Anxious excitement swelled through her. “From whom?”
“Senor Buck. He ask me to tell you to meet him later tonight at the place you were before you were kidnapped.”
Molly didn’t want to face Buck, but she knew she must. “I see,” she said with more calm than she felt. “Did he say what he wanted to see me about?”
She gave her a casual shrug. “That is not for me to know.”
So, Molly thought, pulling in a long, quiet breath of air. This was it. Either he and Sage had found something important, or they hadn’t found anything at all.
After dinner, Molly claimed a headache and went to her room. She changed into a pair of boyish twill trousers and a dark shirt that she’d found at the bottom of the wardrobe. After knotting her hair on top of her head, she turned out her lamp and quietly left the room. As she tiptoed down the stairs, she could see the light flickering faintly from beneath the study door. Holding her breath, she opened the front door and slipped outside.
Although the line shack was over a quarter of a mile away, she knew better than to cause any commotion by saddling a horse. She walked, then ran the brief distance to the shack. It was dark; no lamp was lit inside.
She crept to the door. It opened swiftly, and she was pulled inside. A scream forced its way into her throat. A hand covered her mouth.
“Shhh, brat,” he whispered against her ear.
She closed her eyes and sagged against him. “Is all this drama necessary?” she asked, when he took his hand away.
“I thought you thrived on it.”
She forced herself to pull away from the wide comfort of his chest. “No more than you, obviously.” She turned, and although the moon shone into the room, she was unable to see Buck’s face. “Have you found anything? Was the map any good?”
“It was exactly what we needed. Sage and I checked out a few of the marked spots and found hundreds of head at each place. We even checked the brands. Most of them had the Double Bar C brand, but we could tell it had been branded over something else.”
“So, what do we do next?” In spite of her confusion toward Buck, she enjoyed being a coconspirator.
“We do nothing. In two or three days, I want you and Nicolette out of that house.”
“Why? What’s going to happen?”
“Sage has gone to report to his superiors at Fort Elliot—”
“It will take days for him to go there and back, won’t it?”
“That’s why at least for now, I want you to make sure nothing appears different at the house. Campion can’t suspect a thing. But somehow, you and Nicolette have to be out of there by the end of the week.”
Giving him a humorless laugh, she crossed to the tiny window and looked out into the night. The moon outlined the bleak landscape, making the distant cliffs seem like dour Goliaths, keeping everything beneath them prisoner. “It appears that the end of the week will be a turning point in my life. This morning Charles told me I had to give him my answer about being his mistress by the end of the week, too.”
Buck shifted behind her. “He said that specifically?”
“Yes,” she answered, turning toward him. “Why?”
“Something’s in the wind, then. He’s up to a few tricks of his own.”
They were quiet for a few moments. Molly wanted to ask him about Tomas, but she couldn’t. She didn’t want to know—not yet. Maybe not ever. “I think you should know that Nicolette is pregnant.”
Buck swore. “All things considered, I guess I’m not surprised.”
“Do you have any idea where Cody is?”
“No. He hasn’t been around for a couple of weeks.” Buck was quiet again, then added, “Doesn’t sound good, does it?”
Molly felt a flash of fear, and in spite of her topsy-turvy feelings toward Buck, moved closer to his warmth. He enfolded her in his arms, against his chest, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She felt those damned tears again. “Charles had him killed, I can just feel it.”
“I know that’s what it sounds like but don’t count the kid out yet.”
She snaked her arms around his waist, loving the nearness of him so much, she knew she couldn’t broach the subject of Tomas, for it would break the spell. “How can you say that? Charles knew he was seeing Nicolette, and he’d been warned, Buck. That whipping he took was a clear, concise warning to stay away from her.”
“Yeah, I know all the signs point to that.” His chin moved back and forth on top of her head.
She stepped back and looked up at him. The moon shone in through the window behind him, making him look like a gray outline against the light. “Do you know something I don’t know?”
He shook his head. “It’s just a hunch. I think if Campion would have had him killed, we wouldn’t have heard another word about it. As it is, I hear he’s got a couple of his men out beating the bushes for the little bastard.”
Hope surged through her. “You mean he might be alive?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it.”
“Then … then he doesn’t even care what he’s done to Nicolette. I’d hate to think he left her on purpose.” The picture of Nicolette gagging over the slop pail made Molly cringe, and she wanted to shake the lusty boy until his britches cut off the circulation to his potent, youthful genitals.
“Maybe he doesn’t know.”
Aware that she could do nothing about it now, she snuggled farther against Buck’s chest. She lifted her face, searching for his mouth. It met hers, and they kissed, gently, tentatively at first, then hard, deep and long. She could feel his stubble around her mouth, and the roughness drove her to demand more. She pressed close, rubbing her breasts against his chest, shuddering as the drag coaxed them into hard buds. She came alive, pulling his tongue into her mouth, stroking, teasing, offering herself to him, silently pleading with him to take all of her.
His hand came around her back, slid down her buttocks and pulled her tightly to him. He was hard and ready, moving suggestively against her. Then his hand was at the fly of her britches. He deftly unbuttoned them and dipped his fingers inside her drawers, into the dark, soft wetness of her aching flesh. She moaned, her knees giving way as she clung to him while he stroked her.
With shaky fingers, she undid the front of his pants as well, finding the hard length of him. Her fingers moved over him, discovering the ridge beneath, the hot, wet tip, and finally, the warm, hairy sac below.
Suddenly he shoved her gently away from him. “Get out of those,” he whispered, his voice thick with desire.
The moon shone in through the tiny window, bathing them in light. Every nerve in her body was alive and pulsing as she stepped back and began to undress. She flung off her shirt, then pulled her camisole off over her head, tossing it aside. She stood in front of him, her breasts quivering beneath the forceful beat of her heart.
His gaze moved over her, devouring her. He reached out with one finger and slowly, erotically circled her nipple, flicking the pebbly nub gently. A stab of desire struck her deep inside, and she bit her lip to keep from moaning out loud.
“The rest,” he said succinctly.
She pulled off her boots, then slid the britches down to the floor, kicking them off.
“Is there a slit in your drawers?” he asked silkily.
She quaked with desire. “Y-yes,” she stuttered.
He crooked a finger at her. “Show me.”
With knees as mushy as oatmeal, she moved toward him. When she reached him, she boldly took his hand and brought it between her legs, catching a sigh in her throat as his warm fingers pressed inside, stroking her. He was bringing her close to the edge, but she wanted it to last, so she pulled his hand away.
“Now … now you,” she said in a choked whisper.
He grinned, the scar beneath his cheekbone denting his cheek. “You do it.”
In spite of her shaky desire, she felt a wicked answering smile. Moving her hands up over his ch
est, she began undoing the buttons of his shirt. With each open buttonhole, she reached inside and stroked him, then leaned into him and licked his skin. When she heard his sharp intake of breath, her own desire burst into flame, and she slowly made her way down to the opening of his jeans. She pulled off his shirt and threw it aside, then stepped close so she could rub her nipples across his bare chest. Their shuddering responses merged, lighting the magnetic fuse between them.
She quickly moved away, hardly daring to breathe as she ran her fingers over his hair-covered navel, and on down to the thick thatch of hair beneath.
“Get out of your jeans, breed.” She felt brazen, hot and wicked.
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, his husky voice threaded with desire. She saw a dangerous light shining in his eyes as he stripped for her. When he’d finished, he stood in front of her, his jeans dangling from his fingers. The light wasn’t good, but she let her gaze wander over his hard, flat stomach to the throbbing manhood that stood firm against his belly.
“Touch me.” His voice was a suggestive caress. “I won’t break or bite—unless you want me to.”
With reluctance, she moved her gaze to his face, seeing his dark, serious eyes, no longer filled with humor, but with an intense burning that she was sure was a mirror of her own. “But I might,” she answered on a whisper. “I might … might break into a million pieces and never … never—”
“Touch me,” he ordered again.
She reached out and gripped his hot length, moving her hand up and down the shaft, listening to his shuddering breath. Her own desire soared, and she felt a burst of wetness soak the crotch of her drawers.
She shivered, swaying dizzily as he pulled her hair from its topknot and combed his fingers through it. He brought her face to his, holding her firmly so he could control the kiss. It was hard, wet, passionate as he forced his tongue into her mouth and drove deep. They moved as one toward the cot, and he pushed her down gently before lowering himself on top of her. Her legs came around his back as he pressed into her through the slit in her drawers. She clung to him, matching his movements as he drove deeper and deeper. Scintillating sparks rocketed through her as his potency grew. Her legs tightened and her pelvis pushed against him as she felt the burst of desire explode within her.
He quickly kissed her, covering her sobs of delight. It wasn’t long before he, too, began to reach his peak, and she, in turn, pulled his head toward her and quieted his deep, fulfilled cries with her mouth.
They lay quietly, breathing heavily. Buck shifted himself off, taking her with him so they faced one another on the cot. He threaded his fingers through her hair. “Your hair is beautiful,” he said huskily. “I’ve always wanted to touch it, to bury myself—”
The cot creaked dangerously, moving and cracking beneath them.
“Buck, wh—” Molly sat up, ready to leap from the rickety bed, when the frame suddenly snapped, plunging them to the floor with a hard thud.
They lay there, stunned. Molly felt a bubble of laughter in her throat. Beside her, Buck was on his back, his chest and shoulders shaking quietly. She tried to swallow the sound, too, but she suddenly snorted, and they both began to laugh until tears coursed down Molly’s cheeks.
Still chuckling, Buck pulled the dusty old blanket around them and they rolled onto the floor, over and over again until they hit the wall. When they stopped, she looked up and saw the bright, dazzling humor stamped in his eyes and on his face. She thought that if she were never to see him again, this is how she’d always remember him. Oh, lord, she loved him so much she ached with it.
“Buck,” she said, her voice catching in her throat.
“Shhh,” he whispered. “Don’t say anything, brat. Just feel,” he added, pressing into her again. “Just … just feel,” he finished, loving her one more time.
Afterward while they dressed, Molly threw him nervous glances. She wanted to ask him about Tomas. She needed to know.
“Buck?” When he answered, she forged ahead. “About … about Tomas.” She held her breath, waiting for him to speak.
“What about him?” He buttoned his shirt, then stuffed it into his jeans.
She shrugged into her shirt, her heart pounding. “He’s your son?”
“He called me ‘papa,’ didn’t he?”
“Yes, but … but why didn’t you tell me about him before?”
“Because he doesn’t concern you.”
She felt a fierce hurt deep inside. She wanted him to confide in her, tell her everything, like he had that night they’d spent together on the plains. She wanted to hear that Tomas was just an orphan he’d adopted, that it wasn’t his seed that had gone into making the boy. She didn’t want to know that there was another woman out there, somewhere, waiting for him to come and make a home, a family.
“I know it doesn’t, but … but I was just so surprised when I found out he was yours.” She let the words fade slowly, hoping he’d tell her about it, yet knowing he wouldn’t. He’d very efficiently closed himself to her once again. Disappointment filled her chest.
“Are you … are you going to raise him?”
Shoving his hat on his head, he flung himself away from her and stepped to the door. “I don’t quite know what I’m going to do with him.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Where’s his mother?” Actually, a part of her wanted desperately to know who his mother was, but another part of her didn’t.
He pulled open the door and held it for her. “It can’t possibly be any concern of yours who, or where, his mother is, Molly.”
She felt the sharp sting of tears. Those damned tears that she’d held back for years and years. He wouldn’t confide in her. Nothing had changed.
“Get going, brat. I’ll wait here until you reach the house. I’ll get another message to you through Angelita.”
Realizing she wouldn’t get any more out of him, she hurried into the darkness and made her way to the house. She opened the door quietly, slipping inside as quickly as she’d slipped out earlier. With her back to the hallway, she stopped and listened, hoping everyone had gone to bed.
“Where in the hell have you been?”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She turned and came race-to-face with a very angry Charles.
Sixteen
“Wh-why, Charles,” she managed to say. “What are you doing up so late?”
He glowered at her, the light from the lamp casting macabre shadows over his face. “What am I doing up so late? What in the hell are you doing, wandering around this time of night?”
He’d been at his brandy; he reeked of it. She ran nervous hands over her hips, hoping she didn’t look as disheveled as she felt. “I … I couldn’t sleep, so I went out for a walk.”
He clearly didn’t believe her. His licentious gaze started at her boots, moving slowly over the rest of her until it reached her face. Never before had he given her such an open, lusty, almost dirty look. “In britches?”
She was seeing the real Charles Campion now, she was sure of it. Refusing to let him intimidate her, she answered, “Why not? They’re far more comfortable than my skirts and all those petticoats.” With more confidence than she felt, she brushed past him. In his state of mind, she didn’t doubt that he would ferret out the smallest scent of fear. “Really, Charles, you’re acting crazy. It isn’t as if I’ve committed a crime.”
He grabbed her arm, pinching it so hard between his fingers that she bit her lip to keep from crying out. “And where did this little walk take you, Margaret? The barn?”
With a fierce tug, she tried to pull her arm loose from his grip, but he was too strong. “Of course not. Why would you think I’d been in the barn?”
He plucked something from her hair and dangled it in front of her nose. It was a spear of straw. She swallowed hard and bravely met his gaze. “It’s windy tonight, Charles. I’m surprised I don’t have more odd things clinging to me.”
He bri
efly relaxed his fingers and she slipped from his grip, darting quickly up the stairs. He was so close behind her, she could almost feel his breath on her neck. She ran to her room and tried to shut the door, but he forced it open, shoving her back toward the bed.
“You won’t deny me any longer, you little breed whore,” he snarled, seizing her arm.
She fought him, shoving at his face with the flat of her hand. “Charles … Charles, please,” she gasped, still pushing against him. “You’ve been drinking. Don’t do this, you’ll regret it, you know you will.”
“Shut up, whore,” he answered, pushing her down on the bed with one hand while the other worked furiously at the fly of his trousers. “No doubt every hand on this ranch has dipped his stick into your little honey pot. No reason why I shouldn’t, don’t you agree?”
He could have been talking about the weather, his voice was so calm. But his eyes … his eyes were wide and glassy, and there was a sneer on his lips that made him ugly.
It was useless to scream, and she didn’t want to awaken Nicolette. But Molly wasn’t going to just give up, not without a damned hard fight. She tried to fend him off with her lame wrist, but pain shot through it, landing high in her neck and hammering into her skull. With a frustrated yelp, she brought her knee up, but he rolled to the side, grabbed the waistband of her britches and her drawers and ripped them down the front, exposing her nudity to his hungry gaze.
With a violent twist she moved away from him, shoving her heel against his groin, where his own pulsing manhood was now exposed.
He roared with pain, clamping his forearm across her neck, nearly cutting off her ability to breathe.
“Ch-Ch-Charles,” she croaked. “Please, I … I can’t br—”
“Shut up, whore.” He was astride her now, atop her thighs, pinning her down. One hand gripped her wrists, holding them over her head. His fingers crushed her bad wrist, and another explosion of pain shattered through her. Tears of agony sprang into her eyes.
Forbidden Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book Three Page 23
