“Sorry, friend. We have to ration the firewood, to make it last until morning.” The voice grew light with humor. “If I had the good fortune to have me a wife, I’d think of better ways to keep her warm.”
There was another click as the pistol hammer fell, and Ben Osborn turned away and went back to the fire. Roy hadn’t seen him carry a handgun before. Most men possessed a rifle for hunting but pistols were less common. He guessed the brothers shared one between them and passed it to whichever of them was taking his turn to stand guard.
On the edge of his vision, Roy caught the flare of fabric and returned his attention to Celia. Without a word, she had lifted the edge of the blankets, inviting him to lie down beside her. Roy felt his gut tighten. Why was it that when a man did his best to act with honor, the circumstances conspired to tempt him in the opposite direction?
For a few endless seconds, he remained crouched beside her, irresolute. Then he said, “Move over. I’ll go behind you, with my back against the rocks. That way I can see what’s going on around us, and you’ll get whatever heat there is from the fire.”
Celia inched forward to make space for him, but she did not move far enough, and Roy had to wedge his big body into the narrow gap between her and the cliffs. Easing down on his side, he draped one arm across her waist beneath the blankets. He could feel the underside of her breasts pressing against his forearm, and when she curled up tighter, her rear end butted into his groin, drawing an instant response.
Blood pounding in his veins, Roy lay as still as a stone statue. His brain seized up, empty of any thought except the feel of the woman in his arms. For days, he had let his eyes slide over her feminine shape, building up a hunger that clamored to be satisfied. If he cast aside all propriety, he could let his hand roam over those endlessly fascinating peaks and valleys, for Celia would not dare to protest. After all, they were meant to be man and wife.
Just when Roy’s resistance was about to break, Celia shifted against him. Wriggling inside the blankets, she turned to face him and arched her back, her eyes searching his in the dim glow of the fire. Roy clamped down on the need and spoke the words that weighed on his conscience.
“Those two men are looking for wives. You could...”
“No,” Celia whispered back. “It’s no longer what I want. I’ve set my heart on becoming an independent woman, beholden to no man. And anyway, it’s too late. We’ve already told them that I’m married to you.”
Roy nodded. Men, even those who thought as little of their prospects as the two bearded brothers did, would be suspicious of the lie and would not accept a woman they assumed lacked virtue. It was best to stick to their story, pretend to be husband and wife.
“Sorry,” he whispered, and wondered if his relief showed.
Even in the darkness, he could see her smile. “Were you hoping to save your money?”
It took him a moment to understand. She was talking about the money he had promised her. Humor lurked in her eyes, and it served to break Roy’s resolve. He had wanted to ease her out of her starched-up lady manners, and seeing her relax, knowing it was his doing, acted like a shot of good whiskey, heating the blood in his veins.
Slowly, he tightened his arms around Celia. With a sigh, she let her body mold against his as they lay together on the hard ground. He could feel how she fit against his hips, could feel her narrow waist beneath his hands, her breasts pressing against his chest.
He wanted to slip his eye patch aside to see her better but he was too afraid to release his arm from around her, in case she might pull back, or perhaps tuck her head against his shoulder, instead of craning her neck to look at him, the way she was doing now. He leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers, gently, giving her every chance to protest.
She made a small sound of acquiescence and Roy deepened the kiss, his mouth settling upon hers, tasting, teasing. Safe in the knowledge that the presence of others would stop things from getting out of hand, Roy let himself do what he had dreamed of doing for days on end.
Celia, Celia. Her name whispered through his mind. He could feel the softness of her skin, could smell the vanilla and flowers from her soap, and Roy knew that he would forever associate that scent with her, with tonight. For long minutes, he kissed her, but even as the pleasure throbbed in every beat of his pulse, he knew there would be a price to pay.
He had never been attached to a woman, could not predict how quickly and how strongly the ties of love could bind a man, cut into his heart. But he understood that with closeness came the pain of separation, the pain of saying goodbye, and the greater the closeness, the deeper the pain. With reluctance, Roy ended the kiss.
“All right?” he asked, studying Celia’s expression in the darkness.
She didn’t say anything, merely stared up at him with wonder in her eyes. Her lips were parted, her breathing swift. A blush radiated on her cheeks, and she looked up at him like no human being had ever looked at him—with acceptance and longing.
Finding the surge of emotion too much to handle, Roy bundled her against his chest. As Celia nuzzled up against him, warm and supple and yielding, he knew that each day she remained with him the pleasure of having her around would grow, and so would the depth of his solitude when the time came to part.
* * *
Dawn had broken by the time they said goodbye to the Osborn party but the low eastern sun didn’t reach down into the stone clearing. The tension of the night hummed in Celia, and she was glad to be alone with Roy again.
As she clung to Baldur’s back on the steep descent down to the river gorge, her mood changed to one of exultation. Perhaps deep down she had dreamed of Roy kissing her ever since the day of the box lunch, but she had not realized how good it would feel. Not just the kiss—although it had been everything she’d imagined—but wishing for something and getting her wish come true. It was a rare event in her bleak life.
Once they reached the bottom of the gully, the ground leveled along a shallow stream that meandered over pebbles, breaking into ribbons of water and gathering into pools. On the opposite side, a cliff soared vertical, the red rock surface as smooth as a mirror.
“There’s an echo here,” Roy told her when they dismounted for a lunch stop. “The legend says it will call back if you’re telling the truth but keep silent if you call out a lie.”
Celia unwrapped the muslin veil that protected her face. “You’re making that up.”
Roy replied with a boyish, carefree grin. “All right,” he admitted. “I read it in a book, and maybe it was about some other place. But it could have been here. Try it out.”
One hand on top of her hat to hold it secure, Celia faced the cliffs opposite. Tilting her head back, she filled her lungs and yelled at the top of her voice. “My name is Celia!”
“Celia...Celia...Celia...” the echo bounced back.
The corner of Roy’s blue eye crinkled in a smile. “See?” he said. “Now try a lie.”
Laughing, Celia shook her head. She took a step closer to the edge of the rippling water and shouted, “I am a good person!”
“Good person...person...person...” the cliffs replied.
She glanced back at Roy. He was frowning now, his eyes intent somewhere around her mouth. Celia felt her pulse quicken, but instead of taking a step closer to him, she lifted her chin once more and shouted out another claim. “I deserve to be happy!”
“Happy...happy...happy...”
Only after the echo had fully faded did she turn to Roy again. She had expected he would tease her, demand that she try an untrue statement next, but instead he reached out one hand and touched her face, a light brush of his fingertips. “What’s wrong with your skin?” he asked. “It’s all pink and angry. Like burned, but you’ve been protecting your face from the sun.”
Heat flared up to her cheeks, and she knew the color of her skin had deepened from pink to scar
let. “It’s you.” She made a small, awkward gesture to indicate his jaw. “From last night...your beard stubble...”
Comprehension flashed in Roy’s eyes. He stroked her delicate skin with the back of his fingers, his expression troubled. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have...”
“Don’t you dare,” Celia said in a voice sharp with emotion—emotion she might have kept carefully locked away before Roy encouraged her to embrace her feelings. “Don’t you dare to try to take it back, make it undone.”
Roy withdrew his hand and dropped his arm down his side. Turning away, he occupied himself with the horses. When it became clear that he did not wish to continue the conversation, Celia got on with setting out the food and they ate lunch in an uneasy silence, the previous night and what it might mean unresolved between them.
Afterward, they mounted their horses and resumed the trail that followed the river, skirting around boulders and weaving between stunted trees. To Celia’s surprise, that evening Roy called for a halt early, before dusk had fallen. In the scrub along the banks of the pebbled riverbed, birds were hopping around, singing their evening chorus.
“Why don’t you collect some driftwood for a fire?” Roy suggested, his manner easy now, as if he had conquered whatever had troubled him before. “I’ll take care of the horses.”
Her leather half boots crunching on pebbles, Celia strode off along the dry edges of the riverbed and collected an armful of driftwood. Her nerves thrummed as she thought of the nightfall. Tonight, they would be alone, without the constraint of others around them. Would they resume the intimacy they had started the night before, perhaps even take it further?
She came back to find Roy standing awkwardly beside Dagur. Hatless, shirtless, knees slightly bent, he had his hands lifted to his face. His eye patch dangled on its leather cord around his neck. When Celia got closer, she discovered he was shaving, with the aid of a mirror balanced against the pommel of the saddle.
After she’d dumped the firewood on the dry bank where Roy had set out their bedrolls, she edged over to him. “Why are you shaving like that?” she asked. “Why don’t you prop the mirror against something that doesn’t move.”
“That’s the whole point,” Roy mumbled, the blade scraping across his cheek. “Dagur is an outlaw’s horse. When I command him to stand still, he needs to obey. This is how we practice.”
“Does the horse always follow orders?” Celia asked, intrigued.
“Like clockwork.”
For a moment, she stood in silence, watching Roy shave. She liked seeing him without the black patch covering his left eye. It made him look younger, took away some of the aura of violence about him. As she studied his features, now softened by the suds of shaving soap, an intense longing seized her, as powerful as a vice around her chest.
An echo reverberated in her head.
I deserve to be happy…happy…happy…
Perhaps happiness was not a constant state. Perhaps happiness was a collection of fleeting moments, and one had to seek them, like panning for nuggets of gold in the dull gravel of everyday life. And now Celia sensed one such moment within reach.
“Want to bet the horse stays still?” she asked.
The blade scraping against Roy’s jaw ceased its motion. “Bet you…” Roy paused to consider. “Bet you the breakfast chores for the rest of the trip.”
“Wager accepted,” Celia replied with a mischievous grin. She hurried over to the burlap sack that contained their provisions and searched out the oats she’d packed from her kitchen to make morning porridge. She shook a small quantity onto her palm, stuffed a few sugar lumps in her skirt pocket as insurance and went to stand a few feet in front of Dagur.
“Here, boy. See what I have for you,” she crooned, extending her cupped hand toward the horse. When Dagur failed to respond, Celia stepped closer, making sure the horse caught a whiff of the oats. She could see the buckskin’s nostrils flare, could see his ears prick up with interest. “It is soooo good.” Celia made munching sounds. “Come and take it.”
The horse craned forward but did not lift his feet from the ground. Celia extended her hand close enough to let Dagur almost take a nibble of the oats, almost to reach the offered treat, and then she eased back a step again.
“You’ve got to come and get it. I’m right here.”
Dagur’s muscles bunched and rippled, but the horse remained still. Watching Roy from the corner of her eye, Celia could tell he was rushing the shave. The blade rasped along his soap-lathered jaw with a frantic speed now. His eyes, one so clear blue, one warm chocolate brown, kept flickering in her direction. In his hurry, he nicked his skin and drew a drop of blood. He muttered a curse but did not slow down.
By now, one cheek and most of his jaw were clean. Time to collect on the insurance. Celia dipped a hand in her skirt pocket and pulled out the sugar lumps. “See what I have for you here, Dagur? Sugar and oats. Just for you.”
She reached out and let the horse take a single lump of sugar from her palm before pulling her hand away again. With a whinny that sounded like a complaint, the horse lurched forward. After snatching the remaining sugar lumps from Celia’s palm, Dagur hurried back to his previous position, as if hoping Roy might not have noticed the temporary absence.
With an exaggerated precision, Roy scraped away the last of the stubble on his jaw. He took down the small towel draped over the saddle horn, wiped the blade clean and put the mirror and razor away in his saddlebags. Slowly, he lifted the towel to his face and wiped off the few clinging soapsuds, and then, in a sudden motion, he flung the towel on top of the saddle and charged toward Celia.
“That was cheating,” he said, humor in his tone.
Celia pivoted on her boots and darted to the other side of the horse. “That was a fair bet,” she called back. Frantically, she searched for an escape route and chose the rocky ground on the left, where agility might give an advantage over strength and speed. “I’m going to enjoy the lie-in while you cook breakfast,” she yelled as she jumped from stone to stone. “And the snooze while you wash the pots and pans.”
No reply came from behind her, only the quick cadence of masculine footsteps. She leaped down from the rocks, took a path into the clump of creosote bushes. The footsteps chasing her lost their hurried pace. Either the thicket was too dense for Roy to push through and he was getting snagged by the thorns, or he was slowing down on purpose, to keep up the fun of the chase.
Emerging on the other side of the thicket, Celia glanced back over her shoulder. He was through and gaining on her, only a few steps behind. She burst forward, swung around a boulder, stormed past a deadfall. Her foot snagged on a buried root and she toppled forward. The hard desert ground hurtled toward her. She braced herself for the impact, but at the last fraction of a second, a strong hand gripped her arm, breaking her fall.
Spinning in the air, she landed on her back with a muted slam, a coarse clump of grass pricking at her skin through her clothing. Roy sank over her, straddling her, his hands braced on either side of her head, his face looming above hers. He was grinning with merriment, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“That was girl cheating,” he said.
“It was a reckless bet. Masculine overconfidence.”
“What’s the punishment for cheating?”
Celia held her breath. Her heart was beating swiftly from the chase, her body thrumming from the exertion, but now another kind of tension took hold of her. Slowly, slowly, Roy bent his arms at the elbows, lowering his shoulders, dipping his head toward hers. His gaze flickered over her features and finally settled on her mouth.
He was going to kiss her again. Maybe do more than kissing. Dusk had fallen, and in the low light Celia could see his blue eye shining bright, his brown eye dark and shadowed. She could smell the scent of the shaving soap on him, could feel the warm puff of his breath against her ski
n. An acute awareness of his weight on top of her overwhelmed her senses.
When his lips were only inches away from hers, Roy stopped moving. She could feel his body grow rigid, could see a muscle tugging on the side of his jaw. Something pressed against her belly, a swelling in his groin, the meaning of which should have raised alarm bells in her mind, but instead it caused a hot throbbing in her veins.
“Celia...” Roy spoke her name on a harsh intake of breath. She understood he was fighting with himself, torn between taking what he wanted and staying true to his promise not to harm her. A promise from which she could release him.
“Yes,” she said.
Again, his gaze roamed her features. “What are you saying yes to, Celia?” he asked in a voice that was low and rough. “A kiss? Or more? To me stripping you naked and sliding inside you? What exactly are you saying yes to, Celia?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
Roy’s expression grew shuttered. “Don’t say yes to a man unless you know what you are saying yes to.” With a quick shove of his arms, he straightened on his knees. For a moment, he remained there, poised above her, his mismatched eyes holding hers, the internal battle evident in the stony set of his features. Then he gave a deep, shuddering sigh, stood and reached down a hand to haul her up to her feet.
“I think it is time to cook supper.”
He helped her up, and then he released her hand and walked away, his movements unsteady, lacking their usual grace. Celia watched him go, saw his golden hair reflect the last of the evening light before he vanished into the shadows. Echoes of past rejections crowded her senses, like mocking shadows. A few seconds ago, she had wanted something more. But in her turbulent mind she could not define what that more might be, only feel the sharp edge of disappointment and the hollow ache of being unwanted, just like she had always been.
The Outlaw and the Runaway Page 10
