THE OUTLAW AND THE LADY

by Lorraine Heath

  She began making a mental note of brown objects gathered from her memory, concentrating on their hue, hoping he could accurately identify the one that most closely resembled his eyes. She wasn't that concerned with his hair, but his eyes. Windows to the soul, corridors to the heart. She regretted that she could not hold his gaze and look deeply into his eyes as she'd so often seen her mother do with her father—before she'd lost her sight.

  She remembered the many times that they had seemed to become lost in each other, just looking at each other, faraway smiles softening their features as though they shared a magical place of memories that they could travel to at any time regardless of their surroundings.

  Did Lee look at her like that? As though she made him complete, as though she were the sum of his existence, the center of his world? Or had she simply fallen under his spell because he was her captor?

  She didn't think she was that naive or that easily fooled.

  Familiar footsteps echoed down the hallway and her heart picked up its tempo. The hurried, resounding tread of large feet. Joy burst through her. He was home.

  She knew the moment he entered the room. The door banged closed in his wake, providing immediate privacy promising intimacy. She rose and found herself gathered in his strong arms, his rapacious mouth moving over hers with an intensity that she welcomed. The heat from his body melted into hers as she wound her arms firmly around his neck, running her fingers into his curls. He needed a haircut. She inhaled his familiar musky male scent—and something else. The withering scent of roses.

  Pain knifed through her heart as she tore her mouth from his, shoved him back, and scrambled away until her knees hit the bed. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. "You were with a woman."

  "What?" Bafflement laced his voice.

  "You went away to be with another woman. I can smell her."

  "I stopped and bathed in the river. How can you smell her?"

  He didn't even bother to deny it. "Your clothes carry her stink." A tear rolled onto her cheek. Furiously she swiped it away. "How could I be such a fool?"

  "Angela, it's not what you think," he said huskily, his fingers skimming her cheek.

  She slapped at him, her palm making contact with his arm. She wanted to withdraw from him, curl into a tightened ball so he could never touch her again. "Get away from me," she spat.

  His arms came around her, holding her close against his solid chest. He grunted when she kicked his shin.

  "Listen to me," he said.

  "No! You've got nothing to say that I want to hear."

  "I love you," he rasped.

  Words she had longed to hear tainted by his rendezvous with another woman. She twisted madly. "Let me go!"

  "Yes, I was with a woman. A friend. She is just a friend. I did not lie with her."

  She stilled, sinking against him, shaking her head. "Then why do your clothes reek of her?"

  He skimmed his lips along her temple. "Because she embraced me when we said good-bye."'

  She supposed that could be true. He'd never lied to her, and would a man who had recently bedded another be so quick to take her in his arms, his body so responsive? Because even now she could feel the clear evidence of his desire pressed against her belly.

  He dipped his head and pressed a kiss to the sensitive spot below her ear. "You're the only one, Angel, the only one I've ever made love to."

  Her breath caught. "Ever?"

  "Ever," he whispered hoarsely beside her ear. "I thought of you every moment I was away. Did you think of me?"

  She tipped her head back, touched her hand to his pliant lips. She gave him a tremulous smile. "I thought of you every moment you were away."

  His mouth returned to hers with an urgency greater than it had before. And his hands, his roughened, callused hands worked to make their clothes melt away until they were flesh to flesh, shoulder to hip.

  She fell onto the bed and he followed her, until they were a tangle of desperate limbs, touching, searching, wanting, desiring.

  When his body entered hers, she cried out from the sheer joy of it. He was hers, and she was his. All doubts faded away as she met his thrusts with abandon, their sweat-sheened bodies slick. She moaned and writhed beneath him, climbing higher and higher, while her hands skimmed over his clenched jaws, his flaring nostrils, his open eyes.

  Oh, to see as he saw…

  As he carried her over the precipice into the realm of pleasure, for a fleeting second, she did see—his love. Pure, deep, hers forever.

  Sated, his limbs heavy, his breathing slowly returning to normal, Lee rolled to his side and drew Angela into the curve of his body. He threaded his fingers into the tangle of her hair, rested his palm against the curve of her chin, stroked his thumb over her cheek, and pressed a kiss to her brow. He thought about how close he'd come to never knowing this measure of contentment.

  The bounty of her love was something he wasn't certain he deserved, but he was still grateful for it, treasured it, and would carry the memory of it with him always.

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  « ^ »

  The wind blew softly, gently, whispering its secrets to the leaves in the trees that grew haphazardly along the banks of the river. Sitting on a blanket of bright red, orange, and yellow, colors and designs that Lee had described in vivid detail, Angela had never known such contentment. That it was a false happiness, she refused to acknowledge. That it was fleeting she didn't dare contemplate.

  She had this moment, this day, with a man whom she knew she would love forever. He'd awakened her at midnight, and again at dawn, his hands, his lips, his hardened body weaving magical sensations, each touch a gift, each moan a song.

  As though they were a normal couple with the luxury of courtship, he'd brought her here to enjoy the cool, breeze blowing off the Rio Grande, the shade of the trees, and the joy of his company.

  "Arrogant, I know," he'd said, as he'd lifted her onto a horse, "to think you would want to spend time with me alone."

  "Arrogant," she'd responded with a smile, "but accurate."

  Now he was stretched out on the ground, his head nestled within her lap while she skimmed her fingers over his face, his neck, his shoulders, and through his hair. She thought she would never grow weary of touching him. She must have dreamt a hundred times of going on a picnic just as her sisters often did, with a man who didn't stumble over his feet as he tried to ensure that she didn't trip over hers. With Lee, she felt complete. "Is your hair black or brown?" she asked lazily.

  "They are so close in color, what does it matter?"

  "I'm trying to create a clearer image of you in my mind."

  "I think your heart sees me clearly," he murmured as took her hand and kissed each fingertip.

  She returned her hands to his head. "I like colors, so tell me something that's the same shade as your hair."

  "I will have to think on it to find the perfect object."

  "It doesn't have to be perfect."

  "But you will put this thing on top of my head, heh? So I must think on it."

  She shook her head. Sometimes he was incredibly frustrating. "Who taught you to play the guitar?"

  "Mi madre. She had a beautiful voice."

  "You are apparently the only one of her sons to inherit it."

  Beneath her fingers, he seemed to tense. "No, it is Juanita who has her talent, but she no longer sings, except maybe lullabies to Miguel."

  She brushed his errant curls off his brow. "Whose idea was it to tell people that Miguel was your brother?"

  "Mine. Juanita was so ashamed that I thought it would be easier for her if she did not have to admit to anyone that she had a son."

  "But you're denying Miguel a chance to know her as his mother."

  Abruptly, he sat up. "I've considered that, but there is no easy way to handle this situation. How do you think he is going to feel if he discovers I murdered his father?"

  She heard the pain reflected in his voice and kne
w he would be lost without that little boy's love. To comfort him, she flattened her palm against his back, the corded muscles bunching beneath the fabric of his shirt. "Miguel will always love you, no matter what happens."

  "I did not bring you here to discuss what cannot be changed." Tenderly he cradled her cheek. "I wanted us to have a day with no memories. Teach me how to court you."

  She released a burst of laughter. "It's a little late for that, don't you think?"

  "It is never too late to court a woman. Mi padre told me that a man should seek to please the lady of his heart for as long as he lives."

  "He sounds like a wise man."

  "He was. So how shall I court you, Angela Bainbridge?"

  Tears stung her eyes for what he'd indirectly told her. "Am I the lady of your heart, then?"

  "Sí." Lee lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her tenderly, relishing the feel of her lips molding themselves against his while their tongues waltzed to a rhythm dictated by their hearts. "Do you doubt it?"

  "No."

  "Good. Now, how have other men sought to win your favor?"

  Angela smiled with the memories of bungling suitors. "With no success."

  "So what would you have me do?"

  She skimmed her fingers over his beloved features. "Live to be an old man."

  No smile lines formed in his face, no hint of joy. "What can I give you today?" he asked.

  Her chest tightened. "Just hold me."

  His arms came around her with a sureness as he eased her down to the blanket. "A woman should be greedy when a man is offering her whatever she desires."

  She was greedy as his mouth teased hers with light pecks before settling in for a deeper kiss. She was starved for the taste of him, the scent of him, the heat of him. She wanted his body moving over hers in slow, heated ecstasy. If they were paupers, with him beside her, she would know wealth. His tongue waltzed with hers before sweeping through her mouth, outlining every curve, every dip.

  He drew back. "If I am not careful, I will make love to you out here while the sun watches."

  She felt her cheeks grow hot with the thought. "I'm not that daring."

  "But you are brave; from the beginning, I admired your bravery."

  "I get that from my mother. If she was ever afraid of anything, I never knew."

  "Why were you not afraid of me?"

  "I was at first, when you grabbed me outside the bank, but then…" She laughed self-consciously. "Your voice never sounded cruel, your touch never felt brutal." She shook her head. "I don't know, Lee. I know I should have been terrified, but I never felt threatened. Then when you scolded me for using profanity, I thought, what kind of outlaw is this man?"

  "You have gotten much better at not using profanity."

  She bracketed her hands on either side of his face. "My God, but I love you."

  "And I love that smile." He traced the edges of her lips, then moved his finger down so it could follow the line of her collarbone, exposed by the low neck of the blouse she wore. "Why did it bother you when I called you 'Angel' that first morning?"

  She was surprised that she did not feel the usual stab of pain with the memory. "Because of Damon."

  He stilled his light caress. "Damon?"

  "Damon Montgomery." When he neither responded nor moved, she added, "The little boy I lost."

  "His name was Damon?"

  "Yes. He called me 'Angel.' I guess 'Angela' was too hard when he was so young."

  "He was very fortunate to have had you for a friend."

  Now the pain did roll through her. "Not so fortunate."

  He gave her a quick kiss. "We are not supposed to talk about memories today, we are supposed to make them."

  He moved away from her, took her hand, and pulled her to her feet. "Come. I have decided what I am going to give you."

  "Lee, you don't have to give me anything."

  "I'd give you the world if I could."

  In a way he did. Holding hands, they walked and talked … safe subjects all. Books they'd read, people they'd known. He told her of the vaqueros who had come up from Mexico each spring to help his father drive the cattle north. She shared stories about the men who visited her father's saloon. Then he surprised her by taking her on a journey through his memory of all the happy times. She could almost hear his father's laughter, feel the warmth of his mother's embrace, the gentle teasing of an older brother tolerant of the younger ones who tagged after him. Within Lee's voice, she heard the longing for what he had once possessed, surprisingly never taken for granted, and the acceptance that it would never come to pass again.

  As twilight shadows began to chase away the heat of day, she stood beside a tree, her hands pressed against the bark, the trunk vibrating as Lee scraped a knife against the wood. "What are you doing?" she asked.

  "I'll show you in a minute."

  She tapped her foot against an exposed root. "Have I ever mentioned that I'm not patient?"

  He chuckled low. "That I figured out on my own."

  She gnawed on her bottom lip. "My mother used to tell me that men were like barbed wire."

  "Like barbed wire?" he asked, obviously distracted.

  "Yes, they have their good points."

  He laughed then, a rumble that started deep within his chest and echoed around them.

  She shrieked as he lifted her in the air. Smiling brightly, she planted her hands on his shoulders as he spun her around.

  "Good points? I will share my good points with you later."

  Tears burned her eyes. "I've never heard you laugh, not like that. My God, Lee, you almost sound happy."

  He stopped twirling then and slowly lowered her to the ground. "I am happy, querida." He skimmed his knuckles across her cheek "When I am with you, I feel…"

  "What do you feel?" she asked.

  "Like I am the man that perhaps I should have been." He bussed a quick kiss across her lips. "Like I am a man who would do loco things like this."

  He flattened her hand against the tree. She detected a groove chiseled into the bark.

  "What do you think?" he asked.

  "Who's being impatient now?" she chided. "I have to concentrate." She ran her finger along the indentation: a slant that eventually curved into a V that curved into a slant that came to a point. Something jutted out from each side. "It's a heart," she whispered, "a heart with an arrow going through it. That's something young sweethearts would do."

  "So today I feel young." He took her hand. "What does the center of the heart tell you?"

  With her fingertips, she traced the lines. "AB, and beneath that is LR." Tears of joy welled in her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks. "I always wanted someone to carve my initials on a tree." She pressed her hands flat, trying to create an impression against her palms.

  "Then you like it?"

  "I love it."

  "You are too easy to please, querida."

  She spun around. "But you have to get rid of it. What if someone sees it?"

  "That is the whole point."

  "You could lead someone straight to you."

  "What are the odds that someone will figure it out … if they happen to see it?"

  "Whatever they are, I don't like them."

  "The branches are low, the foliage dense. I do not think anyone will see it, but it will be here for a thousand years, and if someone should spot it, they will spin tales about the outlaw who fell in love with a lady."

  She touched her fingers to his mouth. He was smiling, a full beautiful smile that she couldn't bring herself to dim with her worries. "Tell me the story, Lee, tell me the story that you think they'll weave."

  He lifted her into his arms. "I think I'll take you to bed and show it to you instead."

  * * *

  He was lost, so lost, stumbling in the darkness, searching for home … warmth, security, love … but they remained beyond reach. Perhaps he didn't deserve them.

  Shaking, cold … blood, too damned much blood. Screams, cries … tears. An
explosion. The loss of all his dreams.

  He swirled through the haze until he saw them, waiting for him, arms outstretched, anxious to welcome him home. But he couldn't go home, not now, not after what he had become.

  A voice intruded on his nightmare, lulling him away, calling him back. Lee awoke with a start, his breathing harsh and heavy, his body slick with sweat.

  "Lee? Are you all right?"

  A small hand rested on his heaving chest, another gently stroked his damp hair.

  "Angel?" he rasped.

  "It was just a dream," she assured him softly, "just a dream."

  "It's always so real. I can smell the fear."

  "Were you reliving the night your family was attacked?"

  "At first, but then … I have a long ago memory."

  She moved up and pressed his face against the gentle swells of her bosom. "You're crying."

  The shame clenched his gut and twisted it into a hardened knot as he shook his head in denial of the truth.

  "It's all right, Lee. It's all right," she cooed. "You don't have to be ashamed."

  "But I am."

  "Don't be. Not with me."

  Not with her, not with this woman who saw him more clearly than anyone ever had. He plowed his fingers into her hair and burrowed his face into her pliant flesh.

  "What do you dream?"

  "I see a man and woman."

  "Your parents?"

  "No, I don't know who they are, but it saddens me to see them. I hurt when I see them."

  "Then don't dream," she whispered. "Just sleep."

  She rubbed his tense shoulders, kneaded his stiff neck. He began to drift off, carrying her into his dreams.

  * * *

  Angela sat beside the window, the gentle night breeze ruffling her hair. Lee had finally succumbed to the lure of sleep, so deeply that he hadn't stirred when she'd clambered out of bed. But how long would he sleep before he awoke with another anguished cry?