Nan Ryan (13 page)

“Wait,” he called after her. “Don’t you want to take—” He stopped speaking. He was going to offer her a towel, but she was too headstrong to stop, so to hell with her. Let her dry off as best she could.

Virgil stood there watching until she was out of sight. Then he shook his head and exhaled heavily. This was going to be one long, tiresome journey.

He returned to the campfire and poured himself a cup of strong black coffee. He sat down cross-legged on the ground and lit a cigarette. Physically, he felt fine. He’d had a good night’s sleep.

His thoughts drifted back to when he had awakened with the dawn, eased away from the sleeping Queenie, and built the campfire. When he got it going, he had gone down to the snow-fed stream, stripped to the skin, and bathed away the grime and dirt of the trail. The cold, clear water had been bracing, exhilarating.

It was not until he had been ready to get out of the water that he realized he hadn’t brought a towel or any clean clothes with him. Shivering when he emerged and stood on the rocky banks, he had debated. Should he put his soiled clothes back on or return to camp unclothed and risk finding his pretty prisoner wide awake and staring at him? Then he had smiled to himself. So what if she saw him naked? She had seen him naked before.

So he had gathered up his dirty clothes and boots and returned to camp as the summer sun was rising over the mountain rim. He had found her still fast asleep, making funny little mewling sounds in her slumber, smiling foolishly, and thrashing around. She was obviously dreaming, and it must have been a very pleasurable one.

Smiling, wondering who it was that filled her dreams, he had stood naked before the fire, allowing the shooting flames to dry the beaded moisture from his bare, lean body. He turned his back to the warming campfire and stood facing the dreaming woman who slept not twenty yards away.

Her ginger-red hair was appealingly tangled, a strand curled caressingly around her cheek. Long dark lashes fluttered restlessly over closed emerald eyes. Lips, as soft and pink as a baby’s, were slightly parted over gleaming white teeth. All at once she moaned softly and her tongue came out to lick her top lip.

Virgil felt his belly tighten, his body surge. He was half-tempted to go to her. Crawl naked in under the blanket with her and kiss her into an easy submission before she had fully roused from her dreams. Be a nice way to start the day.

He groaned, wrapped a restraining hand around his half-hard flesh, and turned quickly away. He wouldn’t take unfair advantage. Not even of a jaded criminal like the Queen of the Silver Dollar. He wouldn’t have to. She would eagerly fall into his arms before they reached El Paso, he’d stake his life on it. When it came to women, he had yet to be wrong. They invariably behaved as expected. And he always obliged himself of their generously offered charms. But with every meaningless tryst, his innate distrust of women was strengthened.

It had been while he was dressing by the fire that he heard her cry out in her sleep.

“Yes, yes,” she had murmured, and he had gone over and shaken her shoulder to awaken her. “Yes, please, yes,” she had whispered.

Remembering, Virgil began to smile.

Then a sudden piercing scream startled him out of his reveries.

His dark face immediately frozen into rigid lines, he was up in a heartbeat and grabbing his Colt. Before the spine-tingling scream ended, he was sprinting headlong across the open meadow toward the pine-hidden stream, praying he could reach her in time.

He expected the worst.

That kind of bone-chilling scream from a helpless woman brought back horrible images of things he had seen when he was a young man. The sickening sight of a naked white woman’s bruised and battered body after a band of Comanche had raped and tortured her for hours before killing her as her family was forced to watch. He could still see the poor abused woman, the horror of what she had lived through fixed in her sightless, staring eyes.

Virgil ran faster.

He crashed through the dense pine forest, his heart squeezing painfully in his chest. Envisioning her pinned to the ground by a big renegade Apache astride her, a knife to her throat, Virgil bolted through the trees, his blue eyes flashing with fury.

Gun raised and cocked, he was ready to kill or be killed.

14

Virgil exploded from the trees
onto the rocky bank of the rushing brook. Eyes deadly, trigger finger poised, adrenaline pumping, he took in everything in one alert, sweeping glance. He saw her immediately. He saw no one else. She stood in waist-high water in the middle of the stream, her arms crossed over her breasts.

“Where are they?” he called out anxiously as he looked up and down the stream’s rocky banks. “Are you hurt? How many are there? Did you see where they went?”

“Who?” the princess asked innocently, staring at him as if he had lost his mind. “Who are
they
?”

His narrowed gaze shifted swiftly back to her. “The Apaches!” he said passionately. “Or the outlaws. Or whoever it was that frightened you so badly.”

The princess frowned at him. “I saw no savages or bandits.” She tilted her head to one side. “For goodness sake, what would make you think I did?”

Virgil Black’s eyes instantly darkened to a deadly hue. His tone, when finally he collected himself enough to speak, matched his eyes. “There was no one here? Nobody hurt you or scared you half to death? You saw no one?”

“Not a soul.”

Virgil silently counted to ten. He slowly lowered his Colt, drew a deep, calming breath, and stuck the weapon in the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back.

Then with exaggerated politeness, he nodded and asked, “Would you mind telling me just exactly what is was that you were screaming about?”

“The water, of course!” she was more than eager to explain. “I had no idea it would be so icy cold and I—”

“Damn it to hell.” His voice was hard as steel. “Do you mean to tell me you were screaming like a gut-shot panther because the water was a little chilly?”

“A little? It is absolutely freezing! I am freezing!” And she was. She was shaking violently, her teeth were chattering, and she blamed him for her discomfort. “You might have at least warned me.”

“I will warn you now,” Virgil said calmly. “You ever scream like that again for no good reason, I’ll
give
you a good reason to scream. You got that?” Before she could reply, he said, “Get out.”

“No!” she sank back down into the frigid water, gasping as it rose to lap at her bare shoulders. “Not while you’re standing—”

“Now!” he said with such authority it stunned her. And removing the silver star from his chest and shoving it into his pocket, he began unbuttoning his black yoked shirt.

“All right, all right,” she said, having no wish to further anger him. “My clothes, please. They are right behind you. If you will be so kind as to bring them directly down to the water’s edge and then leave, I will get out.”

His black shirt now unbuttoned down his dark chest, he shrugged out of it, hooked it on his thumb, and said, “I’ll turn my back. You get out of the water and put on my shirt.”

“Certainly not! I shall wear my own clothes.”

“No,” he coolly corrected, “you will not. Today you are wearing clothes more suitable for a long, hard ride.” He dropped the shirt to the rocks below and stood there looking at her for a long moment, unmistakable challenge flashing out of his piercing blue eyes. At last he spoke. “Now, get out before you catch a cold.” He pivoted about. His back to her, he walked the few steps to where she had gotten undressed. He collected her discarded clothing and underwear, tossed them over his right shoulder. He stuck her soft kid slippers into the back pockets of his black trousers.

Watching him suspiciously, afraid any second he would whip around and catch her naked and defenseless, the princess anxiously paddled to the stream bank, got out, and, trembling furiously from the cold, her flesh covered with goose bumps, snatched up the black shirt and slipped her arms into the too-long sleeves. Her teeth chattering violently, her wet, bare body shaking like a leaf in the wind, she struggled to button the yoked shirt but made little progress.

The shirt’s sleeves kept falling down over her hands no matter how hard she tried to keep them pushed up. And her cold wet fingers were so stiff she had trouble with the shirt’s buttons.

How he was aware of her difficulty, she didn’t know, but he said over his shoulder, “Need help?”

“No, thanks,” she snapped. “I am almost finished.”

“Liar,” he said, turning to face her. “I’ll do it.”

“Don’t you dare come a step closer!” she threatened, shaking her head and frantically holding the long-tailed shirt together with both hands.

He came a step closer. He walked right up to her, brushed one of her hands away, and began deftly buttoning the shirt’s yoke over her bosom. Her face flaming, she had no choice but to stand there before him and allow him to button the shirt.

“There,” he said when every last button was buttoned. “Let’s get you back to the fire so you can warm up.”

Automatically tugging at the shirt’s long tails which reached well below midthigh, she nodded, said, “My slippers?”

“You won’t need them,” he replied, and before she realized his intent, he swept her up into his arms and started back to camp.

She shrieked with surprise and, grabbing his neck with one hand, felt around beneath herself with the other to make sure that her bare buttocks were not exposed. Relieved to find that the black cotton fabric securely covered her bottom and was caught and pulled tight by his supporting arm, she let out a breath and draped her other arm loosely around his neck.

She was, of course, quite annoyed with him for being so high-handed. All the same, the fierce animal heat of his lean, hard body was unquestionably comforting. She was so incredibly cold and he was so amazingly warm. She was tempted to bury her head on his shoulder and snuggle closer against his broad, bare chest.

Afraid he might misinterpret such an innocent gesture, she held herself stiff and as far away from him as was possible under the circumstances.

“Jesus Christ,” he said suddenly, glancing down at her face, then back up at the trail, “don’t you ever relax?”

“Why, yes, I … certainly. I—I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do,” he charged. He tightened his hold, pressed her closer. “You’re stiff as a poker, Red. Let yourself go. Hell, I’m not going to bite you.” She laughed nervously, said nothing. And wanting him to know that she was not the least bit afraid of him, she ordered herself to relax. She released a small sigh and let her tense muscles slacken. “That’s better,” he told her.

Maybe for him.

Not for her.

Despite all her best efforts to remain completely calm, the princess felt her heartbeat immediately quicken from the more intimate contact. Her right breast, covered only by the damp shirt, was pressed flush against his muscled chest, directly over his heart. She could feel his heart’s steady, heavy beating against her soft flesh, and a tiny tremor of unwanted excitement shot through her.

“Still cold?” he inquired, feeling the shudder.

“Y-yes,” she lied.

Believing her, he drew her closer still, tucking her head beneath his chin, lifting her higher against his chest. As he weaved through the tall pines and over the thick underbrush, Virgil kept his eyes fixed on the trail. Taking care to avoid any low-hanging limbs, he seemed to have forgotten her entirely. Which gave her the opportunity to covertly study him.

The princess eased her head from beneath his chin, moved it out to rest on his shoulder, and, from beneath lowered lashes, cautiously raised her eyes to his face. Gazing at him, she noticed, and not for the first time, the absurdly long black eyelashes that swept upward from his hard blue eyes. His thick, naturally arched black eyebrows were presently knitted together as if he were in troubled thought. His straight, well-shaped nose gave him an almost arrogant appearance. And his mouth, with the full, wide lips now firmly closed, had a sinister, dangerous look, made all the more so by the heavy growth of day-old black stubble surrounding it.

The long scratch on his left jaw, made by her scraping fingernail, was an angry red, and his left ear, where she had struck him with a rock, was both cut and bruised. The superficial wounds added to his menacing demeanor.

Looking at him up so close sent a little shudder of alarm racing through her, and the princess quickly lowered her eyes to his tanned throat. Although he wore no shirt—she was wearing it—the black silk bandanna was still knotted around his bare throat.

He should have looked quite silly, shirtless with the black silk kerchief tied around his neck, instead he looked roguish, devil-may-care, scarily appealing. She was at once repelled and attracted. And she wished, above all else, that she were more fully clothed and therefore less vulnerable. He knew that she was naked beneath his shirt. Suppose he decided to take advantage of her? What would she do? What
could
she do?

She hazarded another quick glance at his face. He was looking straight ahead, not at her, never at her, his disinterest evident. Princess Marlena realized, with a twinge of disappointment, that taking advantage of her was likely the last thing on his mind. This was rather puzzling and a totally new experience for her.