Caress of Fire (9 page)

She opened her mouth, but he clamped his fingers over her lips. “I'm going to kiss you, and I'm going to touch you, and I'm going to make love to you. And you're going to let me.”

She fought him. “You promised not to force me!”

“There'll be no force. You are going to yield.”

Her balled fists beat against his bare shoulder; she tried to twist out of his reach. Out of control, he swooped his mouth to hers, his tongue prying her lips apart. The inside was ice and heat. His hands cupped her squirming backside. When he terminated the kiss, he didn't let go his grip.

Chest heaving, he gazed into her teary eyes. “Say you don't want me, and I'll leave you alone.”

She said something–several things–in German, none of which he understood except for “pretzel.” He decided she was admitting her own needs. Of course, she might be expressing an intention to twist his arms into pretzels if he didn't leave her alone, but he doubted it.

Better make it a simple question. “Do you want me?” He pressed her to his blatant need. “Just say yes or no.”

“Ja!”
Hiding her face against his chest, she grasped his upper arm. And he felt her tears as well as the heaving of her shoulders. “Gil!
Du musst verstehen–ich bin keine Jungfrau!”

“Hush!” He would have no more of her protests, be they English or German. “Nothing you can say will stop me from making you my woman.”

She grew still.

Her accent became thicker than ever. “You mean it?”

“Take a cat-o'-nines to me, honey, if I ever lie to you.”

The fight in her vanished. Her arms went around his waist. She reared her head, looking into his eyes, as she laughed for the joy of it. There was no doubting her joy.

He beamed. The minx had wanted the chase, had asked for the fight. His innocent Lisette . . . all fire and the promise of a wanton. Well, the chase was over.

Without a word he swept her into his arms and carried her to the oak tree. He set her to her feet, unfastened her braids. His blushing bride's face radiant, he finger-combed the hair cascading to her waist.

“You wore your hair down for the wedding. I like it this way,” he said, his voice rough with admiration. He corded the silvery mass around his fingers, letting it slide across the palm. “You don't know how much I wanted to do this.”

She smiled shyly. “And I've always wanted to pat your hair into place.”

“We black Celts have lots of hair. Too curly to control.”

“Black Celt?”

“That's what I am. Black as the Douglass himself.”

“I don't know about any Douglass . . .”

He unbuttoned her shirt, parting the chambray. “The only black Celt you need concern yourself with is right here.”

He held her away to gaze at those proud, coral-crested breasts. She tried to cover herself, but he wouldn't allow it. In a frenzy to see all his Lisette, he stripped her. As each garment floated to the leaves below, he caressed her exquisite flesh. He felt her trembles of modesty.

“Unbuckle my gunbelt,” he ordered in a husk.

Her fingers worked the buckle, and he was dying a thousand beautiful deaths at the feel of her clumsiness. Or was she being all that awkward? He could only hope.

Taking her hand, he guided her to the leaves. Yet she turned on her side and pulled her hair across a shoulder.

“Don't hide from me, Lisette. Look at me. Allow me to look at you.”

She pivoted her head, taking in his six-foot-two frame as he rid himself of chaps, then shucked his footwear. With an arched brow, she teased, “I notice you didn't have trouble getting free of your boots.”

“It's, uh, well, I ... You know, you're right.” He could have gotten them off if they had been much, much tighter, but he didn't point this out. At this moment he had superhuman strength. “But you wouldn't be a harridan and make too much of it, would you?”

She smiled and replied, “Of course not.”

“Good.”

He rid himself of his britches, and quickly, demurely, she averted her eyes again.
She's gonna need some tutoring, Old Son. Take your time, don't pounce on her.

Hence he allowed himself a stare. She was lovely from her head to her toes. Her feet were slim, her ankles narrow. A ray of sun cutting through the tree caught those long, long legs, the gentle curve of her hip, the indention of her waist, and her flat belly. He dropped down to the deep pillow of leaves, easing against her. His hand shook as he traced the fine ivory down on her arm. He grew hotter, both from the sun and from her nearness.

He trailed his lips to the arched length of her neck, and her trembles enticed him to greater exploration. Rolling her to her back, he captured a nipple between his lips to draw on the peak. She moaned. The arms that had lain limp on the leaves lifted, and she laced her fingers in his hair. The wonder of her response shot through his every muscle, his every nerve, and invaded the marrow of his bones to settle in his already aroused groin. This was how lovemaking ought to be, how it had never been before for him.

His mouth withdrew from her breast, moving toward the other. Yet he paused to nestle his face between the cleft. “My precious maiden, how I adore you.”

She tensed.

“It's okay, it's okay,” he crooned, and dislodged a twig from her hair. “All I want is to make you happy.” His words seemed to soothe her. “I promise to take enough time.”

It would have been easier having his fingernails ripped from their roots. Her breasts teased his jaw, her crisp thatch his abdomen. Moving upward, he nestled his shaft against her belly.

At her quick intake of breath, he explained, “It means I want you, my getting all stiff like this.”

Her brow quirked, as if he had said something she didn't understand.

“I want to be inside you, my darlin'–deep inside you. That's the way it is with husbands and wives.”

Her voice barely audible, she said, “Such coupling could bring a child.”

“I hope so.”

Not any time soon
, he thought but didn't add. For the next half year, give or take a few weeks, they would be on the trail, and then there was Chicago and the journey home. No, now was not the time for progeny. Though if one came, who could regret it?

More than a quarter minute passed before he added, “I don't even know if you like children.”

“I like them.”

The idea of Lisette bearing his child brought a sweet–a bittersweet–vision to Gil. Once before a child had borne the name McLoughlin.
Don't think about the boy.

“Do you like children?” she whispered.

“If they are ours, I'll adore them.”

She smiled.

Again his lips moved to her enticing flesh. On instinct, her leg curved around him. He yearned to plunge into the depth beckoning him. Instead he let his fingers bask again in the sensation of her long, gossamer hair. He felt her tremble when he caressed her shoulder and the underside of her chin. He knew he had nearly reached his limit of restraint.

“Oh, Gil,” she murmured as his lips descended to the dip below her collarbone.

Tears sprang to her eyes, and he almost disliked himself for what he intended to–no, what he
would
–do to her. His fingers moved to the apex of her thighs. His thumb furrowed into her pubic hair, his middle finger . . . She was wet, wet and hot. Innocence and heat.

She bucked against his hand, a hum of appreciation vibrating from her throat. Her fingers dug into his back. She murmured something in German, and her flesh warmed even more as he continued to stroke her. It pleasured him, his bride turning into a furnace of heat.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked tenderly.

“No,” was her moan.

Placated, he played her as if she were a smooth, cherished instrument. Which she was. Yet, as the moments wore on, he had the strangest thought as his finger explored her dampness. He didn't feel a maidenhead. Having experienced only one virgin, though, how could he be an expert?

He settled between her thighs. His aching-to-bursting lance at her womanly portal, Gil's restraint was at an end. “Lisette, my darling, it will hurt you the first time, but never again.”

She felt the racing of his heart along with the pressure of his urgency as he told her it would hurt the first time but never again. Hadn't he been listening when she'd said she wasn't a virgin? Or had the confession been only in her mind?

“Please stop,” Lisette implored.

With the leaves at her back and her husband above her, she pushed his shoulders, forcing him away, yet she wanted to hold him closely, lift her hips in invitation, and allow his entry.

“You mustn't,” she pleaded.

“I
can't
stop. It's too late.”

She cried.

Her tears stopped him. The tips of his fingers brushed the moisture from her cheeks; he kissed her eyelid. Though he had forced her to accept him, he was so tender and dear! She squeezed her eyes against the sun's glare, and the glare of her own shortcomings.

“I . . . I'm sorry,” she whispered, her fingers crushing oak leaves instead of caressing him.

“I know you're frightened, but ... I'll make it good for you. Touch me. Just touch me. Put your arms around my neck. Don't turn away. Please trust me,” he murmured against her lips. “We should be part of each other.”

Her hands found his taut shoulders. Each muscle, every bone–all his perfections and imperfections–called out to her, demanding she do his bidding. Gil kissed her, his lips vital with passion, and once again she was drawn into the ardor that had expanded since the moment of his first touch.

But she had to tell him again–before it was too late!

Before she could say a word, Gil thrust deeply into her. His length and width filled her, his heat raising her temperature to the flash point of pleasure.

Yet he didn't move, and he was so still he didn't even breathe.

“Tell me it's not true,” he uttered.

Her heart stopped. “I–I did.”

“Liar,” he growled raggedly, his disappointment knifing through her. “Damn you.”

“I did not lie,” she choked out, her eyes going moist again with damnable tears. “When you ran after me, when you demanded to know my feelings, I told you–I was no virgin.”

Or had she said,
“Ich bin
keine
Jungfrau”?
Dear Lord, had she spoken in German?

Still, her husband didn't move. Frantic to please him, she twisted her pelvis. Her legs went around his narrow hips. To allow him to leave her was more than she could abide; she held tightly. She needed intimacy . . . and understanding . . . and acceptance.

Yet she felt him pulling away.

“Don't leave me, Gil.” Her nails dug into his flesh. “Please don't leave me.”

But he did, and his abandonment sent chills to dampen the fire he had stoked. She wanted to roll into a ball, wanted to hide from him and from herself, yet she wouldn't. She mustn't let him leave her!

Her eyes lifted. She sucked in her breath at the sight of him. He stood above her, magnificent yet half flaccid, and stared at the sky. Her desire renewed. She hungered for the joining he had forced her into accepting, and was ravenous for fulfillment.

She wouldn't let him reject her! This was her greatest fear–to be rebuffed.

“I want you,” she whispered. “I want you to be inside me, like you said you wanted to be. I have a throbbing for you. Please do something about it.”

He shuddered, yet she saw that he was no longer soft. Her fingers wound around his ankle. She turned to her side, a breast touching his foot, as her forefinger moved upward to experience the richness of his bristly calf. He cursed and tried to move his foot, but she pressed her lips against his ankle.

“Wanton hussy,” rumbled from his throat.

And then he was bending down, spreading her legs. Her arms lifted to him. Pinning them above her head, he stretched atop her and gave a ragged cry as he entered her once more.

There was no tenderness in the mating. He lunged into her again and again and again. The earth beneath the oak leaves dug into her back as Gil continued to forge into her. She deserved the pain for disappointing him. But as he pummeled her body, as he shouted an oath, she met his hard thrusts, and the pain turned to something altogether different from agony. Her breath shallowed, her pulse raced. A spasm–one she'd never felt before–overtook her. She screamed her husband's name.

His movements quickened. “Damn you,” he cried out and spilled himself in her. He didn't withdraw.

She felt somewhat soothed. He
knew
about her shame, yet he had taken his husbandly rights.

“Satisfied?” he asked sourly.

How could she answer? Although she'd experienced bodily gratification, she wanted something she couldn't name. With her husband, it had been different from her previous experience. Back in San Antonio, she'd expected nothing and received her expectations.

Gil had taken the time to arouse her spirit, had taken the time to warm her blood, and she had welcomed and enjoyed the hard thrusts, but something was lacking.

She shouldn't expect too much, yet . . .

“You should be happy.” Gil let go her wrists. “You got what you wanted.”

“All I want is you. And your understanding.”

“I'll just bet you do.” He slid out of her, standing once more and grabbing his Levis. “Damn you, I bet you haven't been a virgin in a long, long time.”

He spoke the truth; how it hurt her–much more than his harsh touch. “I want to please you.”

“Get dressed.”

She turned her head, burying her face in the earthy bedding and closing the thighs still warm and wet from their coupling.

She expressed her regret that she hadn't been chaste, that she wished she could have been, for his happiness meant everything to her.

“Speak English. You're in an English-speaking country. Quit talking like a damn Hun!”

Earlier, he had said he loved her voice, but obviously that was no longer so. “I said . . . I'm sorry I wasn't pure.”

“ ‘Sorry' won't work with me, sweetheart.” The endearment was spoken with a blade of disgust. “Look at me, God damn it. At least have the guts to face me.”

His toe slid under her cheek, raising her face. He wore his britches, but his chest remained bare, and her heartbeat quickened. Looking into his closed face, she whispered earnestly, “I wish I could have been what you wanted.”

“That makes two of us.” He paused. “Why did you deceive me, Lisette?”

“I didn't. When you ran after me–I told you!”

“You could've said anything, but the fact remains, you lied. Before I fell for your line of bull, I asked you if you were loose, and you replied clear as a bell, ‘No.' And I, by damn, took that to mean you hadn't been spreading your
dubious
charms all over the State of Texas.”

His words, his tone were like a whiplash. She shot up hurt, her anger building. “I am not promiscuous. And as for my ‘dubious charms,' there's only been one other man. I–”

“Shut up,” Gil cut in, his eyes hard as steel. “I won't tolerate a replay of your conquests.”

“There have been no conquests.”

“I said, shut up.” He drilled another scathing look into her before pushing an arm through the sleeve of his shirt. “I thought you were a decent woman.”

“I
am
a decent woman. And I'll do everything in my power to make you a good wife.”

“Don't flatter yourself into thinking you've trapped me into some web, 'cause frankly, you weren't that good.”

Once, as a child, she had been kicked in the stomach by a mule, and had nearly died from the injury But that pain was nothing compared to the one Gil had inflicted. God in heaven, she knew something was lacking, but had she failed completely as a woman?

Obviously so.

Maybe her lackings were why Thom had gone to the arms of another and had given her the Childress name.

Lisette observed the man who'd given her the McLoughlin name. Loathing issued from his eyes, from the hard set of his mouth, from his stance. She had hurt him, and he had hurt her.

She wished the earth would open to swallow her.

 

Too angered to think straight, Gil McLoughlin walked purposely away from Lisette. He was itching to beat the living hell out of the miscreant who'd led him to believe she was the epitome of respectable. His anger wasn't necessarily directed at Matthias Gruene. He was furious with himself for being a chump.

Once before he'd been gullible, and now history had repeated itself. When most men took a woman to wife, she was pure, and her loyalty lasted until death parted them. Why was it that he, Gil McLoughlin, had twice chosen a wife with a past?
Twice
.

Lisette had wanted to explain. But he hadn't taken it, and he never would. History would not repeat itself on that score.

He collected Big Red, leaving Lisette in his dusty wake as he rode to catch up with the herd. Ten minutes into the ride, he halted the stallion. If he tore into Gruene, the cowboys would put two and two together–nothing was right with the newlyweds. The trouble between husband and wife was his and Lisette's business and no one else's.

Besides, his men needed to think everything was smooth between their boss and his bride, and Gil meant to keep it that way. Keep it that way? Why keep anything
any
way? It would be easy enough to send Lisette packing.

Lisette. He'd left her alone in the woods, his humiliations reverberating through the air.
Damn you, you didn't have to say some of those things. When you said she wasn't all that good, you were lying just as baldly as she'd lied to you.

No, he hadn't lied. But he refused to consider exactly what had gone on under that oak tree.

 

 

Lisette hugged her arms as she sat shivering on the chuck wagon seat. Leaning forward, with the sun bearing down on her head, she buried her face in her hands. Never could she be what he needed.

He'd hurt her with his cruel condemnation, but the issue lay in the fact he had expected a virgin, and she should have been one. She could never be what she was not. She hadn't been chaste and she wasn't woman enough for her husband.

He hadn't received complete fulfillment, but she had everything else to give. And her faith in Gil was such that she felt he would be understanding, once he recovered from his shock.

Lisette lifted her head. All she could do was try to make the best of a bad situation, try to bring him some measure of peace and happiness. Her shaking hands reached for the team's reins. Gil must understand that she had tried to be honest.

She intended to beard the lion.

Lisette quit the meadow.

She tried to set a steady pace for the draught horses. Four days as a part of the Four Aces outfit hadn't given her a wealth of experience at handling the heavy chuck wagon and its team, though.

Fifteen minutes after she'd vowed to beard the lion, uneasiness washed over her and it had nothing to do with her ineptitude as a driver. Where was Gil?

Surely he wasn't furious enough to abandon her. He wasn't–of course he wasn't. Gil McLoughlin wouldn't do that to his wife.

She studied the sky and read the sun's position. A couple of hours had passed since he had pulled her over to shoe Big Red. The sorrel could catch the herd easily, but with the weight of the chuck wagon, hers wouldn't be such an easy feat.

And what would she say upon facing the cowboys' curiosity about her whereabouts? What would her husband tell them before she reached them? For the second time in her life, she wouldn't deliberate over other people's reactions, not when making peace with Gil was the most important consideration.

She tapped the reins, picking up speed. A javelina raced across the horses' path. The team balked, the wagon wheels swaying, and her heart thumped in a staccato beat as she brought the wagon to rights.

If the wagon were to lose a wheel or worse . . . Anything could happen. Fear skittered unfettered–the Comanches might find her.

Her grip on reason lost, she stood. Picking up the long whip, she reached to give the lead horses her command. Under their response, the chuck wagon shot forward, pulling her back to the seat. Her hair, loosened by her husband's fingers, blew into her face; half the reins dropped from her clutch. She bounced from the rutted pathway, from the wagon's wobble, and her backside took a beating as the wagon veered off the trail and into the woods.