Natchez Flame (14 page)

Already they had ransacked the supplies, found the jug of whiskey he carried for emergencies, and had been passing the bottle around. From the look of it, the stout brew had begun to induce a bit of drunkenness—one small advantage against overwhelming odds.

Brendan’s grip tightened on his rifle as he worriedly scanned the wreckage for Priscilla, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. He spotted her some distance away, sprawled on the ground, stripped to her chemise and petticoats, her hair a dark tangle around her shoulders. She lay pinned beneath a flat-faced, thick-chested Indian wearing bright blue war paint.

Even from a distance, Brendan could feel her terror, and it stirred such a deep-seated anger in him that it took all his control to battle it down. The Indian nestled between her legs, groping her breasts while Priscilla tried futilely to fight him off.

“Easy, baby,” Brendan whispered as if she could hear him, “I’ll get there as fast as I can.” Creeping even closer, he settled himself behind a low-lying cluster of rocks and wedged his revolving-breech Colt’s rifle into a crevice. As his finger curled around the trigger, his mouth curved up in the grimmest trace of a smile. Texas Navy issue—eight shots—something else to even the odds.

Priscilla screamed, and Brendan steadied his aim on the thick-chested Indian atop her, a brave who
growled orders and appeared to be the chief. With cold determination, he leveled the rifle and pulled the trigger. A shot rang out and a mushroom of bright red blood erupted on the man’s broad back. Priscilla screamed again, the sound muffled by the Indian’s body slumping forward onto her breast. Brendan worked the ring on the rifle, revolving the breech for another shot, and fired at a second brave, causing him to reel backward into the dirt.

Pandemonium broke loose. The rest of the braves took cover and began to return fire, some with muskets, others with arrows that sliced the air just inches away from his head. He worked the ring again, fired, and picked off another brave. One of them fired a pistol in return—probably the one he had given to Priscilla—shouted something in Comanche, and the remaining braves raced toward their horses.

By now they’d discovered their attacker was a lone gunman and wildly raced toward him, their horses’ hooves thudding against the earth. Shouting for blood, they divided their forces to surround the rocks and close in. Brendan picked off two more braves, but three of them bore down on him. Using his rifle as a club, he knocked one man from his horse, drew his pistol and fired at a second, then dodged a lance and dragged the third man down to the ground.

Fighting hand to hand, his pistol knocked aside, Brendan felt the warrior’s blade slash into his upper arm, but ignored the jolt of pain and caught the Indian’s wrist. A muscular man of Brendan’s same height, the brave pressed his knife toward Brendan’s heart with every ounce of his strength. A shadow emerged from somewhere behind them. Brendan
swung the brave around to intercept the thrust of a lance meant for him, and the warrior took the blade between the shoulders.

As the Indian sagged into the dirt, Brendan wrenched the knife from the dead man’s hands, picked up his pistol, and whirled to face the still-mounted men. Instead of rushing him as he had expected, they rode screeching and shouting back toward camp.

Son of a bitch!
Sick with dread, searching desperately for his rifle, Brendan saw the lead Indian ride toward Priscilla, who raced toward the safety of the hill. Leaning down, the muscular brave slid an arm around her waist and lifted her into the air. Though she fought and screamed, he carried her easily, forcing her face down across his horse’s withers. The others grabbed mules, horses, and supplies. With a whoop of victory, they rode north, away from the white man’s bullets to safety.

Damn.
Ignoring the pain in his arm and the blood that soaked his shirt, Brendan found his rifle and raced toward the black. A jerk of the reins untied him, and Brendan swung up in the saddle.

He could see them in the distance, the dust blowing up in their wake. Leading the mules slowed their flight, and the big black’s size and speed gave him the edge he needed.

In minutes Brendan rode within firing range. Running the big horse hard, positioning himself so as not to hit Priscilla, he slammed the butt of the rifle against his thigh and fired at the brave who had taken her.

The bullet struck and the Indian jerked rein, causing
his horse to rear, then he tumbled backward onto the ground and slid into a small ravine. When Priscilla fell off a moment later, Brendan’s chest tightened and he prayed she hadn’t been hurt. The last remaining braves kept on riding with barely a backward glance.

Brendan rode hard for Priscilla, who stumbled to her feet on unsteady legs. As the horse slid to a halt, he leapt from the saddle and in long, determined strides ran toward her.

Priscilla started running, too. Trembling all over, tears soaking her cheeks, she took in Brendan’s torn and bloody shirt, heard his urgent footsteps, and saw his handsome face darkened with such concern that something expanded inside her heart. She had watched the Indians attack him, seen him fighting for his life, but had been unable to help him.

Dear God in heaven.
With a sob, she finally reached him and threw herself into his arms. Crying against his shoulder, clutching him and whispering his name, she felt his hard arms around her, holding her so close she could scarcely breathe.

“Thank God you’re all right,” he breathed against the tangle of long dark hair around her shoulders.

“Hold me,” she pleaded. “Please don’t me let go.”

“I won’t,” he promised. “I won’t let you go.” He wouldn’t let her go. He wasn’t sure he could. He held her and let her cry and thanked Almighty God for giving him the strength to save her. He stroked her hair, and whispered soothing words, and felt her clutching the back of his neck. When she lifted her face to look at him, he gently kissed her
forehead. There were tears on her cheeks, so he kissed them, too.

Her bottom lip trembled. Brendan lowered his mouth in the briefest of touches. His hands came up to cradle her face, he kissed her eyes, her nose, then settled his mouth on her lips. It seemed so right he should kiss her, so achingly right.

Priscilla must have felt the same, for she tilted her head back and her arms slid farther around his neck. She was kissing him back now, at first with uncertainty, then with such urgency he groaned.

He deepened the kiss and Priscilla responded, touching her tongue to his, opening her mouth to him, begging him for more. She felt so soft and yielding, so fragile, and yet so fiery. Her breath tasted warm in his mouth and her fingers teased his hair. His breathing grew ragged, and his shaft grew thick and throbbing as he molded her against him. He had to have her—he would die if he didn’t.

Kissing her all the while, he lifted her into his arms and carried her beneath an oak tree, where he lowered her gently to the earth. Priscilla moaned softly when his tongue moved deeper into her mouth. Her response was innocent, but so fierce it amazed him. How could he ever have believed her cold?

Priscilla couldn’t think where she was or what she was doing. She felt alive as she never had before, alive with passion and wonder and desire for this man who had saved her, who had nearly given his life for hers, who held her and protected her, who was brave and strong and unlike any man she had ever known.

“Silla,” he whispered, his hand delving into her
thick mane of hair, cradling the back of her head in his palm, his mouth tasting hers, seeking, coaxing, setting her aflame.

His tongue felt silken, sending warm shivers down her spine, making her ache for him. She felt every movement of his hand, the heat of his flesh against hers, the fiery sensations that hardened the peaks of her breasts.

She felt his fingers skimming over her throat, touching, teasing, while his mouth burned hers, and his tongue felt like warm satin flame. He moved to her ear, nibbled the tender lobe, then returned to her lips. His hands stroked her skin, slid the strap of her chemise off her shoulder.

When he deepened the kiss, her fingers dug into his back. Corded muscle bunched beneath her hand, and Priscilla’s desire flamed brighter. His palm felt rough on her breast, kneading it, pebbling the already hard peak into a tight, throbbing bud.

“So lovely,” he said, looking down at the upturned mound, a husky note to his voice. “It fits my hand just perfectly.”

Priscilla moaned at his words and the hungry way he said them. She lowered her eyes to the breast he had bared and now caressed so boldly. At the sight of his long brown fingers stroking her pale skin, damp heat surged to the place between her legs.

Dear God, what is happening to me?
Priscilla swallowed hard, dimly aware for the very first time of the sinful things he was doing. It occurred to her that she must stop him, end this madness that threatened her very soul.

That tomorrow she would meet the man she would marry.

Then his mouth claimed hers, his tongue silken and conquering, and Priscilla no longer cared. She felt powerless and wanton. Compelled to serve his wishes. How could that be so?

Brendan lowered the second strap to her chemise, leaving her naked to the waist, and Priscilla arched upward, begging for his touch. Her hands slid into the open front of his shirt, skimmed across the muscles of his chest, felt the stiff brown hairs that arrowed down to his hard flat stomach, and her body seemed to burn. What weapon did he wield to render her so helpless? What spell had he cast?

“Brendan,” she whispered with a gentle sob, “what’s happening?”

Brendan’s hand stilled its movement. Beneath his calloused palm, Priscilla’s soft flesh quivered, her lovely cone-shaped breast with its dusky-rose nipple silently begging for more. He looked into her gold-flecked eyes, saw them glazed with passion, knew that she wanted him, and that he could take her.

There, too, he saw uncertainty, her fear and disbelief that this could be happening.

Brendan swallowed hard, his hand beginning to shake as he fought to control his need. His shaft tightened and throbbed until he clenched his fist against the bittersweet pain. Christ, he wanted her. In all his life, he had never desired a woman so much.

She’s Egan’s
, a voice said.
She’s mine
, said another.

But even if he claimed her, what good would it do?
He was a wanted man, a gunman, and a gambler. He enjoyed women, but not for more than a night or two. He certainly didn’t want marriage.

He looked again at Priscilla, saw her mounting hesitation, knew where this was leading, and how she would hate him when they were through. She wasn’t the type of woman to bed and discard, for all her fiery passions.

Too many years without a man
, he told himself. She would respond like this to any man with the patience to arouse her. She would respond like this to Egan.

Brendan’s stomach clenched at the thought, but at least he’d had time to regain some control. In the noblest gesture he could remember, he adjusted the straps of Priscilla’s chemise, once more covering her lovely milk-white breasts, and eased himself away from her.

“Oh, no,” Priscilla whispered, watching him withdraw and feeling his loss like a splash of cold water. At the masklike expression on his face, her passion suddenly died, and her dark eyes clouded with shame. “Lord in heaven, what have I done?”

Priscilla turned away, but Brendan reached out for her, catching her shoulders and forcing her to look at him. “This isn’t your fault, Priscilla. You were overwrought—I took advantage.”

Unconsciously, her hands came up to cover her breasts, though the thin chemise already sat firmly in place. “I … I should have stopped you.” Tears burned her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall.

“You’re inexperienced, I’m not. This isn’t your fault.”

“It
is
my fault,” she said, breaking free and climbing
to her feet. “I’m engaged to be married. Instead I … I acted like a harlot. I’ll never forgive myself.”

Brendan stood up beside her. “You’re a lady, Priscilla. You have been since the moment I met you. Today you saw death and destruction unlike anything you could have imagined. You let your guard down and I took advantage. I’ve wanted you almost from the start—and I was so damned scared you’d been hurt….” He picked up his wide-brimmed hat, dusted it against a sinewy thigh, and settled it back on his head. “If you’ll accept my apology, I promise it won’t happen again.”

That was the moment she knew. Standing there listening to him profess her virtue, trying to take the blame for the passion they had shared and to ease her sense of shame—that’s when she knew the kind of man he was.

And that she could never forget him.

That’s when she knew she was falling in love with him.

She looked at his dear, worried face, memorizing each feature, her eyes moving down to his powerful shoulders and muscular chest.

“Your arm!” she cried, unable to believe that she could have forgotten. Hurriedly she reached for him, grabbed his sleeve, and tore the fabric away.

“It isn’t as bad as it looks. The bleeding will cleanse it a bit.” He smiled at her wearily. “If you can spare another strip of petticoat, we’ll find some water and wash it, then you can bind it up for me.”

“All right,” she agreed, forcing a lightness into her tone she didn’t feel. When they had completed the
task, Brendan settled her aboard the big black and swung himself up behind her.

“We’ll go back to the wagon and see what we can salvage. Well have to ride double the rest of the way, but we’ll make it. That much I promise you.”

Priscilla glanced away. “I know we will,” she said, trusting him completely.

It occurred to her that reaching the Triple R had suddenly become far more important to him than it was to her.

“I killed a man today.” Sitting beside the dying campfire, Priscilla twirled a leafy branch in the dust at her feet.

“Yes,” Brendan said gently. “I saw his body from the knoll.”

“I blew his face away. There was nothing left but a bloody—”