Dakota Dream (33 page)

"Oh, damn," she muttered. "Damn it all, Jacob—
stop
a minute."

Her writhing hips and agonized moans, the sight of her golden hair hanging loose and unkempt against the buckskin dress, inflamed him beyond reason even as her words jolted his conscience. She was desperate, not with passion but with fear. In her terror, her frantic attempts at escape, she'd nearly torn the skin from his backside. What was wrong with him? He'd almost taken her in a rage, used his passion for her as a tool of domination instead of an instrument of love. He was behaving like a lowly beast. He was no better than the wildest of animals to ravage an innocent like Dominique. Small wonder, if his behavior had been repeated by others, that the white man had labeled Indians savages. Control returned to Jacob in a wave of disgust. He rolled off her and onto his back.

Fighting for air, Dominique struggled to a sitting position. What had happened to Jacob? Where had he gone? Still panting, she turned her head and stared over at him. He lay on his back with one arm draped across his face. His chest rose and fell in short, rapid movements, and droplets of sweat glistened in the shallow valley below his breastbone, spilling down along the trail to his navel. Her gaze followed that course to his hips, where her eyes held, then widened with surprise. The pouch beneath his breechclout strained to harness the huge swelling she'd heard about but never before seen. How could this be? How could such a monster fit inside even the largest of women? What
had
she been thinking of a few moments ago?

With a startled gasp, Dominique averted her face. Overcome by the sight, her own bold desires, and the dark forbidden thoughts running rampant in her mind, she covered her mouth and fought a sudden girlish urge to giggle.

At the sound, Jacob lowered his arm from his eyes and looked up at her. She was hunched over, her delicate shoulders trembling like those of a frightened rabbit. Knowing she must be horrified at his outrageous assault on her, probably crying as well, he ground his teeth and sat up behind her. "Dominique, please forgive me. I did not mean to frighten you. I thought you
were ...
I thought I could ... please understand. I meant you no harm." The trembling increased, and she turned her lovely face even farther away from him. Snarling with self-loathing, he lightly touched her shoulder.
"Rest now.
I will not disturb you again this night."

When she collapsed onto the blanket, Jacob lay down beside her, careful not to make any physical contact. He stared at her back, the icy blast of his own scorn freezing his muscles into tense cords, and exhaled heavily. How could he have touched one of such purity and naiveté so violently, so intimately? He had to remember that she was white, and white women were frightened of such things, found little or no pleasure in the most natural acts. He would have to move slowly with her, treat her as he would a young filly in need of breaking. Maybe, he thought, finding a glimmer of hope for the future, if he informed her of his plans and told her he intended to make her his wife in an effort to protect her from the others, she would react differently, accept him more easily.

Jacob practiced the gentle words he would use when he broached the subject in the morning. Then he thought of her barbed tongue and the probable response. First she would laugh at him, tell him she needed more protection from him than from the others. Next she would spit on him and tell him she could never agree to marry an animal such as
he
. So how should be proceed?

Thinking of the ceremony from every angle, it occurred to Jacob that she probably wouldn't even wonder what was happening if he went ahead with his plans. Marriage was a simple, private thing between two people in the Lakota nation. What had transpired would never even cross the mind of a white woman. She would not know that she was his wife. He would not tell her. The day he did would be the day she could look into his eyes without wanting to spit in them. Satisfied with the solution, Jacob prayed to the gods for sleep—and for the strength to ignore the woman
lying
next to him, the woman he wanted so badly.

But thoughts of Dominique, of her soft ivory skin and rounded curves, of how very close he'd come to making that softness his own, kept the ache in his loins at high tide. Grumbling to himself, Jacob tugged the blanket around his shoulders and began counting the dwindling Plains buffalo.

Even as she struggled to bring her breathing under control, Dominique continued to fight the urge to laugh. What was wrong with her? There was nothing funny here, not one single moment a woman of her breeding could find even remotely amusing. Yet here she was, still fighting the urge to giggle, panting as she wondered what it would have been like if Jacob hadn't stopped fondling her. Cursing him because he had stopped, she squirmed against the buffalo rug, seeking some unnamed relief, then rolled to her side.

Sleep. Perhaps if she could force herself to sleep, the inappropriate thoughts would vanish. She would stop thinking of Jacob and the new exciting sensations his touch ignited in her, forget the strong urge to reach out for him and beg him to ease her torment. She would think of Monroe, her papa, the lush greens of spring in her own hometown. Sighing to herself, Dominique rolled over on her tummy and began counting the ducks lining up for their morning treats along the banks of Lake Erie.

When she finally dropped off, the relief she sought was not to be. Her mind returned to Jacob and his experienced mouth, Jacob and his fiery hands, Jacob and the fascinating swelling that branded him as a man of passion. Her mind brought her body back to the heights he'd shown it, then suddenly her imagination carried
her a
step further. She was tossed inside a wildly gyrating kaleidoscope of passion she'd never guessed at or dreamed of before. She fluttered, with Jacob's hands and tongue as her wings, ever higher through the spectrum of colors until a brilliant explosion of scarlet and platinum shattered her dreams and eased her suffering. Then she sank into the dark, endless depths of slumber.

The following morning Dominique awakened refreshed from the first good night's sleep she'd had since her kidnapping. Then she realized her drawers were damp. Horrified, only vaguely aware of the sensations she'd experienced during the night, she jerked upright. What had happened to her? Why did she feel so alive, so ... strange? Dominique twisted her head to the side as a new, equally terrifying thought occurred to her: Did Jacob know? Had she cried out his name during the night? But he was gone. With a sigh of relief, she lay back down and stretched, curiously happy and satisfied. Then the flap opened, and Jacob stepped inside.

"Well," she said, unable to look into his eyes as she sat up, "this is a surprise. I would have thought you had to run back to the cavalry so you could pretend to be a soldier by now."

Spurred on by what he assumed was sarcasm, Jacob added some of his own. "That is no problem yet. Your dear uncle was quite happy to send me scouting two or three days ahead of the troops. In fact," he added as he crossed over to where she lay, "since I'm the nincompoop who managed to lose you, I think he encourages me to go on these trips of great bravery in the hopes that I will be shot or scalped."

"My uncle Armstrong is a very intelligent man." Dominique set her chin in a challenge, hoping he would accept it and continue his teasing, say anything as long as he didn't mention last night. But he ignored the invitation and instead tossed a buckskin dress across her lap.

"Put this on," he ordered, forcing his features to remain impassive. "Then we will eat."

Dominique glanced up at
him,
her eyebrows arched, then examined the garment. It was just another dress, but the hide was pure white and as soft as any flannel she'd ever touched. "Is this for something special, a party or something?"

"No. One of the women gave it to me. It is newer and cleaner than the one you wear now." To make sure she would change into it, he baited her. "Be quick about it. You are beginning to smell bad."

"I am not. If anything stinks around here, it's you." She pushed up to her feet, intending to continue her tirade, "In fact, if—"

"Removing your tongue is a job I have been looking forward to since you first flapped it at me," he said, interrupting her. He fondled the handle of his knife and grinned. "If you'd like to keep it, I suggest you put it back in your mouth and get dressed. I will wait outside, but only for a minute. Be quick."

"Oh, very well," she said with a stomp of her foot.

After he closed the flap, she studied the dress more closely. Not only was the hide white but the sleeves and hem were embellished with rows of thick fringe. The neckline, cut in the shape of a V instead of the round shape on the dress she wore, sparkled with decorations. Porcupine quills, sewed to echo the lines of the V, covered the entire front. Between these oblique lines were clusters of shiny blue beads along with a few scattered shells painted in bright colors.

Dominique quickly shed the tattered garment she wore and donned the beautiful new dress. Smaller than the previous buckskin, this one fit snugly across her hips and ended
a good two or three inches
above her knees. She laughed as she pictured her indecent image descending the elaborate staircase of her home,
then
shrugged. She had much bigger things on her mind, couldn't afford to concern herself with modesty and the conventions that bound a young lady in white society. Her only priority now had to be survival—and escape. Dominique snatched the porcupine-quill brush off the rug and pulled it through her tangled hair.

She thought of Jacob's warnings about the jealous squaws as she smoothed her naturally wavy locks, but decided to adapt his orders to fit her own sense of style anyway. How could the other women hate her more than they already did? She braided a length of hair from either side of her head,
then
tied the two plaits together at the back of her head. This left the rest of her long red-gold hair to spill down her back, unfettered and free, a gesture of defiance of sorts, in contrast to the fact that the rest of her remained a prisoner. She topped the look off by plucking an eagle feather from Jacob's lance and jabbing it into the knot where her braids met. Then she positioned a length of hair across her shoulder, coaxing it to slip off the tip of her breast at just the right angle, and tore back the flap of the tipi.

When Dominique stepped through the opening, Jacob was unprepared for the change in her—or for his gut-wrenching reaction. He'd half expected to feel at least a small trickle of pain running through his heart when he first saw Dominique in Lame Fawn's wedding dress.
No small creek, but rivers of emotion, of love, raged through his veins instead, threatening to flood his arteries like a thousand spring thaws.

There was nothing in Dominique to remind him of his first wife, to bring even the slightest ache to his heart. The dress fit her as if it had been stretched over her curves while wet, became new to his eyes as if it had never touched the flesh of another. Dominique was incredibly beautiful—sun-kissed from the top of her brilliant gold-red hair to the tips of her white-moccasined toes. She looked like no other. No other could ever hope to resemble such beauty. Her radiance choked Jacob, cutting off his air and strangling his mind. He stood there, gawking at her as if he'd never seen a woman before.

"Why, Mr. Redfoot," Dominique clucked, familiar with his expression, immensely pleased to know she was the
cause.
"It's not polite to stare, you know." She batted her lashes furiously, posing haughtily as she asked, "Is something wrong? Do I have a smudge on my cheek or something?"

"No." Jacob cleared the enormous frog that had mysteriously taken over his throat,
then
said, "You look fine." In control again, or at least in as much control as he would be able to muster on this day, he forced a taciturn expression and walked to her side. He unfolded the blanket he carried, preparing to move along with the required courtship, but Dominique gasped, halting his movements.

"Oh, Jacob, what's happened to you? Your hands and arms are all covered with bruises and cuts."

"It is nothing. I fell from my horse." Trying his best to ignore her, he wrapped one end of the blanket around his shoulders and the other around hers.