Caress of Fire (13 page)

As he stretched out next to Lisette, his hand molded to his new wife's breast and his thumb flicked across the coral peak. In her sleep she smiled.

His Lisette was more than any man should expect.

His
Lisette?

Nothing like jumping to a conclusion.

Her “I'll have to think about it” left their marriage up in the air. After the events between their wedding and now, he should have expected nothing more. Well, he wasn't going to tuck his tail between his legs and run away.

He would make the loving good this time.

But she was drained, emotionally and physically. She worked hard, too hard, and never complained about the privations of life on the trail. And he, her husband, had given her hell over one lapse in judgment. He, who had a scroll-long list of mistakes in his past.

He doused the hurricane lamp and slid into bed. Pulling her into the cradle of his arms, he held her while she slept. When they made love, would she be as hot as before? He hoped so. He prayed so. This time he wanted to make it right for both of them–before, during, and afterward.

His fingers caressed her jaw, her chin, her temple, and he feathered a kiss on her eyebrow. It was wicked of him, wanting to waken her, but he had a growing desire to make love to her.

Nonetheless, it took Gil another twenty minutes to rouse her from sleep.

Lisette awoke to moonlight streaming through the hotel window to make shadowy patterns on the bed. And a long-fingered hand was making patterns on her flesh.

Womanly needs coursed through her unclothed body, as if her husband had been touching her intimately for quite some time. His arms were around her. His tongue made circles on her throat, his fingers canvassed the dip of her waist, then between her legs; his toes slid up and down her calf. It took her a moment to realize there was no hostility in his actions.

It took but one more to recall the situation.

“Stop,” she moaned.

“Why?”

“Because I don't want to disappoint you.”

He reared his head. “Disappoint me? What in hell are you talking about?”

“Don't you remember what you said in the meadow? ‘Frankly, you weren't that good.' ”

“Oh, my darlin' Lisette, you
are
an innocent.” He cuddled her against his broad chest. “You don't even know the difference between good and bad loving.”

She gazed into the eyes that watched her closely. “You're making fun of me.”

“I'm not. I'm wanting to show you what good loving is all about. Hell, I need to know myself.”

Confused by his words, she said, “I don't understand. You've been married before, and surely you've known other women.”

“All that is true. But I want to make ours a marriage for keeps.”

“You're absolutely sure?”

“Absolutely, positively.”

Was he lying?
Trust your instincts.
Instincts? They'd done her wrong, but should she let yesterday's foul up tonight? Going on her feminine desires, she answered, “I like that idea.”

“You'll like this one even better.”

He rolled to his back, pulling her atop him. She flattened her forearms on the sheet and raised up to study his expression, but his aroused sex, long and thick, pressed against her stomach, rendering her incapable of clear thought.

The hair on his thighs tickled her legs, that on his chest doing the same to her breasts. Her insides were warm and heavy, and those senses sharpened as he whispered, “My angel, let's start all over again.”

Once more, she worried. She could accept his offer and take a chance of not satisfying him. Or she could hold on to her pride, and keep a distance between them. But since they were abed, both nude, and he was doing his best to arouse her by touching her most intimately, she decided there might be a chance of giving him a modicum of pleasure.

“All right, husband. Let's start anew”

A grin eased across his face. “Thank you.”

His hand abandoned the top of her thighs to stroke her hip, but she scooted back. “G-Gil, I do want you to enjoy yourself. I do not want to make you unhappy. If I do anything you disapprove of, please tell me.”

“You are an innocent.”

“Not totally. When we did this l-last time, I was going on my instincts.”

“Don't quit.” He winked boldly. “On second thought... give us a kiss.”

“Us? Who's this us?”

“Don't get too literal on me.” His hands swept down her back. “What about that kiss?”

Her disarrayed braids falling forward, she leaned to plant a kiss on his whisker-shadowed jaw. His “Not good enough” moved her lips to the sensual ones half parted in expectation. What was left of her braids became clouds of hair as he fiddled with the mass. His tongue slid into her mouth, and the rhythm of loving was in his every movement.

She felt the shape of him, turgid and eager, at the portal of the place he had denounced in the meadow.

Yet . . . her body heated further as she wiggled against him. The kiss ended. Her breasts touched his hair-swirled chest, the sensation sending tendrils of heat to the center of her being, and he smiled as she drew in a deep breath of anticipation.

“Will we make love like this?” she asked, raising her head and moving her fingers to the thick mat of hair enticing her.

“If you're willing to give it a try.”

“I'd be willing . . . if you think you might like it.”

He laughed. “Ah, Lisette, you are some woman. Bold as brass, innocent as a lamb. I like you like this.” He reached up to nuzzle her throat. “And I'm so hot I don't know if I can wait too long to have all of you.”

Apparently not waiting too long would make it good for him. Last time he had spent a long time warming her up. “It feels as if I've been ready for hours,” she admitted in all honesty.

“I've been trying–you can bet I've been trying to get you this way.”

Scooting his fingers between their naked bodies, he captured her nipples to touch them gently, then with more pressure. She grimaced, wondering why her breasts were more sensitive than before.

Her concerns subsided as he asked silkily, “Do you still think I'm ugly?”

“No, you vain devil . . . no.”

“Then move up a bit, honey.” He blew a stream of arousing air across first one nipple, then the other. “Old Son's wanting to pay you a visit.”

Levering above him and bracing her palms on his chest, she questioned, “Old Son?”

“Yeah.
This.”
He lunged upward and deeply.

Impaled on his shaft, she inhaled deeply and quivered, her muscles tightening around him. “Oh, my.”

He didn't move beyond framing her face with his hands and saying, “I'm glad we're together again. And not just this way.”

“S-so ... am ... I.”

“Lisette, my sweet, do you want it slow and deliberate, or do you want it hard and fast?” he whispered, bending his knees and bringing her against his chest. “You set the pace. Show me how you want me to love you.”

“But I want to please
you.”

“Do as I say, Lisette. Do it now.”

She rocked her hips; he growled with pleasure. “Touch me,” he urged, his thumb grazing her nipples. “Do whatever feels right.”

Lowering her face, she pressed her lips to his. And then she was kissing him as he had kissed her in the past, her tongue sliding into his mouth. His flavor was slightly of tobacco and whiskey, but mostly it was what she preferred–the slick, pure taste of Gil.

She pulled back far enough to ask, “Do you like that?”

“Do it again.”

Their tongues cavorted, mated; and then his tongue was in her mouth, moving fast and hard. She knew he wanted this from her. She moved her hips against his long, filling length, and a flurry of eagerness if not impatience built within her. He'd told her to set the tempo, and she would. She fancied the idea.

Her hair flying around her, fanning him, she rode him . . . rode him as if he were a stallion. He growled, prodding her on. The springs sang beneath them. Perspiration moistened the cleft between her breasts as his hands cupped her backside, keeping the unwavering rhythm going. She moaned, then cried out as needles of awareness pricked her nerves. How could she have thought the last time was good when this was so much better?

And it got even better. He turned her to her back, his long fingers spreading behind her ears, his hands cupping her jaw “Now it's my turn, my love,” he said in a rasp. “Put your legs around my waist . . . and hold on tight.”

She held him. He drove, drove, drove. Her eyes glazed at the intensity of his loving strokes. As the moments turned to minute upon minute, her reasoning became unclear. All she knew in her mindless ecstasy was, that mindless or not, this was
ecstasy.

“Lisette,” he uttered, drawing out her name, reaching the pinnacle of satisfaction at the moment of hers.

Both breathing heavily, they lay contented in each other's arms. Moonlight from the nearby window limned his features as he brought her fingers to his lips and kissed each tip. When he finished, she spread her hand across his emery-like jaw and settled her thumb in the dimple of his chin. She felt reborn, felt as if life had given her another chance. And it had: this was the finest moment of her life.

“Was it better this time?” she asked with bated breath.

A warm growl rolled from his throat. “Do I have to tell you?”

“Yes.”

“It wasn't good, darlin'. It was like floating above the clouds, flying to the stars, capturing heaven.”

“I guess that means it was good.”

“I guess it means we were great together. You, me ... Old Son.” His voice tender and dear, he asked, “Am I making too much of your feelings? How do you feel?”

I think I'm in love.
“I feel wonderful!”

“Good.”

Nestled close, she curled her fingers around his shoulder. When she'd set out from Fredericksburg, it had been to follow a nebulous dream of freedom. Now she had an anchor. His ambitions would be hers, and she would do everything in her power to see them to fruition.

He needed a partner, a helpmate. She was that person.

And then he shook, shook with laughter.

“What are you doing?” she asked, angling back slightly.

“Thinking about you.”

The lines radiating from his eyes were deep with mirth, but she'd yet to see the humor. Maybe she hadn't given as much pleasure as she'd thought. Oh, no . . .

“What's so funny?” she asked hesitantly.

“Remember that first morning in camp? I'll never forget the look on your face when you thought Tecumseh Billy was charging you.”

Her palm tapped Gil's forearm. “You are not funny That bull–”

“Steer, honey–steer. Don't forget there's a difference.”

“–had me scared half to death.”

“But you were cute as a bug, standing there in that god-awful getup, your eyes wide as the Texas sky.” His mirth changed to the tightness of promise. “I wanted to haul you into my arms and kiss you till you couldn't see straight.”

She smiled, caught up in his mood. “Mmm, I rather like the idea of your doing those things to me. Now.”

“Something could be arranged,” he drawled, his eyes filled with greater promise. “If you don't mind having a real bull after you.”

“If Old Son's the bull,
Liebster,
I'm more than willing.”

He pulled her back into his arms, kissed her until she couldn't see straight, and loved her till she was beyond breathless.

In the aftermath of their second coupling, Gil implored, “Tell me something. What does it mean, ‘
Liebster
'
?
”

She hadn't meant to speak German, but there was no reproach in his question, and she answered, “Beloved.”

“Thank God for that. It sorta sounded like ‘teamster.'”

They both laughed. “Now you know what my endearment means,” she said, feeling his hardness receding within her. “Maybe you'll answer a question for me. I've been wondering for weeks . . . What's in that trunk?”

“I'll show you .”

He left the bed. Striking a match, he lit the hurricane lamp.

She grinned at him. “You know, Gil, I think your scars make you all the more handsome.”

With feigned exasperation he shook a finger at her. “Woman, keep that up and you'll not be satisfying your curiosity about my trunk.”

“I suppose I can wait a few minutes . . .”

“Fine. You go ahead with your gawking.” Her face went scarlet, yet he assured her. “Honey, I like your staring at me.”

In that case
. . . She continued her perusal. Her gaze welded to his slim buttocks, enjoying the muscular view. All fluid motion, he traversed the room. Turning to the side, he flipped open the trunk lid and dug through the contents to extract a plaid garment. It looked like a ... No, it couldn't be.

“My kilt,” he announced, standing once more and holding the red and blue material in front of his midsection.

“
Gott in Himmel
, it is a skirt. A very short skirt.” Her brows furrowing, she asked, “What are you doing with an abbreviated skirt?”

“I wear it.” He lowered the garment in question. “And it's not a skirt, it's a kilt.”

All skepticism, she commented, “It looks like a skirt to me. I never knew a man to wear such a thing. Of course, there was some talk about Rudolf Klein. Everyone knew he was a bit strange, and–”

“Lisette, all men in Scotland wear kilts.”

“You're joking.”

“I am not.”

“Imagine, a country filled with Rudolf Kleins.” It was not a beautiful image.

“Don't worry yourself unnecessarily, wife. It's a tradition, that's all.” Standing gloriously naked, he said, “It certainly doesn't mean Scotsmen are less than masculine.”

In this case, she thought not. She boosted a brow and wet her lips, wanting to touch all his manly glory.
Ach du meine Güte,
was their no end to his appeal? Even in a skirt? There must be something wrong with her.

He winked before arranging the horrid garment around his narrow waist. “You don't think I'm less than a man, do you?”

“Well, I
didn't.”
Her eyes dropped to glue to the knees below the hem and the hairy, muscular calves. Then she laughed. “I hate to say it, Gil, but you're rather knock-kneed. And you look funny standing there naked except for that skirt.”

“Kilt, Lisette.
Kilt.”
He bent to pull a weird contraption from the trunk. “Do you know what this is?”

“No.”

“These are my bagpipes.”

“I have heard of those, vaguely Why don't you ever play them around the campfire?”