Satan's Angel

by Candace Camp

  Victorian picked up a dried twig and began to poke holes in the dirt with it, avoiding his eyes. “Yes, well. . .obviously I’m not nearly as competent as I thought. I got us into that mess back there.”

  He snorted. “It wasn’t your fault they were murderers and thieves.”

  “But I never even doubted them. You’d have known there was something wrong about them.”

  He shrugged. “Nobody would expect a family like that. And they were convincing. At least, Ma was. When she came to my room to see how I was, she seemed like a warm, jolly, motherly sort. I didn’t see through her. I didn’t dream what was going on until that kid walked through the door with his revolver out.”

  “You were suspicious enough to hang your holster on the bedpost.”

  “Habit. I’ve learned how dangerous it is to be far from your gun when you’re a Ranger. It was pure luck that I was able to get to it before he put a hole in me. He was too cocky, and he thought I was asleep. He stopped to admire my boots—probably wondering how they’d fit him. I was able to slip out the .45 before he got down to business.”

  “But I should have been more on my guard,” Victoria said. “I was so glad to have somebody help me. I was scared you were going to die. It was a relief to turn the responsibility over to an older woman.”

  “And that makes you feel ashamed? Guilty?”

  Victoria nodded.

  “Hell, honey, everybody gets scared. When I caught Miles slipping into my room with a gun in his hand, my heart started pounding like a cannon.”

  Victoria glanced at him, surprised. “You always seem so cool—when Brody’s men rode in and took him, when the doctor cut the bullet out of your arm, when you came downstairs, holding your pistol on Mrs. Miles. I’ve never seen a man face death like you do. So calm and matter-of-fact.”

  “You’re pretty cool yourself.”

  “Sometimes.” She snapped the twig in two and tossed it into the fire.

  Slater reached out and touched her hand. “It’s all right to be a little weak. When you reach the point where you aren’t, you aren’t human anymore. Hell, I’m the one who’s been so weak I’ve slowed us down.”

  He liked the feel of her hand in his, soft and slender, yet with an underlying strength. And the smile she gave him made him want to keep on holding it. He was disappointed when she let it go. “Thank you.”

  Slater shrugged. “Just telling the truth. No reason for you to feel bad.”

  He drank a cup of the coffee she had made; then they banked the fire and lay down to sleep. Slater pillowed his head on his arm and looked across at Victoria. The embers cast a glow over her features, turning her creamy skin golden. Her eyes were closed, the long lashes lying dark against her cheeks. She was a beautiful woman. He thought about the days ahead, and they no longer seemed a dismal prospect. He hated to admit it, but the truth was he was actually looking forward to tomorrow. Closing his eyes, he fell asleep smiling.

  ***

  The next few days were a combination of heaven and hell for Brody. He had never felt as happy and at peace. But he had never been as tormented, either, as aching with unsatisfied lust.

  They were as safe by the falls as they could be anywhere except the hideout, and except for a trip to his lookout two or three times a day, he was able to relax, to sit with Amy and enjoy her beauty and enthusiasm. She loved nature; she was attuned to everything around her. She climbed into a tree to show him a bird’s nest. She pulled him to the creek to watch the shimmering flash of fish or a turtle sunning on a rock. She gathered wildflowers and held them up to him so he could observe the tiny, delicate patterns.

  Brody had never before viewed birds or animals as anything except prospective food or potential enemies. He had never lain on his back and watched the gliding circles of a hawk in the sky, or giggled over a line of baby quail following their mother like little soldiers. He hadn’t paid attention to the joyous bursts of color that were the wildflowers. Now, with Amy, he did.

  He sat with her for an hour, laughing at the antics of a pair of mating birds. He rigged up a fishing pole out of a mesquite branch and sat beside the creek, lazily waiting for a bite and watching Amy jump from rock to rock through the water, her skirts pulled up to her knees to keep from getting wet. He lay with her on a flat rock, gazing down at a busy prairie dog town. She had an elemental, uncomplicated enjoyment of life that he slowly learned to share. Here, with her, it was hard to remember that there was any other kind of life.

  He’d intended to rest there for a night or two, keeping a watch from the bluff for any followers coming up the creek after them, before he headed on to the hideout. But he was reluctant to go on to the hideout despite the fact that they would be safer there. It was too good here by the falls with Amy. He didn’t want to wait for the others to join them there, didn’t want to have to hear their questions and complaints. He didn’t want their eyes on Amy.

  He didn’t want to plan a new job or keep the others in line. Hell, he didn’t even care whether they found Dave Vance. That betrayal seemed ages ago, not days, and he didn’t care if he never saw the man again. If he never saw any of them. So they lingered here, and he built a small lean-to for them out of branches. It was a cozy, leafy home that sheltered them at night and during the mild rain that fell one day. Amy watched him build it and pelted him with questions. He answered them patiently, explaining every step in the process.

  He didn’t mind her questions or the explanations; it was pleasant just to hear her voice and to have her look at him so attentively. It never occurred to him that Amy, used as she was to her family sheltering her and other people believing that she was too simple to learn anything, soaked up everything he told her with delight and thought him endlessly kind and patient. They talked about horses and people they had known. Their conversation wasn’t profound, just easy and slow and colored with affection.

  Neither of them had ever been as happy.

  But as sweet as their life was, Sam couldn’t escape the pangs of desire. He wanted Amy constantly. When he followed her across the rocks in the stream, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her slender legs. When they sat together talking, he gazed at the line of her jaw and throat and thought about planting kisses there. When they lay side by side in the evening, studying the stars, she was so close that he could feel the warmth of her body, and he wanted to roll over, pinning her beneath him, and kiss her.

  He couldn’t think straight around her. He wanted to stroke her silver-gold hair and wrap it around him, to bury his face in its fragrant silkiness. He wanted to slowly remove each piece of her clothing and explore her body with his mouth. The fire in him never died, just grew hotter and hotter every moment that he was around her.

  Amy did nothing to help him. Now that they were no longer riding, she took to wearing the skirt and blouse Beatriz had given her. The skirt was a little too short, ending just above her ankles, and when she walked he could see flashes of her bare legs. The scooped neck of the blouse left the smooth white skin of her upper chest and shoulders bare to his gaze. She didn’t wear her chemise because its straps would have shown above the low, wide neckline, and without the undergarment, the dark circles of her nipples showed through the material. Whenever her nipples tightened, he could see them pressing against the cloth. The sight was almost as provocative as bare breasts. The blouse veiled, yet hinted, and the combination set Brody’s imagination afire. He couldn’t keep his mind off her breasts or how easy it would be to slip his hand inside the blouse and caress their softness.

  Whenever Amy leaned forward, he could see their creamy tops, soft and rounded, gently trembling with her every movement. At night she snuggled up against him. She often reached out to take his hand as they walked or laid her hand on his arm as she leaned close to whisper something. Her touches were never sexual. They could have been the touches of a sister or a friend. But to Brody, each one was like a hot brand on his skin.

  Every night Amy unbraided her hair
and brushed it, and the next morning she brushed it again and wove it back into its neat braid. Sam knew he should leave when she started; he would only end up sick with longing. But he could never summon the willpower to go. She would run the brush slowly through her hair to the ends, letting it drift softly down. Over and over in smooth, long strokes, she brushed it, and the lazy rhythm stirred him almost as much as the sight of her hair floating loose around her shoulders. In the dawn, her hair glowed golden, like molten metal, and in the pale light of the moon, it was silvery white. He could imagine it in his hands or lying across his chest; he dreamed of burying his face in it. It was like gold, like silk, the kind of hair a man would die to touch. He knew that if he reached out and sank his fingers into her hair, she wouldn’t move to stop him.

  That was the hardest part—knowing that if he kissed or caressed her, or even began to take off her clothes, she would not stop him. She would blindly, trustingly, let him do what he wanted, not knowing until too late that he would invade her virgin body, that he would hurt her, soil her, frighten her. He had to be responsible for both of them, and that was not something Brody was used to being, even for himself.

  There were times when he let the barrier down, when he forgot to guard her against himself. One night he had an old familiar nightmare as he slept, and he woke up to Amy shaking his shoulder. “Sam! Sam! Wake up!”

  He opened his eyes and stared at her for a moment before he remembered who she was and where he was. Then he threw his arms around her, pulling her down tightly against his chest and burying his face in the juncture of her neck and shoulder. He was slick with sweat, and his heart was hammering, but he felt warm and safe with her. No matter what had happened, no matter what horrors sometimes penetrated his sleeping world, right here, right now, there was only Amy.

  She stroked his hair, whispering low, soothing words, until finally his hold relaxed. “What was it?” she asked. “What were you dreaming about?”

  He wanted to shrug it off. It was embarrassing for a grown man to be so shaken by a nightmare. But somehow, with Amy, he could not pretend. “A man—a boy—that I shot. We were robbing the Richards Stage Line. It must have been four years ago. He was riding shotgun. We put a barricade in the road and ambushed the coach. I hollered to hand down their money box. The driver started to, but the fool boy went for his gun. I saw him doing it, saw him raising it. I yelled, ‘No!’ All I could think was that it was so stupid, so damn stupid. He had to be a hero. I shot him. I had to. He would have shot one of us.”

  “Oh, Sam.” There were tears in Amy’s voice, and she hugged him tightly. “I’m sorry.”

  “I remember he looked so surprised, like he couldn’t believe he was actually going to die, and he toppled off the stage onto the ground in front of me. He was a kid. Couldn’t have been more than seventeen. I looked down at him, and he was so young.” Sam squeezed her to him even more tightly. “I dream about him sometimes. I see him reaching for the gun, and I see that look on his face when I shot him. He just hangs there staring at me. And I wake up in a cold sweat.”

  Amy held him without saying anything, stroking his head and back. It was wrong to kill another human being; it was one of the things she believed in most strongly. Amy hated and feared violence. But this time she didn’t think about that. She was aware only of Sam’s pain and remorse. It reinforced her belief that he was a good man; a truly bad man would have felt no regret or guilt for what he had done, but Sam did.

  Amy rocked him in her arms, laying her cheek against his hair. He nestled his face into her neck. He grew still, his muscles relaxed, and she knew he was calmer. They lay together for a moment longer. Amy kissed his hair. His skin was hot where it touched hers.

  Amy smiled. She liked the way it felt when his flesh seared hers. She slid one hand slowly down his back, then up. His back was roped with muscles. He made a funny little sighing sound and kissed her neck. His breath tickled her skin, sending tingles through her. He kissed her neck again, his lips lingering. Amy twined her fingers through his hair, rubbing his scalp. Sam’s mouth moved up, slowly traversing her throat until he reached her jaw.

  “Amy.” Her name was a sigh on his lips.

  He rained kisses over her face, soft little kisses that brushed her eyes and cheeks and nose, returning again and again to her mouth. His hand moved slowly, caressingly, down her body, curving around her breast and gliding across her stomach down to her legs.

  Gradually his kisses deepened. Their tongues met and tangled. The sweet warmth burst into passion. Sam hadn’t planned to kiss her; he had done his best to avoid it for days, trying to give her time to grow used to him. But the emotion of his nightmare and Amy’s sympathy had swept away the careful guard he had set on himself. He had had to hold her, touch her, kiss her, desperate for the warmth in her. He was ravenous. Closeness was not enough, he wanted the supreme intimacy. Comfort and love were not enough; he had to have fire and ecstasy.

  Brody’s lips dug into hers, his mouth widening as though to take all of her in. His hand slipped inside the low, loose neck of her blouse and closed over one breast. He’d been fantasizing about doing that since she’d put it on. His fantasies couldn’t compare with the actual feel of her cool, smooth flesh beneath his hand, uniquely soft and yielding.

  He traced the areola of her nipple with his forefinger, circling in to the center. The fleshy bud rose eagerly at his touch, and he responded by playing with it, first pulling and squeezing lightly, then rolling it between his finger and thumb, or teasing over it with a feather-soft touch. The thick, pebbly texture fascinated and aroused him, and its response to each touch set up an answering sensation deep in his own loins.

  His hand went to her other breast, fondling and exploring it in the same way. Then his lips moved down her throat and chest to the quivering top of her breast. Brody cupped the globe, squeezing slightly, lifting it like a prized gift to his mouth, the nipple seductively poised in the center. He paused, his mouth inches from the succulent peak, and simply gazed at its perfect beauty and beckoning sexuality. Desire thundered through him, and he teased and aroused himself by holding back, delaying the pleasure. Finally he bent his head and took her nipple in his mouth. He did it so slowly, so tantalizingly, that Amy moaned aloud in satisfaction when the wet suction of his mouth closed around her nipple. His tongue lashed the bud with firm, velvety strokes, then gentled into lazy circles. He laved and suckled; he attacked and soothed.

  Passion was thick and molten in him, outstretching his reason. There was in him only one faint restraining force, an awareness that was not even conscious thought: he had to take care with her; he must go slowly. There must be no pain or fear for Amy, and it was only this deep inner commitment that leashed the elemental desire in him.

  As his mouth loved her breasts, his hand slid down her body, caressing each line and curve. His fingers spread out over her abdomen, finding the sharp points of her pelvic bones beneath her skirt, and moved down onto her leg. But the thick folds of the skirt impeded him, and he impatiently bunched the material up in his hand. He found the flesh of her leg and moved under her rucked-up skirt. His fingers encountered the thin cotton of her undergarments, but slipped beneath it. Her thigh was soft under his fingers, but firm with muscles, too. Her skin was hot and incredibly soft. His fingertips touched dampness and then the prickly curls of hair. A groan escaped him.

  Amy stiffened. She had been lying back, floating in a haze of physical pleasure, overwhelmed by the riot of exquisite sensations rippling through her. But when his hand touched her there, it was too startling, too different, and it jerked her out of her sensual daze. She tightened all over. “Sam?”

  Brody went still. He couldn’t speak.

  “Sam?” she asked again.

  His hand left her, curling up into a fist, and he rolled away. This time the groan he emitted was full of pain, not passion. “Oh, God. Amy. Amy, I’m sorry.”

  Amy sat up shakily. She didn’t understand why he had
left her, just as she hadn’t understood it the other night. “Sam, what’s the matter? Did I do something wrong?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Then why?”

  “It’s me.” His voice was rough with disgust at himself. “I pushed you. I rushed you. I’m sorry. I won’t do anything else.”

  Amy looked at him. He was turned away from her so that all she could see was his back, taut and unbending. “But I—I liked what you were doing.”

  His breath came out in a rush. “God, sweetheart, don’t.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  How could she? She was too good, too pure. “I was about to take you. If I keep on, I will.”

  A shiver of excitement and apprehension darted through her. She wasn’t quite sure what he meant. It seemed a little scary, yet she wanted it, too. “It’s all right.”

  He laced his hands together tightly and forced himself to keep his back to her. It was all he could do not to whirl around and grab her. But he knew he had frightened her; he’d gone too hard and too fast. “No. I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

  “I don’t want you to stop.”

  Her words affected him as much as if she’d drawn her hands down his bare flesh. He thought he would explode if he didn’t have her. He hated himself for wanting to take her no matter the consequences.

  “Amy. You don’t know. What I was starting to do scared you. If I went on, I would scare you more. You’re innocent. I—it’ll hurt you.”

  She frowned. “A lot?”

  He had to smile a little. She sounded like she was weighing whether climbing up a tree was worth a scraped knee. “I don’t know. I never—” He shrugged. “I never had a virgin before. I’ve heard that it hurts.”

  “All women?”

  “The first time.”

  “Only the first time?”

  He nodded. “I guess.”

  “But all women do it, don’t they? It couldn’t be that bad. I’ve hurt myself lots of times riding horses and things like that. And then it’ll be over, and it won’t hurt again.”