The Hawk and the Dove (41 page)

“Oh, I have feelings,” he said, his gaze following the velvet line of throat to the rise and fall of generous breasts, “and they are functioning perfectly.”

He did something quite delicious with his hips as he spoke and that was the spark that revived her. Suddenly finding the spunk she was famous for, she said hotly, “If you value that homespun hide of yours, you’ll let me up.”

Showing no surprise, he said, “My, my, now we’re cutting our teeth on threats. Should I consider that an advancement in stupidity, or a retreat in logic?” He had planned to say more, but the tempting little filly beneath him bucked like her first saddling, sending fragmented shards of glassy pain shooting through the top of his skull. “Damn your eyes! Be still!”

She stared up at him, wide-eyed. His furious grimace struck fearful defiance to her very soul. He spoke under his breath, saying what he’d like to do to her. Thankfully she was unable to understand that indistinct garble of words. He cursed again, and roughly jerked both of her hands above her head, locking them in one clenched fist as he clamped his other hand upon her overproductive mouth. It tasted like sweat, leather, and horse. She
squirmed and mumbled against his hand, trying to expel it along with a few salty words.

The flecked green eyes glaring at him were dilated with anger. “Hellfire, you stupid woman. Don’t you know what I could do to you?”

It really mattered little if she knew or not. What mattered here was whether
he
knew. The immediate press of her panic button came from lying prostrate beneath a body that not only knew, but knew plenty. That made her squirm again and repeat salty, muffled words against his hand.

“Holding you,” he said, shifting his weight to immobilize her, “is about as easy as tying a bell around a wildcat’s neck. Don’t you have any fear? I’m going to move my hand, but you open that mouth of yours again and so help me God, I’ll clamp it shut … permanently.” He read defiance in her eyes as he lifted his hand. “Don’t you dare say another word. You’re in no position to argue.”

“That’s pretty obvious,” she said. “Naturally, you’re the strongest.”

He gave her a look that could boil water with the leftover heat. “I also happen,” he said softly, “to be on top.” The slow movement of hipbone against hipbone, although commonly flagrant, was a pretty lame trick. But quite effective.

She felt the first stirrings of a sweet response that she was unprepared for—a slow awakening of sleepy innocence, a naked awareness of intimacy that beckoned like curled fingers calling her to follow—then leaving her trembling at the precipice of a whole new world that yawned before her like a smoldering abyss. Out of the blur a face took form above her. She had been right to think him the old serpent, the tempter; for surely he dangled before her like Eve’s apple. One bite … just one succulent bite.
No! No!
… her mind was screaming,
fearing the loss of Eden, the regions of sorrow and torture without end. She was frightened, bold, shy, reckless —afraid of him now for softer reasons—and that made her harsh. “Get off me, you oaf! Why don’t you go blow up a train or something?”

He had the audacity to look amused. “Tough little baggage … I’ll hand you that. Are you always this entertaining?”

“Do you always take this kind of pleasure with helpless women?”

A smile seemed to loiter about his erotic mouth. “I take extreme pleasure,” he said, lowering his head and brushing his lips across hers, “with helpless women. I also give it.”

Another surge of breathless desire ran through her with such suddenness she accepted, as the absolute gospel, every word he spoke.

Unable to think of anything clever to say, and some primeval female instinct telling her that resistance would only serve to … She snapped her eyes together, but it was no use. Even with her eyes closed, her cheeks continued to burn beneath the gentle pressure of his kiss.

Warm and dry, his hands moved across the wisps of hair along her nape to rest on each side of her face. Talented fingers traced the outline of her ear, stroking the sensitive lobe, and then slipping around to the back of her head while his thumbs stroked the pulsing softness of her throat.

She gave a tiny, strangled whimper, and he kissed her forehead reassuringly. “Don’t be afraid, little buttercup,” he whispered, then lowered his mouth to press against the black silk of her lashes. “I won’t hurt you.” His tone was strangely gentle, soothing. He was beginning to draw her into his powerful control with the innocent reassurance
of his kiss and the gentle stroke of warm, strong hands.

By kissing her, he had taken the upper hand, dissolving her defiant anger. Suddenly she was in way over her head.

This man had outgeneraled and outfought her at every turn. And now they were on his home ground, grappling in an area in which he possessed an inordinate amount of experience—and, she’d be willing to bet, even more creative inventiveness. Muscle, maleness, and magnetism shrieked his expertise with a thousand tongues. Every movement of his lithe-limbed body declared promise, delight, and delivery. As that distressing fact glared like a red flag, her body weakened. It collapsed completely when she saw through a tear-shimmering blur that the monster was laughing. Laughing! He obviously knew the knowledge she possessed about sensual pleasure could be expressed in one word:
nothing.

Shaking, she was filled with remorse. Nothing in her gentle southern breeding or education had prepared her for this. It was humiliating enough to find herself two blinks away from crying, and now her self-reproach was sharpened by one glaring fact: She was at his mercy and she knew it. To make matters worse, he knew it.

She listened to the soft tapping of rain on the roof; the sound of a bird nesting in the rafters making her wish she could sprout wings and fly away. It just wasn’t her day. Everything from hairdo to resolve was collapsing around her. With a sickening sense of dread, she dared wonder what was next.

She didn’t have to wait long. Once again his mouth came hungering, but instead of a deep, satisfying kiss, he brushed his lips across hers: once, twice. Three times he faintly touched his warm mouth to hers, saturating her with unfulfilled promise. Something about this was immensely
frustrating. If she had possessed any strength at all she would have pushed him away. As it was, every ounce of strength was used to clamp her mouth shut while something deep within her said
don’t

He lifted his dark head, the gray eyes giving her a puzzled look. As if finding what he sought, he lowered his mouth to hers once more. The man-smell of him was terrifying, yet his touch carried reassurance. His lips were warm, dry, and smooth—pressed against hers softly, as if giving her time to adjust to the strange feeling, like a new colt being broke to bridle. Her fear receded and the pressure increased, bringing with it the subtle touch of his tongue.

Without breaking the kiss he brought his practiced fingers to her lips and with subdued pressure parted them. His hands moved across her, one following the line of her throat, the other nestled in the downy soft hair just below her ear. She never thought a kiss between a man and a woman would be like this. It was addictive, carrying both promise and fulfillment, settling around her like a sweet, drugging cloud of opium smoke.

A head swimming with emotion is mindless with lack of control. Thoughts, as soon as they entered her head, rolled right out her mouth, with no regard for consequence. Confusion permeated every limb, leaving her weak-kneed and out of focus. It was the effect of this dreamlike state that prompted her to whisper, her mouth moving against his, like a seduction. “I feel as limp as a dishrag … a scarecrow with no stuffings.”

He laughed, of half a mind to tell her she didn’t have a thing to be concerned about. The soft feminine swell of flesh beneath him said she was stuffed with something that felt mighty damn good. He smiled down at the angelic honesty lying prone beneath him. “I’d be happy to fill you,” he said in husky tones, “but not with straw.”
His mouth came seeking, driving all thought of meaning from her mind, while his was filled with images of what it would be like to bury himself within this whimsical creature with the apple-green eyes.

He raised his head. “I haven’t had a kiss like that since I learned to dress myself,” he said. A smile spread in teasing mockery. “That was a kiss, wasn’t it?”

Her eyes flashed. “You tell me. You’re the one with all the experience. What would you call it?”

He raised a brow, a wicked smile curved his mouth. “Well, if I was blindfolded, my first guess would be I’d had too much to drink and woke up with my tongue stuck to the pillow.”

What kind of satyr was she up against? The man had a face that belonged on a gold coin, the body of a Roman gladiator, the discernment of a wizard and the disposition of a jackass. Blushing violently, she said, “Do you know what you are? Disgusting.” She had a few more choice selections to deliver to him but he placed two fingers over her lips to silence her.

“That,” he said gently, “is one of your problems, angel. You talk too much. Now be quiet, and let’s try again.”

“Again? Why I’d sooner—”

Rude though it was, he had a way of interrupting that was really quite pleasant. It was a few minutes before she found the necessary air to say, “Instead of ravishing me, why don’t you just steal what you came for and leave?”

He studied her, allowing his curiosity to move over her exquisite face. “I hate to disappoint you, buttercup, but this is
not
ravishment, and I didn’t come here to steal anything. This will probably chaff you all the way down to those little pink toes, but I’m an invited guest.”

The perfectly shaped mouth he had been admiring dropped open like a dew-filled tulip. “Oh.” She looked at
him with disbelief. Then her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I’ve never seen you around here before.”

“I have the perfect explanation for that,” he said. “I’ve never been here before.” Then, with a soft muttered oath, he released her wrists and sat up, propping himself against the wall. Gingerly, he touched the back of his head with a handkerchief removed from his pocket.

She scrambled to a sitting position, rubbing her wrists as she watched him dip the bloody handkerchief in a water bucket. “You’re bleeding,” she said.

He cocked a brow at her. “That’s what generally follows a head-cleaving. Don’t tell me drawing blood wasn’t your idea. It sure as hell wasn’t mine.”

With a groan he closed his eyes and dropped his head, his wrists resting over his knees, which were bent before him. She glanced in the direction of the barn door, rattling gently against the force of wind-driven rain.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said. “Do you think you could outrun me? I wouldn’t advise you to try. Even with my head busted, it would be a miserable match. You’d never make it.”

Her frustrated gaze flicked back to his face. There wasn’t a sliver of emotion in those cool eyes regarding her. He settled himself more comfortably against the stall, lanky legs crossed, his arms folded across his chest.

“Where is everyone?” he asked.

“They’ve gone to a Church Basket Meeting … a picnic,” she answered, and then thought that wasn’t too clever of her to reveal that. “But they’re due back soon … any minute now … before dark.”

Gray eyes glanced toward the barn door, passing over long shadows of late evening creeping across the floor. “They better get a move on. It’s almost dark,” he observed. “Is it their habit to take everyone with them and leave you here alone …
unprotected?”

That last word went across her like a rasp. “I’m not completely helpless.”

Touching his head, he curved his mouth into a smile that left her a witless lump, boneless as a jellyfish.

“No, you’re not helpless. I’ve proof of that,” he said rather good-humoredly.

Fighting back a smile she said, “We’ve had an outbreak of fever in the slave quarters so the household help is down there. Today was my day to oversee. That’s why I’m not at the picnic. I was just coming back to the house for more quinine when I saw you.”

“So … we’re all alone?”

The humor drained, like blood, from her face. She shifted, feeling the strain all of this was placing on her nerves. She said in a desperate voice, “I’ve already told you they will be returning shortly.”

Amused, he watched her. “Smooth recovery. You know, you’re a very clever girl. Beautiful. Intelligent. Clever. You even cover your mistakes with finesse. I like that. You don’t often see that quality in a girl as young as you.”

“I’m not that young,” she said with irritation. “You make me sound like a ….” She immediately conjured up all kinds of fun he could have with the rest of that and snapped her mouth shut.

“Child … innocent child … inexperienced child,” he offered before another one of those gut-twisting smiles spread across his face. Then he said, “No,” and giving her the once-over, added, “you’re no child, innocent or otherwise.”

The rain passed, leaving as quickly as it had come, taking with it the welcome chill. The air was heavy now, saturated with moisture, the stillness interrupted by the steady drip of rain off the eaves and the croaking chords of bullfrogs in the distance. Everything was so still—she
could almost hear the evening mist as it rolled up from the river.

“How old are you?” he asked.

The sound of his voice after a moment’s lapse startled her, and her voice was like a bark. “Eighteen.” Then speaking more softly, she said, “How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.”

So many conflicting emotions were doing flip-flops within her, she was beginning to feel deranged. Her insides were playing leapfrog, jumping from fear to anger. Next came anxiety, and embarrassment followed by humor, and now she was on the verge of liking the man.

He was still watching her silently. She looked at him, met his stare, and looked quickly away, as though he might be able to learn something about her, some secret she was hiding. She was an interesting combination, mouse and tiger. Two opposites he would have never expected to see living in harmony within a body that should, by all rights, be captured on canvas and hung over a gentlemen’s bar. There was a tenseness in her tightly drawn mouth with its perfect shape and rose-petal blush.