along to the Casey house, where Tess Stuart was. He was definitely
moving into a trap, because he couldn't call Tess a liar. He did know
the Indians well, and he couldn't let a huge war get started because
everyone was unjustly blaming the Comanche. He was going to have to find
out what had happened.
He paused at the door before knocking upon it, swallowing down a
startling, near savage urge to thrust the door open and sweep the
challenging and all too luscious Miss. Stuart into his arms. No matter
how he tried, he could not forget everything that he knew about her. No
matter what gingham or frills or lace or velvet adorned her, he kept
seeing beneath it.
He'd lied to her. She was very much alive. She spoke of passionate life
and living with her every breath, her every word. Her gpirit was ever at
battle, never ceasing. She would stay on in Wiltshire, he was certain,
no matter how stupid it would be for her to do so. She was determined to
fight this von Heusen, and she would fight him even if they met on the
plain and he was carrying a shotgun and she was completely unarmed.
If. if. Was the man really so dangerous?
He didn't want to believe her. He wanted to be a skeptic. But there was
truth in her passion, in her determination.
There was truth in the honesty of her beautiful, sea-shaded eyes, eyes
that entered into his sleep and made him wonder what it would he like if
she looked at him with her hair wound between them and around them in a
web of passion.
Every time he was near her he felt it more. Something like a pounding
beneath the earth, like a rattle of thunder across the sky. Every time.
And if he didn't watch out, the day would come when he would thrust wide
a door and sweep her hard into his arms.
He wouldn't give a damn then about Indians or white men or the time of
day or even if the earth continued to turn. All that would matter would
be the scent of her and the feel of her silken flesh beneath his
fingers. He was going to a dance, he ~-r. afinded himself. And every
officer in the post would be there, and the enlisted men, too.
He gritted his teeth and willed his muscles and his body to cease
tightening with the harsh and ragged desire that seemed to rule his
every thought. He knocked on the door. 'Come in, Lieutenant.'
He pushed open the door, irritated that he should want her so badly,
determined that he would control himself. She was probably late, women
always were. She was probably trying to pin up her hair, or fix her
skirts or petticoats.
She wasn't. She was standing s'fiently by the small fire that burned in
the hearth. She didn't need to change a thing about her hair--it was
tied back from her face with a blue ribbon, then exploded in a froth of
sun-colored and honey ringlets. The tendrils curled over her shoulders
and fell against the rise of her breasts.
Her gown was soft blue, with a darker colored velvet bodice over a skirt
of swirling froth. The sleeves were puffed, baring much of her arms, and
the velvet bodice was low, but just low enough to show the risc of her
breasts, the beautiful texture of her flesh, the fascinating way the
