But John did. The melting icicles caught his lashes and shimmered on his hand, awakening that protective part of him that kept watch. He looked up, past her head, at the sky beyond, and a chill to match the snow cold shivered in his heart. The weather was turning, swiftly and deadly, as it could up here on the tops, and their little hollow would become a death trap if they did not get inside a proper shelter.
He broke from the kiss, wishing he could take the time to enjoy the confusion and slowly dawning awareness in her clouded eyes—but there was no time. Not if they were to live through today.
“There’s a musterer’s hut twenty minutes’ ride from here. We have to make a run for it, now.”
She didn’t understand him.
He turned her brusquely, showing her the dark clouds and eerie light spreading towards them. “See that. The weather is cutting up rough. We have to move, quickly.”
He was not sure she yet understood, but he saw her shake her head, and her cheeks redden as she realised where she was sitting. They brightened to a painful scarlet as she struggled to disentangle herself, but he had no time to reassure her. Instead he had to hustle her onto her horse. He collected the last of their gear, mounted up, kicked his horse and slapped at hers to urge both into the nearest to a gallop the uneven land would allow, heading for the hut. All the time, he prayed hard. They had so little time before the snow and wind hid all landmarks. Then they would be lost, prey to the wild weather. He urged his horse on, ruthlessly driving his heels into its tired sides and tugged at the reins of Nessa’s horse. Hold on, hold on, my love. Please.
Chapter 16
The hut was little more than four sheets of tin tacked over a wooden frame, with another sheet over the top to form the sloping roof. It was set into the bank of one of the numerous small gullies that led down from the top of the plateau. To one side, a sheltered hollow between the shed wall and an overhanging rocky outcrop provided a makeshift stable for the horses, with sacking tacked over it to keep out the winds that could kill up here.
Nessa’s feet were numb, her whole body shivering. To her, the crude building was heaven sent. She did not protest when John helped her down from the horse and carried her inside. She was beyond making it on her own.
The inside was no more lavish than the exterior, she saw. Barely more than a raised wooden bench that must serve as sleeping platform, table or seating, and a chimney alcove enclosing the stone fire place with one bar over head to hold a billy. But there was a stack of coal and kindling set beside the fireplace, and cans on a primitive shelf above.
“We always keep these places stocked, just in case. I’ll restock it when next I go to Campbell’s” said John. “Are you up to starting the fire while I bed down the horses?”
She was still shivering badly, but now she was out of the bite of the wind, the feeling was slowly coming back to her feet and hands. With work, it would come back quicker. After that kiss and the wild ride here, she needed time alone to settle her mind, and she agreed gratefully. He still watched her as she checked the fire makings and did not leave till she began to lay the twigs, stacking them expertly and with hands beginning to still. After the months in the goldfields, she could make a fire with the most inadequate of fuels. Here, the kindling was dry and the coal good-sized pieces of the local kind. In no time at all, she had flames licking the black coals in the stones and had begun exploring what was on the shelf and in the satchel John had passed to her as he left.
In a small billy in the bag were three tins holding tea, sugar, flour and salt. All had been wrapped in waxed cloth and stowed in the saddle bag to protect them from the elements. On the shelf was a collection of jars of salted mutton, potted up by Mrs Cooper, no doubt. Best of all, she found an apple tucked down the side of the bag, a rare treat. They could certainly not starve.
She mixed a simple damper of water from her canteen, flour and salt on the lid of the large iron pot known as a camp oven, and put the salted mutton inside then swung it back over the fire. By the time the damper was cooked, the mutton would be bubbling in its juices. She then filled the billy with snow from outside and put it on the coals to boil, ready for tea.
It was not an elegant meal, but it would be hot and satisfying. Blowing on her warming fingers, she congratulated herself that that was exactly what they needed. Last of all, she added two generous spoonfuls of tea to the boiling billy, feeling almost human again. The shivering had gone, and a fiery glow of pleasure rose within her. Closed in, safe from the storm, isolated. Cut off. It was just her and John—no outside obligation, no responsibility. She looked quickly round the hut. It glowed with the red warmth of the fire. All was tidy, all was as it should be. Happiness, that was what she felt.
She had worked so quickly that when John returned, the damper was near cooked, the aroma of hot meats penetrated every part of the hut, and Nessa had arranged their blankets on the bench to make a comfortable seat for them both.
To John when he walked in, it was like coming home. The warm cooking smells, the cheerful blaze and, best of all, the sight of Nessa standing by the camp oven, firelight caught in her hair and a smile of welcome on her face. Had he ever seen a more beautiful sight in his life?
Nessa saw the answering smile on John’s face and her own faltered, all thoughts lost as a jolt of sheer heat blazed through her. She had known for weeks what she felt for John Reid, though even yet she refused to put it into words. But that smile, the look of his big frame outlined by the fire against the black storm outside: it brought to life every part of her body. She dared not move for fear of what her body might demand of her—that she fling herself into his arms and stay there forever.
The wind slammed the door shut behind him. The loud clap released her, released them both. She gasped, then sought safety in the mundane.
“Everything is ready. There’s salted meat, damper and tea.” She reached into the satchel again, then withdrew in dismay, holding an enamel dish and spoon. “There’s only one plate.”
He grinned in amusement. “Then we’ll have to share.”
He lifted the damper, breaking the hot slab into hand sized pieces, and spooned the meat over. “You have the spoon; I’ll use the bread.” He placed the dish on the bench and, sitting down, gestured her to sit on the other side and passed her the spoon.
It was the most enjoyable meal Nessa could ever remember sharing. His long, work-roughened fingers expertly used the damper to lift the pieces of meat and mop up the juices. She watched in fascination as his white teeth bit down. When the plate had been emptied twice, he reached over with his thumb to catch the drop of juice leaking from her lips and down her chin, carefully and slowly wiping it away. Without thinking, she opened her mouth and with just the tip of her tongue traced his thumb and closed her lips gently, suckling the sauce from the calloused tip. The heat in the room shot up several degrees. The fingers of his hand cupped her chin, and he leaned closer, his other hand moving the plate out of the way. The last barrier was gone, and his lips came down on hers.
She was warm, fed and relaxed but at the taste of his lips, awareness zinged through her. Her limbs became boneless liquid, unable to move other than to return the sensuous strokes of his clever fingers on her face, her arms, her back, and now over her tightened breasts.
A part of her knew exactly what she was doing and rejoiced in it. All her life, she had worked to meet the needs of others: her mother, her father, her brother. Tonight, this night, would be for her. Now, she needed this; she needed him. A smile touched her lips and was immediately felt by him. His tongue traced the curving tilt.
“Love me,” she whispered.
“Always.”
John did not ask was she sure, did she know what she was doing? It was clear with every touch, every deepened breath, every cast of her face that glowed with the pleasure he gave her. This was not seduction. This was both of them and had been inevitable from that first meeting. Tomorrow, he would get the packers to look for a parson.
No
w, tonight, there were just the two of them. He drew her close, laying her gently back on the bench and slowly, almost reverentially, undid one button, then another, then all.
For Nessa, the stroke of his fingers on her skin was like flame and silk combined. Each stroke, each tracing tip left a trail of sensitised nerves behind. His strong fingers pulled her coat away, then opened her bodice and released each straining breast. She gasped as first his fingers, then his tongue and teeth closed over a tightly furled bud—so sensitive she almost leapt up, even as she thrust both breasts forward, seeking the pleasure he gave.
Hungrily, her fingers tugged at his clothes. He laughed and obliged her, then sat as she gazed at the huge expanse of chest revealed. Her hands wandered over in stunned appreciation even as his eyes fastened on her exposed skin and his hands reached behind her and ruthlessly dealt with her laces.
“Enough,” he growled, gripping her hand as it traced the hard nubs of his nipples. “Forgive me, sweetheart, but if you keep that up, we’ll be finished before we have barely begun.” His lips took hers and the magic he created took away any hurt, telling her the truth of his arousal. She could feel the control he held himself under, feel the restraint in him.
“Let go. I won’t break,” she whispered.
“I’ve dreamt of this night too long to fall on you like a rutting stallion.” His lips took control of hers again, as his hand stripped away the rest of her clothes, then hurriedly took off his.
Then he stopped. Just stopped, and drank in the sight of her as the flickering flames revealed her full glory. Outside was freezing, the snow flung itself against the hut, the winds tore at the unyielding sheets of tin. Inside, the fire and their desire heated the room so that not a single bump showed to mar her skin. Only the smooth, pale expanse of silken limbs and tantalising curves. He breathed deep—once, twice. It needed the hesitant touch of her hands before he could move.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered.
Her hands began to roam. “You make me so.”
Spellbound, he could only sit on the bench, watching and feeling as her hands splayed over the muscles of his chest, the breadth of his shoulders, down the lines of his back as she leaned up to him. Then they ran over the hard lines of his backside, and down, down his legs. Her eyes follow her hands, totally enthralled. Then those curious fingers moved up again, nearer and nearer, then closed about the thick staff of his arousal. He gasped and clenched his eyes shut as the most powerful wave of desire he had ever felt gripped him in its fury.
His eyes snapped open and he reached for her, all restraint now gone. His tongue plunged into her mouth as his fingers sought the secret heart of her, felt her moist invitation and thrust in and in, urgent now to ready her for him.
A feeling unlike any she could have imagined took her over and swept her on. She needed, wanted, now! There were panting cries. Hers?
“Hush, hush, sweet love. Soon.” He laid her back down, his fingers bringing her closer to what she needed, but he paused. She was wet, pulsing, so ready for him.
“Now,” she pleaded.
“Yes.”
His body lifted over in one swift move, his knee nudged her legs apart. Not gently, yet with exquisite tenderness. Then he entered. Filling her, stretching her. She made to draw back. It was too much. Her eyes opened, saw the strain on his face.
“Gently, sweet. Let me in, please, or tell me no, but do it now.”
She was frightened, but not as much as she needed whatever it was that came next. This was John Reid, the man she had come to love more than she had thought possible. Love and trust.
“Come to me now,” she murmured.
Relief swamped his face. He took her face in his hands and his tongue plunged into her mouth, promising and inciting her in a caress that set her whole body on fire. Then his body thrust into hers, just as his tongue had promised. Once only, and his fingers dug into her thighs, holding her still, letting her adjust, letting the sudden sharp tug fade into oblivion, even as his clever fingers played on the secret nub and brought her back to pulsing expectation.
He felt the first waves hit her, felt her arch her back, and he pulled out and thrust in again and again, swiftly, urgently, right to the core of her womb. With every thrust, he felt the clench of her body on his. Then a mighty plunge, and the promise was fulfilled with a mighty roar of triumph to match the wordless gasp of joy from Nessa.
It was long minutes before they came back to reality. Slowly, he eased himself from her, mindful of any pain she may have felt, then he settled her against his chest, tucked her head against his shoulders and pulled the blanket over them both. Never had he felt so content.
She laid her head on his shoulder, studying the strong line of jaw. She was filled, replete, safe. Utterly safe. She gave a small sigh of happiness and wrapped her arms around his chest. Home was the word that lingered in her head as her eyes began to droop. She slid into sleep.
They must have slept for some time. When Nessa woke again, the roar of the weather outside had died away to be replaced by absolute silence. The only sounds to break it were the occasional snap of the dying fire and the soft, shooshing of John’s breathing. She sank back into the shelter of his arm, even in sleep slung protectively about her. She had never woken up beside a man before. She should be embarrassed. She felt many things, but not that. Loved, wanted, at home, so comfortable she never wanted to move away from their makeshift bed.
Nothing could come of tonight. She could not do that to Philip, not yet. He would not leave her in this land, and he must complete his studies. What had happened was for tonight only, was between her and John alone. She should feel guilt, or shame at her behaviour, but how could something so joyous be shameful? She loved John. She could admit it here, to herself. This one night may be all she would ever have. It was beyond her to regret that.
“Hey, sleepy head,” rumbled the deep voice of the man beside her. She felt the vibration of it through her cheek, mixing with the strong beat of his heart. She looked up, smiled her joy at him and saw the echo of it on his lips in the flickering light of the fire’s dim glow. He looked happy, his mouth bent upwards and more relaxed than she had seen.
They made love again in that small tin shelter high up on the ranges, then slept, and woke again to daylight, silence, and the joy they found together.
It was late in the morning before they stirred again. The snow was deep enough outside to keep them safe from intruders. John had lain quiet in the night, watching and planning. If they returned home by midday, his staff would think they had set out early from Campbell’s. He was not about to have the world making light with Nessa’s name. Also, he did not want her to come to the altar for any other reason than the love they had found here tonight.
He stayed quiet, plotting and dreaming of days to come. Of a small, brown-haired boy dogging his footsteps or a wee girl with her mother’s eyes, welcoming him home. Jacques would know where to find a parson, or he could ask Jean-Claud on his next pass through. He would ride over to the lower Dunstan. The police could give him a marriage licence, he assumed, but the parson was his major worry. If necessary, he would ride to Dunedin; but he didn’t want to wait so long.
Looking at Nessa in the bright morning sunshine only confirmed it. A bit shy now she turned her back to him as she found then donned her clothes.
She had pulled out her brush from her bag and tugged it through her hair as best she could without a mirror.
“I’m afraid there’s only a bit of snow up here to wash with,” he apologised. “I’ll melt some in the camp oven as soon as I get the fire going.
“Thank you.”
He pulled her close, drawing his hands through her hair. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you more. This is a poor place to treat you to. But know that whatever I have to give, it’s yours.” His lips caught hers again and told her the truth of his promise.
It was much later still before they were ready to leave. It would be well on in the day before they mad
e it home at this rate. Reluctantly, John checked her horse’s stirrups and made to leave. He could not resist a last, backward glance, then saw she was doing the same. There was a very special smile on her face. She turned to him and watched as he mounted. She held out her hand and touched it to his.
“It was perfect,” she said. “The best place I could ask for.”
Then they were off again.
It was only as they neared the homestead that it came to John that nothing had been settled between them. They were not yet in sight of the house. He pulled his horse up and waited while she did the same then wheeled to face him.
“So what happens next?”
Confusion broke across her face. “I thought…”
“No, not that,” he put in hastily, suddenly realising she thought he was talking about where she would stay. “Ada started preparing a room for you before I left. You can stay with the Coopers as long as you wish. That’s not what I meant.”
“You said I could help Ada out in return for board, and Jacques would have work for me at Chamonix—mending and such.” A line had appeared in her forehead and he ached to lean over and smooth it away.
“I wasn’t talking about work.” Could she be so obtuse? “I was talking about us.”
“Oh.”
She blushed and looked anywhere but at him.
“I’ll get Jacques to look out for a parson as soon as I can, and I can ride into Dunstan in a couple of days for the licence.”
Mary Brock Jones Page 20
