Comanche Moon (7 page)

Sunflower had gone, and Deborah had the feeling that she had been forbidden to linger. There was a sweet shyness about the girl that made her wish they could be friends, but it was obvious that had been forbidden.

Her thoughts drifted frequently to her arrogant jailer, and she found herself wondering about him. He’d not come back since that first afternoon, and she wondered why. She was grateful to be left alone, but curious as to the reason. Why were her emotions so contradictory? There was a perversity in her nature, she thought wryly, that she should definitely not cultivate at this time in her life. It could be more dangerous than she’d ever dreamed.

Deborah smoothed the folds of skirt she wore, and felt the soft material drift through her fingers. Sunflower had brought her new garments, shyly, as if expecting to be rebuked. The bright cotton skirt and loose blouse had been accepted gratefully, and she had done her best to convey her appreciation to the girl.

It felt strange to wear nothing but a skirt and blouse; none of the familiar underclothing hindered her movements, and she felt slightly guilty for enjoying the freedom. Though her freedom was restricted by being captive, she’d found surprising respite in the unusual state of leisure. She sat idly most of the time.

Accustomed to being constantly busy, whether with sewing or mending or the supervision of household tasks, Deborah had first welcomed the cessation of activity. Now, however, it was beginning to pall. She was left with too much time to think, too much time to dread what she felt must be the inevitable.

He would come again, would seek her out, and she would be helpless to refuse whatever he wished from her. His first actions remained indelibly etched in her memory, and when she caught glances of him from a distance, she flushed. He had not approached her again, but obviously chose to stay in another lodge. Tipis, they were called. There was another name for the dwellings, too, something like
kahni,
but it had been too hard for her to recall and so they’d settled on tipi. Sunflower had conveyed that to her, as well as several other terms she could understand. Being able to interpret her captors’ words would be a blessing, but most of their language still eluded her.

Even more elusive was the man Sunflower had referred to as
Tosa
Nakaai.
Deborah had no idea what it meant, or indeed, if it meant anything.

Sunflower had endeavored to act it out for her, and she knew it had something to do with the sky and a bird, but she wasn’t certain what. Several choices had occurred to her, none of them particularly flattering.

The arrogant blue-eyed Comanche had invaded more than her body that night, with his brief touch. He had invaded her mind, and was constantly intruding when she tried to concentrate on the more important hope of escape for her and Judith.

She’d seen Judith once, from afar, and had not noticed any sign of abuse.

Hopefully, her cousin was faring well. She prayed she would get to speak with her soon, so that she could find out for herself how she was doing.

Deborah glanced at the opening of the tipi again, and saw—as she’d become accustomed to seeing—the passing of others outside. Children shrieked with laughter; dogs barked and growled, and she could hear the muffled laughter of women at work. Comanche women seemed to work constantly, scraping hides, cooking, gathering firewood, and tending children. She was certain there were many other duties as well. The men, she’d noticed, seemed to spend their time fashioning new weapons, telling stories, and probably planning new raids. They hunted, of course; plenty of meat drying on wooden racks attested to that. Comanche society seemed structured and well ordered to those born to it. To a frightened captive, that structure was menacing.

Slaves were for the menial tasks and worked hard. The glimpse of her cousin bent low under huge bundles of firewood, her face dirty, her hair loose and tangled, had hurt. Judith did not look otherwise mistreated, but Deborah had no doubt that every person in the camp must have a function.

Which meant that
Tosa Nakaai
would have a duty in mind for her, too.

She shuddered. She could imagine what that duty would be. There had been a fierce hunger in his eyes that night, a hot fire that had burned her wherever his gaze touched. In the long night hours, she remembered it, remembered how he’d sparked an answering fire in her. The memories were as disturbing as the reality. And her body had burned and ached with an unfamiliar restlessness that made her wonder if the recent events had not deranged her in some way.

When she closed her eyes at night, she kept remembering him as she’d last seen him, that magnificent body so overwhelmingly male and powerful and frightening, his eyes beneath the thick brush of his lashes taking her breath away. The contradiction of her thoughts bewildered her, and she knew that she was in danger of losing sight of her goal.

Daylight still brightened the tree-studded valley when Deborah saw a shadow darken the opened flap of the tipi. She froze in the act of trying to re-weave a fraying reed basket. Her hands shook slightly as she recognized her visitor.

Tosa Nakaai
bent and ducked into the tipi. When he stood, his height made the interior suddenly seem much smaller. Indeed, his intimidating presence made the roomy tipi seem entirely too small for both of them.

Deborah kept her gaze on the basket, afraid to look up at him. She sensed his gaze on her. She could almost feel the heat of him so close, and there was the slight scent of fresh air and woodsmoke that penetrated her frozen senses as she tried to ignore him.

“Kima,”
he said, and when she kept her head bent, he reached out to touch her lightly on the head.
“Nu kwuhupu.”
Deborah inhaled deeply for courage and looked up at him as he towered over her. His face was shadowed by the light behind him, and she had an impression of anger mixed with uncertainty, which was confusing. Did she puzzle him as much as he did her?

“Kima,”
he said again, and tugged at her shoulder.

She rose to her feet, knowing that to resist him would be useless and possibly dangerous.

“I assume you want me to come with you,” she said in a calm tone.

Perhaps if she exhibited no fear, he would be more likely to treat her gently.

He backed to the flap and held it open, repeating,
“Kima.”
Frightened but determined, Deborah stepped out of the tipi and into the sunlight. She blinked at the glare and felt his hand on the small of her back.

“Mia ranu,”
he said roughly, which she assumed meant she was to walk.

She cast him a quick glance.

“Where?” Shrugging her shoulders to indicate doubt, she half-turned to face him, but he caught her by one shoulder and turned her back around. He gave her another push, and a spurt of anger made her incautious. “Idiot,” she mumbled as she began to walk, wincing at the rocks cutting into her bare feet.

“How am I supposed to understand your language? You sound like two tomcats in a fight when you talk—oh!” His hard hand seized her by the nape of the neck, and he growled,
“Keta
tekwaaru,”
so harshly that she knew he must mean for her to be quiet.

Deborah’s quick, rebellious anger subsided as swiftly as it had risen, and she remained silent as her captor walked her through the camp. Tall grasses waved in patches, and she could see the glittering ribbon of water where Sunflower took her to bathe in the morning and evening. Trees shifted in the constant wind, whispering leaves rustling like secrets on the air currents.

People stared curiously as she passed them, and Deborah kept her gaze steady and outwardly calm, though she was raging with uncertainty inside.

Did he mean to harm her? Perhaps he wanted to take her out of the camp so that he could rape her without being seen, but then she reasoned that he probably didn’t need to hide anything like that. She had the distinct impression that captives were dispensable, and could be dealt with any way the captor chose. Her throat tightened, and she managed to walk without stumbling only by sheer determination.

“Tobo-ihupiitu,”
he said finally, pulling on the back of her blouse to indicate that he wanted her to stop. She did, and couldn’t help a sudden shiver.

They were in a remote, wooded copse, with the camp far behind them.

Water splashed and gurgled over muddy banks and smooth stones only a few feet away. Tall pines swayed with a loud, swishing noise that made her think of taffeta skirts rustling in church. Deborah closed her eyes and shivered again.
“Nakaru-karu,”
he muttered, his hand pressing her down to a thick tuft of grass.
“Kahtu.”

She was grateful. Her knees had grown weak, and her legs too flimsy to support her much longer. This man terrified her; there was no evidence of any emotion in his stark features, no hint that he might be gentle in any way.

If not for that fleeting impression of uncertainty she’d had earlier, Deborah would have thought him as unemotional as the pine trees shading them. That brief hint that he might be human was heartening, though not very comforting.

Tosa Nakaai knelt down beside her, and she felt his gaze burning into her. She felt unclothed without the armor of her undergarments, and briefly regretted their loss as much as she had recently enjoyed her new freedom. It felt as if he could see through the thin material covering her, and she resisted the impulse to rearrange her clothing.

Deborah tried not to look at him, but the pull of his eyes finally drew her reluctant gaze. They were so blue, so cold and yet so warm, with the fire she’d seen before lighting them with a need so strong she almost felt it. Deborah swallowed her dismay. He seemed to sense her response, a quick flutter of her pulses when she met his eyes that she couldn’t explain.

“Please,” she whispered when he reached out to touch her, one finger stroking along the sweep of her jaw, “don’t do this.” Ridiculous, of course, to bother pleading with him. Even if he could understand her, he would do what his nature dictated. He was a Comanche, and they were savages, were they not? She’d heard tales, but had not believed how true they were until lately.

And now—now, the Comanche who’d bought her was stroking her face. His features were taut with purpose, his voice soft and raspy.

“Keta? nu kuya?a-ku-tu.”
His dark head slowly bent, and he kissed her above the bronze curve of his hand. His mouth was warm, soft, and she shook with reaction. When his lips grazed her own, barely brushing over them in a whisper as light as the touch of the wind, Deborah closed her eyes.

He murmured something and tilted her head back. She opened her eyes to look at him.

“Muhraipu,”
he said softly.
“Muhraipu.”
Deborah stared at him. He wanted something; she saw the expectation in his eyes.

“I don’t know what you want,” she began, but his fingers tightened slightly, not painfully, and he gave her head a slight shake.

“Muhraipu.”
He kissed her again, more firmly this time, his mouth lingering over her lips before he drew back. His voice was a husky whisper.

“Muhraipu.”

Deborah was shaking, but she thought she understood. “Kiss? Is that what you’re saying?
Muhraipu.
Kiss.” He smiled, a faint curving of his hard mouth that held a hint of good humor.
“Haa. Muhraipu. Kiss.”
His hand drifted down to cup her chin in his palm, and Deborah felt the subtle shift of his muscles as he leaned forward again, was not surprised when his other hand moved behind her to cradle her head. This kiss was different from the others; there was no driving passion, or hesitancy, but a gentleness that amazed her. So, this hard-faced savage with hostile eyes and harsh manners could be tender when he wished to be. It was a startling revelation to her.

Deborah did not try to avoid his kiss, but she did not participate. Rather, she allowed him to tease her mouth with his tongue and lips, testing the limits of her endurance as if he knew how he made her pulse race. Surely, he couldn’t tell. Surely, this man could not sense that his touch destroyed many of her preconceptions about him. If he could be this tender, this kind, then perhaps he could not be the rough, fierce captor she’d thought him until now. And perhaps he would not make her ease that driving hunger that vibrated just below his surface.

He broke off the kiss abruptly, his brick-brown chest moving in a brisk tempo as he stared at her, and Deborah saw the male hunger in his eyes again.

Despite his gentleness, there was still that to contend with, that masculine need that stood between them as palpably as if it was carved in rock. She swallowed her dismay, her faint protest, and knew that it would do no good to protest against a force as strong as the desire of a man to mate with a woman.

A drift of wind lifted a curl of her hair from her forehead so that it teased her nose, and she brushed it away. Tosa Nakaai watched, then took her hand in his. It was dwarfed by his large hand, his long, blunt fingers and rough palm, and somehow made her feel more helpless than anything he had yet done. There was an odd expression on his austere face, a faint shifting of facial muscles that gave the impression he was remembering something or someone else. Perhaps it was the way he held her hand, cradling it gently in his broad palm as if he held a small, live creature. He began to stroke the heel of her palm in light touches, tracing along her slender fingers in feathery caresses that made Deborah catch her breath. She felt oddly drawn to him, although he was a Comanche, and he would very likely force her to do things she’d never dreamed existed until recently.

Yet, somehow, she didn’t mind.

He looked up at her, his gaze riveted on her face. What he saw there must have prompted him to action, because he took her hand and drew it to his face. She was trembling. Her fingers shook as he touched the tips to his mouth, and there was a soft huskiness in his voice.

“Tuupe.”
He dragged her fingertips over his mouth and repeated,

“Tuupe.”

“Tuupe.”
Her voice shook slightly. “Mouth—
tuupe
.” He watched her as he slid her fingers up his face.
“Koobe.”
He raked her hand over his face. He was warm, his skin rough and soft at the same time.