Chapter 16

Sitting on a buffalo robe dragged outside, Amanda picked at her supper, feeling extremely ill at ease with her Comanche hosts. She couldn’t eat after having watched Walks With Sunshade toss the slow-moving turtle alive into the fire. The poor creature must have tried a dozen or more times to get out before it finally died. And although another pot of stew had appeared from nowhere, the roasted turtle and a large, bloody hunk of meat provided the bulk of the meal.

Beside her, Clay McAlester sat cross-legged on the grass, eating with apparent relish. He looked over at her nearly full bark bowl.

“What’s the matter?” he asked between mouthfuls.

“I can’t eat this—I just can’t.”

“It could use a little salt, but it’s not bad.”

She shuddered. “The way she cooked the turtle was the most barbaric thing I’ve ever seen.”

“No worse than wringing a chicken’s neck and watching it run around the yard without its head. Or hearing a hog squeal when its throat gets cut.”

“At least the chicken’s dead before it’s cooked. And thankfully I’ve never seen a pig butchered.”

“All right,” he said, sighing. “Try to eat the stew.”

“How do I know she didn’t scrape it off the ground?”

“She didn’t.”

“Do you have any idea what’s in it?”

Turning to the Comanche woman, he murmured, “This is good—what did you use to make it?”

Walks With Sunshade beamed, then ticked off the ingredients on her fingers. Corn, mesquite beans, yeps, honey, buffalo marrow, a lizard, and two rabbits.

Clay translated for Amanda, “It’s rabbit.”

“And it took a hand and a half to say that?” she responded incredulously.

“The rest are spices,” he lied. “Go on—try it. It tastes more or less like chicken. And if you don’t eat, you’ll hurt her feelings. If you don’t want to chew it, just swallow it whole.”

She glanced up, seeing that the woman watched her. “All right,” she muttered. Pulling the small piece of meat off with her teeth, she pushed it back in her mouth with her tongue, and gulped. Whatever it really was, it tasted sweet and greasy.

“I’m not really very hungry,” she decided. “And it does not taste like chicken.”

He speared a chunk of undercooked meat from his tin plate and held it out on the end of his knife. “This is pretty good.”

“What is it—raw dog? Mole? Toad?”

“Comanches don’t eat dog meat.” Seeing that she remained unconvinced, he exhaled audibly. “Okay—it’s horse meat, and it won’t kill you. I’ve eaten a lot of it.”

Two Owls looked across at her still full bowl, then spoke to Clay, who nodded, then answered. “What did he say?” she asked suspiciously.

“He says you will grow skinny like an old buffalo cow. But I told him the heat puts you off your food.”

The Kiowa addressed Walks With Sunshade, and she rose to disappear into the tipi. When she came out, she carried a tallow-coated parfleche and a jagged bone knife. Squatting down beside Amanda, she slit through the grease shell with the blade, took out several flat, thin strips of dried meat, and gave them to the white girl.

“He told her to give you something you’ll eat,” Clay said low. “If you turn up your nose at the jerky, you’re on your own. Just don’t come crying to me when you’re hungry.”

“I’m not trying to be rude,” she whispered back.

“Well, you’re doing a damned good job of it.”

“At least tell her I said thank you.”

Walks With Sunshade handed Amanda’s nearly untouched bowl to Two Owls, who attacked the turtle meat with enthusiasm. As Amanda chewed her jerky, Clay poured something into his tin cup and passed it to her. Thinking it water, she tried to wash her food down with it. It burned her throat and hit her stomach like fire.

“Arghhhh—what is it?” she demanded, choking.

“Mescal. After a while it grows on you.”

“It’d have to.” Looking to where the Comanche woman watched her, Amanda lowered her voice. “What happened to Little Doe?”

“She’s in the other tipi.”

“What other tipi?”

“They have a smaller one in back, and to protect Two Owls’s power, his wives stay there when they have their bleeding times. Otherwise it is believed they’ll contaminate him. In Little Doe’s case, she’s there now because she shamed him today.”

Seeing that he’d embarrassed her with his frankness, he handed her the cup. “Here—drink up and forget what happened with her. If you don’t get a smile on your face, pretty soon Two Owls is going to wonder why I don’t divorce you.”

“You didn’t have to tell them I was your wife,” she muttered. “You could have said I was your Anglo sister.”

“Once they reach physical maturity, brothers and sisters stay away from each other in Comanche camps. A sister can be killed for failing to observe avoidance.”

“Which proves these people are savages.”

“You don’t stay grateful for long, do you?” he shot back. “You know, you’ve got a damned short memory. A couple of days ago, you were half dead—now, thanks to one of these people, you’re almost back to your old tart-tongued, shrewish self.”

He just didn’t understand that she was still afraid of them. For all she knew, her mother’s scalp could be hanging from a lance or pole in this very camp. And she did not doubt that if he weren’t there, these same Indians would be more than ready to kill her. But he was there. She sighed, then tried to make amends.

“I don’t try to be tart-tongued—sometimes it just happens. But for what it’s worth, I haven’t forgotten I owe you my life. I’ll never forget that.”

“I told you—I don’t want your gratitude,” he retorted. “Save that for Nahdehwah.”

She looked up and saw that Walks With Sunshade still watched her. She managed to smile, then bit off another piece of jerky. “This is good,” she reassured the woman. Beside her, Clay McAlester apparently translated her words, for Walks With Sunshade nodded, then went back to eating.

This time, when Amanda drank, she took a smaller swallow, followed by another, and another. By the time she finished what was left in his cup, she was finding it tolerable. Compared to the Pecos River water or the warm pulke, it was almost good.

Clay tried to appear attentive when Two Owls began recounting his role in the Mexican raid, but his thoughts kept straying to the woman beside him. For all that he was vexed with her, he was also acutely aware of her. Even now, if he closed his eyes, he’d relive the peyote vision—or the sight of her standing in the water, her hands crossed over her wet breasts.

What he needed to do was put miles, not feet, between him and her. And the sooner the better, before he said or did something he might regret. It wasn’t like she was a Comanche girl, and he could offer a few horses for her, then bed her.

No, she was the closest thing Texas had to an aristocrat, and more than likely, she’d end up marrying a rancher as rich as she was and having half a dozen children, who’d grow up to be the senators and governors and ranchers of the next generation. If she remembered him at all, she might tell her grandchildren about a half-wild Texas Ranger fool enough to take her to a Comanche camp.

But right now she was too close, haunting his waking thoughts. He could scarce look at her without wondering how it would feel to have her warm flesh pressed against his, her dark red hair enveloping him in its silk, enticing him with the scent of wild Texas roses. And that flight of fancy made his heart pound and his blood race.

He reached for his tin cup and found it empty. Walks With Sunshade refilled it quickly, and he drank deeply before setting it down. All he had to do was get through the night, he told himself, and then he’d leave at dawn. All he had to do was lie beside Amanda one night without touching her. He picked up the cup and drained it, then held it out for more.

From the other end of the camp there came again the beat of drums. He listened to them, his pulse matching the primitive rhythm. He guessed that some proud parents celebrated a boy’s first successful raid by holding a giveaway dance.

Feeling the mellowing effect of the potent mescal, Amanda closed her eyes and listened to the drums. It was as though she were in another world, one far removed from Patrick Donnelly and Boston. One far removed from Ybarra-Ross. One where Clay McAlester stood between her and a whole Comanche village.

She didn’t even notice when Walks With Sunshade collected the food bowls, then lit Two Owls’s pipe with a live coal from the fire. It wasn’t until the Comanche woman touched her shoulder, gesturing that they should leave the men alone, that Amanda roused. Two Owls spoke up, shaking his head, and the woman returned to her place by the fire.

“He’s going to let you stay,” Clay murmured. “I hope you know that’s an honor.”

“That’s kind of him, but as long I’m here, I’m not going anywhere without you. In fact, I’m not letting you out of my sight until I get to Ybarra-Ross. You hear that, Mr. McAlester?” she asked, her voice slightly slurred. “Everywhere you go, I go. Everywhere.”

“I usually take a nature walk before I turn in.” In the dark, he couldn’t see her face, but he was fairly certain she blushed. “I suppose you could turn your back.”

“You know, somebody ought to teach you how to act around women,” she complained. “There are some things unfit for polite discourse.”

He stared absently into the fire for a moment, then sipped his drink. “I’m not usually around any.”

“Somehow I’d rather guessed that.”

“About all that’s out here are border brothels, and there’s something about those places that take all the softness out of a woman.”

“I expect it’s the men, don’t you?” she murmured.

He looked at her then. She was hugging her knees, resting her chin on them, while the firelight danced in her dark eyes. She had to be the prettiest woman he’d ever seen. And whether she was way above his touch or not, he was now too far gone with mescal to think about that. He felt wild, reckless, and willing to dare.

“Nahakoah?”

Jerked back by the sound of Two Owls’s voice, Clay blinked and tried to remember what the Indian had been saying. Then he saw that he was being offered the pipe. He took a deep drag, then exhaled the smoke, and passed the pipe back. The tobacco sent another surge through his veins. When he looked again, Amanda was sipping from his cup. Again Two Owls intruded, saying, “I had fourteen winters before my mother honored me for counting coup up north against a small party of Cheyenne. My brother and I crept into their camps while they slept, and we took their food sacks, leaving them to eat their horses. It was cold, and the wind blew ice I can still feel in my bones. But those Cheyenne warriors had to choose between walking and starving.”

“That was worthy of honor,” Clay murmured.

“And you, Nahakoah, how did you count your first coup?”

Resigning himself, Clay told of stealing four horses from a corral while a wary farmer sat by his front door, rifle in hand, oblivious to his loss. Buffalo Horn himself had reported Stands Alone’s coup to the band, and Sees the Sun had held the dance for her son, inviting nearly everyone in the village, passing out not only the horses he’d stolen, but probably fifty more.

Abruptly, Two Owls heaved himself to his feet. “They dance for Looks Too Old tonight. That boy has but twelve winters, yet he cut loose a team without waking the owner.” His broad face broke into a wide grin. “You know that man was one sore-footed fellow by the time he got anywhere. And without his oxen, he had to leave his wagon.” He sobered abruptly. “The parents of Looks Too Old would be pleased if Stands Alone and his woman came to dance, and I’d like to go also. His grandmother was Kiowa,” he added.

“I don’t—” Clay looked again at Amanda. If he danced with her, he’d have to touch her. Yet if he touched her, he’d want a whole lot more than dancing. And only God could know where that would lead him. His pulse raced, forcing liquid heat through his veins. His mouth was almost too dry for speech. “All right.” Somehow he managed to struggle to his feet. Leaning over, he reached a hand to her. “Come on,” he said, “we’re going to a dance.”

She blinked. “A dance,” she repeated blankly.

“You’ll like it.”

Her hands crept to where his shirt was buttoned over her breasts. “But I can’t go like this surely … I mean—”

“You could go in a whole lot less,” he assured her. “It’s like a fort social, only not nearly so fancy. There aren’t any Louise Baxters here.”

“Thank heavens for that at least.” She let him pull her up, but she hung back. “This isn’t some sort of scalp dance, is it?”

“No, and they won’t roast anyone over the fire,” he promised her.

Grinning broadly, Two Owls said something to Clay. Walks With Sunshade giggled. “Are you sure they want me to go?” Amanda asked suspiciously.

“Word of a Texas Ranger.”

“What did they say?”

“They want to see you dance.”

“Oh, I couldn’t—I don’t know the steps.”

“There aren’t any. You just keep time to the drums.” Her fingers where they curved over his nearly burned him, and yet he didn’t want to release them. “When we get there, you’ll see what I mean.”

Led by Two Owls and Walks With Sunshade, they made their way almost the length of the camp to a place where the area was cleared. As they drew closer, the drumbeat grew more intense, its ancient, primitive rhythm quickening the pulse within his body. His hand tightened on Amanda’s, but she didn’t seem to notice. If anything, she held on nervously.

She saw the drummers, their faces made eerie by the orange and red flames of center fire. The shadowy figures of Comanche men and women circled, chanting and stamping, writhing and whirling, while a man with a bone-handled rawhide whip ran around, urging them on. Amanda stared, transfixed by the sight, until the man beckoned to her.

“What’s he doing?” she whispered.

“That’s the pianehepai-i—the big whip. He directs the dancing. If he orders you to join in, you have to do it. Otherwise, he can beat you.”

“What are those things lying on the ground?”

“They’re part of the game. Those who watch can dart between dancers and pick up gift sticks. Everyone who gets one is rewarded with something of value—usually a horse—by the boy’s parents. That way, half the camp comes, and the boy gets recognized for his first big coup.”

“Oh.”

“It’s about cunning and nerve. The more danger, the more honorable the coup, so it is considered more worthy to outwit the enemy in an obvious way than to kill him. To steal a horse beneath a man’s nose is harder than shooting him from a safe distance for it. I once knew a boy who counted coup by taking a rifle from beneath a saddle while a soldier slept on it.”

“And then he killed the soldier, I suppose.”

“No. That would have been too easy. He left him unharmed.”

“For every one they let live, they kill dozens more, and you cannot deny it.”

“No.” He didn’t want her dwelling on that, not now. “Wait here,” he said, letting go of her. As she watched curiously, he ducked between the dancers and picked up two painted sticks. Coming back, he showed them to her. “Now let’s hope there’s a gray horse for Nahdehwah,” he murmured as he shoved them into his pocket.

“Why a gray one?”

“A gray horse brings good luck.”

The big whip began prancing and dancing around Clay, then tapped him on the shoulder with the bone handle. Calling out “Nahakoah! Nahakoah!” he turned to the others, gesturing for them to take up the refrain. “Nahakoah! Nahakoah! Nahakoah!” a number of them shouted.

“Come on—let’s go.” Clay caught Amanda’s hand again, pulling her into the circle of dancers. As the chant grew, he put his hands on her waist. She looked around helplessly, then tried to imitate the others by holding his waist also. The five men pounded the skin-covered drums, increasing the beat, while those in the circle whirled and stomped with abandon.

At first, Amanda was extremely self-conscious, then she realized McAlester was right—there wasn’t much of anything that could be called a dance step. And the combination of heat, mescal, and drumbeat loosened her reserve. Trying to keep up with him, she copied what he did, stumbling a few times until she got the hang of it. Other dancers stopped to watch, clapping in rhythm, chanting sing-song, but she was beyond hearing them. There was too much warmth, too much strength in his hands. And as his eyes met hers, a primal excitement coursed through her, heating her body. Her heart pounded, imitating the heady beat of the drums.

Suddenly the whip master darted out, tapping Clay again, and the music stopped abruptly. A boy ran up with a gourd dipper, offering it to him. Clay drained it, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“This won’t take long,” he promised.

“Where are you going?”

Before he could answer, he was pushed into the open center of the circle. Someone else brought another dipper to her, and she discovered it was more mescal. Thirsty and breathless, she gulped it down, then stood there, her eyes fixed on McAlester as he cleared his throat, then began speaking words she couldn’t understand. Several times he turned to a youth she supposed was the boy being honored. And when he finished, there was a collective shout of approval.

At that, the big whip went on to tap a man who sat just outside the circle. The fellow protested, indicating that he had a lame leg, but to no avail. His wife helped him stand, and the pair took their places among the dancers. The drummers began again.

“What was that all about?” Amanda asked when Clay returned to her.

“Before the night is over, every man here will recount his first coup.” He hesitated for a moment, then asked, “How about another try at it?”

Whether it was the look in his eyes or the mescal she’d drunk didn’t matter. His hand touched hers, and she was keenly aware of how warm, how vital he was. Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded. As he put her hands on his waist, she shivered not from cold, but from the heat passing between them. And all the while there was the wild, unbridled beat of the drums.

They danced into the night, scarce aware when others crept away, some to tipis, some to lie together in the trees, others in the tall grass. As the music paused for a latecomer to be dragged into the circle to speak, Clay stepped back. He stood there, his chest heaving, his breath coming in gasps. His hands were still on Amanda’s waist, steadying her. He looked into her face, seeing her hair clinging damply to her temples, her dark eyes shining in the moonlight. And from somewhere in his mind came whispered words, telling him she was his destiny.

When he finally dropped his hands, she brushed her hair back with her fingertips. “I … uh … well, that was something, wasn’t it?” she managed self-consciously.

“Yes.”

He didn’t want to stay there. He wanted to be alone with her. His eyes searched the crowd for Two Owls. The tall Kiowa saw him and began pushing his way through those who still wanted to listen.

Standing beside him, Amanda stole a glance at him. His long blond hair framed his chiseled face, his blue eyes were pale with reflected moonlight, and his shirt clung wetly to his heaving chest. He wasn’t a pretty, petulant boy like Ramon Sandoval, nor did he possess the brash confidence of Patrick Donnelly, but he was without doubt the most fascinating man she’d ever laid eyes on. And she wasn’t ready for the night to end yet.

“You dance well, Nahakoah,” Two Owls said.

Clay held out the two gift sticks. “Pick out a gray horse for Nahdehwah if you can. The other one you can have for keeping my woman safe while I am gone.”

“It is not necessary—no one will harm her when she is in my tipi.” “I want you to have it.”

The Indian regarded him gravely for a moment, then said only, “I will choose for you.”

“Good.”

Despite a faint summer breeze, the air was still warm. Clay looked up, seeing a clear, cloudless sky, one filled with what seemed to be a hundred white-hot stars. As Two Owls returned to the crowd, Clay began walking, and a silent Amanda fell in beside him, following the path toward the spring. He was so aware of her, so tautly strung he was afraid to speak. When he dared to look at her, her face was averted, her thoughts hidden from him.

He ought to be exhausted, but he was more exhilarated than he’d been in years. As they approached the springs, it was so quiet now that he could hear his own heartbeat and the sound of water rushing over rocks. He stopped. His fingers touched hers, and her breath caught audibly, but she did not pull away.

“Amanda—” The word was somewhere between a whisper and a croak. “God, but you’re beautiful—you know that, don’t you?” he asked huskily.

There was no mistaking the desire in his voice. She knew she ought to turn back while she could, and yet as his hands slid up her arms, her pulse pounded, reverberating in her ears, drowning out reason. All that mattered was that he was going to kiss her, and that she wanted him to do it.

Her eyes were large and luminous in the darkness, then they closed as his arm tightened around her shoulders, holding her. His other hand lifted her chin. “So beautiful,” he whispered thickly.

As his head bent nearer, she could feel the soft warmth of his breath against her cheek. A shiver of anticipation raced through her. In that moment it was as though they were the only people in the world, as though time itself paused. His lips met hers with surprising gentleness, touching, tentatively tasting. She hesitated, uncertain of what to do, then she slid her arms around his waist, returning his embrace.

It was all the encouragement he needed. She was soft, yielding, and so close he could feel the swell of her breasts pressed against his chest, her heartbeat through his shirt. And he forgot who she was and what she stood for. Tonight she was the woman of his vision, and that was all that mattered. His mouth hardened against hers, and his tongue sought the hot, inner recesses of her mouth, demanding more.

Despite the shock of it, she liked the feel of what he did to her. Her hands caught at his shoulders, clasping them, holding him lest she lose her balance. His kisses were hot, eager, as intoxicating as the mescal. She felt giddy, almost dizzy with an answering desire. She was shameless, abandoned, and beyond caring.

A couple, whispering and giggling, stumbled past them, and Clay pulled her into the shadows, pressing her against the sheer rock wall a few feet from where it touched the water. He could feel the length of her now, and it wasn’t enough. His breathing ragged, he whispered against her ear, “Let me love you, Amanda.”

She pressed her lips into the hollow of his neck, tasting his hot, salty skin. His hips rubbed against hers, tantalizing her with his hardness. While some small voice of reason told her what she did was wrong, he eased her into the tall, cool grass, going down with her.

She didn’t have much of a notion about it, but she’d heard her aunt’s maids whispering enough to know that he shouldn’t be lying over her. She rolled from beneath him onto her side, where she faced him. His eyes glittered, almost frightening her with their intensity.

He reached for her, pulling her over him, and somehow that seemed less dangerous, less sinful. “Kiss me,” he urged her.

She bent her head, letting her hair fall over his face and shoulders, then touched her lips to his, parting them to give him access to her mouth. She felt a sense of power as his hands moved over her back, downward to trace fire over her hips. His mouth left hers to trail eager kisses along her jaw to her ear, then to nuzzle the soft, sensitive hollow of her neck. She arched her head, savoring the exquisite feel of his mouth.

Her hair was like silk where it brushed against his skin, just as it had been in his vision of her. His hand worked the shirt loose and slid under the hem to touch her bare skin, then moved down over her rib cage to the swell of her breast, cupping it in his callused palm. Something very like a sob escaped her when his thumb found her nipple. It hardened like a knob.

“Please,” she whispered in anguish. “No …”

“It’s all right,” he reassured her.

Sliding down beneath her, he pushed up her shirt and rubbed his face against her breasts. His tongue teased the hardened nipple, drawing it into his mouth. He couldn’t see her face, but he could feel the intensity of the shudder that passed through her. Her hot skin turned to gooseflesh beneath his fingers.

It was as though her whole being was centered where he touched. And no matter what happened, she didn’t want him to stop, not now. His hands moved again to her back, then slipped beneath the waistband of her drawers, easing them down. One hand went under her, dipping between her legs, finding the wetness there. His fingers probed, then withdrew when she stiffened. His mouth left her breasts, returning to possess hers eagerly now.

His desire raged like a fever, and he could not wait. He fumbled with his pants, freeing himself. He thrust his tongue between her teeth, grasped her hips with his hands, and thrust upward. As she felt him breach the soft, wet thatch, she panicked and tried to pull away. He threw his leg behind hers, catching it, and rolled over her, pinning her beneath him. As her legs splayed, he guided himself inside. Her flesh resisted momentarily, tore, then closed around him.

Her eyes flew open, and there was a wild, frantic look in them. “Hold me,” he rasped.

She was searing, sundered, and shocked to the very core. He began to move, tentatively at first, then with deliberate rhythm, stroking her, filling her, renewing her desire. Conscious will ended, replaced by overwhelming need. Her slack legs tautened, then wrapped around his, and her hips rocked and bucked beneath him, desperately straining for more and more of him. Her breath came in great, gulping gasps.

Mindless, aware only of the blood pounding through his body, of the near agony of impending release, he rode her hard, scarce hearing when she cried out. He was almost there. Ecstasy came in pulsing waves. Satiated, he collapsed over her, his body hugging hers.

As the heat ebbed slowly from her body, she realized what she’d done. Where there had been desire, now she felt only acute shame and a need to hide. Still pinned beneath him, his body still within hers, she was afraid to move, to open her eyes. She’d never be able to look at him again, she was sure of that.

He could feel himself shrink within her, yet he was loath to leave her. It had been too good, too complete. He looked down, his face nearly touching hers, and he saw her swallow. He reached to smooth her tangled hair back from her face, to touch her cheeks with the back of his hand. They were wet, and he knew she cried. The exhilaration he’d felt deserted him.

He rolled off her and lay there, at a loss for anything to say to her. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he sucked in his breath, then let it out slowly.

“Amanda … don’t …”

She didn’t answer. Instead she lay there, listening to the steady beat of Comanche drums, wishing she’d never danced to them, wishing she’d never drunk any mescal. But it was too late now, and nothing would ever be the same. She’d given herself to Clay McAlester like a common harlot. And she couldn’t even truthfully say she’d been seduced.

“I suppose I ought to say I’m sorry, but it’d be a damned lie,” he told her.

“Don’t.” She swallowed again. “Please don’t.”

She was making him feel like the lowest creature on earth. It was the damned civilized rules he was supposed to live by, and he knew it. A gentleman did not take advantage of a lady, no matter what she’d had to drink. If he did, he was expected to pay the price.

“Look … I’ll marry you, if that’s what you want.”

Now she really wanted to bawl her eyes out. “No,” she managed painfully. “No. It wouldn’t work out—you’re not the sort of man I’d want for a husband. And I don’t think I’d make you a very good wife.”

Turning away from him, she sat up and pulled the borrowed shirt down, covering her breasts. Her drawers were another matter. She stood and yanked them up at the same time. A warm trickle ran down her inner thigh. Not knowing what else to do, she walked to the spring pool, and waded in. As the cold water closed around her, she told herself she’d been utterly foolish, that she couldn’t even blame him for taking what she’d so freely offered. She’d behaved like a complete trollop, and she knew it. The only things that made her any better than those girls in border bordellos were that she was John Ross’s daughter and she owned the Ybarra.

He sat there, feeling at a loss to comfort her. It was done, and there wasn’t any way to change that. Now, if he were a gentleman, he’d tell her that her wet clothes were transparent. But he wasn’t.

He heaved his body up and peeled his shirt off. Going to the other side of the pool, he knelt and washed his face, his arms, and chest, letting the cold water sober him. When he was done, he walked to stand over her.

He held out his shirt. “I’d put this on before we go back if I were you.”

She looked down, seeing the dark outline of her nipples beneath the wet cloth. Still not daring to meet his eyes, she climbed out and took the shirt. Turning her back, she took off his wet shirt, wrung it out, and put on the other one. Without a word to him, she started back toward the village.

He followed her, making no effort to catch up. He was still going to have to spend what was left of the night beside her, but in the morning he’d be going. Maybe by the time he came back for her, she could at least look at him, even if he wasn’t the sort of fellow she could marry. Maybe by then he wouldn’t feel so much the fool himself.