The Darkest Heart Read Free Page B

flesh was warm and hard against her own naked shoulder. And in the process, the blanket drooped, revealing her full, white breasts.
    Candice’s hands came up to press against his chest, lightly furred with dark hair and as hard as a rock. “No.”
    His arm tightened. “Be still.”
    “No.”
    He looked at her, his eyes smoldering. She cringed. His gaze dropped to her naked breasts. With a growl, or maybe it was an Apache word, he pulled the blanket up, yanked her arm over it, pulled her even harder against his torso, and picked up the mug. “Drink this.”
    “What?”
    “Can you sit up by yourself?”
    Not only did he speak English, but except for a soft accent, it was perfect. “I—I think so.”
    “Good.”
    He released her so abruptly she sagged backward, catching the blanket just in time. He shoved the mug into her hand, and she realized it was full of a steaming liquid. He walked away.
    Relief swept over her.
    He had only wanted to give her tea.

CHAPTER FOUR
    Candice held the mug and watched the half-breed Apache, making sure that she didn’t let go of the blanket. What was he going to do with her? She had to escape.
    She had been living in this Territory since she was eight, and she knew everything there was to know about hostile Indians, especially Apaches, who were the worst. They didn’t just kill—they raped women and tortured and scalped their victims, including children. Candice shuddered and set the tea aside. A vivid memory assailed her, one she would never forget, no matter how hard she tried. A little boy. Lying dead, flat on his back next to a gutted-out wagon. Two arrows protruded from his small chest. His blue-and-white homespun shirt was covered with blood. His eyes were still open. And—his scalp had been lifted. His skull was raw and red.
    Apaches had done that.
    She had to escape.
    But she also knew that Apaches were the best trackers in the world. If she did succeed in escaping, he would find her easily. Which meant only one thing—she would have to kill him. Her gaze had been glued to his broad, powerful back as he stood facing the fire. Now he turned and she inhaled sharply, stiffening. His glance was piercing, stripping her, and knowing that he actually had done so, and had possibly raped her too, made her feel sick deep inside.
    “Why didn’t you drink it?”
    She started.
    He moved, only two steps closer, but it was the coiled, barely contained energy that mesmerized her. He reminded her of a stalking mountain lion, waiting to leap for the kill. Her fingers were white on the blanket.
    “Drink the tea.”
    She reached for the mug, not taking her eyes off him until she felt the smooth metal under her hand, and then, with a gasp, she drew back as she knocked it over and the hot liquid burned her fingers.
    He squatted, taking her hand.
    She held every muscle so tense she wondered if her body might snap. Her eyes had closed, and when she realized that, she opened them to find him studying her. “It’s not burned.” He stood, refilled the mug, and brought it to her. “Drink this, it’s good for you. You need the liquid.”
    She obeyed at first because she had no choice, but the moment she swallowed she couldn’t get enough of the warm herbal tea. She drained the cup and he refilled it. After she had drunk another cup, she set it aside and lifted her gaze to his. He was standing, staring openly. At her hair.
    It had fallen in a riotous mass of curls over one white shoulder. She shoved it back instantly. His eye followed her movement, narrowing. All she could think of was that he had probably never met a woman who had hair like hers—and was already coveting her scalp.
    His expression hardened. “I’m getting tired of the way you’re looking at me.”
    She sucked in her breath at the menace in his tone.
    “Damn it,” he exploded, squatting and grabbing her chin in one callused hand. “I am not going to hurt you!”
    No man had ever touched her with such violent anger