Sundancer (Cheyenne Series) (49 page)

      
She tasted of the wild mint the Cheyenne used to clean their teeth and the sweet subtle essence that he always associated with his wife. As he plunged his tongue inside her mouth, hers darted out, teasing him until he groaned and began to suck on it. His hands on her breasts squeezed and tugged in rhythm with the thrust of their deep hungry kisses and he was rewarded with the pebbling of her nipples.

      
Breaking away from the kiss, he pulled her breasts closer to his mouth. His palms cupped around the sweetly suspended globes until he could suckle one, then the other, loving the sighing moans she emitted with each ragged breath. Her fingers teased his staff, which throbbed urgently with the desperate need to plunge inside her. When he arched up, thrusting into her hand, she tightened her hold, sliding her hand down to the base of it. One more stroke like that and he would be undone.

      
He removed his mouth from one pearly lush breast and commanded hoarsely, “Put a knee on each side of my hips.” He placed his hands on her hips, guiding her to straddle his lower body.

      
Roxanna looked down into his passion-glazed face, knowing her expression was equally desperate. Then his fingers caressed between her legs, rubbing the swollen pink petals until he was rewarded with the creamy wetness of her arousal. The touch of his hand in that place so hungry for him sent tremors of ecstasy radiating up to her breasts and down her legs right to the soles of her feet. Her back arched, thrusting her breasts high. She looked glorious, with the dappled sunlight giving her ivory skin an incandescent glow.

      
“Take me inside of you.” His hand reached for hers and guided it to his shaft, which pressed intimately against the inside of her thigh.

      
“Oh,” she gasped, having never done this before. The scalding heat from the head of his staff brushed the wetness of her as she gingerly positioned it at the opening to her body. A new sense of power combined with the slow magnetic pull of pleasure. She lowered herself onto him, letting the thickness of him stretch her tightness, the length plumb her depths. His heat fused with hers as she seated herself all the way down and felt his hips tilt, moving to drive himself even deeper inside her.

      
A shiver of raw sensual pleasure blended with the sense of completeness, enveloping him as surely as her velvety sheath enveloped his staff. He wanted to remain this way forever, not moving, joined so completely to her, looking up at the proud curve and thrust of her breasts, already growing heavier with pregnancy, the perceptible swell of her silky belly, the wonder in her eyes as she gazed down at him. Was his own need reflected in those fathomless aquamarine depths?

      
Roxanna had never been so in control yet so uncertain of what to do. When she felt his hardness move high inside her, her body responded of its own volition, muscles tightening around him. She felt his fingers dig into her hips, raising her up from him, almost high enough to lose contact...but not quite. Staring into each other's eyes, they teetered on the brink for a moment. Then, with a guttural groan, he pulled her down once more.

      
She quickly caught the rhythm as his big hands cupped her buttocks lovingly, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he raised and lowered her, canting her hips to meet his deep upward thrusts. Her body seemed to have an instinct of its own, bucking and twisting as she moved with him, eliciting oaths of endearment and ragged gasps of pleasure from him. The sweet, sweet madness of it robbed her of all thought. Everything centered here in this joining, in the slick gliding glory of moving with him, taking him deep inside herself, raising up on him before each hot downward stroke, driving herself as desperately near the brink as she drove him, wanting that ultimate culmination, striving for it, focused on it, yet wanting the sheer wonder of it never to end.

      
Cain held on to her fiercely, letting her ride him as he thrust up into her. What a splendidly wild, savage little goddess she was, his Sun and Moon Woman. Her hair had worked its way loose from its plait and showered her shoulders in silvery splendor, gliding like silk each time she raised up and plunged down. The slick heat of her sheath squeezed him, driving him to madness. He dug his heels into the ground, his whole body rigid as he arched up, totally oblivious of the dull insistent ache of chest muscles flexing and unflexing with each thrust.

      
He watched the growing intensity of her expression, the way she bit her lip and sobbed his name over and over, throwing her head back until her long mane of hair brushed his thighs and fell between his legs. The thrill of that caress elicited a ragged cry, “Roxanna, darling, Roxy!” Her skin glowed with the faint sheen of perspiration. Then a rosy pink suffused it, spreading from her face down her throat to her breasts and belly.

      
Cain could feel the first delicious contractions of her sheath, squeezing him, pulsing wave after wave, growing stronger until he could hold back no longer.

      
Her climax began gradually, spiraling, making her legs grow weak, her body catch fire. As the tight rhythmic contractions built, she could feel him high against her womb, swelling, pulsing his life deeply inside her once more, like an offering.

      
Roxanna braced her hands on either side of his head and fell forward, careful not to press against his injured chest. She could feel his swift breath against her face, his whole body panting with the same limp satiation that swamped her senses. His hands slid up her hips and he embraced her, pulling her down to lie on top of him.

      
“I'll hurt you,” she murmured against his cheek.

      
“I'll risk it,” he growled, burying his fingers in the curtain of pale hair tumbling around her shoulders, inhaling the exotic combination of lilacs and musk. “Don't ever leave me again,” he whispered against her throat.

      
It was not a declaration of love, but for now it would suffice, she thought lazily as she lay enfolded in his arms and closed her eyes.

Chapter Twenty-Two

      
Johnny Lame Pony reined in his horse and considered what he should do. He had ridden ahead of the column with the other scouts, then dispersed the three Cheyenne to search for sign of Leather Shirt's camp. The colonel was afraid that the Cheyenne might have harmed the white woman. Johnny was afraid that she and Cain might have already left the band. Now that he had finally located the camp on the banks of Deer Creek, he knew that his fears were groundless. The breed and his woman were still here.

      
So was Andrew Powell! That had greatly surprised Lame Pony. What was the big boss of the Iron Horse doing with the Cheyenne? Then he had risked crawling in closer and learned that Powell was a prisoner. Somehow the old man had been captured. If he followed orders and led the army down on the camp, Powell could be accidentally killed in the melee. After all, that was what he and his ‘‘scouts” would claim happened to Cain and the woman.

      
What would be the wisest course? Andrew Powell was the most powerful man on the railroad and Lame Pony had been in his employ for years. Yet it was not a sense of loyalty which prompted his consideration now. Rather, he thought of how he might turn the situation to his greatest advantage. It was a prickly problem.

      
The three Cheyenne renegades wanted to destroy Leather Shirt's band in revenge for their banishment. Weasel Bear had an even more personal grudge against Cain and relished this opportunity to kill his half-breed cousin. If Johnny freed Powell, they would probably be robbed of their prey. Then too, he took no small risk riding into the camp to bargain for Powell's life. Cain had trailed him relentlessly after the raid at the grading camp and knew his identity.

      
Leather Shirt would be pleased that he warred against the Iron Horse crossing their hunting grounds, unless Cain convinced the chief that he had tried to shift the blame for those raids onto the Cheyenne. If so, the old man's wrath would be terrible indeed. Perhaps Johnny could avoid that rage by saving all of their lives. Would not Leather Shirt's band be grateful for a warning that the Blue Coats were fast approaching, searching for the white woman?

      
Whatever he decided, he must act quickly before Weasel Bear and the others caught up with him here at the Cheyenne camp. All of his life he had lived on the periphery of the white man's civilization, working for little money, despised by those who used his services, existing from one drunken debauch to the next. This was his one big chance. If he saved Powell's life, he could demand a far larger reward than that originally promised.

      
After discarding the makeshift uniform worn by North's Pawnee scouts, Johnny donned his Lakota beaded moccasins and headband and a plain buckskin shirt and britches. Then he rode straight toward the Cheyenne camp. The sentries saw the Lakota half-blood approaching and brought him to Leather Shirt immediately. Luck was with him, for there was no sign of Cain when he was admitted to the chief's lodge.

      
“The Lakota are our brothers. You are welcome to our camp,” Leather Shirt said, gesturing for his guest to have a seat. “How are you called?”

      
Figuring it best to stick with as much of the truth as possible, Lame Pony replied, “I am called Johnny Lame Pony. My mother was Brulé, from Buffalo Hump's band,” he replied in serviceable Cheyenne.

      
“Your father was white.” Other than the tribal identification afforded by his headband and moccasins, he was dressed in white frontiersmen's clothing.

      
“I live with the whites,” Johnny confessed, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on Leather Shirt. This was no time for shifty evasions. “Sometimes I scout for the soldiers.”

      
Leather Shirt's expression hardened. “My sentry said you have some urgent message for me.”

      
“The Iron Horse soldiers approach. They have been tracking you for many days.”

      
“You mean you have tracked us for them. What do these Blue Coats want with us?”

      
“They have come to rescue the white woman who is with you. They mean to punish you for taking her prisoner.”

      
Leather Shirt drew himself up. “Her Back Is Straight is no captive. She is now my granddaughter. She has come to us of her own free will. Who speaks such lies?”

      
Johnny shrugged. “I do not know. I only work for the soldiers. Colonel Dillon said you captured this woman and he must get her back.”

      
“If you work for the Blue Coat chief, why do you come to warn us that he will attack?” Leather Shirt asked suspiciously.

      
“Do not believe anything he says. He is the renegade who attacks the railroad and places the blame on the Cheyenne,” Cain said as he entered the lodge.

      
“I speak the truth. Dillon will come here to get the white woman back for her grandfather. He is only half an hour behind me. If you think I lie, send out your own scouts and you will find him a few arrow flights down the river.”

      
“I will do this,” Leather Shirt replied, calling for the Dog Soldiers who stood outside the lodge. He dispatched several warriors to search for the Blue Coats.

      
Cain studied the renegade for a moment, trying to sift out his motives. “What's in this for you, Johnny?” he asked softly in English. An idea was beginning to take shape in his mind.

      
“I have come for the Iron Horse man, Powell. You and the woman can show the soldiers she is no prisoner, but he has been held against his will. Give him to me and let us ride away.” Johnny addressed the old chief, cursing his ill luck that Cain had intervened.

      
‘‘Bring His Eyes Are Cold here and let us speak with him,” Leather Shirt said to Brother of the Spirit Bull.

      
Nodding, Cain stepped through the door, then said, “Do not turn your back on this one while I am gone, Grandfather.”

      
He walked quickly across the camp and entered the lodge where his father was confined. Powell looked up at Cain, dressed in breechclout and leggings. “You look like a full-blooded savage. I wonder how MacKenzie would feel if he could see you this way.”

      
Ignoring the jibe, Cain said, “I know why you came so near Leather Shirt's band.”

      
Powell's graceful eyebrows rose as he got to his feet, meeting his son's level gaze. “Do you, now?”

      
“Yes. You were—”

      
The pounding of horses' hooves and a loud cry of alarm interrupted the tense confrontation. “Blue Coats! Soldiers are coming,” the Dog Soldiers yelled. “Many times more than our warriors! They are only a little ride off. Soon they will be here!” Everyone in the camp began scrambling frantically to find children and gather horses for an escape.

      
Cursing, Cain stepped outside the lodge and called to one of the Dog Soldiers. “Take the prisoner to Leather Shirt. Do not let him escape,” he commanded, reaching back inside to seize hold of the braided leather rope binding his father's hands. Once he had delivered Powell to the warrior, he went in search of Roxanna. If the army swooped down on the camp before they could get away, she could be cut down in the crossfire—just as he would be.

      
Women called frantically for children, and warriors grabbed their weapons and mounted the best horses in preparation for defending the camp. Everywhere people rushed about, preparing to flee, leaving behind all their worldly goods to escape the fury of the soldiers. Cain called out for Roxanna, then saw her emerge from Sees Much's lodge followed by the old shaman.