The Darkest Heart Read online

  Savage Warrior,

  White Captive

  She heard him enter and purposefully ignored him, her eyes on her hands as she rubbed her feet. She felt his eyes on her and looked up to see him staring down at her. Suddenly the gohwah seemed too small for the two of them, and the long night was here.

  “Let me do that,” Jack said, kneeling and taking her foot in his hands before she could object.

  “I don’t think …”

  His hands were large, warm, and gentle. “Stop thinking, Candice. There’s no point. What is, is.”

  He was right. She was here and she had no choice. This man had traded for her, and she belonged to him. She was at his mercy.

  “Feel better?” he asked, his voice husky.

  She had heard that tone before, and she looked up abruptly. His hand had stilled on her ankle. Her body began a slow throbbing of fear mingled with anticipation. He slid his hand up her calf, its grip tightening possessively.

  “You have the most beautiful legs I’ve ever seen,” he murmured.

  Her heart was beating erratically. “I … I …”

  His hand moved up her thigh, slowly moving higher and higher. Oh, dear God, she thought, what is he going to do?

  Other books by Brenda Joyce

  LOVERS AND LIARS

  THE CONQUEROR

  DARK FIRES

  Table Of Contents

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Part One - Scandal

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Part Two - Abduction

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Part Three - Lies

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Part Four - War and Betrayal

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Part Five - Love and Resolution

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  Chapter Ninety

  Chapter Ninety-One

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  Author’s Note

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  The New Mexico Territory of the United States—1860

  She knew she was dying.

  At first the realization had been horrifying. Now she no longer cared. She wanted only relief—relief from the blazing sun as it burned her back and legs through her shirt and pants, relief from the choking dryness of her mouth, from the scorched sand as it burned her palms and belly and cheek.

  She knew she was dying. She had seen cattle that had died from heat and dehydration. Their tongues had been grotesquely protruding from their rigid corpses, black and stiff and swollen. Her own tongue felt just as thick. She could no longer swallow, there was no saliva left, and she could taste sand and grit. If only she had water.

  The day seemed to get hotter. Impossibly, unbearably hotter. She moaned from the pain—a choked, whimpering sound. She wondered, through the torpid haze, how much longer it would take. She wondered what her brothers and her father would do when they found out.

  And she wanted to cry for them, for their grief.

  Please forgive me, she moaned silently. I never wanted to hurt you.

  She loved them. They were her family. Three big strapping brothers, Luke and Mark and Little John, all close to six feet tall with the blond, blue-eyed Carter good looks. And her father. He would be in a frenzy. He had been in a frenzy since the night she had run away—that she knew without a doubt. Oh, God. To think she had been betrayed like this.

  At least they would never find out the truth.

  She thought she was becoming delirious. She could see Virgil as if he were really there, with her. But his face wasn’t handsome—it was ugly in rage. And she could feel the painful blow as he hit her, hear herself cry out, feel his hands, grabbing her.…

  All her life she had been gloriously spoiled. Her father had raised her and her three brothers alone. They had come to the Territory ten years earlier, before it was even a part of the United States. Her father had abruptly packed them all up, she and her three brothers, when she was eight years old—and they had moved from their Tennessee farm to Tucson to start over as ranchers. That was exactly one month to the day that their mother had abandoned them all, running off with another man.

  And I’m just like her, she thought miserably.

  She hadn’t meant to do it, hadn’t meant to hurt her family. She was used to the adulation she got from the men in her life, whether it was her father and brothers or the townspeople, the cowboys and drifters. She wasn’t exactly vain, but it was hard not to know that she was extraordinarily beautiful—especially when everyone kept telling her so. She had seen a miniature of her mother once, who had also been known for her beauty, and Candice knew that she looked a lot like her. Oddly, that pleased her. They both had brilliantly blond hair, long, thick, and wavy, enough to stop a man in his tracks without him seeing any more. Add to that a perfectly heart-shaped face and full, rose-colored lips, a straight, delicate nose and large, almond-shaped eyes … Candice had had fi fteen marriage proposals last year alone, when she’d been seventeen.

  And she had accepted Virgil Kincaid’s.

  No one had approved.

  He was lean and dark and so very handsome. Candice had been letting men steal kisses from her for years—nothing more than a few chaste pecks, unless her suitor was really favored, and then she would allow him to brush her lips with his. She was used to the courting, the cow-eyed looks, and the awkward, endless declarations of undying love. But Virgil Kincaid took her by surprise. He was from Georgia, a planter’s second son, he said, and his courtship took her breath away. His words were honey soft and thickly Southern, he was well read, he could quote the finest poetry … and his looks weren’t cow-eyed but bright and hot. He was no awkward, bumbling teenage cowboy, stumbling over his words and his eagerness, but a handsome, well-bred Southern gentleman, one who knew how to treat a lady.

  Her father, approached by Virgil, absolutely forbade the marriage.

  The next night they eloped.

  They rode hard day and night to make it to Fort Yuma before anyone had time to follow them. It was a wonderful adventure, exciting and romantic.…

  Until Fort Yuma, where Virgil refused to marry her.

  “I don’t understand,” she cried, her eyes dark with the betrayal.

  He grinned. His hands closed over her shoulders, pulling her close. Still dazed, Candice didn’t try to draw away. “Candice, I’m not a marrying man.”

  She stared, bewildered from the magnitude of everything—what she’d done, what they’d done, what he was doing now. “But—I don’t understand.” She knew she was more than marriageable—she was the most sought-after belle from Arizona City to El Paso.

  He raised her chin. “You were made for loving, Candice. And marriage just isn’t my game.” His grip tightened. “God—I want you. I’ve never wanted any woman as much as I want you.”

  It was sinking in. She tore away. “You lied! You promised—you told me you loved me! You said we would get married as soon as we found a preacher. I ran away with you!”

  He laughed. “I’m afraid, dear, that you’re going to have to learn to play the game according to new rules. Mine.”

  She backed away. “What are you going to do?”

  “Surely, Candice, even you aren’t that naive?”

  She was afraid. Her back hit the wall of the small room they had just checked into. “God, Virgil—no.”

  “I’m going to make you my mistress, darling. And I’ll make you very happy, I promise.”

  She choked in shock.

  “Candice, don’t look so damn innocent. You were made to be a man’s mistress, my dear, in beautiful silks and taffeta, diamonds and lace—not some rancher’s wrinkled-up wife. Come here.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “Mad? Maybe. About you. I’m just glad I’m going to be the first.”

  He reached for her. Candice didn’t think. She had never had to hit anyone before, never—not with three strapping brothers to chaperone her. But now her hand shot out and she sent a ringing slap to his face as hard as she could. He immediately backhanded her brutally, sending her spinning to the floor, stunned.

  “Get it through your head, Candice. You are no longer Miss Carter, belle of the Southwest. You are my woman, and you do as I say.”

  She raised herself to her elbows, panting, her ears ringing, her face throbbing. She shook her head once to clear it. Fear spread icy claws deep into her intestines. “No.”

  He grinned. “Fight me, then.”

  Her eyes went wide as he threw his jacket casually on the bed and knelt beside her. Candice scrambled to her knees. He yanked her back by her waist. She cried out, writhing. He clamped an arm around her and flipped her onto her back, hard. Candice was terrified, and when she looked into his eyes she saw that he was laughing—he was enjoying himself. With a tremendous effort, she kicked out, one of her feet catching his jaw.

  He yelped, releasing her.

  Candice crawled frantically toward the door.

  “Bitch!” He grabbed her ankles and pulled, hard.

  Candice’s arms went out from under her, and her chin hit the floor, sending a spasm of pain through her. She was on her stomach, helpless. Virgil wrenched her hands behind her back, hurting her. He prodded her legs apart, and sheer terror and sudden understanding coursed through her. “We can do this any way you want,” he said, panting, as he tossed her skirt and petticoat up over her hips.

  Horror.

  He was going to mount her as a stallion does a mare.

  He released her hands, tore down her pantalets, and grabbed the cheeks of her behind. Candice felt something thick and hard rub against her.

  With a desperate cry, she twisted onto her side, legs flailing. He reached for her hands to capture them, but lost her balance from her frantic motions. She reached for the gun that was strapped in the holster at his side. He loomed over her again, his face bright with lust, on his knees between her thighs, his member obscenely enlarged and poking the air. Candice’s hands closed over the smooth handle of his gun. In one abrupt movement she wrenched it free. His eyes widened. Hers closed—and she fired.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The rider leaned low over his stallion’s neck, urging him on.

  Behind him, the United States Cavalry was in hot pursuit.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Long sable hair whipped his face. Sweat trickled down from his temple, despite the red cloth headband. It gleamed on his bare, powerful back, thick muscles rippling as he rode the stallion as hard as he could, pumping the beast furiously with his body. The entire column was chasing him, an eighth of a mile behind.

  The black’s hooves tore into the dirt and dry grass, pounding furiously. The rider guided him with his buckskin-clad legs through a stand of saguaro, then into a dry wash. Ahead loomed a narrow path between two sheer granite cliffs. Without hesitation, the rider hurled the black Forward, the animal stumbling once, the width between the rock walls barely enough to accommodate them. Once the rider felt a stabbing of pain as flesh was torn from his thigh, and the stallion screamed, grazed also. They exploded into the sunlight on the other side, once again in a headlong gallop, racing down toward the swollen river below. The troops appeared to be a quarter of a mile behind.

  The river was still high from flooding. At any other time, the rider would have waited to decide where to ford. Now he rode his black mercilessly down the riverbank, sweat blurring his vision, his heart pounding almost painfully against the walls of his chest. His left hand was already pulling his gunbelt off and slinging it over his shoulder, then reaching for the rifle, holding it high. The black obeyed his summons and plunged unhesitantly into the raging river. The stallion swam hard against the current before finding solid ground on the other side and bursting forth.

  A few minutes later, from a new vantage point on the far side of the riverbank, camouflaged by octillo and agave and saguaro, the rider slowed his mount and slipped off. He kept one hand on his mount’s muzzle, speaking softly. His own shoulder, slick with sweat, was pressed into the animal’s hot, wet neck. The horse was blowing heavily. He watched the soldiers cantering down to the riverbank. Their horses were scrawny and fatigued, thickly lathered from the chase, and he knew without a doubt that many would die if they tried to ford the river. He listened to the men’s indecision, catching bits and pieces of their conversation until they all turned and rode away.

  The rider threw back his head and laughed.

  The troops, with the aid of a Papago scout, had been tracking Chiricahua Apaches led by Geronimo. They would never catch them now. The rider, although not a part of Geronimo’s band, had succeeded in leading the soldiers astray. Even though he hadn’t been back to the Territory in three long years, when he had seen the soldiers pursuing the Apaches he hadn’t been able to resist interfering. Satisfaction gleamed in his silver eyes.

  He led the stallion down to the river where they both drank thirstily. Then he mounted again and rode downstre am, looking for a good place to cross. He didn’t trust the Papago, who were sworn enemies of the Apache. He would not take the chance that the Indian scout leading the troops back across the river might try to circle around on him. And just thinking about how he had sabotaged their efforts to track down Geronimo’s band brought a smile to his sensuous lips.

  The stallion shied. Moving with the horse as if he were a part of it, soothing him with a single touch, he searched the saguaro-studded landscape. The rider saw a piece of blue. As the horse took another stride he made out the crumpled form of a youth lying facedown in the dust.…

  He slipped off the stallion and lifted the youth’s head gently. The Stetson fell off, revealing the most incredible cascade of blond hair he had ever seen. She was in bad shape, but he’d seen worse. Ants had just started to get to her, and he brushed a small marching band of the insects from her cheek, then raised the canteen to her parched, split lips.

  Her mouth opened, her throat pulsed. “Easy, ish’ tia’ nay,” he murmured. “Not too much.” He pulled the canteen away.

  Her eyes flew open, and she made a choking protest.

  He stared. Navy-blue eyes, tilted up at the corners, big and almond-shaped and thickly lashed in black. Then they drifted closed. He eased her back down, disturbed. He imagined, if she were cleaned up, that the girl would be a beauty. With eyes like that, a man was in jeopardy of having his entire soul drained away. What was she doing out here alone in the desert, on foot, without supplies, and in a man’s clothes?

  He picked her up and carried her to his stallion, looking at her more thoroughly now. She was full-breasted, with long legs and slim hips. The kind of body that set up an instant hunger in a man, made his loins tight and full just by looking. He placed her carefully on his mount, then leapt up behind her.

  Where was she from, and where was she going?

  And—who was she?

  They were a two-day ride from Tucson, the closest settlement. To the east and south, along the Santa Cruz River and Pantano Wash, there were a few ranches. Americans had been settling in the area since 1853—since the United States had acquired the strip of land containing Tucson from Mexico.

  He set up camp by a trickling wash. She needed care, and that was his first priority. More water, and then an herbal tea that would help to rehydrate her. She was swallowing greedily now, although she didn’t open her eyes again. Her skin was dry and chapped like leather, and he found more ants on her right arm. He stripped her quickly and efficiently, tossing her clothes aside, trying to be impersonal about it—and failing.