by Thea Devine
"Come up." It was a harsh, autocratic command.
She dusted herself off disgustedly, thoroughly shaken by his piratical abduction and by her fear he might have dropped her at any moment. His anger was palpable. "Why should I?" she snapped crossly.
"Because I'll come get you."
She stared up at him defiantly, her blazing navy eyes shooting sparks, her face flushed with fury. An avenging angel of the range, her hat flopping on her back, her midnight hair wild from the wind, the dust tight in her face, and she found somewhere the nerve to oppose the godalmighty Deuce Cavender! She wondered at herself as she watched him girding for a fight, controlling his temper with an unbending will that, if she had assessed it, might have frightened her still more than his anger.
"Come up, " he repeated inflexibly, and held out his
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hand again. Kalida slapped it away. She knew that hand. If she braced herself against it and allowed him to draw her up in front of him, that same hand would slide around her and hold her tightly, and soon enough that hand would slide upwards to feel the underside of her breast and, more, to cup the whole. And then those fingers would entice the nipple, and if he did that, she would be captivated by that hand once again.
She never wanted him to touch her breasts again. Her eyes dilated wonderously at "his dark expression as she rejected his implacable body and coaxing hand. She never wanted him near her again to give him the chance to touch her in the way that made her totally at his mercy, dissolving with pleasure, willing to acquiesce to his demands. She turned away from him and began defiantly walking away.
He followed slowly, still on horseback. "Heading back to Jake Danton, are you? Do you really think he can protect you from me?"
The goading words were too much for her. She turned to face him indignantly. "Do you think I need Jake Danton to protect me from you?" she retorted, knowing, just knowing, that response would kindle his simmering rage.
He swung his right leg over the pommel and slid off the saddle in one efficient movement. "Vicious cat," he hissed, taking a step toward her. "Sharp little claws you have"—another step, and she moved backward—"and a soft, strokable body." Still another step, and she moved again. "One only has to caress the cat in just the right spot to tame it." Now he paced toward her inexorably, his face hard and purposeful, his eyes coal-gray, burning with deep fires of intent.
Kalida turned then, even knowing it would be impossible to elude him. She started to run—a futile effort because he reached for her instantly and jerked her back,
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which threw her off balance. She fell forward, taking him full force with her, landing, face in the grass, with him on top of her.
She writhed beneath him violently and immediately knew it was a mistake. He responded instantly, his hips thrusting tightly against her buttocks so she could feel the hard length of his arousal. "Deuce—"
"No," he growled in her ear, and she thought the worst thing was not being able to see his face, to look into his smoking eyes and read his intentions. She knew what hers were —to get as far from him as she could as fast as possible. She moved her arms slowly downward toward his thighs as her heart began pounding with the fear of not knowing what he was going to do. He was silent above her, heavy, and the wind swirled around them like a cocoon. Her hands inched downward, and she hoped —in vain —that he had not noticed.
But he had. He grasped them almost instantly as they reached to pinch his thighs, and he lifted his body and thrust them beneath, against her bottom, against his iron-rod length where the flat of her palms now rested.
She moved against him and her hands caressed him involuntarily. "Deuce . . . no."
Her plaintive cry did not move him. "Yes," he breathed against her ear, his breath as hot as his growing desire.
"What?" she demanded, trying hard, and unsuccessfully, to hold her body stiff against his.
"I will tame the cat," he murmured, moving his left hand downward, sliding it lightly against what he could feel of her left breast. "I merely rub her here. . . ." His fingers stroked the outward curve softly, patiently, seeking a little further each time, retreating, and seeking again, until she was in a fever to either beg him to stop or demand that he continue. He did neither; she did neither. He merely continued the soft seeking strokes and her body did the rest: Her body demanded the enticements,
her body moved alluringly against him, her body wriggled tightly against his hips to feel the length and hardness of his masculinity; and her body somehow of its own volition managed to turn slightly so she could free her breast to his questing fingers, which instantly slid across the sensual swell to the hard, swollen aching nipple thrusting against her crumpled shirt. His fingers surrounded the taut tip and she moaned. He squeezed it and she arched herself against his fingers, and his harsh hoarse voice permeated the swoon of honey that she floated in. "And she rubs herself against my hand, docile as you please, because she knows, my cat, that no one else will handle her in quite the same way. And she knows that my hands know exactly the right spots to feel"—his fingers moved and her whole body spasmed with shooting stars of pleasure " — and just the right spot to fondle. . . ." His fingers moved this time, pulling at her shirt, stripping it and the chemise away from her straining-breast, sliding his hand over the naked swell of its creaminess to the taut, yearning tip, surrounding it once again and just gently . . .
"I can't take it," she moaned as her body stretched against him, demanding more.
"Oh, you'll take it, you'll take it and more," he promised harshly, "from me. Only from me, Kalida." He shifted himself slightly, still holding her nipple firmly in his fingers, and moved his right hand, this time urgently, to skim down her body to her skirt, to pull at the rough material, to pull at it until her leg was exposed. And then she felt his hand on the chemise, and then no chemise, and his hand hot on her buttocks, sliding downward to touch and stroke her womanly core, with her own urgent grasp giving him permission, begging him.
And then his questing hand slipped away, and she moaned with need, "Deuce—" But he was already pulling his throbbing shaft from its confinement; he lifted her
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slightly so that she was braced on her knees, and he covered her, slipping into her with one primal thrust that produced within her a waterfall of sensation, unlike anything she knew. His naked heat within her branded her his. He had no need to say it: she knew it. No one—no one ... He did not move for moments after he entered her. The iron strength and length of his manhood permeated her whole being. The delicate touch of his fingers on her taut nipple filled her with softness and an unfurling appreciation of his sensitivity.
But after a moment, she found she wanted even more from him and she began to move against him, inviting him to follow her, tantalizing him with the alluring rocking motion of her hips and buttocks. She heard his voice again, a thick growl that surrounded her, entered her. "You're mine, Kalida, mine."
She heard him; he moved in tandem with his words now, and she would never forget, never. Thrust for thrust, her body answered him, writhing against him, tempting him, demanding him to fill her again and again. The creamy feeling thickened inside her and became richer, deeper, eddying inward and outward in soft, thick circles, thicker still, and her body rocked with it, feeling each thrust to its fullest until the final shattering explosion that dispersed fragments of pleasure like pebbles rippling water.
He was deep within her at that moment, and somehow he sensed she did not want him to move. She surrounded and encompassed him; she felt every rock hard inch of him and she felt, just for that instant, like she owned him.
He moved and that sensation dissolved. His urgency for completion was overwhelming, but he did not make the mistake of moving too soon. He held the softness of her billowy breast in his hand, feeling its shape, wondering at its magic, at her magic; he felt her soft buttocks
against the hard angle of his hips; he enjoyed the ex
pression of satiation on her face, and he moved then, once he thrust, and twice, hard and harder still, again and again, wishing he could arouse her once more to glorious culmination, feeling her rocking against him and with him even though she was finished. One more thick thrust, and he shuddered with volcanic force deep within her.
And then there was quiet, and the sound of the wind above them, and the heat of the sun beating on them.
He still lay on her, and his hand still held her breast. The grass was cool under her cheek, and she felt expansively warm throughout her whole body.
Sounds permeated her consciousness: the faraway bleating of cattle, Deuce's even breathing as he lay on her, the thrum of his heartbeat slowing down. She became aware of the swirling wind and the hot sun, and a sense of vastness with herself in the middle of it, alone now. The feeling of completeness and satisfaction dissipated. She felt crushed, used. The sensual heat was totally gone, and even Deuce sensed it.
He lifted himself off her, and when she turned, he was dressed and holding out his hand to her. This time she took it, and he pulled her to a sitting position. She looked at him with icy blue eyes and saw he was looking at her still-exposed perfidious breast. She tucked it into the torn chemise mutinously, hating him, despising the power he could wield over her with a mere caress.
Oh no, she thought, she vowed, never again; she could not lose herself like that to him again. She couldn't. She would never let it happen again. She would thwart him, and as she gazed up into his shadowed face and shielded her dust-smarting eyes from the sun, she swore she would make him desire Ellie. Let Ellie be dominated by the brute, be absorbed into him, into Sweetland. She wanted no part of him.
Her fingers sought the buttons of her shirt, but there
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were no buttons; he had torn them away. Her sweetly curved lips set grimly as she projected Ardelle's reaction. Ardelle would notice. Ellie would notice. Who else would notice?
She turned to look for the buttons, but in the deep tufts of grass they were hard to find. She stood up resignedly, taking a sweeping blue glance around. She saw limitless sky with scudding clouds, and a long swath of rangeland before her and gently undulating foothills behind. The wind lifted her tangled inky hair and she bent to pick up her hat, and jammed it on her head.
They were utterly alone, she thought, as she tucked her ruined shirt tightly into her skirt. But anyone could have come; anyone could have seen them lying in the cool grass; anyone would have known what she was allowing Deuce to do —what his hands had seduced her into allowing him to do. She felt impotent against his will and his unfettered knowledge of her. He had that weapon in his arsenal all right, and she was helpless to combat it, especially when she was part of the price of a new beginning for her father.
Nonetheless, she resolved, if she could somehow convince him to direct his unwanted attentions elsewhere and if she could alienate Ardelle, she had a chance of saving herself without negating her father's chance.
Her resentful cobalt eyes slanted a look up at Deuce. He was looking at her quizzically as though she were a puzzle he was trying to figure out. "What next?" she asked insolently, and his expression hardened, his eyes turning steely.
Damn her, damn her, damn her, he raged inside. The elemental sense of what they had just shared had not affected her for one moment, while he still felt shaken to the core. "You keep away from Jake Danton," he rapped out at her, and reached for his hat. He whistled sharply to summon his stallion, which pranced restlessly beside them
as he grasped her arm and pushed her ahead of him.
She dreaded facing the others. She strode beside him in a fury that she should have been put in such a position. She did not look at him; she never wanted to see him again, a gross impossibility that almost made her smile at the absurdity of it.
The walk back was unbelievably quick, accomplished with not another word said between them. Almost before she realized it, they had crested the slight incline of the hill and the panorama of cat'tle and men came into view. On the hill, where they seemed not to have moved in that half hour, Ardelle and Ellie still sat like statues in the shadow of the hood of the buggy. Jake Danton, now mounted, stood guard beside them. All three faces turned toward them as they approached.
Ardelle perceived Kalida's stormy face and her mouth tightened. Ellie immediately noticed her disheveled clothing and felt a spurt of envy and resentment, and she could not have told which was the strongest. And Jake's hazel eyes were instantly veiled behind his heavy lids, so as not to reveal the convetousness that possessed him as the details of Kalida's wrinkled skirt and buttonless shirt hit him all at once. His imagination ran riot, even as he calmly dismounted, untied Kalida's horse, and handed it over to her.
Up close, he could see her face was flushed, and the clever tucking of her shirt hardly disguised the fact that it had been torn. He totally ignored Deuce's thunderous expression and watched Kalida mount up with just the right amount of detachment to disguise the intensity of his interest.
And Deuce watched him. If he could have killed him then and there, he thought he would have. Danton's avid scrutiny, covert though it was, was not lost on him.
"I trust you're ready to return home," he barked at Ardelle.
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Ardelle threw him a baleful glance, lifted the reins disdainfully, looked at Kalida meaningfully, and set the buggy in motion.
Deuce watched them leave, Danton a few feet beside him, still unmounted. He didn't need to be told to stay. And he knew Deuce would say nothing further to him. After a moment, he swung into his saddle and urged his horse down into the milling herd, leaving Deuce on the rise of the hill staring after the swirling dust.
Chapter Ten
It almost seemed as if Ardelle were creating an atmosphere conducive to her rebellion, Kalida thought later. Her disapproval was patent all the way back to Sweetland, and she did not speak to Kalida at all, addressing the very few remarks she made solely to Ellie and sending Kalida very telling glances from time to time that said, as plainly as if she had spoken: This is not the proper behavior for the mistress of Sweetland.
She went reluctantly back to Deuce's room to assess the damage; standing in front of the mirror that Prestina had brought for her, she was appalled by the extent of the visible ravaging.
"We find something for you to change for dinner," Prestina said placidly. "I fix the shirt for you."
Kalida ignored her as she turned this way and that, her cobalt gaze speculative, craftily considering the consequences of not changing for dinner. It was another perfect situation. Ardelle would be furious, and Ellie would look even more desirable by comparison.
She pulled the shirt apart a little further so the crumpled chemise was visible. Yes, that would ruffle Ardelle's feathers nicely, she thought with some satisfaction. She ran a hand through her tousled midnight curls. She wouldn't even do her hair. She would leave it as knotted and tangled as the wind had combed it. She would wash, certainly. Her face still felt heated and her hands grubby. The rest . . . There was a grass stain on the front of her
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skirt, she perceived, not easily discernible or removable, for that matter. The creases were evident, and though no one else could see her torn undergarment, she was very well —too well —aware of it.
In the end, the nature of Ardelle's expression of disapproval more than made up for any discomfiture. "You look," she said slowly as Kalida entered the dining room, "like a pig."
Even Kalida did not expect such a venomous attack and a hot wave of momentary chagrin washed over her. Her back straightened perceptibly as her sparking navy eyes swept over to Ellie, perfection in the muted gold gown of the previous day, bandbox faultless and serene, and perhaps covertly smug at the comparison between their appearances.
Kalida mentally nodded to herself; this had been just what she had hoped for. Her resentment faded, and she said fr
ostily, "I'll take my dinner in the barnyard then," and turned on her heel and exited the room, almost colliding with Prestina, who had been listening.
"What did you do that for?" Prestina demanded.
Kalida stared at her. "Ardelle is a—"
"Don't you go saying nothing you gonna regret, Miss Kalida. I bring you tray, you go on upstairs," Prestina forestalled her. "You do that. Don't you let Mr. Deuce hear you been sassing his aunt and kicking up a rumpus here. Go." She gave Kalida a gentle shove toward the stairs.
Kalida moved, feeling as chastised as a child by its nanny. It didn't matter; she had created the effect she wanted. Ardelle had asked for it, anyway. So had Deuce.
She couldn't understand why she felt so desolated instead of triumphant.
In the morning, there was no evidence that Deuce had returned the previous night.
In the morning, her rumpled clothing was completely gone, and in its place, spread neatly across the foot of the bed, was a garment she had never seen before—a high-necked plain blue cotton dress, with a narrow draped skirt and several rows of tucking down the bodice for decoration.
Such a ladylike dress, she thought sardonically, touching the material and examining the seams. Madame was a fast worker, undoubtedly urged on to finish the first item in Kalida's new Ardelle-ordained wardrobe. She had probably worked the whole night to stitch up this one dress so that Kalida might have something "proper" to wear. Something demure and constrained. Something that would utterly restrain her vital nature.
She fingered the row of round black buttons that marched up the bodice. The only good thing, she thought, a barrier to keep Deuce's hands,away from her traitorous body. He would have a devil of a time undoing those in the throes of desire. Surely the time it would take to undo them would quench anyone's passion aborning. The notion made her smile. She had to wear it; there was nothing else. But that didn't mean she had to bind herself up in the fine lawn underthings that lay beneath it. Or wear the petticoats that Prestina had dredged up from somewhere, for it was a physical impossibility for Madame to have made those too.
