...as his hands slid under what garments remained.
What of her promise, and her honor?
Those things in Texas like the ash tree and the moment of passion beneath it seemed so far away now, lost in time—dead and cold compared to the heated gaze that burned over her in the darkening jungle night.
What was she to Gazda but a woman? And what was he but a man of the jungle—here so beautiful, born of nature—a lord and master. Who could dare to judge them in his realm bereft of law and convention, and the stifling nature of someone else’s broken promise?
A promise that had long ago lost all meaning. Never had those foolish words caused her skin to flame and flesh to tremble as they did now before her wild man’s eyes.
The promise had been empty of life and of passion.
Yet here was Gazda in living, indomitable flesh, both of these things.
Memory was death, he was the life.
The wild man’s eyes gleamed hungrily. He shifted his position, panting rapidly, his excitement growing between them.
He kissed and licked her mouth and throat, and all the while a deep growl rumbled in his mighty chest. His muscles shivered with unstoppable power, and yet his fingers caressed her with a gentle stroke.
The full lips pressed her neck, and then he pulled away, his perfect face looking down upon her—hesitant, a moment. His body trembling.
Virginia closed her eyes as happy tears slid over her cheeks, and she lifted her head to press her lips to his strong jaw.
“How I have longed to see your face appear from the gray loneliness that shrouds my life,” Virginia whispered in his ear, before she lay back to stare at the wild man’s fiery eyes. “A fog has ever closed in to suffocate all hopes. I was wrong to wait for a man who did not love me.”
He watched her, brow furrowing, lips moving mutely over something—understanding, perhaps—was he trying to understand? Or were his lips now moving over her words, silently repeating what she had just said?
“Gazda,” he said gruffly, finally, pausing a moment before rising up on one elbow to point at his chest repeating, “Gazda.”
“Your name or your heart? I never asked...” Virginia followed his gesture, before sliding her own white fingers over her naked left breast. “In your arms, Gazda, Virginia is one and the same.”
CHAPTER 21 – Ship of the Trees
The ranger remembered leaving his friends in the tree house and leading Jacob on a search for Virginia through the dark until sunrise, before carrying on from there at a stagger until the early afternoon when they walked right into an ambush.
He should have stopped to rest well before that, and he blamed his exhaustion for leaving them open to attack. Jacob couldn’t be faulted. He was a butler for God’s sake. Of African origin or not, the man was out of his element here, better suited to pouring tea and no more at home in the jungle than the tattered suit that was draped over his angular frame.
Seward looked down at his own disheveled state. His boots were caked with mud, the knees were out of his pants, buttons off his vest, and his shirt sleeves were shredded to the elbow. He couldn’t even remember what had happened to his jacket.
Damn it all! He was a former Texas Ranger and he should have known better. While he’d never dealt with savages as queer as those that currently held him captive, he had fought wild men back home, and should have remembered the dangers of trespassing in their lands.
So what had he found on this search?
He had no idea if these masked men had kidnapped Miss James and now he’d likely never know.
And if he was honest, the ranger knew his predicament was the result of his being tired. He wouldn’t have run blindly through the jungle 20 or even ten years before.
He just wouldn’t.
Seward was getting old, and prideful, and in the end his recklessness had only proven that he didn’t want to admit it.
So, age and decrepitude be damned, he’d have to think of a way out of this if he wanted to come square with his ego and wear his pride the way he liked.
After the fight, Seward had awakened tied hand and foot to a pole that was carried over the shoulders of a couple of brawny savages. That was sometime in the afternoon—late—and his head had been throbbing.
The bindings at his ankles and wrists were painful, but without any means of escape, he had arranged himself in such a way that would minimize the discomfort and conserve the energy he had left. He knew that would never restore him, but it was better than what was yet to come.
It might have been his wounds or exhaustion or the rocking motion of the warriors who slung him along, but Seward somehow fell into a restless sleep.
Only to awaken some time just before nightfall to see a resolute and hard-eyed Jacob tied to a pole on the ground beside him. Both men had been cut free of their “carrying poles,” at that time, given water and a few mouthfuls of some kind of bread before having their hands tied across their bellies and their necks lashed together with an eight-foot length of rope.
Jacob brought up the rear and Seward led after the savages whipped them with branches to get them onto their feet and push them forward at a jog.
Seward kept up with his captors, forcing his muscles to work by focusing on the scarred back of the skull-faced devil that ran before him, all the while planning the ways he’d murder the heathen if given the chance.
They were forced to travel this way for hours, jogging and marching at a pace that had the old
