Whirlwind Wedding (18 page)

Every pore drank him in—the tang of his shaving soap, his dark male scent tinged with a hint of sweat and salt.

“You wouldn't let anything happen.”

He opened his mouth, clamped it shut.

His warm breath teased her lips and desire stabbed deep in her belly, between her legs. That had never happened before! She gasped and closed her eyes, trying to control her breathing, chase away her stupid thoughts.
Kiss me. Please kiss me.

They stood like that for long seconds, merging shadows in the night. Braced against the wall, his heat stroking her,
surrounding her, Catherine melted against the hard planes of his chest.

He turned away, saying harshly, “You trust too easily.”

She opened her eyes and stared at the fluid flex of muscle across his broad back, the hand that fisted against his thigh. Shaken by the accusation in his tone, she felt a shudder ripple through her from head to toe. “I didn't think that was a fault.”

She turned and went inside, closing the door against him.

E
ven after Catherine went inside, frustration seethed in Jericho. He was damn tired. And mad. And hot.

He wanted to get Cinco and race after Davis Lee, but what help could he be? With the night closing in around him, Jericho eased himself down the porch's planed pine wall to the floor. Sharp, brittle pain chewed into his thigh.

Some of his anger abated, but not the grating sense of helplessness. Or the fiery sting in his blood. With the wooden wall at his bare back, he managed to get his boots off, not caring that his wrist hurt worse than it had in days. He was useless to Davis Lee right now, but at least he was here to provide some measure of protection for Catherine in case the McDougals rode close to the house. Andrew's involvement with the gang made that a real possibility.

He pulled his saddle over and balled his shirt into a pillow. Leaning back on his elbows, he lowered himself down to rest his head in the leather cradle. He told himself he was on the road to recovery, that he would regain full use of his hand and leg. The encouraging words from Catherine and Dr. Butler about the time it took to heal the body swirled through his mind, then his thoughts turned to Catherine.

Earlier, she had been so earnest in her belief that he could protect her, and what had he done? Backed her into the wall. Still, she hadn't cowered. It would've been far better if she had. Instead, she had studied his chest with a feminine appreciation that widened her eyes. The flash of hunger had made him want to peel that dress off her and kiss every inch of that creamy skin. He rested his good arm on his chest, working to ease the tangle of emotions inside him.

He focused on breathing, on the chirp of crickets. On the smells of dirt and grass, and the sultriness of the night. A puff of wind drifted along the porch, blowing across his damp chest. And still he pictured Catherine, looking at him as if she wanted to climb him. He didn't think she knew how easily he could read her face. Those blue eyes lingered in his mind as he fell asleep.

Some time later, something woke him. He lay still, registering a thud and a soft grunt. The sounds came from inside the house. Was Andrew sneaking out?

Jericho planted a hand on the wall to help himself up, then limped down the steps. On bare feet he hobbled toward her bedroom window and peered inside.

Yes, she was there, lying on her side facing him, her hair falling over one pale shoulder half-bared by the capped sleeve of her nightdress. He moved on to look into Andrew's window, but the boy's bed was shoved into the dark corner on the near wall. Jericho couldn't see anything. He opened the window and leaned in. Andrew's bed was empty and the boy wasn't in the room.

Jericho was pretty sure the kid had made the noise he'd heard, but had he been coming or going? The sounds had originated from the front part of the house, but no one had left by that door. Andrew had probably woken just as Catherine had, after hearing Davis Lee and Matt ride up. If so, the kid might
have listened in on their conversation. Had he gone to warn the McDougals about the posse?

Usually the boy climbed out his bedroom window for his midnight trips, but this time he'd used the back door. Jericho stumped around behind the house. Was the lad outside or inside? Once on the stoop, Jericho opened the back door silently and stepped inside. The darkness swallowed him as he felt his way through the narrow space, moving toward the fireplace and kitchen. Once there, he could make out the stove, the dry sink and the rest of the front room and its contents. A small amount of moonlight leaked around the window curtains. The table and chairs were as Catherine had left them. No one was in this part of the house.

As quietly as he could, he groped his way past the stove. Recalling the last time he'd walked through this house in the dark, he put out a hand and followed the edge of the kitchen table, carefully skirting it. Favoring his leg made it difficult to avoid creaky floor planks, but no one stirred in the thick silence broken only by the sound of his breathing and the drone of night insects. He reached Catherine's bedroom door, already angling toward her brother's. It happened in a split second.

Her door flew open. She ran headlong into him, the surprise impact causing him to grunt. Reflex had him gripping her arms and pulling her hard into him to save them both from a fall. “Whoa.”

Before the word left his mouth, she went wild, twisting away from him. Her arms flailed and one small fist caught him on the chin.

Stunned, he tightened his grip on her arms.

“No, no! Let me go.”

“Shh, Catherine—”

“Get off!” She fought desperately, kicking, scratching, pummeling his chest with stinging blows.

He couldn't release her. She would fall if she suddenly lost his support.

“Get off of me!”

He clasped both arms around her and stilled her hands. She bowed her back, her hip banging him dead center. Oh, hell. He locked her against his chest so she couldn't knock into him again.

“Catherine.” He grunted as her knee came perilously close to his manhood. “Stop. It's me. Jericho.”

Her eyes were frantic and she shoved at his chest. “Please don't do this. Please, please, please.”

She was panting the words. Her eyes were unfocused, her face a mask of fear. The obvious terror there jerked his mind back to the night he'd fallen against her.

He gentled his hold. Her spine felt fragile beneath his hands, her body so stiff it seemed she might snap at any moment. “Catherine, it's okay. I'm letting you go. See?”

He released her, pain shooting through his wrist. “Catherine?”

She blinked, staring at him uncomprehendingly for a moment.

“It's all right. I'm not touching you.” His chin still tingled from the blow she'd landed. “You're okay.”

He didn't know what else to say, but that seemed to help. He looked into her eyes, willing her to recognize him. Finally realization dawned. The fear faded and was replaced by confusion, then tears.

She looked so raw that he wanted to gather her back into his arms, but he didn't. “I'm sorry.”

“No, I—” A choked sob escaped her. She bent her head and walked straight into his chest, her arms going around him, so tightly he felt her touch all the way to his heart.

Assaulted by the feel of her softness against him, the teasing scent of warm flesh, the uncertainty of what was hap
pening, he stood unmoving for long seconds, his arms suspended at his sides. Touch her or not? A silent sob shuddered out of her and his arms wrapped around her. He rubbed her back, murmuring soothing words to her the way he had to his sister, Deborah, when she'd gashed her knee on a rock one summer.

Still Catherine trembled violently against him. “What just happened, sweetheart?”

She shook her head and looked up. Tears spiked her lashes, wet her cheeks in silver trails. His heart twisted. He lifted his hand, wiped away the wetness with his knuckles as he started to step away.

She buried her face against his chest and held on. “No.”

A tightness squeezed his lungs and he knew he couldn't leave her like this. Still, her breasts against his chest and her hips between his thighs were starting to affect his body. He forced himself to lighten his hold on her. “I won't go. It's okay.”

She sagged into him, her head falling against his shoulder. Concerned, he curled his arm around her and lifted her, bearing as much of her slight weight on his good arm as he could. His wounded hand could barely cup her knee. Pain burned through his wrist, but he didn't care.

He expected her to protest. Instead she hooked one arm over his shoulder and snuggled into his neck. Hell for breakfast.

He hobbled into her room, hating the drag and throb of his leg as he headed toward her bed. Sitting down, he braced his shoulder against the headboard for support. She clung to him like moss on a stone.

With an unsteady hand he stroked her shoulder, her hair, her arm, trying to keep his touch gentle. Deep, dark need sawed through him. The musky scent of her skin was under-laid with verbena and slipped inside his pores, insidious and tempting.

A ragged breath shuddered out of her and warmth washed against his neck.

Her unbound breasts rested softly against his bare chest, her position offering him a view of the satiny swells and the shadowed cleft between. He looked at the floor. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Her voice was muffled against his bare chest.

“Can you tell me what happened?” He'd never seen such stark terror on a woman's face. On anyone's face.

“You startled me and I—” The words came reluctantly. Still looking dazed, she lifted a hand and stroked his cheek. “—I hit you. Where?”

“It's nothing.”

“I'm so sorry.” Her gaze searched his, her fingers sliding gently down the side of his face. “I don't know what happened. Something came over me.”

“Tell me,” he urged quietly.

She stared into his eyes, searching, considering. Uncertainty warred on her delicate features.

His thumb made small circles on her arm, foreboding and rage tangling inside him. She had been completely beside herself. He dreaded what she would say, but somehow he knew she needed to tell him.

“There was a man, a patient at the hospital in New York.” She huddled against Jericho as if his body could break any wave of emotion that hit her.

His arm curved around her, his hand resting on her hip.

“I had assisted during his surgery. The doctor said he should've died, but he didn't. And he started calling me his angel.” Her voice was remote and dry as dust, yet she shook violently. “During his recovery, he was charming and sweet, but after he was allowed to go home, he would appear in places where I was. Showing up at the market or the hospital. Once I saw him walking past the convent.”

Jericho rested his head atop hers, trying to calm the fury gathering inside him like the winds of a twister.

“One evening, I went with Sister Clem to a rough part of the city to help a woman who was having a difficult labor. She was dying and she wanted her baby to be raised by the nuns. I went out to the buggy to fetch something. I don't remember now—oh, yes, she wanted a prayer book. I didn't even see him until I started back inside.”

Her body was tighter than strung barbed wire, her slender shoulder pressing into his chest, her hip into his arousal. He ignored the effect she was having on his anatomy.

“I saw him and I spoke. I thought he had only happened by the place but he had followed me there. When I tried to go inside, he dragged me around the building. He said I'd been leading him on, which I
hadn't
been.”

She said that part fiercely, and Jericho rubbed his hand up and down her arm.

“He tried to kiss me. I—I pushed him away. He knocked me into the wall and started tearing at my clothes.” Her hand crept to her throat, gathering the thin fabric of her nightdress. “I hit him, I think. He pulled my skirts up, tore my underthings and my bodice.”

A shudder rippled through her and Jericho blinked his stinging eyes. This was why she had been so terrified of him that night.

“Did he—?” The words stuck in his throat, scraping and raw. “Catherine?”

“No.” She looked up at him, her eyes bright with pain and relief. “A group of boys were roaming the streets and heard me scream before he covered my mouth. They were a little older than Andrew, and they managed to get him off of me and chase him away, throwing rocks and whatever they could find.”

Jericho worked to steady his breathing, trying not to crush
her to him. Fury blazed through him in a white-hot flash. “And did you tell the Sisters?”

“Yes, and the authorities. They chased him up to the roof of a tenement building and he jumped.” She bent her head and Jericho had to dip his head to hear her. “Even though he was dead, I thought I saw him for weeks after that. Thought I heard someone following me, but there was no one.”

“And tonight when I grabbed you, it all came back.”

“I—I guess because I was awakened so abruptly. I'm sorry I hit you.”

He pressed his lips to her temple, inhaling her fresh scent. Stray wisps of hair tickled his hand and he clumsily tucked a strand behind her ear. “No one is ever going to hurt you again.”

Even as he said the words he knew they were a promise he couldn't keep, but he wasn't taking them back.

Her gaze locked on his, searching and soft. The trust in her eyes, the light wash of her breath against his lips had need punching him like a heavy fist. He was fair to bursting with it, and his timing made him sick.

He couldn't look at her. Gently he tucked her head under his chin.

“Thank you.”

Her teeth chattered and he hugged her close. “You're shaking. Am I spooking you?” He loosened his hold to slide her off his lap.

She clutched his arm to her stomach. “No.”

The strength of her grip surprised him. Her fear was palpable and it was clear she had only a tentative hold on her control. Just a few minutes more. He'd stay until she felt steady again. He angled himself so that he leaned back against the headboard, her body in the cradle of his thighs. He held her that way, his arm under her breasts, tight around her slight frame.

After long minutes, she relaxed into him and her clamp on his arm eased. But she didn't release him. Her breathing evened out. His gaze traveled slowly over the paleness of her skin and gown. In the haze of moonlight filtering through the window, he could see her small feet with their delicate arches. The neat turn of her ankle, a slender calf. Her gown had ridden up to her knee. Far enough to make his hands itch to slide beneath the garment and between her legs.

She had to be asleep. Otherwise she would feel his erection and bolt out of his lap. Savage need pounded through him. His hand crept over the thin cotton at her hip and he rubbed the soft fabric between his thumb and forefinger. He reached for her hand and lightly slid his fingers over hers.