Raoul felt the Indian's blade like cold fire slicing through the sac between his legs. At last he let out a full-throated scream. "Raoul!" His body cold and wet with sweat, he sat up in darkness. He felt arms clutching at him and fought them off. "Raoul! Wake up." Panting, he said his name in his mind. _I am Raoul Francois Philippe Charles de Marion._ He repeated it over and over again to himself. He was sitting in bed in the dark, someone beside him. Not an Indian, and not his long-dead sister Helene. He gasped again and again, as if he had run a race. He tried to pull his mind together. His heart was still pounding against the wall of his chest, his hands trembling, his skin ice cold. That terrible dream! He hadn't had it in a year or more. "Lordy, what a nightmare you must have had! You did a right smart of hollerin'." In the dim light seeping in through cracks in the shuttered window, Raoul saw a woman with long blond hair sitting up beside him, staring at him with pale blue eyes. Clarissa. Clarissa Greenglove. He looked down at her. A warmth began to creep back into his body, rising first in his loins, as he remembered what they had done together the night before. Five times! No--six! Never before had he done it that many times in one night. He was still panting in the aftermath of the horror, but the sight of her naked body was helping him get the dream out of his mind. Never done it with such a good-looking woman. She looked down at herself and drew up the sheet to cover her breasts. "Don't do that," he said, and pulled the sheet down again, none too gently. He began to rub her breast with the palm of his hand, feeling the nipple get bigger and harder. She closed her eyes and gave a little murmur of pleasure. How she'd enjoyed it last night! She'd sighed and groaned and whimpered and screamed and licked him and bit him and twisted her body from side to side like a soul in perdition. Her frenzy had fired him up like never before. No wonder he'd been able to mount her so many times. And somewhere near the end of it all she'd sobbed into his shoulder for what seemed like an hour. He figured that was a tribute to what he had done to her. The sheets were still damp with their sweat, and the air in the little bedroom was thick with the musky odors of their secret juices. But the redskins were still stalking in his brain, and he was still a little frightened. He didn't want to sit here in the dark. "Light a candle, will you?" he said. "The striker's on that table." She hesitated. "Can I get dressed first?" "Hell no," he laughed. "What difference would that make after last night? I know you outside and in, Clarissa." She giggled and got out of bed while he sat hugging his knees watching her. "It's cold out here," she whined.