Katherine O’Neal (20 page)

Her breath was coming in gasps. Panic
surfaced as he moved the menace of his body close against her own.
She threw back her head to scream. It wouldn’t do any good, she
knew. But the sensations stampeded through her with such raw
ferocity, she felt on the verge of hysterics for the second time in
her life—at risk of detonating beneath his rapacious hands, her
formidable longing blasting through her like dynamite demolishing a
mountain of stone. It seemed the only thing to do was scream her
anguish to the night.

He saw her intention and, with the reflexes
of a rattler, pulled a hand free and clamped it hard over her
mouth. “Not yet, sweetheart. You scream in passion, or you don’t
scream at all.”

His hand, gagging her, began to move across
her mouth as his fingers inside her ignited tremors she couldn’t
control. As her breath escaped in frightened gasps, he explored her
lips with his fingers, then thrust them into her mouth. Torn
between fright and longing, she was seized by a mad desire to bite
them in two. But even as her teeth closed down, she was rattled by
his nearness, and she gave up and sucked on them instead.

“That’s it, Princess,” he murmured. He pulled
his hand away. Unbidden, her mouth reached for his fingers. But he
was busy brushing the hair from her face, her shoulders, his
fingers caressing her skin along the way. He was so gentle, it
scared her all the more. She knew at any moment, he could turn
violent, using his hand in her hair to yank back her head and slit
her throat.

She began to whimper softly. “Please,” she
whispered.

“Please, what? Please take my fingers out of
you?” He did so, and to her utter shame, she found herself
thrusting her hips forward, seeking his touch. He shoved his leg
between her thighs, giving her something to rub against. “Or please
put them back in?”

She could hear her own desperate lamentation.
Fury mingled with her other emotions to aggravate her unwanted
arousal. No man had ever had such power over her. No one had ever
possessed the sorcery to make her weak with need just from the
whisper of his voice against her ear. She hated herself for wanting
him—hated him for
making
her want him.

“Tell me,” he insisted. Turning her to face
him, he saw her desire in the glitter of her eyes, in the parting
of her lips. But he saw something else. The terror when she looked
into his face. The flash of fear as his hand found her breast and
squeezed. He’d never seen such a wounded look of foreboding and
pleading in his life.

He tipped her chin up and looked deeper into
her eyes. His hand fell from her breast as if he’d been burned. He
studied her a moment, watching as her fright usurped her longing,
and she began to shake.

“Did someone hurt you once?” he asked.

It was so unexpected, so tenderly uttered,
that tears sprang to her eyes. She didn’t cry easily. To do so
before him would be to expose herself in a way she hadn’t by
showing him the depth of her physical need. Mortified, she turned
her face away.

All was quiet for many moments. A slight
breeze rustled the grass. The fire crackled and sparked. The horse
blew, rattled its bridle, pawed the ground. Still Saranda kept her
eyes closed, fighting not to reveal to him any more than she
already had.

She felt a strong finger trail her cheek and
hardened herself to what would come. Why should he care about her
pain? Why should he care about the conflict that was tearing her
apart? He could have her, kill her, do anything he wanted.

She didn’t hear him move, but the next thing
she knew, the key was turning in the lock, and her arms fell free.
She looked back in time to see him remove the other handcuff. He
didn’t see the look of surprise she gave him because he was taking
her wrists, one at a time, and rubbing them where the cuffs had
chafed. Her fingers throbbed as the blood began to move.

“I owe you an apology,” he said softly, his
voice barely carrying in the expanse of the starry night. “I only
meant to keep you from fleeing till you’d heard me out.”

She was so astonished, she could think of
nothing to say. She didn’t believe him. She’d been deceived by him
once before. But she couldn’t guess at his intentions. She’d never
before felt so off-balance.

“It would make things easier if you promised
not to run off. At least for tonight. I ask no more than that.” Too
choked up to speak, she simply nodded her head. Still, the
instincts of her profession died hard. If she could lull him into
trusting her tonight, she could more easily escape in the
morning.

“You needn’t worry,” he said gently. “I won’t
hurt you. I suspect you’ve been hurt enough.”

It was the most threatening thing he could
have said. If he’d raped her, she could have hated him, but her
hatred would make her strong. This sudden compassion disarmed her,
made her weak. If he faked passion, that was one thing. But tender
care...

She turned and ran suddenly, from the words
he’d spoken, from the emotions he’d unleashed, from the ugly
pictures he’d expelled from her mind. But even in her delirium, she
remembered her promise not to run away. She stopped a few feet off,
with her back to him, and stood with her face in her hands, shaking
violently, fighting desperately to keep from crying.

She heard the crunch of his footsteps as he
followed her. He came up behind and put hands on her arms. She was
stiff, unyielding.

“It’s all right,” he soothed. “You don’t have
to tell me. You’re shivering. Come over by the fire.”

He led her back toward the beckoning warmth.
She didn’t say a word. Her face was burning with an embarrassment
more acute than if he’d stripped her and exposed her to his roving
eyes. All she could think was:
He guesses all my secrets. How
long before he stumbles upon the worst one of all?

She awoke the next morning, stiff from
sleeping on the ground, shivering in the post-dawn chill. The sky
was a pale alabaster blue, but pink lights splashed soft hues of
color to the endless horizon. The air, fresh, clean, invigorating,
smelled sweetly of sage. She stretched her cramped muscles, rolled
onto her stomach, and stopped short, her breath suspended in her
lungs.

He was gloriously naked. Standing in the
stream, he rose from the water like some pagan god, his body
gleaming in the early morning sun.

He was a grand specimen, his body athletic,
beautifully defined. The broad shoulders above a delectably hairy
chest, the narrow waistline, the sleek, chiseled buttocks, the hard
thighs and muscled calves. With cupped palms, he covered himself
with the icy water, whistling softly to himself as if relishing the
feel of it, clean and resurrected under the open sky. The shock of
it, the absolute beauty of him, was a jolt to her senses. He raised
a perfectly coiled arm. Even the dark hair underneath was an
inducement to further exploration. She’d known the Blackwoods were
acrobats at one time. She’d been aware of their renown as great
physical creatures. Hadn’t she even been contemptuous of it?
Boorish ruffians? All brawn and no brains? But seeing the proof of
the rumors was a revelation. His forearms alone were enough to stop
a woman’s heart. Commandingly developed, flexing with muscles when
he moved, strong and hairy with sleek, tapered wrists. She couldn’t
swallow. She couldn’t breathe. Watching him—so totally and
unashamedly unaware of her prying eyes—was like watching a stallion
careening in the wild. She’d never seen such heartrending male
magnificence in all her life.

He turned then, and she saw the root of that
bold, reckless confidence. He was Olympian in stature. So large,
she wondered how in the world he could possibly...

She could well imagine that women were
thunderstruck at first sight of him. She wondered if it was
possible to become so familiar with him that they could see him
unsheathed without feeling awestruck.

Belatedly, she realized he was now watching
her, noting her reaction. She flushed and averted her eyes. Because
he was a stranger. He wasn’t the man she’d loved. The man she’d
been intimate with, come close to giving herself wholeheartedly to,
didn’t exist. She didn’t even know who this man really was.

He reached for his shirt, dried himself off
with masculine efficiency, and pulled on his pants with a minimum
of fuss. She allowed herself a sigh of relief. He’d been the one
naked, but
she’d
felt exposed.

“Good morning,” he greeted her in a pleasant
tone, as if she hadn’t just been gawking at his naked form. “I was
beginning to think you’d sleep all day. I suppose we can get down
to business—that is, of course, unless you’d like to bathe
first.”

The hand holding the shirt gestured toward
the stream.

“With you watching?”

“Well...” His voice was hushed, his eyes
piercing. “It’s hardly fair that you should have all the fun.”

She said nothing. She couldn’t afford to be
distracted. Instinct told her he was about to make his play, and
she would need all her wits to convince him she believed him long
enough to escape.

He came to squat across the ruins of the fire
from her. “I’ve a proposition, Miss Sherwin—”

“It seems a bit formal, after what’s
transpired, to call me Miss Sherwin. Besides which, they know who I
am—thanks to you. If someone should overhear you—”

“You’re wrong. I didn’t tell them.”

“You expect me to believe that? No one knew
but you.”

“If you’ll allow me to continue, we might
come to some satisfaction.”

She waved a hand in the air. “By all
means.”

“If Miss Sherwin is too risky—and I agree it
is—I suppose Saranda is equally so.”

Her heart, unbidden, leapt at the sound of
her name on his tongue. “No,” she agreed. “Not Saranda.”

“What
shall
I call you, then?”

“I couldn’t care less what you call me. I’ve
gone by many names. One is the same as any other.”

He leaned back on his elbow and narrowed an
eye as he surveyed her. “What do you think of Dusty?” he asked.

“Dusty? As in, the furniture
is
...
dusty?”

“Dusty. As in the dusty coloring of your
hair.” Reaching over, he fingered one of the tumbling silky locks.
When she flinched, he let the hair slip from his fingers, slapped
her on the back, and sent a goodly amount of dust flying. “Also, as
in you
are
... dusty.”

She jerked away from him, suddenly caring
very much what he called her. “It’s not very complimentary. You
might as well call me Dirty.”

“Very well—”

“Don’t you dare!”

He chuckled. “I thought you didn’t care what
I called you.”

“Kindly remind me if you meant to
talk
business—or give me the business.”

“Very well. I shall be perfectly frank. We
have a pretty good idea by now who we are and what we want. I want
the
Globe-Journal
, and you want to be cleared of charges
that will invariably lead to your execution.”

“Well, that’s certainly frank.”

“The way I see it, the only way I can get the
newspaper is through you.”

“Correction. The only way for you to get that
newspaper is over my dead body.”

“Look, Miss Sherwin. I don’t like this any
more than you. Given the opportunity, I’d just as soon never see
you again. But I need you as much as you need me. Which means we
must work together.”

“How—exactly—do I need you?”
Aside from
the obvious,
she wanted to add.

“Because you’re the most-wanted woman in
America. And because I can prove your innocence.”

“How?”

“I know McLeod’s story to be the farce it is.
We both know I told Jackson the truth before the wedding. And that
he had no intention of throwing you out on your ear—much as I tried
to convince him to do just that.”

“Knowing it and proving it—”

He waved her to silence. Standing, he went to
retrieve his coat and returned holding an envelope in the Van
Slykes’ distinctive color of Delftware blue. He held it out to her.
She stared at it without touching it, at the small, upright
handwriting she recognized as Jackson’s, addressing the envelope to
Archer at his hotel.

Because she didn’t move, he took the letter
from the envelope and held it out for her to read.

“My dear Archer,” it read. “Never have we
faced a difference as serious as the one we face now. I’ve always
considered you more of a son than an employee. In fact, under
different circumstances, I would happily and without pause leave
the paper in your more than capable hands. But you must understand.
Winston loves Sarah, as do I. We’ve weighed carefully your
warnings, that an adventuress rarely changes, that she may merely
want from us all she can take. We simply don’t believe it. We know
Sarah to be good of heart, just as we know the goodness in you. It
is our wish that she marry Winston as planned, and become a proud
member of our family. We’ve told her as much. This need go no
further. For it is my express wish that you forget what you know
and treat my future daughter-in-law with the same respect,
kindness, and consideration with which I’ve treated you. I would
consider this a great kindness to an old man who cares deeply for
you.”

It was signed simply, “Jackson.”

It saddened her to read the proof of his
devotion—not just to her, but to Blackwood. He’d been taken in by
not one sham artist, but two. He’d paid a terrible price for his
goodness.

She dropped her hands into her lap and
lowered her head.

He replaced the letter in the pocket of his
coat and sank down once again beside her. “That letter was dated
the night before the wedding. Proving McLeod is lying, and negating
the motive. If Jackson accepted you so—lovingly”—as if he choked on
the word—“into his family, you had no reason to kill him.”