Outlaw (8 page)

"I reckon a woman likes a man like that," he
told her, rubbing his stubble-covered jaw. "
Barbaric
."

Her reply was preceded by an indelicate
snort. "That's what you think, Mister Mason. I'll have you know, I
prefer a gentleman—someone who knows how to treat a lady
properly."

Mason could almost see her freckled, pert
nose hoisted in the air. If she could have, he had little doubt
Amelia O'Malley would've flounced away from him with her frilly,
impractical pink skirts flying.

"I know how to give a lady what she wants,"
he couldn't resist saying, punctuating the words with a wicked grin
she couldn't see and Mason couldn't hold back. "
And
how to
do it properly."

Amelia sniffed. "That, Mister Mason, remains
to be seen."

It was a challenge Mason could hardly let
pass uncontested.

Chapter Five

"
Just Mason
," growled the outlaw, and
then he twisted in the saddle, grabbed a handful of curls from the
back of Amelia's head, and pulled her to him. He leaned forward,
his intentions writ plain upon his face. He was going to kiss
her.

She was too surprised to move. She ought to
stop him, Amelia knew. But the curiosity bubbling inside her made
that nigh impossible. Her heart started pounding, setting a pace
that would surely kill her if it kept up for long.

Mason's lips quirked upward, very nearly
smiling, and excitement jolted through her. Her whole body felt
atremble, almost as though she were about to faint.

Oh, dear heaven, she couldn't swoon now.
She'd miss her first real kiss.

She had plenty of time to stop him—and none
of the will required to do it. It felt an eternity that Mason held
her there, watching her, his eyes dark with an emotion she couldn't
begin to guess. Slowly he brought his mouth to hers. She heard
herself give a little squeak, seconds before his lips touched hers,
and then her mind went blank.

His grip gentled in her hair, his hand
spanning the back of her head as softly...so very softly...he
touched his lips to hers. Her heart seemed to stop beating for an
instant, stilled by the warmth of his mouth, the sensuous glide of
his lips, the power of his arms cradling her.

If Mason had meant to prove he was barbaric,
he was failing, failing. His touch couldn't have been more tender.
He brought her closer, his fingertips rubbing warm against her
scalp, and nibbled gently at her lower lip.

Breathless, half-protesting, Amelia
fluttered her hands. Her seeking fingertips caught and held his
shirt, and though she knew she ought to push him away, instead she
found herself winding the fabric round until it pulled taut against
the warmth of the outlaw's chest beneath. Her knuckles skimmed the
hard contours of his chest, sought and found the place where his
heart beat wild and fast.

She closed her eyes, wanting to moan,
wanting to cry out at the feelings that welled within her. So this
was what it was to be desired, to be wanted, cherished....

Mason's fingers roamed lower, stroking the
fine hairs beneath the chignon twisted at the nape of her neck. She
tipped her head back, feeling hot sunlight spill onto her eyelids
and across her cheeks. The horse shifted beneath them, then
settled; it could have ridden away with them both, for all Amelia
cared at that moment.

Her lips parted, and coolness washed over
her as Mason shadowed her from the sun. His mouth brushed across
hers, making her yearn to pull him closer.

"Sweet...so sweet," he whispered.

She opened her eyes, gazing at him in
wonder.
Sweet...sweet
. The endearment, so heartfelt, warmed
her more strongly than the sunshine slanting over them both. No one
had ever suggested she was anything but an unfortunate mistake, a
girl born into a family of men.

Amelia sighed. Carefully, bravely, she
raised her trembling hand to his face, cradled the hard line of his
jaw in her palm. She stroked her thumb across the rugged angle of
his cheekbone. His color was high, blooming across his cheeks like
a fever. Oh, he wanted her, wanted her just as she was, and the
knowledge sent Amelia's spirits soaring.

Closing his eyes, Mason tilted his face into
her palm, rubbing against her skin. "Mmmm," he breathed, "so
soft..."

His whiskers prickled, making her twice as
aware of the differences between them, of the masculine strength
and sureness of him. The appealing roughness of his features, the
breadth of his chest and shoulders, the muscular hardness of his
arms—all of them intrigued her, made Amelia yearn to discover what
secrets could be shared between men and women, for this was a man
she held. A man—and an outlaw.

An outlaw who'd abducted her.

An outlaw who'd thoughtlessly dragged her
over a mountain and part way across the desert.

An outlaw who'd already admitted he didn't
plan to let her go.

Amelia released him, feeling breathless and
uncertain. Did he care even a little for her, or was this what it
meant to be ravished? And she—she was enjoying it! She found
herself staring at his mouth, and tore her gaze away. Was she
wanton, to desire a man she'd only just met?

But what if he'd told her the right of it
yesterday? What if the stagecoach never
would
have returned
for her? She might have died alone on that distant road already—if
not for Mason.

He raised his gaze to hers, and the
tenderness she saw there made Amelia catch her breath. No man had
ever looked at her that way before. It doubled her confusion.
"Mason, I..."

"Shhh, I won't hurt you, Amy." His hands
slid to the middle of her back, pressing her closer; his eyelids
lowered as his gaze swept to her lips, then held. She quivered as a
tiny, forbidden thrill raced up her spine. He wanted to kiss her
again, she could tell.

Heaven help her, she wanted him to do
it.

She held her breath as he brought his mouth
nearer...nearer. His hands flattened against her back, holding her
close against the warmth of his body. Her bosom pressed tight
against his arm and chest, her breasts aching at the contact,
yearning for something she couldn't name. Amelia's eyes closed, all
her attention centered on the moment when their lips would
meet.

She waited, sensing his face only inches
from her own, chilled by the shadow he cast over her—and warmed all
over by the spell he'd somehow woven. Blindly, she cupped her hand
around Mason's neck, urging him without words to come to her.

He didn't yield an inch. Surprised, Amelia
opened her eyes to see Mason exactly where she'd expected him—close
enough to feel her breath on his cheek. But his attention had
shifted someplace else, she realized. His expression was faraway.
As she watched, he cocked his head slightly, as though
listening.

"Mason! I—" She hadn't the faintest notion
what to say to him. Heat rose in her cheeks, her heart still
pounding wildly from what had passed between them. Had he lost
interest in her already? Was it only she who felt the attraction
between them? Or maybe her kisses were lacking, that he'd stopped
right amidst one and not even missed it?

Shamefaced, she whipped her hand from his
neck. Mason caught hold of her wrist, his gaze shifting instantly
to her.

"Listen," he commanded.

Her gaze locked with his. Amelia tried to
focus her attention on whatever he'd heard. Bird cries...something
skittering across the desert floor nearby...then, faintly, a
rhythmic beating. Drums?

"A stagecoach," Mason said, releasing her
wrist. His eyes gleamed—with passion? Or a desperado's anticipation
of the chase? He turned in the saddle. "I'll help you
dismount."

"No! Why?"

Heedless, he all-but flung her from behind
the saddle, forcing her to hold onto him for dear life as she
descended to the ground. She landed beside the horse, still
clutching his hard-muscled forearm with both hands.

"Why, Mason? Tell me!"

"Stay here," he said, taking up the reins in
his free hand—making ready to leave. She had little doubt he'd ride
off with her dragging behind the horse, if that's what it took.

"No! Where are you going?" Amelia cried.
Panic made her voice shrill, but she couldn't help it. The horse
pranced forward, sensing its master's mood. Both man and beast
wanted to be away—now. Its trampling hooves came too close—she
released Mason's arm.

Far away on the leftmost horizon, a rising
cloud of dust foretold the stagecoach's progress. The teams'
thundering hooves sounded louder now, faintly overlaid with the
clank of the harness metal.

"You're going to rob that stagecoach!"
Horrified, she backed away from Mason. "You can't! Not now, not
with me here to—"

"I won't be gone long."

He pulled a black bandanna from his duster
pocket and tied it at the back of his head, concealing his face.
Amelia suppressed a shiver. She'd been wrong earlier—he did look
fearsome, even in the daytime.

"Stay here." The horse danced beneath him,
despite Mason's hold on the reins. "I mean it."

He spurred the horse into motion, riding
toward the dust cloud in the distance.

Amelia stared after him, hardly able to
believe her eyes. Thoughts of their kiss fled, chased by a tangle
of emotions she didn't want to feel. He'd left her so easily—but
what else could come of trusting an outlaw? She was a fool to
believe he might behave decently toward her.

Might begin to care for her
, a voice
within her whispered.

She clenched her fist within the dirty pink
folds of her skirt, filled with frustration. He'd seemed less an
outlaw before, only a man—a man who could set her atremble with the
gentleness of his touch. Now Mason rode with no thought of her, to
perform an action Amelia knew—
knew
—was wrong.

He could be hurt. Caught.
Killed
.

She cried out, imagining Mason fallen to the
ground, wounded, surrounded by vengeful stage passengers. She
shouldn't care for a man who'd abducted her, shouldn't worry over a
desperado's safety. But still, somehow, she did. Pacing, Amelia
shook her skirt free of a spiny, pincushion-looking cactus and
stared again toward the stagecoach.
He won't get hurt
, she
told herself. No one would dare fire upon the poet bandit.

It was small comfort. She remembered the
fear of her fellow stagecoach passengers, the lecherous old man and
the miner and banker, and knew any one of them might have taken aim
at the outlaw if given an opportunity. They simply hadn't had one.
The bandit had remained at the head of the coach, dealing only with
the driver.

The driver
. A driver who could bear
her safely away from the outlaw, a driver who could take her to
Tucson to deliver her books! Amelia squinted into the distance,
trying to gauge how far it was to the road the coach traveled
over.

A mile, perhaps—maybe a bit less, she
judged. Surely near enough to run to. Near enough to escape to.

If it made her a traitor to Mason, so be it.
What did fidelity mean to an outlaw? This was what she could expect
from him—to be seduced and abandoned. He didn't care for her. And
she had to make her own way somehow, take care of herself somehow,
else she'd never survive—let alone fulfill her mission.

She'd sworn to deliver every last one of
those J.G. O'Malley & Sons book orders, and that's what Amelia
meant to do. Her father and brothers would know she was
capable...worthy of respect, and even love. Never mind that her
heart clenched at the thought of confronting Mason to do it. If
proving her worth meant interrupting a stagecoach robbery first,
that's exactly what she'd do.

Panting from her headlong race across the
desert, Amelia skidded to a stop when she saw Mason's
chestnut-colored mare picketed behind a cluster of bushes a short
distance from the road. The bushes' disjointed-looking branches
drooped in wide circles to the ground below, each yellow-blooming
length growing just closely enough to its neighbor to conceal the
horse from the stagecoach beyond.

Her J.G. O'Malley & Sons satchels were
still strapped to the saddle, exactly where Mason had lashed them
on. Their metal bindings winked at her in the sunlight. She had to
retrieve them before going on, else she'd never succeed. Crooning
softly, Amelia approached the horse.

"Hello there, girl," she called soothingly,
easing closer. The horse raised its head and looked at her through
its placid, dark eyes, still chewing a mouthful of feathery leaves
stripped from the nearest of the bushes.

"Shhh, that's right," she said. Almost
there. "Easy now. I just want my satchels back, that's all."

The horse's ears pricked forward at the
sound of her voice. An instant later, Amelia touched the saddle,
then the horse's muzzle. She rubbed it softly. "Good horse. Steady
now—I'm just going to untie these satchels—"

Easing sideways, she laid a hand atop the
knot fastening the first satchel. The animal didn't move, so Amelia
felt encouraged enough to scoot all the way over to the knot.

Could horses be loyal to their owners? She
sincerely hoped not—one whinny would likely give away her presence
and her plan alike. Frowning, she peered closely at the thick,
complicated knot and bit back a cry of frustration. It looked nigh
impossible to untie.

In the distance, Mason called out to the
stagecoach driver—probably a command to throw down the strong box,
Amelia supposed. Although she couldn't make out the words, the
fearsome tone of his voice carried clearly to her hiding place. How
much time did she have? She shuddered to imagine what the
consequences might be if the outlaw discovered her trying to escape
again.

She had to succeed, had to be away on the
stage before Mason returned. But not without her satchels.