Still holding the damp material off her skin, she half-expected him to mount up again. Instead, he stood beside his horse with his back to her, staring at a point somewhere over the saddle. His hands were balled into tight fists at his side. His shoulders rose and fell as if he were taking deep, even breaths.
“Are we going to make camp?” She forced the question out, trying to flush the burning embarrassment from her tone. She had seen raw hunger in his gaze and it had moved her. He might profess to be a loner, but Hunter Boone was a man, with a man’s needs. His expression was something she would not soon forget, for it hinted at all the dark, secret sins the nuns had warned her about.
It was a while before Hunter responded. Time hung suspended in the dappled fall sunlight. Finally, she saw Hunter move, watched him pat his horse’s neck once, lightly, before he gathered the reins and began to lead it along the edge of the stream.
“Follow me,” he said over his shoulder, sparing her one quick glance and nothing more. “We’ll stay in the streambed until we find a safe place to stop.”
They walked in silence until Hunter found a clearing that was on high enough ground to afford a view of the surrounding landscape. Tall grass covered the gentle swells of land and offered camouflage as well as food for the horses. Jemma unloaded her own horse before he had a chance to help her, and then she sank wearily to the ground beside the canvas bundle of the few supplies and goods that were left.
“You’ll have to be content with cornmeal mixed with cold water,” he told her, unwilling to light a fire to take the chill out of the fall night air until he had put more time and distance between them and the Choctaw encampment.
“That will be fine.” She was half-reclining, curled in herself with a blanket across her shoulders. The edges were tightly drawn across her breasts, anchored in her fist. She carefully avoided meeting his eyes.
Hunter was every bit as circumspect, averting his gaze while the memory of the embarrassing scene at the stream, still so fresh in his mind, hovered unspoken between them. He cleared his throat and forced aside the image of Jemma’s ample breasts pressed against the wet, white fabric.
“I can’t leave you alone while I hunt for game,” he began, concentrating on finding the bag of cornmeal.
“Aren’t we out of danger?”
“Probably, but I don’t want to take any chances.”
“When Soaring Raven stepped out of that hut I thought we’d be murdered where we stood,” she told him.
“The one thing the Choctaw don’t need since the last rebellion is government troops raiding them.” He poured clear water from a buffalo-bladder bag into a cupful of cornmeal to moisten it and began shaping a corn cake.
“Do you think we’re safe?”
He looked around at the open landscape. “I hope so. I have a feeling Soaring Raven would try to discourage a search party after a few hours anyway.” He finished the task, handed the cake to her, and dusted off his hands. “The Choctaw are the least of our worries now. We’re out of bacon. Someone stole all the dried beef and sugar off the horse I took into the village. I had to throw away the flour and rice because water seeped into the sacks during the river crossing. We’ll have to depend on what I can shoot. Maybe we’ll come to an outpost.”
“I need shoes and a hat,” she said softly. “I’m sorry I lost the others. Well, I’m not really sorry I lost those shoes, but my feet are getting cold and my soles feel like pincushions.”
When he looked up, he caught her trying to finger-comb her tangled hair. Outfitting her was the least of his problems, No matter what he tried to concentrate on, his mind continually returned to the tantalizing image of her standing in the stream with her shirt clinging to her skin.
He’d grown hard at first glance and hadn’t been able to look away until she caught him staring. Her blue eyes had gone so wide with shock that he still felt as guilty and embarrassed as if he had been caught with his pants down. He was just thankful that she couldn’t know the intense longing that had rocked him.
Although his swift reaction to her had been mortifying, it was not surprising given the time they had spent together on the trail, sharing not only the boredom and the danger, but life’s most intimate details. Even in filthy, oversized clothing, with smudges of mud on her face and twigs in her snarled hair, there was no denying Jemma’s innocent allure. After kissing her and holding her in his arms, he didn’t have to try hard to imagine what it would be like to have more.
There had been an instantaneous flash of shock in her eyes when she caught him staring at her breasts. Like a coward, he had turned away, pretending to concentrate on the powder horn hanging from his saddle while he waited for his heated blood to cool.
“Hunter?”
He shook off thoughts that were far too arousing. “What?” Afraid she was about to mention the scene in the streambed, his hand stopped midway to the cornmeal sack.
“Thank you for coming back for me,” she said softly. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had left me there, especially after the way I nearly got us both killed.”
She spoke so softly, sounded so penitent, that he finally chanced meeting her gaze. His heart lodged somewhere in his throat when he realized that the brightness in her eyes was caused by unshed tears.
“I would never have left you there.” He couldn’t tear his eyes away from hers.
“I thought you drowned.”
“I thought the same of you and realized I still don’t even know your last name. Is there no one who cares about you, Jemma? If you had drowned in the Homochitto, is there no one who would mourn you?”
Her eyes darkened. She looked down at her hands. Once perfect, they were now streaked with dirt, her nails jagged, her palms blistered. Jemma tucked them out of sight beneath her thighs and stared at him thoughtfully.
“Those are strange questions for a loner.”
“I have kin in Sandy Shoals who care about what happens to me.”
She frowned and appeared thoughtful as she gazed off into the distance, her thoughts obviously far away. “I have ‘kin’, too.”
“Where?”
She hesitated a bit too long. “I told you before. Canada.” She didn’t sound any more convincing than she had the first time she’d told him about wanting to find her father and brother. If she was running from something, or someone, she still didn’t trust him enough to tell him. “My last name is O’Hurley,” she blurted quickly, as if afraid she might change her mind. “Jemma O’Hurley.”
Sensing her distress, he tried to lighten his approach. “So, you’re Jemma O’Hurley, bound for the wilds of Canada, by way of a convent in Algiers?”
She nodded. “Now a former Indian captive, too, don’t forget.”
She smiled at him for the first time in two days and, despite the fact that his quick, visceral reaction to that smile annoyed him, Hunter felt as if the sun had just come out after a long rain spell. Her dimples teased her cheeks and his imagination. It would be all too easy to unlock the door to his heart, but what then? He didn’t want a woman in his life, didn’t need the ties that bind or the heartache that comes when they dissolve.
Guarding his heart and his future, he broke the connection and tended to the task at hand. He was silent throughout the modest meal and so was Jemma. By the time he had put away the cornmeal, the tension in the air was almost palpable. He stood up, prepared to walk the perimeter of the camp. Out of habit, he dusted off the seat of his buckskins and straightened his hat.
“Why don’t you get some sleep?” he said. “I’ll take the first watch.”
“I don’t know if I can sleep.”
“Try.”
“You’ll wake me if there’s any trouble?” She stood up and rubbed her arms. Her shirt had dried. He walked over to where she had left the striped wool blanket and picked it up.
“If there’s trouble, you’ll hear about it.” Hunter opened the blanket and dropped it over her shoulders.
“Hunter?”
&nb
sp; “What, Jemma?” The sun was going down, a shimmering ball of flame that set the deep grass glowing as if it were on fire. Sunset backlit her blond hair with shimmering highlights, creating a halo effect. She reminded him of an angel that heaven had misplaced.
He stopped a few yards away and looked back over his shoulder. She was on her knees, smiling up at him as she spread her bedroll out on the ground, looking far too vulnerable and innocent to be halfway to nowhere, all alone with him.
“No matter what happens, I want you to know this has been the grandest adventure of my life and well worth the gold piece.”
He ran his hand over his stubbled jaw. It was the first time he felt like smiling all day.
“You mean escaping the emir’s men didn’t hold a candle to running from the Choctaw?”
Her dimples deepened. “Not when you throw in that river crossing and Many Feathers trying to buy me.” She stood up and walked toward him. “And I’ll never forget that horrible place, the Rotgut.”
“With everything else, I’d almost forgotten about that.” He started to walk off again.
“Hunter?”
“What, Jemma?” He turned around. She walked over to him, stopping just a few inches away.
“How much longer until we get to Sandy Shoals?”
“With luck, another week, week and a half. Plenty of time for more adventure, if that’s what you want.”
“I hope not. I’ll say a few prayers.”
He watched her run her tongue over her lips. She was staring at his mouth. He told himself to move. To check on the animals, make certain all was secure. But he couldn’t budge.
“What will you pray for?” he asked, fighting not to notice how close she was.
“It might surprise you.” Her voice had dropped until it was barely above a whisper.
“Nothing you do or say surprises me anymore.”
Walk away, his conscience shouted. She was so close he could feel her warmth. Her lips were too inviting, her trust in him far too great. He was a man, not one of her long-dead saints. Need pounded through him, urging him to reach out and take her in his arms.
He kept his hands at his sides, determined not to touch her. No matter how willing he wanted to think she might be, she was far too innocent to know what hell she was putting him through.
“Do you know what I was thinking when the river was pulling me down?” She asked,
“No.” He looked over her shoulder. Night engulfed them. Above them, the starry sky cupped the land.
“I didn’t want to die a virgin.”
Her blunt admission shook him. “You shouldn’t talk like that, Jemma.”
“Why not, when it’s the truth?”
“You might give a man ideas.” His head was already chock-full of them.
“That’s just what Sister Augusta Aleria always said.”
“You should have listened to her. It’s best to avoid trouble.”
“You see making love as trouble?”
“Not if it’s the right time or place.”
“But not here, not now?”
“Jemma, you don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I think I do, Hunter. I think I know very well what I’m saying and so do you.”
“I think you must have hit your head on something in the river.”
“You don’t want to make love to me, is that it?”
“That’s not it at all. It’s just that … you put me in an awkward place.”
“I’ve embarrassed you?”
“It isn’t right—”
“You think a man should do the asking, is that it? It’s a man’s world, Hunter, but I think choosing the man who’s to take her virginity is the one thing a woman ought to be able to decide for herself.”
“I can’t do this, Jemma.” Dear God, he was actually beginning to shake with need.
“Something in your eyes tells me different, Hunter; Am I asking so much?” When she laid her hand on his arm he felt the touch vibrate through him.
“It’s not as simple as kissing.”
“Then show me,” she urged.
“I don’t have the right.”
“Oh, yes. I know. The right should be reserved for my husband. I should save myself for someone willing to marry me. What if that man turns out to be someone of my father’s choosing, not mine?”
“You haven’t found your father yet—”
“But I know him well. What if he chooses someone old and toothless like Many Feathers, or someone cruel, or perhaps demented?”
“Surely he wouldn’t—”
“You don’t know my father. Why shouldn’t the single most important act of my life be shared with someone I trust and admire?” She was angry, beneath the bravado of her outrageous request; he heard her bitterness.
“Jemma, don’t.” He was afraid her argument was actually beginning to make sense.
“Why shouldn’t it be you?”
“You know why. I’m not looking to settle down.”
“Nor am I. All I’m asking for is tonight.”
He was going to burst and embarrass them both if she didn’t quit talking. He wasn’t made of stone. Pulling her into his arms, he silenced her with a kiss. One kiss, that’s all, he told himself. One kiss and he would let her go, send her back to her bedroll. He kissed her long and deep, drew her sensual body close until she warmed his entire length. She was so soft, so willing.
“All I’m asking for is tonight.” Her hushed whisper gave him pause. Was it so much, what she was asking? She knew him, trusted him. She had put her faith in him and her life in his hands since that night in New Orleans. Now she wanted more, without commitment, without thought for tomorrow. Where would they be tomorrow? No one could say for sure.
If nothing else, the past twenty-four hours had taught them both that life is a gift as fleeting, as temporal as a crystal droplet of dew balanced on the tip of a leaf. It was too precious to take for granted, too priceless to waste.
The bite of fall was in the air. Hunter enfolded Jemma in his arms and, without a word, held her against his heart. She was snug and warm in the striped blanket, and yet he could feel her trembling. When she tipped her head to look up at him, he smoothed her hair back off her face. She was silent, as if she knew that he was wrestling with his thoughts, weighing her request.
He cupped her jaw with his hand, traced her lips with his thumb. There was nothing about her that wasn’t soft, except for her will, which had the strength of granite.
“Jemma, you make it hard for a man to say no,” he whispered.
“Then don’t.”
“Are you afraid?”
She shook her head, turned her lips into his palm and kissed it. “Not of you.”
Every intention he had of refusing her evaporated. He was lost.
She kissed his palm again. The land had grown so dark she couldn’t read his expression, but she could feel the hesitation, the war that was being waged inside him.
She knew he wanted her. She had seen as much that afternoon in the stream, but now, most likely he thought she had taken leave of her senses. When he let go of her and took a step back, she wasn’t surprised; she only wondered how she would ever be able to face him when dawn’s light painted the sky with a new day.
Jemma watched him walk away without a word and felt like a fool.
She turned her back to the hastily set-up camp that was invisible in the sheer black of the moonless night. It was a blessing there was no fire. At least she could hide her embarrassment and chagrin until morning. Cradling her elbows with her hands, shivering, she tightened her arms and hugged herself. Rocking a bit, she stared up at the stars overhead and listened to the hoot of an owl somewhere in the distance as it joined the cricket songs and the hush, hush of the breeze that rustled the tips of the tall sea of grass.
Hunter was moving around near the supplies; she could hear him not far away. Wishing she could call back her impulsive request, she was certain he would be anxious to see the las
t of her.
“Jemma.”
She started at the sound of Hunter’s voice, foreign against the background of nature’s night symphony. Half-turning, she tried to make him out in the dark. He seemed to be kneeling near the canvas of supplies.
“Hunter, I’m so—”
“Come here.”
The apology died on her lips. Her heart hammered a bruising tempo. The blanket around her shoulders began to slip. She rescued it, tugged it up, and began dissolving the distance between them as she moved through the dark.
When she drew closer, she found him still hunkered down on one knee. He raised his hand. She slipped her fingers into his warm palm and he drew her down beside him.
“I put the bedrolls together,” he said. “For warmth if nothing else. If you’ve changed your mind—”
“I haven’t,” she said, suddenly wondering at the enormity of what was about to take place. “What should I do now?”
He took the blanket from around her shoulders, unfurled it, and set it close by; then he reached for the hem of her shirt.
“Nothing. Let me do everything. It’s what you wanted.”
“And you? Do you really want to do this, Hunter?”
He paused in the act of drawing her shirt up and rested his hands at her waist. “I can’t resist, not when it’s something I didn’t dare let myself think about these past days and nights.”
She was not looking for a husband. She knew better than to expect words of love from a man who proclaimed himself a loner. He had only admitted that he could not resist her offer and she did not begrudge him that, for he was only human, but his touch spoke volumes. She felt calm. Quite certain she was doing the right thing. After tonight, there would be no fear of her father bartering away her virginity. No more wondering about other things.
His hands were warm and sure as he finished with her shirt, forcing her to kneel before him so that he could pull it over her head. She was bare from the waist up, half-naked and exposed to the night, which in itself sent an unmistakable thrill through her. Boston seemed a lifetime away with its crowded streets, the congested wharf, houses of brick and wood built close beside one another—the stringent, uncompromising rules of society that hemmed people in more than brick or mortar ever could.
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