XVII
"How dare you address me as your bride!"
They faced each other in one of the rooms above the
barroom of the Military Plaza Hotel. The light of the candle on the notched
bureau flickered over their faces, one contemptuous, the other reckless.
"Oh?" The brows slanted rakishly over
Brant's hot, coffee-colored eyes. "So―you're taking our wedding vows
as lightly as you did your first ones?"
"You know that's not the same!"
Brant advanced on her slowly, relentlessly.
"No, I don't. I was under the impression the Kwahadi's Great Spirit and
your late husband's Lord God were one and the same."
He was right, Anne knew. She had felt as bound to
Brant Powers―no, more so―by the mingling of their blood in the
presence of Chief Iron Eyes than all the eloquent words spoken between her and
Otto in that cold church in Bridgetown.
"They were vows taken under pressure!" She
had backed to the bed. Behind her, her hands touched the bedpost, steadying
her. The tequila ... why had she been so foolish as to accept Brant's unspoken
challenge when they toasted below? She closed her eyes to shut out the
revolving room.
"They were taken of your own free will,
sweet."
Anne opened her eyes to find Brant before her. His
hands took her shoulders, and she twisted loose, scurrying past the bed toward
the door. Brant moved at once between the door and her. There was a dangerous
glitter in his eyes that frightened her as Pa-ha-yu-quosh never had been able
to, and she realized that Brant, too, was more than slightly drunk. She forced
a calmness to her voice that she did not feel as she edged toward the bureau.
"I've been used by my husband and Pa-ha-yu-quosh, Brant Powers, and I'll
not be used again!"
Brant's voice was equally cool as he came toward
her. "And what do you think your beloved Colin intends?"
Anne watched, eyes wide, as he closed in on her. I
was right, she thought. He
is
the Stalker. And yet she knew she would
never give in. It was the last dignity left her―the right of refusal.
"Colin offers me his love―not the rutting posture of an
animal!" Quickly, before he could move, Anne grabbed the tin plate holding
the candle and hurled it at Brant. He dodged and laughed, and the candle
sputtered out on the floor in its melted beeswax.
In the sudden darkness Anne could barely perceive
the golden-flecked brown eyes that gleamed like those of a lean hunting cat.
Her breath came in pants now, and she turned to run, only to have Brant grab
her from behind. She kicked at his shin, and heard with pleasure the wincing
grunt of pain. Breaking free, she scrambled toward where she imagined the door
to be. There―her hands found the knob.
But Brant was there before she could yank the door
open, his hands on either side of her, holding the door shut. She whirled to
face him. "Does it matter to you that I find you crude and uncouth?"
she hissed. "Will you still take me―like the beast you are?"
He caught her up in his arms, and she smelled the
odor of leather, of woodsmoke, and finally tequila as his mouth closed angrily
over hers. A maelstrom of conflicting emotions whipped at her, and Anne
trembled when Brant at last raised his head. His voice sent shivers of fear
through her like shards of ice rubbing against her skin. "A beast―maybe.
But your husband―yes."
Her fists pounded his chest as he carried her toward
the bed. "I'll kill you for this!" she sobbed. "I swear!"
And then, "I hate you ...I hate you!"
But her invective made no difference as she felt
herself dropped on the lumpy mattress, felt the long, hard body imprison her own.
But when Brant's lips sought hers, she twisted her head, first to one side then
the other. His fingers tangled in her hair, fixing her head beneath his. And
his kiss suffocated her, slowly drowning her. She struggled against him with
the last of her strength, yet his mouth continued to devour her, to kill what
resistance remained. When she went limp, his lips released hers.
"Your heart's beating like a frightened
rabbit's," he whispered, almost wonderingly.
As her breath slowly returned, Anne's eyes sought
the dim face above her. Her voice was as bitter as the peyote he had once fed
her. "A trapped rabbit facing death."
"Death isn't what I had in mind."
His calm assurance was too much. "Let me
go," she begged. "My parents―Colin―they would pay you
well for my safe return."
At once Anne realized her error as Brant's fingers
dug into her arms. "I've told you once before that money is useless out
here!"
But she knew it wasn't just the mention of money
that had angered him. And she seized upon the knowledge as a weapon. "You
can't stand it, can you? That Colin's the gentleman―and you aren't. Why,
he's more of a gentleman than you could ever hope to be!"
The muscles in his jaw flickered, and Anne knew she
had succeeded, had driven him beyond his usual dispassionate control. But
before she could twist away, his hands came up to tear at the low-cut blouse,
ripping it down to its center. Her breasts tumbled free, and she saw the gleam of
desire that heated the brown eyes until his fierce gaze seemed almost to scorch
her skin.
Despite his weight, Anne used the remainder of her
strength to jerk away, frantically shoving her knees upwards. Too late she
found her skirt had ridden above her hips, laying bare the lower half of her body.
"It seems I've misjudged your eagerness for resistance," Brant
sneered.
Anne's fingers came up to rake his face, and his
hand caught her wrist in a painful grip. "You lout―you swine!"
"Have it as you will!" he said harshly,
forcing her hand back on the pillow beside her head.
And he methodically began to rape her, shucking his pants
even as he savagely shoved her legs apart. At first Anne knew a momentary
thrill of triumph as he plunged inside her. Like the unpleasant times of sexual
intercourse she had had to endure with Pa-ha-yu-quosh, she would do the same
now with Brant. Lie impassive beneath the man, affording him as little pleasure
as possible.
But Brant would not even grant her the small
victory, for unlike Pa-ha-yu-quosh, the man above her took delight in her
woman's body. In her breasts that were as tender and firm as ripe muskmelons,
in the soft hollow of her neck that breathed the sweet fragrance of jasmine
that was peculiar to Anne alone, and between the long, supple thighs whose skin
texture was incredibly as smooth as silk.
Everywhere his kisses burned paths of desire that
mingled with outrage, yet Anne was helpless―reduced to a quivering
instrument on which his sure hands played as expertly as Professor Bern played
his violin.
She gasped and twisted and moaned, but there was no
escaping his force of passion that at last drove her to join him on a wave's
crest of unbearable pleasure. She was swept up, up―and when Brant
ultimately brought her to her release, she discovered the secret to her own
femininity in the whirlwind of fulfillment and cried out in wonder.
Brant lay alongside of Anne. His shaggy head propped
on one hand, he studied the girl-woman before him. He frowned as her gentle
breathing of sleep came to him. He must have been out of his mind to have taken
her like he did. He had let the tequila get to him ...and let her get to him.
After all, she clearly belonged to Donovan―or the Irishman wouldn't have
arranged for her husband's death ...or was she in on the plot also?
And yet, did it matter? If he were completely honest
with himself, as he had always prided himself on being, he would admit that he
had wanted her all along. But, Christ's thorns, he had never intended to become
this involved with the little vixen, had never intended to keep her with him
this long! He would have to let her go soon―or else she would make more
of a fool of him than he already was.
He looked down at the thick lashes which lay upon
her full cheek bones like blotches of ink, hiding the gray eyes that had for so
long flashed their contempt at him. Eyes as gray and mysterious as the Spanish
moss that draped the oaks. She puzzled him, this woman with the regal bearing of
an Eastern socialite and the wild spirit of a Comanche squaw. He had had both―and
had wanted neither. And this one ...this Anne Maren with the red-geld hair that
fanned across the sheets like spilt sherry, he would rid himself of her also.
But first ...
His sun-browned hands buried themselves in the
silken mass of hair, and Anne's lids raised slowly to the dirty streaks of dawn's
light through the room's one window―and to the wicked gleam in Brant's
eyes.
Her voice, textured like honey, drifted up to him.
"Brant..."
Anne stretched out her hand to encounter the
emptiness. Only the indentation in the mattress told her that last night had
not been a dream―a dream perpetrated by too much tequila. Her fingers
stole back to her temples, massaging the dull, nagging ache there.
What nagged even more was the reflection of her
behavior the night before. It mattered not that Brant had taken advantage of
her, had indeed raped her―what else could she expect of a man of his kind
who lived on the edge of a wild frontier all his life? What did astound her was
the fact that she had actually found pleasure in his love-making―if one
could call it that, she thought with a grimace.
Yet, like Brant, she was coldly honest with herself;
she could not deny that she had enjoyed his arrogant advances as if he were
truly her husband ...that in spite of the man's unrefinement she had found
gratification of her passionate temperament with him in that basic physical act
of nature.
And it was that, she told herself fiercely. It was a
physical act performed by even the crudest of animals. That, and no more.
Evidently even Brant had recognized the fact, for, having taken his pleasure,
having satiated his desires, he had departed as carelessly as a rogue dog.
Anne grabbed up a pillow and threw it against the
door. "Bastard," she swore just as the knock came at the door.
She yanked the rumpled sheet up to shield her
nakedness. "Who is it?"
"
Pepe
,
señora
." It was a
child's voice. "
Con su desayuno
―your breakfast."
"You've the wrong room," Anne called back.
"I didn't order anything."
"
El Señor
Brant did―before he
left," came the patient reply.
"Come in, then." Anne watched from the bed
as the thin olive-skinned boy opened the door, balancing the tray in one small
hand, and crossed to the night stand. In spite of his darker coloring, his
sweet face with the enormous raisin-black eyes reminded her much of Fritz, and
she was at once saddened, wondering what had become of the orphaned boy. But
she managed a smile for the youth before her and a "
gracias
,"
one of the few Spanish words she knew.
The boy drew forth a folded piece of paper from his
pants pocket. "
Señor
Brant, he wished me to give you this."
"
Gracias
, Pepe," she said and took
the paper, wishing she had a coin to tip him. But the boy apparently seemed
satisfied and flashed her a wide grin as he closed the door behind him.
Anne unfolded the note to read the heavy scrawl.
I've
other business. Don't leave the room―and this time try to mind. Brant.
Anne wadded the note in her hand. So, the clod could
write! She ignored the glass of
najarada
and the corn tortilla heaped
with beans and cheese and bounded from the bed. Her long legs paced the room in
angry strides. Just what was she supposed to do, she wondered, while Brant went
about his business? Wait patiently like a kept mistress? Back and forth her
bare feet padded across the hardwood floor.
And worse, she thought, what if the rogue didn't
return? Why should he, indeed? He had accomplished his purpose―to locate
this Flores. The fact that he had trailed Flores to Iron Eyes' camp and found
her also was only an added break to his lucky streak. Lord, but he had the luck
of a born gambler. She could just imagine that sardonic smile of his when he
gave Colin the news he had found her―and had possessed her.
Sweet Jesus, what would Colin think? How could he
feel anything but contempt for her if he had the slightest inkling of the life
she had led in the intervening months―and there was not the least doubt
but that Brant would take great pleasure in informing Colin that she had been
his mistress.
Anne crossed to the window and looked down upon the crowded,
dusty plaza. Under the hot, late afternoon sun the vendors hawked their wares
of colorful wool blankets, clay pottery, and vegetables and plucked fowl.
Beneath the shaded stucco portals women flirtatiously shielded their faces with
their rebozos, and men with fierce mustaches responded with a sweep of their
wide sombreros. A pack of a hundred mules crossed the plaza before the
cathedral, churning up the dust. But Anne saw none of this.
Planning, her teeth chewed on her thumb. In spite of
the fact that Brant had several good reasons to dump her, she knew he would
not. Brant was the predator. While he had her―and wanted her―he
would use her. And there was not a thing she could do to prevent it. She was
alone in a strange hotel―without money―without a friend. Unless she
could count Rafael And, if it came down to it, Anne felt Rafael's greater
loyalty would probably be given to Brant. And Ezra, no doubt the same.