Caress of Fire

by Martha Hix

  Impaled on his shaft, she inhaled deeply and quivered, her muscles tightening around him. “Oh, my.”

  He didn’t move beyond framing her face with his hands and saying, “I’m glad we’re together again. And not just this way.”

  “S-so ... am ... I.”

  “Lisette, my sweet, do you want it slow and deliberate, or do you want it hard and fast?” he whispered, bending his knees and bringing her against his chest. “You set the pace. Show me how you want me to love you.”

  “But I want to please you.”

  “Do as I say, Lisette. Do it now.”

  She rocked her hips; he growled with pleasure. “Touch me,” he urged, his thumb grazing her nipples. “Do whatever feels right.”

  Lowering her face, she pressed her lips to his. And then she was kissing him as he had kissed her in the past, her tongue sliding into his mouth. His flavor was slightly of tobacco and whiskey, but mostly it was what she preferred–the slick, pure taste of Gil.

  She pulled back far enough to ask, “Do you like that?”

  “Do it again.”

  Their tongues cavorted, mated; and then his tongue was in her mouth, moving fast and hard. She knew he wanted this from her. She moved her hips against his long, filling length, and a flurry of eagerness if not impatience built within her. He’d told her to set the tempo, and she would. She fancied the idea.

  Her hair flying around her, fanning him, she rode him . . . rode him as if he were a stallion. He growled, prodding her on. The springs sang beneath them. Perspiration moistened the cleft between her breasts as his hands cupped her backside, keeping the unwavering rhythm going. She moaned, then cried out as needles of awareness pricked her nerves. How could she have thought the last time was good when this was so much better?

  And it got even better. He turned her to her back, his long fingers spreading behind her ears, his hands cupping her jaw “Now it’s my turn, my love,” he said in a rasp. “Put your legs around my waist . . . and hold on tight.”

  She held him. He drove, drove, drove. Her eyes glazed at the intensity of his loving strokes. As the moments turned to minute upon minute, her reasoning became unclear. All she knew in her mindless ecstasy was, that mindless or not, this was ecstasy.

  “Lisette,” he uttered, drawing out her name, reaching the pinnacle of satisfaction at the moment of hers.

  Both breathing heavily, they lay contented in each other’s arms. Moonlight from the nearby window limned his features as he brought her fingers to his lips and kissed each tip. When he finished, she spread her hand across his emery-like jaw and settled her thumb in the dimple of his chin. She felt reborn, felt as if life had given her another chance. And it had: this was the finest moment of her life.

  “Was it better this time?” she asked with bated breath.

  A warm growl rolled from his throat. “Do I have to tell you?”

  “Yes.”

  “It wasn’t good, darlin’. It was like floating above the clouds, flying to the stars, capturing heaven.”

  “I guess that means it was good.”

  “I guess it means we were great together. You, me ... Old Son.” His voice tender and dear, he asked, “Am I making too much of your feelings? How do you feel?”

  I think I’m in love. “I feel wonderful!”

  “Good.”

  Nestled close, she curled her fingers around his shoulder. When she’d set out from Fredericksburg, it had been to follow a nebulous dream of freedom. Now she had an anchor. His ambitions would be hers, and she would do everything in her power to see them to fruition.

  He needed a partner, a helpmate. She was that person.

  And then he shook, shook with laughter.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, angling back slightly.

  “Thinking about you.”

  The lines radiating from his eyes were deep with mirth, but she’d yet to see the humor. Maybe she hadn’t given as much pleasure as she’d thought. Oh, no . . .

  “What’s so funny?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Remember that first morning in camp? I’ll never forget the look on your face when you thought Tecumseh Billy was charging you.”

  Her palm tapped Gil’s forearm. “You are not funny That bull–”

  “Steer, honey–steer. Don’t forget there’s a difference.”

  “–had me scared half to death.”

  “But you were cute as a bug, standing there in that god-awful getup, your eyes wide as the Texas sky.” His mirth changed to the tightness of promise. “I wanted to haul you into my arms and kiss you till you couldn’t see straight.”

  She smiled, caught up in his mood. “Mmm, I rather like the idea of your doing those things to me. Now.”

  “Something could be arranged,” he drawled, his eyes filled with greater promise. “If you don’t mind having a real bull after you.”

  “If Old Son’s the bull, Liebster, I’m more than willing.”

  He pulled her back into his arms, kissed her until she couldn’t see straight, and loved her till she was beyond breathless.

  In the aftermath of their second coupling, Gil implored, “Tell me something. What does it mean, ‘Liebster’?”

  She hadn’t meant to speak German, but there was no reproach in his question, and she answered, “Beloved.”

  “Thank God for that. It sorta sounded like ‘teamster.’”

  They both laughed. “Now you know what my endearment means,” she said, feeling his hardness receding within her. “Maybe you’ll answer a question for me. I’ve been wondering for weeks . . . What’s in that trunk?”

  “I’ll show you .”

  He left the bed. Striking a match, he lit the hurricane lamp.

  She grinned at him. “You know, Gil, I think your scars make you all the more handsome.”

  With feigned exasperation he shook a finger at her. “Woman, keep that up and you’ll not be satisfying your curiosity about my trunk.”

  “I suppose I can wait a few minutes . . .”

  “Fine. You go ahead with your gawking.” Her face went scarlet, yet he assured her. “Honey, I like your staring at me.”

  In that case . . . She continued her perusal. Her gaze welded to his slim buttocks, enjoying the muscular view. All fluid motion, he traversed the room. Turning to the side, he flipped open the trunk lid and dug through the contents to extract a plaid garment. It looked like a ... No, it couldn’t be.

  “My kilt,” he announced, standing once more and holding the red and blue material in front of his midsection.

  “Gott in Himmel, it is a skirt. A very short skirt.” Her brows furrowing, she asked, “What are you doing with an abbreviated skirt?”

  “I wear it.” He lowered the garment in question. “And it’s not a skirt, it’s a kilt.”

  All skepticism, she commented, “It looks like a skirt to me. I never knew a man to wear such a thing. Of course, there was some talk about Rudolf Klein. Everyone knew he was a bit strange, and–”

  “Lisette, all men in Scotland wear kilts.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I am not.”

  “Imagine, a country filled with Rudolf Kleins.” It was not a beautiful image.

  “Don’t worry yourself unnecessarily, wife. It’s a tradition, that’s all.” Standing gloriously naked, he said, “It certainly doesn’t mean Scotsmen are less than masculine.”

  In this case, she thought not. She boosted a brow and wet her lips, wanting to touch all his manly glory. Ach du meine Güte, was their no end to his appeal? Even in a skirt? There must be something wrong with her.

  He winked before arranging the horrid garment around his narrow waist. “You don’t think I’m less than a man, do you?”

  “Well, I didn’t.” Her eyes dropped to glue to the knees below the hem and the hairy, muscular calves. Then she laughed. “I hate to say it, Gil, but you’re rather knock-kneed. And you look funny standing there naked except for that skirt.”

  “Kilt, Lisette. Kilt.
” He bent to pull a weird contraption from the trunk. “Do you know what this is?”

  “No.”

  “These are my bagpipes.”

  “I have heard of those, vaguely Why don’t you ever play them around the campfire?”

  “Because I’ve been wanting to play for you alone.” His eyes took in her form. “And I’ll play for no one but you.”

  She smirked, then pulled her mouth into a moue of alarm when he lifted the mouthpiece toward his face. “Gil, you can’t play that thing tonight.”

  “Whose army says I can’t?”

  “Gil McLoughlin, you annoying Scotsman, it’s after midnight. You’ll disturb the other guests.”

  “They’re probably at the Lusty Lady, having a drink and chatting up the doxies.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that.”

  Gil made himself comfortable on the edge of the bed. Despite her skepticism, despite her stewing over whether he’d blow that piped thing and awaken every roomer in this hotel, she wasn’t unappreciative of her husband’s beauty; she smiled at the picture he presented. He looked rather charming, sitting there in nothing but that plaid skirt.

  He fiddled with the bagpipes, arranging them just so on his left shoulder.

  Lisette jumped out of bed. “Don’t you dare play that thing.”

  “It isn’t a thing. These are bagpipes.”

  She grabbed the rumpled sheet and wrapped it under her arms. “Put it away. I’ll listen to it tomorrow”

  He blew into the mouthpiece, and the sound was so horrid, she covered her ears. The sheet dropped. She wilted into the chair she’d abandoned earlier in the evening and shook her head in dismay When he blew into that contraption again, though, she smiled. It was a beautiful tune, mournful and filled of something she couldn’t explain, and she said as much.

  “It’s the sound of the Highlands, lass.”

  Enjoying the plaintive sound and the wonder of their reunion, she whispered, “Then I think I should like to see your country for myself.”

  “Someday, my darlin’. Someday”

  A series of loud bangs sounded against one wall. A voice yelled through it, “Wasn’t it enough, your screeching and shouting and putting those springs to bouncing? Decent folks are trying to sleep.”

  Gil took the mouthpiece from his lips. Shrugging at Lisette, he said, “I guess you were right.”

  “Will you play it again for me?” She winked saucily. “Tomorrow?”

  “Aye, my darlin’.” His smile was as broad as her wink had been saucy. “After I rent the adjoining rooms.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Charles Franklin Hatch, gently born and reared in the state of Georgia, sat in the Lusty Lady Saloon and swilled rotgut whiskey. Midnight had come and gone. Piano music played on.

  Hatch was a little drunk, but not so inebriated he wasn’t revolted. Which wasn’t necessarily a result of the whore who sat on his lap and coiled her fat, grease-smelling self around his shoulders.

  “Sugar,” the prostitute crooned–her breath would have offended a buzzard–“my room’s not far from here, and I’ve got a jug of corn likker. We can have another drink, then you can stick your peckerwood in my sweet little honeypot. It’ll only cost you a greenback. How about it, hmm?”

  “Get up, Lucy, and get me another drink.”

  “Name’s Lacy. Give me a kiss and I’ll get that drink.”

  He pushed her away at the moment her hairy chin touched his face. “Get it now.”

  The whore shrugged, then waddled over to the bar. Hatch was thankful she’d had the grace to go. All that fat had obstructed his view of the room.

  Smoke curled toward the ceiling, giving the place a cloudy cast. The smells of dirty sawdust, stale beer, and rancid breath were everywhere. And the clientele... by the Bonny Blue, had a one of these twenty or so women, or the forty or so men, ever taken a bath?

  Since the time he had spent in a Yankee prisoner-of-war camp, Charles Franklin Hatch had had a thing about cleanliness.

  Again, he curled his lip at Lucy. What a swine she was, and never would he accept her lewd invitation. He liked his women clean. Fastidiousness was the reason he had been attracted to Cactus Blossom. At least his squaw kept herself washed.

  Damn the heathen for–

  He pushed aside thoughts of that Comanche’s immorality; he got back to the situation at hand.

  A voice at the bar, pitched high and with a northern accent, shouted, “All right, already.”

  Hatch’s hand tightened around his empty glass. He hated Yankees, and one in particular–the one called Gil McLoughlin. And McLoughlin was in Lampasas. Right here, earlier tonight, in the Lusty Lady.

  Arrogant as ever, McLoughlin had ambled into the place and sashayed over to the clutch of men propping up the bar. Several of them had greeted him warmly.

  A darkie–Hatch didn’t understand why they’d let him in the establishment–smiled at McLoughlin.

  “Mister Mack, let ole Dink buy ya a drink.”

  “No thanks, Dinky. I’ll do the buying, you do the enjoying. I’ve got hiring to attend to.”

  A particularly ugly fellow, thin as a stick, opened his mouth of bucked teeth. “Are you Dinky’s boss? If you are, I’m looking for work. Pigweed Martin at your service, mister.”

  Hatch shivered, almost feeling the slobber as it dribbled from beneath that overbite. Apparently McLoughlin wasn’t as selective; he accepted the drooler’s bid. Then he hitched the heel of his boot on the bar rail and glanced around the room, taking no note of Hatch.

  Why should he?

  When Captain Hatch of the Fourth Georgia Regiment had escaped Yankee imprisonment, his hair and beard were long and scraggly, and he had been thin and pale and as ugly as the one named Pigweed Martin. By the time he’d reached Georgia and had the misfortune to encounter Major Gil McLoughlin and the other firestarters aligned with William Tecumseh Sherman, Charles Franklin Hatch had been in worse shape.

  That was no longer the case.

  Bile rose in his throat as he thought of Georgia. The Morgan plantation, owned by his mother but his by rights, was no more. And Mother and Mary Joan had disgraced themselves in the minds of the community. Enough of that. Better keep his thoughts free of the charges against them that had brought shame on the Morgan and Hatch names, and had forced him to–

  Again he stared at McLoughlin, who was scanning the barroom and saying, “I’m looking for drovers. Any of you men interested?”

  Not a soul stepped forward. Apparently they were more discriminating than Martin.

  The pint-sized darkie spoke up. “Mister Mack’s chuck wagon, why, it be fit for a king. Take six big-feeted horses to pull it.” Several pairs of eyes turned to the speaker, who rubbed his stomach and smacked his lips. “And, lawdy, the victuals be good. Mmm, mmm!”

  A bear of a man, wearing buckskins and sporting a beard to the middle of his chest, put down his jug. Addressing McLoughlin, he asked, “You’ve got a good, dependable cook?”

  “I do.”

  “I hired on with a commission outfit,” commented a man in baggy britches. “They near starved us to death.”

  “You won’t go hungry in the Four Aces camp.” McLoughlin smiled with pride. “My wife’s in charge of the chuck wagon. And she’s the world’s best cook.”

  “Ain’t so,” protested Baggy Pants. “My ma be the best cook in the world.”

  “Since I’m not acquainted with the fine lady’s skills, I won’t argue,” McLoughlin replied. “But I can guarantee you’ll find the best eating on the trail in the Four Aces outfit.”

  Several men clambered to McLoughlin, ready to accept his offer.

  Using a forefinger, Hatch drew a line down his jaw. As he had suspected, the britches-clad woman he’d seen at the courthouse had been passing as McLoughlin’s wife. Lisa, or whatever her name was, had looked as if she would clean up to a more than acceptable level.

  But what happened to the real Mrs. McLoughlin? Now there had been a clean one–clea
n and wicked. Hatch had caught her in the slave quarters at Charlwood, spreading her thighs for his former overseer. Her big green eyes had watched Hatch the entire time Elmo Whittle had been pumping her. After sending Elmo on his way and bathing between her legs, she offered Hatch seconds. He had declined. Never would he be hard up enough to consort with a Yankee.

  Hatch picked up his glass and emptied his thoughts of that green-eyed tart. He watched the goings-on in the Lusty Lady Saloon. McLoughlin appeared pleased at hiring several drovers. When the lot of them receded to swill the drinks their new employer had purchased, McLoughlin made another scan of the room. His eyes settled on Hatch. Again, there wasn’t a flicker of recognition.

  Hatch pushed to his feet and ambled over to the bar. Careful not to touch the sticky bar top, he said, “Quite a successful night, I take it.”

  “I’ve seen better.” McLoughlin turned his flat, cold stare to Hatch. “Are you looking for work, pahdner?”

  “I might be.” That was a lie, but why not bait the Yankee dog? “Though you should be able to tell I’m a gentleman, not a drover.”

  “I meant no insult, fellow.”

  “None taken.” An ash floated from a patron’s cigarillo and landed on the sleeve of Hatch’s white frock coat; he flicked the particle in the Yankee’s direction. “Tell me more about your cattle drive. On your way to Kansas, are you?”

  “Right.”

  “Funny, I’m on my way there myself.”

  Kansas had never entered his mind, but that changed and a plan formed. Hatch would find out why McLoughlin didn’t remember Charlwood, and his strategy didn’t include quick revenge. It would take consorting with his enemy, on a full-time basis.

  Naturally, it would be dirty on the cowpath. Hatch had been dirty before. He could handle it again, since he aimed to make McLoughlin pay for his transgressions.

  “Perhaps I could give you a hand, sir.”

  “It’s no job for a dandy.”

  “True, true. But I find”–he forced a sheepish look–“I’m a bit low on funds. It might behoove me to accept your offer.”

  McLoughlin shrugged a shoulder. “It’s up to you. The pay is good, the food exceptional. And I could use the help.”