No Other Man (41 page)

He nodded, his eyes narrowing. "And you are free to leave."

"I—I don't want to go. May I have a drink, please?"

He was about to explode in a dozen pieces, and she looked as
if she were expecting finger sandwiches. "Did you want me to order
tea?" he inquired in a long drawl.

"Tea. Yes, that would be—" She seemed to catch the
incredulous expression on his face. "No!" she exclaimed. "Not
tea. I—"

"I have whiskey. From Loralee's."

"That would be—fine."

Perplexed, Sloan poured his visitor a snifter of whiskey. She
accepted it, smiled flirtatiously, and walked over to the fireplace. The red
glow rose around, casting a very soft crimson sheen over her elegant white robe
and lace undergarments. She sipped the whiskey and then gagged.

"Listen," he said. "It's quite apparent you're
having problems tonight. But I'll be damned if this is the way I'm going to
spend the evening. I can take you back—"

"I'm fine," she protested. She offered him a smile.
She had beautiful white teeth. She moved with a quick, supple grace. She walked
toward the door again, swallowing more whiskey. This time, she didn't choke.
She shuddered. Then she swallowed the rest of the whiskey in the snifter. She
hesitated by the door. Once again, he didn't seem to have her full attention.
He brought the bottle to her. Poured out another few fingers of whiskey into
her glass. That would be about it. He'd almost done in the rest of the bottle
himself.

"Thank you," she said briefly.

"Cheers." He clicked his glass to hers. She nodded,
jerked her head back. Swallowed. All of it. Three shots of straight whiskey in
just about three minutes. Saloon girls were good; they could cost their
clientele by drinking down half a fellow's bottle themselves.

This
one didn't seem to have much experience drinking as of yet. And he wasn't going
to pass out himself. He'd be damned if he'd have her doing so at this point. He
took the glass from her.

"I think that's enough."

"No,
I, umm ..." She stared at him, moistened her lips, seemed to be searching.
She started to take a step back, away from him. She faltered slightly, smiled.
"I think I need another drink."

"You're weaving."

"I'm—fine."

"You're trying to drink too much."

"I'm not. Besides, you're—"

"Drunk?"
he inquired. "Halfway there. Actually, almost just right at the moment.
All the edges are nice and fuzzy, but I'm not going to fail you in any way—or
let you earn your keep too cheaply. And you're not going to pretend I'm not
Indian."

"What?"

"I said you're not going to pretend—"

She
swayed suddenly, nearly falling, reaching out for something with which to
steady herself. He caught her. She stared up into his eyes.

"Dizzy," she said.

"No more whiskey. You won't be worth ten cents."

She
laughed. The sound was a little hysterical. "Depends on who is considering
my worth."

"Me."
He looked down into her eyes. "I guess," he murmured huskily,
"you can pretend I'm whatever the hell you want me to be, hmm?" He
didn't remember wanting a woman so much. With such a fever. Such a demand. Now.

He
lifted her off the floor. Her eyes closed. Her head hung back. The slightest
smile played on her lips. He laid her down, wondering for a moment if she had
passed out.

No. She was still smiling. "Dizzy," she murmured.
"I feel like I'm floating..."

"Floating. Umm. That's just what I'm dying to do, too.
Hell, yes."

He pulled the satin ribbon on her corset. The garment fell
loose. Another ribbon held her pantalettes. He tugged at it, then jerked the
lacy garment down from her hips. The robe clung to her shoulders, but the rest
of her lay naked beneath it. She was enough to rob him completely of breath.

No matter how beautiful she was, she was a whore. Loralee's
new addition to the glamourless settlement of Gold Town. Loralee had been
right. All the tempest, anger, and passion in him was now directed on one
object—this girl. He unbuckled his belt and his trousers. Released his swollen
sex. There was no time for play. He caught her ankles, drew her down. Caught
her knees, parted them. Her eyes opened wide ...

Energy and need pulsed through him wildly. He lay on top of
her, his weight and length keeping her legs spread when she tightened them
around him.

"Wh—" she began to say. He barely heard her. He
threaded the fingers of his left hand through her hair, pinning her head to
the pillow as he hungrily found her mouth, his tongue thrusting into it. His
other hand slid along the length of her thigh, into the soft auburn down. He
parted her with his touch, plowed into her with the full force of his body. The
fever of his hunger had seized him with such startling force and fury that he
swept into her again and again before he realized what he was encountering.

She didn't scream, whimper, or cry out. She didn't move.

The most merciful thing about the entire fiasco was that he'd
been at such an all-consuming stage of desire that once he'd realized her total
inexperience, he'd quickly allowed himself to climax, constricting, shuddering
into her again and again—but then withdrawing immediately to rise above her and
stare down at her. Her eyes were closed; her face was white.

He felt...

Duped.
Used. Betrayed. Angry. With her. With himself. He'd been drinking, yes, hell
yes, but was that any excuse for this?

Excuse?
She'd come over as a
whore.
He was the one
who had been taken ...

She was
the one trembling, biting into her lower lip, refusing to meet his eyes.

He
caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Look at me!" he
snapped.

Her eyes opened, glittering with tears and fury.

"Was
Loralee aware that you hadn't the faintest idea of what you were doing?"

"What?"

He
started to rise. "I don't like surprises. You were one hell of a surprise
when you arrived, and you were one hell of a surprise just now. I don't know
what she thought she was doing, sending you over here, but it sure as hell is
time for you to go back—"

"God,
no, not now!" she gasped out. Her lashes fluttered over her eyes.
"Not... now." Her voice trembled, quivered. She sounded as if she
could slip into hysterical laughter at any given second. He gritted down hard
on his teeth. She was probably afraid Loralee would fire her. Maybe she had
lied to Loralee. But damn ...

She was
shaking. Her eyes remained closed. "Sweet Jesu, don't throw me out of here
now after—after
that\"
she gasped.

He
raised an eyebrow. After
that.
Her attitude
was going to have to improve quite a bit if she thought she was going to make a
living out here.

"Please, I can't go now!"

Sighing,
he rose, shed his clothing, and lay down beside her. She jumped when he touched
her, drawing her against his naked body.

"What
is it about your English I'm not understanding?" he demanded irritably.
"Didn't you just ask to stay?"

She nodded. "Yes!"

Her hair smelled delicious. Her body was hot, so perfectly
curved, flushed against his. He was tempted to touch her. Explore. She
shuddered as if with a sob. He shook his head, willing himself to dampen his
growing ardor. He knew enough about women to be damned aware she'd be hurting
right now. He made do with holding her and letting her sleep.

But he could make do no longer when the morning came.

She had twisted and turned. So had he. Her breasts— those
which he considered to be so incredibly perfect, high, rounded, and
beautiful—were directly in front of his face. Too tempting to be ignored. Every
whore had to start somewhere—he'd just never had one start with him before—and
he felt both the temptation and the obligation to make her realize that her
chosen profession could be damned enjoyable. He meant to wake her slowly. Very
slowly. He set out to do so.

He touched her lightly with his fingers, his lips, his teeth,
his tongue. As he moved against her, he shook his head, incredulous. By
morning's light, she was more stunning still. Her flesh was erotically soft,
her breasts so firm, her nipples large and pink, swelling, hardening to his
elusive touch. Her belly was flat, her throat was long, her legs were wickedly
long, curved, beautiful, the down between them was a dark and tempting fire.

She whimpered slightly, rousing. Slowly. Her body arched and
writhed, easily manipulated to his desire, each supple rock and undulation
arousing new hungers within him. She moaned, twisted. Writhed to the intrusive
stroke of his tongue, dug her fingers into his shoulders, his hair.

She woke fully with a shuddering gasp, just as he rose over
her. Her blue eyes were wide open. "Oh, God—no! I've got to go—"

"No, I don't think so. All through the night, and you're
going to leave now?"

"I—"

"Not on your life!" he promised her softly.

This time, she did cry out softly, her teeth clamping lightly
into his shoulder. He moved very slowly, letting her take him all before
stroking into her again, holding, moving, holding, moving again. Her fingers
gripped his back.

"I can't... !" she whispered.

"You will," he promised. She tossed. He kissed her
throat, her breasts. Moved. Rocked. Hungered. Rose higher. Her fists slammed
against his chest.

"Can't, can't..." she inhaled on a ragged sob. She
seemed to jackknife into a paralyzing constriction, gasping, shaking. He smiled
to himself and let the floodgates within him free. Mindless moments of
thundering rhythm racked him until he climaxed explosively within her. He fell
to her side, then rolled upon an elbow to look into her eyes, laughing.
"You
can't,
my dear, but you just
did."

To his amazement, there were now tears in her eyes.
"Bastard!" she cried, slamming her hands against his chest. "You
bastard!"

He caught her hands firmly. "I don't care how perfect
you look. You're never going to make a living at this, behaving the way you
do. For one thing, your typical miner is going to want you to arouse him, not
the other way around."

"Oh!" she shrieked, wrenching her hands free. She
leaped up, hugging her mussed, once elegant white robe around her. He came up
on an elbow, watching, puzzled, as she tugged at the bolt. He rose, walking
around the bed to the door. Her eyes met his. Swept up and down the length of
his naked body. Focused in panic on the bolt again.

He pulled it for her and stepped back. "Come
again," he said politely, and opened the door.

"Never! Never in this life, you arrogant
oaf\
" she charged.

And she was gone.

He shook his head. Strangest damned whore he had ever come
across. She'd never make it.

Yet even as he turned away from the door, she was haunting
him. And to his amazement...

Her image remained within his mind. His bloodstream. His
being. And he wanted her again.

Impatient with himself, realizing that he had the thud of a
hangover beginning to pound in his head, he went over to the room's pitcher and
basin, and started to wash and dress.

Twenty-four

Meggie made their
homecoming warm.

Meggie—and little else.

Skylar
wasn't sure just what had snapped within Hawk, but he kept his distance from
her. Upon their return, he left her with Meggie and retired to his own room.

He didn't visit hers.

She
woke listlessly the next morning, looking about at the beauty that surrounded
her. Mayfair was very fine. She had returned to comfort and luxury.

She
still loved Mayfair, but everything had changed. Her surroundings didn't
matter. She had discovered that comfort was more than crisp, clean sheets.
Comfort lived in the soul. It was the warmth exuding from the body of...

The man she had accidentally married.

And
then fallen in love with. Not because of the circumstances but despite them.

She
rose, determined to find him. She didn't know what answers she could give him
about the attacks. She didn't have a long lost relative who had killed half the
Crow Nation. She wasn't related to anyone responsible for massacres. She
didn't even have a distant cousin who might have dishonored a Crow maiden.

But she could make every attempt to tell
him what she had been running from. He might not believe her. The bond between
them was incredibly delicate and fragile. He might think her as insane as
Dillman had told her he could convince people she had become. He might not
understand. But they had both made mistakes. Half of them through
miscommunication. She hadn't expected a living, healthy, vital husband when she
had come west, but she had discovered that she wanted him. And she wanted her
marriage to work. It was time to put some trust into the relationship that had
grown between them.

She rose, washed and dressed quickly, and wondered with a
growing excitement if Sabrina might nearly be here. Sabrina would be able to
corroborate a lot of what Skylar meant to tell Hawk. But she was actually just
as glad that Sabrina hadn't arrived yet. This was something she wanted to do on
her own.

Skylar walked to Hawk's room. She tapped firmly. He didn't
reply. She realized then that it was late in the morning, that he had probably
been awake for hours.

She started along the upstairs hall toward the stairway and
then froze.

She heard voices. Several voices. Meggie's voice.

And one male voice in particular. One she knew all too well.

Dillman.
Here. Here, in her
foyer, in his wheelchair, two young aides—or guards?—flanking him.

Her breath caught as panic invaded her. She'd been an idiot.
An absolute idiot, a fool. She should have found a way to create a false
identity for Sabrina. She should have told Hawk the truth long ago. Dillman had
always been smart. He'd found out about the telegrams. Easy enough for a
senator. He'd followed Sabrina. And now ...

Sabrina was coming here.

She gasped, inhaling raggedly, realizing she had ceased to
breathe altogether.

"Senator Dillman, how do you do? Welcome to May-
fair."

It was Hawk. He was striding into the foyer from the
downstairs library. His hair tied back, he was dressed in white shirt, dark,
form-hugging breeches, and high boots, ready for a day of work at Mayfair.

"Lord Douglas! I was acquainted with your good father,
you know. Casually, I'm afraid to admit. He was a visionary. An extraordinary
man. I am heartily sorry regarding his passing."

"Thank you, sir."

"Lord Douglas, Thomas Henley and Bo Dykes. My assistants."

"A pleasure, gentlemen. Won't you come in? Meggie will
see to coffee and breakfast. I must admit, however, Senator, that I'm surprised
to see you at this late date. I'm afraid the council with the Sioux leaders did
not go as the government might have wished, and I'm afraid that I don't agree
with the stance the government is taking with the Sioux."

"Precisely the point, my dear sir!" Dillman said.
"I'm here to learn what I can from you! I can't agree either with the tone
being taken by the generals in the field—kill them all, let God sort them out,
and the like! Any man with half a brain—and not fanatical abolitionists!—can
take a look at the history between the white man and the Indian and see where
we have been at fault."

"That's quite an unusual view, Senator—and an unpopular
one," Hawk replied. He frowned suddenly, pausing as they neared the door
to the dining room. "Meggie," he said softly, "would you ask
Lady Douglas to come down? I'll have Sandra bring the men coffee."

"Of course, Lord Douglas."

Skylar watched Meggie coming up the stairs. The woman
immediately appeared concerned. "Lady Douglas! You're ill! Poor dear, my
God, you're as white,as a sheet. I'll— I'll get Lord Douglas right away!"

Before Skylar could say a word, Meggie was heading back down
the stairs. Skylar watched her, glad that she hadn't had a chance to deny the
possibility that she might be ill.

She backed away from the staircase. She
didn't want anyone coming back into the foyer and looking up by chance. She
looked back. The door to Hawk's library stood open. She fled behind it. Oh,
God, she'd wanted to tell him the truth.

Now it might be too late.

The truth was sitting downstairs in her dining room.

After he had eaten breakfast in the quiet
respectability of Mrs. Smith-Soames's dining room, Sloan decided to pay a visit
to Loralee. He walked across to the Ten-Penny Saloon. There was a group of
men—very drunk men—seated around one of the gaming tables. Sloan ignored them
at first, going up to the bar. He asked Joe for coffee and inquired if Loralee
was up and about yet. Joe said he'd see about Loralee.

Sloan sipped his coffee. As he did so, he became aware of the
men at the gaming table. One was Ralph Marks, a miner who couldn't seem to
strike things quite right. He'd tried gambling, he'd tried scouting. He was a
man of about forty, once probably handsome enough, and built like a young ox.
But years of drink were catching up with him. He was more rotund than powerful,
with a permanent gin blossom reddening his cheeks. The man at his side,
sometimes his partner, sometimes not, was a half-breed Cherokee named Horse
McGee. Horse wasn't given to drink, but he was prone to devious behavior. He
was suspected of having been involved in a few stagecoach robberies to the
south of Gold Town. Two of the other men were Crows; both had worked for the
army on and off, trailing Sioux warriors. Sioux and Crow were enemies; Sloan
couldn't think badly of a man for remaining an enemy when the tradition of
violence between the two tribes was an old one. Rounding out the group was Abel
Mc- Cord—retired U.S. army. It was said that he wanted to be in politics in the
territory and that he wasn't fool enough to kiss political rump out here, but
he made sure he kissed it back in Washington, D.C.

Curious group, Sloan thought.

More curious because they were so damned drunk. And talking a
bit loudly, as if they weren't even aware he was in the room.

"I still don't rightly get where this gold is coming
from," Horse grumbled.

"I tell you," Abel said excitedly, "there is
gold, lots of it, being paid by a guy from back east."

"Abel, you know what's going on here," Running
Jack, one of the Crows, said.

"I know the money is big, and that it is coming from
back east, and that when I can prove I've got the one white woman, dead or
alive, all I've got to do is leave word here at the Ten-Penny for a Mr.
Smith."

Running Jack groaned.

"Between us, surely, we can get the damned girl!"
Abel exclaimed.

Running Jack shook his head. "I know of a dozen men who
died going after her. You're forgetting. This woman is married to Hawk
Douglas."

Abel didn't seem to hear him. "Both women are worth five
hundred dollars. All in gold. He don't care what you do to either of them, and
he'd just as soon get the blond one dead."

It was enough. Sloan set down his coffee and moved behind
Abel in a wink. He had a patch of Abel's hair in one hand while he held his
knife to Abel's throat with the other. "Five hundred dollars isn't any
good to a dead man. And that's about what you are."

"Who the hell—why, Sloan! Sloan, it's you—think about
it, five hundred dollars for a pair of women—"

"Abel, shut up, you damned fool!" Horse said,
glancing at Abel with disgust and at Sloan with a certain edge of fear.
"You're talking to a man who grew up Oglala with Hawk."

Sloan drew the knife more tightly against Abel's throat.

"I don't know nothing more than what you've heard,
Sloan—"

"How do you know what I've heard?"

"Why, why—do something, you bloody cowards! There's one
bloody half-breed behind me, and you're just sitting there like a pack of
laying hens!"

"Abel," Sloan said pleasantly, "these boys
aren't going to move. Horse there knows I could knife you both before anyone
had time to spit. Now maybe I couldn't kill all five, but who wants to chance
being one of those I will take down with me?"

No one moved.

Sloan pressed the knife against Abel's throat so tightly that
a thin thread of blood appeared against his flesh. "Now, Abel. Either you
or Mark knows who the 'he' behind all this is. Start talking."

"You can't kill him! You're a major in the damned
amiy."

"I am. And I'm a damned half-breed Sioux as well. And
you just ask either of your two Crow comrades there. No one knows how to
torture and kill quite like a Sioux. Abel, you better damned well tell me what
you know."

When Hawk came up the stairs, Skylar was
nowhere in sight. Puzzled, he remained on the landing, listening. Was this some
new trick? Was she aware that a senator was in the house, that they had guests?
Was she determined to show him that she could be every bit as distant as he
could when she chose?

Damn her, she didn't understand. She just didn't understand
how she had tied him up in knots. How it seemed that danger awaited her at
every corner, and he couldn't begin to fight it because he couldn't begin to
recognize it. He hadn't wanted her in his life, hadn't trusted her an inch.

And now he quite simply couldn't imagine life without her. He
hadn't the least idea when he had begun falling in love with her. Nor had he
ever imagined that his feelings

would
grow so deep, so passionate, so nearly desperate. He'd never thought that he
could look into silver eyes ...

And forget to be wary.

Now he
didn't dare go near her. Not until she came to him. Believe, she had said.

She had to do some of the believing.

He
heard a sound from his bedroom library. He strode there quickly, pushing open
the door to see her standing by the globe. She
was
definitely pale.

"Are you ill?"

"No—I've got to talk with you."

"Skylar,
we have company downstairs. A senator from back east. If you're hoping to get
even with me in some way—''

"No, no, he's not a senator from back east—"

"Skylar,
I assure you that he is. He's served several terms."

"He
is a senator. But he's more; you can't trust him. He's—it's him!" she said
breathlessly.

"Skylar, I—"

She
rushed at him suddenly, coming up on her toes, taking his face between her
hands. "He's come for me. Not for me. Oh, God, I'm not making any sense.
I'm of legal age; he can't do anything to me. But he wants to hurt me."
She gasped suddenly. "I should have known. He wants me dead. He's always
wanted me dead. He needs her, but if I were to perish in the West—"

"Skylar,
Skylar!" Hawk exclaimed, catching her hands and holding them tightly.
"Skylar,
he
who? What are you talking
about?"

"Dillman."

"Dillman!" Hawk exclaimed incredulously.

"He's
the one. I'm sure of it. I don't know how, but I know that he sent the
Crows—"

"Skylar!
The man is a crippled United States senator from Maryland! I'd heard he'd
suffered some kind of an accident, and he's still in a wheelchair. He's
probably in a

wheelchair
permanently. He can't command renegade Crows. He can't hurt you."

She wrenched her hands free from his. "You're wrong! He
can hurt me. He's been hurting me. The truth! You always wanted the truth.
Well, I've given you the truth now, but I was right. I knew that you wouldn't
believe me."

"Believe what, Skylar? Why would a senator want to hurt
you? I don't understand—"

"He killed my father!"

"Skylar, slow down!" he exclaimed. He'd never seen
her like this. Never. Even when he had burst into the stagecoach and dragged
her to the cabin. She seemed more frightened now than she had been of the Crow.
"Skylar, you've got to—"

"Sabrina!" she gasped suddenly. "Oh, my God,
if he's got her—he can't have her. No, he came here because he hasn't quite
gotten his hands on her yet. He knows that she'll come to me; he knows somehow
that I'm here—"

"Skylar, he's come because of the Black Hills."

"No!"
She
wrenched free of him, pushing past him. "I've got to go; I've got to find
out if she's reached Gold Town, if Henry has heard from her—"

"Skylar—"

"You can't begin to understand what he can do!" she
exclaimed, pausing just briefly to stare back at him. She shook her head.
"He is the worst kind of monster because most men never see his
evil!"

"Skylar, wait; keep talking to me; I have to understand
what is going on, what has happened." She didn't seem to hear him. In a
blur of soft color, she was gone. "Skylar, damn you, stop! Listen to
me—"

She wasn't stopping.

He tore after her.

She was swift, graceful, and as fast as a cougar. She was
down the stairs by the time he reached the top of the landing. She moved
silently, looking into the dining room be- fore she quickly let herself out the
front door. She was just seconds ahead of his descent to the ground floor.