charged herself.
And in the darkness she admitted that he cola id be as cold and hard and
ruthless as stone, he could care for her not at all, or perhaps even
want her with a curious interest. It didn't matter. She hadn't thought
about any man in over five years.
But she wanted this one. That he could deal well with a gun was all the
better.
When she finally did sleep that night, it was with the stern reminder
that she ought to be saying her prayers. That she ought to hope that
Jamie Slater wanted nothing more to do with her, that the stoic colonel
would take her to Wiltshire.
She could fight von Heusen, and she would. She just wasn't sure if she
could fight von Heusen and all the decadent and shameful things she felt
for Jamie Slater at the same time.
It was wicked.
It was true. If Joe had taught her anything, it was wisdom. She couldn't
change what she was feeling, even if what she was feeling could only
cause her pain. Exhaustion overwhelmed her, and she slept. Slept, and
dreamed.
Of smoke-gray eyes, of a man with broad shoulders, taking her into his
arms.
Naked, as she had been by the brook.
He was moving into a trap, Jamie thought the next night as he walked
along to the Casey house, where Tess Stuart was. He was definitely
moving into a trap, because he couldn't call Tess a liar. He did know
the Indians well, and he couldn't let a huge war get started because
everyone was unjustly blaming the Comanche. He was going to have to find
out what had happened.
He paused at the door before knocking upon it, swallowing down a
startling, near savage urge to thrust the door open and sweep the
challenging and all too luscious Miss. Stuart into his arms. No matter
how he tried, he could not forget everything that he knew about her. No
matter what gingham or frills or lace or velvet adorned her, he kept
seeing beneath it.
He'd lied to her. She was very much alive. She spoke of passionate life
and living with her every breath, her every word. Her gpirit was ever at
battle, never ceasing. She would stay on in Wiltshire, he was certain,
no matter how stupid it would be for her to do so. She was determined to
fight this von Heusen, and she would fight him even if they met on the
plain and he was carrying a shotgun and she was completely unarmed.
If. if. Was the man really so dangerous?
He didn't want to believe her. He wanted to be a skeptic. But there was
truth in her passion, in her determination.
There was truth in the honesty of her beautiful, sea-shaded eyes, eyes
that entered into his sleep and made him wonder what it would he like if
she looked at him with her hair wound between them and around them in a
web of passion.
Every time he was near her he felt it more. Something like a pounding
beneath the earth, like a rattle of thunder across the sky. Every time.
And if he didn't watch out, the day would come when he would thrust wide
a door and sweep her hard into his arms.
He wouldn't give a damn then about Indians or white men or the time of
day or even if the earth continued to turn. All that would matter would
be the scent of her and the feel of her silken flesh beneath his
fingers. He was going to a dance, he ~-r. afinded himself. And every
officer in the post would be there, and the enlisted men, too.
He gritted his teeth and willed his muscles and his body to cease
tightening with the harsh and ragged desire that seemed to rule his
every thought. He knocked on the door. "Come in, Lieutenant."
He pushed open the door, irritated that he should want her so badly,
determined that he would control himself. She was probably late, women
always were. She was probably trying to pin up her hair, or fix her
skirts or petticoats.
She wasn't. She was standing s'fiently by the small fire that burned in
the hearth. She didn't need to change a thing about her hair--it was
tied back from her face with a blue ribbon, then exploded in a froth of
sun-colored and honey ringlets. The tendrils curled over her shoulders
and fell against the rise of her breasts.
Her gown was soft blue, with a darker colored velvet bodice over a skirt
of swirling froth. The sleeves were puffed, baring much of her arms, and
the velvet bodice was low, but just low enough to show the risc of her
breasts, the beautiful texture of her flesh, the fascinating way the
soft curls of her hair lay upon it. She was even more beautiful than he
had seen her before, her eyes bright and fascinating with the light of
challenge, her smile soft and untouched by tragedy this night.
"You're ready?"
"Yes, of course. You did say sunset, didn't you?" He nodded. She reached
for a blue silk stole and handed it to him. Woodenly he took it from her
fingers and set it around her shoulders. The sweet scent of her hair
rose against his nostrils, and the essence of it seemed to fill him.
Damn.
He'd tried so hard to gain control before entering the house. Now the
scent of her was tearing through his senses, exciting his temper as well
as his passions.
"Shall we go?"
"Yes, of course." Her smile, he decided, was a wan- toh's. Miss. Stuart
was not entirely innocent, but rather a woman completely aware of her
power. She hadn't become a fluttering belle. Her intelligence was
apparent, along with her rock-hard strength, in her steady gaze.
And still . her beauty, her femininity . they were breathtaking. Jon had
seen it even when Jamie hadn't.
"Where is the dance?"
"In the alehouse," he said curtly.
"But then he determined that he knew the game himself; he would play it,
too.
He smiled graciously, capturing her hand and slipping it around his
elbow.
"The rest seems to have done you quite well. You're looking
wonderfully--healthy."
"Why, thank you, Lieutenant. With such flowery compliments a girl could
surely lose her head."
"What a little liar. You wouldn't lose your head if the entire Apache
Nation was staring you down, would you, Miss. Stuart?"
"There you go again, Lieutenant, what a dazzling compliment."
"Do you need compliments?"
"Maybe."
They had reached the open doors to the alehouse. Already music could be
heard, the strains of a lively jig. The notes of the fiddle seemed to be
loudest, and for a moment Jamie thought that Tess's smile wavered. He
was suddenly displeased with the night, and with himself. She had gone
through a harrowing experience, and she had come through it with
tremendous spirit.
No more platitudes for this chit! he warned himself. But her eyes met
his in the dim light spilling from the open doorway. So deep a blue they
were mauve in the darkness, so wide and unwavering upon his. He wished
suddenly that 65 she hadn't been young, that she hadn't been beautiful.
That she hadn't been different from any other woman he'd ever met in his
life.
"Maybe you shouldn't have come tonight," he said sol fly She smiled.
"I'm fine, Lieutenant, truly I am. Shall we go in?"
He nodded and escorted her on into the room. Dancers filled the floor,
soldiers in uniform, officers with epaulets and brightly colored sashes,
women in their sparkling fin- cry. The floor seemed alive with the blue
and gold of the uniforms, and with brilliant reds and greens and soft
pastels, lovely silks and brocades, satins and velvets.
But none compared with the blue gown that Tess Stuart was wearing. No
other garment seemed to so fit a woman, to cling to her shape, to
conceal and enhance, to so artfully combine both purity and sweetly