A Fire in the Blood (22 page)

      
She tried to pull her hand free, intent on slapping the nasty sneer off his face, but he held it tight. "Let me go," she ground out, stopping at the edge of the dance floor.

      
"Now, Miss Lissa," he said with exaggerated oily charm. "Don't go getting mad. After all, you wouldn't want to ruin your pa's fancy shindig."

      
"Cy Evers will ruin your life if you don't release me this instant," she hissed, stomping on his foot with all her strength and grinding the pointed heel of her slipper into the toe of his dress boot. He released her. Lissa turned and walked from the floor, knowing several of the younger women had watched the altercation with avid curiosity, among them Cridellia Evers, whose narrowed eyes glittered with venom.

      
Lissa paused by Dellia long enough to whisper, "If you have half the sense of a sun-baked brick, you'll keep clear of that snake."

      
Dellia's pale lashes blinked rapidly and her pop eyes flew to Yancy's tall figure, glaring after Lissa. "I'll do as I please—just the same as you, Melissa Jacobson," she replied.

      
When Brewster stalked over to Dellia and asked her to dance, she blushed and bobbed her head. As she whirled by in his arms a few moments later, she gave Lissa a preening smirk.

      
The evening, off to such an inauspicious beginning, dragged on interminably. Lissa danced with old ranchers and young suitors, until she felt her tight smile was frozen onto her face. Her toes smarted from being stepped on by clumsy boots, and her head throbbed from a bit too much of the champagne Marcus had ordered specially from the Cheyenne Club's private stock for this gala. After the altercation with Yancy Brewster, she had felt in need of its restorative powers. Now she regretted it.

      
What exactly did Brewster know about her relationship with Jess? He had seen her coming from the back door of the stable before the horse race. But as far as she could tell, that was all he had seen. He had no proof of what she had done with the gunman. But he was mean and did not like to lose. He could cause trouble.

      
"I feel the most terrible headache, Lemuel," Lissa said, rubbing her temples as they walked from the dance floor.

      
"Perhaps a bit of fresh air?" Mathis said solicitously.

      
The very last thing Lissa wanted was to be alone outside with Lemuel.

      
"I think the roast pork didn't agree with me. Better if I put some cool compresses on my head and lie down for a bit." She smiled weakly as she slipped her hands from his.

      
A worried frown creased his face. "I'll call your father."

      
"Nonsense. He'd only worry for nothing. Germaine has retired upstairs for the evening. She can help me. I'll return in a half hour or so. Please don't say anything to Papa."

      
Lissa could feel his hard hazel eyes on her as she made her escape from the press. Her story was only half a lie. She did feel dreadful, but the encounter with Yancy and Lemuel's oppressive protectiveness were the reasons, not what she had eaten for supper.

      
Lissa climbed the stairs and walked down the hall, pausing at Germaine's door long enough to hear the drunken snoring issuing from within. As soon as the buffet had been served, the housekeeper instructed the maids about cleaning up, then retired to her room, where she had secreted a bottle of Marcus's excellent brandy. Lissa continued on to her own room at the far end of the hall and entered.

      
Pouring some tepid water into the basin, she soaked a kerchief in it, wrung it out and dabbed at her forehead, then walked over to her window to stare out toward the bunkhouse and other outbuildings. Her room was stifling. She threw up her window sash and felt a faint breeze brush by. Out in the distance, the faint glow of a cigarette bobbed in the shadows beside the smithy's shed. Most of the hands were up by the orchard across from the big house watching the party. No one else stirred around the work area, but for that solitary smoker.

      
Lissa suddenly felt an acute need for more fresh air. She slipped from her room and opened the door to the back stairs. In moments she was clear of the house, halfway to the work sheds. No one would question her absence for another half hour. The music floated lazily on the soft breeze, and a coyote howled far in the distance beneath the big yellow moon. This was madness. Yet she felt her footsteps speeding up to match the racing of her pulse.

      
Jess sat with his back against the wall and one long leg sprawled out in front of him. The other was bent at the knee with his arm resting on it, a half-empty whiskey bottle dangling from one hand. He held a cigarette to his lips.

      
She stood rooted to the ground, watching him sitting there in the moonlight, indolently blowing smoke that the breeze carried to her, spicy, masculine, alluring. Then he sensed her presence and cocked his head at her. He did not get up.

      
"You're drunk," she accused.

      
"You're right," he countered. "But you're crazy. What the hell are you doing here dressed like that? One of those men slavering after you will follow you—and I'll have to shoot him."

      
Her lips curved into a wistful smile. "Before you do, would you dance with me?"

      
The music seemed to reiterate her invitation, swelling in a sweet, old-fashioned ballad from the war.

      
He took another pull from the bottle, then threw it into the weeds and uncurled himself from the ground with surprising grace. "I'm crazy, too, but I'm really not drunk. Not that I haven't tried my damnedest." He flipped his cigarette after the bottle, then stood facing her, motionless.

      
"Well?" she coaxed, waiting.

      
"What if I don't know how to dance?"

      
"I'll risk my feet." She held up her satin skirt, revealing her matching bronze leather slippers and a bit of delicate ankle in the bargain. He smelled of whiskey and tobacco as he took her in his arms and began to move to the cadence of the music. He danced with the consummate grace of a stalking mountain lion.

      
They glided across the small clearing, whirling in lazy circles. Her hair, piled high in an elaborate coiffure entwined with rosebuds, gave off a delicate fragrance. His fingers gently slipped into the silky curls, cradling her head against his chest. She snuggled her face to the soft abrasion of crisp black hair, remembering the enticing male smell from that first day when they had ridden through a rainstorm bundled together.

      
"You never did tell me what a Tuareg is."

      
He threw back his head and chuckled. "Persistent little heifer, aren't you?"

      
"It has something to do with your being in the French Legion, doesn't it?"

      
"They're North African desert tribesmen. Murderously fierce fighters."

      
"Were they anything like your mother's people?" She could feel him stiffen, although he did not miss a beat in the dance.

      
"I don't know," he said flatly. "My grandmother was raped by some marauding tribe in Mexico. She bore my mother as a result. It's ironic. All my life I've been called a breed. I don't even know what tribe of Indians my blood comes from."

      
She reached up with one hand and stroked his cheek. "It must've been awful for your mother, too.”

      
He shrugged. "Her family were Kinenos. The Mexicans Richard King brought to Texas to work his Running W Ranch. He hired on the whole village. Gave them a new life. In return they became fanatically loyal to him. When she was just sixteen, my mother married my father."

      
"Robbins is an American name."

      
"John Jeremiah Robbins was a Boston Yankee who went west to make his fortune."

      
"And your mother's Indian blood didn't bother him at all, did it?"

      
Jess smiled grimly. "He was the only one in Texas it didn't bother."

      
He had never talked this much about his mysterious past. The liquor had not affected his reflexes, but it did seem to ease his closemouthed restraint. "Tell me about your father."

      
Just then the music ended. Jess stopped moving, but did not release her. She burrowed more tightly against his body, knowing he would tell her to go.

      
"You're going to smell of whiskey and cigarettes."

      
"I don't care."

      
"Your pa and Lemuel Mathis will care." He took her by her shoulders and held her at arm's length, letting his eyes rake up and down her body. "That is some creation," he said in a low, hoarse voice. One hand slipped down to touch the heavy lace dripping from the low-cut neckline. He ached to pull it off, baring her luscious breasts. His fingers lightly traced the swell of bare silvery flesh above the bodice, then withdrew as if he had been burned. "Go back where you belong, Lissa."

      
She framed his face with her hands. "I belong with you, Jess."

      
"More fairy tales, Lissa?"

      
She choked back a sob of frustration and seized his hand, replacing it on her breast. "Feel me, Jess, feel my heart beat. It beats for you. Oh, please, please." She melted against him, raising her lips for his kiss.

      
He tried to put her aside again, but she would have none of it and held his hand until he found himself cupping her breast, reaching inside the frothy lace to tease her nipple into pebbly hardness. "Which of us is the craziest," he murmured as his lips savaged hers in a fierce, possessive kiss.

      
She returned it, letting her tongue duel with his, tasting the tang of liquor and the pungency of his cigarettes. Their lips brushed, pressed, reformed over each other with growing ardor. Then the sudden crunch of boots moving through the dry grass penetrated Jess's fevered brain. He broke away and pulled her behind him in one fluid motion, while pulling his gun from its holster.

      
They stood in silence, each fighting to still their ragged breathing. The music had stopped inside the big house, and the hum of voices was low. The intruder's cough came from somewhere across the other side of the corral, followed by the trickle of liquid hitting the earth as he urinated. Finally he retraced his steps toward the bunkhouse.

      
As soon as they were alone again, Jess whispered, "Go now before someone else comes along."

      
She could sense the determination in his voice and knew it was madness to remain out here in the open. She took a deep breath and swallowed. "I can only bear to let Lemuel and those other men touch me, to smile and dance and pretend I'm enjoying the party, if you'll be there when it's over."

      
Her big golden eyes glowed at him in the moonlight. "You can't come back here—"

      
"You can come to me. My room is at the far west end of the house. See the light?" She pointed to her window, overlooking the blacksmith shop where they stood. "Watch for the guests to leave. It should only be another hour or two. As soon as the house is asleep, come up the outside stairs. I'll be waiting by the door to let you inside."

      
He shook his head. "Will you understand? We can't be caught together! I might even have to shoot your pa—or let him kill me."

      
"Papa and Cy Evers have been drinking. He'll sleep long past sunup. Germaine is the one who spies on me, and she's already passed out. No one will see us."

      
"No, Lissa."

      
"If you don't come to me, I will come to the bunkhouse," she said desperately. "I know your bed is right by the door at the north end—"

      
"Jesus! You'd do it, wouldn't you?" he said raggedly.

      
"I'll do whatever I have to, Jess."

      
He swore beneath his breath, then whispered, "Go back and stay there."

      
"Only if you promise to come to me," she replied stubbornly.

      
"Wait. I'll come." He kissed her again, hard and fast, then shooed her roughly away from him, toward the glittering lights and raucous laughter at the big, elegant house on the hill.

Chapter Thirteen

      
All the guests departed with hearty farewells. The creaking of buggy springs and soft plodding of horses' hooves finally faded away. Down at the bunkhouse, the main topic of conversation among the cowboys was the fancy shindig.

      
"You see Yancy sparkin' that homely little filly of Cy Evers?" one hand asked.

      
"Yep. Always figgered he'd set his sights on Miz Lissa," another chimed in. "Cridellia Evers got a face built fer a hackamore. Wonder whut changed his mind?"

      
"Reckon he finally realized Miz Lissa's bound to marry ole Lemuel Mathis," Rob Osder said.

      
"Funny, though. Brewster useta be sweet as honey on a hive fer Miz Lissa, but tonight them two got on like a pair o' bobcats in a gunnysack," Luke Deevers said speculatively.

      
"Best yew let off a jawin' bout the boss's daughter and let me git some shuteye," Vinegar said balefully, '"er I'll roust yew outta yer blankets at three-thirty when I gotta start fixin' breakfast."

      
Jess lay on his bunk, waiting for the last desultory conversations between the hands to die down. The bunkhouse finally grew quiet, and the varied cadences of loud and soft snores filled the still night air. Jess reclined motionlessly, yet the tension in his body belied all the whiskey he had drunk earlier. Yancy was already suspicious about Lissa's relationship with him. It was madness to risk sneaking into the big house. Yet the sweet allure of her perfume still haunted him, and the feel of her as she danced with him under the stars would not leave his mind.