by JoAnn Ross
He murmured something in his native Navajo that needed no translation. Noel knew exactly what Wolfe was feeling because she was feeling it herself.
Wonder.
Love.
And, more to the point at this suspended moment, need. He took her hand in his, intending to lift it to his lips. It was then he realized that she'd taken off a great deal more than her clothing.
"Where is your promise ring?"
"In your saddlebag." The decision not to marry Bertran had not been made hastily. It also had nothing to do with her feelings for Wolfe, although falling in love with him had shown her exactly why it would be a mistake to wed a man she could never give her entire heart to. "I did not want anything—or anyone— to be between us when we finally made love."
The water was lapping at her breasts. Heat was pooling between her thighs. Her soft lips curved in a slow, seductive female smile as she twined her arms around Wolfe's strong neck. She tilted her head back and waited for his kiss.
She did not have to wait long. As if suffering from a lifetime of need, he groaned and claimed her mouth.
The kiss went on and on. The hands that dived into his jet hair were shaking and urgent. The lips savaging hers were hard and hungry.
He tore his mouth from hers, and devoured the milk-pale flesh of her breasts, first one, then the other, ravenously feasting like a man who'd been starving all his life.
Her body was a throbbing, pulsing mass of sensations. With his mouth and teeth, with his rough strong hands, he treated her to a dizzying pleasure just this side of pain. Burning with need, moaning his name, she dug her nails into his shoulders as she arched her back, inviting, demanding him to take more.
When his hand slipped between them, his fingers pulling those silvery curls before plunging deep inside her, Noel cried out.
It was reckless. Wild. It was savagery tempered with love. And it was love that made it wonderful.
"Please," she gasped. Beneath his mouth, her heart was pounding like a jackhammer. "I want you. Now." Her body clenched wildly at his clever, wicked fingers, even as it demanded more. "Oh, please, hurry."
His teeth closed around a nipple and tugged. Wolfe felt a corresponding tightening deep inside her that ripped at the last vestiges of his control like a grizzly's claws. "I want you ready for me."
"I am ready," she moaned, rotating her hips in instinctive feminine demand. "Can't you tell?" Her hands fretted down his back, below his waist, pressing him even tighter against her.
As urgent as she, he lifted her. "Wrap your legs around me, Princess," he growled in her ear as he cupped her bottom in his wide dark hands.
She willingly did as instructed, locking her legs around his hips, holding on to his shoulders. With his first thrust, a fireball exploded inside her, filling her with heat, touching her deep where no man had ever touched her before. Deep in her body. And her heart.
He'd felt the unexpected barrier too late, as he tore through it. Wolfe cursed. A low, guttural sound that came deep from his chest and sounded like a growl. But then he felt her surrounding him, warm and wet and welcoming and felt the explosions ripping through her, massaging his penis like a thousand hot stroking fingers. A red haze came over his mind.
Need curled tightly at the base of his spine as he tightened his hold on her and began to thrust—deeper, harder. Once, twice, a third time, and then, shouting out her name, which echoed around the crimson red rocks, he poured himself into her.
Wolfe had no idea how he managed to get them both back onto dry land. But somehow, they were lying beside each other on his bedroll beside the water. Her cheek was on his chest, his hands tangling in the silken strands of her hair.
"How did my bedroll get down here?"
"I brought it with me."
"I didn't see you."
She ran her hand down his chest, loving the feel of his hard muscles beneath her fingertips. "You were pretending not to notice me."
He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers, one at a time. "I always notice you. Even when I don't want to."
He eyed her gravely over their linked hands. "Why didn't you tell me you'd never been with a man?"
Noel sighed. She'd feared this was going to prove a problem. She lifted her head and sighed again when she viewed the dark and guarded expression that was so like the one he'd worn when she'd first tried to get him to admit who he was back at the Road to Ruin.
"I thought men preferred virgins. Especially in these times."
"Some men do. I've never been one of them."
As much as she loved him, that stung. "I'm sorry I was such a disappointment."
Wolfe cursed, wondering how he could make things any worse. "Don't be foolish." He cupped her chin in his fingers and lifted her gaze to his. Her crystal-blue eyes were moist and shiny, making him feel even more the bastard. "You were anything but a disappointment, Princess. In fact, if you'd been any hotter, you would have set the water to boiling."
She smiled through the threat of tears. "It was you. No man has ever made me feel like that."
He picked up her hand and ran his fingers across the place that had so recently worn that sparkling diamond. "Not even your fiancé?"
"Bertran is a very wonderful man," she hedged. It was bad enough that she'd just betrayed the man she'd promised to marry. She could not demean him, as well.
"I didn't ask that." His eyes were locked on hers, looking hard. Looking deep.
"If Bertran had made me burn, you would not have made love to a virgin just now."
The flash of rebellious loyalty in her gaze made Wolfe feel guiltier than ever. "I'm sorry." He turned her hand over and pressed a kiss against the inside of her wrist, rewarded when he felt her pulse jump. "I should not feel so good about your broken engagement. But I have to admit that the idea of you returning home to another man's bed—"
"Never." She quickly pressed the fingers of her free hand against his mouth. "I love you, Wolfe Longwalker. Only you. There will never be another man for me."
When a very strong part of him wanted that to be true, Wolfe decided that he was one rotten son of a bitch. Who was he, after taking her with such force and haste, to demand that she live a life of celibacy? Just because he hated the idea of any man ever touching her. Tasting her. Lying with her like this.
"Neither of us knows how long this will last—"
"I do," she cut him off again. "Forever. A lifetime."
"Forever," Wolfe repeated, loving her unwavering determination. Loving her. "Since we've already determined that time is relative, are we talking your lifetime? Or mine?"
"Either. Both," she said without hesitation. "Although I've inherited Katia's gift, I don't possess the power to see my own future. I have no idea what's going to happen in the next few days. I also don't know if I'm destined to stay here, or return to my own time."
"But," she said, turning their hands so she could see the wolf's head at his wrist, "the one thing I do know is that I will love you through all eternity." She pressed her lips against the birthmark. "Whatever the future holds."
Wolfe had learned to use the white man's words well. He earned a very good living with them, they'd been his gateway to a world not many individuals, let alone Dineh, would ever experience. But never had Wolfe ever heard words that affected him so deeply. "I will love you, too, Princess Noel Giraudeau de Montacroix," he pledged. "For all eternity."
He traced her lips with a fingertip. "If I had known you were inexperienced," he murmured as he brushed his lips against hers, "I'd have taken more time." He stroked her cooled flesh from her breast to her thigh. "I wouldn't have taken you like some wild animal."
His caressing touch was warming her, rekindling flames, stoking fires. "Actually," she said on a breathless laugh as his roughened fingertip brushed across a nipple, "I rather enjoyed that part."
"So did I." He stroked the taut nub with his tongue, enjoying her soft, rippling sigh of pleasure. "But there are other ways."
She
was melting. Like a candle beneath the bright golden sun. "You'll have to show me."
His lips curved against her creamy flesh. "With pleasure."
He drew her into his arms and as the shadows grew longer, Wolfe showed Noel exactly how much he loved her. All afternoon long.
Noel had never been happier. Which was foolish, she realized, since she'd never been in a more precarious situation. The trip across the Arizona high desert and into the Rocky Mountains was long and difficult. Not wanting to tire out the horses, they did not ride as hard and as long as they had on the way to Canyon de Chelly.
As anxious as she was to get this matter settled, Noel knew that the trip to Silverton would always be the most wonderful time of her life.
They talked freely, sharing stories of their lives, their dreams. When he spoke of his youth, those long lonely months spent so far away from his beloved Dinetah and his clan, she felt like crying.
Although Wolfe did not want to risk using his rifle because the thunderous crack could draw attention to them, they did not want for food. The river teemed with fish, the land with small animals. Once, after he'd heard the warble of a wild turkey, Noel watched in awe and admiration as, with a single underhand toss of his knife, Wolfe provided them with that night's dinner.
It was a night made for lovers. With no man-made lights to diminish the effect and no haze of industrial pollution, the starlight was dazzling.
"I've never seen so many stars," she murmured as they sat beside a campfire, eating the savory roast turkey. "Not even in the Montacroix planetarium."
He laughed, enjoying her pleasure. And her awe. "There is a legend that First Man and First Woman made the stars to serve as lights on those nights when the Old Man Moon was too tired to make his journey across the sky."
"They planned an orderly arrangement, but Coyote tricked them by scattering them across the sky and they've been that way ever since."
"You portrayed Coyote as a troublemaker," she said, thinking back on Wolfe's book of stories.
"Among other things."
"Still," she decided, "I'm glad he scattered the stars."
Wolfe smiled. "So am I."
"May I ask a question?"
They'd shared so much, been so open with each other, the hesitation in her tone puzzled him. "Of course."
"It's about your father." Noel watched Wolfe's face close. But when he did not immediately cut her off, she continued across the conversational minefield. "Do you ever wonder about him?"
"No."
Well, that was certainly short and sweet. Noel took a deep breath and tried again. "But half of who you are, what you are, comes from him, so—"
"I don't ever think about him," Wolfe said curtly, cutting her off with a vicious swipe of his hand. "When I was younger, I thought about him all the time. I thought about castrating him so he could never do to any other woman what he did to my mother. I thought about slicing his throat. I thought about staking him out in the summer sun. I thought about innumerable ways of torturing him, each more excruciating than the last."
"Finally, Second Mother and Many Horses convinced me that all I was doing was hurting myself. So, I put the bastard away in a box, deep in my mind, and I never, ever opened it again."
"But what if there were extenuating circumstances?"
The look he gave her was as hard as flint. As cold as sleet. "There are no extenuating circumstances for rape."
"What if it wasn't rape? What if they loved each other?"
"He was a bilaganna. She was Dineh."
"I'm white. And you are Dineh," she argued softly.
"What we have is different," he insisted. His features were drawn taut beneath the bright red headband. "But even if that were the case, which it was not, leaving a woman with a child in her belly to die along some murderous trek is inexcusable."
"As wrong as that was, it was government policy," Noel said carefully. "Your father was not responsible."
"Planting a seed in a woman does not make a man a father. He was responsible for her death. If she'd been stronger, if she hadn't been carrying me, she would not have died."
"And you would not have been born."
He shrugged. "I cannot see that the world would have missed my presence."
Her eyes misted as she framed his face between her palms. "I would have missed your presence." She pressed a tender kiss against his firmly set lips. "Can't you see how the hatred of your father has come to color your life?"
"Should I forgive those soldiers who drove my people from their ancestral lands? Should I forgive them for all the Dineh who died during those years? Should I forgive those who make warriors stand in line like slaves for bug-ridden flour and rotten meat? Should I forgive my father for my mother's death?"
"You are not the only man to lose family," Noel told him gently.
"No. But I may be the only man who doesn't forget. As much as I love you, I cannot change who—and what—I am. I cannot trust the bilaganna."
"You can trust me."
Gradually, as her lips continued to pluck tantalizingly at his, Wolfe succumbed to temptation.
He drew her down onto his bedroll and, putting aside the unpalatable discussion, made long sweet love to her.
As they climbed high into Colorado's San Juan Mountains, growing emotionally closer with each mile, Wolfe and Noel were almost able to forget their dangerous situation. Noel knew that whatever happened after she'd cleared his name—she could not allow herself to think that she'd fail in this all-important mission to save Wolfe—she would always consider these long and uncomfortable days the happiest of her life. Because they'd been spent with the man she loved.
But even in this halcyon time, a shadow lurked on the horizon, one they tried desperately to ignore.
From their mountaintop vantage point, Silverton looked like a child's miniature village, the kind that usually had a toy train running through it. Riding the switchback trail down the mountain into the mining town, Noel felt a very strong sense of foreboding.
As she rode beside Wolfe down Blair Street, music from the dance halls drifted on the night air, mingling with the sound of laughter and the occasional sound of breaking furniture as fistfights broke out.
Wolfe pulled up at the back of The Irish Rose.
"Bret Starr's in here." Noel's voice trembled with excitement as she felt the hair at the back of her neck stand up. "I can feel him."
Her voice was not the only thing trembling. As he lifted her down from the back of the horse, Wolfe could feel the anticipation coursing through her veins.
"It is not enough simply to find the artist," he reminded her.
"I know." She kept her hands on his shoulders. "But if he was there when that cabin burned, and those people died—"
"There's still no reason to believe he'll be willing to come back to Whiskey River with us to testify for me. Or that anyone will believe him if he does."
"Don't worry." She went up on her toes and pressed her lips against his. "Everything's going to work out. I can feel it in my bones."
Despite his continued misgivings, Wolfe found it impossible to resist the hope shining in her wide blue gaze. He ran his hands up her back, rewarded when she began to tremble in a way that had nothing to do with her anticipation of meeting Bret Starr but everything to do with her love for him.
"And such exquisite bones they are," he said against her mouth.
The kiss was long and sweet and ended too soon for either of them.
The woman who opened the door was at least twenty years younger than Belle. And about fifty pounds lighter.
"I'd heard you escaped," she said, taking his hand and drawing him into the kitchen. Unlike the kitchen of the Road to Ruin, which had been lighted by gaslight, The Irish Rose was electrified, revealing the wealth to be made in this remote mining town. "But the word is that you've gone to Mexico."
"I thought of it. But something changed my mind."
His words drew her attention to Noel, who was still sta
nding right inside the doorway. "I also heard about what you did," she said with a friendly smile. "That was some shooting. There's already a song about the lady in red who shot Blackjack. It's quite the rage."
"That's all I need," Noel said dryly. "They can play it at my hanging."
"Oh, no one's looking for you," the madam said quickly. "In the first place, Black Jack didn't die, more's the pity—"
"He didn't?" A cooling rush of relief flooded over Noel.
"No. Belle dressed his wound and although she tried to keep him at the Road to Ruin, to give you two plenty of time to make your getaway, he left the next morning in search of both of you. He came in on the train yesterday, as a matter of fact. I heard he's gone on to Ouray."
"I'm Rose." She held out a slender beringed hand to Noel. "But my friends call me Rosie."
"And I'm Noel."
"Nice accent. Is it real?"
"Yes."
The madam skimmed a quick, professional glance over Noel. "You're a little road-rumpled, honey. But a soak in a hot tub and a change of clothes will take care of that. So, how'd you like to work here?"
"She's not a whore," Wolfe said quickly.
Rose's shrewd eyes narrowed at his harsh tone. "I see."
Not wanting to waste time on lengthy explanations, Noel decided it was time to be direct. "We're here looking for a man—"
"Got plenty of those upstairs," Rose agreed easily.
"This man's an artist. Bret Starr?"
"Got him, too."
Noel shot Wolfe an I-told-you-so look. "May we talk with him?"
"Well, now, I suppose you can talk all you want. But Bret isn't going to be much use to you. He spent last night drowning in a bottle of whiskey, muttering about fires and Indians and lies."
"So he was there!" She grabbed Wolfe's arm. "We really need to talk with him. He can prove Wolfe's innocence."
"Much as I'd love to help with that, honey, the man wouldn't remember his own name right now. You'll have better luck if you allow him to sleep off all that whiskey."