wicked, surging heat as his gaze fell over the length of her. He had

stayed away. And he had been drawn back. Almost as if he was feeling the

same thing.

She didn't need a lover, she told herself. She needed a hired gun.

Maybe she would have to barter to gain what she wanted. Barter! she

charged herself.

And in the darkness she admitted that he cola id be as cold and hard and

ruthless as stone, he could care for her not at all, or perhaps even

want her with a curious interest. It didn't matter. She hadn't thought

about any man in over five years.

But she wanted this one. That he could deal well with a gun was all the

better.

When she finally did sleep that night, it was with the stern reminder

that she ought to be saying her prayers. That she ought to hope that

Jamie Slater wanted nothing more to do with her, that the stoic colonel

would take her to Wiltshire.

She could fight von Heusen, and she would. She just wasn't sure if she

could fight von Heusen and all the decadent and shameful things she felt

for Jamie Slater at the same time.

It was wicked.

It was true. If Joe had taught her anything, it was wisdom. She couldn't

change what she was feeling, even if what she was feeling could only

cause her pain. Exhaustion overwhelmed her, and she slept. Slept, and

dreamed.

Of smoke-gray eyes, of a man with broad shoulders, taking her into his

arms.

Naked, as she had been by the brook.

He was moving into a trap, Jamie thought the next night as he walked

along to the Casey house, where Tess Stuart was. He was definitely

moving into a trap, because he couldn't call Tess a liar. He did know

the Indians well, and he couldn't let a huge war get started because

everyone was unjustly blaming the Comanche. He was going to have to find

out what had happened.

He paused at the door before knocking upon it, swallowing down a

startling, near savage urge to thrust the door open and sweep the

challenging and all too luscious Miss. Stuart into his arms. No matter

how he tried, he could not forget everything that he knew about her. No

matter what gingham or frills or lace or velvet adorned her, he kept

seeing beneath it.

He'd lied to her. She was very much alive. She spoke of passionate life

and living with her every breath, her every word. Her gpirit was ever at

battle, never ceasing. She would stay on in Wiltshire, he was certain,

no matter how stupid it would be for her to do so. She was determined to

fight this von Heusen, and she would fight him even if they met on the

plain and he was carrying a shotgun and she was completely unarmed.

If. if. Was the man really so dangerous?

He didn't want to believe her. He wanted to be a skeptic. But there was

truth in her passion, in her determination.

There was truth in the honesty of her beautiful, sea-shaded eyes, eyes

that entered into his sleep and made him wonder what it would he like if

she looked at him with her hair wound between them and around them in a

web of passion.

Every time he was near her he felt it more. Something like a pounding

beneath the earth, like a rattle of thunder across the sky. Every time.

And if he didn't watch out, the day would come when he would thrust wide

a door and sweep her hard into his arms.

He wouldn't give a damn then about Indians or white men or the time of

day or even if the earth continued to turn. All that would matter would

be the scent of her and the feel of her silken flesh beneath his

fingers. He was going to a dance, he ~-r. afinded himself. And every

officer in the post would be there, and the enlisted men, too.

He gritted his teeth and willed his muscles and his body to cease

tightening with the harsh and ragged desire that seemed to rule his

every thought. He knocked on the door. "Come in, Lieutenant."

He pushed open the door, irritated that he should want her so badly,

determined that he would control himself. She was probably late, women

always were. She was probably trying to pin up her hair, or fix her

skirts or petticoats.

She wasn't. She was standing s'fiently by the small fire that burned in

the hearth. She didn't need to change a thing about her hair--it was

tied back from her face with a blue ribbon, then exploded in a froth of

sun-colored and honey ringlets. The tendrils curled over her shoulders

and fell against the rise of her breasts.

Her gown was soft blue, with a darker colored velvet bodice over a skirt

of swirling froth. The sleeves were puffed, baring much of her arms, and

the velvet bodice was low, but just low enough to show the risc of her

breasts, the beautiful texture of her flesh, the fascinating way the

soft curls of her hair lay upon it. She was even more beautiful than he

had seen her before, her eyes bright and fascinating with the light of

challenge, her smile soft and untouched by tragedy this night.

"You're ready?"

"Yes, of course. You did say sunset, didn't you?" He nodded. She reached

for a blue silk stole and handed it to him. Woodenly he took it from her

fingers and set it around her shoulders. The sweet scent of her hair

rose against his nostrils, and the essence of it seemed to fill him.

Damn.

He'd tried so hard to gain control before entering the house. Now the

scent of her was tearing through his senses, exciting his temper as well

as his passions.

"Shall we go?"

"Yes, of course." Her smile, he decided, was a wan- toh's. Miss. Stuart

was not entirely innocent, but rather a woman completely aware of her

power. She hadn't become a fluttering belle. Her intelligence was

apparent, along with her rock-hard strength, in her steady gaze.

And still . her beauty, her femininity . they were breathtaking. Jon had

seen it even when Jamie hadn't.

"Where is the dance?"

"In the alehouse," he said curtly.

"But then he determined that he knew the game himself; he would play it,

too.

He smiled graciously, capturing her hand and slipping it around his

elbow.

"The rest seems to have done you quite well. You're looking

wonderfully--healthy."

"Why, thank you, Lieutenant. With such flowery compliments a girl could

surely lose her head."

"What a little liar. You wouldn't lose your head if the entire Apache

Nation was staring you down, would you, Miss. Stuart?"

"There you go again, Lieutenant, what a dazzling compliment."

"Do you need compliments?"

"Maybe."

They had reached the open doors to the alehouse. Already music could be

heard, the strains of a lively jig. The notes of the fiddle seemed to be

loudest, and for a moment Jamie thought that Tess's smile wavered. He

was suddenly displeased with the night, and with himself. She had gone

through a harrowing experience, and she had come through it with

tremendous spirit.

No more platitudes for this chit! he warned himself. But her eyes met

his in the dim light spilling from the open doorway. So deep a blue they

were mauve in the darkness, so wide and unwavering upon his. He wished

suddenly that 65 she hadn't been young, that she hadn't been beautiful.

That she hadn't been different from any other woman he'd ever met in his

life.

"Maybe you shouldn't have come tonight," he said sol fly She smiled.

"I'm fine, Lieutenant, truly I am. Shall we go in?"

He nodded and escorted her on into the room. Dancers filled the floor,

soldiers in uniform, officers with epaulets and brightly colored sashes,

women in their sparkling fin- cry. The floor seemed alive with the blue

and gold of the uniforms, and with brilliant reds and greens and soft

pastels, lovely silks and brocades, satins and velvets.

But none compared with the blue gown that Tess Stuart was wearing. No

other garment seemed to so fit a woman, to cling to her shape, to

conceal and enhance, to so artfully combine both purity and sweetly

simmering sensuality.

Like the touch of her fingers upon his arm. Like the scent of roses that

seemed to fill him and make him mindless of what else went on.

Jamie saw Jon Red Feather coming toward them, and he swore softly

beneath his breath. Normally the darned half breed was as silent as the

night. Suddenly these days he was expounding away with his Oxford

eloquence.

"Miss. Stuart! Jamie. Ah, you've made it at last. Miss. Stuart, please

don't think me too bold--Jamie! I dare demand the first dance!"

"Jon" -- he began in protest.

"Jon! Good evening!"

The delight in Tess's voice was so obvious that Jamie wanted to spit.

If the two of them were so damned all-fired eager to be together, Jon

should have escorted her tonight. It wouldn't have made the least bit of

difference to him.

The hell it wouldn't. She was his.

He'd found her, he'd touched her and he'd brought her back here. It

might be a trap, but he was deep within it now, and there was no

crawling out. Still, he had to he civil. Too bad they weren't out on the

plain. He and Jon could go to it like savage kids. They'd done it

before.

He smiled and bowed with the best of the Southern chivalry he could