Chapter 16 #2
His mouth formed over hers. He ran his tongue over her lips, then plunged between them, sweeping the recesses of her mouth.
His kiss was deep…then light again. His lips nibbled hers, then seemed to devour with a deep hunger once again.
A deep, pleasant languor settled over her.
She lay very still, feeling his lips against her own, the deliberate play of his tongue.
She forgot the paint and saw only the man.
He drew her up and swept her nightgown over her head.
She felt the warm flickering of the firelight over her naked flesh.
He took her into his arms as they kneeled together.
His fingers stroked the length of her spine, his kiss brushed her throat…
her collarbone. His mouth found her breast, playing with it, caressing it, the rasp of his tongue hardening the nub of her nipple and sending lightning through her.
She closed her eyes and felt his touch with each leap and crackle of the flames.
His fingers stroked her, within and without.
She clung to his shoulders, threaded her fingers through his hair, then fell back…
and he was with her, running his hand up and down her body, his palm just slightly rough.
Again he played. Slowly, deliberately. His fingers traced patterns around her breasts, and his lips followed where they strayed.
He settled over her; she opened her eyes, seeing his face again, half in shadow, half in paint, with the flickering orange glow of firelight upon it.
Tremors raked through her as she looked into his dark eyes.
She could see the unique strength within him that came from living his dual life, and she wrapped her arms around him, glad to close her eyes and cling to him.
Sweet warmth blazed to passion; the color of the night was red.
The feel of his flesh was slick and hot, vibrant and powerful.
His every touch spread the fire throughout her body.
She would always remember the burnt oranges and fiery crimsons of that night, exploding at the end in a rainbow of brilliance that burst and rained upon her like a million tiny slivers of crystal. ...
They argued no more that night. She lay beside him, glad of the feel of his arms around her.
She wondered if she should mention to him the possibility that had been haunting her for the last week or so. But she hesitated. She wasn’t sure yet, not at all sure. And she didn’t want to tell him what might not be true. She let her hand close over his.
She awoke to sunlight filtering into the tipi.
She shivered a bit, for the fire had died and the air remained cool.
Halfway rising, she reached for her nightgown as she shivered, then discovered that he was seated a slight distance from her, watching her with a gaze of pure amusement as he sipped coffee.
His paint was gone; he was back in his uniform again, all the way to his plumed hat.
She paused, holding the nightgown to her chest.
“What’s so amusing?” she inquired.
He smiled. “You. You look like a pinto.”
She frowned, then looked down the length of her body.
His black paint had rubbed off on her—in all the various places he had touched her.
She leaped up, swearing beneath her breath, evermore irritated by the easy sound of his laughter.
She spun away from him, ready to go striding out, remembering that there was a stream nearby.
“Whoa, hold up! Ice Raven is out there, my love.”
She turned back to him, surprised. She knew three of her brother-in-law’s cousins: Willow, who lived among the Whites, and his brothers, Blade and Ice Raven, who lived among the Sioux on unceded lands.
“Hostile” Indians.
Yet they were all well-educated men, in both White and Indian ways, and all three of them had ridden without regard for personal danger to help her and Skylar when they had been threatened by her stepfather and his hired assassins.
She would always be grateful to them; she would always consider them her friends.
She felt a tugging about her heart as she realized that Ice Raven would be considered the enemy by most of the people at the fort.
The uncomfortable feeling she was experiencing was just a taste, she realized, of what Sloan must feel.
“Ice Raven?” How had she forgotten that Sloan had had an accomplice holding the horses last night? She flushed, furious that he had played such a trick on her in front of others.
He lifted his coffee cup slightly. “He’s kept watch. I told you—miners were recently murdered, not far from here.”
“And whom did he watch for?” she queried. “White men—or Indians?”
A shadow seemed to darken Sloan’s eyes. “He watched for danger,” he said simply, rising. “Put your nightgown back on. I’ll walk you to the stream; I’ve brought your clothing.”
“You brought my clothing?”
“Yes, I brought your clothing,” he said, annoyed. “I went back to your camp and got your clothing and your horse.”
“So everyone knows that you decided to punish your errant little wife by dragging her into the woods at knifepoint.”
He stared at her a moment. “I never had a knife, and no one knows what went on between us. Let’s get going. I need to report back to General Terry.”
She slid into the gown, striding past him and informing him, “I’m sure I can find the stream, and—I’m not in the mood for company.”
She walked out.
Ice Raven sat before a fire he had built in the open.
The pleasant aroma of fresh-perked coffee filled the air.
Ice Raven stood, smiling a welcome as he saw her.
No matter how angry she was at Sloan, she wasn’t going to betray her feelings to their friend.
She wondered how much of their arguments he had heard.
“Ice Raven!” she said with pleasure, greeting him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
He returned her embrace quickly. “Little Sister,” he said, using the “Indian” nickname he had given her. “It’s good to see you.”
“And you. You’re looking well. How did you happen upon Sloan?”
Ice Raven’s eyes twinkled slightly. “How did you happen upon Sloan, Little Sister?”
“I believe that I asked the question first.”
Ice Raven nodded, his smile fading. “He came to the Cheyenne camp. We met there.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“I’m on my way to Hawk’s.”
“I wish that I were going with you. I have gotten to see my sister since I moved to the fort only once.” She sighed. “Hawk must be deeply distressed with this situation growing worse and worse all the time. But Ice Raven, you should keep yourself safe; you should stay with Hawk!” she informed him.
He shrugged. “I grow weary of fighting…yet I fear that I cannot just walk away.” He touched her cheek suddenly, smiling. He drew away his finger, showing the black on it. “War paint,” he said innocently.
“Umm. I’m headed for the stream.”
Sabrina saw the grin on his face before she turned and walked through a grove of trees to a crystal-clear stream that gurgled and bubbled around dozens of small rapids. She came to the water’s edge and hesitated. It was beautiful country, she thought. Exquisite country. Land worth fighting for.
She kneeled down to wash. The water was freezing, but she was determined to rid herself of the war paint.
She swore softly as she looked nervously about the trees, then drew off her gown and, ignoring the freezing water, used the clean, gritty sand from the water’s bed to scrub away the war paint that had indeed given her the appearance of a pinto.
“You missed a spot,” she heard.
Swinging around in panic, she saw Sloan at the top of the rise leading down to the water. As she turned, she lost her footing on a slick root and went crashing down into the water. She heard him laughing softly as she surfaced. He stood on the root then, extending a hand to her.
She ignored his hand, seething—despite the fact that her teeth were chattering with the cold.
“Sabrina, I’m trying to help you.”
“Indeed. And you were trying to help me last night.”
“Actually,” he said gravely, “I was. It’s dangerous to wander from the fort. Surely, you’ve come to that realization. Come on, now; take my hand.”
She hesitated, then did so.
And she wrenched with all her strength.
To her great pleasure, he came sliding off the slick root. He didn’t exactly fall flat, but he did stumble knee-deep into the water, and his handsome plumed hat went flying, landing in the stream.
To her dismay, however, he still had her hand. She tugged on it to free herself, to no avail. He tugged back, drawing her flush against him. “Here’s another lesson. If you’re going to attack a stronger enemy, be sure that your aim is true, because retaliation can be swift.”
“I don’t know what you mean—” she began, only to gasp as she found herself swept up—and dropped back into the water. When she came up sputtering that time, he had collected his hat and was walking away—his boots squeaking. “Your clothes are on the bank!” he called to her.
Blue-lipped and shivering, she crawled out of the water, damning him furiously with her every breath.
She dressed very quickly and came back over the rise. Ice Raven was gone. Sloan was seated atop Thomas and leading Ginger. She strode angrily to her horse.
“Need help?” he inquired politely.
“Not from you,” she assured him and leaped easily into her saddle.
He didn’t reply but led the way back to the riverbank where the others had camped. For the most part, everyone was up and ready to travel back.
Yet, passing a tent as they rode into the center of the camp, they heard a deep angry voice.
“Stupid woman, are you incompetent at everything?”
There was a whisper, then a strange noise and a soft sob. Sabrina glanced sharply at Sloan.
He reined in on Thomas.
“Is everything all right?” Sloan asked as Lloyd Jenkins stepped out of the tent, adjusting his suspenders.
“Everything is just fine, Major. Sir.”
“We just thought you might be having trouble,” Sabrina said.
“No. No trouble,” Jenkins said, staring at her.
She nudged Ginger forward, feeling very uncomfortable. Poor Jean! No wonder she was so shy and quiet, with Lloyd Jenkins for a husband. The way that he spoke to her was appalling.
Sloan rode next to her.
“That was awful!” she said.
He didn’t reply.
“He was awful to her!”
“Yes, and what the hell do you think I can do about it?” Sloan demanded angrily.
She stared at him and saw nothing but his angry dark eyes. Then her gaze slipped to his hands, and she saw that he was holding the reins so tightly that his knuckles were white.
“Perhaps you could talk to him,” she suggested coolly.
“Sabrina, the man is afraid that I’m going to scalp him in his sleep one night. I hardly think that he would listen to anything I have to say about the proper way to speak to his wife.”
“Someone should do something!” she insisted.
Sloan pulled on Ginger’s reins, drawing the horse to a halt so that he could come around on Thomas and face Sabrina. “You can’t do anything, do you understand? Stay away from Jenkins.”
She refrained stubbornly from replying.
“You said that what I did last night was awful,” he reminded her.
“Yes, but…” Her voice trailed away.
“But?”
She shook her head. “There’s something—more awful—about this.”
“Sabrina, Major Sloan! Good morning!” Louella called to them cheerfully.
She was returning from the stream, washed and dressed and with a spring in her step, as if the fresh frontier air agreed with her completely.
“Major! Tom said that you were here and that you’d come for Sabrina, but I didn’t hear a word!
How opportune that you happened to come along. ”
“Yes—very opportune,” Sloan said politely in return.
Sabrina didn’t glance Sloan’s way, but she realized that he had staged his “attack” well and that he had told her the truth.
Apparently, no one knew what he had been doing, and no one, other than Tom, had known he was even among them.
Still, Ice Raven had known. And she felt like a fool. She hadn’t recognized her own husband.
Others came forward, greeting Sloan. He returned the greetings and when asked, explained patiently again and again that Crook’s men had attacked a Cheyenne band and that, no, Crazy Horse and his people had not been among them.
“Then there will still be a major campaign,” Libbie Custer murmured knowingly. She offered Sloan a grimace. “Maybe Autie will be needed.”
“Maybe,” he encouraged her.
When everyone was mounted, the party started back.
When they neared the fort, Sabrina could see that the preparations for the campaign were going forward full force. Sergeants drilled their men; sabers slashed at straw heads as cavalrymen raced down upon them, one by one.
Watching the action as they rode in, Sabrina felt a strange sense of foreboding. Chills assailed her, and she shivered fiercely.
She sensed that Sloan was watching her and she looked at him quickly.
“What is it?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Nothing—except that I was rather rudely dunked in cold water.”
“You were already wet,” he reminded her.
“Indeed?” she murmured.
“Are you ill?” he asked her.
She shook her head again. “No, I’m fine. Just cold.”
She nudged Ginger and went loping on ahead of him.
Although Sloan had just returned from his scouting mission, he was due to report to General Terry in St. Paul.
Sabrina was disappointed that he was already preparing to leave again. When she was left alone in their quarters, she felt as if she were getting ill. She was dizzy; her stomach felt queasy.
She unpacked the small bag she’d taken on the excursion into the wilderness. Then she sat in one of the upholstered armchairs by the stove, her feet tucked beneath her.
It was possible.
Just possible.
She should tell him.
She nibbled pensively at her lower lip. She was still really angry about the trick he had played on her.
But still…
She just wasn’t certain. And she didn’t want to say anything until she was. There would be plenty of time to tell him when she was sure.
Plenty of time.