Hotter on the Edge (19 page)

He looked down at Lake. Her full lips were slightly parted. The opening of her shirt had dipped low, revealing the top swell of her breasts. He tugged at her shirt. The gap widened, showing a wide band she had used to bind herself. He cursed, and then groaned, wondering how much more he could take. He hadn't been this perpetually hard since he'd been a youth.

The horse picked up pace as soon as they crossed over into his property. If he wouldn't have looked an even bigger fool, he would've kicked his horse into a trot. The fields of yellow and green passed in a blur, at least they did to Hudson, since he could barely take his eyes off the soft jiggle of her breasts. Then, not able to help himself, he cupped one of the tempting globes and allowed his thumb to flick over her nipple. It tightened in response, puckering under the cloth. He did it again. Lake arched into his touch, and then Hudson didn't care how it looked. He kicked his mare into a trot and to hell with what his men thought.

Hudson knew as soon as he got home and saw the strange horse tied up out front, his time had run out. If he'd had just one extra hour, hell fifteen more minutes, he would've had Lake bedded and this whole marriage would've been legit. As it was now, he was going have to lie.

"Lake," he gently nudged his wife. "Time to wake up. The Marker is here."

Lake snapped to, her blue eyes wide and alert. He liked a readiness to act in a man. He guessed he also liked it in a woman.

"Already?" she said.

He could tell by the trepidation in her voice that she was nervous. He didn't blame her. He was nervous himself. The Marking was a big moment in a man's life; he supposed in a woman's also. But most men only had one shot to get the ritual right. Women tended to marry at least a few times over the course of their lives, outliving their husbands. By the time a woman reached old age it wasn't unusual for her to be marked up to her shoulder blades. One name crossed off after another.

But for Lake this was her first time, his as well.

"Do you know what to expect? During the Marking, I mean?" He had his hand lightly resting on her stomach and could feel the short pants of breath. He wished he could ease her fear, but there was nothing he could do. Having his name tattooed on her back was the best protection he could offer her. It marked her as his, let other men know she was taken, and if any harm came to her the full power of his name would come crashing down on their heads like a judgment from hell.

"My mother told me a little," she whispered.

Hudson nodded. It was to be expected. "Tell me all you know."

"She said that there was pain, but if I married the right man, there could be pleasure also. She told me to trust my husband and that there was nothing to be ashamed of." Gone was the confident warrior he had bargained with in the cave. In her place was a woman shy and unsure.

At the very least he could give her his assurance. "Your mother was a wise woman. I promise I'll take care of you the best I can."

And he meant it. The Markers had a reputation of being cruel. He'd heard horror stories of them going beyond mere tattoos by branding with knives and fire, but he saw no need to tell Lake any of the rumors. He'd never allow anyone to hurt her. Well, not any more than necessary.

Hudson dismounted and then helped Lake down. He pretended to get something from his saddle bag, but instead whispered in her ear. With an Elder in his home, one could never be too careful.

"Remember, we've slept together, and you're already with child, so no virginal blushes. If they even suspect that I've lied to prevent the execution, I'll lose everything, including my life."

Lake's expression, stony and flat, was impossible to read. He knew now it was how she coped, but he couldn't help a flare of anger at her indifference. He stomped the emotion down. This was no time for pride. Too much was riding on this. "Grey Owl is bringing your brother here. If you are loyal to me and be my wife in truth, I'll take your brother in as my own." He lifted her chin so she could see he meant what he said. "I'm a good man, Lake. I keep my promises. I can give you a good life if you just trust me and give me a chance. Will you trust me?"

She tried, but couldn't hold the dead look in her eyes. Slowly it gave way to something else, dare he guess…hope?

"Take care of Vonn, and I'll do whatever you ask."

He knew what she meant. Her brother was the last family she had left, and she'd do anything to secure his safety. But he was just a man. A man who'd ridden with his wife's soft bottom bouncing against his groin for hours. So he took her statement in the only way he wanted to—a willingness to match the erotic images in his head.

Chapter Six

Lake followed Hudson into his home, glad her legs could still carry her weight. In prison she'd faced much worse. She'd borne up under the torture, the darkness, and the rats like a good Rebel should. But now, now she was afraid.

I can give you a good life if you would just trust me.
Isn't that what Hudson had said? Trust him. When was the last time she fully trusted anyone? Not her father, not even Grey Owl. She knew when she'd joined the Cause she would be fighting alone. She just hadn't realized how lonely it would be.

Hudson had asked her to be his wife in truth. Would it really be so bad to be protected, have someone fight by her side? Lake shook her head. No, Hudson had made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with the Rebellion. And yet, he'd lied to the Elders, saved her life, and was willing to take Vonn in despite her being a Rebel. Maybe, but this was also the man who was having his name tattooed on to her back. Damn the rituals of The Way.

The Marking was more than just a sign of ownership. It was nothing short of barbaric. Lake had heard the rumors. Women talked. Some said the Marking was painful, some said it was the best pleasure they'd ever had, but they all agreed with one thing: A woman was naked and in the most intimate of positions in front of two men.

Maybe her Marker would be old. Maybe he'd be deaf and blind. Lake mentally shook her head. No. No. She didn't want a blind man doing her tattoo.

In the end, she didn't have to worry.

The house was dim compared to the outside. Her eyes took a moment to adjust. The dark coolness was a reprieve from the bright, hot of the desert sun. Inside, the furnishings were simple oak with a few skins draped across for comfort. The mismatched stone flooring was a luxury compared to the dirt of her old home. The one now a pile of cold ashes.

Near the back of the room where the shadows dominated the light, sat a man behind a long wooden table. He couldn't have been more than forty years old. With his black hair and eyes, the cruel slant of his mouth matched his features. His fingers, long, thin and stained with ink, were folded in a shape of a steeple under his chin.

The man stood as she and Hudson approached. Though not as tall as Hudson, the man's shoulders were wider—making Lake feel like a child in a room full of adults. Hudson quickly made the introductions. The man didn't divulge his name.

"Are these from you?" Hudson gestured toward the bottles of wine on his table.

The Marker shook his head. "They were outside when I got here. I brought them in when I came inside."

Hudson nodded. "A gift from a neighboring farm for my nuptials. I'll take it to my men for the celebratory toast."

"I've set up everything in the bedroom," the Marker said. "I've only one question. Did you want to use your generator for the Marking, or not? My preference is the traditional hand-poking, but sometimes it's harder to keep the woman still for such long sessions."

A heartbeat pulsed in her throat. Of course, the Marker wanted to go the traditional route. Hand-poking was excruciatingly painful and slow. She'd seen men like him before. His kind lurked in dark prison cells, feasted on men's screams, got pleasure from other's pain.

Lake waited on Hudson. There was nothing she could do. Strictly speaking, the use of electricity went against the principals of The Way, but many of the laws had become lax over the last few years. Even her father had a portable generator he'd used for the winters, the one she'd used to power her computer. Nonetheless, it was a risk. By admitting to owning a generator, a person admitted to having dealings with the Rebels.

"The generator," Hudson said. "She's carrying my child. I want to keep her stress to a minimum."

If there was a flash of disappointment in the Marker's eyes, it was gone in a hard nod and a swish of robes as he turned and headed toward the bedroom.

Lake had never been so grateful for a lie in her life.

Hudson turned to her. "I need to see to the preparations for the dinner. It might be better for them to start the celebration sooner rather than later."

Lake agreed—the less attention focused on them the better—but everything inside of her protested against going into the bedroom without Hudson. Tentatively, she tugged on the sleeve of his shirt. "I, um, I'll wait for you."

Hudson stared down at her, his brown eyes trapping her like a hunter's snare. In one quick movement, his palm was behind her head and his lips were pressed to hers. The kiss was different than the last they'd shared—less hesitant, more sure. Her mouth opened under his, but it was Hudson who tasted her first.

She was still dazed when he broke off and growled in her ear. "You got it all wrong, little dove. It's been me whose been waiting for you."

***

The bedroom was chilly, or maybe it was her. Sweat dampened the shirt under her arms, and yet, her feet and hands tingled with cold. Hudson was sitting on the edge of the bed, face grim. Had the bed always been that large? It had seemed a luxury when she had rested before she'd met her contact. But now…

The Marker was standing by the bedside table, his instruments of torture laid out in a perfect line. A palm-sized tattoo gun was gripped in his hand. Both men were waiting, staring at her.

She had stripped off everything except Hudson's long white shirt, the last thing between her and total vulnerability. If she'd any family left she could've requested her mother or an aunt's presence in the room. Instead, it was just her, naked, between two men.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair.
And yet, this was her rite of passage. The first principal of The Way—to lay one's soul bare is to earn his name—was taken literally for women. There were no secrets between a man and his wife, thus her "laying bare" as he Marked her as his own.

Her fingers trembled. The buttons on the shirt were so tiny, the button holes even smaller. Minutes passed as she fumbled with her shirt until finally she pushed it off her shoulders and let the garment pool around her feet.

Don't look up.

Even when she heard Hudson's audible gasp.

Don't look up.

"I brought leather straps to tie her to the bed if you think she'll be a thrasher," the Marker said.

That got Lake's attention, but Hudson was already shaking his head. "No need. I'll hold her tight."

She looked at her husband's large hands. She'd seen those hands commit both acts of violence and of tenderness. She wasn't sure if she was better off or not.

"Come here, Lake." Hudson beckoned with his fingers. She couldn't help but notice the strain in his voice. Why? It was she who was getting marked. But this was his first time too. Maybe it meant something to him also.

Courage came in all forms: To watch her parents die, to walk with her head high to her death, to stand in front of her husband with her hands fisted by her sides and stare him in the eye.

What had she thought to find in Hudson's expression? Kindness? Love? There was nothing soft in the narrowing slant of his eyes, the spastic twitch of his jaw muscle, the sinister look of the growth of his beard.

His hands gripped the bedding, the tendons on his forearms protruding as if afraid to touch her. Afraid or desperate? "Hands on my shoulders."

She did as she was told. She twisted his shirt in her fingers, hoping her grip would steady her trembling.

"Straddle me."

A quick inhale of breath was all the time she had to react before his hands were on her. Coarse calluses scratched the delicate skin around her waist as he grasped her from behind. He picked her up as if she weighed nothing and sat her on his lap, parting her knees on either side of his legs.

Chills broke wild over her skin. Her trembling turned into full shakes. Her teeth chattered even though she wasn't as cold now with the sudden closeness of Hudson's body. Heat rolled off him like a roaring fire, a bead of sweat trailed down his temple. If she was winter, he was the sun.

He hissed and pulled her closer. His coarse shirt brushed against her sensitive nipples. Shock coursed through her. She jerked back. His fingers bit into the fleshy part of her thigh, and held her in place. "Don't move," he growled.

"Hudson," the Marker said, his voice seeming to come from a tunnel far, far away. "Give me your full name."

Hudson was breathing hard, they both were. The panting of their breaths competed with the low roar of the generator. She clutched at his shirt, her spine so straight she thought she'd break.

He bent his head. "Hudson Black Creek Fourth Generation Land Owner," he said, his lips finding a tender spot along her breast bone.

She could feel the vibration of his words through her hands against his chest. "You wouldn't consider using your initials, would you?"

"Not a chance."

She groaned.

He touched her skin; her blood quickened in response. Hands trailed down her sides, over her backside, along her thighs then back up again. He whispered something against the dip between her breasts. If she had any faith left she might've believed it had been a prayer. He moaned, or was that her? He looked past her shoulder to the Marker. "Tell me when you're gonna start."

"On the count of three."

The high pitch of the tattoo gun whined closer. Lake turned to look, but Hudson grabbed her chin and forced her straight ahead. "Just look at me. The whole time, right in my eyes."