Only in My Arms (20 page)

"But you—"

"I know," he said. "That's the point.
I
know." He saw her shoulders slump as she pressed one hand to her forehead. "You escorted me across the parade ground, and when your sister called to you, you told her you'd explain everything later. You didn't ask for help, and when we ran, we ran together. There were two mounts waiting for us, not one. Both were saddled, so there's no suspicion that I wanted one for riding and a fresher one for later. For all intents and purposes this was no spur of the moment abduction. Some people are probably already questioning your timely arrival at the fort, wondering if this wasn't arranged weeks ago."

"I never told anyone I knew you," Mary said. But she was frowning, recalling that it wasn't quite the truth. She had mentioned his name to Jarret.

"Florence knows we've met before, and she'll make certain others find out. She'll be reluctant to tell, of course, because everyone knows she's my strongest advocate, but her hesitation will only make her more likely to be believed."

Mary rubbed her temples, trying to think. "And if I hadn't come to the fort?" she asked. "What was your plan then?"

"There was no plan."

Her hand dropped away from her face. "No plan?"

He shrugged. "I would have hanged." Ryder picked up the liniment at the pool's edge and held it up. "Did you use any of this?"

"There wasn't time."

"Too busy thinking about Henry rifles." He approached the wing chair, pulling the stool along as he went. "Sit up," he said.

It wasn't until his terse command that Mary realized how small she had become in the chair. With her long legs curled under her, her head bent, her shoulders hunched in defeat, she had finally taken on all the attributes of surrender. Rallying, she straightened. "What are you going to do?" she demanded.

Ryder was pouring liniment in his palm. He corked the bottle, set it down, and rubbed his hands together. The friction heated the oil so that when he placed his palms on Mary's bare shoulder warmth penetrated skin to bone. He watched her close her eyes with the pure relief of it. Her lashes fluttered briefly, then lay still, fanning out to cover the shadows beneath her eyes. Except for those shadows her skin was pale. She leaned her head back and exposed the long line of her throat. Ryder could make out the pulse in her neck, the faint evidence of her heartbeat.

His hands moved gently to her upper arm and massaged the liniment in there. She didn't attempt to move away from him. Ryder poured more of the oil in his palm, rubbed, and then settled his hands on her uninjured shoulder. This time she actually sighed.

"Give me your hands," he said.

Mary raised them limply, too exhausted to worry or wonder at the ease with which she was being manipulated. His hands slipped along her fingers with tender regard for her blistered flesh. His touch was light, deft; and she was warmed by it. As he massaged oil into the centers of her palms, she felt the sensation throughout her body, tingling and tightening her skin. An unfamiliar sound rose at the back of Mary's throat and she realized she was hearing the hum of her own pleasure.

She forced her eyes open, but her gaze was sleepy and slightly unfocused. "I think that's enough." There was no force to her words, no real threat in them. "You should stop..." Her voice trailed off as his hands moved over her wrists then her forearms. Mary closed her eyes again and just allowed herself to feel. Every sensation was a novel one. There was steady thrumming to her heartbeat now and a gentle roaring in her ears.

Ryder had moved from the stool to the arm of the chair. He was close enough that his breath shifted silky strands of her hair against her temple. When he picked her up her head lolled against his shoulder. Her lips parted, but there was no protest. He carried her to the wide stone shelf where blankets had been laid out and put her down. She turned on her side, knees drawn up like a child, one hand under her head, the other near her mouth. The blanket over her slipped from her hip, and he saw the bruise from her fall. For the last time he applied liniment to his hands, rubbed hard, and laid them on her skin. She didn't stir.

Ryder couldn't say the same thing for himself. He finished the massage quickly and covered her hip. When the blanket slipped again he covered her with another. Kneeling beside the pool, Ryder washed his hands, and then washed Mary's clothes. The sooner he put her back in her habit, the better.

* * *

When Mary woke she was alone. In the cavern there was no possibility of understanding day or night. She felt surprisingly rested so she imagined she had been asleep for several hours, perhaps longer. The lanterns were still lighted, but upon inspection she saw their oil had been replenished. Ryder, it seemed, thought of everything. He hadn't known how long he would be gone, and he hadn't wanted her to wake up in the dark.

Mary's clothes were hanging on a rope that Ryder had strung from one wall of the chamber to the other. The rope was secured by spikes he had driven into the stone. Mary didn't have to feel her habit to know it was still wet. Water dripped from the material and landed heavily on the cool floor. Only her white cotton shift was dry enough to put on. Mary slipped it over her head. Her feet were cold, and when she went looking for a pair of socks among Ryder's things, she also found a clean shirt. She put both on, rolling up the sleeves to her elbows and turning down the cuffs of the socks so they warmed her ankles.

Mary ran her fingers through her hair several times to separate the flattened curls. She was thirsty and hungry, and she had no idea whether Ryder intended to feed her anytime soon. Her eyes fell on the bucket of water and ladle he had carried in earlier. Not bothering to get one of the tin cups, she drank from the ladle, sipping first to make sure the water wasn't briny, then taking large gulps when she realized it was fresh, clear, and cold.

With her thirst slaked, Mary turned to the problem of hunger. It was not going to be so easily satisfied. There were tins of meat, tomatoes, and corn, but nothing to open them with. She investigated several sacks until she found one filled with jerky. Mary was unfamiliar with the dried meat, but she was game. With her first bite she discovered it was as pleasurable to eat as salted wood and wasn't likely to become an acquired taste. Still, her stomach pangs began easing as soon as she swallowed. She tore off another piece and chewed hard.

As she ate Mary wandered around the chamber, taking note of its contents more closely. The blankets where she had been lying were not all Army issue. Among the layers she found a quilt with a complicated double wedding-ring pattern that had been stitched by many busy hands. There were several blankets with satin edging and one cover that was supposed to hold a feather comforter. A second survey of the larder showed it to be a curious mixture of foodstuffs. One of the boxes carried a date that revealed it originated during the Civil War, another appeared to be as recently crated as August. The tin cups looked as if they came from a standard Army mess kit, but the plates were china. Mary recognized Wedgwood and Royal Doulton among the mismatched dinnerware.

The collection of books intrigued Mary. They were a varied lot, and their frontispiece usually bore an inscription. Dumas's
The Count of Monte Cristo
was a gift to someone named Anne from her loving husband Jackson.
A Christmas Carol
was given for "all the Christmases yet to come" and signed Mother and Father. The inscription in Whitman's
Leaves of Grass
had faded after repeated readings. There was no writing to indicate their owner's opinion of Mill's essay
On Liberty
or Darwin's
On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection
, only a number of dog-eared pages and frayed edges to suggest both books had been catalysts for a great deal of contemplation. Slim volumes on mathematics and heavy tomes on agriculture and mining appeared to have been frequently consulted. One book on geology also looked particularly well used.

Mary had all the books piled beside her, ready to be replaced, when she noticed the basket. She picked it up, placed it on her lap, and turned it slowly so she could inspect the work. It was exquisitely made and brightly colored. She couldn't identify the fibers and stems that made each coil, but some had been dyed to weave in bands of red, black, and yellow.

"It's Chiricahua," Ryder said from behind her.

The basket flew out of Mary's hands as she cried out and came up on her knees. Her head twisted around in Ryder's direction. "I should have shot you before," she snapped. "Just because you're aggravating." She reached for the basket and turned to face Ryder, holding it before her like a shield. "Do you have to sneak up on me that way? Can't you... can't you
knock? "

Ryder hadn't thought he was being especially quiet. His steps had seemed to echo in the corridor. "You must have been deep in thought," he said.

She glared. "So it's my fault. How convenient for you."

He stared at her, fascinated. "Why you've got more fangs than a cholla."

"What's that?" she asked suspiciously.

"A desert thorn bush."

"Oh." She was somewhat appeased. "I thought it might be an animal."

"It may as well be, the way it attacks if you're fool enough to brush past it."

Mary's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "So you're saying I'm a cholla and you're a fool."

Ryder's glance was caught on the shifting flames of color in Mary's hair. He nodded slowly. "I suppose I am," he said. Her unexpected laughter rocked him back on his heels. It was as cleansing as his earlier dip in the well and just as welcome.

She pressed her lips together to stifle her laughter and then used her hand for good measure. Mary caught her breath with some difficulty.

"Don't stop on my account," he said.

His comment had the opposite effect. Mary sobered immediately. "Where have you been?" She set the basket down and began filling it with books.

"I told you I would make a salve."

"You did that already? But where—" She stopped, realizing the truth. "You went out, didn't you?"

He nodded. "It would have been too difficult to take you."

"That didn't stop you from bringing me here. Are you afraid I might learn my way back out?"

"Only that you might gather the false confidence to try."

"You don't think I could do it?"

"I wasn't issuing a challenge," he said quietly.

The wind rushed out of Mary's sails. She bent her head and went back to her task.

"You're welcome to read those if you'd like. There're a few more in the trunk."

"I've already read the nov—" She stopped, knowing she was being churlish. "Thank you," she said. "That would pass the time."

Ryder set the mortar and pestle he was holding beside the makeshift bed. "The salve's in there when you want it," he said. "Use it sparingly. There's enough to last for several days."

Mary nodded. At least there had been no mention that he wanted to apply it himself. She laid the last book in the basket and got to her feet. "Was it still daylight outside?" she asked.

"Sunset."

She'd slept most of the day away, then. "Was it beautiful?"

Ryder had walked over to the cache of foodstuffs and was picking through the cans. He murmured absently in agreement.

Mary sat down in the rocking chair. She raised her legs so that her knees were near her chin and locked her arms around them. "Tell me about it," she said.

Now Ryder glanced in her direction, his dark brows drawn together. He raked back his inky black hair and said slowly, "Red... gold... threads of copper and orange and bronze."

Mary felt his gray eyes in an odd way, as if they were capable of touching her. "Then it was lovely," she said wistfully.

"Yes." But he hadn't been describing the sunset. Mary's hair was all those colors and a score of shades in between that he had no name for. "Yes," he repeated. "Lovely."

Mary ducked her head and rubbed her nose as he continued to stare at her. When she looked up again he was studying the cans and the moment had passed. "Are we going to eat?" she asked. "I had some jerky, but it wasn't very filling."

"We can't cook," he explained. "There's nowhere to vent the smoke and if we could—"

"It could be seen," she said. "It's all right. I understand. Canned anything is fine with me." Mary waited to see how he would open them. He made it look easy as he took up a finely honed knife from the utensils and pounded it sharply into the tops of the cans. "I suppose there's something to be said for brute strength."

Ryder glanced over his shoulder. "What's that?"

"Nothing."

Shrugging, he began emptying the cans onto two china plates. There was pressed meat, potatoes, stewed tomatoes, and corn. He handed her a plate and a fork, and sat in the wing chair, propping his legs on one rung of the stool. "You're going to be sick of this soon so enjoy it now," he said. "There's plenty to eat but not much variety."

Mary didn't care. She would have eaten most anything he'd placed in front of her. Bowing her head, she said grace softly. When she looked up, Ryder was watching her. She couldn't make out the expression in his eyes, but she refused to let him know his scrutiny bothered her. Indicating the furnishings with a wave of her hand, Mary asked, "How did all of this come to be here?"