“Until your return?” Christa said, startled.
“I am going with Eagle Who Flies High tomorrow to visit the place where Buffalo Run is keeping camp.”
Christa gasped. “You’re going—right into a Comanche camp? But you can’t!”
“I’ve been in his camp before.”
Christa shook her head. “But—how can you trust him? He kills people, he has his own set of rules, you just told me that!”
“I have to go, Christa. And I trust him more than I do most men, no matter what his color.”
“If you trust him so much, why are you so angry with me?”
“Damnation!” he seemed to roar. “I’ve been trying and trying to make you understand!”
“Stop swearing at me like that!” she countered, her teeth gritting. “Mrs. Brooks will be in to get you!”
To her amazement, he paused. He sat down at the foot of the bed, staring at her incredulously, then smiling slowly.
“I have to go, Christa.”
“But—”
“Will you miss me?”
Color touched her cheeks. “Jeremy, really—”
“Come now! Surely, you’ll miss me just a little. I’m another body to fight off whatever threats may come!”
“You’re a fool, marching into a hostile Indian camp!”
“Come here,” he said suddenly.
“I—”
“Come here. I’ve got tonight. Then I’ve got to ride. I will not spend tonight arguing.”
“You won’t argue. No, you’ll just yell and then expect me to jump at your beck and call.”
“Fine!” He stood, strode the distance to her, lifted her high, and set her down upon the foot of the bed. “I’m not being a fool, Christa. Buffalo Run has sent two of his own brothers to be hostages here until I return safely. He and I are blood brothers. The Comanche are a very free people. There are many bands, usually created of family connections. Any Comanche is free to come and go from his band and a brave is certainly free to think for himself, but they all respect certain matters of honor among one another. Two minutes after I return here hostilities might break out. But while I’m under his promise of protection, I will be completely safe.”
“Fine!” she said, repeating his words.
“You!” he said, pointing a finger at her. “I will never feel safe about you.”
“But—”
“But! Will you miss me?”
She moistened her lips. “Perhaps.”
His laughter was throaty.
“It will pain me every second that I am away.”
“You are a liar!” she accused him.
“It’s God’s truth.”
“Well, it’s hard to tell. You do manage to keep your distance when you choose.”
“And then I am furious with myself. There will be no distance tonight, Christa. When the night has passed, you will surely miss me. Whether you do with pain or pleasure, I can’t be certain, but you will surely be aware of my presence tonight, and that it is gone tomorrow!”
A heat rose within her. She lowered her eyes quickly, avoiding his.
“What, no protests? No fury?”
The lamplight was very low and very soft. She stared down at her hands, studying them. No matter how she fought it, she felt a wave of crimson coloring rush to her cheeks and her words were soft and breathless. “You’re mocking me. I truly don’t know what you want! I surrendered everything the other night, everything. And you seemed pleased enough at the time, yet uninterested when you returned from your ride.”
“I have never been uninterested!” he said, and he came down upon one knee, taking her hand from her lap to slide between his own. “Never.”
“You said that I was half-dead.”
“Because I wanted to shake you into the realm of the living.”
She inhaled, feeling the fire of the silver in his eyes as they sought to impale her own. She refused to meet his gaze, shaking her head. “I did give in!” she murmured. “I swear, I ceased the fight! I—”
“You told me it was the wine,” he reminded her. “I was palatable—because of the wine.”
She lowered her head, wishing that he were not so close, so very demanding. “Perhaps it was. Perhaps it wasn’t. I still don’t understand what it is that—that you still want of me.”
“More, Christa. I will always want more. But mainly, I want you to come to me. Not because I might defend you. Not because Camerons always pay their debts. But because you want me. Would that be so very difficult?”
She shook her head, swallowing hard. Her eyes met his at last. She tried to speak, moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue, seeking words, unable to find them. Perhaps he understood her dilemma, perhaps he knew exactly when to push her, and when to come to her rescue. He released her hands, his arms slipping around her. He rose, bringing her to her feet along with him. His mouth descended ardently down upon hers, seizing her lips in a fierce, hungry kiss. But one that gave so much more. One that teased, one that coerced. One that was hot and fervent, one that elicited fires to burn deep in secret places she had so recently discovered within herself.
Those fires seemed so quickly fanned! In the fierce sweetness of his kiss she swiftly understood more of what he sought from her, and with the honeyed excitement sweeping through her she dared to do those things she had dreamed before. Her arms slipped around his neck. Her lips parted more willingly to the pressure of his kiss, and tentatively at first, but more boldly with each passing second, she teased and taunted and elicited in return, her tongue playing with his, thrusting into his mouth, rimming it. Her fingers stroked the hair at his nape, caressed his cheek, curled into the muscles of his shoulders and arms. She felt the rampant beating of his heart, a hardness, a quickening within him. He lifted his head from hers at last, silver glistening in his eyes as they touched hers. “Jesu!” he whispered, and she smiled, unaware of how dazzling and beautiful the lights in her eyes could be. But he did not meet them long. He spun her around, his fingers impatient on the hooks of her gown. When the material fell from her shoulders, he spun her again, his lips touching down on her flesh, searing and wet, causing her breath to catch, and the flame within her to sizzle and soar. He eased her dress downward, and it fell in a pool at her feet. His fingers caught at the tie of her pantalets, and when they fell, she stepped from them. The lamplight seemed so gentle that night.
He sat, pulling off a boot. She knelt before him, taking off the other boot. She paused for a moment, aware that he was quickly shedding his shirt. Her eyes met his again and the searing spark of desire within them sent a flutter cascading from her heart to the center of her womb. She rose slightly, curling her arms around him. Her lips just brushed atop his, then pressed to his throat, to his collarbone, and trailed slowly across his shoulder. She teased his flesh with the tip of her tongue, tasting the salt there. Her fingers moved over the bronzed length of his arm, testing the ripple and feel of muscle. She sat back, watching with fascination as she brought her hands down over his chest, her fingertips dancing lightly over the crisp whorls of dark red hair upon it. She came close again, kissing his chest, testing with the hot tip of her tongue, finding a rich, rising excitement in the intrigue of his body.
“Christa!” He whispered her name huskily, rising suddenly, bringing her with him. Crushed against him, she grazed her knuckles over the length of his back, savoring the ripple and pull of his muscles. The soft sensations aroused him further. She stood on tiptoe. Her lips caught his, left them. Again she stroked his back. Lower. The evocative brush of her knuckles covering his buttocks. A husky groan escaped him, startling her. She found herself swept up and laid back upon the bed, dizzy with the sweet feel of her own commitment, so alive and vital, anticipating the wonder of what was to come. Yet when she saw that his cavalry pants were off him, she did not wait. He had said that he wanted her to want him. And she did. Her flesh burned. Ached for his touch on the outside.
And on the inside …
The fire of her flesh was now searing inside of her, and the longing was deep and rich. Even as he walked toward her, she rose again. With a little cry, she raced toward him. She found herself swept up again. Her legs locked around his back as he spun with her, kissing her. He held still. She slid down the length of him. Fingers and lips covered his chest. Stroked his naked buttocks. Her eyes found his, questing, blue. “This …?” she whispered.
A deep, guttural groan gave her sweet reply. “This!” he said. “This, this …”
Against the softness of her flesh she could feel the hard arousal of his sex. Her heart hammered. She didn’t dare—she couldn’t. She closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against his chest. She teased him first, inadvertently, with the brush of her knuckles. She felt his breath catch, his heart thud. She closed her fingers around him. An exclamation exploded from him. She grew bolder, stroking the hardness, exploring beyond, her hands touching the softness of his sac, coming against the sheer hardness of desire. Whispers fell from his lips that she scarce understood, yet she did not need to hear the words, for the desire and approval were so rich in his tone. She was lifted suddenly again and found herself breathless as she lay flat. She cried out softly, for he was within her and the feeling was delicious.
Her legs locked around him, holding him close. He brought her soaring to the very crest of a pinnacle, then withdrew. She felt his lips upon hers, upon her shoulders, upon her breasts. So sweetly upon her breasts, teasing, bathing, suckling, first one and then the other. She was whispering frantically herself, demanding that he cease the torture and come to her. But he did not. He stroked, caressed, and bathed the length of her with his kiss, with his demand. When he was done, he lifted her over him, drawing her slowly down, his eyes impaling hers even as his body did the same. He taught her to move, his eyes fully upon the lush fall of her hair, the sway of her breasts. His hands curved strongly around her buttocks, and he guided her until the natural force of her desire brought her hungrily against him, sweeping them both into a maelstrom that exploded into an ecstasy beyond all that she had ever imagined, sweet, volatile, and violent, and bringing her crashing down against him at last, entangling him in the wild fall of her hair even as it seemed that the world burst into brilliant sunlight, fell to darkness, and burst into a beautiful array of stars once again.
She slipped to his side, still amazed. His arm came around her and he held her tight against him. The feel of his flesh was still hot and slick and wonderful against her own. She lay still, grateful for the warmth that surrounded them.
She heard his whisper, deep, husky. Mocking perhaps, but yearning, too.
“Will you miss me?”
“Jeremy—”
“Will you miss me?”
God, yes! she might have cried out. I’ll miss you like the sun, like air. More than I’ve ever missed anyone in all my life, more than I missed my brothers in the awful years of the war. I loved them but I love you. Oh, my God, yes, I love you.
“Jesu! If it takes that long, you’re not convinced!”
A gasp escaped her. She was suddenly, fiercely, in his arms again.
He made love to her, slowly, fervently, thoroughly. He erased all thoughts from her mind, other than the hungers and the beauties of human sexuality. When she lay panting at his side once again, he repeated the question.
“Will you miss me? If not—”
“Yes!” she gasped.
And the sound of his laughter was warm, as were his arms when he pulled her gently within them.
“My love, I’ll miss you too!” he vowed softly. “Dear God, but I will miss you too!”
Eighteen
The days that Jeremy traveled to Buffalo Run’s camp—accompanied by James Preston along with a few other men—moved slowly. Although Major Jennings and Major Brooks had more western combat experience, Jeremy had left the regimental physician, Major Weland, in command. Christa knew that both Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Brooks had their noses cleanly out of joint, and she couldn’t help but feel a little smug about it. She also saw the wisdom in Jeremy’s choice. Weland held a comparative rank, and though he was their physician he was also a curious man with an open mind, fascinated by people, far quicker to think than he was to take up arms.
She had promised Jeremy that she would miss him and she did, desperately. She was amazed to discover that she lay awake night after night, aching for him physically and within her heart and soul. She wondered if there would ever be a time when she could tell him the truth of her feelings. Still, she lay awake sometimes in agony, wondering at all the secrets he kept locked within his own soul, wondering about Jenny, wondering about the child she had lost.
Though Jeremy and his men traveled slowly, they moved ever westward.
On the third day after Jeremy’s departure, Weland invited her to the command tent to sup with him, and she was delighted to discover that he had a letter for her from home. A messenger had found their encampment that afternoon and come through with a great deal of mail. The letter was for her and Jeremy, and there were bits and pieces in it from everyone in the family—including a scrawl from the oldest of the next generation, Jesse and Kiernan’s son, John Daniel Cameron. Callie, Kiernan, and Jesse wrote little bits of cheerful news about everyday life. Daniel, who had always been the best correspondent in the family, wrote more. She bit her lip, reading that he and Callie had taken a trip to Fort Monroe, where Jeff Davis was being held. Varina had been so good to them when times had been different in her life, they had been determined to see what they could do in return. There was little. The Union didn’t know what it wanted to do with Jeff Davis yet. There had been rumors that he should be hanged, but even Daniel was certain that such a thing would never come to pass.
I think they will incarcerate him for a while, and then let him go. Perhaps they are afraid that the South shall rise again. It cannot do so. We are the lucky ones among our countrymen, for our land is in good repair, our house stands tall, and we have weathered it well. Still, to travel the nearby countryside! Building takes place daily, but wherever one goes it seems there are still the remnants of once great manors to be seen. Fields lie fallow or are overgrown, and at times it seems—in truth—that locusts have descended. I am not yet pardoned, but we have been encouraging Jesse to seek public office. Someday, this madness will end. The government of the southern states will be returned to the states. It seems that some of our most fervent Confederates are now dedicated to the task of sewing up the rip in the country. Perhaps we can start that here. It is sad and bitter to imagine that it will take years and years for all of the land to return to its bounty, for homes to rise again free from bullet holes and cannonballs, but it cannot begin at all unless we set our backs to the task.
She let the letter fall into her lap, imagining what home would look like now. The autumn foliage would be upon them. The landscape would be alive in crimsons and yellows and oranges.
“Homesick?” Weland asked her.
“A little bit.”
“But it’s not so bad as it was at first?”
She shrugged, then smiled slowly. “I admit, the travel is fascinating.”
“The wild, wild West!” Weland murmured. “It will become more fascinating still.”
“But at home they’re rebuilding the South,” Christa said softly.
Weland stood, coming around behind her, and gave her a paternal squeeze upon the shoulders. “There are great things happening!” he told her. “So many men and women have seen the downfall of the Confederacy as the end. Christa, we are entering upon a new age. We have battled ourselves at last. Now we can look to the future. The West will explode. The South will rebuild. It is an exciting time to be alive. It makes the choices all the more difficult.”
“What choices?”
He came back around the dinner table, smiling at her. “Whether to explore the new world, or rebuild the old. Will your home be in Virginia, or in the West?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think that I have
any choices,” she said ruefully. “Jeremy is a cavalry officer. I will go where he—” She paused. She had almost said “commands.” “I will go where he goes.”
Weland smiled. “Home has always been where the heart is. That is what you must discover. In time you will.” He shook his head. “It is the poor Indian I pity!” he said.
Christa’s eyes widened. She heard enough descriptions of what the Indians could do to wonder how Weland could speak so broadly.
“They are the true losers!” he told her. He spread out a hand. “Day after day, more wagon trains come now. The war kept us from this expansion. But now Americans, from the North and the South, will head here in droves. They’ll settle and they’ll force the government to break more and more treaties.” He leaned forward. “Why do you think the Comanche hate the Texans so much?”
“I didn’t know—”
“They hate the Texans! Why, they don’t even think of the Texans as Americans. Other settlers are other settlers. But the Texans—the Comanche feel the Texans already stole all their land.”
“Did they?”
“Sure did.” Weland lit his pipe and winked at her. “That’s progress for you!”
She smiled. She liked Dr. Weland. He always made her feel comfortable and as if she belonged. As if she was wanted, loved, cherished.
“Well, now. Will you have more coffee?” he asked her. She shook her head and thanked him. “I’m going to go and write back to my family,” she told him. She wished him good night and returned to her tent.
As she walked back, she could hear some of the men singing soft songs to get them through the long hours of camp life. She didn’t hear footsteps following her, but she sensed them. When she reached her tent, she paused. “Good night, Robert Black Paw!” she called out softly.
There was silence. Then she heard, “Good night, Mrs. McCauley.”
Feeling curiously happy, she slipped into her tent, wrote a long letter home, and went to sleep. She only stayed awake awhile, staring at the canvas of the tent.