Innocent Fire (25 page)

Her happiness had vanished. She was tense and afraid and realized now how content she had been for a while.

First Derek was angry with her for not letting him exercise his husbandly rights. Since that afternoon when he had begged her to let him make love to her, he had been sleeping outside, a silent message of anger. She had been so upset when he had chosen this means of communicating his disapproval that she hadn’t been able to face him the next day.

Then she had failed again, and again. She so wanted to please him and be a good wife! She didn’t know why, but it was the most important thing in her life. She desperately missed his comforting presence in their bed at night. She had wanted to clean the game to be a better wife, but he had laughed at her pitiful efforts, her weakness.

And he was raging over the possibility that she might be pregnant.

Miranda didn’t want to sleep alone again. He had disappeared after cleaning the game. She stuffed the turkey with cornmeal and herbs, then baked it in the oven Derek had made from a pit, not far from the outdoor cooking fire. She made fresh bread and rice to go with the turkey, and roasted the hares for another day. When she had finished sewing the pants and bathed her face, he finally returned from wherever he had gone.

It was still light out, although the sun would be setting shortly. He was covered with sweat, as if he had been engaged in a great deal of physical activity. She watched him anxiously as he strode into their camp, and their eyes met. He gave her a smile.

“God, this place smells great,” he said. “I could smell that turkey and stuffing two miles away. I’ll bathe in a flash.”

Miranda relaxed a little, absurdly pleased with the off-hand compliment, praying that she hadn’t overcooked the turkey. She busied herself around the fire until he returned from the creek. She tried not to watch as he approached, naked. What a magnificent man he was. He took the clothes she had laundered, now dry and a bit stiff, and slipped on the pants. He shrugged on a shirt and came to the fire barefoot.

They ate in silence. Derek always had an appetite, and tonight was no exception. She could see that he was absorbed in his thoughts. Brooding, she thought. But he smiled at her and praised her cooking. She felt her heart flip at his words. The turkey was a bit overdone, she thought, but just barely. Her cooking was improving. She would be a good wife to him; she had made herself that promise. She knew she wasn’t pregnant. She had prayed, as he had suggested. She also prayed he would come to her bed tonight.

Derek suddenly leaped to his feet.

“What is it?” she asked, turning to look in the direction he was staring. She saw a spiral of smoke some distance away. Her first feeling was terror. There were other humans, Indians, in the area!

Derek laughed. “Would you look at that!” he exclaimed.

“Derek, who do you think it is?” she asked anxiously.

“Apache,” he said. “My people.”

She gaped.

He made a very small fire and soon a thin trail of smoke was drifting up. He took a blanket and fanned the smoke into puffs, sending up smoke signals.

Miranda was stunned. “What are you saying?”

“I’m identifying myself. We don’t want to be slaughtered while we sleep.”

She stared. Then she looked at the puffs he was sending up, amazed that anyone could communicate by a code of smoke. She looked at the signals being sent from the Apache. “What do they say?”

Bragg didn’t speak for many minutes. Then he laughed. “It’s my brother’s people, Miranda. It’s Najilkhise’s band.”

“Your brother? Najilkhise?”

“I have a half brother,” Derek explained, putting out the small smoke fire. “My mother was married to his father, then was widowed and married my father. His father was head man, as he is.”

“I didn’t know you had any family alive. So he’s completely Indian.”

“Yes. I’ll go visit tomorrow or the next day.” He smiled at her. “I would like to take you if you’re up to it.”

Miranda shivered, possibly from the breeze and coming darkness. She was thinking about the brutal Comanche. Derek seemed to read her thoughts.

“The Apache are not dogs like the Comanche. They do not torture women and children, nor do they rape. Ever. Women prisoners usually marry Apache men, and children are adopted, eventually marrying into the tribe. It’s all quite civilized.” He was watching her. He would understand if she refused to meet his people, but he wanted her to accept his invitation.

“Of course I’ll go,” she said softly, gazing at him levelly, with tenderness.

Her look made him tremble—a look of caring, concern.

Miranda’s heart began to pound as she crawled into their bed in the wickiup. She strained her ears, listening to the night sounds—crickets and frogs. Bragg seemed to have recovered from the afternoon, and she wasn’t sure if he was still angry or not. She waited anxiously for him to come to her, hoping he would. Tonight she would let him become a true husband to her—because she wanted to please him. But he did not come.

After an hour or so she got to her feet and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, completely covering herself from head to ankle. If he would not come to her, she would go to him. She stepped outside.

She knew he slept just outside the door to the wickiup, a few yards away. She saw him there, on a blanket, lying on his back. Another blanket was pulled to his waist. His chest and shoulders and arms were bare; she knew he slept naked. She had never done so before, and had only disrobed in anticipation of letting him take her—as a husband takes his wife. She approached silently.

Miranda wondered if he could possibly be sleeping. The night was suddenly silent. The crickets and frogs seemed to have stopped their serenade. She could hear her own breathing. Could he really be asleep? It didn’t seem possible. She knew he slept with one eye open and one ear attuned. She paused at his side, studying him.

His eyes were closed and his breathing was slow and even. He was incredibly handsome, his features almost finely chiseled, his ruggedness adding to his appeal. Even as he slept, she felt the power of his beauty. He was the first man she had ever felt attracted to. Her mouth was dry, and she was breathless.

How should she do this? Should she just climb beneath his blanket and lay beside him? She was flushed, apprehensive, excited by her daring, but afraid. She hated the thought of the pain, but she would bear it to please him. She got to her knees, then cautiously lifted one corner of the blanket. She let her own blanket fall, and holding her breath, slid in next to him. His skin was silk and sand and incredibly hot against hers.

Miranda had just stretched out beside him when he said conversationally, “What are you doing?”

She gasped. From the tone of his voice she didn’t think he had been asleep at all. She couldn’t find her voice. She lay on her side, her knees and lower thighs touching his hip, the tips of her breasts suddenly hard and touching his shoulder.

He moved like a snake. She was suddenly on her back, and he had his arms around her, his chest on top of her breasts, crushing them. His face was inches from hers, his breath hot. “What are you doing?”

“You’re angry,” she whispered, finally finding her voice.

“I’m not angry,” he said huskily.

She became aware of his shaft, very hot and hard,
throbbing against the outside of her thigh. There was a constriction in her chest. “You’re angry,” she said. “Because I denied you yesterday. Please. Don’t be angry with me, Derek.”

“I’m not angry,” he repeated, his mouth almost brushing hers. “And you still haven’t answered my question.”

“I want to please you,” she said. “I want to be a good wife. You may…you may make love to me.”

He stared. For a long moment he didn’t move, didn’t speak. She could see how brightly his eyes glittered, could see the tension on his face. And she could feel his heart against hers, the coarse hairs of his chest on her breasts, the throbbing tip of him against her leg. She couldn’t breathe. She suddenly felt trapped. Images of Chavez fluttered through her mind, against her will. She tried to push them away. And at the same time the very core of her, her womanhood, was aching slightly, not unpleasantly. She closed her eyes.

“Do you want me?”

She opened her eyes in surprise.

“Do you want me, Miranda?” His voice was so hoarse. He threw his thigh over both of hers, and she felt his shaft between her tightly clenched legs.

“I don’t want you to be angry,” she whispered.

“I’m not angry,” he groaned. “Frustrated, not angry.”

“You slept outside last night.”

“Because, Miranda, holding you is torture for my male body.” He claimed her lips.

She didn’t open them, her fright increasing. He moved insistently over them, shifting himself so that he was prodding between her legs. She clamped her thighs tighter together and lay stiff and unyielding in his arms. He stopped kissing her. She let out her breath, which she had been holding, in a sigh of relief.

He shuddered and rolled swiftly off her. “Dammit! Don’t come to me like some kind of sacrifice!”

Miranda sat up. “No, Derek, please, now you’re even angrier.”

“I want you to want me,” he said raggedly, staring at her with burning eyes. “And I chose to sleep out here because I haven’t had a woman since that damn birthday
barbecue. If you come to my bed, at least act like you’re going to enjoy it! At least pretend!”

Tears trickled down her cheeks. “I can’t do anything right! Please, give me another chance.”

He stared, and then, before she could move, he grabbed her, pulling her against him and kissing her almost brutally. “Damn! I’m only human!” he cried, pushing her down, running his calloused hands over her breasts, kneeing her thighs apart before she could clamp them together. He kissed her so savagely she tasted blood.

All pleasant sensations were gone. She knew only fear, icy terror that he was going to hurt her terribly. His body shook on top of hers, his hands cupped and squeezed her breasts, and he groaned. He reached down and slipped his hand between her thighs, over her dry flesh.

“Damn,” he said, “damn!”

He couldn’t take her like this, not when she was frightened and cold, but he had no control left. He was beyond almost all rational thought. He clamped his mouth on hers, grabbed her hand, and placed it against his shaft. “Hold me,” he ordered harshly. Her fingers closed around him. He moved her hand rapidly up and down his throbbing length, and then he was lost, exploding, releasing his seed onto her belly. He collapsed on top of her, slipping his arms around her and holding her tightly.

Miranda lay very still, not daring to move, shocked. She understood what had happened, but not why. But…she was grateful. He had saved her great pain. Still, why hadn’t he taken her the way a man should?

“Are you all right?” he asked softly.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. Miranda, it was too long, I lost control, I’m sorry.”

“Why did you do it that way?”

“I didn’t want to rape you, and if I’d taken you so quickly, that’s what it would have been.”

Miranda thought about what he’d said. “But I don’t think a husband can rape a wife.”

“You may have a point.” He hesitated, then smoothed her hair and kissed her lightly. “Did I…offend you?”

She paused. She was sure that what they had done was
wrong, sinful. But in a way, he had been protecting her. Had he offended her? She wasn’t sure. She finally answered. “I don’t think so.”

He rolled onto his side, pulling her against him. He wanted to make love to his wife properly. He wanted to make her moan in ecstasy. But how was he going to do that when his passion frightened her? How could he breach her defenses, subtly, without her knowing? Hadn’t he been trying to do that all along? He knew very well that she liked kissing, but he only kissed her in broad daylight, when they were dressed and doing their chores. A thought came to him, slowly forming in his mind. And he smiled.

As usual, Miranda didn’t hear him approach and didn’t know he was there until he planted a kiss on her cheek. She leaped to her feet, startled only for a split second, while he laughed, turning her and holding her against him momentarily. “You need better ears, woman.”

She smiled, suddenly shy. He had been gone all morning, gone before she had even awakened. She remembered the previous night with some embarrassment. “Where have you been?”

“Visiting,” he said. “Can that stew hold till supper? I already ate, with my brother. But I want you to eat.” He gave her a playfully stern look.

“You went to see…Naj…” Her voice trailed off.

“Najilkhise. Na-jil-ke-hi-say. Yep. I told him that tomorrow I’ll bring my wife.” He grinned.

Miranda felt relieved, but guiltily so. “You frighten me a bit, Derek, when you disappear for so long without a word.” Her tone was reprimanding as she reached for the big iron kettle.

He intercepted her, taking the cloth holder out of her hand and moving the kettle off the fire. “Do I? Why is that?” He was teasing.

“What if you were hurt, or in an accident?” She was serious. As much as he liked to think he was invincible—as she sometimes did, too—he wasn’t. He was only a man.

“Then I’d crawl back to my beautiful wife who would kiss me back to health.”

“Be serious!”

“Eat up. We’ve got plans this afternoon.” He ladled an overgenerous portion of the hare and root stew and handed her the tin plate.

“What plans?” she said, but sat on a chair of birch that Derek had made and obediently began to eat.

“A surprise,” he said. He disappeared into the wickiup, then returned a moment later wearing his loin cloth and moccasins and carrying two of their smallest blankets. She finished eating half her meal, wondering suspiciously what he was up to now. She returned what she hadn’t eaten to the kettle. She caught him scowling at her.

“I ate half,” she said quickly, defensively.

“Let’s go,” Derek said, holding out his hand. Miranda took it, and he led her into the woods.

He slowed his pace to accommodate her. Spring was in its full glory. The sun was bright, the day perfectly warm. A faint, fresh breeze rustled newly green leaves. Chicks in nests overhead squeaked hungrily, and Derek paused once, putting a finger to his lips, pointing. Miranda searched the glade, and then saw a newborn fawn stumbling on long, stiltlike legs, the mother resting with heaving flanks in the tall grass.

“Is she all right?” Miranda whispered anxiously.

At that moment, the doe lunged to her feet and began licking her fawn, cleaning off the afterbirth. The fawn nuzzled its mother, searching, and began to suckle. Derek took her hand and they moved away.

He led her to a green, fragrant clearing where a sparkling pool graced a short waterfall, no higher than a tall man’s height. “What a beautiful spot,” Miranda exclaimed. “Is this our creek?”

“An arm of it,” Derek said, smiling at her transparent delight. He bent and pulled off his moccasins.

She glanced at him. “What are…?” And she blushed as he dropped his loincloth, standing before her as if he didn’t have a care in the world. She averted her face, but not before she caught a glimpse of that male part of him she had held last night. Only now it looked quite different.

“We’re going swimming,” he said easily, approaching her with a grin.

“Derek,” she protested, and looked carefully at his face.

“Take off your clothes. The water’s a bit cool at first, but you’ll get used to it.” He reached for her blouse.

“I can’t swim,” she said. She felt panic, and not entirely at the prospect of swimming. She backed away. She knew her face was red.

“Miranda, I’m your husband, so there’s no need to be shy or modest. How I look is a natural thing, just like how you look.”

“Modesty is godly,” she said, grabbing his wrists as he began undoing the buttons of her blouse. “I don’t want to go swimming.”

“I’m going to teach you,” he said firmly, pulling off her blouse as if she weren’t trying to stop him. “And modesty does not please me.”

She paused to think about that. In that instant, he had her skirt falling to her ankles. “Derek!”

“I refuse to have my wife drown on me someday,” he said, reaching for the ribbon on her petticoat. He pulled it, and that item of clothing floated in a white cloud to the ground.

“All right,” she said, becoming frightened of the actual prospect. “But if I drown now it will be your fault!”

He chuckled. “I have no intention of letting you drown, princess. Do you want to leave your chemise on?”

“Yes!”

He shook his head at the eagerness of her tone, but his mouth was twitching. “Take off those damn pantalets, though.”

“Do I have to?”

“Do you want to drown?”

She pulled off her moccasins and pantalets, feeling naked. He looked at her. His face was expressionless, but she saw the hot vibrant light in his eyes. Her panic increased, and with it she felt a tumbling kind of quickening.

“C’mon,” he said, stepping away from her.

She gasped as he put enough distance between them for her to see his aroused state, gasped and shut her eyes. But
what she had seen remained a firm image in her mind. She was fascinated.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but you’re too damn beautiful, and I can’t help my reaction. Open your eyes!”

She did, but she looked at his face, then his shoulder. Her gaze started to drop—then she quickly met his golden glance again. He was laughing.

“You act like a virgin,” he chuckled. “Do I…please you?”

She gasped, stunned at such a question.

His face fell. He frowned, then he took her hand and pulled her with him to the pool. As they got closer, she forgot about him and began to be afraid. “How deep is it?”

“Not deep,” he lied.

“I don’t want to swim,” she said, digging in her heels.

“You’ll love it,” he told her, half dragging her.

“No, please,” she said, pulling against him.

He stopped and looked at her. He didn’t want to terrify her, just teach her a useful skill, one that could possibly save her life someday. That, and play around a bit. She was pale with fright. He’d forgotten that sometimes she had no backbone. He sighed and released her hand. Turning, he dove in. He swam across the width of the pond, which was about thirty strokes, pausing on the other side to see her standing still and watching. He swam back to her side until he was ten strokes from the edge, where he found sure footing. The water came up to his waist. “The water’s great,” he called. “And you can stand right up to here. I won’t take you out past this point, I promise.”

Miranda frowned. He could see her warring with herself, her natural timidity at odds with her desire to obey him, even please him. He dove under the water and swam back and forth hard a few times, until he strained his muscles, enjoying the tension. She had come to the edge and dipped her foot in. He dove under the water and swam to the edge. Reaching up, he grabbed her ankles.

She shrieked as she fell in.

He immediately put his arms around her.

“You bastard!” she cried, coughing and trembling and thrashing wildly.

Derek was shocked, but only for a moment. He had never heard her curse. He held her loosely, and his voice was soothing. “Miranda, you can stand.”

She was clinging to him like a monkey.

“Miranda,” he said in the same gentle voice, prying off her arms, “I’m standing, sweetheart.”

Comprehension dawned, and she looked into his gaze with her wide, frightened violet eyes. He saw some of her panic recede. With her hands around his neck, she slid down his body, and he managed to bite off a groan at the feel of her thigh and hip rubbing his manhood. She was oblivious to his reaction—or too frightened to care. Her feet found the slippery rock beneath, her hold loosened, and she slipped, crying out.

Derek immediately grabbed her by the waist, but not before she got another mouthful of water. He pulled her up so that she was standing, sputtering and choking. Her hands were around his neck, digging in painfully, and she was practically crawling into his skin. He wished he wasn’t so aroused. He wished she knew she was causing him agony by pressing her soft—if stiff—body against him. Maybe this hadn’t been the best of ideas.

“Miranda, loosen your hands, you’re hurting me,” he said firmly. “You’re standing. Look, the water only comes to your chest.”

She began to relax. She loosened her hold fractionally, her breathing hard and rapid. Couldn’t she feel the length of him against her belly? “Relax,” he murmured, taking her wrists and prying them looser. The instant she gave him an inch, he moved his body back, away from hers. It was probably the hardest thing he’d ever done.

“Where are you going?” she cried.

“I’m not going anywhere. And I won’t let you drown. You have my promise. Okay?”

She looked into his eyes and nodded.

“Are you ready to learn to swim?”

“No!”

He found himself staring at where the water lapped her erect nipples. She might as well have been naked for all the chemise hid. “I’m going to turn you onto your stomach,” he began.

“No!”

“But I’m going to hold you, I will not let you go. Miranda, you’ll float, I swear it.” He reached for her.

She stepped back, toward the shore, and slipped. He caught her, and before she knew it, she was floating in his arms on her belly, her face turned aside so she could breathe.

“Relax. Is that so bad?”

“Don’t you dare let go,” she said.

Her hair was in one thick braid, drifting in the water. She was so small, he thought, resisting the urge to wrap her waist in his hands. He stared momentarily at the small, perfect derriere floating beneath his gaze. Without thinking, as she floated on one arm, he placed his hand on one of her buttocks, barely a touch, that became firmer, more tantalizing.

“Derek,” she cried, “don’t let go!”

He removed his hand. “Kick, Miranda,” he told her. “And paddle with your arms.”

“Do I have to?”

“If you don’t, you’ll sink when I let go.”

She began to kick and paddle, her teeth chattering. “If you let go I’ll kill you!”

Bragg smiled despite himself. “Good girl,” he said a few minutes later. He wasn’t even holding her, but she didn’t seem to know it. His arm was beneath her, just a whisper touch. He removed it completely, taking her by her shoulders and turning her to face him.

“What are you doing!”

“Kick and paddle,” he said soothingly.

“Don’t let go,” she pleaded.

He drifted back into the pond, pulling her with him while she thrashed fixedly. “Now I’m going to let go, but I’ll only be a yard away.”

“NO! You bastard!”

He let go and drifted back. She came at him like a locomotive. He tried not to laugh, drifted farther back, and she followed him with incredible determination.

“Derek!”

“You’re doing great! A little farther!”

“I hate you!”

He stopped and she came to him, leaping into his arms with desperation, her arms going around his neck, her legs clamping around his waist, clinging like a vine. “You did great,” he said, desire shooting through him. Her chemise had ridden up. He could feel the coarser hair of her womanhood pressed against his navel. God, it would be so easy…just slip her down a little, and he would be against her…

“You lied, you let go!”

“Miranda, you’re going to learn to swim. Did I let you drown?”

She hesitated. “No.” It was a reluctant admission.

He was having trouble thinking. He slid his hands down her back, to her bare flesh, capturing her buttocks, which he kneaded gently. She gasped, and he saw the dawning light in her eyes. Her skin was so smooth, so silken. He ran his hands down the backs of her thighs, to her knees, and then back up. He caught her buttocks and pressed her to him.

“Derek, please, not here,” she said, and it was almost a sob.

He looked in her eyes and saw how afraid she was of being in the middle of the pool. There was no answering desire in her eyes. And maybe some of the fear was from him. He placed an arm around her waist, and as if she knew he was going to pry her loose, she clung harder. He decided she’d been through enough. “You did great,” he told her again, his voice thick. He sidestroked to where he found footing, while she remained wrapped around him. The minute the water dropped to his waist she slid off, stumbling. She lunged for the edge of the pool, scrambling out, but not before giving him a wonderful, agonizing view of her perfect ivory behind. He sighed, turned, and proceeded to swim back and forth until his desire had ebbed. When he waded out, he saw she had gone.