"Do you think—do you think that she'll be all right?"
He lifted his hat and rolled toward her. She was staring at him so earnestly. Her eyes seemed old, so very wise and world-weary, and their tiredness added a curious new beauty and sensuality to her features.
He propped himself up on one elbow, watching her across the distance of the mere two feet that separated them.
"Shannon, they're going to take good care of Kristin. She is all that they have to use against Cole. Now, please, go to sleep." He lay back down, slanting his hat over his face.
"Malachi?" she whispered.
"What?" he asked irritably.
"Thank you—really."
Her voice was so soft. Like a feather dusting sweetly over his flesh. His muscles tightened and constricted and ached and burned, and he felt himself rising hard and hot.
"Shannon, go to sleep," he groaned.
"Malachi—"
"Shannon, go to sleep!"
She was silent. So silent then. She didn't try to speak again.
It was going to be all right. She was going to go to sleep; he was going to go to sleep. When he woke up, he wouldn't be so damned tired. He'd have so much more control over his emotions and needs.
A sound suddenly broke the silence of the morning.
He threw his hat off, leaping to his feet. She stared at him, startled.
She sat on her bedroll, cross-legged like an Indian, chewing on a piece of smoked meat. She had bread and cheese spread out before her, too, just like a damned picnic.
"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.
"Eating!"
"Now?"
"Malachi, I haven't eaten in ages! It's been almost two full days."
His temper ebbed. He hadn't thought to stop for food last night, and she hadn't said anything, either.
"Just hurry it up, will you, please?"
"Of course," she said indignantly. She stared at him with reproach. He threw up his hands, issued a curt oath and plopped back down on the ground.
He just had to have some sleep.
He didn't sleep. He listened as she finished with the food and carefully wrapped it up to pack in her saddlebags. He listened as she stretched out on the ground, pulling her blanket tight around her shoulders.
Then he just listened to the sound of her breathing. He could have sworn that he could even hear the rhythmic thumping of her heart.
When he closed his eyes, he could see her. Could even see the pink satin flowers sewn into the lace of her corset. He could see her flesh, silky soft and smooth, and he could see the length of her, and the beautiful blue sizzle of her eyes…
He didn't even like her, he reminded himself.
But then again, maybe he didn't dislike her quite so much, either.
Somewhere in time, he did sleep.
He slept well, and he slept deeply. Warmth invaded him. He felt more than the hard ground beneath him, more than the coldness of the earth.
He felt flesh.
He awoke with a start.
He had rolled, or she had rolled, and now she lay curled against his chest. His chin nuzzled her hair; his arm lay draped around her. He was sleeping on her hair, entangled within it. Her features in repose were stunning, a study in classical beauty. Her cheekbones were high and her lips were full and red and parted slightly as she breathed softly in and out. Her lashes lay like dusky shadows over her flesh, enticing, provocative. The scent of her filled him deliciously. His arm was over her breast, the fullness of one round mound…
He jerked away from her, gritting his teeth. He should wake her up. He should shove her from him, as hard as he could.
He bit hard into his lip, then carefully eased her from him. She didn't whimper or protest. It he hadn't felt her breathing, he might have been afraid that she had died, her sleep was so deep and complete.
He sat up and pulled off his boots and socks and walked down to the water. It was cool and good, and just what he needed. He shucked his shirt, and let the water ripple over his shoulders and back. He came back to his bedroll stripped down to his breeches.
He sighed and laid back. He looked up at the sky. It was midafternoon now. They should ride again by night.
Damn her. He was the one who needed sleep so badly.
He closed his eyes. They flew open almost instantly.
She had rolled beside him again.
He looked at her and then sighed, giving up. He slipped his arm around her and held her close to the warmth of his body. He didn't listen to her heart but he felt it, beating sweetly.
It was so much worse now. He felt her with his naked flesh, and it was good to hold her as a woman. Too good. But he didn't release her. He held her and swallowed back his darker thoughts.
Knowing Shannon, he thought wryly, she would rise in a fury, accusing him of all manner of things. She would probably never believe that she had come to him in her sleep.
Come to him for the simple warmth and caring that she could not seek when she was awake.
We all need to be held, Malachi thought.
He sighed, shuddering against the fragrance of her hair. He would sleep again, he would sleep again. And she would never know just how fully he had played the gentleman, the cavalier…
He would never get back to sleep.
But finally, he did. Perhaps the very rhythm of her breath and heartbeat finally lulled him to sleep. Perhaps abject exhaustion finally seized him.
When he slept, he dreamed again.
He was remembering, he realized. Remembering the day when he had been shot. To the day when he had fallen into the brook.
He was seeing things. Illusions. Soft sunlight playing down from the sky, glittering upon the warm, rich earth. Sunlight touching the earth…and touching upon the woman.
She had risen from the center of the brook like a phoenix reborn from the crystal-clear depths. She seemed to move with magic, bursting with gentle beauty from the depths. Her arms, long and graceful, broke the water first, then her head, with her hair streaming wet and slick, and then her shoulders and her breasts with tendrils of her hair plastered around them. And she continued to rise, rise and rise, until the full flare of her hips and the shapely length of her legs arose.
Venus…arising from her bath.
She was perfection, her breasts lush and ripe and full and firm and achingly beautiful with their rouge-tipped, pebbled peaks. Her waist was supple and slim, her hips…
She was illusion, illusion moving in slow motion. She was the product of a dream, of too many sleepless nights. Maybe she was a spirit of twilight, a creation of sunset. She blended with the colors of the sky, gold and red and soft magenta.
She dipped down again, cupping her hands, dashing the water up within them. She straightened, tossing it upon her face, and the little droplets fell and streamed from her hands like a cascade of diamonds.
He wasn't dreaming.
He was wide awake, he realized. Wide awake and staring at the stream. Obviously, she had thought he would stay asleep.
He rose and walked down to the water.
She paused, seeing him.
Their eyes met across the water, across the sky touched by sunset in gold and magenta and red.
She froze, as if some spell had been cast upon her there. She didn't drop down to the water, nor did she cover herself with her hands. She simply stared at him, her lips slightly parted, some words, perhaps, frozen upon them. She just watched him.
She just watched him.
And he didn't pause or hesitate.
He walked straight over to her. And when he reached her, he put his arms around her, lifted her chin and studied her face and her lips and her eyes, his fingers moving over the ivory softness of her face.
Then he lowered his head slowly over hers, capturing her lips with his own.
And still, she didn't move…
His arms tightened around her. He ran his fingers gently down her cheek to her throat, and he sent his tongue deeply into her mo
uth, stroking the insides. Desire burst upon him like the crystal shards of sunlight that sprinkled diamondlike upon the water. There would be no turning back for him now. Not now…
He moved his hand over her breast, massaging the fullness, teasing the nipple between his thumb and forefinger and encompassing the fullness of the weight again.
Her lips broke from his. A startled gasp escaped from her, but she didn't fight him. She slipped her arms around him, clinging close to him. Her lips settled upon his shoulder, and her fingers splayed across his back. He continued to play with her breast and she cast her head back as he pressed his lips against her throat, again and again and again. Then he moved downward, and lifted her breast to take it into his mouth, sucking upon the nipple and spiraling his tongue around the aureole.
She cried out, holding his shoulders. He rose to take her lips again, seizing them with hunger, plundering them apart, and seeking her mouth with a fire of passion. She pressed against him, trying to free herself. Her lips rose from his.
"We shouldn't…"
"For God's sake, don't tell me that now!" he said hoarsely, and his mouth closed over hers again, and this time, she made no protest at all. Her arms curled around his neck. He kissed her until he felt her tremble with the same deep desire that burned within him. Until he thought that she would fall.
Then he moved back, and drank in the sight of her again. He reached out and placed his hands around the enchanting fullness of both her breasts, awed by the sensual beauty of their deep-rose pebbled peaks. He touched her breasts, moving his fingers lightly over them, then possessing them with the fullness of his touch.
He stepped even closer, and swept her into his arms.
Splashing through the water, he carried her toward the grassy bank. Her eyes were closed. He knew he should have wondered if she dreamed of another man. He should have wondered if she had any experience with what she was doing, but he didn't wonder about anything at all. Holding her, carning her to the shore, seemed to be the most natural thing to do, and he would not have ceased with his intent had lightning come from the sky to strike him down.
He laid her upon the soft grass embankment. Her eyes remained closed as the last rays of sunlight played over the beauty of her body again. He fell down beside her, and when the light shadowed magenta upon her, he kissed her, and then where the rays fell golden, he kissed her, too. The beautiful colors and musky light were broken by the dappling patterns of the oak leaves, waving above them in the softness of the breeze.
Holding his weight above her, he kissed her lips gently, then moved down between the valley of her breasts. He ran his hand over the lush curve of her flank as his tongue laved her flesh. She tasted of the water, and of the deep, rich colors of the sun.
Malachi stood, looking down at her, feeling the pulse that lived inside of him, increasing erratically with each touch against her. He stripped away his breeches, watching her still, watching the play of the sunset over her supple form. The world receded; the echoes of gunfire could not touch him here. There was nothing but the glorious, magenta sunset, and the girl, as golden and beautiful as the wavering rays of the falling sun, as naked and primitive as the simple earth where they lay.
He lay down beside her again, half covering her with the blanket of his naked flesh. Her eyes remained closed, and she was nearly motionless. He kissed her temple, whispered against her earlobe, trailed his lips down the snowy length of her throat and over the slender line of her collarbone. His hands teased her breasts again, and she arched against him, a curious cry coming from deep within her throat. He watched with fascination, seeking to judge the responses of her body. The shaft of his desire lay naked against her thigh, warmed there by her flesh and grazed by the evening air, so that the burning ache to have her beneath him soared high and fevered, and still he held himself in check.
He wondered if she even remembered who he was. He wanted her to open her eyes. To see his face, to know his name.
He moved his hands to lazily draw circles along her inner thigh, rising higher and higher. He buried his face against her throat and between her breasts, and feathered her flesh with the soft hairs of his beard. She whimpered slightly and began to undulate against him.
With bold and deliberate purpose, he parted her thighs. A certain resistance met him at first, but he caught her lips again, and his kiss seared and invaded and seduced. He wanted to slide down between them, but he kept his eyes hard upon hers instead. He stroked surely along her thigh until he came to the juncture of it, and swiftly, surely penetrated her with an intimate touch.
Her eyes flew open at last and met his. Wide and blue and beautiful and dazed. He knew how to make love, and his stroke moved with tender, sensual finesse.
"No…" she murmured softly, color flooding her cheeks.
He leaned close against her, speaking a breath away from her lips and keeping her eyes locked with his.
"Whisper my name, Shannon."
"No…" she murmured, and he knew that she didn't protest what they did, but only that he forced her to see the reality of it.
That he forced her to look his way, and say his name.
He found the most erotic places of her body and teased her, then plundered ruthlessly within her once again. She cried out, trying to twist from him, trying to elude his eyes. He shifted, burying his weight deep inside her, and holding himself just slightly away from her. She moved, she moved so sweetly against him even as she denied him.
"Put your arms around me, Shannon, tightly around me!" he urged her, and she did so. It was easy for her to cling tightly against him. Her fingers moved over his shoulders, over his back. Tentative, hesitant, seeking to hold him close as he held her, and seeking to give him a certain pleasure.
"Whisper my name, Shannon," he insisted. He hovered over her, teasing her with the fire of his own body. "Say my name. Open your eyes, and say my name."
Her eyes flew open again. There was a shimmer of fury deep within them. "Malachi!" she whispered tensely.
"Now…" He lowered his head to hers once again, and a ruthless grin touched his features. "Tell me what you want me to do."
She stared at him in astonishment, and a flush as crimson as the sunset touched her cheeks and seeped over her breasts. He couldn't bear it much longer. He had to have her soon. But they had always waged war between them, and this one, at least, he would not lose.
"Tell me what you want."
"No…"
"It's easy." She started to press against his shoulders. He caught her hands, and he laced his fingers with hers, and he drew them high over her head. "Say that you want me. I want you, Malachi." He kissed her. He slid his tongue into her mouth and withdrew it and then raked it along her lips. He drew her hands down and held her firm as he moved low against her, lazily taking her breast in his mouth again, slink-ing lower and lower against her. She escaped his grasp, and her nails raked into his shoulders. He heard her gasp and felt her fingers on his head when his kiss teased her belly.
She was alive with passion. Her head tossed and her hips moved, and she whispered something, moistening her lips. Her eyes were closed again, and her face lay to the side. They were both entangled in her hair.
"I can't hear you, Shannon."
"I—I want you."
"I want you, Malachi."
"I want you… Malachi.''
Her voice was breathy, barely a whisper. It was all that he wanted, all that he needed. She moved against him with grace and exquisite sensuality, and a burst of triumph and fever took hold of him as he shifted, touching her, thrusting deep, deep inside her.
She stiffened, and screamed, and he realized then that he had believed her experienced because he had wanted to believe it. He had been deceived, but only because he hadn't wanted to think…
But he felt. He felt the tear within her body, and the constriction of pain, and the trembling that filled her. He started to jerk from her, but her hands pulled him back.
Her eyes were open now. Tears
touched them, but they met his with a curious honesty. "No, no—I said that I wanted you. I said I want you…Malachi."
"Damn it, you didn't tell me that you were a—"
"You didn't ask," she reminded him softly. "Please…"
Her voice trailed away. He realized that it was too late to undo any harm, and yet perhaps not too late to recapture the magic.
He began to move very carefully. Slowly he entered fully within her, and just as slowly he withdrew. Then he plunged again, slowly…slowly.
Minutes later she cried out, straining high against him.
Innately, she seemed to know the craft of womanly art Supplely, exquisitely, she moved beneath him. He matched his rhythm to hers, to the soft magic of the evening. The breeze rustled the leaves and silently caressed them. Birds cried out, and the water rippled and dazzled still. Malachi cried out hoarsely, giving himself free rein at long last, burying himself again and again with speed and fever within the moist and welcoming nest of her body.
The pressure built in him explosively, and still he held himself in a certain control, whispering to her, touching her bare flesh with kisses, urging her ever onward.
She cried out, straining hard against him, collapsing.
He allowed his own climax to come, and when it seized him it was sweet and violent; he shuddered as wave after little wave of pleasure shook him, and rippled anew. When he had finished at last he gazed down at her.
Her eyes were closed again, her lips were parted, and her breath still came swiftly…and he felt the little tremors that touched her. She seemed white, very pale.
"Shannon?" He stroked her hair, smoothing damp tendrils from her face. She moved, trying to free herself from the burden of his body. He shifted his weight, and she curled against him.
"Shannon—"
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