Dark Fires by Brenda Joyce Read Free Book Online Page B

been married to Derek for only a short time before the raid; she had been mourning her first husband. Her marriage to Derek had been in name only, hastily conducted a few weeks after her husband’s death because of an oath made between the two men, who were blood brothers. Derek had sworn to take care of her. When she gave birth to Nick nine months after her abduction, there was no question that the father was the Comanchero.
    Shocked, Nick asked her how she knew, but even in the midst of the trauma, he recognized the truth. Because the truth was in his appearance. He was different from them all. His father was a golden man like his own Nordic father; so were his brother and sister. His mother had sable hair and ivory skin. He, Nick, had blue-black hair and dark copper skin.
    His girlfriend told him it was no secret.
    So everyone in the territory knew the truth— except him.
    Yet he thought of all the times he’d been alone with Derek, hunting, on the trail, riding cattle, in the fields. He thought of the warmth and camaraderie they’d shared. Derek had cared for him. That he didn’t doubt, not now, when the trauma of the truth had receded, replaced with some degree of objectivity. But love him as a son? Impossible—because he wasn’t his son, he would never be his son, he was the bastard of a raping, murdering half-breed Comanchero.
    Nick looked at his son with fierce, fierce love. He did not believe in God. But if he had, he would have said thanks that his son would never go through what he had gone through. That Chad had been young enough when Patricia had run away not to even notice, and young enough to get over her death without a tear.
    The earl got up and left, closing the door gently. In the hallway his eyes found her door of their own will. He stared at it. In his emotional state he didn’t give a damn if he thought improper thoughts. She was in bed, asleep. Probably naked except for a thin nightgown. He imagined her breasts, small, too small, but perfect. He imagined her hair, thick and untamed and coming to her hips. He imagined her naked, her hair streaming down over her bare body, over her breasts, tangling between her legs. He walked downstairs.
    And in his bed he lay on his stomach, hard and throbbing against the mattress. His chest was tight, his breathing heavy. What if he went to her door, opened it, watched her? What if she awakened, smiled sleepily? What if he went to her, and she was naked, her body white and pink, nipples small and tight, and he touched her, touched her breasts, firm and hard, touched her waist, slid his hand between her legs and touched her … He was moving his hips restlessly against the mattress. With a cry, he ground his thick erection into the bed, rhythmically, fiercely. He was alive and desperate, his rigid organ pulsating … Nick grabbed the headboard. He gasped as his seed erupted, warm and wet on his belly, again and again.
    He lay very still. He’d nearly broken the headboard. Damn. Worse. He was truly depraved. He was fantasizing about a schoolgirl. About his ward. He was depraved.
    He was just like his father, the Comanchero Chavez.

9

    Jane was nervous.
    She told herself that she was being foolish, acting like the child he thought she was, but that did not soothe her emotions. She hovered in the hallway between the kitchen and the dining room. He was coming; she had seen him riding across the field toward the stables. It was just past two.
    She had overslept and missed him that morning and had taken her breakfast alone downstairs. She had no intention of doing so again. She had skipped lunch at noon in the nursery on purpose. In the dining room two places were set. Molly had been wide-eyed when Jane had ordered her to do so, but Thomas had hidden a smile. Now Jane hugged her arms to her body and waited. She never heard his footsteps—he was as soundless as a tomcat. But she heard the doors drifting shut. And then she heard him. “What the hell!”
    Before Jane