by Zoe Blake
Brice tried to tell himself it was for the best he didn’t get a full glimpse of her charms. Tried.
“Trousers,” he ordered.
With an insolent smirk, she reached under the voluminous folds of his shirt and released the button flap, letting the trousers fall to her ankles.
Although his dry shirt of a higher quality linen did a better job of concealing her breasts from his view, he could still see the press of her nipples against the soft fabric. The shirt fell to just below her knees, but the somewhat chaste look was ruined by the scandalous appeal of her dark brown, leather riding boots which reached up past her calves. All she was missing was a riding crop, and she would look like one of those madams in a bawdy house. Brice ran a frustrated hand through his thick, dark waves, trying to mentally will his aching cock down.
“Boots.” The command coming out almost as a groan.
“Why? They barely got wet. My feet were practically dangling over the sides the whole time!” protested Michaela.
Brice grabbed her around the waist. His long fingers wrapping around her tiny middle, the tips practically meeting. Lifting her high, he spun her around, plopping her bottom down on the hard surface of a mahogany table placed against a far wall.
Michaela cried out at the harsh contact, immediately trying to hop down.
His left hand on her upper thigh stilled her.
“Stay.” His harsh tone demanded obedience.
Running his right hand along the exposed sensitive skin under her knee, then down her leather-clasped calf, he grasped the thick sole of her boot and pulled it free. He then ran his hand up from the curve of her ankle, over her calf up to the same sensitive spot under her knee to grasp the edge of her thick wool stocking. Capturing her gaze with his own, Brice held it as he slowly, so slowly, pulled the stocking down her slender left leg and over her tiny foot, exposing pale, soft skin.
Keeping his midnight gaze locked on her own, Brice moved to her right leg. Michaela held her breath. This time he moved his right hand up the inside of her leg, higher than was necessary. His fingertips brushed high on her inner thigh before moving lower to grasp the thick leather edge of her boot to work it off her leg. He then ran both hands up her leg, caressing, warming, before gently pulling the wool stocking free.
Grasping her knees, he pulled them open slightly, spreading her legs. Stepping close, he leaned in. Her modesty was only protected by the harsh, wooden edge of the table which prevented him from any direct contact with her flesh. Placing an arm on either side of her hips, he caged her in. Michaela couldn’t help but stare at the firm ridge of his lips as he spoke.
“If you are a good girl and stay right here on this table, I will go into the bedroom and get you a blanket to cover yourself.”
“Couldn’t I—”
“No.”
“But I—”
“No.”
“You’re being—”
“Don’t move.”
Michaela crossed her arms over her chest with a huff, but reluctantly nodded her assent, all the while imagining the look on his arrogant face when he discovered her gone by tomorrow morning. The smug Yankee officer out-smarted by the female Confederate rebel. Ha!
Brice crossed over into a darkened room just off the main living space. He was back moments later with a thick, blue woolen blanket. He had also taken the time to change out of his damp uniform trousers into a pair of buff breeches. You would have thought him removing his riding boots would have somewhat diminished his appeal. Making him seem less authoritative… or, at the very least, less tall. Not so with this man. Somehow the sight of his bare feet was just as stirring as the sight of those same feet encased in hard leather. He did not, however, take the time to put on a fresh linen shirt. Michaela couldn’t decide whether she was annoyed or pleased by the notion.
Wrapping the welcoming folds of the blanket around her shoulders, Michaela was instantly soothed by the heavy feel and warmth. Brice made sure to tuck the ends about her legs and arms nice and tight so she couldn’t help but feel snug and secure. She watched as he headed over to the fire, stirring something with a wooden spoon in an iron cauldron placed just to the side of the open flame. It smelled savory and rich. Her mouth watered. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had something to eat other than jerky and hardtack. Ladling a generous helping into some tin ware, he removed the cheesecloth covering off a loaf of freshly baked bread. The yeasty, earthy scent wafted over to where Michaela was sitting. Her stomach growled. Hoping he hadn’t heard, she clutched her arms tight around her middle. Ripping off a hunk of bread, he dipped it into the dark gravy of the stew. Placing the bowl and spoon on the table by the fire, he moved to pull a large, upholstered chair closer to the warmth of the inviting flame.
Michaela squared her shoulders. So this was his plan? To torture her by eating in front of her? Well, that was just fine! She would die before admitting to some Yank she was starving!
Brice hid his smile. He could practically feel her Southern pride from across the room as it bristled and pricked. Stubborn chit. He moved to her side. Ignoring her protests, he gathered her into his arms.
“What are you doing? Put me down this instant!”
Brice settled himself into the upholstered chair with her nestled on his lap. Her struggles were in vain. He had seen to that when he wrapped her tightly in the blanket, securing her arms to her sides.
“How dare you? Release me,” she seethed.
“You need to eat,” he soothed.
“I’m not hungry.” She grimaced when her stomach chose that moment to angrily growl in protest.
Brice responded with a lift of his eyebrow. She was quickly learning to despise that condescending expression of his.
Digging into the hearty pork stew, he secured a succulent piece of meat on the bowl of the spoon, lifting it high. After another raised eyebrow in question to Michaela, who stubbornly closed her lips and turned her head, he dipped the spoon into his waiting mouth. A groan of appreciation left his lips. Michaela bit her lip to stop her own answering groan of misery. Brice spooned several more bites, each one eliciting an appreciative groan. Once again, he tried to lift a mouthful to her lips, she shook her head no.
Relenting, she responded through clenched teeth. “I am perfectly capable of feeding myself.”
“Yes, but I don’t trust you with utensils.”
“What? The big, bad Yankee is afraid of the poor, little Southern miss and her spoon?” taunted Michaela.
“You need to eat,” responded Brice, refusing to rise to her bait.
“No. I don’t.”
Michaela couldn’t quite catch what he muttered but the words stubborn and Southern were definitely mixed in.
Realizing she would put her own pride above the needs of her body, a more direct strategy was needed.
“Either accept the food I offer or I will put that mouth of yours to better use,” he warned darkly.
Michaela shot him a confused look. “What is that supposed to…”
Brice’s left hand wrapped around the nape of her neck. His right delved into her silky waves, grasping them firmly. Forcing her mouth down onto his, he claimed her lips as if he had the right. His tongue swept in, dominating her own with each twist and swirl. Moving his hand to cup her jaw, he angled her head back so he could press in more deeply, groaning as he devoured her.
The press of her sharp teeth against the soft flesh of her inner lip added the tinged metallic taste of blood to the rich, earthy taste of him and only seemed to spur him on further. Tiny pricks of pain swept across her scalp where his grip on her hair only increased with each sweep of his tongue. Her hips shifted and moved as she desperately tried to free her arms from the imprisonment of the blanket. Unsure whether she would use them to push him away or pull him closer if finally freed.
Brice let out a guttural moan as that pert bottom of hers pressed against his engorged shaft. The movement so innocent yet practiced. Was she an ingénue or an enemy seductress
sent to tempt him? He didn’t give a damn. What started out as a lesson to break her stubbornness was fast moving into dangerous territory.
Brice relinquished her lips but not his grasp. Holding her small, heart-shaped face within his large hands, he stared into her expressive eyes. They were filled with confused desire.
She could be confused, but he needed to remain clear-headed. She was his prisoner. Although he had no intention of actually filling out the paperwork to arrest her. For now, he needed to keep her contained till he could figure out what to do with her. One thing was clear. Allowing her to continue wandering about the countryside alone was not an option. For now, she was under his protection, whether she liked it or not. The last thing he should be doing as a gentleman and an officer in the United States Cavalry was take advantage of the situation. No matter how much her impertinent mouth and touchable curves tempted him.
Clearing his throat, he taunted, “Are you going to eat or do I show you other ways I can use that mouth? Since you enjoyed the first way so much.”
The threat worked. Any warmth of emotion she might have been feeling towards him was swept away by a cold blast of stubborn pride.
“I’d rather kiss a rattler,” she spit out.
Brice chuckled as he prepared a spoonful of strew. “Open your mouth like a good girl.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Michaela opened her lips and allowed him to feed her. She couldn’t resist closing her eyes in appreciation as the rich, salty pork hit her tongue. All stubbornness gone, she eagerly swallowed every bite he gave her, watching with greedy eyes as he broke off a crusty, warm piece of bread and used it to sop up some of the gravy.
Bringing the tasty morsel to her mouth, his tone was low and husky with banked lust. “Open your lips wider, little one.”
Michaela obeyed.
Brice placed the piece of bread on her tongue, pushing it in with the tip of his finger, allowing the pad to brush along her tongue and lower lip. Instinctively, Michaela closed her lips, sucking the drop of gravy which clung to the edge of his fingertip.
Brice’s eyes darkened at the sight, thankful the heavy folds of the wool blanket he had her wrapped in was protecting her modesty from the true evidence of his desire. Slowly pulling his finger free, he gave her full lower lip a light caress before reaching for the glass of whiskey he had placed nearby.
Raising the glass to her lips, Michaela at first shook her head no. “I don’t drink spirits.”
“It’s medicinal. You’ve gone too long without a proper meal or sleep. The whiskey will fortify you.”
It would also put her into a deep sleep, thought Brice. Between the meal and whiskey, he was hoping she would sleep through the night and not make any foolish escape attempts. Either way, he had a plan to keep her in place, but it would be easier if she was lulled to sleep with a little help from the spirits.
With a shrug of her shoulders, already feeling the soothing effect of a warm meal, Michaela took a big gulp from the offered glass, coughing and sputtering as the harsh liquid hit the back of her throat.
Brice stroked her back with calming circles as he encouraged her to take another swallow. Already feeling a bit fuzzy, Michaela tried to shake her head no, but her head didn’t seem to want to obey. When the glass was held to her lips, she took another gulp, this one going down a bit easier.
Brice continued to stroke her back, waiting for the whiskey to take effect.
After a few moments, Michaela relaxed against his hold, her head falling drowsily onto his left shoulder.
Brice used his left hand to brush back the curls which had fallen forward to block her face. Whispering against her forehead, he asked, “How is my little rebel feeling?”
“Safe.”
It was whispered soft and low. So low, he barely heard it… and yet, that single word nearly shattered him. What kind of life had this poor thing led that being held in the arms of a Yankee officer after being arrested for starting a brawl in a saloon actually made her feel safe? If she were sober and alert, he was certain safe was the very last thing she would say… certainly if she knew the true path of his thoughts, but impending sleep and spirits had a strange way of coaxing the truth out of a body.
A primitive drive to protect rose within him. Whatever her past, her path had crossed his. She needed someone with a firm resolve and firmer hand to rein in her wild ways and mete out much needed discipline. Clearly, it was the war which had brought chaos to her life and allowed her the freedom to dress as a boy and wander about with no regard for her safety or modesty. Well, the war was over. Part of his mission in the military was to bring order and the rule of law to this wild land.
As far as he was concerned, this little rebel now fell under his command.
CHAPTER 4
M ichaela awoke slowly. Turning on her side, she burrowed her head more deeply into the soft, feather pillow as she pulled the warm blanket over her shoulder.
Soft? Pillow? Warm?
Alarmed, Michaela sat up with a start. Furiously looking about the unfamiliar surroundings, the events of yesterday came crashing down on her.
The fight in the saloon. The interference of the arrogant commanding officer. Him carrying her back to the fort and his private quarters. Oh Lord! The water trough! Him removing her clothes!
She quickly looked under the blanket, relieved to see she was still somewhat clothed in the linen shirt he gave her. It was then she saw the bright, yellow silk sash tied about her wrist. Turning about the bed, she noticed the indentation mark in the pillow next to hers. The implication clear. She had spent the night tied to the bed sleeping next to a complete stranger! A man! A damn Yankee!
The last thing she remembered was drinking the whiskey. What if he had? No, she couldn’t think about that now.
“Why that lily-livered, cow punching blue belly! I’ll see him cow whipped for this!” she cursed to the empty room. Tossing aside the blankets, she shivered as her bare feet hit the cold wood floor. Storming across the room, she went in search of the arrogant commanding officer.
Throwing open the thin plank bedroom door, she found him seated at the dining table, enjoying a cup of coffee.
“…in hell!” she shouted as she pointed a finger at him.
Brice looked up from the stack of papers he was reading. He’d suspected the little firebrand would be the type to wake up mid-sentence ready to wrestle the day… and he was right.
“Glad to see a full belly and good night’s rest has brought out your sweet side,” he quipped. “Can I interest you in some breakfast?”
Michaela was momentarily taken aback by the sight of him in full uniform. Despite it being the wrong color, she had to admit the navy blue brought out the bright cobalt blue of his own eyes, making them shine and sparkle. He looked tall and imposing from his broad shoulders to the tips of his polished boots. Every inch in command.
Shaking off her response to his handsome appearance, she fired back. “You can take your breakfast and shove it up your—”
“Careful,” he warned. The teasing light in his dark eyes vanished.
“No, thank you,” she said with mock politeness.
Brice smiled. “I will take that as a yes.”
She looked infinitely stronger and healthier for the meal and rest, but he would not be satisfied till he saw her gain a bit of weight. She was a shade too slim.
“How dare you tie me to the bed? I demand you tell me what occurred last night,” she raged as she waved her wrist about with the yellow sash still tied to it.
“I assure you. I prefer my bed partners a great deal more spirited,” he responded, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. “Your… modesty shall we say… is secure.”
Brice found it curious she would be carrying on so. You would think his little rebel was still a virgin. Impossible, of course. As much as the thought of another man sampling a taste of her charms angered him, it was unlikely she had remained chaste, living the life she had over the war years.
; “You, sir, are no gentleman!”
“Well, you certainly don’t kiss like any lady I’ve ever known,” he rejoined.
Michaela’s cheeks blushed a bright crimson at the reminder of her wanton behavior. She couldn’t even blame the whiskey.
Placing a tin plate of eggs with a rasher of bacon on the table close to where she stood, Brice coaxed, “Come now, Michaela. Let’s not fight. At least not until we have both fortified ourselves. Will you not eat?”
Seeing the wisdom of his words, Michaela reached for the spindle chair, preparing to sit and eat when she stopped. “What did you just call me?”
Before he could respond, Michaela’s eye caught sight of the papers scattered across the bottom half of the table… and the crumpled, worn leather of her saddlebag laying half open.
It was like watching a fast moving storm, thought Brice as he watched her eyes cloud over with anger. He thought back to what he’d discovered.
HE USED his cavalry uniform sash to tie her to the bed. He didn’t want to risk a knife to the ribs or worse in his sleep. It was an unnecessary precaution. Sleep alluded him. Until the early pale streaks of dawn crept through the sheer curtain, he watched her sleep. Memorized the planes of her face. The curve of her cheek. The fullness of her lower lip. Traced her hint of a widow’s peak. All the while he wondered.
Who was she? What was her name? How had she survived alone out on the plains? How had she come by a Confederate cavalry uniform? Where was her family?
It then occurred to him, answers may be found in her saddlebag. Leaving her side, in the early morn, he went in search of her horse and belongings.
