Fair Is the Rose (38 page)

He continued their lovemaking in much the same way, shocking her, pleasuring her with every caress. His scent covered her skin everywhere they touched and she reveled in it, loving the male smell of saddles and dust, and another scent totally different from her own, a scent that made her impulsively open her legs to this dangerous, unpredictable man.

Preparing for the finale, he jerked the chemise from her wrists. "Touch me . . . everywhere . . ." he whispered as he settled his hard length between her pale thighs. She complied, loving the feel of his beard-roughened jaw, his muscle-girded belly,
his
bulging, rock-hard forearms; giddy with appreciation of her sense of touch only because he'd withheld it from her.

He breathed hard now, his face taut with the need to complete the act. His fingers found the recess between her thighs and without pause, as if his desire for her had pushed him beyond the limits of his better
nature,
he violently thrust himself inside her.

Only to find an unexpected barrier.

As if struck by lightning, he abruptly
stopped,
his entire body rigid and panting. Though he was inside her, her virginity was still retrievable and there was now an unwanted decision.

She longed to hide from the displeasure on his face. All the old lies had eloquently been revealed. She was no widow, she was no whore. Her past was once more an indecipherable puzzle.

"Damn it, Christal," he whispered, burying his head between the tangle of her hair and the soft skin of her throat. "Damn everything," he whispered again like a curse, then, as unexpected as her intact hymen was to him, he thrust up inside until she could feel her maidenhead tear like a bedsheet.

She might have dwelled on the pain, but he gave her no time. He moved like a bronc trying to rid itself of a saddle. He pushed and withdrew, taking her with a frenzy that diminished her pain and forced it to blossom into pleasure. The unfamiliar tension in her loins mounted with his every thrust, until she could hardly stop herself from reacting. Almost against her will, as if she was afraid she might like it too much, she tried to hold back, but it was no use. He held a secret that she knew would drive her mad if she didn't discover what it was.

Slowly she released herself to him and let him take her where she longed to go, amazed that his pleasure could increase just by heightening hers. He worked hard, his body glistening with
a sheen
of sweat though the stove in the room needed stoking. She wondered at the compatibility of their bodies—as he pumped, she instinctively gripped; as he thrust, she surrendered until both of them seemed ready to explode.

She had no warning of the blackmail in his heart, but with a sudden grunt of agony, he stopped his movements, proving once and for all that he had molten steel running through his veins and not blood. She cried out, hurting every bit as much as he did, and then she knew he had her. At that moment, she would promise him anything, give him anything, to make him continue and give her the ecstasy he promised.

"Never run from me again," he rasped, finding words difficult. He shuddered within her, and she thought he had to be made of ice given his ability to stop despite how his body was racked with the pain of denial. "Promise me, girl—say it—you'll never run from me again—"

She moaned and looked at the iron bedpost, at the gun belt, heavy with his steel six-shooters. She was giving herself a death sentence. "I promise—I'll never leave you—I'll never leave," she repeated, trying to make him start again.

He complied. He thrust several times more, then ground his teeth and pushed deep inside her womb. She felt his seed shoot up inside her and that was what finally drove her over the edge. She dug her nails into his back, threw back her head and embraced her pact with the devil.

Christal found it painful to open her eyes. The morning sun shone brightly through the window, its glare intensified by the snow. She covered her eyes and rolled over. Though she knew she was not in her own bed, she might have been on the moon for all that she found familiar. There was an ache between her thighs, a well-satisfied ache perhaps, but foreign nonetheless, and every muscle in her body seemed spent of energy, as if she had just walked across the divide. But these were only symptoms. Her eyes finally adjusted to the brightness of the sunshine streaming across her bed and she found the cause.

Macaulay lay asleep next to her, his limbs entwined inextricably with her own. The sheets and blankets were scattered over them as if a storm had just come through and blown them off the bed. Then, when she thought of the exact nature of the storm, she could feel hot color on her cheeks.

She turned her gaze to Macaulay. It was strange to have a naked man next to her. The warmth of his skin was delicious, particularly since the stove had burned out long before dawn, but it was frightening too. He was too close. It was like lying next to a sleeping wolf. Any minute he might awake.

Afraid of disturbing him, she lay quietly and studied him, an odd, unwelcome tenderness seeping into her heart. She was unused to seeing him with his defenses down, and she delighted in the luxury of it. No longer was he the cold-eyed outlaw of the notorious Kineson gang or the strong-willed sheriff ready to scour the town of vice. Instead, he was just a man—albeit a very handsome one—sprawled possessively across her bed in slumber, breathing deeply and well after a night's vigorous activity.

His mouth was slightly parted and his brow was clear of the stresses that ate at him. She longed to reach out and trace the lines that ran down his cheeks, to touch a lock of his dark umber-colored hair, hair that she noticed for the first time was streaked tawny, a testament to his years spent in the saddle beneath a hot prairie sun. His chest, partly covered by the blanket, rose and fell with his deep breathing, creating a temptation for her hand once again to feel his muscles harden at her touch, to feel the erotic crispness of the dark hair that ran in a stream down his belly, to parts she now gratefully found hidden.

He groaned and rolled away, onto his back, giving her the opportunity to rise. She wanted to be dressed and gone before he awoke. It had unsettled her last night having his man's gaze on her nude body. Now, beneath the sun's bright glare, she seemed even more naked.

She slowly rose up on one elbow. The exertion of the night made her movements slow and cautious. She tried to sit up, but the length of her hair was hopelessly caught beneath his meaty shoulder.

She stared, puzzling how to extricate it without waking him up. If she had had scissors available, she would have cut it all off rather than face him nude across the bed, her emotions running the gamut of embarrassment, anxiety, longing, and fear. He had forced a promise of no more running, but in the harsh light of morning she didn't know how well that promise could be kept.
It was an asylum . . . an insane asylum . . .
She didn't want him to look into her eyes and see the lie she still needed to tell. Not yet.

Finding no other way, she reached across the mattress and pulled on her hair. It gave an inch or two and still he slept, heartening her. She tugged again and again, getting a bit more hair out from beneath him with each pull. Then, with a final lusty heave, she freed her hair, but not before his hand reached out and pulled her naked onto his chest.

"Mornin'," he rumbled, repressed laughter warming his normally cold gaze.

"Good morning," she said, the formality of her words making her feel stupid, especially while she was buck naked atop him, her breasts crushed against his hairy chest, her buttocks an appallingly convenient place for him to rest his hands—unbelievably warm hands.

"What time is it?" His voice was a deep vibration through his chest, titillating
her own
.

"Late," she whispered, not brave enough to scramble away and reveal more of her nudity.

"Then let's not get up at all." He bent his head and kissed the top of her breast.

She wanted to pull away but if she did, she knew he'd have her nipple in his mouth before she could gasp a protest. Then she'd be lost. "I—I really have things to do —please—"

"Faulty's not going to come over here and drag you away from me. You know it, darlin'." He squeezed her bottom. She couldn't believe the strength in his hands.

"But—"

He took her face and brushed the hair from her eyes. "But you're not used to making love in the daytime. Or ever, are you?"

She was silent, remembering how he'd risen from the bed after he'd taken her the first time last night. Using a chipped pitcher and bowl, he'd washed the blood from himself, then handed her a damp cloth so that she could do the same. The entire episode was performed without a word, without questions. He was solemn, almost grave, as if taking her virginity had been an undesirable, unavoidable task. But then, accepting it as done, he'd returned to bed and taken her twice more, almost as if he were trying to convince himself she'd never been a virgin at all.

"What were you saving it for, Christal?" he asked quietly, bringing her out of her thoughts.

You,
she wanted to say, but didn't.

"Let me see you." He sat up in the bed and pulled her from him. She clutched the sheet, but he took it away. Kneeling before him like a slave, she felt his gaze wander freely over her breasts and thighs. She was so
mortified,
she couldn't even look at him.

He tilted her face up. She finally met his stare, wishing hers could be as cool and detached as his; knowing it could not.

His hand brushed the knots at the back of her head, further evidence of the fury of the night before. He looked straight into her eyes. "You're beautiful, Christal. Hide yourself from every other man, but don't hide from me."

Unable to stand his scrutiny any longer, she grabbed the twisted sheet and held it to her chest. "Please . . . you leave me no modesty."

"It's too late for modesty now." His gaze flickered over her maidenly pose as she clutched the sheet to her breasts. He suddenly smiled. "What are you afraid of? You think I'm looking for flaws?"

"Maybe.
I just don't see what you find so fascinating. And it's so damned light in here." She looked around, cursing the sunlight that poured through the two long windows of his bedroom. Now she knew why Dixi and Ivy shunned the east bedroom. The morning was just too hard to face in the glare.

"I'm not looking to see flaws." He still wore that irreverent smile. "But I will say this: You're too thin. And I don't need the light to know it."

Her eyes flashed at him, her nerves taut with nervous anger. "It hasn't been easy for me since Camp Brown. What do you
think,
that I dine at Delmonico's every night?" She snapped her gaze away. "You just want me fat so my bust will be as big as Dixiana's."

"It's not your bust I'm complaining about." He ran his fingertips lightly along the portion of her rib cage that wasn't covered by the sheet. There was just enough rib showing to prove his point.

Disconcerted, she covered her side with the sheet, but then it fell from one breast.