Tears of the Renegade

by Linda Howard

  She thundered across the old bridge over Jubilee Creek, and the car fishtailed when she slung it around the long, sweeping curve of the incline going up to the gentle rise where the cabin sat. A bright red Blazer with enormous tires was parked at the front steps, and she pulled up behind it, scattering rocks and dust. Before the wheels had stopped rolling, she had the door open and was out of the car, bounding up the steps in a very unladylike manner. She had pounded on the door twice with her fist when a piercing whistle reached her ears, and she spun around. Cord was standing down at the creek, about a hundred yards away. He lifted his arm, beckoning her to come to him, and she was in too much of a hurry to use the steps; she jumped off the end of the porch and headed down the slope at a fast walk.

  He went back to work, his powerful arms swinging a sling-blade with easy rhythm, sending showers of rioting greenery flying into the air as he sliced through a section of heavy over-growth. Her pace slowed as she approached, and when she reached him she stood to one side, well out of the way of the slicing blade. He stopped after a moment, leaning on the handle and giving her an unreadable glance, a little smile pulling at his lips. “The honeysuckle is out of hand,” he drawled, wiping his forearm across his sweaty face. “If we ever decide to conquer the world, all we have to do is ship out some cuttings of honeysuckle and kudzu, then wait a year. Everyone else would be so worn out from fighting the vines that we could just waltz in.”

  She smiled at the whimsy, but to Southern farmers, it wasn’t that much of an exaggeration. Now that she was standing before him, she couldn’t think of anything to say; for the moment, it was enough to simply be there, staring at him, drinking in the sight of his magnificent masculinity. He was glistening with sweat, his dark hair wet and stuck to his skull, and he’d twisted a white handkerchief into a band that he’d tied around his forehead to keep the sweat out of his eyes. His shirt had been discarded and was lying on the ground; his jeans were dirty. None of that mattered. He could have been wearing a tuxedo, and he wouldn’t have looked any better to her.

  When she didn’t say anything, he tilted his head in question, a devilish gleam entering his eyes. “Did you come here for a reason?”

  She swallowed, trying to conquer her voice. “Yes. I came to make you listen to me.”

  “I’m listening, honey, but you’re not saying much.”

  She searched for the perfect words to use, the ones that would make him believe her, but with a sinking heart she knew that there weren’t any. He was still watching her in amusement, lettering her squirm, and suddenly it was unbearable. She blurted out, “When Imogene asked me to spy on you, I refused, and she’s not used to anyone telling her no. Someone must have told her what happened last night, and she assumed that I’d changed my mind. I haven’t.”

  He laughed aloud and shook his head in amazement. “So what were you doing on that bed with me? My ego isn’t so big that I’ll fall for the line that you just have the hots for me. I know your reputation, lady, and it’s the straight and narrow all the way, as far as anyone knows. I have my doubts about Preston—”

  “Shut up!” she cried, knotting her hands into fists. “I’ve told you and told you—”

  “I know,” he interrupted wearily. “You haven’t slept with Preston.”

  “It’s the truth!”

  “He’s in love with you.”

  Startled by his perception, she admitted, “Yes. But I didn’t know until a few days ago. That doesn’t change anything. I’m very fond of Preston, but I’m not in love with him; there’s never been anything sexual between us.”

  “Okay, say there’s nothing between you,” he attacked sharply, changing positions. “That means there’s been no one in your life, romantically speaking, since Vance died, which makes it just that much more unlikely for you to suddenly take up with me. There has to be a reason.”

  Susan turned pale. “There is. When I met you, I realized that I’m not dead. I’ve mourned Vance for five years, but he’s never coming back, and I’m very much alive. You make me feel things again. I’m not like you; I’ve never been brave or adventurous, or taken a gamble on anything, but when I’m with you I feel just a little braver, a little more free. I want to be with you for me, not for Imogene or Preston or any amount of money.”

  His eyes had darkened as he listened to her, and now he stared at her for a long, taut moment, taking in the tension of her slim figure, the almost desperate earnestness in her eyes, eyes of such a dark blue that they looked like the deep Pacific. Finally he untied the handkerchief from his forehead and began using the square of cloth to wipe the rivulets of sweat from his face and arms, then rubbing it across his chest. He was silent for so long that Susan could bear it no longer, and she grabbed his arm. “It’s very simple,” she said desperately. “All you have to do is not tell me anything! Since you’re forewarned, how can I possibly find out anything? How can I possibly be using you?”

  He sighed, shaking his head. “Susan,” he finally said, his voice so gentle that she shivered at the sound of it, “you said it yourself: We’re nothing alike. I’ve lived a hard life, and it hasn’t always been on the right side of the law. You look as if you’ve been carried around all of your life on a satin pillow. If you think you want pretty words and pretty flowers and hand-holding in the moonlight, you’d better find some other man. I’m not satisfied with hand-holding.”

  She shivered again, and her lashes drooped to veil her eyes in a sultry, passion-laden manner. “I know,” she whispered.

  “Do you?” He moved closer to her, so close that the heady scent of his hot, sweaty body enveloped her, tantalizing her senses. “Do you really know what you’re asking for?” His hands closed on her waist, his fingers biting into her soft flesh. “I’m not much on genteel gropings in the dark, on schedule every Saturday night. I’m a lot rawer than that, and a lot hungrier. I want to take your clothes off and taste you all over,” he rasped, hauling her close to him so that their bodies touched. A fire alarm of pleasure began clanging inside her, and she let herself flow up against him like a tide rushing to shore. “I want to take your nipples in my mouth and suck them until they’re hard and aching for more. I want to feel your legs wrapped around my back, and I want to go so deeply into you that I can’t tell where I stop and you begin. That’s what I want right now, and what I’ve wanted every time I’ve seen you. And if that’s not what you want, too, you’d better run, because you’re about to get it.”

  Susan sighed in delirium. Her body was alive, aching, throbbing, wanting to do those things he’d described, and more. She wanted to give her heart to him, and with it, the soft, burning ardor of her body. She couldn’t give him the words; she sensed that he didn’t want love, that he’d feel burdened if she admitted that she loved him, so she would bite the words back and instead content herself with the offering of her body.

  “I’m not running,” she said into the damp refuge of his neck.

  “Maybe you should,” he said roughly, releasing her. “But it’s too late for that. You had your chance, honey. My sense of honor doesn’t go that deep!” He leaned down and lifted her into his arms, his brawny back and shoulders taking her slight weight easily. He began walking up the slope with a determined stride, and when Susan dared to slant a quick look up at his face, she quivered at the fierceness of his expression. The thought of the risk she was about to take in giving herself to him made her feel faint with apprehension, and she turned her face into his warm shoulder. Only one man had made love to her in her life, and that with love, with deep tenderness. Cord didn’t trust her; he would take her in lust but not in love, and she didn’t know if she was strong enough to handle that. On the other hand, she knew beyond doubt that she had to try to reach him, that she had to try to show him with the gentle offering of herself that she wasn’t a treacherous or mercenary person. She had to show him what love was, because he’d never known it.

  Her sheltered life had not prepared her for this, but neither had it prepared her for
the reality of her husband dying in her arms, with his blood soaking through her clothing. Since Vance’s death, she had held a small part of herself sealed off from the world, protected against hurt, allowing even those closest to her only the shallowest portion of her love. The seal had remained intact until she’d met Cord. He had awakened her to a deeper knowledge of herself, an awareness that she wasn’t such a creature of convention as she’d always thought. She wasn’t as wild as Cord, as free, nor had she ever been a gambler, but she was willing to take a chance that she could make him care for her. She had to take that chance. There were many things she didn’t know about him, but that made no difference to the essence of her, the combined power of heart and soul and body, which had recognized him on sight as the mate of her lifetime, the one man who could mean more to her than anyone else could even begin to imagine. She had loved Vance, loved him deeply, and yet that emotion now seemed as mild when compared to the way she felt about Cord as a light spring shower compared to the thunder and fury of a towering electrical storm. She would gladly follow this man anywhere on earth that he wanted to go, because there was no physical discomfort that could rival the hell she would endure if deprived of his presence.

  His long legs ate up the distance as he moved up the slope, showing no sign that her weight in his arms was hampering him in the slightest. He leaped up the steps and shouldered the cabin door open, then turned sideways to enter with her. His boot heel collided with the door and sent it slamming back to the frame. He carried her straight through to the bedroom and set her on her feet, his narrowed eyes on her pale, strained face. A cool, cynical smile touched his face as he dropped to the bed and sprawled on its surface, dragging a pillow over to crumple it into a ball which he placed behind his dark head. He crossed his booted feet and let his gaze rake over her. “All right,” he drawled. “Strip.”

  Susan put out a hand to steady herself as she swayed. The room was dipping crazily, and a sudden roaring in her ears made her think that she might not have heard him correctly. “What?” she asked soundlessly, then swallowed and tried it again. The second time, her voice was a weak croak.

  In an insultingly casual manner, he eyed her breasts. “Strip. Take your clothes off. Since you’re so all-fired anxious to try me out in the sack, I’m giving you the chance. You may have been planning on a quick flip of your skirt, but what I have in mind will take longer than that.”

  He didn’t think she’d do it. She suddenly realized that as she stood there trying to regulate her breathing. He hadn’t believed anything she’d said. He probably thought that all he had to do was push her a little and she’d run crying back to Preston. What had made him so wary that he couldn’t trust anyone?

  Slowly, with trembling fingers, she reached behind herself and tried to grasp the zipper of her dress. She found the tiny tab, but couldn’t manage to hold it. After it slipped out of her jerky fingers for the third time, she took a deep breath and let her arms drop, turning her back to him and sitting down on the edge of the bed beside him. “I can’t manage my zipper,” she said thinly. “Would you do it for me, please?” For a long, silent moment, he didn’t move, and she felt his eyes boring into her back. Then the mattress shifted, and he touched the zipper. Slowly, like thickened molasses, the zipper moved down, and her dress loosened. When he released the tab, she stood up before she lost her nerve and turned to face him again.

  His face was expressionless, his black lashes dropping to shield anything his eyes might have told her. An insidious quiver began in her legs and spread upward, turning her insides to jelly. She stepped out of her sandals and caught the straps of her sundress, dropping them off her shoulders and pulling her arms out of them. The cloth dropped to her waist, baring her breasts. She hadn’t worn a bra with her little-nothing dress, and a fragrant spring breeze wafted in the open window, touching the pale brown of her small nipples and puckering them into soft, succulent buds. Though Cord hadn’t moved, she sensed the tension that pervaded every muscle of his body. Still his eyes were veiled, but she felt them on her, visually touching the creamy slopes that she offered to him. Her breasts were high and firm, deliciously rounded, and she was suddenly, fiercely glad that her woman’s body could entice him.

  Deep inside her, welling up from the bottomless reservoir of her love, was the inborn need to belong to him. She was woman, and he was man. She was his woman, in any way he wanted her, if only he’d take her. There was nothing else as important to her as the time she had with him; that time might be fleeting, and she would have to carefully garner every precious second of it. Circumstances might separate them, or he might leave without notice, his restless spirit leading him on. He’d spent too many years wandering the dark corners of the earth to ever completely settle in one place. For whatever time she had with him, she would take each day as it came, enjoy it totally, as if that were all there was, all there would ever be. She couldn’t set a limit on how much of herself she would give to him. She had to give him everything, every ounce of her love.

  With precise, graceful movements she pushed the dress down over her hips and dropped it into a billowy puddle around her feet. She stepped out of it, her body completely bare to him now except for her lacy panties, letting him see her sleek, shapely legs, her flat tummy and rounded hips, the graceful curve of her waist. She stood motionless before him, letting him look all he wanted, sensing the coiling need that was beginning to throb through his body.

  If time still existed, she wasn’t aware of it. It could have been seconds or minutes that she stood there, waiting, hearing nothing but the cheerful songs of the birds in the trees outside the window, the drone of insects. When he didn’t move, she slid her fingers inside the waistband of her panties and began sliding them down over her hips, baring the final mystery of her womanhood. Her heart was slamming so wildly in her chest that her ribs hurt. What if he didn’t do anything? What if he just lay there and looked, then got up and walked out? She thought she’d die on the spot if that happened. Taking a deep, wavering breath, she pushed the panties down her thighs and dropped them to the floor.

  Perhaps he hadn’t meant for her to realize his reaction, but she heard the audible intake of his breath, and that gave her the courage to continue standing there before him, vulnerable in a way only another woman could understand. By offering herself this way she was exhibiting a deep, enormous trust in him as a human being, taking it on faith that even though he possessed the strength to hurt her badly, if he were cruel or careless, he would instead treat her tender flesh and heart with the care they deserved. She stood motionless in the bright morning sun, yet she was a statue with warm, supple skin, and the coursing warmth of her life’s blood gave her a faint, rosy glow. Her eyes were deep pools of midnight-blue, beckoning him, enticing him to enter the world of sensuality and love that was waiting for him.

  He was still stretched out on the bed, but every muscle in his body was taut, the tight fabric of his jeans doing more to outline his arousal than conceal it. Burning color had flared on his high, chiseled cheekbones, and his tongue edged along his lower lip in an unconscious move, as if he were already tasting her sweetness. Finally he began to move, sitting up in slow motion, his eyes never leaving her body, glittering hotly as he explored every inch of her with visual hunger. He reached down to take off his boots and socks, tossing them to the side, where the boots landed with muffled thuds. Then he stood, unfolding his tall frame to tower over her. All moisture left her mouth. Without her shoes, she was suddenly aware of the differences in their sizes, their strength, the very shape and texture of their bodies. He was male, powerful and aggressive. She was completely feminine, soft and satiny, yet capable of taking all of his aggression and power and turning it into an expression of love. She hoped, oh, how she hoped!

  His lean hands were pulling at his belt buckle, releasing it and stripping the belt free of his pants with one firm tug. When he moved to unsnap his jeans, Susan came to life and reached out to cover his hands with hers. “Let me,�
� she whispered. His arms fell to his sides, and he sucked in another deep, shuddering breath.

  Slowly, drawing the time and the moment out, she released the snap and slid down the zipper, her tender hands moving inside the opened garment to trace his hipbones, explore the tight little cavity of his navel, then move around to palm the hard, taut roundness of his buttocks. Gently she ran her hands down his thighs, taking the jeans with her, delighted as she realized that he wore no underwear. When the jeans were below his knees, he moved suddenly, as if his patience had abruptly worn out. He stepped out of the entangling denim and kicked it away, seizing her simultaneously and falling back on the bed with her in his arms, cradling her against his chest.

  Like a willing sacrifice on his sensual altar, she entwined her arms around his muscled neck and lifted her lips to his, her body writhing against him in a slow, delicate dance. His mouth closed over hers with hard, fierce possession, and he pulled her more fully onto him, mingling his legs with hers as he mingled his breath with hers, his tongue with hers, his taste with hers. The tartness of desire lay like a heady wine on his lips, and she sipped it eagerly. She was alive, soaring, her entire existence focused on him and exulting in the intensity of her being. She trembled in his arms, her entire body quaking.

  He released her mouth to slide his lips like a burning brand along the curve of her jaw, then down the soft column of her neck. As if he’d discovered a rare treasure, he pressed his face into the tender hollow of her shoulder. His tongue darted out and tasted her, and Susan shivered in blind delight, her fingers lacing into his hair and pressing him to her.

  “My God,” he muttered thickly, nipping at her flesh with his sharp white teeth, leaving little stinging points of sensation that stopped short of pain and instead raised her internal temperature by several degrees. “You make me crazy. Sometimes I think I’d kill to get to you, even knowing that Preston has had you.”