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.Charlotte took hope.Perhaps the madness was wearing off.Perhaps he had some inkling of who she was and what he was about to do to her.“Charlotte?” he said, his voice sounding almost normal.“Oh, yes, Mateo!” she cried, frantic now with relief and happiness.He was coming around.Just then, a vicious gust of wind whipped the tent flap back.Squarely framed in canvas, the small, pale silver sphere cast its dying light upon them.Mateo gave an anguished cry.Charlotte watched the muscles bunch in his shoulders, gathering strength—shuddering, straining, making ready.This is Mateo, she told herself.You have nothing to fear.Charlotte closed her eyes and gripped the coarse fur rug beneath her, steeling herself.She forced her mind to think of him as he had been that night by the stream—as he had always been… except for now.She could endure anything at his hands.She loved him.She would welcome him; for to fight him would be madness on her own part.She willed her body to relax.Now, though still crying softly, she smiled.She was ready.A strange fever seemed to enter her mind the moment Mateo forced his way into her body.Her senses reeled crazily.She felt disoriented and filled with a wild, inexplicable panic.This was a torture like none she had ever imagined.But oddly enough, as this terrible spell seized her, Mateo grew calm.It was almost as if through her love she was drawing the torment from his body and soul into her own.Soon her terror vanished with her pain.Each new thrust soothed her torn flesh and righted her confused mind.She tensed once more, but this time with a new sensation.Mateo had brought her through the cruel gate to some new and fantastic realm.Here they walked together, hand in hand, body in body, and the sun, not the moon, shone down on them in all its glory.Charlotte had no idea where he was taking her, but she knew that she had been searching for this unknown paradise all her life.He rode her expertly, with the same combination of fiery command and loving gentleness that he used in handling his Black Devil.And Charlotte responded to the great graiengeri’s touch.His lips and tongue had lost their harshness.His hands on her breasts no longer bruised, but pleasured.She felt her nipples straining to be stroked.And the battering of his hips had become an undulating series of waves, smashing on her ready shore.She rose and fell to meet him.She welcomed him, drawing him deep into her body, feeling his caresses in the very core of her.Suddenly, the sun inside her head and heart became blinding.She thrust at Mateo with a fury, begging him for something—she knew not what.And then she felt it coming—ever nearer, ever sweeter.A tidal wave of sensations rose within her, dashing all else in its wake.Her sweating, love-scented body quaked under the impact.A feeling totally new to her surged through every muscle, bone, and sinew.She shuddered against Mateo, holding him close, kissing him, adoring him for what he had given her.Her lover clutched her tightly, and she could feel the throb of him deep inside her.Suddenly he held very still.A tremor ran through him.A spasm jerked his hips.The next instant she felt the precious deluge filling her with his princely seed.A new kind of pleasure washed over her and trembled through them both.Now, as never before, they were one.Mateo held her a moment more, then rolled away.He lay on his back, breathing heavily, one arm thrown over his eyes.He sighed and reached out to touch her breast.For a long, silent time he stroked the full nipple.She lay very still, marveling at the way she felt—full, warm, loved.The sun’s first rays penetrated the opening of the tent.Charlotte heard birds outside chirping their waking songs.Somewhere a Gypsy mongrel barked, a kettle clanged, a horse neighed sleepily.The terrible, beautiful night of the full moon was past.Mateo reached out and took Charlotte’s hand.“Oh, my sunaki bal, what have I done to you?”“Only what Fate intended, my darling.”She leaned over and touched his lips in a gentle, loving kiss.Chapter 11Major Winston Krantz stood in his sparsely furnished quarters at Fort Leavenworth, perspiring mightily as he donned his battle garb.The whole idea of this expedition irked him.He wouldn’t have minded so much if a band of scalp-stealing Indians had been the day’s intended quarry.That was what he was out here for, after all.But this… this was uncivilized madness!Krantz pulled on his new fringed buckskin jacket, identical to the one Colonel Custer always wore.He looked at himself in the mirror over his washstand and grimaced.His mother, back home in Boston, would have shuddered in horror at the sight; his father probably would have said Winston looked like a red-skinned savage himself.The garment certainly did nothing to enhance the outdoorsman image he had hoped to create.Even if no one else thought so, he’d hoped to make the damned buffalo they were about to go after think he looked threatening, if not downright dangerous.But the picture he presented—at least to his own eyes—was more that of an overstuffed deerskin with tassels.“Blasted fringe!” he muttered as his sleeve tangled in his cartridge belt.This was just the latest in a series of frustrations since he’d joined up with Custer’s 7th Cavalry.He was half glad Charlotte Buckland had run out on him before the wedding.Fort Leavenworth, with all its pretense of civilization, simply wasn’t his idea of the proper place to begin a happy marriage.The rough quarters, the heat, the constant threat of Indian attack… well, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it certainly hadn’t been what he’d found.He’d never dream of bringing a wife here to endure such hardships.But many of the men had wives, children, sisters, even mothers living on the post.Mrs.Custer wasn’t in residence at present, but only because the 7th Cavalry was here on temporary duty.Still, the colonel swore that his Libbie might just pop in any day.He vowed that she loved every minute of army life and hated being left behind when her “Autie” rode out.The “boy general” himself, as Custer had been called after his field promotion during the war, was Krantz’s second shock.The man was not made of the tall, muscular stuff one envisioned in connection with heroes.In fact, had it not been for George Custer’s manly swoop of mustache, those long golden locks might have made the officer look quite effeminate.Granted, he was a keen strategist when it came to fighting these bloody savages.His idea last year of mounting a campaign during the winter months, when the Indians were off their guard, had been a stroke of genius.But Custer’s interests were so unorthodox for a West Point man—writing poetry, taking part in amateur theatricals, holding mule races.Why, some of the men even whispered that he consorted with Gypsies! It all smacked of the bizarre to Krantz.And perhaps the man’s strangest quirk was the menagerie that always traveled in his company.Krantz harrumphed loudly into his fist and reprimanded his own thoughts.“Not including Mrs.Custer, of course
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