Renegade Bride

by Barbara Ankrum

Finally, he said, "Lean over." She did. He dipped the bucket in the water and poured the warm water over her head, following its path with his hand. She held her breath when his fingers brushed the sensitive curve behind her ears. His steely thighs brushed flush against her rear for a moment as he leaned over her and it was suddenly, startlingly clear exactly how indecent their position was. Her heart thudded heavily until she thought the tub might echo its sound.

  Never had a man touched her the way he was—with gentle, aching tenderness, with sheer male need. It made her heart swell and pound, her throat clog with an emotion she'd never known.

  Creed squeezed the water from her hair, helped her up, and towel-dried her hair on the flannel blanket.

  She opened her eyes and swallowed hard at her first real look at him. The top half of his long johns hung down around his hips. Her gaze was even with his bare chest and his flat, brown nipples in their nests of black hair. His chest rose and fell with a chaotic rhythm. Until that moment, she hadn't noticed that his hands still lingered on her shoulders. His skin was hot and smooth beneath her hands.

  Her gaze moved up. He'd shaved and his hair was wet and finger-combed. The clean scent of soap lingered on his skin. His eyes, dark with hunger, burned into her and she prayed the roaring sound of the wind would drown out the cannon-like pounding of her heart.

  If she hadn't touched him, perhaps nothing more would have happened, but she reached out and brushed a finger across the blue beads at his throat.

  Pinioning her hand at the wrist, he brought her knuckles to his lips. His mouth, hot and wet, caressed her skin with the barest brush of his tongue. Her eyes slid shut when he turned her palm over and repeated the gesture.

  A thousand sensations chased behind his touch—a melting ache, a trembling fear, and worse—a hunger that nothing but his touch seemed to fill.

  "Creed—"

  "This is wrong," he muttered, pulling her toward him, twining his hand in her wet hair.

  "Is it?" she asked, so flush against him she could once more feel the rock-hard evidence of his desire.

  "I don't give a damn anymore," Creed ground out, covering her mouth almost violently with his own. She met him more than halfway, pulling his head to her, arching her body against his in need of even more closeness. There was no stopping it this time. No turning back. A throbbing pulse beat echoed in her brain and vibrated down her body.

  She'd never known it could be like this between a man and a woman. He was a burning fire that raged in her. He stroked her the way a flame strokes the wood it's about to consume—seductively, passionately ablaze. To welcome the conflagration he'd ignited inside her was to leave behind her expectations, but to deny it was to deny her heart. And that had become too painful.

  The days of pent-up longing exploded. His hands, hungry and strong, roved across her body insistently, holding back nothing. With each touch he branded her as his. She'd known it would come to this since the moment she'd laid eyes on him, since the first time they'd touched. Now, he wasn't waiting for consent, or even asking for it.

  Chapter 15

  His hands tore at the tiny pearl buttons that marched down the front of her nightrail until she felt his rough palm curve around her breast, lifting, caressing. With a sigh of pleasure, she dropped her head back, exposing her throat. He didn't hesitate to oblige—his mouth was on her, burning a fiery path of moisture down her neck, exploring the hollows with his tongue and claiming the one just below her ear.

  A shiver rolled through her that had nothing to do with the chilled air. One-handed, he pushed her nightrail down over one shoulder and lifted her breast to his mouth, suckling her with barely restrained savagery. His teeth slid over the delicate areola, sending shafts of pleasure through her. Arching toward him, she dropped her head back again with a moan. Never had she felt anything close to the sensation that was spilling through her blood, rocketing through her nerves. Then, with an abruptness that stole her breath, he left her breast and renewed his attentions at her ear, invading it with his tongue.

  "Do you have any idea," he breathed, "how beautiful you look in the firelight?"

  Her knees buckled as a tremor chased through her and he pressed her back against the fur-covered wall. Her chest rose and fell in a chaotic rhythm. Plunging her fingers into his hair, she directed his mouth back to hers. Creed slanted a kiss across her lips, driving, hungry, as if any space between them was too much. His hands glided over her, first caressing, then worshipful as his fingers explored the curves and secret places that made her a woman. Every touch seemed to melt her. Her bones ceased to exist.

  "Touch me, Mariah," he demanded raggedly. Creed dragged her hand down past the V of hair that disappeared below his waistband. He felt her hesitate above the metal buttons, afraid for the first time.

  "Ah, Dieu, Mariah, tu me rends fou... you drive me crazy," he breathed raggedly against her cheek.

  "Creed..."

  He tore open the buttons on his Levis himself, pushing them downward over his hips until he kicked them off completely. With a moan, he slid his thigh between her legs and pressed up intimately against her. A tremor went through her and he lifted her up off the floor in his arms.

  Mariah's nightrail crept up her thighs, followed by the tortuous caress of his fingertips trailing higher and higher. Fire raced along her skin, tingling wherever he touched her. He was fire and ice, sanity and madness. Leaving behind her last vestige of coherence, Mariah let herself go.

  Creed wrapped his arms around her slender back, drawing her nearer. He needed her in a way he'd never needed a woman, with a burning, furious passion so intense it scorched his resolve and laid waste to whatever honor was left to him.

  He no longer cared.

  She was his. He knew that as surely as he'd ever known anything. He knew it in that moment of surrender when he felt the give of her body against his. He knew it in the way his own body pounded out of control. Her uncertainty at touching him only fueled his fire and drove him mad with desire.

  He lifted her higher in his arms, tugging her nightrail out of his way. She wound her arms around his neck and her legs twined around his. With the cushion of lynx fur behind her, he strained against her, exploring her body with his mouth, his hands—tasting, taking—ravenous and barely controlled. She uttered a startled sound when his fingers dipped into her slick depths to find her hunger equal to his. Her breath exploded in a gasp as he prolonged the exquisite torture.

  She trembled. He felt his control slipping. She writhed against him, demanding an end to the torment. He never wanted to let her go.

  With a moan she slid her head backward against the wall. "You're killing me."

  His mouth found the curve of her shoulder. "I haven't even begun." He slid her down until her feet once more touched the floor and ran his hand down the smoothness of her belly. "Touch me."

  Hesitantly, she did. He groaned as her hand closed over him and she pulled away. "Did I hurt you?"

  His heavy-lidded gaze rose slowly to meet hers. "Oh, God, yes. But don't stop," he begged. "Dieu, don't stop."

  A woman's smile curved her lips. With silken fire she stroked him, caressed him as he had her, driving him to the brink of madness. She explored his neck, his temple, his mouth with her tongue, leaving a trail of moisture cooling against his heated skin.

  The heavy timbers of the cabin creaked and groaned with the power of the storm outside, but within, the tempest between them raged even stronger. When he could stand no more, he lifted her into his arms.

  The pelt-covered bed met his knees from behind and they dropped down on it, making the rope netting creak. He rolled her onto her back, and slid her trembling body under him.

  Spreading her legs apart with his knee, he entered her with as much restraint as he could manage. She gasped from the sudden, sharp pain and her eyes flew open wide. He went still inside her and crushed her mouth with his until the pain passed. She gasped when he freed her, pressing her cheek desperately to his.

  "I hu
rt you." It wasn't a question. He knew he had.

  "Yes, but for God's sake, don't stop."

  Her whispered plea nearly made him lose control. Blood was pounding in his head. He began to move inside her, slowly at first, then with an ancient rhythm that made him forget everything—the smoky scent of the fire, the groaning storm outside faded in the distance. He knew nothing but her—the soft, sweet feel of her around him.

  Her soul tangled with his as surely as her body did. His lungs struggled for air, but she crushed her mouth down on his. Soon the only air they took was from each other.

  Mariah gasped, her senses reeling. His flesh was taut and warm under her hands. She couldn't think, didn't want to think beyond the man who was loving her. His scent was primal and his skin tasted of salt and her. He pushed her arms up over her head, twining their fingers together. With his body gleaming with a sheen of passion, he rose over her like a sculpted Greek statue. But no statue this—his muscled flesh was warm, his eyes alive and on fire for her.

  It was almost more than she could bear. She turned her head and squeezed her eyes shut to keep the sob that rose in her throat from escaping. She pressed her hips into his—seeking, needing. His thrusts became stronger, harder, taking her higher, ever higher in her flight from reality. The tension coiled tightly low in her belly, spiraling upward. Flaming, powerful, exquisite.

  "Open your eyes, cherie," he rasped. "I want to see you."

  The look on his face put her over the edge. The too-tight coil inside her exploded like an over-wound spring.

  It transcended anything she'd ever known and a cry tore from the depths of her soul. Lights exploded behind her eyes. It was pain and ecstasy, fear and trust, sin and heaven.

  Creed felt her contract around him and lost his last wisps of control. Giving in to it, he allowed the sensation to overtake him as his rhythm quickened. Then, with a groan of completion, he spilled himself into her and slumped over her slender, damp shoulder.

  They lay collapsed on one another until sanity returned. Creed's arms were still around her and he lay sprawled with one leg across hers. Finally, he raised his head from the comfort of her shoulder. He frowned as his fingers brushed at the tears on her cheeks.

  "I did hurt you."

  She tightened her arms around him. "No. It was—" Her voice choked with emotion. "I didn't know it would be like that."

  "Neither did I."

  Surprised, she blinked. "You didn't?"

  He shook his head and kissed her nose.

  "It's not always like that?" she asked, brushing a reciprocal kiss along his temple.

  "Not like that. Never before. Never, before you." His finger traced the tracks of her tears to the hollow of her throat where her heartbeat pulsed in a steady thrum. He rose up on one elbow and looked at her. "Then... the tears are because—"

  She pressed a finger to his lips. "Don't say it. I don't want to think, not yet. I just want to hold you."

  His mouth dipped down to hers, brushing her lips with the barest of touches, once, twice before settling over her in a kiss so achingly tender she thought she would die if he let her go. For a long time, he didn't.

  The smoky smell of the fire hung lazily in the air and the shadows danced along the ceiling. Outside, the storm went on without them, burrowing harder into the mountains. She wanted to forget the storm, forget the world outside this cabin. The thought of facing it again made her stomach tighten in a knot. When he rolled onto his back, bringing her over on top of him, she forgot about all that.

  Slowly, she trailed kisses along his cheek and down his throat until her lips met the smooth beads of the choker at his throat. She felt him tense as she pushed it downward, and pressed her lips against the scar he kept hidden from the world.

  A shudder of panic went through him. "Mariah—"

  "What?" Her amber eyes met his.

  "Don't. It's—"

  "—part of you." She kissed him again.

  "An ugly part." He was afraid to look at her.

  "No. No part of you could be ugly." Her lips trailed upward again. "It's a rope mark, isn't it?"

  He opened his eyes, determined to see her reaction. "Yes. It's a hanging scar. Few men live to carry one."

  Her mouth drew into a tight line as her eyes surveyed it. "To think someone could do this to you. Try to—"

  "How do you know I didn't deserve it?"

  Her eyes never wavered. "I know. It... it must have been a mistake."

  Her simple declaration of faith touched him. He rolled his eyes shut and rubbed the pad of his thumb against the nape of her neck. "Most women who saw this shrank from it," he said, lifting the choker to hide the scar. "Men drew their own conclusions, mostly bad. I got tired of trying to explain it."

  Her fingers caressed his cheek. "You don't have to explain it..." She shivered suddenly, but Creed wasn't sure if it was the chill air or what she glimpsed in his eyes.

  He reached across and pulled the edges of the buffalo robe up and over them, cocooning them in warmth and wrapping his hand around her back. "Oui, ma petite, I do. You were right. It was a mistake. My mistake. It cost me my father and the past four years of my life."

  She dropped her forehead to his shoulder and he drew her closer. She didn't ask him... somehow, he knew she wouldn't. But it had suddenly become important to him that she know—share that part of him as she'd shared everything else.

  "It was Pierre LaRousse," he told her, "and his brother, Étienne."

  Her eyes rose to meet his. Creed watched the play of emotion flit across her expression—surprise, disbelief, anger.

  "Oh... oh, Creed."

  He swallowed and a shudder coursed through him at the memory. "They were already well established killers by the time they found my father and me camped along the Yellowstone, but we never expected that their hatred for my father would lead to... I suppose we underestimated Emile LaRousse's powers of persuasion."

  "Emile?"

  "Their father." Creed sighed deeply. "He was a trapper, and, years before, had been my father's partner."

  "They hated each other?"

  Creed nodded. "Most of the hatred was on Emile's part. My father only felt sorry for him."

  She was quiet, waiting for him to go on.

  "Years ago, while they were still partners, Emile took a Sioux wife named Otter Woman. She bore him two half-breed sons, Pierre and Étienne. Emile was a good trapper, and when he was sober, a good father to his boys. But he was a hard man and when he drank, he would beat Otter. She stayed with him because she couldn't bear to leave her boys and she knew he'd never let them go.

  "As they grew older, the boys would go off trapping for weeks at a time with Emile... leaving Otter alone, often without food to see her through."

  Creed-gritted his teeth and Mariah felt him tense beneath her. "My father watched over her. They were friends. Not lovers." He flashed an angry look at Mariah that made her recoil slightly until she realized the anger was part of the memory.

  At last, he looked at the ceiling again with faraway eyes, remembering. "My father had a wife—my mother—back in Missouri, whom he was devoted to. But when Emile drank, he accused Antoine and Otter of betraying him behind his back. He would beat Otter and, when my father interfered, traded blows with him, too.

  "Their partnership was finished long before it ended, but my father stayed for Otter's sake. When she decided to leave Emile, he helped her. Emile had the two boys with him on a trapping run. When he returned home to find her gone..."—Creed's fingers tightened on the back of Mariah's neck—"he went mad. Chased them across the countryside, swore he'd kill my father for running off with her."

  Mariah raised her head from his shoulder to see the pain in his expression. "What happened?"

  "He never got her back—her Sioux family made sure of that. My father became the object of Emile's hatred and over the years, he passed that venom on to his sons. They grew up believing my father was responsible for Otter's leaving."

  Son of a
wife-stealer. You are harder to kill than I thought. LaRousse's words came back to her in a rush. It was all starting to make some kind of horrible, twisted sense.

  "In the intervening years," Creed went on, "my father brought us here to live from Missouri. My mother, Solange,"—his voice deepened conspicuously on the word—"came from a wealthy family. They were against her coming. Even my father was against it."

  "Why?"

  He nodded his head toward the storm outside. "Look around you. Winters are hard. Life here is hard and it kills most everything that's beautiful, except the mountains." His gaze drifted vacantly to the ceiling again. "But my mother wanted to come. She was in love with my father and he with her. The time apart—the trapping seasons—had become too difficult. So at last, she convinced him.

  "She lived and died here two years later of mountain fever. My father always blamed himself for bringing her. And, for many years, so did I."

  "But... they loved each other," she argued with the logic of a woman who had only tonight begun to understand what that could mean.

  "Yes, they did. But it wasn't enough to save her, was it?"

  She fell silent, absently stroking the silken hair on his chest.

  He raked a shaky hand through his damp hair. "At any rate, after she died we went into trading, with the Blackfeet and the Shoshone, and, sometimes, the Northern Cheyenne down along the Bighorn and Yellowstone. That's where... they found us that day—Pierre and his brother."

  She traced her finger along the furious pulse at the base of his throat, waiting.

  His eyes slammed shut. She could feel a tremor move up through his body like a small earthquake, but guessed it was the combined pounding of their hearts. He drew her head down flush with his shoulder so she wouldn't see his face and tightened his arms around her in a gesture that made her heart ache for him. "You don't have to tell me—"

  "No," he whispered. "I want you to know who I am. Why I am."

  She nodded against his chest.

  "Until that day, I had never seen the two of them, only heard my father speak of them with remembered fondness. Emile had died several years before in a knife fight and we'd heard bad stories about the brothers, but my father didn't lend them much credence. Pierre and Étienne grew up around him. He loved them as if they were his own, because they were Otter's.