by Jo Goodman
"How is it that you know so much, know the language, yet aren't one of them?"
Ryder's long fingers raked his dark hair. He looked over the top of Mary's head at the vastness of the land beyond the cavern's mouth. "I never said I wasn't one of them," he said finally.
Mary turned, frowning. "But you said—"
"I said I wasn't Apache, not by blood or birth." His pale gray eyes watched her carefully, gauging her reaction. "I'm Chiricahua," he said, "by choice."
* * *
The subject had been closed and remained so. Dozens of questions had come to Mary's mind and all of them were unasked. Ryder had placed the blindfold around her eyes and led her back to the chamber, his manner less solicitous than it had been on the outgoing journey, his tone more brusque. Mary did not know what she had done to elicit this response, yet it was clear to her that Ryder thought she had done something. She wondered about it throughout the day, but any overture she made was summarily rebuffed.
Mary couldn't know that it was merely her acceptance of Ryder's disclosure that had brought about the change. Confusion warred with the mask of calm indifference he usually wore like a mantle. He had expected distaste, even shock. It wasn't an unfamiliar response to his words, and he knew how to deal with it. If she had been fascinated as someone of Anna Leigh Hamilton's ilk might have been, he'd have known how to brush her aside. Mary wasn't even accusing. His admission could have prompted her to rethink her position on the Colter Canyon raid, could have swayed her opinion of his guilt or innocence.
Instead she hadn't judged him. Her clear, intelligent eyes were curious, not condemning; and her lovely face held the placid purity of an angel's.
In spite of her habit, Mary Francis Dennehy was a very dangerous woman.
That night, when Ryder lay down beside her, he didn't put his arm around her. Mary missed it immediately, missed the weight and security, the way he bound her to him with the proprietary embrace. She told herself that she shouldn't be so aware of him, that she shouldn't listen for the sounds of his even breathing or the hushed words that sometimes escaped his lips as he slept. She shouldn't care if he slept or not, shouldn't concern herself with his thoughts or his displeasure, shouldn't wonder if he didn't trust himself to touch her or if he just didn't want to.
Mary turned on her side to face him. His eyes were closed and his cheek rested on an outstretched arm. The lantern had been turned back so that only a thin layer of light marked his profile. His lashes and brows were every bit as dark as his hair which was pulled back in a leather thong. His features were strong, almost predatory, and the illusion of sleep softened them only by the narrowest margin. Months in the stockade and almost two weeks in the cavern had leached color from his skin. Even so, he was still darker than she, and when he was able to bathe in sunshine again he would be as bronze as he had been on the occasion of their first meeting.
"I know you're not sleeping," she said. When he didn't open his eyes she went on. "I've been lying beside you these past thirteen nights. I think I know when you're sleeping."
His pale gray eyes opened, their expression steady yet watchful. "I'd think you'd know when I want to sleep."
"I do," she said. "And right now you only want to ignore me. Some people might take the hint."
Ryder's sigh was telling. "Obviously you're not one of them," he said dryly.
"Obviously not." She hesitated. Now that she had his attention, she wasn't certain what she wanted to do with it. "I don't know why you're angry with me," she said at last. "I don't know what I've done."
"I'm not angry with you."
Mary studied his face, the enigmatic gray eyes, the impenetrable calm he wore like armor. She had penetrated it at least once, she thought, no matter that he had drawn it on again. "But you're angry," she said, then reconsidered. "At least you were."
"So it had to be about you."
He made her sound very self-centered, and that didn't set well with Mary. "Doesn't it?" she asked.
Ryder raised himself on one elbow. "There are two of us here. It could be about me. Don't you ever get angry with yourself?"
"Well, yes, but—"
He leaned forward, placed a finger on her lips and stopped her objection. "Enough. Go to sleep."
Mary waited for him to remove his finger. "I can't."
"Can't. Or won't?"
"I say what I mean," she said tartly. "I can't and neither can you." She didn't tell him why. Mary simply turned over, her back to him again, and reached behind her for his arm. She brought it across her waist then adjusted her position in a way that had become familiar to her over the last thirteen days. "Mary." He said her name like a warning. "It's all right," she said. "We both can sleep now." Fifteen minutes later, when Mary was breathing quietly and evenly, Ryder realized she was half right.
* * *
"What do you mean you're not going to wear it?" Ryder asked. He was holding her habit out to her, but she continued to let it dangle at the end of his hand.
"Just what I said." Mary's voice was flat, stubborn. "There's nothing wrong with your hearing."
"Well, you can't go around all day in that blanket." By his count she had adjusted it four times across her breasts, and it was in danger of slipping again. They had been awake less than an hour. One misstep on the trailing hem and she was likely to lose the entire thing.
"Why can't I?" she demanded. "You think it's good enough for me to sleep in."
"It's supposed to deter you from sneaking out while I'm sleeping."
"Maybe that was your original aim, but I don't think it's true any longer."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I think you really do want me naked."
Ryder stared at her. Her bold words were at odds with her flushed face, a flush, he could see now, that started just below the edge of the blanket cutting across her breasts. "I'm trying to give you your clothes," he said. "So that argument doesn't—"
Mary stamped her foot. Her toes caught the hem of the blanket and it was tugged lower. She managed to catch it before the tips of her breasts were exposed, but it was a narrow save. Though her flush deepened, she held her ground. "I'm tired of suffering alone, Ryder McKay."
He regarded her curiously, his head tilted to one side. Still holding the habit, he sat down slowly on the trunk lid. "Perhaps you'd better explain. I wasn't aware you were suffering."
Some of Mary's bravado faded at his calm request for an explanation. Was the man as stoic as he would have her believe? Or merely bluffing? Hands down Mary Francis was the best poker player in her family and her edge had always been the serenity of her expression. Now, watching Ryder McKay's carefully guarded features, Mary considered she might finally have met her match. And wasn't that just the point?
"Perhaps suffering is overstating it a bit," she admitted slowly. She bit her lower lip, thinking. "Uncomfortable would be more accurate. It isn't right that I'm the only one who has to be uncomfortable with this arrangement."
Ryder glanced around. "Not what you're used to certainly, but it's—"
He was deliberately misunderstanding her. "That's not what I'm talking about," she said. "I'm talking about sleeping next to you, your arm around me, your lips against my hair, your—"
"Mary." The caution was back in his voice.
She ignored it. "And none of it seeming to matter to you while it cannot help but unsettle me." She pointed to the habit he still held. "Do you think that makes me less of a woman, that somehow I have no woman's needs or desires? Do you think you can touch me with no consequence to my mind or my body?" Mary saw that she had engaged his complete attention. "And you," she added, scoffing, "now, you hide behind it, thinking yourself quite safe because there will be no response from me. You believe nothing can come of it so you find it all very easy to torment me. Well, I'm not going to make this easy for you. I'm not wearing that habit any longer."
Ryder's gaze dropped from Mary's face to the habit. He stared at it, thinking about her last words, wondering that
derision and triumph both edged her tone. He got to his feet and came to stand in front of her. He held the habit out to her again. "Last night it was you who forced closeness on us," he reminded her. "Here. Take this. I wouldn't have you break your vows on my account."
"You think too highly of yourself," Mary said. He understood little about her vows and nothing about her. She took the habit and promptly tossed it aside. "You don't mean so much to me. It's not my heart you've engaged." Her green eyes flashed, and her stance was challenging. She could hardly speak any plainer.
Ryder's hand went to the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes a moment as he massaged away the beginning of a headache and tried to remember how the argument had begun. He could hear her saying "I won't wear it" when he handed her the habit. Why hadn't he said, 'Suit yourself?' Why had he let her draw him in?
All Ryder had to do was open his eyes. The answer was there in the bare curve of her shoulder, in the length of calf opened by a split in the blanket, and in the eyes that seared him with their brilliance. The habit protected her. She was right about that. It protected her from him, and it protected her from herself.
"Why are you telling me this?" he asked quietly.
A strand of red-gold hair had fallen across Mary's cheek. She brushed it back impatiently. "Because you can no longer depend on me to be the conscience for both of us." She tugged at the blanket again, raising it a notch and trying to secure it better; then she turned her attention back to him. "I just thought you should know."
"I wasn't aware I had asked you to be my conscience."
"You didn't." She pointed to the discarded habit. "You expected that to stand for something. It doesn't. Not anymore."
Ryder glanced at the habit, then back at Mary, his dark brows drawn. "What do you mean?"
Mary raised her chin and faced him squarely. Against her will she felt her breathing quicken. "I left the order in September," she said. "I'm no longer a nun. I haven't been one for months."
The silence was powerful. For long moments Ryder only stared at her. The word "liar" lay on the tip of his tongue, but he didn't like the taste of it. As far as he could see there was nothing for her to gain by lying to him and perhaps a great deal to lose. "You deceived me," he said deeply.
She tried to shrug it off, but her cheeks were warmer than they had been a moment ago.
"For the second time," he added.
Now Mary's eyes dropped away. "I remember," she said.
"Did you think I wouldn't mention it?" he asked. "You took some pleasure in pretending to be something other than you were the first time we met."
"I took some pleasure in being mistaken for being me," she corrected softly. Mary glanced at him. "I don't expect you to understand, but it's the truth." Honesty compelled her to add, "And yes, I did enjoy your discomfort when you found out what I was."
Ryder remembered that quite clearly. If he closed his eyes he could see her sitting on the warm rock by the watering hole, clutching her knees to her chest, her posture protective but her smile completely smug. Uncertain of his reaction, she was not looking quite so confident now. Her bright eyes were faintly anxious, and there was no smile. Only the way her arms were crossed in front of her was familiar.
"Find something to wear," he said finally. "I don't care what." He turned, picked up a lantern, and left the chamber.
Mary stared after him, unable to call him back, uncertain if she wanted to. When his light vanished in the corridor, Mary bent slowly and picked up her habit. She folded it carefully and placed it in the trunk. Her clothing options were limited. She had the cotton shift and undergarments she had worn beneath her habit and she had his extra shirts and pants. Mary slipped the shift over her head and pulled on the drawers. She used one of Ryder's heavier shirts as a jacket, rolling up the sleeves until the cuffs rested partway between her wrist and elbow. Her stockings and shoes were not as warm on her feet as Ryder's socks, but Mary decided the less she wore of his, the better. His curt order that she should get dressed hadn't precisely been an invitation to share his belongings.
Mary shook out the blanket she had worn and laid it over the other blankets on the bed. She smoothed the edges and pressed out the wrinkles with her hand. She wondered if he would make her wear it when they slept again. Her hand trembled slightly. Perhaps this would be the night he would tell her to sleep in nothing at all.
* * *
Mary yawned widely. Belatedly she raised her hand to cover her mouth. The book she had been pretending to read slipped from her other hand and fell closed in her lap.
"Perhaps you should lie down," Ryder said. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the chamber, several maps from the trunk unrolled in front of him. He hadn't bothered looking up.
"Aren't you tired?" she asked. It was impossible to know the passing of time with any certainty, but Mary suspected it was already very late in a day that had been interminably long. Ryder had stayed away for most of it, and though Mary didn't know what business he had had outside the cavern, she had felt as if she were being punished. She was tempted to say as much when he finally returned, but nothing in his manner invited conversation or comment. He had eaten his meal in silence. Afterward he had knelt in front of the trunk, emptying it of everything until he could lift the false bottom and retrieve the maps. He hadn't even glanced in Mary's direction to see if she was interested or irritated by the trunk's hidden treasure. It was as if she had ceased to exist in any way that was important to him.
It didn't make sense.
Mary dropped her book back in the basket and stifled another yawn. She stood, her fingers and toes curling as she tried to stretch without bringing attention to herself. She was careful not to disturb Ryder's maps as she stepped around them, but the hem of her shift slid across his knee when she passed. The tug on her shift stopped her in her tracks. She turned and looked down. Ryder was holding a handful of her shift in his fist.
"Yes?" she asked. The contrast of his skin against the white fabric, the intensity of his grip, held her focus. Suddenly Mary found it difficult to draw a breath. He didn't say anything but the pull on her was inexorable, as real as if his hand had twisted in her shift and yanked her down. She felt her knees give way and then she was sitting beside him. His gaze shifted from his hand to her face, and the cool gray eyes studied her with a predator's awareness. Mary held herself very still. Even when his hand released her shift, she felt very much his captive.
"I'm not tired," he said after a moment.
"Oh." Mary had forgotten that she'd asked.
"I wanted to be." His hand was raised, and it now rested on the curve of her neck. When his thumb made a slow pass across her skin, her pulse jumped beneath it. "Why did you tell me, Mary?"
She swallowed. His fingers lifted and drifted across her cheek. He touched her ear and tested the texture of her hair at her temple.
"Is this what you wanted?" When she didn't say anything, his hand closed over the back of her neck and he drew her closer. "Or this?" His head bent and his mouth touched hers, lightly at first, a mere whisper of warmth against her lips. "This, then." The pressure this time was more deliberate. His hand tightened, held her steady, and his mouth closed over hers. He felt her try to draw in a breath, but it was his air she drank. Her lips were soft, the space between them narrow. He widened it with his tongue, the touch tentative, a mere taste. The sound she made was small, almost a whimper. Ryder did not mistake her response for arousal alone. He could sense her fear.
Instead of withdrawing, he deepened the kiss. His fingers wound around her hair and kept her close while his tongue explored the sweet recesses of her mouth. He leaned his weight into her gradually so that she was eased to the cool stone floor with hardly any awareness of how she had gotten there. His body unfolded beside her, stretching until one of his legs had captured hers. It was only then that he raised his mouth. The centers of her eyes were dark and vaguely unfocused. Her lips were parted and faintly swollen, richer in color than they had been be
fore the kiss.
"My God," he said huskily. "You've never even been kissed before."
Mary was surprised by her own indignation. "Yes, I have," she said a little sharply.
"Oh?" He kissed the corner of her mouth, nibbled along the length of it. Her lips parted again, and he teased her with his tongue before he asked, "Who?"
"Jordan Reilly."
Her answer had come too quickly to be a lie, yet Ryder suspected there was something she wasn't sharing. He lowered his head and kissed her hard, wringing an arching response from her. Her breathing was quick and shallow when he drew back, and of their own accord, her hands had come to rest lightly on his shoulders.
"He was eight," she admitted after a moment. "I was only—"
She never finished. Ryder's mouth slanted across hers and Mary felt his urgency whip through her, lashing her with his heat and hunger. There was anger as well, and it was less easy to understand. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. The weight of his body against her was unfamiliar, but she accepted it. Her arms eased around him and her fingers threaded in his thick, inky hair.
Ryder broke off suddenly. He pulled away from Mary's grasp and sat up. "You'd let me, wouldn't you?" he said harshly.
Mary sat up. Confused by the accusation in his tone and a little wounded, she flushed. Still, it was not in her to deny the truth. "Yes," she said simply. "I would."
"Why?"
She didn't answer the question. Instead she asked, "Why does it make you angry?"
Ryder's smile was grim and humorless. "I didn't know you realized I was."
"I could..." She hesitated. "I could feel it in your kisses. I'm inexperienced. Not naive." She drew in her breath and said again, "So why are you angry?"
Sighing, Ryder got to his feet. He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm not angry with you," he said. "You haven't done anything except make me want you, and you did that a long time ago." He shook his head slowly. "I shouldn't have brought you with me. It was a mistake to think I could keep my hands off you."
