The Endless Sky (Cheyenne Series) (25 page)

      
She seemed to look right past him ignoring his taunt. Well, he supposed she really did believe he might rape her. He knelt on the pallet and pulled her down beside him. “Lie down. I don't want you sliding off the horse in the dark tonight because you're too exhausted to stay awake.” When she was this close, he could smell that faint apple blossom essence and it sent most unwelcome sensations racing through his body. The journey to their camp would take at least three more days. Three days of lying beside her. Chase gritted his teeth and suppressed the ache in his groin as he willed her to obey him.

      
Perspiration glistened on her face, which was flushed from the growing heat. She was miserable. “I'd advise opening the collar on that prim little gown. Wouldn't want you getting heat stroke,” he added, unable to resist the jibe even though the idea of her baring that creamy throat was torture.

      
Stephanie was hot. Her mourning dress was black, trimmed with a high scratchy collar of deep violet lace, which seemed to be slowly strangling her as the sun arched higher in the sky.

      
“I won't unfasten anything. I have no intention of making it easy for you,” Stephanie replied crossly.

      
He gave her a nasty smile. “That's only fair since I have no intention of making it hard for you.”

      
She blushed down to the roots of her hair, too shocked to make a retort. Mustering her resolve, she retreated behind a wall of cold stoicism, staring at him with disdain. But the prim facade of calm was quickly broken when he produced that heinous length of rawhide that he had used to bind her wrists. “What are you doing?” she croaked as he seized one of her hands. He tied the rawhide around her wrist, then slipped the other end around his own, leaving barely a foot of play between them.

      
“Just making sure you don't do any exploring while I'm trying to rest. Oh, I might mention, Cheyenne warriors are very light sleepers. If you make any move at all, I'll know. Now lie down,” he commanded, as he stretched out on the pallet, yanking her right arm so she plopped on her side next to him.

      
Stephanie lay rigid as a board, trying desperately not to touch his body with her own, an almost impossible feat on the narrow confines of the blanket. She could feel his body heat radiating across the scant inches separating them. Sweat pooled between her breasts and soaked the tight waist of her dress. Her legs felt as if they were bundled in wool and fur instead of thin lawn petticoats and a polished cotton skirt. She stared straight up into the branches of the aspen, waving lazily in the faintest of breezes, green-gold against the brilliant azure dome of sky...and itched to unbutton her collar as he had suggested.

      
Gradually she became aware of a reciprocal tension in him. It was simply a matter of sixth sense, or feminine intuition at first. Then, from the corner of her eye, she could see his profile. His head rested with his right arm behind it as he, too, stared stonily heavenward. A secret smile tugged at her heart. Perhaps there still was a tiny bit of the old Chase left in this violent stranger. As children they had always been amazingly in tune with each other's thoughts and feelings. She had still felt some of that old familiar kinship when he courted her four years earlier.

      
Before she could stop herself or analyze what mad impulse made her do it, she began unfastening the buttons at her neck, quickly moving all the way to where her camisole covered the swell of her breasts. The whalebone of her corset, which had saved her belly from a pummeling when he had thrown her across the horse, now felt horribly constricting, not to mention hot. Suddenly a horrible thought occurred to her—how long would she have to keep it on before being allowed the privacy to rest in a night rail?

      
Chase felt his stomach clench when her left hand moved up her throat and began to open the front of her dress. By the time she stopped, he was rock hard, his staff straining against the confines of his breechclout, throbbing. He gritted his teeth, suppressing a groan, then casually bent his left leg at the knee, raising it to shield the telltale bulge of his erection. His own barb came back to mock him:
I have no intention of making it hard for you
. So much for intentions.

      
It would be so easy to roll on top of her and bury his face between the pale mounds of her breasts, to tear off her clothes and drive himself deep inside her. Damn her for taunting him. Didn't she know she was playing with fire? But if he took her even once, would he ever be able to let her go?

      
No, dammit, I can't do it! I'll take her to Red Bead and let my aunt have charge of her. She can spend the winter observing how my people live, share our privations. Let her see we are not animals. Then I'll send her back to Phillips.

      
The idea of that butchering bastard ever touching her ate at his gut. From what she said—and did not say—he gathered that the marriage was miserable. After being captured by savages, Chase knew the bluebelly wouldn't want back a soiled wife, one sullied by Cheyenne “bucks.” Perhaps it would be best if she returned to Boston. After all, she was a rich woman now that Josiah was dead. He looked over at her again. Exhaustion had finally closed her eyes. Her breasts rose and fell evenly in sleep. Hell, he'd think about what to do with her next spring. All he had to do now was keep his hands off her and get them both back to the fall hunting camp in one piece.

      
They awakened near dusk, ate a bit more, washed up in the stream and rode through the night, repeating the cold camp the following morning. By late that afternoon, Chase had awakened and gone down to the small water hole to wash up, leaving Stephanie still sleeping. Tomorrow they would reach his band. He must ride in dressed as befitted a Cheyenne warrior, free from the taint of white civilization. He took jewelry from its wrappings, then began to work his freshly washed hair into a braid, which he tied with a leather thong and adorned with several hard-won eagle feathers.

      
Stephanie heard him splashing in the pool as she came out of the deep slumber of exhaustion. Every bone in her body cried in protest as she sat up.
The whalebone staves of my corset must have permanently fused my rib cage to my spine by now,
she thought in misery, longing desperately to peel off every stitch and dive into the cool depths of the pool. Of course that was impossible. Chase was there.

      
Chase.
She watched him emerge from the screen of cord grass and sit down beside his saddlebags, looking refreshed and cool as he began to plait his hair and decorate it with feathers. Then he donned several copper bracelets and placed a pair of large silver loops in his ears. So that explained those tiny holes in his earlobes! Watching this pagan adornment ritual, she would have thought him a full-blooded red savage if not for the black hair on his chest and the bristling beard he had to shave off every night. He turned to her as if sensing her eyes on him.

      
“You can go down to the stream and wash up while I'm gone. I heard prairie chickens over the ridge. We're far enough into Cheyenne and Lakota hunting grounds now. It'll be safe enough to chance a fire for a hot supper tonight.”

      
Stephanie stood up, stiff and shaky from the days and nights spent sleeping on the ground and riding across the wide harsh plains. Now they were headed into rough, mountainous country. Dear God, where was he taking her? She considered the transformation in him since they had parted in Boston so long ago. Then he looked the epitome of a wealthy young Brahmin. Now he stood before her, half-naked and scarred, adorned with gaudy jewelry, his long hair in a braid. All he needed to complete the picture of one of George Catlin's splendid savages was to don an elaborately beaded bone breastplate.

      
Chase knew what she was thinking. He smiled thinly. “A warrior doesn't ride in with a captive unless he dresses the part. Go perform your own toilette...unless you want to look like the dirty hag Cheyenne women believe white females to be.”

      
With that parting sally, he leaped agilely onto the unsaddled horse, rifle in hand, and rode up the hill. Tears of angry frustration filled her eyes. Damn him! Dirty hag was she! Looking down at her dust-covered, wrinkled black dress, Stephanie knew she must look as bad as she felt. He had left a small bar of plain soap and a clean length of cloth out, even a heavy comb made of some sort of animal bone.

      
Grimly, she picked up the items and stomped down to the pool. Peeling off her dress and petticoats was wonderful, but unlacing the corset and taking her first deep breath in three days was pure bliss. She seized the soap and jumped into the pool, which was deep and colder than she would have imagined. After paddling about for a few moments, Stephanie realized Chase might return soon. She could not let him find her mother naked in the water. That would be tempting fate too much.

      
Do you want to tempt him?
that inner voice asked, scouring her conscience. Sternly she reminded herself that she was a married woman. There could be nothing between her and Chase Remington—or White Wolf the renegade. Even if she had not wed Hugh, she could never give herself to the man Chase had become.

      
But what if he takes you anyway?

      
The thought both tantalized and tormented her.
Dear God, what is happening to me?
She hugged herself, shivering in the cold water. What would he do when they arrived at his village? She would be his slave, utterly at his mercy. He could force her...if he had to. Back in Boston she had been the one to throw herself shamelessly at him. But then she was not wed to another man. Like it or not, she was now Hugh Phillips's wife. She must never again succumb to her old weakness for Chase Remington. The fear of sleeping beside him, of having him touch her squeezed her heart painfully. With a shuddering breath of resolution, she sudsed from head to toe, then rinsed and waded quickly to shore.

      
As she dried off, she eyed her corset and dirty clothes with distaste. There was no help for donning the ugly black dress again. She took the damp towel and wiped as much of the dust from the gown as she could, then smoothed it out on a big boulder to dry in the afternoon sun while she put on her undergarments. The whalebone corset lay on the ground like a menacing skeleton ready to pounce. She kicked it into some elderberry bushes and slipped on her petticoats and camisole, then the slightly damp dress, leaving the top several buttons open. “If he can parade about half-naked, I can damn well be dragged captive across the Rocky Mountains without a corset!” she muttered to herself, then set to work untangling her hair.

      
Just as she finished combing the waist-length masses and started to plait them, several shots rang out. She thought it was Chase bringing down the prairie chickens, but when she heard yelling in English, she leaped up and began to run in the direction of the ruckus. White men! Rescue, before the unthinkable had happened.
Before you gave in to him!

      
“Help me! I'm Stephanie Phillips—I've been kidnapped,” she cried out, running through the thickets of kinnikinnick toward the firing. She reached the trail across the opposite side of the ridge and burst into the clearing. Chase was afoot, his big dun some distance away in the buffalo grass. In front of him stood an old gaudily painted medicine wagon with a sign blazoned across the top proclaiming: Savage Cannibal Children!!! One rider was already a distant speck on the southern horizon, out of Chase's rifle range. A second man in a frock coat came tearing up the road toward her, whipping a big piebald into a hard gallop.

      
“Please, take me with you. I'm a cavalry officer's wife. I've been kidnapped,” she yelled, but he would have ridden her down if she had not thrown herself clear at the last second. As she rolled off the rocky road, the horse's hooves thundered by, just inches away. When the rider passed her Chase fired, but it was too late. The escapee had vanished into a dense stand of blue stem grass. A fat man wearing a garish stovepipe hat clutched a rifle to his chest, slumped across the open wagon box on the driver's seat. He was dead. Stephanie fought the nausea rising sourly in her throat as she stood up and took in the carnage. “You attacked a harmless medicine show and tried to kill all these men just because they're white!”

      
Chase strode toward her, fury blazing across his face like a molten brand, cursing in a mixture of English and Cheyenne. At least one of the men who escaped had heard her yelling and might report to the authorities that she had been abducted by Indians. Luckily she had only given her name, not his or his tribe. There was a slim chance he could catch one of the men but he had no hope of overtaking both of them.

      
“You damn little fool! He could've trampled you to death,” he snarled, grabbing her wrist and yanking her to him, then inspecting her for injuries. “Are you hurt?” He touched her cheek where a scrape from the flying gravel had drawn blood. “I'll have to clean that. Cuts fester quickly in this heat.”

      
“Why, Chase...why?” she asked. How could he be so tender now and have committed such a brutal savage act only moments ago?

      
“I didn't attack them because they were white,” he said wearily, seeing the fright and disillusionment in her eyes. “I was only trying to parlay with them to free the children but their leader there”—he gestured to the corpulent corpse—“decided it would be better to kill me. He pulled out that rifle from behind the seat. Guess he thought he could stuff me for a display in their little freak show.” He pointed to the bright orange calligraphy on the bottom of the wagon proclaiming the world's greatest display of taxidermy.