by Linda Howard
Yes, she wanted him. But to give in to him, and to her own baser yearnings, would be the worst mistake of her life. He was an outlaw, and would soon disappear from her life; she would have to be a total fool to give herself to him and run the risk of bearing an illegitimate child, as well as the damage it would do her emotionally.
She steadied her voice, and took the route of common sense. “It would be a mistake for me to accept your advances. I think we both know that.”
“Oh, I know it,” he muttered. “I just don’t like it worth a damn.”
“That’s the way it has to be.”
“Then kiss me good night, honey. That’s all I’m asking.”
Hesitantly she turned her head, and he took her mouth in a slow, strong motion that opened her lips and left her vulnerable to the penetration of his tongue. If a kiss was all he was allowed, then he intended to make the most of it. He forced his domination on her mouth with hard, deep kisses, using his tongue in the most blatant imitation of copulation, until her bound hands came up and twisted and she was clinging to his shirt while soft little whimpers sounded in her throat. He kissed her until his entire body was throbbing with the need to empty his seed inside of her, until her mouth was swollen and tears seeped from beneath her lashes.
He wiped the moisture away with his thumb, savagely restraining himself. “Go to sleep, honey,” he whispered in a hoarse voice.
Annie half stifled a moan. She closed her eyes, but it was a long time before her yearning flesh let her sleep.
CHAPTER
6
He wasn’t there when she woke up the next morning, and Annie panicked at the thought that he might have abandoned her there in the mountains. Her hands were unbound and that frightened her even more, for why would he have untied her unless he had planned on leaving? Still half asleep, with her hair hanging in her eyes, she stumbled to her feet and jerked the door open, then ran outside. Cold air swirled around her bare legs and rocks and twigs bruised her feet. “Rafe!”
He stepped out from the horse shed, the water bucket in one hand and the raised pistol in the other. “What is it?” he asked sharply, as his pale eyes raked over her.
She halted her headlong plunge, suddenly aware of her half-naked state and the iciness of the ground beneath her bare feet. “I thought you’d left,” she said in a strained tone.
His eyes turned frosty as he stared at her, his hard face expressionless. Finally he said, “Go back inside.”
She knew she should do as he said, but concern made her hesitate. “How do you feel? I don’t think you should be hauling water yet.”
“I said to get inside.” His voice was dead level, but it carried the sharpness of a whiplash. She turned and carefully picked her way back inside, wincing as the rough ground hurt the tender soles of her feet.
She propped open one of the windows so she’d be able to see, then examined her clothing. It was stiff and wrinkled, but dry and—best of all—clean. She hurriedly dressed, shivering with cold. The chill seemed worse than it had the morning before, but maybe that was because she’d been outside with only a shirt between her and the good Lord, and Rafe hadn’t built up the fire before he’d gone out.
After she had finger-combed her hair and pinned it up, she built up the fire and began cooking breakfast, but her movements were automatic. She couldn’t stop thinking about Rafe, disjointed thoughts that leapt from subject to subject. He had looked much better this morning, without fever dulling his eyes and leaving his face drawn. It was probably too soon for him to be doing any physical work, but how was she supposed to stop him? She just hoped he didn’t tear out the stitches in his side.
How had he gotten out of the cabin without waking her? Of course, it had taken her a long time to fall asleep and she’d been very tired, but she usually wasn’t that hard to waken. He had lain awake for a long time, too; he hadn’t tossed and turned, but she had been very aware of the tension in his arms and body as he’d held her. It would have taken only a single word or gesture of invitation from her and he would have been on top of her.
Several times she had been tempted to throw caution to the winds and say that word, and shame rose in her as she admitted to herself how close she had come to surrendering her chastity to an outlaw. She couldn’t even comfort herself that she had resisted temptation because of her high moral standards, to preserve her reputation and self-respect; it was pure cowardice that had kept her from giving herself to him. She had been afraid. Part of it had been a simple fear of the unknown, and part of it had been fear that he would hurt her, emotionally as well as physically. She had treated women who had been damaged by men who were too careless or too rough, and she knew that the first time was painful for women anyway, but she had ached with lust and might have given in had it only been that. She wanted to know what it was like, to lie under a man and cradle his hard weight, to accept his body into hers.
But her deepest fear was that she was far too vulnerable to him, that by taking her body he would breach the inner walls that guarded her heart, and against all of her own self-advice and common sense she would care too much for him, and that would deal her a wound that wouldn’t heal as easily as flesh did. How could she let herself care for him? He was an outlaw, a killer. Even now, she had no doubt that, if she tried to escape, he would shoot her. It was odd, perhaps, but she also trusted him to keep his word and return her unharmed in a few days if she didn’t try to escape.
Annie had always thought of herself as a morally upright person, capable of knowing right from wrong and choosing the correct course. For her, morality had nothing to do with judgment and everything to do with compassion. But what did it say about her that she could so clearly see the violence in Rafe McCay and had still been strongly attracted to him from the beginning? He was cold and frighteningly controlled, and as dangerous as a hunting cougar, yet his kisses made her tremble and yearn for more. A little voice in her whispered that she could give herself to him, then return to Silver Mesa without anyone knowing that she had had an outlaw lover, and she was terrified she would yield to temptation.
The door opened but she kept her eyes and her attention focused on what she was cooking. Rafe set the bucket down beside the hearth. Annie glanced at it and saw that it was full of water. From experience, she knew just how heavy that bucket was, and she couldn’t stop the concern she felt. Reluctantly she asked again, “How do you feel?”
“Hungry.” He closed the door and dropped to the blanket. “Almost normal. Just like you said.”
She gave him a quick glance. His tone had been even, without any of his former sharpness, but she knew that his voice would reveal only what he wanted it to. “I didn’t say you would be almost normal. I said you’d feel better.”
“And I do. Even after taking care of the horses, I’m not as weak now as I was yesterday. But the stitches are itching.”
That was a good sign, an indication of healing, but she hadn’t expected it so soon. Evidently he was a fast healer, as well as having the inhuman stamina he had revealed on their nightmare ride to the cabin.
“Then you’re almost well.” She looked at him, her eyes somber and a little pleading. “Will you take me back to Silver Mesa today?”
“No.”
That single word was implacable. Annie’s shoulders drooped a little. It would have been for the best, removing her from the dangerous temptation of his company, but she didn’t try to argue with him. He had his own reasons for what he did and she had yet to be able to sway him from his decisions. He would return her to Silver Mesa when he wanted to, and not before.
Rafe watched her with hooded eyes as she poured a cup of coffee and handed it to him. He sipped the strong brew, enjoying the feel of it warming his insides and adding to the heat he already felt just from looking at her. She was uneasy around him this morning, in a way she hadn’t been before even when she had been so terrified he was going to kill her. She was sexually aware of him now, and as skittish as a young mare being cornere
d by a stallion for the first time. Tension stretched between them like a tightly strung wire.
She was all buttoned up in her own clothes this morning, hiding behind a barricade of cloth and naively trusting that modesty would hold him at bay. He smiled into the cup as he tilted it to his mouth. Women never seemed to realize the strength of the enthrallment that drew men to them, the enchantment of soft skin and soft curves, the bone-deep, gut-wrenching need that drove men to penetrate them and get the closest to heaven a man was likely to get on this earth. Women also didn’t realize the strength of their own desires, that their own bodies undermined their defenses. Annie sure as hell didn’t realize it, or she wouldn’t take such comfort in the useless barrier of clothing. Did she think that if he couldn’t see bare skin, he wouldn’t desire her?
His common sense had been pushed aside by a physical hunger so great it had become a torment. He would have her. Returning her to Silver Mesa without having sated himself on her was beyond him now. He could barely restrain himself from reaching out for her this instant. His life had been nothing but death and bitterness for so long that the sweet heat of her was as irresistible to him as water to a thirsty man in a desert.
Only the knowledge that he would have plenty of time for seduction, and that there was work that had to be done that day, kept him from pulling her down on the blankets. The weather had turned noticeably colder, and low, dull clouds had closed in on the mountains, snow clouds if he’d ever seen them. He would probably have time to take her back to Silver Mesa before the snow began, if he were so inclined, but he wasn’t. The snow tended to be deep this high in the mountains, and the early-spring storms could be some of the worst; they might be confined to the cabin for days, even a couple of weeks. Annie wouldn’t be able to hold out against him, or her own body, for that long.
But today he had to lay in a supply of firewood, a lot of it, as well as set some traps to supply them with food. He could easily hunt with the rifle, but the sound of gunfire could draw attention, and he didn’t want anyone to know there were people up here. He’d have to do something about the horses, too. They couldn’t be cooped up in that tiny shed, without room to move around, for days on end. He’d have to hobble them and let them graze while he came back and worked on the shed. He didn’t like being so far away from the horses, in case they needed to leave in a hurry, but the animals needed to graze and he only had today, and maybe part of tomorrow, to get prepared. He decided not to tell Annie that he thought it was going to snow, because the idea of being snowed in with him might make her panic.
His hunger was wolf-sharp, and he could barely wait for the bacon and biscuits to finish cooking. Annie refilled the cup and he set it between them so they could share it. Neither of them talked during the simple meal. Rafe ate with a voracious appetite, savoring every bite of the sweet honey and hot bread.
Afterward he pulled off his shirt so she could check his wounds, and he used the opportunity to cautiously scratch the itching skin around the stitches. Annie slapped his hand away. “Stop that. You’ll get the stitches irritated.”
“That sounds fair. They’re irritating the hell out of me.
“You’re healing faster because of them, so don’t complain.” The wounds had closed and were healing well, with very little redness. She suspected she would be able to remove the stitches in another day or so, rather than wait the week to ten days it usually required.
She dabbed apple cider around the stitches to keep them from itching, then placed a thick pad over the wounds and bound it in place.
He was standing with his arms raised, and he frowned down at his side. “Why did you make the bandage so much thicker today?”
She neatly tied off the cloth and he lowered his arms. “To protect the wounds.”
“From what?” He pulled his shirt back on over his head and tucked it into his pants.
“From you, mostly,” she replied as she restored order to her medical bag.
He grunted and shrugged into his coat, then got his small hatchet out of his saddlebags.
Annie glanced at the sharp blade. “You don’t need to cut firewood; there’s still plenty to be picked up off the ground.”
“It’s not for firewood. I’m going to enlarge the horse shed.” He hooked the scabbard for the rifle over his head and slid the weapon into it so it lay on his back. “Put on your coat. It’s colder today, and you’ll need it.”
Silently she obeyed. Things went easier if she just did as he said, even though she didn’t see any need in doing so much work on the shed when they would be there only a day or two. She tried to convince herself that he would take her back to Silver Mesa that soon, especially since he was doing so well. Just a few more days, and then temptation would be removed and she would be home, safe and sound, and still chaste. Surely she could remain firm for that long; after all, Penelope had guarded her chastity against zealous suitors for twenty years, waiting for Odysseus’ return.
They walked the restless horses back up to the clearing, where Rafe fashioned hobbles for them and turned them loose to graze. On the walk back to the cabin, they both gathered loose firewood and stacked it just outside the door.
Next she helped him to make some simple snares, her interest caught by the procedure. With only twine and the limber sticks that he cut with the hatchet, he fashioned several different kinds. He let her make the last one under his direction. She had deft hands, but found that trying any new skill involved a certain amount of awkwardness. He was patient with her, though he insisted that she keep redoing the snare until he was satisfied with it. Her cheeks glowed with both accomplishment and cold when she was finished.
She watched his long, muscled legs make easy work of the steep slopes as they returned to the cabin, and thought that it was beginning to feel normal to be trudging along behind him with nothing around them but the vast mountains and the silence. They were so isolated that they might as well be the only two people on earth, a man and his woman. Her stomach clenched at the thought and she hastily rejected it, because if she ever let herself think that she was his woman, she was lost. He would sense it, the way he seemed to know everything, and turn to look at her with his pale, fierce eyes. He would see her mental surrender written on her face, and he would take her, perhaps even right here on the cold forest floor.
To keep herself from wavering, she made herself think of the various crimes he could have committed. She felt a little pang of despair as she realized she had no trouble at all thinking of him as a criminal; he was hard and cold, emotionless, and even though he had treated her better than she had expected and feared, she wasn’t able to delude herself about his nature. Even now he was as alert as a wild animal, his head constantly turning as he examined every detail and sought the source of every little sound.
“What did you do?” she asked, unable to stop herself even though the knowledge would be a permanent worry to her.
“When?” he murmured, halting as he studied a bird that had taken flight. After a moment he relaxed and began moving again.
“What are you wanted for?”
He glanced at her over his shoulder, cold danger glinting in his eyes. “What difference does it make?”
“Did you rob someone?” she persisted.
“I’ll steal if I have to, but that isn’t why I’m wanted.”
His tone was flat and casual. Annie shivered, and she reached out to catch his gloved hand. “Then why?”
He stopped and looked down at her. A humorless quirk tugged at his mouth. “Murder,” he said.
Her throat went dry, and she dropped his hand. Oh, she had known it from the beginning, recognized his capacity for violence, but hearing him say it as casually as he would have pointed out an interesting bird made her heart almost stop. She swallowed, and forced herself to ask, “Did you do it?”
He seemed surprised by the question. His eyebrows lifted briefly. “Not the one I’m accused of.” No, he hadn’t killed poor Tench, but he’d killed plenty of the ones
who had come after him, so he guessed it didn’t matter at this point.
His phrasing didn’t go unnoticed. She turned and walked past him, and he fell into step behind her.
She walked almost blindly. She was a doctor, not a judge. She wasn’t supposed to ask the whys and wherefores when someone was ill or hurt, she wasn’t supposed to weigh their worth as human beings before giving them the benefit of her skill and knowledge. She was simply supposed to heal, to the best of her ability. But this was the first time she had had to face the fact that she had saved the life of an admitted killer, and her nerves twisted with anguish. How many more people would die because this man had lived? He might have lived anyway, without her help, but she would never know that.
And yet. . . and yet even if she had known, that first night, could she have refused him treatment? In all conscience, no. Her oath as a physician bound her to do what she could, in all circumstances, to heal.
But even without the oath, she couldn’t have let him die. Not once she had touched him, trembled from his animal magnetism, felt his low, raspy voice weave a sensuous spell around her. Why try to lie to herself? Even though she had been truly terrified those first two nights, lying in his arms had made her entire body heat with instinctive pleasure.
Come the night, she would be lying in his arms again.
She shivered and pulled her coat tightly around her. Maybe it was better that she knew him for what he was. It would give her the strength to resist him.
But even now, as she thought of the coming night, her breasts started aching and heat built in her loins, and she knew shame.
The hard work necessary to enlarge the horse shed came as a relief, for she was able to concentrate on the simple physical labor. He knocked the lean-to down and put the wood, which had been planed and roughly finished, aside to be reused, then began cutting down saplings and securing them on top of each other. He braced them against the bank and the standing trees and notched them so they would interlock. At his direction, she began mixing mud to daub between the saplings and seal the rough walls against the wind. She did so with a fastidiousness that made him hide a grin; getting her hands dirty was unavoidable, but she took care that her clean clothes didn’t suffer.
