Natchez Flame (28 page)

“I don’t know, Chris. This isn’t really your concern.”

“Look, Bren, your brother has helped me out of a jam or two. Let me help you.”

Brendan searched his friend’s intelligent face. He didn’t doubt Chris Bannerman’s abilities—handicap or no. “All right. If Egan settles in someplace that doesn’t look too risky, I’ll come after you.” Brendan smiled his thanks.

That had been two days ago. Four days in all since he’d been with Priscilla in the garden at Melrose. Four days of worrying about her, wanting her, and needing her as he never had another woman.

Now, as dusk purpled the horizon and he stood outside the mayor’s office where Egan was engaged in a meeting—all very civic, of course—Brendan figured this might be his chance.

Traveling the crowded streets on a rented saddle horse—Blackie was liveried back in Galveston—it didn’t take long to reach Evergreen. In minutes, Chris rode a tall bay gelding toward the mayor’s office to take up his promised vigil, and Brendan made his way to the house on North Pearl.

From his place in the shadows, he could see Priscilla up in her room, bustling about with the help of her lady’s maid. He remembered the way she had looked at the party, dressed in her beautiful emerald ballgown, dancing with one man after another. She’d seemed different, more sophisticated—more Egan’s—and Brendan hadn’t liked it one damned bit.

With a glance around to be sure he wouldn’t be seen, he climbed the back stairs, slipped down the hall, then hid in a linen closet, where he could watch her door. When it opened, he saw her dressed in a
turquoise gown trimmed with silver, getting ready for another evening out. It galled him that Egan had bought her such beautiful clothes.

Hell, he wasn’t rich by any means, but he could buy her nice dresses and, if things turned out the way he planned, eventually just about anything she wanted. He cursed Stuart Egan and the situation he found himself in.

As soon as the maid had been dismissed, he moved into the hall, opened her bedchamber door, and stepped inside.

Priscilla stood before the mirror, her bosom near to spilling from her gown, her hair perfectly coifed, dabbing expensive French perfume behind an ear. He thought of her drab, high-necked dresses and, as beautiful as she looked right now, found himself yearning for the unpretentious woman she had been.

“Goin’ out?” he drawled, unable to disguise the mocking note in his voice.

Priscilla whirled to face him, a hand unconsciously rising to the base of her throat. “What … what are you doing here?”

“I thought we went through that before.”

“You’ve got to get out of here. I told you I don’t want to see you.”

Brendan moved closer. He had worn his black breeches and a clean white shirt that stood open at the throat. Priscilla must have approved, for her eyes ran over his body and unconsciously she wet her lips.
Just as fiery as ever
, he thought with a jolt of desire.

“I came to talk, Priscilla. I want you to know the truth about what happened to that man I killed in the Indian Territory. It wasn’t murder, I swear it.”

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

“I want you to know the truth.” I
want things to be the way they were.

Priscilla fought to maintain her control. Just the sight of him, standing there so tall and proud, made her heart ache unbearably. She watched his eyes, the stormy array of emotions they revealed. Anger, regret, determination … tenderness.

“It … it doesn’t matter,” she said, beginning to falter. “Things are different than they were before. I’m Stuart’s wife now—”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“It’s only a piece of paper, Priscilla.”

“N-not any more.” She had to convince him. She didn’t believe him and even if she did, it wouldn’t change things.

“Are you trying to tell me he came to your room last night?” Brendan’s hands balled into fists. “If he forced you—”

“He didn’t. It was what we both wanted.” Dear God, she had to get him out of there. Just watching the shadows cross his handsome face made her dizzy inside and hot all over.

“I don’t believe you. Not after what happened in the garden.”

She hated to lie. She had to.

“That’s exactly why I did it. Stuart didn’t come to me—I went to him. I wanted the past laid to rest. I wanted whatever there was between us over and done with.” She forced herself to look at him and not glance away. “I wanted you out of my life once and for all.”

Long, angry strides carried him across the room. He gripped her arms and hauled her against him. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

For a moment he just stood there. “You don’t love him. You probably don’t even like him. How could you do it?”

“I … I care for him. A great deal, in fact. You wouldn’t understand.”

The line of his mouth grew thin and grim. “You’re right, Priscilla, I don’t understand.” He ran a finger along her cheek and she trembled. “If you belong to Egan, I don’t understand how you could kiss me the way you did in the garden. I don’t understand how you could want me to touch you—the way you do right now.”

Priscilla wet her lips. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I?” His eyes fastened on her mouth, his hold on her arms grew tighter, then he kissed her—not a punishing, brutal kiss, but a hungry, aching kiss that stole her breath and maybe her very soul. In seconds, she was kissing him back, opening her mouth to him, her tongue sliding over his, her body arching against him.

Dear God, where did he get this power he held over her?

“Silla,” he whispered against her ear. Slipping the gown from her shoulder, he bared a breast, cupped it with his hand, and teased her nipple until it hardened. Priscilla sagged against him.

“S-Stuart might come,” she warned, her voice ragged, “he could be here any moment.”

Brendan looked at her with a mixture of anger,
desire, and pain. “Then we’d better hurry,” was all he said. Turning her toward the mirror, he placed her palms on the top of the dresser and lifted the hem of her turquoise gown.

“W-what are you doing?”

His hands cradled her breasts, squeezing them harder now, molding them, lifting them. “We’ve had so little time,” he whispered, his hardness pressing against her bottom while his teeth nipped the side of her neck. “You’ve only begun to know the pleasures a man can give a woman.”

One hand worked the buttons at the front of his breeches while the other bunched her gown and petticoats above her waist. She started to straighten, but Brendan pressed her back down. His hands skimmed over her thighs, covered only by her thin pantalets, moving inward, upward until he cupped her softness. “Spread your legs for me, Sill.”

Priscilla swallowed. His fingers found the opening in her undergarments, slid inside, and began to stroke the damp folds of her sex.

“You know you like this,” he whispered. “Open for me.”

Flames licked her body. She couldn’t move, could very scarcely breathe. His fingers worked the slickness building inside her, the rhythm matching that of his hand on her breast. Priscilla moaned.

Brendan untied the cord of her cotton pantalets, pulled the string, then slid them over her buttocks and down her thighs.

“Do it, Sill. You know you want to.”

Priscilla made a mew in her throat and her legs moved apart with a will of their own. His hands
stroked the curves of her bottom while he kissed her neck and shoulders, his mouth trailing slick damp heat, his dark hands skillfully readying her. He cupped her bottom, kneaded it, then slid a second finger inside her. A wave of pleasure broke over her, making her shiver with longing. They were magical, those hands. Priscilla’s stomach clenched, and ripples of heat swirled through her body.

“You’re mine,” Brendan whispered, his voice low and rough as he stroked her heated flesh again and again. Then he moved closer, probing for entrance until his rock hard length slid inside her.

Priscilla nearly swooned. A rush of heat invaded her body, making her breasts throb and her flesh burn. Holding her hips immobile, Brendan thrust into her, stirring the fires, making her cry out his name. Out and then in. Harder and harder. With each driving stroke, her need for him grew and strengthened.

He was pounding against her now, long, seductive, demanding strokes that left her weak and quivering all over. Unconsciously her back arched, forcing her hips toward his, meeting each of his long hard thrusts. Priscilla’s palms pressed into the bureau. Her nails dug into the wood, and her body grew slick with perspiration. Caught up in the passion and pleasure, she bit her lip to keep from crying out, then her head fell back, the world careened into blackness, then burst into a thousand colored stars.

Sweetness. So much sweetness and such impossible pleasure.

Brendan followed her over the edge, shuddering with his release then holding her against him. For a
moment, he just stood there, his arm enfolding her waist, his breathing labored and his body still tense. Then he buttoned the front of his breeches, adjusted Priscilla’s undergarments, and carefully lowered her skirts.

When Priscilla turned toward him, she tried to read his face, but the hard planes fell into shadow.

“Can Egan make you feel like that?” he asked, his voice rough and husky.

Priscilla didn’t answer. Stuart would never be able to move her as Brendan did, never make her feel the passion and love—yes love, she couldn’t deny it—that made her want to hold him and never him let go. She felt the warning of tears but willed them away.

“Thanks for the … distraction,” he said, with more than a trace of bitterness. “Good-bye … Mrs. Egan.”

It was all she could do not to go to him, to abandon her dreams as she had before and beg him to take her with him. Instead she stared at his broad back and narrow waist as he strode across the floor, walked out, and closed the door.

Instead of following her heart, she sank down on the bed, feeling a mixture of anguish and despair. For the first time since her return to Natchez, she gave in to her tears and wept for the man she had lost, and with him her dreams.

Dear Lord, I love him so.
Her chest felt leaden and her hands trembled. She sat there for long, achingly empty moments, her throat burning, hot tears spilling down her cheeks. If only she could believe in his innocence, believe he could solve his problems with
the law, could give up his outlaw ways and make a life for them.

But she didn’t.

Stuart had told her the truth about what happened with Hennessey, and she had seen Brendan kill more than once. Besides, if he were innocent, why had he been running? And he very definitely had been—she had seen it in his eyes almost from the start. Brendan was an outlaw and a gunman. Men like that didn’t change.

And there was Stuart to think of. There was the debt she owed him, the family she’d always wanted and the vows she had made.

God in heaven, what kind of a woman am I?
By making love to Brendan, she had done the very thing she had sworn not to. How could she live with herself? How could she face Stuart?

With a numbness that came very close to grief, Priscilla washed herself, then straightened her hair and clothing. From the moment of Brendan’s appearance in Natchez, she had tried to dissuade him. Tonight she had lied to him, hoping he would leave. Now he was gone—out of her life forever—but not before he’d proven his mastery of her in the most insensitive way.

Brendan Trask was her weakness—like a craving for the opiates smoked by some of the rivermen under the hill.

Priscilla’s nails bit into her palms.
Think!
she demanded.
Don’t let this man—this fugitive from the law—destroy you. You can’t run away this time, you cant weep and beg God’s forgiveness. You’ve got to look out for yourself!

She forced herself under control. Brendan wouldn’t be back—of that she was sure. Not when he believed she had given herself to Stuart—not after the way he had treated her. No, Brendan would not be back.

Priscilla’s throat closed up, and fresh tears threatened, but she wouldn’t let them fall. She had betrayed Stuart, just as she had before, but with Brendan gone from her life, it wouldn’t happen again.

Priscilla’s resolve strengthened. She wouldn’t let her attraction to the handsome outlaw ruin the rest of her life. She wouldn’t let her desire for him, her wantonness—her weakness—destroy her chance for family and home.

She ignored the sad little voice that said a home without love wasn’t really a home at all.

Raking a hand through his wavy dark brown hair, Brendan sank down on the tapestry sofa in the parlor of Evergreen’s bachelor quarters. The ornate cherrywood clock ticked loudly, matching the slow, dull beating of his heart.

After he’d left Priscilla, angry at himself as much as her, he had gone back to the mayor’s office, only to discover Egan’s meeting had adjourned. Egan was gone—and so was Christian Bannerman.

His worry for Chris overrode his bitterness and disappointment with Priscilla. Since Egan hadn’t shown up at the house on Pearl Street while Brendan was still there, he could be anywhere. And Chris might very well be in trouble. Still, without the vaguest notion where to look, he had no choice but to sit and wait.