Beloved Outcast (12 page)

“Pray enlighten me,” she instructed loftily.

“Why are you talking like my grandmother all of the sudden?”

She twisted in his arms. “You have a grandmother?”

“Two of them,” his answered forbiddingly.

His eyebrows were drawn together in a fierce scowl. She hadn’t the vaguest notion why he was upset.

“What are they like?” she inquired curiously, again fascinated by any tidbit of information she could glean about Logan.

“That does it.” He shocked her by rolling on top of her.

“Do get off me. I can’t breathe, Logan.”

“Try harder,” he said unhelpfully, even as he raised to his elbows to provide her with sufficient room to draw air into her lungs. “We’re going to get a few things straight, Miss Amory.”

“All—all right,” she whispered solemnly, staring up into his battle-bruised features with a tinge of awe. Good grief, the man looked like a fearsome warrior, spoiling for an opponent to demolish. She couldn’t imagine what had set him
off. From her point of view, they had been conversing most satisfactorily.

“First, running into Night Wolf without a gun in my hand didn’t terrify me. Men don’t get terrified, just like they don’t get the vapors or faint. Got that?”

She nodded. “Uh, Logan, I should tell you, though, that Hyrum Dodson was a man, and he fainted.”

“Let me guess. It was when you shot him?”

She nodded again. “He didn’t faint right away. At first he hopped around a bit. Then he saw the blood. And then he…”

Her explanation trailed off under Logan’s ominous scowl.

“He did not faint,” he corrected succinctly.

“But you weren’t even there,” she felt obliged to point out.

“He passed out,” Logan clarified softly.

“You mean it’s a matter of semantics?”

“It’s a matter of accuracy,” he stately firmly. “Men pass out. Women faint or succumb to the vapors. Women become terrified. Men become…cautious.”

“So you were feeling cautious with Night Wolf?”

“Exactly.”

“Logan,” she said, struggling to control the mirth his explanation triggered, “do you honestly believe that?”

“I honestly believe you’re driving me crazy, Victoria.”

Her humorous mood evaporated. “How am I doing that?”

“Every time we have a conversation, you go off on a dozen different tangents. One minute we’re discussing Indians, and the next you’re asking me about my grandmother. I find that
taxing.”

“You would prefer I stay on one topic at a time?” His was a complaint she’d heard more than once. It was just that when she became excited about something, she sort of lost her focus.

He shifted against her, insinuating himself more deeply between her parted legs. A wave of heat stung her cheeks.

“Haven’t you noticed how hard I am?”

His hoarse question shattered the remnants of her composure.

“Wh-what?”

“See how distracting it is when someone suddenly changes the subject?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

Yes to everything!
“I can see how confusing changing one’s topic of discussion can be,” she breathed. “And, yes, I’ve noticed that you are…er…that is to say.somewhat firm.”

He closed his eyes. In the moonlit darkness, his frowning features looked as if they’d been chiseled from granite by a sculptor in a bad mood.

“We’ve got a lot of night left,” he murmured starkly. “Something’s got to give.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

And she really didn’t want to know, either. There was something about his hungry gaze that made her think it not be prudent to gaze directly into it. Perhaps Logan’s warning about the dangers of staring into campfires should apply to him, also. At the moment, he appeared very much like a two-legged predator, and she wasn’t at all prepared to deal with him.

“Do you have any idea how good you feel to me?”

The gruff question melted a significant portion of her insides. She tried to think of an appropriate answer for the darkly intimate query, but her mind seemed to have shut down.

What if he weren’t a criminal on the run? What if he were instead a respected member of society? What if he were her legally wedded husband? Then she would be free to stroke his roughly bearded jaw. She would be free to trace the outline of his lips with her tongue. She would be free to wriggle her lower person against him and feel the delightful tingles and tremors any direct contact with him provoked.

But, because Logan Youngblood was not a man she could ever call husband, he was utterly forbidden to her, as forbidden as the shocking yearnings he stirred within her racing heart.

“You really must get off me.”

His head lowered, blocking the meager moonlight. No longer did she hear the mournful cry of the wind.

His taut countenance hovered above her. “You’re right.”

“Then back away, Logan. Please.”

At the final word, something hot and elemental sprang to life in his eyes. Her stomach rolled over.

“You do please me, Victoria.”

“But I can’t. This isn’t right.”

“I know.”

“Then, surely, you must—”

“No more talking.”

A flash of white-hot light erupted around them. It momentarily transfused the cramped space under the wagon with a burst of dazzling brightness that revealed with numbing starkness the harshly etched lines of Logan’s tensely held features. Seconds later, a blast of thunder rocked the clearing. The patter of raindrops striking the canvas-topped wagon followed.

“I just want to know what you taste like,” he breathed. “I won’t hurt you.”

Surely there could be no harm in a kiss. Besides, she wanted to discover how he tasted, too.

Even though an intimate knowledge of this man was forbidden to her, she would savor what her conscience permitted. A few heated kisses. Perhaps a caress or two. No one would ever know. After Logan disappeared from her life, she would have these treasured memories to warm her during long winter nights. “Then do it,” she whispered. “The waiting is killing me.”

There was another flash of lightning. Another overwhelming glimpse of Logan’s savagely carved features. Her toes curled. Her insides turned to bubbling molasses.

With the cannonlike blast of thunder raging in her ears, she felt Logan’s mouth upon hers. Ravenous need seemed to drive him. She encircled his corded neck, drawing him closer. His lips were hot, searing. His tongue was. persistent. She felt the tip of it probe her sealed mouth. It seemed he wanted inside. The novel thought scarcely registered before that was exactly where he was. Inside. With his hot, flicking tongue.

Startled, but not repulsed, she accepted his unexpected invasion. He’d been serious about tasting her.

She realized she was making faint moaning sounds as the kiss spiraled to new heights. She realized, also, that his hands were charting their own bold course across her body. They were on her breasts, fondling, lightly squeezing, restlessly stroking. Her hips rotated against his, and she rubbed his arms.

And the kiss. It had a life of its own. Logan’s fingers moved to her bodice. She pretended she didn’t notice what they were doing, so that she wouldn’t have to call a halt to their. It was called
lovemaking.
There wasn’t another word for it.

Then his callused palms touched her bared breasts. Rough skin against her naked flesh. He pulled his mouth from hers and trailed steaming kisses along her throat.

“Ah, Victoria, you feel better than I imagined. And you taste.” He took the tip of a breast into his mouth. Victoria bucked helplessly.

What was he doing to her? She knew she had to make him stop, but, dear God, stopping was the last thing on her mind. Wherever this tempestuous passion led, she wanted to follow.

His tongue moved slickly over a tight, tingling nipple.

“Damn the darkness,” he said hoarsely. “I want to see you.”

Hot flickers of fire shot from the tips of her breasts and careened through the rest of her.

“Oh, Logan…” His name was a breathless rush of air.

“Yeah, honey, that’s it. Say my name just like that.”

His large hands bunched up her skirts. She felt his fingers on her thighs. A tingling contraction gripped her womb. She was aware of a surge of indescribable warmth, his heavy breathing, and her own runaway heartbeat. Nothing else existed. Nothing else mattered.

His fingers moved higher. She gasped again, and clutched at his arms. She sensed him adjusting the front of his trousers.

“I’ll make it right,” he said, his mouth moving to her other breast. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

She thought he meant he’d make the painful ache that held her in its pitiless thrall go away. Before he could do so, however, a huge fist seemed to shake the wagon.

“What the hell?”

He raised and looked around. Another wood-groaning shudder seized the overhead structure, causing it to lurch. Logan peered out between the tall wheels.

Victoria concentrated on not shattering into a million pieces The interruption, whatever its origin—earthquake, volcanic eruption, typhoon—had permitted her overheated flesh to cool and allowed her brain to function again. She couldn’t believe what had almost happened between herself and this man.

None of it made sense. They had nothing in common, no abiding affection, no marital contract…How was it that whenever they got close, sparks seemed to fly off his body to hers?

Her fingers went to the buttons on her bodice.

“Damn, it’s the oxen,” Logan muttered.

There was a momentary lull in the thunderous tumult raging around them. In that fleeting pool of quiet, a spinetingling shriek rebounded through the night.

Victoria shuddered. “Good Lord, what was that?”

“A mountain lion,” Logan answered succinctly. “It and the storm are spooking the animals.”

The feral cry rang out again, triggering an instinctive fear of a bloodthirsty predator on the prowl.

Another rocking blow struck the wagon. Logan scrambled from their shelter into the driving rain. Victoria pulled down her skirts and shook off her paralyzing dread of the mountain cat.

She assured the Almighty that she recognized a miracle when she saw one and vowed never to place herself in a situation where she needed a miracle of this magnitude—surely rampaging oxen and a ferocious cougar constituted a monumental miracle—to deliver her from moral destruction.

From this moment on, she promised, trying desperately to compose her fevered, swirling thoughts, she would avoid Logan Youngblood like the plague. She would render herself immune to being intrigued by his Indian stories or fascinated by his unquestionably superb masculine form. She would feel no sympathy for him. Nor would she try to reform his severely flawed character.

In short, she would regard him as she’d regarded the grizzled, foul-smelling, loud-voiced wagon master.

Logan was simply a means to an end.

And that end was getting safely to Trinity Falls. With her dignity intact. And the rest of her, too!

In the meantime, she thought grimly as she crawled from beneath the wagon, she was his equal partner in this joint venture of getting to civilization alive. Surrendering herself to the wet and tumultuous assault of the mountain storm, she blinked her rain-soaked lashes, trying to make out Logan’s silhouette in the darkness. She had no trouble finding the oxen; they were pressed up against the wagon and bellowing.

“You’re getting drenched!” came Logan’s wind-tossed yell.

Victoria turned in the direction of his shout. He was shoving against a two-ton ox, trying to deflect it from the wagon.

She threaded her way toward him. “I want to help!”

The rain had slicked his hair to his scalp, making his features even more harshly defined.

“You’re too small to be of any use!” he yelled back.

Drenched to her goosefleshed skin, Victoria took immediate offense. “You need all the help you can get!”
And I’m going to provide it, you bullheaded lummox.

She only slipped once as she traversed the muddy terrain, and she was grateful that she and Logan hadn’t removed their shoes while caught in the throes of their unrestrained passion. If she had, she would have had to brave the distance in her stocking feet.

When she finally reached him, she shoved against the stubborn oxen. As she pressed her palms against the waterslicked hide, it occurred to her that Logan and the dumb beast had a lot in common. They were both great hulking examples of unyielding mass.

Oh, perhaps Logan wasn’t quite as hairy or foul-smelling, but as far as she was concerned, the similarities far outweighed the differences.

V
ictoria sat on a log, unfastening one of her walking half boots. Because they were caked with mud and pine needles, it was difficult to work the laces through the anchoring hooks. She glanced up. A thick gray mist clung to the wetly gleaming pine trees that towered above their campsite. The dense, encroaching fog made their temporary resting place seem like an inadequate haven against the eerie shroud.

Logan was nowhere to be seen. There was no breeze, but she shivered anyway. Her clothes were clammy and damp, and her hair hung in cold, stringy clumps against her neck and shoulders.

After an interminable struggle, she and Logan had managed to return the oxen to the holding area he’d established by the river. It was then-that they’d discovered one of the animals had wandered off. Logan had instructed her to wait at camp while he hunted the lost beast. Naturally, she’d ignored his order and begun her own search of the dense forest. Her efforts had produced sightings of beavers, otters and ferrets—all washed from their homes by the ferocity of the summer storm.

Victoria had just given up finding the missing animal when she bumped into its hindquarters. At the time, her attention had been focused on the waterlogged skunk she was backing away from. Fortunately, the drenched creature had
been in too much of a hurry to direct any of its nasty spray at her.

She’d shooed the ox to camp, but Logan hadn’t been there when she arrived. She’d called to him that she’d succeeded in her quest. Evidently, he was too far away to hear her. How ironic it would be if he’d become lost in the sprawling timberlands.

Victoria realized her teeth were chattering. While waiting for Logan’s return, the most sensible thing to do would be to make a fire. Frowning, she surveyed their rain-soaked surroundings, wondering if anything would burn in the dripping forest.

Her glance returned to her feet. She had one shoe on and the other off. Sighing, she went to work on the muddy laces.

The crack of a twig snapping broke the hushed stillness of Victoria’s fogbound world. She stood and backed toward the wagon while she scanned the clearing’s outer perimeter. She needed a weapon, she decided, wishing for the dozenth time that her rifle hadn’t been confiscated by the wagon master. Even a nice sturdy rock would have been appreciated at the moment. Her desperate gaze, however, fell only upon scattered pinecones, trampled mountain grass and a few slender, moss-covered twigs.

She inched across the spongy ground. When she judged she was close to the wagon, she turned and leaped behind it. Unfortunately, the ax Logan had used the night before to chop firewood was nowhere in sight. This was just one more example of the man’s untrustworthy nature. How difficult could it be to return a tool to its proper place?

She slid her hand beneath the wagon’s canvas covering and groped about. Her fingers curled around a comfortingly thick book. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was better than nothing.

More rustling movements broke the morning stillness. She peeked around the corner of the wagon. Damp gray fog continued to weave itself through and around the encircling pines. She raised the book, which she absently noted
was an early edition of
The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.

Should she call out a warning? She bit her lip. Weighty though this intellectual tome might be, it was hardly as menacing as a loaded rifle. A warning would be wasted.

She waited, supporting the heavy volume with her straining wrist, wishing Logan was here to bolster her courage. Surely, one look at his cruelly swollen features would make anyone bent on mischief rethink his course. But then, maybe it was a wild creature that was stalking through the underbrush and drawing ever closer.

As Victoria watched, the otherworldly gray mist parted. Through it, the dark silhouette of a man took shape. Not a wild beast, then. Her heart still took up residence in her throat. Was she about to come face-to-face with a fearsome Indian?

The figure moved boldly forward.

As if delivered by an icy fingertip, a shiver trickled down her spine.

Then a shaft of sunlight touched the emerging silhouette. From the clinging, insubstantial vapors stepped Logan. Instead of slowing, her heartbeat raced faster. She had the unsettling feeling that this moment would be forever trapped in her memory—Logan striding from the swirling currents of fog.

Where the lingering mist yielded, he materialized—broadshouldered, lean-hipped, supremely masculine. His dark eyes glittered with forbidding intensity. He gripped the missing ax.

In that moment, he seemed more a savage intruder than the man who’d driven her to the edge of sanity with his burning kisses and urgent caresses. He’d bared her bosom, she recalled in dazed wonder. He’d flicked the slick rasp of his tongue across her exposed breasts, tasting them as if they were exotic fruit. A hot flush stung her cheeks. He’d also slipped his hand beneath her skirts and ran his callused fingertips
up her legs, stroking the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

That searing memory made her knees tremble.

As Logan stalked toward her, she thought what an odd pair they were—she ready to use a book to wage war, he with an ax at his disposal. It was hardly an even match. She lowered her arm. She didn’t delude herself that it was the sharp-edged weapon he carried that gave Logan the advantage.

No, the traitorous weakness he inspired within her to yield to him was the most devastating weapon of all. What made it so frighteningly effective was that even now, even knowing how close she’d come to disaster, she still savored the splendid chaos he’d wreaked within her, still savored the remembered texture of his tongue and lips, still savored his close heat.

She swallowed. Logan didn’t stop until he stood a foot away. She watched his measuring gaze move over her. And, Lord help her, she felt it, too.

He cocked his head. “Don’t tell me—a sudden, uncontrollable urge to read overwhelmed you.”

The lightly mocking observation induced a reluctant smile. She found herself noticing stray details about the man. His hair was an unruly pelt of gleaming black. The bruises and swelling that had distorted his face had begun to subside. No longer did he look meanly mauled. It came to her with a ripple of shock that Logan Youngblood could actually be called…handsome. It was difficult to know for sure, however, because a black beard had begun to obscure his features.

“I heard a noise.” She tried not to let her gaze linger on his unbuttoned shirt and the muscular, hair-roughened expanse of chest exposed for all the world to see. She hefted the book self-consciously, knowing she was about to look the fool. “I couldn’t find the ax,” she explained, glancing significantly at the lethal object dangling from his right hand. “I thought—”

She broke off. Was she really about to tell him that she’d intended to defend herself with a recounting of Rome’s demise?

“You thought you would bore to death anyone who invaded our campsite?”

She debated hurling the book, to show how powerful the written word could be. “I admit it isn’t much of a weapon, but it’s better than nothing.”

An unnatural stillness seemed to arrest Logan’s expression. Gone was his earlier light manner. She found his intense gaze both enigmatic and disturbing.

“Do you realize this is the third day I’ve known you?” An edge overrode his mild tone.

Had it only been three days? There didn’t seem to have been a time when Logan wasn’t a part of her life. And to think that she’d almost given herself to him in a moment of heedless passion. She felt faintly ill at the thought. It was ternfying to realize that he’d insinuated himself so profoundly into her emotions in so short a time. Truly, he was a force with which to be reckoned. Just like the wild storm that had lashed out at them the night before.

She clutched the book to her. “I haven’t counted the days.”

“I have,” Logan said, in that same quiet, yet ominous, tone.

“To what purpose?”

“To keep myself in line,” he answered. “To remind myself you don’t belong to me, and I need to keep my hands off you.”
His hands? What about the rest of him?
“I remind myself of other things,” he continued thoughtfully, slowly swinging the ax in a gentle, rhythmic motion. “I remind myself there are two kinds of women in Trinity Falls.”

She angled her chin upward, in anticipation of him dispensing knowledge she had no wish to discover. “Indeed?”

He nodded.

“Pray, enlighten me.” She infused the invitation with as much disdain as she could summon.

Fire flickered in Logan’s eyes. Victoria winced. She had the feeling she’d issued a challenge to the vexing man. She hadn’t meant to. There was something about his disagreeable nature, however, that spurred her to prod him. He was too blasted smug for her peace of mind. And how dare he act so superior, when he was nothing more than a common criminal? With a criminal’s perfidious mind and heart, she told herself self-righteously.

And he had no desire to better his abysmal state!

That was his most damning shortcoming. She’d been taught since birth that it was each person’s duty to improve his mind and his place in the world. Naturally, because she was a woman, her improvement would entail finding a worthy mate. It would be his responsibility to provide her and future children with financial stability and a respected place in the community.

The plan was straightforward. Except, of course, for the part about finding a worthy man. That took a bit of doing.

Logan leaned forward. “I’ll be glad to enlighten you about the women of Trinity Falls. And I’ll try not to offend your delicate sensibilities while doing it, but the truth is, Victoria, you need educating in the worst way.”

“Well, that certainly qualifies you for the job.”

His gaze flashed hotter. She gripped the book more tightly.

“In Trinity Falls, you have your good women on one side, though there aren’t that many of them in a boomtown like Trinity. Mostly they’re married, or widowed, or too young to be called women. You’ll probably be the only single female in town who might be termed one of the ‘good’ ones.”

“Might?”
she demanded, deeply affronted.

His narrow lips curved into a mocking smile. “Now, the other women, whom some call the ‘bad’ ones, are really the fun gals. They know how to kick up their heels and have a good time.”

“I’ll just bet they do.”

She disliked intensely the “fun gals” Logan described. He had no business consorting with such creatures. She had a fair notion of what his idea of a “good time” would be. Alcohol would play a major role in his depraved activities. And gambling would no doubt also constitute a significant element of his dissolute partying. And dancing the waltz in squalid drinking establishments. Kissing would surely be involved. And.. more!

Then he would probably finish off his evening of base indulgence with a fat, foul-smelling cigar. Oh, yes, the man would have an affinity for a varied number of vices.

“You don’t approve?” Logan inquired dryly.

“Certainly not!”

“Good women usually don’t,” he said mildly. “They fume and fuss over a man’s amusements.”

“Amusements, or wicked diversions?”

“I think it’s because the prim and proper women of the world want to eliminate all the bachelors. They just can’t abide the thought of any man being footloose and fancyfree.”

“If you intend to drink the milk, Logan, you must purchase the cow,” she told him sharply, falling back on one of her grandmother Celeste’s favorite adages.

“Well, now, I happen to have a powerful craving for milk.”

It suddenly struck Victoria what it was she and Logan were discussing in this remote clearing. Until recently, she’d thought her grandmother’s saying referred to indiscriminately given kisses. Now that she’d reasoned things out, however, it occurred to her what the elderly woman meant by unchaste behavior—physical coupling without the sanction of marriage.

New heat crawled up Victoria’s throat and spread across her cheeks. They shouldn’t be having this conversation. It was far too personal. Far too…titillating.

“Uh, Logan…”

“So the question I want answered is, what kind of woman are
you?”

He had to ask? Why, that was downright insulting! Her earlier misgivings about discussing this delicate topic forgotten, she straightened. “For someone who doesn’t like insults, you certainly know how to deliver them.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re not welcome!”

Logan seemed to receive as much satisfaction from provoking her as she derived from prodding him. Surely that made for a dangerous combination.

“At first I assumed you were one of the good ones,” he said, ignoring her outburst. “With your prim collar and long sleeves and those snug little cuffs, you’re packaged up as neat and tidy as a ham wrapped in butcher paper and tied with string.”

A ham?
Her mouth fell open. She didn’t think she’d ever been so horribly described. “Now see here—”

“But whenever we get close, you heat up like a firecracker on the Fourth of July.”

That she much preferred being called a firecracker to being described as a ham said little for her character, she supposed. “I think you’ve already expressed yourself sufficiently on that subject.”

“So I’m wondering,” he persisted, paying no heed to her protest. “Do you or don’t you?”

She blinked at him. Could he actually be asking what she thought? He deserved the dressing-down she was about to deliver.

“I should tell you to take yourself to Hades rather than discuss something of such a personal nature, something that is clearly none of your business,” she told him in precise and clipped syllables. “That you would even ask such a thing proves you’re no gentleman. For, if you were, you would know emphatically that I am
not
the kind of female to invite or enjoy a man’s.”

Her words dwindled. It really was rather tricky to phrase her thoughts and not be…crude.

He raised one dark eyebrow. “A man’s.”

She met Logan’s speculative gaze and detected an abundance of silent laughter therein. She wanted to hurl the heavy book she cradled at him, but there was still the matter of the ax.