Slowly he followed her gaze. He reached for the star and unpinned it from his chest. It dropped to the ground almost noiselessly.
"Removing the star doesn't remove the sheriff."
"Tonight it does."
"It's only pretend."
"It's always pretend." He stroked her hair, her cheek, as if unable to get his fill of her.
"No, you said yourself you abide by the law. You don't know who I am, Cain. You don't know what I've done."
He grabbed her by the arms and shook her. There was gentleness in his touch but the restrained violence in his actions made her think of the outlaw Cain. "Maybe I don't want to know. Maybe I've sat here for nights on end wondering whether I should telegraph Rollins and put out a description of you. I've wondered about it until even the whiskey couldn't make the questions go away. But I haven't done it. Why, Christal, why?"
"The wires are down all over the territory because of the snow. If you haven't wired maybe it's because you can't," she whispered.
"You know it's a lie." The edge in his voice frightened her, so did the sheen of desire and desperation in his eyes. Doubt tortured him. Strangely, she could understand. It was just like when she was at Falling Water needing to trust a wild renegade. But now the roles had reversed. Now he was the law-abiding, and she the renegade.
"Maybe everything's a lie," he answered, his words low and harsh, "but this isn't a lie. Even you know this isn't a lie." His lips came down on hers, moving roughly in a gesture of possession. She wanted to resist, but he spoke the truth. What they had between them had been wrought out of danger, fear, and need. He was like no other man she had ever met, would ever meet. Their future, even if they had one, was bleak. But as he thrust into her mouth, and the heat of his onslaught built a fire in her loins, she didn't know how she could fight him when she wanted this moment with every breath she took, every mile she'd run.
He broke away and dragged her up the stairs two at a time. His bedroom wasn't much fancier than hers: bare plank floors and walls, a brand-new varnished bureau the likes of which Henry Glassie sold. An iron bed.
She closed her eyes and tried to think. If she surrendered her virginity to him, she would lose everything she'd spent years protecting. She would give him her body and her heart and when he walked, she'd have nothing left at all.
She took an unconscious step back from the bed. But before she could even take a deep breath, he had bolted the door and was crushing his lips over hers.
The kiss was deep, and if she'd been ready for it, wanted it, it might have even been sweet. But all she could think about was him leaving, taking everything she'd ever had to give a man and packing it up with him when he rode out of town. She struggled to release herself from his embrace, and when finally free, she gasped, "No," but the man she was with was no longer the chivalrous lawman. He had become the outlaw Cain again, taking her captive within arms of iron.
Her hand rose to shove him away, but he was like a lead weight against her. She glared at him and said, "This isn't right. I'm not ready for this. Let me go—"
"Let you go?" he rumbled against her fragile neck. "I've followed you here, I've tortured myself with your identity. Is obsession love, Christal? I'm damned sure going to find out." His tall, lean body tensed for fighting, his mouth took hers with a desperate heated rhythm. She tried to strike him, but she couldn't get her hand at the right angle with his body shoved against her. In frustration, she clawed at his face until he broke away.
In the flickering lantern light, he stared down at her. They were in a standoff, gazes locked, chests heaving for air. His eyes asked only one question: Why must it always be like this? but his mouth was set, as if he was determined to have her and nothing, not even his own heartache, was going to stop him.
Slowly she turned her gaze to her raised hand. They'd danced this dance before, but this time she knew their coupling was inevitable. It was the tension in the atmosphere when their eyes met, it was the gentleness of his hand as he touched her, it was the beat of her heart that quickened when she thought of him naked above her, pounding all of his anger and love between her thighs. Making love to him was destined to hurt her, but if she was truthful, she wanted it more than even he did. Deep in her heart she dreamed of holding him close. If she could only admit it, she knew she longed for him to make love to her so that she could forget New York and Park View Asylum, even the abominable weather outside her window, and just for one sweet moment believe there was nothing in the world to think and feel and taste but him.
Slowly she lowered her hand to her side. Her heart shattered. The price of surrender was too high, especially for the high-born girl who expected marriage before bed, who had fought long and hard to keep her honor above all else. But that had been before love. She'd always assumed cruelty and violence would be the things to break her. But love was more cruel and more violent.
And now love had won.
Cain found her lips again, releasing a deep, throaty growl of satisfaction at her submission. She gave no fight; instead, she opened her mouth, moaning with pitiable, traitorous need as he filled her with his thrusting tongue.
They kissed and he shrugged out of his greatcoat and red flannel shirt, not once releasing her mouth. She raised her hands to touch his hair and inadvertently knocked the Stetson to the ground. His arms went around her waist and his kiss became so intense, demanding and needful, he nearly lifted her off the ground.
Anxious to go further, he unbuckled his gun belt and slung it over the iron post of the bedstead. He next shrugged off his suspenders, then broke the seal on her mouth to unbutton her chemisette. His fingers were quick and nimble despite their size, and unforgivably too familiar with a woman's dress and undress. In seconds, her chemisette fluttered to the ground, a frothy white lace flag of truce, in marked contrast to the black felt of the Stetson that lay beneath it.
"Come here." He took her hand and led her to the bed. He kissed her, then stooped to take off his boots. She watched, her lips red and tender from his rough kiss, her emotions glittering in her eyes, unable to hide them any longer.
His boots hit the floor with two solid thunks, and he turned back to her, gathering her in his arms for another kiss. She gave it to him this time, moving her lips upon his own as if she, too, were seizing destiny.
Their mouths played upon one another while he painstakingly undid the buttons that ran down the front of her calico gown. His hands, greedy for her corset, began to unhook it even before he removed her dress, then, swallowing a groan, he dragged his mouth down her throat, leaving a burning trail to the two mounds of flesh overflowing her chemise.
She released a soft whimper, wanting the intimacy yet terrified of it at the same time. Unconsciously, she grabbed his bent head as if needing something to steady her; he continued, never seeing her tears. Not until his hand reached once more for the corset and one single tear fell and caught on the hair sprinkled across the back of his hand.
As if it were an intruder, he just stared at the tear suspended like a diamond on his hand. Then he looked straight into her eyes, his own in the lamplight a cool, unfathomable Confederate gray.
She almost didn't know she was crying. Her tears came not with sobs and wails, but with an emotion that went beyond her ability to express. She touched her cheeks, wiping away the moisture as if it had caught her by surprise too. She waited for him to kiss her again. He didn't.
"Tell me what this is about," he whispered, as if in agony.
She didn't answer. Instead, she just continued to wipe the tears that trickled down her cheeks.
He pulled her hands down and locked them at her side. Urgently he whispered, "I've never hurt you, girl. I don't want to rape you. As mean as I can get, you know I'll stop. . . . You're gonna make me crazy . . . still I'll stop . . ." His words seemed to choke him. "But Christ, I wished you'd either give to me or take the feelings away."
He had handed her the choice, as she knew he would. And that was why she had fought. Given th
e choice, her heart was going to take the wrong one. She was going to sleep with him, and when he left her behind, the toll would be exacted. Having been his lover would make her sorrow tenfold what it was now.
She touched his lips. They were every bit as hard as they looked. He kissed her fingers, licking the saltiness of her tears from the tips. Then she took her hand away.
And replaced it with her mouth.
They kissed and this time he was no longer forcing her. Instead, she was the one to kiss him, just as she had kissed him at Camp Brown during her farewell. Yet now she was not going to stop. For once she would have a memory worth saving.
He pulled her down on the bed, then broke from her to search her gaze. As if he could finally decipher the enigma in her eyes, he unbuttoned the front of his woolen union suit and shrugged out of it.
She didn't remember having seen his bare chest and she shivered at the sight. It was muscular, broad, and well sprinkled with dark hair, and so incredibly warm, she melted when she placed her palms against him and ran them along the muscle wrapped to his ribs.
He knelt on the bed to unbutton his jeans. Unbidden, the picture came to mind of him above her, arching back in ecstasy to reveal the mortal expanse of his neck. In her fantasy, she placed her hands along the rope scar and pulled him down for an aching kiss. It was a gesture of total possession.
Unashamed of his nakedness, as if he'd been in a hundred brothels and with as many women, he pulled her to him and began on her clothes. The first thing he removed was the string of bells around her ankle. He untied them and gave her a look that said Never wear these again, then he tossed them into the corner and began on her corset.
His skilled hands told her of the women he had undressed before. She desperately tried not to think of them, but a sick, burning jealousy crept up on her anyway. Thankfully, he was merciful. He covered her mouth in another kiss and in no time, emptied her of the pain and all her bad memories, and filled her instead with desire.
Like a magician, his hands worked her corset, her stockings, her garters, until they lay on the foot of the bed, discarded. Her dress was wrapped around her waist, the worn fragile cotton no match for his demanding fingers. He pulled it from her hips and she heard more than one rip. But she didn't care. Especially as he knelt above her, his naked body a magnificent specimen of the male animal: tall, lithe, muscular. And obviously ready for mating.
She shivered as he reached beneath her chemise for her white cotton knickers. He untied them and pulled them down, his knuckles erotically bumping along her soft buttocks. All she had on now was her cotton chemise, worn almost translucent from numerous washings. The thin fabric lay taut against her chest and clearly outlined her nipples. She wanted to put her hands across her chest to hide herself from his intense stare, but the gesture seemed falsely coy. She was a virgin in body but not in mind. She'd seen too much, been subjected to too much, to be unfamiliar with what went on in the bedroom. So she kept her hands at her sides and let him trace silver-dollar-sized circles around her nipples until they were as hard as buds and she, breathing fast from unfulfilled want.
He kissed her once lightly on the lips, then grasped the hem of her chemise and lifted. With a thumb, he brushed the triangle of her sex, making her gasp from shock and the rush of desire. The lines on his face deepened as he concentrated on removing the last vestige of modesty. He dragged the hem of the chemise up over her hips and waist and finally over her breasts. Bunching it at her neck, he lowered his mouth and captured one nipple, his tongue licking until she released a short, breathless moan.
He next pulled the chemise over her arms, letting the fabric twist at her wrists. She lay beneath him with her arms in bondage over her head while he gazed at her. His free hand skimmed her waist, as if pleased by its narrowness, then it moved upward, as if her generous pale breasts were too much a temptation. He cupped one, branding her with the heat of his palm and the heat of his gaze.
Turning away, she closed her eyes, feeling shameless and wanton, then arched against him, unable to lie about her need for his touch. When his hot mouth found another nipple, she struggled against the hold on her wrists, then moaned with the need to be free. But he didn't want her free. As he ran his hands along the curve of her belly, then entwined his fingers in the hair of her femininity, it was clear he only wanted her to be his.
She thought she might go mad as he stroked her. Turning away again, she bit her lip until she tasted the rustiness of her own blood, unwilling to surrender to the pleasure he created. When he bade entrance to her with his finger, her thighs instinctively slammed tight, but not before he'd wet his finger. In a strange trance of horror and awe, she watched as he touched her nipples with her essence, then covered each with his mouth as if he, too, was immersed in the need to devour.
He continued their lovemaking in much the same way, shocking her, pleasuring her with every caress. His scent covered her skin everywhere they touched and she reveled in it, loving the male smell of saddles and dust, and another scent totally different from her own, a scent that made her impulsively open her legs to this dangerous, unpredictable man.
Preparing for the finale, he jerked the chemise from her wrists. "Touch me . . . everywhere . . ." he whispered as he settled his hard length between her pale thighs. She complied, loving the feel of his beard-roughened jaw, his muscle-girded belly, his bulging, rock-hard forearms; giddy with appreciation of her sense of touch only because he'd withheld it from her.
He breathed hard now, his face taut with the need to complete the act. His fingers found the recess between her thighs and without pause, as if his desire for her had pushed him beyond the limits of his better nature, he violently thrust himself inside her.
Only to find an unexpected barrier.
As if struck by lightning, he abruptly stopped, his entire body rigid and panting. Though he was inside her, her virginity was still retrievable and there was now an unwanted decision.
She longed to hide from the displeasure on his face. All the old lies had eloquently been revealed. She was no widow, she was no whore. Her past was once more an indecipherable puzzle.
"Damn it, Christal," he whispered, burying his head between the tangle of her hair and the soft skin of her throat. "Damn everything," he whispered again like a curse, then, as unexpected as her intact hymen was to him, he thrust up inside until she could feel her maidenhead tear like a bedsheet.
She might have dwelled on the pain, but he gave her no time. He moved like a bronc trying to rid itself of a saddle. He pushed and withdrew, taking her with a frenzy that diminished her pain and forced it to blossom into pleasure. The unfamiliar tension in her loins mounted with his every thrust, until she could hardly stop herself from reacting. Almost against her will, as if she was afraid she might like it too much, she tried to hold back, but it was no use. He held a secret that she knew would drive her mad if she didn't discover what it was.
Slowly she released herself to him and let him take her where she longed to go, amazed that his pleasure could increase just by heightening hers. He worked hard, his body glistening with a sheen of sweat though the stove in the room needed stoking. She wondered at the compatibility of their bodies—as he pumped, she instinctively gripped; as he thrust, she surrendered until both of them seemed ready to explode.
She had no warning of the blackmail in his heart, but with a sudden grunt of agony, he stopped his movements, proving once and for all that he had molten steel running through his veins and not blood. She cried out, hurting every bit as much as he did, and then she knew he had her. At that moment, she would promise him anything, give him anything, to make him continue and give her the ecstasy he promised.
"Never run from me again," he rasped, finding words difficult. He shuddered within her, and she thought he had to be made of ice given his ability to stop despite how his body was racked with the pain of denial. "Promise me, girl—say it—you'll never run from me again—"
She moaned and looked at the iron bedpos
t, at the gun belt, heavy with his steel six-shooters. She was giving herself a death sentence. "I promise—I'll never leave you—I'll never leave," she repeated, trying to make him start again.
He complied. He thrust several times more, then ground his teeth and pushed deep inside her womb. She felt his seed shoot up inside her and that was what finally drove her over the edge. She dug her nails into his back, threw back her head and embraced her pact with the devil.
Chapter Seventeen
Christal found it painful to open her eyes. The morning sun shone brightly through the window, its glare intensified by the snow. She covered her eyes and rolled over. Though she knew she was not in her own bed, she might have been on the moon for all that she found familiar. There was an ache between her thighs, a well-satisfied ache perhaps, but foreign nonetheless, and every muscle in her body seemed spent of energy, as if she had just walked across the divide. But these were only symptoms. Her eyes finally adjusted to the brightness of the sunshine streaming across her bed and she found the cause.
Macaulay lay asleep next to her, his limbs entwined inextricably with her own. The sheets and blankets were scattered over them as if a storm had just come through and blown them off the bed. Then, when she thought of the exact nature of the storm, she could feel hot color on her cheeks.
She turned her gaze to Macaulay. It was strange to have a naked man next to her. The warmth of his skin was delicious, particularly since the stove had burned out long before dawn, but it was frightening too. He was too close. It was like lying next to a sleeping wolf. Any minute he might awake.
Afraid of disturbing him, she lay quietly and studied him, an odd, unwelcome tenderness seeping into her heart. She was unused to seeing him with his defenses down, and she delighted in the luxury of it. No longer was he the cold-eyed outlaw of the notorious Kineson gang or the strong-willed sheriff ready to scour the town of vice. Instead, he was just a man—albeit a very handsome one—sprawled possessively across her bed in slumber, breathing deeply and well after a night's vigorous activity.
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