Texas Splendor Page 11

  She Who Speaks the Truth had always wanted only the best for her child, and so she had no objection to Lance as her daughter's choice. He was a fine warrior. Still, she knew that Night Lark would have much to deal with should Lance decide to take her for his wife, for he was a man with many demons inside of him.

  "There is no sign of him yet, Mother," Night Lark complained as she folded her long, slim legs beneath her and sat down opposite her mother at the campfire.

  She Who Speaks the Truth suppressed a smile and shook her head in dismay at the impatience of youth. "You waste your time mooning over him, Night Lark. Lance will return when he has captured the golden stallion—not before."

  "I am not mooning over him!" she replied testily with a toss of her head. It had always annoyed her that her mother could read her thoughts so readily.

  "You speak to the wind, daughter. Who knows you better than I?" She chuckled good-naturedly at her offspring.

  "I love him, Mother," Night Lark stated simply, hoping for some sympathy from her parent.

  "He is a fine warrior," She Who Speaks the Truth agreed, "but he is also a man driven."

  Night Lark looked puzzled at her statement. "I don't understand. . . . What do you mean?"

  "I am not sure of the cause. I only know that Lance is not completely happy."

  "Why would he not be happy?" she argued, blind to any but her own feelings. "What more could he want? He is the nephew of the most powerful chief. He is a great warrior in his own right. He is respected by all. . . ."

  She Who Speaks the Truth shrugged. "As I have said, I do not know."

  "I grow tired of your vague statements! You are only making up tales to try to change the direction of my heart, but you will not succeed," Night Lark scorned.

  "Only you can control the desires of your heart, my daughter," she responded knowingly. "I can advise you to happiness, but you must make the choice yourself."

  "My choice is made!" She stood up angrily. "I will take Lance for my husband."

  "But first he must want you for his wife," She Who Speaks the Truth pointed out.

  The painful truth of her remark brought a deep flush to Night Lark's cheeks, and she answered haughtily, "Lance wants me. When he returns I will tell him of my love."

  "Sometimes, daughter, there are more things involved than we know. Do not leave yourself open to be hurt beyond measure," she counseled.

  Night Lark, however, was in no mood to listen to her sage advice. Instead, she was lost in the remembrance of the passionate embrace she had shared with Lance the night before he'd gone off in search of his stallion. "Lance will be mine, Mother," she proclaimed with confidence, never doubting her ability to attract him. "You will see."

  As She Who Speaks the Truth watched her daughter disappear into their tipi to retire for the night, she said quietly to herself, "I hope you prove me wrong, but I have the feeling that all is not as simple as you would have it."

  Trista sat huddled against the cool night air, watching Lance work with Fuego. The day had passed uneventfully for them as they'd continued their flight across the endless Texas countryside. He had not bound her wrists after last night, and she was determined not to ever give him any cause to tie her up again. That little bit of freedom had taken on enormous importance in her current state of captivity, and so she had been quick to obey his every command since rising this morning.

  They had had little to say to each other about what had happened between them the night before. Trista had known defeat, pure and simple. She had tried to resist him but could not. She wanted to believe that she had fought his possession with all her might, but she knew in her heart that it had not happened that way, and the realization sickened her.

  Trista had never considered herself a weak woman, but now she was beginning to have doubts about her own character. She loved Michael. She planned to become his wife. Yet she had given herself to this Comanche warrior! Her feelings of having betrayed Michael were great, but she was at a loss as to what to do. She was helplessly under this man's control and had no alternative except to make the best of the situation.

  A shudder of expectancy quaked through her as she thought of the long hours of darkness to come. Would he come to her again? Trista knew she would be forced to sleep in his arms again, and she worried about what would happen should he try to take her again. Firmly, she swore to herself that she would defend her honor and try to fight him off. Yet even as she was girding herself for a confrontation, the memory of his overpowering strength and his threat to bind her and take what he wanted anyway left her confused and frightened.

  Lance offered the golden stallion a drink of water from his cupped hands, and he smiled to himself as the horse drank thirstily. After the initial challenge of the chase and capture, the rogue had proven to be much less arduous to tame than he'd expected. He had responded nicely to all his techniques, and when they reached the village tomorrow, he would begin breaking the stallion for riding.

  His thoughts drifted to Trista as he mentally compared the two. Both were his captives, and both, he knew, would bring him much praise and glory among the other warriors. Whereas the stallion was becoming more and more easy to handle and would soon be broken and willing to do his bidding, he had a feeling that Trista never would. Despite the submissive demeanor she had presented to him today, he did not believe for a moment that he had completely conquered her. Briefly, he had known the pleasure of her surrender, but as soon as their moment of passion had faded, she had been on the defensive again. He wasn't sure why it bothered him—she was, after all, his prisoner—but it did.

  A fierce surge of determination took him, wiping away any bothersome thoughts he was having about her. Trista might be fighting him now, but one way or the other he was going to bring her totally under his control. Then, when he did, she was going to learn, just as the golden one was learning now, that he was the master and she was the slave.

  Lance glanced back toward their campsite and decided confidently that tonight would be the perfect night for another lesson. Stroking the stallion's powerful neck one last time, he murmured a soft word of praise and then headed back to where he knew Trista sat awaiting his return. First they would eat. Then he would set about taming her.

  Trista had been watching for him, and she tensed when she caught sight of him returning. Her eyes were round and wide with uncertainty as he came to stand before her. His inscrutable expression gave no clue as to his intentions, and so she stared up at him nervously, wondering at his mood.

  Trista had never learned how to disguise her own true feelings, and Lance easily deciphered the sense of dread that was assailing her.

  "We will eat now," he pronounced as he sat down comfortably upon the blanket. "Bring the food."

  Trista was so stunned by his order that for an instant she could only stare at him in surprise. She was so pleased that he wasn't going to try to make love to her right then that she hastened to do as he commanded. Having watched his every move the past two days, she knew exactly where everything was, and she soon was handing him the water bag and the dried meat. Unsure as to what he wanted next, she remained standing hesitantly before him until he looked up at her with something akin to annoyance.

  "Sit down."

  At his direction, she sat down beside him, taking extra care not to come too close to him. Hunger was gnawing at her. When he handed her a piece of meat, she took it without comment and ate quickly. When she finished she was startled to find his blue-eyed gaze intently upon her.

  "Put these away," he ordered.

  Again she jumped up to do as he'd directed, glad to be away from his prying eyes. Somehow it seemed to Trista that Lance could read her very thoughts, and the idea of it chilled her. She didn't want him to learn of the confusion his nearness wrought in her soul.

  Wanting to stay away from him for as long as she could, Trista dallied too long at the task assigned. His sharp call forced her to return, and she found him already stretched out on the blanket wait
ing for her to join him there.

  "It's time to rest. We must ride again tomorrow."

  It was the moment she'd been dreading all day, and she knew there could be no avoiding it.

  "I'll sleep over here tonight," she answered quickly, moving to sit some distance away from him.

  There was a steely quality to Lance's tone when he responded to her show of defiance. "You have no choice, Trista. Have you not learned yet?"

  "I won't run away," she offered, hoping that that was what he was concerned about.

  "You are running away now," Lance claimed coldly. "You will sleep with me, for that is what I want."

  "But what about what I want?" Trista demanded, suddenly angry in her fear.

  "Shall I show you what you want?" Her words were a challenge to him, and he was on his feet in an instant, stalking slowly toward her like a panther after its prey.

  "NO!" She backed desperately away from him, knowing what his touch could do to her resistance, knowing that she wouldn't be able to keep up any semblance of a fight once he caressed her in that way.

  Lance moved so quickly that Trista didn't have a chance to run. Before she had time to realize what had happened, she was trapped against his chest, held firmly in the circle of his arms. Her throat went dry, and the sound of her own heart pounding thundered in her ears.

  "Please, don't make me do this again. . . ." She was reduced to heartbroken pleading.

  "I have made you do nothing, my golden one." His eyes burned into hers searching for the truth. "Have you forgotten so quickly how aroused you became when I touched you here . . .?" His hand slid to her breast. "And here . . .?" He then sought the juncture of her thighs.

  "No . . . don't . . . " Trista struggled against the explosion of feeling that rocketed through her when he caressed her most sensitive place.

  "Oh, yes, my captive," he growled in satisfaction as he felt her weaken against his continuing sensual assault. "You are mine in all ways, love."

  "No . . . I love Michael. He's the only man I want."

  Her words cut at him like a knife, but only served to increase his resolve to prove her wrong. "You speak, but your body does not listen," he taunted. He unfastened her riding skirt and let it drop unheeded as he sought the damp heat of her arousal.

  As his hand claimed hers, Trista found herself no longer struggling to get away, but instead, moving with his caress. Her legs were threatening to buckle beneath her as he stroked her in a manner that both calmed and excited her at the same time. She felt her head swim with the forbidden ecstasy of it. How is it that his touch could bring her to this mindlessness so easily? she wondered vaguely through the mist of her passion. When Lance swung her up into his arms, she could only cling to him, and when he lay her upon the blanket, she could no longer physically resist him.

  Trista's gaze was pleading as he came to her. A part of her wanted him so wildly that she arched with it, but another part of her was fighting to retain her own self-respect.

  "Lance . . . please . . . "

  Lance, past the point of stopping, thought that she was begging him to hurry in his possession of her. "Please what, Trista?" He wanted her to tell him that she desired him. He was not expecting the answer he got.

  "Please stop. . . . Surely you remember some of the white man's ways and know—" She got no further.

  A hot rage of fury possessed him, and he stilled, staring down at her. The white man's ways . . . "Yes, I remember the white man's ways!" His answer slashed coldly across her protest. "I remember all too well the betrayal, the deceit, and the hatred."

  Without another word, Lance kissed her, his mouth savaging hers in an exchange meant to conquer and to punish. He had wanted to be gentle with her as he had been gentle with the stallion, but all thoughts of tenderness were lost. Over and over he pressed devouring kisses upon her lips, forcing a response from her. He stripped off the rest of her garments then and began to caress her, each stroking touch calculated to arouse and stimulate. His lips trailed fire over her writhing body, evoking passion-filled cries of ecstasy from Trista.

  "Tell me that it's your Michael you want, Trista," he snarled at her as he ceased all motion and loomed over her in the darkness.

  Trista was on fire with desire for Lance. All thought of denying him had disappeared as he'd plundered her silken curves with masterful kisses and caresses. Michael . . . Michael . . . She tried to bring him to mind, but all she could see was Lance, poised and waiting motionlessly above her for her answer. His eyes were glittering with his triumph over her senses, but she suddenly didn't care. She wanted him. Her body was aching with the need to be one with his, and she wanted only to surrender to him and take the pleasure he was offering.

  "Tell me, Trista!" he commanded, rubbing his hips in intimate offering against her.

  "Lance . . . Lance . . . " She breathed his name, her eyes telling him what he wanted her to put into words.

  "Say it, Trista. I want to hear you say that you want me . . . " He bent to explore the fullness of her breasts as she hesitated.

  The heat of his lips pushed her past the point of caring about anything but fulfillment. "Yes . . . oh, yes, Lance. I want you. . . . I want you. . . ." She was sobbing then, the admission wrenched from her.

  Lance's feelings of rage and hate disappeared at her confession. No longer did he want to punish her. Suddenly he wanted to show her that she had lost nothing in telling him the truth of her desire.

  Trista was defeated, but her subjugation was also her victory as Lance pierced her body with his, giving her the gift she so desperately longed for. The sweet agony of his driving possession took them both to rapture and beyond. Together they surged and blended, wrapped in each other's arms, their legs intertwined in the throes of passion. Each movement, each touch, each kiss took them higher and higher in their pursuit of perfection. Lost in love's madness, oblivious to the past or the future, their bodies melded until they reached the heights and soared as one.

  The night passed in a torrent of desire, and no further protests were spoken. The hours seemed as minutes as Lance and Trista came together over and over again. Each joining grew more fervid than the last as they learned each other's pleasures and tested sensuality to the limits. The first pale light of dawn found them sleeping, locked in love's most perfect embrace.

  With Lance's arm familiarly around her waist holding her tightly against him as they rode, Trista endured yet a fourth day of racing across the wilds of the Texas countryside on horseback. Her spirits were at their lowest ebb as she stared dully down at Michael's ring upon her finger. What had happened the night before had shattered her dignity, and she felt more lost and alone than ever before.

  How could she have let it happen? She had vowed after her first surrender to Lance never to allow him to have his way with her again, and yet, when he had touched her last night, all had been lost. The memory of her blatant response to him brought a flush to her pale cheeks. His kiss . . . his caress . . . had set fire to her senses, and she had been helpless before the heat of her desire.

  Trista wondered if there could be a worse fate. She was a captive and completely subject to him. She did not doubt that Lance would take whatever measures he considered necessary to insure that she obeyed his every command, and it was that very fear that forced her to do his bidding. Her only hope lay in rescue, and as the days and miles passed, that hope grew more and more dim. Silently, she prayed that Michael would find her, and soon.

  Wind Rider reined his pony in at the crest of the small rise and lifted one hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the late-afternoon sun. Intently his black-eyed gaze searched the southern landscape.

  "Striking Snake . . . look!" he called to his companion. "There are riders coming. . . ."

  Striking Snake urged his horse to the hilltop beside Wind Rider to get a better look. Side by side, the two fierce-looking warriors paused to determine who would be stupidly daring enough to cross their territory. Wind Rider was the first to recognize Lan
ce.

  "It's Lance, and it looks as if he's caught the golden stallion!" With an ear-splitting war cry, he put his heels to his horse and raced off in Lance's direction, leaving his companion to follow in his dust.

  Trista saw the warriors coming across the flat stretch of land, and even from this distance she could make out the bright, hideous markings of red and black on their faces. Their ponies running at top speed, the two Comanche hurled toward them, rifles in hand, their bloodcurdling shrieks shattering the quiet of the afternoon.

  "Lance!" She could not prevent a cry of alarm at the sight. It had been one thing dealing with Lance one on one, but to face two near naked, vicious-looking savages was almost more than she could bear. Terrorized, she clutched at Lance's arm about her waist, and she wondered why he was pulling the pinto to a stop when he should have been making a run for it.

  Lance recognized his friend Wind Rider right away and fought down the urge to smile too widely as he approached. Sitting easily on his pinto, he tightened his grip on both Trista and the stallion as he waited.

  Wind Rider had always thought Lance the best warrior and hunter in the village, but as he drew nearer to his friend, his respect for him grew even more. Not only had Lance caught the golden stallion, but he'd found a beautiful, golden-haired white woman as well.

  "My brother!" Wind Rider called out in the Comanche tongue as he reined in beside them. "You have returned."

  Striking Snake rode up in a cloud of dust, and his horse reared in protest as he sawed tightly back on the reins.

  "Hello, my brother," Lance returned in the same language. He grinned broadly at Wind Rider before turning to the other warrior. A rivalry of long standing existed between Striking Snake and him, and Lance knew a moment of pure pleasure at the other Comanche's jealous expression as he stared at both the girl and the horse. "Striking Snake. It is good of you to come out to welcome me. Have I been so missed in the village?"