by Anne Stuart
Her breathing was deep, even, drugged with sleep and satisfaction. The sound made him smile sourly. Hell, he was turning into a regular knight, rescuing damsels in distress as well as babies, and even providing safe sex when they needed a little cooling off.
But what about him? He could do with cooling off, or safe sex, or the hot, slick feel of her around him. And instead she fell asleep in his arms with as much trust as the third member of their odd little party.
The smart thing to do would be to leave her behind. She was good with the kid, but he could handle the little guy as well. Timothy slept most of the time, drank formula, and Reilly had no problem with diapers.
What he did have a problem with was Carlie. More exactly, he had a problem with himself. She distracted him, and when he was distracted, they were all vulnerable.
He’d come too far, the stakes were too high, to risk everything because suddenly he couldn’t stop thinking with his dick.
She made a sound in her sleep. A wet, shuddering sound, a stray remnant of her crying jag. She’d seen her parents killed, she said. By the black-shirted soldiers of the San Pablo army.
Which was in direct odds with her story about making her first visit to San Pablo to visit an old school chum.
She’d been lying to him again, which came as no surprise. He could shake her awake, demand the truth from her and maybe precipitate a confrontation that would slake the burning thirst he had for her. Any excuse to touch her, to push her, to have her.
But he wasn’t going to do it. Any more than he’d leave her behind for Dutchy’s tender mercies. He’d find out the truth from her, sooner or later.
In the meantime, he’d indulge himself in the painful delight of sleeping with her soft, slight body pressed up against his. And he’d think of the look in her eyes when she came.
* * *
Chapter Eleven
* * *
“Fifteen minutes.”
The words, gruff and abrupt, ripped through Carlie’s sleep-dazed brain. Her face was pressed up against the pillow, and she was alone in the bed that seemed too big. And too empty. The man she’d shared the bed with stood directly over her, and she wasn’t particularly ready to face him after last night. Any more than she was ready to face herself. She was miserable with shame and embarrassment.
She lifted her head, keeping her gaze on the pillow. The room was still fairly dark—only the faint light of sunrise pierced the gloom, sending mauvy-pink shadows against the cracked walls. “Fifteen minutes?” she echoed dully.
“We’re meeting the Shumi down the river a ways. They’ll be bringing the baby. Dutchy’s passed out on the barroom floor, but when he wakes up I imagine he’ll be going after Morales. We need to be long gone by then.”
She still couldn’t meet his gaze. “Why would he go after Morales?”
“Because I knocked the crap out of him. Because he got a good look at you and knew you weren’t a camp follower. Because if he knows about the baby and he’ll probably want to tell Morales about it. Don’t forget about the reward. The sooner we get out of here the better.”
“I can make it in five.”
“You’ve got time for a fast shower. God knows when you’ll get another chance.”
She couldn’t avoid it any longer. She turned her head to look in his general direction, still determined not to meet his gaze. It was a mistake. He was wearing jeans and nothing else, and his hair was slicked back from the shower. He was big and wet and dangerous, and yet far too familiar. His mouth, his hands had touched her. Caressed her. Turned her wanton.
“Stop blushing,” he said irritably.
Of course, her blush deepened. For a moment, endless, eternal, her eyes met his. They were dark, brooding, filled with some latent emotion she couldn’t begin to understand. She’d seen lust in the faces of men, seen it on Dutchy last night, but this didn’t look as simple as lust. Besides, if he lusted after her, he wouldn’t have stopped last night. He wouldn’t have …done that to her, and then simply gone to sleep.
Though she suspected that she’d been the first to fall asleep. She’d lain there, waiting, and the next thing she knew it was morning, and she awoke feeling ashamed, energized and achingly aware of life and all its possibilities.
“It’s getting closer to ten minutes,” he warned her.
She pushed back the covers. Her clothes were tangled around her, but she was still relatively decent once she yanked the skirt down around her legs. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t more acquainted with her body than any human being, herself included. But he’d only touched her body, not seen it, and she’d just as soon he didn’t.
The room was small and the bed took up most of it. She skirted around it, grabbing clothes from the open backpack and heading for the door. He was standing there, watching her, too close.
She wanted to run. She wanted to scurry away like a small, embarrassed rabbit, and he probably knew it all too well. She paused beside him, squaring her shoulders and meeting his cool gaze. “Don’t ever do that again,” she said fiercely, despite her blushes.
It was a mistake. His dark eyes lightened with real amusement, and his mouth curved. “Don’t do what?”
Her color deepened. “Just don’t,” she said in a strangled voice, wishing she’d had the sense to escape and keep her big mouth shut.
But she hadn’t. He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her up against the wall, gently, inexorably, his fingers kneading her. “Don’t what?” he taunted again, softly. “Don’t make you come? I thought I was a perfect little gentleman,” he murmured, his mouth brushing against her ear, his breath tickling, disturbing her. “Ready to provide pleasure without asking a thing for myself.” His mouth traveled across her cheekbone, down to the corner of her lips. “I thought next time I’d use my mouth.”
If she turned her head, just a fraction of an inch, she could have kissed him. And the devastating thing was, she wanted to. She wanted his mouth covering hers again, taking, giving pleasure. She wanted him to push her back on that bed and show her that soul-shattering delight once more.
She started to tilt her head, to give him better access, when he whispered against her lips, “You’re down to five minutes now.”
She drove her fist into his stomach. Hard. He didn’t even flinch. He simply backed away, his expression enigmatic. “Better hurry,” he said, turning away from her.
He had a beautiful back. Long, graceful, with smooth, darkly tanned skin. She’d never realized a man’s back could be quite so lovely.
“I’ll be ready,” she said tersely.
Reilly decided it might be wiser not to be in the room when Carlie came back. Just as he resisted the temptation to join her in the shower. The sooner they got away from this little outpost, the better.
There was no sign of Dutchy when he reached the bottom of the stairs, and Reilly cursed beneath his breath. Last time he’d reconnoitered, Dutchy had been passed out beneath a table, snoring loudly, and Reilly had hoped his drunken stupor would last well into midmorning. Time enough for them to be long gone.
Apparently fate wasn’t about to be so kind.
He could hear noise in the back shed that passed for a kitchen—the clanging of pots, the loud, muffled curse. He could move out of there without Dutchy knowing—Reilly was good enough at what he did to ensure that. But he couldn’t count on Carlie, small though she was, being similarly light on her feet. Besides, he could hear the shower going overhead, and if he could, Dutchy could.
He had no real choice in the matter. He set the packs down wearily. He pulled the gun from his waist, checked the clip and then headed for the kitchen.
* * *
Carlie was just pulling on her clothes when she heard the sound of the gun. For a moment she didn’t know what it was—she was still concentrating on not envisioning what Reilly had meant when he’d said next time he’d use his mouth.
All sorts of disasters flashed through her head when she finally realized just what that muffled explos
ion was. The worst was Reilly, lying dead in his own blood, murdered by Morales’s soldiers.
She didn’t stop to consider the safety of her actions. She was out of the bathroom, still buttoning the loose cotton shirt, and halfway down the stairs when she saw him.
Reilly stood in the darkened bar, whole and unharmed. He looked grim, shaken, but he looked up at the sound of her footsteps, and she thought she could see the dark despair in his eyes.
“I thought someone shot you,” she said in a husky voice.
“No such luck,” he said after a moment. He sounded weary beyond belief. “You’re stuck with me.
Something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. Carlie descended the last few steps, fighting the temptation to go to him. Touch him. Hold him.
“Is Timothy all right?”
He nodded. “I trust the Shumi. They should be waiting for us downriver.” He moved to shoulder the two packs. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Where’s Dutchy?”
“He won’t be bothering us.”
“Why not?”
He stopped beside her. He looked bleak and very, very angry. “Don’t ask.”
She looked at his hands, expecting them to be stained with blood. They looked no different. She looked up at his face, searching for the mark of death, the emptiness of a lost soul in his eyes.
But there was no difference. And little wonder, she reminded herself. He was a soldier, a man of death. This wouldn’t be the first time he had killed in cold blood. It wouldn’t be the last.
She followed him through the outlying jungle as the dawn lightened the sky, heading toward the muddy, slow-moving river, grieving. It wasn’t that Dutchy was a worthy soul, but he was one of God’s creatures, and he didn’t deserve to be shot down like an animal.
But even more, she grieved for Reilly. For his lost soul, and the choice he made.
The sight of the baby, safe and smiling in a Shumi woman’s arms, brought a measure of relief. She pushed past Reilly, rushing to the baby, and the majestic woman handed him over with a smile and a voluble conversation about his wisdom, his appetite, his sturdy limbs and the magnificent future such a young prince had in store for him. Surely with a strong, brave father like the Anglo and a good woman like her, he would be honored throughout his life, and would enjoy the blessings of many brothers and sisters springing forth from their fruitful loins.
Carlie kept her back to Reilly, mentally thanking God he wouldn’t understand the Shumi dialect. In a quiet voice she thanked the woman for her good care of her son, hoping Reilly wouldn’t notice her sudden deftness with obscure languages.
She should have realized that Reilly noticed everything. The Shumi woman launched into a frank, well-meaning discussion of exactly what Reilly and Carlie should do if they desired another boy, or how best to achieve a female offspring next time, complete with appreciative remarks about Reilly’s no doubt remarkable proportions and skill as a warrior and a lover.
It was sheer force of will that kept Carlie from blushing this time. That, and the knowledge that at least Reilly didn’t know what they were saying. He wouldn’t understand her polite reply, or her promise that she would do her best to let him come at her from the back, with her hands over her head and nothing but a belt of gigua grass around her waist if she were interested in having twins.
“Your carriage awaits, milady,” Reilly drawled.
Carlie turned, having composed her expression into one of polite interest. The politeness faded when she caught sight of the canoe. “We’ll die,” she said flatly.
“I doubt it. The Shumi have been using these for over a thousand years. They’re small, but they’re well made.”
“Yes, but they know how to steer them,” Carlie protested, holding Timothy so tightly he let out a soft little sound of protest.
“So do I. Get in.” He’d dumped the packs in the center of the dugout, and there was another basket of fresh fruit and flat bread that was almost enough to entice Carlie into that barge of death. Almost.
“We’re not going anywhere in that thing,” she said flatly.
He looked at her, and she could feel the anger simmering in him, ready to snap. He was a man at the edge. She didn’t know how she knew, she didn’t know what had put him there, but with a sure instinct she knew she had to be very careful.
Perhaps it was killing Dutchy. Even a man as hard as Reilly might have difficulty murdering in cold blood. Maybe it was something else. She simply knew when he spoke in a quiet, clipped voice that she’d better listen.
“You’ll get in the damned boat,” he said between gritted teeth, “or so help me God I’ll tie you up and drag you behind us. There won’t be much left of you by the time we get to our next stop, given the piranhas and the crocodiles that infest this river, but at least I wouldn’t have to listen to your infernal yapping.”
He took a menacing step closer, and it was all she could do to stand her ground, the baby clasped protectively against her.
“You’ll do what I say.” His voice was cold and dangerous. “If you think the baby’s in danger on the river, let me tell you that the alternatives are far worse. And the longer you stand about bitching and moaning, the greater the danger is. Get in the boat.”
Carlie got in the boat. It tipped for a moment, then righted itself as she sank to the floor, cross-legged, the baby resting in her lap. She bit her lip, keeping her gaze forward, as she felt the solid weight of Reilly land behind her.
The Shumi waved them off, singularly unmoved by the battle they’d just witnessed. “Gigua grass,” one of the women called after them in the Shumi language. “Have your man wear some as well, around his-”
“Goodbye,” Carlie called nervously, interrupting the cheerfully graphic instructions.
Reilly was right, of course. He did know how to handle the wide, slightly tippy canoe, and they slid through the water with surprising speed. Within moments they had turned a bend in the slow-moving river, out of sight of the Shumi.
“They’ll be all right, won’t they?” Carlie asked after a moment. “Morales and his men won’t hurt them?”
“Morales and his men won’t find them. The Shumi have twice their brains and half their bulk. They’ve had to deal with conquistadors and fascists. They know how to survive, how to disappear into the forest.”
Carlie looked down at the baby’s peaceful little face. “You promise?” she demanded.
Reilly began to curse. Colorful obscenities floated through the air, then were cut off with such abruptness that she turned to stare at him, sending the boat rocking dangerously.
“Life isn’t fair, lady,” he said flatly. “And promises aren’t worth…squat. It’s about time you learned that.”
“But...”
“But nothing. You can’t watch out for everyone. You can’t save the world. You can only concentrate on saving your own ass, and that’s the way things work.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” he said.
The river was noisy so early in the morning. The birds were having an early gossip, the howler monkeys screeched to each other across the treetops, the somnolent river made its own steady sound as the boat moved with the current. Timothy slept in her arms, serene and replete, and Carlie leaned back against the stack of supplies, gazing skyward. It looked so peaceful, so far removed from blood and death, and unable to help herself, Carlie shivered.
“Did you have to kill him?”
Utter silence from the back of the boat. Then, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Dutchy. Did you have to kill him?”
Reilly cursed under his breath, not quite loud enough for Carlie to make out the words. Another surprise—he hadn’t minded cursing in front of her before. “I didn’t realize you’d developed a fondness for old Dutchy. Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten in his way last night.”
“He was a horrid, disgusting old man,” Carlie said fiercely. “But he didn’t des
erve to die.”
“Trust me, angel, he more than deserved it. Dutchy’s done more things, caused more harm than your vivid imagination could even begin to guess at. However, I didn’t kill him.”
She turned, and the boat rocked perilously. “I heard the gun,” she said.
“I shot at him. It scared the living…it scared him, which was what I wanted. After that it was a simple enough matter to tie him and leave him in a back bedroom.”
“Did you leave the ropes loose enough so that he could eventually escape?”
“Hell, no,” he said irritably. “But Morales and his men will be back sooner or later, and they’ll find him. If the snakes don’t first.”
“Reilly!”
“Don’t worry, angel. Snakes are too smart to touch an old bastard like Dutchy. They wouldn’t want to get poisoned.”
She stared at him, uncertain. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Reilly?”
“Lie to you?” There was something in his voice, a combination of amusement and irritation. “Now why would I do that? I don’t like liars. Besides, isn’t lying a sin?”
Alarm bells began to go off in Carlie’s brain, but she carefully kept her face forward. “I wouldn’t know,” she said. “I don’t spend my time thinking about sin.”
“What about last night?” he taunted. “Was that a sin? Exactly what kind of religion do you follow? I presume you’re Catholic, since you spent that time with Caterina and all those nuns. If I remember my childhood catechism properly, there’s a whole set of categories for each sin, isn’t there?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Were they venial sins or mortal sins, I wonder?” he said, half to himself. “There ought to be some sort of grade of venial sins. I imagine kissing you was only a second-class sin,” he murmured. “Touching your breasts would have been third class, making you come would have been bordering on a fairly major venal sin. But I imagine it would be a mortal sin if and when I actually did you.”