Savage Thunder

Chapter Thirty-seven

They rode throughout the remainder of the night, keeping to the road for the horses' sake, to avoid the hazards of the land. At one point Jocelyn asked when they might be stopping for some sleep and was told they wouldn't be, not until the following evening. Already tired, and it wasn't even close to dawn, she almost turned around. Almost.

But she got it into her mind that Colt was likely testing her. He had probably even made wagers with himself on how soon it would take her to start com-plaining about something. Of course, she never said she wouldn't complain. If she had made such an ir-rational promise, then she wouldn't dare to say anything, no matter how difficult he made this journey for her. But she decided that thwarting him would be the only enjoyment she could look forward to in the coming days. She wouldn't complain even if it killed her.

At dawn they stopped briefly to rest the horses. She thought they would have a meal then, but Colt merely dug out some thin strips of dried beef from his sad-dlebags that she was told to chew on. She tried. She really did. But Westerners must have tougher teeth than duchesses. She ended up sticking the thing in her mouth like a cigar and sucking on it for the rest of the morning.

By noon she had to remove her cloak. Not that the day had warmed up to any great degree, but the steady pace Colt was keeping to was grueling exercise, and there was little wind in the lulls where they were rid-ing now.

They had stopped once more, again only for the horses. Sir George was bearing up much better than Jocelyn. Her back felt on fire, the muscles were so stiff. The leg she hooked over her saddle horn for balance had gone to sleep a good half-dozen times. She envied it. She was so tired she was almost sleep-ing in the saddle. If Sir George were a less frisky mount, she likely would be.

He gave not the slightest sign of having missed a full night's sleep. He didn't bend or stretch his back to work out the kinks; his head didn't droop. His belly probably wasn't grumbling either, as was hers.

She was given a couple of biscuits shortly after noon, and a canteen of water she was allowed to keep.

If the biscuits didn't fill her up, the water did, for a while anyway. Colt was pacing the animals now, let-ting them canter for a while and then briefly gallop, then walking them for a mile or two, then urging them back into a canter. It was during one of the slow paces that Jocelyn fell asleep.

She came awake with a curse ringing in her ears and a band of steel tightening about her waist. "Christ, woman, are you trying to kill yourself?"

It was Colt's arm about her waist. And at her back was a pillow, his chest. She took instant advantage of it, not even caring how she got there.

"Did something happen?" She yawned her ques-tion.

"You started to fall off your horse."

"Sorry. Must have nodded off," she said and started to again.

"Sorry? Haven't you sense enough to say something if you can't stay awake?"

Groggily, she wondered why he was shouting at her. "Very well, I can't stay awake."

"Stubbornness, that's what it is," she heard him mumble. "Pure stubbornness."

Whatever that meant, she didn't care. He had loos-ened his tight hold around her belly, reached forward to pull her leg over the saddle so she straddled it, and shifted his weight until she curved into him like she would into a comfortable chair. Even her legs were supported by his, so there was no tension left in her body. She was so relaxed, in fact, that she didn't feel her hat being removed, or the hairpins being slowly pulled from her hair. She was already nodding off again.

But it wasn't a deep sleep yet, and when the horses picked up their gait suddenly, she became aware of it. "Aren't we going to stop?"

"What for?"

"To sleep, of course."

"I thought you were."

"I meant both of us. You didn't get any rest last night either."

"Don't need it, but I forgot that you do. So go ahead, I won't let you fall off."

Jocelyn didn't need any more encouragement than that, especially when he was much more comfortable than the hard ground would be.

Colt knew, to the second, when her sleep had deep-ened into total oblivion. It was as if a signal went off in his body, telling him he could touch her now. But he didn't. Knowing that he could, at any time, do whatever he liked with her gave him patience for the time being. She belonged to him for at least a week.

He had seen to it.

The peace that came with his decision still sur-prised him. But he'd been fighting his instincts for so long, as well as his needs, that the turmoil inside him had begun to seem normal. He should have lost the fight sooner. He'd put himself through hell, and for what? There was no getting around the fact that he wanted Jocelyn Fleming. White women were still anathema to him, but the duchess would just have to be an exception.

It still bothered him that she'd used him to prepare the way for another man to have her, but he'd see to it that she made him forget about that. It also still bothered him how quickly she'd turned to Dry den.

Before the week was out, she wouldn't even remem-ber that bastard's name.