Honor Bound(58)

"I'm not a fool, Aislinn." That was the first time he had addressed her by name in days and both were aware of it. Before they had time to reflect on it, however, he went on. "Making that trailer into a darkroom is hardly worth the effort just to have pictures of Tony readily available. What else did you have in mind?"

"I want to work, Lucas. Running the house doesn't keep me busy enough."

"You have a child."

"A very good one, whom I love and adore and enjoy taking care of and playing with. But he doesn't require my every waking moment. I need something to do."

"So you want to take pictures."

"Yes."

"Of what?"

This was the tricky part. The tallest hurdle. The one she had most dreaded. "Of the reservation and the people who live on it."

"No."

"Listen. Please. Before I saw it for myself, I had no idea of the—"

"Poverty," he said harshly.

"Yes and the—"

"Squalor."

"That, too, but the—"

"Prevalence of alcoholism. And despair. And the sense of utter hopelessness." He had surged to his feet and was now angrily pacing the area in front of the sofa.

"I guess that's it," she said softly. "The hopelessness. But maybe if I captured some of that on film, and my work got published—"

"It wouldn't help," he said curtly.

"It wouldn't hurt either." She sprang up, angry that he had squelched her idea without even hearing her out. "I want to do this Lucas."

"And dirty your Anglo hands?"

"You're an Anglo, too!"

"I didn't ask to be," he shouted.

"All the rest of us are monsters, is that it? Why is it you never ridicule Gene's work on the reservation?"

"Because he's not some grandstanding, bleeding-heart liberal doing us all a big favor."

"And you think I am?"

"Don't you think your charity would be a trifle hypocritical?"

"How?"

"Living like this," he said, waving his arms to include their house, made so much prettier and more comfortable by her contributions to it. "I have always despised Indians who profited off other Indians. Their skin is brown, but they forget that and live like Anglos. And now you've made me one of them."

"That's not true, Lucas. No one would ever mistake you for anything but what you are." He had turned his back on her. Now she caught his arm and spun him around. "You work damn hard at being Indian. Short of painting your face and going on the warpath, you do everything you can to let everyone know you're a big, bad Indian brave right through to the marrow of your bones, despite your Anglo blood. Or maybe because of it."

She paused for breath, but continued, warmed now to the subject. "You've taught me how mistaken I was. Until now, I thought Indian braves had hearts and souls and compassion as well as courage and daring." She poked him in the chest with her index finger. "Those you will never have, Lucas Greywolf. You have no compassion because to you that's a sign of weakness. Well I think bullheadedness is more of a weakness than tenderness. I doubt you even know what it is."

"I can feel tenderness," he said defensively.

"Oh really? Well I'm your wife and I've never seen any evidence of it."

She landed against him before she even realized that he had moved and drawn her forward. His arm curved around her waist while his other hand cupped the side of her face. He tilted it until her other cheek almost touched his shoulder.

Then he bent his head low and impressed a soft kiss on her lips. His mouth moved. Her lips parted. The intrusion of his tongue into her mouth was so gentle and sweet, so deliciously sexy, that she shivered. Where before his kisses had been characterized by violence, this one was exquisitely tender. The kiss lengthened and became an outright act of love. He used his tongue to stroke the roof of her mouth. He explored and enticed until she was weakly clutching handfuls of his shirt in her hands.

When he finally lifted his mouth from hers, he buried his face in the fragrant hollow between her shoulder and neck. "I don't want you," he groaned. "I don't."

She rubbed against him. The lower part of his body unequivocally denied his words. "Yes, you do, Lucas. Yes, you do!"

She imbedded her fingers in his hair and lifted his head. She ran one finger over his sleek eyebrow, along the ridge of his cheekbone, and down his nose. She outlined his mouth. "You could never be a traitor to your people, Lucas."

The touch of her fingertip on his lips made him weak. The scent of her body filled his head and made him forget the stench of despair that permeated certain areas of the reservation. The sight of ill-dressed children was replaced by the desire he saw in her slumberous blue eyes. He could no longer taste the bitterness that kept him strong and resolute. All he could taste was Aislinn, the honey of her mouth.

She was the most dangerous of enemies because her ammunition was her allure. Her softness seduced him. What he felt deep in his gut at that moment terrified him. He used the weapon most readily at his disposal. It was also the most hurtful. His scorn.

"I'm already a traitor. I have an Anglo wife."

Aislinn recoiled as though he had struck her. She stepped away from him, her eyes glazed now with pain. To prevent him from seeing her tears, she turned and ran into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.