Chapter 17 #3
She brought his hand up and placed its scarred back to her cheek, surprised that he allowed it. Her gaze went to his eyes, and they were as frozen as ever, watchful, waiting. She moved his hand to her lips and kissed the scar lightly as if it were something honorable rather than unspeakably ugly.
His fingers tightened around hers, and then his lips were back on her lips, the kiss desperate and hurting and angry, consuming her.
Shea didn’t know whether she had done the right thing, whether he was trying to punish her, or forget, or … whether he did care for her a little, in spite of himself.
She wanted to make him forget all the bad years, all the pain, all the suffering. She wanted to bury them all, if only for a brief time.
Her response to his kiss tried to tell him that. It seemed as if she had been waiting all her life for him, for this, for the extraordinary way she felt when he touched her, when those probing, angry eyes met and clashed with hers.
His kiss deepened at her response, at her ready acceptance of him, at the way her body gravitated toward his. His tongue was no longer gentle, but hungrily invasive, as if he still wasn’t sure whether to be punitive or …
Loving. There was a hint of that in the gentleness of his fingers as they ran up and down her body.
His arms went around her waist, and he rolled over with her so she was lying naked on his clothed body.
She felt the throbbing of his sex and little fires starting to glow inside her.
She maneuvered herself to get closer and closer, and then she pulled away from his kiss and started to unbutton his shirt.
She wanted his skin next to her skin. She wanted no physical barriers.
When she rid him of his shirt, her hands ran up and down his chest as his had done with her body. She felt him quiver, tauten. She leaned down and shamelessly ran her tongue along his breastbone.
“God, Shea,” he whispered.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you taste good?” she said, smiling to herself at the utter astonishment in his face.
She moved her mouth to his neck, brushing it with kisses, savoring the saltiness of it.
She was acting so totally unlike herself, so wanton.
She didn’t even know how she knew what to do.
She just knew. She felt so seductively alive, particularly when she saw the way he unsuccessfully tried to hide the desire burning in his own eyes, those glimpses of sheer, startled pleasure.
He groaned, and Shea felt his hands go down to the buttons of his trousers.
She lifted herself slightly so she could unbutton them herself and slip the trousers from his hips.
And then there was nothing between them, and she felt his manhood press tightly against the now-heated entrance between her legs.
Rafe rolled over so he again was on top, his body hovering mere inches above her, that straining part of him touching and teasing the increasingly sensitive part of her femininity.
For a moment she felt fear, as if she’d roused something she couldn’t control. Then his mouth came down, touching her face lightly, with such restraint. His body lowered all the way, and she felt him begin to enter her, slowly.
Fear melted, and she was filled with desire, with need for him, with an aching craving for what was coming. But he felt very strange, very large, and intrusive, and the pain came so unexpectedly that she couldn’t hold back a whimper.
“Christ.” The word exploded from him, and he hesitated. But despite her pain, the need was still inside her, building, boiling.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered.
But still he hesitated.
“Please,” she pleaded. She needed whatever it was he was giving.
She felt him move again, even more slowly than before, and his lips feathered her cheeks with caresses, as he carefully continued, his muscles taut with control. And then the pain started to fade, replaced by rivers of delicious sensations as he moved inside her.
“Oh, Rafe,” she said, astounded at the wonder of what was happening. His rhythm quickened, and she felt the core of her grasp and tighten around him. Her own body was suddenly moving in concert with his.
And then she couldn’t think anymore, just feel. Feel and feel and feel. And want to give. She wanted to give him pleasure and joy and happiness and forgetfulness. She wanted to change every bad thing into something glorious, just as he was doing to her.
Suddenly, there was a tumultuous explosion inside her. Pleasure rocked her, going on and on until she thought she could stand no more. She closed her eyes at the miracle that had just happened, and she felt his body relax, settle down on hers with a sigh of contentment.
After a few moments he moved slightly, rolling her to the side, so his weight wasn’t on her. His hand reached up and touched her cheek with such sweetness, she thought she might die happy at that moment.
“I …” He hesitated, his word’s obviously coming with great difficulty, and shadowed by regret. “I didn’t know … that you were a virgin.” It was an apology she didn’t want.
Some of the joy seeped from Shea. Of course he wouldn’t have thought she was a virgin, the way she had responded to him, or perhaps because she was Randall’s daughter. But his assumption hurt. She felt her face suddenly flush with humiliation.
And then his hand was touching her cheek. “Don’t,” he said. “It’s just that I’ve never … I’ve never been with a virgin before,” he finished awkwardly. “I’m … dammit,” he added. “It shouldn’t have happened.”
“A lot of things shouldn’t happen,” she said slowly, “but I don’t think this was one of them.”
He moved away, breaking the joining of their bodies, but his hand closed around hers, keeping it captive. He closed his eyes, as if he wanted to close out this scene.
Minutes seemed like hours to her, and then, without opening his eyes, he said hoarsely, “This doesn’t change anything.”
The humiliation Shea had felt earlier was nothing to what she felt now.
“You think …?” She couldn’t finish the sentence. She couldn’t put it in words. She couldn’t bear the idea that he thought she was selling herself to save her father, or herself.
“Or have you just been wondering what it would be like with a man who had been caged for ten years? Christ, I couldn’t even tell …” His ragged, bitter voice trailed off, and she realized that he was blaming himself for what had happened, that guilt had made him turn on her.
“Oh, Rafe,” she whispered. “Can’t you understand that I just … wanted this? If that makes me a … a whore … then I guess that’s what I am.”
He was silent for so long, she wondered whether he’d even heard her.
“Why?” he asked. “Why?”
She knew he meant why had she wanted him—a convicted criminal. Her hand ran along his chest again. “I don’t know,” she lied.
“I don’t believe in gifts,” he said. “The last time I received one, it was a pair of leg manacles. The sergeant who took me to prison said it was the army’s last present to me.” He paused, and she knew he was reliving that moment. Dear Lord, Shea hurt for him.
“Your family?” She had to ask. He had never mentioned anyone.
“Killed by Comanches when I was young,” he said in that toneless voice that she now knew covered simmering emotions.
“And you?” she urged.
“I was taken captive, rescued a few months later.” He shrugged. “I guess you could call it rescue.”
“How old were you?” she said, horrified.
He shrugged. “Six. Seven.” The familiar coolness settled over his eyes, and she knew he was retreating behind that shell that concealed so much.
He made it clear he wouldn’t talk about himself any longer.
He was still clasping her hand, though, and she wondered whether he was even aware of his tight grip.
She wanted to touch him in other ways, but she was afraid he would misconstrue it, move farther away.
So she waited, letting the pregnant silence drift between them.
He cut it first. “Tell me about Boston.”
“There’s not much to tell. I told you I made hats,” she said uncomfortably. Still, she was pleased he hadn’t retreated into the usual silence that followed any kind of warmth between them. “My mother owned a small hat shop. I designed the hats for her.”
There was a long silence. He had asked few questions of her. It had apparently been enough that she was his enemy’s daughter. He hadn’t wanted to know more. She was surprised when he asked, “Where is your mother now?”
“She died four months ago.”
“So you finally decided to find … your father?”
“I never knew about him until she died, and I found … those letters. She’d told me he was dead.”
“So you decided to come West by yourself and find out.” His voice was wry, but there was admiration in it.
“My mother … prided herself on honesty. I couldn’t understand why she hadn’t told me. He had been sending money, so he obviously … cared about her. I had to know about him. I had to know why she left him. Why she never told me about him. Whether he’s even my father at all.”
He withdrew his hand from hers, reached for his trousers and pulled them on. And when he spoke again, his voice was cool. “I’m sorry,” he said, a muscle in his cheek working. “You had nothing to do with … this. I’m sorry I have to … keep you locked up at night.”
She shook her head, and her gaze found his. “It’s nothing. A few nights. Not compared to …” She stopped, not wanting to mention the years he’d spent locked up.
His face tensed.
“Rafe?”
His expression didn’t relax at all. He stared straight ahead. Still, she continued, wanting him to share pain as well as pleasure with her. “How could you endure it?”
His jaw clenched, and Shea wished she hadn’t asked. “By hating your father.”
The earth seemed to still. It was as if every living thing was caught, frozen, in the cold menace of his words. Even the birds had quieted.
She hesitated. She was delving into dangerous waters, but she had to ask it.
“Could it be that he … my father … just made a mistake … thought he saw you?”
“That particular day, he sent me to check on some settlers who, by some strange coincidence, had moved on. He knew where I had gone. At the court-martial he denied sending me anyplace and testified that he saw me at another location, with someone I’ve never met.
He said—with great reluctance, I might add—that he had no doubt he saw me, that the man I was with was unquestionably one of the raiders he’d recognized during the last robbery.
And I sure as hell didn’t plant part of the payroll in my quarters.
” Rafe swallowed, remembering the fury and hopelessness he’d felt at hearing Randall’s perjured testimony.
“He knew exactly what he was doing, just as he did when he presided over my branding.” Rafe stopped and took a few deep breaths.
“Five soldiers were killed during that raid. Jack Randall was one of the few survivors. He was in charge of the escort, but I had planned the route. Your father and I were two of the very few who knew it.” He paused.
“How in the hell do you think he bought the Circle R? Certainly not on army pay.”
Shea knew so little about Jack Randall, she couldn’t defend him. Still, she couldn’t believe he would purposely condemn someone to a living hell.
He must have seen the doubt on her face because he moved away from her, distancing himself as he had so many other times. It was as if those few earlier moments never existed.
He stood and pulled on his shirt, then handed her clothes to her. He turned and disappeared into the woods, leaving her alone with a body that still tingled and quaked with wondrous satisfaction but a mind tortured by agonizing thoughts and questions.