by Amy Sandas
He continued to move in and out of her body, and the velvety friction prolonged her pleasure, sending wave after wave, ripple after ripple of delight outward from where they were joined. She loved the soft, guttural sounds that began to emerge from his throat and the strength in his arms wrapped around her. She loved the heavy beat of his heart against her breast and the warmth of his breath across her skin.
She loved the power and the tenderness that rushed through her. And the beauty inherent in being so vulnerable and yet trusting him implicitly.
She loved the sense of connection that told her he was nearing his own release.
A low sound was dragged from his throat a moment before he stiffened and pulled out of her. As he pulsed against her belly, spilling his seed, he pressed his open mouth to the soft skin below her ear.
She kept her arms wrapped tightly around him. Her breath slowed and her body softened. Part of her feared he would draw away too soon, before she was ready to give up the lovely weight of his body covering hers.
When he did start to shift his weight, she squeezed her legs around his hips. “Don’t.”
Braced on his elbows, he looked down at her.
She observed two things in his otherwise unreadable expression. One, that the hunger had not been completely erased from his gaze. It still crouched there in the steel-like depths, behind the flecks of black and silver. And two, his scowl had returned, tugging down at his brows and pressing his lips into a firm line.
That frown disappointed her.
She would have commented on it, but he dipped his head to press a hot kiss to her lips. It was full of the passion she’d come to expect from his kisses, but it was different now in the aftermath. More languid. More of a drawing out as he delved into her mouth with his tongue, his teeth sliding along her bottom lip before he sucked it briefly into his mouth in a way that had her toes curling.
But then he lifted his head and shifted to her side. Using a corner of the bedsheet, he wiped the remnants of his release from their bodies. When he finished, he rolled away to sit at the edge of the bed with his feet on the floor.
“Where are you going?” she asked, regretting the thickness that caught in her throat.
“Nowhere,” he answered as he pressed his hand to his injured shoulder and rolled his arm in a slow circle.
“Your shoulder,” she noted. “Does it hurt?”
“A bit.”
Guilt washed through her. She had totally forgotten about his injury. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“I didn’t realize how sore it was until a second ago.” Glancing back over his shoulder, he added with a tiny quirk of his lips, “I was distracted.”
Alexandra warmed. “Let me take a look.”
She scooted around him to kneel at his injured side. After lifting her hands to collect her hair and drop it down her back, she reached for his bandages.
It took some effort to keep from glancing down at his nude body as he sat there, exuding such a wealth of masculine beauty and power, even in the casual pose.
Focusing on his shoulder, she was surprised to find the wound itself looking quite good. There were no new signs of infection, and the skin had started to pucker around the edges as the damaged flesh repaired itself.
“You are healing very fast,” she noted.
“It’s the muscle beneath that’s not what it should be.”
She pressed her fingers into the muscle surrounding the wound. Starting in small, gentle circles, she tried to smooth out the tight bulges and taut ropes beneath his skin. After a little while, she noticed his head falling forward and his spine curving softly.
She worked her hands down the long sweep of his back and over the curve of his shoulder to the muscles of his arm and pectoral—applying varying pressure, depending on the tension she felt beneath her searching fingers. Just as her hands began to cramp from the effort, he caught her fingers in his and brought them to his lips. “Thank you,” he murmured against her palm.
“Give it time,” she said softly. “Your strength will return.”
Lifting his gaze to look intently into her eyes, he replied, “As soon as I can draw and shoot my gun with enough effectiveness to keep us safe, we move on.” His tone was low and far too heavy in the aftermath of the intimacy they’d shared.
She knew what he was saying: that they had a limited time together before they’d have to rejoin the rest of the world. Her stomach clenched, and her gaze lowered beneath his stare. She wanted to argue that there was no rush. That they could stay there together, isolated and alone, until everything else ceased to matter.
But it did matter. He would never go back on his vow to avenge his brother’s murder.
And she could not ask him to do so.
The need for justice was as much a part of him as his stern nobility and the long-buried tenderness he denied possessing.
“Alex…”
When he didn’t continue, she lifted her chin at a jaunty angle and flashed him a smile that she hoped didn’t appear too forced. “I suppose I’d better feed you then. My father always used to say ‘a man needs meat to conquer the day.’ I will go check the snares.”
“I can do that,” he said.
“I do not mind,” she replied as she slipped her feet to the floor and rose from the bed.
He caught her wrist before she could step away, and she stopped to look down at him. His frown had deepened into an expression of earnest concern. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Alexandra blushed as she realized he was referring to her lost virginity.
In truth, she felt sore but in a wonderful way. The more she thought of what they’d just done together, the more she wanted to do it again. Her skin warmed, and her body pulsed with renewed desire. “Quite wonderful, actually,” she replied, refusing to be shy about it.
“Did I hurt you?”
She could see the concern hovering like a cloud over his features. “No, Malcolm, you didn’t.” Bending forward, she pressed her lips to his, then flicked her tongue playfully against the firm line of his lips until she felt his tension ease and he started to kiss her back. Before she lost herself again, she stepped away. Meeting his beautiful gaze, she whispered, “I am tougher than I look.”
And she hoped it was true, because even though her body felt alive and liberated and more capable than ever, her heart seemed to be developing a tenderness that could prove to be a problem.
Thirty-Four
As soon as Alex left the cabin, Malcolm rose from the bed and dressed. His movements were awkward and rushed with the need still coursing through him. He’d slaked the lust of his body, but he didn’t feel satiated. He felt invigorated. Virile. Hungry. And honest-to-God scared.
Because with Alex, everything was different.
She was capable, smart, and so damn beautiful. Especially when her temper was up. Her passion and fire matched something in him. Coming together with her had been unlike any coupling he’d ever experienced. Intense and fiery. He’d never been so consumed by desire that he became completely lost in a woman.
He’d willingly lose himself in Alex anytime she wanted, because amid all the heat, being with her felt like home. There was a comfort and ease to be found in her arms. And that is what scared him.
The ache in his shoulder was nothing compared to the ache in his chest as he acknowledged that there was no going back from where they had ventured together. Becoming lovers would make it all the more difficult to part when they reached Montana.
But they would part ways. That much was fact.
They needed to head out as soon as possible. As soon as he was capable of keeping them both alive. He’d get Alex safely to Montana, then he’d finish this thing with Dunstan once and for all.
He could have no future until the past was avenged.
After dressing, he strapped on his
gun and stepped outside. He needed to get to work on restoring the full strength and capability of his gun hand.
Shaking his hands to loosen the tension in them, he eyed up an imaginary target at the tree line.
Malcolm spent more than an hour practicing his draw.
His hand felt confident and sure over the pistol grip every time he pulled the gun from the holster, but he had no speed in the draw, no fluidity of movement. He was awkward and deliberate as he tried to compensate for the weakness in his shoulder.
When his injury started to throb from the effort, he switched to drawing with his left hand, but it was going to take more work than they had time for to bring his left hand to the level of dexterity and accuracy he needed. He’d have to find a safe place away from the cabin to set up some targets. The only way to practice was to shoot.
* * *
Alexandra returned from her snares with two good-sized squirrels. Looking forward to the meal they’d share that night…and what might come after, she was smiling as she stepped into the clearing around the cabin. Her gaze found Malcolm immediately.
He stood down near the creek in his denim pants, shirt open at the throat and rolled at the sleeves, his leather vest, and that hat he always wore to block the rays of the sun and keep his features in shadow. His stance was relaxed and ready as he focused on some point in the distance.
As she watched, he went for his holstered Colt, drawing and aiming in one swift movement. He held the gun steady for several long minutes before returning it to his hip. She watched him repeat the motion several more times. He had a cross-draw, being that he holstered his gun on his left hip, handle forward, and drew with his right hand. The extra reach didn’t seem to slow him down at all. She had never seen anyone draw so fast.
But he was clearly not satisfied.
Even at a distance, Alexandra noted the scowl of concentration on his handsome features and the tension contained across his upper back. He was gaining strength and increasing the range of his movement every day, but his shoulder wasn’t ready for such vigorous work.
Not that he would accept her opinion on the subject.
Turning away, she set the squirrels beside the front door, then went around back to check on the horses. Leading them out to graze, she murmured a promise to give them each a good run the next day.
She lingered with the horses, feeling content, though she couldn’t help but acknowledge that her time with Malcolm was limited. When the sun started to descend and the sky drifted into shades of pink, peach, and gold, she returned the horses to their shelter, then walked back around to the front of the cabin.
Entering the small shelter, she was greeted by the scent of roasting meat. Malcolm sat at the table, preparing a pan of campfire biscuits.
“You are cooking.”
He tossed her a swift glance before he replied with a quirk of his mouth, “I assumed you didn’t intend to eat the creatures raw.”
“And more biscuits?” she asked, coming forward to peek into the pan filled with balls of dough.
“Yep, but it’s the last we’ll have.” He took the pan to the fire, settling it in amongst some coals he’d prepared off to the side. When he turned to look at her, something in his eyes gave her warning that she wouldn’t like what he was going to say next. “We’ll have to be ready to head out again within a few days’ time. Before we go, I need to know you’re willing and able to use that rifle.”
Alexandra stiffened, and her back teeth ground together.
Having a rifle within sight didn’t bother her nearly as much as having a pistol around, but that didn’t mean she had any intention of putting her hands on it. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary. I have my knife.”
His expression was almost menacing. “You want someone intent on harming you to get close enough for you to use your knife?”
No. She didn’t.
But neither did she want to carry a gun. “I’m sure there won’t be anything to worry about. I saw you practicing with your Colt earlier. You will protect us.”
“I’ll do my best. But that’s not always good enough. The men out there…the ones looking for me…” He paused before continuing. “They’re not good men, Alex. You’ll need to be able to defend yourself, in case I can’t. Starting tomorrow, you’re gonna do a little practice with that rifle.”
He wasn’t going to back down.
She glanced to where the weapon stood propped beside the door. Though the notion of holding any firearm made her distinctly uncomfortable, at least there wasn’t a wash of cold terror through her blood.
She didn’t realize Malcolm had come up behind her until he spoke in a low and even tone. “If not the rifle, maybe you’d prefer to carry my Colt. At least I know you can shoot it.”
“No!” She hadn’t intended to shout the word, but as soon as he suggested it, every muscle banded around her chest tightened, threatening to suffocate her. Tiny dots of light danced at the edges of her vision. The denial was as much an attempt at stopping her panicked reaction as it was to his suggestion.
He stepped around to face her, taking her shoulders firmly in his hands. The look he gave her was everything she wished to avoid. Curiosity, wariness, pity.
“Why does that terrify you?” he asked.
“It doesn’t,” she denied sharply.
“Liar.”
She felt more exposed and vulnerable beneath his unwavering regard than she had when she’d been sprawled out naked beneath him.
“Tell me what happened, Alex. Share the burden with me.”
God, how could she? She hadn’t described that scene since the minutes after it happened, when she’d run the rest of the way home, the scent of gunpowder and blood in her nostrils, the sound of a man moaning in agony shuddering through her head. Falling into her father’s arms, she’d stuttered and cried through the explanation of what had occurred, unsure if she made any sense beyond the phrase that kept repeating in her head and on her trembling lips: I killed him. I killed him.
“You don’t need to carry the memory all on your own,” he urged gently.
Taking a deep breath, then another, she looked down at her hands, which were clenched into tight fists pressed against her stomach. Then she lifted her gaze to Malcolm’s fierce, harsh-featured face and his sharp, intense eyes.
She started slowly. “I had gone to town on some errand—I cannot remember what anymore—on a walk I’d made a hundred times. Only a few miles in full daylight. I always passed by people we knew—friends and neighbors. I’d give a wave, a smile, a quick how-do-you-do before continuing on my way. But this day was different.”
She paused.
“I’d turned fifteen only a few months before, and my father had gifted me with a special modified Colt pistol. It was smaller than yours, quite a bit smaller, with a mother-of-pearl handle and a holster made specifically to fit me. I wore that gun everywhere. I was so proud to be given such a gift. I felt grown and capable and independent. Apparently, the two men I encountered that day saw something else.”
Malcolm’s expression tightened at her words. There was something about the sight of his fury on her behalf that angered her. She didn’t want him to feel some noble craving for justice. She didn’t need him to give any vow of vengeance for her. What she needed was a world where men did not think they could come upon a girl alone and take whatever they wanted.
“They laughed when I told them to stop following me,” she explained bitterly. “When they grabbed for me and I struggled, trying to smack their groping hands, they laughed even harder. And when they got me down on the ground—right there beside the road I’d walked so many times—and I didn’t stop fighting them, they got angry. A few hard slaps across the face ceased my frantic struggles. It also reminded me that I had a far better means of fighting them. While one held my legs and the other climbed over me, I drew my little Colt and fir
ed. Without a thought. Without hesitation.”
As she stopped to take some long breaths through her nose, she realized she couldn’t shake the haze of memory crowding in around her.
“I remember the blood the most,” she said softly. “The way it soaked into my dress before I managed to shove him off me and stagger to my feet. The other one had jumped back when the gun fired and stood staring at me like I was crazed. I remember thinking that odd. My gun had been on my hip the whole time, in plain view. Had they never considered I might use it?
“I lifted the barrel in his direction. I didn’t need to. He took off at a dead run. The one I’d shot—the one who’d claimed the right to rape me first—lay in the dirt at my feet, terror in his eyes as blood soaked his shirt, spreading so far across his chest that I couldn’t even tell where I’d hit him. Then he started making this wretched choking sound and started coughing up more blood.
“I ran. All the way back to my father. He told me to stay in the house and lock the doors while he rode out to where I’d left the man to die. He was gone for hours. I stripped off my blood-soaked clothes and burned them. I scrubbed myself with ice-cold water until my skin was chafed and bleeding. Then I sat in the chair and stared at my gun where I’d dropped it to the floor. I stared at it for hours, until the sun set and the fire died in the grate and the sun rose again the next morning. Until my father returned with a look on his face I’d never seen before. He told me to pack some things. We would be leaving within the hour. I didn’t realize I would be the only one boarding that train for Boston until he said goodbye on the platform and promised to bring me home once the trouble blew over.”
Alexandra blinked a few times, the corner of her mouth curling upward, though she felt no humor in her words. “I guess it never did.”
She purposely looked to where his gun belt had been slung over the back of the dining chair. The glint of cold metal sent a chill down the back of her neck, and her palms grew damp.
