She pulled her camisole up over her head. The marks were heavier across her shoulders and arms. Tears made his vision waver. “Turn around,” he ordered quietly, half afraid to see worse scars on her front.
She moved in a tight circle, turning to face him. Her face was still downcast. She clutched her camisole in front of her, between her breasts. Her legs were long and slim. Pale curls covered her sex. Her stomach was concave, her hip bones clearly visible. He had been feeding her three full meals a day and several snacks between times, but she had a ways to go to return to a healthy weight. Her stomach stretched up to a narrow rib cage, and breasts that were stunningly perfect, round and full despite her slim weight. Her nipples were upthrust, tight with tension. Her hands clasped the little bit of cotton fabric in a white-knuckled hold between her breasts.
“Move your hands. Let me see all of you.”
Sarah took a breath. She felt herself withdraw, pull inward. It didn't matter what he thought of her. There was nothing she could do about it. He was her husband. He could do anything he wished. Anything at all, as she well knew. She kept her eyes averted and lowered her camisole. Logan sucked in a breath. She wanted, perversely, to start singing, to hum loudly, to drown out his voice, his thoughts. Her mortification.
“Good God, honey,” he rasped, leaning forward. “Is this what you've been hiding from me?”
A tear slipped down her cheek. She braved a glance at his face. He stared at her chest, a look of awe on his face.
“Come here. I want to see it closer.” He smiled at her. “I thought you had a scar more terrible than all the others. I was terrified of what you would show me.”
“I am scarred. It's a great blue scar they carved into my chest. I cannot wash it away. It hurt. I begged them not to do it. I begged and begged.” She gasped and stopped herself, realizing how much she was revealing.
“Come here, sweetheart. Let me look at it. It's a tattoo, not a scar.”
She moved woodenly forward. What did it matter what he did to her? It would be no worse than what Swift Elk's braves had done, time and again. She stood between his legs, waiting for him to start grabbing at her, hurting her. The trout she'd eaten at supper threatened to come up.
Logan put one hand on her waist. His hand was large and warm. It seemed to cover half her side. He traced the outline of the blue image with his other hand, his touch as light as butterfly wings.
He shook his head, then looked up, looked into her eyes. “I travel all over these plains, buying items from different tribal artisans. Some of it I sell. Much of it I keep. But some of it I save in a special warehouse. Pottery and blankets by Navajo artists, beadwork by several Sioux and Cheyenne families. All of it tells a story. Each piece bears the echoes of a people, their stories, their dreams, their sorrows. I search high and low for these treasures.”
He held her with both hands at her hips as he stared up into her eyes. He shook his head. “I heard the story of your spirit when our eyes met. I knew, in an instant, that you were special, but I never expected you to be a work of art. Exquisite beyond any I've ever seen.”
Sarah blinked the tears from her eyes. “I am not a work of art. I am scarred and ugly. They did this against my will. Swift Elk said it was his mark so that all the men he let use me would know I belonged to him.”
“Swift Elk is a damned idiot, a cruel goddamned bastard who makes war on women. But the women who did this did not brand you.” He traced the images again, his touch whispering over her skin like the faintest of breaths. “The women who drew this felt your pain. They drew the story of you.” His hand flattened against the blue tattoo. “They marked this over your heart so that your heartbeat would broadcast the truth of you out to the world. It was a protection of sorts.”
Sarah wiped at the moisture on her cheeks. He smiled up at her. “The name they gave you was Yellow Moon. The moon is incredibly important to a tribe. It lights the village, illuminates predators and enemies who might try to attack it in the shadows of the night. The moon is the circle in the center of these two funnels.” He drew a finger over the shapes as he explained them. “This upper half shows the darkness of the night. The clouds push down threateningly. This lower one shows the village lit by your glowing light. They show that you were the light of the village. It is quite an honor they did you.”
He held her waist again. His face was close enough to her body that she felt his warm breath on her skin. Her breasts thrust embarrassingly forward, but he didn't seem to even notice that she stood nude before him.
The silence stretched between them as they looked into each other's eyes. Slowly he stood up, so close that she had to arch her neck to look up at him. “Laughs-Like-Water gave me a salve for your scars. She made it from mock orange that she gathers when they go to the mountains. She said it has soothing properties that will help any soreness your wounds cause. After we bathe, I will put it on your skin. You will let me do this because you have already given me permission to see to your care.”
Sarah slowly leaned into him. He was a force of nature, irresistible, unavoidable, determined. She wrapped her arms around his waist as she laid her head against his chest. His skin was warm. She liked his smell. When his arms slowly closed about her, something inside her shifted. He accepted who she was, what she had been, what was left of her. He looked at her, clothed or nude, as if she lit his world, as if she were his Yellow Moon.
Logan tried not to breathe too deeply, tried not to do anything that would make her fear being in his arms. He ran his hands up her back. Her bare skin was soft like velvet. His arms tightened around her, drawing her closer, closer against his body until her breasts were pressed against his chest. His body hungered for hers. He could feel himself swelling, hardening. His hand moved up her spine, beneath her braid, cupping the back of her head as he held her against himself.
“I've waited for this, Sarah, waited every day of my life to hold you in my arms. I can't believe I found you. If I'd been a half hour later, I would have missed running into you.” He nuzzled her hair. “I would have found you, though. I know it. I would have heard your call. You heard mine. You went to my town, my people.” He drew back so that he could see her beautiful face. He rubbed his thumbs on either side of her jaw. “We were meant to be, Sarah.”
Sarah did not argue. His belief in their souls being meant for each other was a way of thinking she didn't understand. She wished she had heard his call before Eugene came into her life, before her world had turned black. Logan knew her dark secrets. All of them. Even the ones she hadn't yet told him. There was no need to say anything else. She wasn't the first white woman who'd come back to society with shocking accounts of her treatment while a captive. Perhaps it was time to start over, begin her adult life now, with Logan. Let the past go like the ghost that it was.
“We should take that bath, before the evening grows cold,” she prompted.
He handed her the bar of soap, a small washing cloth, and the towel. He unfastened his pants, loosened the string of his drawers, and pushed them both down his hips. His erection sprang free, jutting straight forward.
He was huge. A chill spiked through her as she stared at his member. “Ignore it, sweetheart. I desire your body. I cannot hide that fact. But we have an agreement, and I will not break it.” He took her hand and led her toward the water.
She set the towels on a rock by the bank, then stepped into the cold river. They knelt a few feet in so that the water came to their waists. Her hands were on her legs, her eyes downcast. He could feel her withdrawal. He took the soap from her and lathered up the cloth, then set it back on a nearby boulder. Lifting one of her hands, he began to wash her. He started with the tips of her nails, focusing on each finger, swirling the cloth around her palm, the back of her hand. He wrapped the cloth around her wrist and pushed it up her arm.
Despite the chilly temperature of the water, Sarah felt a strange heat flood her body. She looked up at Logan, bracing herself for the look of lust and possession that would be all over his face. He would see her slight reaction to his touch, her pleasure. He would break his promise.
She did not see what she expected. He was calm, entirely focused on the strokes his hands made over her skin. He was a man filled with self-possession, not one lost to his passion.
She could not draw her eyes away from the hard profile of his face. His brows were a tawnier shade than his sun-bleached blond hair. A day's growth of beard darkened his jaw. There was a hollow between his cheekbones and his jaw that made him look edgy. Predatory. His bottom lip was more rounded and full than his upper lip. He must have felt the weight of her gaze, for he looked up at her. His lashes were a dark brown, softening his piercing gray eyes. Sitting this close to him, she could see the thin rim of dark blue that outlined his irises.
Watching her, he moved the cloth over her collarbone, one of his hands still holding hers. Involuntarily, her fingers tightened against his. She wanted to feel his hands on her body, but she had to satisfy herself with the touch of the cloth as he moved it over her neck, around her chest, between her breasts, over her ribs, beneath her breasts. Her breathing grew shallow as she anticipated the cloth rubbing over the hard peaks of her nipples.
He paused, adding more lather to the cloth. He reached forward and took hold of one of her breasts, pressing it into more of a peak as he moved the cloth over and around the soft flesh. He lavished the same attention on her other breast. She couldn't help arching into his hand, wanting more. More pressure, more heat. The feel of his hand against her skin.
He wrapped an arm about her waist and lifted her from the water so that he could wash her stomach, her hips, her thighs. Her body felt on fire. The touch of the cold water did little to soothe her.
“Straighten your legs out for me,” he directed, setting her on her bottom on the smooth river rocks. He lifted a leg and drew the cloth around one lean thigh, over her knee, behind her knee. Resting her foot on his leg, he used both hands to draw the cloth over her calf, her shin, around her ankle. He washed her foot, moving tenderly over the scars on her sole.
He reached for the soap, lathering the cloth so that he could repeat his ministrations on her other leg. Sarah shut her eyes, giving herself over to the sensations set aflame by his touch. “Kneel again,” he said. She complied. He reached a hand around her waist again, lifting her. Her knee was between his legs. She felt his erection brush her leg, but before she could push away, he swept the soapy cloth between her legs, against her feminine core. A sensation she'd never felt before flared at his touch. She bucked against his hand, arching, seeking more. And then his hand was gone. He brushed the cloth against her buttocks, between them, over the small of her back, up the center of her spine, over her shoulder blades to the back of her neck.
Her body was wet and slick against his. His skin was warm. She moved her hands over his shoulders, feeling the muscles that bunched and cabled as he held her, washed her. Her face was pressed to his throat. She rubbed her face against the hard column of his neck, feeling his body tighten as she did so.
“Turn around and lie down so that I can do your hair,” he ordered, his voice a rough whisper. She pulled away from his body and lay down, exposing the front of her body to the air and the lapping touches of the river current. Her head was between his knees, kept aloft by his hands. He brushed the soap bar against the top of her head, starting a lather that he drew down throughout the rest of her hair. His strong fingers massaged her scalp, wringing a little moan of pleasure from her.
She felt his hands moving once again over her body, rinsing the soap from her skin, stroking her with cool detachment. When the lather was gone, he drew her to her feet and led her to the river's edge, where they'd left the towels. He took one and draped it over her head, squeezing the moisture from her hair. He wrapped the towel around her body, then folded the corner in at the top to hold the cloth in place.
“Go back to the wagon and get into bed. Don't dress. I want to put the salve on you.” She didn't immediately move, couldn't seem to lift her leaden feet. His erection pointed fiercely at her. She realized she wanted what he wanted, wanted to be intimate with him. Wanted him to wipe out the memories of all the others. She spun on her heel and hurried to the wagon, shocked by that realization.
Logan trudged back into the river to see to his own bath. He'd thought the cold water would ease his raging desire, but touching her body, feeling her reaction to him, seeing her passion, had only deepened his need for her. He ducked his head beneath the water and then soaped up his hair, his back to the wagon. He knelt in the water, felt the current flow over him, curling around his erection.
He drew the soap bar down his chest to his cock. He was in pain, aching for release. He couldn't go to her like this. Never in his life had he broken a promise. He would not break his promise to her. He palmed his shaft, imagining her body against his, her slim arms around his shoulders, her legs spread over his. His hand slipped down his shaft, squeezing, releasing, clamping as her body would do when he took her. He began to slip his fist up and down, faster and faster. He was so close. His thumb circled the crown of his penis, over and over, then fire shot from his balls as his semen burst from him, shooting into the river.