The Enchantment (30 page)

Emma eyed him suspiciously. "What do you mean?"

"The tent," he answered casually, taking another sip. "You win, we sleep in the tent. I win, we sleep under the stars."

"That's a sucker bet, Larence. You haven't won a hand all night."

One eyebrow cocked upward. "Afraid?"

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"Don't be absurd." She grabbed the cards and started shuffling. "Five-card draw?"

"Stud."

Emma's fingers spasmed. The soft, seductive tone of his voice flustered her for a moment, and sent a quick tremor of apprehension skittering through her body. She looked up sharply.

He was smiling like a choirboy.

No, she thought, shaking her head. He couldn't be hustling her. Not Larence.

She dealt the cards expertly, then peeked at her hand. A pair of kings.

She immediately relaxed. Larence hadn't had a hand this good all night.

"I open with a night under the stars," he drawled.

Emma flashed him a cocky grin. "I see your bet and raise it. Loser cooks breakfast and cleans up."

"I'll see that bet and raise it. No hair rope."

"No beef jerky for breakfast," she countered.

"Call."

"Call yourself." She laid down her cards. "Two kings."

Larence's smile dimmed; Emma's brightened. The sounds of the night died away, leaving the world strangely silent. She leaned forward, peering intently at the boldface Tally-Ho trademark on the back of his cards.

One at a time he laid them face-up in the dirt. Three. Queen. Jack. Emma smiled in anticipation. Two.

Nine.

It took Emma a moment to realize they were all hearts.

Her smile flattened. A flush.

"Good game, Em." He pushed slowly to his feet and

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stretched. "Damn, but the fresh air will feel good tonight." Then he winked down at her. Winked!

Emma felt as if she'd been turned to stone. She sat frozen, staring after him as he made his ambling, limping way to the pile of supplies. The soft, warbling strains of his whistle floated back to her.

A grudging respect made her smile. He had hustled her; played her along like a trophy fish and then reeled her in.

Who would have thought him capable of it?

Absentmindedly picking up the fallen cards, she made a mental note not to underestimate him again.

Larence stretched out in his sleeping bag. The warm, woolly fleece cocooned him, wreathed him in warmth. A deep, contented sigh escaped his lips as he cradled his head in his laced fingers and stared at the exquisite night sky.

It was an inky cloak speckled with thousands upon thousands of twinkling white stars. Again he was struck by the immensity of the New Mexican sky, the sheer magnitude of it. Nearby trees whispered quietly among themselves, rustling in the late night breeze. The sweet, almost vanillalike scent of ponderosa pines floated to his nostrils, mixed with the arid, harsh aroma of hard-baked earth and grama grass. He sucked in a big breath of pine-scented air and shut his mouth. The trapped air burned his lungs, but he wouldn't let it out. For one split second, with the air hot in his lungs, it felt as if New Mexico itself were inside his soul.

Reluctantly he exhaled, and the feeling of oneness with the universe seeped away.

Slowly he became aware of Emma. She was standing beside the fire, stiff as a ruler, her body haloed in the tenuous, dancing light of the dying flames. Her back was to him, and he could see tension in the board-straightness of her spine.

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"Emma?"

She jumped. "Y-Yes?"

"Are you coming to bed?"

She didn't answer; she just stood there for a moment longer. Then her head tilted upward and her shoulders squared. He had the distinct impression that she'd just made an important decision. Then, slowly—unusually slowly—she turned around to face him.

Even in the meager light he could see the paleness of her skin, the slight worry lines that parenthesized the flesh between her eyebrows. She walked stiffly toward him, her fingers twined together in a telltale sign of anxiety, her eyes trained on the shadowy earth.

At each crunching of her heel in the dirt, Larence felt his confusion mount. What was wrong with her?

She was acting . . . nervous. Maybe even shy.

Emma? Shy? He dismissed the thought.

That left nervous. But what would she have to be nervous about, for God's sake? He was the one who had to hide his every thought and feeling. He was the one in love alone.

He stretched a hand out toward her. "What is it?"

She didn't respond.

He wiggled his fingers to get her attention. "Em?"

Reluctantly she moved toward him. Still staring at the darkened earth, she reached out. Their fingers brushed. He thought for a moment she was going to pull away, but then her fingers laced through his.

He felt her tremble at his touch. Instinctively he thought she was repulsed. No woman would want to touch you, Larry. Not with your . . . defect.

He winced at the viciousness of his grandmother's words, but for once, they didn't sadden him, didn't coil around his heart and burn. Granny was wrong. Em-THE ENCHANTMENT

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maline had massaged his crippled ankle—and had done it with a smile that even now had the power to warm his soul.

She mumbled something that sounded like ' 'It's now or never, Em." Then she let go of his hand.

"Emma, what—"

"I'm going to undress."

Larence's stomach flip-flopped. "O-Okay."

She didn't move or turn. Standing perfectly erect, her shadow-darkened body outlined by the throbbing firelight, she reached for the bow on her bodice. She plucked one end of the golden thread, and the limp bow evaporated. Her neckline sagged immediately, exposing a pale, milky swell of breast.

Larence swallowed dryly. He knew he should look away, but he couldn't. His gaze was riveted on the shadowy valley between her breasts. On the smooth-as-silk curve of creamy flesh that disappeared beneath the loosened blouse.

She cocked one shoulder, and the camisa slid down to her elbow. Her fingers moved nimbly from one button to the next, and with each motion, more and more skin was exposed. Then, all of a sudden, the blouse fell downward, landing in a heap of sky blue cotton on the sleeping bag's green exterior.

She stood stock-still, staring at her feet. Her naked breasts rose and fell in shallow, rapid waves. Bolted to her sides, her fingers flexed and curled, as if she were fighting the urge to cover her nakedness.

Larence couldn't tear his gaze away. His throat went bone-dry. He had a fleeting urge to pinch himself to see if this was real, but decided not to. It if wasn 't real, he didn't want to know.

God, she was beautiful. . . .

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Next came the skirt. She unbuttoned the waistband, and the blue muslin puddled around her feet. Now she was wearing nothing but a clinging white eyelet underskirt.

She kicked the fallen skirt out of her way and took a step toward him.

Larence's breathing accelerated, came in quick, burning spurts. Surely she didn't know he was watching her, didn't know the firelight illuminated her body so clearly.

His heart pounded, thudded in his ears until he couldn't hear anything except the workings of his own body. He had to look away, now. Had to change the course of things. If he didn't, if he kept looking at her and wanting her so much he ached, he'd make a fool of himself.

He couldn't, couldn't actually make a move toward her. No matter how badly, how desperately, he wanted to touch her, he couldn't. The risk was too great, and he'd never been a gambling man. Alongside his tensed thighs, beneath the cover of the sleeping bag, his hands curled into fists. Yet even fisted tight, his fingers trembled with the need to touch her.

But he wouldn't—couldn't—let himself.

When she left him—and she would leave him, of that he had no doubt—he'd have only memories.

Remembered images of a glorious, laughter-filled month in the New Mexican desert with the woman he loved. Good memories to balance a lifetime's worth of bad ones. He couldn't risk losing those images by getting slapped in the face, or, worse, laughed at. One laugh, no matter how quickly suppressed or unintentional, would mar his picture of her forever. And then he'd lose both her and THE ENCHANTMENT

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the perfect memory of her. The risk was simply too great.

He rolled onto his side. The earth felt cool and dry beneath his cheek, and the overpowering smell of dirt filled his nostrils. The night seemed to grow preternat-urally silent; no breeze threaded the trees, no faraway animals cried. He tried to steady his breathing.

His heart was pounding so loudly in his ears, it took him a moment to realize she was saying his name.

"Larence?"

He winced. Damn.

"Larence?"

Cautiously he rolled onto his back and pushed up to his elbows. He tried to plaster a casual expression on his face, but one look at her sent his heart racing again.

She was standing not more than six feet away, wearing nothing but the clinging white cotton petticoat.

Firelight outlined the shapely columns of her legs beneath the sheer fabric. Her hair was a waterfall of golden-white and silver threads waving gently around her face and against her arms. Her breasts looked soft and pale and touchable.

He gulped, trying to think of something that would keep his mind off the terrible, aching need building in his body. "Y-You want to hear about Cibola again?"

She shook her head. A smile lifted one corner of her mouth. "No, Larence. I want you."

His heart came to a searing halt. Uncertainty and confusion consumed him. What did she mean? Certainly not that she wanted to—

"Come here, Larence."

Her soft, seductive voice washed over him in waves, drew the will from his body like a poultice. He shivered in response. Without conscious thought he pushed back 282

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the heavy sleeping bag and moved awkwardly to his feet.

On the first step, his bad ankle twisted. Pain wrenched through his body and pounded in hammer-blows along his shin. He stumbled, then caught himself. Grimacing, he steadied himself. But he couldn't look up, couldn't see the disgust in her eyes. . . . "It's okay, Lare. Don't you be afraid."

He lifted his chin and met her gaze. What he saw in her eyes melted the years of hardness on his soul, left him feeling stripped and bare and able to believe.

He saw desire. Honest-to-God desire. For him.

Afraid to believe it, afraid not to believe it, he limped toward her and took her outstretched hands in his.

He stood there for a moment, touching and yet not touching her, wanting to be closer and yet afraid. The quiet whispering of the pines intensified. Cool night air swirled in eddies around their feet, rustled the flyaway strands of spun gold around her face.

Her hands slid upward and locked behind his neck. Larence felt her drawing his head toward hers, felt the infinitesimal lifting of her body as she pressed onto her toes to meet him.

Tentatively he let his hands inch down her bare back. Her flesh felt warm and silky-soft. She shivered and drew closer; he heard the quickened pace of her breathing, felt each exhalation like a butterfly wing brushing his face.

Her lips touched his. Feather-soft at first, then more firmly.

He closed his eyes, becoming familiar with the feel of her lips against his. The sweet, vanilla-scented air wrapped around them, removed them to another, distant place. A place where there was nothing and no one

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except the two of them. His hands settled in the hollow at the base of her spine, pulled her close. It felt so good, so right holding her like this. . . .

Her tongue slipped through his parted lips and touched his. At the contact, a jolt of pure electricity shot straight through Larence's body and landed hot and hard in his groin. A thick, garbled moan inched up his throat and disappeared in the moist darkness of her

mouth.

Was that what he was supposed to do? The thought terrified him, reminded him with razor-sharp clarity that he was inexperienced and she was not.

Clumsy dolt. Fool. Do it right. The words sliced through his head, taunted him. He wanted to do it right.

Ached to do it right. To make her feel all the wonderful, glorious things she was making him feel. But how? he wondered desperately. How could he compete with the experienced, worldly men she'd undoubtedly known in her life?

Doubt assailed him, made him feel useless and weak and crippled. Slowly he lifted his lips from hers.

She didn't look away. Blue eyes, wide with wonder, stared up at him. The soft night wind teased the hair around her face, whipping golden strands along the moist, still-parted pinkness of her lips. Her scent, a mingled bouquet of long-dried dust, sun-warmed cotton, and something else, something uniquely her, floated to his nostrils.

He expected her to yell at him, to berate him for his clumsiness and ineptitude. But she didn't say a word; she just stood there, rooted to the ground, her eyes riveted on his.

A dizzying sense of hope unfurled within him.

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Maybe—just maybe—she'd felt it, too. That incredible sense of rightness, of coming home at last.

He brushed his knuckles along the warm, bare column of her throat, grazed the soft pinkness of her lower lip. She shivered beneath his touch and closed her eyes, leaning toward him.

"Em ..." The breeze whipped the word away, and Larence was left with nothing to say.

She opened her eyes and pressed one thin, trembling finger to his lips. "Don't talk." Without another word, she pressed onto her tiptoes and kissed him.

It was a real kiss, this one. Not a halting, inexperienced expression of hope and affection like the first one, but a real, honest-to-God, rise-in-your-body-temperature kind of kiss. Blood tingled in Larence's veins, thrummed through his body.

Her body formed to his like warm tallow. An intense vibration sped through his flesh. His knees buckled, started to give way, and he stiffened, ignoring the shooting stab of pain in his bad leg. Her arms tightened around his neck, steadied him, and the strength of her touch banished the pain. It receded, slunk back to the cold, dark corners of his body where it lived. And when it was gone, he felt strangely at peace.