Elizabeth nodded.
He couldn’t look away and he couldn’t speak at all for the naked emotion still so apparent in Elizabeth’s amber eyes. A few strands of her hair had loosened from her braid and were pasted to her dirt-streaked face, one strand to her bottom lip. Gently Cutter plucked it away, smoothing it from her face.
“You should get out of those wet clothes,” he suggested, never releasing her gaze. His thumb rubbed at the smudges on her cheeks, without success.
She needed a bath, but in spite of it, she was a feast for his eyes. She blinked, but other than that, there was nothing about her expression that indicated she’d even heard him. He tried again. “You’ll dry off faster if you’re wearing less. I brought the blankets. They’re damp, but they should be a helluva lot more comfortable than your wet clothes.”
As though finally hearing him, Elizabeth shook her head in quick, jerky motions, her lips going dry. “N-No—I—I can’t! I’m fine.”
Cutter’s face contorted. “Chrissakes! I won’t touch you,” he said almost nastily. “Don’t be stupid! You’ll catch your death. Hell, you’re the doctor—use your good sense!”
Her expression changed suddenly as though his words had injured somehow, instead of reassuring as he’d intended.
“You’re—” She swallowed, mortified that he would have guessed her thoughts so easily, hurt that he would so quickly shatter her… her what? Hopes? Hopes for what? But he was right, of course. Besides, he’d already seen her in her drawers and camisole… and there was little enough light for him to ogle her by… even if he were inclined to. But she wasn’t about to feel sorry over that, she determined—not at this point in her life. It was, after all, what she’d set out to accomplish with her baggy skirts and somber appearance. She’d wanted folks to see her as their doctor, not the town belle—not that she could have been, even had she wished it. Had she really expected Cutter to see her differently? She nodded glumly. “You’re right… How silly of me,” she said dully.
Cutter’s hand moved to her blouse at once, as though that were all the encouragement he needed, jerking it out of her skirt. Instinctively she recoiled from his ministrations, but the sensation of cool, wet cotton sliding over her warm skin caused a shiver to race down her spine and gooseflesh to erupt.
“Let me help you,” he asserted, his dark eyes unrelenting yet tender in some odd way. Still, they’d never seemed so dark, so fathomless, so improbable, as in that instant. A shiver raced down Elizabeth’s spine as his hand slid slowly up her arm to her shoulder, but his squeeze was reassuring. She nodded faintly, unaware that she had.
“Do you need my help unbuttoning you?” he said, his voice turning husky again.
Or was it her imagination?
Realizing that there was no way she could possibly remove her own clothes in the limited space available to them, she turned slightly, willing her wanton thoughts miles away. Inexplicably, she wanted Cutter’s arms about her, his touch on her skin.
His movements became slower. The sensation of his warm fingers tugging at her blouse made a slight tremor rush down her spine. Elizabeth closed her eyes, savoring the moment, not realizing all that gesture conveyed to Cutter’s knowing gaze.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as she anticipated the warmth of his fingers. And then she felt it, and her heart again leapt into her throat, higher than before. Her lids fluttered closed once more and her head tilted backward slightly as his fingers moved down her back, quickly and adeptly releasing the wooden buttons, one by one.
In removing the wet blouse from her back, he exposed her to the cool air, but in spite of it, Elizabeth felt suddenly too warm. Incomprehensibly, her shivers intensified, running deep within her. Her back to him still, she helped him remove the sleeves from her arms with quaking hands and then peeled the blouse from her body, leaving only her wet camisole to shield her from his probing eyes.
Despite the storm raging outside, the silence was impenetrable beneath the shelter in that moment, the air intoxicating, as though all time were suspended.
No sooner did Elizabeth release the blouse from her grasp than she felt Cutter’s rough fingers on her back, stroking the area between her shoulder blades ever so softly, and her breath caught in her throat. Before she could protest his familiarity with her body, his hands circled her waist, spanning her briefly, as though taking her measure, then slid seductively to the laces in front of her skirt.
Something deep within her thrilled to his touch.
Finding it difficult to breathe in that moment, Elizabeth marveled that even from behind, his fingers were knowing. That’s because he’s an experienced rogue, a little voice screeched, but she refused to acknowledge it.
In the next instant, Cutter was tugging her sopping skirts down, sliding them over her quaking legs. He lingered just a moment too long on the curve of her hips, and her heartbeat quickened.
She meant to tell him to stop, to take his hands off her—she really did—but the words wouldn’t come. It was all Elizabeth could do to take her next breath. She felt paralyzed, though not with fear, and her eyes pressed tightly closed, while her breasts suddenly tingled with the need to be touched. Good night—never would she have suspected such sensations were possible… such carnal bliss… such wanting.
Again, she remembered the way he’d touched her, the yearning it had enkindled, and the pleasure he had given her, and she imagined that he would turn her now… put his arms about her, his fingers pressing into her back, and cover her mouth with warm male lips. She actually quivered with the desire for it.
Cutter had to will himself to leave her be.
He’d asked her to trust him, and he didn’t aim to betray that trust. Still and all, there wasn’t much left between them… just her camisole and drawers… nothing more… and it would be so simple, he thought. So simple.
But Elizabeth wasn’t the kind of woman you could pick clean and then leave to the buzzards. She didn’t deserve that. And he couldn’t see himself settling down with a homestead and a pack of brats dogging his heels.
He took a deep, fortifying breath, thinking that somewhere up there, someone oughta be nominating him for sainthood just about now.
A riot began in Cutter’s head as Elizabeth turned suddenly to help him remove her massive skirt. He hated the thing. If he got the chance, he thought he might burn it. Watching intently as she turned to lay the obscene thing aside, Cutter cleared his throat.
The spell broken, he turned to fumble with one of the bedrolls at their feet. Unrolling it, he removed another blanket from it, and then struggled to return as he was, drawing the blanket up over Elizabeth as he scooted upward, shielding her from his view—or more likely, himself from the temptation she presented.
“That better?” His voice sounded strange to his ears.
Elizabeth nodded once, her expression still dazed.
“Good.” Again, he cleared his throat, trying to refocus his thoughts, and he smiled. “You had to go ‘n’ find a gopher hole for us to shelter in,” he told her mildly. Actually it was beginning to feel more like his own private hell, but he didn’t say so.
Elizabeth shrugged, averting her gaze in… disappointment? Turning on her side, she faced away from him.
Cutter’s sigh was ragged, as though it took great effort to release the tension from his body. Immediately he took in another deep breath, needing the cleansing air.
At least they were dry, he told himself.
And the shelter wasn’t really all that bad. Little enough rain blew in at them on account of the roof being so low. The only thing he could see to be concerned over was the fact that water was beginning to trickle in. But it was a slow stream, and he doubted it would do much harm… unless the rain didn’t let up. But if he knew anything about late summer storms, and he fancied he did, then it would be over before much longer. It was likely to end as swiftly as it came.
And if worst came to worst, he’d just scoot closer to Elizabeth. He glanced at her sudd
enly, feeling the tension he’d just alleviated return with full force as he contemplated scooting nearer to her.
Like a pesky gnat, that thought badgered him.
His lips twisted cynically.
Hell, it wasn’t as though there were a wall between them—though he’d be damned if it didn’t feel like it.
Besides, sainthood never had appealed to him much.
Damn her, anyway—his brows collided—if she thought for a minute he was gonna lie here and freeze to death just to protect some squeamish female’s tender sensibilities!
With a savage curse, he unsheathed his knife from his left boot, setting it aside, and then he kicked it off. As he undid his shirt buttons, he struggled with the other boot, prodding it with his bare toes, unable to get it off fast enough. It wouldn’t come, and he cursed again.
A glance in Elizabeth’s direction told him that she was busy ignoring him. But that suited him just fine. Jerking his shirt out of his britches, leaving it wide open, he moved to unfasten his soggy denims—just the thought of being free of the restrictive fabric lightened his mood considerably.
It had nothing to do with the fact that with his own clothes off, there’d be one less barrier to overcome. Hell no, his motives were purely honorable… or, at least, not dishonorable.
Well, not really.
Elizabeth heard the pops as he released the buttons of his wet denims, and she tensed. Having ignored the previous warnings—his boot sliding off of his foot, the crinkling of his shirt as he fumbled with it—she was afraid to turn and look Cutter’s way. Pulling the blanket a fraction higher, she asked, though she knew better than to do so, “All right, Mr. McKenzie. Just what do you think you’re doing?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
What do you think I’m doing?” he returned smoothly, not a trace of misgiving in his
tone.
Actually, he sounded more as though he were… grinning? “Not undressing, I hope?”
Cutter chuckled richly.
“You can’t!” she shrieked, taking his laughter as confirmation. “You can’t just lie there with nothing on—not beside me! You do at least have your… ” Good night, she couldn’t even think the word—much less say it!
Cutter chuckled again. “Reckon you’ll just have to turn around and find out,” he told her, his voice liberally tinged with laughter as he twisted to remove his other boot. His britches were now wrapped about his ankles, their removal hampered by his boot.
Wrenching the blanket over her head, Elizabeth burrowed herself deeper into the wool as his husky laughter rang in her ears… along with another sound that seemed strangely like… like…
A horse’s whinny? And it sounded so near… yet it couldn’t be—but it was—and there it was again!
Cutter, too, had heard and was no longer laughing.
Her curiosity getting the best of her, Elizabeth burrowed out of the blanket and turned to stare out into the downpour.
Cutter’s body was still twisted, his hands frozen in a death grip upon his right boot, but he was peering out as best he could from under the overhang. In the meantime, Elizabeth stole into his spot, so that when he leaned back for a better view, his back touched Elizabeth’s damp camisole.
“Good night! Cutter, do you see that?”
The proud but blurry silhouette of an Indian materialized from the rain and mist, his horse treading along at a tired pace. Elizabeth crawled forward to better see. Squinting, she could see that he held his head upright, proudly, though it teetered suspiciously before her eyes. What appeared to be two large feathers were outlined in his hair, tilted downward on one side, and his hair seemed to be free, falling just below his broad shoulders. Blinking from the strain of her scrutiny, she refocused and could barely make out a bare chest, painted with what appeared to be red streaks on one side. On his legs, he wore buckskin trousers. The features themselves never sharpened.
Still, she couldn’t tear her gaze away.
“What is it?” Cutter fidgeted in order to get a better look.
Suddenly the Indian lurched forward in the saddle, and Elizabeth cried out. “No—oh, no! He’s hurt!”
Cutter quickly tugged his denims back up. “Who’s hurt?” he demanded.
But Elizabeth never answered; she was already crawling out of the shelter, into the storm, her fear forgotten suddenly, her modesty dismissed, instinct taking over.
She’d slid past him before Cutter’s mind had even had time to register her intent.
“Lizbeth!”
Damn. She was actually going out into the storm? In her friggin’ drawers! Great! Just great! It was just his luck to be saddled with a closet exhibitionist! Fumbling for her legs, Cutter tried to stop her, but Elizabeth was too quick. Bucking upward, he yanked the denims over his rear, and immediately shifted to his stomach, slamming his head into the stone ceiling in the turn. His vision swung to black for an instant. Cursing violently, he clutched at his throbbing head, and started to crawl out after her.
Why the hell had he agreed to this? he wondered irately. Was he a glutton for punishment? Fool woman was determined to get herself killed—him, too, in the process!
And then he saw what had gotten her so distressed, and he cursed a blue streak.
“Lizbeth!”
In slow motion, he saw her running through the downpour, her drawers and camisole pasted to her body. Her sturdy black shoes splattering mud. “Nooo!” he howled. Damn him, if the little fool wasn’t really gonna get herself killed! His stomach lurched. “Elizabeth! No!” It was a ploy—he had to stop her.
His heart hammering in fear, Cutter bolted from his knees, sprinting after her, racing like a man possessed, one boot on, one off. His bare foot lit on something sharp, slicing into his sole, but he didn’t feel the pain. In his mind he could see the bastard rising up with a war cry and putting his knife to Elizabeth’s lily white throat.
In her panic, Elizabeth never even considered how the horse would view her reckless approach, and she halted abruptly as it snorted, sidling away from her in fear. With the force of that movement, the Indian toppled to one side, sliding listlessly off the horse’s back. Acting purely out of instinct, she moved to catch him, and floundered under his incredible weight. The horse moved away immediately, calming with the distance put between them. She clutched the Indian to her breast as her knees buckled, and then tumbled to the soggy ground, falling atop him.
In that instant, Cutter reached her. With a savage cry, he wrenched her off and flung her away. Stumbling, Elizabeth landed on the ground on her backside, her hands flying out behind her to break her fall.
“God—damn you!” Cutter snarled, glaring at her furiously.
The barely leashed violence and anger left Elizabeth speechless. She stared back at him as though he were deranged.
Doubling over to catch his breath, legs spread, hands on his knees, shirt hanging open, Cutter stared down at the unconscious man at his feet. Beads of rain dripped from the end of his nose.
Streaks of red flowed from a wound in the brave’s chest, running down in watery rivulets to stain his soiled buckskins. Despite that proof of the man’s injury, Cutter’s anger was far from diminished. It could very well have been a ruse! The fact that it wasn’t didn’t lessen the risk Elizabeth had taken one shred in his mind.
He glowered at her. “Damn me if you even have the brains God gave a snake, woman! Just what did you think you were doing?”
Grating her teeth, Elizabeth glared at Cutter with burning, reproachful eyes. “Can’t you see the man is hurt?” she countered.
Cutter only gaped at her. All he could think of in that moment was that he’d come too close to losing her, and he couldn’t bear the thought of it.
It tore at his gut.
Like nothing before.
Stooping over the unconscious brave, Cutter plucked open the man’s lids and then felt for a pulse at his neck. Satisfied with the results, he turned again to glare at Elizabeth. “What if he hadn’t been hurt? W
hat if it had been an act—a trick to sniff us out? What then, Doc?”
Elizabeth stood abruptly, swiping her palms over her wet drawers. “But it wasn’t!” she returned. “He is hurt—and I am a doctor. He needs me, Mr. McKenzie, so if you don’t plan on assisting, then just get out of my way!”
Her unexpected voice of authority took Cutter aback, but he never let the surprise show on his face. In spite of his anger, he couldn’t argue with the facts; the man did need immediate medical attention. He gave her a curt nod, yielding, though grudgingly.
Above them, a watery sun appeared through the drizzle as Elizabeth rushed to aid the unconscious Indian. Brushing past Cutter, she determined to ignore the brief contact of their bodies, but couldn’t. Even in her fury, his touch made her heart react strangely.
But her body’s reaction to him was completely forgotten when she looked down into the young brave’s face. The cast of his skin was a sickly blue, and she knew what that signified. Automatically she felt for a pulse on his neck. Feeling it, though faintly, she blew a sigh of relief. Her heart raced with hope. “He’s in shock,” she explained as Cutter stood behind, watching.
The wound was deep, gaping, and ragged—almost as though he had been cut repeatedly in the same spot. There was so much blood that it was difficult to tell whether or not there was some foreign object still lodged within. Gulping down her uncertainty, she fingered the wound, and finding nothing, determined there was not. Whatever had been there had been removed already.
As though by some sixth sense, her gaze fell on the small knife he had sheathed at his side. The handle was bloody… and she knew instinctively what had happened. Evidently he’d attempted to remove whatever had been lodged there on his own… and had nicked an artery? Or worse, had he severed one? How much blood had he lost? How long had he been bleeding?
Biting down on her bottom lip, she glowered up at Cutter. “Well! Don’t just stand there, Mr. McKenzie—help me get him inside!” The rain had slowed considerably, and in that moment, ceased entirely. “Never mind,” she said abruptly. “Just move him closer to the shelter.” Knowing Cutter was perfectly capable of carrying the man by himself, she hurried to retrieve her discarded skirt, along with her bedroll.
Sagebrush Bride Page 15