Chapter 1 #3
She couldn’t ascertain his age, but she thought he was somewhere near thirty—not a very young man, certainly not an old one—one indisputably in the very prime of life and at the height of his strength and power.
His skull was ruggedly sculpted, his jaw square, his cheekbones high, his forehead broad.
His unusual eyes were large and bright against the bronze of his flesh, while his brows, as well as his hair, were blue black and cleanly arched.
Were it not so fierce and menacing, it would have been a fascinating face.
Compelling, intimidating, masculine, hard but so cleanly lined that among any race it would be considered handsome.
His nose was long and straight, his mouth full, his lips oddly curled in a mocking smile that sent chills racing throughout her body once again.
Skylar was quite certain then that many a beautiful young Indian maid had worn her heart upon her sleeve for this ruthless warrior, and yet there was something in the mocking eyes that made her wonder if there wasn’t something dark and deadly in this savage’s past that might make him deal as callously with one of his own as he dealt with her.
No. He’d not slay an Indian woman when he had finished with his taunting of her…
Taunting. He was naked now. Buck naked. Dripping upon her as he held her.
“Savage son of Satan! Bastard!” she shrieked.
Hands tied, shoulders caught in his iron grip, she fought the only way she could, trying with all her remaining strength and energy to kick him.
She caught a shin yet didn’t draw so much as a grimace from him.
A second passed while they stared at one another.
Then she shrieked in real terror, for he plucked her up again and threw her down upon the bunk.
As she struggled to inch away from him and rise, her fear began to escalate in leaps and bounds, for he caught her by one foot, and despite her thrashing and struggling, removed the black lady’s boot from it.
“God, no. No!” she breathed, trying wildly to kick and fight, again to no avail.
Both boots were stripped from her and thrown to the floor.
She tried to slam her bound hands against him.
Then she gasped, inhaling on a half sob when he plucked a wicked-looking Bowie knife from the floor beneath the bed, bringing it to her chest, straight against her heart.
She stared at him in silence, wondering when the blade would find its way into her body, wondering what the pain would be like, how hard it would be to die. Oh, God…
“They’ll kill you!” she lashed out, determined not to cry even as tears burned against her eyes.
“The whites will come for you and slice you to ribbons, they’ll disembowel you, they’ll cut off your head—scalp you.
Oh, yes, they’ll scalp away all that black hair of yours and leave you bleeding until you die! ”
She thought his lips twitched, but his eyes were unyielding. He moved his hand slightly, and she closed her eyes and screamed, waiting for the knife to pierce her flesh.
Instead…
She heard the methodical ripping of material.
Her eyes flew open, and she realized that he had rent the fabric of her mourning gown from throat to hem.
“No!” she cried out, shaking, trying to remind herself that it was better to bear torn clothing than torn flesh.
She tried to use her bound hands as a weapon against him, only to find herself flung face down into the covers as he chopped away heedlessly at all the fabric covering her.
While she shrieked and struggled, gasping for breath against the bed, he ripped and tore away the black silk and lace of her gown, chemise, and top petticoat, then the white cotton and linen of her corset and pantaloons, even the soft, pink-ribboned bows of her garters.
With one hand he flipped her again so that she faced him, naked in the tattered remnants of her elegant apparel, and stared down at her.
“They’ll cut out your heart!” she cried to him, still fighting tears and renewed terror.
“Then you know what they’ll do? They’ll cut off your big, wretched, savage sex and feed it to the hogs, you bastard!
” She was going to start crying or lose her mind to sheer hysteria.
“I’ll do it. I’ll do it myself. Just you wait until I get my hands on a knife. You’ll be so sorry, you’ll—”
She shrieked because he was up and lifting her. She didn’t know now in what form death would come.
And she was heartily startled when she found herself dropped into the tub.
He meant to drown her.
He was going for her hair again. He was going to use it to force her under…
But he merely lifted her hair from her back, letting it fall down the outside of the tub. He turned back to the hearth for the cauldron of water.
He was going to scald her to death.
But he poured the water so that it warmed the bath without burning her. He replaced the cauldron, throwing a bar of soap her way.
“You want me clean when you kill me?” she snapped out bitterly. “No—” She began to gasp again, for he had hunkered down by the tub. The knife was suddenly glittering in his hands again.
She shrieked again, closing her eyes.
But he merely used the knife to snap the rawhide binding her wrists.
In panic, Skylar instantly took the soap and started to throw it at him.
She cried out as he caught her wrist. His eyes were on hers then with such warning that she went dead still except for the furious pounding of her heart.
“Fine!” she said, trying to keep her lips from trembling.
“I’ll scrub myself clean for that moment when you decide to murder me.
” She stared into his eyes. Crouched down beside her, he was more terrifying than ever.
His own nakedness seemed not to bother him in the least, while she was ever more tormented by the nudity he had enforced upon them both.
He was terrifyingly sexual, so perfectly honed and physically powerful, not to mention that he was surely exceptionally endowed, no matter the color of his flesh.
He let go of her and stood again, turning from her to move about the hearth.
For the moment, she clutched the soap, suddenly glad of it.
Time. She was buying time here. She furiously washed the trail dust and dirt and grime from her face.
She scrubbed her arms, legs, torso, desperately thinking about how to escape.
She realized then that she smelled coffee.
The scent of it tantalizing, delicious…
There were no more sounds coming from the hearth.
She turned to discover that he had decked himself out in a white man’s long smoking jacket and that he was leaning against the wooden mantel over the hearth, his arms crossed over his chest, watching her, his green eyes as hard as emerald chips and giving away nothing of his thoughts.
Then she realized that he was actually studying her. A strange warmth seared through her. The oddest sensation of panic seized her, a panic she couldn’t even understand because it wasn’t simply a fear of him. Irrationally, she sprang from the tub, racing wet and naked for the door.
Naturally, she didn’t make it. When he seized hold of her this time, lifting her into his arms, she half sobbed and half laughed, slamming her fists against him.
The robe he wore came open. She was aware of his flesh, the warmth of it, the sleekness of it, the muscled strength that lay beneath it.
He smelled of soap from the bath, and to her horror, though she was afraid, she was not as repelled as she should have been.
He laid her back down on the cot. He was entangled with her hair, she with his robe.
Whether or not he’d intended to, he fell upon her, and she became more vividly aware of the structure of his anatomy and all the strengths and hungers within it.
An awful breathlessness seized her, a fear, a fire.
Desperate, she twisted and writhed, struggling to free herself from his weight.
He caught her wrists, pinning them above her head, then cast a leg over the length of her, holding her immobile no matter what energy she set into her writhing and struggle.
She was absolutely powerless against him and swiftly growing exhausted from her efforts to free herself.
She spoke, staring at him with all the venom and courage she could muster.
“I will kill you, you know, you overgrown savage.”
His green eyes narrowed. His fierce, rugged, oddly handsome features were very taut. He was furious with her. He might not understand her words, but he knew she was threatening him, she thought.
“Yes! I’ll kill you!”
It was actually amazing that he hadn’t already done her some irreversible harm. He stared at her still. With those green eyes.
A shudder swept through her. Green eyes. She felt a strange sense of familiarity as she looked into them. As if she’d seen them before.
There was something about them…
Yes! They were dangerous, menacing.
Deadly.
Again, she felt trembling and fire sweeping within her. She had to keep threatening and fighting. Until she died, she reminded herself. There was nothing else for her to do.
“I’ll gouge your eyes out. I’ll tear you to shreds, cut off your limbs one by one, beat every single oversized muscle into pure pulp. Skin you alive, feed your hands to the dogs, chop off your pen—”
She never finished her threat, for her captor decided to break his silence at last.
“Madam, make one more threat against my anatomy,” he said suddenly in perfect English, “and I will feel forced to make good use of it before it exists no more!”
Completely stunned, Skylar lay dead still at last. “What?” she gasped, disbelieving.
“You heard me—and I do believe that I made myself perfectly clear.”
He spoke English. Oh, God, he understood English.
She burned. She shook. She was still terrified.
But she was furious, too.
“You—you—despicable—”
“Take care!” he warned.
“Bastard!” she cried out heedlessly. “You bastard!” she repeated. “You speak English damned well, you—who the hell are you?”
Those strangely familiar eyes burned into her relentlessly. Undaunted. Merciless.
Deadly.
And he spoke again.
His voice deep, rich.
Its tone…
As deadly as the green fire in his eyes.
“The question, madam,” he hissed furiously, “is just who the bloody hell are you?”