Page 22 of The Last Warrior

Even while his kiss rampaged her sensibility, his hands were caressing every part of her face, her ears, her cheeks, her eyes. Downward his touch ranged, over the sensitive spot on her neck, stopping at her shoulders.

Again, he drew back. Again, she surged forward.

“Who are you?” she asked as she fought to catch her breath.

“I am called Black Lion.”

“No, I mean who are you?”

“Your soon-to-be husband,” he whispered against her lips. “Perhaps it is good we desire each other.”

“But I…”

“Do not deny it. You are here in my arms.”

She should leave those very arms. She should simply step away from him; it would be the right action for her to take. But she didn’t. It was as though in this matter her body and mind operated without her consent, just as if they knew exactly what they wanted, even if she did not.

“There is a medicine man here amongst my people. He will marry us tonight.”

“No. A man of the cloth—a person from one of our churches—he must administer the ceremony.”

Black Lion shook his head. “Mark my words. The white people will not marry us. If we are to do this, it will have to be a secret marriage, I think.”

“I dare to disagree. I will find a minister. You will see, for I must find one. Perhaps you do not yet understand, but in the eyes of the world, our marriage must be legal.”

He nodded. “Hau, you are right. I do not understand, but I will wait, then, and see if you are able to do this. Still, I will tell the medicine man to be in preparation…” she frowned at him, “…in the event he is needed. Shall I arrive here for you tonight?”

“Yes, once the others are well asleep.”

Again, he nodded. It was only then he dropped his arms from around her and stepped away, and despite herself, Suzette felt bereft. With a dangerous light in his eye, he said, “I do not think we will have a problem with kisses.”

Amazingly enough, she grinned up at him. “No, I don’t expect we will.”

He had turned, and she watched him walk away from her. Truthfully, she had little choice in the matter, since her gaze followed the man as though her mind, temporarily separated from her will, would imprint his image on her, whether she wished it or not.

Who was he? she wondered for the second time in so many minutes.

His was a slender build, tall, she was keen to observe as her eyes caught and held on to his jeans-clad figure. His shoulders were wide, his hips slim, and those jeans clung indiscriminately to rock-hard rear muscles. The jeans disappeared into high, over-the-knee, leather boots, while the man’s hair, loose and long and almost reaching to his hips, tumbled down his back. His image was a mixture of stark contrasts, black mane against a crisp white shirt.

He had worn beaded earrings tonight, a look which seemed more than a little exotic for a man. Though one might usually consider such jewelry to be reserved for the female of the species, there was nothing but pure masculinity in the manner of this man. He had also worn a breastplate, which was made of bone and beads, an item he had worn in England, as well, she recollected. Atop that necklace and dangling around his neck had been a navy-blue-and-white neckerchief, neatly tied. Half cowboy, half American Indian, his was a strange way of dressing.

But it was also uniquely his own. Who was this man who should affect her so? And why was she affected?

Had it been because he had shown himself to have a sympathetic ear? Perhaps this was his cause, for it was a welcome relief to meet someone willing to take on her troubles without so much as a word of judgment. But there was more to it than this, for she had responded to him as though he were perfect for her…and she for him.

She prayed, however, for this not to be so. Indeed, she was counting on him being her exact opposite.

Still, whether they were one another’s antithesis or rather a match made by the gods, it made no difference to her. They were to be married…and tonight.

Did people in the Wild West Show never sleep? Suzette inspected the timepiece Irena had given her. It was a little after one o’clock in the morning. Where was he?

Pacing the width of the small room that was marked off by a set of three partitions, Suzette listened to the faint sound of the Indian drums, which was coming from the opposite side of the camp. An occasional gunshot broke the monotony, but even that was fast becoming a commonplace sound. Irena was gone, had not returned from the reception Buffalo Bill was hosting—an event meant to entertain a few visiting dignitaries.

Fortunately for her, Suzette had warned the show’s chaplain that she and her fiancé would be arriving late. But she hadn’t meant to be this negligent.

Suzette was undecided as to what to do. Should she put Black Lion’s tardiness down to the fact that show people rarely, if ever, arrived on time? Assume he wasn’t having doubts and leave to go in search of him? And, if she did have the nerve to seek him out and find him, what would she say to him?

Luckily she was saved from answering her own questions when a softly spoken male voice said from behind her, “Put out the light.”