Moonfire

by Linda Lael Miller

  Finding Tansy would be impossible, since there were a thousand and one places the little devil could be, and the thought of throwing herself on the mercy of one of those fire-and-brimstone preachers was the worst prospect of all. Far worse than anything Reeve could do even if he were to return to the wagon in a rage of lust.

  Snuggling under the covers, her hair an unruly mess around her head, Maggie smiled as she imagined Reeve in a rage of lust. The prospect was intriguing.

  The covers warming her, her body feeling all soft and boneless and profoundly cherished in the bargain, Maggie yawned and closed her eyes. Within moments she was sleeping, untroubled by dreams of any kind, erotic or otherwise.

  There were other places Reeve could have slept, other places where the needs that tore at him might have been appeased, but in the end, after wandering for nearly an hour in the rain, he went back to his own wagon and crept inside.

  Maggie was sleeping; he knew that from the soft meter of her breathing. Reeve smiled to himself as he stripped away his wet clothes and flung them into a corner of the wagon. There was only one bed and it was too damned cold to sleep on the floor, so he crawled into the narrow berth beside Maggie and huddled close to her. He’d just have to control himself, that was all.

  She stirred as his icy flesh pressed against her, but didn’t awaken. Reeve was filled with tenderness—Maggie was exhausted—and he was gentle as he laid one possessive, protective arm over her and ordered himself to sleep.

  Maggie’s plump little posterior wriggled against him as she stirred in her sleep, and Reeve swallowed a groan as he felt himself growing hard again. The effects of an hour’s walk in the frigid rain had just been undone.

  A shudder went through him and then he sneezed, shaking the whole bed. As luck would have it, Maggie awakened and he felt her turning toward him, the peaks of her breasts brushing his chest and making matters generally worse.

  “You’ve caught a cold,” she scolded softly, sleepily, her small, smooth hand moving up and down his arm in an effort to warm him.

  She was doing a lot more than warming him, but Reeve couldn’t think of a way to withdraw without getting out from underneath the blankets, and he wasn’t about to do that. Even chivalry, he reflected, has its limits.

  “Maggie, stop it,” he pleaded hoarsely. And then, unable to help himself, he exploded with another thunderous sneeze.

  Maggie snuggled closer, trying to share her warmth, and Reeve was so moved by the ingenuous charity of the motion that his throat thickened into an impassible knot, making it impossible for him to warn her.

  Her hand moved along his hip in a circling motion, hesitated, and then progressed to his left buttock. His manhood ached, taut and hard, and he groaned.

  Maggie’s hand came back to his hip, and then she was massaging his thigh, at times coming perilously close to the part of him that most needed, most craved touching.

  Reeve could bear no more, and he grasped Maggie’s wrist in his hand to stop the sweet torment.

  “Don’t you want me to touch you?” she whispered, sounding puzzled and hurt.

  “Believe me, Maggie,” Reeve breathed, “I do.”

  “Then why did you grab my hand like that?”

  “It was your interest I was looking after, Yank, and not my own. If you’d kept that up much longer, I’d have finished what we started earlier.”

  He could sense her surprise, her wonder, and again he was filled with a tenderness so all-encompassing as to be painful.

  “You mean there’s more? We didn’t—we didn’t do everything?”

  A low, startled laugh erupted from Reeve’s throat. “You thought that was everything?” he asked in a hoarse whisper when he was able to speak coherently.

  He heard the tears gathering in her throat before he reached up with a gentle hand and felt them on her face. “You did think that was everything,” he said gently, answering his own question.

  Maggie’s forehead was tucked against his chest; then he felt her nod and his fingers delved into the damp, tangled hair at the back of her head. Unable to resist her for another moment, Reeve made her lift her face for his kiss.

  It betrayed all his hunger, that kiss, a hunger he’d never felt for any other woman, Loretta included. God, even weeks of lonely nights on board a whaler had never driven him to a need like this.

  His tongue sought admittance; Maggie opened for it, greeted it with her own shy sparring. His groan echoed in her mouth and he shifted, so that he lay above her, his elbows keeping his full weight from resting upon her.

  Reeve’s mind spun like a child’s boat on a stormy sea. Some instinct made Maggie part her legs for him and he rested between them, allowing his shaft to press its throbbing length into the flesh of her belly.

  Dear God in heaven, he needed her, but even in his fever to have her he remembered that this was Maggie, not Loretta. Maggie was a virgin, and if he thrust into her too suddenly, too forcefully, he would hurt her.

  “Maggie,” he breathed raggedly, his face buried in the sweet softness of her neck, “Maggie.”

  Her hands were caressing the taut muscles of his back, soothing his soul and, at the same time, inflaming his flesh. He felt, through the wall of his chest, a soft whimper escape her, and then heard it pass his ear.

  Instantly, Reeve lifted himself again, so that no part of him except his lower legs was touching her. “Did I hurt you?” he whispered.

  Her soft hair tickled his face as she shook her head back and forth. “No, Reeve—you didn’t hurt me.” Her hands were slipping, light as gossamer, up and down his back again. “Let me hold you. You’re so cold.”

  “Strange,” Reeve managed to reply, “I’d swear I have a fever.”

  Maggie’s cool hand rose to his forehead, smoothing back the damp hair he’d dried briefly with a cloth before getting into bed. He saw her alabaster brow furrow in the dense darkness. “People die of fever,” she fretted softly.

  Reeve felt his heart swell to the point of breaking. “It isn’t that kind of fever, love,” he said.

  She was kissing the underside of his jaw; if she didn’t stop soon, Reeve wasn’t going to be able to keep from taking her much longer.

  “What else is there to do,” she asked, her lips tracing the length of his neck now, “besides what we did before?”

  Unable to answer audibly, Reeve shifted so that his manhood again pressed its length into her soft stomach.

  “You want to put that inside me!” Maggie almost crowed in the tone of one who has just had an Olympian revelation.

  Reeve covered her mouth with his, even though it was a belated effort. “Be quiet,” he said, and the whisper echoed.

  She sent the words back to him on a soft giggle and Reeve was lost. He slid down her body, as far as her breasts, and began the pleasuring that would prepare her for his taking.

  Chapter 8

  ON SOME LEVEL OF HER MIND, MAGGIE KNEW THAT WHAT took place in the next few minutes might prove to be the worst mistake of her life, but she was unable to act on that knowledge. She had no desire to stop Reeve from feasting at her breasts, no desire to stop him from kissing her shivering middle. And then his mouth was on hers and she could feel his powerful shaft nudging at the portal of her womanhood.

  “Are you sure, Maggie?” he asked, just barely inside her.

  Maggie was sure. She felt herself expanding to welcome him, and the expansion was a burning ache that only his taking could relieve. Wildly, her fingers clutching at Reeve’s back, she nodded her head.

  He entered her slowly, by careful degrees, and each advance increased Maggie’s pleasure a thousandfold. She tried to raise her hips so that he would take her fully, but Reeve would permit no deviation from the pace he was setting. Finally, he reached a barrier of some sort and there was a brief, searing pain as he passed it. Maggie gasped and he did not move deeper inside her until several moments had gone by.

  Reeve reached beneath Maggie and cupped her bottom in his hands, lifting her sligh
tly, and then he was wholly, gloriously hers. Maggie trembled, her hands tangling in his hair, forcing him to bend his head for her kiss.

  While they kissed, their tongues fighting a fierce and friendly war, Reeve began a rhythm of pleasure that drove all semblance of rational thought from Maggie’s mind. He withdrew slowly, then delved deep, then withdrew again. And each time he pulled away, Maggie wanted to weep for the need of him.

  His slow pace was excruciatingly sweet, commanding, and, at the same time, gentle. Maggie had only to give herself up to the wondrous sensations that possessed her, for Reeve guided the motion of her hips with his hands.

  Each time their joining deepened, Maggie moaned. There were kisses, some brief and frantic, some long and hungry, and all the while Reeve’s body set the pace for hers. The passion grew until it filled Maggie, swirling through her mind, swelling her lush breasts and hardening their peaks. She grasped at Reeve’s shoulders, pleading, “Reeve—Reeve—”

  And then the riot of sensations tearing through her culminated in one shuddering, desperate eruption of feeling, of needing, of loving. At the same time Maggie cried out in her pleasure, the skies replied with a deafening salvo of thunder.

  Reeve was still approaching his own pinnacle of release; he groaned and began to move faster and faster along the velvety channel that teased and taunted even as it caressed. There was no thunder to mask the cry of despairing rapture that tore itself from his throat.

  Maggie reveled in the shuddering exhaustion that caused his body to fall to hers, warm and heavy and perspiring from exertion. She wrapped her arms around Reeve’s heaving middle and held him close.

  Only when Reeve rolled to his side, his breathing still ragged, did Maggie release him, and then she idly caressed his arm with one hand.

  Moments later she slept, cuddled close to Reeve, and she had no way of knowing that he lay awake for hours, staring up at the shadowy canvas roof that protected them from the rain.

  The first thing Maggie was conscious of was a soreness in her most private place, an innocuous, gentle kind of pain. She squirmed deeper into the covers, aware now of the blinding sunlight that turned her closed lids pink. It was much too warm beneath the blankets, so Maggie threw them off, delighting in the cool caress of a morning breeze along her naked skin.

  It was then that she remembered, and her eyes flew open and she sat upright in the narrow bed. Reeve was gone, and her clothes had been carefully draped over a trunk in the corner to dry.

  Cheeks crimson, Maggie scrambled out of the bed, snatched up her still-damp drawers and camisole, and shimmied into them. Then she put on her stockings and her shoes and the pink and white gingham dress that had been packed so carefully in her reticule. It was shamefully wrinkled now, and slightly wet, but Maggie got into it anyway.

  She was just attempting to button the gown, when Reeve suddenly vaulted into the wagon from the back. Maggie flushed and averted her eyes from his face, afraid to see mockery there, or revulsion, or remorse.

  He approached her from behind, his fingers warm as they did up the buttons she’d been unable to reach. When he’d done that, he pushed aside her flowing, snarled hair and bent to kiss the nape of her neck.

  Maggie stiffened against him, against the terrible needs he stirred within her so easily. Without looking at Reeve, she found her reticule and brought out her hairbrush, trying to tame her hopelessly tangled hair.

  Still silent, Reeve took the brush from her hands, sat down on the bed where they’d done such scandalous things the night before, and pulled a startled Maggie onto his lap. When she struggled to rise, he restrained her, his arm hard around her middle.

  And then he began to brush her hair.

  Maggie had never thought that having a man hold her on his lap and brush her hair could be a sensual thing; indeed, she’d never thought of a man doing those things at all. But it was an intimacy so tender as to almost take her breath away.

  Maggie trembled slightly. His thighs were hard as granite beneath her own soft ones and a sweet, mysterious excitement shot through her.

  Reeve paused, no longer working at the tangles and snarls in her hair. “Cold?”

  “Yes,” Maggie lied, sitting up a little straighter.

  Reeve chuckled and went back to his gentle work. “Your hair is just the color of moonlight on white opal,” he said thoughtfully after a few moments, all evidence of amusement gone from his tone.

  Maggie didn’t know what to say to that, and she wasn’t sure she could trust herself to speak anyway, so she kept her peace. Reeve continued to brush her hair, and when he’d finished, a long time later, he laid aside the brush and, with a tender boldness, cupped his hands over Maggie’s breasts for a moment.

  She shivered at the delectable sensations this inspired and then bolted from Reeve’s lap because she knew where such caresses could lead.

  “How am I going to leave this wagon without everyone for miles around knowing that I spent the night here?” she demanded in a tone of practical petulance.

  Reeve grinned and rose slowly to his feet, standing within inches of Maggie and clearly enjoying the obvious discomfort this caused her. “Not many people will notice, Maggie. Provided you put up your hair, that is, and stop blushing.”

  Maggie swallowed hard and then made an involved business of finding her hairpins, which were scattered from one end of Reeve McKenna’s bed to the other. “I wasn’t blushing,” she said, still bent over as she collected the last few pins.

  Brazenly, Reeve reached out and caressed her rounded bottom, and heat surged through her. She was ashamed of the knowledge that, should this man kiss her again, should he touch her breasts, she would surely allow him to take her. Right there in broad daylight, on that narrow, rumpled bed.

  It was knowing that that made Maggie whirl and slap Reeve McKenna soundly across the face, the blow making a satisfying noise.

  Instantly, Reeve caught both her wrists behind her in one of his hands. With the other he stroked her right breast, grinning as he felt the nipple harden beneath its covering of muslin and thin cotton. Still keeping Maggie prisoner by clasping her hands together, he bent and nipped gently at the hidden point with his teeth.

  Maggie moaned and closed her eyes. There was no need for Reeve to restrain her; she was powerless to move away. But still he held her, tormenting the other breast with his tongue and his teeth while with his free hand he lifted her skirts. She trembled as she felt the ties of her drawers give way, groaned when Reeve’s hand slid inside to caress her. He left her breast to kiss the length of her neck then, while his fingers remained where they were, fondling, flicking, rolling the nubbin of flesh between them.

  “Oh, God,” Maggie gasped as her body suddenly convulsed in a swift, searing spasm of pleasure.

  He laughed softly, continuing to stroke Maggie even as she shuddered in the aching aftermath of his small conquering. “If you ever slap me again, Maggie,” he said, gently rolling her earlobe between his teeth “this will be your punishment.”

  Maggie could feel the awesome need building within her again and she whimpered, “Oh, no, Reeve, please—not a second time—”

  His fondling was relentless and brutally pleasurable for Maggie. She found herself bent far backward over Reeve’s arm, surrendering to the magic his hand ignited while his teeth again tormented breasts that craved to be bared to him and were not.

  “Oooooh,” she moaned as the second pinnacle was reached, and her hips spasmed in response to Reeve’s skillful touch.

  When the tumult had ended, Reeve withdrew his hand from Maggie’s drawers, let her skirts fall back into place, lifted her so that she again stood upright. She stared at him, dazed by the glory of the moments just past.

  And Reeve gave her a hard swat on the bottom, turned, and left the wagon, whistling. Damn and double damn, the man was whistling!

  Maggie pressed her hands to her cheeks in an effort to cool them and stood stock-still until her breathing was normal again. Then, not wanting to
hide inside Reeve’s wagon all day, she climbed bravely out the back.

  The sky was a deep, rain-washed blue, the sun bright as polished brass. People milled about everywhere, talking and eating as they moved between puddles of muddy water. Almost immediately, Maggie spotted Tansy, standing by one of the new bonfires, casually warming her hands.

  Maggie stormed toward her friend, furious beyond all good sense. If Tansy hadn’t disappeared the way she had, Maggie might not have ended up in Reeve’s wagon. She might not have given up the most precious thing a woman could offer a man. “Tansy Quinn,” she demanded in a scathing whisper, “where have you been?”

  Tansy looked at Maggie and then at the wagon she’d crawled out of, a knowing, saucy gleam in her blue eyes. “I was doin’ the same thing you were doin’, only in the barn,” she answered, bold and brazen as you please.

  Maggie stiffened, her face burning. Unable to think of an answer to Tansy’s remark, she remained silent.

  Tansy drew nearer, catching Maggie’s rigid arm in her hand and ushering her away from the fire and the people waiting there for their breakfast. “You’re the luckiest of us all, Maggie Chamberlin,” she confided in a delighted whisper. “Imagine beddin’ a man like that!”

  Unfortunately, Maggie didn’t have to imagine bedding a man like Reeve. But neither did she have to admit to anything. “It so happens that nothing of the sort took place last night. Nothing at all. Mr. McKenna simply allowed me to sleep in his wagon because I’d been caught in the rain and had nowhere else to go!”

  Tansy nodded sagely, her eyes revealing utter skepticism. “Aye, love. That must be why I heard you moanin’ the man’s name when I came by the wagon earlier this mornin’ to find you.” She bent a little closer to Maggie as she propelled her between enormous pools of rainwater. “What in the name of’eaven was the bloke doin’ to you to make you carry on like that?”