Chieftain (Historical Romance)

Maggie’s trembling lips opened beneath his and she felt Shanaco’s sleek tongue immediately slide between them to spread incredible fire. When his tongue touched and toyed with hers, the heat of the kiss spread far beyond her mouth.

At once Maggie became aware of the strong arms wrapped tightly around her, pressing her close against his tall, lean body. Her soft breasts were flattened against the hard planes of his broad chest, her nipples tightening and tingling from the intimate contact.

She couldn’t help herself—she lifted a hand and tangled her fingers in his silky blue-black hair and sighed. Shanaco drew her closer, deepened the kiss and urged her arm up around his neck.

For a long, thrilling minute they stood there in the dying sunlight kissing as if they were lovers too long parted. Until finally Maggie gathered her wits, realized what they were doing and anxiously pulled away. And then she smacked Shanaco hard across his arrogant face.

“I will do all the deciding when I wish to be kissed!” she told him heatedly.

“Then you had better stay away from my cottage,” Shanaco calmly replied.

NAUGHTY MARIETTA
THE SCANDALOUS MISS HOWARD
THE SEDUCTION OF ELLEN
THE COUNTESS MISBEHAVES
WANTING YOU
DUCHESS FOR A DAY

Chapter One

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

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

O
n a chilly
October evening in 1875, Shanaco, a mixed-blood Kwahadi Comanche, was playing poker in a private upstairs room of a plush Santa Fe, New Mexico, saloon. Shanaco was dressed in dark evening attire, as were the other four well-heeled white gentlemen seated at the table.

On either side of the handsome half-breed, perched on velvet stools, was an eager female. A beautiful blonde sat on Shanaco’s right, a voluptuous brunette on his left. The blonde’s slender arm was draped on the Kwahadi Comanche’s shoulder. The brunette’s red-nailed fingertips rested lightly on his trousered thigh.

Shanaco took no notice of either woman. His focus was fixed on the five cards he held closely in the palm of his right hand. He liked what he saw, but he gave no indication of his satisfaction. No one was better at presenting the classic ‘poker face’ than the steely-eyed Shanaco.

He was a skilled player who knew the odds and wasn’t timid about betting. He easily read his opponents and was a master at bluffing. Shanaco consistently did well at cards. Some called him lucky.

Over the years Shanaco had won enough to buy a small tract of unclaimed federal land in a lush valley south of Glorieta Pass. There—doggedly working alone—he had built a modest cabin and split-rail corral on the New Mexico property. Within the next year he planned to stock his ranch and make a real home of it.

He had, from the minute he took possession of the land, ignored the angry stares and veiled threats of the nearest white settlers. He kept a loaded rifle at the ready to defend his homestead.

The isolation and solitude of the place suited him, soothed his soul. When he needed company, he’d ride down into Santa Fe for a couple of nights. Whiskey and cards and women, his three major weaknesses, were here to be had. Separately or all together. On this brisk autumn evening, Shanaco preferred to have all three at once.

Cupped in his hand were five cards that every seasoned poker player dreamed of drawing. Before him sat a shot glass and a bottle of bonded Kentucky bourbon. On either side of him was a pretty woman, each one eager to become more intimate.

Respectable
white men were less than gracious and cordial to Shanaco. They allowed the mixed-blood Comanche to play cards with them, but away from the poker table they avoided him. Wanted nothing to do with him. It was the opposite with respectable white women. He had no trouble attracting the fairer sex.

At twenty-six years old Shanaco stood six foot two and weighed one hundred and eighty pounds—all lean, hard muscle. His thick shoulder-length hair, tied back with a slender ebony leather cord, was as black as the darkest night. His heavily lashed eyes were a striking silver-gray. Those arresting eyes could be as cold as pale frozen ice—or flash white hot with unmasked hatred. Or smoulder with sexual fire.

Shanaco was a highly intelligent man. He was well aware that it was more than his good looks that made him so appealing to women. His mixed-blood was, perversely, a strong magnet for females. Long ago, when he was little more than a boy, he had become accustomed to having beautiful white women make overtures to him. They were drawn to the danger he represented, thrilled by the prospect of making love to a renegade Comanche chieftain—to a warrior credited with leading murderous raids against the whites since he’d turned sixteen.

Shanaco was both mildly amused and quietly insulted by their desire to be sexually defiled by him. Each time he took a willing white beauty in his arms, he saw—written clearly in their flashing eyes—an unmistakable fear mixed with burning lust. They were afraid of him and that excited them to a fever pitch. They did not expect, nor did they want, a gentle, caring lover.

Shanaco
gave them what they wanted: a hot, fierce, crude coupling that pleased them and meant nothing to him, other than meaningless physical release. The tempestuous loving involved only his lean, powerful body, never his heart or mind.

The game of cards did engage his keen mind and was, quite often, every bit as satisfying as giving a naked white woman what she desired.

Now, as he quietly studied his cards, Shanaco glanced up.

The sixty-two-year-old president of the Santa Fe State Bank shook his silver head and said with a loud sigh, “I’m out.”

“Same here,” said a wealthy young rancher, frowning as he tossed his cards onto the green baize.

“Too steep for me,” echoed a third, dropping his cards, facedown, and pushing his chair back to rise, stretch and roll his tired shoulders.

“Well, well,” said
a middle-aged man who had recently inherited a sizable mining fortune from his late father. “Looks like it’s just you and me, Chief.” He looked pointedly at Shanaco as he shoved five glittering gold jettons toward the table’s green baize center. “Going to cost you this time around, Comanche. I see your five hundred—” he licked his loose, fleshy lips “—and raise you five.” He dropped five additional jettons atop the sizable stack at the table’s center and goaded, “Want to hold a little powwow with them there two white squaws before you decide?” He laughed raucously then. The others politely chuckled.

The man’s needling
did not cause so much as the flicker of a dark eyelash from the motionless, silent Shanaco. His expression never changed. He continued to quietly study his cards without emotion, revealing nothing. When at last he spoke, his voice was low and well modulated.

“Guess I should drop out,” he said, as if seriously considering such a move. His grinning opponent was already nodding happily and starting to reach for the stack of chips. “However,” Shanaco spoke again, gathering up several of his own jettons and tossing them onto the stack, “I believe I’ll just have a look at what you’ve got, sir. See your five hundred and raise you a thousand.” He looked up then and smiled ever so slightly.

The other man scowled. He rubbed his chin. “You’re bluffing again, aren’t you, Chief?” Shanaco said nothing. The man cleared his throat nervously. He looked around at the others, as if expecting advice or assistance. No one said a word. He took a deep breath and stated, “I won’t let you get away with bluffing me this time! I’m on to you, half-breed. Yes, I am. I call!” He tossed in ten golden jettons.

Without fanfare, Shanaco spread out his cards, faceup on the table. “Four queens,” he said as he leaned back in his chair and placed a bronzed hand on the blonde’s silk-gowned knee. She laughed gaily, as did the brunette.

The loser made a face, cursed under his breath and slammed his cards down.

“It’s getting
late,” said the bank president, “time for me to call it a night.”

Another quickly agreed. Shanaco remained seated, respecting the poker players’ code. A participant did not break up the game when he was winning. Indeed, he remained at the table until everyone else expressed a desire to quit.

Within five minutes all the other players, including the unhappy mine owner who had lost the last big pot, had donned their jackets and departed.

Shanaco called over the white-coated waiter who had been hired for the evening. As the game’s winner, Shanaco took care of the man. He paid him well for his services and requested that he gather up all the jettons and lock them up in the safe downstairs.

“Yes, sir,” said the smiling waiter. “Shall I count them out and give you a receipt while you…?”

“I trust you,” said Shanaco, who then turned and smiled at the gorgeous brunette.

She smiled back and stood up. The blonde rose as well. Both were tingling with growing excitement. Shanaco pushed back his chair and unhurriedly got to his feet.

He looked from one beauty to the other. Both were lovely. Both were willing. He couldn’t decide which one he most wanted. He took a twenty-dollar gold piece from his pocket and handed it to the brunette.

She read his meaning. She nodded and said to the blonde, “You call it, Dana.”

“Heads,” said the blonde, hoping to get lucky.

The brunette
tossed the gold piece in the air, caught it and slapped it down on the green baize.

“Thunderation!” she exclaimed, “heads. You win, Dana.”

“Better luck next time, Shari,” said the blonde, who laughed musically and slipped a possessive hand around Shanaco’s arm and declared, “I’m all yours, Chief. Where would you like to go?”

Shanaco gave no reply. He leaned down, kissed the brunette’s cheek and said, “I’ll be in town for a couple of days.”

Shari nodded, then watched with a protruding lower lip as Shanaco draped his black suit jacket around the smiling Dana’s bare shoulders and ushered her out of the smoky room.

“I’ve a suite at the La Fonda,” Shanaco said as the pair exited the noisy saloon and stepped out into the cold night air.

“Take me there,” said Dana. “Now.”

Once inside the darkened hotel suite, Dana thrilled to the strong arms that came around her the minute the door was closed. His kiss was burning hot, his tongue boldly probing. While his lips moved aggressively on hers, Dana shivered with pleasure. His hand cupped the softness of her breast and a callused thumb stroked her nipple through the silk fabric of her dress.

Shanaco wasted no time. Without taking his lips from Dana’s, he reached inside the jacket and yanked the silk bodice of her gown down her arms and to her waist.

Dana
shivered.

Shanaco’s lips left hers, came around to her ear. “Cold?”

“I…a little,” she whispered, though she was not.

“Raise your hands and grip the satin lapels of the jacket.”

Dana didn’t question him. She complied, lifting both hands and firmly clutching the slippery lapels of the dark evening jacket he had gallantly draped around her shoulders.

His mouth was back on hers then, his teeth toying with her bottom lip, playfully biting her. His tongue tasted, teased, then took total possession. While he kissed her, his hands deftly finished relieving her of the ball gown.

Dana anxiously gripped the jacket lapels and trembled deliciously. Shanaco’s lips left hers. He raised his head. His silver eyes flashed in the shadows when he eased the dress over her hips and down her pale thighs. The dress was caught between their pressing bodies. He moved back a step. The gown slithered to the floor, pooling at Dana’s feet.

Dana wore no underclothes.

Shanaco was not surprised.

“Step free of the dress,” he commanded, and she obeyed, kicking the discarded garment aside with the toe of her kid slipper.

She watched in tense anticipation as Shanaco’s hands went to the buttons of his white shirt. When it was open down his bronzed chest, he yanked the long tails free of his trousers, shrugged his long arms out of the sleeves and dropped it to the floor.

Dana winced
when he moved back against her, his pelvis firmly pressing hers. She started to release her hold on the jacket lapels, but he stopped her.

“Don’t do it,” he warned. “Keep the jacket on and don’t move your hands. No matter what I do to you, don’t let go of the lapels.”

Breathless, slightly apprehensive, Dana wondered at the strange command. She no longer needed the jacket for warmth. She was not cold. She was furnace hot. But she didn’t dare cross Shanaco. She couldn’t forget for a second that this darkly handsome man was a half-breed Kwahadi Comanche, a fierce warrior who might do God-knew-what to her if she did not obey him. He was, underneath the impeccable grooming and smooth manners, a barely civilized savage who took what he wanted, when he wanted. And tonight he wanted her. What would he do to her? Tie her up? Torture her? Take her repeatedly until she cried for him to stop?

Shanaco easily read the foolish woman’s thoughts. It made him angry.
She
made him angry. He was a man, not an animal. But she expected him to behave like one. Damn her and all the others like her.

His teeth grinding, Shanaco slipped a hand inside the open jacket, toyed for a second with a pale, heavy breast, plucking at the distended nipple with his fingertips, before sweeping his hand down her quivering belly. His long fingers were not overly gentle when they went between her legs.

Dana panted
her approval.

Shanaco expertly stroked her until she was wet and squirming and pressing against his tormenting hand. Then he took his hand away, opened his trousers and freed his pulsing erection. Dana felt it throb against her belly and wanted more than anything to throw off the suit jacket and grab hold of that awesome male power and take it all—every throbbing inch of it—inside her.

She didn’t do it.

She was afraid to disobey him.

So she stood there holding tightly to the lapels of the jacket and waited, suspended in expectation and apprehension. Soon she was thrilling to the forbidden things he was doing to her. His warm hands were everywhere on her, his lean fingers in her. His hot mouth spread fire all over, his lips and tongue adroitly painting and stroking her body as if it were a waiting canvas and he an eager artist.

Dana winced when Shanaco abruptly lifted her right leg up and pressed her bent knee against her chest. Then she gasped with shocked pleasure when he bent his knees slightly, reached between them and shoved his huge, hard erection up inside her.

It was all she had hoped it would be.

Sighing and panting and managing to balance on one weak leg as she clung obediently to the jacket lapels, the blonde felt as if she were being torn apart by this handsome savage. She loved every punishing moment of it. She never let go of the satin lapels. Idly, she wondered if the strange order had been issued so that she would be helpless against him and he could do anything he pleased to her.

If so, it
pleased her, too.

Her eyes closing, she pretended that they were in the wilds and that he, in breech cloth astride a mighty stallion, had come upon her coach, dragged her out, shoved her dress up and taken her there against the carriage while the stunned driver choked with fear and outrage.

The fantasy became real and Dana fairly vibrated with ecstasy. Within minutes she was climaxing, screaming out in her bliss. Whimpering when finally it ended, she felt the jacket being pushed off her trembling shoulders. She sagged gratefully against the broad, coppery chest before her and inhaled deeply of Shanaco’s unique male scent.