Her head came up with a jerk, her eyes wide, unfocused, and frightened. "Wha—?"
He tried for a reassuring smile, but it was a gesture he'd nearly forgotten how to give. The vulnerability in her eyes had him feeling suddenly and irrationally protective. It seeped through him with a suddenness that made his heart begin to thud in his chest.
Swallowing heavily, he pointed to the pallet of blankets unfurled in the bed of pine branches ten feet away from his own bedroll. "I... uh, made up a bed for you."
"Oh... I—" She blinked and her gaze returned to him. Her hand went up to tame the burnished curls that haloed her face. "Thank you. I could have done that. But... I guess I fell asleep."
Creed didn't answer, but wrapped his hand in a bandanna and lifted the cooked trout away from the fire. "Hungry?"
"Not very," she replied, but the tantalizing aroma of the food reached her and she rolled her eyes. "Well, maybe I am a little hungry after all. It smells wonderful." She glanced sheepishly up at him. "I—I'm sorry I fell asleep. I told you I was going to make supper. I thought you said you couldn't cook."
He raised one dark eyebrow. "If that were true, I would have starved years ago. You become self-sufficient when you live alone." He untied the damp leather thongs that held the fish in place against the short cooking-plank. He slid one of the two three-pound fish onto a dented blue-metal plate, added a spoon and hunk of the sour-dough bread Hattie Lochrie had sent along, then held it out to her.
She looked up at him through a sweep of lashes, her expression strangely unguarded for once—perhaps, he reasoned, from exhaustion. Still, her searching gaze startled him, and an unasked question seemed to linger in her eyes.
Her fingers brushed his as she reached for the plate. Like a stroke of heat lightning, a half-memory flashed through his mind—as if this moment had passed between them before. More warning than memory, it staggered his pulse and brought moisture prickling to his palms. Yet, for a long heartbeat he didn't move his hand from hers, but held it there waiting. But for what?
A harsh sound escaped him as he released the plate. Was it insight he was waiting for? No, that wasn't part of the curse. He thought he'd become accustomed to that. Hell, until he'd met her, he'd become accustomed to a lot of things.
"Eat," he muttered more gruffly than he intended, turning his back to resume his seat across the fire. "Watch out for the bones."
Lifting the steaming fish gingerly in his hands, he nibbled away the meaty hump along the spine, then lifted out the bones in one clean piece.
The first bites only served to whet his appetite. Dieu, he was hungry. But when he looked up she was staring at his plate, her spoon poised uncertainly above her food.
He shoved the bite in his mouth. "Something wrong with your fish?"
"No, no," she answered quickly. She spooned a steaming bite into her mouth, sucked in a cooling breath and chewed thoughtfully, watching him. "I was just wondering... you're not married, are you Mr. Devereaux?"
He nearly choked. "Married? No. Why the hell would you ask a question like that?"
"Seth told me in one of his letters that many of the men out here take Indian women for wives because there are so few white women. I guess I just assumed you had one."
"Well, I don't," he said, tearing off another piece of fish with his teeth.
"How long have you lived alone?" she asked, still holding her spoon with that damned little pinky pointed up like some royal flag. He felt a flush creep up past his neck at the pitying way she was looking at him.
He let out a bark of laughter, but the sound held no humor. "Why? Because I eat with my hands? A barbarian, no?"
Shock erased her tentative smile. "No. That's not what I meant at all—"
He shrugged dismissively, as if she hadn't cut him. "As you say, cherie, I travel alone. You happen to be in possession of my only spoon." She glanced down at the dented piece of tin in her hand.
"Well, for heaven's—I didn't mean—"
"Even bounty hunters can manage utensils on occasion. Other times..." He dropped his attention to the fish in his hands and took a generous bite, grinning as the grease dripped down his chin.
He took devilish pleasure in playing the part of the barbarian for her. Mariah narrowed her eyes and thrust the spoon in his direction. "Here."
He stopped chewing and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, staring at her suspiciously.
"Take it," she said. "I didn't ask to take your only spoon. You gave it to me. I can eat with my fingers just as easily as you. I'm not asking for any special treatment."
He eyed the spoon, then looked at her. With a shake of his head, he took another bite. "Keep it."
"No, I insist."
"Dieu, woman, I said keep it."
"Oh, you mean the spoon isn't what we're arguing about?" she asked.
He glanced up at her, wishing now he'd never mentioned the damned spoon. "We're not arguing."
She smiled tightly. "Good, because I find I'm too tired to fight."
He leaned back and inhaled a deep breath of cool night air, glad they'd settled it. "Good."
"No doubt that was your intent all along," she muttered.
"What?"
"Oh, nothing." She sent him a sugary smile that never reached her eyes.
Creed ran a tongue over his teeth, scowling at her, then shook his head. Women.
They settled into an uneasy silence and Creed forced himself to eat, the edge mysteriously gone from his hunger. She was grinding her teeth, itching to say something.
"You know, Mr. Devereaux—"
There it was. He braced himself.
"—I hardly think it will serve us to bicker this way the whole time, do you?"
The fish dangled greasily from his fingers as he spread his hands wide. "Look, can we just eat?"
"I was only trying to make pleasant conversation—"
"About the way I eat...?"
"I didn't say a word about that. You cast yourself in the role of barbarian quite well all on your own, I'm sure."
He flung the fish skeleton down on the plank and wiped his mouth against the back of his sleeve as if to prove her point.
She politely ignored him. "I merely asked how long you'd lived alone. Not a terribly personal question, I didn't think, but perhaps any question is too personal for you. I merely thought... if we could talk, break the ice, so to speak, we could make this trip a little less... tense. A little more bearable."
"Tsk, tsk. Do you find it unbearable so soon, cherie?"
She set her jaw. "I'm not complaining about the riding. I knew what to expect..."she faltered, "more or less. But honestly, you go the entire day with hardly a word to me, barely a look to see if I'm even following along behind.. "Her voice trailed off, and he couldn't be sure if it was anger or plain hurt that caused a tremor. The thought set him back, but only for a moment.
Then he realized what she was doing. Oh, he was on to her, all right. Just like a woman to twist things around so he would feel guilty for not inviting her in the first place. As if she had any business being here at all!
A female like Mariah Parsons belonged in some cozy little parlor somewhere crocheting doilies. She didn't belong here in the wilds of the Rocky Mountains with a man who hadn't touched the soft skin of a woman in months, let alone a woman who called herself a lady.
She stared at him, waiting for some kind of response. He squinted at her through the camp smoke, but wouldn't give her the satisfaction of knowing he'd been entirely too aware of her the whole damn way today. "Did you expect a running dialogue on the scenery?" he asked. "The flora and fauna, perhaps?"
A flush rose to her cheeks and her eyes snapped angrily. "No. But I suppose civility is the last thing I should expect from a man like you."
He managed an even look at her, wondering how she always got such a rise out of him. His fingers tightened on his plate. "What do you expect from a man like me, eh, cherie?"
"Perhaps any expectations I entertained ar
e beyond you, Mr. Devereaux. How Seth could have chosen someone like you for a friend is a mystery to me. You're nothing like him."
That all-too-true observation stung. "I warned you."
Her answering laugh was brittle. "That you did. You've certainly been nothing but unpleasant since we met. I assure you, however, I don't need your sparkling conversation, nor your occasional concern to get me through this trip. I will manage even if you choose to ignore me entirely. In fact, I think I'd find silence preferable."
She stabbed at the fish, then chased it around her plate with the spoon. In the end, she gave up, slamming the utensil down with a clang.
Creed stared at his plate for a long time, listening to the crackle of the fire, wondering why he felt like a heel. He was right, wasn't he? She was a pain in the ass, an albatross around his neck; she was... a lady. He sighed. Why did she always make him act like an idiot?
She scares you, a voice answered. She scares the hell out of you.
"Look," he said, rubbing a tired hand down his face, "Miss Parsons—" Her eyes flashed up briefly to his. The timid, hopeful look she sent him nearly undid him. Firelight caressed her ivory cheeks and danced in her rust-colored hair turning it vermillion. His mouth went utterly dry and he found himself doing something he couldn't remember doing before in his life.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled.
She blinked, taken by surprise by his words. "I—I beg your pardon?"
He looked away. "Don't make me repeat myself."
"No. I—" Flustered, she swallowed hard. "That's a start, Mister Devereaux. Truly it is."
He shrugged. "It's been a long week and I'm tired. I'm no good at small talk." The truth was, most of the women he knew required very little conversation and the ones who did only wanted something hot and sweet whispered against their ear—words that held no pretense of social politeness.
His gaze darted to Mariah's fiery, whiskey-colored eyes and he felt his blood heat with a thought he should have been ashamed of. But he couldn't quite dredge up the emotion. He found himself wondering what it would be like to whisper something hot and sweet against her ear, if skin as pale and soft as hers would taste like—
"Small talk is merely the exchange of thoughts, the sharing of ideas, as it were, without anger," she said, breaking into his lurid musings.
Curse it! Curse his rutting imagination and his damned dishonorable hide! "Ah," he said evenly, shoving a stout branch into the dwindling fire.
"Perhaps we could... try it sometime?"
He looked over at her, afraid of what he would see next. Trust? Hope? But she was chewing thoughtfully on her fingernail, staring into the flames. His heart beat a little faster. "Four years," he said into the silence.
Her head snapped up. "What?"
"Four years," he repeated. "I've lived alone four years."
"Oh... Out of choice?"
Staring at her, he nodded. "It's my life."
She frowned. "How sad."
His heart thudded to a stop. No one had ever thought his life sad before. No one had ever given a damn one way or another. He shrugged again. "I like to be alone."
She tilted her head thoughtfully, like a little bird listening for a worm. "So do I, sometimes. But not all the time." She stared at the flames for a long moment. "I'm quite alone now, myself. My family is all... passed on. My mother, a long time ago, and then my father. Now," she sighed, "my grandmother. I miss them all terribly." Her eyes were watery when they met his. "But I have Seth. At least, I pray I still do."
"Seth's a fighter. He won't give in to the fever. He'll be all right."
She nodded, making herself believe him. "You're right. You've known him a long time, haven't you?"
"Long as he's been here."
"How did you meet?"
Creed pushed away from the rock and stood. "You ask a lot of questions."
Her mouth snapped shut with an audible clack of teeth. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to pry."
He scowled, wrapped his hand in his bandanna again, and reached for the steaming coffeepot dangling over the fire.
"Well, at least we've made progress here tonight, don't you think?" she said cheerily. "I don't want to spoil it. Sometimes my mouth runs on ahead of my brain."
He pointed a tin cup at her. "Coffee?"
A baleful howl rent the still night air, freezing her reply in her throat. Her plate clattered to the ground.
"Wolf," he told her, though she hadn't asked. Farther off, another one answered.
Her wide-eyed gaze collided with his. "That sounded close."
He handed her the steaming mug. "It calls its mate. Don't worry. The fire will keep them away."
She took a calming sip of the hot brew and swallowed hard. "A-Are you sure?"
He shrugged. "It's spring. They're more interested now in denning up than attacking us."
She glanced away into the inky distance once more and listened to the rhythmic chirping of the evening crickets and the chorus of frogs near the river. "Have... have you ever been attacked by a wolf?"
"Only once when I was riding near the Yellowstone in the dead of winter. There were five of them, desperate and half-starved because of the heavy snowfall."
"Five? How did you get away?"
A rare smile sparkled in his eyes. "I threw them the two brace of doves I'd just shot and ran like the devil."
With an incredulous laugh, she asked, "Truly?"
"They got the poor end of it, I think. Buck and I would have made much better eating." He tossed her a tentative smile that softened the lines of tension in his face and made him seem more... approachable, more human. It made her wonder why he kept that part of himself so bottled up. What had happened to make him so wary, so distrustful of everyone?
"So you ride alone most of the time," she observed. It was not a question, but a statement of fact she had a hard time believing.
"Always. Except now, with you," he admitted. "And when I'm bringing a man in."
"Doesn't it..."—she hesitated, sliding the edge of her teeth across her lower lip—"don't you ever get... lonely?"
"With the songs of the wolves at night?" He shrugged. "How could I be lonely?"
Before he lied, Mariah saw the truth flit across his face. It was a wistfulness she'd never seen in him before, a longing so strong it spoke more eloquently than the ironic smile he gave her.
He glanced at the plate in his hands, then picked up his tin cup of coffee. Standing, he bent backward to stretch his spine. "We'd better get some rest. We have another long day tomorrow. I'll take these things down to the river and give you some privacy."
The soreness that had seeped into Mariah's body since she'd sat down advised her not to argue. Pride compelled her to prove she could hold up her end of the bargain.
"I can wash them in the bucket of water you drew from the river." Leaning one hand heavily on the rock behind her, she forced herself up. She swayed slightly because she'd stood too fast and she bit back a groan at the cramping of the stiff muscles in her legs.
"I don't think you're up to it tonight," he said, eyeing her suspiciously.
"Of course I am," she denied, relieving him of the dishes in his hand. But even as she walked toward the bucket, the muscles of her right leg contorted in pain. She faltered mid-step and bit her lip, praying it would pass. The torment only grew worse. The dishes fell heedlessly from her fingers and she dropped to the ground, clutching the cramping leg.
Devereaux was instantly at her side. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"Cramp—" she groaned through clenched teeth. But she rocked back and forth, clutching her knee to her chest. Her foot curled inward at an awkward angle as the muscle pulled against itself.
"Where?" he demanded. "Show me where."
She couldn't show him. She could only clutch the offending limb as if it were on fire. She squeezed her eyes shut against the vise-like pain.
She gasped as Devereaux grabbed her foot, ripped the laces out of her ankle-high black boot and tore
it off. "Oh, don't, please," she moaned, "it... it hurts—"
He cursed and drew her leg to him. His hands curled around her foot and pushed it from its awkward position back toward her shin, stretching the cramped muscle and massaging the tightness out. Again Mariah squeezed her eyes shut, giving in to the sickening pain.
Creed leaned forward over her leg, massaging it in long deep strokes that dug into her tender flesh.
His thumbs slid intimately over the smoothness of her stockinged leg—the taut curve of her calf, the slender perfection of her ankle—and as the tension left her, it gathered in him. Low and hard, like a blow to the gut, stirring a painful, startling ache farther down.
But it was more than lust he felt tugging at his loins. Much more than simple damned lust, he told himself. To lay his hands on her was like looking into the sun too long or pressing his palm to a hot iron and lacking the will to move away.
Le bon Dieu. He shouldn't have touched her. He knew it was a mistake, but he could do nothing else, could he? She was in pain. Well, now, so was he.
Oh, hell, he thought. Hell, hell, hell.
Mariah dared to look up at him as slowly, painfully, the agony receded. The firelight gleamed off his long, dark hair where it fell in a curtain across his face. She watched the lean but powerful muscles of his shoulders bunch and strain beneath his deerskin shirt.
He was a man of great violence and great gentleness. So unlike the other men she'd known. Different, so different from Seth.
He had a healing touch, she thought. Strong, gentle, knowing. More than that, it was almost... electric. The unmistakable current passed from his hands to her, prickling her skin, filling her with an emotion she couldn't name. She pressed the knuckles of one hand suddenly to her mouth.
Heaven help her, she thought, fighting back the wave of attraction that curled within her as he caressed her with his thumbs in deep, sensuous strokes. Her skin heated with a flush of guilt at the blatantly carnal thought that had just flitted through her mind. Her heartbeat quickened and she barely suppressed the cry that hovered at the base of her throat.
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