Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart Of The Warrior Read online

  With a snort, Inca wiped her long fingers across her jungle fatigues. “They are city boys. They are not hard. They cannot take this hill climbing and humidity. They pant like old dogs with weak, trembling hind legs.”

  Chuckling, Roan motioned to the last piece of meat in the tin. “It’s yours. Eat it.”

  Inca shook her head. “You have eaten too little today. You are larger and heavier than me. If you are to keep up with me again tomorrow, this will give you strength.” She jabbed with her finger. “Eat it.” Rising, she stretched fitfully. “You were the only one to keep my pace.” She eyed him with respect and acknowledged that although he towered over her, he was lean, tight and hard muscled. There was a litheness to him that reminded her of a jaguar fit for territorial combat. She liked the humor she saw glinting in his eyes as he took the last piece of meat and bit into it. Pleased that he would take directions from her, Inca walked slowly around the fire as she peered out into the darkness that now surrounded them.

  “So how does your tribe see women, then? I am curious.”

  Roan nearly choked on the meat as he looked up at her. She stood proudly, her shoulders thrown back, the thick braid lying across one shoulder, her chin lifted at an imperious, confident angle once again. Her green eyes glimmered as her gaze caught and held him captive. Her hands rested comfortably on her hips as she stared down at him waiting for him to answer. Swallowing the meat, he rasped, “We see a woman like a fruit tree filled with gifts of beauty and bounty.”

  “Fruit tree?” Inca saw the sudden seriousness in his eyes and knew he was not joking with her. Why was he so different? And intriguing? Allowing her hands to slip gracefully from her hips, she moved back to where he remained in a squatting position. Taking a seat on a nearby log, she held her hands out toward the fire and savored the heat from it.

  Wiping his hands on his fatigues, Roan twisted to look in Inca’s direction. He saw that she was genuinely interested and that made him feel good. He hungered for deep, searching conversation with her and about her. “All life comes from Mother Earth,” he began, and he patted the damp, fallen leaves on the soil next to where he was crouching. “We see women as a natural extension of Mother Earth. They are the only ones who are fertile, who can carry and birth a baby. I was taught a long time ago that a fruit tree, which can bear blossoms, be impregnated by a honeybee and then bear fruit, is a good symbol for women. Women are the fruit of our earth. For me, as a man, a woman is a gift. I do not assume that a fruit tree or a woman wants to share her fruit with me. We always give a gift and then ask if the tree—or the woman—wants to share her bounty with us. If she or the tree says yes, then that’s fine. If she says no, that’s fine, also.”

  Inca rested her chin on her closed hands. She planted her elbows on her thighs and pondered his explanation. “Women and trees being one and the same…”

  “Symbolically speaking, yes.” Roan saw the pensive expression on her face, the pouting of her lower lip as she considered his words. The firelight danced and flickered across her smooth, golden features, highlighting her cheekbones and wrinkled brow. She was part child, part wise woman, part animal. And at any given moment, any one of those facets could emerge to speak with him. He found her exciting and had to contain the thrill he felt. But, Roan also felt her hatred and distrust of the Brazilian military, and he couldn’t blame her at all for her defensive stance around them. After all, they had a high bounty on her head—dead or alive.

  As she stared into the fire, lost in thought, Roan tore his gaze from Inca. She was too easy to savor, as if she were a priceless, rare flower. Too easy to emotionally gorge himself. If he took too much, it would destroy her pristine, one-of-a-kind beauty. Besides, he knew Inca did not like to be stared at; but then again, he didn’t like it either. He wondered if it was their Indian blood that made them feel that their energy was being stolen when someone stared. Anglos certainly didn’t get it, but he understood Inca’s unhappiness. Still, she was incredibly beautiful and there wasn’t a man in that military contingent that wasn’t smitten by her drop-dead-gorgeous looks. Inca was as natural and wild as the rain forest that surrounded them with its humid embrace. Roan had seen more than a few looks of lust in those soldiers’ eyes today as they marched and talked animatedly about her dramatic entrance to their camp the night before. And he knew Inca sensed their lust and was completely disgusted by it.

  Inca’s husky voice intruded upon his reverie.

  “Then, if you see women as fruit trees—” she turned and stared at him fully “—how do you see their breasts?”

  She asked the damnedest questions. Roan understood it was innocent curiosity, her obvious nïveté of men and the world outside this rain forest. Opening his hands, he said, “I can only speak for myself on this, Inca.”

  “Yes?” she demanded, goading him impatiently.

  “A woman’s breasts remind me of warm, sun-ripe peaches.”

  Her brows knitted. “Peaches? What is a peach? Do they grow here in South America?”

  Shrugging, he said, “I don’t know. They do where I live.”

  “Tell me about this peach. Describe it. Does it look like a breast?”

  A slight smile curved his mouth. Staring into the fire in order not to make the mistake of looking at her too long, he murmured, “A peach is about the size of my palm,” and he held it up for her to look at. “It’s an incredible fruit. It’s round in shape and when you lean close and smell it, well, it has the sweetest fragrance. When it’s ripe, it’s firm and has a soft fine fuzz all over it. The colors take your breath away. It’s often a clear pinkish gold, but that graduates into red-orange, and orange, or to apricot or a bright sun-gold.” He closed his eyes, picturing the fruit. “When I see a ripe, sun-warmed peach on the branch of a tree, all I want to do is reach out and cup my fingers around it, feel those soft, nubby hairs sliding against my fingertips. I want to test the firmness, the roundness and the heat of it as I continue to encircle it….”

  Inca felt her breasts tighten and she sat up, surprised. What was going on? She gave him a disgruntled look. Roan sat there, his hands clasped between his opened thighs, his head lifted slightly and his eyes closed. What would it be like to feel him slide those long, large-knuckled, work-worn fingers around her breasts? Instantly, her skin tingled wildly. She felt her nipples harden and pucker beneath her shirt. A wonderful, molten ache began to pool through her lower body as she continued to stare at his hard, angular profile. It was as if her body had a life of its own! And worse, it was responding on its own to his husky, melting words, which seemed to reach out and caress her like a lover.

  Scowling, Inca sat there. She’d never had a lover. She couldn’t describe what having one was like. Yet his deep, rumbling words continued to touch her almost physically. Her breasts felt hot, felt achy, and she wanted Roan to reach out and caress them! The thought was so foreign to her that Inca gasped.

  Roan opened his eyes and slowly turned his head in Inca’s direction. He saw a pink stain on her cheeks. He saw her startled expression, and the way her lips parted provocatively, looking so very, very damn kissable. What would it be like to kiss that wild, untamed mouth of hers? How would she feel beneath his mouth? Hot? Strong? Fierce? Hungry? Or starving, like he felt for her? As Inca turned to meet and hold his gaze, Roan sensed her chagrin, her embarrassment and—something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on. If he wasn’t mistaken, the gold flecks in her willow-green eyes hinted of desire—for him. The impression he received from her was that she wanted him to reach out with his fingers, touch the sides of her breasts, caress them and…With a shake of his head, he wondered what the hell was happening.

  It was as if he was reading Inca’s thoughts and feelings in her wide, vulnerable-looking eyes during that fragile moment. He saw that her nipples were pressed urgently against the material of her shirt and he could see the outline of the proud, firm breasts that he ached to encircle, tease and then suckle until she twisted with utterly, wanton pleasure in hi
s arms. Roan wanted to be the man to introduce Inca to the realm of love. It was a molten thought. She had never been touched by any man, he knew. A virgin in her mid-twenties, she was a wild woman who would never entertain the touch of a mere mortal, that was for sure.

  Inca tore her gaze from Roan’s dark, hooded stare. She felt a lush, provocative heat radiating from him toward her. Because she was of the Jaguar Clan, her six senses were acutely honed. For a moment, she’d allowed her mind and heart to touch his. When it had, she’d seen the flare of surprise and then his smoldering, very male look in return. Inca understood in that split second that Roan could touch her in a way she’d never before experienced…and the sensation was galvanizing, aching, filled with promise—yet it scared her.

  Heart palpitating wildly in her chest, Inca stared, disgruntled, into the fire. Suddenly breathless beneath that glittering look in his blue eyes—one that reminded her of lightning striking the earth—she was at a loss for words. Her skin tightened deliciously around her breasts. She felt needy. She felt hungry for his touch. A man’s touch. Of all things! Inca could not reconcile that within herself. Her mind railed against it. Her heart was wide-open, crying out for the intimate touch he promised her in that one look, in that one touch with his mind and heart. Closing her eyes, she hid her face in her hands momentarily.

  “I am tired,” she muttered. “I must sleep now.” Getting up quickly, she moved around the massive root to where she had placed her hammock.

  Roan heard the turmoil in her tone. He sat very still because she appeared to be poised like a wild horse ready to spook and hightail it. What had happened? He swore he’d felt her very real presence inside his head—and even more so, in his expanding heart. For an instant, Inca had been in him, somehow—attached to or connected to his thoughts and feelings as if…Stymied, Roan wished he could talk to Houston about this experience.

  Something had happened, because when Inca had lifted her face and her hands fell away, he’d seen the fear in her eyes. Fear and…did he dare put the name desire to it, also? Was that smoldering, banked desire in her cloudy gaze aimed at him? Very unsure, Roan muttered, “Yeah, we both need to turn in and get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a rough day.”

  In more ways than one, he thought as he rose to his feet. In more ways than one…

  Chapter 9

  Inca halted in her tracks and gulped. It was the third morning of the march into the swamp, and she had gone down a hill to wash herself before the day’s activities began. Only, Roan had beat her to the enchanting place. He stood out in the middle of a shallow pool that had been created by the seasonal winter rains. Though the pool was small now, it was just large enough for a person to be able to grasp the white sand surrounding it, and scrub his flesh clean before rinsing off in the knee-deep waters. Hiding behind a tree, her hand resting tentatively against the smooth, gray bark, Inca found herself unable to resist watching Roan’s magnificent nakedness as he bathed. Surprise and then pleasurable, molten heat flowed through her.

  Inca was torn. She should leave. Oh, she knew what men looked like, but an unbidden curiosity and something else was tempting her to remain hidden and devour Roan with her eyes. His clothes were hung on the limb of a nearby rubber tree. He was sluicing the clear, cooling water across his thick, broad shoulders and well-sprung chest, which was covered with a dark carpet of black hair. Gulping unsteadily, she dropped her gaze lower…and lower…then just as quickly, Inca looked away. Disgusted with herself, she spun around and placed her back against the tree, her arms wrapped tightly across against her chest. Nostrils flaring, she told herself she shouldn’t be doing this.

  Heart pounding, Inca felt that warm, uncoiling sensation deep in her body. It was a wonderful, new feeling that seemed to blossom within her when she was around Roan. She had not been able to bully or scare him off. He’d stayed at her side like a faithful dog would its master, and Inca had grudgingly given up on trying to get him to go back to the company of men. The last two days had cemented their relationship to the point where Inca felt the last of her defenses toward him dissolving. Oh, it was nothing he did directly, just those smoldering looks he gave her from time to time, that crooked smile that heated her spirit and made it fly, his sense of humor and ability to laugh.

  She heard him singing, his voice an engaging baritone. The forest around the pool area absorbed most of the sound as he chanted in a language that was foreign to her. Understanding it was a ceremonial song of his people, to greet the rising sun, she slowly turned around and peeked from behind the tree. Both hands on the trunk to steady herself, Inca watched as he leaned down, grabbed some sand from the bottom of the pool and briskly began to scrub his chest. There was something vulnerable and boyish about Roan in that molten moment. Gulping hard, Inca found herself wondering what it would be like to slide her fingers through that dark hair splayed out across his broad, well-developed chest. Or to allow her hands to range downward in exploration….

  Making a strangled sound, Inca jerked away and dug the toe of her boot into the soft, muddy earth. She had to get out of here! Hurrying silently up the hill in a line that would hide her from his view, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Her whole world was crumbling because of Roan. She could not keep him at bay. She melted a little more each time he shared an intimate glance with her, or smiled at her…. So many little things were unraveling her mighty defenses!

  Panicked by all that she was feeling, because she’d never felt it before, Inca had no one to turn to to ask what was going on inside her. She wished one of the Jaguar Clan mothers who had raised her were still alive. They’d been old women when they nursed her from babyhood to girlhood. They were all gone now, having long ago walked across the Threshold to the other worlds. Again the biting reminder that she was alone, abandoned by everyone, sank into her.

  Back in their makeshift camp, Inca hurriedly removed her dark green nylon hammock from between two trees and stuffed it in the bag she would carry across her shoulders. If only she hadn’t been banished from the Jaguar Clan village. Inca yearned to talk to Grandmother Alaria. Yes, Grandmother Alaria would understand what was going on inside her. Grandfather Adaire, however, would block her entrance to the village and tell her to leave—or else deliver the worst punishment of all: ban her forever not just from the village but from the Jaguar Clan. Inca couldn’t tolerate the thought of being forced to give up the one thing that she’d been raised to do all her life—work as a healer for her people.

  “Your turn.”

  Inca gasped. She dropped the hammock and spun around, caught off guard. Roan stood behind her, dressed in his fatigues, his upper chest naked, the towel draped over his head as he casually dried his dark hair. She saw the sparkle in his blue eyes. Gulping, she realized he knew she’d seen him bathing. Heat rolled up her neck and into her face. She avoided his tender look. There was no laughter, no censure in his eyes. Indeed, he seemed to understand what she’d done and why. Inca wished she did.

  “I—it was an accident,” she stammered, nervously picking up her hammock and rapidly jamming it into her small canvas pack.

  “Of course,” Roan murmured. The rosy flush in her cheeks made Inca unbearably beautiful to him. He saw the surprise, the shame and humiliation in her darkening eyes. “Accidents happen. I wasn’t upset.”

  Lifting her head, she twisted to look in his direction. “You weren’t?” She would be.

  Wiping his brow dry, Roan hung the small, dark green towel on a branch to dry. Not that it would dry much in this humidity. Shrugging on his fatigue blouse, he rolled up the arms on each sleeve to his elbow. “No.”

  “I would not like someone coming upon me as I washed.”

  “That’s different.” He smiled as she straightened. Inca was not the confident warrior now. Instead she was a young woman, unsure of herself, of her relationship to him, and possibly, Roan ruminated, of what she was feeling toward him. He knew, without question, that Inca was drawn to him like a bee to sweet honey. And h
e was no less smitten with her even though he was trying desperately to ignore his feelings toward her. Constantly, Roan had to harshly remind himself that they had a mission to complete. He refused to fall in love with another woman. He would not indulge in his growing, powerful feelings for her. Having to cap them, sit on them and ignore them was becoming a daily hell for him. It was a sweet hell, however. Inca was precious to him in all ways—from the smallest gesture to her great unselfishness toward others who were less fortunate than her.

  “Humph,” Inca said as she grabbed her towel and moved quickly toward the pool. “I will return.”

  Buttoning his shirt, Roan grinned to himself. When he heard the snap and crackle of boots crushing small sticks that had fallen from the canopy above, he knew someone was coming. Moving out from behind a tree, he saw it was Julian. The young officer’s face was flushed and he had a worried look.

  “Good morning,” Roan greeted him, placing the towel on top of his pack.

  “Bom dia, good morning,” Julian said, breathing hard. “I just wanted to tell Inca that she was right. Coming into this swamp is creating a disaster of unexpected proportions.” He stopped, removed his cap and wiped his brow with his arm. Looking back toward where the company was preparing to march, he continued. “I tried to talk to my father this morning. We have ten men down with malaria symptoms. We have another five with dysentery. And six from yesterday that have assorted sprained ankles or knees from falling and slipping.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to do….”

  Roan patted the shorter man on the shoulder. “There isn’t much you can do, Julian. We’re halfway through the swamp.” Looking up, he saw a patch of bright blue sky. It looked as if the weather was going to be sunny. That meant it would be very hot today, and with the humidity around ninety-five percent at all times, the stress on the men would be great. “How about heat exhaustion? How many cases?”