Steal Me Away (9 page)

Fancy was horrified. Clutching her son close to her, she
paced day in and out trying to forget the hideous scenes. She pleaded often
with Bull Elk to remain at home and end his raids. This he would not do. Fancy
was left only to pray that her own husband would always return to her.

One night, when dark clouds shadowed the moon and Bull Elk
remained on the plains with his raiding party, White Hawk strode into her tent.

“Shining Moon, I come to lie down beside you. My brother has
told me I must.”

“But my husband does not like you to take me.”

“Tonight he rides far, my moon, and he has told me to
protect you. You cannot refuse me.”

With Blade asleep in his little cot and her heart sore with
anguish about the raid and the settlers’ anger over her disappearance, Fancy
needed the strong assurance of her husband’s brother. She flung herself into
his arms.

Whether he understood all of her meanings with her flurry of
English words, he surely recognized the fear in her body and the need for him
to kiss her fright away.

He seized her lips. His fingers dug deep into her upper arms
as he crushed her against him. She tore at his hide shirt, so wild to be filled
by him.

He stripped her of her gown and gently followed her down to
her cot. In a flick of his wrist, he untied his breechcloth. His cock sprang
out, tall and rigid. A pearl of his seed formed on the tip and Fancy moaned as
she rubbed her thumb over the head. Was she craven to want the brother as much
as she desired her husband? They had given her a taste of loving by both of
them and now she was primed and needy enough to take whatever either man
offered.

White Hawk was as talented a lover as her husband, careful
with his hands and patient with his probing of her. That she knew. What she
learned this night was how he had starved for her for months when Bull Elk had
denied him the opportunity to fuck her.

“I need you,” he growled as he cupped her ripe breasts and
plucked her nipples. “I have been hard to have you for months. If you do not
wish to have me inside you, I will not. But I can do much to soothe you.”

Oh, this she knew. She flung herself wide upon the cot,
inviting him to play.

Grinning, he leaned over her and pulled her nipples to long
needy points. “Your breasts are bigger since you have suckled Blade. Your
nipples are darker. I will make them hard for me.”

She thought he meant to take them in his mouth, but no, he
straddled her in such a way that his impressive lance plunged up between her
heavy breasts. Pushing them together, he rocked himself between the swollen
globes, offering her the chance to lick his tip each time he came forth.

“That is not enough,” he cried out.

Smiling, she stroked his length. “I see. Let me love you.”

Once long ago, she had heard Collette describe how she had
taken her own husband’s penis in her mouth and sucked him to his release. In
her daydreams of being taken by White Hawk, she had often fantasized about
doing this to her husband’s younger brother. She had no idea if this was ever
done by women in the tribe for their mates, but this night, wild with fear for
her future with her husband gone from her on a raid, Fancy was crazy enough to
try.

White Hawk stilled as she pushed him to his back and when
she took him in her mouth, he threw an arm over his face and undulated to her
strong, rhythmic sucks. Fancy slung her legs over his, sitting astride him.
Then she slid lower and settled into the soft, subtle seduction of this man whose
duty it was to make her happy in her husband’s absence.

His skin was soft. Beneath, his length was rigid and she
loved laving him and feeling how she made him bigger. She tasted droplets of
his salty musk, the flavor of him rich and strong and intoxicating as May wine.
“My god, my god,” she murmured as she serviced his cock with her own ravishing
licks. “You are beautiful.”

This, she realized at once, she had said in Comanche.

In his own language, he replied, “I will pierce you. Give
you my seed. You will have my child. My son.”

As she gasped at the endearing desire of him to impregnate
her, he hauled her up over him so that her thighs spread wide. He rammed into
her with all the ferocity of a violent need. He found her tiny stone and
pinched her until she screamed her release.

As his hot jet filled her, she undulated beneath him. So
overcome with his ardor, so enraptured by his tenderness, she wrapped him close
and closer yet. To be so loved by two brothers astonished her. To love them
both in return astounded her. This was not the way of her past. Not the way of
the people who had nurtured her from infant to young woman. But this loving,
this was expansive, thrilling, unique. And she relished each second with this
man. Valued each blessing that had come to her since her husband had shown her
the glories of fucking and the raptures of love.

White Hawk traced her lips with a fingertip, his expression
raw with hurt. His cock stayed inside her for long minutes, lax when he finally
withdrew. But he held her tightly in his arms all through the night.

As dawn speared the clouds with weak rays of run, White Hawk
rose from their cot. Fancy stirred immediately, attuned to his haste and
questioning the reason for it.

“Stay,” he urged her with a hand up. “I will go.”

She sat up, her bare breasts bobbing and drawing his
appreciative gaze. “Bring Bull Elk to me quickly.”

White Hawk nodded, but his gaze grew dim and bleak with
jealousy. “I wish to have you every night my brother leaves you. I will. I
must.”

“Only if he approves.”

“No. It is custom. I am to have you if he is not here. And I
will raise Blade as mine, just as Bull Elk will raise as his own this child I
have made with you this night. You are my moon, as you are my brother’s.”

She stood, not caring for her nakedness, but wanting only to
ensure no trouble came between the brothers. “I care for you both. Do not hurt
each other over me.”

He pressed her to him, one hand delving down her spine and
pressing a finger into her asshole. “I will have you. All of you, my moon.”

She shivered in lusty delight that White Hawk would even
think to toy with her dark hole. “I am yours. As I am Bull Elk’s. Have me as
you will, I welcome your love. But for now, go and bring him to me. I must
welcome him home and into my body.”

White Hawk scowled. “This is mine.” He sank his fingers into
her still swollen and wet folds to torment her with his gentle strokes. “We can
both love you at the same time.”

She caught a breath at the risqué idea to have two men at
once. Sinking her hands into the wealth of his long black hair, she kissed him
with lingering desire. “Bring him to me. He needs me.”

“As I do.”

“As you do,” she confirmed and hoped she might make both men
happy.

But he did not return and the camp came alive with whoops
and chants.

Fancy dressed, alarm whipping through her. Where was Bull
Elk? Why had he not come to her arms?

She lifted the flap of her tipi when Willow Talks strode
inside. Her face was drawn, pale, her lips thin.

“What has happened?” she asked her. “Where is Bull Elk?”

Willow Talks raised an arm across the flap to prohibit her
from leaving the tent. “Do not go. Come with me.”

Fancy glared down at the young woman’s hand upon her wrist.
“Let me go to Bull Elk. I—”

“He is not here.”

Fancy stared at her, overcome with despair at her words.
“Where is he?”

“He does not return with the others.”

“
What?”
Fancy shook her off, then headed out to the
main campfire. There a group of braves stood recounting their raid and shouting
for their wives or mothers. Over the months, Fancy had come to know more
Comanche and so she understood their alarming words.

“Where is
Patuwa kum
?” she demanded of them in their
language.

They paused to glare at her, but did not respond. Instead,
they checked one another’s eyes.

What did they hide?

She repeated her question. When no one spoke, she strode to
her husband’s best friend and grabbed his wrist. “Where is my husband?”

“He fell from his horse.” He blinked and glanced away, shame
written on his features.

“Why? How?” To blame the horse was the way the Comanche
covered the humiliation of falling in battle.

“His horse failed him,” said another. “He fell when River
Ends took silver from the long knives’ guns.”

“A bullet.”
Oh, no.
“Did
Patuwa kum
take
silver, too?”

“I do not know.”

“You did not look? Did not pick him up? You did not help
him?” This was outrageous. Fancy whirled to look at each brave. They avoided
her gaze. “How could you leave him?”

Willow Talks strode to her side and took her hand. “Come
away. They should not tell you of any dishonor.”

“I must know where my husband is.” She shook her off. “If
they left him wounded and bleeding, I will—”

Die.
She clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling her
screams of pain. “He lives. I know he does.” She reeled and forced herself to
stand tall and proud. If Bull Elk had died, she would know in her heart. She
would feel the earth groan and rivers moan. The sky would cry and she would
feel the arrow in her soul that he was no longer here to love her.

Horses’ hooves pounded the earth. All of them turned to the sound.

The dust rose, obscuring the sight of the rider and mount
who ran parallel to the camp around the edge of a ravine.

“Who is it?” Fancy whispered, shoved Willow Talks from her
and picked up her skirts to race out to meet the rider.

He was tall. Broad. Fierce.

“Oh, god. Oh Bull Elk!” Thrusting her arms open wide, she
ran toward the caramel-colored palomino her husband had won in a raid of a
Spanish mission last month. He sat proud in his saddle, his bare chest bronze
and heaving, marked by an angry red trail from his shoulder. “No. No. You will
be well. I will make it so.”

She ran heedlessly on, over rocks and stones, twisting her
ankle and righting herself. She smiled at him, tears winding down her cheeks,
scalding her mind, cheering her heart.

He galloped toward her, a grin on his face, his umber eyes
melding with hers. Then he scooped her up much as he had that brilliant spring
day more than a year ago. This time, he caught her to him, swung her up to his
lap and slowed his horse to a stop.

“
Patuwa kum.
” Fancy could not say his name enough to
prove to herself that he was here and he still lived. “My husband. You are
hurt.”

He pressed her hand to his bleeding shoulder and strained to
withstand the pain so that the cordons in his neck flexed. “You will take me
home and make me well with your love.”

She cried out, kissing his lips, thin and white with his
suffering. “I will. I promise you I will.”

The morning of his return, Fancy dug from his shoulder an
ugly bullet. Biting a leather-wrapped log, her husband had endured the torture
of her surgery without the benefit of the white man’s opium. But she had
cleaned his wound with water Willow Talks had boiled. Then she sewed the wound
shut with leather string.

For four days, Bull Elk lay on their cot in their tipi,
recovering. He rose from his rest that fourth afternoon and went to visit with
his elders in their smoke lodge.

At dusk, Fancy wended her way into the woods and there she
paused to listen to her husband’s prayers to the Great Spirit. His words held anger
and hope, but she was struck by one grievous quality in his appeals. He
bargained with his god to let him live for many, many moons. “So that my wife
will never run, never fear and always live in love.”

Fancy left him to his prayers and when he returned to their
tipi, he took her in his arms and kissed her heartily.

“The elders say you are a worthy squaw to heal me as you
have.”

“I should say I am pleased that they like me now, but I care
only that you are well.”

“You truly are one with me now.”

“Because your elders have accepted me?” she asked, half
teasing him.

“Because you live well with me.”

“And you with me, my love. May it be for many years to
come.”

He nodded and, with a glint in his handsome eyes, led her to
their cot. “We live for today. Let me show you how that is done.”

What’s an East Coast gal to do to if she lives deep in the
heart of Texas, travels often everywhere, and adores Paris, Florence, London,
Tokyo and all points east and west?

Ah.

She becomes an author who can write about those romantic
places. With a passion for cowboys, spies, rakes, knights in shining armor and
their gutsy women, Cerise DeLand is an author who adores an alpha male with a
tender heart and a need for a smoldering erotic love affair with the right
woman!

And when Cerise isn’t dreaming up fiction or traveling? She
is a fabulous cook and an avid history buff.

Busy lady. Happy writer.

Cerise welcomes comments from readers. You can find her
website and email addresses on her
author bio page
at
www.ellorascave.com
.

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Steal Me Away

ISBN 9781419945656

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Steal Me Away Copyright © 2013 Cerise DeLand

Edited by Elizabeth London

Cover design by Dar Albert

Cover photography by RomanceNovelCovers.com, Awestound, Vitaly
Krivosheez/Fotolia.com

Electronic book publication May 2013

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