Morgan's Rescue (15 page)

     
How masculine he looked with his magnificent chest and shoulders exposed. He had the beauty of the deadly jaguar—lethal
power mingled with an oddly heady promise of letting her feel
that strength, become part of it. Pilar knew Culver's magical sway over her could kill her, too; as surely as jaguar. What little was left of her wounded heart couldn't stand the pain of sharing with him and losing him. She'd barely survived the first time; she didn't have the strength to survive him again.

     
Bitterly, she sat up, the colorful wool blanket spilling into her lap. She hurt for Culver, knowing her words had injured him. She reached her hand toward him.

     
"I—I'm sorry, Culver. I wish…I wish so many things were different. . . ."

     
Culver sat, stunned by her rejection. They had been so close to kissing each other.
So close to touching once more.
He saw the regret on Pilar's still-drowsy features. Her hair was tousled wildly around her face, and he ached to pick up a brush and stroke those silky strands, taming them back into place. How many times had he dreamed of brushing Pilar's hair? Feeling those strands slide between his fingers, so full of life and shining like a raven's wing? Too many, he angrily reminded himself. Why the hell had he tried to kiss her when she'd made it all too clear that she no longer wanted him?

     
"It won't happen again," he said harshly, forcing himself to his feet. The hut was gloomy and he looked around for his shirt, finding it crumpled up in the corner on one of the woven mats that covered most of the hut's dirt floor. He saw that blankets covered the windows as well as the door, accounting for the murky lighting. He leaned down, jerked up his shirt and threw it across his shoulder.

     
Pilar got to her knees, trying to fight off the sleepy confusion that still held her. "Culver, it's not what you…"

     
He glared at her as he stalked to the entrance and jerked open the blanket. "I said it won't happen again. Let it go, Pilar."

     
Even after he'd stridden angrily away, Pilar remained kneeling, devastated. Rubbing her hands against her arms, she bowed her head and fought back the sobs that threatened to well up from deep within her. It hadn't been a dream. But how had she ended up on his side of the hut? The dwelling was very small, the type an elderly person lived in alone, but last night, they'd been dizzy with exhaustion. Her grandmother had brought them to the nearest empty hut. Pilar was grateful for her grandparents' care. She remembered Aurelia placing a blanket over the still-sleeping Rane after Culver had gently placed the girl on one of the mats.

     
Pilar had lain on her side, facing her daughter's back. She vaguely remembered Culver lying down on the opposite side of the hut, but that was all. She looked slowly around the place now. How had she managed to get over here, to his sleeping mat? Stymied and a little frightened of the evident strength of her own subconscious, she realized Culver had remained where he'd slept. At some point, she knew, Rane had awakened and left the hut, but Rane had had the benefit of a much better night's sleep than they, since she'd slept in the car all the way from
Lima
. Looking down at her watch, Pilar saw it was nearly ten in the morning already. Her heart ached with longing for Culver. She had to apologize to him. At least if he had been the one to come to her side of the hut…But no. It wasn't his fault. It was hers—again.

     
She heard the sound of Rane's laughter, once more, this time mingled with the deep rumbles of Grandfather Alvaro's somewhere nearby. Rousing herself, Pilar knew she had much to do today. First, she would go for a swim in the small, beautiful pond ringed by rushes where the villagers sometimes bathed.
Being in her mother's village always made her feel safe.
Pilar knew she wasn't—not with Ramirez's fortress a mere twenty-five miles away—but the serenity of her people still created that sense of security, deserved or not.

     
Easing to her bare feet, she stretched fitfully. She picked up all blankets they'd used, folded them carefully and stacked them in a corner. She savored the familiar scent of woodsmoke as she left the hut. Blinking in the strong sunlight cascading down through the trees, she looked around and spotted Grandmother Aurelia leaning over a tripod cooking pot, stirring the contents. Dogs and children were playing here and there throughout the tiny village of barely a hundred people. The elderly remained close to their huts, the women working on llama-wool weavings and the old men sitting and talking nearby.

     
The air was fresh and clean here, the humidity high. Touching her usually straight hair, Pilar smiled, knowing it would soon become wavier in the damp air from the nearby jungle. The village was situated just above the jungle, on the slope of a mountain. Below them a thick, dark green canopy stretched to the horizon. Down there, Pilar thought with a shiver,
lay
Ramirez's fortress. Down there, too, somewhere beneath the shining foliage, Morgan Trayhern waited for his rescuers.

     
Abruptly, Pilar blocked the automatic images of Morgan being tortured. Thinking about it wouldn't help
Morgan,
it would only weaken her with fear. She saw Aurelia straighten and look over at her. Her grandmother's dark brown face was lined with age, but the kindness of her smile and the love shining from her eyes soothed Pilar's battered heart. She lifted her hand in greeting,
then
hurried toward the edge of the village to prepare herself for the day.

     
Culver sliced through the pond's icy water, each stroke like an explosion, releasing a little more of his anger and hurt. He swam naked, rinsing away the grime of the past forty-eight hours. His feet touched the pebbled bottom and he stood. Closer to shore, sand lined the floor of this oval-shaped pond, fed by icy streams from the craggy Andean mountains that towered over the village. Culver's skin roughened with goose bumps as he walked to the edge of the pond. Though it was midmorning and summer, the air was still cool at this elevation. Scooping up a handful of sand, he scrubbed his body with it. Nothing cleaned like sand, and as he washed, unbidden thoughts sprang to mind of that other pool—one he and Pilar had discovered somewhere deep in the jungle northeast of Lima. They had scrubbed each other's backs with sand much like this.

     
Muttering a curse, Culver wondered why he couldn't staunch the relentless cascade of memories about Pilar and himself. Leaning down, he sluiced off the sand, his skin feeling vibrant, warm and tight from the scrubbing. To get at his feet and legs with the refreshing sand, Culver took a seat on the grassy bank, noting the herd of llamas, in all colors and sizes, feeding below on one of the verdant hillsides. The village was perfectly situated between the mighty
Andes
, their snow-covered, granite peaks thrusting to the heavens above, and the humid jungle, close enough for the villagers to gather its rich array of fruit and nuts.

     
Yes, this village was a virtual Shangri-La, in Culver's opinion. The only fly in the ointment, he thought as he sat on the bank, scrubbing his feet, was Ramirez's fortress in the lush jungle below. He looked up into the deep blue sky, accented with long strands of thin, white gossamer clouds. More than once he'd entertained the thought of living here—but that had been eight years ago, with Pilar the woman he would have shared this tranquil farm life with. He knew some of his friends might think him crazy, but others, like Jake Randolph and Wolf Harding, understood his need to sink his roots deep into the earth and revel in a simpler, more natural existence. The sun warmed his damp back, and he smiled. It was a perfect day. Well, almost.

     
Sighing, he rinsed off his legs and got out of the water. Shaking his arms and hands, he allowed the slight, playful breeze and the sunlight to dry him. He knew he'd miss this coolness once they entered the jungle. Frowning, he retrieved his jeans, sat on a fallen log and pulled them on. His hair dripped with water and he pushed the damp strands back off his brow.

     
A sound caught his attention, and he snapped his head toward the well-worn path the villagers took to the pond. His heart thudded. Pilar stood uncertainly, a towel in her hand. The expression on her face told him she was as surprised as he was. Scowling, he said, "Come on, I won't bite."

     
He reached for his shirt and shrugged it over his shoulders as he watched her walk hesitantly toward him. The path ended at the pond, near the log where he had left his socks and boots. Pilar looked so soft and innocent as she picked her way delicately along the trail. Culver wanted to look away, to ignore her.
Impossible.
She was barefoot! He allowed the corners of his mouth to lift momentarily. Here, she was free to be her natural self. The villagers never wore shoes unless they had to, and he knew Pilar disliked them. It was her Incan blood longing to be free of such civilized confinement.

     
As she drew near, he saw the wariness in her eyes. Could he blame her? No. Feeling foolish, Culver hurriedly tugged on his boots and tied the leather laces into double knots.

     
"The water's cold but fine," he said gruffly, looking up as she halted in front of him.

     
Pilar nodded. "Culver, I owe you an apology—"

     
"You owe me nothing," he snarled, getting to his feet. He shoved the tails of his cotton shirt into his Levi's, with angry movements.

     
"I do. Please," she begged softly, holding out her hand, "hear me out."

     
He glared at her. "Why should I?"

     
Pilar held his glare. "Have we moved so far apart that we can no longer talk? I remember—"

     
"That's the past," he snapped. Putting his hands on his hips, he said in a low, vibrating voice, "It's the past, and that's where you want to keep it, isn't it, Pilar? God help me, but I don't have the control I wish to hell I did when it comes to you. This morning was a mistake."
A terrible mistake.
His mouth flattened as he saw his words landing like fists, their impact clear on her vulnerable features. Angry at his lack of control, he snarled, "Let's just make the best of this, okay? I don't like it any more than you do, Pilar. I'm human, too, dammit, in case you don't remember."

     
Pilar stepped forward, touching his arm. As her fingers curved around Culver's powerful bicep, she felt a vibration go through him and saw the shock register in his eyes at her unexpected gesture. For a moment, the hardness and anger in them dissolved. "Please," she begged in a raw voice, "I know I'm hurting you by being around you. I don't mean to, Culver.
Dios,
if there was anything I could do to stop the pain I give you, I would. . . ."

     
Helplessly, she held his narrowed gaze. He stood like a magnificent bronze statue of a hero, proud, wounded, yet holding his head high, tolerating her hand on him. It took everything Pilar had to keep tears from streaming down her face, but she couldn't keep the sound of them out of her voice as she spoke.

     
"It was my fault back at the hut. I—somehow, I rolled over after Rane got up. I should have stayed on my own side, Culver. Please, forgive me. I don't blame you for what happened this morning. It was my fault. Do you hear me?" Trying to steel herself against the suffering that had come into his eyes, Pilar forced herself to release his arm. When she did, it was almost as if Culver suddenly sagged before her. The rigidity went out of him, like a punctured balloon deflating.

     
"I don't blame you," he said hoarsely after a moment of tense silence. "I shouldn't have touched you, even if you touched me."

     
Pilar's eyes widened. "I touched you?
In my sleep?"

     
Culver grimaced and looked above Pilar's head, studying the
Andes
's snowy peaks. "I made the mistake of touching your
hair, that
was all. You turned toward me and your hand fell against my chest."

     
Pilar dragged in a breath. "I see. . . ."

     
He gave her a sad smile, the anger bleeding out of him. "I'm sure you do. You always did, Pilar. Maybe it's that jaguar blood of yours trying to entrap me—mesmerize me like before. I don't know."

     
Pilar's hand went to the small medicine bag that hung around her neck. "Do you think I did it on purpose?"