Carolyn Davidson (14 page)

With an innate knowledge that overcame the fears of her past, she recognized the craving of her flesh, and with a gasping cry she parted her legs, enclosing him in an embrace that brought a groan of protest from his lips. She shook her head against his denial.

“Please, Quinn.” His manhood surged against her and he bowed his head, his muscles taut as he rose above her, searching in the dim light for her face.

“Erin…no. You don’t know—”

“I need you.” Her whisper was muffled, a call from her heart. In that moment she allowed the birth of a trust that went beyond the surface, that extended to the inherent need of a woman for her man. Her knees rose, tightening against his hips, and she trembled, her thighs enclosing him in that most intimate embrace.

Quinn was lost, his body almost beyond control as she moved against him. I
need you.
Her words echoed inside his head, a symphony he’d not thought to hear.

His hands slid down her sides, drawing up her gown
on the return trip, then shifting to slide his own clothing from place.

I
need you.
The trust implicit in those simple words humbled him, yet filled him with a pride he could barely contain. She was the essence of all that was good in his life, this small, strong woman.

And for tonight, for this moment, she was willing to accept his strength and make it her own.

She surrounded him, the scent of her body, the touch of her skin, soft and supple beneath his hands, bringing him to a new knowledge of her beauty. And beneath the surging power of his loins, the warm depth of her woman’s flesh was open to his masculine need.

Quinn moved carefully, easing his way lest he cause a moment’s pain, fighting the urge to thrust. Erin whispered her plea once more, moving beneath him, as if she were made for his taking. He pressed within, his breathing ragged, his eyes tightly shut, his teeth gritted against the awesome, wonderful clenching of her flesh as she claimed him.

It was a taste of paradise, one he’d yearned for. Yet it was with a sense of foreboding that he took what she offered, surging against her, in only moments spilling his seed within her.

“Erin.” He breathed her name, dropping his head to bury his face in her pillow. “Oh, Erin.”

“It’s all right,” she whispered, holding him with an urgency he could only be thankful for.

“Did I hurt you, sweetheart?” Torn between the need for her body and the guilt of his actions, he rocked with her in the bed, unwilling to ease from her, reluctant to free her from his touch.

She shook her head, only a trace of the sobs that had racked her frame just minutes past remaining. “You’ve
never hurt me, Quinn. You’ve only brought me comfort.”

If comfort was what she had gained, he could not regret what had passed between them. He could only be grateful that his own urgent need had been given ease. That he had not brought any degree of pleasure to her was a regret he would live with. An issue he would face in its season. A debt he would delight in paying when the time was right.

She moved beneath him, as if she had only just become aware that their bodies were still joined. She shifted, and he groaned, chagrined by the resurgence of his arousal.

He rose above her, gritting his teeth at the renewed desire that stirred him. It had not been enough. He’d been long without the comfort of a woman’s flesh, and his desire had been spent too rapidly, leaving him yearning for a longer, slower loving that would assuage his hunger. With reluctance, he withdrew from her, regretting the loss.

She was delicate in his hands, for this moment appearing smaller, more fragile somehow, as he turned to his side, bringing her to rest against his shoulder. Pliant in his hands, Erin melded her body to his, her fingers resting on his chest. Quinn eased the covers over her shoulder and nudged her chin upward with his index finger, watching her as he lowered his head.

His kiss was fierce; his lips opening to capture hers in a taking she allowed, as if she sensed his need to possess her in this way. She was his, his woman, his wife, and he reveled in the pleasure that thought produced. She’d given herself to him, perhaps not with forethought, but with a sweet generosity he had not expected.
That her feelings were in upheaval was a certainty, but that did not negate her actions.

A deep sense of satisfaction rose within him. The marriage had been well consummated, no matter the circumstances, and no power on earth would take this woman from him. Whether he was ready for a declaration of love, or only willing to admit a terrible need for her, it mattered little. The end result would be the same.

“
W
hat will we do now?”

Quinn swallowed the coffee he’d been sipping at, wincing as it burned the length of his throat. “About what?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

Erin turned from the stove, her cheeks flushed from the heat, her eyes dark pools of uncertainty. “About the man I killed.” It was a stark statement, delivered in a flat tone that told Quinn little about her frame of mind.

Whether she merely accepted the fact that she had been forced to defend herself and the babe, or whether she was holding herself aloof from the shock of her actions, he could not tell. He sipped again at his coffee, watching her, his eyes focused on her unsmiling mouth.

“I’ll take care of him, Erin. There’s a choice to be made, but either way, I’ll tend to it.”

“The other man, Toby…I’m sure he’s raising all sorts of Cain. I imagine the sheriff will be on his way to put me in jail before long.”

Quinn shook his head. “I doubt it. The question will arise as to what they were doing here. I can’t imagine the law will dispute your right to defend yourself.”

She breathed deeply and carried the skillet to the table,
her skirt brushing against Quinn’s trousers as she spooned gravy over his biscuits. He relished the sensation, enjoying the faint scent of soap and the warmth of her body as she leaned closer to serve him.

“What are the choices?” she asked, straightening and looking down at him. Her gaze, as it had been all morning, was aimed at his shoulder.

Quinn’s long arm snaked around her waist, holding her in place, not only to keep her where she stood, but because he had an urgent need to touch the woman he’d married. His fingers spread against her, and he stifled the impulse to bring her to his lap. At his touch, she’d lowered the skillet to the table, then looked at him with startled eyes.

“Quinn?” It was a breathless whisper, her mouth forming a small O before her lips pressed together.

“I don’t want to leave you here alone, Erin, but I think I need to take the body back to Big Bertha and get things sorted out. Either that, or bury him here and take you and the baby to town to see the sheriff.”

She was motionless, as if his touch had fused her in place.

“Which would you rather have me do? I know I said I’d take care of it, but if you’re afraid to be alone here, I won’t leave you.”

Her eyes were grave as she finally turned them to meet his. “I’ll be all right alone, if you think delivering him to the mine is the right thing to do. I have baking to do, and I didn’t get the clothes folded yesterday.”

She’d emptied the lines before breakfast, while he took care of the stock, and the bed was piled with the assortment of laundry.

“Come eat now,” Quinn told her, releasing his hold on her. “There’s no hurry, either way.”

Erin served herself from the skillet, then brought sausage from the stove and sat down across the table. She sawed at her biscuit and forked a bite to her mouth. “Last night…I didn’t mean to fall apart the way I.”

Quinn reached to grasp her hand. “Don’t. Don’t ever apologize for being human, Erin. Don’t ever be sorry for turning to me. I’m your husband.” He felt a smile that would not be suppressed curve his lips. “I can’t tell you how pleased I was by your ‘falling apart,’ as you put it.”

She flashed him a quick glance, drawing her hand from his grasp. “Well, I just wanted to say.” She inhaled as if drawing strength from within. “I guess thank you is sort of inadequate, but those are the only words I can think of. Not just for the comfort you gave me.” She shook her head, groping for words.

“Because I didn’t hurt you?” His tone was solemn, and Quinn wished fervently that she had more to be thankful for than that meager blessing.

Her eyelids fell and she concentrated on her plate. “That was no small thing, Quinn. You can’t know how…different.” Her voice failed her and he waited, watching as she took a bite of food.

She was chewing slowly, and he’d be willing to bet she had no notion of what she had put in her mouth. “Different, Erin? Because I didn’t cause you pain?”

At her murmur of assent, his jaw tensed. Damn, Damian Wentworth had a lot to answer for. “I want you to.” How to say it? “Look, I can only promise it will be better another time.”

She looked up, startled. “Better?”

Quinn’s lips curved once more in the smile he could not restrain. “Yes, much. Not for me, honey. I’m not sure it could have.” He paused, choosing his words
carefully, lest he embarrass her into silence. “I want you to need me the way I need you, Erin. One day you will, not just for comfort, but for the pleasure I can give you.”

If he didn’t put a halt to this conversation, and right soon, he decided, he might not be able to walk away from her this morning. Already the urgency of his arousal was keeping him in place, fearful that he might frighten her with its prominence should he stand.

She nodded slowly, but with a look that clearly told him she did not comprehend his meaning.

“I’d like some more gravy,” he said. “I have biscuit left over, it looks like.”

“Yes, of course.” She rose quickly, served him, then scraped her own plate into a pan in the sink.

“When will you leave?”

“Right away. I don’t know how long I’ll be, probably not more than four or five hours to head over the mountain and get back. I’ll use your packhorse.” He made quick work of his second helping and rose. The sooner he left, the sooner he’d be back, and that thought hurried his footsteps.

Erin watched as Quinn readied himself—his scarf covering his throat, his coat in place and his hat tugged over his forehead. He looked somber now, his smile in abeyance, as if the solemn task before him had drained his moment of good humor. Hand outstretched, he beckoned, and she stepped to where he waited by the door. His fingers were warm against hers and she fought the urge to cling to him, the need for reassurance had come to the forefront now that he was on the verge of leaving.

His head dipped, his mouth touching hers with a gentle kiss, and she found herself responding, her lips moving against his. He inhaled, and his hands pressed her shoulders, pulling her against him. Soft kisses turned to
a firm possession and Erin leaned submissively against Quinn’s solid length, supported by the masculine strength of his body.

Lifting his head slowly, he opened his eyes, allowing her to see the desire he made no attempt to hide. “Will you be all right?”

She nodded, aware of the flush ridging his cheekbones, the flare of his nostrils and the heat of his appraisal.

“I’ll fix dinner while you’re gone. You’ll be hungry.”

His nod was quick, and he put her aside to take his rifle from the corner. With a mighty blast of cold air, the wind made its presence known as he opened the door, and he stepped out at once, closing it behind himself.

Erin moved to the window and watched as Quinn drew on leather gloves, then made his way to the shed. In a few minutes he led the horses out, the packhorse carrying an ominous burden wrapped in a piece of canvas. He mounted quickly, then cast a glance at the house and lifted his hand in a salute. She raised her own, spreading her fingers against the window glass, watching until he disappeared into the trees.

The snow began to drift across the front of the cabin before noon, the wind increasing in volume, whistling beneath the eaves and groaning down the chimney. Erin added wood to the fire, walking from stove to window and back as she tended her kettle of soup. Before long, the cabin was filled with the scent of baking bread, and a custard cooled on the porch.

And still Quinn did not come home.

She brought in the cold custard and settled down to nurse the baby for the third time, keeping track of the hours by the hunger of the infant. “He’s been gone a
long time, Robert. Over seven hours,” she crooned, her fingers brushing back the dark hair as blue eyes watched her closely. She’d stopped singing an hour ago, having run through all the music she could remember.

Then she waited, pacing to stir the soup, covering the bread with a towel, then finally slicing a piece when her hunger nudged her to take action. Robert slept against her shoulder, and she was comforted by the warmth of his breath against her neck. But her arms ached from holding him and, with a sigh, she placed him in his bed to sleep.

Quinn would be ready for hot coffee when he came in, and the pot on the stove had been keeping warm all day. Fresh grounds were in order. Erin dumped the thick residue off the porch, clutching her shawl around her shoulders as she searched the edge of the clearing for movement. The cold was bitter and she scurried back inside, pausing only to cut free a skinned rabbit from its moorings.

Quinn had hung three from the edge of the porch roof, handy for her use. It would thaw quickly inside and she could fry it up for supper. Soup would not satisfy a man who’d gone so long without food.

It gave her something to do. She washed the frozen carcass at the sink, then chopped it into pieces with her big knife.

“Erin.” From the porch she heard her name, a faint voice calling to her, and she paused, knife in the air as she aimed for the leg joint of the rabbit.

“Erin!” It sounded louder, stronger this time, and she went to the window, leaning to the side to search out the source. Across the step, lifting himself on one knee, arm outstretched toward the upright support, a man struggled to rise. Snow covered his coat, as if he had
rolled in it, and his head was bent as he strained to get his feet beneath himself.

He turned his head to face her, and a gasp of horror escaped her lips. Quinn! Even in the twilight of early evening she could see blood staining his cheek and forehead.

“Quinn!” She whispered his name, the knife clattering to the floor as she turned to the door. It had never seemed so heavy in her hand as she pulled it open. Her feet had never moved so slowly as she stumbled across the narrow porch.

“Erin…” His voice was a whisper and he reached for her, his arm a deadweight on her shoulder. She braced herself and gave him her support, staggering as he leaned heavily.

“Cold…so cold,” he muttered, and she was hard put to stay erect as she half supported, half dragged him into the cabin. Once they cleared the portal, she eased him to the floor, then shut the heavy wooden door, still shivering although she was surrounded by the warmth of the stove.

Her fingers worked at the buttons on his coat, then flew to his head, tugging his hat from its place, brushing snow as she went, noting the dark bloodstains it bore. He was silent now, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow. His gloves were stiff as she drew them from his hands, and she tossed them to the floor near the stove to thaw.

“Your boots! I have to get your boots off, Quinn. You need to have your feet warmed,” she murmured, unsure if she’d seen his eyelids flicker or not. “Let me help you roll over, so I can get your coat off. Please, Quinn! Help me.”

She worked quickly, impatient with the snowy boots,
yet tugging at them as gently as she could, lest his legs should be injured and she cause more harm than good. The coat sleeves slid from his arms as she rolled him from side to side, and she unwound the scarf from his neck.

Blood stained his face, and she searched for its source. Then, with a muffled growl of exasperation, she dipped her dish towel into the pan of water she kept on the back of the stove, wringing it out quickly. Back at Quinn’s side, she washed the dried blood, working gently at his skin, moving finally to the side of his head, where, several inches above his ear, she found its source.

A shallow groove creased through his hair, its length still oozing a crimson stain, and she washed it with care. It didn’t appear to be deep. With a sigh of relief she gathered up two of the baby’s diapers. She folded one into a thick pad and tore the other into strips to bind his head, holding the bandage in place.

Quinn had begun to shiver as she worked, and Erin dragged her heaviest quilt from the bed, arranging it nearer the stove. Then she rolled him across the floor, her hands careful to protect his head, until his big body was almost centered on the warm blanket. Trembling from her efforts, she stripped him hastily of the wet trousers he wore and, finally, of his long underwear, grunting -from the effort of lifting him. His legs, long and muscled, were strangely pale in the lamplight and she covered them quickly, averting her eyes as she dragged the second quilt past his male parts.

His shivering had become almost violent as she worked, and she brought the third quilt from the bed, tucking it around him, reaching beneath to rub gently at his feet. They were like chunks of ice in her hands, and she found clean stockings in his pile of clothing and
pulled them into place. Finally, she wrapped them in her warm shawl before she pulled the quilts over them again.

Still he shivered, his teeth clenched together and chattering. “Cold, so cold.” The words reached her as she returned to him again, this time with a pillow in hand. Kneeling by his head, Erin lifted him with one arm beneath his neck, to push the pillow beneath his head. Quinn’s eyes fluttered open and he looked at her, blinking as if he did not recognize the face above him.

“Cold.” The single word reached her ears, and then his eyelids closed again. Erin took off her shoes, then pulled back the quilts she had tucked so neatly around him and slid beneath. With a growl of frustration she recognized that she could warm only one side of him at a time. She murmured a word of assurance, shifting about beneath the quilt, and inched her way atop his form, her head on his chest, her feet reaching almost to his toes. Moving carefully, she tugged the quilts in place, leaving only her head exposed. For a moment she willed herself to relax, to soften, molding her trembling body to his as her flesh absorbed the icy chill that invaded his flesh.

Then she began moving against him, using her arms and legs, her hands rubbing his sides and down the length of his long arms, her feet against the sides of his legs. Quinn stirred a bit beneath her now, his constant trembling turning to shudders that had her clinging to her perch.

He was so cold, so chilled to his very core that Erin trembled within as she finally considered the thought that he might not live through this ordeal. His breathing was shallow, and she found herself listening to the sound of his heart, her ear pressed to his chest. It had become
more regular, pounding with a steadier beat; yet still he retained that deathlike chill.