Angel In The Rain (Western Historical Romance) (17 page)

She remembered the first time she’d seen him, and again that day at the base of the rockslide. She’d thought his eyes dull and lifeless. That he was a man who viewed the world from an empty vessel because he’d lost his soul. How wrong she’d been. A whole array of emotions warred within their dark depths. Now, she understood that he held his pain inside, carefully disguised.

“At least you have memories of your mother,” she blurted. More than anything she wanted to take his mind from whatever had put that haunted look in his eyes. She ached for him, and she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to feel anything where he was concerned. “I don’t even remember mine. She died when I was just a baby. All I have of her is one photograph. Just one flat, cold image. It stands on the mantle above the fireplace in the parlor.”

She fell silent as sharp regret stabbed her. Her mother’s photograph. Her beautiful, picture perfect mother posing for the photographer in her striped silk dress of unknown color. Sitting with her stylishly coifed blond head held high, and her black lace gloved hands folded primly in her lap. Her final wish in life had been for Angel’s future. She’d wanted her daughter to be a fine lady, like herself.

And Angel had failed. Miserably. Last night had cinched it. But she couldn’t think about that now.

“What about your father?” she asked. Anything to keep him talking, to keep herself from thinking about how easily she had succumbed to temptation the first time it crossed her path.

His black gaze narrowed sharply. “What about him?”

“Is he still living?”

“Yes.” Rane swung his leg over the bench and stood. Taking the gun from the table, he levered back the hammer and spun the cylinder, listening to the rhythmic sound of the well-oiled clicks. Then he shoved the gun firmly into the holster strapped around his hips and turned to her with that familiar, maddening smirk on his lips. “Maybe one day I’ll introduce you to him.”

Just that quickly, his mood had shifted. After a final adjustment to his gunbelt, he lifted his hat from the peg near the door, then capped it over his head and tugged it down snug to the tops of his ears. Without another word, he walked out the door and quickly merged into grayness with the steadily falling rain.

****

Rane jerked his head from the hard pillow of his arms crossed atop the table. In his haste to stand, he nearly tripped backward over the bench where he sat. Reflex clapped his right hand over the butt of his Colt, withdrawing and cocking it in one continuous motion as he swung to face the barred door.

The pounding from the other side resumed. “Señor Rane! Open the door!”

Rane eased off the hammer and slipped the gun back into his holster. A quick glance at the bed showed him Angel was already awake. Wide-eyed and upright, she stared at him, clutching the blanket against her like a shield.

“It’s Carmella.”

Angel dropped the blanket and came off the bed. “Something must have happened.”

His thought exactly. He lifted the heavy bar and pulled the door open. Carmella nearly fell into his arms.

He grasped her shoulders and righted her, held her away from him, searching her frantic, fearful eyes. “What’s wrong?”

Anguish aged her beyond her years. “You have to leave,” she said. “Right now! Lundy’s men know you are here.”

“How?”

Sudden tears brimmed her eyes. She no longer looked at him.

Dread hummed through him, drawing each nerve and tendon to straining intensity beneath his suddenly clammy skin. He tightened his hold and shook her slightly. “Look at me, Carmella! What happened?”

She still refused to look at him. “I deliver your message,” she said. “Then when I go back to the village, Benito is gone. I look for him. Finally, I find him, but it is too late. Lundy’s men, they buy him whiskey to get him drunk.” She looked up then, and the heartbreak he saw in her eyes ran his blood cold. “Benito told them you are here with the Clayton girl.”

Chapter Eleven

Angel, riding astride the paint mare, plodded along behind the dark silhouette of Rane’s stallion while the eastern horizon turned a slightly paler shade of black. Approaching dawn was both a blessing and a curse. Come daybreak they would be able to see where they were going and make faster time. But daylight would also make them visible to those who hunted them.

Though the rain had stopped, high, dark clouds still skidded like dirty tufts of cotton across the moon and stars. The woolen poncho draped over her shoulders was a sodden weight. Her back ached from the relentless tension that had gripped her body since leaving the adobe and her eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep.

The grueling ride through the black of night seemed as though it would never end until, ahead of her, Rane halted. Wet saddle leather squeaked when he shifted to look back.

“We’ll rest here a while,” he said.

Gladly following his lead, Angel slid from the saddle and led the mare into a stand of brush at the base of an outcrop. The thick bushes hid the horses and the towering rock formation would provide shade when the sun came up.

After beating the sparse grasses and low bushes within the rock cleft to frighten off any hidden wildlife, Rane stretched out on his back on the packed sand and cradled his head in his hands. He yawned and wriggled his hips to settle them, as though sleeping there was the most natural thing in the world.

Angel scanned the nearby rocks and grass tufts with a wary eye. Even after sleeping on the trail for nearly two weeks, the unfamiliar surroundings assumed frightful shapes in the darkness. Every crooked twig resembled a snake. With reluctance, she sat and scooted as near to Rane as she dared. Chilled to the bone, the wet poncho had turned to useless, dead weight. She pulled it over her head and tossed it aside, then sat shivering and hugged her drawn-up knees to her chest.

Despite her exhaustion, she couldn’t relax. Too much had happened that night, and the danger was still very near. Between the biting air and her tightly stretched nerves, she feared her spine might snap at any second.

She glanced at Rane, but couldn’t tell in the dimness whether his eyes were open or closed. “Do you think Carmella made it safely to the village?”

His voice, edged with drowsiness, rumbled up from his chest. “I’d say Carmella is warm and safe and tucked beneath a blanket sound asleep right now.”

“I doubt that. She was too upset.”

“Try to rest,” he said. “I’ll wake you when it’s time to go.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll doze. The horses will warn me if anyone comes near.”

Angel scanned the surrounding sand again. Nothing moved. Somewhat reassured, she lay down and turned to her side, curling an arm beneath her head. The ground under her felt damp. She couldn’t stop shivering. They’d abandoned the adobe in such a hurry, they’d left the bedrolls behind.

After a moment, Rane sat up and scooted nearly against her. He peered down at her for a second, then lay back and opened his arm. Patting his chest, he invited her to use him for a pillow. “Body heat,” was all he said.

Given a choice between snuggling with Rane or chattering her teeth out of her head, Angel curled against his side and settled her cheek against his solidly muscled chest. His arm curved around her shoulders, holding her close, and his heat instantly warmed her.

Soft gray light stole into their hiding place while she lay there, unable to close her eyes, unable to fully relax.

Beneath her ear, his heart pounded in a solid, even rhythm. The side of her nose pressed against his muslin shirt. It smelled of him, like him, a mixture of clean, warm male and cool air, and just a hint of the musky spice that must have scented his shaving soap. She lifted her lashes and glanced up. His chin, which sported nearly twenty-four hours worth of stubble again, was only inches from her face.

“Rane?”

“What.”

“How did you get that scar on your chin?”

Against her ear, his heart sped an infinitesimal beat. “Knife fight.”

She sighed. “I should have known. Have you always lived so close to the edge?”

She felt him stir slightly, not a movement really, but she knew she’d sparked his interest.

“What do you mean? The edge of what?”

“Danger, pain...death. You seem to court them.”

“You planning to give me a sermon about the way I live?”

“Would it do any good?”

“None at all.”

“Then I’ll save my breath.”

Bull-headed man. She didn’t know why she bothered talking to him. Of course, nothing she said would convince him to change his ways, but she couldn’t help wondering about it. If he wanted to, and tried, could he change? What sort of man would he be if he did?

“Angel.”

“Hmm?”

He moved without warning, shifted to his side so that she lay on her back and he hovered above her. His arm still cradled her, holding her head above the dank ground.

With his face only a breath away, the troubled furrow marring his brow had her mirroring his expression. Intensity sizzled within his dark-as-death eyes.

“I have something to tell you.”

She barely dared to breathe. “What is it?”

His gaze raked her face. Almost absently, he ran the backs of his fingers from just beneath her ear to her throat. The feathery caress unfurled all the way to her toes.

“I’m taking you home to your father.”

Elation burst inside her, like a bubble of hope that had been building and expanding until it could contain nothing more.

“Why?” she asked. “Because it’s the right thing to do? Or because your plan has gone awry and now there’s nothing else you
can
do?”

“Does it really matter?”

Yes
, she wanted to scream at him.
It
does
matter. Your reason makes all the difference in the world! To me. It matters to me!

“Whatever happens,” he continued, “I wanted you to know that nothing was meant to hurt you. Before the day is over, you’ll be safe in your father’s house.”

And this will be the last time we spend alone together
, she finished for him.

Her heart swelled, trembled, verged on breaking at the thought of him never holding her like this again.

Desperation clawed at her. The threat of tears burned her eyes. Her fingers curled, fisted against his chest. Then, resolved, she slowly relaxed and lifted her hand to his face. He swallowed; the point of his throat glided smoothly beneath his skin. Barely daring to touch him, she flitted a fingertip over his grimly set mouth. His lips parted, bathing her fingers in heat with each shallow breath.

He wrapped her hand in his and trapped it against his chest. “That tickles.”

For a moment, she feared he would pull back. His pulse throbbed madly just beneath the tanned surface of his throat. Need carved fine webs at the corners of his eyes that were now clouded with desire. His head dipped with infinite slowness. She held her breath, and he touched his lips to hers.

It’s lust. Nothing more,
she reminded herself.

His kiss was gentle, unlike his impassioned explorations that stormy night in the adobe. Close-lipped, almost chaste, his mouth softened against hers, and the sensation burrowed deep down. Only this time the feeling dove straight to her heart.

After that too-brief taste of him, he withdrew. She opened her eyes and found him close, watching her. Confusion warred with longing.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“I...I want you, Angel. Right here, right now, even though we don’t dare take off a stitch of our clothes.”

She swallowed thickly, forcing back her pride and all the recent pain he’d inflicted on her heart. “It’s okay,” she said. “I want you, too.”

“So, we understand each other?” he asked.

A cold, brittle edge formed around her momentary bliss, but she shoved it away, refusing to let it spoil the here and now. If this stolen moment was all she was destined to have of him, then so be it. She would take it and gladly. She would cling to him with both hands and glory in his touch while she could.

“We understand each other,” she assured him.

He lowered his mouth to hers again, so tenderly a sweet, new ache gathered around her heart.

Rane
.

She lifted her hands and wrapped them around the back of his neck, holding him closer, needing him.

His breathing grew harsher as he closed his free hand over the peak of her breast through the damp camisole. He pressed harder, deepening the kiss, parting her lips until his tongue found hers and mated in a sinuous rhythm designed to drive them both half mad.

He pulled back, stroking, nipping, he licked a hot path over her chin and down to her throat. “I have to touch you.” His fingers tugged at the neckline of her blouse, baring her breasts.

The cool air and the dampness ceased to exist. Heat consumed Angel from the inside out, turning her clothing into an obstacle she couldn’t shed when his mouth, hot and moist, closed over her and drew her quivering flesh inside his mouth.