The Other Guy's Bride (31 page)

This time Jim caught her fist a few inches before it hit his face, neatly turning it down and behind her. He spun her around and caught her back hard against his chest. “Would you stop trying to hit me?” he said in a low, calm voice, his lips pressed against her ear.

“I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t keep saying things that provoke me,” she said, trying to sound equally nonchalant and fearing she missed the mark entirely.

He shoved her lightly away from him, brushing past her and going to where the stallion danced nervously, his ears flattening and flickering. Gently, Jim soothed his hand down his arched neck. Then he moved back and dug into his saddlebag, removing a rolled blanket. Working quickly, he flicked it open and secured it over the mouth of the cavern. It didn’t entirely cover the opening, but it would deflect a substantial part of any blown-back sand that got caught in the rift. When he’d finished, he tethered the stallion in the far corner, wrapping a shirt over the horse’s eyes to keep him from panicking.

And then the storm was on them. It filled the air with the angry hissing of a million wasps, so loud it covered any incidental sound. Ginesse crept close enough to the opening to look upward. The wind-driven sand swept over the ledge and streamed almost parallel in the sky.

“It’s mostly going over us,” she called out and turned to find Jim already at her side, his gaze fixed on the sky above. He’d pulled the end of his
khafiya
over his mouth and tucked it in at his temple. All that was exposed were his tarnished-nickel eyes, narrowed against the ravaging wind outside.

“Stand still,” he said, opening a square of woven silk and wrapping it over her mouth. He tied it at the back of her head. “In case there’s dust.”

The sand was painful, little needles scoring any exposed flesh, but the dust was worse, filling nostrils and throat, clogging eyes and thickening in the lungs. The heavier sand stayed near the bottom of the
khamasin
, but the higher up in the storm wall you were, the more likely you were to feel the effects of the talc-like powder that could be driven into the smallest seam, the narrowest opening.

For long moments they watched, riveted by the sight of the thick curtain of sand, praying they weren’t so high up in the storm that the dust found them. Finally, Jim loosened his
khafiya
and let it fall from his face.

“I think we’re lucky,” he said. “We’re situated at the right angle to keep the sand from blowing back on us and not so high up to be in the dust. As long as the storm doesn’t suddenly stop and dump all the sand it’s carrying, we should be all right.”

“How long will it last?” she asked, untying her veil.

“I don’t know. It depends on how big it is. It could blow for days, but it’s more how quickly it’s moving that concerns me. It’s early for this sort of storm, but then…” he looked at her pointedly, “there are extenuating circumstances.”

“You can hardly blame me for the sandstorm.”

“Can’t I?” he asked, sounding exasperated and resigned at the same time.

She started to stalk toward the back of the cavern, but he grabbed her wrist. She turned and looked coldly down at the hand holding her prisoner. It didn’t seem to have any effect.

“Oh, no,” he said. “You’re not going anywhere. Not this time.”

“Of course I’m not,” she said disgust. “I’m not about to stomp out into the middle of a sandstorm just because I find you offensive. Despite what you and everyone else thinks, I’m not an idiot.”

“Oh, yes. You are.”

She gasped. “How. Dare. You.”

“What were you doing out there?” he demanded. “If I hadn’t see that wooden staff…if I hadn’t brought field glasses…” A shudder ran through him. Abruptly, he dropped her hand and turned away from her.

“I…I found Zerzura,” she said, knowing she sounded apologetic when she wanted to sound victorious.

He looked over his shoulder at her. “Who cares?”

She blinked.

He turned around, facing her. “Who the bleeding hell cares if you found Zerzura? Or Timbuktu? Or the bloody Garden of Eden?” he asked, his voice gaining volume with each word. “You might have died, Ginesse!”

“But I didn’t,” she pointed out reasonably. “You came for me.”

He nodded, at first in agreement, but somewhere along the way it turned into a shake of negation. “Yes. I came for you. I will always come from you. Because I can’t seem to help myself. It doesn’t matter where you are or if you’re officially someone else’s problem. I don’t even care if you’re married to someone else. Where is Jock, anyway? No. Don’t answer that.” He gave an elaborate shrug. “It doesn’t matter. He’s not here. I am.”

She stared at him in confusion, concerned that somewhere along the way he’d become unhinged.

He held his hand out as if asking her opinion. “And that’s the rub, isn’t it?
It doesn’t matter
. Because who’s going to pull you out when the earth swallows you whole or fish you out of the ocean when your ship sinks—”

“Only the
felucca
sank, and it didn’t even really sink. It listed,” she interjected. “The
Lydonia
was fine. Mostly.”

“Don’t interrupt me,” he said. “Who is going to catch you when the mountain you’re standing on explodes? Or the heavens fall?”

He glared at her, waiting.

“You?” she ventured.

“
Me
. I can’t help myself any more than you can help being…you. You’re a like a magnet for everything disruptive and dangerous in the world. No matter where you go, no matter who you’re with, chaos will find you and
I will know.”
He stared at her angrily. “In my heart, in my soul, in my bones, and in my blood, I will know and I’ll come because I can’t help myself.” He raked his hair back with his hand. Looked away. Looked back at her. Looked away again.

She stared at him, dumbfounded. She’d never seen him like this. He looked like a man on the frayed edge of sanity, holding on by only the thinnest strand. His usual composure had cracked—no, it had shattered. He strode back and forth in front of her with a frenetic sort of energy. “Did he ask you?”

“Who? Ask me what?” she asked in confusion.

“Jock. Did he ask you to marry him?”

“Oh. Yes. How did you know?”

“A blind man—” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. What did you answer?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Now she felt her own anger rising in answer, hot and fierce. “That’s none of your business.”

“The hell it isn’t. I’ve asked you to marry me three times and you’ve refused me each time. I thought it was because you were in love with my brother.”

“Well, you were wrong.”

His hands balled into fists at his side. She noted it, raising her brows haughtily.

“Why did you refuse to marry me then?” he demanded.

She should be quiet; she should just stay mute. But she was angry and hurt. Only moments before he’d been saying such lovely things; now he was being horrible. “Why can’t you help yourself?” she countered, shouting back.

“What?”

“
Why
are you compelled to come after me?” she demanded, setting her hands on her hips.

For a moment, he just stared at her as if she was daft.

“Because I love you,” he finally said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“What?” She’d waited to hear him say those words for what seemed like an eternity, and now he’d said them just as casually and unconcernedly as he might have said, “I like that dress” or “Spot is a good name for a dog.”

“Because I love you,” he repeated. “Why else would I?”

“I don’t know. Because you’re
mad
?” she suggested. How dare he say he loved her here, in such a manner, with so little fanfare?

He was watching her carefully. “You seem upset.”

“Oh. Do I?” she asked sweetly. Behind her, the horse shifted uneasily. Smart horse. “Perhaps it’s because
I do not believe you
.”

He drew back as if she’d slapped him. “Why?” he asked, wholly bewildered.

“Because though, as you pointed out, you have proposed three times—although simply agreeing to Pomfrey’s suggestion that we marry does not in my mind constitute a proposal—this is the first time you have mentioned the word love to me.”

She held up her hand when he opened his mouth, forestalling him. “Added to which, while Pomfrey was defaming me in the worst possible way, saying awful, terrible things to me, you stood by and let him. A man in love would never suffer his beloved to be spoken of in such derogatory terms.”

“What did he say? I don’t remember him saying anything in particular,” he said, frowning. “But then I wasn’t really listening.”

“Oh! Oh, you…” She sputtered to a stop, unable to come up with nasty enough words. “We are done talking.”

He stared at her for a tense few seconds before spinning around and pounding his fist against the cavern walls, sending a spray of gravel shooting out. “Ah, hell, Ginny!” he shouted above the roaring storm outside. “Come on! Give me a break!”

“I don’t know what that means,” she said primly.

“It means that’s not fair,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “I’d just found out the woman I’d made love to and was in love with wasn’t who she claimed to be. Compounding that was the fact that I’d just discovered she didn’t even know the man she’d turned me down for. It was confusing, and I was a little,” he pounded the cavern wall again, “
preoccupied
.”

She flinched.

“I didn’t
hear
Pomfrey. So if he insulted you, I’m sorry. Do you want me to go back and beat him bloody? Because if that’s what it takes for you to believe me, I will. Hell, I’ll even enjoy it! Because right now, I really,
really
want to hit someone.”

“I suppose by that you mean me,” she said haughtily.

He froze, the muscle jumping at the point of his jaw, his eyes glittering. Then, all at once, he sighed.

“Ah,” he muttered, “the hell with it.” And with that, he grabbed her, bent her over his arm, and kissed her.

He kissed her long and thoroughly and single-mindedly. One arm lashed her against him, and the other snaked between her shoulder blades, cupping the back of her head. He kissed her breathless. He kissed her until her head swam and her heart trip-hammered in her chest, and then he kissed her some more, until her legs wouldn’t hold her and silvery lights exploded behind her closed lids. He kissed her until she forgot about any storm but the one he was rousing in her.

Her mouth yielded entirely under his determined assault and her body surrendered. Her breath came shallow and quick, and she knew if he hadn’t been holding her, she would have swooned. He finally lifted his head from hers and gazed down into her passion-muzzed eyes and at her lips already parting for more kisses, catching her when her knees threatened to buckle, and steadying her.

“I love you,” he said, his breathing rough and his eyes still glittering but with a different fire. “I can’t make it any clearer than that. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she said, trying to catch her breath and losing it again when he caught her in his arms to steady her. “Yes.”

“And that’s all you wanted to hear?”

“Yes,” she said, a shade unsteadily. “I wanted the only reason you proposed to me to be because you loved me, because that is the only reason that ever mattered to me.” Her gaze slipped away from his. “I suppose you think that’s pathetically romantic? To want to hear you say it?”

With one arm around her waist, he used his free hand to tip her chin up so he could look directly into her eyes. “I love you,” he said, and this time the words did not sound light or incidental. “I love you, Ginesse. Don’t you see?
You
are my Zerzura. You are my undiscovered country, both my heart’s destination and journey. Gold and temples, jewels and gems don’t hold one bit of your enticement.”

With his thumb, he tenderly brushed her lips, then charted a course down her throat. All traces of hardness had left his gray eyes, leaving them smoky and dark.

“You,” he whispered, “are my Solomon’s mine, my uncharted empire. You are the only home I need to know, the only journey I want to take, the only treasure I would die to claim. You are exotic and familiar, opiate and tonic, hard conscience and sweet temptation.”

He smiled then, a touch of self-amusement in his eyes. “And now I have no more words to give you, Ginesse. I only have my heart, and you already own that.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. She tried to blink them away. “Good heavens,” she sniffled and hated herself for sniffling because a heroine never got a runny nose upon hearing her hero’s declaration of love, “that was impressively romantic coming from an unsentimental American cowboy.”

A brief grin lit his face, tenderness and humor comingled. “Ah well,” he said kindly, “it turns out I’m actually a duke.”

She laughed, and his arms clasped around her more tightly. “What more can I offer you, Ginny?” he demanded. “Tell me. It’s yours. I’m yours.”

In reply, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her face to the hollow of his neck and touching her lips and tongue briefly to his skin. A shiver ran through him. He tasted salty and dusty, an earthy tang to his masculinity. Who would ever think a man would have so many flavors?

She pulled open his robes, and he went very still.

Beneath the Bedouin robes, he wore an open-necked shirt. With quiet efficiency she set about unbuttoning it, seeing out of the corner of her eye the way his lips parted and hearing the sharp intake of his breath. He turned his head, so that his lips were a hairsbreadth from her face.

“What are you doing?” he asked, the breath of his speech caressing her temple.

“Taking what was given to me,” she replied unevenly.

“I was hoping as much,” he replied as the robes dropped from his shoulders and the shirt came open beneath her hands.

He was gorgeous, a beautiful example of male architecture: clean lines and lean muscle; hard, sculpted chest; strong, finely honed arms. She pressed her palms against his chest where they rode the heavy rise and fall of his breathing. She leaned forward and pressed an open-mouthed kiss over his nipple. He made a rough sound, catching her by the shoulders and holding her away.