"Did you notice the inventiveness of the design?" And she shook the skirt open another few inches.
"Of course," he said, his voice husky now. "My compliments to the designer. And," he added, "to the model. It may not be what you're accustomed to, but guaranteed, I assure you," he went on, his black eyes caressing, "to strike a ballroom speechless."
"Or a brothel reception room."
"Even that," he agreed quietly. "I wish," he gallantly continued in the mildest tone he possessed, "I could take advantage of the opportunity."
"I wish you would."
It always startled him momentarily—the candid impertinence. No artifice. No hypocrisy. White women generally practiced a fraudulent coyness, sanctimonious until the very last. "Not, I think," he said with a soft sigh, "as much as I do."
"Well, then?" She held out her hand with a delicacy that surprised and excited him.
All he had to do was reach out and touch the inviting hand, slide his fingers up her creamy arm, and slip the black taffeta off her smooth white shoulders. The dream was brief, however, and he came back to himself. "You don't understand, do you?"
Lowering her arm, she shook her head slowly and long shimmering hair, flame-red in the firelight, flowed over her bare shoulders.
"Your father will come for you."
"I know."
"And I don't want to be responsible for anything more than keeping my claim intact."
"Isn't it a little late for that?"
"Not," he said drily, "for me. In any case, there's no advantage to either of us." He stopped. "If you were an Absarokee woman"—he shrugged—"it would be different. But you're not. Our culture allows more freedom in these matters. Yours doesn't."
"I wish you'd stop intellectualizing this. My God." she exasperatedly declared, "you can't pretend you don't want me."
"I'm not that good an actor."
"Damn you, then," she said, rising suddenly. "I'm going to kiss you."
He laughed, but as the jet bugles brushed like glittering teardrops against her pale breasts when she walked, their shiny hardness intensifying the lush, trembling softness, a palpable heat enveloped him. She was very close, the stiff rustle of taffeta crackling like static in the fire-shadowed silence.
Reaching up, she touched the curve of his neck where it met his shoulder, softly brushed her finger over a wisp of black shiny hair caught in the supple arc of muscle and sinew. "I'm going to kiss you," she whispered this time.
He let her pull his face down so she could reach it, let her lips brush a threshold pulse of pleasure across his cheek, let her mouth almost reach his before he grasped the naked perfumed shoulders with fingers as pitiless as her seduction, bent his head down, and forced on her, with bruising and deliberate violence, an uncivilized savage kiss that changed at the end to a languid exercise in arousal.
She was shaken when he released her. Holding her at arm's length, for she was none too steady, his own face masked what hers revealed. It took him a moment to speak, but when he did his voice was near-normal. "You mustn't tease me, Boston," he observed, "or you'll get burned. I've been playing the game so much longer." Then, in spite of himself, Hazard grinned. "To think," he said with a chuckle, "I'm protecting my virtue. What idiocy. But sweet, spoiled darling," he murmured, his glance straight and true, "you can't have everything you want. I'm not available," he said, looking down into the beautiful pouting face, "for reasons that matter to me. And now," he went on, giving her a push in the direction of the bed, "I think I'll sleep outside tonight. Pleasant dreams." Picking up a buffalo robe, he walked away.
"Damn you, Jon Hazard Black," Blaze called after him, finding her voice at last as he strode through the door, the ebony taffeta only precariously containing breasts heaving high in resentful anger. "Damn you to hell!"
Get in line, he wryly thought, and set the latch in place.
THE mosquitoes were fierce that night, hovering around him in small clouds, attacking in relentless hordes. He moved his bed twice before he found respite halfway up the mountain where a cool breeze kept the insects at bay.
Maybe he was being a fool about the woman, Hazard thought lying awake, the welcome breeze fresh on his skin. Old Man Coyote, the Almighty's irreverent helper, would have adjusted his sense of honor and duty in one capricious moment. But the Absarokee world view had been instilled in him as a child; the individual vision as a source of power represented a rationale uniquely Absarokee. Hazard's vision dreams had guided him always, a sharply defined cosmic and emotional stirring. And he felt an unease about the woman. He prayed that night for a sign. Maybe the woman was meant as a benevolent gift; maybe she didn't personify betrayal and greed. Maybe she was a gift from the mystical universe.
It was late when he woke, and unfortunately morning brought no clearer revelation to the turmoil in his mind. He hoped, with less emotional conviction than logic, that Colonel Braddock would appear soon.
Blaze was up and dressed in one of Hazard's cotton shirts when he came in for breakfast. "Did you sleep well?" she asked, cheerfully insincere.
"Not particularly." It was telling on him, the restless nights on the buffalo robes.
"Are you ready for breakfast?"
"Soon," he curtly replied, rummaging through his wardrobe for clean clothes. He abruptly turned around when her question finally registered. Had she actually made breakfast? She had, he saw. The table was set and something vaguely resembling biscuits reposed next to the charred bacon on the plate. He smiled, his sullen mood dissipating. She looked so damnably pleased with her efforts; she had even included a bottle of cognac in case he wanted a drink with his breakfast. Not a bad idea, given the condition of the food on his breakfast plate.
"Do you mind," she asked, seeing the smile on his previously somber face, "if I empty the tub outside?"
"No, of course not." And when he saw her struggle with the full pail of water she'd pulled from the tub, he added, "Let me help you." As it turned out, he emptied the tub himself while Blaze helped fill the buckets and thanked him prettily.
When he sat down for breakfast some minutes later, she said, "I'll be back posthaste," and before he'd tried the curiously shaped biscuits and black bacon, she reappeared. He was still contemplating whether his stomach was up to the punishment when she stepped over the threshold, an apology rushing before her. "I think I must have forgotten something in the biscuits. They're a bit hard and… well… I'm sorry about the bacon. I hope it didn't cost too much."
"I appreciate the effort, and don't worry about the money. If I didn't have a few thousand people to worry about, I'd be considered a relatively rich man, even by your standards."
"Oh," Blaze said, taken aback. Hazard's life hardly bespoke wealth, and she had never contemplated him in that light.
"Sit down," he suggested, waving her to a seat. "I wanted to apologize myself… about last night. It's nothing you… I have responsibilities."
Blaze sat down opposite him. "I know. Friends then?" she softly asked and put her small hand across the table.
"Friends," he replied, and prayed for restraint.
Blaze held his hand, warm and callused, and remembered where she'd felt it before. The memory brought a blush to her cheeks.
"Thanks for the breakfast," he politely said, looking for an excuse to drop her hand. The feel of her fingers curled under his brought his own reminiscing disastrously to the fore. "It was very nice of you." His voice was moderate, but his fingers when he unfolded them from her hand were trembling.
"Well, after the tub and dresses and everything," Blaze pleasantly said, determined to be as casual in her conversation as Hazard, "I thought I'd try." She glanced at the food on their plates. "It looks so easy when Jimmy does it," she ruefully conceded.
"I know," Hazard sympathized.
"You don't have to eat it." It was the first time he'd seen her contrite.
"And you don't have to wear the dresses," he gallantly rejoined.
She laughed and brightened, and he smiled that heart-stopping smile. A singing harmony, charitable and enchanting, passed between them.
Breakfast was revised to the usual boiled eggs, bread and butter, and milk, simple enough for them to manage.
"If Jimmy didn't come up we'd starve to death," Blaze admitted, her smile pure sunlight.
Hazard didn't tell her that, on raiding parties, they often subsisted on jerky and pemmican for weeks. He was familiar with rudimentary eating habits. "Perhaps a raise would be in order," he suggested with a grin, "to ensure our survival."
"By all means; I'll pay him too." When Hazard's brows rose in inquiry, she added, "If you'd accept my I.O.U. It might be a little touchy getting to my bank right now."
"Incredibly touchy, for me at least," he acceded, his eyes crinkling with laughter. "And you needn't pay."
"I've plenty of money."
"I'm sure you do."
"And think of the drudgery he's saving me."
"Speaking of drudgery," Hazard softly drawled. "And I hesitate to even bring up the subject…"
What a change, Blaze pleasantly reflected, from a few days ago. "My jailer has mellowed," she couldn't resist teasing.
"Your demure acquiescence charmed me," Hazard mockingly replied.
She gave him a straight look under arched eyebrows. "You wouldn't like me if I was demure or acquiescent."
"I'd be willing to try," he offered.
"Fat chance," Blaze retorted, her eyes cloudless, her expression as cheerful as an admiral watching the last of the enemy ships sink from sight.
"How," he said with a theatrical sigh, "were you ever allowed to grow up so damnably willful?"
"How were you?" she countered.
"I don't suppose it would do any good to bring out the arguments relating to male and female roles in society?"
"Not a scrap." Another brilliant smile.
"I don't exactly know how to broach the subject then, but…" His tone was far too casual, and had she known him better she would have recognized the underlying irony.
"Yes?" She was feeling delightfully invincible, a not uncommon feeling for an extraordinarily beautiful daughter of a millionaire.
"My buckskins need washing." And inexplicably, he felt himself brace against her reply.
"Is that the drudgery you mentioned?" was all she said in a mild, unexcited way, having no idea whatsoever that washing buckskins entailed any more exertion than rinsing out a few soiled handkerchiefs.
He nodded and nominally relaxed.
"Can't you send them in to the servants or," she sweetly added, "to Mrs. Pernell?"
"They don't know how to handle them."
"Who usually does them then?"
"One of the women from my clan comes down occasionally."
Blaze could picture it: young, beautiful, acquiescent. The women probably drew straws or paid for the privilege of coming down and working for Hazard. Since she wasn't entirely naive about men nor naive about Hazard's reputation with women that preceded him lasciviously, nor, more important, naive about the man's incredible expertise at making love, her next question came to mind immediately. "How long do they stay?" she suspiciously inquired.
Her piqued curiosity gratified Hazard. "Overnight," he replied.