Silken Thunder

by Fayrene Preston

  She clawed at him, scratching his face and drawing blood. She hit out with furious energy and attempted to kick him off her. He dealt with her rebellion, easily capturing her wrists with one hand and pinning them above her head. “Don’t fight me, Anna. You could get hurt.”

  “This does hurt.”

  “Stop fighting me, then. I want you right here, right now, and if you’ll admit it, you want me too.” His voice was thick and hoarse, and in the shadowed moonlight his eyes seemed to glitter like hot liquid silver. “Damn, you've got to many clothes on.”

  “No,” she cried, but he ripped her gown from neck to hem, exposing her pale body to him. She felt the cool night air for only a moment, then he was kissing her again, and the hand that wasn't holding her wrists was taking possession of her breast. A ball of heat formed in her stomach and with every touch, with every kiss, grew bigger and stronger.

  How could that be, she wondered wildly. With complete indifference to either her comfort or pleasure, he was ravishing her. Even as that thought raced through her mind, his knee jammed itself between her thighs and pressed upward, and his tongue thrust deep into her mouth. A lightning bolt of pleasure hurtled through her, leaving her shaken. Furious with herself, she bit down hard on his lip.

  “Damn.” His head lifted, and his fingers touched the blood welling in his mouth. Incredibly, then, he smiled down at her. “You like to bite? You never told me. But that’s all right. We can play that game for a while.”

  Her respite from his mouth was brief. He lowered his head to her breast and began nipping around the already erect nipple. Flames of desire swept through her, eating away her resistance. Surely she was losing her mind. Every time his teeth made contact with her skin, he created sharp, hot sensations deep inside her. It was unbearably exciting.

  “Don’t fight me, Anna,” he said, “I need you too damned bad.”

  She failed to stifle the moan that escaped her, but she knew she had to put a stop to this madness before she was lost completely to the treacherous ecstasy. “Wesley, you can’t — ”

  Her cries bounced off him as if he were made of stone. Her wishes and needs couldn’t pierce through the wall of driving passion surrounding him. He lifted his hips, quickly opened his trousers, and positioned himself between her legs.

  She wasn’t ready, she thought desperately. She was too tense, too dry. He was going to tear her apart.

  He bent his head and put his mouth to a particular patch of skin that lay at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Then he licked. Hot shivers coursed through her.

  His mouth moved against her neck, and he muttered something she couldn’t understand.

  Weakly she pushed against him. “Wait, Wesley. I’m not — ”

  He wasn’t listening.

  He drove powerfully into her, and, at the same time, he bit at her throat so that his teeth scraped the wildly sensitive nerves just beneath the skin there.

  She screamed in ecstasy and clutched at him. This couldn’t be happening, she thought. She wanted him. shamelessly, wantonly, in this way, with no waiting, no gentleness. Inflamed, beyond belief, her responses turned frenzied and demanding. She bucked and twisted beneath him in a fever of compulsive urgency, of primal desire. He slammed into her time after time, and she couldn’t get enough. She implored and beseeched and sobbed … and she had no idea what words she was using.

  Something powerful and violent began to take shape and move within her. She was sure that she was going to burn in the fire … be drowned by the rapture. She heard cries and dimly wondered what animals made them. And then sound vanished as did everything else. Everything, that is, but the fire … the rapture … and Wesley.

  His weight was heavy on her, but she was too exhausted to protest. And stunned. She’d never known that such emotions existed in her. Where had they come from?

  In the past she’d had such difficulty dealing with the way Wesley could so easily extract wanton sensual responses from her. But tonight had been different. There’d been something raw and primitive in the way she had acted. In its own way, her behavior was as frightening to her as his was.

  He rolled to one side and came up on an elbow. “Anna … ”

  She sat up quickly and pulled the pieces of her nightgown together over her breasts. “I’ve got to go home. Papa might have awakened.”

  He touched her arm. “Are you all right?”

  “If he has, I don’t know what I can possibly tell him. I — I guess I’ll think of something. I’ve grown very good at telling lies.”

  “Let me carry you back. You’ll hurt your feet.”

  Her laugh was hollow. “It’s a little late to be concerned about my feet … or anything else, don’t you think?”

  “Anna … ”

  She stood and felt a fine mist on her face. How strange. This was the first time she’d noticed that the air was cool and rain was only minutes from falling. She turned. She had to get away. “Good night, Wesley.”

  Back in her bedroom, she was relieved to hear only silence from the room where her father slept. She shrugged out of what was left of her nightgown, folded the shredded material, and stuffed it into a bureau drawer. Then, curious, she walked to the mirror.

  Shock held her still as she took in her image. Wesley had kissed her so often and so hard that her face and lips appeared to be swollen. Her long golden hair flared outward from her head, tousled and tangled, with bits of leaves and dirt clinging to it. And — most astonishing of all — blood was smeared over her neck and breasts and face.

  She took a cloth and dipped it into the porcelain washbowl, then sponged herself off until the water had turned pink and she was clean. Back at the mirror, she peered closer at the evidence of Wesley’s brutality. Then she gasped, not sure she wanted to believe what she was seeing.

  It was true that just as she suspected her ivory skin was already beginning to discolor in places. In the morning she’d definitely have bruises … along with memories … to show for the wild hour she’d spent in the glade with Wesley. But the bruises would be only superficial, while the memories would be unsettling. Because her skin wasn’t even broken.

  The blood on her body had been his, not hers. She was the one who had bitten hard enough to draw blood. His nips and bites had given only erotic delight.

  Troubled, she took a brush to her hair, then pulled a clean nightgown over her head and slipped into her robe. Her room was cold. Her quilt-covered bed beckoned her with its warmth, and, Lord knew, she needed rest.

  But the window was drawing her, and she went to it.

  Raindrops clung to the glass and combined with the darkness to obscure vision. She leaned closer. Yes. Outside, standing beneath her window, she could make out a dark silhouette.

  He stood so still, his head thrown back, his face turned up to the rain … and to her. She lifted her fingertips and pressed them against the glass barrier that separated them. But instead of her body’s heat warming the glass, the chill of the night seeped into her.

  She stayed where she was for a long time, watching him, until finally weariness overcame her and she turned toward her bed.

  Anna felt the nausea even before she opened her eyes. She was pregnant. She had been fighting the knowledge for days, but she could fight no longer. She lay very still under the covers and stared at the ceiling of her tiny bedroom, trying to save her strength for fighting the nausea. But fear and a steadily-building rage kept getting in the way.

  She’d had to live with the risk of becoming pregnant ever since that day months before when Wesley had stroked her hair and softly said, I've just bought up your father’s notes of debt. Come to me or I’ll call them in and he’ll lose his store.

  He had always spoken to her like that — softly … until last night.

  And, just like last night, she’d had very little choice about going to his bed.

  But in the glade he’d drawn from her a response that had been unbridled and feral and it had left her shattered. Angrily she push
ed the memory away and pressed a hand against her flat stomach. She couldn’t feel any life, but there was no doubt about it. Life was in her, growing even now.

  Dear God, what was she going to do?

  Pregnant. Unmarried. A hopeless, shameful state. With a groan she rolled over, but the motion sent such a strong wave of nausea through her that she barely had time to bend down and grab the chamber pot from under the bed before she was sick.

  “Anna, vhat is wrong?” her father called from the next room.

  Weak with the efforts of emptying her stomach, she could only lay back against the pillows and close her eyes in despair. Papa was awake and he had heard.

  Her bedroom door opened slowly, and her father stepped across the threshold. His gray hair was mussed from sleep, and he was squinting at her because he’d forgotten to put on his glasses. His old flannel robe hung open over his night, shirt.

  She watched him from beneath heavy lids and thought how very dear he was. No matter what, she had to keep her pregnancy secret. It would kill him if he found out.

  “I'm just feeling a little sick, Papa. Nothing to fret about. Something I ate, most likely.”

  “Vhat could have made you sick, my daughter? The chicken you made for our supper last night was good.”

  She smiled in an attempt to ease his worry. “I’ll be fine. Just let me lie here a little longer, and then I’ll get up.”

  “Mrs. Harcourt asked me to join her at the cafe this morning for breakfast, but — ”

  “Good. You go. I’ll open up the store.” Mrs. Harcourt was a cheerful, pleasant-faced widow. For quite sometime Anna had noted the woman's efforts to catch her father’s attention. She supposed that Mrs. Harcourt had finally decided to stop waiting for her father to get the hint.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  She nodded. “It will work out well. If you go to the cafe for breakfast, I won’t have to cook, and I can rest a bit longer.”

  “Good. I go, then.” His expression vague, distressed, he started to leave, but then unexpectedly he turned back to her. “Do you remember your mama?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “She vas so beautiful … like you, my Anna. I vish she vas here. I miss her so.”

  “I know you do, Papa. I miss her too.”

  When he’d gone, Anna rolled over and buried her face in the pillow.

  Her mother had died in Sweden when Anna was thirteen years old. Her death had devastated both her and her father. God, she wished her mother were with her now, to smooth her hair and tell her everything would be all right.

  But it wouldn’t be all right.

  Nothing had been all right since the day Wesley McCord had seen her and wanted her.

  And now nothing might ever be right again.

  Chapter 3

  Impatiently Wes took a final draw of his cigarette, ground its smoldering end into the large ashtray that sat on his desk, then reached for the makings of a new cigarette. Why hadn’t the emporium opened yet? He’d been watching the store for over an hour, and the doors remained closed. Something was wrong with Anna. He was sure of it.

  God. He couldn’t remember the way he’d treated her last night without feeling profound remorse. But … in spite of that … the memories of their passionate encounter in the glade evoked a white-hot flame that went layers deep.

  It had been so damned good to go wild, burying himself in her and forgetting for a little while that his world was crumbling around him. Powerful and primitive feelings had moved between Anna and him that he would never forget.

  He lit the newly rolled cigarette, and stalked once again to the window to see that the door to the emporium was just opening.

  He bolted out of his office, flipping his cigarette into the street as he crossed the dusty main thoroughfare of the town. A buckboard driver had to swerve abruptly to keep his team of horses from plowing into him. Wes didn't even break his stride. A horse and rider drew to a hasty standstill as he walked in front of them. He didn't notice.

  As soon as he gained entrance to the emporium, he saw her. She was alone, her head bent with concentration as she tied an apron around her waist. As usual, she was wearing a simple day dress. Only this dress had a high-standing frilly collar that served to conceal the portion of her neck where last night his teeth had scraped, bringing to life the nerve that lay beneath the sensitive skin.

  “Anna?”

  Her head jerked up and her blue eyes widened as she saw him. Then she pivoted away.

  She had looked pale to him, he thought, and he had seen a faint dew of perspiration on her upper lip. “Anna, are you all right?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Turn around and look at me.”

  “Why don’t you force me to? You're so good at that. If you can't blackmail someone into doing what you want, you use force. And in my case, both.”

  Frustration and torment were too active in him, making it impossible for him to react calmly to her resistance. Several long strides were all that were needed before he could grasp her arm and turn her to him. “Dammit, stop clawing at me. I only want to know if I hurt you, that’s all.”

  Not expecting him to jerk her around, she lost her balance and fell, and her breasts crushed against him.

  As intently as he was watching her, it would have been hard for Wes to miss her grimace of pain. “Oh, hell, I did hurt you.”

  “Just leave me alone.” She yanked away and put the width of a counter between them. He thought he’d hurt her breasts last night, when actually her breasts had been growing more and more tender over the last few days. It was one of the signs she should have heeded. She was carrying Wesley’s child, but it would do her no good to tell him.

  Her silence and the lack of color in her skin was stretching his nerves to the breaking point. He exploded. “Dammit, Anna, talk to me.”

  “What do you want me to say? That you didn’t hurt me? All right, Wesley. You didn’t. I have only minor bruises to show for our … copulation. Satisfied now?”

  Wes bit back a curse. “Hell no, I’m not satisfied. If I didn’t hurt you, then you’re ill.”

  No, she thought angrily. She wasn’t ill. Simply pregnant. And unmarried. Disgrace was only weeks away for her, and the thought had her absolutely panicked. “You’ve never shown any concern for me before.”

  Then, unbidden, the memory of the night he’d taken her virginity flashed into her mind. After it was all over and he was holding her close against him, he had murmured with exquisite tenderness, I'm sorry if I hurt you.

  Her mouth tightened. “Last night was no exception. You never for a minute thought of me. You used me, Wesley. You’ve lost control over your business affairs, so you came to me because you knew I was the one thing in your life you could command.”

  “Anna … ”

  “Are you trying to deny it, Wesley?”

  Mrs. Fitzpatrick sailed into the emporium with a smile on her face and a blissful unawareness of the tension that was hanging thickly in the air. “Good morning, Miss Nilsen. I’ve come for a pound of coffee beans.” Her smile slipped slightly when she saw Wes. “Mr. McCord, how nice to see you.” She laughed nervously. “My, my, you must have cut yourself shaving this morning.”

  Involuntarily his hand went to his face. He’d forgotten Anna wasn’t the only one marked by what had happened between them.

  Mrs. Fitzpatrick made a sound that combined another laugh with the act of clearing her throat. It turned into a cough. “Such a catastrophe out at the tent city,” she finally managed to say. “We’re all hoping that the railroad project can be put back on schedule real soon.”

  Wes’s smile of acknowledgment was cynical, though he was sure the good lady gazing so anxiously at him didn’t notice. She was the mayor’s wife and a thoroughly silly woman. Silly enough to ask the question everyone in Chango had been dying to ask him. He knew that whatever he said to her would have covered the town by the end of the day. “I assure you, I intend to see
that any delay is minimal.”

  “I’m so glad. Everyone has been so worried, you know.”

  “Of course.”

  Anna tied a string around the bag of coffee beans and handed it to her, eager to get the lady out of the store before she noticed anything amiss. But Mrs. Fitzpatrick evidently had other things on her mind.

  “Anna, do you think you’ll get a new shipment of fabric in soon?”

  Anna sighed. Mr. Fitzpatrick was a somber gentleman who paid his wife scant attention. As a result, the good lady tended to concentrate a great deal of her energies toward her dress. “We’re expecting a new order in next week.”

  “Do you think there’ll be anything in yellow?” she asked anxiously. “I do so want a yellow dress. Something with flowers on it.”

  Anna forced a smile. “I’m hoping that we’ll get in exactly what you have in mind. I did put in a special order for yellow this time.”

  “And ribbon and thread, I hope?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Oh, you’re such a sweet girl. We had such a dreadful winter, didn’t we? And I'm so tired of the same dreary colors. But now spring is here, and spring always brings new life. I think we should celebrate it with bright colors, don’t you?”

  New life. Wes drew in a sharp breath at the words. Oh, God, Anna was pregnant.

  He wheeled away from the two women and stared blindly at a rack of ready-made shirts. Behind him, the two women continued to talk, but his mind was too busy to allow the meaning of their words to penetrate through his thoughts.

  Anna had missed her monthly flux. She came to him too often for that fact not to have registered at some level of his mind, however deep. But he’d been occupied — with the railroad line, with Sloan Lassiter, with so damned many other things.

  He shut his eyes. Could it be true? Of course it was. Even as he stood there, he began remembering subtle changes that had been occurring in her body. But he had not allowed himself to think through to the logical conclusion. Where Anna was concerned, lust drove him, leaving little room for reason.