Cloudcastle

by Nan Ryan

  He talked and talked, telling her things that touched her heart. Stories of boyhood pranks that made her laugh. Warm, delightful stories of a family close and loving. Tales of poignant, personal experiences that caused tan to fill her eyes and made her want to turn and give him a big, warm hug.

  Kane, transfixed by the long, shiny tresses now dry and spilling through his eager fingers, would have talked forever to keep her as she was. Hardly realizing what he was saying, his deep voice droned on while his hands and eyes remained on the shining glory that was her hair. It had been ages once he had enjoyed anything quite so completely as sitting behind Natalie and brushing her beautiful hair while he talked quietly of the days long since dead.

  It was Natalie who, finally lifting her good left hand to stay the brush, turned her head, smiled, and said, "Kane, that was lovely, truly it was, and I thank you."

  Kane, reluctantly rising from the bed, said apologetically, "I've kept you sitting up far too long." He laid the hairbrush aside and helped her sink back among the pillows. "Hungry?" he inquired, grinning down at her.

  "I am, but…"

  "Yes?"

  "Well," she began, and reached for his hand. He gladly gave it to her and she toyed with the strong fingers. "Since my hair's all clean and nice…"

  "Beautiful," he corrected her.

  Her eyes went pointedly to his black scratchy beard. "I was thinking that perhaps we might… ah… try to look our best for supper tonight."

  Kane smiled. "If you want me to shave, say so."

  "Shave, Kane." Her eyes drifted down to his bare chest. "And put on a shirt."

  "I'll bring you a new nightshirt. Then you rest while I clean up. Agreed?"

  "Agreed."

  She meant only to rest. She was tired and relaxed and hungry. She would laze contentedly while he cleaned up and fixed their meal. Then perhaps he would let her eat sitting up at the table. Natalie smiled a little at the thought. And felt a measure of anticipation.

  As dusk descended, Kane lit a kerosene lamp and carried it across the room. Humming, he soaped his whiskered face with thick lather, stropped his straight-edge razor, and began shaving.

  Still bare-chested, he lifted both muscular arms. His right hand held the sharp razor, the left lifted tight, stubbly skin for the stroking. As he did everything else, Kane Covington shaved with easy deftness and grace. Natalie was intrigued. She watched every long, sure stroke of gleaming blade on lathered flesh until the dark, harshly planed face was completely free of black whiskers.

  Expecting him to wipe away the excess lather and move from the mirror, Natalie was puzzled when Kane again lathered his face and started over. She'd have to ask him about that.

  Her gaze dropped to the wide, tanned shoulders and remained there. Firelight flickered on the satiny-smooth skin and turned the brown flesh a deep brick hue, the white ribbon-like scars a pale pink. His shoulder blades lifted and lowered with the movements of his arms, and Natalie found it fascinating.

  All too soon he had, for a second time, shaved all the white foam from his face and was lifting the towel that hung around his neck. Natalie was almost sorry the performance had ended.

  Kane looked appraisingly at himself in the tall mirror, turning his face first this way, then that. His fingers skimmed searchingly over the smooth-shaven jaw, and he winked at himself.

  Casting a glance over his shoulder, Kane went about his bath, the changing of his clothes, the cooking of their meal, with a boyish expectation. It was almost as if he and Natalie had a dinner engagement and he was looking foolishly forward to the evening.

  Snow still fell outside and cold winds howled, but Kane found the wild weather only added to his stimulation. Inside it was warm and safe and intimate. Smiling happily, he unfolded a white cloth and laid the table. From below the cupboard came a bottle of Chateau Lafite '55. Candles soon flickered on china plates and crystal glasses.

  The meal was about ready. Kane, checking to be sure his clean white silk shirt was modestly buttoned to his throat, turned on his bootheel and strode across the room.

  "It's ready, Natalie. Dinner's—" He stood beside the bed. His wide shoulders slumped in disappointment. Natalie was sound asleep.

  Kane considered waking her, but he knew she needed sleep more than food. She could eat something later, when she awakened. He leaned over her, wistfully touched a long, shiny lock of clean red hair, turned, and walked dejectedly away.

  Bending to blow out the candles, Kane ate alone. Appetite gone, he quickly pushed his plate aside, barely touched. Uncorking the bottle of expensive wine, he held it up over his shoulder to the woman peacefully sleeping behind him. "To you, sweetheart," said Kane, lowering the chilled bottle and turning it up to his lips.

  It was much later when Natalie woke.

  Only the fireplace gave illumination. Natalie sat up in bed, looking about. She saw the untouched dinner on the table. And she saw Kane seated in one of the easy chairs before the fire. Sleeping.

  He was trousered in black, his long legs stretched out to the fire. His snowy white shirt hung open to his waist, the sleeves rolled up over the sinewy muscles of his long, powerful arms. Black, thick curls clustered over his high forehead, falling almost to his closed, dark-lashed eyes.

  He looked for all the world like a sleek, sleeping tiger and as Natalie leisurely studied him, she decided he was more dangerous, more deadly. Even asleep the man was a threat, because the sight of him reclining there, so masculinely beautiful, so effortlessly potent, made her long to throw back the covers, run to him, and fling herself into his arms.

  Natalie felt a tiny moan choking her. Kane had shaved, twice, and bathed and put on clean, expensive clothes. He had cooked a meal and lit candles and uncorked wine. And he had done it all for her. It was flattering. Appealing. Devastating. Dangerous.

  There was only one thing to do. Leave. Leave before the sleeping tiger awakened and rendered her totally helpless against such overwhelming, powerful charm. Leave before those all-seeing blue eyes looked straight into her tortured soul. Leave before he sensed that she cared much too much. Leave before she got down on her knees and begged that sleeping symbol of beauty, power, and mystery never, ever to let her go.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  As quietly as possible, Natalie eased the sheet and fur counterpane down, her watchful eyes never leaving the man slumbering before the fire. Swinging her long, slender legs over the edge of the bed, she stepped down onto the carpeted floor and, hand clinging to the mattress for support, stood up.

  Waves of dizziness engulfed her and she felt the room about her spinning out of control. She managed to sink back onto the bed before falling. Patiently waiting for the world to right itself, Natalie, head racing, debated abandoning her plan to flee. Surely within two or three days Kane would take her home.

  Two or three days… Two or three more days of hearing that deep, drawling voice speaking softly, patiently to her, its pleasing timbre spreading warmth and sweet lassitude throughout her being. Two or three more days of watching the play of muscles in his sleek physique as he went about naked to the waist, the pale slashing scars across his long, smooth back beckoning her to touch, to stroke, to caress. Two or three more days of feeling those long, powerful arms go about her as he lifted her, tended her, doctored her. Two or three more days of looking into those hypnotic blue eyes that drew her so effortlessly into their fathomless depths.

  Natalie rose once more.

  She did not black out this time. She moved cautiously across the dun room, casting quick, nervous glances at Kane's sleeping form. She managed to find the buckskins she had worn the day of the shooting, and her boots. The shirt had been thrown away. No matter, she would leave on Kane's nightshirt.

  Struggling, Natalie managed to work the tight leather britches up over her hips. Winded by the chore, she leaned against the cabinet to rest for a minute, eyes on Kane. Stuffing the long tail of the nightshirt down into the buckskins, she got the pants buttoned, with effort, and
carried the boots with her to the table.

  Gritting her teeth and squinting her eyes as though that would cover the noise she made, Natalie pulled out a straight-backed chair, took a seat, and went about drawing on her leather boots. With no stockings on her bare feet, it was almost impossible to pull on the boots, but she made it.

  Again she paused to rest, seated there at the table where the evening meal remained untouched. Rising, she walked on booted tiptoe to the coats hanging beside the front door. Choosing a warm-looking heavy wool jacket, she shrugged hurriedly into it. By now her shoulder was hurting from all the exertion, but she ignored it. Soon she would be home; nothing else mattered.

  Natalie struggled with the bolt lock, finally heard it slide clear. Anxiously she turned to look once more at Kane. And her hand trembled on the doorknob. Peacefully, unknowing, he slept there in his chair, the firelight flickering over his face, his raven hair, the wide silk-draped shoulders. In slumbering repose, the harshly handsome face looked almost boyish. But the long, lean body was that of a man: a strong, powerful man.

  Natalie eased the door open only enough to slip out. She shut it behind her and drew in a quick, frigid breath. It was cold, freezing cold, and snow swirled down out of the murky night skies. Wrapping Kane's heavy coat more tightly about her slender body, Natalie put her head down and made her way to the stables, knowing, down deep, she was behaving foolishly.

  Determined that she would saddle Blaze, ride home to Cloud West, and sleep safely in her own bed, she overlooked the discomfort of her wounded back and the danger of the mountain blizzard.

  Through the blowing snow she made her way to the stables, panting and sagging against the plank stalls once she was inside. A coal-oil lamp hung beside the door, sulfur matches on the ledge. With cold, stiff hands Natalie lit it and looked around.

  Blaze saw her and neighed a greeting. Natalie smiled but lifted a forefinger, placing it vertically to her lips, murmuring softly, "Shhh, boy. Please don't wake Kane."

  He paid no attention. He continued to wicker and snort and to nuzzle her as she summoned all of her strength and lifted the heavy saddle onto his tall back. Kane's stallion, Satan, threw his great head back, and whinnied and pranced, to let her know she was disturbing him.

  Natalie used up all her strength lifting the saddle. She leaned against Blaze, breathing heavily, exhausted, trembling. The horse turned his head and nuzzled her cold shoulder, making soft, reassuring noises deep in his throat, as though he fully understood.

  Natalie raised her head, fought for breath, and finished the task, tightening the cinch beneath the horse's shiny belly. Blaze obligingly opened his mouth wide when Natalie drew the bridle over his face and in seconds she was leading the helpful mount out of his stall.

  "It's you and me, boy," she said softly, patting his withers before climbing onto his back. She urged him to the door, ducking down as he stepped through the low doorway out into the storm. She held the big horse to a walk, afraid to risk the sound of hoofbeats clattering across the frozen ground.

  Neck reining the faithful steed down the incline behind the cabin, Natalie saw something move. Jerking up on the reins, heart thundering, eyes wide with fear, she watched a shadowy figure move through the thick snow toward her. He loomed closer and stepped into view. The fine silk shirt was plastered to his chest, raven hair sprinkled with snowflakes. The dark, hard face was wet with snow and rigid with wrath.

  Natalie gave a little yelp of despair and dug her heels into Blaze's flanks. The big bay lurched forward, straight toward the approaching man. Kane did not move out of the way. His arm shot out with a speed that frightened the confused horse. He grabbed the bridle, jerked the stallion's head down, and reached for Natalie.

  Incensed, frantic, she fought him, hitting at him, kicking, screaming. It did no good; he hauled her down and roughly jerked her along with him toward the stable, ignoring her shouts and struggles. One-handed, Kane unsaddled the nervous beast, his face a mask of dark fury, his fingers biting painfully into the flesh of Natalie's arm.

  He said not a word and that alarmed Natalie far more than if he had shouted at her. The horse re stabled, Kane turned, swept Natalie up into his arms, and walked out. Panicked by the deadly-mean expression in his hard blue eyes, Natalie continued to struggle against him, afraid of what he intended once he got her back inside his cabin.

  Kane was livid.

  Holding the battling Natalie in his arms, he stalked down the snowy incline. She was wriggling and hitting and screaming and he had difficulty holding her. Snow was blowing into his face, wetting the silk shirt he wore and plastering his hair to his head. His legs were weak with fright and he could feel the deep snow sucking at his boots, making the steps treacherous.

  He was almost to the cabin when he stepped into a hole and lost his footing. He felt himself sinking into the snow and cursed. Down they went, the angry, worried man and the fighting, frightened woman. Forward they fell into a deep, wet snowbank, Natalie screaming, Kane cursing.

  He never let go of Natalie. The pair lay immersed in the freezing snow, two bodies melded together, buried in a white, cold grave. He was up in a second, she in his arms, both wet from head to toe.

  Back inside, Kane kicked the door shut behind him and roughly set Natalie on her feet. Contrite now, subdued and more than a little afraid, Natalie said, through teeth that were beginning to chatter, "Kane, I—"

  "No!" he warned her, his voice as cold and deadly as his eyes. "Don't say a goddamned word! Not one!"

  Teeth chattering with cold and with fear, she stood there silent, dripping snow and water on the brown rug. Afraid to speak, afraid to move, she watched him work with swift power and speed as he threw fresh logs into the fire. She winced when he turned and reached for her.

  Ignoring the flash of fear in her eyes, Kane jerked her toward the fire and pulled the wet, heavy jacket off her. Violently, he threw the sodden jacket at the front door. Natalie jumped when it smacked loudly against the wood and slid down to a soggy heap on the floor.

  Kane's hands went to her damp nightshirt. Natalie silently protested, raising her hand to stop him. He brushed it away wordlessly, and glared menacingly down at her. Knowing she was beaten, she lowered her eyes, and said nothing when he lifted the nightshirt over her head and tossed it aside.

  Refusing to allow her to do it herself, or even to help, Kane undressed her. He clamped her down into a chair and struggled with the wet leather boots, letting them fall where they fell. He jerked her up, unbuttoned her pants and peeled the tight buckskin trousers down over her rounded hips. He didn't stop, he didn't speak, until Natalie, furious and freezing, stood naked in the firelight, sopping hair streaming over a bare shoulder, dignity discarded with her pants.

  Kane abruptly walked away from her. She took a cautious step. He whirled about. "Stay right where you are!" She did.

  Directly he returned, bringing with him several towels. She reached out for one; he withheld it. He turned her about to face the fire and began drying her wet body, her soaked hair. Hands sure and masterful, he stood behind her and swiped the towel over her shaking shoulders, taking care not to hurt her wound. Natalie fought back tears of humiliation when she felt the towel move down to her rounded buttocks, onto her thighs and the calves of her legs. She gasped when Kane took hold of her left arm and turned her to face him. "Please, Kane," she murmured, reaching for the towel, and saw in his icy eyes that it was hopeless. He would not listen to reason.

  Kane lifted her long, wet hair up off her shoulder and neck, blotted at the heavy mane, rubbed it between the folds of the towel, and fanned it through his fingers until it was only damp. Then he wound it neatly atop her head and covered it with a clean towel, knotting it over her brow.

  Natalie's fear was swiftly turning to anger. She stood, her hands at her sides, no longer trying to cover herself And she lifted her chin proudly. She would not beg this cruel, domineering man for anything! Naked and helpless she might be for the moment, but she'd be damne
d if she would weep and plead as though she were the naughty child, he, the tyrannical father.

  So she looked straight into those low-lidded blue eyes while Kane, having dried her throat, face, and shoulders, let the towel come to rest on her bare breasts.

  His lids slid even lower over the unforgiving eyes and the rapid, almost rough, movements of his hands slowed and became exquisitely gentle. Natalie caught her breath when his towel-draped hands covered her wet breasts. The silence was suddenly deafening. She could hear the thundering of her heart and wondered if his sensitive hand could feel its furious beating.

  Gazes locked, they stood staring at each other, Kane's eyes as cold as ever, Natalie's filling with heat. Kane's brown fingers patting, drying, touching; Natalie's white breasts trembling, peaking, filling his hands. She heard his breath, slow and heavy. And he heard hers, soft and labored.

  Abruptly his toweled hands moved down to her rib cage and Natalie's eyes slid closed in shame. Her breasts had swelled beneath his touch, the nipples stood out in tell-tale tight buds.

  Eyes closed, she felt the abrasive towel moving in circular motions over her quivering belly, her gleaming thighs. Lids opened cautiously to see Kane crouching down before her. Dark head bent, breath warm upon her skin, he dried each long, slender leg, while Natalie's nude body tingled and trembled and silently she prayed for this terrible torture to end.

  Slowly he rose before her, looked directly into her eyes, and purposely pressed the towel to the damp auburn triangle between her legs. Dark face remaining ungiving granite, he blotted away the beads of moisture from the tight curls—taking what seemed forever—then slowly released the towel, letting it slip to her feet on the floor.

  Gripping her arm, Kane guided her to the bed, turning back the covers when they reached it. Tired and mortified, Natalie crawled between the sheets and sighed her gratitude when Kane spread the warm, soft fur up over her bare shoulders. Toweled head upon the pillow, she burrowed down into the warmth of the mattress, turning onto her side, pulling her knees up.