"Grace?" he called out. Pray to God it was her. He was unarmed.
He found her huddled, knees to chest, with her arms wrapped around them tightly. Her face came up as he crashed through the cattails toward her. The scant moonlight glistened off her cheeks, wet with tears. She swiped at them with her fist, trying to hide them. Reese stopped short.
In the brief time they'd known each other, he'd come to know her strengths and her weaknesses; he'd seen the determination in her blue eyes, the sparkle of amusement when she laughed, the quiet, pensive way she got when she wrote in that little book of hers. She'd been through hell and never once had she broken down and cried. God knew, she had the right now, but he was at a loss. What was he supposed to do with tears? He was no good at it.
He knelt beside her. "Grace, darlin', why didn't you answer me?"
She didn't answer, but flung her arms around his neck. His heart lurched and he drew her to him. She was quaking like an aspen leaf.
"There, there," he said, awkwardly patting her wet back. "Everything's all right, now, don't cry."
She was in shock, he decided. He had to get her warm, get a fire built. Silently, he lifted her in his arms, and started back toward the boat. Like a child she cuddled against him, clinging to his neck as if she feared he might fling her aside.
"You don't have to carry me," she told him.
"Aye, I do, lass."
Burying her damp face gratefully against his neck, she drew a shuddering breath. "I'm sorry to be so much trouble."
"You're no trouble." With the soothing stroke of one finger, he caressed her back.
"I don't know what's wrong with me."
His legs absorbed the uneven ground. "Any woman would have cried her eyes out long before this after all you've been through. Everyone has an end to their rope, Grace. This just happened to be yours."
"I'm sorry for being so clumsy."
"No, it's me who's sorry," he whispered against her hair. '"Twas my fault, not yours. I knew the engine was given to fits. I should have gotten you clear of that edge."
"When you were gone, I don't know what came over me. I was so scared. I was afraid you wouldn't come back for me. I was afraid something had happened to you."
His hands tightened around her. How close she'd come to the truth. But the peril for him lay not with the river, but with the woman in his arms. Indeed, something had happened to him when he'd seen her disappear beneath the surface of the water, when he'd thought for an agonizing eternity of a moment that he might lose her forever. Something that shredded every piece of common sense he owned.
They reached the clearing where he'd tied the boat and Reese set her down, forcing her to wrap herself in a blanket he'd retrieved from the boat. He set to work, building a fire, using the still-warm coals from the firebox of the boat. It took no time at all to get a roaring blaze going, and Reese turned his attention back to Grace, who sat, shivering and silent, watching his every move.
Gently, he pulled the blanket aside. "Here, now," he said, working the buttons on the front of her dress. "Let's get you out of these wet things."
She made no effort to stop him. She stared at his hands as he undressed her, allowing him to help her out of her gown until he'd stripped her out of sodden petticoats and spread them on low tumbleweed bushes and cattail canes to dry. She lifted her arms as he tugged her soaked wool corset cover over her head. It joined her other things on the dried cattail canes.
Reese swallowed heavily, uncertain what to do next. He nearly groaned at the way the tight buds of her nipples showed through the thin cotton of her chemise. Her breasts were small and firm, yet he imagined they would fill his hand and more. They rose and fell in shaky starts as her breathing quickened in time with his own.
Heat shot through him, but it had nothing to do with the fire at his back. He was getting hard just standing near her, damn his lecherous hide. He dropped his gaze to the hooks on her boned corset, and there, he hesitated.
Swallowing thickly, Reese said, "Grace, I shouldn't... I mean, I don't think—" He drove a hand through his still-damp hair. "Can you manage the rest yourself?"
Slowly, her eyes lifted to meet his. Smokiness had stolen the blue from her irises; moisture still brimmed, making them shine in the glow of the fire. Her hands came up and took over the task of the hooks.
Flick. Flick. Flick. The corset fell open, releasing her breasts with only the thin, wet camisole for cover. She made no effort at modesty. She simply looked at him oddly as she tossed the corset onto the canes.
Blood drummed in his ears and his mouth went dry. Self-preservation made him turn away toward the fire. In another minute, he'd have to dive back into that river to cool himself down, because if he stayed near her he'd—
"Am I so very ugly?" she asked in a small voice.
"What?" He turned, certain he'd misheard her.
She shook her head and her knees seemed to buckle beneath her. She dropped to the ground in a little puddle of misery, her face in her hands. "Never mind. Don't answer that."
"Grace, you're not serious, are you?"
"Don't pretend," she accused. "I know it's true."
Had she been any other woman, there would have been no doubt in his mind that she was casting about for flattery. But the shattered expression in Grace Turner's eyes told him that couldn't be further from the truth. Somehow, he'd struck her at the very deepest core of her insecurity.
He sat on the ground beside her, a protective anger welling inside him. "Who told you that?"
She gave a miserable laugh, cradling her face in the crook of her arm to hide the tears he heard in her voice again. "Nobody had to tell me. It's obvious. Nobody wants me. When they think I can't hear, they laugh and say things like 'That Grace Turner, she's long on opinions and short on everything else.'"
"You tell me who said it and I'll go and knock his bloody head off."
"It doesn't matter. Even Edgar—he has to pretend he can bear me." Her bleak, damp eyes slid up to his. "You know what I think? I think all he really wants is the land our parents left us."
Bracketing her shoulders between his hands, he forced her to look at him. "Forget Edgar. He's a pox on the backside of humanity. Don't give the man another thought." He gritted his teeth. But if I ever see him, by God, I'll make him eat his bloated banker's opinion of himself.
"What is it about me? You can tell me. I don't think I'm a bad person," she said, shaking her head and worrying the frayed edge of the blanket. "But men don't seem to like me. I annoy them. I step on their feet when I dance, or I'm too outspoken, or too ugly. You can't even bring yourself to look at me."
"My God, Grace, the first time I saw you I—" He stopped himself as she looked up to search his face.
"You couldn't wait to get rid of me," she finished.
"As I recall, I wanted the whole world to go away that night. But you, no, even through the haze of alcohol," he whispered, dragging a knuckle down her cheek, "you were the prettiest thing I'd ever seen. With eyes the color of bluebonnets on a Texas morning," he went on. "And when you're angry, they remind me of the heaths I used to run in as a boy, all tumbled and violet." He chucked a finger under her chin and grinned. "And then there's this perfect wee chin that has a habit of goin' straight up when you get willful."
A smile quivered on her lips, and she looked up at him through a sweep of lashes.
"And this mouth." He leaned closer and smoothed the pad of his thumb across her lips. "Ah, this mouth could make a man forget what few scruples he's managed to hang on to in his miserable life."
His lips touched hers in a gentle, languid brush.
"Don't you know what you do to me, Grace?" He kissed her again, lingering longer this time with a slide of his tongue against the seam of her mouth, tasting the salt of her tears. Brushing a strand of hair off her cheek, he said, "I turned away just now because if I didn't, I'd do something we'd both be sorry for later."
She leaned her face against his shoulder. "I wouldn't be sor
ry," she answered, spreading her fingers across his chest where his skin met the open V of his placket.
"Yes, you would." Capturing her hand, he lifted her open palm to his mouth and pressed his lips there. He was no saint, but a flesh-and-blood man. He'd been too long without a woman, and he begged her with his eyes to have mercy on him.
"Don't treat me like a child, Reese. I'm twenty years old. Today I almost didn't make it to twenty-one. Neither one of us can know what will happen around the next bend in the river, but I know I don't want to die without being with you—as a woman. Do you care for me at all?"
He dropped his forehead against hers. "Grace, I'm not the man for you."
"That's not what I asked." The fire snapped behind them, spiraling smoke up into the night air. Cupping his jaw with her hand, she forced him to look at her. "Do you care for me?"
"You know I do." It would take only the merest movement to seal his mouth against hers and take her as she was asking. He wanted it as much as she, maybe more. He was hard and throbbing at the very thought of her. But he reminded himself of her words. The river that carried them toward Querétaro could lead them to their deaths. If so, how could he regret taking her here, making her his woman? On the other hand, if—by some miracle—they came through it, could he say good-bye to her then? Could he let her go, knowing he'd spoiled her for the man she deserved?
That thought led inevitably to the next, one that swirled like hot grist in his gut: Could he ever reconcile letting some other man—any other man—hold her this way? Kiss her? Touch her? Could he ever truly let her go? The question drummed in his ears.
Her insistent lips pressed damply against the firm line of his jaw, and she caressed his heated skin with the slow swirl of her tongue. It spread an ache spiraling through the lower half of his anatomy.
Firelight flickered off her features, bathing her in a golden light. "Reese," she begged. "Make love to me."
"You don't know what you're asking."
"You don't want to?"
He let out a sharp breath. "Don't want to? I've spent the last four hundred miles trying to keep my mind off just that."
"You have?" A tremulous smile curved her mouth. "Then why—"
He took her by the arms and held her tight. "You've spent the last two weeks telling me I'm an honorable man. So, I'm trying to do the right thing here. Don't you see that?"
"Is it right to deny what's happening between us? Is it right to walk away from this without ever knowing?"
He stared at her without an answer for that. Slowly, she leaned forward and touched his mouth with hers. Once, twice—with maddening, pleading sweetness, until he could take no more. He caught her mouth fully in a hungry kiss, inhaling her scent.
There was no stopping it, he thought. Not this time.
With a low growl, he turned on her, pressing her back against the bank with the blanket spreading beneath them. He covered her with his weight, hip to hip, his thighs straddling hers. Capturing her hands in his, he pinned them to the ground on either side of her head. Her breasts lifted against his chest with an unbearable friction. Through the thin cotton of their clothing, he could feel the aroused buds of her nipples. Her face was flushed in the firelight, eyes half-lidded with passion—for him. She looked like an angel. His angel. And this wild place seemed for the moment as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist.
His mouth closed on hers hungrily, slanting first one way, then the other. It took no coaxing to urge her to open to him. Her tongue mated with his in a heated, reckless slide, and she moaned against his mouth. Her fingers threaded into the thick curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer yet.
Releasing her wrists, his hand traveled down the length of her arm to the soft cloud of her breast. Cupping its weight in his hand, he fondled the beaded nipple through her damp chemise until she arched upward, leaning into his touch. Breaking the kiss, his mouth tortured the column of her neck, licking and nipping her heated skin on the way to his goal.
He untied the silky ribbon on her chemise, roughly pulling the fabric aside to expose her breast. A sigh escaped him as he rubbed the pad of his thumb over her perfect pink nipple. He teased it with his tongue, laving and nipping with his teeth until she squirmed beneath him. Then, pulling it fully into his mouth, he suckled with a hunger more insatiable than any he'd ever known.
Grace moaned in pleasure as sensation after sensation rocked her. She could feel the hard length of him against her thigh. The momentary fear that chased after the pleasure vanished with his next kiss. Her blood was afire and her pulse thudding so hard against her ears she was certain that it was the heavy rhythm of it he was following with his mouth. Every inch of her skin tingled, particularly the damp places where his tongue explored. When he shifted his attention to her other breast, she thought she might explode.
But that was before he took up a new kind of torture with his hand. It drifted lower to her hips, smoothing over her thighs, then dragged a lick of heat across her inner thigh. Like a promise, it moved upward to that secret place as yet unviolated by any man's touch. And when, through the fabric, he found her, an exquisite tremor rocked through her, stealing her breath.
He groaned. "Sweet Mary." His breath came raggedly. He rested his hand on her hipbone and looked up at her. The night air cooled on her damp breast. "It's not too late to stop, but soon it will be. Do it now, before this goes too far."
"I don't want to stop," she told him desperately, easing the first button on his longjohns out of its home. She slid her hand against the mat of hair just below, seeking the flat brown nipple on his chest.
"Ahh-hh." He sighed. "Neither do I, darlin'. But if you change your mind—"
"I won't." She dipped her mouth to his nipple the same way he had to hers. His heart thudded against her palm in a frenzied beat. When he opened his eyes again, they were ablaze with passion. He took her by the shoulders and rolled over onto his back so that she was sitting atop the hard length of him. He flexed his hips with a wicked smile as he unbuttoned the tiny pearl buttons on her camisole, before slipping the garment completely off.
Grace squirmed against him, wanting more. On her parents' farm, she'd seen animals mate, and she wasn't so innocent she didn't know what would come next. But her knowledge was limited to the act itself.
She'd never guessed, and none of the married wags had ever so much as hinted, that getting there could be so much fun.
Reese cupped both her breasts in his hands, lifting and testing their weight. Then, with her still riding his hips, he arched forward and kissed each one with languid heat. Slowly, he worked at the knotted drawstring of her pantalets until the waist fell open. He drew them down over her hips, then rolled her over onto her back, stripping her completely.
He whispered some prayer as his heated gaze slid over her like warm honey. The firelight carved his features with shadows, and as he leaned over her to burn a trail of fire down her belly with his mouth, his hair fell across her breast. Grace threaded her fingers into the luxuriant thickness of it, pulling his head inexorably closer. His tongue explored every curve and rise with aching thoroughness. And when he dipped below the small triangle of curls at the juncture of her legs, she gasped in shocked pleasure. Oh, heavens! she thought breathlessly, even Lorna Lee didn't know about this!
Where his fingers had teased, his mouth cajoled. With slow, languid skill, he brought her to the brink of madness. She arched upward mindlessly, desperate to ease the exquisite ache he stirred.
Her response set fire to Reese's blood. His breath a ragged growl, he rose up over her and ripped the buttons loose on his longjohns. She reached up to help him out of them, as eager as he for the feel of her skin against his. Her fingers hesitated on the healing scar on his side and she looked up at him, a question in her eyes.
Dispelling her concern for him with a single movement, he covered her with his weight, a heartbeat away from losing his last thread of control. He'd thought he'd known sweetness before. He'd thought he'd know
n desire. But all paled beside the reckless hunger throbbing inside him now. Pressing his hips against hers, he probed the entrance to her.
"I don't want to hurt you," he whispered.
"Oh, Reese, please," she begged. "I need..." Her voice trailed off as she watched him and he knew she wasn't sure exactly what she needed to relieve the tension building between them.
But he did. He entered her warmth slowly, allowing her tightness to accommodate him as he filled her. With the slow grind of his hips, he probed deeper, then withdrew, over and over, until he reached the barrier he knew he'd find. Grace squirmed beneath him. His breath scraped against his throat as he lingered on the precipice, uncertain if he should go through with it. And just as certain that he must.
Wrapping her legs around his hips, she took the decision out of his hands by forcing him deeper. He heard her gasp of pain and felt the give of the delicate maidenhead. Reese went perfectly still inside her.
He dropped his mouth to her shoulder. "Are you all right?"
She nodded. But he didn't move for a full minute as she gathered her nerve again. Her fingers gripped his sweat-sheened shoulders and her lips moved against his ear. "Don't stop, please. Don't stop now."
And with that, his restraint broke.
His hips resumed their rhythm and Grace matched him movement for movement. Skin to skin, she felt the unbearable friction of their passion-glazed bodies as he rubbed against her, capturing her lips, her ear, her breast with his heated mouth.
In some dim part of her mind, she realized that a part of her had just vanished into the past while another, new aspect had entwined with his soul, forever linking her life with his. There was a rightness to it and a sense of destiny she would never question or regret, no matter what the result.
Somewhere, beyond that thought, she forgot to think—forgot everything but the ancient rhythm between them and the pulse-pounding sensations flooding her. Each movement drove her higher and higher, whirling on some dangerous ledge from which she could only hope to take flight.
The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1) Page 23
