by Thea Devine
They followed her into the sun-flooded entrance hallway, both of them wondering where Deuce had taken the very obviously reluctant Kalida.
Damn him, thought Kalida, it just wasn't possible to remain stiff and unyielding the way he was carrying her. He was like some uncivilized savage, with his uncompromising expression and the tension in his arms. Perhaps she was too heavy, she mused; the thought that she was an unpleasant burden to him pleased her momentarily, but it paled before the grim reality of the situation—her and her father's dependency on him.
He stopped before a pristine white door as he felt the disclaiming movement of her head. She looked up to meet his glittering gray gaze. It struck her that he looked as wretched as she did, and Kalida felt- a moment's compassion for him before she felt him swing her body downward and release her to stand on her legs. Damn, she just had time to think before she fell to the floor, an almost involuntary reaction as she instanteously perceived he wanted to trap her. God, she had to be quick-witted with him. The stone hardness of his expression told her as well as words that he was going to catch her sometime. She couldn't even imagine what he might do when the truth came out.
She watched dispassionately as he pushed the door open with one grungy work-worn boot, and she moved instinctively before he could reach down and lift her up again.
She wriggled through his long legs and pulled herself into the room, and then turned to look at him with a gleam of triumph in her eyes.
"My house is your house," he said mockingly. "Or soon will be."
"I haven't agreed to that," she snapped, looking around suspiciously. She knew where she was. The room was too bold and masculine to be anyone else's but his. The furniture was massive and ornate, newly purchased with new wealth, all walnut and marble, the bed with its eight-foot headboard and rich applied moldings dominating the center of the room. There was a matching step-down dressing case and a marble-topped washstand with a splash back and soap shelves. Near the window was an upholstered rocking chair with padded arms.
Deuce stood watching her as she assessed the impact of the room from her position on the floor. When her accusing blue eyes lighted on his tall muscular body, he smiled — rather unpleasantly, she thought —and said mildly, "You don't have to agree to anything — now."
She stiffened slightly at the tone and the implication of his words, and then she began struggling to move forward, cursing herself and the day she had ever thought that this kind of pretense would get her anywhere away from him. She felt as trapped as though she were handicapped, and as she pulled herself into a sitting position, she grated, "God, if I had the means and the mobility, I'd be so far away from here a Pinkerton man couldn't even track me down."
He came down beside her like a shot, his hand reaching
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out to grasp her chin, to lift her head so that her eyes focused on his stone-carved face. "I would find you," he stated unequivocally in a hard harsh voice, and she had no doubt he meant what he said. "Kalida!" The timbre of his voice changed, and the merciless grip of his fingers changed to a caress against her skin as he traced the line of her face. "Don't fight me."
"I have to fight you," she whispered, mesmerized by the feeling of his fingers so gently limning the contours of her face'. But she wondered where her strength was when he touched her. Where was her resolve? It would be so easy the other way, so extravagantly easy.
"Why?" The word was a breath between them as he leaned forward and touched her lips with just the slightest pressure.
Her whole body flinched in reaction, and she hated herself for not being able to control her feelings. "You'd eat me alive," she hissed, frantically trying to gain some self-possession. She was drowning in the sense of him beside her, all heat and sweat and an intensity she hardly had the strength to withstand.
"Oh yes, I would . . ." he growled, and there was no room left to maneuver as his mouth crashed down on hers with the sole intention of conquering, dominating, driving, relentlessly delving into the soft recesses of her mouth, tasting her in a way she could never imagine another man doing —ever. He held her head between his hands just so, and her own hands beat ineffectually at his long hard body, and it was as if she were caressing him; he tore his mouth away from hers for the barest instant and murmured against her lips, "You want me."
"No!"
He brushed away her heated denial with the softest flick of his tongue against her swelling lips. "You've always wanted me," he murmured in some satisfaction.
"God," she moaned, but it was too late; he forced her
stubborn lips apart once again and all she could do was dig her protesting fingers into the hot skin of his shoulders, where he felt it not at all. She was drowning in the sense of him, his taste and his scent, when he pulled away from her seductive lips and trailed a line of heated kisses down her cheek and chin to her neck and shoulders, moving his hands at the same time caressingly downward to the sooty remnant of a nightgown she still wore. And then he paused and looked at her through questioning, passion-smoked eyes.
She was as still as she would ever be in her life, she thought with a kind of horrified wonder. His hand was poised just above her taut, thrusting breast, which was outlined so visibly against the thin material of her gown. Just one movement and he would touch it, and she remembered full well what he meant when he touched her there and how he had touched her there. And she wanted it. She never thought she would admit that she would want to feel his hand caressing her nipples, but in that moment, on the floor of his room, oblivious to everything but that moment, with her back pressing against the molded siderail of his bed, she wanted him to. . . . But she saw that his intent was slightly different, and she thought that if he did as he intended, she could be in thrall to him forever.
And he watched every step of her thoughts as they were reflected in her cobalt eyes; they went from blazing blue to molten as she understood what he was going to do whether she willed it or not. His glittering eyes never left hers as he pushed aside the flimsy bodice of her nightgown and exposed the firm globes with their taut, inviting tips.
Very gently, he planted tender little kisses all the way from her shoulder to her chest, and then down the curve of her left breast, coming closer and ever closer to her yearning nipple until finally, thank heaven, finally he
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closed his lips and tongue around the lush crest.
He heard the deep hiss of her breath as she felt his moist tongue surround the nipple and lick at it, and then the hoarse groan from back in her throat as he began pulling at and sucking the pebble-hard nipple with all the wild control he could manage. And he wanted both nipples, and he wanted her right then and there, and as he eased his mouth back and forth from one luscious nipple to the other, he felt her capitulation; he felt her hands in his hair, pulling, her fingers sliding to his shoulders, pushing, her words, "Don't, please, no more," in a hazy desire so intense he almost exploded with it. Her words goaded him on as though the intensity of the sensations he was evoking in her caused her to deny their strength and what they made her desire.
She was weak with the molten feelings that slid like thick honey through her veins. It seemed as though the hot moist sensation centered in the pit of her stomach, between her legs, and in the two pinpoints of pleasure that this man, whom she swore she detested, was evoking from her traitorous nipples. It was almost unbearable, what she was feeling; there was a spiralling sensation, an unfurling, a reaching in her but for what she did not know. She yearned to feel his weight on her, hot and naked, and to open up to him in some way she did not understand. But she did not want him to stop suckling her breasts either, or to cease his provocative exploration of her body.
Was she suddenly on the floor—and naked —with her body arching up to meet the powerful thrust of his hips? Was she sane? Did his caressing her breasts make her totally mindless? She hadn't another instant to consider this because his mouth covered hers demandingly in a way that drove all
thought out of her mind. She was rendered a wanton animal, reaching solely for his rapacious tongue and for the sensation that he could make her feel.
"Stop me now," he whispered against her bruised lips. He felt rather than heard her gasp of wonder that reflected his own sense of having her naked and willing in his arms.
Even Kalida, deep in the recesses of her mind, knew she should resist him now when he had given her the chance; but she was aware only of the opulent feeling of her body and her need to have him do more—of anything, of everything, whatever he wished—and there was no question of her pretenses now. She was wide open to him, sleek and silken beneath him, fierce in her consuming desire to have the more that she barely understood she yearned for.
He knew he should stop himself, that nothing should go further because he was taking the very grim chance she might hate him forever. But her response was so heady, and he felt the power within himself gather to the point of a need that nothing could stop and nothing could quench but his thorough possession of this one body, this one implacable, alluring woman. He seduced her mouth once again as he ripped apart his pants and rubbed himself lightly against the juncture of her thighs. He caressed her hot soft skin, warming her, readying her, parting her legs, exploring then her satiny core that was moist and ready to receive him, that met his hand with an eagerness and willingness that utterly enslaved him.
"Kalida . . ." Her name was a rough growl against her lips, rasping through her consciousness, piercing the ravishing sensations of his hands on her and his . . . She felt him poised suddenly, and then a thrust between her legs at the same moment his lips captured hers once again; a sense of tearing and a faraway fiery pain that almost made her scream it was so sharp and compelling. And then over that the sensation that she was joined, filled; that some empty place in her was empty no more.
She pulled her mouth from his and looked into his
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face. And she couldn't tell what was there—except a kind of sadness for her pain. The joy she had felt turned over and deadened.
"Kalida?" Her name was now a soft caressing sound in the air between them, but somehow, she didn't believe it.
"Is that it?" she asked innocently and insolently all at once.
A crooked rueful smile skimmed his lips.
"Oh no, Kalida; we have a long way to go. A long way to go."
"Not today," she said, wriggling now against him, feeling suddenly as though she were pinned down totally and irrevocably.
"Today, Kalida." His voice was tense, impatient.
"Do it then," she challenged, even though she hardly knew what she was commanding him to do. Somehow the barnyard was not the schoolroom for her own actual experience. She wondered if she hated him for taking advantage of her, or herself for succumbing.
He braced himself on his elbows and looked down at her. He had to consciously pull back on himself to stop from devouring her sulky lips right then and there. Anything. This was not the way to teach her a lesson. He had prepared her for the future; that was all. She had the capacity to be an untamed wanton in his arms, and he wanted that from her—but he wanted her willing and understanding the nature of her desire. There was something petulant and disappointed about her now, as though she were either angry or had expected something that did not happen.
Well, he thought dispiritedly, enough had happened. And more could happen if he forced her and proceeded. He had learned something more about her this afternoon; he wondered if she had learned something more about herself.
With a short thrusting movement, he levered himself backward and removed himself from her body. He was rather amazed that she looked shocked. They stared at each other for a moment, each trying to divine the other's motives, neither willing to give an inch.
All he saw was a beautiful, naked animal with wild, tangled midnight hair that spread in disarray over the Turkey red carpet beneath her bare skin, her eyes half closed, gleaming with something he could not define behind the lids'.
"Come." He held out his hand and she reached for it, allowing him to pull her to a sitting position, no further. "Kalida ..." The warning note in his voice did not put her off. She felt curiously deflated and empty. She stared at him defiantly now as he buttoned himself up.
"I could use a bath," she said suddenly.
He didn't like the connotation of that one bit, but since she would be sharing his room, he did not have to explore it now. A thorough cleaning off seemed, in fact, like a good idea.
"I'll have Prestina prepare everything for you," he said, turning away from her. He left her sitting on the floor in the middle of his room.
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Chapter Seven
There was a knock on the bedroom door, and then it was thrust open and Ardelle limped in to find Kalida sprawled across the top of Deuce's bed, covered with the rough cotton spread she had pulled up from the mattress.
"Oh my dear," Ardelle murmured, and motioned to the two men behind her to enter. They carried in a copper hip bath and set it next to the fireplace. Behind them came Prestina with towels, soap, and a bucket of steaming water, which she poured into the boiler and gave back to the two men, who disappeared for barely five minutes, then reappeared, each of them carrying two equally full buckets of heated water.
"Enough now," pronounced Prestina. "I will help you." She looked meaningfully at Ardelle who was leaning heavily on her thick, ornately carved cane.
"Yes. You poor thing, Kalida. I must rummage in my closet for some appropriate robes until we can get you to town for some clothes." She raised her hand at Kalida's negative shake of the head. "But you must. Deuce will take care of everything."
"He has already," Kalida retorted.
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"Dear Kalida, that's hardly an expression of gratitude to the man who risked his life to save yours," Ardelle said chidingly, trying to picture this wild hoyden of a child in Deuce's bed for the rest of his life. She couldn't see it, but if that was what he wanted . . .
"Deuce did?" Kalida whispered. Not Papa! She couldn't believe the unbearable pain she felt. To owe him this on top of everything else! To know that everything to do with their lives from now on rested solely within his hands! Oh, God, his hands! His damnable, compelling hands. She felt on the verge of collapsing at that moment; she couldn't conceive of one place within herself from which to draw strength. Her self didn't exist anymore. He had taken it, along with her very life.
"He did indeed, my dear. Try to be a little kinder," Ardelle advised, her tone just faintly remonstrative. Deuce did not deserve all the aggravation this child was giving him; nor did he deserve having to deal with the father. But all of that was his lookout. She could only stand by and pick up the pieces when the child hurt him finally and irrevocably as she could see, from her mutinous mouth and rebellious air, that she was bound to do. "Have your bath, Kalida. I'll find something for you to wear and later, after you've rested, I'm sure things will seem much less distressing."
She watched with admiration as Kalida seemed to visibly pull herself together, find her manners, and answer in a reasonably positive tone, "You're right, of course. They probably will. Thank you, Ardelle."
Ardelle withdrew in her slow hobbling gait and Prestina closed the door behind her. "Now, Miss Kalida . . ."
"I can manage for myself," Kalida said briskly, wanting now only to be alone and free to be herself.
"How can you do that, Miss Kalida?"
"I — " She didn't know how to answer Prestina. When she thought about the time and effort it would cost her,
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were she really disabled, to crawl across the room and hoist herself into that tub, it seemed ungracious and impossible that she would refuse Prestina's help. But then. . . . "Do you think," she rasped out suddenly, "I want anyone to see me helpless and crawling on the floor to perform the simplest act of sanitary caretaking? Do you? Do you? How do you think it will make me feel?"
Prestina's face turned impassive at this onslaugh
t. "I am not anybody," she said painstakingly. "I am here to help you, and you will take my help. I will not leave the room until I have helped you."
"I don't care!" Kalida shouted, hostage now to her total frustration and the sudden release of tension from the shouting. "I want to be alone." Yes, that was exactly what she wanted. "Leave me alone, Prestina. I'll manage. If I can't," she added, softening her harsh tone, "I'll ring for you, I promise."
"I don't know . . ." Prestina said doubtfully.
"Go!" Kalida gritted, and Prestina realized finally that she was at the end of her tether. Without a further word, she scurried out of the room and slammed the door behind her, leaving Kalida limp against the pillows.
Quickly she made her way downstairs and down the center hallway to the back of the house, where Deuce impatiently awaited her in his office. "Well?" he demanded.
"It is just as you say, Mr. Deuce. She chased me from the room." Prestina's liquid brown eyes sent him a speaking look. "She is one stubborn lady, Mr. Deuce."
Deuce patted her shoulder abstractedly. "And see where it will get her," he murmured, with just the faint tone of anticipation in his voice, as he headed for the stairs. He took them two at a time and headed down the upstairs hallway, which dissected the house, toward his room. The room that had been his parents' room, which now bore no traces of his father's final, futile occupation of it. The
room he had cleaned and refurbished and intended to furnish with new memories, new love. The room next to which was the old birthing room that his own mother had occupied delivering hiirr and his sister. It was now empty but for a small rope bed and a bureau, and as he thrust himself into it, he smelled mustiness and a history he couldn't even recall.
But the most important thing to him was that the door gave into his own room which, from Kalida's perspective within it, looked like either the washroom door or a closet. Here, from his positioning safely across the room from the fireplace, he could spy on Kalida—and he didn't delude himself he wasn't doing just that—and ferret out her duplicity.