Dark Torment (32 page)

“Why are you stopping?” she demanded as he reined in
without warning. He said not a word, but deliberately swung a leg over his
saddle and dismounted. Sarah’s eyes widened in alarm. She swung the rifle
up and aimed it at him. He ignored it, walking slowly toward her.

“What are you doing? Get back on that horse!”

“Get down, Sarah. I want to talk to you.”

He was alarmingly close. Sarah kept the rifle aimed at his heart.
He didn’t even hesitate.

“What do you think you’re doing? Stop! I’ll
shoot!” Her voice was shrill.

“Will you, now? Shoot then, for I’m not
stopping.”

“Damn you, Dominic Gallagher, I will shoot you!” Sarah
cried.

When he didn’t stop, she hesitated for a moment. But he was
only a few feet from being able to catch her horse’s bridle. She could
ride away, but he would come after her. If she was going to stop him, it had to
be now. . . . But she couldn’t bring herself to shoot him. She could see
hard triumph in his eyes. He was reaching for her reins. Sarah jerked the rifle
up to her shoulder and quickly aimed it between his feet. She would show him
she meant business! She pulled the trigger, bracing herself not to wince from
the expected boom. She did not wince, because there was no need. All that
emerged from the rifle was a sharp click. Dumbfounded, she pulled the trigger
again, thinking the weapon must have misfired. There was another empty click.

“Lose something?” He was holding her horse’s
bridle now; the animal was docile under his hand. As he spoke, he thrust his
hand into his breeches pocket and pulled it out again. When he opened his fist
and extended his hand toward her, she saw that he held several rifle shells.
The truth dawned on her with a sickening flash. Somehow, somewhere, he had
managed to unload the rifle! He grinned maliciously at her stunned expression,
his hand leaving her bridle as he took a step forward and reached for her.

“You Irish blasphemer! You no-good, filthy, rotten . . .
!” Beside herself with rage at having been duped, Sarah reversed the
rifle and clapped her heels to her horse’s sides at the same time. The
animal bounded forward, but Dominic grabbed at the reins, caught them, and
hauled the whinnying horse’s head around. Sarah swung the rifle butt at
Dominic’s head, murder in her heart. He ducked in the nick of time,
catching the blow on his shoulder instead. He cursed, vividly, but didn’t
release his grip on her reins. Sarah swung again, wildly. He caught the rifle
in his free hand and wrested it from her grasp. Then, despite her struggles, he
was pulling her down.

“Let me go, you . . .” She was inundating him with the
swear words she had learned from him, and he was laughing. Enraged, she began
to beat at his head and shoulders with her fists as he held her tight against
him. He caught her hands in his with ridiculous ease and held them pinioned
behind her back. Still she fought, kicking and screeching, her head thrashing
wildly as she hurled abuse at him. Finally he reached up, catching her long
braid in his free hand, and hauled her head back. She glared at him with
hate-filled golden eyes. Drawing back her foot, she kicked him hard on the
shin, not caring that his hard bone did more damage to her foot than
vice-versa.

“Enough, Sarah,” he growled. And when she opened her
lips to heap more abuse on him, he crammed her words back into her throat with
his mouth.

That hard kiss robbed her first of her breath, then of her anger,
and finally of her will. Sarah surrendered to him utterly after little more
than a token resistance, twining her hands around his neck to clutch with
shaking fingers at the rough silk of his hair, pressing her body eagerly
against his as he pulled her closer. She could feel the heat and strength and
growing desire of him with her every nerve ending. His mouth was hungry as it
took hers, his lips and tongue hard and urgent. The force of the kiss should
have hurt her, but it didn’t. She reveled in his fierceness, returning it
with a spiraling passion of her own. There was nothing in all the world for her
but his mouth, his hands running up and down the slight curves of her body, the
feel of him against her. . . . She was trembling in his arms, on fire for him,
wanting the kiss to go on forever, wanting to savor the red-hot desire that
rose in her like the sudden awakening of a long-dormant volcano. She opened her
mouth to him endlessly, her head thrown back against his shoulder, her eyes
closed. She loved the sensation of fragility she got in his arms. His kiss made
her dizzy.

When she felt his fingers at her throat, slightly unsteady as they
worked loose first one and then another and another of the buttons fastening
her shirt down the front, she whimpered into his mouth but refused to open her
eyes. She did not want to see the sun blazing at her over his shoulder, or the
dusty, pockmarked landscape, or the stamping horses. She did not want to be
reminded in any way of reality, of what had happened before and would likely
happen after. She wanted only to be a woman in the arms of a man, her man. . .
. Sarah quivered helplessly at the thought. He was her man; her body had
recognized him from the first. The lover she had spent her nights dreaming of,
her life waiting for . . .

His hand slid beneath the opened shirt to close over one small,
high breast. Sarah groaned as she felt his callused palm cup her sensitive
flesh. The erotic sound shocked her; knowing that it had come from her own
throat shocked her more. But she could not stop the wordless whimpers that were
swallowed by his mouth as he abraded her aching nipples with the palm of his
hand, brushing it over first one, then the other, then the first again, before
finally, with agonizing slowness, his hand slid down her belly to the loose
waistband of the too-big breeches. She felt his long fingers and hard palm
creep beneath the waistband over the silky skin of her belly, pausing only
momentarily to explore the indention of her navel before covering the triangle
of hair that he had claimed before.

“Dominic . . .” His name was a prayer on her lips. She
didn’t know if she was begging him to stop or not to stop, but when he
removed his hand to work unsteadily at the button at her waist, she felt
bereft. Her nails dug punishingly into his neck; her mouth shook beneath the
heady passion of his.

One-handed, his other arm still holding her clamped against him,
he unfastened the buttons securing her breeches until the garment fell over her
hips and thighs to the ground. Underneath she was naked. He slid the shirt from
her shoulders, letting it lie where it fell, bending to loosen her sandals
before straightening to lift her so that the breeches and sandals were left
behind on the sandy ground. Sarah felt the sleeve of his rough cotton shirt
against the bare backs of her thighs as he swung her around, felt the tingling
rays of the sun on her back and buttocks as he lowered her again, felt the rasp
of his clothing and the heat of his body beneath it as she slid, naked and
trembling, down the hard length of him.

“Sarah.” Her name was husky as he spoke it against her
mouth. His hands had moved to clasp her waist; he pushed her a little away from
him. Whimpering, Sarah clung with all her might. With her lips she felt his
mouth twist in a smile. “Oh, Sarah. Open your eyes, Sarah.”

She refused until he lifted his head, breaking off the butterfly
contact of their mouths. Then, resentful at the interruption, her eyes
flickered open. Her hands were still clasped behind his neck, her naked body
pressed to his fully clothed one. The lean brown face with its frame of
midnight-black hair was so handsome as it loomed above her that she could
scarcely breathe; her lips quivered as her eyes sought and found the
beautifully shaped mouth, twisted up at one corner as he took in her dazed
expression. Then her eyes met his; the passion she saw in the endless blue
depths dazzled her.

“Do you have any idea of what you do to me, Sarah?”
His voice sounded rueful despite its huskiness. He reached up and caught her
right hand in his and pulled it from around his neck, guiding it down until at
last he pressed it against the straining bulge in his breeches. Sarah felt the
hard, throbbing outline of him through the coarse material, and snatched her
fingers away as if from an open fire. He made no move to recapture her hand,
but after a moment curiosity got the better of her. Slowly, cautiously, her
fingers returned to explore that most intimate part of him. She touched him,
hesitantly at first, and then as he showed no reaction except for a tensing of
his muscles she grew bolder. Her fingers measured the width and length and
strength of him, alternately squeezing and stroking until he gasped and reached
down to catch her hand and pull it away from him, holding it tightly for an
instant before lifting it to his mouth and pressing a heated kiss to her
knuckles.

“Sweet Jesus, Sarah,” he said, groaning. “Much
more of that and you’ll unman me.” Gently, carefully, he replaced
her hand on his shoulder.

Her eyes, huge as they gazed into his, asked a question; hard as
she might find it to believe, she could think of the answering expression in
his eyes only as tender. She stared up at him, lips parted, golden eyes wide,
wanting yet not quite daring to believe what she thought she saw. “I burn
for you, Sarah,” he continued, bending his head so that his mouth brushed
the top of her ear as he spoke. She felt a shiver run up and down her spine at
the gentle touch of his lips on her ear. “I only have to look at you and
I’m as hot as a young boy. I want to make love to you for hours, days,
without stopping. I want to touch you all over, to kiss every inch of your skin
and make it mine. . . .” He took a deep, shaky breath. Sarah felt a faint
quiver in the hard muscles of his arms as they held her. “And I’m
going to, Sarah. Right now, this minute, unless you tell me not to.”

His head lifted again; he was looking down at her, his eyes asking
a question now. Sarah could no more have denied him than she could have denied
herself. She wanted him—she was too shy to say the words, but her eyes
said them for her. She felt his hands tremble where they clasped her waist. Her
whole body shook in answer. But it seemed that he wanted the words as well.

“Shall I make love to you, Sarah?”

Sarah could only stare up at him, her mouth trembling as she
fought one last battle with her common sense. The hard male beauty of the face
bent over hers, the soft yet firm mouth scant inches away from her own, the
blue eyes with their soul-shaking mixture of passion and tenderness defeated
her before the battle had even been joined.

“Yes, please, Dominic,” she whispered.

He laughed in a curiously shaken way. “My beautiful, feisty
Sarah. I’ll make it good for you, I promise.”

He let her go, turning away to untie the bedroll from behind
Kilkenny’s saddle and spread it on the ground. Sarah watched, arms
wrapped around her nakedness, second thoughts running riot through her mind.
What was she doing, giving herself to him—a convict—again?
Hadn’t she learned?

Before she could change her mind entirely, he came back to her,
taking her into his arms, pulling her against him so that she could feel the
hard, warm muscles beneath his clothes. At his touch, her doubts wavered and
then vanished. Her body seemed to catch fire. Trembling, she rose on her toes
to find his mouth as he lowered his head. Their lips met with an explosion of
passion. Her hands tightened around his neck, straining him to her as he lifted
her and laid her down. Sarah felt the rough wool of the blanket beneath her
bare back, felt the sharpness of a trio of tiny pebbles as they dug through the
coarsely woven material into the soft skin of her buttocks, felt the scratchy
limbs of a small, crushed shrub poking through somewhere in the vicinity of her
waist, and didn’t care. She wanted Dominic too badly.

He was taking off his clothes, his movements lacking their usual
deftness because of the tremor of his long brown fingers. Staring up at him
from her prone position on the ground, her eyes narrowed against the sun
beating down on them, Sarah felt her mouth go dry as he quickly stripped off
his shirt to reveal the wide, bronzed shoulders and the wedge of curling black
hair on his chest. Still standing over her, his eyes never leaving her body, he
pulled off his boots. Barefoot, he lifted his hands to the buttons securing his
breeches. . . . Sarah was barely conscious of her legs shifting restlessly as
she watched him unfasten his breeches and push them down, revealing lean hips
and flanks and long, hard-muscled legs. Stepping out of his breeches and
dropping them needlessly to one side, Dominic stood motionless for a long
moment, just looking at her. His eyes on the most intimate parts of her body
were as fiery hot as the sun overhead.

Sarah was no longer conscious of her surroundings; she did not
hear the jingle of the stirrups as the horses, trained to stay in place as long
as their reins trailed the ground, shuffled their feet impatiently; she did not
see the sable-skinned platypus who waddled from the creek, took one look at the
naked humans and stamping horses, and promptly waddled back again; she did not
feel the penetrating heat of the sun-baked ground through the blanket. She was
conscious only of Dominic, of his blue eyes and the waving thickness of his
silky, blue-black hair, of his broad, bronzed shoulders and hard-muscled arms
and legs roughened by the same curling black hair that grew luxuriantly on his
wide chest, and of the way that thick pelt narrowed into an ebony trail down
his muscle-ridged abdomen only to widen again around the tangible evidence of
his desire. Once there, Sarah could not drag her eyes away. She stared at that
part of him with fascination and trepidation as the enormity of what she was
about to do came home to her with a vengeance. This time, there could be no
excuse of moonlight and music. This time, of her own free will, she was making
the conscious decision to go against every precept she had ever been taught and
willfully take a lover—a convict lover. . . .