No Other Man Read Free Page A

cut off your
head—scalp you, oh, yes, they'll scalp away all that black hair of yours and
leave you bleeding until you die!"
    She thought his lips twitched, but his eyes were unyielding.
He moved his hand slightly, and she closed her eyes and screamed, waiting for
the knife to pierce her flesh.
    Instead...
    She heard the methodical ripping of material.
    Her eyes flew open, and she realized that he had rent the
fabric of her mourning gown from throat to hem.
    "No!" she cried out, shaking, trying to remind
herself that it was better to bear torn clothing than torn flesh. She tried to
use her bound hands as a weapon against him, only to find herself flung face
down into the covers as he chopped away heedlessly at all the fabric covering
her. While she shrieked and struggled, gasping for breath against the bed, he ripped
and tore away the black silk and lace of her gown, chemise, and top petticoat
and then the white cotton and linen of her corset and pantaloons, even the soft
pink-ribboned bows of her garters. With one hand he flipped her again so that
she faced him, naked in the tattered remnants of her elegant apparel, and
stared down at her.
    "They'll cut out your heart!" she cried to him,
still fighting tears and renewed terror. "Then you know what they'll do?
They'll cut off your big, wretched, savage sex and feed it to the hogs, you
bastard!" She was going to start crying or lose her mind to sheer
hysteria. "I'll do it, I'll do it myself. Just you wait until I get my
hands on a knife. You'll be so sorry, you'll—"
    She shrieked because he was up and lifting her. She didn't
know now in what form death would come.
    And she was heartily startled when she found herself dropped
into the tub.
    He meant to drown her.
    He was going for her hair again; he was going to use it to
force her under. . ..
    But he merely lifted her hair from her back, letting it fall
down the outside of the tub. He turned back to the hearth for the cauldron of
water.
    He was going to scald her to death.
    But he poured the water so that it warmed the bath without
burning her. He replaced the cauldron, throwing a bar of soap her way.
    "You want me clean when you kill me?" she snapped
out bitterly. "No—" she began to gasp again, for he had hunkered down
by the tub. The knife was suddenly glittering in his hands again.
    She shrieked again, closing her eyes.
    But he merely used the knife to snap the rawhide binding her
wrists. In panic, Skylar instantly took the soap and started to throw it at
him. She cried out as he caught her wrist. His eyes were on hers then with such
warning that she went dead still except for the furious pounding of her heart.
"Fine!" she said, trying to keep her lips from trembling. "I'll
scrub myself clean for that moment when you decide to murder me." She
stared into his eyes. Crouched down beside her, he was more terrifying than
ever. His own nakedness seemed not to bother him in the least, while she was
ever more tormented by the nudity he had enforced upon them both. He was
terrifyingly sexual, so perfectly honed and physically powerful, not to mention
that he was surely exceptionally endowed, no matter the color of his flesh.
    He let go of her and stood again, turning from her to move
about the hearth. For the moment, she clutched the soap, suddenly glad of it.
Time. She was buying time here. She furiously washed the trail dust and dirt
and grime from her face. She scrubbed her arms, legs, torso, desperately
thinking about how to escape.
    She realized then that she smelled coffee.
    The scent of it tantalizing, delicious ...
    There were no more sounds coming from the hearth. She turned
to discover that he had decked himself out in a white man's long smoking jacket
and that he was leaning against the wooden mantle over the hearth, his arms
crossed over his chest, watching her, his green eyes as hard as emerald chips
and giving away nothing of his thoughts.
    Then she realized that he was actually studying her. A
strange warmth