“WILLING OR NO, MY LOVE, YOU’RE RIDING WEST.”
“You don’t like me. You don’t like a single thing about me, and you can’t possibly want me with you.”
“There’s where you’re wrong, Christa. I admire your courage very much. And your strength. I think you’ll make an exceptional cavalry wife,” Jeremy said softly.
Her head was pounding. Christa slipped down from his horse without his assistance. Her skirt caught on the saddle and he had to release it for her.
“Then there’s the reason that although I very much hate to admit it—to add more flattery to that defiant Rebel head of yours—I do find you very beautiful. Exceptionally so. And …”
“And?” she whispered, startled by his last words.
“And you’re my wife, and I’ve determined that you’ll accompany me.”
“I—I can’t!”
“But you will. So prepare yourself, Christa. Willing or no, my love, you’re riding west.”
AND ONE RODE WEST
CRITICAL RAVES FOR
HEATHER GRAHAM
and her best-selling, award-winning novels
AND ONE WORE GRAY
“The long-awaited sequel to One Wore Blue was well worth the wait … a great story.”
—Heartland Critiques
“SUPERLATIVE READING … excellent characterizations … the scenes are filled with compassion and we see the anger, the fear, the dread that all the brave men who fought this war faced.”
—Rendezvous
ONE WORE BLUE
“A stunning achievement … Heather Graham does for Harpers Ferry what Margaret Mitchell did for Atlanta. Without losing an ounce of sizzling sexual tension or intense emotions, or one moment of romance, this author brilliantly entwines historical details within the framework of a glorious love story.”
—Romantic Times
“Ms. Graham fills this book with deep emotions and excellent characters that bury themselves so deeply in our hearts we’ll remember them always.”
—Rendezvous
“Graham paints a vivid and detailed picture … she is an incredible storyteller, a weaver of words.”
—Los Angeles Times
“A FIVE-STAR RATING!… a well-written plot, excellent characters and scenes.”
—Affaire de Coeur
THE VIKING’S WOMAN
“Heather Graham is a writer of incredible talent. Once again, she brings to life a sometimes violent but always intriguing era of romance and adventure.”
—Affaire de Coeur
SWEET SAVAGE EDEN
“SWEET SAVAGE EDEN IS A KEEPER! An engrossing, highly sensual nonstop read. You’ll be captivated by the engaging characters and the fascinating portrait of early colonial life. Heather Graham never disappoints her readers. She delivers high quality historical romance with three-dimensional characters and a sizzling love story that touches the heart.”
—Romantic Times
A PIRATE’S PLEASURE
“The sexual tension in A Pirate’s Pleasure sizzles like the hottest summer sun. Heather Graham’s sense of humor sparkles throughout this delightful and well-researched tale … just one more shining example of why Ms. Graham is a best-selling author. She continually gives us hours of reading pleasure.”
—Romantic Times
LOVE NOT A REBEL
“A very, very hot, fast-paced, ‘battle-of-wills’ love story that is guaranteed to thrill Heather Graham’s legion of fans … enough historical details, colorful escapades, biting repartee, and steamy sexual tension to keep you glued to the pages.”
—Romantic Times
DEVIL’S MISTRESS
“The familiar and charged role of the unwilling bride showcases Graham’s talents for characterization and romantic tension.”
—Daily News (New York)
Published by
Dell Publishing
a division of
Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.
1540 Broadway
New York, New York 10036
Copyright © 1992 by Heather Graham Pozzessere
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
The trademark Dell® is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.
eISBN: 978-0-307-81514-9
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One: A Conquered Nation
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Epilogue
Dedication
Other Books by This Author
About the Author
Prologue
Late September, 1865
Slowly rousing from a restless doze, Christa became aware of the man.
Her heart seemed to fly to her throat, ceasing its beat, then pounding furiously.
He was tall, and he filled the entryway to the tent. His shoulders were broad, and cast against the darkness of the velvet, stormy night, he was touched only lightly by the blood-red blaze of the low-burning fire in the center of the tepee.
Terror filled her in those first few seconds. The red and gold light made him appear like some ancient pagan God of this wild, raw land, some indomitable being, created of muscle and sinew and vengeance.
Dear God! Who was it? Standing in the firelight and shadow, she knew he had come for her.
It must be Buffalo Run, she thought, coming to take his revenge. He would have what amusement he could find from her—and then he would have her scalp. She knew the Comanche sometimes tortured their captives, cutting their tongues out if they screamed in the night.
And when she died, her scalp, with a long black tress waving from it, would be stuck upon a pole high atop a plain’s butte for some other traveler to discover.
Just as they had found that blond scalp themselves, not so very long ago. The blond scalp that must have belonged to a young woman, as Robert Black Paw and Dr. Weland had determined.
Dear God, no!
Jesu, sweet Jesu, let her open her eyes again and see that the man at the entry was gone! That she had imagined the towering figure of a man there in the darkness, touched only by that flickering light! Once it might not have mattered so fiercely. But it did now. She wanted to live. She wanted to live for her child. She wanted to live for the life that they might share together.
She opened her eyes. Her heart seemed to shudder. He was still there. He stared at her in the firelight, and she saw he had the advantage, for he was cast against the blackness of the night while she was bathed by the golden flames. She swallowed hard.
She didn’t show fear, Jeremy had told her once, and that was, perhaps, the one thing he admired about her. Lying in their tent beneath the stars one night, he had admitted with a bitter tone to his voice that she was no simpering belle, no matter how she liked to play th
e part of the grand dame. Had she been in the midst of the fighting, Grant might never have taken Richmond.
She knew how to fight! But could she fight now? She had fought her way right into the middle of this disaster. Now the red and gold fire lit up the tepee from its center, casting some objects into amber light and some into crimson shadow. How menacing those dark shadows seemed.
How menacing the man who stood between that ominous play of light and dark!
Her heart slammed, seemed to cease its beat, then began to pound with a fury to rival the drumbeats.
The man cast in the light began to move. He took a step forward into the tepee.
Outside, it had been storming. Now, the rains had stopped. Only the chill wind remained. Anguished moans turned into tearing howls, cries that haunted the landscape. She could still hear the endless monotony of the drums as she watched that towering figure come toward her.
The night was savage. So seemed the man.
She placed a hand above her eyes, trying to see him. All around her, the pulse of the drumbeats continued as the seconds ticked by.
What did those drumbeats mean, she wondered desperately. Was she to become a sacrifice to a pagan god? Did each beat spell her doom?
Jeremy would know. He knew the Comanche ways well, just as he knew the Apache, Cheyenne, Pawnee, Ute, and the other tribes along the long trail west. To some of the soldiers, they were all just savages. But Jeremy knew them individually. He had taken the time to do so.
And he had warned her often enough about the Comanche. They could be savage, indeed. But there was more to it than that, he had warned her often enough. They were fiercely proud. They were independent.
She felt a scream rising in her throat. Instinctively, she cast the back of her hand against her mouth, praying that she might choke it back, then wondering why she even cared.
Maybe there was a chance. Comanche sold their captives too. Raped them and sold them to the Spaniards in Mexico, making sure that they only traded soiled goods.
It was warm within the tepee, she realized dimly, despite the pelting rain that had fallen, despite the howling cry of the wind. The Comanche knew how to keep their portable dwellings secure from the rain and the cold. They knew how to live off of this hostile land. They knew how best to torture captives.
She shivered fiercely. He was just feet away from her. In seconds, he would reach the center of the tepee. She would see him bathed in the red-gold glory of the fire, and she would see his eyes, and she would know why he had come.
“You!” she gasped.
He reached the fire. She blinked and her mouth went dry. She could scarcely move, could scarcely believe.
Indeed, the golden glory of the fire touched him. Touched his majestic height, played upon the fine breadth of his shoulders. Touched his eyes, and she saw the jeweled gleam of them. She saw the burning of emotion, but just what emotion, she could not determine.
He reached down his hands to her, catching her wrists when she continued to stare incredulously at him.
He wrenched her to her feet and brought her crashing hard against him.
“Tomorrow, madam, I may die for you,” he said. His voice was rich and deep, his words harsh. The emotion that burned in his eyes brought fire to his fingertips, a touch of steel to the way that he held her. He brought her closer against him. His fingers stroked and cupped her chin, tilting her face, forcing her eyes to his. His fingers threaded into the wild tangle of her hair. His eyes traveled the length of her, assessing her for damage, so it seemed. His fingers, entangled at the nape of her neck, held her head steady as his lips lowered until they hovered just above hers. His grip was forceful. The length of him seemed to shake with electric energy, be it passion or fury.
He continued to whisper, the warmth of his breath bathing her lips and her face.
“Tomorrow I may die. Tonight …” He paused just briefly. She felt the fire in his eyes once again, and the tension of the blaze that burned within his body, as crimson and gold as the flames that lit the tepee. “Tonight,” he continued raggedly, “tonight, my love, you will make it worth my while!”
His lips descended upon hers, hard, questing, demanding.
And bringing all that fire within her.
“Jesu!” she whispered when the bruising force of his lips left her mouth at last. The fire coursed throughout her body. It felt like electricity, moving through her limbs and heart and womb. Her eyes searched his out. God, yes, she had wanted him before. Deeply, passionately. But never like she wanted him this night, with the wind crying beyond the buffalo-hide walls, with the pulse of the drumbeats never ending.
He had come.
She threw her arms around him, clung to him. His fingers moved over her hair, reveling in the length of it. He drew her away from him, the fury, the passion, still alive within him.
“Life—and death. Make them both worthwhile,” he told her harshly.
She stared at him, and then he swept her up into his arms, and bore her down to the furs upon the ground.
“Love me!” he commanded her fiercely.
For a moment his handsome face hovered close over hers. She wanted to reach and touch him, yet she felt as if her limbs were frozen. He stood briefly, casting off his shirt, shedding his clothing, then coming down to her, sleek and naked upon the fur. The length of him was bathed in the fire-gold beauty of the flames. His hands were upon her, stripping her of the fine doeskin tunic the women had given her to wear.
And then she was against his burning, naked flesh.
The corner of his lips twisted into a self-mocking smile.
“Give in to me!” he commanded her. “Everything, Christa, everything.”
Staring at him in the dancing light, she felt a pain like death steal over her heart.
She had given in to him—long ago. He knew that he had brought about her surrender.
But perhaps he didn’t know just how completely he held her heart.
If she said it, he would never believe her. He would assume that she was deliriously grateful that he was here.
She had fought her battles all too well.
She had disobeyed him. In fact, she had betrayed him. Her reckless determination had brought them here, brought on this disaster.
And still, he had come for her.
He straddled over her, his naked thighs like oaks, the ripple of muscle in his arms and chest gleaming gold and bronze. From head to toe, he was tension, passion, and determination. She began to tremble, wanting him.
And knowing that she loved him.
She reached out her arms to him, her eyes wide and luminous. She moistened her lips to speak, and her words quavered.
“I will give you everything!” she vowed, and added in a vehement whisper, “And well, well worth your while will it be!”
He groaned softly, capturing her lips again with his hunger, a callused hand stroking and cradling the fullness of her breast.
Fire exploded.
And the words almost left her lips.
I love you.
What words to cry when there might be no future to prove them, she thought with anguish.
For fierce, fiery moments, it ceased to matter. His kiss claimed her and burst into her. The fire of need burst and spread rampantly. His touch encompassed her. The hardness of his body against hers aroused and awakened her to a fever pitch. She had sworn to make it real. She parted her lips to his kiss, and felt his tongue rake the insides of her mouth. His touch seemed to be all over her. Fingers touching her breasts, caressing her hips, stroking her thighs. His lips rising from hers, his mouth forming over the hardening peak of her breast, lapping sweet fire. His hands upon her inner thigh, his fingers touching, stroking, finding her cleft, diving within her. Soft cries escaped her. She shifted and undulated beneath him, and he stopped all but that touch, watching her in the golden red light. She heard his whisper.
“Death holds no threat, my love. Indeed, you have made it all worth my while!”
&n
bsp; He would never see the flush that rose to her cheeks against the fire’s glow. Perhaps he sensed it. Perhaps he would brook no hesitance or modesty on her part this night. He fell atop her again, kissing, stroking. She fought his touch, hungered then to give what he gave to her. Upon her knees, she kissed his shoulders, her fingers biting into flesh and muscle. She kissed his lips, his chest, dazed to be with him again. He caught her hand and guided it to the fullness of his sex, and she trembled, still awed by the size and vitality of his passion. Yet even as she stroked him, he cried out. He swept her up into his arms, then laid her flat against the hides and fur of the bedding. He caught her ankles, spreading her legs. He hovered over her, his lips ravaging hers again, his eyes seeking her own. He would take her now, she thought, for they were both well starved for one another. But he did not. He could not seem to have his fill of the touch and taste and scent of her. Again, his lips covered hers. He kissed her breasts, then bathed her belly, and even as she cried out, his lips and his tongue stroked and teased her in an incredibly bold and intimate fashion. The fire glistened, her body throbbed. She thought that she would black out from the force of her emotions. Within her a climax began to build unbearably. She whimpered and twisted, and then he rose above her again, his eyes on hers.
“Jesu!” It was his turn to whisper.
He scooped her into his arms and thrust into her hard. The force of his passion was breathtaking.
There was no subtlety now, just the hunger, let go at last to run rampant. Her arms entwined around him, she was near to sobbing as he thrust and stroked, as she strove to meet him, as the blazes burst high and climbed and soared around them. Senseless, she registered only the physical feelings. The buff color of the buffalo-hide walls. The never-ending gold and red of the fire. The feel of the furs and hides beneath her on her naked skin. The man above her. His muscles were slick with sweat now and glistening with every bit as much fire and gold as the blaze. Rippling, tense, constricted, easing.
His eyes, so demanding, hard upon her own. The planes of his face, both rugged and handsome. Fine lines, beautifully and harshly drawn. The feel of his flesh against her. The feel of his sex enclosed within her, slick, wet, hot.