Natchez Flame (21 page)

He cleared his throat and looked away. Fussing with the blanket, straightening it, then turning it back so they could climb in, Brendan kept his back to her, crouching on the balls of his feet. With a burst of temper, he whirled to face her.

“Damn it, Priscilla, you have no idea how tough this is—you wearing practically nothing—me wanting you so bad I ache with it.” He lifted the edge of her lacy peignoir, then released it as if it burned his fingers.

“I … I could sleep in my dress, if you’d rather.”

One corner of his mouth curved up. “Always the lady…. I suppose I should be used to it.” He lifted a heavy coil of hair. “I think I like you better wearing this.” His hungry gaze fixed on the dark areolas of her breasts beneath her nightgown.

Priscilla slid her arms around his neck and leaned against him. Brendan clamped his jaw as he felt the
familiar tightening in his groin. After so many days of wanting her, he ached with every heartbeat.

“I need you to hold me,” she said softly.

Brendan released a ragged breath. “There’s something we need to discuss, Priscilla.” He set her away from him.

“What is it?”

He glanced from her to the bedroll, beckoning silently in the moonlight. “If I touch you again, I might not be able to stop. I want to be inside you, Priscilla. I’ve thought of nothing else for days….” He tipped her chin with his hand. “Do you trust me?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“Then let me make love to you.”

“But I’m … married.”

“You aren’t Egan’s wife. You never will be. I’m going to be your husband.”

“But—”

“We’ll be married as soon as we can make the arrangements. In the meantime, we’ll be man and wife in the eyes of God.”

Priscilla wet her suddenly dry lips. “I don’t know….”

“Listen to me, Priscilla, If Egan should happen to find us—”

“Don’t say that—don’t even think it.”

“It isn’t going to happen, but if it should … we might have a chance of convincing him to let us go, if he knew I’d claimed you—that you were no longer a virgin.”

He
had
seemed overly concerned about it. She remembered him asking her about it somewhat crudely, then mentioning it again the following day.

She thought of Brendan’s kisses, of his hands on her body, of the pleasures he had stirred. She wanted him to hold her, wanted to know the solid feel of his body.

She wanted to make him happy, show him how much she cared.

“Trust me, Priscilla. I promise I won’t hurt you.” There was tenderness in his expression, caring. There was the kind of hunger she had seen before, but more than that, she was certain she saw love.

“I trust you, Brendan. I always have.”

Brendan stepped away from her, allowing himself to look at her as he hadn’t dared before. Moonlight touched her thick dark hair, and her soft pink mouth looked ripe and inviting.

“I’ll take care of you, Priscilla. That much I promise.” Leaning forward, he slid the peignoir from her shoulders, leaving her in just the lacy white nightgown. Instinctively, Priscilla’s hands came up to cover her breasts.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice low and husky. “You look lovely.”

“I … I don’t know exactly what to do.” Unconsciously her hands smoothed the front of the nightgown.

“I do.” Lifting her fingers to his lips, he kissed each one gently. “We’ve got all night, baby. I’m not going to rush you.”

She reached for him then, and Brendan pulled her against him. She felt slender and fragile, as she had that first day when he lifted her into his arms. Forcing himself to go slow, he tipped her head back and covered her mouth with his. Her breath tasted warm and sweet, and his body grew harder. This time he didn’t fight it, just savored his building desire.

“God, I want you,” he whispered against her soft mouth, then teased it open and slid his tongue inside.
Priscilla swayed against him. He felt the upthrusting points of her breasts, moved his hand down to cup one through the lace, and heard her soft mew of pleasure.

Brendan smiled inwardly. Beneath her prim exterior, fiery passion flowed through Priscilla’s veins. He had seen it that day beneath the oak tree. This night, he’d unleash it again, and she would be his.

Once he had claimed her, she would never forget it.

Priscilla felt warm fingers curve over her breast, lifting and molding. Through the holes in the lace, Brendan teased her nipple, already hard, and warmth invaded her limbs. As they stood together in the moonlight, his mouth nipped and teased, and his hands sent hot shivers down her spine. Priscilla used her tongue as Brendan had, fencing, coaxing, sliding it over his lips. She wasn’t quite sure what to do, or even what to expect, but she let him lead her, and with every passing moment, the fire in her blood burned hotter.

Brendan lowered the narrow strap of her nightgown, baring her breast, then returned to his gentle kneading. She could feel his male hardness pressing determinedly against her body as his mouth moved downward, along her jaw, along the column of her throat, then settled over her nipple. When Priscilla sagged against him, barely able to stand, Brendan slid an arm beneath her knees and lifted her up. He carried her the few short steps to their bedroll and lowered her gently.

“I’ll be right back, wife-to-be,” he said softly, and Priscilla felt a thrill at his words.

He left her for only a moment, long enough to strip off his shirt, pull off his boots, and unbutton his breeches. He slid them down his hard-muscled thighs, exposing his stiffened manhood, and Priscilla sucked in a breath.

A smile touched his lips as he stretched out beside her. “It’s all right, baby. I’m not going to hurt you. We’re going to take things nice and slow.” He kissed her with gentle reassurance, then lowered the other strap on her nightgown.

His eyes ran over her, moonlight shadowing the muscles below his ribs, the hollow at the side of his neck. Incredibly wide shoulders tapered to a narrow waist and slim hips, and his legs were long, and ridged with muscle. He looked sleek and male, and she wanted nothing more than to touch him. When she did, running her fingers into his curly dark chest hair, his muscles grew taut, and Priscilla’s hand stilled.

“I like you to touch me,” he whispered. “I want you to.” Brendan leaned over and kissed her, pressing her down on the bedroll. His mouth moved along her throat, then he took her nipple between his teeth and began to suck on it gently.

Priscilla nearly swooned. Unconsciously, her fingers laced into his wavy dark hair, the strands soft and silky. As his tongue laved her breast, she arched upward, silently begging for more. His long tanned fingers slid the gown up her thighs until it bunched at her waist, then he removed it completely and started kissing her breasts again.

Priscilla couldn’t breathe. Her heart fluttered wildly, and the place between her legs throbbed and
burned. As if wanting to soothe her, his hand skimmed down her stomach, a finger circled her navel, making her quiver, then he moved lower, through the dark hairs curling at the juncture of her legs.

Instinctively, Priscilla squeezed her thighs together.

“Open for me, Silla,” he ordered softly, the words flowing over her like some magic incantation. It seemed her body responded with a will of its own, her legs parting, his finger sliding inside.

“That’s my girl.”

She flushed at the thought of the intimacy he was taking, at the wetness she couldn’t explain. She wanted to pull away, but somehow she couldn’t. When Brendan kissed her again, his hard body easing over her, she found herself gripping his shoulders, kneading the corded muscles that bunched beneath her hand.

“Wider, Silla, open for me wider.”

A vestige of modesty told her not to, but her legs moved apart and she arched against his hand. Brendan’s fingers moved skillfully in and out, stroking and teasing, setting up fiery sensations like nothing she had known. He was stretching and readying her, kissing her, his tongue hot and plunging with each determined thrust of his hand. A palm cupped her breast, urgently working her nipple, inflaming her until she moaned.

“Please,” she pleaded, her voice soft and strained.

“Soon, baby. Just a little while longer.”

Priscilla writhed in earnest, her stomach clenching,
her nipples aching. Against Brendan’s mouth she moaned and begged—for what she did not know. “Touch me, Silla.”

She reached for him with a feeling of desperation, circling his hardened shaft with her hand. “Brendan,” she whispered, burning and unable to stop herself from calling out his name.

He positioned himself above her, his shaft sliding into the opening of her passage. When he reached her maidenhead, he paused. “I wish I didn’t have to hurt you,” he said gently, and then he plunged home.

Priscilla’s cry of pain was muffled by the warmth of his mouth. Brendan stopped moving, giving her time to adjust, his body poised carefully above her. She could feel the tension in his muscles, the control it took to hold back.

“Are you all right?” he whispered.

“Yes,” she said softly.

With tenderness, he kissed her lips, and instinctively Priscilla pressed against him, urging him onward, her fingers digging into the muscles of his back.

“You’re a fiery little minx,” he whispered, and then he began to move.

Priscilla forgot the pain of a moment before. This sweet agony was as far from pain as anything she had known. Her body felt wreathed in fire, taut and coiling and achy. As Brendan slid out and then in, slowly at first, making her quiver with heat, then moving faster, Priscilla gripped his shoulders. She kneaded the contours of his back, felt the tension in his muscles, felt the strength of his body, and something expanded inside her. The tension grew and
sharpened, forcing her body upward, forcing her to take more of him, to meet each of his demanding thrusts.

“Wrap your legs around me, Silla.”

They moved with a will of their own. He was driving deeper now, plunging hard against her, carrying her upward and draining the last of her will.

Priscilla’s head fell back and a long fierce cry escaped. Brendan held her hips and drove into her, sending her over a great dark precipice to soar among the stars. In the eye of her mind, she saw swirling blackness, bright sparkling lights, and knew flashes of sweetness so poignant it made her want to weep.

She felt Brendan shudder and heard the husky male sound of a groan. For a moment he seemed frozen as his seed pumped hotly inside her. Then his muscles relaxed, he released the breath he’d been holding, and eased himself down on his elbows. When he settled himself on the bedroll beside her, his skin, dark against hers, gleamed with a sheen of perspiration that matched her own.

“You’re mine now, Silla. Never anyone else’s.”

And she was. She knew that as surely as she knew the stars shone in the heavens. “I didn’t know it would be like this.”

Brendan chuckled softly and brushed damp hair from her cheeks. “It isn’t always. Not with just anyone.”
Never before for him, in fact.
“There’s something special between us, Priscilla. I’ve never felt anything so …”

“Lovely?” she finished, and he smiled. “I felt as if I soared through the heavens.”

His smile grew broader. “So did I.” He cradled her head against his shoulder. “You’ve more fire in your blood than any ten women I’ve known.”

“And you, my love, have a goodly measure of the devil.” She thought of the way he’d aroused her, had forced her to lose control. “I’m not sure I like someone holding such power over me,” she teased, but she wasn’t sure she was teasing.

“Your body’s tuned to mine, Priscilla. It understands all this, even if you don’t.”

“I suppose.” She ran her fingers through his curly brown chest hair and surprised herself with a jolt of desire. She looked down at his shaft and saw it stir. In seconds it rose up, fierce and promising.

“Surely we can’t want to do this again!”

“Can’t we?” He leaned over her. “Kiss me, Silla.” And just as she had before, Priscilla obeyed.

They made love two more times that night, gently, sweetly. Even at that, Brendan’s hunger did riot lessen. He had stopped for fear she’d be sore in the morning, and strangely enough Priscilla found herself wishing he hadn’t.

In bed, she had discovered, Priscilla Mae Wills was definitely a wanton. Thankfully, the man she responded to with such fierce abandon seemed more than pleased.

“You’re everything a man could want in a wife,” he told her, easing her up behind him on the horse. “A lady in the parlor and a vixen in the bedroom.”

“And you, Brendan Trask, are surely Satan himself.”

He laughed at that and planted a quick kiss on her mouth.

They rode hard through that day and the next, stopping only long enough to rest the big horse Brendan had named Blackie, or themselves when they were too exhausted to stay in the saddle. As he had promised, they kept out of sight, going by way of streambeds and gullys, backtracking, brushing away their backtrail. They used every trick Brendan knew to disguise their travels.

At night, as tired as they were, they made love. In that sweet way, their hardships seemed worthwhile, and Priscilla was able to banish her fears. During the day, she worried and fretted and prayed God would get them safely away.