Charlotte Boyett-Compo- Wyndsheer (3 page)

He was shivering from the cold and knew he’d need to take a hot bath as quickly as possible if he wanted to stay healthy so the first thing he did upon entering the cabin--the first thing after a quick glance to make sure the woman was still asleep and breathing--was to light the fire under two large kettles of water and to fill two more.

While the water heated, he stripped off his sodden clothes and tossed them into the fire. The garments were so filthy he had no desire to try to get the red mud from them. Padding over to the bed, he unlocked the handcuff from the headboard as well as from the woman’s wrist and slipped them into the drawer of the nightstand. He stood watching her sleep then sighed deeply. As much as he wanted her, at that moment in time he doubted the pain would allow him an erection.

Wrapping up in a blanket, he sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the fire, the pain in his back a blazing prod radiating agony with every breath he took. Hanging his head, he willed the pain to pass but he knew it would be a long time before it began to subside.

It was all he could do to push himself up when the first kettle began to whistle. The loud, piercing sound had snapped him awake and he was annoyed that he’d allowed himself to sleep. Grunting with the effort he got to his feet, dropping the blanket to the floor and began filling the copper tub with the boiling water. By the time the water was comfortable enough for him to climb in, he was shuddering with pain, the weight of the kettles having sent wave after wave of sheer torment through his aching back.

Settling down into the water, he stretched his arms along the rolled edge of the tub and laid his head on the high back. He had moved aside the screen so he could see the woman on his bed and he stared intently at her. Her beautiful face was turned toward him, the dark sweep of her long eyelashes fanning the softness of her smooth cheek. Her lips were slightly parted and behind those full, pale pink marvels he glimpsed the whiteness of her front teeth. To him, she was perfection. He wondered what those luscious lips would feel like wrapped around him.

He lowered one hand to the thick fullness that—despite the ungodly pain throbbing through him—had begun to manifest itself from his prurient thought. He massaged himself for awhile then with clenched teeth reached for the washcloth and the soap on the shelf beside the tub. Striving to get his mind off the woman, he scrubbed briskly—almost brutally—at his flesh until he felt clean, then slid down in the tub to wet his hair. Surfacing, he lathered the soap and washed his shoulder-length hair. When he was finished, once more he laid his head on the back of the tub and automatically his gaze went to the sleeping woman.

He had known many women in his thirty-nine years but not one had ever held his attention for long. He was drawn to dark haired beauties much shorter than his six-foot, two-inch height and he liked them slender with lush bosoms and tiny waists, flaring hips and long, silky legs that could wrap around his waist as he took them. He preferred virgins but an experienced woman—one who knew the intricacies of pleasing a man—was a welcome respite from untried flesh.

He wondered into which category the woman in his bed fit. There was but one way to find out and with that thought making him hard, he pushed up from the water.

Eyes steady on her, he reached for a towel and dried off, ignoring the steely erection that stretched toward the bed. His hair was dripping down his back and he toweled it briskly then wrapped the material around his waist. With the curly tendrils framing his face, he walked to the bed and with infinite slowness, peeled the covers to the foot of the bed.

It was her nipples that fascinated him the most and he sat down beside her, putting the tips of his fingers just above the areola, drawing in a deep breath as the tip of her breast grazed the crease of the first knuckle on his middle finger. The warmth of her radiated down his finger to make his palm itch and he splayed his hand so he could rest it upon the softly yielding mound of her left breast. Very gently—reverently—he squeezed, testing the pliancy of her flesh, the firmness, allowing her nipple to press intimately into his palm.

He cupped her other breast in the same way and closed his eyes as his heart rate sped up and the ache in his groin intensified. Swallowing, he closed his eyes to better experience the silkiness of her breast, the way it filled his hand, the beat of her heart at the base of his palm. He flexed his fingers around her, drawing upward little by little, closing his fingers together until his fingertips closed over the dusky bud. He rotated her flesh tenderly, plucked at it with his short nails until it was a stiff little pebble. Having attained his goal, he lowered his head and drew that sweet morsel between his lips, flicking it with his tongue, laving it, nibbling in before taking it deeply into his mouth to suckle, holding it firmly for his devouring.

She moaned in her sleep but he did not relent from his enjoyment of her flesh. His left hand--elbow pressing firmly into her belly--continued to knead her right breast as he drew upon her nipple with his hot mouth. His tongue made lightning stabs at the firm peak and his teeth closed around the nipple now and again to apply just enough pressure to make her moan again. This time, she writhed beneath him, her hips instinctively lifting.

Without removing his mouth from her breast, he slid his other hand down her side and belly and onto the curly triangle that felt so satiny to the touch. He smoothed his hand back and forth across her lower belly so those soft curls could abrade his palm, his fingers threading through the spiky hairs to lightly pluck at them.

His suckling brought another low moan from her and when he looked up through his lashes, he saw her sweep her tongue over her lips. That sight hardened him even more and he turned his hand so he could slip one finger into her moist channel.

Slick heat greeted his exploring finger and he drove it deep, added another, finding no obstructing membrane to prevent him from inserting still another until he was stretching her slightly, easing in and out of her with slow, gentle strokes that echoed the motion of his lips. The scent of her arousal drifted up to him and his cock stirred. He released his hold on her breast and pulled the towel open so he could grip himself firmly.

With his mouth on her breast, three fingers inside her sheath and his other hand tugging at his erection, he brought himself almost to the point of release but when that moment came, he was up and over her, pushing into her cunt in one long thrust, his knees between her spread legs as he braced.

Rocking his body rhythmically upon hers, he buried his face against the side of her neck and licked at her skin, reveling in the saltiness. He slid his hands beneath her hips and lifted her up for deeper penetration, wishing he could watch her expression as he took her.

Another long moan came from her but then her body began to ripple around his and he stilled--feeling her orgasm milking him--and he pushed up to look down at her. She shivered then laid still, one long breath escaping her parted lips.

“Aye, lass,” he whispered. “Take all I have to give.”

A few more thrusts and he came hard, his entire body shuddering with the force of the enjoyment that rocketed through him. Breathing heavily, he eased off her and lay at her side, his hand protectively, possessively on the slight concavity of her belly. He watched her until he realized she was sweating.

He frowned, worrying she was developing an infection. He needed to see to her health as he had his own and swung his legs from the bed, wincing at the pain that engulfed his back with the abrupt movement. He had to sit on the edge of the bed until the worst of the agony passed. Finally, he was able to get up to warm more water.

Chapter Two

The hands were so gentle on her flesh, so tender, the touch brought a sigh to her lips. Though her eyes were open only a crack, through an undulating haze she could see a shadow moving over her as a warm cloth was swept across her brow. The scent of soap filled her nostrils when the cloth passed down her cheeks and softly along her lips. Warmth flowed down her neck and across her shoulders. Her arm was lifted and the soft material dragged lightly down her flesh, dipped briefly in her armpit. She felt the shadow lean over her to take up her other arm to bathe it, as well. When the cool wash of air flowed over her body, her eyelids fluttered open but all she could see was the foggy silhouette of an arm and a broad shoulder as the warm, wet cloth passed over her chest, momentarily around and under each breast before gliding down over her belly and onto each hip in turn.

She could feel her blood racing as the cloth dipped lower still and she held her breath, waiting for it to be thrust between her thighs but the soothing warmth did not journey there. Instead, it flowed tenderly down first one thigh then the other and onto the calf and shin of her left leg before ending up on the instep of that gently lifted foot.

“You need wake up, lass,” she heard a deep voice say and the cadence of a thick brogue brought her eyes all the way open. The covers were tucked around her, each arm pulled from beneath the spread to be laid gently atop.

She strained to see who had spoken but in her hazy, foggy condition she could make out nothing more than the wide sweep of his shoulders and the dark brown hair that was tied back in a ponytail as she saw him move away from the bed. She tried to speak, to call out to him, but her throat felt raw, parched and all she could manage was a small bleat of sound.

But it was enough to bring him back to the bed and as he leaned over her, sliding a hand beneath her neck to lift her head, she felt the cool rim of a glass brought to her lips.

She drank deeply--wanting, needing more than a few sips but before she could drink her fill, he moved the glass away and gently lowered her head to the pillow.

She licked her lips and tried to follow his progress across the room but her vision was blurred, wavering in the low light. The smell of burning wood, the rich aroma of a salty broth simmering attracted her senses to make her stomach growl with hunger. She plucked at the sheet beneath her hands, struggling to keep her eyes open, hoping he would come back to the bed and lean over her once more so she could get a glimpse of his face.

The creaking of a chair drew her attention back the other way and in the steady glow of a fire leaping in a wide stone hearth, she saw him sitting there, his head pressed against the tall back of a rocker, his face in profile to the flames. There was something so tired, so sad about the way he slumped in the chair with his long legs thrust out in front of him. Though she could not see all that clearly, she had an impression that in his left hand was a large mug. Idly she wondered if it were coffee or tea or the delicious smelling broth he drank.

Once more she licked her lips and tried to speak but it felt as though all her energy had been drained away, her ability to move more than just her hands sapped from her. She was bone-tired and her head throbbed miserably, her entire body one massive ache. Sighing, she closed her eyes for the effort to keep them open took too much of what little vigor she had left.

She must have slept for when she opened her eyes again, her guardian angel was easing the wet cloth over her face once more and the wetness of it felt so good she moaned. As he bathed her--his hands running firmly over her body--the gentleness of his touch was so comforting she never wanted it to end. She longed to have him drag the cloth between her legs but he avoided that area, coming close to it but never delving into the ache that dwelt there.

All through what must have been a long, tiring night, he would leave the chair and hover over her, bathing the sweat from her body, giving her small sips of water to drink, running his hand over her brow to push aside her damp hair. Each time he came to her, his touch was never hurried, never hurtful, and always soothing.

Each time he returned to the chair, she felt the loss of his presence keenly and groaned inwardly. She longed to have him lie down beside her and draw her into his arms, hold her against him, chase away the teeth-chattering chills that struck now and again. But when those times came, he would get up and pile more covers on her, speak softly to her until she returned to a restless slumber. When she woke, she would lay there watching him trying to get comfortable in the chair, see him shift his tall length, and wish she had the strength to speak to him, to bid him come to bed with her.

Some time later, she woke to find the covers weighing her down, the heat around her too high so she tossed the covers aside, reveling in the cool wash of air flowing over her body.

“No,” she heard him say and he was leaning over her, tucking the covers snugly around her again.

“Hot,” she complained, looking up at the underside of his unshaven jaw.

“No,” he pronounced.

“Hot,” she repeated and tried to push the covers off away but he would not allow it.

“Behave,” he said firmly then put a hand beneath her neck to bring her head up. “Drink.”

The water was so cooling and delightful as it trickled down her throat. She gulped greedily--expecting him to pull the glass from her lips before she’d had her fill but he didn’t. He held her head cupped in his strong hand until she had taken all she could.

“Enough?” he questioned.

She managed to nod.

Sliding his hand from her neck, he straightened and turned from the bed, reaching behind him to knead a muscle at his side. Her gaze softened for she knew he must be stiff from passing the night in the constricting confines of the rocker.

When he turned back around, she got her first clear look at his face and she drew in a quick breath. He barely glanced at her before he moved out of her line of vision but that one brief look was enough to make her pulse race.

Striving to push herself up in the bed to get another look at him, she felt the weakness turning her arms to mush. Pain gouged at her head and she sucked in a soft breath, stilling as the ache shot all the way down her neck. It was all she could do to lift her head to see where he’d gone. When she saw him standing across the room at an old-fashioned stove, stirring something in a heavy cast iron skillet, she blinked, her forehead crinkling with confusion. The smell of eggs cooking wafted to her.