Innocent Fire

by Brenda Joyce

  He lifted her and placed her on the damp ground.

  “Derek,” she protested.

  “All I ask is that you let me touch you,” he said. “Is that too much for a husband to ask a wife?”

  Her eyes were wide and questioning. “But—why?”

  “It pleases me,” he said, claiming her lips again, kneeling at her side.

  She began to return his kisses, tentatively, timidly. He wanted to devour her, but refused to succumb to his lust. He was going to pleasure her. He was going to show her that she had nothing to fear. He was so glad he had found release last night, or he would have never been able to exercise the self-control he had now.

  He heard her whimper deep in her throat, and fire flamed along his limbs. He kissed her throat, and she arched her head back to accommodate him. He could hear her soft, uneven breathing, and was triumphant. She’s excited, he thought, elated. His hand stole from her shoulder to her chest, and he cupped one small, perfect breast. She gasped, stiffening.

  “Let me touch you,” he murmured against her soft throat. He captured her lips again, squeezing the soft globe in his hand, rubbing the nipple with his palm. She shuddered.

  Deftly, he unbuttoned her shirt while he kissed her deeply. He claimed her breast again, fondling, massaging, relishing the soft swelling beneath his ministrations. She moaned, a barely audible sound. A roaring began in his head, and his loins were so full, so hot. He slipped his hand beneath the chemise, tempting and teasing the nipple. She writhed into his hand, wanting more.

  He pulled her chemise down, baring both breasts, staring just for a moment. “You are so beautiful, Miranda,” he told her huskily, and then he flicked his tongue over one hard nub.

  She gasped. His kisses had heightened what had been a pleasant quickening of her body into a deep, throbbing ache. Because he only wanted to touch her and kiss her, what little fear had been in her mind had fled beneath his gentle mouth and hands. A moment ago she had wanted to protest, had tried to, at the shameful things he was doing, but now she couldn’t think. He was suckling her like a babe. She was on fire, desperately yearning for something, for him, for exactly what, she didn’t know, but the ache was so deep and unquenchable in her secret woman’s place that she wondered if she was fevered and dying. She heard an animal moan. It was herself.

  A part of her mind sought sanity when she felt his hand cupping her woman’s mound through the folds of her dress. Not there! But the hot, myriad sensation washed away that thought, and she realized he was stroking that unmentionable place, stroking that was making her writhe uncontrollably, even through skirt, petticoat, and pantalets. She needed his hand. She arched against it.

  She felt cool air on her bare hot flesh as he lifted her skirts and pulled down her pantalets. It happened so quickly she could only moan his name. She heard him say, “I love you, Miranda,” his voice ragged and harsh. And then his hand was there again, slipping into the valley between her legs, which was wet and slick, causing a moment of coherent confusion.

  “I love you Miranda,” he said again thickly, his voice seeming very far away.

  “Don’t stop,” she said, gasping, writhing, arching. Something incredible was happening to her; she felt as if every nerve of her body had taken wing. And then she cried out, again and again, a wailing keening, as her body soared, mindlessly, ecstatically, before bursting into a series of brilliant explosions.

  “God,” Derek said to himself, watching her passion-drained face. With trembling hands he pulled off her clothes, watching her flushed face, black lashes like a thick fan on each cheek, her breasts rising and falling unsteadily. Her eyes were still closed when she lay naked, and he knelt over her, slipping his arms around her. He kissed her lashes, her cheeks, her nose. He found her lips, shuddering with his own need. Her eyes flew open.

  He smiled into her stunned gaze. “Miranda.”

  “I…what happened?”

  He kissed her ear, her temple. “You just experienced a woman’s pleasure, darling. It’s what happens when two people make love. It’s even better when I’m deep inside you.” The thought and words made him want to die.

  She stared, then blushed.

  He cradled her face, kissing her slowly, holding himself on the very edge.

  “Derek?” she said, and it could have been a plea or a protest, or a little bit of both.

  He stroked her breasts, refusing to relinquish her mouth. She shuddered. He lowered his weight, still wearing the loincloth, not wanting to frighten her. “I won’t hurt you,” he said.

  She stiffened.

  He wanted to pleasure her again, he wanted that desperately, but he was so damn close himself. He slipped his hand between her legs, searching delicately, expertly.

  “Derek?” she said, a half moan.

  He groaned, slid down the length of her, cupped her buttocks in his hand and lifted her to him. He kissed the sweet, wet cleft, then began to search throught the pink folds with his tongue. She gasped, sitting upright and shoving at him. “No!”

  “You taste so fine,” he murmured, ignoring her feeble efforts to push him off as he tasted her essence, glorying in it.

  She moaned and fell back in helpless defeat. He increased his efforts, and she began to shudder, arching herself at his seeking mouth. Her climax came so quickly it took him by surprise. She was there, open and wet, and then she was crying out, again and again, loudly, uncontrollably.

  He lay very still, his cheek against her thigh, closing his eyes as she drifted in the aftermath. He had a few coherent thoughts. Soon he was going to take her there again, but this time while he was buried as deeply as he could be inside her. That thought made him touch her, and he slipped his forefinger into her, gasping at the small, tight size of her. Good God, he thought, probing gently, stretching her to accommodate him.

  “Derek,” she moaned.

  With an age-old rhythm he thrust into her with two fingers. She shuddered, her hips rising. Excited beyond the point of any return, he rose, with one motion shedding his loincloth. He grasped her hips, gazed upon her flushed face, her closed eyes and plunged in.

  He groaned at the sheer exquisite pleasure of it. Miranda, he thought, thrusting. Mine.

  He moved slowly, trying to hold off, to prolong what was the most incredible, beautiful experience of his life, watching her perfectly featured face. He was in her, filling her up completely, she was his. Her eyes fluttered open, meeting his. He saw her expression of wonder.

  “You’re so small,” he told her hoarsely. “How do I feel?”

  Her lips were parted. Her eyes were smoky. She didn’t answer, but closed her eyes and thrust her hips awkwardly at him. He went down on her, catching her hips, guiding her, thrusting faster and faster, lost in her, loving her, claiming her with every stroke. He cried out her name as he emptied himself into her, throbbing wildly.

  And then he gasped when he felt her contractions and heard her cries, and he thrust again and again, reaching down to touch her and prolong her pleasure. Her cries trailed off and they both lay very still.

  Chapter 61

  Sleep left her in lazy, slow stages. She clung to it, so fatigued, not wanting to awaken, not wanting to leave the depth of her slumber. She dozed. Memories of Derek flooded her, waking her. A soaring joy swept over her. A hot flush brightened her cheeks. She opened her eyes and could see that it was late out, bright with midday light.

  Derek wasn’t in their bed. She flushed again, thinking. He had made love to her so many times that afternoon and evening, she couldn’t count. She didn’t think she had fallen asleep until midnight, maybe later. And then it had been in the warm, tender circle of his arms. Perhaps around dawn, when the sky outside was lightening to a rosy gray, she had awakened to find him kissing her, easing into her. She had welcomed him.

  Something dark and hurtful pierced the warm, rosy haze of her thoughts. She shoved it away.

  She stretched. She was stiff, but wonderfully so. And she was sore, she could feel it. She sig
hed, replete.

  You are no lady.

  She gasped, wanting to forget she had ever heard those hateful words. But he had said them and then his mouth had descended, and he had made love to her. The bliss that had followed had wiped out the content of what he had said. She tensed, searching her mind, trying to remember their exact conversation.

  “I wanted you from the first moment I saw you,” Derek had said, holding her, nuzzling her cheek.

  “That’s because you’re a randy goat,” Miranda retorted.

  He chuckled. “You wanted me, too.”

  “I did not!”

  “I remember how you kept staring at me, with that frightened fascination.”

  “That is not true.” She was trying to recall if she had indeed looked at him that way.

  He laughed, his hand sliding over her breast. “I’ll never forget the day you almost fainted when I took off my shirt.”

  “You are no gentleman!”

  “And you are no lady.” His mouth had descended, cutting off all further conversation.

  Miranda felt tears rising. Had he been teasing? Had his tone been playful? Did it matter? She was no lady! No lady accepted a man with such enthusiasm! And that was certainly understating her reaction to her husband. How could she have behaved like some cheap, ill-bred hussy? Like—a whore!

  She pulled the covers up, turning onto her side, rolling into a ball, all the joy of discovering her husband gone. There was nothing left but shame and pain. Of course he had meant it. Because it was true. Not that he had meant to hurt her, but Derek wasn’t a gentleman, so what did he care if she was a lady? But she cared! She cared tremendously.

  Miranda tried not to think about her passionate response the previous night, her moans and cries. In a flash of insight she knew where that side of her came from. Her mother’s father had been a notorious rake and rogue his entire life. He had had one mistress after another, despite his marriage. He had died in his mistress’s apartments at the age of eighty-two, his last paramour a twenty-year-old actress. It was a well-known fact that traits skipped a generation. And now it made complete sense. She had inherited her grandfather’s passionate nature.

  She wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.

  Guilt vied with shame. She knew now how babies were conceived. When a man took his wife in the normal way, she supposed that was right, unavoidable. But Derek had trespassed far beyond those bounds with his hands and mouth. Dear God! What would Father Miguel say when she confessed? Could she even confess to such a sinful coupling? Would she get a chance to confess at all? She had to get to confession!

  “Morning, sleepyhead.” Derek smiled and reached her side, kneeling, pulling her into his arms. His gaze was warm and tender.

  Miranda didn’t look at him. No, she thought determinedly, not again!

  “Miranda, how do you feel?” He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. His expression sobered when he saw her stern expression. “What’s wrong?”

  Tears welled in her eyes. She pulled away. “Go away.” She pulled the covers up over her face, and moaned in anguish.

  “Are you all right?” He grabbed the blanket, his concern razor-sharp. “Are you ill?” His hand was on her forehead.

  She screwed her eyes tightly shut to prevent a full-fledged attack of weeping. She seized the excuse he offered. “No, I have a headache, and I feel awful.”

  He stared at her, afraid. He stroked her hair. “You don’t have a fever,” he said finally. “I’ll bring you a cold compress for your head.”

  Miranda started to cry. She couldn’t help it.

  “Why are you crying?” he asked in an agonized voice.

  She moaned, sobbing.

  He turned her over gently, terribly afraid. “Are you in pain?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Miranda, where does it hurt!”

  She heard the sharpness of his voice. “It’s just a headache,” she said, wishing he would take her in his arms and tell her he loved her. He had told her that last night, several times, but always in the thick of a torrid moment.

  Bragg wondered if her illness was his fault. She was so delicate, so fragile. Was his lust responsible? A new thought occurred to him, one that he seized eagerly. “Miranda, could you be getting your monthly curse?”

  “Yes, yes,” she told him, anything to get him to leave her alone.

  He sighed in relief and stood up. “I’ll get you a compress. Are you hungry?”

  “No.”

  He took one last look at her and left. The minute he was gone, her tears dried up, miraculously. She lay there depressed and ashamed.

  Chapter 62

  She could not spend the entire afternoon in bed. That was not going to change what had happened, or rectify anything. And it wasn’t fair to her husband. Miranda got up, slipped on her clothes, and went outside to help with their household chores.

  Derek was making some kind of stew. He brightened when he saw her. “You’re feeling better?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry for being such a child.” She wanted to look away, but his gaze was so warm and caring that it held hers. A bittersweet stabbing went through her. “Here, I’ll make supper.”

  “I want you to rest today,” he said firmly. “How’s your headache?”

  “Better,” she said. She actually did have a headache, a dull throbbing in her temples.

  He dropped the knife he had been paring with and pulled her into his arms. “You scared me there for a minute,” he said. His breath was warm on her face.

  Miranda wanted to bury her face in his chest and forget her awful thoughts. As if sensing her desire, he pushed her head forward until her cheek rested there. He stroked her hair. She felt a tremendous surge of warmth and caring, maybe even love, for this man.

  “Have you started bleeding?” he asked.

  She held her breath. That hadn’t been fair either, to let him think she was about to start menstruating, not when he was so upset that she might be pregnant.

  “Miranda?”

  “Not yet,” she said, wishing that she hadn’t lied.

  He tensed, and she wondered if he could sense her deceit. But he didn’t bring it up again.

  Derek wouldn’t let her lift a finger the rest of the day, to her chagrin. He made their supper, did laundry, cleaned his weapons, and pulled down dried hides. He looked at her frequently. She wasn’t sure what it meant. There was both concern and tenderness and a fixed brightness in his gaze.

  Miranda was surprised that she was so tired, but she was eager to crawl into bed that evening—and worried. She didn’t want tonight to be a repeat of last night, or at least her mind didn’t. But she felt a tingling anticipation too, threads of desire that she knew he could spin into red-hot flames. She tried to quell that wicked side of her nature.

  He came in after she was already under the covers, clad in her chemise. “What’s this?” he asked in bemusement, fingering the ribboned edge.

  “I’m tired,” she said.

  He sat there and gazed at her, looking very much like a disappointed little boy. “I know,” he finally said. “Last night was my fault, I should have known better than to be so insatiable. It was just that…I’d waited for you so long, Miranda.”

  His words were thrilling. She didn’t want to be thrilled or excited. Their gazes met. He bent and brushed his mouth over hers. Miranda fought the pulsing of desire. She raised her hands, pushed against his chest. “No,” she said firmly. “I’m also sore.” That was indeed the truth.

  He clasped both her hands in his and sighed. “I’m a horny bastard, I guess. I figured you’d be sore, though, you being so damn small.”

  She flushed at his explicit reference.

  He smiled, stroking her shoulder. “Still so modest. I’ll go get some salve.” He left.

  Miranda lay there trying to deny that she wanted his loving. She wondered if her base appetite was some kind of punishment. How could that be? Since she had come to Texas it had been one horri
ble thing after another. She didn’t deserve any more anguish, she was sure of it.

  Derek returned with a small jar she recognized. Knowing what it was for, she flushed and reached out for it. He didn’t hand it to her. “I’ll do it,” he said.

  She gasped and sat upright. “No you won’t.”

  “Ssh.” He eased her legs apart, and gently he spread the salve inside her, soothing the raw tissues. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said hoarsely. His fingers stroked, and when she began to arch he withdrew them, his hands shaking.

  “Damn,” he said, dropping the jar on the floor and crushing her to him.

  He smothered what would have been a protest with a very hot, hard kiss. Her body was like a finally tuned instrument, responding instantly. She wanted him. Desperately. It was wrong—but she didn’t care.

  He rained kisses on her face and throat, stroking her breast, then, irritated, ripping the chemise down the front. She moaned as he captured both breasts with his hands, kissing her deeply, passionately. Their teeth grated. She returned his kiss, nipping at his mouth, holding his head, then his face. She thrust her tongue in his mouth, touched his.

  “Miranda,” he cried.

  “Yes,” she said.

  His unspoken question was answered. He had already shed his pants. “Let me know if I hurt you,” he rasped, stroking her moist, warm flesh with his fingers.

  There was the slightest soreness as he eased in, controlling his urge to thrust hard and fast. She didn’t care. She wanted him, where he was, filling her up so completely, becoming a part of her. He guided her legs upward, and she clamped them around his waist. They moved together, hard and fast, almost desperate, and reached a stunning climax quickly, as one.

  Miranda moaned when he left her, this time from real pain. She was burning.

  He held her close, tightly, kissing her temple. She refused to think, tried desperately to block out ugly, guilty thoughts, and buried her face in his neck. Wanton, she kept thinking, wanton. Soon he was fast asleep, still holding her in his arms.