Pale Moon Stalker (The Nymph Trilogy) (15 page)

Max could see the blue-black sheen of her hair falling down her back like a midnight waterfall. He held her trembling in his arms, but she held him equally a prisoner with her soft hands caressing his shaft. He'd explode if she didn't stop. Gritting his teeth, he reached down and pried her fingers away, then worked her gown and petticoats over her hips. Now she wore only the chemise bundled about her waist, her silk stockings and shoes. The rich cream color of the chemise made her skin gleam like honey.

His breath caught when she again caressed his sex. He picked her up and laid her on the bed, then stepped back. Stockings and soft kid slippers emphasized the length and perfection of her legs. Such an incredibly erotic picture. "You're a witch, casting a spell over me with your beauty," he murmured, tearing his eyes away from her golden body and the great splash of inky hair spread over the snow white sheets.

Sky watched him pull off his shoes and stockings, kick away the last of his clothing and then stand over her like some Norse god, gleaming in the soft light. But there was nothing soft about Max Stanhope. He was all planes and angles, his face hard in its masculine beauty, the narrow lips a slash below those incredibly green eyes that seemed to bore into her very soul. His flexing muscles and scarred skin attested to the dangerous life he'd led.

A man she did not know...yet knew so very intimately.

"Come to me, Max," she whispered, opening her arms.

He sank onto the bed and embraced her, inhaling that delicate scent of sweet herbs and Sky,
his
Sky, his
wife
. He devoured her mouth like a starving man, savoring the way she returned his ardor. Her body twisted and arched beneath him as he seated himself at the apex of her thighs. When she opened herself, her stocking-clad legs clamping around his hips, he plunged deep inside her and rode hard.

Sky gave in to the unbelievable pleasure, matching him thrust for thrust, crying out his name and other incoherent things...things she might later regret but now did not even realize she spoke. She tossed her head from side to side, awash in mindless passion. Her hunger was so great she could not have controlled the swiftness of culmination even if she'd known how to do so. The contractions swept over her like an avalanche of molten lava, burying her in sheer blind ecstasy.

Like his wife, Max let go all control, even though he'd had considerably more practice at holding off. This time he did not want to. Perhaps, if he had been coherent enough to think, he would have realized he could not have stopped their frenzied ride any more than she. Her silky sheath squeezed his shaft, causing it to swell and spill in glorious release.

And still he could not get enough of her. He lay on top of her, his fingers interlocked with hers, their arms stretched above their heads. Perspiration slicked their bodies in the cool night air. She maintained her leg-lock around his hips. He stayed buried deep inside her, unwilling to relinquish what he now claimed permanently.
I'll never let her go.
With that thought, he began to move again, this time very slowly, very gently...

At first Sky could not believe this was possible. He'd spent himself. So had she, utterly. But she had read some rather salacious books, sneaked in by older girls at her boarding school, and eavesdropped on the women in the Ehanktonwon village as they whispered and exchanged boasts about their men. So such things were possible. She felt Max once more begin to stoke the fire that he ignited so easily in her.

But this time it was not a wild, mad hunger, over so swiftly. No, this was unbearably sweet...almost as if...as if he loved her, rather than merely desired her. Could that be true? Did she want it to be true?

Sky didn't know, but very quickly all her chaotic thoughts tumbled into the abyss of renewed passion. She held tightly to his hands, letting him guide her down this new and intricate labyrinth of pleasure. After a long, slow while, he rolled them over, placing her on top, tugging on her hair, bringing her mouth down to fuse with his, then kissing and suckling her breasts. She used her teeth on the hard tawny nub of one flat male nipple and was rewarded by a guttural oath of pleasure. They turned and twisted, arched and thrust, gave and took from each other until the bedcovers tangled around them and came loose from the mattress.

Finally, they reached the end of their endurance. Sky felt the slow, delicious fulfillment envelop her and keened her pleasure, urging him to join her, to swell and spill deep inside her. As he did, she cried out his name and held him fast.

They lay on their sides, facing each other, legs and arms still entwined, bodies intimately joined. Feeling his eyes on her, Sky opened hers and met his level green gaze. A tender, almost wistful expression seemed to fill them as he reached up with one hand and brushed a straight lock of black hair from her cheek. He tugged on the end of a sheet and used it to gently wipe the dots of perspiration from her face, then rubbed his own dry.

"We'll have no need to lay a fire, no matter how cold the winters," he said with a lopsided grin of utter satisfaction. "That was incredible, love...and addictive, if a bit uncomfortable after the fact."

Sky looked nonplussed as he reached down between them and pulled one of her slippers from beneath his ribs. It was only then, when she saw the red mark made by the heel of her slipper that she realized she'd made love with her shoes and stockings on! And lost one in the midst of their lusty bed sport. "Oh, I must look like some fancy house female," she said, stricken, trying to untangle herself from him.

"You look delectable—and completely innocent, albeit alluring as hell." He encircled a slender ankle and removed the other slipper, tossing both of them from the bed. When he sat up and removed a garter, then peeled down her silk stocking, she resisted.

"You are utterly depraved. Surely you can't...we can't..."

Max threw back his head and laughed. "Utterly depraved I am, but I fear you've quite wrung me out, love. And if we tried, neither of us would be able to walk tomorrow...not that the thought of spending the day in bed with you isn't tempting," he said. He waited for her reaction.

Sky's face flushed with heat, but she forced herself to meet his eyes. "You need not ask if I have regrets this time. I don't. I wanted this. We desire each other. Can that be enough...for the present?"
If you tell me you love me, I'll be lost, Max.

He nodded slowly "For the present, I'll be content if you share my bed," he replied simply. "In time, I hope you'll want to be my wife as I want to be your husband." He made no declaration of love, sensing that it would drive her away from him. It was too soon. She was too confused about Will.

But if there was one thing the Limey had learned over hard years on the hunt, it was patience...

* * * *

Sky awakened to the fragrance of coffee and blinked her eyes. She sat up and looked at the tangled bedcovers. She had spent the night in her husband's arms. Memories of the way they made love filled her mind, leaving it spinning. The pillow beside her bore the indentation of his head, but when she placed her hand on it, it was cool to the touch. Then she heard him directing a bellman to leave the breakfast tray on a table in the sitting room.

She swept the covers away and swung her legs over the side of the mattress, only to be appalled that she was completely naked...and incredibly sore. Every muscle in her body screamed as if she were an untried schoolgirl, instead of a woman used to hard exercise. A foolish smile curved her lips. Well, she had certainly participated in some very hard exercise last night!

Looking at the tangled covers, she took a sniff of her body and knew she desperately needed a bath. Best to consider practical matters, not think of the larger implications of what they'd said and done...and what they'd
not
said. At that moment Max appeared in the bedroom doorway. His hair was rumpled and silver-gilt beard stubble covered his tanned face. He wore a green silk dressing robe, belted casually so his chest was revealed, giving her a tantalizing view.

He held a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and her blue dressing robe in the other. "I thought to wake you, slugabed. It's nearly noon." He was pleased that she did not look away from him, although she did casually drape a corner of the sheet over herself.

"Noon! I can't believe I've slept away the whole morning." The moment she blurted the words, Sky blushed. They both knew perfectly well why she'd overslept.

"You needed the rest, love." His tone was neutral as he handed her the cup.

"Is that black, I hope?"

"Certainly. I know how you like it," he said in a low voice. "I've arranged for a bath to be brought to your room, and a hotel maid will be up to press a dress for you after breakfast, which awaits us in the sitting room."

She took a sip and regarded him over the steaming rim of the cup. "You're most accomplished as a valet, m'lord. Did you ask Baldwin for instruction?"

Max chuckled and shook his head. "Baldwin would have an apoplectic seizure if he saw me waiting upon anyone, even my wife." With that he held up the robe for her. She placed her cup on the table beside the bed, then stood and turned her back to slide her arms into the robe. She felt his hands gently tugging her hair from the neckline.

"Don't get too close. I stink like a badger," she said, bending down to retrieve her cup.

"Badgers never smelled so good, wife. This scent is of us." His tone was intimate now.

Sky knew she had to turn and face him. Boldly, she did so, saying, "I suppose you're right. I only hope you've arranged a bath for yourself as well. Others might be offended, even if we aren't."

Max laughed. "Not offended. Aroused, perhaps."

And her heart lurched at the joyous sound of his voice.

* * * *

By the time Sky had finished relaxing sore muscles in her bath, it was afternoon. She threw on a fresh robe, then plaited her damp hair into one thick braid and entered the sitting room. Max awaited her with a note in his hand. She'd heard a knock on the door only a few moments ago.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Blackie sends his regards. It would appear Mr. Longerman has returned to Denver a bit earlier than expected, and was more than eager to sell out his erstwhile companion."

Sky seized the piece of paper and noted the small, neat script of Drago's handwriting. Somehow, it fit him. She scanned the lines, then said, "So Deuce is in some silver boomtown in southwestern Colorado—or, at least, that's where Longerman parted company with him. How soon can you be ready?" she asked Max, turning to her bedroom door, eager to dress and hit the trail.

"Let's not move so precipitously, love. Note that Blackie says he's wired one Frances Simmons in Leadville. She may know precisely where Deuce is. Before we start a mad dash through mountain terrain where we may have no access to telegraphs, it would be wise to confirm his location. Also, I just sent a telegram to Jerome Bartlett in London regarding an investment that Steve thinks is an excellent idea."

"How long will we have to wait for your London lawyer and this friend of Blackie's?" she asked impatiently.

Max shrugged. "It won't take Jerome more than a few hours to reply. He's a great believer in American railroads for profitable returns over the long run. Mrs. Simmons might reply today, or take a bit longer. That depends on what she knows, or can find out for Blackie. As the owner of the finest parlor house in a city of some twenty odd thousand souls, I imagine she'll prove resourceful."

"A parlor house? Isn't that just another name for a bordello?" she asked.

Max smiled at her naiveté. "For a woman raised on the frontier and educated at university, you lack certain, er, shall we say, basic information. A first-rate parlor house is a place where men pay women of varying degrees of refinement and beauty, frequently simply for conversation and nonphysical companionship. Say to attend a play or a lavish dinner, even a picnic."

Sky looked skeptical. "You're making that up. White men out West just wanting to talk with a female?"

"Not all men—even whites—are animals, Sky. Many, far from home, long for mothers, sisters, lost sweethearts...or some facsimile thereof, even if they must pay for female companionship. Often the less educated clients ask parlor house ladies to write letters to their families or sweethearts back East."

"I suppose in some strange way that makes sense, but I can't imagine a man like Deuce writing home, which he could do for himself. And I doubt he'd be interested in genteel conversation," she said bitterly.

"He was forced to leave England. Blackie said this Mrs. Simmons is English and properly educated. Who knows?"

He shrugged, rather too casually, arousing Sky's suspicions. "Have you ever visited a parlor house?" she asked, then could have bitten her tongue when he grinned, showing off those beautiful white teeth of his.

"Jealous, love?"

She resisted the urge to stamp her foot. "Don't be ridiculous. I was merely curious. Besides, from what Rosie told me in Bismarck, it's obvious the Limey has never lacked for female companionship, physical or otherwise," she snapped.

Max cocked his head, studying her narrowed eyes. "Ah, but when you, er, introduced yourself to me that memorable day, I didn't have a wife to provide female companionship of any variety."

"Now you do," she replied, nervous under his scrutiny. "But what about friends, family? England was your home. Don't you ever think of it?"