Prewitt bent to murmur something in her ear, which made Amelia nod. He moved away again shortly, but Summer’s tension turned to definite unease. Amelia had turned to stare across the way at Lance, a bitter expression on her face, full of resentment and spite.
She could have been mistaken about her sister’s malevolence, Summer hoped. Dusk had fallen, and although lanterns had been set on the tables and hung at intervals from the nearby trees, lending a golden glow to the scene, the shifting shadows made by the dancers were deceptive. And yet she couldn’t shake the sensation of impending trouble.
Her concern proved out some ten minutes later. From somewhere behind her, she heard a man’s voice say in a sneering drawl, “The stench round here is gettin’ might bad.”
“Yeah, know what you mean,” another voice replied. “I can smell a red hide from miles away.”
Stiffening, Summer glanced over her shoulder. Some half dozen men, Will Prewitt among them, had gathered to one side to smoke cigars and were passing around a jug of what no doubt was whiskey. Summer had no doubt, either, that they had deliberately raised their voices to make their conversation audible over the music.
In concern, she looked up at Lance. Seeing the rigid set of his jaw, she placed a restraining hand on his sleeve. Prewitt wanted to start a brawl, obviously, but no matter how skillful a fighter Lance was, with one man against so many, he would come up the loser. Not to mention that a fight would create a scandal and destroy any progress they’d made toward getting their neighbors to accept them.
It was hard to ignore the slurs, though, and the rough sniggering.
“What’s Harlan thinking of, letting them red devils sidle up to our womenfolk?”
“Never figured Harlan for a Injun lover.”
“That breed sure as hell don’t belong here. I say we oughta run ‘im off.”
“How you gonna do that? Them Comanche bucks don’t scare for nothing.”
Summer forced a smile and gazed appealingly up at her husband. “Lance, I just realized how famished I am. Would you escort me to the buffet tables so we can get some supper?”
He looked at her a long moment, his black eyes smoldering dangerously. But he didn’t resist when Summer took his hand and led him away from all the hostility.
Instead of heading for the supper tables, though, she bypassed those and drew Lance around the side of the main house, into the shadows. Alone, she turned to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her body close.
Lance held himself stiffly, refusing to succumb to her wiles. “I know what you’re doing, princess.”
“Do you?”
“You’re trying to take my mind off their talk so I won’t light into them.”
Summer smiled in the darkness. “I don’t care a whit about them. I would prefer you didn’t hurt them, of course—not because they don’t deserve it, but it would be sure to spoil the party. But”—she raised her face to his—”I really brought you here because I think you deserve to be rewarded for your forbearance, and I couldn’t do it in front of all those people.”
He watched her, his eyes narrowed.
“Well, are you going to kiss me, Lance Calder? Or do you intend to stand there all night, refusing a lady?”
At her impatient demand, he lowered his head slowly and took her mouth. His kiss was softer than usual. Strangely poignant. She tasted reluctance, desire, need, but more than anything else, she tasted an intense and powerful loneliness. A vulnerability that tore at her heart.
Feeling it, Summer tightened her arms about Lance and, after a moment, felt him do the same to her. They pulled each other close, drawing strength from the contact. To hold and be held, she understood his need. A simple human craving that they could fulfill for each other. And yet somehow it seemed more than that. It seemed to her as if Lance had somehow become part of her.
When he would have pulled away, she wouldn’t release him “Would you dance with me?” she asked.
“I told you I don’t know how.”
“It doesn’t matter. Just hold me.”
He complied, hesitantly following her lead when she began to move slowly, gently, from side to side.
The night had quieted. The fiddles had ceased temporarily, but it made no difference to either of them. In t
he silence, they swayed slowly to their own inner music, in their own private dance, a slow, languid motion, sensual but not entirely sexual.
Summer sighed as Lance’s hard arms tightened tentatively, possessively, about her. She loved this side of him: this gentleness, this rare and tender sweetness. He held her with as much care as if she were fragile crystal, and yet she could feel his controlled passion…a dangerous man restraining his lover’s hunger. His unspoken need aroused an answering longing within her, made her feel soft and achy inside. Nestling in his embrace, she closed her eyes, breathing in the warm, musky scent of him.
Lance breathed in her own sweet fragrance, desperately savoring the soft body filling his arms. She created such an ache within him, he thought he might break. He wanted her so bad. Wanted so much to lose himself in her. Wanted her to heal the hurt. Summer was everything to him. She was his weakness, his sanity. His heartbeat, his wishes. His hopes, his dreams. With a hoarse exhalation, he buried his face in her hair, feeling as if his heart were splintering with love for her.