Mary Brock Jones (25 page)

With brisk efficiency, he helped Nessa down, undid his swag, and spread the oilskin over the ground to keep her dry, tucking the excess around her shoulders. Then he pulled out the flint he always kept handy and the small billy and tea makings stowed in his saddle bag. In no time at all, he had made a small fire in the heart of a tussock clump. It would not burn long, just enough to boil a billy of tea. And hot tea in cold weather was a life saver.

“Here, drink this.” He thrust the mug at her, full of black tea and loaded down with a generous helping of sugar. “All of it,” he ordered at the look on her face after the first sip. “You need the energy.”

Her hands were still shaking, so badly she could barely hold the mug. “Damn,” he muttered, then pulled her into his shoulder, tucking her under his own coat and taking the mug from her hands. Carefully, sip by sip, he coaxed her to take it all down. Then he began to briskly rub her all over, but no matter what he did, it could not stop her eyes drooping and her head lolling into sleep.

“Not yet, you don’t. You stay awake, girl. Stay awake and live.” He started back to rubbing her all over, hands drubbing up and down her arms, back, legs, body—pummelling the life back into her. He had never touched her so closely, so intimately before, but right now he barely noticed as his hands found and beat into submission the curves he had so long dreamed of exploring. Back, hands, his arms encircled and he pulled her body close into his, one hand cupped around her sweetly curving rear as the other rubbed and rubbed and rubbed.

Slowly, slowly, he felt the tremor subside and her head fall in a relieved sigh onto his neck. He doubted she was even aware of how closely she had snuggled into his welcoming body, like a lost child seeking refuge. Only she no longer felt like a child to him. Even as he thought it, he became aware that his brisk rubbing had changed, had smoothed, gentled, become a lover’s caressing stroke.

Did she mind? It seemed not. His hand moved, fanning out to take in the sweep of her rear, and the other stroked slowly, slowly up her arms, smoothing over her long neck, a finger traced her lips, then down to the tempting curve of her breasts.

She did not protest, but he felt the stillness in her as she became aware of the changes in him, in them both. His fingers gently tilted her chin up and his lips came down to claim hers. Still cupping her jaw in his long fingers, he tugged softly as the tip of his tongue traced the outline of her lips. His thumb pulled lightly at the corner of her mouth and, to his delight, he felt her mouth begin to open. With joy and triumph, his tongue surged in to explore the sweet interior, as he felt her arms cautiously creep up and cling to his neck. Her whole body was open to his seeking hands and mouth, and he dived deeper into the kiss, to rediscover again the fire he had sought ever since the first time he had kissed her, months ago, on the top of a hot, sunny hill in Arrowtown.

Nessa could not resist.
This is dangerous
, she thought. But her senses ruled, not her mind, and she was defenceless against the magic he created. One of his hands held her close and the other cradled her face, her jaw, holding her lips open to his plunder. She did not complain. Her own hands were free, and she let them roam, rediscovering the pleasure of brawny shoulders and hard, chiselled muscles, as her fingers delved inside his jacket and through his thick, cotton shirt and spencer. She had no guilt at exposing him to the frigid air. Her own body shielded him, and if he was half as heated as she, he was safe from anything this cold place could throw at him, right up to frostbite. So said her fevered brain, as much as it was capable of conscious thought. Certainly she was not. His lips, the shape of his large hands spanning her bottom and pulling her close into his lap, his so clever tongue banished all reason, all sensibility from her. She did not even notice the flurry of snow whipped up by a fresh gust that found its way into their hollow and scattered its cold flakes onto her hair and back.

But John did. The melting icicles caught his lashes and shimmered on his hand, awakening that protective part of him that kept watch. He looked up, past her head, at the sky beyond, and a chill to match the snow cold shivered in his heart. The weather was turning, swiftly and deadly, as it could up here on the tops, and their little hollow would become a death trap if they did not get inside a proper shelter.

He broke from the kiss, wishing he could take the time to enjoy the confusion and slowly dawning awareness in her clouded eyes—but there was no time. Not if they were to live through today.

“There’s a musterer’s hut twenty minutes’ ride from here. We have to make a run for it, now.”

She didn’t understand him.

He turned her brusquely, showing her the dark clouds and eerie light spreading towards them. “See that. The weather is cutting up rough. We have to move, quickly.”

He was not sure she yet understood, but he saw her shake her head, and her cheeks redden as she realised where she was sitting. They brightened to a painful scarlet as she struggled to disentangle herself, but he had no time to reassure her. Instead he had to hustle her onto her horse. He collected the last of their gear, mounted up, kicked his horse and slapped at hers to urge both into the nearest to a gallop the uneven land would allow, heading for the hut. All the time, he prayed hard. They had so little time before the snow and wind hid all landmarks. Then they would be lost, prey to the wild weather. He urged his horse on, ruthlessly driving his heels into its tired sides and tugged at the reins of Nessa’s horse.
Hold on, hold on, my love. Please
.

The hut was little more than four sheets of tin tacked over a wooden frame, with another sheet over the top to form the sloping roof. It was set into the bank of one of the numerous small gullies that led down from the top of the plateau. To one side, a sheltered hollow between the shed wall and an overhanging rocky outcrop provided a makeshift stable for the horses, with sacking tacked over it to keep out the winds that could kill up here.

Nessa’s feet were numb, her whole body shivering. To her, the crude building was heaven sent. She did not protest when John helped her down from the horse and carried her inside. She was beyond making it on her own.

The inside was no more lavish than the exterior, she saw. Barely more than a raised wooden bench that must serve as sleeping platform, table or seating, and a chimney alcove enclosing the stone fire place with one bar over head to hold a billy. But there was a stack of coal and kindling set beside the fireplace, and cans on a primitive shelf above.

“We always keep these places stocked, just in case. I’ll restock it when next I go to Campbell’s” said John. “Are you up to starting the fire while I bed down the horses?”

She was still shivering badly, but now she was out of the bite of the wind, the feeling was slowly coming back to her feet and hands. With work, it would come back quicker. After that kiss and the wild ride here, she needed time alone to settle her mind, and she agreed gratefully. He still watched her as she checked the fire makings and did not leave till she began to lay the twigs, stacking them expertly and with hands beginning to still. After the months in the goldfields, she could make a fire with the most inadequate of fuels. Here, the kindling was dry and the coal good-sized pieces of the local kind. In no time at all, she had flames licking the black coals in the stones and had begun exploring what was on the shelf and in the satchel John had passed to her as he left.

In a small billy in the bag were three tins holding tea, sugar, flour and salt. All had been wrapped in waxed cloth and stowed in the saddle bag to protect them from the elements. On the shelf was a collection of jars of salted mutton, potted up by Mrs Cooper, no doubt. Best of all, she found an apple tucked down the side of the bag, a rare treat. They could certainly not starve.

She mixed a simple damper of water from her canteen, flour and salt on the lid of the large iron pot known as a camp oven, and put the salted mutton inside then swung it back over the fire. By the time the damper was cooked, the mutton would be bubbling in its juices. She then filled the billy with snow from outside and put it on the coals to boil, ready for tea.

It was not an elegant meal, but it would be hot and satisfying. Blowing on her warming fingers, she congratulated herself that that was exactly what they needed. Last of all, she added two generous spoonfuls of tea to the boiling billy, feeling almost human again. The shivering had gone, and a fiery glow of pleasure rose within her. Closed in, safe from the storm, isolated. Cut off. It was just her and John—no outside obligation, no responsibility. She looked quickly round the hut. It glowed with the red warmth of the fire. All was tidy, all was as it should be. Happiness, that was what she felt.

She had worked so quickly that when John returned, the damper was near cooked, the aroma of hot meats penetrated every part of the hut, and Nessa had arranged their blankets on the bench to make a comfortable seat for them both.

To John when he walked in, it was like coming home. The warm cooking smells, the cheerful blaze and, best of all, the sight of Nessa standing by the camp oven, firelight caught in her hair and a smile of welcome on her face. Had he ever seen a more beautiful sight in his life?

Nessa saw the answering smile on John’s face and her own faltered, all thoughts lost as a jolt of sheer heat blazed through her. She had known for weeks what she felt for John Reid, though even yet she refused to put it into words. But that smile, the look of his big frame outlined by the fire against the black storm outside: it brought to life every part of her body. She dared not move for fear of what her body might demand of her—that she fling herself into his arms and stay there forever.

The wind slammed the door shut behind him. The loud clap released her, released them both. She gasped, then sought safety in the mundane.

“Everything is ready. There’s salted meat, damper and tea.” She reached into the satchel again, then withdrew in dismay, holding an enamel dish and spoon. “There’s only one plate.”

He grinned in amusement. “Then we’ll have to share.”

He lifted the damper, breaking the hot slab into hand sized pieces, and spooned the meat over. “You have the spoon; I’ll use the bread.” He placed the dish on the bench and, sitting down, gestured her to sit on the other side and passed her the spoon.

It was the most enjoyable meal Nessa could ever remember sharing. His long, work-roughened fingers expertly used the damper to lift the pieces of meat and mop up the juices. She watched in fascination as his white teeth bit down. When the plate had been emptied twice, he reached over with his thumb to catch the drop of juice leaking from her lips and down her chin, carefully and slowly wiping it away. Without thinking, she opened her mouth and with just the tip of her tongue traced his thumb and closed her lips gently, suckling the sauce from the calloused tip. The heat in the room shot up several degrees. The fingers of his hand cupped her chin, and he leaned closer, his other hand moving the plate out of the way. The last barrier was gone, and his lips came down on hers.

She was warm, fed and relaxed but at the taste of his lips, awareness zinged through her. Her limbs became boneless liquid, unable to move other than to return the sensuous strokes of his clever fingers on her face, her arms, her back, and now over her tightened breasts.

A part of her knew exactly what she was doing and rejoiced in it. All her life, she had worked to meet the needs of others: her mother, her father, her brother. Tonight, this night, would be for her. Now, she needed this; she needed him. A smile touched her lips and was immediately felt by him. His tongue traced the curving tilt.

“Love me,” she whispered.

“Always.”

John did not ask was she sure, did she know what she was doing? It was clear with every touch, every deepened breath, every cast of her face that glowed with the pleasure he gave her. This was not seduction. This was both of them and had been inevitable from that first meeting. Tomorrow, he would get the packers to look for a parson.

Now, tonight, there were just the two of them. He drew her close, laying her gently back on the bench and slowly, almost reverentially, undid one button, then another, then all.

For Nessa, the stroke of his fingers on her skin was like flame and silk combined. Each stroke, each tracing tip left a trail of sensitised nerves behind. His strong fingers pulled her coat away, then opened her bodice and released each straining breast. She gasped as first his fingers, then his tongue and teeth closed over a tightly furled bud—so sensitive she almost leapt up, even as she thrust both breasts forward, seeking the pleasure he gave.

Hungrily, her fingers tugged at his clothes. He laughed and obliged her, then sat as she gazed at the huge expanse of chest revealed. Her hands wandered over in stunned appreciation even as his eyes fastened on her exposed skin and his hands reached behind her and ruthlessly dealt with her laces.

“Enough,” he growled, gripping her hand as it traced the hard nubs of his nipples. “Forgive me, sweetheart, but if you keep that up, we’ll be finished before we have barely begun.” His lips took hers and the magic he created took away any hurt, telling her the truth of his arousal. She could feel the control he held himself under, feel the restraint in him.

“Let go. I won’t break,” she whispered.

“I’ve dreamt of this night too long to fall on you like a rutting stallion.” His lips took control of hers again, as his hand stripped away the rest of her clothes, then hurriedly took off his.

Then he stopped. Just stopped, and drank in the sight of her as the flickering flames revealed her full glory. Outside was freezing, the snow flung itself against the hut, the winds tore at the unyielding sheets of tin. Inside, the fire and their desire heated the room so that not a single bump showed to mar her skin. Only the smooth, pale expanse of silken limbs and tantalising curves. He breathed deep—once, twice. It needed the hesitant touch of her hands before he could move.