by Rachel Lee
“Probably. But only for so long as it takes us to expose it.” In one smooth, easy movement, he rose to his feet and extended a hand to help her up.
“Want to celebrate?” he asked, a sudden, unexpected sparkle in his eyes.
The expression made her breath catch, and she ignored a deafening explosion of thunder. “Celebrate how?” Her mind threw up a whole series of exotic, erotic images.
“Exactly like that,” he said. “Each and every one.” Catching her to him, he initiated a deep, hungry kiss that promised a night filled with sensual delights. “Oh, baby,” he whispered roughly, “just you wait. Now, let’s get out of here so we can have fun.”
Releasing her, he walked over to the attic ladder and stepped on it. The ladder, which was sprung like a fire escape, should have swung down beneath his weight. It didn’t. He jumped on it a couple of times, then looked at Honor. “Has this ever gotten stuck before?”
She shook her head. “There’s no way it can get stuck. If the springs were broken, it would just fall open. And it only locks in the open position.”
He jumped again, harder, with no success. “Well, hell,” he said disgustedly.
That was when Honor smelled the smoke. Ian smelled it, too, at almost the same instant. Bending, he touched the stairs with the palm of his hand. As soon as he looked up, Honor knew the worst.
They were trapped in a burning house.
Whenever it had started, the fire was seriously out of hand by the time they discovered it. A look around the shadowy attic revealed wisps of smoke that had been gathering in the air, seeping up from the floors below. Even as they looked around the attic, flames burst up between a pair of joists that Ian had left uncovered as the ceiling material below went up in smoke.
Oh my God, Honor thought numbly. Of all the ways to die, she would have picked anything else in the world. Smoke stung her eyes, and she coughed, watching with disbelief as Ian put the floorboards back over the exposed areas.
“To slow it down,” he said. Reading her mind again. Then he grabbed a crowbar and went to knock out the beautiful round window at the back end of the attic. When only jagged pieces remained in the frame, he yanked off his T-shirt and used it to protect his hands as he pulled the last of the glass away.
Honor found herself standing right beside him, watching the play of his muscles as he let in the fresh, stormy wind and prepared a hope of escape for them.
“People jump,” she said. “When the heat gets to be too bad, they jump rather than burn.”
His strange green eyes met hers. “I know, honey. I know. If it comes to that, we’ll jump together. We’re only on the third floor. We’d have a shot.”
Suddenly she was more scared of losing him than of dying in a fire. Much more scared. “Ian…Ian, I never said…I never told you—oh, God, I’m so glad I met you!”
He caught her in a brief, bone-crushing embrace and muttered something in her ear that sounded like, “You’re the only person on earth who’s ever felt that way.” Then he released her and went back to clearing the window frame of glass.
It seemed to take forever, though it probably took only a few moments. Finally he hoisted himself up and leaned over the edge, taking stock of the situation. A muffled explosion below was followed by a tinkle of glass, telling him the fire downstairs had reached flashover. It would be a raging inferno now, and the only way out would be through this window.
But the branches of the oak that had been rapping against the window were slender, bony fingers without the strength to bear even Honor’s weight, and any sturdier branches were beyond their reach. Trying to jump would offer only a slim chance of success.
All of a sudden, he reached for the snap of his jeans. “Give me your jeans, too.”
Confused, she didn’t move immediately. She was still trying to cope with the idea that they might burn alive.
“Honor, your jeans. I’m going to make a rope.”
Understanding at last, she quickly stripped them off, then watched as he slashed both pairs in half with his ever-present hunting knife. Then he tied the strips together into a rope that, while not quite long enough, would make it possible for them to get down to the first story before jumping.
“Okay, grab the other end and pull as hard as you can,” he said. “See if the knots hold.”
The smoke was getting thicker in the attic, and her eyes burned like fire from it. Doing as he said, she leaned back with all her might and weight to test the knots.
Suddenly the attic stairs fell open, and flames fountained straight up, almost instantly igniting the lath above it.
“That does it, babe,” Ian said roughly. “Options all used up. You go out that window first. I’ll hold the rope.”
He was tugging her to the open window, but she resisted briefly. “How will you get down?”
“I’ll nail the rope to the wall. Don’t worry. I’ve been in tighter spots.”
She didn’t doubt it for an instant. But she very definitely wanted him out of this one now.
It was like being in gym class again, she thought wildly as she watched him wrap denim around his forearm so that it wouldn’t slip. Then he was helping her over the window ledge and she was perched dizzyingly, her feet against the siding, her hands hanging on to the denim rope for dear life.
“Come on, sweetheart. You can do it. Just back down slowly. Go on.”
Reaching back for skills she hadn’t used in years, she inched her way down, ignoring the shrieking of her muscles, ignoring her fear, ignoring everything except the fact that the sooner she got down, the sooner Ian could come down, too.
And then she reached the end of their makeshift rope.
“Jump, Honor. Go on. It’s not eight feet to the ground. The worse that’ll happen…”
Is a bruise, she thought, and let go.
As soon as she hit, she knew she was going to have a football-sized bruise on her hip. But that didn’t matter. Scrambling to her feet, she backed away from the burning house and looked up at Ian.
Only he wasn’t there. The denim rope hung down the side of the house, but there was no Ian to be seen. And where he should have been, there was nothing but flames.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Ian!” She shrieked his name, wondering how the fire could have gotten to him so fast. And surely, if it had, he would have jumped…
Smoke. Maybe smoke had overcome him while he’d been lowering her. But no, he’d shouted to her to jump. He hadn’t sounded strangled or woozy.
“Ian! Ian, damn you, answer me!”
Smoke was pouring out the window now, great black clouds of it. She made a dozen promises to God as she shifted from one foot to the other and tried to figure out what she could do. Every window in her house was belching smoke and flame. There was no way she could go in there, no way to get to him. Even a call to the fire department would take too long. “Ian!”
And then, suddenly, filling her with a relief that nearly left her weak, she saw him. Blackened by smoke, he swung over the windowsill and climbed down the denim rope. And sticking out of the back of his black briefs was the damn diary. At any other time the sight would have been funny. Right now it just made her want to cry and scream. He’d risked his neck to bring that damn book out with him. She could have killed him.
He jumped the last ten feet, rolling with all the practiced aplomb of a paratrooper and ending up on his feet, facing her.
“What happened?” she shouted at him, furious in her relief. “Damn it, I thought—I thought—”
He knew what she had thought. He crushed her to him, holding her so that she could barely breathe. She didn’t care. She held him back every bit as hard. “The diary isn’t worth this,” she sobbed. “Ian, you should have left it. You could have been hurt. You could have been hurt.”
“I had trouble getting the damn rope nailed to the wall,” he said. “That’s all. It wasn’t the damn diary.”
Her whole life was going up in flames, she thought dismally. Ev
erything she had ever worked for was going up in that house. Even the last few mementos from her parents were burning in the vile old woman’s rage. But none of that seemed to matter beside Ian’s safety.
With a sudden, deafening whoosh, one of the curtains of moss burst into flame. Ian grabbed her hand and dragged her toward his house, wanting them out of there before any more moss ignited.
“Maybe we shouldn’t go to your house,” Honor gasped as Ian dragged her around the hedge. “What if she sets your house on fire, too?”
At the hedge, Ian halted and looked back at her house. “Do you have fire insurance?”
“Yes, of course. The bank insisted.”
He nodded. “Good. Wait here a minute.” Then he left her standing there while he trotted back toward her burning house. Flames were shooting out the windows now, and the front door burst open with a loud bang. Overhead, the storm raged, seeming almost paltry in comparison to the fire. A steady drizzle soaked her, chilling her.
Ten feet back from her front porch, Ian halted. He yanked the notebook out of the back of his briefs where he had tucked it; then, after only an instant’s hesitation, he threw it onto the porch.
“Ian, no!” That was his proof he had done no wrong! What was he doing? She took a step forward, but it was already too late. A geyser of flame erupted through the open door and fell on the notebook, setting it on fire instantly. As if the old woman had reached out for it.
For a long time they both stood where they were, watching the book burn, watching as the house was devoured from within. An ominous groan from inside finally seemed to shake Ian as he turned and walked back to Honor, an incredible figure in nothing but soot and black briefs, his strange green eyes glowing like unearthly fire. Witch fire.
“Let’s call the fire department,” he said. Behind him, the roof caved in with a shower of sparks that ignited more of the moss.
Thunder rumbled in response, and the rain continued to fall.
The trees stood like ghastly black skeletons, denuded of moss and leaves. Dead. The house, too, was little more than a blackened heap of rubble, with the occasional charred finger reaching to the gray sky.
Standing on the road near her mailbox, Honor watched as the charred lump of the notebook stirred on the blackened remains of the porch and sheets of ash riffled and blew away. The last of it. The absolute last of it. Thunder rumbled, retreating.
A footstep alerted her, and she looked around to see Annie Sidell and her son Orville. Annie’s eyes were red. She was weeping yet for Jeb, who had been found at the bottom of a ravine. Neither Honor nor Ian had told her the real story, leaving it to the authorities to speculate about why Jeb had been on the range, where no civilian should have been.
“I’m glad it’s gone,” Annie said after a moment.
“You grew up in that house.” Honor hadn’t expected that reaction at all.
“I lived there till I was eighteen and got out quick as I could. It’s a terrible thing, Miss Honor, but I never did like my mama. She was a mean woman, mean through and through. I was…I was so scared Jeb was getting to be like her, these last few days.”
Honor turned and looked at the older woman, and felt genuine compassion for her. “I’m so sorry about Jeb.”
Annie merely nodded. “You’ll be leaving now, I reckon.”
“I…guess so.” There was evidently no reason to stay. She’d slept alone on the cot in Ian’s guest room last night, when he hadn’t returned from the range. He had said he might be gone a few days, depending on how much the Rangers needed him to do this time. He’d told her to make herself at home, but he hadn’t suggested she stay. She wondered if she should just pack her few remaining clothes and go.
The hospital had given her a week off to take care of her homeless state, and she guessed she’d better get on it. Either she had to find another place to live, or she had to think about looking for a job elsewhere. Nurses were always in demand, so she wasn’t concerned about that. She could go anywhere she chose. The question was what she chose…and whether Ian wanted her to hang around.
And what she might be hanging around for. Lord, she didn’t want to lose him. The very thought made her ache and brought tears to her eyes. But what could they have together if he only wanted sex from her? If he never shared himself in any other way? She knew now that a man could want her. Knowing that, she wanted so much more. If Ian couldn’t give it to her…well, it would be better for them both if she moved on.
Annie headed back up the road with Orville, leaving Honor with the distinct impression that she had seen what she wanted to see, that seeing the house gone for good had satisfied her somehow. Maybe Annie, too, had felt her mother’s evil presence there over the years. Maybe she, too, was feeling free at last.
Free herself, Honor went indoors and started cooking dinner for Ian and herself. He might not show up, but if he did, dinner would be ready. And maybe now he would talk to her. She had asked him twice why he’d thrown the diary into the fire, and he still hadn’t answered. There were a lot of questions that needed answering before she left.
“You’re not leaving.”
Whirling, she saw Ian standing in the kitchen door. Dressed in camouflage and his red beret, knife and sidearm strapped to his hips, he was the archetypal soldier. Just now, for some reason, he looked bigger to her than he ever had, tall, imposing. His face was still as harsh as granite, and she didn’t doubt he could kill a man with a single blow. But she also knew how infinitely gentle he could be, and the memory of his touch brought her to the edge of tears again.
“You’re not leaving,” he said again.
“There’s no reason to stay.”
“No?” He crossed the floor between them like a springing leopard and caught her right up off her feet. “Seems like we’ve got a few things to settle,” he said, heading for the stairs.
“Dinner—”
“Can damn well burn!”
She guessed it was probably going to. “You’ve got to stop grabbing me like this, Ian! I don’t like it! I’m not a piece of baggage for you to haul around any time you feel like it!”
“Sorry,” he said unrepentantly as he set her down beside their makeshift pallet. “We’ll argue about it later. Later you can tell me how I’m supposed to treat a lady. I’ve never had a lady to treat right before. I’ve never had anyone…anyone….”
He didn’t seem to be able to continue, and she no longer cared. There was something about the way he was pulling at her clothes, as if he couldn’t wait another minute, yet was terrified she would shove him away, terrified he might hurt her. Such infinite gentleness and complete impatience that she nearly burst into tears on the spot. Oh, God, how she loved him.
He’d never had anyone.
He could have found no better words to reach her heart. He had someone now. He had her, and she wanted him to know it. She wanted him never to doubt it, and she had stopped counting the cost to herself. She was his, body, heart and soul.
He set her gently down on the mattress and stood over her, stripping away his clothes with rough, impatient hands. And when he was naked, he stood there looking down at her with such hope and longing in his eyes. Waiting. Waiting for her to invite him. Sensing, finally, that some things could not be bulldozed.
Instead of reaching for him, she rose on her knees. His jutting arousal was right before her eyes, and she heard him catch his breath as she leaned forward and pressed her face to his groin. How good he smelled, she thought as she nuzzled him. Coarse hair, satiny skin, the very essence of him. And when he trembled, she knew the first real sense of power she’d felt in her entire life.
“Tell me,” she whispered. “Tell me how to please you.”
She took him into her mouth and learned his textures and tastes with a hunger to reach him in ways for which there were no words. If this was the only way she could show him, tell him, let him see…
He was shaking like a leaf in a hurricane when he fell down beside her on the bed and pulled her
into his arms. With his hands and mouth he painted fire over her from head to toe until she was begging him, begging him, begging him….
And then he was in her, over her, part of her, giving her the essence of himself, giving her his seed as he had given her himself. Claiming her as his very own.
She saw it in his eyes in those final moments, and she exulted fiercely.
He went downstairs and turned off the oven, the steaming rice and everything else. When he came back up, they bundled together in blankets and looked at one another in the shaft of sunlight that had somehow found its way in through the window.
“I love you,” she said. But a whole bunch of doubts had risen in her. Weakening her earlier determination to stay no matter what. She couldn’t force herself on him. He had to love her, too. But he hadn’t said he did.
He nodded; he had read her mind after all.
“That’s why I can’t stay.”
He shook his head. “That makes no sense.”
“But it does, Ian. Don’t you see? Loving you day after day when you don’t love me, waiting for you to find someone else—”
He covered her mouth with his hand. He had a lot to learn about handling women. “Who said I don’t love you?”
She gasped, her blue eyes widening. After a moment she yanked his hand away. “You never said you did!”
He closed his eyes briefly. “I’ve…never said that to anyone. I’ve never had anyone to… Honor, I’m lousy at this. Ask me how to blow up a bridge, jump out of an airplane, field-strip an AK-47 blindfolded. That’s stuff I know how to do. This stuff is…” He shook his head. “I don’t want you to go. Ever.”
She caught her breath, and a warm glow began at her center, spreading everywhere, driving away the chill left by the years. “Ever?”
He shifted uneasily. “I could understand if you don’t want to stay. I know I’m unnerving to be around. Plenty of people have refused to have anything to do with me once they found out what I am.”