by Tess LeSue
“There is nothing wrong with this dress,” she shouted at him, completely infuriated. He was supposed to like the damn thing!
With every word her breasts heaved against the cranberry satin and Luke’s glare grew blacker. “Have it your way,” he snapped, pinning her beneath him as he grabbed her wrists. She bit and bucked and kicked and screamed, but nothing deterred him, and before long she was tied firmly to the bed. Luke stood back and regarded her with satisfaction, unmindful of the bruises he’d sustained.
“Dell will hear me scream,” she shrieked at him.
He grabbed a length of satin from the pile of off-cuts by her sewing basket. “You can’t stop me wearing this dress,” she managed to bellow before he gagged her. “I’ll wear it every day for the rest of my damned life if I want to!”
She noticed with satisfaction his sudden look of impotent rage at her words. Then her eyes widened in horror. Triumphantly, Luke withdrew the long-bladed silver scissors from her basket. He snipped the scissors in the air a couple of times. He wouldn’t!
He would.
She didn’t care if she was gagged, she shouted every vile word she could think of at him. He ignored her muffled ranting and approached her, a dark gleam in his eyes. With a look of satisfaction he took the scissors to her beautiful satin dress. The rasp of the blades rang in Alex’s ears. She could feel the cold hard press of the metal against her as he cut the dress away from her body. He was merciless. He didn’t stop until the gown lay in ribbons around her.
It was only when there was nothing left to cut that the red rage began to recede and Luke saw what he’d done. She was deathly still. Her face was as white as the sheet. Only her eyes were alive, and they burned with wrath. Luke was in no doubt that if looks could kill he would have keeled over right then and there.
A staccato knocking at the front door startled them both.
“I suppose that will be Dell,” he said sardonically. “Excuse me for a moment, won’t you, sweetheart.” The scissors clattered to the dresser and she heard his footsteps as he descended the stairs. There was the sound of the front door opening.
“Dell,” she heard him say faintly, a note of regret hanging heavy in his voice, “I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but I’m afraid Miss Barratt has taken unexpectedly to her bed.”
The unbelievable bastard. Alex bit down hard on the satin and imagined that she was biting through his jugular.
“Is there anything I can do?” Dell was asking.
“No, it’s nothing a night of peace and quiet won’t cure.”
She’d give him peace and quiet, she thought, her eyes fixed on the shining blades of the scissors. The minute he untied her she’d plunge those blades through his cold dead heart.
* * *
• • •
LUKE WATCHED A very disappointed Dell Pritchard climb back into his wagon and head into town alone. Once the sound of the wagon had receded he sank to the porch steps, feeling suddenly shaky. What on earth had come over him? He’d acted like an animal.
Luke rubbed his face, taking big gulps of the cold air. The snow was falling steadily now, and he was glad of its chill kiss on the bare skin of his hands and face. Lord, but she’d been beautiful, coming down those stairs. He could still see the way the lamplight clung lovingly to her lush curves, casting shadows in the deep hollow between her breasts. And that face. Like some kind of wood sprite, out to tempt and tease.
Luke groaned, hearing the phantom rasp of the scissors. He was going mad. Every day the torture got worse, not better. Every morning she showed up in some new dress, prettier and prettier until he thought he’d never sleep again for the dreams she inflicted on him.
He was lost, he thought, lowering his hands and staring into the swirling snow. Completely and utterly lost. He had been ever since he’d seen her at Dolly’s, sprawled out in Delia’s bed, all sleepy and warm. She’d spoiled any other woman for him. He hadn’t touched another woman since their first night together, he thought in shock. He compared every woman he saw to her, and they came up wanting. Even Amelia Harding. Especially Amelia Harding, he thought with a sigh. What had he ever seen in her? She was so shallow, so vain.
He couldn’t imagine Amelia lopping off her shiny hair and dressing in Adam’s old clothes. He couldn’t imagine her helping him to butcher a cow, or to lower a wagon down a hill. Or screaming at mules, he thought with a grin.
He looked up at the light burning in Alex’s window. She was never going to forgive him for this.
With his tail between his legs, Luke climbed the stairs. Sure enough, she still looked mad enough to kill. He paused in the doorway. It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to untie her until she’d cooled off a little. He’d be liable to find himself hit over the head with a chair.
Cautiously, he sat beside her on the bed. She was completely, ominously silent, and her gray eyes were fixed on him, as though willing him to drop dead on the spot. He sighed and tore his gaze away from hers.
Which was a dangerous thing to do, he found, suddenly aware of how skimpy her underclothes were. He’d managed to shred her petticoats along with the gown and she was completely naked except for her corset and a gossamer-fine chemise. He noticed the evil-looking bruise curving around her hip.
“That mule really got you, didn’t he?” Instinctively he reached out and brushed his fingertips over the teeth marks. She flinched. As she did her hips lifted off the bed and he swore. Her rear end was covered with a massive yellowing bruise. No wonder she’d screamed. And it had happened three weeks ago—imagine how bad it must have looked then.
Without thinking, he bent and pressed the lightest of kisses against the bruise. He heard her draw a sharp breath and he looked up, without lifting his lips from her hip. He could see the confusion mixed in with her wrath. Experimentally, he kissed her hip again, still holding her gaze. The confusion dissipated, replaced with something smoky—something he hoped might be desire.
“I’m going to touch you,” he said softly. “And kiss you. You let me know if you want me to stop.” Not wanting to anger her further, he proceeded slowly. He trailed a series of butterfly-light kisses along the edge of the bruise, not breaking eye contact. When she stayed still, stretched as taut as piano wire, not making a sound of protest, he flicked his tongue against her skin.
Another sharp hiss of breath through her teeth, and he felt her muscles leap. But she didn’t yell, or try to pull away. Encouraged, he traced the very tip of his tongue along her hipbone. She tasted warm and salty and he felt himself swell with desire. When he reached the dip of her stomach he paused. His hands began to stroke the backs of her thighs, following the firm curve of muscle up to her buttocks, and down again to the hollows behind her knees. He felt her tremble beneath his touch.
He looked up again to find that her eyelids had fluttered closed, her eyelashes forming dark fans on her flushed cheeks. He sat up and her eyes snapped open. He knew disappointment when he saw it. He felt an unexpected hope slowly uncurl in his chest. Could he make her forget her rage?
He stretched out beside her on the bed and propped himself on one elbow, so he could look down at her. He traced the curve of her jaw with one lazy finger and she snapped at him like a turtle. He laughed, but quelled it when he saw the ire flare again in her smoky eyes. He lowered himself to place the barest whisper of a kiss by her ear.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he sighed, noticing how she shivered when his hot breath swirled against her skin. “It was the thought of every man in town being able to see you like that. Dell Pritchard,” he breathed in disgust, grazing his teeth against her earlobe. “I’d want to kill him if he saw you like that.” He took her earlobe in his mouth and heard her sigh. As he nipped it gently between his teeth his finger began a torturously slow descent down the long arch of her neck, resting briefly where her pulse leaped, before continuing down to where her breasts rose above the corset. So l
ight that the touch was almost imaginary, his fingertip brushed across the luscious swell. He gave her earlobe one last long suck and then released it. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, watching as gooseflesh rippled her skin. Her eyes had fluttered closed again.
His finger dipped into the shadowed hollow of her cleavage and she moaned. He could see her nipples thrusting at the fine lawn of her chemise, and couldn’t resist brushing over them on his way to the hooks on the front of her corset. She arched and moaned again.
One by one he unhooked the metal eyes of her corset, pushing it open slowly, knowing that the cool air would rush against her skin in a sinuous, sensual wave. Now the full ripeness of her breasts was revealed, pushing against the flimsy chemise. He lowered his mouth and kissed her though the thin material. She almost came off the bed in shock. He smiled against her and circled her pleading nipple with his tongue. The moistened lawn stuck to her skin, teasing him. He placed his open mouth over her and sucked, while his hand cupped her other breast. He rubbed his palm over her until she was arching hard against it.
When he pulled his hand away, she sighed with disappointment. His hand followed the firm contours of her stomach, tracing the dip above her hipbones, and then it went lower. As his fingers explored her, he pulled the gag from her mouth with his other hand and kissed her before she could make a sound. His tongue mimicked the thrusting of his fingers and he felt her becoming molten beneath his touch.
His desire was so acute it was painful, but he made no move to undress. All he cared about tonight was giving her pleasure.
When she was mindless with wanting him he released her mouth. She groaned and strained against the ropes. When his tongue replaced his fingers she thought she would die of pleasure. His hands slid over her body as he sucked and caressed her; when they settled on her breasts and he took her nipples between his fingers she began to cry out. She couldn’t bear it.
Her hips were rocking against him. He settled into a slow rhythm, his tongue sliding across her again and again until she was screaming with the joy of it. She was a white-hot ball of sensation; the fury of it kept building and building, the heat surging until she thought she would be burned alive.
He quickened his pace as he felt her begin to shudder.
She was screaming his name, pulling against the ropes and arching into the insistent thrust of his tongue until suddenly, with a burst of unbelievable pleasure, the world seemed to implode around her.
41
HE WAS GONE when she woke. And so were the ropes.
She might have thought she’d dreamed the entire night if it hadn’t been for the tangle of ruined satin next to the bed. Shaken, she slid from between the sheets, wincing as the cold air hit her naked body. She pulled on the first thing to hand, which happened to be her old gray dress, which she’d worn the day before while she was out cutting branches for the decorations. Her fingers trembled on the buttons as she fastened them. Had that only been yesterday?
Oh, she’d had such high hopes.
She kicked at the mangled cranberry-colored gown, feeling confused. She clung gratefully to the remnants of her anger. Anger was easy. She understood anger.
She yanked the curtains open to find a white world, barely lit by the pearly predawn glow. Nothing moved; the snow had ceased to fall and there wasn’t a breath of wind. Everyone was still asleep. She wondered if they’d enjoyed the dance and felt a renewed blaze of rage.
If Luke Slater had been standing in front of her right then she would have kicked him. Where the hell was he anyway? What kind of man left a woman alone after he . . . after he . . . Alex spluttered, unable to decide what exactly he had done. The night came back at her in random flashes: the ropes, the rage, his hot black eyes, the swirl of his breath against her ear, the expert stroke of his hands, the way his tongue . . .
She pressed her cold hands against her hot cheeks. Oh glory. What kind of woman let a man do that to her after he’d tied her up like some kind of criminal?
He’d tied her up! She still couldn’t quite believe it. How could he have done it to her again? How could she have let him! She eyed the scissors. She had a mind to hunt him down right this minute. She set her jaw and resolved to do just that, snatching up the scissors on her way out.
She knocked softly at his door, and then arrested herself mid-knock, appalled. Why should she knock? He was the one who should be knocking at her door! He should be groveling on his knees, she thought with a snarl.
She pushed the door open.
His room was empty. The bed was neatly made and the curtains were wide open. She scowled. Had he risen early, or had he not gone to bed? How late had he stayed in her room? She had a vision of him lingering, watching her sleep, and her anger flared even hotter.
She knew very well where he’d be. With his damn horses. They were about the only thing he cared about. Alex was too piqued to stop for a coat; she strode outside toward the barn with only her fury for warmth.
At the door to the barn she stumbled and almost fell, her heart stopping in her chest. There was blood in the snow. Vivid, scarlet, fresh blood.
“Luke?” she called, her voice cracking. The interior of the barn was pitch black compared to the pearly white world outside, and she couldn’t see a thing. She broke out in a cold sweat.
She heard a faint moan.
“Luke?” she called again, hearing the panic in her own voice.
“Alex.”
She flew into the blackness of the barn, horrified by the weak rattle of his voice. Before her eyes could adjust to the darkness rough hands seized her.
She knew who it was before he spoke. She should do, he’d manhandled her often enough. “You need to come with me,” Silas wheezed. She struggled against him.
“Luke!”
The shattered rasp of Silas’s bitter laughter was horrific. “He can’t help you now. We have to go.”
“Luke!” she screamed as Silas dragged her from the barn. She screamed even louder when they emerged into the breaking daylight. Silas was a monster. He was barely recognizable; his face had been pummeled into a gut-wrenching mess of raw meat. He was missing his ears, Alex noticed sickly. She tried to jump free, but he held on to her with all the strength left in his broken body. He was barely alive, Alex observed. He was operating on basic instinct, and his basic instinct had been to come for her.
Panicked, Alex stabbed at him with the scissors, but Silas barely seemed to register the pain. She stabbed again as he tried to throw her over his horse. The scissors lodged in the meat of his arm and she couldn’t pull them out again. She gagged, revolted by the feel of the scissors moving in his flesh. “What have you done to Luke?” she yelled as he mounted the horse. He didn’t answer her.
He applied his spurs without mercy and they plowed into the lower ranges of the Cascades. “Let me go,” she begged, somehow knowing that he could barely hear her. Silas was locked in a world of pain.
She kept hearing the rattle in Luke’s voice. “What did you do to him?” she pleaded. Was he dying back there in the barn, all alone?
Silas didn’t speak. She looked up and saw to her horror that his eyes were full of blood. He was dying. Dear Lord, he was dying. And he was taking her deep into the mountains as he died. How would she ever get back? She didn’t know the way, and it was freezing cold and she didn’t even have a coat. She wasn’t even wearing stockings! Or any underwear for that matter! All that stood between her and the frigid mountain air was her frayed old gray dress. She would freeze before the day was out.
She couldn’t let that happen. Not when Luke was back there, possibly bleeding to death. She only hoped her screams had woken everyone in the house, that they’d come running out and find Luke, that they’d hurry for the doctor. Oh hell, she couldn’t even remember if Utopia had a doctor.
She stayed deathly still for a while, hoping to lull Silas into a sense of complacency. B
ut his iron grip didn’t loosen even a little. She wondered if he was dead already. Maybe she was trapped in the arms of a stiffening dead man. But no, there was the tortured wheeze of his breath.
She heard the staccato crunch of hooves on snow before he did. Someone was coming fast behind them. Alex bent sharply to peer around Silas’s ruined body. He yanked her back, but not before she’d caught sight of a familiar dark head.
He was alive!
“Luke!” she shrieked, her voice echoing through the mountains, despite the snow. The granite rock faces sent her cry ricocheting back and forth above their heads.
Silas urged his horse between a narrow pass and onto a ledge above a steep chasm. He dismounted, pulling her from the horse, and aiming his gun at the opening in the rock.
“Let her go.” Luke’s voice seemed to come from every direction at once, bouncing from rock to rock and mountain to mountain.
“I can’t,” Silas rasped desperately, pulling Alex closer, “he’ll kill her.”
“I’ll kill you if you don’t.” There was the sound of a hammer being pulled back. It made an ominous click.
Silas began to laugh. It was a hopeless sound. “Go ahead, Slater. You can’t kill a dead man.”
“Just watch me.” The single shot was deafening. Alex felt Silas jerk. And then he was slumped at her feet, a rivulet of blood running from him and pooling in a depression in the rock.
A silhouette appeared between the narrow pass. Alex ran toward him as he slid from Blackie Junior. The Arab whickered. Alex threw herself at Luke, gasping as he wilted against her. Her relief evaporated. “Luke?” she breathed, alarmed.
“It’s just a little knife wound,” he said through dry lips, “nothing to worry about.”
She was worried. He was gray and clammy, and he was having trouble keeping his feet. There was a vivid scarlet blossom staining his shirt.