Only in My Arms (32 page)

Mary stopped laughing. That husky growl could start the butterflies in her stomach as easily as his wicked smile. She cast him a wary glance through her splayed fingers. His eyes were boring into hers, not frosty now, but a slightly darker gray, more like molten silver than melting snow.

She found she was wrong about the water. One could do better than get used to it. One could learn to ignore it entirely. As Ryder's mouth closed over hers it was what she was able to do.

In his arms she felt weightless. He lifted her with ease, bringing her body flush to his. Her breasts were crushed against his slick skin, and her legs wrapped naturally around his flanks. They exchanged excited, hungry kisses. He touched her temple with his mouth, her closed eyes, and cheeks. His teeth caught her earlobe and he tickled the hollow behind her ear with his tongue. She liked the texture of his skin beneath her lips, the sweet and salty taste of him when she pressed her mouth to the taut line of his jaw and the plane of his shoulder.

His hands roamed freely, exploring the shape of her head, her face, her slender neck. His palms and fingers moved with a certain exactness, as if he would be held responsible for recreating each angle and contour. He learned the slant of her shoulders and the gentle curve of her spine. Her narrow waist fit neatly between his hands while her bottom filled them. Her long legs fascinated him, curved as they were around his body, melding her to him even before they were joined.

Mary let her fingers trip along the length of his back. His muscles bunched when she touched his shoulders. His ridged abdomen was flat against hers, and his arms held her in a secure embrace. She laid a line of kisses along his collarbone and pressed her cheek against his skin. He was stirring between her thighs, and she learned that the shape of her own body could be defined by the fit of him against her.

Ryder's fingers slipped between their bodies. His knuckles brushed her breasts and his thumb passed back and forth over her raised nipples. A flush of desire crept under Mary's skin, suffusing it with color. Her pelvis cradled him tightly and she undulated against him slowly as he drew on all her senses.

His hand went lower, this time to the juncture of her thighs, and he pressed his palm against her mound sending a shudder through her. Her fingertips whitened on his flesh as his fingers stroked and probed. Tongues of flame licked her skin. She jerked against him as his fingers dipped and entered.

He murmured against her ear. The words were unintelligible but the tone was gentling soothing, and in the end he seemed to have possession of her will. Mary's body obeyed his commands. The intimate press of his fingers made her limbs grow taut and her slender frame arch. She threw her head back and rivulets of water slid past her temples and her shoulders. She felt his eyes on her, gauging her restless response, ready to push it to another level.

And when he did, Mary's fingers unfolded as pleasure engulfed her. Her mouth opened but she made no cry. Her entire body went rigid, still. The tightness lasted only a moment before she collapsed against him, sinking into the curve of his embrace. He stroked her damp hair as her heartbeat slowed. Between her legs he was still stiff and hard. This time his satisfaction had not been physical.

Mary's eyes were closed. A little ashamed of the selfish pleasure she had enjoyed, she couldn't look at Ryder. She could feel him against her, his arousal pulsing. She would have taken him into her, had wanted to, but he had denied himself. "Why did you do that?" she asked softly. Even in his embrace the water was chilly now. She shivered lightly.

Ryder set Mary down carefully and raised her chin with his forefinger. "You're not ready to take me again. Not so soon." His thumb traced the edge of her damp lower lip. "But I did not want to deny you... or myself."

Mary wrested her chin away from his light grip and looked down through the crystalline water. Ryder made no attempt to shield his aroused state. "I think you did deny yourself," she said.

"That's only because you're still an innocent."

She looked at him oddly, not understanding. Rather than ask him what he meant, she determined to find out for herself. Looking around, she spied the slim bar of soap she had used on her hair. Mary picked it up, ignoring the cloth that lay nearby. She raised a bit of lather between her hands, and then she applied the soap and suds to Ryder's body.

"I don't think—" he began.

"You think too much," she interrupted gently. Her hands worked deftly, sliding the soap over Ryder's shoulders, massaging his chest and upper arms with slippery lather. Her fingers glided to his neck before she circled around him and rubbed down his back. His flesh rippled under her touch and defined the hardness lying beneath his taut skin. She washed the base of his spine, finding the small dimples with her index finger. She soaped his hard buttocks and the backs of his thighs, and then returned to his back, slipping her palms along his tapered waist and narrow hips.

Mary slipped her arms around him from behind, resting her forehead against his back. Her soapy fingers traced the ridges of his rib cage and rubbed lather across his abdomen. Her hands went lower to the arrow of hair below his navel. That was when she dropped the soap.

And the pretense.

Made buoyant by the water, Mary slipped around Ryder again, her entire body rubbing smoothly against his. Her hands went below the surface of the water and grasped him. She could feel the coursing of the blood that was making him hot and hard beneath her fingers.

Ryder's hand closed over Mary's and he showed her how to take him. She discovered that by giving this pleasure she had denied herself nothing.

"You were right," she said quietly when he set her outside the pool. She picked up a thin cotton quilt and began drying herself.

Ryder hoisted himself out of the spring and steadied himself. Water dripped on the stones in a slowing staccato rhythm. He had a little less strength coming out than he had had going in. There was no chance that he was going to forget that dip in the spring anytime soon. "About what?" he asked.

"That I was an innocent."

Though Mary wasn't looking at him, he couldn't miss her smug smile. "Just a little full of yourself, aren't you?" he asked dryly.

"Pride is my worst fault. Sister Benedict always said so."

Ryder dried himself off briskly, hitched the damp blanket around his hips, and then pulled Mary to her feet. She dragged the cotton quilt around her, tucking the ends neatly between her breasts. Ryder turned her toward their bed and gave her a pat on the bottom, urging her forward. "How is it that you ever became a nun?" he asked.

Mary stiffened at the question. She slowly pushed herself onto their stone shelf bed. "You say that as if you think I shouldn't have. It's not very complimentary."

"I only meant—"

She held up her hand, stopping him. "I don't want to hear it. You think because I respond to you so completely I was somehow unsuited for convent life. If I carry your reasoning a little further, it's natural to conclude I should have become a whore at seventeen instead of a bride of Christ."

One of Ryder's brows kicked up. "I was trying to—"

Mary's full mouth flattened mutinously, and if it had not been so predictably childish, she would have clapped her hands over her ears. "I'm hungry."

Ryder hesitated. He had no liking for their argument and even less for the misunderstanding. However, it seemed that Mary had closed the discussion. "Very well," he said after a moment. He turned and went to their larder, opening tins of meat and vegetables. Realizing he was hungry as well, Ryder set out the portion on two plates. He handed one to Mary, but didn't join her on the bed. He sat in the wing chair, his long legs stretched negligently in front of him.

She pushed the cold food around her plate. Asking for a meal had been a diversion, not a need. She tried to think of some way to make amends for her sharpness. She had never been very good at saying she was sorry. She lamented that pride, indeed, was her worst fault. "I can't talk about it," she said at last. "It's too..." She struggled for the word. "Too
personal."

Ryder nodded, saying nothing.

"You'd have to know my parents better, particularly my mother." She sighed. "I'm just not ready." She sighed again. This time her eyes were apologetic as she shrugged uncertainly. "I'm sorry."

Ryder couldn't pinpoint the precise thing her regret was supposed to cover, but he accepted it. "Eat up," he said gently.

Mary tucked into her food. "Tell me about our ceremony in the clearing," she said around a mouthful of peas. "Why did we stand in the water?"

"The Apache trace their origin to the Child of the Water. We were united with that blessing and the acknowledgment of both families."

"It's very symbolic, then." She liked that. Her life in the Church had been full of symbols and ritual. "Although I'm not certain my father actually acknowledged us. It's not as though he gave me away."

"His presence was enough."

She ate more, thoughtful now. "You realize I don't consider us really married."

He nodded. "It seemed like a good compromise."

Mary barely heard him. "I mean, it's more of an arrangement, isn't it, instead of a marriage?"

"If that's the way you want to think about it."

"It won't require an annulment or a divorce..."

"Not a church annulment," he said. "And not a lawyer's divorce." Ryder set his empty plate aside and regarded Mary steadily. An edge of frost had returned to his lightly colored eyes. "You only have to pack my things and put them outside the entrance to our home." He spread his hands to indicate their chamber and shrugged. "That's all. If you find me lazy or unwilling to provide for you, if we're incompatible, if we bicker too often, or if I'm uncommonly jealous—all of these things can end it." His eyes darkened a fraction. "As can infidelity."

Returning his stare, Mary swallowed hard. It was almost as if he were warning her. "Well, yes," she said, bemused. "Of course. Infidelity."

His smile was not a smile at all. The watchful predator had returned. "Just so we understand each other." He rose from the wing chair and rinsed off his plate in the pool. The underground current swept the debris away. "Are you finished?" he asked Mary, looking at the half-eaten remains.

She nodded, handing them over. "I suppose I wasn't as hungry as I thought I was."

Ryder put the uneaten portion back in a tin to be used later in the day. He rinsed Mary's plate and the utensils, put them away, then got out his maps from the chest. He brought them over to the bed and unrolled them, flattening them with the side of his hand.

Mary yawned. She had no idea if it was day or night outside of the cavern or if she had slept hours after their last lovemaking or only a few minutes.

"You can go to sleep," he said. "I won't disturb you."

He began to pick up the maps, but Mary stopped him. She was tired, it was true, but she was also strangely reluctant to go to sleep. His mood had cast a pall over her. All the talk of marriage and divorce... it was unsettling.

"I don't mind if you look at them here," she said. She brought down the lighted lantern from another shelf and placed it beside her.

Ryder laid out the maps again.

"Perhaps I could help you," she offered.

"You're welcome to look on."

It wasn't an enthusiastic invitation, but neither had he said her help wouldn't amount to much. Mary knelt on her knees and elbows and surveyed the topographical map closely. Ryder remained leaning against the high stone bed, his eyes occasionally drifting from the contours at his fingertips to the ones Mary was unwittingly presenting to him.

"You may want to tuck that blanket a little more firmly," he said. Under his breath he added, "Before I forget which mountain range I'm studying."

"Hmm?" Mary murmured, glancing up at him.

He pointed to his own chest. "Your blanket."

Mary looked down at herself. She was practically spilling out over the top. "Oh... thank you." She adjusted it without embarrassment and resumed her inspection of the uppermost map.

Ryder shook his head, wondering what to make of her. With her head bent he couldn't see the small, satisfied smile that lifted her mouth.

"I assume these maps have something to do with the gold from Colter Canyon," she said. "Do you know where it is?"

"Do you mean, do I know where it is because I have firsthand knowledge, or do I have suspicions?"

"Suspicions, of course," she said, raising her eyes to his. "I don't think you had anything to do with the raid."

"I was there."

"I know. I heard that. My brother-in-law told me."

"I see," Ryder said. "What else did you learn?"

"Not much. There wasn't time. I wasn't in the fort very long before you took me away."

"Then you don't know about Miss Hamilton?"

A chill crept down Mary's spine. She brushed back a tendril of hair that had fallen over her forehead. Her forest green eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "No, I've never heard the name." With a sense of foreboding she asked, "Who is she? Your fiancée?"

Ryder was watching Mary closely, gauging her reaction. "Anna Leigh Hamilton." It was difficult to maintain an indifferent profile when he had to say her name. "Senator Warren Hamilton's daughter. The woman who says that while the Chiricahua were attacking the wagons in Colter Canyon, I was raping her."