you. I know now why our grandfathers insist a young man not be alone with his sweetheart until after marriage. The temptation is too great. Come.” He sat up then, rising onto his knees. “I will help you dress, and we will return to the village before I lose all control.”
She allowed him to help her, to dress her, to fix her hair again into two neat braids. But she hadn’t forgotten his touch, his power over her, his sexuality. And most of all she hadn’t forgotten her own responses to him.
That had been her last day with him, for when they returned to camp, the Earl was there, back from England and insisting she leave the Indians, leave the one place where she had found peace—had found love.
“No, don’t go,” she cried aloud, twisting her head back and forth, still lost to sleep, still held in firm, strong arms. She felt a gentle touch upon her cheek, the feel of full lips caressing her own. Ah, such a sweet dream.
She settled down, her breathing returning to normal and content now, she smiled.
Estrela awoke to the fresh smell of dewy, morning air. She opened her eyes, looking around her.
Where was she?
She glanced up, but instead of the lodge poles and hide covering she half expected to see, her eyes took in the ornate designs set in pink silk with gold etchings. Her gaze dropping downward, Estrela hoped she might yet see the familiar buckskin articles of the American West, but all she saw were the bedposts from which hung more yards of the pink silk curtains, each lined in gold. The bed curtains were pulled back toward each post so that the bed lay open and exposed to casual view.
Ah, England.
Across the room, she noticed the heavy curtains that hung over the chamber’s tall windows were billowing in and out, indicating that the windows must be open. The French doors stood open and Estrela saw that it was still dark outside, too dark to be overcast; she had awakened to the dark just before dawn.
She contemplated going back to sleep, but dismissed the idea. She had spent too much time in the service of others to lay abed when there was so much for her to think about, so much to do.
And so she groaned. She sighed. She stretched her uninjured arm over her head while she wiggled into a sitting position. She had slept well. At least she had done so after her dream. Her dream—she shut her eyes and brought the memories back to mind, marveling at the intensity of sensation that swept over her body. For a short space in time she’d been held in his strong arms; for an indefinite moment she’d breathed in the clean scent of masculine beauty—Black Bear.
If only it had been real.
It could be.
Estrela shook her head vigorously. It could not be.
She pushed her hair back from her face and breathed deeply. The movement pulled the soft, white nightgown across her breasts, and she glanced down at the gown, trying to remember putting it on.
She had no memory of it.
Odd.
She brushed the covers aside, dropped her feet to the Persian rug that covered the floor, her toes finding and curling around her soft slippers.
That’s when she saw him.
He sat on the floor across from her bed, his buffalo robe spread out beneath him. A sliver of light from the pale moon outside fell over his features, and Estrela noted that he was wide awake…and he stared straight back at her.
He presented quite a picture, camped out as he was beneath an enormous tapestry that hung on the wall.
She didn’t gasp at the sight of him; she didn’t cry out. Shock, perhaps, kept her silent. She did nothing, as was proper Indian etiquette. Excitement raced through her, however, and her heartbeat pounded as though laced with fear. But Estrela knew the rapid beating of her heart had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with wonder, exhilaration, soul-stirring love and, Lord help her, blatant sexual appeal. Truly, she felt wicked.
She forced her gaze downward. What was she thinking? She was reacting to him as though she
She allowed him to help her, to dress her, to fix her hair again into two neat braids. But she hadn’t forgotten his touch, his power over her, his sexuality. And most of all she hadn’t forgotten her own responses to him.
That had been her last day with him, for when they returned to camp, the Earl was there, back from England and insisting she leave the Indians, leave the one place where she had found peace—had found love.
“No, don’t go,” she cried aloud, twisting her head back and forth, still lost to sleep, still held in firm, strong arms. She felt a gentle touch upon her cheek, the feel of full lips caressing her own. Ah, such a sweet dream.
She settled down, her breathing returning to normal and content now, she smiled.
Estrela awoke to the fresh smell of dewy, morning air. She opened her eyes, looking around her.
Where was she?
She glanced up, but instead of the lodge poles and hide covering she half expected to see, her eyes took in the ornate designs set in pink silk with gold etchings. Her gaze dropping downward, Estrela hoped she might yet see the familiar buckskin articles of the American West, but all she saw were the bedposts from which hung more yards of the pink silk curtains, each lined in gold. The bed curtains were pulled back toward each post so that the bed lay open and exposed to casual view.
Ah, England.
Across the room, she noticed the heavy curtains that hung over the chamber’s tall windows were billowing in and out, indicating that the windows must be open. The French doors stood open and Estrela saw that it was still dark outside, too dark to be overcast; she had awakened to the dark just before dawn.
She contemplated going back to sleep, but dismissed the idea. She had spent too much time in the service of others to lay abed when there was so much for her to think about, so much to do.
And so she groaned. She sighed. She stretched her uninjured arm over her head while she wiggled into a sitting position. She had slept well. At least she had done so after her dream. Her dream—she shut her eyes and brought the memories back to mind, marveling at the intensity of sensation that swept over her body. For a short space in time she’d been held in his strong arms; for an indefinite moment she’d breathed in the clean scent of masculine beauty—Black Bear.
If only it had been real.
It could be.
Estrela shook her head vigorously. It could not be.
She pushed her hair back from her face and breathed deeply. The movement pulled the soft, white nightgown across her breasts, and she glanced down at the gown, trying to remember putting it on.
She had no memory of it.
Odd.
She brushed the covers aside, dropped her feet to the Persian rug that covered the floor, her toes finding and curling around her soft slippers.
That’s when she saw him.
He sat on the floor across from her bed, his buffalo robe spread out beneath him. A sliver of light from the pale moon outside fell over his features, and Estrela noted that he was wide awake…and he stared straight back at her.
He presented quite a picture, camped out as he was beneath an enormous tapestry that hung on the wall.
She didn’t gasp at the sight of him; she didn’t cry out. Shock, perhaps, kept her silent. She did nothing, as was proper Indian etiquette. Excitement raced through her, however, and her heartbeat pounded as though laced with fear. But Estrela knew the rapid beating of her heart had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with wonder, exhilaration, soul-stirring love and, Lord help her, blatant sexual appeal. Truly, she felt wicked.
She forced her gaze downward. What was she thinking? She was reacting to him as though she
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