father's used goods.

Even if she'd brought about David's death.

He swore out loud. Dusk was already falling again. He'd been
gone from Mayfair far longer than he'd intended, and he needed to travel out
again to the river country beyond the hills where he knew he'd find his
grandfather's band.

But not tonight. Tonight...

He'd always been sparing in most things. His eating habits,
his use of alcohol.

Not tonight. Tonight, he wanted to get rip-roaring drunk.
Toast the old man.

Toast the new woman.

Fall into a deep, drunken sleep and dream that time could
move backward and the plains could be big enough for the red men, the white
men, and the buffalo.

He gave Wolf a last pat on the head and pushed himself back
up to his feet. He opened the door, stepping back into the cabin.

She stood pensively before the fire, then looked at him
warily as he entered. Her robe was drawn tight; she'd drawn her fingers through
the long strands of her golden hair to somewhat righten it. She appeared calm,
dignified, her eyes touching his with that regal look she could manage. He
noted again that she had been endowed with an almost startling, beauty: the
silver of her eyes was so intense, the gold of her hair so vivid, the
sculpture of her oval face so defined, delicate, elegant, arresting. As he
watched her, he realized that a tempting aroma was filling

The
cabin. She'd set a kettle atop the fire, and the hunger- rousing scent was
wafting from it.

"It's
soup," she murmured defensively. "You told me to make my myself at
home. I found onions and potatoes to go with the ham. And some shell
peas."

"Ah.
What a good wife," he mocked. "She cooks."

"What
a good husband," she retorted. "He drinks."

"Cheers!"
He found the whiskey bottle on the table and lifted it to her, smiling grimly
as he spoke. "He drinks— and he's a Sioux. Tell me, even if you're
absolutely determined to remain here—and I'll grant you that Mayfair is a fine
enough place to live—doesn't it disturb you in the least that my skin is red? I
am an Indian. A Sioux—considered by many whites to be among the most savage
beasts on the plains. You were hardly enamored of me when we met."

"You
were attacking my stagecoach when we met."

"It's what Indians do."

She
ignored that, walking to the fire. "If you'd like to try this, I'll get
you a bowl."

"Indeed, yes. I'm ravenous. Do so."

She
placed the soup before him. He pulled a chair from the table and tasted the
soup, never taking his eyes from her.

"Well. Is it edible?"

"Not poisoned, right?"

"Not poisoned."

"It's quite adequate."

"How kind," she murmured coolly.

He
caught her wrist, smiling up at her. "Perhaps it should have been
poisoned. I'm a young man. It's unlikely that you'll induce me to expire from a
heart attack."

She
wrenched her wrist free, rubbing it. "Enjoy your adequate soup. The next
meal you'll get from me you'll wear over your head before you ever get a chance
to eat it."