Wild Is the Night (12 page)

“It’s all right, Amanda, don’t cry. You did just fine, it will be all right.”

She could hardly hear him, but his voice sounded good, quiet, and reassuring. He smelled good, too, like horses, sweat, and leather, a scent that was foreign to her but intriguing at the same time. Gradually, her sobs died to hic-coughs, and only then did he release her, his one hand still holding her back while the other fished in his pocket and pulled out a calico handkerchief.

“Blow.” He held the rag to her nose and Amanda obeyed, no longer capable of resistance. Looking up at him through star-spiked lashes, she wiped away the tears that glistened from her cheeks.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I feel so foolish,” she murmured.

“Why?” The expression in his eyes was kind, without a hint of condescension.

“I…I got your shirt all wet.” Forlornly, Amanda stared at the once-white shirt, clearly able to discern damp streaks amid the grey dust that clung to him.

Luke laughed, a sound so infectious she was forced to smile. “I don’t mind. That’s the first hot water to hit my body in days.”

Amanda smiled, then looked down, puzzled by the warmth in his eyes, those incredible orbs of deep blue that could take her breath away. His hand reached up to her face and tipped her chin toward him, making her look at him once more. The shadows danced from the fire as the night deepened around them, but they didn’t diminish the intensity of those eyes, and when he bent down to kiss her, she couldn’t stop that either.

He teased her at first, gently brushing her lips with his own, then darting his tongue between her teeth and withdrawing just when she wanted him to proceed. Forgetting everything else, she leaned closer, pulling him to her, wanting to feel his hard body next to hers—wanting him. He seemed to be holding back, but when she leaned into him like that, she felt his shudder and heard his hoarse whisper.

“My God, Amanda, we shouldn’t be doing this.”

The kiss deepened, and his tongue took possession of the hot sweetness of her mouth, in direct contrast to what he was saying. Amanda pressed closer, amazed at the flow of feelings that set her body on fire. He had yet to touch her, but she was beginning to crave his hands on her body. Somehow, with the way his mouth took hers, and his tongue teased her, penetrating and withdrawing, he was making her desire him with a passion she didn’t know she possessed.

She made a soft noise in the back of her throat and he leaned down, pressing feverish kisses along her neck. His hands caressed her, soothing the aching muscles, making her as weak as spooned jelly. His hips pressed against hers, and Amanda became aware of the hardness of him, of a jutting male part of him that seemed to be seeking entrance to the softness of her that was on fire for him. Amanda unabashedly gripped him closer, loving the feel of it all, becoming dizzy with sensation and need.

“Do you like that?” His hand traced down from her throat to cup her breast, his thumb brushing the erect nipple, making her squirm against him. Amanda nodded, then her eyes closed as he bared a breast and began to knead it with his fingers.

Hot excitement surged through her, excitment so intense that she didn’t bother to hide it even if she could have. He fumbled with the buttons of her dress and she helped him, wanting more of the feelings he was artfully arousing in her. Hot blood surged to meet him as he stripped the dress and underclothes to her waist, then cupped both breasts in his rough hands.

The sandpaper quality of his fingers aroused her, as did the mind-numbing kiss he gave her at the same time. Amanda sighed, reaching for him, letting her hands explore him the same way he explored her. She touched him innocently inside his shirt, gasping at the firm hard muscles beneath, then her hand slid lower, to where his chest hair traced down. She had scarcely reached his belly when he grabbed her hand roughly, his grip almost painful.

“We’ve got to stop this,” he panted, though his eyes burned a hot blue, like the flame of a candle. “If we don’t stop now I won’t be able to.”

Amanda wanted to object, but he forced himself away from her and retrieved a flask from the saddlebag. He took a long drink, then he glanced back toward her. When he saw her standing beneath the cotton woods, her dress around her waist, her body exposed to his gaze, he shuddered in suppressed desire and annoyance at himself.

“Get dressed,” he said harshly, then gentled his voice. “I’ll heat some cloths for your legs. It will help the pain.”

Mortified, Amanda slid the dress and chemise back over her arms and buttoned it with shaking hands. He didn’t want her. The first time between them had been so horrible that he didn’t want to go any further. She sank down to the grass, unaware that night had stolen over the land, or that Luke was building up the fire. Pain overwhelmed her, emotional pain, and when he approached her with his shirt soaked in hot water, she nearly threw it at him.

“I can take care of myself,” she reminded him. “As Homer says—”

“Amanda.” Luke cut her off, still fighting the desire that surged through him. “Put this on your legs. We have to ride tomorrow, and you won’t get very far in the condition you’re in.”
And I won’t get anywhere in the condition I’m in,
he amended to himself.

She snatched at the shirt, turning so he couldn’t see her tear-streaked face, revealing to him what the darkness would have hidden. Night sounds, katydids, and the rustling of nocturnal animals mingled with the crackling from the fire. Amanda put the cloth on her legs, feeling the warmth soak through to her battered skin, then she curled up in the grass, her stomach lurching, her throat tight.

What in God’s name was happening to her? Amanda didn’t understand any of this. She didn’t know why her body wanted him, nor why her emotions made her feel wretched inside. For the first time since they’d set out, she regretted her decision to have him accompany her. She’d made a bargain with a man she hardly knew, set off with him on a journey where there was no one to advise or protect her. She was at his mercy, yet that wasn’t what frightened her.

It was herself. Amanda Edison had always been in control. Her brilliant mind had done that for her; made her able to take any situation in hand and triumph. And now this man barely had to kiss her and she was like any other simpering schoolgirl, as weak in the knees as in the mind.

She should be glad he’d stopped. It was the agreement they’d made, yet as she watched him drink his whiskey, she wanted to hurt him the way she was hurting. Luke Parker was definitely a distraction.

And one she couldn’t wait to do without.

Luke waited until he was sure she was asleep, then he softly covered her and returned to his bedroll. That same refuge eluded him, however, and when he was tired of trying, he sat up and helped himself to more of the whiskey-laced coffee and a rolled cigarette. Drawing on the carefully wrapped cylinder of tobacco, he leaned against a small boulder and contemplated the sleeping woman beside him.

God, how he wanted her. He could still feel the powerful urge to take her in his arms, to hold her, kiss her, and love her as he’d tried to once before. Yet, it was impossible. More than impossible, it was downright dangerous.

Enveloped in darkness, Luke opened his jacket, reached inside his shirt and withdrew a tiny silver locket embossed with gold leaf. The raised filigreed heart outside was worn completely smooth, and the gold decoration now blended perfectly with the silver, metal melting into metal. Snapping the tiny clasp, he held the open locket toward the fire and gazed at the faces of the two women inside.

His mother and sister. Luke studied the faces, so alike except for the passage of time. Lillian, his mother, possessed the high cheekbones, delicate nose, and soft blue eyes that betrayed her French ancestry. It was a proud face, showing little of the hardship she’d borne, raising two children alone after her husband died of tuberculosis. Thankfully, John Parker had left a plantation that was self sustaining, so while the family didn’t advance financially, they were able to maintain the gracious lifestyle he’d created for them.

Luke’s eyes sought out the younger woman’s and even now, after all this time, the pain assaulted him. Suzette was fourteen when he’d last seen her, fourteen and full of life. No raving beauty, the features that were so refined on her mother were devilish on her, and the grin which she flashed so often was full of mischief. Coddled but not spoiled, she was sure of herself and she enjoyed every precious minute of her life. She had a wonderful future ahead of her, as the only daughter of one of the most respected families in Charleston. Yet, now she was gone, murdered along with her mother by a band of renegades during the war, her lively body hushed by the only real enemy she’d ever known— death.

Luke blinked as the pain rose up inside of him. God, it was so unfair. When he’d heard about the tragedy, he left the fourteenth division of the Confederate Army, and was branded a deserter. But he had to get home, to see for himself, for surely it was all a horrible mistake and Suzette would come running down the ivy-covered lane giggling and out of breath, and she would fold him in her arms and take him to the house where his mother waited. And there was nothing. The house had been burned, and behind the blackened foundation lay two hastily dug graves. The horses, the lovely furnishings…everything was gone.

Softly closing the locket, Luke let the metal warm in his hand as if he could somehow bring the two people inside back to life. He couldn’t, he knew that. But he was determined to achieve a few things. He’d had it all once, and he would get it back, no matter what it took. He’d regain the lifestyle his father had attained, and this time he’d never leave. He’d protect what was his, with his life, if necessary. He’d become respected once more, live where the name Parker meant something other than deserter.

And he’d get his revenge. Anger welled up within him as he was told, over and over again, the name of the cutthroat who’d cost him so much.

Haskwell.

He’d been tracking the gang for months, finding them always one step ahead, hearing of their horrible deeds in every town they’d entered. They left men dying in their wake, providing an easy way to track them. By the time he’d reached Kansas, Haskwell was the most hated name in the West.

Luke glanced toward Amanda, who tossed and turned on the prairie grass, her dreams troubled. Somehow, this bright and eccentric young author had attracted the attention of Haskwell. For that reason, among others, he had to avoid complications. Since he’d discovered the truth, that the gang was gunning for Amanda, he was more than determined to avoid intimacy with her at any cost. Emotions made one vulnerable, and if he admitted the truth, he felt guilty about the way he was using her, even if it was necessary. Amanda was like a magnet, drawing the outlaws wherever she went. He wouldn’t need to track them now, not with her at his side. Sooner or later, Sam Haskwell would reveal himself.

And Luke would be waiting.

Later that night, Amanda woke, and pulling out her journal, quickly recorded her thoughts.

It is late, and the earth is asleep. Even the stars seem dimmer, as if aware of the coming of dawn and the inevitable extinquishment of their tiny lights. The night sounds, katydids and crickets, the rustlings of raccoons and field mice, have long since died, leaving a silence that seems thunderous in my ears.

I can hear Luke’s gentle breathing and the occasional movement of his body in slumber. I can’t see him, for the fire has become nothing more than a greyish ash, a dismal memory of its former brilliance. I like having him nearby. Isn’t that strange? A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have known him from any of the hundreds of strangers I might pass in the street. Tonight, he is a comfort to me in this wilderness.

I can’t stop thinking about when he held me, and I felt wonderfully alive. He seemed to want me, but then he pulled away. I know he regrets that first intimacy between us, but something inside of me broke when he left me standing alone, my arms empty of his warmth. It must have been the whiskey. But for that, he would not have kissed me, and I would not have felt this wretched pain. I must dispose of it before it happens again, for I fear the result should he touch me like that once more.

Chapter
  
8