A Wild Yearning (10 page)

Falling back with exhaustion, she looked up again...

"Well, well," came a familiar drawl. "Seems we've caught ourselves a varmint here."

He stood looking down at her, leaning on his rifle, his chin resting on his wrist.

"Get me out of here," she said.

"Why?"

"Because... Oooh! Ye can be so damn infuriatin'. D' ye expect me t' spend the night in this pit? Get me out."

"So that you can frighten poor Mrs. Hooker with more fanciful tales of murderous Indians?"

"I told ye I was sorry—"

"So that you can bedevil me by spurning all my efforts to be nice to you?"

"Nice t' me. Hunh. Ye call this bein' nice t' me?"

He heaved a deep, sad sigh, but Delia wasn't fooled. She could tell by the ragged catch in his voice that he was enjoying a good laugh at her expense.

Rays from the dying sun penetrated the canopy of trees, shining directly on him, bathing his face with a golden glow and bringing out the bronze lights in his rich dark hair. As always she was struck by the sight of him—he was such a marvelous figure of a man. She doubted he could really see much of her, thank goodness, the way she lay sprawled in the bottom of the black pit, her petticoat pulled halfway up around her waist, and covered as she was with dirt and pine needles.

"I'll help you out, but there's a condition attached," he said.

"I'm not ridin' that bloody horse with ye!" Delia cried, anticipating his condition.

"Fine then." He disappeared from sight.

"Goddamn ye, Ty!" When he didn't come back right away, she screamed louder. "Ty, come back! Please! I'll do what ye say, everythin' ye say, only please come back. Ty!"

He came back. He squatted down to sit at the edge of the pit, his legs dangling over the side, the rifle resting across his lap, as if, Delia thought, grinding her teeth with frustration, he had all bloody day.

"Be dark soon," he said cheerfully, squinting up at the needly bower overhead.

Delia ground her teeth some more.

"Aye..." He blew his breath out in a soft whistle. "I reckon we'll be getting some rain 'round about midnight."

"Ty, there's a wolf a-roamin' around loose up there." Her voice began husky-sweet but took on an edge as it grew in volume. "I hope it eats ye. It would serve ye bloody right."

Ty laughed. "I doubt it was a wolf you saw. Not this close to the village. Must have been the innkeeper's old hound dog."

Delia began to have a horrible premonition. "How... how far away do ye figure we are from the village?"

"Oh, about fifty rods."

Delia's cheeks felt warm. She was glad of the darkness within the pit so that Ty couldn't see her embarrassment. She had thought herself hopelessly lost, deep in a wilderness forest, and here she was only fifty rods from the village.

Ty startled her by leaping gracefully down into the pit with her. He groped his way to her side and then she heard him swear as he felt the log lying across her leg. "Christ, why didn't you say something?"

"I thought ye knew."

"How could I possibly—" he began, then cut himself off. He wrapped his arms around the thick log, grunted, heaved, and suddenly she was free. "Don't move," he ordered as she started to sit up.

He felt all along her leg, even up under her skirt. The leg had been throbbing with pain, but at the first touch of his fingers, the pain faded. Delia's eyes fluttered closed and her flesh seemed to melt beneath his soothing hands... gentle, gentle, so very, very gentle. A warm heat began glowing in the pit of her stomach, spreading outward, making her skin feel or fire. Her throat grew tight and dry.

His voice came at her from far away. "It's not broken, but you'll be sporting another fine-looking bruise. You were lucky you weren't killed. This is someone's old deadfall trap and that log was meant to come crashing down on whatever prey stumbled into it. It could have split your head like a squash."

Delia shivered. Then she shivered again as his strong hands went around her waist and he helped her to her feet. "Can you put your weight on it?"

She tested the leg. "I think so. Aye, I can," she said, or tried to say. Her voice wasn't working properly any longer.

His hands lingered at her waist; his chest pressed up against her back. She was more than ever aware of the nearness of him. It was as if he generated a melting heat, like a blacksmith's forge. Suddenly, it seemed so quiet she could hear his breathing. And feel it as well, rising and falling within his chest, rising, falling, rising—

His breath caught. He took a step back and his hands fell away.

"I'll kneel down and you get on my shoulders. Then I'll boost you up," he said. There was a rough edge to his voice. Delia thought he was probably angry with her again. What a wooden-headed fool she was for getting herself into this predicament. Real ladies, she was sure, didn't get into a snit and go running off into the woods to get lost and then fall into a pit so that they had to be rescued.

Ty knelt in front of her. She hesitated a moment, for she really didn't want to touch him. There were things she wanted to do to Tyler Savitch, although she was only vaguely aware of the nature of those things. She just knew that once she started touching him she wouldn't be able to stop herself.

He gave an impatient grunt. "Let's go, Delia..."

Drawing in a deep breath, she wrapped her arms around his neck. He reached behind him and grasped her legs, pulling them around his waist and standing up in one fluid motion. The top of the pit was now only a couple of feet above Ty's head and it would be a simple matter for her to let go of his neck and pull herself out.

But she didn't move. She was aware of the pulse in his neck beating against the flesh of her arms; of his lungs expanding and contracting beneath her thighs; of her womanly mound pressing against the hard, warm muscle of his back. And the smell of him—leather and tobacco and pure man.

Unconsciously, she put her cheek to the back of his head, rubbing it against his hair.

"Are we going to stand like this all night?"

Delia came to with a start. She must be heavy, clinging to him like this. Perhaps that was why his voice sounded so strained. With shaking hands, she let go of Ty's neck and reached up. Digging her fingers onto the flat earth above, she pulled herself up and over Ty's head and out of the pit. At the last moment he put his palms on her bottom to give her a boost, and the shock of his hands touching her so intimately caused Delia to groan aloud.

"Are you all right?" she heard him say.

She scrambled up on her hands and knees and looked down into Ty's upturned face. There was a light film of sweat on his forehead, although the evening air seemed suddenly to have grown cool. His lips were pressed together into a tight, hard line. She saw the movement of his throat as he swallowed.

"Give me a hand up," he said.

She stretched her hand down to him, and he wrapped his fingers around her wrist. Bracing against her weight, he crab-walked up the slightly sloping side of the pit. He came up over the lip of it faster than she expected, and the sudden release of the pull of his weight caused her body to react like a spring, recoiling backward. She landed on her back and he fell on top of her, his elbows braced on each side of her shoulders.

Their faces were inches apart, so close she could feel the warm moistness of his breath and notice herself reflected in the dark, dusky blue of his eyes. The sun had set by now, but there was still enough light to see the sweep of his lashes as his lids drifted closed and the gleam of his teeth as his lips parted open.

Those lips touched hers, lightly at first, brushing back and forth across the soft, swelling fullness of her mouth. Then his mouth pressed down harder and her lips moved, opened beneath his. Her arms went around him, pulling him down onto her. She dug her fingers into the muscles of his shoulders and felt him shudder. He ran the edge of his tongue along her teeth, slid it deep into her mouth. It was hard and slick and strangely, mysteriously evocative of something, something that made the hollow, burning place low in her belly ache to be filled.

She arched, rubbing that aching, empty place against the hard bone of his hip, rubbing until he tore his mouth from hers and exhaled sharply, "Christ, Delia."

He kissed her again, soft feathery kisses, flicking his tongue back and forth over the swell of her lips, delving in and out between them quickly, teasingly. Moaning, she put her palm against the back of his head and boldly pressed his open mouth down over hers.

She explored his tongue with her own and then put her tongue full into his mouth. It was hot and sweet and tasted of rum, and nothing, nothing in her entire life had tasted or felt so fine. She knew this kiss was only the beginning. There was more, oh so much more, and she wanted it, all of it. She wanted him.

He shifted his weight onto his side, and his hand came between them to tug at the laces of her bodice. He tangled the fingers of his other hand in her hair, pulling her head back. His mouth released her lips to slide along her jaw, down her neck. Oh God... the feel of his lips on her neck, so moist and warm, pulsating to match the hard rush of her blood. Her whole body tensed and arched, and one breast came free to fill his hand. His fingers twisted the nipple until it almost hurt, but not quite, and her muscles drew up tighter, her toes curled, and she stopped breathing.

His hand released her breast and drifted down the length of her. Her petticoat and shift had both ridden up around her thighs, and his fingers touched her bare flesh at the same moment that his mouth closed around her taut nipple. Her body jerked as if he'd seared her with fire—

She gave a mighty heave, pushing him off her and rolling away from him, sitting up. He lay motionless on the ground for a brief moment, braced on his elbows with his head bowed, breathing heavily. Then he, too, pushed himself up to kneel before her, his hands resting on his thighs.

He glared at her. "And what am I supposed to do now, Delia-girl? Do you like to be forced? Or are you expecting me to pay for it first?"

She pulled back and delivered a walloping slap across his face, rocking him on his heels and snapping his head back.

Anger darkened his face. "Why, you little—"

His hand shot out to grab her, but she skittered away from him, jumping to her feet. He stood up more slowly, a hard smile tautening his lips. His cheek bore the red imprint of her palm, and a muscle twitched beneath the mark.

Delia backed away from him, one fist pressed to her breast where her bodice gaped open. "Don't ye touch me, ye bastard!"

His lips curled into a sneer. "Why not? If you didn't want to be touched, you sure as hell gave a good imitation of wanting it."

She whirled around, but she had barely taken a step before his arm wrapped around her waist, hauling her back against him.

She jabbed an elbow into his midriff, so hard he grunted. He pressed his mouth against her ear. "I'm bigger and stronger and meaner than you, and there's no way you can win, Delia-girl, so don't make me prove it."

"Go t' hell, ye... ye..." She called him the foulest names she knew as she flailed against him, trying to kick his shins with her bare feet.

"Shit!" He panted as her nails raked across the back of his hand. His arm tightened around her bruised ribs, and a sharp pain jabbed her, so fierce it made her scream.

Ty instantly relaxed his grip. She stumbled away from him, her hand pressed to her side, her breath sawing in her throat.

"Delia..." He touched her shoulder, but she flinched away, so he let his hand fall.

She drew in a deep, sobbing breath. Her lips, her breasts, her whole body burned. She wiped at her mouth with the back of a hand that trembled so badly she might have had a fever. "Oh, I hate ye, Tyler Savitch. Truly I do."

A nerve jumped once in his cheek, then his face relaxed and he shook his head in mock sorrow. "I know. You hate me and my kisses obviously disgust you. But is that any reason to try to beat the bloody bejesus out of me?"

"I'll not have ye slakin' yer lust on me, Tyler Savitch." Her voice shook as she jerked the laces of her bodice back together. "Not when it's Mrs. Hooker ye're really hankerin' for."

He grimaced with exasperation, flicking his tousled hair out of his eyes. "Are you back to harping on that subject? How many times must I tell you that I haven't the least desire—"

"Don't think I care about you an' her, 'cause I don't!" Hateful tears spilled from Delia's eyes. She brushed them angrily away. "It just isn't right for a man to be kissin' one woman when 'tis the other one he's a-wantin'."

"You're wrong. I don't want Elizabeth."

Her chin trembled. "Ye d-do."

"I don't."

His hand cupped the side of her face, his head dipped down, his warm breath flooded over her. And Delia stopped breathing again.

"Delia, my Delia," he whispered, and his voice was a caress that sent her heart pounding like a kettledrum in her breast. "It's you I want. It's you..." His lips hovered over her open mouth.

She jerked her head to the side. "I want to go back to the inn now, Ty," she said stiffly.

He straightened, backing up. "Then go. I won't try to stop you."

But Delia didn't move. She was concentrating hard on not looking at any part of him because her eyes kept wanting to drift down... to the prominent bulge at the crotch of his breeches. She had felt it while struggling against him, his hardened manhood pressing against her buttocks. She knew what it meant when a man got like that. She had worked too many years at the Frisky Lyon, and gone a little too far a few times with Tom Mullins, not to know.