She pulled free, her fingers flitting over the contours of his face as if she scarcely believed he was alive. She had to be sure.
“I…I saw you go down,” she murmured. “The horses…I saw them trample you. Then Jared was going to kill you. Now this ‘I’m the fastest gun around these parts’ nonsense. Trace Ord, if you ever—!”
“Hush, Mae.” He laughed. “This is one hell of a way to conduct a courtship. I shoot you and then end up nearly getting killed by one bastard after another, each with the dying request that I protect you. I think I’m the one who needs protecting.”
“Hush? Don’t you dare tell me to—”
“Just hush so I can say what I need to. Marry me, Mae.” Maybe it wasn’t the proposal women dreamed of, but she didn’t seem to object. Mae Ahern gasped, and her reply seemed lodged in her throat. She did manage to nod.
Preacher just laughed.
Chapter Twenty-three
Mae wiggled her toes in the water, giddy with excitement. Married. She had stood next to Trace and said the words, “I do,” all in front of a preacher. A real preacher. The preacher of Timber Junction, the biggest town in the area. She had thought it would never happen, what with the events of the last few days. They’d met up with the U.S. marshal and the northern ranchers who’d hired Trace, and they’d straightened out the entire situation with the rustling. They’d taken Comstock’s men in for questioning—those they could find. Of course, justice had been served earlier. Jared and Michael Slade, the leaders of the group, were already dead.
Trace had spoken to White Eagle, too. The Walapai had managed to round up a number of horses despite the storm, although Standing Thunder of course eluded them. Trace, Preacher, and the Indian leader had all spoken at great length about the stallion, and Mae realized how they all coveted the beast. She’d had a moment of terror that they would go out after the horse once more. But then they’d spoken about something else—a woman. White Eagle’s daughter? Preacher had said the girl just needed a firm hand, and Trace had nodded. White Eagle had looked sad. That had been the end of it.
A firm hand. That’s what Trace had provided for Mae. He’d brought her right back here to be wed, dispelling all her fears about him putting the horses first. He’d seemed to have only one thing on his mind: making her an honest woman. Her heart fluttered at the memory, and her body tingled. Afterward, he’d ordered a bath for her and gone off to check on the horses and make sure all was in readiness for transport of Diablo and Duchess and themselves on the train back East. They were going home to Grandfather, he’d said. He wouldn’t have her endangered one more moment in the West.
It wasn’t a full bathtub but a half bath, hardly more than an elongated washtub. Still, she was delighted with such luxury after being on the trail. And Trace was right: it did ease the pain of having had him in her body.
She knew she should blush at that image, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. Such thoughts only provoked a deep warmth inside her, a need to take him into her again and again. As a young girl she’d seen stallions mounting mares, a cumbersome process that always seemed over before it started. Thus, she wasn’t totally unaware of what would happen. She felt sorry for those poor mares now, for the act between humans in love was nothing like the mating of animals. Oh, there were animalistic impulses—she blushed and wondered if the sounds she’d made had carried through the hotel walls. And he’d been so worried about hurting her, but the pain had been exquisitely brief. Then she was part of him. The love had woven around them and made it more. So much more.
The water was still warm, the fluffy lather gliding over her wet skin. The sponge fell from her hand and drifted to the side of the tub. Totally relaxed for the first time since she left Kentucky, her arms floating at her sides, she let the warmth lull her to sleep in a gently lapping womb of lavender and rosewater.
Vaguely she grew aware of the pins being pulled from her hair. As the third was tugged free and her long tresses fell loose, she seized the sides of the tub and attempted to sit upright. Water sloshed onto the floor. Strong hands held her back.
A familiar voice softly crooned, “Shhhhh. From the first moment I clapped eyes upon you, I knew it would come to this.”
She laughed. Trace was on his knees at the side of the tub. “Silly man,” she said. “The first moment you saw me, you thought I was a man—a horse thief—and you shot me.”
“True. So, maybe the second?” he teased, unbuttoning his shirt and rolling his sleeves above his elbows. When she didn’t comment, he added, “Surely the third.”
Her brows lifted in challenge, as she drank in this handsome man who was now her husband. He was clean shaven and dressed in black breeches and a white shirt. No longer a renegade rider, he might be a captain of a pirate ship—no, a privateer, for her husband would always be on the right side of the law. While his hair was still long, he’d had several inches trimmed away. The rest was now pushed back, dark waves curling about his earlobes and two locks falling rakishly over his forehead.
Sunlight streaming through the thin lacy curtains defined the angles and planes of his bronzed face, played wickedly about the sensual shape of his lips and deepened the shadowy hint of a cleft in his strong chin. No doubt about it, she’d cut out the prize stallion from the herd in claiming Trace Ord as her mate. No, that wasn’t right—Trevor Guilliard. Still, he would always be Trace to her. But she was Mrs. Trevor Guilliard. That would take some getting used to, just as it would take a little getting used to, being a wife.
That thought brought another smile to her lips. She had a lifetime to get used to it.
Trace took up the sponge and soaped it, moving it up her arm and onto her shoulder in slow circles. It seemed wicked, that she should allow a man to do these things to her. That would take getting used to as well.
His sleeves were rolled back to the biceps, exposing the hard rippling muscles that clenched as he continued to soap her. The shirt gaped open in front, giving her a glimpse of the hair pointing arrow-straight downward to disappear into the waistband of his breeches, and Mae swallowed, hunger constricting her throat. Last night when they had made love—their wedding night—it had been in the shadows and silver moonbeams filtering into their room. This was in the brilliant light of morning.
She gasped as the sponge reached her breasts, and then she writhed as he allowed the suds to trickle over nipples. The scented water was silken, his touch as light as air. Though his fingers trembled as they grazed those hard, tawny buds, he played them as a skilled musician plays his instrument, with reverence and adoration.
It was bewitching and frightening all at once to stare into his eyes, to see the passion rise in them. That expression took her breath away. Set her heart to pounding. Oh, how handsome he was! Yes, his was a handsome face, but ruggedly handsome, all angles and planes—the kind of face an artist would love to paint, she admitted to herself. She’d ask Trace to sit for a painting for her birthday present next spring. So easily she imagined that portrait hanging on a wall at Foxtail Hall.
When his hand slipped beneath the water and settled upon the V between her thighs, Mae’s breath caught in her throat. Slowly at first, with the lightest touch, he began to stroke her there, probing beneath the curls to the sensitive flesh beneath. She leaned into those fingers that spread shock waves of drenching fire through her loins, and the delicious sensation radiated outward over her belly and thighs, like ripples in a quiet pond when a skimmed stone breaks the surface of still water.
Trace took her lips in a smoldering kiss, all while his fingers deftly stroked her sex—faster, deeper—causing sensations to rush at her very core until she arched her spine into the friction causing the ecstasy and groaned as release washed over her like waves of liquid fire. It was then, while she was in the throes of deep contractions, that his fingers first slipped inside her, first one and then another, gliding on the silk of her inner wetness.
She wanted to tell him how much she loved him, yet she couldn’t bring herself to
speak the words, not when his hands were roaming her body, not while his lips were tugging at her nipples. Dizzy, she clung to him as he lifted her out of the water and scooped her up in his arms to carry her to the bed. The feather mattress and counterpane were cool against her damp skin as he laid her down. Not used to a man looking at her nude, she started to reach for the blanket.
Trace caught her wrist. “No, don’t,” he said, yanking off his boots. “I want to see you bathed in sunlight. I want to make love to you and see those beautiful brown eyes as I am inside you.”
Mae lay still, watching while he stripped off his wet shirt and breeches. He was aroused, and the sight of him took her breath away. He was perfectly formed and strongly made, from his broad shoulders to his well-turned, corded thighs. Her wild stallion. Mae’s fingers itched to touch him. It was scandalous to feel this way; it had to be. But the minute he climbed in beside her, she reached to stroke his strong back, followed the curve of his spine to that narrow waist and firm buttocks.
His hands roaming her body brought her to the brink of ecstasy again. His fiery kiss, blazing a searing trail from the base of her throat to the hardened buds of her nipples, seemed to set her very soul ablaze. She was malleable in his hands, and everywhere he touched, every line and curve of her body throbbed with an inner fire. Her very bones were melting.
Trace crushed her close, his strong arms molding their bodies together. Easing himself between her legs, he guided them around his waist, lifting the rounds of her buttocks as he penetrated her in one, long perfect thrust like a sword into its scabbard. Mae moved to his rhythm, taking him deeper as he plunged and swayed and undulated atop her. All the while, his hooded gaze was riveted to her face, his dark eyes catching glints from the sun’s rays. Mae couldn’t keep her hands from riding up and down his spine, from greedily gripping his buttocks as he filled her.
All at once he rolled over, taking her with him. He was on his back now; she straddled him, her long hair teasing his thighs as she matched his pistoning thrusts.
“Ride me,” he whispered harshly. “My renegade rider.”
His eyes still devoured her. She met his gaze as he cupped her breasts, crushing her tender, hardened nipples against the thick, rough cushion of his palms until she feared she would faint for the firestorm of sensation.
Trace pulled her forward until his lips closed around one turgid bud, laving it with his tongue. The tug resonated to her very core, triggering a release that all but drained her sense, and he gripped her waist and took her deeper still, riding her wetness, raising her up and down, his rapid thrusts hammering into her until he groaned and held her down upon his hard shaft as his climax pumped him dry. Mae felt the pulse of him, the very beat of his life force inside her as his seed spilled forth. Her hands splayed out over his taut, heaving chest, felt the pounding of his heart, which shuddered against her soft skin so violently she feared it would burst from his chest. His breath short, he rolled her onto her side and gathered her to him.
Nothing mattered but those arms, those searching lips, the anxious pressure of his manhood within her. He didn’t speak except to say her name, again and again, against her lips, against her hair, against her breast. The murmur spoken so reverently, like a prayer—a litany of his love—thrilled her to the core.
Vertigo starred her vision. He was hard again, already? They had not separated. Her breath caught. Her heart, hammering against his heaving chest, seemed about to explode as he began to thrust inside her again, his groan resonating through her body. How he filled her. How perfectly they fit together. How easily she moved to the rhythm of his love.
Shifting until he was over her, he raised her hips with his massive hands and she wrapped her legs around his waist, taking him deeper still, undulating in a way that made him cry out in pleasure. Moments later he shuddered to a second pulsating climax inside her. The sound ran her through like a javelin, and waves of icy fire coursed through her loins, her belly, and her thighs, and she followed him into ecstasy.
Again and again he took her, each coupling a nourishment of their passion. It was like mating with a lightning bolt that struck again and again, never needing to recharge. Time didn’t exist—nothing did but the rapture of his embrace.
Mae’s body still throbbed to his pulse long after they lay sated in each other’s arms. Her head rested on Trace’s chest. The heart beneath her ear had slowed to a steady thudding rhythm; his breathing was deep and contented. He imparted gentle caresses, sliding his hand along her arm.
She wanted him. She had always wanted him. Would never stop wanting him.
Trace shifted up in bed, pulling the covers around his hips, not sure Mae was yet fully used to seeing him in the altogether. One day she would be, but he would allow her to reach that point on her own. Theirs had hardly been a romance of courtship, hearts, and flowers. There would be plenty of days for her to lose her shyness. And lose it she would. Mae had grit. She had battled lying men seeking to use her and kept her head.
But she’d lost her heart. He smiled at that thought. Mae. His woman. His wife.
He leaned over and placed a kiss on her bare shoulder, which was still healing—he’d been as careful as he could while they made love. His body clenched in desire, but also in pain at the thought of having shot her. Her body would forevermore bear the scar of their first meeting.
She’d seen the look of pain in his eyes as he’d bathed her, and joked about what grand tales they’d have to tell their children and grandchildren about how they’d met. True to her dauntless spirit, Mae had laughed it off. For him, it wasn’t so easy. He loved her. God, how he loved her. He wanted to cherish and protect her like one of those knights of old his mother had told him about; she was his lady and he would die to defend her.
With Comstock and Slade dead, he should feel some measure of peace. But he was too much a renegade rider, ever mindful of danger lurking around the next bend, behind the far boulder; he simply couldn’t shake the feeling this nightmare wasn’t behind them quite yet. Silly. There was no one left to pose a threat to their happiness. Even so, he chafed that they had to wait for the train traveling east. Perhaps it was how close he had come to dying and losing her, but he wouldn’t draw a full, peaceful breath until their horses were loaded and they were miles down the track, heading back East. Hell, he wouldn’t let down his guard until they crossed the wide Mississippi and spotted the bluegrass of Kentucky.
No matter how he told himself that this episode of their life was done, something didn’t fit, and no matter how he tried to explain it away, the dying words of those two men haunted and mocked him. Oh, he might assume they regretted their deeds and simply wanted to know the object of their lust and perhaps twisted affection was safe, and in some ways he could accept that. Only, Jared hadn’t been warning him against Slade. So, who? And Slade saying something similar…Oh, he would like to dismiss them both, but he had a deep sense he would regret it if he did. Business unfinished loomed dark on the horizon, but damned if he knew what it was.
Mae was sleeping deeply, half on her stomach, her face buried against her pillow. He kissed her again, but lightly, not wanting to awaken her. His darling wife was exhausted from their lovemaking. His blood surged hot, possessive, but there was too much to do before they got on the train and left all of this behind.
Reaching for his pants, he slid quietly out of bed. He wanted to go check on the horses and Preacher, make sure they would be ready to board the train the instant they could. It would seem odd to leave the West after being out here for so many years, and in going back he would have to face the ghost of young Trevor Guilliard, the man who grew too old before his time. And yet he couldn’t wait to get packed up and gone. He would have the long ride back to Kentucky to come to grips with everything he’d fled after the war. Right now, he simply wanted Mae safely away from here.
The desk clerk was already on duty as Trace came downstairs. The balding man gave a smile and said, “Good morning, Mr. Ord. I trust you and the
missus rested well? Anything you’ll be needing before breakfast?”
“Thank you, we did rest well.” It was a white lie, and Trace felt a blush tinge his cheeks. “I’m heading over to check on the livestock. My black hasn’t been housed in a stable before. Not sure how he’ll take to the confines of a boxcar.”
The clerk just nodded and smiled.
Trace strode outside and across the dusty street, his eyes moving restlessly. The morning was clear, the harsh western sun already bright. His destination the livery, he might appear a man on a casual stroll, but he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that eyes watched his every move. Trouble seemed to lurk around the very next corner.
“I’ll be damn glad when we’re out of here,” he said under his breath, trying to calm his jangling nerves.
Everything about the changes in his life still felt odd, almost unreal. He’d never expected to marry, never considered he could fall in love. So much of his young soul had died in the war and the horrible aftermath, that part of a man who wanted a wife, a home, children. Long ago he had given up his dreams. But Mae had given them back to him. He was married and going back to a real life.
Preacher was already awake, rubbing down Diablo with straw. He glanced up and said, “This black of yours is antsy, like the devil knows you plan to shove his hiney in a boxcar for a loooong ride.”
Trace gave the old-timer an easy smile. “Now, don’t you go putting grumpy ideas in his head. I’m taking him back to a life of luxury. He’ll get to sleep in a barn that’s better than any house you or I have lived in for more years than I care to count, will have a green pasture to eat his fill of grass the likes of which he’s never seen, and a whole bevy of Kentucky belles just waiting to make his close acquaintance.” He reached out and ran his hand down the stallion’s neck. “Yes, you spawn of Satan, you’re going to think I took you to heaven.”
Renegade Riders Page 21
