Lynna Banning (20 page)

She retreated to the far corner of the room, away from the candlelight. Ben turned away, concentrated on the sound of the storm raging outside. His body tense, his blood pounding with need, he thought about the woman he had come to know these past few days.

The truth was, he was afraid to be alone with her. He didn’t dare risk reaching for what his body hungered for, didn’t dare because his heart hungered, too. He didn’t trust the emotion. It seemed a lifetime since he’d opened himself to another human being, and now he had nothing to give a woman save a weary, battle-scarred body and a spirit that life had sucked dry.

It was not enough. It would never be enough. But, God in heaven, he wanted her.

He did not hear Jessamyn’s noiseless footstep behind him.

“Ben?”

He jerked at the sound of her voice.

“Ben?” she repeated.

“Yeah?” Fear tightened his throat. Even to him, his tone sounded brusque and unfriendly.

“Where do you want me to sleep? Next to the stove or—”

Want?
Want?
He wanted her beside him, in his bed. In his arms.

“Over there.” He pointed with the guttering candle toward the stove. “Lay your bedroll out close to the fire.”

She hesitated. “What about you?”

He listened to her soft breathing in the darkened silence, heard the thunder growl and rumble overhead. He ground his teeth in frustration, wanted to lift his head and howl into the night, his longing for her was so sharp. Instead, he heard his own voice respond in an almost normal tone. “Between the stove and the door. I’ll sleep with my rifle ready,” he added. “Just in case.”

Jessamyn shivered. “Do you think anyone…”

“No, I don’t. But I won’t take chances, either.” He knew he’d spit the words at her. Inwardly he winced.

She bent to arrange her blankets, then straightened and stepped forward into the circle of light shed by the candle he held in one hand. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it, Ben? I can tell by your voice.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he lied. “I get moody sometimes. Just ignore me.”

“No, I won’t. I can’t.” Her gaze held his for a heartbeat, then dropped to her toes. “The candle is dripping wax onto the floor.”

“It’s happened before.”

She cocked her head. “And over your hand,” she observed quietly.

“That, too.”

“But don’t you feel it? Doesn’t it burn?”

He felt it, all right. He concentrated on the discomfort, hoping it would take his mind off other things. “Not if I don’t think about it. Pain is relative. Some kinds are worse than others.”

She stared at him. In the flickering pool of light, her green eyes widened. “What pain? What are you really talking about, Ben? Tell me.”

He realized how much he had inadvertently revealed. Anyone else would have taken his remarks at face value, but not Jessamyn. Not a lady reporter with a printing press where her heart should be. Inside, he had to laugh. Her damned guileless curiosity about life, about him, was part
of what made her the way she was—perceptive. Sensitive. Maddeningly alive.

“What pain?” she repeated, her voice gentle.

He turned away from her. “I was wounded in the war.” He lugged his bedroll over to the stove and spread it out opposite hers.

“I know. I’ve seen your scar.”

“The scar isn’t all on the outside,” he said without thinking. He wished he hadn’t spoken. He wanted no one, not even his old friend Jeremiah, to see inside him. He felt transparent as a cold winter stream when he revealed his feelings. If he were seen—known and understood—he could be hurt.

“I know that, too,” she said softly.

Caught off guard, Ben laughed. “For a maiden lady, you seem to know a lot about men.”

He regretted the comment the instant he said it. He’d blurted it out in an attempt to reestablish the protective shell he felt cracking with Jessamyn’s every statement.

She faced him, her fine, dark eyebrows lifted. “Yes, I do. I’ve spent my whole life observing the males of this world at close range. It’s a rare man who shares his real feelings. Papa never did. Not with Mama, anyway. And not with me. It made me lonely all my life.”

Ben’s insides turned cold. “You’re wrong, Jessamyn. If you’ve been lonely, it’s because you chose to remain single, not because Thad abandoned you. But I’m sorry for the ‘maiden lady’ remark. I’m sorry I snapped at you, but you’re just…wrong.”

Inexplicably, she gave a low laugh. “I’m not wrong, Ben. And you know it.” She turned away, spread over her pallet the blanket she’d been wearing. In the firelight her long hair gleamed like satin.

A wave of heat swept into Ben’s throat, moved through his chest. “Jessamyn, you are the goddamnedest woman…”

“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “I know. I’m stubborn and I can be difficult, I’m sure.”

She drew in a deep breath, straightened her spine. “But you like me, Ben. I know you do.”

Dumbfounded, Ben stared at her back as she tugged her blankets into place. “I do,” he echoed.

He was more than surprised by her matter-of-fact statement He was completely undone. One thing about Jessamyn he’d never get used to was her candor, her complete lack of artifice. She reminded him of his mother. A more soft-spoken, proper lady he’d never known, yet Kathleen Kearney’s mind had been as logical as a lawyer’s, and she’d expressed herself with the quiet eloquence of General Lee addressing his troops. In spite of his fraying nerves, he found himself chuckling at the similarity.

Jessamyn spoke over her shoulder. “It’s because of Lorena, isn’t it?”

His entire body froze.

“Jeremiah was in love with her, too,” she continued, her voice gentle. “Or did you know that?”

Ben jerked. “Jeremiah? He told you that?”

“Actually, he said very little. I guessed most of it.”

“You guessed it,” Ben repeated, his voice hardening. Part of him was relieved that he didn’t have to explain. Part of him wanted to thrash her for delving this close to the core of his wounded spirit.

“Ben, that—Lorena—was years ago.”

“Yeah.” He busied himself checking and positioning the rifle on the floor within easy reach of his bed.

“You know that Jeremiah’s smitten with that Indian girl, Walks Dancing?”

“I know. He’d like to marry her.”

“Well, then, why doesn’t he?”

“When a man wants to marry an Indian girl, especially the daughter of a chief, he has to pay her father a price. Black Eagle’s price for Walks Dancing is plenty high.” He paused to draw in a shaky breath.

“Jessamyn, why all the questions? Why tonight, when we’re cooped up in this damned cabin with a storm blowing outside and no way to get out until morning?”

“Because I… Well, because we’re here together, alone, and… Well, I’ve never been alone—really alone—all night with a man before. I wanted to know some things about you.”

His heart leaped. He knew she relied on him, depended on him. Trusted him. Was it possible she
liked
him, as well? As a man?

The thought made his palms sweat. Being with a woman he didn’t care about was one thing. If she meant nothing to him, he could not be hurt. Rejection would not matter. But being with a woman who mattered—a woman like Jessamyn—was different.

“Why, Jess? Why do you want to know things about me?” He resisted the urge to step toward her. Touch her. He studied her face in the candle glow.

“Because when you kissed me the other day at the river, I—I liked it,” she blurted. “And—”

As if suddenly aware of what she had said, she stopped short. A flush of crimson washed up her neck to stain her cheeks.

“And?” he queried, his voice low and hoarse.

“Ben, I…” She licked her lips.

“And?” he repeated. “Answer me, Jess.”

“Oh…oh, bother!” She gave a little moan of embarrassment and angled her face away from the light. “Don’t look at me, Ben. I know I’m blushing—I turn red at all the wrong times. Please, just don’t look.”

Quick as a frightened bird, she dipped her head and puffed out the candle flame. In the darkness Ben heard her suck air into her lungs.

“Oh, dear,” she whispered. She swallowed audibly.

Ben imagined her soft pink tongue again rimming her lips. He clenched his hands into fists, concentrated on keeping one closed around the candle stub, the other at his side.
His knuckles brushed against the blanket he wore about his waist. Suddenly he became excruciatingly aware of his lower torso, his bare thighs and calves, his hips, his manhood touching the soft wool. His entire body seemed bathed in flames.

A breath of air against his chest told him Jessamyn had spun away. Before he could stop himself, he reached out for her.

His fingers closed on her bare forearm. Very, very slowly, he pulled her backward toward him until her spine pressed against his rib cage. Barely able to breathe, he waited.

For a long moment neither of them moved. The sound of the rain drummed in his ears. By the dim light cast by the stove, he could see the outline of her breasts.

He dropped the candle stub and took hold of her shoulder with his hand. Her head came up, tumbling her hair against his bare chest.

“Ben.”

Her voice was no more than a sigh, but he reacted as if a cannon had been fired inside him. A searing hunger surged through his body. He bent his head until his lips found her warm neck.

“Jessamyn.” He murmured the word at her ear, moved his mouth to the smooth area beneath her cheekbone and blew his breath out against her skin.

She stiffened. After a long minute, she let her head roll back against his chin. Oh, God. Her hair, thick and warm against his skin, spread across his chest like a mantle of silk. He opened his mouth, inhaled its fragrance.

“What did you want to ask me, Jess?” He kissed her hair, her earlobe. “Tell me now.”

“I… N-nothing. Nothing.”

“You’re lying,” he said gently.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice so soft it was barely audible. “I know I am.”

Ben lifted his head, smiled up at the roof over their
heads. Water pounded down in irregular bursts like volleys of rifle fire. He closed his eyes, remembering the sheer terror of battle, of risking everything in a desperate pitting of life against death. Despite the fear, he had moved forward, led his troops to safety and a renewed belief in their cause and their own survival. God knows how he had managed it, but he had.

In a way, he was facing the same thing now. He wanted her. He wanted her as he’d never wanted a woman before, as if something inside would shrivel and die if he couldn’t have her. The feeling, hot and sweet and urgent, drove out the hard ball of fear he’d carried for so long, made him tremble with the joy of being alive. Something buried within him broke free.

“Jessamyn,” he breathed against her temple. “Walk away from me if you don’t want this.”

For a long moment she remained motionless. Then she murmured a single word. “Ben.”

In the dark, her ragged breathing told him everything. Very deliberately, he lifted his hand from her shoulder, moved it in front of her, across her chest, and curled his fingers around her upper arm. With a little twist, he turned her to face him.

She tilted her head to look up into his face. “Ben,” she said again. Hearing her trembling voice speak his name fired a hot ache into his loins.

He’d make it good for her, slow and sweet and easy. He wanted it to be beautiful, something she’d never forget.

Very gently, he pulled her into his arms. When her body pressed against his bare chest, he bent his head and spoke near her ear. “We don’t have to do this, Jess. You know that, don’t you?” His own voice shook.

She nodded, her hair brushing his skin.

“Up to a point, you can tell me to stop. After that, though, I can’t promise…”

“How will I know?” she whispered.

Ben smiled, his lips caressing her hair. “I’ll tell you when.”

Silence. Then her voice, low but steady. “Ben?”

“Yeah?”

“Kiss me.”

He found her mouth, warm and slightly open under his. His senses reeled at the heat of her, the fire she kindled in his blood. He kissed her once more, deeper, and then he couldn’t stop.

She arched against him, moved her hands to his neck and clasped them behind his head. Ben groaned. She was like honey and flame mixed up together—sweet and hot, and so strong, so alive.

She uttered a little moan. His heart thrumming, he broke contact. “We’re at that point now, Jess,” he said in a ragged voice. “Tell me to stop or…”

She stared into his face for so long he thought maybe she didn’t understand. Then she astounded him.

“I want you,” she murmured. She met his lips, opened her mouth under his.

Blinding happiness washed through him, like a flood of white light shining into his dark soul. “Jessamyn,” he whispered. He kissed her again, let his tongue taste the sweetness of her mouth. When he broke free, she kept her eyes closed.

“Don’t stop, Ben,” she murmured. “Don’t…just kiss me.”

He gathered her close, his mouth hungry, then forced himself to slow down. Lifting his lips from hers, he kissed her neck, swept his tongue into the hollow at the base of her throat.

She gave a little sigh, and he swirled his tongue into the shell of her ear. She sucked in her breath and stiffened. Then with a low cry, she laid her palms against his chest and arched her neck back.

Ben slipped the top button of her shirt free, then slowly worked downward, one button at a time. Parting the fabric,
he slid one camisole strap off her shoulder, moved his hands down her rib cage to her lower back. Curving his fingers under her buttocks, he lifted her against him.

He bent his head. With his tongue he circled the nipple straining under the thin fabric of her camisole. She cried out, and he continued until the spot was wet

Half sobbing, she called his name.

“Jess, Jess,” he whispered roughly. “I want you.”

“Yes.” She moaned the word. “Yes.”

He picked her up, walked to the bedroll spread near the glowing stove, and laid her down.

Then, while she watched, he freed the blanket wrapped at his waist and let it fall away.

I
n the faint glow of the firelight, Ben’s eyes burned into Jessamyn’s with an intensity that stopped her heart.

Was this what loving a man was all about, this inexplicable joy tearing at her insides, pushing at her, compelling her toward some kind of completion? No man had ever made love to her before, kissed her until she was wet and aching between her thighs, stroked his tongue in secret places. It was the most glorious thing she’d ever experienced. Waves of exquisite sensation pulsed through her body until she thought she would die of pleasure.

This must be what Black Eagle and his wife were doing that night in the tipi. Oh, the wonder of it, a man and a woman together! The sweet, sweet wonder. Dizzy with longing, she lay back on the soft pallet and waited for him.

He knelt beside her, and she caught her breath. His body was lean and hard and warm. The heat of his skin drew her, almost against her will. She reached out one hand, touched his taut belly.

Ben captured her fingers and gently repositioned them at her side. “Not so fast,” he murmured.

He eased her shirt off. Already unbuttoned down the front, it was just a matter of slipping her arms out of the sleeves and pulling the garment down off her shoulders. Next he slid her camisole straps down, untying the neck
ribbon she had carefully knotted not twenty minutes before. He stripped the lacy garment off over her head, brushing the tips of her breasts with his fingers.

A thrill spiraled into her midsection, coiled below her belly. She wanted him to touch her again.

Instead, he loosened the drawstring tie of her underdrawers, then paused, his hand resting at her waist.

“Jessamyn, listen to me. There’s risk here, more for you than for me. I have to know—are you really sure you want this?”

She could not help the smile that tugged at her lips. “I’m sure, Ben.” She lifted her mouth to his. “Very sure.”

He gave a low, choked laugh. “Thank God,” he murmured. He reached for the top of her drawers, tugged them down over her knees and ankles. “Even if I wanted to,” he said in a hoarse voice, “I’m not sure I could stop.”

He smoothed his hands over her breasts, grazed his thumbs lightly over the swollen peaks. “I haven’t loved a woman in a long time.”

Jessamyn’s heart soared. Wherever his fingers rested, fire licked her skin. She drew in a deep, ragged breath, expelled it in a shaky sigh, drew in another. Ben breathed in rhythm with her. His controlled, purposeful movements contrasted with the sound of his uneven inhalations, and she found herself panting as she listened to him.

The sound of their breathing in concert sent a thrill through her. She was the cause of his hunger, the focus of his struggle for control. In the same way, she admitted, he was responsible for the swelling, soaring ecstasy that flooded her being. She mattered to him.

And, she knew now, he mattered to her, mattered more than the risk of letting him take her in the way a man possessed a woman. She was frightened. Yet, slowly, deftly, he soothed away her fear.

He drew his tongue between her breasts, then beneath them, circling purposefully up and around her flesh until he reached the erect nipples. Her fingers curled and stiffened
as he stroked in languid spirals over the engorged peaks, repeating the process again and again until she thought she would scream.

She gasped his name. He lifted his head, then moved lower, across her belly, then lower still. Instinctively, she raised one knee. He spread his fingers near her inner thigh, held them there for a heartbeat. Then, very slowly, he dipped his tongue into the private place between her thighs, stroking back and forth as she cried out.

She listened to the uneven rasp of air pulling in and out of his lungs, her own unsteady breaths matching his. How exposed they were to one another—naked and defenseless. A shiver of apprehension rippled through her.

She had no experience, did not know what to do, or even what to expect. But in the next moment he groaned deep in his throat and murmured her name, his voice close to breaking.

He was shaken by what was happening between them, just as she was! A delicious languor filled her. She lifted both arms over her head and gave herself up to it.

His tongue grazed her heated skin, explored, making subtle variations in its path among the folds of her sensitive flesh. God in heaven, what ecstasy! Behind her closed lids, crimson stars floated against black velvet.

He thrust his tongue inside her, and she arched. Withdrawing, he inserted one finger, slipping it deep, curving upward to touch an undreamed-of secret place. The sensation he elicited set her afire. She moved against him, her mouth opening on a sob of delight.

He withdrew, then rose over her and entered her, a slow, steady pushing in to her center. It felt hard and full. Instinctively, she closed her inner muscles around him and heard him gasp.

His entire body trembled. He withdrew once more, then sought her mouth. She opened to him, felt his tongue touch hers, his hard, swollen member pause at her entrance. And
then he slid one hand under her hips and lifted her to meet him.

He drove deep inside, his mouth covering her cry.

He shouted her name with his release, and at that moment violent waves of pleasure rolled through her. The exquisite spasms went on and on, convulsing her body, her entire being. Ben held her until it was finished and she lay panting in his arms.

“Jessamyn?” His voice was hushed, unsteady.

She reached her arms around his body and pulled him down on top of her.

“Are you all right?” he breathed.

She felt like laughing, weeping, even singing. “Yes. I am very all right. I didn’t know it would be so…so wondrous. So beautiful. Did you?”

“No,” he breathed. “It’s never been like this before.”

Jessamyn laced her fingers through his dark hair and smiled up at the ceiling. “Good,” she said. She sighed with satisfaction. “I like surprising you.”

She closed her eyes, tightened her arms around him. “Stay with me,” she murmured, her voice drowsy.

Ben held her close. He didn’t want to crush her with his weight, yet he didn’t want to break the connection between his body and hers. At last he compromised by rolling to one side, bringing her with him, held tight against his body. In less than a minute, her breathing slowed and deepened.

She was not asleep. To his astonishment, she caressed his chest with her fingertips, murmuring something—his name, and something else. A word. “Again.”

He stopped breathing, strained to be sure he had heard correctly.

“Again, Ben. Please.”

He’d do anything—
anything!
—for her. He’d bring her the moon if she asked. After what she’d given him, no request, however unattainable, however unmeasurable, was impossible.

He turned her over, hovered above her while he caught
her mouth under his. He felt her hands move slowly up his arms, over his shoulders to his neck, felt her fingers lace themselves into his hair. When he touched her, she opened her thighs, moved her hips to meet him.

He entered her slowly, his member hard, throbbing again with need. She felt like hot, wet silk. He pressed deep, deeper, and she closed around him.

“Ben.
Ben.”
Her hands fluttered at his back like birds’ wings.

A transforming joy pumped through his veins, demanding culmination. Completion. He moved within her, took pleasure in the sounds she made, words whispered brokenly for his ears alone, for him only. “Ben, I want to be yours…now. Make me yours.”

It was not the gift of her body that meant so much, but her allowing him to find himself, with her. In her. For him, it was a resurrection of his belief in his own value, his own inner wholeness and strength. He knew he would never forget this night. God in heaven, he would never be the same.

Toward morning, the storm blew itself out. Moonlight bathed the pallet where Ben lay, Jessamyn curled in his arms. He had slept briefly, then lay thinking for the rest of the night hours.

He thought about the woman beside him. About himself. About Lorena and Jeremiah, and Walks Dancing. What Jessamyn had told him about Jeremiah and Lorena explained some of his deputy’s inexplicable behavior over the past year. Some, but not all.

Why had Jeremiah hidden his feelings for Lorena all these years? He must have come close to hating Ben when Lorena had become engaged to him. Then, after the war, when he and Jeremiah had made their way home to Carolina, they’d found the woman they both loved had married someone else, someone with land and money. That winter, Jeremiah had steadied him through a private hell. Later,
when he’d moved on to Dakota Territory with the U.S. Cavalry, Jeremiah had stuck with him.

Why? Jeremiah was the one person in the world Ben trusted with his life, even though—unknown to him all that time—the two friends had been rivals. It seemed odd that his lifelong companion would share his feelings about the Indian girl, Walks Dancing, but not about Lorena. Maybe Jeremiah had never come to terms with events as they had played out after the war. Chances were Jeremiah had never forgiven Ben for courting and then winning the beautiful heiress. And when she’d rejected him, he’d left her behind.

Ben rolled onto his side, laid his arm across Jessamyn’s midsection. Her chest rose and fell as she slept, and he slipped his hand under the blanket covering them both, stroked the warm, smooth flesh of her belly.

He was in love with her, no doubt about that. He’d known for days, but he accepted the knowledge with trepidation. There was no room in his life for a woman. He would never be able to trust a female, even if he did love her. The only human being on earth he trusted, outside of himself, was Jeremiah.

Come morning, he and Jessamyn would head out. He’d found what he had suspected—a hideout and a supply of guns. He’d bet money the weapons were destined for Black Eagle’s camp and the weary, smallpox-ravaged remnants of Klamath warriors. He’d also bet money that, sooner or later, Thad Whittaker’s murderer would step over the threshold of this cabin and into the trap Ben intended to set for him.

At first light, he’d take Jessamyn back to Wildwood Valley and alert Jeremiah. With his deputy, capturing a killer on the run would be easy. God knew they’d done it half a dozen times before. In the meantime, he’d just lie here with Jessamyn beside him and plan his next move.

His lids snapped open at a sound outside. Horses!

He eased himself away from Jessamyn, slipped quietly from under the blanket and grabbed up the rifle. Naked, he moved to the single narrow window and peered out.

Pale moonlight illuminated the surrounding trees, the canyon ridge above them, the jagged trail snaking down the canyon wall. Two horses. The first, a roan, bore a single rider. The second was loaded with supplies. Swaying behind came a surefooted brown mule. Two crates of rifles were strapped across the animal’s broad back, one balanced on each side. The trio descended slowly, picking its way among the jumble of rocks and mud deposited by the storm. The moon’s silvery light barely outlined the edges of the trail where it hugged the sheer canyon face.

Ben stepped away from the window and bent over Jessamyn’s sleeping form. “Jess!” He shook her shoulder. “Wake up! Someone’s coming.”

Catlike, she stretched and yawned. “What?”

“Get up, Jess. We’ve got company.” He yanked the blanket off her and she sat up.

Ben gathered up her smallclothes and shirt, snatched her dry jeans off the floor and tossed them to her. Without a word, she scrambled off the pallet and hurriedly pulled the garments on.

“Who is it, can you tell?”

Ben snapped up his fly. “One man. Looks kind of familiar, but not a horse I recognize. Can’t tell if he’s armed, but at least he’s alone.” He stuffed his shirt into the waistband, shrugged into his sheepskin jacket.

“He can’t see our horses yet. Thank God we let the fire die last night—the smoke would be visible for miles.”

Jessamyn did not answer. Fully dressed, she tugged on her boots and jacket, then rolled up her bedroll into a tight wool sausage. When Ben did the same with his, she snatched them both up, jammed her still-damp hat over her tangled hair and followed him to the cabin door.

At the threshold, Ben paused. Catching her shoulder with his free hand, he pulled her close and kissed her, hard. “Keep low. Run for the horses.”

She stared up at him for a split second, her face white, her eyes huge pools of emerald light. He wanted nothing
more than to wrap both arms around her warm, pliant body and take her back to bed, but there wasn’t time. Even with his necessarily slow, laborious descent into the canyon, any minute their visitor would spot them. He might forego questions and shoot on sight.

With an inward groan, Ben turned away, unbolted the door and edged it open. “Stay close,” he ordered.

He slipped outside and headed toward the horses. Jessamyn moved in his shadow, her footsteps quiet and steady.

Overhead, a single star gleamed. Ben slapped a folded dry blanket on the mare’s back, then threw on the saddle and cinched it tight. The bit and bridle were next.

When he’d saddled his own horse, he hastily tied the saddlebags and bedrolls in place, then turned to help Jessamyn.

She flashed him a quick, shaky grin from atop her mare. She’d mounted by herself. Spunky lady, he thought. Looked mighty dainty, but didn’t need coddling. His heart swelled in admiration.

He spoke in a low voice. “If I remember right, there’s an old Indian trail out the other side of the canyon. If we’re lucky, we won’t be seen.”

Jessamyn nodded and lifted the mare’s reins.

“Walk her,” he said. “It’ll be quieter.”

He nudged the gelding past her mare, heading away from the cabin in the gray predawn light. Behind him, the clomping of hooves on wet earth grew louder. Birds began to twitter high in the dripping tree limbs. The mule hawed suddenly, and a deadly silence fell.

Gradually, step by muffled step, Ben led Jessamyn away from the danger along the unused Indian trail that wound down into a thickly wooded ravine. The minute they reached the cover of mist-wrapped cypress and pine trees, Ben released a pent-up breath.