Only in My Arms

by Jo Goodman

  Her touch was no less powerful on him. Ryder felt her mouth draw on the skin of his shoulder, and then she nipped it with her teeth. She didn't merely mirror the things that had been done to her, she found her own ways to please him. She liked to run her hand along his narrow hip, liked the heat of his skin beneath her palm and the way he drew in his breath when she strayed close to his arousal.

  Ryder was more conscious of Mary's tenderness than she was. Desire made her insistent, and when he would have been gentle, she was greedy. She helped him this time, guiding his entry and lifting her hips to accommodate his thrust.

  She whispered his name and he could not refuse her.

  As Mary abandoned herself to pleasure, Ryder let her set the pace. He watched her savor each subtle sensation, closing her eyes and sipping the air delicately as if too much would overwhelm her. Her body was warm and pliant, a supple wand beneath him.

  They moved as one, joined, hands clasped. His dark hair slipped forward and shielded his face from the light. His profile was dark, predatory, and yet his touch was adoring. He held himself back as she rode the crest of her climax alone and then he came into her, filling her deeply with his pleasure and his seed.

  Ryder lay back, replete. It was Mary who turned toward him. She stretched out, her bent knee resting against his thigh, her arm curved under her for support. The air in the chamber never changed from its standard seventy degrees, but it felt cooler now on their sweat-slick bodies. Mary drew up a single blanket to cover them both.

  "Are you going to sleep?" she asked, watching him close his eyes.

  "Mm."

  "I thought the Apache were admired for their stamina."

  Ryder raised one brow.

  "I heard stories at Fort Union," she told him. "About the scouts."

  He still didn't look at her. "Is that right?" he asked dryly.

  Mary ran her knuckle along Ryder's jawline. There was a hint of stubble there. In the morning he would have to set out his razor and shaving cup, a reminder that he was not a smooth-faced Apache at all but a professor's son from Ohio. "They say a warrior can cover fifty miles in a single day and is so swift he can outrun a horse. A man like that could probably stay awake a little longer."

  Now one of Ryder's eyes opened and he gave her a wary look. "There's stamina and then there's stamina." He closed his eye and settled back, his features relaxing as though the conversation had ended.

  Mary opened her mouth to say something and then thought better of it. She watched him a while longer, studying his face in unguarded repose. Finally she placed her head in the crook of his shoulder and an arm across his chest. She slept deeply.

  * * *

  Leaving his drink unattended on the mantel, Jay Mac paced the floor in front of the fireplace. Low flames made logs crackle there, keeping the chilly night air at bay. His hands were thrust in the pockets of his jacket, and his head was bent. "I can't believe there's not some sign of them."

  Watching him, Rennie placed a hand over her husband's forearm. It was both a supportive and cautionary gesture. Jay Mac had been saying words to the same effect for over an hour, as if changing the inflection or rearranging the sentence would bring about the reply he wanted. Her father did not mean to be accusing, but Rennie could understand that, after so many repetitions, Jarret might begin to hear it that way. Her husband had been a skilled bounty hunter, tracking down criminals in the Colorado Rockies and east of the Mississippi. He was good at what he did, but it had been eight years since he had earned his living that way. Ryder McKay was challenging Jarret's skills in a manner no wanted man had. No one Jarret had ever hunted understood so well how to hide a trail or mislead the trackers. The trail had been cold more than two weeks, with no hint that it might turn hot again. To make things even more difficult, the territory was unfamiliar to Jarret. He understood the landscape of the Rockies. The mountains and mesas of southeastern Arizona could have easily been the hills and valleys of the moon.

  "By all reports, including my own, he's very good at what he does," Jarret said. "Ryder McKay is not a regular Army scout. He's been used for years for special, sensitive assignments. The other scouts say that if he doesn't want to be found, he won't be, and their words are being borne out. This is coming from men who take great pride in being able to track anyone or anything." He added with a touch of sarcasm, "They weren't recruited by the Army because they're stupid."

  Moira set her teacup on the table. Her voice, like everyone else's, was hushed. Fort Union's quarters were not so private as they appeared. Voices raised in arguments or excitement could be overheard in the corridor beyond or in the adjoining rooms. Jay Mac and Moira had not reported their abduction to the Army search party that found them. They'd told Lieutenant Davis Rivers and, later, General Gardner that they had wandered away from the main line in search of a better route through the foothills and had lost their way. They had been chastised for their foolishness, and Jay Mac had had to bear it in silence, making his stiff apologies sound sincere.

  "What about that one scout... that Tonto person?" Moira asked Jarret. "I've heard there's no love lost between him and Mr. McKay."

  "You mean Rosario," Rennie said. "Yes, I've heard the same thing. I really don't understand it, but it seems the Apache are not so easily categorized as one nation. The Tonto are part of the Western Apache, and they've no particular liking for the Chiricahua." She looked to her father. "Perhaps if you were to hire him, offer a reward above what you've already promised for Mary's return, he would cover the ground again."

  Jay Mac paused in his pacing as he considered Rennie's suggestion. "General Gardner just might release him to me," he said, thinking aloud. He glanced at Jarret. "I'd like it better if you accompanied him. Mary would be less frightened if you were there when she's found."

  "You're putting a lot of faith in Rosario," Jarret said. "I don't particularly trust him. I think his interest lies more in bringing down Ryder McKay than in returning Mary safely. Remember, most of the people here believe Mary helped McKay escape. For that alone, Rosario may not care what happens to her."

  Rennie took up her sister's cause. "Mary had nothing to do with the escape."

  "I didn't say she did," Jarret responded. "Only that—"

  Moira's hands curved around her teacup. She looked across the table at Rennie and Jarret, and then stole a glance at her husband. She could tell he was thinking the same as she. "Don't be too quick to defend your sister," she said quietly. The words were even more painful to say aloud than they had been to think. "You didn't see her with him today."

  "That ridiculous ceremony," Jay Mac muttered.

  Moira ignored her husband's comment. "I don't think she would have returned with us if she had been given the chance."

  Rennie's eyes flew to her father's. He was not objecting to what Moira was saying. That alone was telling. "You mean she wanted to stay with him? How can that be?"

  "Oh, she didn't want to be parted from us," Moira said. "At least not so soon. It was clear that she was surprised to see us and that being separated was an agony for her, but your father and I had opportunity to see her before she saw us." Moira's green eyes were awash with tears. She steadied herself to go on. "And she was... radiant."

  Jay Mac's eyes closed. He rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly. In his mind's eye he could see his Mary Francis clearly, shimmering in her beaded dress, the colors of the sunset glancing off her hair. Ryder had not captured her hand at that point. She had held his of her own accord.

  "Papa?" Rennie asked. "Is this right? Do you think Mary's with him because she wants to be?"

  Jay Mac came to stand behind Moira. He placed his hands on her shoulders. "I don't know anymore," he said heavily. "It makes it all the more imperative that we find her first. General Gardner's reduced the size of the search parties, but he hasn't given up. Sooner or later McKay's luck will run out. I think one of us should be there when that happens."

  In unison Jay Mac, Moira, and Rennie looked to Jarret Sulli
van.

  * * *

  Mary eased herself into the icy spring. The cold raised goose flesh on her arms, and she sucked in her breath. There was really never any getting used to it. She quickly soaped her hair, working up a lather, then rinsed. Droplets of water were flung in an arc around her as she shook her head.

  "You're like a puppy."

  Mary's head snapped up and her eyes opened. Ryder was looming above her on the stone edge of the spring. He was perfectly, splendidly naked. The smile on his face was a trifle indulgent and a lot more wicked.

  "I had a puppy once, you know." He hunkered on the lip of the well. "We left Copper behind in Cincinnati."

  "Copper?" she asked on a thread of sound. Really, that wicked smile did strange things to her stomach. "An Irish Setter?"

  "A bulldog," he said matter-of-factly. "Molly named him." He was grinning openly now, laughing at her. He raised his hands, half in surrender, half for protection as Mary showered him with water. "I didn't say you reminded me of that puppy!"

  Mary wasn't placated. She scooped another handful of water into her cupped hands and let it fly.

  There was nothing for it but that Ryder should join her in the spring. He jumped in, sending a geyser of water into the air. When he surfaced, Mary was pressed to one edge of the spring hiding her face behind her hands and laughing helplessly. Pinning her to the edge, Ryder placed an arm on either side of her. He bent his head so his forehead touched hers and growled lowly at the back of his throat.

  Mary stopped laughing. That husky growl could start the butterflies in her stomach as easily as his wicked smile. She cast him a wary glance through her splayed fingers. His eyes were boring into hers, not frosty now, but a slightly darker gray, more like molten silver than melting snow.

  She found she was wrong about the water. One could do better than get used to it. One could learn to ignore it entirely. As Ryder's mouth closed over hers it was what she was able to do.

  In his arms she felt weightless. He lifted her with ease, bringing her body flush to his. Her breasts were crushed against his slick skin, and her legs wrapped naturally around his flanks. They exchanged excited, hungry kisses. He touched her temple with his mouth, her closed eyes, and cheeks. His teeth caught her earlobe and he tickled the hollow behind her ear with his tongue. She liked the texture of his skin beneath her lips, the sweet and salty taste of him when she pressed her mouth to the taut line of his jaw and the plane of his shoulder.

  His hands roamed freely, exploring the shape of her head, her face, her slender neck. His palms and fingers moved with a certain exactness, as if he would be held responsible for recreating each angle and contour. He learned the slant of her shoulders and the gentle curve of her spine. Her narrow waist fit neatly between his hands while her bottom filled them. Her long legs fascinated him, curved as they were around his body, melding her to him even before they were joined.

  Mary let her fingers trip along the length of his back. His muscles bunched when she touched his shoulders. His ridged abdomen was flat against hers, and his arms held her in a secure embrace. She laid a line of kisses along his collarbone and pressed her cheek against his skin. He was stirring between her thighs, and she learned that the shape of her own body could be defined by the fit of him against her.

  Ryder's fingers slipped between their bodies. His knuckles brushed her breasts and his thumb passed back and forth over her raised nipples. A flush of desire crept under Mary's skin, suffusing it with color. Her pelvis cradled him tightly and she undulated against him slowly as he drew on all her senses.

  His hand went lower, this time to the juncture of her thighs, and he pressed his palm against her mound sending a shudder through her. Her fingertips whitened on his flesh as his fingers stroked and probed. Tongues of flame licked her skin. She jerked against him as his fingers dipped and entered.

  He murmured against her ear. The words were unintelligible but the tone was gentling soothing, and in the end he seemed to have possession of her will. Mary's body obeyed his commands. The intimate press of his fingers made her limbs grow taut and her slender frame arch. She threw her head back and rivulets of water slid past her temples and her shoulders. She felt his eyes on her, gauging her restless response, ready to push it to another level.

  And when he did, Mary's fingers unfolded as pleasure engulfed her. Her mouth opened but she made no cry. Her entire body went rigid, still. The tightness lasted only a moment before she collapsed against him, sinking into the curve of his embrace. He stroked her damp hair as her heartbeat slowed. Between her legs he was still stiff and hard. This time his satisfaction had not been physical.

  Mary's eyes were closed. A little ashamed of the selfish pleasure she had enjoyed, she couldn't look at Ryder. She could feel him against her, his arousal pulsing. She would have taken him into her, had wanted to, but he had denied himself. "Why did you do that?" she asked softly. Even in his embrace the water was chilly now. She shivered lightly.

  Ryder set Mary down carefully and raised her chin with his forefinger. "You're not ready to take me again. Not so soon." His thumb traced the edge of her damp lower lip. "But I did not want to deny you... or myself."

  Mary wrested her chin away from his light grip and looked down through the crystalline water. Ryder made no attempt to shield his aroused state. "I think you did deny yourself," she said.

  "That's only because you're still an innocent."

  She looked at him oddly, not understanding. Rather than ask him what he meant, she determined to find out for herself. Looking around, she spied the slim bar of soap she had used on her hair. Mary picked it up, ignoring the cloth that lay nearby. She raised a bit of lather between her hands, and then she applied the soap and suds to Ryder's body.

  "I don't think—" he began.

  "You think too much," she interrupted gently. Her hands worked deftly, sliding the soap over Ryder's shoulders, massaging his chest and upper arms with slippery lather. Her fingers glided to his neck before she circled around him and rubbed down his back. His flesh rippled under her touch and defined the hardness lying beneath his taut skin. She washed the base of his spine, finding the small dimples with her index finger. She soaped his hard buttocks and the backs of his thighs, and then returned to his back, slipping her palms along his tapered waist and narrow hips.

  Mary slipped her arms around him from behind, resting her forehead against his back. Her soapy fingers traced the ridges of his rib cage and rubbed lather across his abdomen. Her hands went lower to the arrow of hair below his navel. That was when she dropped the soap.

  And the pretense.

  Made buoyant by the water, Mary slipped around Ryder again, her entire body rubbing smoothly against his. Her hands went below the surface of the water and grasped him. She could feel the coursing of the blood that was making him hot and hard beneath her fingers.

  Ryder's hand closed over Mary's and he showed her how to take him. She discovered that by giving this pleasure she had denied herself nothing.

  "You were right," she said quietly when he set her outside the pool. She picked up a thin cotton quilt and began drying herself.

  Ryder hoisted himself out of the spring and steadied himself. Water dripped on the stones in a slowing staccato rhythm. He had a little less strength coming out than he had had going in. There was no chance that he was going to forget that dip in the spring anytime soon. "About what?" he asked.

  "That I was an innocent."

  Though Mary wasn't looking at him, he couldn't miss her smug smile. "Just a little full of yourself, aren't you?" he asked dryly.

  "Pride is my worst fault. Sister Benedict always said so."

  Ryder dried himself off briskly, hitched the damp blanket around his hips, and then pulled Mary to her feet. She dragged the cotton quilt around her, tucking the ends neatly between her breasts. Ryder turned her toward their bed and gave her a pat on the bottom, urging her forward. "How is it that you ever became a nun?" he asked.

  Mary stiffened
at the question. She slowly pushed herself onto their stone shelf bed. "You say that as if you think I shouldn't have. It's not very complimentary."

  "I only meant—"

  She held up her hand, stopping him. "I don't want to hear it. You think because I respond to you so completely I was somehow unsuited for convent life. If I carry your reasoning a little further, it's natural to conclude I should have become a whore at seventeen instead of a bride of Christ."

  One of Ryder's brows kicked up. "I was trying to—"

  Mary's full mouth flattened mutinously, and if it had not been so predictably childish, she would have clapped her hands over her ears. "I'm hungry."

  Ryder hesitated. He had no liking for their argument and even less for the misunderstanding. However, it seemed that Mary had closed the discussion. "Very well," he said after a moment. He turned and went to their larder, opening tins of meat and vegetables. Realizing he was hungry as well, Ryder set out the portion on two plates. He handed one to Mary, but didn't join her on the bed. He sat in the wing chair, his long legs stretched negligently in front of him.

  She pushed the cold food around her plate. Asking for a meal had been a diversion, not a need. She tried to think of some way to make amends for her sharpness. She had never been very good at saying she was sorry. She lamented that pride, indeed, was her worst fault. "I can't talk about it," she said at last. "It's too..." She struggled for the word. "Too personal."

  Ryder nodded, saying nothing.

  "You'd have to know my parents better, particularly my mother." She sighed. "I'm just not ready." She sighed again. This time her eyes were apologetic as she shrugged uncertainly. "I'm sorry."

  Ryder couldn't pinpoint the precise thing her regret was supposed to cover, but he accepted it. "Eat up," he said gently.

  Mary tucked into her food. "Tell me about our ceremony in the clearing," she said around a mouthful of peas. "Why did we stand in the water?"