Innocent Fire

by Brenda Joyce

  She looked surprised.

  “My kisses aren’t so bad. In fact, I’ve never met a woman who didn’t like them. Even you.”

  She colored faintly. “Derek, I…”

  “I only want a kiss,” he said gently, slipping his arms around her. “I know you need time, and I’m giving it to you. But kisses don’t hurt. If you relax, I’ll bet you like it.”

  Tears moistened her eyes. “You’ve been so kind.”

  “Not too bad for a savage barbarian, huh?” He smiled. The corners of his eyes crinkled.

  She put her hands around his neck. “I take that back.”

  “You can’t,” he murmured, and lowered his face.

  She met his lips lightly, their mouths just barely brushing. It was so hard not to tighten his hold, not to deepen the kiss, not to throw her onto the bed and take her. But he didn’t. He hated her fear. He wanted her love. He flicked out his tongue to taste her lower lip, and she trembled. He hoped it was from pleasure. He was hard with agony. He pulled away with difficulty.

  There was a knock on the door, and he was relieved or disappointed—he didn’t know which. He admitted the boy who had brought fresh water. Miranda stepped modestly behind the table as the boy emptied the cold water, tossing it out the window, and refilled the tub. Bragg handed him a penny and began to strip. He reflected ruefully that hot water was not going to help his condition.

  Realizing that she was watching him, he smiled. She caught his eye and blushed, but stopped him. “What are you doing?”

  He was amused. “What does it look like?”

  “I don’t want that wound wet.”

  “Oh ho. Back to being bossy, are we? I’m filthy. It’s healed up enough.”

  “Derek, no.” She put her hands on her hips and stared at him.

  He laughed, delighted with her wifely demeanor. “Fine. Then you’ll bathe me.”

  This time her color was really high. “You can bathe yourself,” she said.

  “Miranda, if I have to bathe myself, I’m climbing in that tub.” He meant it. He had really wanted a bath, too, until this moment. He didn’t care that a sponge bath from Miranda would be torture. He wanted to feel her hands all over his body.

  “Let me see the wound,” she said, a touch stiffly.

  He began to pull his pants down. She inhaled sharply, but he didn’t care. Women had always exclaimed and marveled over his physique and his manhood, which he knew was large. He wanted to impress her. He would certainly impress her now, when he was huge with need for her. He wondered if he would excite her. He stepped out of his pants and grinned.

  She stared briefly before averting her gaze and pushing him around. He looked over his shoulder and saw that she was staring at his buttocks, not his thigh. He tried not to laugh. He was throbbing. “Well?”

  “I just don’t think you should take a bath,” she said, flustered.

  “Shall I sit or lie down?”

  “Derek, I don’t want to bathe you.”

  “Dammit,” he burst out.

  “All right,” she said, glaring. “Fine. But wrap this around your waist, please.”

  He took the towel but turned to give her another view as he casually complied. Of course she had her back to him and was wetting the sponge. He sighed, straddled the chair, then closed his eyes as she washed his back.

  Her touch was pure heaven, especially as he felt her anger recede, replaced by a tense, trembling hand. Was it fear? Disgust? He didn’t think so. He thought it was desire, even if she didn’t know it.

  “Turn around.”

  He obeyed. He watched her wash his arms, his shoulders, his chest. he was having trouble breathing evenly, and having even more trouble not grabbing and kissing her. “That’s enough,” he finally said gruffly.

  She looked surprised. “What about your legs?”

  He was afraid he’d embarrass both of them if she continued. “I’ll do it myself.” He took the sponge and turned away from her. He debated finding a whore for the night. It had been so long. Then he glanced at her, picking up a wet towel from the floor, and his heart twisted.

  I will court her, he thought, and I will wait.

  Chapter 55

  “Why are you looking like that?” Bragg asked.

  Miranda smiled, still studying the pyramid-shaped structure. “I just never imagined there would come a day when my husband would build us a wickiup to live in.”

  Bragg laughed. “To be honest, princess, I never thought I’d see the day when I’d build my wife one. You see, this is women’s work.”

  “Impossible,” she gasped. The wickiup was twelve feet high, and about eight feet in diameter. It consisted of eight very stout poles of juniper, stuck in holes in the ground and attached at the top. The sides were woven with brush. Miranda didn’t see how any woman could possibly build such a structure.

  Bragg grabbed her and planted a firm, quick kiss on her mouth, taking her by surprise. Just as quickly, he released her. “But no squaw is as small and thin as you.” He grew serious. “I’ll spend the afternoon hunting, and we’ll have this covered with hides in no time.”

  Miranda looked at him. He seemed to be lost in thought now. His kisses took her by surprise. She had never even guessed that he was an affectionate man. Yet he seemed hard-pressed to go for long without touching her abstractedly, patting her shoulder, squeezing her hand, or fingering her hair. What a contradiction he was.

  “Follow me,” Bragg said.

  They walked over to their packs and supplies, unloaded from their pack horse and covered by a tarp. Bragg rummaged through, found what he was looking for, and tossed Miranda a few leather pouches. “What’s this?” she asked, curious.

  “Look and see,” he said, squatting by their supplies and grinning.

  Miranda opened up one of the small pouches and gasped. It was full of seeds. “Derek—we’ll have a garden.”

  “You bet,” he said. “And we should get it planted as soon as we can.”

  Miranda looked around. The site Derek had chosen was a brief distance from a broad, sparkling creek. A small meadow filled with April’s first blooms was bordered by forest. He had built the wickiup in a cluster of oak and juniper, where it blended naturally and unobtrusively into the landscape. “Over there,” she said, pointing. “How will we clear it?”

  “Easy. First thing tomorrow I’ll burn a section, then plow it for you. We’ll be planted by tomorrow night.”

  Miranda gave him a smile.

  “Before I go hunting, princess, I want to give you a lesson in shooting.” He beckoned. Miranda walked over, and he put a light hand on her shoulder and led her away from the wickiup. He left her to set up a target, a log standing upright on the ground. He paced back to her, took the Colt out of his holster, and emptied it of bullets. “Watch carefully.”

  He showed her how to load, then unloaded it again and had her do it. It was simple. “Good.” He smiled. “Now, just stand nice and relaxed, sight the target, aim, and squeeze.” He handed her the gun.

  Miranda felt nervous. She had never held a gun before, much less fired one. She swallowed, pointed the gun at the target, sighted it, and fired. The recoil wasn’t too bad. “How did I do?”

  Derek looked at her. “Well, you only missed by a mile. Did you aim?”

  “I most certainly did!”

  He stood behind her, holding his hand on top of hers. “Aim carefully,” he said, his voice in her ear.

  His breath tickled her neck. His body was warm. Where his knees were bent, they touched the backs of her thighs. His chest was against her back. She was very aware of him, and it was distracting.

  “Miranda?”

  She sighted and fired. The slight kickback pushed her into his warm hardness. “Did I hit it?” she asked hopefully.

  “Not quite,” he drawled. “How’s your eyesight, anyway?”

  “That bad?”

  “No, not too bad,” he lied. “Again. Come on, we’re wasting time.”

  Miranda
tried to ignore the intimacy of how they were standing. This time, as she aimed, he put one hand around her waist, the other on her hand holding the Colt, and he told her to wait. He leaned into her, his face on a level with hers, trying to see how she was sighting the target.

  “Jesus, Miranda! You’re off by ten yards.”

  “To the right or left?”

  “Left.”

  She adjusted her aim.

  “Too much, sweetheart. Just a tiny fraction. There you go. Now, don’t shake when you fire…”

  She fired and missed. “I’m sorry,” she cried.

  “It’s all right.” he said, straightening behind her. But he didn’t move away.

  “I don’t think I’m going to be much of a markswoman.”

  “Yes you are,” he told her. “You’re going to practice every afternoon for an hour. Try it again.”

  He stood there with her for what seemed hours, but she never once hit the target. Finally, he told her they’d done enough for the day. She stole a glance at him. He looked a bit displeased. He had been incredibly patient. And she wanted to please him. She felt miserable at being such a poor student. She was downcast.

  “Don’t worry,” he told her as they strolled back to the wickiup. He put his arm around her shoulders, squeezing. “You’ll be the best shot in west Texas by the time I get through with you.”

  “I doubt it.”

  He gave her a look. “Why don’t you start up some bread?” He paused. “Do you know how to make bread?”

  “Of course,” she said indignantly. “I watched Elena.”

  Bragg smiled. This should be interesting. “What a tenderfoot I have for a wife!”

  “How do we bake it?”

  “Easy,” he said cheerfully, picking up a rifle. “In the fire. You work on that dough. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  Miranda watched him stride off into the woods, on foot, with a kind of animal grace. She smiled. They had spent so much time together in the last few days. She already missed him.

  Chapter 56

  Derek was gone, and she wondered where he was so early in the morning. She bathed in the creek, which was quite cold, then slipped on her plain cotton skirt and blouse. She made coffee and breakfast for him—she was never hungry in the morning. While she was making the batter for the pancakes, she began to hum. It was truly a glorious morning.

  It was slightly cool, but that was because it was so early. The sky was almost a royal blue, without a single cloud. Birds chirped melodiously, sing-songing back and forth in the trees overhead. A wonderful aroma drifted around them, the scent of coffee, tanned hides, something sweet and floral—maybe all the columbine that had blossomed over the past week in the meadow, their riotous purple mingling with the yellow and blue of daisies. She was surprised to discover she was quite content.

  Where had Derek gone so early in the morning?

  Miranda was learning more every day. She had become a pioneer woman—or a squaw. Just the day before, Derek had spent the afternoon helping her make soap. They had brought soap with them, but their supply would run out eventually. The wickiup—which, Derek had told her, was called gohwah by the Apache—was completely covered with hides.

  The door was made of a blanket swinging on a frame of wood. It was really almost like a hut, she thought. She had even learned to make a decent loaf of bread. Her first effort had been a lumpy disaster. Of course, Derek had been kind and tactful, but she could see the laughter in his eyes.

  Last night was the first night she had slept the night through without waking up from a nightmare about Chavez. Today was truly the first day she felt completely rested. She felt wonderful.

  She couldn’t help thinking about how it felt each night to have Derek crawl into their bed of blankets and hides with her. He would immediately pull her into the curve of his body, where his pulsing warmth distracted and confused her greatly. If it weren’t for the fact that she was so utterly exhausted by evening after the day’s travails and her nightmares, she was sure she would be up most of the night.

  Derek didn’t look like he was sleeping too well. Although his vigor seemed indefatigable, there were faint shadows beneath his eyes. She wondered what was keeping him up at night, and hoped it wasn’t her and her awful dreams.

  “Daydreaming so early?”

  She leaped up, gasping.

  He chuckled, his tone teasing, and squatted beside her, pulling her against him and kissing her full on the mouth. She leaned against him. He stiffened in surprise, then kissed her again, his mouth stroking hers with more intimacy this time, and she felt the tip of his tongue on her lower lip, circling it delicately, before slipping up to prod gently where her lips joined. A warm, liquid fire raced over her, completely pleasurable. She parted her mouth just a hair. His tongue probed the flat, porcelain surfaces of her teeth, and then he was gone. Disappointed, she opened her eyes.

  Miranda gasped. He was standing staring down at her, and he was clad in his knee-high moccasins and a buckskin loincloth. It came almost to his knees, but it revealed the long, hard length of his legs on the outermost edges. His torso was bare. He wore only his knife, but he had been carrying the rifle. The sheer maleness of him mesmerized her. “What are you wearing?” she managed.

  He looked away from her, but not before she saw the heat of his gaze, the unnatural brightness. Something plummeted fiercely deep inside her, achingly sweet. He stopped and poured himself coffee, sipping for a moment before he answered. “My clothes are dirty.”

  “Oh,” she cried, flustered and ashamed. Color rose in her face. “Derek, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “No, I’ll launder your clothes immediately.”

  “What’s for breakfast?” he asked.

  “Pancakes.” She began methodically to make his breakfast. What was wrong with her? Had she expected a maid to materialize out of the sky to do their laundry? She stole another glance at him through her lashes. He was sitting on a boulder, graceful, so naked, so powerful. So male. He was staring at her.

  “Make enough for two,” he said.

  “But I’m not hungry.”

  “You’re wasting away, and I don’t like it.” His tone was sharp, the old Bragg, the one who gave orders and expected them to be obeyed. “I want you to put on some weight, Miranda.” His tone softened. “I don’t want you to get sick.”

  She thought about his wife, who had starved herself to death. “Yes, all right.”

  He smiled. “You slept well last night.”

  She handed him a tin plate and took one herself. “Yes.”

  He studied her with that penetrating gaze, one she was used to. Then he began to eat with relish, and she did, too, forcing herself to eat every bit. He wasn’t asking much of her, truly. He was so kind, so patient. And it was true that she was thin. Her skirt was loose by an inch at the waist, and when she had bought it, it had fit perfectly. She wanted to please him. He had always thought her skinny. What would he think now?

  She washed all their clothes that morning, including her buckskin dress. She mended his pants, the ones she had cut to tend his leg, and mended a few other holes she found. At least she could sew, and do it very well. It was something she could be proud of.

  But he teased her. “Such fancy stitchwork.” He laughed.

  Miranda blushed. “It’s the only way I know how to sew.”

  He was instantly contrite. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not a very good wife.” She spoke aloud before she knew it.

  He came over to her immediately, kneeling next to her, forcing her to look at him. “You’re a wonderful wife.”

  “I’m an awful cook. I don’t know how to do laundry. I can’t clean game. My sewing is too fancy. I’m the worst shot, and I can’t ride. Everything you need in a Texas wife, I’m not.” She felt ridiculous tears welling up, and she tried to stifle them.

  He cupped her face, his golden eyes tender and concerned. “Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t trade you in
for anything. You’re an English lady, and I’ve thrown you into a completely alien environment. You’re doing wonderfully.”

  Miranda searched his face for the truth. “I just want to please you,” she whispered. “I’ve been nothing but trouble…”

  “No,” he said firmly, adamantly. His mouth found hers. The kiss was soft but searing. She opened her mouth immediately, and he thrust his tongue within, exploring the inner recesses completely. Her heart began to thud, and his warmth assailed her. He still held her face. His tongue entwined with hers. She touched his tongue with hers, timidly. He shuddered.

  “Miranda, please me,” he said huskily, kissing the corner of her mouth.

  She was floating. His mouth was becoming harder, more forceful. He pulled at her lower lip with his teeth, then instantly became tender, soft. He groaned against her lips. He pulled her against his body, knee to chest. “Let me love you,” he rasped. “Miranda, please.”

  He cupped her buttocks and pulled her against his male hardness. The contact immediately ruined the euphoria of their heated embrace. She had a flash of Chavez hurting her as he raped her. She cried out in protest, pushing feebly against his chest. For a moment, a long moment, he held her hard against him, pulsating against her belly, his mouth taking hers with a savagery that was too heated, too brutal, too reminiscent. He released her suddenly and she scrambled to her feet.

  He stood slowly, breathing deeply and unevenly. His eyes were burning embers. She felt so guilty, so afraid, and so needy all at once. Unable to sort through her jumbled emotions, she cried out inarticulately and fled into the wickiup. Her confusion turned into tears, and she wept silently, not just for herself but also for him.

  Chapter 57

  That night he slept under the stars.

  He was at the limit of his self-control, and he knew it. The pleasure of lying with her, having her in his arms, so soft and fragrant, was outstripped by the agony. He hadn’t made love to a woman since John’s death, which had been more than six weeks ago. His physical discomfort was more than real. He was at the point where he feared waking up with a wet dream and embarrassing them both. And last night she had slept soundly for the first time since he had rescued her from the Comanche. He felt he could leave her to sleep alone.