Broken Vows (12 page)

      
She needed to talk to Rory—to plead with him if need be—so that he would stay away until Amos had withdrawn his suit and her family was safe. If there was one thing the stubborn and impetuous Irishman understood, it was family loyalty.

      
Yesterday, before they parted at the picnic, he had asked her to meet him this morning at the river to discuss his plan to call on her father. There had been no time to dissuade him before Celia and several of the other young women from church had come looking for her, but today she had to make him see reason. They had agreed on eight o'clock, but she could not wait several more hours. Maybe he would arrive earlier.

      
She prayed he would as she crept through the dim light filtering into the house and slipped silently out the back door. Monday was the nearest thing to a day off her father ever allowed himself in his busy schedule. To accommodate him, her mother did not rise early to wash as most of the local women did, but waited until Tuesday. Rebekah would not be missed until after nine.
Please be early, Rory.

      
As she rode her old mare Bettie May to the river, Rebekah began to have second thoughts. Maybe this was a mistake.
Am I using my fear of Amos as an excuse to see Rory again?
Just thinking about him set her pulse to racing. Blood thrummed through her veins, and her heart beat erratically when she replayed the time she had spent alone with Rory Madigan. What spell had he woven over her? She had only seen him a handful of times, yet she shared his laughter and his pain and his passion in such full measure that it robbed her of all reason.

      
“I'm insane to be here,” she whispered to the old horse as she dismounted and tied the reins to a sapling. She walked through the soft dust, rounding the thick trunk of a willow tree and peering through its dense, low-hanging branches.

      
Even before she saw him, she heard the sounds of splashing accompanied by melodious whistling. She almost called out as she reached to shove away the leafy barrier, but then her eyes fastened on the shallows. Her heart skipped a beat. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She struggled to swallow and forgot how.

      
Rory Madigan was wading into the water for a morning swim—stark naked! She had already seen those broad shoulders and powerful arms bared, but never the rest of him. Breath failed her as her eyes traveled lower, past the tan line at his trim waist, to fasten on the lighter flesh below, untouched by the blazing Nevada sun. Hard, narrow buttocks moved rhythmically as his long, sinewy legs carried him deeper until he suddenly dove forward into the current and vanished cleanly beneath the surface.

      
Frantically, she watched the water. Good heavens, had he drowned? Then his head broke the surface. He shook his shaggy hair from his eyes as he began to slice cleanly across the river, heading toward a large pink rock jutting out into the current about twenty feet away from her. He climbed up onto the rock and sat, with his body turned in profile, watching the sun rise over the southeast side of the river. She was close enough to see the early morning light catch the glimmer of water beading in iridescent droplets on the smooth contours of his hard muscles. He raised one hand and combed his fingers through his hair, shaking it back from his forehead.

      
Rory leaned lazily backward against the rock and tilted his head toward the sunrise, as if to nap. When he spoke, she almost fell to her knees in panic. “Are you going to hide and peek all morning or come join me? It's warm here, and the water's cool and refreshing before the heat of the day.”

      
Rebekah clutched the willow branches like a lifeline. How did he know anyone was there? Surely, he could not know it was her.

      
“I know it's you, Rebekah. I can see Bessie May tied up above the rise.”

      
Infuriating man! “I came to talk with you, Rory, not to frolic like Aphrodite in the waves,” she shouted breathlessly.

      
“But first you decided to look your fill.” There was laughter in his voice.

      
A hot denial sprang to her lips, but the truth of his accusation made her choke on it. She swallowed and took a deep breath, knowing her face was glowing as red as a beacon. That was probably what he recognized, not her fat old mare. “I'm going to turn around, close my eyes, and wait until you're decent. Then we need to talk.”

      
“You'll have the devil's own wait, darlin'. I've never been decent. Sister Frances Rose, not to mention my own mother, always assured me of it.”

      
She spun around to wait as he dove into the water and swam back to shore. When she heard the rustling noise of denims scraping over wet skin, all sorts of erotic images flashed into her mind; but she rubbed her temples, attempting to subdue them and concentrate on the problem at hand. Then, his hand touched her shoulder lightly and she gasped in surprise. He turned her around and pulled her into his arms. His flesh was still wet, yet surprisingly warm to the touch as her fingers pressed into the black hair on his chest. Gleaming beads of water glistened and dripped from his hair and ran down his shoulders and arms. His scent was clean and tangy as he drew her closer, staring into her face, his lashes spiky with water, his eyes intense.

      
“Now, what's upset you so much that you're over an hour early for our meeting?”

      
Her mind went blank. She stammered as he lowered his mouth to brush against her brow and temples, then nuzzle lower, past her jaw to her throat. “Amos Wells,” she finally blurted out.

      
He tensed, then drew back and looked at her, a troubled expression on his face. “What about Wells?”

      
“After yesterday...well, I knew he might be angry about my switching baskets with Celia, but when you paid so much for mine...it made him look like a fool and everyone in town started gossiping about it. When I arrived home, my mother had already heard.”

      
“I can just bet half those old biddies from the picnic raced over to tell her,” he said grimly. “Rebekah, I know I'm not rich like Wells, but I'll go to your father—”

      
“No! That is, you're not Amos Wells. He can ruin my father's church and my brother-in-law's new job. I've embarrassed him, and I have to make my apologies—”

      
“I won't have you abasing yourself before that petty, pompous ass. No man with an ounce of pride in himself would blackmail a woman with her family's security. And no family who loved you would let you sacrifice yourself.” He seethed with anger, his fingers digging into her arms until he felt her wince. “I'm sorry, darlin'.”

      
She shook her head as he rubbed her arms tenderly. “You don't understand, Rory. My father and Henry haven't asked me to do anything. In fact, my father doesn't even know about his threats.” She explained about the exchange of notes and Amos's carefully veiled threats, knowing Rory's anger had been ignited but desperate to make him realize that she had to handle the situation in her own way.

      
“I'll break his neck with my bare hands,” he said in a low, deadly voice, his eyes blazing with fury.

      
“You'll ruin any chance we have if you do! If you go after him, you'll only be killed and then he'd take far worse reprisals against me and my family. Please, Rory, please.” Her voice broke as she raised her hands and cupped his face. “Don't interfere. Stay away while I soothe his wounded pride. I do owe him an apology for the trick I played, and once the gossip dies down, he'll realize we don't suit and look elsewhere for a wife. But if you come courting, my parents will be angry and Amos will feel cast aside. Everything will be hopelessly complicated.” She looked beseechingly up into his face.

      
“If you feel you have to do it this way...” He halted grudgingly, then sighed and said, “I'll stay away—but only if you let me know that everything is all right and only for a reasonable length of time.”

      
She felt the tight knot in her stomach loosen. With a tender smile, she asked, “And how long is a reasonable length of time?” Her fingertips skimmed over his cheek and traced the strong, beautifully sculpted planes of his face. She was drowning in his eyes, in the heat of his nearness, in the hypnotic spell cast by his lips as they nipped at her fingers. His teeth seized her thumb and bit softly into the pad of flesh, sending small shivers of delight coursing down to her toes.

      
“Have you ever been for a morning swim, Rebekah?”

      
“Rory, you promised you'd wait—not interfere.” He shook his head as his hand captured hers and drew it to his mouth, nibbling on her sensitive fingertips. “I won't barge in on your father's parsonage or accost Wells on the street...but now you're here and we're alone.” He continued the seduction of her hand and felt her tremble. “Let's go for a swim, Rebekah.”

      
“I can't. I don't know how to swim,” she added breathlessly. This was madness!

      
“I'll teach you,” he said, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her from the shelter of the willow into the warm blaze of sunlight.

Chapter Six

      
“You're mine, Rebekah. I love you and I want to marry you. Say yes,” he whispered as he held her against his chest. She had wrung from him that crazy promise to let her get rid of Wells, but he was going to make damn certain she never forgot that she belonged to him. He waited for her reply, holding his breath as he let her slide to her feet, pressing her breasts against his chest so that their hearts beat together. Their breath mingled, and he stood very still.

      
“Yes,” she said softly. “Oh, yes, Rory.” It felt so good, so right to be in his arms, surrounded by his scent, to have him touching her, making her feel things she had only dimly imagined before.

      
There was so much she wanted to learn, and he was the man who would teach her. His mouth again claimed hers in another of those soul-robbing kisses that made her feel like soft clay waiting to be molded by him. He held her tightly, with an urgency that she had never felt in him before, almost desperation as his hands moved possessively over her, one hand teasing her breast until the nipple hardened and she ached. He quickly unfastened the buttons of her blouse and reached inside, shoving her camisole aside as his fingers made contact with her soft skin. His other hand cupped her buttock and lifted her against his lower body, which rocked them in a mysterious yet instinctually familiar rhythm.

      
His fingers on her breast drew a sharp little gasp of surprised pleasure from her, which led him to grow bolder. He pulled her blouse completely open and slid the camisole straps from her shoulders, baring both milky globes to the warm morning sun. She held on to him, hearing his hoarse murmur, “Beautiful, so beautiful, Rebekah.” She felt the intimate shock of the breeze touching her bare flesh. Even more intimate was the pressure of his lower body against hers.

      
Rebekah knew nothing of the ways of men and women. She had read the Greek myths about gods and mortals coupling and puzzled over how the deed was done. She had never dared ask Dorcas, although she had overheard bits and snatches about a woman's marital duties from various older women who always fell silent when young girls approached. Men were made differently than women in that most secret, shameful place, and Rory's body seemed to want to touch hers there. She could feel the hard bulge against her lower belly as his hips moved against hers.

      
His lips trailed soft wet kisses down her throat and caught a breast, closing hotly over it. Frissons of fire shot through her; and she arched involuntarily against him, forgetting in an instant what the mysterious and menacing changes in his lower body meant. As he feasted on her breasts, moving from one to the other, licking, suckling, and teasing with his tongue, they sank to their knees in the soft grass. But when he raised his head, his face ferocious and glazed with passion, the spell was broken. She could feel his hands at her waist, unfastening her belt and beginning to pull her skirt down. He looked like a stranger, some demonic god from mythology. This was not her Rory, who laughed with her and shared his childhood sorrows. This was a stranger.

      
And she was a stranger to herself as well, shamelessly naked, allowing him to look at and touch her bare flesh as if he had the right even though they were not yet wed. She twisted away, reaching down to seize his hands and pull them from their task. “No, Rory, no! Please, it isn't right. I can't.”

      
His hands stilled, but he did not release her. Trembling with all the youthful desire he had suppressed since he first met Rebekah Sinclair, Rory gritted his teeth, fighting for calm. “It is right. I love you and you love me—you said you'd marry me.” His breath came out in labored gasps, halting his speech.

      
“Yes,” she whispered brokenly, still not daring to look at him. “But we're not married yet.”

      
“We could be. You're the one who's asked me to wait, to stay away from you and your family while you let Amos Wells call on you.”

      
“Amos Wells means nothing to me!” she cried, her head flying up as her tear-blurred eyes met his harsh gaze. “I only want to get rid of him. It's you I love. But this is wrong, too. I'm not...I can't, I'm sorry.” She struggled to slip her camisole up, once more covering her breasts.

      
“You're afraid. Don't be. Not of me, Rebekah. Not ever.” He sighed roughly, then began gently helping her refasten her badly disheveled clothing, his touch gentle and slow. He had been rough, passion blinded, wanting to place his mark of possession on her; and he had taken advantage of her own repressed sexual desire. “You're a real lady with high morals. I'm the one who owes you an apology. You have nothing to apologize about—not to me and not to Amos Wells either.”