No Other Man Read online

  "God, no. No!" she breathed, trying wildly to kick and fight, again to no avail. Both boots were stripped from her and thrown to the floor. She tried to slam her bound hands against him. Then she gasped, inhaling on a half sob when he plucked a wicked-looking bowie knife from the floor beneath the bed, bringing it to her chest, straight against her heart. She stared at him in silence then, wondering when the blade would find its way into her body, wondering what the pain would be like, how hard it would be to die. Oh, God ...

  "They'll kill you!" she lashed out, determined not to cry even as tears burned against her eyes. ' "The whites will come for you and slice you to ribbons, they'll disembowel you, they'll cut off your head—scalp you, oh, yes, they'll scalp away all that black hair of yours and leave you bleeding until you die!"

  She thought his lips twitched, but his eyes were unyielding. He moved his hand slightly, and she closed her eyes and screamed, waiting for the knife to pierce her flesh.

  Instead...

  She heard the methodical ripping of material.

  Her eyes flew open, and she realized that he had rent the fabric of her mourning gown from throat to hem.

  "No!" she cried out, shaking, trying to remind herself that it was better to bear torn clothing than torn flesh. She tried to use her bound hands as a weapon against him, only to find herself flung face down into the covers as he chopped away heedlessly at all the fabric covering her. While she shrieked and struggled, gasping for breath against the bed, he ripped and tore away the black silk and lace of her gown, chemise, and top petticoat and then the white cotton and linen of her corset and pantaloons, even the soft pink-ribboned bows of her garters. With one hand he flipped her again so that she faced him, naked in the tattered remnants of her elegant apparel, and stared down at her.

  "They'll cut out your heart!" she cried to him, still fighting tears and renewed terror. "Then you know what they'll do? They'll cut off your big, wretched, savage sex and feed it to the hogs, you bastard!" She was going to start crying or lose her mind to sheer hysteria. "I'll do it, I'll do it myself. Just you wait until I get my hands on a knife. You'll be so sorry, you'll—"

  She shrieked because he was up and lifting her. She didn't know now in what form death would come.

  And she was heartily startled when she found herself dropped into the tub.

  He meant to drown her.

  He was going for her hair again; he was going to use it to force her under. . ..

  But he merely lifted her hair from her back, letting it fall down the outside of the tub. He turned back to the hearth for the cauldron of water.

  He was going to scald her to death.

  But he poured the water so that it warmed the bath without burning her. He replaced the cauldron, throwing a bar of soap her way.

  "You want me clean when you kill me?" she snapped out bitterly. "No—" she began to gasp again, for he had hunkered down by the tub. The knife was suddenly glittering in his hands again.

  She shrieked again, closing her eyes.

  But he merely used the knife to snap the rawhide binding her wrists. In panic, Skylar instantly took the soap and started to throw it at him. She cried out as he caught her wrist. His eyes were on hers then with such warning that she went dead still except for the furious pounding of her heart. "Fine!" she said, trying to keep her lips from trembling. "I'll scrub myself clean for that moment when you decide to murder me." She stared into his eyes. Crouched down beside her, he was more terrifying than ever. His own nakedness seemed not to bother him in the least, while she was ever more tormented by the nudity he had enforced upon them both. He was terrifyingly sexual, so perfectly honed and physically powerful, not to mention that he was surely exceptionally endowed, no matter the color of his flesh.

  He let go of her and stood again, turning from her to move about the hearth. For the moment, she clutched the soap, suddenly glad of it. Time. She was buying time here. She furiously washed the trail dust and dirt and grime from her face. She scrubbed her arms, legs, torso, desperately thinking about how to escape.

  She realized then that she smelled coffee.

  The scent of it tantalizing, delicious ...

  There were no more sounds coming from the hearth. She turned to discover that he had decked himself out in a white man's long smoking jacket and that he was leaning against the wooden mantle over the hearth, his arms crossed over his chest, watching her, his green eyes as hard as emerald chips and giving away nothing of his thoughts.

  Then she realized that he was actually studying her. A strange warmth seared through her. The oddest sensation of panic seized her, a panic she couldn't even understand because it wasn't simply a fear of him. Irrationally, she sprang from the tub, racing wet and naked for the door.

  Naturally, she didn't make it. When he seized hold of her this time, lifting her into his arms, she half sobbed and half laughed, slamming her fists against him. The robe he wore came open. She was aware of his flesh, the warmth of it, the sleekness of it, the muscled strength that lay beneath it. He smelled of soap from the bath, and to her horror, though she was afraid, she was not as repelled as she should have been.

  He laid her back down on the cot. He was entangled with her hair, she with his robe. Whether or not he'd intended to, he fell upon her and she became more vividly aware of the structure of his anatomy and all the strengths and hungers within it. An awful breathlessness seized her, a fear, a fire. Desperate, she twisted and writhed, struggling to free herself from his weight. He caught her wrists, pinning them above her head, then cast a leg over the length of her, holding her immobile no matter what energy she set into her writhing and struggle. She was absolutely powerless against him and swiftly growing exhausted from her efforts to free herself. She spoke, staring at him with all the venom and courage she could muster.

  "I will kill you, you know, you overgrown savage."

  His green eyes narrowed. His fierce, rugged, oddly handsome features were very taut. He was furious with her. He might not understand her words, but he knew she was threatening him, she thought.

  "Yes! I'll kill you!"

  It was actually amazing that he hadn't already done her some irreversible harm. He stared at her still. With those green eyes.

  A shudder swept through her. Green eyes. She felt a strange sense of familiarity as she looked into them. As if she'd seen them before.

  There was something about them ...

  Yes! They were dangerous, menacing.

  Deadly.

  Again, she felt trembling and fire sweeping within her. She had to keep threatening and fighting. Until she died, she reminded herself. There was nothing else for her to do.

  "I'll gouge your eyes out. I'll tear you to shreds, cut off your limbs one by one, beat every single oversize muscle into pure pulp. Skin you alive, feed your hands to the dogs, chop off your pen—"

  She never finished her threat, for her captor decided to break his silence at last.

  "Madam, make one more threat against my anatomy," he said suddenly in perfect English, "and I will feel forced to make good use of it before it exists no more!"

  Completely stunned, Skylar lay dead still at last. "What?" she gasped, disbelieving.

  "You heard me—and I do believe that I made myself perfectly clear."

  He spoke English. Oh, God, he understood English.

  She burned. She shook. She was still terrified.

  But she was furious, too.

  ' 'You—you—despicable—''

  "Take care!" he warned.

  "Bastard!" she cried out heedlessly. "You bastard!" she repeated. ' 'You speak English damned well, you—who the hell are you?"

  Those strangely familiar eyes burned into her relentlessly. Undaunted. Merciless.

  Deadly.

  And he spoke again.

  His voice deep, rich.

  Its tone . . .

  As deadly as the green fire in his eyes.

  "The question, madam," he hissed furiously, "is just who the bloody
hell are you?"

  Two

  She was going to quit shaking. She was not going to die a coward.

  Please, God, she was not going to do so....

  "What difference does it make to you who I am!" Skylar cried, pressing her hands against him and finding him still immovable.

  Courage! she reminded herself.

  That lacking, bravado would do.

  "You've murdered the stagecoach driver and abducted me; you'll surely hang no matter how good your English may be!" Perhaps threats were the wrong tack to take at this time. If he understood her, she could attempt to reason with him.

  She began speaking quickly and breathlessly. "However, if you were just to let me go at this moment, I could speak in your defense. I could—"

  "You're not listening to me. Who the hell are you!" he thundered. She felt her limbs trembling despite her determination not to show fear.

  "My name is Skylar Douglas."

  "You're a liar!"

  There was such rage and conviction in his voice that

  Skylar was startled into silence, staring up into his unusual green eyes. Desperate confusion filled her. What did her name matter to this Indian who might speak English amazingly well but was nonetheless a savage? Once again, she began to feel the physical discomfort of being naked and pressed to the bed by a powerfully muscled man whose rage was directed at her.

  "Are you going to kill me?" she demanded suddenly.

  His gaze slid over her face, down the length of her. She felt as if her flesh were being scorched by it. She willed herself not to tremble and shake, but she seemed to have no control over the chattering that seized her teeth, the way her blood seemed to race madly throughout her.

  "I haven't quite decided yet. I want to know who you really are and what you think you're doing out here."

  "Who the hell are you?" she flared, her temper briefly overriding her fear.

  "A man ten times larger and stronger than you who is also in possession of a knife. Let that suffice for the moment. I'm the one asking the questions."

  She closed her eyes, swallowing hard, still confused, frightened, trapped in anguish. She couldn't bear this any longer, feeling his flesh, the threat of his strength, the fury that created the staggering heat within him. This was worse than before. Somehow more intimate. Because he understood every word she said. And she clearly understood him.

  "If you're going to kill me, get it over with," she forced herself to say with an even, calm voice.

  "But I want an answer to my question."

  "I've answered you!" she whispered.

  He swore, then to her amazement and relief, suddenly rose, jerking his robe closed and rebelting it as he walked to the fireplace. Both hands on the mantle, he stared into the flames.

  "You're not Lady Douglas," he said flatly.

  "I am." Dear God, she thought, what difference did it make to him?

  "You're not!"

  "How can you be so sure?" she cried, starting to rise as well, then, recalling her nakedness, falling back and grappling for a pillow to hide behind. To her dismay and reawakened fear, he pushed away from the mantle, striding toward her again. She gasped, hopping up-—with nothing— flattening herself against the wall on the opposite side of the bed.

  Again, to her vast surprise and relief, though his green eyes did flick over the length of her, they bore nothing more than a glint of contempt.

  And he didn't actually come near her.

  He paused at the foot of the bed, threw open the trunk there, and tossed her a robe similar to his own. Shaking, she slipped into it, maintaining her position across the bed from him. He stared at her a moment, turned away, and walked back to the hearth. There he bent and poured the brewing coffee she had smelled earlier into two earthenware mugs. He set the mugs on the table, took a whiskey bottle from the shelf, and poured its contents liberally into both mugs. When he finished, he raised an arm, offering one of the mugs to her. She remained frozen to her spot.

  "If I do decide to kill you, it won't be by poisoning," he informed her dryly.

  She still couldn't move. She could barely swallow. She prayed that he could not see that, yet she was aware that the pulse at her throat was pounding.

  He crooked a finger her way. "Can't use a drink? I surely can," he said pleasantly enough. But then the tone of his voice changed. "Get over here. I'm really not going to poison you, and I know damned well that you can really use a drink."

  She bit her lower lip, feeling again a rise of temper that nearly vanquished her fear, walked carefully around the bed and halfway across the room, keeping as far away from him as she could manage while accepting the cup at the same time. She took a sip. The coffee was hot and delicious with just enough whiskey in it to add a reassuring warmth to her system each time she swallowed. She swallowed more quickly. Closed her eyes. Drank it down.

  The cup was taken from her fingers, and a moment later given back, full once again.

  Coffee. It seemed a touch of normalcy in the midst of insanity.

  Or maybe it was just that the whiskey in it was blurring the madness of her situation.

  She felt him staring at her again, studying her intently. She backed away uneasily. She didn't really realize that she was doing so until her calves touched the edge of the bed. She didn't think she planned to sit; it was just that her knees wouldn't hold her upright anymore. She sank down, sitting on the edge of the bed as primly as possible. "I can't begin to understand what's going on here. I've done nothing to you! If you would just tell me who you are, explain—"

  "I'm asking the questions, remember?" he said sharply.

  "Then tell me what you are!" she cried. "You pretended to be an Indian, a complete savage—''

  "Oh, I am an Indian. Sioux!" he interrupted, his tone deceptively soft. "And I suggest you not forget it. And as to being a complete savage ... well, I have always found that some men are, by nature, savage, and some are not, race having no bearing on the issue whatsoever."

  She swallowed another sip of coffee, amazed—unnerved. Not only did he speak English, he was a damned philosopher. How in God's name had she fallen in his path?

  "Perhaps you'd best change your behavior then," Skylar suggested sweetly. "For so far, it has been completely detestable, heathen, and savage."

  "Really? I don't think I stated that I was among the men who weren't complete savages," he informed her with a sardonic smile. "I was merely making the point that 'savage' is often how the whites choose to view a society different from their own, when often white behavior is far more cruel and heinous. And frankly, I don't give a damn whether you consider me to be a savage or not. Now, back

  to basics. Who the hell are you, and why are you claiming to be Lady Douglas?"

  Skylar warmed her hands around her mug, inhaling deeply. "I have told you the truth! I am Lady Skylar Douglas—"

  "Married to—?"

  "Lord Douglas, naturally."

  "Naturally?" he grated.

  She drained her coffee mug, grateful then for the riveting warmth that seemed to put some steel back into her own limbs. "Naturally. Well, actually, I am a widow now. Lord Douglas—died."

  "After you married him?"

  "Obviously," she heard herself snap. "That is the way one becomes a widow."

  "When and where did you marry him?"

  "That's none of your damned business," she informed him coolly.

  But he started to take a step toward her, his green eyes sharply narrowed. ' 'I ask you again, when and where were you married?" he demanded.

  Skylar stiffened, afraid and indignant. She assured herself it didn't matter in the least if she did or didn't give him information that was actually public record.

  "I married Lord Douglas a little more than two weeks ago in Maryland."

  "And then he died. How damned convenient."

  "How dare you—"

  "Easily. Now, you married Lord Douglas—Lord who Douglas."

  "What?"

  "What
was your husband's given name?"

  "Andrew."

  "You're certain."

  "The name is on my wedding license."

  "But your husband died."

  "Yes."

  "You're quite certain." "I was there!"

  "Ahhhh .. . !"

  The drawn out exclamation had a damning sound to it. As if he seemed to find it perfectly natural that Lord Douglas might have died—and that perhaps she might have had something to do with his death.

  "Don't you dare look at me like that; don't you dare sound like that!" she exploded, feeling pain welling up within her. "I was there with him, I was there—" she choked out.

  "I'm sure you were!" he interrupted derisively.

  "You heathen bastard!" she hissed. "How dare you—"

  "No! How dare you!" he breathed back through clenched teeth.

  She leaped up. "You've no right to accost me like this. You've no right to make any judgments about me. You want to talk about not caring? Well, I don't know who— or what!—you are anymore, but do you know what? I don't care! I'm an American citizen. I don't have to sit here and lake this from you or anyone!"

  She stood purposefully. She slammed her mug down on the table before the hearth, staring at him with daggers in her eyes. With her chin high and her heart hammering, only the whiskey giving her the courage she needed at the moment, she strode smoothly toward the door, determined that her manner alone would set her free.

  But then she heard his voice. "Oh, Lady Douglas! I don't think so!" And even as she opened the door, his hand reached over her shoulder, slamming it shut again. She spun against the door, only to find herself blocked there, the imposing size and strength of his body before her, a hand on either side of her head, his bronzed arms caging her in.

  She stared at him with all the cool authority she could muster. "I grow weary of this game!" she insisted.