Only Love o-4

by Elizabeth Lowell

  One of Whip’s fingertips circled the lush flower that had opened for him. Shannon trembled and made a broken sound.

  «Tell me again that you want me,» Whip said thickly.

  As he spoke, he parted the flushed petals with two fingertips, seeking the honey within.

  «Yes,» she said huskily. «Yes.»

  Shannon’s hips moved as she cried out, and his fingertips knew the hot, silky kiss of her desire.

  «Honey girl,» he whispered. «God, I love feeling your pleasure.»

  She started to speak, but her breath wedged in her throat as she felt Whip’s caress slowly deepen. The feeling of having him within her even by so small a measure was as unexpected as it was extraordinary. Heat swept through her, leaving her skin flushed, sultry, exquisitely sensitive.

  But nothing was as sensitive as the flesh Whip was softly stretching even as he caressed her. Pleasure coiled relentlessly inside Shannon, twisted, redoubled, and then held her arched and quivering on a rack of need.

  Shannon moaned and moved her hips in a reflex as old as desire, seeking to draw Whip more deeply inside her body.

  Instead, Whip’s touch lessened as he forced himself to withdraw all but his fingertips.

  «Not yet,» Whip said, his voice hoarse with fierce restraint. «You’re not ready. You’re so tight, honey girl. And I’m not as small as your husband was. We’ll have to take this slow and gentle for a little longer. Like this.»

  Shannon moaned as pressure and pleasure built inside her once more, pushing her toward the shivering culmination she had known once before at Whip’s hands. Yet before she could touch that sweet ecstasy, he began withdrawing again, leaving her aching, restless. Then he returned, bringing pleasure with him, a hot teasing that promised heaven and delivered only a bittersweet kind of hell.

  Sweating, shaking, Shannon begged him to end her torment. Whip closed his eyes as sweat broke over his whole body. He couldn’t look at her, touch her, hear her pleas, and not take her.

  «Hold on, honey girl,» he said hoarsely. «Just a little more. You’re so damned tight. And so hot. Just a little deeper and —»

  Whip’s words stopped as though cut by an ax. He stared at Shannon in fury and disbelief.

  «You’re a virgin.»

  Shannon simply looked at him, not understanding what had made him so angry.

  Whip shot to his feet and stood over Shannon.

  «Naive, huh?» he said savagely. «Ha! You’re naive like a fox, pretty littlewindowlady. You figured I would give you a wedding ring if you could tease me into taking your maidenhood.»

  Dazed, trembling, Shannon understood only that the culmination she desperately needed had been yanked away from her without warning. She wanted to weep and scream and rail at Whip, but she had no breath.

  Whip didn’t have the same problem with breathing. And talking. He had never been more furious — or more frustrated — in his entire wandering life.

  «What kind of twisted marriage did you have with that old man-hunter?» Whip demanded.

  «I don’t understand,» she said shakily.

  «The hell you don’t. Silent John was a piss-poor gold prospector, but he was first-class when it came to tracking down men and killing them where he found them, then collecting rewards for their sorry hides.»

  Shock widened Shannon’s eyes.

  «He never said —» she began.

  «Hell,» Whip interrupted savagely. «He never said anything, right? Silent John. Silent as a tombstone. And that was what some folks called him. Tombstone John. He earned that moniker, too.»

  Whip’s glance raked Shannon from forehead to heels. Shame flooded her as she looked at her own nakedness. Her groping fingers found her shirt. She pulled it on and fastened it with shaking hands.

  «That man must have had ice water in his veins,» Whip said through clenched teeth, watching as Shannon’s beautiful breasts vanished beneath worn, faded fabric. «He had you for seven years and barely touched you.»

  «Henevertouched me.»

  «Never?» Whip laughed harshly, not believing a word of it. «Even an old killer like him must have liked undressing you and —»

  «Silent John was my great-uncle!» Shannon cried, cutting across Whip’s words. «He never touched me! Not ever! Not a handshake when I brought down my first deer. Not a quick tug on my braids when he passed my chair. Not even a pat on the head when I learned to make biscuits the way he liked. Nobody has touched me in a tender way since Mama died!»

  Blindly Shannon pulled one of Whip’s blankets over her hips, shielding her nakedness from him.

  «And then you cam with your hungry eyes and fallen angel smile and gently hands,» she whispered.

  Shannon closed her eyes, shutting out the sight of Whip’s face hard with anger and contempt.

  «Why didn’t you tell me you were a virgin?» Whip asked, his voice flat.

  «I did.»

  «Horseshit.»

  «Go to hell, yondering man. Go Soon.»

  Whip looked at the girl huddled in a crookedly buttoned shirt with part of his bedroll drawn up over her hips. There was nothing of the hot temptress about her now. She wasn’t pleading for his mouth, his hands, his body locked with hers in primal ecstasy.

  Whip drew a quick, sawing breath and fought for self-control. Shannon didn’t know what she was missing.

  But, by God, he did.

  «When did you tell me you were a virgin?» Whip asked less harshly.

  «When we were talking about me not having a baby.»

  He thought about it, frowned, and shook his head.

  «The subject of virginity didn’t come up,» Whip said.

  Shannon threw him a glittering glance. Her eyes were as brilliant as sapphires.

  And twice as cold.

  «I asked how you could be sure that you didn’t leave any bastards behind,» Shannon said flatly. «You said the same way Silent John knew how not to get me pregnant. Well, the way Silent John used was —»

  «He never touched you,» Whip interrupted, finally understanding, believing. «You’ve really never been touched at all. My God.»

  «Hallelujah,» Shannon said sarcastically. «If I repeat something often enough, even a gray-eyed yondering man finally learns.»

  Whip opened his mouth, closed it, and stared at the virgin widow who had turned to honey and melted all over him at a touch.

  «My God,» Whip repeated. «I —» He shook his head as though coming out of deep water. «It never occurred to me that Silent John and you had’t been truly man and wife.»

  «No more than it occurred to me that you didn’t understand why I didn’t get pregnant,» she shot back.

  «Chastity. The oldest way of all. Judas H. Priest.»

  Shannon’s anger drained away as she saw how shocked Whip was. In the wake of anger came a fatigue so great that she wanted to put her head on her knees and cry. It was all too much to take in — the grizzly and her fear for Whip and his rage that she had come running up, then the heady sensuality of his touch, and then his fury.

  «Shannon?»

  «What.»

  «What did you think would happen after I had you?»

  «Think?Think?Yondering man, when you touch me I can’t think worth a handful of cold spit.»

  «You weren’t trying to trap me into marriage?»

  Shannon lifted her head. Between the grizzly and the lovemaking, her braids had come mostly undone. Long, dark strands slid over her cheeks and down over her breasts. Her eyes were dark, unreadable.

  «Why on earth would I want to do that?» she asked.

  For the second time Shannon had managed to shock Whip speechless.

  «What possible use is a man who puts a baby in you and then flits off around the earth until it’s time to come back and put another baby in?» she asked.

  «I’d never get you pregnant and then leave you,» Whip said coldly. «You know me well enough to know that.»

  Reluctantly Shannon nodded. «You’re not the kind to run
out on your responsibilities.»

  «Is that what you were counting on? Getting pregnant so I would’t leave?»

  Anger stirred in Shannon, but she was too tired to sustain it.

  «I’m naive about sex, but I’m not stupid about life,» she said wearily.

  «What does that mean?»

  «Pregnant or not, I will never marry a man who wants me less than he wants a sunrise he’s never seen.»

  Whip flinched at the conflicting emotions in Shannon’s voice, in her eyes, in her hands clenching the blanket over her nakedness.

  «But you would have given yourself to me,» Whip said, angry for no reason.

  A shiver of memory and desire went through Shannon.

  «Yes,» she said.

  «Why?»

  «Why do you care?»

  «Because I’m afraid you’re naive enough to believe you love me,» Whip said bluntly.

  Shannon gave Whip a shuttered glance.

  «Either way, it’s not your worry,» she said. «It’s mine.»

  «I don’t want you to love me,» Whip said, biting off each word.

  «I know.»

  «Love is a cage.»

  «Yes. I know that too. Now. Someday I’ll thank you for teaching me how to build cage of sunlight. But not today.»

  She put her forehead back on her knees, shutting Whip out.

  «Shannon?»

  «Go away, yondering man. You don’t want my body, you don’t want my love, you don’t want anything but the sunrise you’re never seen. Go chase it and leave me be.»

  11

  W HIP slammed the pick into rock and felt the shock wave all the way down his arms to his ankles. Stone splintered and sheared away from bedrock, showering him with biting pieces of grit in the process.

  Nothing useful lay behind the rock Whip had hammered from the end of the short tunnel. The faint signs of gold he had been pursuing like a demon for the past two days weren’t in evidence anymore. Nor could he guess where the faint trace of gold had gone. There were no visible faults, no layering of stone, no way to decide which was the best direction to dig — up, down, sideways, straight ahead, or not at all.

  Reno might be able to make this sorry claim pay, but not me.

  No wonder Silent John took to man-hunting. It’s a damned sight more interesting than hammering on stone.

  Despite Whip’s sour thoughts, he kept on swinging the pick with all the power in him. He hoped if he worked long enough, hard enough, his body wouldn’t stand up and howl every time he thought of Shannon crying out with hunger, opening herself to him, shivering with pleasure at his touch.

  Sun-warmed honey in my hands.

  Steel pick slammed into the mountain of stone.

  A virgin.

  Whip swung harder. Rock chips exploded.

  Hotter, sweeter, wilder than any woman I’ve ever known.

  Steel met stone and rang like a bell.

  A goddamned virgin!

  Whip tried to drown out the endless circling of his thoughts with the sound of steel hammering into rock, but it was impossible. He hadn’t been in control of his own mind since two days before, when he had knelt between a virgin’s legs and learned more about sensuality than he had since he was a man-sized fourteen and a widow woman had hired him to make repairs on her hayloft.

  The pick struck, stone shattered, and new rock surfaces appeared. They looked even less promising than the stone Whip had been hammering on.

  With a weary curse, he stopped, wiped sweat and rock dust from his face, and lifted the pick again. He didn’t want to go back to Shannon with more bad news about Silent John’s useless gold claim. He didn’t want to watch her trying to hid her fear of being alone and broke. He didn’t want to fight himself not to take her in his arms, comfort her, kiss her until cold fear became wild, searing oblivion….

  Rock chips exploded, scoring Whip’s skin. He barely noticed. He was too busy wrestling with his conscience and his body’s driving need for a virgin widow who would give him everything he asked for as a man and take from him everything he had to give to a woman.

  And never ask for more.

  That was what was riding Whip with long spurs, digging into his pride and conscience. If Shannon had played the age-old feminine game of baiting the marriage trap with her own honeyed body, Whip could have played the age-old masculine game of stealing the honey without being caught in the trap.

  The pick whistled down, sliced through air and slammed into the unyielding stone. The shock of the impact rang in the silence and traveled up through the hickory handle with numbing force.

  Whip barely noticed. Whatever punishment the mountain delivered was lost in the larger punishment of the vise of hunger and conscience that was squeezing him mercilessly with every breath, every heartbeat.

  He knew that Shannon wasn’t playing the marriage game of tease and retreat and leave the quarry wild with hunger. She didn’t expect — and no longer even wanted — marriage with the man called Whip Moran.

  What possible use is a man who puts a baby in you and then flits off around the earth until it’s time to come back and put another baby in?

  I will never marry a man who wants me less than he wants a sunrise he’s never seen.

  Whip believed Shannon’s words. He had seen the pain and bafflement in her beautiful eyes as she spoke, a darkness that couldn’t be faked by even the most accomplished coquette.

  And Shannon was far from a coquette. Her honesty was as unflinching as the land itself.

  Someday I’ll thank you for teaching me how to build a cage of sunlight. But not today.

  Shannon might not understand why Whip would leave her, but she knew that he would. The knowledge was there in her eyes, in her words, in the fine trembling of her hands when she spoke about it.

  Whip didn’t want Shannon to love him, but she did.

  Now she didn’t want to love him, either.

  Go away, yondering man. You don’t want my body, you don’t want my love, you don’t want anything but the sunrise you’ve never seen. Go chase it and leave me be.

  Whip planned to do just that. But first he had to be certain of Shannon’s safety after he left.

  The pick attacked cold stone, rang harshly, and retreated only to return again, even more violently. Yet no matter how hard Whip worked, no matter how much solid rock he reduced to rubble, the Rifle Sight claim showed about as much hope of gold as a mule’s hind end.

  With a searing word of disgust, Whip stopped hammering and leaned on the pick handle. He talked to the ungiving stone the way a teamster talks to his animals, describing in harsh, profane, and inventive detail just how aggravated and disappointed he was with life in general and this chunk of mountain in particular.

  When Whip ran out of breath, he wiped his forehead, set aside the pick in favor of his rifle, and headed back to camp even though there was still plenty of sun in the sky. He was tired of wearing himself out on a claim that a blind man could see was as useless as teats on a boar hog.

  Rifle on one shoulder and coiled lash on the other, Whip strode down out of the grim, cold notch where meltwater collected and ran down to Grizzly Meadow. He couldn’t see the meadow from where he was, but he knew it was there.

  Just as Whip knew Shannon would be there, waiting for him. She would heat water for him and he would bathe and pull on the shirt she had cleaned for him yesterday. The cloth would be warm from the sun and sweet from washing, but sweetest of all would be the mixture of caring and womanly hunger and approval in Shannon’s eyes when she watched him.

  As Whip hurriedly descended the rubble slope at the mouth of the ravine, rocks still cold with winter gave way to unexpected beauty. Willow, stunted aspen, and wind-harried spruce clung in shades of green to every pocket of soil and warmth. The icy rill that flowed from the ravine was joined by other ribbons of meltwater until they became a small creek flowing into Grizzly Meadow. Wildflowers bloomed in scarlet and purple and yellow and white as rocky slopes gentled into a hi
gh mountain meadow.

  Smiling, Whip emerged from shadow into the meadow’s pouring sunlight, expecting to hear Shannon’s voice raised in welcome when she saw him. But no cry of recognition and delight came. Frowning, he walked even more quickly.

  I’m coming in early, but Shannon should be here. Hell, where else would she be/

  Unless something went wrong. Another grizzly or…

  A cold that had nothing to do with sweaty clothing went through Whip. Eyes as clear and icy as meltwater probed every shadow of the meadow.

  Whip wasn’t even aware of moving until he felt the worn, hard butt of the bullwhip nestled in his left hand and heard the restless seething of the lash at his feet. His right hand was closed around the rifle, his finger was on the trigger, and his eyes were looking for a target. If he found one, he wouldn’t have to switch hands. He had learned long ago the value of being able to shoot with either hand.

  There. At the far end of the meadow. Movement.

  Smoothly Whip pivoted to face whatever was coming toward him.

  Feminine laughter rippled through the quiet summer meadow, laughter bubbling as clearly as the creek itself. Suddenly Shannon darted out of the aspens with Prettyface hard on her heels. The huge hound caught up in three bounds and put himself squarely across Shannon’s path, forcing her to stop. Quick as a deer she turned and raced toward the aspens again. Prettyface followed, blocked her before she reached the trees, and chased her when she spun aside once more.

  The game continued until Shannon was too breathless with laughter to run any longer. She leaned on Prettyface and petted him and praised him and hugged him until her breath came back. Then she told him to stay and tiptoed off into the aspens. Panting, his tongue lolling out in silent canine laughter, Prettyface stayed put and watched with alert wolf’s eyes while Shannon vanished into the trees.

  Whip watched too, motionless, aching with feelings he couldn’t name.

  A rock arced out of the aspens to land with a soft thump at Prettyface’s side. It must have been the signal for the game to resume, because the hound leaped forward, nose to the ground, tracking his mistress at a lope. Soon Prettyface vanished into the aspens.

  Whip waited, smiling, guessing what was going to happen next; the stalk and the laughter stifled into silence, and then the instant of discovery.