Captured by Time (6 page)

"Well, I guess that's good, considering what we did last night." He regretted it as soon as he said it, but he couldn't take it back. Her face immediately became shuttered, those bright eyes dimmed, and as she hugged herself for warmth, she avoided looking at him, and that was the last thing he wanted. She was the strangest, most intriguing woman he'd ever met, and he wanted more of her, not less. And as he watched her more closely than he had before, he noticed that she was shaking.

Without another word, he stalked over to the bed where she was sitting, grabbed a hold of the edge of it and dragged it over to sit in front of the fire, then reached into the saddle bag that had yet to be opened and pulled out a blanket, forcibly wrapping her up in it and hauling her down on the bed, molding her to him spoon fashion, with her closest to the fire.

She shot back up as if she was on a spring, and he put her back in her place each time, but on the third instance, his patience—for which he had never really been known—had reached its end.

"Cimmy stop. It's cold, and you are shaking. Stop being so stubborn," he warned. He hoped his stern voice was enough to stop her actions. He wasn't about to let her suffer the cold and be miserable all because she was too stubborn to admit she needed his warmth.

"I'm fine."

"Cimmy." He wasn't going to play this battle of wills. He wasn't one to know a lot about women, but he knew enough to know this was one of the games some played.

"I'm not cold." Her body still trembled, but not as much, since the fire clearly was working its magic.

"I don't appreciate being lied to." He tightened his grip on her when she tried to stand, preventing her from doing so.

"And I don't appreciate you being a bossy ass. I'm a grown woman and can do what I want, damn it, cold or not."

It was laughably easy to push her onto her stomach, then reach down and lift both the hem of her robe and the blanket, pulling them up over her head.

"Stop! What are you doing?" she screeched.

"I don't know where exactly you come from, but you do not have the mouth of a true lady. I will not tolerate it."

He hadn't realized that she'd reclaimed those ridiculous looking little bloomers of hers, but he dispensed with them easily too, ripping them off her in seconds and throwing them across the room just before one hand descended on the back of her neck, holding her in place as the other hand unerringly found cheeks that were still a bit pink. Was that from her spanking during their night together, or from the glow of the fire? He didn't know, and he didn't much care.

"Who do you think you are? Who are you to say how I speak?" She struggled with all her might, but it took little effort on his part to continue restraining her.

"That, little one, you are about to find out." Besides intriguing and interesting, she was also one of the most headstrong, most stubborn females he'd ever encountered, and if he was truthful with himself, which he was only sometimes of late, he would admit that he would love to spend some time—perhaps even the rest of his life—taming her to his hand; so that when he put her somewhere, she stayed there, or when he told her to do something, she did it immediately and without question.

"You let go of me this instant!"

"As long as you are under my roof. And for now, this cabin serves as that. You belong to me. No woman of mine will talk to me with such disrespect." He punctuated his words with a loud swat to her bare behind, and then another for good measure.

"I'm not some whore that can be owned," she bit back.

"Exactly!"
Swat, swat, swat
. "You are not a whore. You are a lady and should act as such. And since you clearly have forgotten how a lady acts, I will take it upon myself to remind you."

Damn, he would enjoy that enormously! He could imagine that, with her, for what would remain the rest of their lives. It would be quite a challenge, and parts of him rose and hardened with great interest at that idea. As he spanked her, delivering crisp, and deliberately very painful swats to every inch of the flesh that was available to him from just above her knees to beneath the small of her back, his cock became even further engorged, pressing uncomfortably against his button fly.

Not that she simply lay there and let him swat her—she was like a whirling dervish, doing her best to try to move the parts of her he didn't have his hand on, most particularly her legs, until he very carefully placed one of his over hers, effectively and efficiently trapping them against the bed so she had no choice but to be still for her punishment.

"You son of a bitch!" she yelled at the top of her lungs, but the fight began to ease up a bit.

"I don't know what kind of family you come from, Miss Cimmy, but wherever it was, they did you a great disservice by not teaching you to obey a man who wears a gun and a badge. Frankly, they did you a disservice not teaching you to show respect to a man, period."

"I have never had a man treat me the way you do," she wailed as he continued with the spanking. He made sure to pay close attention to her sit-spots this time, enjoying the way her flesh rippled beneath his hand.

"Well, that
is
a shame. It's a shame you haven't had a man who cared enough and loved you enough to take you in hand when you need it."

There was no way he could have missed how she froze at his words. She had already been reduced to weeping from his vigorous attentions, and that continued, but in a manner that was much more subdued, and he could feel just how tense she was keeping her body, despite how thoroughly he scourged her flesh.

And somehow he took her posture as a note of direct defiance and spanked her well beyond what he might have, not stopping until at last, when he was just about to stand up and get his belt, he felt her finally give in and submit, sobbing more loudly than she had before and burying her face in the bed to try to cover it. As if it embarrassed her to be crying in front of him.

He was appalled when he looked down at her and saw just how badly he had ravaged her behind, but then he hardened his heart against being too soft on or with her. She'd needed it. Hopefully he wouldn't have to do it again for a while, not that he would shirk away from it if that was the case. If he determined that she needed him to paddle her behind within the hour, he would do so without hesitation. They were in a life or death situation, and he couldn't constantly worry about whether or not she was going to decide to do what he told her to do. And as he turned her back against him, forcing her to snuggle her poor raw bottom against the front of his pants and tormenting himself in an entirely different way but just as badly, that was exactly what he said.

"When I want you to do something, whether I'm asking or showing or telling, I expect you to do it, Miss Cimmy. Your life might well depend on it." He was glad she couldn't see just how tightly his jaw was clenched at the idea of him being the cause of her death, or, for that matter, her being harmed at all. If something happened to her as the result of him forcing her to get involved in his completely twisted up life, he would never forgive himself.

He held her there, against him, soothing her gently as she continued to hiccup and sob in his arms, one big hand low on her tummy, his other arm beneath her head as a makeshift pillow. Jude could feel—even through his pants—just how thorough a job he'd done on her; she was generating so much heat. Well, at least part of her is warm, he thought to himself. But as he let his hand begin to wander south, he considered other, more pleasurable ways to warm her up, and he wanted to explore every single one of them with her.

Then he stopped his exploration as his stomach growled loudly, and he realized that he needed to acquiesce to its demands, if not for her then for himself. He was hungry, and he could imagine that she was, too. He had to give her credit; she had ridden all day and he hadn't heard a peep of complaint out of her. His heart had ended up in his throat when she'd collapsed after dismounting, but she seemed none the worse for the wear. She was, however, already much too thin for his tastes.

Whoever she was and whoever was responsible for her care wasn't doing a very good job of it. He'd been happier than he should have been when she said that she wasn't married. He had no right to be thinking of anything like that in regards to her. Until he cleared his name, he considered himself to be barely a man. What living he did was in the shadows and by his wits. If she hadn't been with him, he wouldn't have come to this cabin. There was too much of a possibility that someone else might decide it looked like a good place of refuge.

But he couldn't subject her to the harsh realities of his existence. The bald truth was that he should never have taken her with him. He should have left her there, to deal with the sheriff herself, but he had balked at that idea for several reasons, not the least of which being his gentlemanly tendencies towards women, which were going to get him killed one day. And with her weighing him down and getting him to expose himself like this, it was likely going to be sooner rather than later.

Still, she was gorgeous and warm and had the most magnificent hair… and making love to her for her first time—for
their
first time—the way she'd exploded in his arms… he knew he would be replaying that memory in his mind long after she was gone, and he intended to add more memories tonight, while he had her. For now though, he contented himself—well, forced himself, anyway, with the added benefit that he became just that much harder for every minute he denied himself—with feeding her bits of rabbit.

Or rather, trying to.

She refused to eat, and was lying stiffly against him again, as if she would bolt away given the first chance. He was holding out the best parts of it to her—his favorite; moist chunks of leg meat—and she steadfastly refused to open her mouth.

Sighing heavily, he said, "Damn, Miss Cimmy, if even after a spanking, you aren't the most stubborn woman I've ever met!"

To his horror, the tears he thought she had got through rose to the surface—he could hear it in her voice. "I don't much appreciate being threatened and abused," she said.

He had to go back through their conversation to what he'd said about being a man with a gun and a badge, and he hadn't meant it that way, but he also wasn't at all sure that he was going to retract or even go so far as to apologize for what he'd said. It was right, especially if it gave her pause for thought about being so damned recalcitrant.

"And I don't appreciate being outright disobeyed or defied at every possible turn," he pretty much roared, feeling her trembling in his arms from something other than cold. "And I don't think you are such a weak woman that you would consider an old-fashioned wallop abuse. An intelligent woman would know it was coming."

"So now you are saying I'm not intelligent?"

"Quite the opposite. You should know by now that a harsh tongue will earn you a harsh lickin'. Plain and simple. Not abuse, just a firm and loving hand."

He heard her sigh as if
she
were impatient with
him
. "Well, then I guess we're at an impasse."

"The hell we are, little miss. As you were so horrified to hear,
I'm
the one with the gun." It was never very far away from him nowadays; sitting on the floor next to the bed where he reached for it and brought it up to set it down in front of her, facing the fire and away from either of them. "Do you need me to put it to your head to get you to do as I tell you to? Because I will, if that's what it takes."

She let one loud sob escape her mouth, then no more. When she answered him, her words were clipped and emotionless. "No. Your
captive
will behave."

"Then eat the damned food when I offer it to you." It was in his mind to give her further explanation of why she needed to eat, but he decided against it. She was supposedly a doctor. She knew she needed to keep her strength up.

He debated leaving the gun there, just to make a quiet point, but he knew he didn't trust her enough to do that, so he put it back under his side of the bed and brought another piece of meat to her mouth, which, this time, she opened.

She ate several pieces he offered her after that, then refused the next, saying, "I'm full, thank you."

"Two more bites," he decreed, realizing with a twinge just how familiar that saying was. He'd had to say it countless times while spending time with his young nephews, who were almost as stubborn and bratty as she was.

Although she detested being treated like a child, she swallowed her pride and did exactly as she was told, because although she would never admit it out loud, he was right. He was the one with the gun, and regardless of how much she'd enjoyed the night they'd spent together, she couldn't forget that this man was, apparently, on the run from the law, Ranger star or no. He'd taken her virginity, spanked her, and gotten her shot at, all within the space of a few hours, and now he had threatened to shoot her himself if she didn't eat what he provided for dinner. In spite of all of that, Cimmy was insatiably curious about him and lusted after him like no other man she'd ever met, but her innate stubbornness prevented her from acting on either of those fronts.

Jude went from stern to loving, then back to stern, quicker than she could wrap her head around it. Cimmy realized that the minute he had finished going to town on her backside, he held her, comforted her, even… loved her. The contrast had her head spinning. But what was even more confusing was the contrast in her body. Her ass burned like Hades but her sex begged for more. The need for Jude's dominance and the hunger for his touch confused her. Even though she wanted the spanking to end, there was a part of her that had wanted it to continue… even harder. And then his comment about not having anyone care and love her enough to take her in hand—had he become that man?

Jude released a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry."

Cimmy positioned her body so she could stare up at him. She grimaced when her bottom scraped against the bed. "Sorry for what?" she asked, unsure how to read this man. Was he sorry for spanking her? Although if she was being truly honest with herself, she knew she had been poking the bear. She did have a mouth like a sailor at times. And maybe, just maybe, she had wanted the spanking.

"I'm sorry you feel like a captive," he said as he fed her the last bite of the rabbit. "I'm not an easy man. But believe me when I say that I am a good man, or at least I was. Times of late have blurred the lines for me, it seems."

She sighed loudly and decided to let down her wall slightly. "To be honest, I don't feel like a captive. At least not by you. I can't quite wrap my head around everything that has happened to me, and I'm taking it out on you. I do appreciate you preventing me from being shot, feeding me, and keeping me warm. Thank you." She took a deep breath and positioned her body so she could better stare into his concerned eyes. "I guess you could say
time
has blurred the lines for me, as well. Captured by time," she said, barely above a whisper. Their lips were so close that Cimmy almost wanted to lean forward and kiss him… almost. But the idea of what that kiss would mean, what it would do, terrified her.

Jude stared at her with a look of confusion on his face but luckily didn't ask for clarification. "So, Miss Cimmy," he said, breaking the spell, "where do you come from? You must've had a mighty posh upbringing if you have no idea how to skin a rabbit."

She vowed not to answer him. It wasn't a hard vow to make or keep, since she didn't want to tell him too much about herself, didn't want to begin to weave a web that she knew she'd eventually get caught in. She couldn't possibly tell him the truth; she'd already dismissed that idea from her mind as a possibility.

Although she hadn't intended to do it, she found herself turning the question back at him. "Where do you come from?"

Like Cimmy, Jude seemed to have his own reasons for being vague about his background. They were each considering their answers to each other very carefully before giving them, weighing just how much truth they wanted to reveal. "Back east," he muttered.

"Where were you born?"

"In Virginia," he answered readily enough, getting up to stoke the fire, then settling back down behind her until he reached over and guided her onto her back, the better to see her face. "And you?"

She thought for a moment and decided there was no reason not to tell him that. "I was born in Massachusetts."

"And your parents were wealthy?"

She chuckled, realizing it was the first time she'd done so since this whole nightmare had started. "No. I was middle class."

He frowned down at her, clearly not understanding the term.

"Uh, we were… well, my mother raised me on her own, and we weren't rich, but…" she hadn't thought much about it and shrugged before saying, "I didn't want for much."

"That's good." Jude reached up to stroke her hair away from her face. "Do you have siblings?"

"No, I'm an only child. Do you?"

"I have a sister, and," his face clouded, and she thought he wasn't going to say anything more, but then he ground out, "and I had a brother."

"Family feud?" she asked automatically, not necessarily expecting to be right.

There was a long, uncomfortable pause before he finally said, "Well, I've become an outlaw, so I couldn't go home even if I thought they'd see me, but I also fought on the Yankee side, opposite my brother. He died in the war… fighting as my enemy." By the clench of his jaw, she could see that the topic wasn't one he wanted to talk about.

Unable to stop herself, Cimmy reached out and touched his arm. "I'm so sorry. It was a horrible, horrible war." She couldn't imagine losing a brother because he fought on the other side of a cause from the side she herself was on.

* * * * *

The feel of her in his arms, the warmth of the fire and the food in his belly served to loosen his tongue, almost as if he'd had a shot of whiskey to lubricate it. "I was the only one in my family who sided with the Yankees. I haven't seen my sister or my parents since before the war." He didn't know why he was telling her about this; it wasn't a subject he favored, and he'd already told her more than he really wanted to. It hurt too damned much to think about what he'd lost, about the price he'd paid in blood for having convictions that were different from those of his slave-owning family.

"That's terrible. I'm sorry."

She sounded as if she was going to cry for him, and as much as he would have been flattered, he didn't want her crying in his arms unless it was from a spanking he'd just delivered. For some reason,
those
tears made his cock harden instantly. He'd much rather she make more of the sounds she had last night as she'd practically screamed from the pleasure he'd given her.

He had punished a girl a time or two in his life—out of duty, not pleasure. And never before had a woman responded with such passion. Hell, any woman he knew would do whatever it took to avoid the hand of a man. No woman would be foolish enough to engage in cursing, disrespect and shrew-like behavior. Any right-minded woman knew exactly where that would land her. And yet, there was Cimmy. There was no denying that even though she cried out in distress, her pussy became soaked in arousal. Her body revealed that she loved the discipline just as much as she sounded as though she hated it. And never before had he craved a woman as much as he did this little vixen; even more so when her bottom was being tanned by him. Her moans… her gasps… her cries.

In pursuit of those aims, he bent down and kissed her. He couldn't hold back any longer. Now they were in a place where it didn't matter much if she screamed from punishment or pleasure—he wouldn't have to stifle it with his hand. He wanted to hear her scream his name as she came into her own ecstasy, even if it was just this once, just this night. Because in the morning, he had already made up his mind that he had to take her somewhere where she'd really be safe—and that wasn't going to be with him. For tonight, though, he intended to indulge himself… and her.

* * * * *

Cimmy tried to demur, to turn her head away when his lips sought hers, but his hand came up and held her cheek so she had nowhere to turn. And seconds after he'd begun kissing her, she knew that she didn't want to turn away from him. She wanted to turn towards him, towards the paradise that she already knew his touch would bring, despite all the warning bells that were already going off in her head. So she ducked her lips out from under his, knowing that if she didn't, she'd soon be completely lost.

His fingers brought her right back to where he wanted her, until she caught the tip of his wandering tongue between her teeth in warning.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Miss Cimmy. That kind of thing will get you flipped right back onto your tummy, only it won't be my hand you'll feel on your backside this time." He didn't specify, but his hands went to the thick leather belt at his waist, and her eyes followed their descent.

She released him immediately as if she'd been scalded, castigating herself silently for the coward she so obviously was. She should have bitten down and then run away from him, stolen his horse and ridden away. But to where? She had no idea where anything was in her own time, much less a hundred and thirty odd years ago. Geography was not her strong suit. Besides, she'd probably be looking for towns that hadn't even been conceived yet even if she could remember names to be on the lookout for.

Was it better to do that and probably die of exposure or worse in the desert, or to remain here, where she was so obviously going to end up beneath him again, whether she wanted to or not? Not to mention living under the constant threat that he was going to turn her over his knee—or whatever else happened to be convenient—and wale the tar out of her.

While she was debating, he was busy trying to remove her clothes; what little she had on. Neither garment was much protection against him, since all he had to do to the robe was untie the belt, and the nightgown fell open with it as his hand came up the insides of her tightly closed thighs, skittering lightly over her mons to her lower belly. The fabric fell away from her as his big wrist split it open, up over her navel, up the middle of her ribcage to her breastbone, then hung a sharp right and captured a breast whose tip was already achingly tight in anticipation of his possession.

She wrestled her mouth out from under his and whispered, "Jude, no."

"I like the sound of my name on your lips, but 'no' is not a word I tolerate from many people, and that includes you. I want to hear you this time. I want you to purr for me, and moan. I want to hear your breath hiss through your teeth, and I want to hear you scream my name as you come."

Her body arched of its own accord at his words, and she knew that it was on the opposite side of this argument from her brain, hoping that every single word he said came true a thousand times over. The area between her legs was already swollen and ready for him, yearning for his touch, so much so that she felt she had to cross her legs to soothe herself.

But Jude planted a hand on the bed between them so she couldn't do it. "Ah ah ahh. No trying to pleasure yourself. That's for me to do, when I decide to. You are not to touch yourself without my express permission… ever," he ordered sternly, then softened it by revealing, "unless I intend to watch."

She could feel her full body blush at his statement. "But," she breathed, barely able to recognize the deep throatiness of her own voice.

He boldly draped himself atop her, his hips and legs replacing the arm that had held her legs apart, his very broadness forcing them much further open as she tried to accommodate him, adoring the feeling of vulnerability that was inherent in this position. And then he moved down, dragging himself over her slowly, until his head was where his hips had been, using his splayed arms to hold open legs that would have otherwise closed around him as he let his mouth settle onto her clit.

* * * * *

His boldness was rewarded by a short, sharp scream he hadn't expected, and renewed efforts to escape. In his most stern tone, he commanded, "Cimmy, I want you to lie back and relax. Put your hands above your head, and leave them there until I tell you that you may put them down again—and stop trying to wiggle away from me. Do I need to spank you again?"

He could feel how she contracted involuntarily at his use of the word 'spank'. He didn't think she even knew she'd done it, but it was a very interesting tidbit about her that he intended to remember. As if that evidence wasn't enough to tell him that, although she protested just as vehemently as he'd expected while he was punishing her, she had, nonetheless, thoroughly enjoyed it at the same time; when he moved a hand to join his lips at her nether parts, one finger delving very gently into her quim, it rained moisture down onto him.

The deep, tips of her toes groan she gifted him with as he did that, nearly had him unmanning himself right then and there. It was a close thing; he'd never really been quite that out of control of himself, even as a young man. But that was what she did to him, and he craved more of that kind of a challenge to his control of himself—and her.