Branded (29 page)

Thankfully, she didn't have to answer. His attention was diverted by Tait, who had startled awake at the sound of Slade's voice and rolled off the bench with a bang.

Embarrassed, Tait jumped to his feet. "Did you get the wolf?"

Slade propped his rifle against the railing and gave Tait an affectionate slap on the back. "Finally. Now go on inside, and get some rest. Or you'll be worthless to me tomorrow."

"Yes sir, Captain Dalton, sir," Tait replied before trundling off to bed, leaving Lacey standing alone with his brother.

Slade gave her a long considering look. "Well, Lace?"

She nervously rubbed her hand along the railing. "I--I haven't seen Oliver all evening. It had me worried. Tait thought he might have followed you."

Slade's expression turned sulky. "The mutt's under the porch," he said. "He made it as far as the fence before he tired out."

Plunking down on the steps, he pried off his mud caked boots. "Kinda nice having a woman waiting for me," he mused. He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "Or at least, believing one was waiting for me. Starts me thinking of taking a bride."

There was one thing to be thankful for with the windswept rain, Lacey thought, no one could tell you were crying. Not even the man you loved.

"Were you really a captain in the war?" The heavy jacket smelled of damp wool.

"For a short time." He tilted his head and looked up at her, one side of his lips curled into a crooked smile.

The door cracked open, a thin line of pale yellow light striped the wood planks at her feet. Her hands flew to her throat, and then in an instant, she remembered Grady was staying in town on business. He was looking into a real-estate purchase--and purchasing some dreadful veil for her, she was certain.

Tait poked his groggy face out, his hair was standing in tufts. "Dora says to get in before you both catch your death." He tossed a rag out onto the porch planks. "Don't track in any blasted mud, either," he said with a prankster's grin before shutting the door.

Slade left his boots to dry on the bench.

"What about poor Oliver?" she asked.

"Poor Oliver? At least he had someone worryin' about him." He stamped barefooted down the steps to the mud. Crouching down, he peered beneath the porch. "Lucky damn dog," he said as he grabbed Oliver and dragged him out from his hiding place. "Come on old man," he said, prodding him up the stairs.

He didn't seem the least bit bothered by the streaks of mud Oliver left on his sleeves. How different from most men, she thought, who would flaunt the fact that they had attained a captaincy at such a young age. With the rag, he scrubbed the dirt off of the dog's underside and paws. And then did the same with the soles of his feet.

He tossed the rag on the bench and brushed by her, intensifying the nearly physical ache that had been torturing her ever since she'd told him to keep his hands off her. He'd even stopped his usual habit of picking up a lock of her hair and rubbing his thumb over the ends.

After herding Oliver inside, he stood on the threshold holding the door open for her.

Hoping her eyes were not red-rimmed from crying, she moved to slip past him. His hands shot out, effectively trapping her against the doorframe. Swiveling to face him, she looked up. She was surprised by the rigid set of his jaw, the intensity flaring in his pale eyes. Completely taking her off guard, he dipped his head, his lips finding hers in a hard, almost punishing kiss.

"No hands," he said with a smirk. Her legs wavered, and she took hold of the doorjamb to prevent herself from sliding to the floor in a puddle at his feet.

It took her a moment to collect herself enough to close the door. She shut it slowly, watching his retreating back. She was amazed at how little the kiss had affected him.

She was following behind him when he stopped midstride and turned to face her.

He stood staring, not uttering a word. His arms hung at his sides. She couldn't help noticing that the fingers of his right hand curled and straightened in a rhythmic motion, like a man preparing to draw a weapon.

He looked almost vulnerable, a ridiculous assessment considering the man's penchant for danger.

"Have you been sleeping?" she asked, unnerved by his silence.

"Not much."

"Thinking about your father?"

He shook his head. "Thinking about you." His fingers unfurled, and he grabbed her around the waist, pulling her in tight against his hard body.

"No hands, remember," she muttered against the bare skin of his chest.

"I lasted a week. That's damn virtuous in my book." With an almost desperate roughness, his hands explored her curves.

He kissed her again with such heated intimacy that she eagerly followed him into the rain-drenched night. By the time they'd reached the dugout in the hill, her hair was plastered to her head. He kept a tight grip on her wrist while he threw the bolt on the door. Maintaining that same grip, he managed to dig a match from his pocket. He drew it across the rough-hewn walls.

With some reluctance, he released his hold on her. He scrounged around in the drawers of the room's only cabinet and pulled out a candle stub. "Damn," he said as the match burned out. "Stay put." He struck another match. For a moment, the smell of sulfur overpowered the damp musty odor of the dwelling.

He quickly unrolled the heavy canvas curtain covering the room's only window. An almost unnecessary precaution, considering that the soil encrusted on the window made it nearly opaque.

He turned to look at her for a moment, his eyes wary, as if he had actually expected her to disappear. He drew the fur cover off the bed exposing a pallet covered with stuffed feed bags. Straw poked through the burlap fabric.

"I'm going to shake this out," he said softly, as though he were talking to a skittery animal that could bolt at any second.

The door shut, and Lacey looked around the small room, amazed that a married couple could have found happiness in these primitive circumstances. The walls were papered with yellowing newsprint overlapped with pages from almanacs and calendars. There was one tiny cupboard and a single chair. She looked closely at a photograph draped with mourning tassels. It was of a woman with fair hair and pale eyes rimmed with dark lashes like Slade's.

"My mother," he said as he threw the skin over the bed. She watched the play of muscles over his back as he adjusted the fur coverlet. "Unfortunately, I don't even remember her. I was only three when she died."

"I feel--would you mind terribly if I--" She made a vague gesture in the direction of the picture.

Somehow he made sense of her prattle and flipped the picture over to face the wall.

He spread his coat atop the fur and removed his gun belt, placing it on a shelf of the cupboard. He moved toward her. He slipped the flannel dressing gown off her shoulders to reveal the high-necked flannel gown beneath. "Course the one time I get you alone, you're wearing a nun's habit. What happened to all your sheer, lacy underthings?"

"I thought those weren't to your liking."

"Problem is, they are too much to my liking." He struggled with the tiny china buttons that started at her neck and stopped at her waist.

"Shall I do it?" she offered.

"Nah, I've got it handled." He seized both sides of the collar and ripped it open, sending the buttons spraying around the room.

"Such finesse," she quipped, feeling a heated blush rise from her now exposed cleavage to her face.

"Yeah, well." He shrugged, but he did not look the least bit contrite.

"My boots?" she blurted out, as he was about to push the nightgown off her shoulders. She was not yet ready to stand completely naked before him.

Seeming to read her thoughts again, he suppressed a smile. "Right. Let's get those off."

She took a tentative seat at the edge of the bed, and with gentle pressure, he pushed her onto her back. He took hold of her foot, and resting it against his stomach, he began to untie her boot. She felt her nightgown slip down her leg, and then felt his fingers push it further toward her thigh until she was certain she was quite exposed to his view. His groan confirmed it. Her boot completely forgotten, his hands shoved the hem toward her waist, and then up and over her head. She lay completely naked except for her still booted feet, which dangled off the bed.

She gasped with shock as he dropped to his knees between her legs, spreading them far apart with his callused fingers. His tongue lapped at her most sensitive spot. Undulating waves of pleasure swept over her again and again, until her body trembled with satisfaction.

"God Almighty, but you make a man feel competent." He undid the buttons of his jeans with a sort of ruthless proficiency. His pants undone, hung low on his lean hips. "Haven’t ever been with any woman as responsive as that. No wonder Grady struts around here every goddamn day."

He turned his back to her and began rummaging in the drawer again, not seeming to care what effect his insulting words were having on her.

"I need a little more light ‘cause Lacey, darling, you are something to see."

She tread soundlessly over the rough-wood planks of the floor and with trembling fingers liberated his gun from its holster. He must have lit a handful of candles because the room was suddenly much brighter.

She snatched up her dressing gown and held it in front of her.

The instant he turned, his mouth curled into a cock-eyed grin. The gun was heavier than she’d expected, and she was having a hard time holding it steady. The barrel wavered between his throat and his belly.

"You aim to shoot me, Duchess?"

She made a noncommittal nodding circle with her head. "Stay away from me." She backed up the few steps to the door.

"Now, I would, if I could. Stay away from you, that is." His grin widened, revealing big white, carnivorous teeth. "But I just can’t seem to help myself."

With one long stride, and a preternaturally quick movement, he’d divested her of the weapon. Setting it on the ground, he nudged it with his toe and sent it skidding to the far end of the room. He tore the robe from her hands and maneuvered her wrists behind her back. Her breasts were thrust forward, her nipples pressed against his bare chest.

"It’s not wrong for a man to want to know his competition. Truth is, I usually make it a habit not to go where my brother’s been before--"

"Then don’t," she screamed.

"I said, usually. With you I’m willing to make an exception."

"I hate you," she hissed.

The muscle in his jaw jumped with anger. "Not exactly the sentiment I was hopin’ to hear tonight, but I’ll work around it." His grip tightening on her wrists, he brought her to the balls of her feet.

"I haven’t been with your brother," she insisted. "He’s nothing like you."

"Nothing like me? An unholy sinner, lusting for his woman, you mean?" He narrowed his eyes and searched her face for the truth. She wasn’t sure he believed her, but he released his hold on her.

"You’ve forgotten, Lacey. I’ve seen you together."

"You saw us kiss once. Once. And that’s all."

He rested his forehead on hers. "Woman, you don’t know how much I want that to be true. I’m a jealous fool when it comes to you."

She could feel the tension in his muscles as she slid her hands up to his shoulders. He lowered his mouth over hers. He was hard and dangerous and she couldn’t resist him.

He dipped his head again but this time to pull one of her nipples between his teeth. Instantly, her body responded, and she raised herself higher on her toes so that he could take more of her in his mouth.

"Still hate me?"

"Yes."

"Damn shame." His hot open mouth traced the length of her throat. "But you will let me love you, won’t you Lacey?"

"Yes," she said her voice quivering.

He gave a short harsh laugh and scooped her into his arms, depositing her onto the bed. She was in the same awkward position she had been earlier. Her bottom was at the edge of the bed with her legs dangling over the side so that her boots were solidly on the ground. She felt wanton, and, yet, she complied with his commands to open her legs and only blushed when he forced them even further apart. He towered above her, his lids heavy as he stared steadily down at her. His expert fingers slid into the heat of her. She bucked against his hand.

Slade groaned as her tight hot passage spasmed around his finger. Lacey’s lush dark lashes lifted. Her big golden eyes wide with wonder, as though astonished by her body’s reaction to him. He had to be imagining it. Only an experienced woman would respond so easily to a man. It would be ridiculous to expect her to be a virgin. She'd admitted to being a wild child in England. Then there was that kiss she’d shared with Grady, that he kept reliving, tormenting himself with.

Her lips, bruised from his own kisses, curled into an uncertain smile. He was determined to make her forget everyone but him.

He was on his knees again, taking the time to work loose the ties of her boots, though his body was on fire for her. His fingers itched to touch her, to glide up her silken thigh, knowing she'd still be wet from his kisses. With patience he didn't feel, he gently tugged off her boots. He straightened and pushed his pants off his hips and watched her eyes flutter as she looked at him. A bashful, pink blush infused her cheeks. She sat up suddenly. Dammit. He held his breath half-expecting her to make a rush for the door again. He’d chase her out into the rain and make love to her in the mud if he had to.

He watched her warily as she repositioned herself. She tucked her legs beneath her, resting her bottom on her heels. When her small hand curled around him he pulled in a startled breath. That he hadn’t anticipated at all. She smoothed her hand down the length of him and then she bent her head. Her hair fell forward hiding her face. The muscles in his thighs jolted as her tongue flicked out tasting him.

Lacey didn't know what had possessed her to be so bold. She had never seen a man naked until a few moments ago and yet here she was already testing her ability to bring him pleasure. But he was so utterly masculine with his hard muscles and then, when he'd shed his jeans, she'd been overcome with temptation. She had no idea how to proceed. He seemed absolutely huge. She swirled her tongue around the soft, fleshy tip. She felt shy and unsure of herself and was glad her hair covered her face. She wasn't hidden for long, though. He shoved the hair back from her face, his hand securing it like a ponytail at the nape of her neck, so that now he could see everything.