Firestorm (21 page)

“Good,” he said. “Neither do I.”

In his eyes she saw a glittering heat. “Get out.”

He put one knee on the bed. Storm lifted the bedclothes higher. The bed sank; he moved on top of her, his strong, large hands taking her shoulders and pulling her beneath him. “No,” she said, a mere gasp.

His eyes were getting brighter, like black flames. He shifted and slipped the covers from between them. “Storm,” he said huskily, and then he was holding her face and kissing her.

The kiss was incredibly soft and gentle. As he brushed her mouth with his, he pushed his knee between her thighs, forcing them open. He settled himself between her legs, and Storm felt with panic the heat of his rising maleness. She started to twist away.

“Relax,
chère
,” he whispered, his breath warm and arousing. His hand stroked down her arm, and the sensation on her silk-clad flesh was exquisite. Storm saw that he was smiling slightly. She turned her head away from his kiss. Brett laughed, a sexually excited sound, and began nibbling the side of her throat. Her blood pounded thickly, searingly. Beneath his groin her own was swelling in response. When his tongue touched her earlobe with infinite care, she gasped.

His hands found her breasts, touching lightly over the silk, barely brushing her nipples into straining erections. His mouth and breath on her ear were devastating. Storm heard a labored moan, and realized it came from herself.

“That's it,
chère
,” he murmured. “Oh, yes, let yourself go—for me, Storm, for me.”

His words registered. He registered. His touch was perfection. He was deliberately using his superior skill to seduce her, and she was falling for it. His mouth moved back to hers, his tongue lightly probing the joining of her lips. One of his hands had roamed down to clasp her buttock. With his other hand he was teasing a nipple. Storm was on fire, yet she refused to open her mouth.

She was infuriated.

“Open your lips, Storm, open for me,” Brett breathed, clutching both her buttocks now, lifting her against the grinding hardness of his erection.

“No,” Storm said—a mistake.

His tongue darted inside her mouth, thrusting intimately, powerfully, suggestively. Her mind ordered her to tell him no again, but her body was spinning out of control, and her hands came up to clutch his shoulders, then entwine in the short hair of his nape. Brett groaned.

The distinctly male sound and his simultaneous shudder increased the insistent throbbing of Storm's body. Of their own accord, her hands found his powerful buttocks. Brett gasped, lifting his hands. “God, Storm, I want you…”

“Yes,” she panted, pulling his hips against her and wrapping her legs around his. “Yes, Brett, yes.”

He groaned in response, and suddenly she felt the heat of the swollen tip of his shaft probing past her inner thigh, sliding intimately against her. A shudder shook her from head to toe as she arched wildly against him, moaning again, kissing him back, nipping his lip. Her tongue darted out, traced his mouth. Brett ran his hands up her body, groaning, catching her breasts, holding them, squeezing them. Their teeth grated and cut and caught as they kissed.

She thrust her wet womanhood against his hips. His hands slid down her back, holding her up as his mouth
traveled down her throat, her collarbone. He nuzzled her lush breasts, again and again, groaning her name, raining kisses upon first one, then the other. He took a peak in his mouth, sucking, tugging with his teeth, lapping with his tongue. She cried out.

His organ, hot and hard and slick, moved steadily against her, rubbing over her moist cleft again and again. Storm thought she was going to die. She
was
going to die. She lay open and wet and waiting. “Please,” she moaned. “Please, please, oh, Brett.”

His hands found her buttocks, lifted them.

Brett plunged in, tearing instantly through the wall of her virgin's membrane. Storm gasped at the unexpected pain, and Brett instantly stilled, deep inside her.

Gradually the pain subsided. Storm contracted around the huge member inside her, and Brett gasped. He began to move, slowly at first, gently, small easy strokes. Storm moaned again and again, moving with him, easily, naturally, clutching at his buttocks to take in even more of him. He moved faster, harder. She whimpered, gasping. His strokes became intent, determined, faster and faster. Storm couldn't bear it. The pleasure was nearly agony. And then she shattered in a violent, wrenching release, crying out again and again.

As his heart rate slowed, sanity returned. Brett became thoroughly aware of the woman with whom he was coupled so tightly. Good God, he thought, stunned by the intensity of their passion. Warm, jubilant feelings rushed over him. For just a moment his hold tightened, and he breathed in her fragrance. And then he was flooded with the triumph and elation of possession. He grinned.

He eased himself off her, to her side, already anticipating making love to her again. He smiled anew at that thought and looked at her, his hand sliding down her arm, relishing the silken skin. Her gown was tousled around her waist, and he enjoyed the sight. But she gave him a
look to freeze his soul, then turned away from him so abruptly that the mattress bounced. Brett tensed, wondering what this new nonsense was. He slid his hand up her back, and desire started to fill his loins again.

“No,” she cried, and her shoulders started shaking.

For a moment, Brett couldn't believe it—she was crying. “Storm?”

“Get away,” she gritted in a pathetic voice. “Get away from me.”

He tensed, staring at her back. Why was she upset? She had wanted him as much as he had wanted her. She had shared his passion, he knew it. He frowned, touching her waist. “Storm?”

Her body went rigid, as if repulsed at his touch. He removed his hand, his heartbeat accelerating. “Why are you crying?”

There was no answer, just muffled sobs.

His mind was racing, working frantically. Jesus! Had he been too rough? He hadn't meant to be. He felt a surge of fear. “Did I hurt you? Storm? Damn.”

“Get out,” she said in a voice broken with tears. “Please, please, get out.”

I hurt her, he thought, a strangled feeling wrapping around his guts. “I'm sorry,” he heard himself say in a strangely humble voice.

She whimpered.

He wanted to comfort her, to hold her, to rock her, but now he was afraid to touch her. He found himself reaching out, touching her hair. Her body stiffened.

“Storm,” Brett began, hesitantly. “I…it's all right.” He stroked her glorious hair. “I'm sorry. It only hurts the first time. There won't be any pain the next time.”

She sat upright, and he saw that she was furious. “Next time? Next time! There won't be a next time!”

He stared.

“You tricked me,” she cried. “You seduced me. You
bastard, you know I don't want to be in this marriage. You know I don't want you. I despise you, you bastard…” She started crying again, tears of frustration as much as anger.

His hand had frozen—his entire being had frozen. He stood stiffly. She didn't want him. Those words were an echo, more than an echo, a cruel reminder of another time. Something sick and unsure filled him. He had just given her more passion than he knew he had, and she didn't want him. She despised him. He had known it all along. How could he have forgotten?

As he moved across the room, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, saw the stark, bleak look on his face. She hadn't wanted him to begin with, and she didn't want him now. He could make her body respond, but the victory felt empty, hollow, like defeat.

His eyes didn't move away from her reflection. He was glad she had turned away so he couldn't see her face. “It won't ever happen again,” he said, his voice sounding raw and bitter even to his own ears. “I swear it.”

 

Brett woke up early the next morning, a bit hung over from lack of sleep and an excess of champagne. His first waking thought was of Storm, and instantly a self-pitying hurt flooded him. He rose and prepared to dress. There was no sense in brooding over what had happened, he thought with determination. He had done what he had done; it would never happen again. She would have to come to him. He would certainly not make a fool of himself by begging for his wife's favors.

He washed and dressed, then paused to knock on Storm's door with some trepidation. He refused to analyze why he wanted to see her, check on her. There was no answer. She was probably sleeping; he should let her be. He went downstairs and ate.

It was eight o'clock and he was in the midst of his
breakfast when Sian appeared, cap in hand, looking uncomfortable. Brett gestured him inside. “What is it, Sian?”

“Sir, I don't know what happened, but Demon's gone.”

Brett put down his cup. “What?”

“Yes, sir. I was just feeding the horses, and when I got to his stall, I realized he was gone. Him and all his tack, sir.”

Brett jumped to his feet, a terrible foreboding bolting through him. “Saddle up King, Sian,” he ordered.

He bounded up the stairs and barged into Storm's room without knocking. She wasn't there. The bed was unmade, a crimson splotch marring the whiteness of the sheets, another reminder…He noted instantly that the armoire was open and clothes were on the floor, as if she had been searching in haste for something in particular. “Betsy!” he bellowed.

She appeared instantly. “Sir?”

“Where's Storm?”

“I—I thought she was sleeping,” Betsy said, taking in the room and the bed with wide eyes.

“What's missing?” he snapped.

She started looking through the wardrobe. “Those foul buckskins of hers, and those dirty boots and old hat. She wouldn't let me throw them away.”

Brett's heart was catapulting wildly. She had run away—sometime since he had last seen her. He had left her room around one or one-thirty, but he had been up until three, unable to sleep. If she'd left then, that gave her a five-hour head start…damnation!

Maybe she had just gone to the Farlanes', or Paul's. When he found her, he would…God! Riding at night, alone…He felt panic rising up in him, flooding him.

Brett's first stop was the Farlanes' at eight-twenty in the morning. He was tense with anxiety as he dismounted and
ran up the front steps. Both Marcy and Grant were in the dining room.

“Good morning,” Grant said, standing. “Brett, is—”

“Is Storm here?” Brett cried.

Marcy stood also. “No, Brett, she's not. What happened?”

“Damn,” Brett said. “She's run away.”

“Oh, my God,” Marcy said. “Are you sure?”

“Demon's gone, and she's in her buckskins. Grant?”

“I'll be glad to help.”

Marcy stopped Brett. “Maybe she just went riding, Brett.”

He regarded her with miserable eyes. “No, Marcy, not after last night. God, if only…”

Marcy squeezed his arm.

The two men left. “Where do you want to go?” Grant said, after asking for his horse.

“I want us to split up, Grant, just in case she's in town somewhere.” Brett met his glance. “But I know she's heading home, to Texas. That means she's gone south to San Diego. I
know
it. I'm going home to get another horse, and if I have to ride them both into the ground to catch up with her, I will. You comb the town. If by any chance I'm wrong and you find her, get word to me.”

Grant clasped his arm. “I will. Brett, she'll be all right.”

Brett was sick with worry. “She's out there alone. She's only seventeen.”

Grant regarded him with sympathy.

“I've got to find her,” Brett said hoarsely. “It's all my fault.”

She had to stop. Demon was exhausted. The sun was just setting, hanging crimson over the ocean. She had been pushing on for close to fourteen hours, she figured, since she had left in the dark hour before dawn.

Wearily, Storm dismounted and unsaddled the stallion, who nickered gratefully. She rubbed him down with brown grass, then gave him a few handfuls of grain, with which she had filled her saddlebags. She hadn't thought to grab any food for herself. She'd eaten some jerky that had been left in her packs from when she and her father had come to San Francisco. She was starved.

She left the black grazing by a stand of scrub oak and headed deeper into the bush, rifle in hand. Luck was with her, for there was still some light, and she scanned the ground, noticing deer droppings in the grass. She stepped farther into the trees, ignoring a squirrel fleeing up a trunk. She didn't want squirrel for dinner. Moving without making a sound, she parted several branches, stepped past, then froze.

The hare sat motionless, listening. Storm raised the rifle slowly, sighting. She cocked it, and the hare leaped away, but too late. A single blast caught him right between the ears. Storm went to fetch her prize.

She skinned the hare on the spot, decapitating it first, then making one neat incision and pulling off the entire
pelt. She returned to the spot where she would make camp, setting aside the hare to start a small fire. In no time at all, meat was roasting on a spit, and by nightfall she was eating hot, tasty roasted rabbit.

It satisfied her hunger pangs, but not the other pain that had been tormenting her all day.

She had never felt so debased in her entire life.

Storm had been raised on steadfast love. Her mother had always been there, usually with a firm hand but never giving any reason to question her devotion. Storm's father had openly adored her, and she was secure in the knowledge that should anyone ever dare to insult her, if she couldn't rectify the error herself, her two brothers would—with their fists. From time to time she had been punished—for small crimes, for mischievous pranks or neglecting her chores. Usually her privileges had been denied. She had never been hit, not by her parents, although as a child she and a neighbor kid had gotten into more fistfights than she could count.

Storm was used to being loved and respected.

But Brett didn't love her. He was a ladies' man, and she was just another conquest. He desired her, that she understood, but that was as far as his feelings went. Storm felt sick when she thought how he had been blackmailed into marrying her. And now he had so expertly and easily seduced her, completely indifferent to her own wishes. And she had responded to his skilled touch—how she had responded! That he could touch her and turn her into a wanton beast, make her do his bidding, that she desired him, too, filled her with shame and fury.

For the first time she knew what helplessness was.

She was helpless to protect herself from Brett, helpless in the face of his passion. And that made her terribly afraid. She couldn't handle sex—her body being used—without love.

But she kept hearing Brett, his voice hoarse and filled with remorse, saying,
Storm, God, I'm sorry
.

I'm sorry…I'm sorry…

“Go away,” she said to the night. “Can't you leave me alone, even now?” Tears welled. She could feel his hand in her hair, soothing and comforting. Her father had stroked her hair like that when she was a little girl crying over some incident.

She would make it home or die trying. Make it home, into her father's and mother's arms…If only she was there now.

Storm rolled out her bedroll and curled up in it. She gazed at the stars, wishing she could get the sound of Brett's voice out of her head, wishing she hadn't heard the remorse there. She also wished she could wipe out her memory of the lust that had flared between them, of the feel of his body in hers, driving deeper and deeper, his hands on her buttocks, lifting her to him…She didn't know what was wrong with her. Even now, the memory of his touch was making her ache. She closed her eyes and sought sleep. It finally came.

Something woke her. Demon, snorting, stomping. Storm, fully awake now, kept her eyes closed, straining to hear…There was another horse. She wished Brett hadn't confiscated her Colt. Her hand closed around the butt of the rifle that was beneath her blanket, her finger curling around the trigger. She lay absolutely still.

Then she felt pressure on the rifle as it was being pulled away, and she grabbed it harder, her eyes flying open as Brett said, “I don't know whether to shout in relief or scream bloody hell!”

She sat up, struggled briefly over the gun, briefly and uselessly because her strength was no match for Brett's. He wrenched the gun away and tossed it aside, out of reach, then he grabbed her.

She couldn't believe it. She couldn't believe he had found her! How had he even caught up with her? And
then, in the next instant, as her partly frightened, partly dismayed gaze swept past him, she saw that he had two horses, the gray unsaddled and tied to a bay. Her head snapped back to his. She thought she saw intense relief in his dark eyes, but she wasn't sure. “Are you all right?” he demanded, shaking her.

“Yes,” she snapped, twisting free, but only because he let her.

He stood then, his hands clenched on his hips, looking down at her. Storm met his gaze with a barely summoned bravado. She hadn't seen relief in his gaze, she couldn't have. This man was grim, so grim. “Listen to me carefully, Storm,” he said.

His tone made her sit very still, at full attention.

“If I had to ride all the way to Texas to find you, I would. Do you understand?”

She didn't—why would he bother? “Once I made it home, you'd never get your hands on me again, you blue-blooded pig!”

A wave of anger swept his face. His fists tightened, released. He squatted, his face inches from hers. “I should whip you for running away. It's my right.”

“Go ahead,” she said, thrusting out her chin, horrified because she was going to start bawling at any second.

“Damn you,” he said softly. His hand, so large and strong, cupped the side of her face. “Don't cry, I didn't mean it,” he said very softly.

She slapped his hand away. “I wouldn't put it past you, not after that night.”

He was proud of himself for his control, his calm. “And just what does that mean?”

“It means you have no morals, none at all. You don't give a damn for anyone other than yourself. Even though you knew I wanted an annulment, my feelings didn't count with you. Not as long as you got what you wanted.”

He held back his anger. “Ah, ‘that' night. How could
I think we'd get past that? Let me remind you of something, Storm. You wanted me as much as I wanted you, and you have from the moment we met.”

“No!” she denied hotly, and in despair she knew she was lying. Even now her pulse was pumping vigorously in response to his presence.

He studied her blackly. “I should beat you. You could have been killed, you damn fool! Or raped many, many times—and believe me, it wouldn't have been anything like what happened between us. If you ever try and run away again—”

“I will!” she cut him off. “Don't worry about that!”

“Don't push,” he warned, then abruptly with one hand he pushed her back onto the blanket. “It's almost midnight. We'll head out at first light.” He stood, picked up her rifle, and carried it with him to his horses. He untacked the bay.

Storm's hand slid of its own volition to her knife. Dare she? Could she get the drop on him? She had seen the derringer in the band of his breeches. He had laid down her rifle, and his own rifle was still in the scabbard on his saddle. She bit her lip. Now or never, her mind whispered. Home, she thought.

She was sure he would never beat her.

That decided her. Storm rose and started toward Brett. About to slip the bridle off the bay's head, he glanced at her from over his shoulder. He paused. His look was suspicious, then it slid over her buckskin-clad body, making her feel naked, yet warm, too. Her nerves stretched tighter and tighter. His glance moved to the rifle at his feet. “What are you doing?” he asked.

She stopped a foot away from him. She hesitated, then placed her left hand on his chest. She heard the sound of his breath, felt his hard body go rigid. “Brett? I'm sorry.”

He stared at her.

Her mind raced frantically. Without taking her gaze from
his chin and mouth, she knew exactly where his gun was. Her body was trembling. She swayed closer. Her hand slid up, covering the slab of his pectoral muscle. “Brett? I…” She lifted her eyes to meet his and was shocked to see the hunger there. But it gave her the inspiration she needed, for she couldn't think of a damn thing to say. She stretched up, lips parted, and touched his mouth with hers.

He stood very still. His mouth didn't move, so hers did. She slid her left hand up to his neck. Her right hand went to his waist, resting lightly inches from the gun. She would grab the gun instead of her knife. It was so close. He began to move his lips against hers, opening his mouth, responding. She ignored the pleasurable sensations sweeping her. He still hadn't touched her.

With her right hand she kneaded his flesh. She slipped her fingers lower, closer…She closed her hand over the butt.

And his hand closed over her wrist.

“Let go,” he said.

With a cry of outrage, she did. He was still holding her wrist, and her own furious gaze met his. With the speed of a snake, she reached down for the handle of her knife sheathed on her right side. She drew it up, jabbing the point into the skin of his throat. “No,” she said softly. “You let go.”

His expression was incredulous. Then it grew hard. “Maybe now is the time to find out just how much you hate me,” he murmured, tightening his grip on her wrist. “You'll have to cut me, Storm. Can you do it? Will you slit my throat? Gloat while I bleed to death?”

“Yes,” she declared. “Yes, gladly. Let go!”

He laughed.

She increased the pressure on his throat, causing a speck of blood to appear, to start to trickle down. He stopped laughing. But her heart was pounding wildly. She couldn't kill him. Good God! She had killed a Comanche in self
defense, but she couldn't murder Brett, not her husband. He let go of her hand.

She felt a wave of hot triumph.

But that same hand went to the wrist holding the knife at his throat. Storm's eyes widened. His were now amused. She wanted to press the blade forward, but she couldn't, and he knew it. His strong, hard hand closed around her wrist and pulled it away. “Put that thing down,” he said, turning his back to her.

She stared at him, completely vulnerable, and sheathed the knife. He threw the bridle on top of the saddle, turned and took her arm. “We both need sleep,” he said softly, guiding her to the bedroll. She couldn't see. Her eyes were blinded with tears.

He pushed her down, gently, and she crawled between the blankets. When he slid in beside her, she went rigid. “What are you doing?”

“Sleeping,” he said, turning onto his side, giving her his back.

She lay very still. “You have your own bedroll,” she accused.

“I won't touch you,” he said wearily. “It's cold. We'll keep each other warm. Now go to sleep.”

She couldn't. But he did, instantly. She was still awake when he rolled over to face her, throwing his arm over her waist. She immediately shoved it aside. It returned to hold her close.

She looked at him.

His face was relaxed in sleep, looking younger, softer, even vulnerable. Her heart seemed to skip a beat. He was so handsome. His breath was warm on her neck, his body hot against hers from her shoulder to her toes. And his arm actually felt comfortable across her waist, once she was used to it.

Experimentally, she rolled onto her side, nestling her back against his chest, her backside into his groin. She
closed her eyes as a wonderful comforting warmth enveloped her, and fell into an exhausted slumber.

 

They arrived back in San Francisco close to midnight, having left at dawn. Storm was exhausted, hungry, and apprehensive. Brett hadn't said more than a dozen words to her all day. He was furious over what she had done, she knew it. She tried not to care. She would have to try to escape again and again. She could not spend the rest of her life as his wife.

Storm managed to get her boots off before collapsing in bed, where she instantly fell asleep. When she awoke the next morning, she dozed in a partly aware state for a long time, not wanting to move, enjoying the soft bed and a delicious sense of lassitude. Finally she opened one eye to realize it was late, close to noon. She yawned.

Sitting up, she realized she was stark naked. Immediately, she wondered who had undressed her—and the thought of her husband doing so, leering at her, studying her while she was unaware, made her grit her teeth. She swung out of bed and opened her wardrobe. She gasped.

It was empty.

Everything was gone.

Storm ran to the chest at the foot of her bed where her spare buckskins were kept, but they, too, were gone. What in God's name was going on?

Then she saw a pale blue silk nightgown and robe. She slipped them both on. The nightgown was sheer, sleeveless, with a low vee neck ruffled in lace. The matching wrapper was of the same material with a frilly collar and cuffs. She had admired the set before, but she had never worn it—it revealed instead of concealing. She certainly could not go downstairs like this.

She reached for the door handle, intending to call for Betsy and demand an explanation. To her shock, the door was locked from the outside. For a moment she refused to believe
it. She tried again, yanking on the handle. Quick as a whip, she ran to the other door and pulled on that with the same result. The bastard had locked her in!

It was then that she saw a tray on the table with a silver coffeepot, a pitcher of juice, and several covered plates. She ignored them and stomped over to the window. She already knew there was no way out of the room, not unless she had some rope. It was two stories to the lawn. And she certainly couldn't appear outside dressed like this. Even now, the gardener was trimming hedges. Damn Brett D'Archand!