Innocent Fire (26 page)

He returned to their camp a few minutes later, whistling. Miranda had pulled their bed of hides out of the wickiup and was airing the bedding. He saw her hard strokes as she swept dust from within and knew she was angry. She came out, set the broom aside, and marched to the creek with a pail, not looking at him. She
was
mad. He went after her.

She didn’t acknowledge his presence as she filled the pail with water.

“What are you doing?” he asked casually.

She stood, ignoring him, and started marching back.

He took the pail from her hand and carried it. “Miranda?”

“Wetting down our floor,” she said abruptly.

“I didn’t notice it was getting too dusty,” he said, regarding her set face.

She didn’t answer, but took the pail from him at the entrance to the wickiup and disappeared inside. He followed and watched as she swept water across the floor. “I’m really proud of you,” he said truthfully.

She swept the broom back and forth, back and forth.

“I’ve never seen anyone who’s so afraid of water swim so well.” It was the truth.

Her sweeping seemed to become a bit less determined.

“I’m sorry if you’re angry,” he tried, seeing her soften
and pressing home his advantage. “But one day you’ll be a fine swimmer, just like one day you’ll be a good shot.”

She made a small noise, like a snort, her lashes lowered.

“If I were to die, I’d want you to be able to take care of yourself. When I met you, you were as helpless as a newborn babe. Everyday you’re learning better how to fend for yourself.”

She stopped sweeping and looked at him. He smiled. “Still mad?”

“Don’t talk that way,” she said, frowning. “You’re young. Besides, you’ll probably live to a hundred!”

He laughed. “I hope not, not unless you live to ninety.”

She smiled slightly.

He grinned.

“Do you really think I did well?” Her gaze was bashful and hopeful.

“You did fantastic,” he told her, exaggerating only a bit.

Miranda flushed under his praise. “If you really want me to swim, I’ll learn,” she said bravely and resignedly.

He beamed, coming toward her. “You know what would make me happy, too?”

She looked up at him innocently.

He took her face in his hands. “If you let me kiss you and touch you, just for a while?”

She started. “Derek…”

“All I want to do is kiss you,” he lied, his mouth coming closer to hers.

“I already told you,” she whispered, hesitant, “that you could…you know.”

“I don’t want to make love to you now, just to hold you,” he said, a half lie. He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her gently against him. His mouth found hers, caressing softly, again and again.

She was stiff, but she began to melt as his mouth moved gently and patiently, stroking her lips with a butterfly touch, his tongue flicking over their softness. Her lips parted, but he took his time, not invading, only kissing and tracing their outline, their parting. He moved his hands from her shoulders to her back. He felt her pliancy.
He didn’t mind her passivity, as long as she wasn’t stiff and afraid.

“What about chores?” she whispered some time later.

“Don’t you like kissing?” His voice was husky. Her back was smooth, her lips incredibly sweet.

“Yes,” she murmured, exciting him. “I like your kisses. I was surprised—”

He invaded her mouth with his tongue. She accepted him passively, and then, after a careful, leisurely exploration, her hands went around his neck, tightening. He increased the pressure, becoming bold, demanding. Her fingers wound in his hair.

He lifted her and placed her on the damp ground.

“Derek,” she protested.

“All I ask is that you let me touch you,” he said. “Is that too much for a husband to ask a wife?”

Her eyes were wide and questioning. “But—why?”

“It pleases me,” he said, claiming her lips again, kneeling at her side.

She began to return his kisses, tentatively, timidly. He wanted to devour her, but refused to succumb to his lust. He was going to pleasure her. He was going to show her that she had nothing to fear. He was so glad he had found release last night, or he would have never been able to exercise the self-control he had now.

He heard her whimper deep in her throat, and fire flamed along his limbs. He kissed her throat, and she arched her head back to accommodate him. He could hear her soft, uneven breathing, and was triumphant. She’s excited, he thought, elated. His hand stole from her shoulder to her chest, and he cupped one small, perfect breast. She gasped, stiffening.

“Let me touch you,” he murmured against her soft throat. He captured her lips again, squeezing the soft globe in his hand, rubbing the nipple with his palm. She shuddered.

Deftly, he unbuttoned her shirt while he kissed her deeply. He claimed her breast again, fondling, massaging, relishing the soft swelling beneath his ministrations. She moaned, a barely audible sound. A roaring began in his head, and his loins were so full, so hot. He slipped his
hand beneath the chemise, tempting and teasing the nipple. She writhed into his hand, wanting more.

He pulled her chemise down, baring both breasts, staring just for a moment. “You are so beautiful, Miranda,” he told her huskily, and then he flicked his tongue over one hard nub.

She gasped. His kisses had heightened what had been a pleasant quickening of her body into a deep, throbbing ache. Because he only wanted to touch her and kiss her, what little fear had been in her mind had fled beneath his gentle mouth and hands. A moment ago she had wanted to protest, had tried to, at the shameful things he was doing, but now she couldn’t think. He was suckling her like a babe. She was on fire, desperately yearning for something, for him, for exactly what, she didn’t know, but the ache was so deep and unquenchable in her secret woman’s place that she wondered if she was fevered and dying. She heard an animal moan. It was herself.

A part of her mind sought sanity when she felt his hand cupping her woman’s mound through the folds of her dress. Not there! But the hot, myriad sensation washed away that thought, and she realized he was stroking that unmentionable place, stroking that was making her writhe uncontrollably, even through skirt, petticoat, and pantalets. She needed his hand. She arched against it.

She felt cool air on her bare hot flesh as he lifted her skirts and pulled down her pantalets. It happened so quickly she could only moan his name. She heard him say, “I love you, Miranda,” his voice ragged and harsh. And then his hand was there again, slipping into the valley between her legs, which was wet and slick, causing a moment of coherent confusion.

“I love you Miranda,” he said again thickly, his voice seeming very far away.

“Don’t stop,” she said, gasping, writhing, arching. Something incredible was happening to her; she felt as if every nerve of her body had taken wing. And then she cried out, again and again, a wailing keening, as her body soared, mindlessly, ecstatically, before bursting into a series of brilliant explosions.

“God,” Derek said to himself, watching her passion-
drained face. With trembling hands he pulled off her clothes, watching her flushed face, black lashes like a thick fan on each cheek, her breasts rising and falling unsteadily. Her eyes were still closed when she lay naked, and he knelt over her, slipping his arms around her. He kissed her lashes, her cheeks, her nose. He found her lips, shuddering with his own need. Her eyes flew open.

He smiled into her stunned gaze. “Miranda.”

“I…what happened?”

He kissed her ear, her temple. “You just experienced a woman’s pleasure, darling. It’s what happens when two people make love. It’s even better when I’m deep inside you.” The thought and words made him want to die.

She stared, then blushed.

He cradled her face, kissing her slowly, holding himself on the very edge.

“Derek?” she said, and it could have been a plea or a protest, or a little bit of both.

He stroked her breasts, refusing to relinquish her mouth. She shuddered. He lowered his weight, still wearing the loincloth, not wanting to frighten her. “I won’t hurt you,” he said.

She stiffened.

He wanted to pleasure her again, he wanted that desperately, but he was so damn close himself. He slipped his hand between her legs, searching delicately, expertly.

“Derek?” she said, a half moan.

He groaned, slid down the length of her, cupped her buttocks in his hand and lifted her to him. He kissed the sweet, wet cleft, then began to search throught the pink folds with his tongue. She gasped, sitting upright and shoving at him. “No!”

“You taste so fine,” he murmured, ignoring her feeble efforts to push him off as he tasted her essence, glorying in it.

She moaned and fell back in helpless defeat. He increased his efforts, and she began to shudder, arching herself at his seeking mouth. Her climax came so quickly it took him by surprise. She was there, open and wet, and then she was crying out, again and again, loudly, uncontrollably.

He lay very still, his cheek against her thigh, closing his eyes as she drifted in the aftermath. He had a few coherent thoughts. Soon he was going to take her there again, but this time while he was buried as deeply as he could be inside her. That thought made him touch her, and he slipped his forefinger into her, gasping at the small, tight size of her. Good God, he thought, probing gently, stretching her to accommodate him.

“Derek,” she moaned.

With an age-old rhythm he thrust into her with two fingers. She shuddered, her hips rising. Excited beyond the point of any return, he rose, with one motion shedding his loincloth. He grasped her hips, gazed upon her flushed face, her closed eyes and plunged in.

He groaned at the sheer exquisite pleasure of it. Miranda, he thought, thrusting. Mine.

He moved slowly, trying to hold off, to prolong what was the most incredible, beautiful experience of his life, watching her perfectly featured face. He was in her, filling her up completely, she was his. Her eyes fluttered open, meeting his. He saw her expression of wonder.

“You’re so small,” he told her hoarsely. “How do I feel?”

Her lips were parted. Her eyes were smoky. She didn’t answer, but closed her eyes and thrust her hips awkwardly at him. He went down on her, catching her hips, guiding her, thrusting faster and faster, lost in her, loving her, claiming her with every stroke. He cried out her name as he emptied himself into her, throbbing wildly.

And then he gasped when he felt her contractions and heard her cries, and he thrust again and again, reaching down to touch her and prolong her pleasure. Her cries trailed off and they both lay very still.

Sleep left her in lazy, slow stages. She clung to it, so fatigued, not wanting to awaken, not wanting to leave the depth of her slumber. She dozed. Memories of Derek flooded her, waking her. A soaring joy swept over her. A hot flush brightened her cheeks. She opened her eyes and could see that it was late out, bright with midday light.

Derek wasn’t in their bed. She flushed again, thinking. He had made love to her so many times that afternoon and evening, she couldn’t count. She didn’t think she had fallen asleep until midnight, maybe later. And then it had been in the warm, tender circle of his arms. Perhaps around dawn, when the sky outside was lightening to a rosy gray, she had awakened to find him kissing her, easing into her. She had welcomed him.

Something dark and hurtful pierced the warm, rosy haze of her thoughts. She shoved it away.

She stretched. She was stiff, but wonderfully so. And she was sore, she could feel it. She sighed, replete.

You are no lady
.

She gasped, wanting to forget she had ever heard those hateful words. But he had said them and then his mouth had descended, and he had made love to her. The bliss that had followed had wiped out the content of what he had said. She tensed, searching her mind, trying to remember their exact conversation.

“I wanted you from the first moment I saw you,” Derek had said, holding her, nuzzling her cheek.

“That’s because you’re a randy goat,” Miranda retorted.

He chuckled. “You wanted me, too.”

“I did not!”

“I remember how you kept staring at me, with that frightened fascination.”

“That is not true.” She was trying to recall if she had indeed looked at him that way.

He laughed, his hand sliding over her breast. “I’ll never forget the day you almost fainted when I took off my shirt.”

“You are no gentleman!”

“And you are no lady.” His mouth had descended, cutting off all further conversation.

Miranda felt tears rising. Had he been teasing? Had his tone been playful? Did it matter? She
was
no lady! No lady accepted a man with such enthusiasm! And that was certainly understating her reaction to her husband. How could she have behaved like some cheap, ill-bred hussy? Like—a whore!

She pulled the covers up, turning onto her side, rolling into a ball, all the joy of discovering her husband gone. There was nothing left but shame and pain. Of course he had meant it. Because it was true. Not that he had meant to hurt her, but Derek wasn’t a gentleman, so what did he care if she was a lady? But she cared! She cared tremendously.

Miranda tried not to think about her passionate response the previous night, her moans and cries. In a flash of insight she knew where that side of her came from. Her mother’s father had been a notorious rake and rogue his entire life. He had had one mistress after another, despite his marriage. He had died in his mistress’s apartments at the age of eighty-two, his last paramour a twenty-year-old actress. It was a well-known fact that traits skipped a generation. And now it made complete sense. She had inherited her grandfather’s passionate nature.

She wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.

Guilt vied with shame. She knew now how babies were conceived. When a man took his wife in the normal way, she supposed that was right, unavoidable. But Derek had
trespassed far beyond those bounds with his hands and mouth. Dear God! What would Father Miguel say when she confessed? Could she even confess to such a sinful coupling? Would she get a chance to confess at all? She had to get to confession!

“Morning, sleepyhead.” Derek smiled and reached her side, kneeling, pulling her into his arms. His gaze was warm and tender.

Miranda didn’t look at him. No, she thought determinedly, not again!

“Miranda, how do you feel?” He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. His expression sobered when he saw her stern expression. “What’s wrong?”

Tears welled in her eyes. She pulled away. “Go away.” She pulled the covers up over her face, and moaned in anguish.

“Are you all right?” He grabbed the blanket, his concern razor-sharp. “Are you ill?” His hand was on her forehead.

She screwed her eyes tightly shut to prevent a full-fledged attack of weeping. She seized the excuse he offered. “No, I have a headache, and I feel awful.”

He stared at her, afraid. He stroked her hair. “You don’t have a fever,” he said finally. “I’ll bring you a cold compress for your head.”

Miranda started to cry. She couldn’t help it.

“Why are you crying?” he asked in an agonized voice.

She moaned, sobbing.

He turned her over gently, terribly afraid. “Are you in pain?”

She didn’t answer.

“Miranda, where does it hurt!”

She heard the sharpness of his voice. “It’s just a headache,” she said, wishing he would take her in his arms and tell her he loved her. He had told her that last night, several times, but always in the thick of a torrid moment.

Bragg wondered if her illness was his fault. She was so delicate, so fragile. Was his lust responsible? A new thought occurred to him, one that he seized eagerly. “Miranda, could you be getting your monthly curse?”

“Yes, yes,” she told him, anything to get him to leave her alone.

He sighed in relief and stood up. “I’ll get you a compress. Are you hungry?”

“No.”

He took one last look at her and left. The minute he was gone, her tears dried up, miraculously. She lay there depressed and ashamed.