The Southern Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  He hesitated. But there was no threat in her eyes, no reminder of the Memphis attic, only tenderness and eagerness. His cock screamed at him to hurry up.

  Her tongue swept over her red lips, while her big green eyes watched him.

  He shuddered. Oh hell, with his hands bound, he’d be free to focus completely on the exquisite sensations of being skillfully pleasured by a beautiful woman.

  He lay down and held up his hands. “Just do it fast.”

  She twisted the rope yarn around his wrists quickly in a hobble tie. Shit, he wouldn’t even have to break it; he could untie it with his teeth if he wanted to be free. But his aching balls weren’t interested in logic, just release.

  She dropped down onto her knees beside him and undid his trousers, sliding them down his thighs. His hips rocked. “Oh yes, Jessamyn.”

  She stroked his cock gently. “You’re beautiful, Morgan.”

  Her touch sent jolts of ecstasy racking his body.

  But it still wasn’t enough. “Dammit, I want more. I want hard and fast, like you gave that damn carbine of yours!”

  She stared at him. Then her lips curved in a wicked grin. “Like this, mister?” Her hand closed around him and squeezed hard.

  His eyes rolled back in his head in sheer pleasure. He bucked hard, gasping for breath. “Oh hell, yes.”

  “Or this?” She laid her head down on his belly just as she had against her carbine. He shuddered. Her mouth closed around him and her hand swept over him, just the way she’d loaded rounds into her gun.

  He threw back his head and howled her name, his bound hands closing on her hair. He’d needed her to do exactly this.

  She sucked him in perfect rhythm with her moving hand. He couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything except feel, was simply an animal of pure sensation centered under the touch of her hands and mouth.

  Climax gathered, hot and sharp and surprisingly close at the base of his spine. Her tongue lashed the sensitive spot just under his cockhead, then retreated when he growled. He bucked up against her again, his hips circling restlessly, and her fingers slipped inside his trousers.

  Why had he ever wanted to fight such rapture? What did distinctions of who held the initiative matter against this, when everything in him was completely focused on the delight boiling inside his balls, ready to burst into every inch of him?

  She pressed firmly on the ridge just behind his balls and it was too much. Climax blasted him as completely as a battle’s cannonade. The seed clamoring in his balls rocketed out of his cock and into her warm, hot, welcoming mouth. He bucked and arched and howled, giving her every drop of himself as she had demanded.

  Chapter Sixteen

  San Juan Mountains, Colorado

  Jessamyn clenched her chattering teeth and pondered chivalry, while Morgan rapidly laced her into her riding corset.

  Yesterday Dawson (bless his heart) had somehow produced enough hot water for a bath, which was a miracle here at nine thousand feet since it took far longer to boil water. The evening had ended with Morgan tumbling her madly in their tent, just to prove how very much of a high-handed male he was.

  After that, with a chivalry as unspoken as it was pronounced, he had left her sleeping undisturbed in her tent this morning, while his men tiptoed through their usual preparations to let her sleep. Finally Morgan returned to awaken her, carrying a lantern and food. In fact, all of his men were very polite and protective of her.

  She’d also overheard them mention enough mining towns as places they’d seen and ridden away from to understand that they weren’t trying to build chance-made fortunes. It was enough to upset many of her ideas about just how much gold fever ran in Morgan’s veins.

  But she was too cold to do much thinking, when she was dressing in a tent whose temperature was only a few degrees above freezing.

  Only the highest peaks must have been showing a hint of sunshine, but outside, the expedition was in a disciplined whirlwind of movement, a dance as quiet as it was efficient, like muffled music underlying Morgan’s hands moving behind her back.

  She bent her head forward, trying not to think about where Charlie would be. By leaving this early, they would shave precious hours off Charlie’s time. It was worth freezing in her tent for that.

  The mules’ light silver bells barely chimed; they must have been very tightly gathered around Rosie, their leader. The packers’ grunts came soft and deep as they rhythmically loaded the heavy packs onto the mules’ aparejos. Horses only occasionally bothered to whicker or stamp, only the faint clank of bridles and creak of leather announcing that they were being saddled up. Occasionally, metal scraped over metal, probably cutlery from someone bolting down a last quick bite to eat. Once a rifle thudded hard into its scabbard.

  She shivered involuntarily.

  “Have some more tea,” Morgan remarked, handing her a cup while still keeping the laces taut. She was ridiculously grateful for his evident years of experience with women’s corsets; it did so speed up the process of dressing, compared to Cyrus’s endearing fumbles.

  She gulped the hot liquid down. Normally she’d have hated its heavy-handed sweetness but now it tasted like manna from heaven.

  “Do you want to return to Denver? I could send Grainger with you and one or two other men,” he offered quietly.

  Her head shot around and she glared at him. “Morgan, if I don’t claim that gold and regain Somerset Hall, Charlie Jones will paint his name over its door and my horses will be dead.”

  He tied off her corset strings and stepped away, his expression barely visible in the lantern’s dim light. “I could buy Somerset Hall for you.” His tone gave little clue to his reasoning.

  “Are you offering me charity, Morgan?” She came erect, disregarding her dishabille, and began to pull her trousers on quickly. “No, thank you, Morgan. I’m riding with you.”

  “Jessamyn!” He gave an exasperated, wordless bellow.

  She glared back at him, her head high. Somerset Hall should be saved by family, not charity.

  “It’s very dangerous, Jessamyn.” His voice hardened. “Starshine could break a leg or throw you. You could break your neck or freeze to death in a sudden snowstorm. Those peaks are full of lynx and mountain lions.”

  She stomped her feet into her boots. “Plus my cousin will try to kill us both.” She shoved her plate and mug into his hands. “I’ve never taken a penny from you, Morgan Evans, and I won’t start now. I’ll ride into these mountains and I’ll bring back enough gold to save my family’s home.”

  “Dammit, Jessamyn, I wasn’t offering charity. I was trying to keep you safe,” he snapped, his gray eyes blazing at her.

  “Save your breath for saddling the horses.” She dropped her skirt over her head and began to button it.

  Hard, cupped fingers caught her face, forcing her to look at him. “You’re a very stubborn woman, Mrs. Evans.”

  She frowned at him. “I’m speaking sense—you’re not.”

  He kissed her hard upon the mouth, silencing her protests and sending her arms up around his neck to pull his head down. When he finally lifted his head, she was flushed and dazed, with bruised lips. “We’ll have to argue more often,” he whispered, “if that’s your response.”

  She blinked at him and tried to form a coherent answer. He chuckled and bundled her quickly into her heavy coat.

  A moment later, his spurs jingled softly as he left the tent. It was with considerable difficulty that she didn’t throw something at his back.

  The old Spanish trail past the Three Needles slipped through a crack in the basalt barely wide enough for a loaded mule, then climbed almost straight up for the next two miles. All around Morgan, the air was full of the sound of rushing water heading rapidly downhill and waterfalls spilled like living rainbows. Everyone in the expedition walked beside their mounts, carefully guiding them over wet ground. From the distance came the faint sounds of Little and Grainger scouting the trail ahead, as well as the men guarding the flanks lest Jo
nes stage an ambush.

  Silent like everyone else, Morgan had time to think about his infuriating lover. Jessamyn was striding beside Starshine, as if climbing steps in a private park. Her head was up, her breathing steady despite the altitude, and she caught every flash of brilliant color when a bird flitted past. She was the perfect companion to go adventuring with, just as she had been when they were children. He grinned, remembering the day they’d crept out to fish for trout with Cyrus, been caught by a thunderstorm, and had to spend the night in a shack with only trout for dinner. She’d never complained; in fact, she’d delighted in telling as many stories as they did to pass the time.

  At the top of the climb, the party came out onto a narrow valley, full of grasses and aspens. A small river danced down the center while broken granite rose on both sides.

  Morgan raised his hand to signal a brief rest and froze. He finished the movement jerkily out of sheer habit, unwilling to betray his thoughts to anyone there.

  Another small bit of white quartz had just flashed on the mountain’s shoulder.

  That night, Jessamyn burrowed a little deeper into her delectable nest of blankets and tried not to think about Morgan, who was somewhere out there in the dark with the sentries.

  It had been a hard climb over the mountains that day, given the narrow trail over unforgiving, broken granite and frequent fording of fast-rushing streams. Some of the stretches were so difficult that Morgan had allowed the mules and remounts to find their own way, trusting that they’d follow Rosie, the bell mare. They’d been very diligent about staying near her—occasionally snorting at a particularly steep piece of rock or fast-moving stream—but always remaining close, both horses and mules.

  There’d been beautiful sights—the mountains themselves with the snow disappearing more and more every day, groves of aspens with their green leaves dancing in every breeze, and elk grazing placidly on meadows covered with wildflowers. Once she’d even glimpsed a puma through her field glasses, drowsing in the sun on a rocky ledge high above. But at ten thousand feet, she had little energy to expend on exclaiming over such wonders.

  They’d camped beside a meadow that night, with plenty of grazing for the horses and mules. Tents had appeared for all of the men, much to her surprise, since it increased the risk of a successful surprise attack by Charlie’s men. They’d always bivouacked under the stars before. But Morgan had quietly explained to her that the tents were a necessary protection against the forest’s mists and greater dampness. He’d posted more sentries to make up for the greater danger.

  Jessamyn had agreed with his logic, of course. She’d ridden on campaigns with the cavalry, fought Indians—and lost a much-beloved husband to an Indian’s bullet. She understood all too well the necessity to keep a keen eye out for danger.

  But every one of those campaigns had included at least fifty well-armed, experienced troopers. This expedition was into some of the most difficult country in the United States, chasing a man who made Cochise seem honorable enough to serve in the Queen of England’s palace guard. Here they had only a dozen men for protection while Charlie had nearly as many, with almost every one a paid thug.

  The wind moaned through the fir trees overhead.

  Jessamyn rolled over again and stared sightlessly at the tent’s ridge pole. Her bed was extremely comfortable, providing no distractions. Pine and fir boughs had been neatly interwoven to form a very stable mattress, which a duchess would not have faulted. Atop it, Morgan’s and her blankets were laid together so they could share each other’s warmth against the cold night air.

  If he ever came back. An all-too-familiar, roiling agony swept through her, first learned when her father went off to fight and honed to perfection as Cyrus’s wife.

  He’d left her after dinner, saying he needed to check on the sentries. But that had been—how long ago? It must have been hours. He could have slipped on a patch of wet rock, gone over the edge, and cracked his head, splattering blood and brains. Just the way Cyrus had looked, with the back of his head reduced to red and white pulp by that Indian’s bullet.

  Jessamyn gulped hard and started to fling her covers aside. She’d go find Morgan herself.

  “Coffee, Evans?” Dawson offered from outside. He’d been tending a very small fire, just enough to keep a small pot of coffee warm but not so large as to harm the sentries’ night vision.

  “No, thank you,” Morgan’s wonderful voice answered.

  Jessamyn’s heart leaped and she sank back into the bed dizzily. Morgan was alive and well, thank God. He must have been checking on the sentries. Heaven knows, he watched over his men as if they were his own family.

  She’d only been having a ridiculous fancy, born of the dark and loneliness.

  “Get some sleep,” Morgan continued talking, wrapping her in more reassurance. She slowly slid under the covers. “Your biscuits will be desperately needed in the morning.”

  Dawson chuckled and moved away, judging by the slight scuffing from his boots. Someone settled beside the fire and poured coffee, clinking his cup against the coffeepot. Hopefully, not Morgan…

  The tent flap stirred and Morgan slipped inside. Jessamyn sighed happily and snuggled down a little deeper.

  “I thought you’d be asleep by now,” he whispered, tossing his hat aside and unbuckling his gun belt. He always slept with one of his Colts and his Bowie knife under his pillow. “You must be exhausted.”

  “I was waiting for you,” Jessamyn answered. Would he make love to her tonight? She was very tired but perhaps not too much so…

  He was stripping rapidly down to his skin. She watched him greedily, taking in every glimpse of pale, well-muscled body with eyes well adjusted to the tent’s gloom. Every rapid movement was testimony to his continued vitality.

  “Do you think we made up any time?” she asked softly, not much caring what they discussed so much as the fact that they were talking.

  Morgan shrugged, his white skin making the gesture vivid against the tent. “Maybe. Jones is pushing his horses damned hard and he’ll pay for that later, when we reach the worst of the mountains.”

  She made a face, glad he couldn’t see her clearly. Aunt Serafina’s stories had been nasty enough about mountain travel.

  He pulled on a dry shirt and socks, the single sure preventive against pneumonia and other ailments from waking up in the clammy damp. An instant later, he’d snatched the blankets out of her hand and dived under the covers with her.

  Jessamyn squeaked in surprise and he laughed. His limbs were surprisingly cool for such a normally hot-blooded man. “Sorry to be sleeping with me?”

  She quickly recovered and clutched him close, twining her legs around his to lend him her warmth. He smelled of horses, leather, and pines, with a trace of wood smoke. Most of all, he smelled exactly like Morgan. “Not at all, Mr. Evans.”

  He pulled the covers up around them and buried his face against her neck, holding her close. “You’re very generous, Mrs. Evans.”

  She closed her eyes, a single tear leaking out. Morgan was back. All was well.

  Their hearts pounded together, the blood racing through their bodies. Their pulses gradually slowed as they relaxed and warmed up. Once again, Morgan became a big, strong furnace.

  Jessamyn automatically settled herself more comfortably, as she would have with Cyrus. Her hand slid up his chest and curved over his shoulder, anchoring her to his strength.

  Morgan stiffened briefly, the hair on his legs scratching hers.

  “What is it?” she asked, rousing herself enough for a conversation.

  He blew out a long breath. “Nothing for you to worry about, dear.” He stroked her hair, careful to keep the blankets tucked up around them. “Good night, Jessamyn.”

  She shifted again, sliding to rest her head against his shoulder. “Morgan?”

  “Hmm?”

  Maybe she should take advantage of his relaxation and ask him some delicate questions. In a very gentle tone of voice, of course. “Why d
o you let David manage Longacres?”

  He yawned. “He loves the place and he’s a far better farmer than I’ll ever be.”

  It was that simple, that he’d do the best for his family regardless of appearances? Jessamyn shivered at how she’d misjudged him. “Do you plan to live there? He can’t help but set roots.”

  Morgan settled his arm a little more closely around her. “I’ll probably sell it to him if his sons are interested. Longacres was my father’s dream, not mine. As long as it stays in the family, I’m content.”

  As was she. She sighed and snuggled closer. But tangled this closely to him, she was very conscious of his chest rising and falling against hers. And his cock, warm and half-hard between them—which brought to mind activities he was incredibly skilled at. “Morgan?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Where did you learn to, ah, um, uh…”

  “What?”

  Oh heavens, she’d let her exhaustion steal her tongue away. “Nothing. Go to sleep.”

  “Jessamyn,” he warned, sounding thoroughly awake.

  She squirmed. Now she’d have to ask that truly embarrassing question. Thankfully, he couldn’t see her face. “You’re a very skilled man, Morgan, in carnal matters but also very passionate and disciplined.”

  “Thank you, Jessamyn.” Oh dear, now he was wary.

  She bit the bullet. “Where did you learn?”

  “Is that your question?” he whispered.

  “Yes. Of course, if you don’t want to answer, you don’t have to,” she said hopefully.

  He began to chuckle and pulled her close. She buried her face against him, quite content not to look him in the eye, even if she could have seen anything in this darkness.

  “There’s a network of private clubs called the Consortium, which also provides training to its members.”

  Just private clubs? “Is that all?”

  He kissed the top of her head. “It’s very strict and takes years. We can talk about it later.”

  She sniffed, more impressed by the man than the possible curriculum. “As you wish. Good night, Morgan.”