His casual aloofness was sharp. She recoiled, as if he'd slapped her. It cost him too, though he'd never let her know. He wanted her every bit as much as she wanted him. No one had ever cared for him – loved him – like Allie had. But she needed to face the truth.
"Did you happen to notice what color my skin is, Allie?" His voice was quiet. "I'm a half-breed. It might not mean anything to you, but I promise you, most other Anglos aren't as colorblind as you are. You'd be ostracized in polite society, wherever we lived…as would our children."
As he'd intended, those last words brought her chin up in a mixture of defiance and anger. Her green eyes glittered like shards of broken glass, reflecting pieces of her shattered dreams.
He gave a lazy shrug. "The second problem is, I'm a gun hawk. You – still have a chance to marry respectably." If you move away somewhere. "As long as it's not – someone like me."
A shot of undisguised fury overshadowed the hurt in her face momentarily, but she looked down at the bed, veiling her thoughts.
He went on with relentless determination. "The third problem is the fact that I'm – baseborn." His voice was suddenly hoarse, his throat scratchy and dry. "I'm a bastard, Allie. It's no secret that my parents weren't married, and my mother was a prostitute—"
Allie shook her head, and he stopped, glad to end the elaboration on that particular aspect of their unsuitability. That one would always bother him more than either of the other two.
Slowly, Allie moved to put her right hand on his left wrist in a gentle touch. She didn't lift her head, and he wondered if she might be hiding tears. Her left hand came to his right wrist, where she gripped it with the utmost care, and he knew she was mindful of his mangled flesh and the mending bones. But when she raised her eyes to his and he felt every ounce of the languorous trust melt away.
No mercy, her look told him. She was going to be truthful, too. The emerald glare she gave him was full of raw pain, as if he'd ripped out her heart and dangled it in front of her. Her fingers tightened, curving around his darker flesh until her knuckles turned white. She moved in a catlike motion to straddle him, still gentle, but firm.
Sitting across him in a parody of lovemaking, she looked into his face as if she wanted his blood rather than his body. "Point one," she said softly, "I don't care what color you are. U kamakutu nu."
I love you, she'd said. In Comanche. He couldn't keep the surprise from his expression at her bilingual capability. Her face registered a very minute hint of smugness. "That child out there that I bought taught me everything I need to know about skin color. About equality. About prejudice and cruelty. He also taught me to speak the Comanche language quite passably."
"Allie—"
"So you see, Brandon, I have nothing to fear on that count. My child and I have already been dealing with the petty, small minds of this church-going community for the past four years."
Brandon didn't refute what she was saying. He couldn't. Watching her lean over him with this burning fire filling her eyes rather than sympathy or hurt was something he never could have imagined, especially as he searched his memory for the image of the young girl she'd been before. Evidently, she'd learned to fight for what she wanted during those intervening years. And she wanted him.
"Point two," she continued succinctly. "A gun hawk is unsuitable marriage material, I think that one was." A brittle smile twisted her full lips. "What does that make me, Mr. Gabriel? I put a bullet in a man—"
"His knee," Brandon was quick to remind her. "And not for money."
"—for you." Her breathing hitched, but she swallowed hard, never looking away. "And I will be sleeping with the Henry in my lap tonight again, on the off-chance that one of the Christian pillars of the community will decide to end it with you after dark, sneaking around like the jackals they are." She drew a deep breath, her eyes holding his. "I'd say, better a gun hawk – better alive – than dead; wouldn't you, Brandon? Or are you sorry to be here – alive?"
The rise and fall of her breasts tantalized him, only inches away from his mouth, shielded in their covering of chambray blue. He let his breath out slowly. Allie was so angry, so hurt, she hadn't noticed his growing desire. Nothing he could do about that. He gritted his teeth, keeping himself from moving toward her warmth.
She bent her legs back in a kneeling position, close to his outstretched limbs. Possessive; as if she belonged there, and always had.
He didn't answer her question, and he felt her fingers force themselves to a gentle hold on his flesh as she spoke again.
"As for point three." She leaned closer to him, her lips a scant hairsbreadth from his own. Anger blazed in her eyes like green flame, her body rigid with emotion. Making an effort to steady her voice, she went on.