The carriage bore down upon them, sounding as if it must grind them beneath its wheels. She half expected Ramon to try and stop it for use in helping them get away, but he let it pass. Lithe, heedless of the thorns, he swung immediately from their
hiding place and held back drooping roses as she scrambled to her feet. He took her hand then, and once more they fled.
There had been a time when, as a child, she had been able to run without stopping for long distances, rejoicing in the effortless ease of it, enjoying a sense of boundless endurance. When had it ended? When had she become so stifled and housebound that she had lost that ability, that capacity for hardiness? She could not go much farther. Every breath was a knife in her chest. Hearing the distant sound of the dogs being turned loose on their trail, she thought it possible she would not have to continue the footrace much longer. It would not take long for the dogs to catch up to them, not long at all.
They had crossed the open road and were heading straight for the river. The first gentle rise of the levee was beneath their feet; then, it quickly grew more steep. Ramon forged on, pulling her behind him as she faltered, urging her up the slope.
“It’s not far now,” he said, his voice low, hampered by his own rough breathing.
She knew. It came to her full-blown then, so right that she wondered she had not seen it from the beginning. The skiff. The skiff at the landing. The skiff, on the near-flood-stage of the Mississippi River.
She dragged to a stop, gasping, “Can we do it?”
“We have to.”
They did indeed. There was no other way. On foot, they could not hope to outdistance mounted pursuers. They might hide in the woods and swamps beyond the cultivated areas of the fields, but it was unlikely they would be able to elude the dogs for long. Even if they did, there were long miles to be covered before they could hope to find help or transportation, long miles of inhospitable land teeming with snakes and alligators and mosquitos, with panthers and wildcats and the occasional black bear. Even if they reached civilization, they would be fugitives with, most likely, a price on their heads. Nate would see to that; they need have no illusions on that score.
A yell split the night. Swinging her head, Lorna saw the floating glow of torches, like orange eyes in pitch-black. The baying of the hounds was becoming louder. She could see their dark, running shapes pouring from the direction of the jail. Behind them came the men on horseback, holding the torches in their hands as they rode. She heard the sharp cries of the younger men, the cracked shouts of the graybeards.
She thought she recognized Nate Bacon in the forefront, spurring the others on. What had he told them? Who did they think they were chasing, those wedding guests stuffed with contraband food and reeling with the fumes of contraband wine? Some runaway slave? Did they know that they were on the trail of a murderess? If Franklin had been found, it would be easy for Ramon to be implicated; his earlier imprisonment would no longer matter. If not, Nate could still be depended on to find some reason for taking his vengeance on the spot.
Her distress must have communicated itself to Ramon, for he pulled her around, giving her a small shake. His voice hard, he said, “Don’t look back. Not now. Not ever.”
There was strength in his grasp and assurance in his tall form, so close beside her in the darkness. In answer, she felt the stir of her own confidence returning, the lessening of the tight grip of fear. Her voice had regained something of its normal, quiet firmness as she replied., “No.”
“Come then.”
Their pounding footfalls were loud on the planking of the landing. The rungs of a ladder led down to where the skiff floated on the water, a gray-black shape swinging with the river’s current, bumping with a hollow, rhythmic sound against the piling. Ramon jumped down first, then turned to hold to the landing, steadying the craft, reaching with his other hand to help her descend.
The river ran swift here and was deep in flood stage. There was no time to waste on dread, however. Behind her, she could hear the sound of hoofbeats and the baying of the hounds on a warm scent. She placed her hand in that of Ramon Cazenave and climbed down into the boat.
He shoved off at once, flipping the rope free that held the skiff, pushing with the long oar against the piling, using main strength to thrust them into the current. Lorna hastily sat down on a thwart, gripping the gunwale, craning around to look back. She caught a glimpse of their pursuers just before they were hidden from view by the height and width of the levee. Ramon went to one knee and began to use the oar like a paddle, pulling away from the landing, striving to take them into the drag of the river’s main crest, to put distance between them and the bank. The river sucked and gurgled around them and, as Lorna’s chest heaved with the attempt to catch her breath, she drew in the blessed dampness and the dank fish-and-mud smell of the Mississippi that, rushing, swirling, would carry them away from Beau Repose.
“There they are! I see ‘em! In the boat!”
The shout rang over the water with sharp clarity. It was followed by the explosion of a shot.
“Get down!” Ramon said, a command in spite of the low tone of his voice.
Hard on his words came a whining sound, then a skipping splash behind the boat and to their left. Lorna slipped to her knees, crouching in the bottom of the boat. Another musket roared. She looked up to see Ramon duck as the ball whined past the prow, but he did not seek shelter, nor did the steady beat of his paddle falter.
“You get down!” she shouted in a sudden rush of concern. She thought he sent her a tight grin, but he made no reply, nor did he leave his position.
On the wide breast of the levee could be seen the flare of the torches as the men gathered. Their curses and shouts thinned as the gap between them widened. The crash of a volley of musket fire seemed to hold no threat, though it splattered the waves around them. Once they were farther away from shore, the wind pushed them forward, aiding Ramon’s hard strokes and the surge of the current. There was no time to raise the sail and, in any case, the gusting wind on the water made it unwise.
The river noises grew louder, surrounding, enfolding them in a curious, urgent intimacy. A single musket ball thudded into the side of the boat, but it was so spent that it did little more than dent the wood. Still, Nate and his followers, firing, shouting abuse, galloped along the levee after them for miles. At the landing of a neighboring plantation, they found another boat. It appeared that too many of the party tried to pile into it, for in a flurry of yells and oaths, the small craft disappeared beneath the waves, leaving men in the water calling for help.
The skiff bearing Ramon and Lorna swept on. The night closed in, cool and damp and quiet. They were alone on the river.
Time ceased to have meaning. She sat cramped on the boat seat, scarcely daring to move for fear that the shift of her weight would overturn them in the rushing, swirling water. Ramon seemed tireless as he plied the paddle, keeping them abreast of the current, warding off floating logs and crates and barrels borne on the flood waters. A whole tree, with the wind soughing through its branches held above the water, kept pace with them for long yards, until it was snagged on a sandbar. Another time, an opossum tried to scramble on board. Lorna knew a brief regret when it failed and sank beneath the waves behind them.
The wind grew stronger, lapping the surface of the river into waves that slapped against the boat, sending a fine spray blowing backward. The poplin of her habit grew damp and heavy, clinging to her skin. She did not complain. In his more exposed position, Ramon must be wetter than she. It almost seemed that, in his driven determination, Ramon had a goal toward which he was traveling. It could not be, of course, and yet, it was a comforting impression. She would have liked to spell him, to take her turn with the oar, but she was not certain her strength would be equal to the task of keeping them on course and free of the debris caught in the millrace around them.
The first sign of the returning rain was a flash of lightning. The blue-white glow pulsed behind them again and
again. Then came the thunder, a low rumble. The lightning once more was a silver tracery just above the treetops. In its brief light, she saw the chiseled outline of Ramon’s face as he swung to look and listen. It glittered in his dark eyes, but illuminated only intent calculation without a hint of apprehension. She recognized in some unaccountable corner of her mind that, though she was cold and wet, cut adrift from everything she had ever known, she was not afraid now.
The storm rolled down upon them with crashing thunder, buffeting them with wind that held the taste of rain in its breath, while lightning was a constant shimmer overhead. In the storm’s cold white sheen, Ramon directed the skiff toward the more slowly moving waters on the west side. Rounding a bend, they saw a thicket of half-submerged willows growing in the levee. He steered toward it. Reaching out as they glided down upon it, he caught one slender trunk. The skiff swung as on a pivot. As he strained to hold the craft against the pull of the river, Lorna caught up the rope that had been thrown into the bottom of the boat, lying tangled around the foot of the mast. She shifted forward, stretching to place the end in his hand. He flashed her a glance of surprise and gratitude, almost as if he had forgotten she was there, before turning to make the line fast.
“If seems best to take shelter until this is over,” he said, nodding toward the furor overhead. “If it rains, as I think it’s going to, we’ll be even less able to tell where the devil we’re heading than we are now.”
She indicated her understanding. “You need to stop before you are exhausted.”
“I’m not tired,” he said with a quick smile, “but it is a shame about the pie.”
She met his gaze then in the bright flash of the lightning and felt her own mouth curve in answering amusement. That she could feel such a thing after all that had happened was startling, even cause for dismay.
He reached out, brushing his fingers gently across her bruised cheek. “Don’t torture yourself; there are plenty who will do that for you. You are alive, and for now, that’s all that matters. Come, let’s get under cover.”
What cover was there? None that she could see. But, Ramon found it. He unrolled the canvas sail from the stubby mast and dragged it free, spreading it over the bottom of the boat. Holding it, fighting the wind, he pressed her down upon it. He joined her then, lying full-length as he pulled the sail over them, tucking it in, leaving an air space, so that the canvas was not against them. The first raindrops spattered down as he was still making their shelter tight. They hit the canvas with dull thuds, scattered at first, then increasing in number until they became a muted roar. The boat swung, nudging deeper under the overhanging branches of the willows. It bobbed and rocked, so that Lorna was thrown from side to side. For long moments, Ramon lay alert, listening. Then with a sigh, he settled beside her.
Room was at a premium in that enclosed space to one side of the mast. There was no place for him to put his arm except above his head. She thought he winced as she was thrown against his chest.
“You … you’re hurt,” she said, her mouth near his ear. “Is it your rib where you were hit the other day?”
His grunt might have been taken for affirmation. “It’s just cracked a bit, nothing serious.”
“All that paddling tonight can’t have helped it.”
“It’s nothing I can’t live with.”
His tone did not encourage further inquiry. He seemed to be lying on his side, without the room to stretch full-length. She tried to shift to accommodate him. He reached out then, gathering her close, sliding his arm beneath her head. Facing him, she lay stiff at first, then by slow degrees, she relaxed.
He was warm, so warm, from his strenuous activity. The heat of his body seemed to seep into her. She accepted it with pure physical pleasure. She could feel the strong pulsing of his heart through the veins of his arm under her cheek. His chest rose and fell with the steady rhythm of his breathing. She was molded against the long, muscular length of his body. As the boat rocked, they were jarred closer, and the corded muscle of his arm that encircled the narrow turn of her waist contracted to hold her there.
He spread his hand over her back, moving the palm gently over her shoulder blades. His voice threaded with amusement, he said, “It seems that every time I touch you, you’re wet.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” she agreed, her voice not quite steady.
“It’s very obliging of you.”
She drew back a little, trying to see his face in the darkness of their canvas shroud. It was impossible. “Why?”
“Because,” he murmured, his warm breath caressing her lips, “it gives me such a fine excuse to undress you.”
For an instant, the memory of that first time to which he alluded stood vivid in her mind, along with the accusation that had followed. It was drowned, washed away by the race of the blood through her veins, by a need to be held, to blot out the events of the night, a need so intense it was like an ache inside her.
“You are wet too,” she whispered.
“So, I am. If I rid you of your wet things, seeing faithfully to your comfort, will you act as my valet?”
5
Her answer was unspoken, a gesture with fingers that trembled. She slid her hand that was trapped between them across his chest, and slipped it inside the open front of his shirt where only a pair of studs remained near the beltline. With unsteady care, she worked those studs free. She heard his deep-drawn breath, felt the brush of his lips across her brow. His mouth trailed gentle fire down her temple. It teased her ear and paused as he nipped the lobe with barely closed teeth, then dropped lower to explore the tender curve of her neck.
He shifted then, allowing her access to the front of his trousers. His hand smoothed around her rib cage, cupping the firm swell of her breasts before settling into the hollow between those twin mounds straining against the cloth covering them. She felt the easing of the taut material as he worked his way down the row of buttons there. By the time he had peeled away the habit jacket, shirtwaist, and camisole underneath, she was shivering in anticipation of the first warm touch upon her bared breasts.
It came, and as she inhaled softly with parted lips, he claimed her mouth with his own. It was a sweet and welcome invasion that sent excitement spiraling to her brain. With the tip of his tongue, he tasted the moist and sensitive inner surfaces of her mouth, his movements concentrated, unhurried. He probed the sweet depths of her acquiescence, teasing her to a response with sensuous, swirling play of tongue, and mingled, sighing breaths.
It was the rise of her own desire that reminded her of the buttons beneath her fingers. They were stiff, yielding slowly to her inexperienced ministrations. She tugged the tail of his shirt from his loosened waistband and reached to push it from his shoulders, smoothing her hand over the hard, muscled expanse and down his forearms. He shrugged from one sleeve, then the other, freeing his hands, then did the same for her, leaving her unclothed above the waist. Their lips met and clung once more. She permitted her fingers to wander back to the last buttons of his trousers, while he tried with one hand to unhook the band of her skirt.
A soft sound between a chuckle and an imprecation escaped him. He drew back, making short work of ridding himself of his remaining clothing and boots. Lorna did the same, unfastening the band of her full skirt, sliding it down over her hips, wriggling free of its heavy folds and the pantaloons underneath before kicking off her riding boots.
The surface of their skin seemed to bum, fusing as they came together again. Exhilaration ran along Lorna’s veins, coupled with a fine, heedless rapture. The thrumming of the rain over them merged with the pounding of her heart in her ears. She wanted to be a part of this man, to make him a part of her. The depth of her need, when placed against the short time she had known him, was shaming; she was glad of the dark that enfolded them, concealing their faces, leaving them anonymous in their fervid desire.
His knee slipped between her thighs. His hand traveled lightly over the slender curve of her hip and along the length
of her leg, following the smooth turnings as if he would commit them to memory. Drawing her slender leg higher upon the lean hardness of his flank, he sought closer, more intimate contact. His fingertips trailed upward then, lingering on the velvet tautness of her abdomen, drifting downward again to smooth the silken inner surfaces of her thighs, finding the delicately moist and intricate recess of her body. The gentle and soothing caress he began there was one she felt in every nerve. It was an exquisite sensation, bordering on pain, and she lay still, scarcely breathing, her hands opening and closing upon the rigid muscles of his shoulders. He bent his head, and she felt the searing adhesion of his mouth as he captured the peak of a breast.
She was awash in sensation, in tingling perception, suffused by the glowing heat of the sensual joy that ran in her blood, and by the full and aching vulnerability at the center of her being. The wonder expanded beyond her control. A low moan gathered in her throat. Against her thigh, she could feel the rigid fierceness of his need, held firmly in check. That was not where it should be.
“Please,” she whispered.
He straightened, brushing her lips, drawing her closer against him. He eased into her with care for her tight, unstretched state. In her heated, liquid readiness, there was no pain, but infinite pleasure. She moved against him, urging him deeper, wanting, needing the surge of his strength, done with gentleness.
“Lorna, chérie,” came his hoarse whisper.
He answered her movements, turning her to her back, rising above her, unleashing the driving urgency of his passion. She took him into her, encompassing, holding, absorbing the shocks of his drive toward release that fueled and fashioned her own.
It was an uncontrollable thing, as elemental and ageless as the river that flowed around them, and as impossible to hold. Borne on its flood, they were buoyed up, tossed in the swift current, driven by its power and grace to the edge of a swift and shining cataract. Limbs entwined, striving together with the rush and roar of water around them that sang in their veins, they were caught, pulled headlong into turbulent and near unbearable pleasure.
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2 Page 9
