Natchez Flame (8 page)

Priscilla glanced at the tall man beside her, reassured by his imposing presence as she had been since that very first day. She had changed into a dark green calico dress with a matching wide-brimmed bonnet. Properly dressed once more and now that they’d left the trading post somewhere in the distance, she had begun to feel better.

“I suppose in one way it is, but not in the way you mean. I’m marrying Stuart because when my aunt died I had no one else to turn to. He’s promised to take care of me, and I believe he will. Stuart’s money will supply a home—which is important to me since I’ve never really had one of my own—and a great deal of security. But it’s his companionship and the children we’ll share that mean the most to me.”

“But you don’t even know him. What makes you think the two of you will get along?”

The wagon hit a bump, jolting Priscilla against Brendan’s side. With an apologetic smile, she moved away. “The letters he wrote me, of course. Stuart’s a very sensitive man. He wants a family as much as I do. He’ll provide for me, see that our children want for nothing—I’m a very lucky woman, Mr. Trask.”

He just grunted. “That remains to be seen, Miss Wills.”

They were back to being formal, and Priscilla felt relieved.

“You haven’t reached the Triple R yet,” he said. “There’s a lot of Texas between here and there. You’ve discovered already how hostile this land can be.”

Priscilla flushed. She didn’t want to think about the terrible men they had left behind, the way they had touched her, abused her. She didn’t want to remember the mind-numbing horror that had crept over her when Brendan had shot them, the rising tide of terror that had threatened to overwhelm her.

She wanted to pretend Texas was the land of abundance and beauty she had dreamed. She wanted to believe in the happiness she would share with Stuart.

Instead she glanced at Brendan—when had she started to think of him as Brendan instead of just Trask? It was dangerous to think of him in this more intimate manner, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

She watched the way he held the reins, the way he scanned the landscape around them, his light blue eyes missing nothing. Beneath the broad, flat brim of his brown felt hat, shadows outlined the curve of his jaw, his straight nose, and well-formed lips. The hot Texas wind tossed strands of his hair against the corded muscles of his neck, the dark-tanned surface of his skin.

Watching him sitting there, so straight and tall, something warm and liquid moved through Priscilla’s veins. She thought of the feel of his hands on
her waist, the gentle arms that had held her when she cried.

He was waiting for a response. It was a hostile land, he had said.

“I’ll get used to it. I really have no other choice.”

“You’ve got a choice, Miss Wills. This is America. Everyone here has a choice.”

Priscilla wanted to argue, to tell him that she wasn’t prepared for any other kind of life than the one Stuart Egan offered. That she really didn’t want anything different. Ever since she was a child, she had dreamed of being a wife and mother. She wanted children so much she ached with it.

“Things will work out, Mr. Trask. I’m sure of it. Stuart wants the same things I do.”

He looked at her hard, his eyes fixed on her face as if there were something he wanted to say but couldn’t. “It’s getting late. I think we’d better find a place to camp. We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

Priscilla just nodded, and the wagon rumbled along.

They camped on a knoll some distance from the road. A small creek trickled nearby, and Brendan saw Priscilla heading toward it, meaning to wash some of the dust away.

“Don’t go far,” he warned her, “and watch where you’re walking. There are—”
rattlesnakes and scorpions, deadly centipedes six inches long, and spiders as big as my hand
“—things out there you need to watch out for.” With all she’d been through, it wasn’t time for that lecture now.

“I’ll be careful.”

“I’ll get supper. You just take it easy.”

And so he did. Roasted rabbit he had shot and skinned just a few minutes after he’d staked out the horse and mules, served with sweet potatoes, and melon. They washed the meal down with cups of steaming hot coffee. Priscilla thought it truly a feast.

When they had finished eating, Brendan rolled out his bedroll, the saddle serving as his pillow, and carried hers toward the wagon. “You can sleep in the back.”

It seemed so very far away, and after the men at the trading post…. Priscilla shivered, though the sun still beat down fiercely. “I don’t suppose … ?”

Brendan stopped and turned in her direction. “You don’t suppose what?”

“I know it’s highly improper … but I was wondering if you would mind—just for tonight, I mean—letting me sleep closer to you.”

Brendan’s hand tightened on her bedroll. “Christ, Miss Wills.”

“Don’t blaspheme, Mr. Trask.”

Grumbling, he headed toward his pallet beside the dying fire. “You must think I’m some sort of saint,” he muttered.

“Hardly that, Mr. Trask.”

He unrolled her bedding a foot or so away from his, sprawled on his pallet, his head resting on the saddle, and settled his hat down over his eyes.

“Would you mind unbuttoning my dress?” He’d been the one who had buttoned it. You’d think he would remember how difficult it was for her to reach it.

Brendan sat up and clamped his hat back down on his head. Grumbling something unpleasant about women, he climbed to his feet. He unhooked the fastenings at the back of her dress with an ease she didn’t want to think about, then he turned away.

“I suppose the corset would be too much to ask.” She could loosen it without him; she’d done it by herself ever since she’d left home—she was just so unbelievably tired.

Brendan swore an oath she didn’t quite catch, thank heaven. With a hand that shook a little, he untied her corset and tugged on the strings until Priscilla sighed with relief.

“Now can I get some sleep?” he asked gruffly.

“Of course.” While Brendan stretched out on his bedroll, Priscilla rummaged through her trunks.

Out of sight on the far side of the wagon, she removed her garments and pulled on her long white cotton nightgown. Unrolling the makeshift knot of hair she had fashioned at the back of her head, she plaited it into a single long, thick braid, then padded back to her bedroll and lay down to sleep, pulling the blanket up to cover her though the night was far too warm.

Knowing he rested there beside her, that she could reach out and touch him if she wanted, the night sounds didn’t seem quite so frightening. Still, she strained to hear them, wondering what each one was, until the howl of something not nearly far enough away bolted her upright.

Brendan didn’t move. “Coyote,” he said from beneath his hat brim. “He’s more afraid of you than you are of him.”

“You’re sure of that, are you?”

Brendan set his hat aside and looked over at her. She could see the hard planes of his face outlined in the reddish glow from the embers of the fire.

“I’ve told you how hard this land is, Priscilla. What I haven’t told you is how rich it is, how wonderfully abundant. Once you learn its ways, the land can keep you safe. It can provide food and water, shelter you when it’s cold.” He glanced up at the bright mat of stars. “There’s no ceiling more beautiful than the one over your head right now, no landscape more compelling. The sounds of the night are music to those who know them; they can ease your way to sleep.”

“You love it here,” Priscilla said with some wonder. “I saw it in your eyes when we first arrived.”

He shoved his hands behind his head. “I fought it some at first, just like you. Believe it or not, I was born in England. My father was a minister to King George the Fourth.”

“Now you’re teasing me.”

Brendan chuckled softly. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? He died when I was eight, but I remember him well. My mother didn’t live long after. My brother Morgan raised me.” He sighed. “It was pretty tough on us for a while after they were gone, but they left us with some great memories. I’ll never forget them.”

“I wish I could remember my parents. They died when I was six. I don’t remember them at all.”

“Surely you remember something. I can recall lots of things—trips to the country, sailing with my father across the channel to France. I couldn’t have been more than four at the time.”

Priscilla felt a prickling down her spine. It happened
whenever she thought of her parents. Her heart set up an uncomfortable rhythm, and her palms felt damp. “You must have a far better memory than I,” she snapped, not really meaning to. “I don’t remember a thing.”

He looked at her oddly. “Sorry I mentioned it.” He rested the hat back over his face and in minutes his breathing leveled out and sleep settled in. It took Priscilla far longer, her mind searching the emptiness where the memories of her family should have been. Was it unnatural not to remember? Brendan wasn’t the first to suggest it.

Whenever she had mentioned her parents to her aunt, Aunt Maddie had quickly changed the subject. They’d been killed in a boating accident. That was all she knew. She carried a locket with tiny porcelain miniatures of them, but even the pictures couldn’t bring their images to mind.

Then again, what did it matter? They were gone now, had been for years.

Setting the problem aside as she always did, Priscilla turned on her side, trying to get comfortable and listening to the buzz of cicadas, the distant chirp of crickets. When the coyote set up his mournful howl this time, Priscilla only smiled. Eventually she fell asleep.

Brendan stirred on his bedroll, dimly aware of the ache in his loins, the sheen of perspiration that covered his forehead. With gentle insistence, he kneaded the soft warm breast beneath his fingers, teasing the nipple at its peak into a pebble-hard bud.

He was dreaming, he was sure, noting the strength
of his arousal. Dreaming of a woman with slender curves and gently rounded hips. Her breasts weren’t large, but the one he held filled his hand and pointed deliciously upward. He wanted to slide his fingers beneath the barrier of the nightgown she wore, wanted to stroke her smooth skin, and make her writhe with passion. He wanted to kiss her soft pink lips until they ripened with desire.

Priscilla’s scream shattered his illusion, and Brendan bolted upright, jerking his gun from its holster in the same quick motion. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

She scrambled from her bedroll, so close to his, to a place some distance away and stood staring at him as if he were a stranger, her gold-flecked brown eyes huge in the oval of her face.

“You … you were sleeping?” she asked, with a hint of accusation.

“Of course I was sleeping. What the hell did you think I was doing?”

“I thought you were awake.”

“What difference does it make?” He shoved the gun back into its holster and raked a hand through his hair.

The sun wasn’t up yet, but the moon shone brightly, backlighting Priscilla’s body through her white cotton nightgown. He could see her slender curves, the rise and fall of her breasts. Against the buttons of his breeches, his shaft remained hard and throbbing. His hand tingled with the memory of the upturned breast he had held.

“Jesus Christ, that was you.”

Priscilla swallowed hard. “Please don’t blaspheme.”

When she took another step backward, Brendan felt a surge of guilt. He wanted to swear again, but didn’t.

“Look, Priscilla, I tried to warn you. I’m a man, just like any other. I didn’t mean for that to happen, but maybe it’s good that it did. We’ve got three more days of travel before we reach Rancho Reina. If I didn’t feel so damned responsible for you, I’d probably try to bed you. With that in mind, I suggest you keep your distance. Now go back to sleep.”

Priscilla just stared at him.

“I was asleep, for Christ’s sake. I thought I was dreaming.”

I thought so, too.
Sometime during the night, she must have snuggled up to him and he’d pulled her into his arms.

Bending down, Priscilla dragged her bedroll several feet away from him. She lay back down, but she didn’t fall asleep. All she could think of were the strange sensations Brendan had stirred in her body. Her breast still felt heavy and achy, and the place between her legs throbbed and burned.

Was this desire? She hadn’t believed she could feel such a thing; her aunt surely hadn’t. Aunt Maddie had been a spinster, a virgin till the day she died. The notion of a man’s organ penetrating her body had repelled her. Priscilla often wondered if that hadn’t been one of the reasons her aunt had never married.

Priscilla had long ago resigned herself to that particular fate. She wanted children and she knew what it took to get them—not in detail, of course—a
woman wasn’t allowed to know that until she married. She only knew that submitting to a man’s lust was essential to making a baby. But did a woman feel lust, too? She had certainly felt something.

From beneath her lashes, Priscilla watched the rise and fall of Brendan’s muscular chest. As long as she’d been half asleep, sure the hot sensations were nothing more than an odd sort of fantasy, Priscilla had to admit she’d enjoyed them. She’d found herself moaning softly, and pressing her bosom into the warmth she’d discovered was Brendan’s palm.

Merciful heaven, what a shock that had been!

Priscilla shifted restlessly and fought to block the hot sensations that coursed through her veins every time she remembered the way he had touched her, molded her breast to his hand and made her ache for … What? she wondered.

She looked again at the tall broad-shouldered man who had touched her so intimately. Could Stuart Egan make her feel that way? Part of her hoped so. The other part prayed he could not. Even as innocent as she was, instinctively she sensed there was some sort of power in what Brendan had done to her.

Already it was difficult to keep her mind off him. Dear Lord, she didn’t want to give him any more hold on her than he already had.

Priscilla awoke to the delicious aroma of steaming hot coffee. Brendan bent over her, extending a speckled blue tin cup.