by Candace Camp
“Fine! Give up if you want. Go running to Austin. I’ll look for Amy myself.”
He turned aside with a growl. “Sure, lady, sure. Stay out here and get yourself lost. Starve to death running around in circles looking for tracks that don’t exist. That’ll do your cousin a hell of a lot of good.”
He strode away from her toward his horse, filled with fury and frustration. He would have liked to yell and pound something. He wanted to grab Victoria and shake her. What made it so hard, so damnably infuriating, was knowing that it had been his own weakness that had slowed them down. If he hadn’t fallen ill, they would have been on the trail two days sooner, and it wouldn’t have grown so faint and cold. Maybe then he could have found where Brody left them behind.
But Brody had defeated him again. He had failed, and Victoria despised him for it. He despised himself.
Victoria stared after Slater, torn between anger and misery. Betrayal burned in her like acid. Why had she been so foolish as to get her hopes up? Why had she thought this man could accomplish so much? Why had she depended on him, when she knew the only person she could really depend on was herself?
She couldn’t stay out here alone. Even as she had uttered the furious words, she’d known they were absurd. If an expert like Slater couldn’t find Brody’s tracks, she would never be able to. It would be pointless. If Slater gave up, she would have to abandon her search, too. She thought of Amy, who depended on her, and it tore her heart to think that this time she had failed her cousin. She hated herself, and she hated Slater for making her abandon the search. It disgusted her that she had ever thought him handsome, that she had felt prickles of desire for him and actually wondered what his lips would feel like.
She strode to her horse and went through the ritual of checking the buckles and straps of her gear, just to give herself time to calm down. A few feet away, Slater fiddled about in much the same way.
When Victoria finally spoke her voice was quiet and calm, but as hard as rock. “You’re right. I can’t do it myself. I will ride to Austin with you and hire the best tracker there is.”
“No, you won’t, lady, ‘cause the best tracker is me. And if I can’t find Brody, there won’t be anybody else in Austin who can. Give it up, and let me find him.”
“Thank you. I don’t have any desire to wait that long. I intend to get my cousin back, and soon.”
Slater’s fingers curled into his palm. He couldn’t stand that contemptuous calm in Victoria’s voice. To think that he’d actually begun to like the woman! He’d even lain awake last night for an absurdly long time, thinking about kissing her, recalling the shape of her mouth and imagining its taste and texture. He might as well kiss a viper. It would be crazy to desire her; she’d neuter any man stupid enough to get in bed with her.
He picked up his reins and swung up into the saddle. Victoria did the same. Slater started in the direction of Austin, and Victoria followed, riding well away from him. Neither of them spoke.
***
Brody knew that his position with Amy was impossible. He burned with desire for her, yet he was determined not to touch her. And he couldn’t bear to set her free. There was no way out for him. After he had stopped his lovemaking that night, he had been careful not to touch or kiss her again. He’d done his best, in fact, not to even come too close to her. But nothing had eased his surging desires. Just seeing the sun glinting off her silver-gold hair, or watching her walk beside the creek, or hearing her hum to herself, was enough to send his desire rocketing through him. There was nothing about her that didn’t make him want her.
It seemed as if she took every opportunity to incite his passion. She brushed out her hair in front of him every morning and night, lingering over the silken, glittering strands until he could almost feel them between his fingertips. She sat close beside him as they talked or ate, and she touched him often—linking her fingers through his as they strolled, or giving him a playful pat on the cheek. Once he had awakened from the depths of a hot and lascivious dream to find Amy stroking his hair.
It had startled him so much to come from the fantasy of making love to her into the reality of her touching him that his hands had gone to her face to pull her down for a kiss before he realized what he was doing and moved away.
The worst time was late one afternoon, when he came back from hunting for their dinner. He made enough noise that he would have thought she heard him coming, but when he walked into their camp, he found her standing by the creek after her bath, wearing only her long pantaloons. Her breasts were bare, white and round and cherry-tipped, and water glistened on her skin.
Sam stopped, stunned. He was instantly, overwhelmingly on fire for her. He wanted to seize her and kiss her, to plunge his tongue deep into her mouth. He wanted to pull her down onto the ground and possess her. For a moment he couldn’t move, couldn’t think, could only stare and feel the emotions ripping through him like a tornado. His hands clenched and unclenched. Finally he whirled and walked away.
There were times when he thought he was crazy not to take her. Amy had given him permission. She seemed to enjoy his kisses and caresses; she wanted him to make love to her. Yet he held back, denying himself what he desired more than anything in the world because he wasn’t good enough for her, because being loved by him would desecrate her. All the men he knew would have roared with laughter at the idea. Since when was Sam Brody a protector of the weak and innocent? Everyone in Texas knew he didn’t have a conscience.
Except Amy.
That was the problem. She saw good in him. He couldn’t bear to disillusion her, to see the light in her eyes die when she looked at him. He couldn’t stand to take her and have her know the weak, wicked person he was. He didn’t understand why, but somehow he knew that to make love to Amy would be to open up his soul to her. And there was nothing for her to see there except blackness. It scared him to death to think of her realizing that. In fact, it frightened him worse than death, for that could only happen once, but this would be like dying again every time she looked at him.
So he continued to try to ignore the passions clamoring within him, to stay away from Amy and endure the frustration of the innocent lures she threw out. He was certain they were innocent; Amy couldn’t have been trying to seduce him.
In that he was wrong. Amy was trying very hard to seduce him in her own inexperienced way. She was hampered by her lack of knowledge, but she observed Sam and saw when the spark of desire came into his eyes. Then she tried to do the same things every chance she got.
To her frustration, nothing seemed to work. She would have sworn that he desired her, that the things she did aroused his passion. Yet he maintained his cool reserve, not touching or kissing her, holding himself tightly away from her. Though it went against her basically shy nature, she realized that she would have to take things a step further. She had to be more direct.
One afternoon, when Sam was sitting on the bank of the creek, fishing, Amy sat down beside him, drawing her knees up and locking her arms around them. Sam turned his head and smiled at her.
“Sam, would you answer a question?”
“Um-hum.” He looked back at the water, moving his pole a little to give the minnow an attractive wiggle.
“Why does it hurt a woman? The first time—when a man, you know…”
His fishing pole almost went into the water. Sam glanced at her wildly, then looked straight ahead. He realized with astonishment that he, who had grown up in the bordellos of New Orleans, was embarrassed to discuss the subject of sex with Amy. He cleared his throat. “Sugar… I don’t think…”
“Please, Sam.” Amy leaned closer, putting her hand on his arm. “Nobody ever told me anything. They think I’m too slow. That I don’t understand, and that I’ll never need to know, anyway. Everybody thinks no man would want to be with me.”
“That’s crazy. Any man would want you.”
“Will you tell me?”
Brody jerked the pole out
of the water and laid it down on the bank. There was no hope of his being able to fish now. Amy’s words made the blood sizzle through his veins. “Amy… please. I’m no good. I told you the other night. I—”
“You’ll ruin me? If I’m not pure, does that mean you wouldn’t like me anymore? Wouldn’t want me?”
“No! Of course not.”
“Would I be bad if you made love to me?”
“No. You couldn’t be bad.”
“Then I don’t understand. How will it ruin me?”
Her question perplexed him. He didn’t know the answer. Amy couldn’t be any less sweet or kind or enchanting just because a man had made love to her—even if that man was him. It wouldn’t change Amy. Yet he knew that for him to possess her would dirty her. “I’m no good,” he reiterated helplessly. “I’m no good for you.”
“I think you’d be good for me.” Amy reached out and laid her small hand against his cheek. He had shaved every day since they’d been camping there, and his skin was smooth beneath her touch. “I like the things you did to me. I wish you’d do them again. I want to feel that way again.”
Sam didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. His lungs were suddenly laboring to breathe. His skin was on fire. All Amy had to do was touch him and he was filled with passion. Just her soft, evocative words could turn him hard and pulsing.
He didn’t move under her hand. Amy let her fingers glide over his cheekbone and down his nose, across his lips. It stirred her to touch him. She traced the curve of his mouth and smoothed her thumb over his chin. Her other hand came up, too, and moved in the same slow, tender way over his face. Sam’s eyes closed, and his lips parted. Amy could glimpse his teeth and hear the rasp of his breath.
Feeling bold and daring, Amy leaned forward and placed her lips against his. She didn’t know how to initiate a kiss, had only responded to Sam before, but she began to experiment, kissing first his upper lip, then his lower, finally settling her mouth onto his. Sam made a noise in his throat. Amy put her hands on his upper arms to balance herself. He was as taut as a bowstring beneath her fingers. She sat back on her heals, uncertain what to do. Sam opened his eyes and looked at her. His face was flushed, his eyes bright. “Please,” he said, and nothing more.
“Don’t you want me?” Amy asked.
“More than anything.”
“I’ve done everything I can think of to make you kiss me again. I thought it would make you want me, but you haven’t done anything. Even when I kiss you…”
“You did those things on purpose? Putting your hands on me? Standing so close?”
Amy nodded, blushing, but meeting his eyes levelly.
“All right.” He drew a breath. “I’ll tell you. There’s a piece of skin there—where a man comes inside you.” He could feel a flush rising in his face, but it wasn’t entirely the heat of embarrassment. Even talking to Amy about the subject aroused him. “The first time, it tears. That’s what hurts. That’s what makes you no longer a virgin.”
“Sam, if you made love to me—” she went on, ignoring his quick murmur of denial “—would you be gentle to me?”
“Of course I would.”
“Do you think another man would be more gentle? Do you think another man would hurt me less?”
He hesitated. “Well, no, I don’t guess so.”
“In fact, another man might hurt me more, mightn’t he? Maybe he wouldn’t be as careful or thoughtful. He might not feel the same way about me that you do.”
Sam frowned. “Any man would love you.”
“No. No other man does. No other man’s ever kissed me, or looked at me the way you do. Most men think I’m stupid and worthless.”
“That’s impossible.”
“It’s true. I’m twenty-seven years old, and I’ve never had a beau, let alone a marriage proposal. And I’ve never felt this way about any other man, either. You’re special. I know you wouldn’t hurt me.” She rested her cheek on her knees and gazed wide-eyed at him. “I’d like you to be the one.”
Her simple statement took his breath away. He struggled for calm and reason. “That’s a dangerous thing to say.”
Amy leaned forward and kissed him lightly. “How?” She kissed him again.
“Like this, that’s how.” His hand came up to cup her neck, and he kissed her, hard and deep. Tension thrummed through his body, making his hand tremble. He broke the kiss, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “I’m not the kind of man you’re used to. Sometime I’ll let go, and I’ll—”
“That’s what I want!” Her voice rang with frustration.
“But I’m not the man you should—“
“No.” Amy set her jaw, her soft blue eyes turning bright. “Don’t tell me what I should do. What I should feel. I’m not a child. I’m a grown woman.”
“Believe me, I know you’re a woman.”
“Then treat me like one.” A shaky breath betrayed her nerves at her unaccustomed boldness, but she curled her arms around his neck, gazing almost fiercely into his face. “Make love to me, Sam.”
“Amy. . .” With a groan, Sam put his arms around her, and they tumbled backward. His mouth sought hers blindly, and they rolled on the ground in a frenzy of kissing. He kissed her mouth, her face, her ears. His teeth teased at her earlobe; his tongue delved into her ear. He nibbled down the sensitive cord of her neck. Amy’s fingers dug into his back and arms in a wordless plea, and she pressed her body up against him. His breath came out hot and ragged on her skin, and the feel of it made her nerves tingle.
Her nipples were pointed and hard; her breasts ached for his touch. She thought she would go crazy if he didn’t touch them. Then, at last, he did. His hand moved around to her front and slowly down her body, curving over her breast and down her abdomen to her legs. Then, with the same exquisite slowness, it slid back up. He paused at her breast, and Amy’s hand covered his, holding it there. Sam smiled against her throat. The fact that she wanted him to touch her made him feel proud and powerful and impossibly hard.
“Sweet,” he murmured as his mouth moved over the soft expanse of her throat. “Sweet, Amy.”
He pulled down her loose, wide-necked blouse, exposing the tops of her breasts inch by inch until a last he saw her nipples deep rose and hardened. He lifted himself on his elbow and gazed at them. With his forefinger he circled one nipple and watched as it tightened. He felt as if he might burst. His head was sizzling with wild, erotic thoughts; there was no room there for reason any longer. He was pure emotion and need.
Sam bent and ran the tip of his tongue around her nipple. He dragged his tongue across the top of the bud, then lashed it with light, teasing strokes, and at every new touch, Amy’s breath grew more uneven. He moved to the other nipple and caressed it in the same way, stoking her desire until Amy arched up, her breasts begging for his mouth. He fastened upon one nipple, pulling it into the hot, wet cave of his mouth. He sucked as his tongue continued its fiery dance.
Wild lights danced in Amy’s head, shooting and cracking like sparks. She dug her fingers into his thick hair as though to keep him at her breast. As the tumult of sensations rose in her, she curled her fingers, tugging painfully at this hair. But the tiny pains were only a titillating counterpoint to the storm of pleasure raging through Sam.
He sat up abruptly and Amy opened her eyes in surprise. She looked up at him, blinking, her mind too scattered to even phrase a question. Sam unbuttoned his shirt with fumbling haste and ripped it off, spreading it out on the ground beside him. Then he pulled Amy up into a sitting position and tugged her blouse off over her head. She understood then what he was doing. He wanted to undress her, and he had laid out his shirt as a protection for her from the hard dirt and scratchy grass.
She stood up and unfastened her skirt to help him. Sam sat back on his heels, watching as she opened the side of the skirt and let it fall to the ground. She wore no petticoats under it, only the long white cotton drawers, with their girlish ruffle aro
und the hem. He wet his lips; his heart and lungs thundered like a freight train.
Amy glanced down at him. Her cheeks were pink with heat, but she thought only a small part of it was embarrassment. She enjoyed his eyes on her. He gazed at her as if he could eat her up, and his expression turned her insides to hot wax, bringing the moisture of pleasure between her legs. No other man had ever seen her naked; she would have been humiliated if one had. But it wasn’t shameful with Sam; it was exciting. She felt bold and powerful.
Amy untied the strings of her undergarment and pushed it down, letting it fall to the ground. She stepped out of it and stood before Sam, utterly naked. His eyes traversed her body slowly, taking in every inch of her smooth, alabaster flesh. He started at her for so long that uncertainty began to creep into Amy’s mind—did he find her unappealing?
But then he said, his voice filled with awe, “You are so beautiful. I’ve never seen anything as lovely as you.”
He spread her skirt out on the ground below his shirt, then took Amy’s hand and pulled her down. Amy lay back on the clothing, her eyes fixed on Sam. He was beautiful to her, as well. It was a primitive, masculine beauty, a thing of taut muscles and rough, tanned flesh, hard and enduring. There was a scar across one shoulder, and crisp dark hair dotted his chest, growing down in a V to his navel. Sweat gleamed in the sun on his shoulders and chest. He was lean; she could see the lines of his ribs and the overlapping slabs of muscles. Years of hardship showed on his face and body. But these things gave him strength and power, too, beautiful in their own way, just as a wild animal was beautiful.
Amy reached up and touched his shoulder. His skin was sleek, the muscle beneath it firm. Her fingertips slid across him, feeling the contrast between his flesh and the sharp collar bone underneath it. Sam sucked in his breath. Quickly, he divested himself of the rest of his clothes. Amy watched him, her eyes widening. She had never seen a man naked, and she was unprepared for the sight. She swallowed. He frightened her a little; he was so big, so powerful, so male. She didn’t know what to do. He was overwhelming.
