Return of the Fox

by Pamela Gibson

  She had to admit it was. Anyone walking in would see an old married couple sitting side by side on a bed . . . one in the bed, one outside the covers, having a companionable conversation.

  Gabriel told her that he’d made himself a target, and that he’d enlisted the aid of Mitchell and Sutherland to be sure there were credible witnesses. Sutherland almost hadn’t got there in time but was close enough to hear the shot.

  “You didn’t expect to be shot.”

  “Good God, no. I knew Slade hated Mexicans, and hidalgos in particular, but I thought he and his cohorts would confront me about signing over your property, and once they had my signature they’d take off. They assumed my name was the only one necessary on the paperwork now that we’re married. They didn’t realize my signature would be worthless. Mexican law recognizes the property as jointly owned. Your signature would be required also. Cantrell, who is British, wouldn’t have known that. Community property laws have their origins in Spain.”

  “And Señor Mitchell?”

  “Mitchell was to lurk in the shadows and witness everything that took place. I hoped I could trick Slade into admitting he torched your storehouse. At the very least, Mitchell could verify under oath that I was coerced into signing over the property at gunpoint. I didn’t want them to be able to bother you again.”

  “Señor Logan did not appear to want any killing.”

  “No. That was Slade. He’s a hothead, but he’ll be put away for a long time.”

  She hung her head. “He will survive?”

  “I think so. Your aim was a bit off, querida. You shot him in the leg.”

  She trembled and moved closer to Gabriel. She couldn’t believe she’d actually shot a man, even a rat like Slade. Gabriel raised his good arm and tucked it around her, drawing her head against his good shoulder.

  “What about Christopher?”

  “Christopher, is it? Still? You’re a married woman. You cannot call an unrelated man by his given name.”

  Isabella snorted. “Captain Sutherland. Why was he there?”

  “I made a point to see him the night we . . . well, after I left your bed. He was reluctant to get involved, but I shamelessly played on his affection for you. I told him our marriage was a sham and would be annulled after the danger is past. You needed him to witness Logan and Slade’s perfidy so they wouldn’t bother you again.”

  She moved out of his arms and faced him. “You devil.”

  “Guilty.” That lazy grin she loved spread across his face. “Come back, querida.” He held out his arm.

  She crawled back and put her head on his chest. His heart was beating a steady pace. It was comforting beneath her ear, but she was uneasy. He’d mentioned the annulment.

  “What if Captain Sutherland had not come in time?”

  “I wasn’t sure I’d need him. He was backup in case Mitchell couldn’t get away. But Mitchell is a man of rare talents, and his word is golden. Even though Sutherland was late, I’m glad he finally arrived.”

  “Your plan had flaws. You could have died. Why did you take the chance?”

  He paused. “I let you down once. I needed to show you I am not a coward and am worthy of your trust.”

  “What?” She moved back to see his face.

  “I knew Slade was unpredictable. He might have shot me for the fun of it. Perhaps I was also proving something to myself.”

  She nestled back beneath his arm. “I do trust you, but promise me you’ll never do anything so foolish again.”

  “I promise. What of you? How did you find the courage to fire that shot?”

  Because I love you. If you had died, I would have died, too.

  She couldn’t tell him that. He’d just affirmed they would be getting the annulment. She shouldn’t even be in this room.

  Taking a deep breath, she launched into her story. The suppressed memories, the long-ago Indian attack, the bodies, the blood . . . her mother, who’d died covering her so she wouldn’t be killed.

  “For years I believed the story of her death in childbed. I’m sure Sorina has heard it. Because I had no memory of the attack, my father must have decided it best never to reveal the truth.”

  “And that’s why you could never stand the sight of blood but didn’t know why.”

  “I thought it just an irrational fear, like some women are afraid of spiders or mice.”

  Gabriel’s arm tightened around her. “But you didn’t know any of that until after you fired the shot. What made you do it?”

  He was persistent. Did he want her to humiliate herself by confessing her love? She would not. She had to preserve her dignity. She chose to jest.

  “Because you told me to, and women of my class are taught to always obey their husbands.”

  Gabriel laughed. “Is that so? Let’s put it to the test.

  Obedient wife . . . I have a command.”

  “Yes, oh yes, señor, anything, señor,” she said in a high, unnatural voice, stifling a laugh. What would it be? One of cook’s sweets from the kitchen? A glass of brandy?

  “Take off your clothes.”

  Chapter 29

  She stilled.

  Was he jesting, or was he serious?

  “What are you waiting for, querida? I have given you a command.” He spoke softly, his voice washing over her like a waft of cool air.

  Heat pooled between her thighs.

  Her hand smoothed the covers over his stomach, questing downward until it rested on a hard ridge. She rubbed her palm back and forth, enjoying his sudden tension, his soft groan.

  She edged from beneath his arm and stood beside the bed.

  His eyes followed her as she removed her robe and unbuttoned her gown, letting them slide to the floor.

  His good arm reached toward her.

  “Mind your wound . . .”

  She stepped back and allowed his gaze to rest on each body part revealed. A strange power surged through her. She ran her hands over her body slowly, cupping her breasts and smoothing her hands over her hips.

  She heard him gasp and looked up to see his eyes following her hands as she pressed against the curls at the juncture of her thighs.

  “Is this what you want, Gabriel?”

  His jaw was slack, and he licked his lips. “I’m dying, querida. You know I cannot perform at the moment.”

  “But you want me, don’t you, Gabriel?” She stroked herself while he watched, surprised at the surge of moisture that met her fingers, and the pleasure it gave her to watch his discomfort.

  The lazy grin was back, along with a devilish glint in his eyes. “You know I cannot make love to you, but you can make love to me.”

  Uncertainty stopped her. Could she make love to a man? The bigger question was, should she? He had reasserted his intention to annul the marriage.

  This could be our last time together.

  She wanted it more than anything in the world.

  “Are you cold, querida? There’s a garment in the bottom of the closet, wrapped in a towel. It is a wedding gift. Put it on. I had intended to give it to you when we first arrived here, along with a note. Alas the note has disappeared, but the sentiment remains.”

  She remembered the gown that, in her jealousy, she had believed belonged to the lover whose violet water scent had saturated his clothes several days ago.

  She found the garment of diaphanous red silk and slid it over her head. Sewn in the Empire style with tiny sleeves and a bodice that barely covered her breasts, Isabella felt like a courtesan, and oddly enjoyed the feeling.

  Unbraiding her hair, she shook it out and turned to face Gabriel. She heard his indrawn breath and saw the burning desire in his eyes.

  “Where did you get this, a brothel?” she asked as she drifted back across the
room to the bed.

  “No. I discovered it while eavesdropping on a conversation through a thin wall. I was concealed in a dressmaker’s shop. This just, er, fell into my hands.”

  She moved slowly across the room and stood next to the bed.

  “You are breathtaking, querida.” He focused on her face, as if trying to read her expression, as if trying to determine what she would do next. The nature of their relationship made second-guessing difficult. He might worry that she would suddenly laugh, put on her discarded garments, and leave . . . making a sharp retort as she did.

  Or she could do this.

  She pulled back the covers and climbed onto the bed on her knees, settling herself on top of him, straddling his naked hips. Slowly sitting down, she felt his cock twitch under her sex, and she fidgeted until the solid ridge was nestled between her thighs.

  The hard planes of his chest were smooth under her fingers.

  “You’re torturing me, Bella.”

  He started to reach up with both arms but winced.

  “Lie still, Gabriel. Let me do this.”

  She rose slightly and leaned forward, skimming her hands up his chest to cup his face. He braced himself with his good arm and met her, their lips touching in a searing kiss, their tongues twining. Then she straightened and pushed him back against the pillow to rest her hands on either side of his face.

  One breast escaped her bodice, and he leaned up to take the nipple between his lips, sucking gently. Reaching with his free arm, he held her breast to better lave the puckered nipple, and then turned his attention to the other breast.

  Warmth like molten honey pooled in her core.

  She sat straight and adjusted her legs. He groaned as she reached between their bodies and stroked him until he bucked. Perhaps it was wrong, but she couldn’t help herself. She wanted him inside her.

  Rising slightly, she positioned him at her entrance. Slowly she sat down, letting her moist folds tighten around him.

  “Oh God, Bella.”

  He moved, and she let him, matching her cadence to his, riding him like she might a bronco fresh from the wilds. Her breasts jiggled with every thrust, and the feeling of power was like no other.

  She bent forward slightly, so the nub at her entrance would receive the attention it craved as it joined in their sultry dance. She rubbed her breasts against his chest, heightening the sensations.

  Tension built in her as her undulations became more frenzied. She was on fire, and her sensitive womb was inching toward a climax as she reached and reached, tightened and tightened, until she clenched and let dizzying pleasure wash over her in sweet waves, while Gabriel gasped and pressed her hips down with his good hand.

  A flood of warmth melded with her own, and she fell on his body, stretching out her legs, her head on his chest. His arm tightened around her, and he whispered in her ear, but didn’t say what she longed to hear.

  “You surprised me, querida. I didn’t think you’d do it.”

  The words rising from her heart died. She moved away and lay down beside him.

  His breathing was hard, and there was a slight dampness to his skin, so she would lie here for a moment and then leave him to his rest.

  “Go to sleep, Gabriel. You should not be engaging in strenuous activity until you are completely healed.”

  “Strenuous? All I did was lie here. You did the rest.”

  No sharp response came to her mind. She was sated and sleepy, but soon she would get up and go to her room.

  She needed to think. As long as Gabriel was in this house, she would not be able to resist him. Her body was stirring again even as she lay here, his warmth seeping into her side, her core tightening as she thought about the sweet pleasure she’d taken from him . . . dangerous pleasure.

  “Querida? Are you asleep?”

  She wriggled out from under his arm and sat up. Throwing her legs over the side of the bed, she sat for a moment, then stood and found her robe.

  “You’re leaving me?”

  “You need your sleep, and I am in need of a bath.”

  He started to get up, but she pushed him back. Tossing him a cloth from the table next to him, she exited the room through the veranda door.

  ~ ~ ~

  Gabriel would never understand women. It was his first thought as he opened his eyes to the bright morning sun the next day.

  When his wife had stood in front of him pleasuring herself last night, he thought he’d lose his mind. Then she’d put on the gown. He’d dreamed of her in that gown, dreamed of kissing her all over through the soft cloth, heightening her pleasure as the silky fabric caressed her body. When he’d asked her to disrobe, he’d expected her to laugh. When he’d asked her to make love to him, he’d expected refusal.

  She’d done neither.

  She was a man’s dream come true. He didn’t want to lose her.

  But it wasn’t just the sex. He loved her intelligence and her sharp rejoinders. He loved the way her smile reached all the way to her eyes when she laughed, and the tears she shed when one of the kitchen cats died. Most of all, he loved her optimism and faith in the future. And he secretly enjoyed those times when she leaned on him, making him feel like the most important man in her world.

  Last night she’d reasserted her independence when she’d left his bed. Years ago, when they’d first became lovers, she’d enjoyed the snuggling afterward, which often led to a reawakening of their need and an even more fulfilling romp. This time had been different, but he wasn’t sure why.

  Perhaps she is afraid there will be a child.

  Pregnancy was a constant concern for women of their class. In their past affair, he had hoped for a child because Isabella was young and healthy and her father would have been forced to allow the marriage. It had not happened. Now she was a respectable widow with a not-too-respectable husband. If there was a child this time, they would stay married.

  But she didn’t want the marriage even though she enjoyed the sex. It wouldn’t surprise him if, in spite of her conscience, she asked for the annulment immediately since there was no longer a threat to her or her property.

  Getting up, he washed as best he could and put on a pair of loose pants. His arm sometimes throbbed, but he was no longer weak.

  Hunger drove him downstairs and into the dining room. Perhaps she would join him. They needed to talk.

  She hadn’t yet come downstairs. He filled his plate with fresh empanadas and poured a cup of coffee. The flaky meat pies could be eaten with his fingers, and he wolfed down three before he heard the rustle of a gown and Isabella appeared. She was the picture of ladylike perfection in a high-necked gown the color of the poppies in the yard.

  Breezing in, she filled a plate and sat across from him. “How are you feeling today?”

  “Much better. There’s nothing like a good ride to relax you and clear your mind.”

  Color stained her cheeks. Good. She was remembering.

  “And you?”

  “I slept soundly, but I find riding is a bit too vigorous an occupation for me. I believe I prefer calmer pursuits.”

  “Ouch.”

  She raised her eyebrows, daring him to argue. He smirked as he sipped his coffee. She was sharp this morning, his Isabella.

  They ate in silence, interrupted only by a servant who brought in more food. When they finished, Isabella rose, and he followed her into the study.

  “Will you be returning to Los Angeles soon?” She sat in an overstuffed leather chair, her hands primly folded in her lap.

  “Now why would I be making that journey again? I have seen enough of the pueblo. American justice is swift, but it will still take time to bring the miscreants to trial. My testimony won’t be needed for a few weeks. You, querida, are completely absolved. You saved my life in
front of witnesses.”

  She fidgeted with the skirt of her dress. “I mean . . . the annulment. You will want to get that as soon as you can, won’t you? So you can get on with your life? After last night, I will have to lie to the priest. But there is always confession, and I am prepared to do penance.”

  A casual retort formed in his brain, but he sensed it was time to be serious. He pulled up a chair, turned it, and straddled it, resting his good arm on top. “I know you’re anxious to be rid of me, to have the running of your ranch back in your own hands, and without your servants and vaqueros deferring to me. But you suffered some losses, and I want to help you get through these difficulties until your storehouse is filled again.”

  “But that could take a year.”

  “Yes. It could.”

  She left the table and wandered over to the sideboard. Her back was rigid. Her hand shook as she aimlessly picked up a spoon. “I can’t have you here. As much as I want it. You are . . . a distraction.” Her voice shook, and he cocked his head, not sure he understood her meaning. A distraction?

  He joined her at the sideboard and turned her to face him. “What are you talking about? You don’t like my conversation? You don’t like my ideas? I have let you make all the decisions about this property. I promised you I would. I keep my promises.”

  “Yes, you do, and that’s the problem.”

  What was the woman talking about? She wanted to be the one in charge, and she was. He’d told her from the beginning that he wouldn’t interfere. The marriage would be temporary, just until the danger was past. And it would be.

  Because he’d vowed to keep this promise. Not because he wanted to end the marriage. Christ, he loved this woman. He wanted to share his life with her. He stared into her face and saw her eyes bright with unshed tears.

  “What is it, querida? Tell me.”

  She swallowed and took a deep breath. “You also promised me pleasures.”

  “And did I not keep that promise as well?”