“They wouldn’t be shooting at me—” she protested weakly.
“They can’t see a damn thing in this rain and mist!” he assured her. “They don’t mean to be shooting at a woman. You’re standing in the middle of their battle.”
One of them suddenly broke from the pack and came riding down upon them. She heard the rip of the steel as Jason pulled his cavalry sword from his scabbard. The thunderous sound of the horse’s hooves came bearing down upon them hard. She barely saw the man upon the horse. She did see the muted glint of his sword, raised and ready to strike. She cried out.
Jason deflected the blow that was coming their way with a hideous clash of steel. His return was so forceful that the horseman wavered on his mount and then came crashing down to the ground. He started to struggle to his feet.
“Get back!” Jason commanded Vickie. Stunned, disbelieving, she did so, backing away just a few feet. The breeze that touched her cheeks now seemed very cold indeed. She stared, numb, stunned, as the Yankee stood and approached Jason, his sword waving. He was young, a teenager.
She still couldn’t believe what was happening right before her eyes. She couldn’t believe that Jason and this boy were fighting with swords, that they would bleed, that one of them would kill the other, right in front of her, here and now….
It couldn’t be real.
She had lost her own mind.
The boy approached. But Jason was good. His sword rose and fell, striking the boy’s. The sword went flying.
“Oh, God, don’t hurt him!” Vickie cried out.
Jason looked to her quickly. She could hear the pounding of horses’ hooves again. Other Yankees were about to bear down on them.
He turned around and caught the young soldier with a good blow to his cheek. He fell quickly, but there were at least five or six horses pounding toward them now. A bullet flew. This one nearly caught Vickie in the arm. Startled, she cried out. His body was suddenly shoved up in front of hers again, protecting her from whatever might come. “Let’s go. Get your head down!”
They started to run, back through the arbor. They ran until Vickie suddenly caught her foot on a tree root. She fell hard, dragging Jason down with her. And they were suddenly rolling again. Hard, slamming against the earth. And it seemed that they rolled and rolled forever until they came to a stopgap of a valley.
The sky above them was still black. The misty rain was still falling.
But the sound of battle was gone. Completely. Jason lay on top of Vickie, staring down at her. She looked up at him incredulously.
He smiled suddenly. “At least you’re not a known spy.”
“What?”
“If those Yanks hadn’t fired at you, I would have been extremely worried.”
What kind of a nightmare had she entered? Had she imagined what had happened, or had it been real? It had all happened so very, very fast. And now the soldiers were gone. All gone. There were just the two of them on the mountain again, staring at one another in a very fine mist of rain.
“They couldn’t have been real,” she said dully. “They were just reenactors, getting carried away.” But things had been so real! She could remember that awful thunking sound of the bullet embedding in the tree. She could remember the feel of it, whizzing by her face, the hot metal so very nearly touching her….
She could also remember the way that the cold breeze had touched her. The deep, almost primal fear that had filled her when they had come to that strange place. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she had walked into some forbidden place, that she had stumbled into some other dimension.
All that had kept her sane then, kept her from shrieking out, had been Jason—Jason’s touch….
But Jason couldn’t be sane.
Oh, God! She closed her eyes quickly, opened them again. It was over. The strange clouds were gone. The feelings of fear were gone. And he was eyeing her very speculatively again.
“You did bring me to the Yanks,” he said thoughtfully, staring at her.
“You son of a—” she began, but cut off suddenly. He wouldn’t be accustomed to such language. Young women of any breeding back then watched their tongues carefully. What would he think?
What was she thinking? “You son of a bi—sea serpent!” she strangled out. “This whole thing is insane, the world is insane and it all started since I had the ill fortune to wander into you! I wasn’t—”
Another bolt of lightning flashed wildly in the sky, interrupting her tirade. Thunder cracked loudly in its wake.
“It’s really going to rain now,” he said brusquely. He leapt agilely to his feet and pulled her up to him. He seemed to hold her for a brief moment, weighing his options. Again, she felt absurdly protected, secure, content and somehow right in his arms.
No…
Vickie shivered. Everyone was gone indeed. Had the soldiers been reenactors? Had she imagined the whiz of the bullets?
Maybe Jason wasn’t even real….
But he was. His fingers curled warmly around hers.
“The caves,” she whispered. “We need to get to the caves.”
“I think that I’ll lead this time,” he said softly, and proceeded to do so. He turned about and stared around for a moment, then started off. Lightning lit up the entire sky for an instant. The thunder that followed caused Vickie to jump. The rain was starting to come harder. He slipped his arm around her shoulders, and hurried onward.
She didn’t watch where they were going. And she didn’t know how he managed to find the caves, but he did. Leading in a southeasterly course downhill, he brought them to the few small caves she had known since she was a child. They came upon them just as the rain really started, bursting down suddenly as if floodgates had been opened. Vickie stood just inside the entryway, shivering. Jason stood just behind her.
A second later, lightning flared again. Vickie let out a startled scream, for it struck so close that it hit one of the tall trees just across from the entrance to the cave. She watched with fascination as sparks flew from the tree.
Then it began to fall. Toward her.
“Jesu, Mary and Joseph!” Jason swore suddenly. Before she knew it, he was on top of her, the force of his body carrying them both down to the floor of the cave—and away from the heavy trunk section of tree that came slamming down where Vickie had been standing just seconds before.
She looked from the tree trunk to the man who now lay atop her once again. Her breath caught and she trembled suddenly. Who was he?
Did it matter?
He had taken her captive, yes.
He might well be a madman on a mountain.
But time and time again, he had protected her. He had set himself between her and any threat of danger. For so long, she had barely felt alive.
And when he touched her…
She wanted to live again. And feel again. Everything.
He didn’t move. Not for the longest time. Silver-gray eyes touched hers, searching for something, seeing something…. She wasn’t sure what.
Then his hand moved, just slightly, the knuckle of his forefinger moving gently over her cheek. She felt that sensual stroke as if it enveloped the length of her with a curious warmth and magic.
Then she watched with fascination as he slowly lowered his head, and touched her lips with his own.
She didn’t protest. She couldn’t have done so had she wanted to. Sheer fascination held her still, let her feel the surging warmth and slow demand of that touch. His mouth formed over hers, the masculine scent of him seemed to fill her senses, the vital strength and tension of his body seemed to encompass hers in the most arousing way. It had been so long. She shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be feeling this. Her heart had lain dormant so very long….
This stirring wasn’t her heart, she told herself.
But in a way, it was. For his manner, his eyes, his ways, all had touched her as surely as the lips that now formed around her own.
His mouth on hers had been warm; it was sudd
enly hot. It had been forming and molding and coercive….
Now it was demanding.
Searing with wet heat, the tip of his tongue explored the outline of her lips. Then pressed between them. Deep. Deeper. Moving, exploring, demanding.
Remember, remember the past…a voice whispered deep inside of her.
But she could suddenly let the past slip away. The sweetness, and the pain. The memories of the laughter and the love. She could not conjure up the picture of the face that had once been hers….
The present was upon her. The present, and a man with silver-gray eyes and a will of steel and the most cavalier way of protecting her from harm.
His tongue moved more deeply into her mouth. Stroked in a way that seemed to evoke every fire within her. The rain beat down around them. The floor of the cave was rough and hard. She wasn’t aware of any of it, only of the feel of him, the hot rugged hardness of his body, the feel of his mouth upon hers. His tongue. Stroking now in a way that was suggestive of a thousand things to come….
His mouth lifted slowly from hers. His eyes touched down upon hers once again. She stared at him in return, waiting.
His eyes never left hers. In a sudden frenzy, he began undoing the buttons of his cavalry shirt. In seconds it was stripped from his body, and he was balling it into a pillow that he set beneath her head. Her gaze slipped to his chest and it seemed that her heart began to beat harder. It was a nice chest. An incredibly nice chest. He had appeared tall and slim; he was walled with muscle, very broad shouldered, the breadth of him handsomely covered with crisp, sandy blond hair that tapered to a little trail that disappeared enticingly beneath the waistband of his pants.
She dragged her eyes back to his. He watched her still. Waiting for a protest? She didn’t know.
But one wasn’t coming.
He stood then, and she was watching still. Just as that silver-gray stare of both challenge and determination touched her so continually. Then swept over her. Causing a riot of heat to strike her, causing her to feel the most incredible sensations where he still had yet to touch.
It wasn’t real, couldn’t be real….
But it was wonderful. Like a strange, exotic dream. The world was filled with the roaring sound of the rain beyond the cave. And beyond that, it was filled with the man. With the muscle-riddled length of him, the warmth of him, the scent of him….
His boots fell on the hard-packed earth of the cave. His socks upon them.
Then he stripped off his cavalry pants. He was authentic to his beliefs, she thought briefly. There were no boxers or B.V.D.s beneath them. He was in long johns.
And they quickly fell upon his socks, and once they did, Vickie couldn’t think of the past or the present or anything but the immediate future. Her madman was quite incredible, muscled and bronze from head to toe, trim in the hips with rock-hard thighs.
And boldly, flagrantly aroused. A violent shudder ripped through her at the sight of his raw nakedness. Her eyes shot back to his and she knew that her face was flaming with color.
And oddly, she knew, too, that if she were to protest, even now, the Southern cavalry commander’s costume would go back on, piece by piece, long johns to scabbard and boots. But she didn’t want to protest. Yet she was still afraid, as if she were about to embark on the wings of an eagle, when she hadn’t flown in a long, long time.
He came down on his knees before her. He scooped her into his arms, and her eyes searched out his. Then his lips touched hers once again. Exploded upon them, fierce, demanding, the stroke and length of his tongue a wild pillage within her mouth. Her arms snaked around him, and she held tightly to him, feeling the sweet wildness fill and pervade her. She returned the kiss, fingers winding into the hair at his nape, stroking, caressing. Then he broke away, his eyes touching hers once again. “How can this be ill fortune?” he queried softly, his breath a husky whisper against her cheek.
How indeed?
She shook her head, at a loss for the moment.
“You cannot be real,” she assured him.
He arched a brow.
“If you are, then I must surely be a horrible person. A woman who was any kind of lady—”
“Would still feel this!” he swore with a soft but vehement passion.
Maybe. And maybe it was wrong. It didn’t matter. She just might wake up and discover that it was all a dream. But until then…
Her fingertips cradled his head, drawing him back to her. With a sudden burst of sweet surrender she gave way to all the hunger that had arisen within her, the longing, the fascination. His flesh was hot beneath her fingers, vibrant, so electric with energy and the taut strength of the muscles beneath it. Her fingers inched against his nape, feeling the brush of his hair. She tasted his mouth again, eagerly, parting her lips to his, feeling the sensual roll and thrust of his tongue. And she felt his touch in return, too. The fluid movement of his fingers upon the buttons of her calico day gown. One, and then the next, his knuckles brushing her flesh with each motion, bringing new fire to awaken within her, new aches of longing, yearning to be touched. The garment fell away. She was barely aware of its leaving; she was keenly aware of his stroke and brush of his fingers.
Then she gasped raggedly as his lips broke from hers. She was so deeply involved in her sea of sensation that it took her several minutes to realize that he had gone dead still.
Then she realized that his fingers were set upon the fine lace strap of her rather elegant designer bra. And his eyes were open and incredulous. When he moved again, it was to stroke that strap. His eyes did not leave it. He seemed to have forgotten that he was naked, that she was completely disheveled, and that he’d had her at the brink of one of the rarest and most momentous occasions of her life.
She might have been embarrassed. She might have even been hurt enough to be angry and feel like a fool. The emotions did flash through her. But then she realized his absolute amazement and she closed her eyes.
Someone had really fired a gun at her. As if there was a strange time warp on the mountain. And if that was true, then he was just beginning to really believe it himself, seeing at long last something that did not belong to his world.
No, it couldn’t be….
But he was still just staring. Her fingers curled around his. He started, and his eyes met hers. “My God,” he murmured hoarsely. “What—is this?”
She hesitated. “A new type of corset,” she said simply, watching his eyes. A streak of warmth like a bolt of the lightning that continued to light up the sky now and then seemed to course through her. Did she believe him? Could she believe him?
And how could she do anything else when he stared with such amazement as he did now?
His touch became more intimate than before, yet strangely distanced. With a sudden determination he thrust the calico down from her shoulders and his forefinger drew a line over the trim cut of the elegant little undergarment. Where he touched her, she felt as if she burned. She bit her lip, telling herself that he had become interested in the mechanics of clothing much more than he was interested in the woman wearing that clothing. She felt her cheeks redden.
But then his gaze met hers. And he seemed to realize what he had done, and his arms encompassed her, sweeping her back against him again. Her head rested against his naked chest, and he rocked with her, holding her tight.
“What did you say it is?” he whispered huskily.
“The nineties.”
“Eighteen?” he said hopefully.
She eased from his hold to look up. She shook her head. “Nineteen-hundred-type nineties,” she told him.
“God,” he whispered. “Dear God.” He shook his head. “It’s impossible. It’s impossible. And it can’t be. We just came from the scene of a skirmish. How…?”
His voice trailed away. He was right, Vickie thought. The skirmish had been real. The bullets had been real. So just where were they right now? His world, or her own?
She closed her eyes tightly. Hers. It had to be her
world. Had to be.
Once again, lightning tore across the sky. The thunder crack was loud, deafening. She started, and his arms tightened around her. She stared up into his eyes and stroked his cheek with sudden compassion. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I’m really sorry.” He didn’t seem to hear her at first. She eased herself to her knees and took his face between both her hands. She touched his lips with her own, hesitantly, brushing them. Touching them once again with just the tip of her tongue, trying to bring comfort.
But it seemed she brought more. Much more. With that gentle stroke, she stoked the fires already kindling. He encompassed her into his arms, hungrily accepting the kiss, returning it with a fever. He held her for a moment, then began to thrust her unbuttoned dress down farther from her shoulders until she was completely freed from the sleeves and the garment fell unheeded to the dirt flooring beneath them.
He cushioned her fall as he pressed her back to the ground. His fingers were both demanding and tender, brushing her cheek, her throat, her ribs. His lips trailed from hers to press hotly to the pulse that beat so rampantly against her flesh at the hollow base of her collarbone. Then his mouth moved lower, to caress the rise of her breasts above the silk-and-lace confines of the bra.
He looked up at her. A wry smile touched his lips. “How do I free you from this thing?” he asked.
She felt her cheeks flood with color. His smile deepened and he touched her lips briefly with his own. “Never mind, I’ll figure it out.”
And before she could speak, he had done just that.
Maybe he’d known women who wore a very different kind of undergarment, but apparently, he had found his way around those quite easily.
His fingers had found the center hook of her bra and deftly released it, spilling her breasts free. Then he was still for a second, and she could hear ragged breathing, and she realized that it came from them both and that it mingled on the air.
Then he uttered a hoarse cry, and stretched out beside her, his hands upon her bare flesh, exploring at first, so filled with fascination, with demand, with tenderness. Stroking, cupping, caressing. His palm rotated slowly over her nipple and she felt a little cry escape her own lips. His mouth covered hers. Then left it. Touched her flesh again. At her throat. At the rise of her breasts. Then it covered the fullness of her nipple, the roughened center of his tongue rubbing over and over it. She gasped again, amazed at the surge of desire that swept through her. Liquid fire surged through her limbs, winding into a center where hunger leapt out again like sparks of the liquid blaze.
The Last Cavalier Page 6
