Nan Ryan (20 page)

He was, of course, plagued with pain from the broken rib. But it wasn’t physical discomfort that kept him awake. At least not the physical discomfort caused by an aching rib. Nor was it the hard ground. Or the cold night air. Or the yelp of the coyotes.

The ginger-haired woman sleeping next to him was responsible. She was, he had learned, exasperating, domineering, selfish, stubborn, foolish, and more damned trouble than any woman he had ever known. Yet, oddly enough, she was also interesting, appealing, entertaining, exciting, and incredibly tempting.

She lay now on her side, backed up close against him, slumbering peacefully.

There was no peace for him.

Not with silky strands of her wild hair pleasantly tickling his face. And the sound of her soft, even breathing, which was causing her breasts to rise and fall directly above the forearm he had wrapped around her. Most disturbing of all was her denim-clad bottom pressed intimately into his groin. It wouldn’t have been so bad had she never moved about in her sleep. She moved a lot.

She fidgeted. She wiggled. She twisted. She curled.

And with every move she made, she unconsciously ground her shapely little bottom against his pelvis.

Gritting his teeth, Virgil felt himself surge and strain against the restraint of his tight black trousers. His heart hammered in his naked chest. Perspiration formed in his hairline and above his upper lip. He moved back away from her. Never waking, she followed, her body instinctively seeking the animal warmth of his.

Long agonizing minutes passed.

A torturous half hour dragged slowly by.

Virgil’s burning eyes never closed. And his pulsing, fully formed erection never diminished; stayed up and hot and hard, rising involuntarily to seek the enticing cleft in her buttocks. In all his life, nothing like this had ever happened to him. If not for the fact that he was in actual pain, he would have laughed at the absurdity of it. Here he was so rock-hard and burning hot he was almost feverish.

And, for God’s sake, this raging desire was for a loose-moraled dance hall entertainer in whose bed he had been not three weeks ago and had fallen asleep without laying a hand on her.

It made no sense.

He hadn’t wanted this woman enough that night to stay awake. Now he wanted her so badly he couldn’t go to sleep.

Virgil slowly, carefully withdrew his arm from around the sleeping princess. He scooted back from her and slowly, carefully turned over so that he was lying on his bruised side, facing away from her.

Bent on putting an end to his painful predicament, he silently began naming all the men with whom he had served in the Texas Rangers over the past fifteen years. Memory flashes of the close calls and wild escapades he had shared with some of those Rangers helped distract him. He focused his mind away from the here and now and ordered his body to follow suit.

At last, Virgil exhaled with relief. His erection had deflated. The fever in his blood had cooled. His heart rate had slowed perceptibly.

But, just as he grew pleasantly calm and began to feel sleepy, the princess turned in her slumber, flung her arm around him, and pressed herself against his back. The misery started again.

Her small, warm hand was spread on his naked chest, her fingertips innocently entwined in the thick curly chest hair directly over his thundering heart. Her soft, rounded breasts were crushed against his bare back, and he would have sworn he could feel her soft nipples hardening, nudging provocatively into his flesh. With their positions reversed, it was now her denim-clad pelvis and thighs cupping his hard buttocks. His muscles there involuntarily flexed, and it seemed to him that her slender body stirred in answer, her groin pushing aggressively closer so that he lost his breath entirely.

It went that way all night.

A prolonged, strangely erotic duel of sweet agony between a sleeping woman and a tortured man. Two healthy bodies sensually writhing together. One soft, pale, slender. The other hard, dark, and lean. But strength and power did not conquer here. When the dawn finally drove out the darkness, the soft, pale, slender woman was well rested.

The hard, dark, lean man was exhausted beyond belief.

“I was wondering,” the princess said, flashing her most dazzling smile, “if perhaps today you would train me to ride the way you ride. I mean, you know, allow me to hold the mare’s reins and show me how to use them. I believe I proved yesterday that I am quite capable of following instructions. Your ribs are taped nicely, are they not?”

It was finally morning.

They were preparing to set out on the trail.

The princess, rested, talkative, and cheerful, was optimistically planning how she’d make her escape as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Perhaps today would be the day. But she needed to know how to handle her mount.

The Ranger, tired, silent, and sullen, was pessimistically thinking that if he didn’t get this red-tressed bundle of trouble to El Paso soon, something was going to give. The pressure from her presence was steadily building. After last night’s torment—for which there had been no release—he felt like a human stick of dynamite with a very short fuse. This slender, pale-skinned dance hall singer could light that fuse far too easily. A lowered-lashed look, a huskily spoken word, a soft warm touch, and he might well detonate.

“Well, will you?” The princess tilted her head to one side.

“Will I what?” said Virgil, tightening the saddle cinch under the gray mare’s belly.

“Let me take the reins this morning. Your ribs are hurting, I know they are. If you have to lead the mare, it will put a strain on them and the pain will get worse.”

The saddle cinch tightened and buckled, Virgil straightened, looked down at her with squinted, skeptical blue eyes. “Why this sudden concern for my welfare?”

Sensing instinctively that he felt a hint of attraction to her, the princess moved a step closer, wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, laid her right hand lightly on his chest, and said, “I deserve that, I know. I’ve been selfish and worrisome and I’m genuinely sorry.” She playfully walked her fingertips up his chest to his tanned throat and, smiling seductively, said, “People can change, Captain Black. If they are given half a chance.”

Virgil narrowed his eyes and dropped his gaze to her lips. The princess was startled by the way her heart leaped. She thought for a second he was going to lean down and kiss her, and she wasn’t certain she could resist.

Virgil didn’t kiss her.

He wrapped long gloved fingers around her wrist and moved her hand away. “Don’t flirt with me, Red. And don’t pretend you are worried about my ribs.” Her smile quickly changed to a frown. He continued evenly, “You may take the mare’s reins today, but don’t suppose you can get away from me. So don’t try. Noche could overtake the mare in less than thirty seconds.” He paused, fixed her with a cold stare, and added cryptically, “But, if I have to come after you, it might affect my congenial mood.”

“You are not one bit funny, Texan!” She brushed past him and mounted the mare.

Wordlessly, Virgil looped the long leather reins up over the mare’s head and handed them to her. Before releasing them to her completely, he said, “Do as I tell you and you’ll be okay.”

Refusing to look at him, she nodded almost imperceptibly. Virgil spent the first half hour of the morning’s ride telling her how to make the mare go and stop by using the reins. When he was confident she had the hang of it, he fell totally silent. At first the princess tried to carry on a conversation but soon gave up. It was clear that he was in no mood for idle chatter. He was, she admitted with a small twinge of regret, in no mood for her.

She couldn’t believe it. He had flatly told her not to flirt with him. Such insulting audacity! The gentlemen she had known had been thrilled and flattered if she so much as favored them with a cordial nod. And, when she “flirted” with any one of them, the gentleman in question was quickly beside himself with joy. What was this big Texas Ranger made of that he could not be swayed by her celebrated beauty and charm? What, she wondered, would she have to do to get his undivided attention. And why, for heaven sake, did she care whether or not she could get his attention?

There was no sensible answer. None. She had never in her twenty-eight years met such an unresponsive male. His indifference was insulting.

Casting sidelong glances at Virgil as they rode through the low foothills, the princess wondered if the imperturbable Texas Ranger ever got upset. Really upset. Oh, she annoyed him, all right, but only in the fleeting way a pesky fly bothered the horses. She had never really “gotten to him.” What, she wondered, would it take for her to disconcert him? What would it take to make him lose that constant cool confidence? Did he ever completely lose his temper? Was there hidden fire behind those frosty sky-blue eyes?

The Ranger’s mannerisms both annoyed and attracted the princess. Those often evasive, yet penetrating glances. The way he casually leaned in the saddle. His negligible eyebrow moving or the sneering curve of his lips. His low, soft vocal delivery, which exuded such firm, unshakable confidence.

Captain Virgil Black was, she suddenly realized with a flash of uncharacteristic insight, at the very prime of life. He had reached that moment of poised maturity when he exuded neither boyish exuberance nor an old man’s tired cynicism. He was at his peak, both physically and mentally.

The princess cast another quick covert glance at the Ranger, slumping comfortably in the saddle, and shivered inside. With a three-day growth of dense black beard and those scary eyes, he looked like a lusty pirate. Cold, hard, dark, and dangerous.

And irresistibly appealing.

To her chagrin, Princess Marlena was strongly attracted to this mysterious, ruggedly male Texan who never fawned over her like the many titled suitors she’d known.

Perversely, his I-don’t-give-a-damn behavior intrigued her. Made her long to attract—and hold—his attention. She again attempted to carry on a conversation with him as they rode knee to knee, descending now down into the wide valley. She talked about the tiny mountain kingdom over which she was to rule. She spoke affectionately of her dear, deceased father, the king. She repeated her oft-told story of how she had come to America on a bond drive, had fallen ill and could not perform her royal duties.

But to her many revelations she got only a nod of his head. And to her many questions—questions about his family, his life in Texas, his plans for the future—she got only monosyllabic answers. Answers which revealed nothing. It was apparent that he was not interested in talking to her. It was apparent that he was not interested in her.

By midmorning, they had left the foothills behind and were well into the eastern edge of the wide Tularosa valley. The terrain had changed dramatically, the cool verdant mountains having given way completely to a flat dusty plain. Only sparse vegetation dotted the valley floor, and the sun had grown noticeably hotter. Still, Virgil managed to locate a small trickling stream to water the horses and rest for a few minutes.

But Princess Marlena was not concerned with resting. She didn’t care that the narrow stream’s cold, clear water might be the last they saw for hours or possibly days. She was, by now, almost desperate to attract the Ranger’s attention.

Unsuccessful, she finally attempted to anger him. She was determined to upset him. To get a rise out of him. To have him react to her in a volatile manner would be somehow reassuring.

It didn’t happen.

She insulted him. She accused him of secretly desiring her. She threatened him. She said everything she could think of to make him lose his temper. Nothing worked. The Ranger continued to sit slumped with his back against a tree, totally relaxed, smoking a cigarette while she stormed back and forth in front of him.

Finally, as coolly as if he were saying “good morning,” Captain Black lithely rose to his feet, dropped his cigarette, crushed it out with his boot heel, and unemotionally warned her to “behave yourself.”

The princess was in no mood to behave herself. Determined to anger him, she shook her head as though disgusted and said, “You know, Captain, you are such a big bully and a yellow coward! Hard as nails with me, but scared to death of a few renegade Indians.”

“That I am,” he agreed, still unruffled.

Her hands went to her hips and she foolishly bragged, “Well, I’m not! I am not the least bit afraid of a handful of pitiful, starving Apaches.”

Virgil shrugged wide shoulders and said, “Maybe you have no need to be. It’s said the only human beings the Apaches spare are lunatics, whom superstition makes them leave alone.”

That did it.

Thwarted, stirred up, her face went mean and she swung at him with an incoherent cry of frustration. Virgil was beside her quick as a flash. Immediately overpowering her, he controlled her body with his good right arm around both of hers. And he clasped his left hand tightly over her mouth. Struggling frantically against him, the princess tried to scratch his darkly whiskered face and to bite his hand.

For a long moment, Virgil said nothing. Did nothing. Just stood there effortlessly containing her while she impotently fought him. When finally she tired so that she could no longer lift her arms or even squirm about within his firm embrace, he loosened his restraining arm but continued to hold her.

They stood there, face-to-face, his arm around her, his hand over her mouth. When some of the raging fire went out of her flashing emerald eyes and he saw tears forming there, he took his hand away from her mouth. Bested, unhappy, the princess allowed him to gently press her head down onto his chest. The gesture made her cry. Why she didn’t know. She never cried. She never had any reason to cry. The tears rolled down her hot cheeks and the sobbing princess wondered miserably if she were losing her mind.

Back on the trail the puffy-eyed princess was as mute as Virgil. She was confused by her emotions and frightened by feelings foreign to her; feelings she couldn’t understand. She disliked this man intensely, and she would never forgive him for implying that she was a “lunatic.”