Beyond Betrayal (17 page)

"Sure thing.” He swung his legs to the side as per her request.

If only the gouge was not so near. . . the center of his waistband. There was no help for it; she had to finish this and she wouldn't get it done from here.

Before she could change her mind, she extended her arms to begin working on the injury and desperately sought the cord of their conversation. "Now then," she said, "do you want to continue with what you were saying?"

He considered. "Actually," he said. "I think that discussion might be best left for another time."

"Just when you'd managed to get my undivided attention."

"Well. . . maybe I'll reconsider," he murmured. His voice held a note that Delilah hadn't heard before. A husky, suggestive note, slightly tight. "I think I like the idea of having your undivided attention."

Oh, Lord! He sounded. . . provocative! Her hands trembled as an impossible combination of dread and excitement swept through her.

~~~*  *  *~~~

________________________

Samson looked down at the woman kneeling at his side and damn near choked. Though he could tell from her expression that the position she'd adopted was completely innocent on her part, and was simply necessary for providing the medical care he needed, he couldn't help finding her posture extremely erotic. Her hand was scant inches from a certain part of him. And that certain part was definitely taking notice, reminding him of just how long it had been since he'd been with a woman.

"Delilah . . . "

"Yes?” Her concentration remained on the stitch she was tying.

"Look at me," he whispered, reaching out to lift her chin again. It seemed he was always doing that for she seemed curiously reluctant to meet his gaze. But this time, even though he raised her chin, she kept her eyes averted. "Look at me," he said again.

In an almost imperceptible motion, she shook her head.

"Why?" he asked, subtly stroking the soft skin beneath his fingers. He hoped she was getting used to contact with him. That she would stop fearing him.

"I think it's best if I finish your dressing and we say goodnight."

Samson studied her face for an endless moment, from her flawless creamy complexion to the exotic arch of her midnight-black brows. From her slightly uptilted eyes to her rosy pink lips. From the delicate shell of her ear to the corkscrew strand of hair that brushed the rosy slant of her cheekbone. "All right," he said finally, releasing her, though the words cost him. He didn't think he'd ever wanted anything quite so badly as he wanted to taste Delilah's oh-so-kissable mouth.

He sensed more than heard her sigh of relief. Damnation! How was she ever going to get over her fear of men if she didn't let one touch her? Preferably him.

He watched as she quickly completed the last few stitches and then rose. She scooped up the soiled dressing that had once been her petticoat, throwing it into the stove fire and then put away the needle. The more he observed her, evaluated her reactions, the more he realized that Delilah was a woman of contradictions. She'd been married, yet she was obviously quite discomfited by the sight of his naked torso—though she had disguised it well by talking incessantly. She feared the touch of a man, yet she claimed her husband had not abused her. According to what she'd said earlier in the day, she resented the unpaid servitude of being a wife in a loveless marriage, yet she evinced to have been so happily married that she could not stop mourning her husband.

"If you'll stand up now," Delilah said, "we can get a clean bandage on and we'll be finished."

"Sure thing, ma'am.” He stood and moved a bit away from the chair.

Delilah pushed the whiskey out of her way as she collected a couple of padded dressings. Realizing for the first time that the whiskey had a strange greenish tinge to it, Samson frowned. "What exactly is that stuff," he asked.

She looked to see what he was pointing at. "It's Fong's homemade whiskey. Apparently he makes it especially for disinfecting injuries."

Pressing a wadded dressing over the worst of the scratches, she directed him to hold it while she prepared a strip to tie it in place. As Samson looked down at her, at the vulnerable nape of her neck as she worked on him, he knew he could not. . . would not keep his word.

Finished securing the bandage, she tightened the last knot and said, "There, that should hold until you get a chance to have the doctor look at it."

"Thank you," he said quietly. He'd hoped that she'd look up to respond, but she only nodded and began to turn away. Instinctively, he reached out to halt her and then stared down in surprise at his own hand where it gripped her shoulder. "Delilah—"

"Yes?” The word came out in a whisper.

But he couldn't remember what it was he'd wanted to say, so he simply grasped her other shoulder and turned her toward him. Then, wordlessly, he once again lifted her chin, bringing her gaze up to meet his. The apprehension he saw shining from those beautiful blue eyes was like a kick in the gut. He wanted to hold her and protect her from her fear. But he couldn't protect her from himself so he lowered his gaze to her pouty mouth. Her full lips trembled. The tip of her tongue darted out to moisten them, leaving them glistening and he groaned deep in his throat, knowing he was lost. He'd simply have to prove to her that she had nothing to fear from him.

Lowering his head, he captured her lips with his. She stood frozen in his grasp, neither responding nor pulling away. Confused, he gently drew her into an embrace, reveling in the sensation of holding her soft woman's body next to his even as he sought the clues he needed to tell him how she felt. But there were none. Lingeringly, deliberately, he stroked her full lips with his tongue. He felt her tremble. Heard her breathing quicken.

Yes! But still she didn't open to him.

Slowly he drew back to look down into her face. Her eyes were closed, the midnight lashes fanning against her flushed cheeks. Her lips gleamed from his kiss. And yet her arms hung at her sides.

Baffled by the mixed signals he was receiving, but resolved not to give up on this yet, Samson let his hands slide down her arms to her hands which he lifted and placed on his shoulders. She opened her eyes then to stare at him dazedly. "Open your lips for me, darlin'," he murmured.

"Wha. . ." but she didn't get any further because he captured her lips again, plunging his tongue into the moist warm hollow of her mouth. Damnation, she tasted good. Sweet. He’d always had a sweet tooth.

He caressed her tongue with his, expecting her to reciprocate, to show some kind of response, but again he was disappointed. She stood passive in his embrace, her breathing suggested that she was as aroused as he, but she did not react overtly in any way. His frustration grew. What in blazes? Did she want this, or didn't she? Where was the experienced lover he'd expected to find?

Finally, his patience snapped and he released her mouth. "Goldarnit woman!" he exclaimed in a tone scarcely above a whisper, ever mindful of those who might be listening from behind closed doors. "Will you quit kissin' me like a blamed virgin."

He regretted the words the instant Delilah opened her eyes and he saw the hurt flare in those brilliant blue depths.

"Ah, heck. I'm sorry . . . "

But it was too late. The hurt transformed to anger so swiftly that, had he blinked, he might not have seen it at all, and she pulled from his embrace, turning toward the table. "I apologize if my lack of expertise prevented you from enjoying the kiss, Sheriff," she said. Her words, although low, were clipped. "But I've never . . . ” She broke off.

Samson studied the tense lines of her slender back. A vague suspicion began to come to life in his mind. "Never what?"

"I've never before met a man boorish enough to comment on it," she concluded. Samson was almost positive, though, that was not what she'd been about to say. "Perhaps your own tastes are more suited to the bordellos, Sheriff.” She began bustling about putting away the remaining bandages and whiskey.

Samson put his shirt back on, not bothering to button it. He was still trying to figure out what to say, how to negate the effect of his unruly tongue when Delilah began to walk toward her bedroom door saying, "Goodnight, Sheriff," over her shoulder without so much as glancing in his direction.

"Delilah . . . "

She halted, but did not turn.

"I didn't say that I didn't enjoy the kiss. I enjoyed it. Very much."

Without a word, she opened the bedroom door, stepped inside, and closed it again. Samson clenched his fists in frustration and muttered a very foul word under his breath. She'd probably never let him kiss her again.

*   *   *

Delilah leaned against the door, closed her burning eyes against the sting of tears, and pressed a shaking hand to her throat. She'd just experienced her first
real
kiss, and it had been a disaster. Not only had Matt made it crystal clear that he was sadly disappointed by her lack of expertise, but he'd then compounded her mortification by claiming that he'd enjoyed it anyway. But why hadn't he felt the same things she'd felt?

She'd been completely unprepared for such a carnal exchange. Hadn't even conceived that such kisses existed. It had been absolutely unlike the chaste meeting of lips she'd shared with the neighbor boy she'd thought to marry once long ago—in another life, it seemed. This kiss had been. . . exhilarating in a strange way. It had been warm, exciting, and very, very pleasant to be held in Matt's strong arms. To be cradled so gently against that big body. To finally experience the kiss that, despite all her fears, she'd been wondering about. It had been almost frighteningly foreign, and yet delicious at the same time. She'd never before experienced that strange melting sensation inside. Or the peculiar sense of light-headedness that should have been unpleasant, but was not in the least. And now that she had, she was more than simply afraid. She was terrified.

Terrified because she knew that, should he overcome his initial disappointment and someday kiss her again, she'd welcome his embrace. Terrified because, no matter how much she enjoyed his kiss, she knew she could never acquiesce to what he would expect to follow. Terrified because she was suddenly experiencing feelings she'd never expected to feel.

Oh, Lord! What was she to do? She could never allow any man, even Matt, to touch her in that way.

She didn't understand how kissing could be so pleasant when. . . the rest was so hurtful and repugnant. If her mother had been alive, perhaps she could have brought herself to ask, to seek the answers she craved. But Morgana was long dead, and Delilah could not bring herself to ask her younger sister.

Delilah was the oldest. The one whom Eve had always turned to for answers. Perhaps it was silly, but Delilah felt that, should she ask Eve a question like this, she would in some way destroy the balance that existed between them.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, blinking back tears that she refused to shed, Delilah finally summoned the strength to step away from the door. In the light of the lamp that Eve must have left burning for her, she focused on the bedchamber. The furnishings consisted of a bed, night table, and a dresser containing a pitcher and wash basin. On the night table rested a tattered copy of
The Ladies Home Journal
, and a pair of books which on closer examination proved to be
Moby Dick
, and
Uncle Tom's Cabin
. A white nightgown had been laid out on the bed for her. It would feel good to wash and get out of her dusty clothing.

She'd just begun to unbutton her shirtwaist when she was interrupted by a determined scratching at her door. Poopsy! Delilah cautiously opened the bedroom door only wide enough to allow the small dog to enter, but she couldn't help glancing into the other room. Matt had not yet sought his bed. He stood big, bold and very dynamic at the end of the table. His gaze met and locked with hers, dark and mysterious, as though he'd been expecting her perusal. Her pulse leapt in her throat and Delilah hastily closed the door.

"Rr. . . raw, gr. . . ow, rrr," Poopsy demanded from the floor near her feet.

"Shush," Delilah admonished. "I'm sorry I forgot about you. But you have to be quiet or you'll wake somebody up."

The little dog gave her a censorious look and then searched around expectantly for her bed.

"We couldn't bring it remember," Delilah whispered. "Come here.” Lifting Poopsy onto the foot of the bed, she said, "You'll just have to sleep with me while we're here."

Poopsy bared her teeth, proclaiming her satisfaction with the arrangement, and settled down with a little snort to watch Delilah as she readied herself for bed.

*   *   *

As he lay before the fireplace in the other room, Samson's unruly mind conjured images to correspond to the muffled sounds emanating from Delilah's bedroom—images that were not in the least conducive to sleep. With an effort of pure will, he turned his thoughts to other things, contemplating the information he'd garnered at the Lazy M ranch in the hope that sleep would follow.

Carter McTaggert had been his usual gruff self, demanding that Samson do something to earn his salary. McTaggart claimed that, including the twenty head he'd just lost, he'd been pilfered for almost a hundred head of cattle since the rustling had begun. Knowing McTaggert and his penchant for exaggeration, however, Samson estimated the actual number would be more in the range of fifty head. Still, it was a goodly number. And with the current beef shortage, someone out there was probably making a darn good dollar with the stolen beeves.