Outlaw

by Lisa Plumley

  Only one comfortable position came to mind. Him, pulling Curly Top down with him on that rock. Touching her the way he longed to do, making her need the way he needed now. Thrusting into her sweetness until they were both spent and breathless. Making love to her, haircut be damned.

  Hell. Mason stared blankly toward a cholla bush in the distance, waiting for his head to clear. Behind him, Amy still stroked and combed, oblivious to all he’d been thinking. The snick-snick of the scissors sounded in his ear as she worked, underlaid by the low-pitched melody of the song she was humming.

  She was innocent. Inexperienced. And she was leaving him behind as soon as they reached Tucson.

  He was a wanted man. An outlaw without a future. And she’d be better off without him.

  Mason still wanted her.

  He cleared his throat. “Almost done?”

  She laughed. “I’ve just gotten started! You do want it to look nice, don’t you? That takes a little time.”

  More time than Mason had, if the state he was in now was any indication. His pants felt two sizes too small. He squirmed atop the rock, trying in vain to relieve some of the pressure.

  Amy snipped a bit more, then stopped. Resting her forearms on his shoulders, she leaned over him from behind to get a glimpse of his face. Her hair swept across his cheek, followed closely by the warm fullness of her breast against the top of his shoulder. Mason groaned.

  “Why, Mason, I swear a person would think I’m torturing you, the way you’re behaving!” she said, staring at him curiously.

  Torturing him. Curly Top couldn’t possibly know how right she was. It might’ve been enough to make him laugh, except for the desire that kept him nearly rigid with the effort of keeping it in check.

  Instead Mason stared straight ahead. “I’m fine.”

  A muscle in his jaw ticked with fatigue, worn out from keeping his teeth clenched. Opening his mouth wide, he stretched his jaw to relieve the tension, then clamped it shut again.

  “No, you’re not.” Amy’s brows furrowed. “You think I can’t do this, don’t you?” she asked, her voice quavering.

  “No.”

  “It’s true! Do you think I haven’t noticed you scooting away from the scissors every time I come near?”

  He was too dumbstruck at the depth of her misreckoning to say anything more at first, and so she just went right on talking. Each carefully pronounced syllable was like a knife, carving the hurt she felt deeper into Mason.

  “Do you think I haven’t seen you making those pain-filled faces when you think I’m not looking?” she asked, waving the scissors. “That I haven’t seen—”

  “Curly Top, no. I—” How could he tell her the truth? Tell her how he wanted her, wanted to make love to her, wanted to keep her with him and make her his own—despite his better judgment?

  He couldn’t. He never spoken such things aloud in his life, not to any woman. And even if he could have, it was plain Amy didn’t feel the same yearning, the same need, that he did. Plain that he’d hurt her without knowing it, and he didn’t know how to set it right.

  “It’s not your fault,” Mason began, groping for the words to explain away at least part of what she’d so sorely misunderstood. “It’s just that you…that I—”

  “I know, I know.” She pushed herself upright again, using his shoulder for leverage. Gripping the scissors tightly, she leveled him with a look that held more hard-won knowledge than he’d imagined she’d have reason to keep. It sent her hurt twisting straight into his soul, gave him a glimpse of her life before. Mason didn’t like what he saw.

  “I can’t help being the way I am,” she told him, the words sounding oft-repeated. “It’s not my fault you don’t have faith in me. Isn’t that what you were going to say?”

  She started combing again, snipping faster this time. Hearing tears in her voice, Mason started to turn his head to tell her she was wrong. Her hands clamped tight over his ears, holding him still with a strength he never would’ve guessed Curly Top possessed.

  “I’ve heard it before,” Amy said. “You don’t have to tell me again.”

  Regret choked him. Was it her father who’d put these notions into her head? Her brothers who’d told her how they lacked faith in her? Mason wished he could wring all their damned gentleman necks for hurting her.

  If only he were better with words, but all his explanations only made things worse. He’d never been much for talking. Until now, he hadn’t cared.

  “But you agreed to my disguise plan,” Amy went on, combing and cutting with a vengeance, her voice a bit stronger now, “and I intend to hold you to your word.”

  She moved in front of him again, then paused to peer critically at the front of his hair. Her gaze studiously fixed on the task at hand, Amy lifted a long hank that hung across his eyebrow and snipped it.

  Mason caught her hand and slipped the comb from it. As it fell into his lap, he twined his fingers with hers and pulled their joined hands against his chest, forcing her to look at him.

  “I want you to do it.”

  Flushing, she tried to tug her hand away. “You don’t—”

  Mason held fast. “I want you to do it,” he said again. “I believe you’ll do a good job.”

  She stared at him, her eyes blue and wide and suspicious.

  He caressed her hand, felt his heart beating faster beneath her touch, and added, “Hurry up before I change my mind and haul you down here for a kiss, instead.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You’re bluffing,” Amelia said, the scissors going slack in her hand. Of all the things Mason might have said to her, this was the very last one she’d expected.

  She wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe he truly had faith in her—or at least in her ability to give him a decent haircut or cook a palatable meal. More than ever before, it seemed so important that he find her capable. If only for a little while, Amelia wanted to feel trusted. Needed.

  But could she trust Mason, an outlaw and a man she’d only known for days—however familiar he seemed to her now?

  He squeezed her hand, making her doubly aware of the work-roughened strength of his grasp. Mason could pull her down for a kiss, and would if he took a mind to, she realized. The proof was there in the cocky angle of his half-shorn head, the hot glimmer in his eyes, the quickening of his heartbeat beneath their joined hands.

  And she wouldn’t be able to stop him.

  “Do I look like I’m bluffing?” Mason asked, stroking his fingers lightly over her knuckles.

  The heat of his body seared through his shirt, warming her far more than the waning sunlight did.

  “You—you look like a hungry cat contemplating a goldfish bowl,” Amelia stammered, trying to pull her hand away again.

  He confused her so much! One minute he looked as though he’d just as soon have left her at the roadside waiting for the stagecoach that had abandoned her. The next, he seemed as though she hurt him somehow. And the next, he was laughing at her. She wished mightily Mason would just make up his mind how he felt about her and have done with it, once and for all.

  He gave her a lazy smile. “I guess that makes you the prize goldfish.”

  “And you the tomcat,” she said, feeling her mood lighten a little. “On the prowl after a poor, defenseless little creature.” She made a tsk-tsk sound, teasing him.

  Unsmiling, Mason slid his hand down her wrist in a slow caress. The subtle friction of his palm over the tender hollows of her wrist and along the underside of her forearm set every inch of skin he touched atingle. She stared at his sun-browned hand, amazed that such sensation could be engendered by so simple a touch.

  To her surprise, he released her hand. But his attention remained solely, compellingly, on her. Slowly his gaze roved over her hair, her dress, her body, and finally came to rest on her face.

  It was, she realized, another caress. Amelia wanted to gasp at the intimacy, the heat, of it. Her belly tightened with anticipation and her knees felt quivery,
just standing there. Even though Mason hadn’t so much as leaned toward her, the look he gave her put Amelia in mind of the times he’d kissed her.

  It made her want him to kiss her again.

  Now.

  “A beautiful creature, that prized goldfish,” Mason said, his eyes never leaving hers. His lips quirked upward, just faintly, leaving no doubt what he meant by his words. “Not defenseless at all.”

  “Oh?” she asked, trying to sound more casual than she felt standing there between his legs, close enough to feel his body heat warm her skirts.

  Suddenly she had a greater understanding of how that goldfish might feel beneath a tomcat’s patient, predatory scrutiny.

  Afraid her trembling hands might betray her feelings, Amelia folded her arms tightly across her chest, letting the scissors poke out beneath her elbow.

  “And what defense, pray tell,” she asked, “does a tiny goldfish have against a tomcat?”

  Mason’s smile widened. But it was the yearning in his eyes that made her heart lodge in her throat. She knew she should move, should get on with her work and retreat from whatever this was awakening between them. It felt dangerous, seductive.

  And far too compelling to turn away from unexplored. Amelia could no more step away at that moment than she could turn the desert green with a simple wave of her hand.

  “The goldfish lures that tomcat,” he said, his voice low. “Whether it means to or not.”

  Mason clamped his hands roughly on his knees, flexing his fingers as though seeking purchase on something more ephemeral than flesh and bone.

  “He can’t help but want something so tempting.”

  “Mason….”

  He raised his gaze to hers. “Even knowing it’s not his to take.”

  She couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Mason…wanted her? Could that really be what he meant? Stricken, Amelia could only stare at him at first.

  “Mason, I—”

  “It’s nearly sunset,” he broke in, frowning up at the sky. Straightening his arms again, his spine rigid, Mason said, “You’d better finish up.”

  “Finish up…?”

  He smiled, but somehow the easy intimacy between them had evaporated like so much morning dew in the heat of day.

  “With my hair. We’ve got to get moving, Curly Top.”

  Disappointment made Amelia’s hand waver as she raised the shears again. Trying not to think of all he’d said, she sifted her hands through the thick, coffee-colored strands beneath her fingers. Just a few more snips around his ears and….

  And it was no use trying not to think about it. Mason wanted her! Why, then, had he refused her invitation for a kiss only yesterday? Nibbling her lower lip thoughtfully, Amelia went on combing and cutting, but her thoughts were on the man sitting stoically on the rock in front of her.

  She chanced a look at his face. Familiar, yet changed without its shadow of beard stubble, it wore as impassive an expression as ever. It was impossible to guess what Mason was feeling. He possessed the finest poker face she’d ever seen, much to her frustration.

  Sighing, Amelia moved closer to snip the fine dark hairs at his temples. She combed a lock of hair and held it between her fingers, then slid the scissors upward to cut. They wobbled in her shaky hand and conked him in the temple instead.

  Nothing moved except Mason’s eyes, then his eyebrows raised. He looked at the scissors, then at her. “Didn’t mean to get you all riled up,” he said, “with all that talking.”

  He frowned, as though talking were the vilest of activities.

  “I’m not riled,” Amelia lied, wishing she could use both hands to hold the scissors. Maybe then she could cut steadily. But she figured such obvious maneuvering would hardly inspire confidence in her abilities. “You’re wiggling.”

  His lips turned up at one corner. “So you decided to bash me in the head for it? Remind me not to make you really wrathy, Curly Top.”

  “I’m not wrathy,” she protested, backing up a bit. Her skirts brushed his legs. “It’s just…just….”

  Just the fact that Mason had piqued her curiosity with all his kissing and talk of wanting. Amelia could hardly stand to be left wondering. She wanted more of that quivery, thrilling feeling, more low-pitched words of beauty and temptation. If the determined set of his shoulders was anything to judge by, she reckoned Mason wasn’t going to give it to her.

  “It’s just nothing,” she said curtly. “Turn your head so I can cut the other side.”

  “Of my hair,” he reminded, obediently looking toward the mountains. “I like my ears where they are.”

  Amelia made a face. “And I like a little more quiet while I work, please,” she said, ignoring the smile he gave her in return.

  She needed to focus her attention on finishing his haircut. To that end, she leaned forward, unthinkingly propping her knee slightly on top of Mason’s thigh for balance. Instantly, his hands came around her leg, wrapping just above her knee to steady her. The heat of his palms burned through the layers of her skirts and petticoat, all the way to her skin beneath. Suddenly, she became aware of the granite-hard feel of his thigh, muscular and warm beneath her. Amelia’s breath caught.

  Their eyes met.

  The pressure of his hands on her thigh increased, became a gentle kneading that moved steadily higher, bunching her skirts. She shivered, caught up in the sensation, unable to take her eyes from Mason’s. His eyes darkened as he watched her, almost as though their senses were one, almost as though he experienced every feeling as Amelia did.

  Blindly she reached for him, felt his shoulders bunch beneath her hands as she held onto him. His hands roamed higher, spanned the width of her waist, pulled her closer. The comb and scissors fell from her hands; dimly Amelia heard the implements thud behind them onto the barely moist soil. Mason’s hands slowed, his movements sensual and dreamlike…but her pulse beat faster, keeping time with her breath.

  Exhilaration filled her. This was what she wanted, what she needed. Twining her fingers in his shirt, she lay her cheek across the top of Mason’s head, felt the soft, uneven ends of his hair tickle her skin. His arms flexed, holding her tighter. His thumbs swept upward, making tender circles beneath her ribs.

  Amelia gasped, feeling like squirming, like rubbing against him, like holding him tighter, all at once. Wavering, she squeezed his shoulders for balance. Incoherent whimpers rose in her throat, only to fade beneath a new onslaught of sensation as Mason’s head came forward, his face buried in the neckline of her dress. He moaned, and his hands slid up her back, flattening against her shoulder blades.

  He pushed her closer, trapping her between his hands behind her and his face at her bosom. His jaw, roughened by the beginnings of a beard she hadn’t noticed before, rubbed slowly over the swell of her breasts, awakening her skin with each tiny prickle of movement. He nuzzled her collarbone, inhaling hoarsely as though he, too, felt breathless as Amelia did.

  “Mmmm, so soft,” Mason murmured, kissing the hollow of her throat. His lips glided to just above the lace-edged neckline of her dress, leaving a row of hot kisses along her skin.

  “So soft, so…” His fingers flexed at her back and his body quivered with barely suppressed emotion. “Ahhh, Amy. I’m just a man. I can’t—”

  “Please,” she cried, digging her fingers into his hair to hold him to her. “Please, Mason.”

  Her breasts ached, fairly throbbing with the need for his touch. Surely he could ease the inexplicable longing that rose within her, surely he couldn’t bring her this far, only to leave her wanting…wanting.

  “I need…oh, I think I’ll die if you stop touching me, I—” Amelia’s words ended on a strangled plea, wrenched from her lips as his hands slid from her shoulder blades down to the small of her back, then away. Releasing her?

  Driven by the need to reach him, to make him understand how she felt, Amelia clutched at his head, leaned down to him. A kiss could change his mind. With her heart pounding in her chest, her fingers trembli
ng, she tilted her head to reach Mason’s lips. She closed her eyes. Before her courage could desert her, she lurched forward to press her lips to his.

  Her nose bashed into Mason’s.

  Pained tears sprang to her eyes. She opened them to see him only inches away. Horribly, he was frowning at her.

  “Curly Top,” he started to say, leaning slightly away, “I can’t—”

  He was trying to stop her. No, no—she could do this. Frowning with renewed determination, Amelia puckered her lips and forced his head to tilt sideways too, then tried again.

  Their lips met. She kissed harder, and for the first time in her life it occurred to her to resent the inexperience that made her so clumsy. It filled her with frustration. Amelia tried to mimic the way Mason had kissed her, skimming her tongue gently over his lips, teasing his mouth open.

  It wasn’t working, she thought miserably. She didn’t know what to do, how to touch him, how to share the remarkable feelings he stirred within her. Screwing her eyelids more tightly shut, Amelia flicked her tongue in tiny lapping motions over his lips.

  With a tortured groan, Mason threaded his hands in her hair and cradled her to him. Their mouths melded into hot, unending sweetness as he took charge of the kiss, hungrily tasting her lips, teasing her tongue with his own, making her wild for more…more. It felt like surrender and joining at once, like a union she’d waited for all her life without knowing it.

  Amelia couldn’t think, could only feel as the kiss deepened and went on. Mason’s hands covered her breasts, possessing her, and her body responded with all the eagerness her heart had kept hidden. Her nipples tightened, yearning for his touch. His palms skimmed over their delicate peaks, then he cupped her fullness in his hands. He squeezed, ever so gently, and Amelia cried out, the sound muffled against his mouth.

  His shuddering moan wrested from her whatever hesitation still remained. Nothing had ever felt so heavenly as Mason’s hands caressing her, his lips kissing her—his heart, reaching out to her. Joyously, she kissed him back with all the passion that swelled within her, holding him close.