by Anne Stuart
He stopped, so abruptly that she barreled into him. He absorbed the force of her body, casually, and she registered once more how very strong he was. And how she found that strength alarming.
“Can’t handle it, princess?”
His drawling tone shouldn’t have annoyed her. After all, he was mocking the person he thought she was. He didn’t know he was accusing Sister Mary Charles, a woman dedicated to poverty, chastity and obedience, of being a spoiled brat.
Nevertheless, the mockery rankled. “I can handle anything you can,” she snapped back. “But we happen to have a baby with us. Timothy needs to be fed, he needs to be changed and he needs to be unstrapped from this contraption for a few minutes.”
“I don’t hear him complaining.”
“That’s because he’s little enough that the rhythm of my footsteps is keeping him asleep. Sooner or later he’s going to wake up and make it very clear how fretful he can be. He’ll also probably leak through all the layers of clothing, and I don’t have that many changes of clothes. I don’t want to spend the day reeking of baby pee in this temperature.”
He turned to look down at her. “You sound pretty fretful yourself,” he observed with a faint smile. “Okay, we’ll rest. Half an hour, and no longer. We already got a much later start than I planned. You were the one who overslept.”
“You were the one who didn’t wake me,” she retorted instantly, and then stopped, appalled. What would Reverend Mother Ignacia say if she heard her? How many times would she have to remind herself of the vows she wanted to take? Hadn’t she learned docility, obedience, the simple shouldering of responsibility whether it was deserved or not?
But Reilly didn’t make her feel docile, or obedient, and she wasn’t about to take responsibility for his decisions. She was out in the world, among men, thrust there by the vagaries of fate. For as long as she remained she might as well give in to temptation and let her emotions run free. For the next few days she’d give herself permission to feel anger. Fear. Tenderness. For the next few days she would give herself permission to live.
“True enough,” he said, unmoved by what she considered to be a show of astonishing bad temper. He un-shouldered his backpack and dumped it on the thick jungle floor, then reached for hers.
She backed away, suddenly nervous, but his hands clasped down over her shoulders, holding her there. “Easy,” he said, his voice roughly reassuring. “I was just trying to help.”
She forced herself to be still, cradling the baby against her while he released the straps. The sudden relief as he lifted the pack from her shoulders was dizzying, and she swayed for a moment. Then he touched her again.
“Careful.” This time his hands were on her bare arms. Rough hands, the skin callused. The hands of a man who worked hard.
She didn’t stumble when he released her, but it took an enormous amount of effort not to. She sank down on the thick forest growth and released Timothy from the sling. He looked up at her out of sleepy blue eyes, opened his mouth in a yawn that swiftly turned into a mighty howl of fury.
“I know, precious, you’re hungry, you’re wet and you’re hot,” Carlie murmured. “Let me get these wet things off you and we’ll get you something to eat.” The soft clear sound of her voice stilled his rage for a moment, and he stared up at her as she deftly, efficiently stripped the tiny diaper from him, then fastened a new one. The convent had had a small supply of disposable diapers, and Carlie had crammed every last one of them in her backpack. She had no idea how long they’d last, but for the time being she had every intention of using them.
“How does that feel, little man?” she cooed, scooping him up. “Is it nice to have clean diapers and not be jiggled around all the time? Now just keep your temper for a few minutes while I make your bottle and…”
A bottle appeared in her line of vision—in Timothy’s limited line of vision as well, and he immediately voiced his noisy demand. She took the bottle, settled back with Timothy sucking noisily, then allowed herself a glance at Reilly.
“Thanks for getting the bottle,” she said.
“The sooner the kid gets fed the sooner we’ll get back on the trail,” he said, dismissing his actions.
Sweat was trickling down into Carlie’s eyes, and she blinked it back as she looked down at the baby lying in her arms. He’d gotten bigger, stronger in the past few weeks. He was getting ready to smile, to hold his tiny, wobbly head up, to face the world. And she wouldn’t be around to see those advances.
He made a squeaking sound of protest as her arms tightened around him involuntarily, and she immediately loosened her grip, feeling guilty. She couldn’t give this child what he needed. And he couldn’t give her what she needed. Even if it felt as if all she ever wanted lay wrapped up in his tiny body.
She glanced over at Reilly again. He’d thrown himself down on the mossy undergrowth, and he was busy searching through his pack. He had a kerchief tied around his forehead, his dark hair was pulled back and his khaki shirt was unbuttoned in deference to the wicked, soaking heat. She found herself staring at his chest, surreptitiously.
She hadn’t had much experience in looking at men’s chests, but she knew instinctively that this was a prime specimen.
His skin was smooth, muscled, dark with tan and sweat. He was lounging there, unconsciously graceful, as he tipped back a canteen of water, and she watched the rivulets escape the side of his mouth and drip down his strong, tanned neck. She licked her lips.
She should have known he wouldn’t miss that action. He rose, effortlessly, as if he hadn’t been trudging heavy-laden miles through the jungle, and held out the canteen for her.
She couldn’t take it from him without letting go of the bottle, and she knew very well just what the baby’s reaction would be to that. She considered refusing, but despite the liquid air her mouth and throat were parched.
He didn’t move, just waited. It was a challenge, she knew that instinctively, though she wasn’t quite sure what was behind it. Control? Or something even more unsettling?
He put the canteen against her mouth and she drank, deeply, tasting the metallic flavor of the canteen and the warm, chemically purified water. Tasting his mouth, one step removed from hers.
He took the canteen away from her when she’d finished, without a word. And then he squatted next to her, reached out and calmly fastened his spare bandanna around her forehead, brushing her hair back from her face.
Her eyes met his, reluctantly, and for a moment she sat there in the sultry heat as something strange and disturbing flashed between them. Something intimate, with his open shirt at eye level, the baby in her arms, the quiet all around them.
She needed to break that moment, and quickly. She didn’t understand it, and it frightened her. Or perhaps it was the fact that deep down she did understand it that was so terrifying. “Thanks,” she said, tossing her head in an arrogant manner she’d seen Caterina perfect.
He blinked. For a moment his dark eyes shuttered, and then he rose, surging upward as if he were desperate to get away from her. “We need to keep moving,” he said. “You want me to carry the baby for a while?”
“He’s my child,” she said instinctively. “I’ll carry him.”
Reilly shrugged. “Suit yourself. Let’s go.”
She started to protest, then glanced down to see that Timothy had fallen asleep in her arms, happily replete. She racked her brain for some way to delay, then gave up. The sooner they reached their destination, the sooner she could do something about her feet. Besides, hadn’t she spent the past nine years of her life hearing stories of the blessed martyrs? Men and women who’d endured far worse than sore feet for the sake of their faith.
She wasn’t doing this for her faith. But for the safety of a child, which was surely of equal value in God’s eyes.
She waited until Reilly’s back was turned before she rose, unsteadily. By the time he turned, instantly alert, she was composed, with Timothy settled back in the sling.
&nbs
p; Reilly had her pack in one hand, holding the monstrously heavy thing as if it weighed no more than a feather. She braced herself for the added burden, forcing herself to give him a cool, unmoved look.
He was almost impossible to fool. He took in her defiant expression, her no doubt bedraggled appearance, and a faint smile skimmed across his mouth before vanishing once again.
“I’ll carry your pack for a while,” he said, shouldering it effortlessly.
“You don’t need to baby me,” she said instantly.
“I’m not. I’m trying to maximize our speed. We’ll move faster if you aren’t dragging your feet.”
She could barely lift her feet, but by sheer force she kept her gaze on his face. “How much farther are we going?”
“Today? At least another ten miles. With this kind of brush that’ll take us the rest of the day. Think you can handle it, princess?”
“Why don’t you like me, Mr. Reilly?” she asked in a bewildered voice. “What have I ever done to you?”
“I don’t dislike you, lady. I don’t even have an opinion.”
“Now that’s a lie,” she said flatly. “You’ve got plenty of opinions, and you formed them long before you showed up at the Convent of Our Lady of Repose.”
“As I said, you’ve got a reputation.”
“And you believe in reputations?”
He surveyed her for a moment. “Tell you what, lady. I’ll forget about your reputation and judge you by your actions. Okay?”
“Judge me? What gives you any right to judge me?”
“It’s human nature.”
“That doesn’t make it commendable. And my name’s not lady. It’s Carlie.”
“Better than Mrs. Morrissey,” he agreed, and there was no missing the faint barb in his voice. “Okay, Carlie. Let’s get moving. I don’t want to have to stop again.”
“Tough,” she said flatly, like the sound of the word. “Timothy will need to be changed and fed.”
“And if we don’t stop?”
“I’ll let you carry him if he gets really soaking. And he’s got an amazing set of lungs. Unless you think we’re the only human beings in the jungle.”
His mouth thinned in irritation, and she knew she had him. “We’ll stop in two hours. No sooner.”
Years ago, when she’d been brought down from that mountain village where her parents and all the villagers had been slaughtered, she’d found herself able to lock her mind away in a dark, safe place, so that nothing could touch her. She brought that place up again as she walked, mile after miserable mile, keeping pace with Reilly’s fiendishly long legs. Timothy slept on, not even giving her the tiny respite another feeding would have afforded her, but she found she was grateful. If she stopped, and sat, she might never get up again.
It was growing steadily darker, some distant part of her brain told her, but she paid little heed. Until she was suddenly halted, and it took her a moment to realize that Reilly had turned and stopped her, his hands on her forearms.
She looked up at him, dazed, uncomprehending. “We’re stopping for the night,” he said harshly.
She blinked, then looked around her. There was no sign of a vehicle, no sign of civilization. Merely a sluggish stream winding its way through the undergrowth.
“Why?” she asked.
He’d already dumped both packs. His hands were gentle as they reached out and released the baby from the sling. Timothy was suddenly, furiously awake, but Carlie was beyond noticing. “Because you can’t make it any farther.”
From some place deep inside she managed to summon up a trace of indignation. “I can keep going….”
“Maybe. But you wouldn’t be going anywhere tomorrow. Enough of the early-Christian-martyr bit, Carlie. Take your damned shoes off.”
She would have thought she was too weary to react, but the reference stung. Could he read her mind as well? She was about to protest, but Reilly had already turned his back on her.
She walked straight into the shallow stream, shoes and all, then sat on the bank as pain made her dizzy. She could hear the baby’s noisy protests, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. Within a moment he’d stilled, and there was blessed silence, broken only by the quiet sound of the slow-moving water and the call of the jungle birds.
She lay back against the grass, groaning softly, staring up into the leafy canopy overhead. Every muscle in her body screamed in agony, and not even for Timothy’s sake could she rouse herself. She was never going to move again. She was going to lie here in the jungle, her feet in the water, and die. Reilly was a responsible man who knew his way around babies. He could get Timothy out of there. For now she was just going to drift….
HE STARED AT HER. She had long legs for such a little thing, and sun had penetrated the rain forest just enough to give her a faint dusting of color. She lay beside the river in an exhausted stupor, probably asleep.
It was just as well. He found her distracting when she was awake. Hell, he found her distracting when she was asleep, as well, but at least she wouldn’t be aware of it.
Timothy lay on his stomach on his discarded shirt, cooing happily enough, his diaper clean, his stomach full. They were going to need to get supplies before too long—their purified water wouldn’t last forever, and Timothy seemed to be going through the stash of disposable diapers at an impressive rate. Reilly worked swiftly, efficiently, setting up a protective tarp, laying out their bedrolls. He didn’t think Carlie was going to look with approval on the sleeping arrangements, but that was too damned bad. He had only one tarp, and the best way to keep the baby safe was to keep him surrounded by adults. Besides, Reilly was hardly going to jump her bones with a month-old infant as chaperon.
Besides which, she wouldn’t be ready to have her bones jumped for another few weeks, even if she looked as if she was pretty well recovered from childbirth. She was off-limits, for every reason he could think of. Now why couldn’t he remember that?
She wasn’t what he’d expected. He hadn’t had time to do his research before he took off for San Pablo. Things were in a crisis situation, as usual, and he couldn’t afford to wait even an extra twenty-four hours so he could know what he was getting into. All he could go on was stuff he’d picked up, mainly by osmosis, and what he knew of Billy’s taste in women.
None of it was to Carlie’s credit. And he was too old and too experienced to be suckered by an innocent face and a vulnerable air. She was about as vulnerable as one of Mendino’s black-shirted enforcers.
Still, she was pretty. Not drop-dead gorgeous, as Billy had assured him. Not stunning, not glamorous, not sophisticated. Pretty. He couldn’t remember when he’d last used the word.
It made him think of cottages in England. It made him think of spring flowers, and baby lambs, and all those stupid things that made up camera commercials.
But she was brave. She’d stood up to him, when he’d been doing his best to terrorize her. He figured his best chance was to make her so scared she’d do everything he told her to, without complaining. He could be extremely intimidating when he set his mind to it. But Carlie didn’t seem to be easily intimidated.
She was strong, uncomplaining. He knew she’d been in pain, but she hadn’t said a word. And she was a good mother. The way she looked at her little baby, cooed to him, forgave a lot of sins. She’d do what needed to be done, he felt it in his bones. Maybe he didn’t need to come down so hard on her.
He walked over to the stream. She was asleep, as he’d guessed, and her eyelashes lay against her cheeks. There was a faint flush of color in her face, but apart from that she was white and still. He looked down at her feet. And then he saw the blood.
He started to curse, rich, colorful invectives that could have turned the air blue, as he reached down under her armpits and hauled her out of the water. She hit at him, dazed and disoriented by the rude awakening, but he didn’t give a damn. He simply dumped her farther up on the riverbank, still cursing, and then knelt by her sodden, blood-stained feet.
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“Don’t you have more sense than that?” he demanded when his first string of curses had run out. “Piranhas are the least of your worries in this climate. You lie there, trolling your bloody feet like some goddamn fishing lure while you take a little nap….” His voice was savage as he gently, carefully pried off her sodden running shoes.
There was no way he could keep from hurting her, especially once he got a good look at how bad they were. But she didn’t say a word, simply clamped her teeth down on her full lower lip as he pulled the wet canvas and leather away from swollen feet.
“Whose shoes are these?” he demanded. “Don’t you know better than to take off into the jungle without the proper footgear?”
“Piranhas are greatly overestimated,” she said faintly. “They’re not nearly as dangerous—”
“They’re not nearly as dangerous as I’m feeling right now,” he interrupted ruthlessly.
“For your information, I don’t happen to have decent shoes with me,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting to go running through the jungle, and I didn’t have a chance to go shopping before I left La Mensa.”
“There hasn’t been anything to buy in La Mensa for the last year and a half, and you know it.” He sat back and looked at her feet. They were swollen, bloody, a complete mess. God only knew what kind of tropical diseases she’d picked up from the muddy water. He reached behind him for the backpack and the first-aid kit. “I’m going to have to hurt you.”
He expected a smart crack. She didn’t make one. She simply looked at him, out of those big innocent eyes that he couldn’t believe in, and waited.
He was fast, deft and careful. He’d done more than his share of field triage, and Carlie’s injuries, as nasty as they looked, weren’t life threatening, once he got them properly taken care of.
