“You’ve been crying,” he interrupted. The words sounded like an accusation.
Lisa brought up her fists and rubbed self-consciously at her still-damp eyes, feeling for all the world like she was about ten years old. So she had been crying—it didn’t mean anything, she told herself defiantly. She had been known to cry over sad movies, hurt pets, books, anything and everything. It certainly didn’t mean what it sounded like he was trying to make it mean—that she was beginning to feel a kind of affection for him! She sniffled inelegantly, trying to control the tears that were once again threatening to burst forth.
“Haven’t you?” he persisted softly, making no move to touch her but eating her with those impossible eyes.
“So what?” Her rude reply was defensive. She didn’t want him probing any closer—although she refused to admit why even to herself.
“Why, Lisa?”
He was going to worry the subject to death, she could tell. At all costs, Lisa wanted to keep him from guessing about the absurd soft spot she seemed to have uncovered for him. He would undoubtedly laugh and mock her. And she—she was too uncertain of her feelings where he was concerned to let him catch a glimpse of the unwelcome tenderness she had just discovered she felt for him.
“I always cry when I’m under stress,” she said in a gruff little voice. Then, trying to change the subject, she added, “Shouldn’t you be lying down?”
Sam ignored this last, as she should have known he would. He tilted his head back against the wall, his eyes fixed on her consideringly. Lisa felt color begin to heat her cheeks as she endured that searching perusal.
“You’ve been under stress of one sort or another ever since I met you,” he said slowly. “And I’ve never seen you cry before. Why not admit it, Lisa? You were crying because you didn’t like hurting me.”
Lisa said nothing. Of their own volition her lashes dropped to shield her eyes from his probing gaze. Drat the man anyway, she thought irritably. Was he bound and determined to embarrass her?
“Weren’t you?” he persisted.
Lisa’s lower lip quivered with humiliation. If he made fun of her, she would want to die. . . .
“So what if I was?” she demanded belligerently, her eyes flashing open to meet his head-on. To her surprise, his lips parted in one of those devastatingly sweet smiles that never failed to rock her to her core.
“So I like the idea,” he said softly, his eyes suddenly warm as they moved over her pink face. “Come here, honey.”
He reached for her with his good arm as he spoke. Without knowing quite how it came about, Lisa found herself cuddled against his uninjured side, her face buried in the warm curve between his neck and shoulder. His arm was like a steel band around her back as he held her against him.
“I hated hurting you,” she confided shakily into the strong cords of his neck. He pressed her comfortingly closer.
“Not long ago you gave me the impression that you would willingly have slit my throat,” he said with just the suspicion of a teasing smile in his voice. “What made you change your mind?”
This was what Lisa had been expecting. She stiffened, trying to pull away from him. Injured or not, he was still infinitely stronger than she was, and he held her with seeming ease.
“Don’t you make fun of me!” she said in a high, shaking voice.
Immediately he held her a little away from him, looking down into her face. They were outside the small circle of light cast by the dangling flashlight, and it was difficult to read his expression clearly through the shadows.
“I wasn’t making fun of you, honey.” Oddly enough, he sounded sincere. “I was just wondering what brought on the change.”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Sam studied her for a few moments longer, then pulled her back against his side.
“Okay,” he said agreeably. “We won’t talk about it—at least not now.” He was murmuring his words into the ear closest to him, his lips nudging aside the soft hair covering it so that his breath softly caressed the tender skin. Despite herself, Lisa felt her head droop onto his broad shoulder. With a tiny sigh, she relaxed against him. She was so tired. . . .
“Hey, don’t go to sleep on me,” he said after a few minutes’ silence.
Lisa murmured drowsily in reply. Sam shook her gently with the arm that curved around her waist. Reluctantly Lisa looked up at him, her eyes big pools of sleepiness. Sam studied her small flushed face for a moment without speaking, then his hand moved up to tilt up her chin. Before Lisa realized what he was about, he leaned over to plant a soft, butterfly kiss on her mouth. Her lips trembled at his touch.
“You’re cold,” he said with a quick frown, thankfully misinterpreting her shiver. “You need to get out of those wet clothes before you catch pneumonia.”
In truth, Lisa hadn’t spared a thought for her clothes. They were merely damp now, instead of soaking wet as they had been earlier. But now that she thought about it, she realized that they were uncomfortably clammy against her skin. This time, when she shivered it was genuinely from the cold.
“I will if you will,” she said, straightening away from him and looking over at the still-wet pants that clung to his muscular hips and thighs as closely as a second skin.
“Deal,” he answered lightly, but his tone was belied by the odd little light that shone in his blue eyes.
Looking at him, Lisa had the oddest sensation, like her heart was trying to do a somersault in her chest. To give her thoughts a new direction, she began hurriedly to unbutton her shirt. After living with him as she had, she felt no shyness about undressing in front of him. Sam had already seen, and more than seen, every single millimeter of her body.
He leaned forward and began to unlace his boots, but then had to lean back again with a groan. Lisa, looking up to see the spasm that crossed his face, was immediately beside him, glaring at him.
“I told you not to move,” she scolded in a tone used by fond but exasperated mothers. “You should try listening.”
Sam returned her look. He was very pale, and his skin was drawn, but the ghost of a grin hovered around his mouth.
“Sorry,” he murmured. Lisa gave him one more monitory look, then scooted down to do the job herself.
She removed his boots one at a time, trying not to jar him as she worked them from his feet. When the boots were finally off, she peeled off his socks, thinking what nice feet he had. They were large and brown and strong-looking—dependable feet, she thought, then was immediately disgusted with herself for giving in to such foolishness. Whoever heard of dependable feet? Again she had to caution herself against growing too attached to him: once they were back home again, they would be going their separate ways.
When his feet were bare, she unfastened his pants, her actions totally natural, without embarrassment. His eyes never left her as she slid his zipper down; she had no way of knowing that he was thinking what a pretty picture she made with her silver-gilt hair forming a curling halo around her small, flushed face and her lower lip caught characteristically between her teeth as she concentrated on her task. Her shirt was open to the waist and only her flimsy bra hid her soft breasts from his gaze. She looked up then and caught his eyes on her, and smiled.
“Can you lift yourself up?” She had to repeat the question twice before he understood.
Sam did as she asked, and she slid his pants and shorts down past his hips, then pulled them all the way off with little difficulty. Sam remembered that she was no novice at undressing men, then banished the thought from his head. It made no difference to him, in any case. . . .
Naked, he still looked very much the man in charge, Lisa thought, not even realizing that her eyes were moving over his long body until she noticed the goosebumps ridging the flesh of his arms and legs.
“You’ll freeze, sitting around like that,” she said with swift concern.
“There’s a blanket tied to the bottom of the pack. We can share it.”
Lisa remembere
d seeing the blanket, tightly rolled and bound with nylon cords, when she had rummaged through the pack earlier. Quickly she fetched it, shaking it out and draping it over Sam’s shoulders. He drew it around him, shivering convulsively.
“Come on, it’ll be warmer if we share.”
Sam’s words brought home to her again how cold she really was. Lisa hastily shed the rest of her clothes, then stood before him, naked and shivering, her arms wrapped around herself for warmth.
“Hand me the rifle and switch off the flashlight. We need to save the batteries,” Sam directed. Lisa did as he told her. He put the rifle carefully within reach, then opened one side of the blanket in an inviting gesture that Lisa could just barely make out through the darkness.
“Come here, honey.” His voice was a low, soft drawl. Lisa, obediently crawling in beside him, thought how much she had grown to like the sound of it.
Sam’s arm curled warmly about her waist, and she snuggled against his side, wanting to warm herself and at the same time warm him. The blanket, a thick, tightly woven wool with a plastic underside, kept out most of the chilly night air, but it was Sam’s body heat that gradually stopped her shivers. When at last she felt warm, she stretched her arm outside the blanket and groped for the pack, which she had had the forethought to leave within reach.
“What are you doing?” Sam sounded as if he was on the verge of sleep. Lisa felt guilty about having disturbed him after all he had been through that night, but she was starving.
“I’m hungry,” she whispered in explanation, searching through the pack for another packet of the beef jerky.
“Oh, God, I should have guessed.” He sighed. But when Lisa held a strip of the dried beef to his lips, he displayed no hesitation in taking a healthy bite. Snuggling against him, Lisa alternately took a bite and then fed him one, knowing that he was perfectly capable of feeding himself but wanting to pamper him a little. Surprisingly, he didn’t object. She excused her action inwardly by reminding herself that he had saved her life on more than one occasion—so why should she feel self-conscious about taking care of him for a change?
They talked very little as they huddled together naked under the blanket, Sam’s arm still securely wrapping Lisa’s waist and Lisa feeding him bites of their impromptu meal. But their bodies, pressed intimately together, conversed in a language all their own. There was nothing sexual about their closeness. Instead it was as if they were old and intimate friends, or lovers of long standing.
When they had finished eating, Sam carefully lowered Lisa with him to the floor, the blanket protecting them both from the dirt beneath and the cold air above them. He lay on his uninjured side; Lisa was turned on her side, too, with her naked back pressed up against his chest. His head was pillowed on one of the less unyielding corners of the pack, while his good arm served as Lisa’s pillow. Before they were settled comfortably, Sam’s other arm was draped gingerly around her waist, and her small, chilled feet had carved a niche between his thighs.
“Your feet are like blocks of ice,” he grumbled in her ear. But when Lisa would have removed them, his thighs tightened punishingly and he nipped her ear with his teeth.
“Did I say I didn’t like it?” he murmured. Then, before Lisa could reply, his suddenly deepened breathing told her that he had dropped off to sleep with the suddenness of exhaustion.
XI
LISA awoke with the vague feeling that something was wrong. She lay unmoving for a moment, still in the same position in which she had fallen asleep. The interior of the rondavel had lightened to a gloomy gray—apparently she had slept straight through the night and into the morning. Outside, she could hear the rain still beating relentlessly against the thatched roof and sides of the hut. It sounded as if it would never stop.
Sam’s arm still curved around her waist, holding her tightly against him. Pressed close to the naked skin of her back and buttocks, she could feel the heat and hardness of his body. The mat of hair on his chest and belly and thighs provided a soft, sometimes prickly cushion between them. His breathing was loud in her ear, but almost too shallow and fast to denote a deep sleep. For a moment Lisa allowed a smile to touch her lips, thinking that he was awake and wanting her. Apparently his injury was not severe enough to interfere with his most basic natural instincts.
Then Lisa’s eyes widened and the smile fled from her lips as she felt a long tremor rack his body. He continued to shiver violently against her, and Lisa realized that this was the sensation that had brought her from sleep. Moving with difficulty because of the tightness of his grip on her, Lisa wiggled around so that she was facing him. He still held her clamped against his body, but his eyes were closed and she knew that he hadn’t the slightest awareness of what he was doing. She didn’t even have to work a hand free and place it against his forehead to ascertain that he was burning up with fever. The scorching heat of his body as he pressed her ever closer told her that.
“Sam!” His name came out before she could catch it. It would do absolutely no good to wake him up, she realized with the thinking part of her brain, but the emotional part of her needed the reassurance of his awareness. When he made no sign to indicate that he had heard her, she was frightened. Dear God, they were alone in a hostile wilderness under the most primitive of conditions, and he was clearly very ill. What in the name of all that was holy was she to do?
Reason temporarily fled; she tried shaking him, desperately wanting him to open his eyes, to somehow acknowledge her presence. At least if he was conscious, she rationalized, he could tell her what to do for him. But he remained oblivious to her efforts. Lisa could have cried. She had never felt so helpless, so inadequate. Was she totally useless? she railed at herself. Couldn’t she—just this once—be strong and capable for both of them instead of automatically turning to him for guidance and support?
Another long shudder rippled over Sam’s body. His hold on her tightened again. Lisa realized that he was clutching her so painfully close in an effort to share her body heat. This time his teeth chattered loudly with the force of his chill. The ominous sound spurred Lisa to action. She was on her own; there was no one to help her or give advice—and Sam needed her desperately. For once in her life, she had to come through.
It was hard work prying his arms from around her. His left arm trailed limply across her shoulder, but his right one curved beneath her to grip her with steely strength. Finally she managed to free herself and rolled quickly away from him. Then she sat up, looking at him with a worried frown puckering her brow while the cool dampness of the air snaked over her body like icy fingers.
Sam moaned a protest at her desertion, pulling the blanket more closely around him and huddling into it. His knees curled up against his chest. The blackness of his hair and the two-day growth of beard obscuring his hard jaw made an alarming contrast with the pasty gray whiteness of his face. His skin was perfectly dry, without a drop of perspiration in evidence. Biting her lip, Lisa crawled closer to lay her hand first against his forehead and then against his cheeks. His skin felt as if it were on fire.
Dread held her immobile for a moment. Then she forced herself to think. His fever was clearly very high, and she was the only one who could bring it down. She had to restore him to something approximating his normal good health—for both their sakes.
Her first order of business had to be to check his wound, she decided. Maybe her amateur operation was somehow responsible for the state he was in. But last night, after it was over, he had seemed perfectly all right—or at least as all right as it was possible to be under such circumstances. And surely infection couldn’t have set in this fast. Could it? She didn’t know. Her grasp of first-aid and nursing principles was minimal at best.
She was shivering, feeling gooseflesh break out everywhere on her naked body, her nipples hardening painfully from the cold. In a moment she would get dressed, but first she had to see. . . .
Carefully she pulled the blanket from around his wounded shoulder, which thankfully was upp
ermost. Blood had seeped through the bandage, staining it, but that was only to be expected. Anyway, there didn’t appear to be much. . . . Working gently, she loosened a long strip of surgical tape so that she could pull away the gauze pad. It came free with some difficulty, because of the dried blood gluing it to the wound. Sam moaned and muttered something as she tugged, his hand coming up to push hers away. Lisa caught his hand in both hers, pressing her cheek against the hot palm for just an instant before returning it firmly to his side. As she touched him, she winced from the burning dryness of his skin. His fever had to be brought down soon or the consequences could be too awful to contemplate. It was even possible that he could die. . . . Lisa was both surprised and a little alarmed at the sick feeling that accompanied the thought, and the overwhelming sense of impending loss. She had not dreamed she could feel such pain again for anyone—not since Jennifer. . . .
To her unknowledgeable eye, the wound looked all right. Her white-thread stitches were bloodstained in places and were crookedly inexpert, but they seemed to be holding. Just a little blood had seeped from the pulled-together edges of the hole to form a dark crust over the wound. The flesh around it was still swollen and severely bruised, but the wound itself wasn’t infected. At least she didn’t think so. With the hazy memory of some mystery novel to guide her, Lisa leaned over to sniff at the wound. She had read that one could identify gangrene by its sickly sweet odor. But, no matter how hard she sniffed, she could smell nothing but the tang of antiseptic overlaid by the musky scent of man. Relieved, she taped the bandage in place again, then got rather unsteadily to her feet.
Her clothes were filthy, stiff with dirt and rain, but at least they were dry. She accorded their unappetizing appearance a token shrug before pulling them on. She had more urgent matters to occupy her thoughts than wishing uselessly for clean clothes—anyway, she was getting used to feeling like a refugee from a pig sty. She didn’t think she had felt clean from head to toe since her long-ago bath in the creek near the camp.
To Love a Man Page 17
