boring into hers.

"Enjoying your conquests, Miss. Stuart?"

She widened her eyes.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean every snot-nosed young trooper here is ready to lie down and die

for you." "Really?" she asked with a sweet note of astonishment. "Well,

how very genteel of the lads, how kind! But tell me, Lieutenant, how am

I doing with the others?" His jaw twisted slightly, but there was still

amusement to his smile.

"The graybeards, Miss. Stuart, are quite willing to dig their own

graves, if need be, for your cause."

"Oh, dear! Ah, well, let's hope that it need not be. But I'm curious,

sir, how am I doing with the men between nineteen and ninety?"

"Would it please you to know that a number of them were probably quite

ready to slit one another's throats for the mere bounty of your smile?"

She didn't know if he was teasing. Not anymore. The smoky quality was in

his eyes again. She lowered her lashes, shivering slightly, wondering if

he was really a man to play with so freely. Then she raised her eyes

with a bold and sweeping challenge.

"Thank goodness, sir, that you would not participate in such a skirmish!

I mean, as one could see how heavily involved you are ..."

"What?" he demanded, scowling.

"The bountiful brunette, Lieutenant. Miss. Eliza."

"Oh, Eliza." He said the name dism~ssively. Too dismissively. He knew

Eliza well, maybe better than he wanted to at the moment.

"Yes, Eliza," she said pleasantly.

"Are you engaged, Lieutenant?"

"Good heavens, no!"

"Ah, was the horror of that statement over the possibility of

engagement, or over Eliza?"

"Miss. Stuart, you are very presumptuous."

"Sir, no one is forcing you to dance with me."

His arms tightened around her. He was smiling, but there was a sizzle to

the smile, and it sent little shock waves rippling all along her system.

Maybe she was playing dangerously. It was delightful. Maybe she risked

igniting his temper to extremes she had yet to know. She realized that

she was willing to do so, that the storm taking place within her own

heart and body was demanding that she do so. "Miss. Stuart, I am your

escort to this dance, remember?" he said bluntly.

"Oh ... yes, well, I suppose that I had forgotten. When I saw the way

your lips became pasted together with Eliza's ..."

"Jealous, Miss. Stuart?"

"Well, how could I be? I have just entered into your life. I couldn't

possibly mean to dissuade you from, er, liaisons you have been

nurturing."

She heard the clenching of his teeth. The scowl that tightened his

handsome features seemed to reach inside her and take her breath away.

She felt his hand upon her waist, warm and powerful, and the fingers of

his other hand so tightly entwined with hers that the pressure nearly

caused pain. She inhaled a clean scent from him that also seemed to

speak of the plain, of the rugged vistas, of the horseman, the marksman.

Everything rugged, and everything striking.

He was a real son of a bitch, a small voice warned her. It didn't

matter.

"Do you always hop so recklessly into the fray, Miss. Stuart?"

"Whatever do you mean? What fray, Lieutenant?"

"You've barbs on your tongue, ma'am."

"Why, Lieutenant! I'm only speaking frankly."

"Um. I still say there are barbs there. Perhaps I should discover if I

am right ..."

He was swift on his feet, agile and sure. In a moment he had danced her

out the door and into the shadows on the porch. He swept her against a

supporting pillar, then his mouth descended upon her, lips parted,

parting hers. She had wanted this. this very thing. She had teased and

goaded him, and now she had him. But the kiss was no casual dance-floor

brush. It was a thing so searingly intimate that she lost all hope of

breathing, all hope of standing upon her own two feet. His mouth

encompassed hers, drawing from her all strength and will. The heat of

his mouth filled and infused her, and his tongue swept by all barriers

to ravage and invade.

And she did nothing to stop him, nothing to fight back, nothing to

protest even the shocking intimacy of the invasion.

He kissed her mouth as if he kissed all of her. His 73 tongue touched

every little crevice and nuance of her mouth and thrust with a rhythm

that entered into her pulse, into her bloodstream. It was far different

from anything she had ever experienced before. Anything. It brought

tremors to her limbs and a swirling tempest within her belly; it singed

her breasts and weakened her knees.

And worst of all, perhaps, she felt no remorse, no shame. She allowed

herself to fall into his arms, to feel his strength support her, the

rippling muscles of his chest and thighs. Then his mouth pulled away

from hers. She inhaled raggedly and lifted her eyes to meet his. It had

been a game; she hadn't been expecting this, and she was suddenly very

afraid that her eyes betrayed the depths of her innocence, of her shock,

of the staggering sensations that had taken place within her. His eyes

were heavily shadowed, and he didn't look at all like a man about to

laugh with the pleasure of an easy conquest, but rather like one

consumed with some blinding fury or emotion. But he didn't speak. She

wanted to reach up and touch the sandy tendrils of his hair, fallen

rakishly over his forehead, but she didn't dare move, she didn't dare

touch him again, for there seemed to be something explosive about him.

"There she is!"

The accusing cry seemed to awaken them both. Jamie stepped back,

surprised, frowning, looking around.

A plump woman was coming out on the porch. She was small and seemed

exceedingly broad. Her hair was snow white and swept up beneath a little

cap, and her dress was old-fashioned, her petticoats as wide as they

might have been during the war, her dark fringed stole from an earlier

period.

She wasn't alone. People were spilling out behind her. "Clara," Jamie

said softly, still frowning.

"Clara, what on earth is wrong?"

Clara seemed not to hear him. She pointed a finger at Tess.

"You!

You--you harlot! You hussy! You whore!

Attacked by Indians, and crying out that white men fell upon you! How

dare you! You should have been killed! God will smite you down with an

arrow for lying! You trash, you white trash!"

"Clara!" Jamie shouted.

Tess, stunned by the violence of the attack, stared in silence.

"Clara, you're overwrought, but you owe this lady an apology, you can't

know"

"No!" Clara shrieked.

"She's the devil's spawn!" Tess realized then that the porch was full of

people.

The young soldiers who had been ready to die for her looked as if they'd

gladly nail her to the wall.

"How many of us have lost our dear loved ones to the bloody savages?

You, Lydia, the Pawnee took your only daughter! Charlie, the Comanche

cost you your arm, and Jimmie, your boy Jim went down in that fight with

the Apache. Heathens, bloody heathens, all of them! And now she's lying

about what happened to her little wagon train.

She won't let the men go after the real culprits, she wants a war with

the white men! She wants us all at one another's throats so the bloody

savages can move right in. She"--" No!" Tess shouted furiously.

"You don't understand, you weren't there, and don't you dare" -- "She

ought to be tarred and leathered and thrown right out of here naked as a

jay. Then she can run to her Indian buddies."

There was a startled moment of silence. Tess felt certain they were all

about to step forward and tear her into little shreds.

"Yes, yes" -- Clara began wildly. But she was interrupted.

The sound of a clinking spur struck loudly and discordantly upon the

floor as Jamie stepped firmly between Tess and Clara.

"That's enough!" Jamie stated flatly.

"Clara, I don't know what got you going tonight, but you've no right to

judge this girl, none at all. You owe her an apology, and I damned well

mean it." He paused. Tess realized that he was looking across the crowd.

Looking straight at Eliza. And there was something about her eyes that

told all, even if she tried to stare at Jamie with a look of pure

innocence.

She had stirred up the people. Jamie had left her on the dance floor,

and dear Miss. Eliza had made the rounds, talking to those most

vulnerable.

"But what if it is true, Lieutenant? What if Miss. Stuart was seeing

things?

Then the Comanche or some other tribe is on the warpath, and if so,

we've got to start fighting back!" "I'll find out," Jamie said.

"I promise you, I'll find out." There was a gasp from the crowd. The

sound had come from Eliza, Tess realized. Her plan had backfired. Tess

wasn't sure what victory she felt. Whatever move Jamie made, he made

because he had been forced into it, a gentleman caught by circumstance

into defending a lady's honor.

"I'm going to escort Miss. Stuart to her home, and I'll look into things

there. And I will find out the truth."

By then Jon Red Feather had come to stand next to his friend. It was a

casual but defensive gesture. They were shoulder to shoulder. If any

fighting had erupted, the handsome half-breed would have been ready. But

maybe he had come for more than that. He edged forward, taking Clara's

hands.

"Give Jamie time," he told her.

The little woman looked up at Jon.

"Oh, Jon! I didn't mean you."

"I know," he said, grinning.

"I'm only half savage and heathen and barbarian."

She flushed brilliantly.

"Jon ..."

"It's all right, Clara. Heaven help us, if the Sioux Nation went to war

now, I'm not at all sure where I would be at times." He raised his

voice.

"Every single one of you has, at one time or another, seen some savage

injustice done to the Indians!. You've been with commanders who think

nothing of the murder of women and infants! How in hell can you possibly

doubt this story!"

There were murmurs, then the crowd began to clear. Clara started to cry

softly.

"I'll take her home," Jon told Jamie.

Jamie nodded. He and Tess watched as Jon escorted her through the

alehouse.

"Well, damn it, it's just exactly what you wanted, isn't it?"

He was a far different man from the one who had kissed her with such

staggering heat. She stiffened, wishing she could wash the taste of his

lips from her own, trying to wipe the taste away with the back of her

hand.

"What I wanted!

No! I never wanted to be called' any of those things, Lieutenant, and I

certainly never wanted to see an old woman in pain, nor did I ever

particularly want to be threatened with being tarred and feathered!"

"You wanted me to go to war with your von Heusen."

"All right, yes! I wanted someone else to stand up against him."

She was backed against the pillar still. Her hands slipped behind her to

reach for it for support. He turned on her, coming closer, leaning his

hands upon the beam and bringing his face very close to hers. She was

trapped by his arms, by the prison of his body.

"And now," he said softly, "it's my battle."

"You're the damned cavalry, aren't you? You spent time enough telling me

that the day that you dragged me into the dirt!"

"I dragged you into the dirt! Why, you little hellion! You're the one

who came after me like a bat out of hell!"

It was there again, that feeling of something entirely combustible

between them, of static charging the air, of 77 lightning on a still

night. She had to fight back, and quickly and hard, or she would lose

everything.

"I was frightened out of my wits," she retorted, "not that you probably

weren't worthy of everything I did!"

"Oh? Is that a fact? And have you taken to judging me, Miss. Stuart?"

"Why the hell not? You're determined to judge me." They were silent for