Savage Deliverance

It was a warm and breezy springtime morning. The perfect time to be in the birch-bark canoe with Kahani, an Indian boy of five. Macleod enjoyed the comfort of the buckskin worn by the Sioux Indians. In fact, he was beginning to enjoy everything that was Sioux. After such a very long time, he was beginning to feel at home with the land, with himself and with this people. Kahani was in the front of the canoe on this placid wilderness lake. He was attempting to help Macleod work the oars and his paddles were both sloppy and enthusiastic. A great deal of water splashed into the canoe.

MacLeod demonstrated and Kahani tried to imitate the moves. He did so very successfully, but then a lack of skill was not Kahani's problem. Daydreaming most certainly was!

Still, the beauty of the landscape around them inspired daydreaming. It inspired peace, serenity and happiness. And this was what Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod who had been a warrior for far too many years needed and wanted.

So, he could not begrudge Kahani his daydreams or his constant unfocused attention on details. The boy was young and learned things quickly when his attention could be snagged away from the soar of the eagle or the thrill of his pretend war raids. Such things had not taken place amongst this Sioux tribe in over ten years…it did not hurt the boy to honor the Sioux tribes fallen warriors by pretending to be one of them.

The Teepees of the village came into view and it wasn't long before the canoe touched bottom. Jumping out of the vessel, Kahani helped Macleod tug the canoe up onto the sandy shore.

Duncan ruffled his hair. Together, they moved through the small Indian village. The sounds of the people rushed all around them, the chatter of the women as they worked the boast of the men as they practiced there hunting skills or bragged about them around the fire. Duncan glanced down at Kahani as he heard the sound of children at play, but for once, this small boy was not eager to be off with his friends.

Just a head he saw her, Kahani's pretty, young mother. She was more than just pretty to Duncan. She was beautiful. She had not seen either of them yet, and she worked with a vibrancy and joy of life that Duncan found both refreshing and endearing. The small baskets of berries setting before her were forgotten when she looked up and saw their approach. Kahani rushed to her, nearly bursting with excitement. He proudly held aloft a brace of trout on a willow stick.

“It seems Mac-Loud taught you well today.” She looked fondly at MacLeod as he approached. Feeling those loving eyes upon him, he indicated his soaking buckskin shirt with a wry smile.

“I'm not afraid of the bear! See what Mac-Loud gave me?” He held out the AMULET for Little Deer to see. Suddenly, remembering he was a warrior, he pulled it away.

Little Deer glanced down briefly, before slowly meeting his searching eyes. “She thinks…she thinks that she is still young and a warrior should have many children.”

“Because... because I'm at peace, since the first time I can remember. This is my home now, my life...” Sincerity glowed brightly from his eyes. “You and Kahani are everything I'll ever need.”

Duncan took her face in his hands and kissed her. They fell down on the soft brown earth, his body cushioning the fall, and Little Deer broke free of his intoxicating lips to smile at him tremulously.

Winter was just around the corner. Macleod could feel it in the crispness of the early morning breeze that moved over him. He had been hunting and he had two deer and several rabbits that he would be bringing back to the Indian village for his family. Right now, he was cooking himself some breakfast over an open fire. The coffee pot started to boil over and he moved it to one side. Just then, he felt the rush and the warning. He looked up, searching the greenery around him. Someone, someone immortal, was approaching. He could feel it. He could hear it.

The man who steps out from woods was, a wild looking blonde-haired mountain-man. A Colt .44 and his Bowie knife were strapped to his side. He was leading his horse in. On it is a Sharps rifle. Duncan relaxed as the man approached, his palm up to show he means no harm.

The man reached into his bedroll and pulled out a battered tin cup. After pouring some of the rich brew, he stood back and eyed Duncan closely. “There isn't a whole mess of our kind here abouts. My name's Kern.”

“Don't mind if I do.” Swatting down before the roasting rabbit, he reach out and tore a leg away. Without hesitation, he brought the hot, searing meat to his mouth, gulping the meat down.

Kern didn't seem to realize that the man standing above him was no longer welcoming him. He missed the narrowing of Duncan's eyes, the tension and fury that should have been obvious to even a blind man. Instead, Kern thought he had found someone to boast to about his many savage raids upon the Indian tribes in this portion of the American wilderness.

“You should watch your mouth,” Kern warned, before his eyes seem to skim over the clothing Duncan wore and an understanding light lit his eyes. He came to his feet abruptly.

Snickering now, Kern moved to his saddle and opened one of the saddlebags. “Well, I got a present for you, Squaw Man..” He lifted a string of scalps from the saddlebag and waved them tauntingly into Duncan's furious face. “Which one you suppose is hers?”

MacLeod bellowed with rage and dove across the fire, hitting Kern. They rolled on the ground, hitting and pounding at each other. Kern finally managed to push Duncan back enough that he could gain his footing. He reached for his sword that was in his saddle sheath. Spinning about he came at Duncan with both the sword and his Bowie knife. Duncan had not been idle, either, and produced a spear and a tomahawk.

Kern smiled, and moved forward, using both weapons with glee. Macleod was backing away. With a mighty thrust of the Bowie knife Kern was able to knock Macleod's spear to the ground. He grinned, showing teeth that were blackened and yellowed.

He had the Squaw Man now, he thought. Kern sensed a kill and charged at Duncan, swinging his knife. Macleod ducked the blade, grabbed Kern's shirt, and rolled to his back, flipping him with his feet, up and over. As Kern fell into the heavy brush below, out of sight, Duncan grabbed his spear.

Duncan raced through the rest of the forest and then across the open prairie grasses until he reached the shores of the lake and saw the smoking, devastated remains of the Indian village. The wind seemed to howl as if mourning, and with the wind was something else that was all too familiar-it was death. It was defeat.

OH God! He had arrived too late. The camp had been laid waste, the Indians massacred. Raw emotion darkened his face as he moved from one Indian to another, turning there mutilated bodies over, searching, until at last he found her, laying face down, discarded like a used rag.

She looked so small, defenseless, sprawled and broken as a child's doll. He knelt beside her and lifted her gently into his arms rearranging her out flung arms and legs. His hands touched the softness of her hair, his fingers immediately becoming soaked with the rich red warmth of her blood. She had been struck down, from behind, as she had tried to flee.

Slowly. Duncan settled back fully onto the ground, cradling Little Deer. He drew his fingers along the curve of her cheek. Her lashes were long, shadowing her face, and he could see the red scratch on her cheek where she had scraped it across the ground upon her fall. Iron bands constricted his chest, and he sucked in a deep breath, realizing that he must have been holding it, unwilling to breathe the smell of death that was already heavy and sweet in the small village.

Sweat drenched his buckskin shirt despite the cool air and his skin felt clammy. Duncan staggered to his feet, still holding Little Deer in his arms, unable to put her down.

Little deer was beginning to feel stiff and cold in his arms. It was unfamiliar, since Little Deer had always been hot-blooded and passionate. Now he would never hear her sweet voice again. She would never be teasing and coy and sweet and loving. Kahani. He was gone as well, murdered and must lay mutilated upon the ground with the rest of this Sioux tribe.

His mouth tightened, and the cold knot inside him ignited into a blazing revengeful fire. He would find Kern, and he would pay with his life…but not before he suffered as Little Deer and Kahani had. Duncan lowered Little Deer to the ground. Kneeing beside her still body, Duncan swore his revenge to her, while the numbness he'd first felt altered to a cold, lethal promise.

The solicitor had reserved a semi private dining room that evening so that Charisa Farland could have the necessary privacy needed to finalize her upcoming trip into the American Northwest. He knew she was tired. After all, he had arranged the full week journey by train from New York city to Denver-and within the next two days, and even longer and more harrowing journey would be in store for his young client.

Charisa closed her eyes briefly. Just a little privacy would be nice, but that seemed unlikely until she retired for the evening. Opening her shadowed green eyes, she found her stepmother watching her with concerned. Charisa tried to reassure her with a smile.

It was amazing, Charisa thought, what could be achieved with enough money and influence-creating a civilized oasis in an uncivilized world was just one of the smaller things. I shouldn't think that way, she thought guiltily. She was sure her fiancé who waited for her in Salt Lake City, lived in a town very much like this one. And that would mean after her marriage that she would too!

Charisa took a sip of her wine, willing herself to forget about whatever the future might bring. This was her father last wish, his deathbed wish. And come hell or high water, Charisa would fulfill that promise she had made to him to join the Farland family to the Wallace Family.

The Indian scout her stepmother had hired sat across the table from her. The man looked to be little more than a savage Indian, himself, dressed as he was in torn, and even dirty animal hide. Could he have not found some civilized clothing to wear, if only for this one evening? Could he have not at least found a comb? It looked as if he had never used one, and beneath the shade of her lashes, Charisa eyed his bristly blonde hair with something very close to disgust.

Mr. Kern was said to be the best at what he did. Which in this case would be seeing her safely across hostile Indian Territory so she could join her fiancé, Carl Wallace in Salt Lake City. This private meal in this semi-private dining room was for her to question this man and get to know him better. But it already seemed that the more she learned about him the less she liked him. And she had even started to distrust him, but as to why, Charisa could not put a finger on the exact reason.

“Tell us, Mr. Kern, how many years have you scouted for the U.S. Cavalry?” Wilma Farland, Charisa's stepmother, finally asked when it appeared that Charisa was reluctant to begin the interview.

`Why do I dislike this man so?' Charisa wondered, even as she began to question him. Those pale, cold blue eyes fell upon her and she was barely able to control a shudder.

Charisa was so horrified by this man's easy unconcerned admission of mass murder that for several minutes she could only stare at him. Her mouth had turned dry and she reached for her wine once again, this time taking a wee bit more than a sip.

“Now I know you are a lady, so I can understand you got a soft heart and all,” Kern offered, “but you see, those kids grow up to be savages just like there parents…

“These white settlers you speak of, were they Blue Coats? After all, you told us earlier that there were only Indians, Blue Coats and Squaw Men in the North Country!”

“Tell me, Mr. Kern, if these Indian are so blood thirsty, why don't they kill these Squaw Men. Surely, the men in these villages must not like it that white men comes to marry their women.”

Kern's angry laughter was loud and blusterous. “As to that, Ma'am, these white men turn. They become Injuns. And Injuns are like animals, you see. They don't marry.”

Charisa's disbelieving glaze locked onto her stepmother's as they exchanged a look that spoke volumes. Only two days to go before they left Denver on a trail that would take them North to Cheyenne, then westward through the North country that Kern spoke of as if he had become the master of it. But had he really? And did she want to have this man a part of her expedition if there was a possibility he might decide to murder more Indians. After having met this Indian scout, Charisa was of a mind to believe that kern's actions in the North Country had been ones of aggression, not self-defense.

Charisa was relieved when the waiters came to remove their plates. Charisa declined dessert, as well as the after dinner drink that Kern suggested and rose to her feet. Wilma took her clue and followed suit, leaving Kern alone with their solicitor.

The main lobby was busy at this time of the day and both Charisa and Wilma ran the gamut of bold masculine stares, which only added to her growing annoyance. “For goodness sakes! Were there so few women in Denver that the two of them should attract such attention? She hardly believed that these men would know, as men back east seem to, that the gowns they wore were made from imported silk and were the very latest in European design. And yet, the men did seem to be staring at there clothing.

What Charisa did not know was that gowns with such low cut décolletage were not the dress of a virtuous woman in this town. Gowns like she wore, while not of the same type of quality, were most often seen on the streetwalkers or kept women. Certainly judgments had already been made about them. They must be kept women since were far too beautiful to be unprotected. And such beauty and wealth made it quite easy to believe that their protectors were wealthy providers. Perhaps even influential ones.

Wilma shrugged her shoulders. “He has been paid well. Sixty dollars now and two hundred when he delivers us safely to Carl Wallace.” Wilma reached out and gave her stepdaughter a brief hug. “The promise of money will protect us. Along with a love of violence, there is a great deal of greed in those pale blue eyes.”

“Remember, we are traveling with four other men. Men hired by your fiancé to make this journey. I'm fairly sure that they are here to see to your safety as well.”

Once alone inside her room, Charisa moved to the open French doors and stepped out on to the hot hand-painted tiles of the balcony that over looked the town. She should go to sleep like Tily was, her personal maid, but the fact remained that she was feeling too restless at the moment, her earlier weariness fading in a rush of renewed energy. The music from the cantina down the street beckoned with violins and guitars, and a beat that made her tap her feet to the rhythm.

It could not be so very dangerous to venture out for a closer look at the music and the dance. She would shield herself with her rebozo. It was too hot and humid to bother with all the proper undergarments, and the old cotton skirt she found in her the tall, heavy armoire would cover her sufficiently. With her rebozo covering the lightweight peasant-style blouse she slipped into, and shielding the reddish brown locks of her unruly hair, Charisa was quite sure she would go almost completely unnoticed.

Slipping her feet into soft black slippers, she rushed out the door, down the hall and out into the hotel courtyard. She opened the wrought-iron gate of the patio and smiled at her sudden sense of freedom.

It was dark on the street where the moonlight couldn't pierce through the shadows of the buildings, and it didn't take her long to reach one of the Plazas. It was here that the music played. Glowing torches displayed the dancers and singers as they entertained near the Plaza's well. Cautiously, she stayed in the shadows, not wishing to be seen just yet. Perhaps, she would stay hidden all night. As of yet, she was undecided, but she was glad she had ventured out to smell the heady fragrance of the night blooming flowers and to listen to the soft, vibrant throb of the Spanish music.

Paving stones that had been set into the ground in places in the plaza had heaved and shifted positions, and she caught her foot on one of these stones before realizing it was there. She cried out at the sharp pain in her toes. She bent to remove her shoe to rub her throbbing foot, kneeling on the paving stone that was still warm from the heat of the day.

Charisa's head jerked up and she found herself staring up at a man silhouetted against the moonlight, his broad frame a dark shape that almost blended with the black lace of the buildings shadows. Too startled by his sudden appearance to reply, she stared at him, blinking a little in the dim light.

“I have just arrived. . . I do hope you did not have to wait too long for me. If I had known you were going to come unescorted I would have met you in a less public place.”

A small frown knit her brow, and Charisa realized that he thought she was someone else; but before she could inform him of his mistake, he reached out and pulled her up, his hands warm and strong on her wrists.

Moonlight barely penetrated the thick shadows he backed her into, but a small, thin reed of light played over his rakishly slanted dark brows and eyes that were a subtle caramel color. His gaze raked over her, bold and assessing and insolently slow, and he smiled suddenly, his teeth a quick flash of white.

Still holding her wrists in his strong hands, he pulled her forward unceremoniously, not giving her a chance to protest or rectify his obvious error as he kissed her. Charisa gasped in outrage-a mistake, because he took immediate advantage, probing her open mouth with his tongue, shocking her.

She jerked away from him and he let her, but he put out an arm to block her retreat. His shirt was open, stark white against the shadow, hanging loosely from broad shoulders. Charisa had the impression of long dark hair and tanned skin, thick ropes of muscles, and lazy grace as he stepped closer, so close she could feel the animal heat emanating from him. She took an involuntary step away, and came into contact with the adobe wall at her back. He followed, a fluid step, swift and intent, his lazy drawl altering to an almost cooing growl.

Too unsettled to do more than glare at him, she looked pointedly at his arm where it brushed against her breasts, then up at his face again, tilting her head back because he was so tall. Moonlight filtered through the shadows, dimly lighting his features. Really, he had the most mesmerizing eyes, veiled by impossibly long eyelashes, and his mouth was so full, and unique.

“Not yet!” he warned when she tried to push his arm away. “Since I imagine you came out here to fulfill our assignment, I'm rather curious about why you have changed your mind.”

His gaze moved over her languorously, obviously noting the way her skirt draped her hips that had no concealing petticoats, lingering much too long on where her breasts pushed up against the thin cotton blouse, before moving finally to her face, studying her. Her rebozo had fallen back and was draped from her arms, concealing nothing. Aware of how she must look at this moment, like one of the women he no doubt believed her to be, she snatched the shawl up and around her, flushing furiously at his boldness.

He laughed, and when she managed to twist free, he caught her and swung her back around and up against the adobe wall once more. This time he leaned forward, his hands planted firmly on the wall above her head and his body pinning hers.

“Presumptuous, am I? You may be right. But then, your didn't have to come here to meet me if you were so unwilling. The fact that after knowing what I expect, you have come to meet me gives me a right to presume a great deal.” His voice softened now, becoming a sensuous drawl, accompanied by the increased pressure of his body against hers. The lowering weight of him was a heated persuasion on her breasts, belly and thighs. It took away her breath, left her flushed and feeling hot inside, as if coals had been banked and were being fanned to life.

`Get away from me!' The thought screamed out at him, but she never found her tongue to voice it, instead she shrank back, but it did her no good. He was so close-his face was inches from hers, and she could smell the warm, masculine scent of him-heady and disturbing, and oh God, what if he kissed her again?

The thought had only just registered fully in her brain, when his mouth came down on hers, hot and hard, forcing her lips apart with convincing pressure. This wasn't her first kiss, but it was definitely the most alluring. He didn't just kiss her. He possessed her. Weakness flooded her. She no longer wanted to protest or struggle, and it would have done her little good anyways because nothing seemed to be working right. Her arms had surrendered to him by inching there way up around his neck. Her legs were pressed up most intimately against his, and her lips were moving against his mobile mouth, in a seductive demand she hadn't known she possessed. Her tongue licked at the salt on his lips, and she nearly collapsed against him, in total sexual abandonment when he finally opened his mouth to started suckling her tongue.

He held her pinned against the wall with both hands on her body. He brought up his leg, wedging his knee between her thighs, and the cotton material of her skirt moved up, bunching around her hips as her legs parted beneath the luring force of his knee until she found herself straddling it.

Charisa's head began to spin, and waves of dizzy heat shuddered through her. Without her undergarments, her bare legs scraped against the rough material of his pants in a slow abrasive slide. In a daze, she felt him move his hands, skimming them down her sides to her waist to hold her astride him. Dear Lord, what was he doing? What was he making her feel? A shock wave of sensation shot through her when he pulled her forward, dragging her along his steel-muscled thigh in an erotic glide that made her whimper with pleasure. Blindly, her hands flew out to catch her balance, clutching at him, fingers digging into the muscles of his arms.

Nothing had happened in her young life to prepare her for this, and she was helplessly caught up in the pure act of simple feeling. Where his hard thigh rubbed between her legs, heat radiated up and outward, igniting in the apex of her thighs like a gigantic inferno. She shuddered, and he rocked her forward again, eliciting the most exquisite tremors.

The adobe wall behind her gave way to a doorway and she felt him carry her through it, than heard the door slam shut. The bright glow from the candle in the corner of the room bathed his face in flickering light. Charisa was startled. This man was extremely handsome, especially with that fire of desire reflecting from his dark, sensuous eyes. She felt almost consumed by the raw sexually tension she sensed in him.

Then his hands were on her breasts, cupping them, thumbs rubbing over the hard little buds of her nipples through the thin material of her blouse, and the ache between her legs began to throb. Her mouth opened to…protest? surrender?… and his tongue slide inside in a sizzling exploration that shocked a moan from her. He caught at her hair, his fingers tangling into the curls. Her head fell back, and all thoughts of resistance faded into something else. Somehow he had awakened in her strange new emotions. Emotions that made her cling to him, her hands moving against his shoulders, fingers curling into the loose material of his shirt and grazing against the dark, crisp length of his hair as she kissed him back with growing intensity and demand.

“I'm sorry, am I being presumptuous again? Should I release you and send you on your way?” The teasing tone of his voice faded, and his head bent, his mouth taking hers again, this time with swift demand.

Then he was pushing her from his thigh to stand upright again, his hand on her shoulder in a light hold. Reeling, she fought for control, feeling dazed. For some godforsaken reason all she seemed able to do is stare at him like a fool.

She blinked, trying to digest what he had said. Right upon that, her outrage came wildly to the surface, and she couldn't quite remember if she had jerked away from him or if he had released her. She did know that her fingers were curling into claws that wanted to do nothing more that tear at that handsome, sober face.

“How dare you? Where have to taken me? And you had better step back and let me go!” Seeing his surprise, she added harshly, “I will scream and when the authorities come I will insist they hang you!”

The look in his caramel colored eyes was very close to outright amusement and she opened her mouth to regale him with a less than flattering opinion of his actions, his attitude, and his morals, but she forced her lips closed when she caught the glint in his eyes. He was actually goading her, it would seem. And Charisa didn't understand why, she just knew she would not justify his expectation.

“Bloodthirsty little tigress.” A corner of his mouth twitched with amusement. And then suddenly all amusement was gone, and he simply stepped away from the door. “My apologies! I have behaved unforgivably toward you this evening, and my only excuse beside the fact that I mistook you for someone else, is that once I had you in my arms I found your charms quite irresistible.”

“I cannot leave you out here unescorted.” He offered softly and reached for her hand, finding that her fingers trembled against his. “I would see that you return to wherever you came from unmolested.”

“But what is there to tell?” he asked softly. “That you had escaped your guardians and decided to roam the streets of Denver? That I kissed you and touched you in a way that may compromise you?”

They had arrived at the front door of the hotel, and as she turned to flee from him, Duncan fingers tightened on her hand, raising it with flowery respect to his lips.

It was a parting shot, a last volley as she turned on her heels to walk into the hotel, half expecting him to follow her. He didn't. And when she reached the staircase leading up to her room, she looked back, but he was gone.

The entire experience left her unbearably shaky and bemused, wondering whom he really was and why he needed to pay for a prostitute when he was so undeniably handsome. Surely women, who were more experienced than her, and knew what he wanted, agreed readily enough.

Laying in bed later and staring into the darkness while the moonlight faded and night shadows grew paler, she couldn't stop the barrage of memories, nor could she dismiss the unfamiliar sensations he had ignited that left her feeling strange, restless, and wishing she had been a woman of more experience and easier virtue.

She thought of the fiancé she was going to Salt Lake City to meet. Would his kiss be pristine? Or would it be arousing and controlling? Would he hold her like Duncan Macleod had? God! She had not known any man kissed like that! And-why did she feel so disloyal-toward her fiancé when she had not been responsible for what had happened?

Was it because she had responded? But, of course, she had responded! Almost mindlessly, she had responded! She had not been able to stop herself. She had been so totally unprepared for a kiss that had been so totally arousing, and for a man who had been so unbelievably perfect in every way!

Ah, but he was dangerous, this Duncan Macleod. He was tall, dark, unbelievably handsome, and mind-bogglingly arousing to her senses. Her mind said to run fast and far, but her body kept her awake all night, hungrily longing for what it knew Duncan Macleod could do to it.

Charisa could have slept until noon, if Tily had not arrived just before eleven to open the drapery that prevented the harsh, heat of the day from entering the room. Intensely bright sunlight hit her full in the face and she groggily moved up onto her elbows to peer about the hotel room.

“Yes, thank you.” Charisa murmured and moved into a sitting position on the bed. Her young body ached from so little sleep, but after she tossed aside the sheet and began her toilette, she began to feel more herself.

“There has been some distressing news . . . I'm sure your stepmother will explain it,” Tily offered reassuringly as she worked to arrange Charisa's dark hair into a spiral fall of curls atop her head. “I do know that our departure has been delayed because of it.”

“Delayed? Oh, but this journey has already been unbearably long, and I have been told that it could be close to two months before I will finally reach Salt Lake City once we do leave here.”

Charisa shrugged. “From his letters this place called Salt Lake City sounds quite lovely. I do wish, however that my solicitor had mentioned the possibility of traveling to Utah Territory by Ocean liner before we boarded the train in St. Louis.”

Wilma's face wore a white, distraught look that was unfamiliar, and caused Charisa to begin to wonder just what this distressing news was that Wilma had. She bent over Wilma chair and whispered that she had had trouble falling asleep because of the heat, and all the excitement of last evening.

“No, it is okay, dear. It is just,” Wilma paused, her eyes darting to the solicitor and the four escorts sent by Carl Wallace. Charisa settled into the chair beside hers and Wilma gave her a smile that seemed a little forced.

Wilma, who was usually never clumsy, knocked her glass of water over just then, and Charisa watched uneasily as one of the escorts quickly moved to rescue the glass, and other started mopping up the wet mess with the edge of the tablecloth.

Something was very wrong here, but Charisa couldn't begin to guess what it could be, and it looked as if Wilma had reservations about mentioning the problem in front of their escorts.

There had been such relief in Wilma's voice. Charisa wondered if it was because she knew the escorts would wait outside the lending library and there time inside would be unchaperoned, thus private enough for her to explain that cryptic remark about abduction.

The luncheon only took about an hour, but because Charisa was on pins and needles the whole time, it felt like forever. Wilma went up to her room to retrieve her drawstring tote, and Charisa was left with even more time on her hands and an ever-broadening fear.

Did Wilma know what had taken place last night? Did she know that she had left the hotel for the Plaza? Did she know that Duncan Macleod had taken all those unforgivable, and unforgettable liberties with her? Was he the man that Wilma thought had abducted her? Had Carl Wallace's escorts followed her last night? Had they seen her loosing all her control in another man's arms?

The inside of the lending library was cool. The adobe of the walls protected the interior from the oppressing heat outside, while the tall windows that were located 10 feet above their heads bathed the entire room in bright light.

“I truly worried that beastly man might have made off with you,” Wilma confided. “I know that perhaps you are to innocent as to the ways of men to have really noticed that he never seem to take those nasty cold eyes of his off you last night.”

“I did notice, Wilma, but let's just say I chose to pretend differently so I could make it through the meal.” Charisa started to smile. “This is not so bad! We both hated the man-and I'm sure we would have felt vastly uncomfortable with him as our scout.”

Wilma nodded her agreement. “And at the time, my dear, he was the best. But by some twist of fate and luck on our behalf, when Mr. Kern ran out in the middle of the night with our money, another scout that has even been rumored to have lived with the Indians in the North Country came into town. And he was willing to take over for Mr. Kern.”

“Our solicitor reassured me, Charisa that there is plenty of money to see that we acquire another scout and get the supplies we will need to get to Salt Lake City.”

Wilma smiled. “Carl will, of course, pay Mr. Macleod upon our delivery and then I intend after you are wed to travel onto San Francisco and take a ocean liner back to New York.”

Wilma sighed and settled back in her chair. “Yes. A Mr. Duncan Macleod, Charisa. And he is--” she shrugged abruptly and added, “but wait, seeing will be more convincing than anything I might say now. I will tell you that he is the exact opposite of Mr. Kern…perhaps in every way, and I am sure you will be quite taken with him.”

Charisa bit her lip and lowered her eyes in case Wilma detected any of what had happened last night in her eyes. She wasn't quite sure if the rush of exhilaration she had felt just now was because she was horrified or simply in denial of the attraction she felt toward this would be scout.

Ah, Duncan Macleod! There scout through the North Country. She would have to rely on him, trust him because it would be the duty of their scout to guide them through wild and rough country that was infested with savage Indians, and to see to their defense if they were attacked.

Yes, why not admit it. She had enjoyed his kisses, his hands on her breasts and his hard steel-muscled leg between hers. She liked his presumptuousness because it allowed her to enjoy his love play and at the same time feel completely blameless. But then, he knew that, which was why he had told her that he would do the same things to her the next time they met. And while she didn't believe he would do so this evening, there were going to be at least two months worth of moonlight nights ahead of them….

First, there was the small private dinner party, where the solicitor had announced that he had hired Duncan Macleod as the scout for their journey. Charisa, who had been terrible nervous about going down to dinner, was left almost speechless by the solicitors actions. While she had been asked to voice an opinion about Mr. Kern, it appeared her opinion mattered not at all when it can to Mr. Macleod.

And then upon meeting him again, she had expected-she did not know what she had expected. That he might feel a little confused or embarrassed by finding out that she was not just some streetwalker, but a person due his respect.

Charisa had dressed with unusual care this evening in one of her favorite gowns; this time in a soft shade of blue that brought out the darkness of her hair. She would put the presumptuous Mr. Macleod in his place once and for all! Rather to her surprise, she discovered that Wilma too had obviously paid careful attention to her dress-a deep crimson velvet, worn with rubies that made her blondness seem almost fragile.

Charisa spent the evening chatting gaily with the solicitor, who was so astounded by her sudden attention that he couldn't seemed to do anything but watch her with a growing admiration which she found almost as irritating as the fact that Duncan Macleod chose to actually ignore her. He spent most of the night talking with Wilma, which made Charisa feel terribly angry for some reason.

And, apart from his low-voiced conversation with Wilma, Duncan Macleod's comment to the solicitor that such a dangerous and difficult journey for such fragile women was really not something he would advise was just to taunting for Charisa to ignore.

“But Mr. Macleod,” Charisa flared hotly. “There isn't anything fragile about me! I am as hearty as they come, and my fiancé does not think the trip too strenuous for me, so why should you?”

He shrugged, giving her a smile that would melt chocolate. “But I understand that your fiancé has not even met you yet, miss? So how well can he really judge such a thing?”

Charisa could hardly suppress a surge of anger at his comment, but before she could refute it, Wilma stepped in and remonstrated gently, “Now, Now, Charisa. Mr. Macleod does have a point, but then so do you.” Turning pleading blue eyes onto their would-be scout, Wilma implored, “Perhaps, you will both come to an agreement once we hit the trail.”

Charisa's eyebrow rose in surprise at Wilma's choice of words. `Hit the trail, indeed!' she thought sourly and abruptly turned her attention away from Mr. Macleod and back to the smitten solicitor. She would like to hit something all right, and it wasn't the trail!

Later, Charisa was to be only too thankful for the long and comfortable night of sleep she had that evening because she learned from the solicitor the next morning that they were all ready to begin preparations for their journey, and that these preparations were to include a wagon drill and practice in shooting and loading both pistols and rifles. And before that first tiring day was over, Charisa was to wish passionately that she had never set eyes on Duncan Macleod.

The two wagons they were to take on their journey were hitched to a mule team and taken to the flat, grassy plains about five miles east of Denver, and it was there that Macleod had decided to have them practice wagon drill. Charisa was annoyed to hear that she, Wilma and Tilly would have to take turns driving the two wagons. By the time her first day of wagon drill was over she was not only hot, tired and aching in every muscle, but almost speechless with anger as well. It seemed as if she could do nothing right.

Tilly, being the simple soul that she was found driving the wagon and bringing it to a hasty halt at Macleod's command an amusing kind of game. Wilma endured her instructions stoically, and her determination to learn actually earned her Macleod's grudging admiration.

But Charisa-she thought rebelliously that Macleod chose her to deride in particular; using her as an example of the wrong way to go about things. Her wrists were delicate, her hands soft-even the gloves she wore did not protect them from the chafing bite of the rawhide reins she was suppose to hold.

Oh, God! She hated these smelly mules she was suppose to control and on one occasion when they almost dragged her off the high wagon seat and only Macleod's swift intervention had stopped the team from bolting, Charisa told him breathlessly and furiously what she thought of him.

“… And furthermore, Mr. Macleod,” she ended up, made even angrier by his silence, “I do not appreciate being singled out by you for the amusement of the others…”

At that point he reached for her hand, and jerked her forward so that she all but lost her balance and fell into his arms. She cried out against the pain in her sore hand more than out of fright and found herself enfolded in the steel warm of his arms and seated across his lap on his horse.

He looked down at her upturned face, spotting the tears that glistened in her eyes and suspected that he had perhaps pushed her a little too far. And maybe she was right. He was singling her out. He was pushing her harder than the others. But how was he to explain that he was doing it out of true concern for her. She was so fragile, like a newly formed rosebud, and the North Country was a place that was hard and merciless. If she didn't toughen up, she was going to be crushed. Of course, if he was being realistic he would have to admit that given only the two days remaining until their departure there was not going to be enough time to turn the ethereal rose in his arms into a cactus flower.

Oh, God! What was he doing, she thought wildly as she felt the horse move beneath her and felt his arm come around her, tightening under her breasts as he rode away from the wagons, away from Wilma and Tilly and most disturbingly away from the four escorts, who were really spies, that Carl Wallace had sent to meet her and Wilma in Denver.

A grove of trees offered welcoming shade from the intense sun, and it was here, amongst the green grass and prairie flowers, that he brought his horse to a halt and slid off of it, still holding her in his arms as if she had been a child.

He sat her down on a large smooth rock and knelt down in front of her to remove the gloves from her hands and examined the raw, angry blisters that had broken open on her palms and fingers.

Her eyes met the warmth in his caramel colored eyes and her frustration and anger with him slowly began to fade. She watched him silently as he moved to his saddlebags, dug around in one of them for a bit, than came away with a small jar of salve. He smoothed this over the injuries on his hands and it had a cooling effect that removed the annoying sting she had been feeling most of the morning.

His large hands closed over her shoulders, the fingers tightening as he shook her a little. “You little idiot! My orders might be the only thing that keeps you alive! Don't you realize what kind of danger you'll be putting yourself in once we clear the Rockies?”

“I am not an idiot, Mr. Macleod! I am your employer and I will thank you to remember it!” she cried out then, with anger, pain and a growing frustration. He released her abruptly as he'd put his hands on her, staring at her suddenly as if he'd never seen her before. Only then did she realize the sight she must present. She could feel the sweat of the day that had moistened the material of her blouse, making it cling to her breast, revealing, no doubt everything from the outline of her darkened nipples to the fact that they were pebble hard.

His dark eyes traveled very slowly over her, and the way they did so made her flush with renewed fury. Instinctively, she crossed her arms over her breasts, half-sobbing in her anger.

“No use doing that-I've seen more than my fill, darling, and I still find your charms just as irresistible,” he drawled wickedly, and came hastily to his feet when she struck out at him blindly!

He laughed, tossing his head back so that her eyes were drawn inadvertently to the strong column of his neck, the flash of his teeth as he continued to smile at her in that heart stopping way he had. Oh, why did he have to be so handsome, and at the same time, why did he have to be so bluntly honest as well.

She was afraid! Afraid of loosing her heart, afraid he would take her in his arms again and make her crave his mouth on hers, his hands, his fingers-oh, if there was such a think as the devil, surely this man was he!

She really was mad, Duncan found himself thinking as he watched her. She was so mad she was shaking-mad enough to spit-or to kill. And in spite of himself, he couldn't keep his eyes off the curves and hollows of her body, outlines so revealingly under that near to sheer blouse she wore. Entirely inappropriate attire, but he wasn't surprised. It wasn't her fault. She was like a babe left out in the woods!

Totally unaware that he was doing it, Duncan stopped laughing and stood staring at her. Her nipples were hard and pointed and seemed to strain against the damp cloth of her blouse-and she had noticed what he was looking at, of course, and was getting madder by the minute.

If she had been like the girl he met the other evening, or even some young Indian girl, like Little Deer had been, he'd have thought of tumbling her backwards onto the long grass under these trees and making love to her. But she was Miss Charisa Farland, and he'd better remember that; hadn't he decided to stay clear of her as much as he could? And yet, time away from her didn't cool the fire in his blood-nor had he forgotten kissing her the other night and the feel of her breasts in his hands. He wanted her. He desired her, and now-

She had gone quiet, watching his eyes, and he knew suddenly without any words being said that she was thinking about the same thing. For an instant her eyes looked into his, a bright glittering green, and then she'd veiled them with her lashes.

“Yes, of course,” was all he could think to reply. It was getting quite dark, he realized, as he mounted his horse, then reached down to haul her up into the saddle behind him. Her arms went around his waist. And as they rode off, the tantalizing touch of her harden nipples kept brushing up against his back to the rhythm of the horse's gait.

Wearily, she rested her check against the soft buckskin of his shirt and closed her eyes. She was so sore, so tired, so over-wrought. And she didn't know what she was going to do about this man's infatuation with her, because she had to first deal with her infatuation for him.

It was all so wrong, and yet when she was with him, it felt so right! How could that be? She didn't know Carl Wallace. Aside from the exchange of two letters that were more instructive than personal, there had been no contact between them. She had a small Still frame of him and he had one of her. If she was to fall in love with Duncan Macleod, and if he wished for her to stay with him, would Carl Wallace really mind so terribly much?

She sighed, subconsciously tightening her hold on Duncan. And what of her promise to her father on his deathbed? She had told him that she would marry, and while she had not pacifically mentioned Carl Wallace by name, they had spoken of him several months before and she had known full well her father wishes.

They started out three days later. She took control of the mules first, as they made their way up the winding mountain pass that lead more deeply into the Rocky Mountains. It was the middle of July, and the lush vegetable, the rush of melted snow falling from mountains crevasses made the drive a little more bearable. The mountains were majestic and as they surrounded them, Charisa began to feel very insignificant.

Two hours of handling the reins had her sitting uncomfortably on the high seat; glad for once of the unbecoming sunbonnet she wore to protect her skin. Sweat trickled down Charisa's face and onto her blouse and down her neck. Her armpits were soaking wet, and she realized with a feeling of distaste that wet patches were spreading down her sides. Duncan dropped back often to check on her, but when he offered to take over the reins so she could give her hands and the strain on her shoulders a break, she quickly refused.

She must smell terribly and she didn't want him sitting be side her smelling her body odor. She saw something in his eyes when she refused him that almost made her call him back. But no! It was best to let him ride ahead. She didn't need any special treatment, and she must not encourage him or herself. Carl Wallace waited at the end of the trail and she must become his wife.

Shortly before 10 am, Duncan called the signal to halt the mule team. The clearing he had found for them to rest was filled with tall trees and the wild and somewhat wild flowing Colorado River. Duncan dismounted nearby and approached Wilma.

Extremely weary, Charisa ignored both of them and crawled into the back of the wagon. Her head ached dully and she was so overheated she could actually feel the heat radiate out from her. The flap to the wagon was pulled back and Tilly entered. She reached into Charisa's lone case and pulled out a linen gown, before turning to her expectantly.

“Well, let go have a cold river bath,” Tilly commented, tapping her foot a bit impatiently. “I think Mr. Macleod has taken a shine to you, sugar. He picked this spot especially for you-because you can bathe in the privacy of the trees…and he has ordered one of your Fiancé's escorts to replace you at the reins.”

“Oh, thank God,” Charisa commented without thinking and hoisted herself up to stumbled down from the wagon and along the trail behind Tilly. Upon seeing the cool deep blue rush of the river, she began stripping her sweat soaked clothing away.

She now stood on the edge of the river, balancing on one foot while she jerked off her stocking from the other foot. As soon as she was stripped down to only her petticoat, she waded into the water, sinking down into it until it covered the top of her head.

It was so wonderfully cool and the rapid rush of the water massaged her aching muscles helped to ease away all the strain and tension she had allowed to build up inside of her. After almost a half hour, she saw Duncan Macleod standing just beyond the trees. Tilly turned and they exchanged glances and then he was gone, and Tilly was calling to her, telling her that she must hurry and dress because the team was ready to move on.

During the next week of the journey, she never controlled another mule team. She would sit along side Tilly or Wilma when it was their turn and almost against her will, Charisa found her eyes straying towards Duncan Macleod, who with his deeply tanned skin and long black hair, tied back with a piece of rawhide at the nape, could have passed for an Indian. What kind of man was he? He was unlike any other man she had ever known, and while she would have loved to have been able to neatly label or categorize him; to say he was this, or that he was that, type of man, she knew she did not know him well enough to even make a calculated guess.

She had not forgotten his passionate lovemaking the first evening they had met, nor the desire he had evidenced for her then. And yet, ever since, he had all but ignored her, making his demands for her comforts from the sidelines. And yet, she remembered that look in his eyes in that grove of trees outside of Denver. And she did know what that looks meant.

He finds me desirable, Charisa thought, frowning unconsciously. Does he do so merely because I am a woman? Perhaps? But then, she did not find him desirable merely because he was a man…there was more to it!

Her eyes moved until they touched him and she was taken aback, and surprised to find those caramel colored eyes gazing back into hers. He smiled, and she noticed all over again the startling beauty of that smile.

“I'm going to be scouting ahead of the team today.” He commented surprisingly. “You fiancé's escorts will see to your safety for the few hours I will be gone.”

Duncan's eyes settled determinedly on her and Charisa started to fidget with the material of her skirt, her eyes veiled from his deep probe. After several long moments, he turned his horse and rode away and as she watched him go, a strange mixture of fear and frustration made her breath catch in her throat for an instant.

She would have loved to have been lifted onto the horse so that she could wrap her arms around him once more, place her cheek against the reassuring sturdiness of his back, but at the same time, she knew that keeping him at arms length was what she needed to do. One of them must be strong and it was apparent by that glow of desire in his eyes that it would have to be her.

That night they camped in a rock formation that sheltered them from the sudden light drizzle that had started just before dark. Charisa was worried and so was everyone else in the group. Duncan had not returned, and he had now been delayed by at least three hours. The four escorts sent by Carl Wallace started to argue about which one would ride out to find their scout when Tilly looked up and saw a lone rider against the light of the moon.

“Could be an Indian…” one of the escorts said, “in fact it looks more like an Injun to me-but it could be Macleod. Heard he lived with them, even had a squaw of his own.”

“Nope, it's the God's honest truth. He was arrested at one of the outposts up in the North Country! Wild with grief they said he was-because Kern and his Blue Coat buddies had wiped out the Indian village he was living in. He had just come from the village, and was screaming that everyone at the outpost was a murderer. Some Hayoki-or Indian medicine man, I guess, was locked up with him, and after they spent time together, Macleod calm down…became like he is now.”

Charisa had come to her feet almost instinctively, and now she had to force herself to stand still, leaning against the wheel of the wagon as if his return hadn't mattered to her one bit. She bit her lip in annoyance at herself for not being able to stop the sudden wild thudding of her heart.

As she took in the way he looked, her lips tightened with anger. It was disgraceful! Couldn't he have remembered there were women in camp? She certainly wasn't about to go join the others, who crowded around him, laughing and asking questions.

Duncan Macleod was bare to the waist-his face and chest still showing traces of Indian war paint, and he still wore his hair long and straight with a fancy bead worked headband around his forehead. His boots and shirt were tied to the horn of his saddle, and he wore moccasins on his feet. He was as brown as an Indian too-all over, Charisa could not help but notice.

Where had he been? Why was he dressed this way? Why was he so late? The answers: They were now out of the Mountains and into the North Country of Montana. He had come across some kin to the Sioux he had once lived with and they had persuaded him to join them in hunting another tribe who had stolen several of their women.

“Aren't you suppose to be protecting us from them?” Someone asked, and then added in a somewhat surprised voice, “Hey, is that blood? You're hurt? When did that happen?

Charisa rushed forward then, the thought of him being hurt propelling her into the middle of the group. There was a brown cloth tied around his arm, and there was caked and dried blood on it.”

“I think not, Mr. Macleod,” Charisa commented as she walked coolly toward the fire. Tilly had already rushed into the wagon and now set the small box of supplies at Duncan's feet. She saw his look of surprise replaced by something else-something unreadable and almost challenging in Duncan Macleod's eyes as he came quickly and easily to his feet.

“Mr. Macleod, none of us here are exactly clean after all we have been riding through today. If you'll come with me please, I'm sure we ought to fix that arm up right away.”

When she gestured shortly he raised an eyebrow and sat obediently on the bare ground by the wagon, leaning his back up against the wheel. Without words, one of the escorts handed him a bottle of whiskey.

“What was that?” He asked innocently, but she knew he had heard her clearly. She was unreasonably angry with him suddenly for putting himself in harms way like he had and without actually intending to do so, she ripped away the dirty blood crusted cloth none to gently!

He shrugged and she suddenly realized she was holding her breath because the warm dancing caramel lights of his eyes were leaping out at her. And where had everyone else gone? She looked about to see that they were completely alone.

“Why couldn't you simple say you don't wish to talk about it? And by the way-your language is far too refined for your rough frontier scout act to impress me! And--”

His eyes narrowed and her eyes widened slightly as she saw the memory in his gaze that told her he agreed with her completely. Streaks of bright paint stood out on his brown body, thrown into relief by the dancing firelight, and none of the angry, sarcastic words she wanted to fling at him to warn him away would emerge from her suddenly dry throat.

He was watching her, frowning at her now. She should say something, do something, but what? What is wrong with me, her mind cried out, and she felt mesmerized by his closeness, by the strange man-smell of him, his lean face with the whisker-stubble filling out all the hollows. She knew him and she didn't know him-and at this moment she neither knew nor understood herself. She had an almost irresistible impulse to sway against him, to feel his arms around her, touch that long curling black hair that ran down his back.

And with her eyes sparkling rather provocatively up at him she nodded her agreement and he laughed out loud again, this time turning and walking back to his horse. She didn't watch him go, instead she gathered up her skirts and rushed into the interior of the wagon.

The sooner she fell asleep, the sooner the morning would come. And they would ride ahead of everyone and surely there would be time to touch him again, for him to touch her…

Duncan Macleod was wondering why he had been crazy enough last night to promise he'd bring her up here, at the top of this peak that overlooked the Snake River. No one knew better than he that there still might be a few angry Indians about, and with a woman along, especially one as inexperienced as Charisa Farland-he told himself grimly that it must have been the whiskey he had drank. But then, what had gotten into her?

The clearing was beautiful and the view of the river valley below was breathtaking. There was a large flat rock for her to sit on and she did so now, pulling the hat from her head so she could fan herself with it.

He sat down beside her, his hand closing over the nape of her neck, then moving slowly down and under the thickness of her hair, and she trembled at the light, warmly caressing touch of his fingers.

“Not only a man…a woman, too!” Boldly, hardly daring to analyze her intentions, she turned around quickly, trying to read his shadowed face. “This could be our own little sanctuary from the world-Duncan.”

They were somehow both kneeling in front of the rock, staring into each other's faces. Her hand reached out to close around his bicep and he came instantly to his feet, a hand shooting out to bring her with him.

“If you know what is good for you,” he said with a hard edge to his voice, “you'll pick up your skirts and get on your horse so I can take you back before…. before you find that you are no longer a virgin!”

He squinted down at her as if judging the impact of his words, and finding them not nearly as successful as he had thought they would be, decided to be even more shocking and blunt.