Comanche Moon by Virginia Brown Page B

blouse away, his hands dark and bold against her plump curves, she knew what he was doing. The memory flashed through her mind of the afternoon he’d touched her similarly, and how he had sparked a fire in her.
    He was lighting fires in this woman now. Deborah closed her eyes, but she could not block out the sounds. They crashed against her ears like thunder, the woman’s giggles turning to groans, then gasps, and Hawk’s growling voice sounding strained and labored. It seemed to go on forever.
    Then he made a rough sound that grew into a panting groan, and the woman cried out loudly. Silence fell.

    This silence was more deafening than the first. It lay in thick clouds over her, until finally she opened her eyes. To her surprise, tears streaked her cheeks.
    She could not imagine why.

Chapter 7

    Hawk swore softly under his breath, startling the woman beneath him. She stared up at him with wide brown eyes full of fear, and he touched her cheek with a gentle hand. It was all the assurance he was in the mood to offer.
    A slight sound in the bushes just beyond the grassy knoll where he’d chosen to lie with the woman had alerted him to another’s presence. His sharp eyes had caught the bright motion of a cotton skirt, and he’d known, then, who hid in the bushes.
    Though he wasn’t quite certain why it should bother him if Deborah and his sister saw him with the woman, it did. He waited until the two crept away, then rose to his feet, readjusting his breechcloth. His partner looked up at him, her blouse still down around her waist and tangled with the hem of her skirt. The bare brown curves that had excited him only minutes before, left him cold now.
    Growling at her to dress, Hawk pivoted on his heel and strode down the slope toward the village. He didn’t wait on the woman, but left her to follow him. She would be used to such brusque behavior. Her tipi was at the edge of the village, and saw many men come and go.
    Hawk thought of Deborah, her wide hazel eyes and soft white skin, and found that his spent passion had left him more on edge than before. He should not have tried to replace one need with another. It wasn’t just that he wanted to lie with a woman. He wanted Deborah.
    Ahead of him, almost at the village now, he saw her, her bright hair streaming behind her as she ran. Sunflower’s dark head was close beside her.
    Hawk swore again, an oath in English, low and vicious. There was no comparison in Comanche, nothing vile enough.
    His mood worsened, and when his foot struck something in the tall grasses, he looked down and saw an abandoned basket. Ripe, gleaming berries spilled across the ground in a narrow stream.
    Hawk paused. Now he knew why Deborah and Sunflower had been in the bushes, and it eased his anger. He bent to retrieve the basket with the few berries still in it, then continued down the slope and into the village.
    The hot sun beat down, and sharp shadows cut across the bare earth.
    Dust lay in a heated haze along the ground, stirred up by passing feet.
    Someone called out to him as he passed their lodge, but he didn’t bother to reply. When he reached his tipi, he ducked inside and paused, tossing the berry basket to the floor. Deborah stared up at him, but when he reached out for her, she shrank back.
    Anger spurred him, drowning out his first surprise at her reaction.
    Uttering a sharp comment, he slapped a hand on her wrist and yanked her to her feet, jerking her up against his chest. He could feel the rapid thunder of her pulse under his fingertips, the surge of fear in her trembling body.
    Their eyes met, and he wondered what she saw in his face that made her react violently. She lunged sideways to escape, but he kept his hard grip on her wrist, and his hold swung her around.
    Her small, berry-stained hand came up as she was swept back, and before he could move, her palm smacked against his cheek with a loud crack.
    Stunned into immobility, Hawk just stared down at Deborah with shock.
    Her