No Other Man (17 page)

"Why? I prefer to sleep naked. I was raised in a tipi,
you must realize," he mocked.

Then tremors shot through her because he was so suddenly at
her side, sweeping her off her feet, laying her down upon the bed. He was
beside her then, his fingers upon the lace and ribbon of her bodice.

"You can't do this!" she lashed out as she tried to
catch his wrists.

"But I can. I have, and I will."

"No, you can't—you can't just.

He released her, rolling over to strike a match from the
bedside table and relight one of the candles there. He stared down at her,
naked, his flesh glistening, his eyes unfathomable. He looked far more
civilized with clothes on, she decided. He didn't touch her as he leaned over
her, staring into her eyes.

"Don't you think it's a little late for you to be
reneging on the marriage agreement? What's the matter with you?" he
demanded.

"The matter with me—I beg your pardon?" she cried,
shimmying up to the headboard to put distance between them. "What is not
the matter here!"

"The rules were set. You chose not to get an annulment—"

"I chose not to get an annulment? If you wanted one, why
didn't you file papers?" she demanded in return.

"You chose not to get an annulment," he repeated,
seeming to grow angrier. "You chose to be a wife. Now suddenly—"

"Suddenly! There's nothing sudden here! It's a wretched
situation. Let's see," Skylar told him. "Just for starters, I barely
know you!"

"You know enough. We got acquainted rather well last
night. I know everything I need to know about you."

"There you have it, Lord Douglas!" she exclaimed.
"You think you know everything! You're rude, presumptuous—"

"Yes, but I'm also'your husband. Married to you. Just as
you have willed it that you are my wife. Our agreements have been made."
He threw up his hands with impatience, and his tone was harsh. "What do
you know of this great western frontier you've come upon? Especially since the
war, with the death of so many men back east, women have flocked out here by
the scores to husbands they have never before seen to take up the toil and
drudgery of eking out an existence on the plains. You'll not have to get a
single blister. But I promise you, those husbands have not brought their wives
west so that they may sleep apart."

There never seemed to be any arguing with him, she thought
rebelliously. She felt the rise of tears coming hot to the backs of her eyes.
She fought them, her chin very high, her voice regal.

"Those husbands want wives; they are surely courteous,
while you, Lord Douglas, are one wretched, cold bastard!" she hissed to
him.

"Not true. Not true at all. Bear in mind, those husbands
knew they were acquiring wives, while I am still in shock over your arrival.
No, I don't want a wife. I've never lied about that, and neither will I forget
the very strange circumstances of your arrival and cast flowers at your feet.
Indeed, I did not desire a wife, but I have discovered that I do want the woman
I've acquired. Therefore, I am not cold at all; rather, I'm burning. A bastard
on fire, if you will."

"Then very recently heated, I think! This isn't even
your room. You had no intention of coming here until I had the ill fortune to
stumble upon you—"

"And how do you know that this isn't my room?" he
demanded, watching her. Then he suddenly smiled. "Ah, you've been
exploring. Searching my house. Uninvited. So, you're offended that I didn't
have you taken to my room."

She shook her head strenuously. "You're mistaken. I'm
offended that you're in mine."

"Or are you offended because you suspect others might
have been invited to mine?"

"Not at all, if you'd only the good grace to remain
there yourself!"

He started to laugh. "Lady Douglas,
you are unique, I do grant you that!"

"And you are a presumptuous bastard, I do swear it.
Still assuming I somehow wronged your father. Well, I didn't seduce him into
his heart attack; I never slept with him. You surely do know that now for a
fact—" She broke off, wanting him gone.

"Tell me what happened."

"I'll never tell you anything! Never!"

"Then it seems that what we share in this bedroom must
suffice to make us man and wife."

"I—"

She cried out in rage and surprise when he moved with ungodly
speed, catching hold of her bodice, ripping the white gown cleanly down the
center. She tried to slam her hands against his chest, but he was too quick,
catching her wrists, staring at her as she stared back at him. He eased his
hold on her wrists.

She shook, still meeting his green gaze, making no move.

"How dare you?" she grated out furiously.

He leaned over her, pinching out the light of the candle with
his thumb and forefinger. Then his body covered her like a blanket, his fingers
winding around her wrists and bringing them to her side, exposing her bare
flesh to his. His skin sleek and hot against her own. She felt the pounding of
his heart, the ripple and form of muscle.

"You told me if I wanted a wife, I would have a wife.
Your words, your promise. Tonight, I want a wife." She was startled by the
tension in his features above her in the near darkness. She swallowed hard,
twisting her face from his in the darkness. Dreading his touch, anticipating
it, yearning for it. What could she possibly do now? Revise at this late moment
what she had said before? You may have a wife anytime you want just as long as
you touch no other woman.

Let him know that unbidden jealousy tore at her heart. It
made no sense, really, but it was there.

She stared at him again. "Fine. You're right. Take what
you want. Any time. But again, I swear, I'll give you nothing. Nothing.
Until..."

She broke off, gasping. His lips were on her flesh. His mouth
closing over her breast. Subtly stroking, moving, suckling. His hands ... on
her body. Thrusting between her thighs. His fingers touching, rubbing, parting
...

She nearly cried out loud in anguish, but she willed herself
to silence.

Just as she willed herself not to move. Not to give. Not to
deny, but not to give ...

Damn him.

The feel of his flesh, his lips and teeth, the stoke of his
tongue. Damn his bold intimacy. Damn him, damn him, damn him. She clenched her
teeth together hard. Tossed her head to the side. Felt him, felt sensations so
newly awakened, so prepared to come awake again, flesh so tender, to be
stroked, caressed, kissed ...

Him. On top of her. Filling her. The feel, the friction, the
speed, the fever—it was unbearable. She would not give! She'd have back her
soul, please God ...

In the end, she never made a voluntary move. She never had
to. He had the satisfaction of feeling what she could not hide, the
constriction that seized her, the trembling that shook her, the liquid heat
encompassing him. But that was all. She gave nothing more. Nothing more at all.
It didn't seem to bother him. He reached his own climax, his body locked atop
hers, once again, and again. He held there a long while, still within her. She
refused to open her eyes. She barely breathed.

"How long will you play this game, I wonder?" he
queried, studying her face when he withdrew from her at last. She turned her back
on him, furious with men in general. They never seemed to understand anything.

"Have it your way then, Lady Douglas," he said at
last.

"Would you stop that mockery?" she demanded, still
resentful that it seemed she had managed nothing more than to amuse him.

"Which mockery is that, since all
seems mockery to you?"

"Lady Douglas."

"You are Lady Douglas. You've been most insistent about
informing me of that fact."

"I will never be Lady Douglas to you," she said,
wishing she could draw away from him completely. She felt like an injured cat.
She wished she could lick her wounds. But she could not. She could turn from
him, but it seemed she couldn't escape him completely.

He was silent a long moment. "Skylar," he said. It
was the first time she could ever remember his using her given name. She had
even wondered at times if he remembered what it was.

He leaned over her shoulder in the shadows. She felt the
brush of his ink-black hair against the flesh of her shoulder. "Skylar,
you are mistaken. It seems you are Lady Douglas," he told her, adding,
"indeed, you are to me, and to everyone else."

He shifted, turning his back on her. She lay in silence,
wishing she could sleep. Wishing that she didn't feel both the closeness of his
body and the distance that lay between them.

Eventually, she slept. She dreamed. Distorted dreams that her
mind couldn't seem to hold on to. Yet sometime during the night, she woke,
frightened, and not at all certain as to why she was afraid. She'd been alone,
she thought. Alone, and she'd needed help so badly. She sat up, shivering.

"What is it?"

She jumped, startled. She wasn't alone. He remained with her.
He lay at her side, his dark head upon a white pillow, his eyes opened, seeing
more in the darkness than she, she was certain.

"Nothing," she whispered, swallowing uneasily.

"Come back to sleep." It was more of an impatient
command than an invitation, yet somehow ...

There was something almost normally domestic about it.

"It's at least another hour until dawn," he
informed her.

His long dark fingers fell upon her arm in the moonlight. He
pulled her back down. Against him. His arm remained around her. Her back was
tucked to his chest. She could feel his chin atop her head, his movement as he
smoothed down her hair to keep it from tickling his nose. She could feel the
smoothness of the flesh on his chest, the ripples of the muscles beneath. She
could feel the hardness of his hips and the bulk of his relaxed sex against her
buttocks. For a few seconds she dared not move or breathe. She felt the
rhythmic pulse of his heart. Slowly, she felt more at ease. She closed her
eyes. Drifted.

She was warm.

And she wasn't alone.

When he awoke, she still slept. He found
himself propped on an elbow, regarding her again with a brooding deliberation.
How long had she been a part of his life now? Three days? How long since he had
actually verified their legal relationship and taken possession of her as a
wife? Not quite two days. So why was it that he felt she had seeped inside of
him? Why was it he still felt such a keen fury to shake her, make her explain?
Take the hostility she held against him like a steel shield and snap it and
break it.

He rose quietly, washed, and dressed in the clothing he had
shed the night before. Today they were going to bury his father. The father
he'd trusted. The father who had saddled him with this impossible, exquisite
woman. This woman who had influenced his father's last will and testament,
something that still shook him to the core. And hurt. And she'd been there when
David had died.

He had not.

He stood over the bed for a moment, remembering the silver
fire in her eyes and the flippant tone she'd used when mocking him last night.
He smiled, then let fly with a firm whack against the tempting ivory curve of
her buttocks. She instantly jumped up with an indignant cry, drawing tangled
skeins of golden hair from her face as she looked up at him—ready for warfare.

"Sorry, my love, but it's going to be a very busy day.
I'm sure Megan will need help and direction from the mistress of the house. I
have no idea how many people may arrive, but the Reverend Mathews is due at
half past three."

He turned and left before she could reply. Something struck
the door behind him. He smiled, but his smile faded as he walked down the
stairs. Willow and Lily had already arrived and were hanging black crepe over
the front door and window frames.

He hurried down the steps, greeting Willow, kissing Lily. He
was very fond of his cousin's wife. Lily had come west because she'd been a
sixteen-year-old girl left with nothing at the war's end. She'd joined with a
musical troupe and been part of a revue in Dodge City for many years. Heading
farther out west, her company had been waylaid by a band of Cheyenne on the
warpath soon after what had become known as the Sand Creek Massacre—the total
devastation of a Cheyenne village by the army. Lily had been spared. She'd been
taken as a second wife by a Cheyenne warrior who had later been killed. The
Cheyenne and the Sioux had often formed alliances in those years. Lily had come
to the Oglalas, and Willow had become smitten with her. She'd lived an Indian
life for many years, but there was little doubt that Willow's decision to live
in a lodge house had been influenced by his wife and his love for her.

"Hawk, Dark Mountain has just arrived," Lily told
him. "He is in with your father now." She was a small, attractive
woman with dark red hair and a smattering of freckles. He squeezed her hand,
glancing at Willow. "I'll talk with Dark Mountain."

"I'll see that you're not disturbed," Willow told him.

Hawk nodded and entered the parlor where his father lay. Dark
Mountain, his best friend from his boyhood days in the Sioux camp, stood by the
coffin. He had apparently opened the lid; now he closed it again. He was a tall
war- rior, dressed completely in buckskin, two feathers worn in his hair,
symbols of his triumphs in important battles.

"Thank you for coming," Hawk
said, speaking in Sioux, which had been his first language.

Dark Mountain nodded gravely and embraced him. "I am the
only one who will come from the Crazy Horse people," he told Hawk.
"Your father was a great man who will be missed by all. Crazy Horse has
said, though, that you will understand that he and his followers cannot come
here now."

"Yes, he's right, I do understand," Hawk said. The
Crazy Horse people were not a natural family band; they were not Miniconjou,
Two Kettles, Oglala or other—they were defined simply by the fact that they had
chosen to follow Crazy Horse and resist the white onslaught. Nor was Crazy
Horse a hereditary chief. He was, however, a very brave warrior among the
Sioux. When he was a boy, his vision quest had shown him a warrior, facing a
rain of bullets and arrows, riding a horse among them, never being hit. As the
years passed and he saw the way the white government broke every promise it
made to the Sioux, he became that warrior, a man determined to lead his people
in battle. He would be a free Indian, not a reservation Indian. More and more
young men, women, and even children flocked to him. The seven-foot warrior of
the Miniconjous, Touch-the-Clouds, had tried reservation life. He left again to
join Crazy Horse. Those bands now moved to the northwest to the final hunting
grounds of the Sioux, far from the white settlements, where Sitting Bull had
also amassed a large following. No matter how hard the government tried to get
them to come in to negotiate the sale of the Black Hills, the Crazy Horse
people determined to stay away.