Wilda's Outlaw (22 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Rowena’s Diary

June 6, 1875, Sunday Night

Tyra did not return to the house until after the moon rose over the horizon. It was very late; the grandfather clock had struck one when I heard her. I am so confused and disturbed, I know not what I should do. For I confronted her when she crept up the stairs, and learned something dreadful.

“Where have you been and how did you get in the house? Look at you, scurrying about carrying your shoes so as to not be discovered.” All these words I uttered in a harsh whisper, all the same afraid someone would hear.

She had not seen me lying in wait and squeaked like a little mouse. “You frightened me half to death. What are you doing out of bed?”

“Answer my question, I will answer yours. Where have you been?”

Tousled hair awry, she stuck her firm little chin out, challenging me. “Riding.”

“Until this hour? And with whom?”

“No one. I went riding, that’s all.”

I did not believe her, but that was not the reason I had sat up long after my bedtime to confront the little scamp. “Shall we go to your room? I want to talk and I am afraid we will be overheard here in the hallway.”

She scurried along ahead of me, both of us being careful not to make a sound in our stocking feet. Inside her room, where she had left the lamp turned low, I saw that she wore men’s riding breeches and shirt, both of which were much too large for her small frame. Flushed from whatever activity she had actually been about, she stubbornly refused to say much. I am afraid I thought the worst, for at that moment I suspicioned she must be messing about with the groom in the haystack. Considering how she smelled, there was no doubt about her riding activities.

She turned up the lamp beside her bed, its flame reflecting in her wide blue eyes glaring at me in accusation. “Just what are you up to, spying on me in such a fashion?”

“How dare you be indignant, you little scamp. Running about like a wild animal, and you barely seventeen. You are just like your mother.”

Well, I guess I should have watched my tongue, for she came at me enraged. “Don’t you talk about my mother in that tone. Yours was the same. They were just alike, and I’m proud to be like them as well. Wilda is too. You’re the old maid prude.”

“Just what do you mean, Wilda is too? What do you know about all th-this disgraceful occurrence?”

She turned away from me quickly. “Nothing. I know no more than you do.”

I took her by the shoulders, fairly shook her until her teeth rattled. “You will tell me now, young lady. Something horrible could happen to her out there with God knows who or what. Do not be foolish. Do you want to be the cause of her death?”

“She won’t die. It’s nothing like that, I promise you.”

“Then tell me.” I am ashamed to say it, but at that moment I lost control and slapped her quite soundly across the face. “Is this all a game, cooked up by the two of you? Who helped you? You’ll tell me or answer to Lord Prescott. He will not be so kind to you, I promise you that.”

The imprint of my hand bloomed on a cheek suddenly awash with tears. “No,” she whispered. “Don’t tell him. He’s why she—”

“Why she what? What has she done?”

“You can hack off my fingers and cut out my tongue, I’ll never tell you. So there. Now, get out of my room.”

I did as she asked, having no choice, for she looked about to shout down the house. But I knew that I had to go to Blair with the story. He was beside himself with worry and had to know that this so called kidnapping was no more than a prank that could surely be set to rights. Even so, I am sure he will be furious.

At that very moment I contemplated going straight to his rooms with my story, but decided to wait until morning. He had no doubt drank himself into slumber, and nothing could be done before daylight, in any case. I must admit that I am sorely tempted to say nothing, now that I know in all probability Wilda is in no immediate danger. Blair is sure to turn to me one day if she never returns. But that I cannot do, for I love my sister as much as I love him. And I know what is best for her as well. And it is not running about out in the wilds with some ne’er-do-well who would agree to such a plot. A scruffy outlaw who robs trains.

So I must stop writing and go to sleep if I am to awake early and speak to Blair. I am sure in time Tyra will forgive me, but perhaps Wilda never will.

****

Late Sunday afternoon, Wilda awoke from a nap bathed in perspiration. The sheltering cottonwood trees around the shack only slightly tempered the heat of the afternoon sun. Grateful that her headache appeared to have abated, she rose gingerly, pampering her sore muscles.

Around her all was deathly still. She heard no conversation, no movement about the place. Only the singing of tree leaves in the incessant wind. Surely they had not gone off and left her here alone.

Creeping onto the porch, she took in her surroundings. No sign of men or horses. She crossed the yard, picked her way to the privy. When she came out nothing yet stirred except the wind that lifted her heavy hair, played around her skirts, cooled her body through the perspiration-soaked bodice. From nearby the sound of flowing water beckoned and she followed its call to a small pool nearby. The catch basin where she had seen Calder fill a bucket of water earlier.

A growth of bushes sheltered the place somewhat, so that no one riding in could see it. How good it would feel to bathe in that pool of clear water. What if someone came along? Caught her? She lifted her hair, ran a hand over gritty skin. It was worth the risk. After a cautionary glance, she slipped into the shelter of the copse and quickly removed her dress, shoes and shredded stockings. The bruise on her hip where Baron had kicked her was ugly and sore, otherwise, she felt a bit better.

How wicked to be naked in the sunlight that filtered through the overhanging trees. What if Calder came? Saw her? Tore off his clothes and joined her? For a moment or two she enjoyed the fantasy, then dipped one foot into the pool.

The water was unexpectedly cold, and she gasped but waded in up to her waist. She washed Rachel’s soiled dress as best she could without soap and spread it across an overhanging bush.

Then she submerged herself completely and surfaced spluttering, closed her eyes and lay back, letting the icy water support her. How delightful to just lie there, thoughts drifting.

She had no idea how long she floated there, eyes closed, mind embracing the peculiar idea of lying so exposed. It was unusually liberating.

Nearby something splashed, sent ripples over her mouth and nose. Rising, she wiped her eyes, saw Calder peering down at her. Folding both arms over her bare breasts, she gazed up at him in an attempt to gauge his mood.

“Hello, there. I’ll bet that feels good. It sure looks good.” He squatted beside the spring, a stone in one hand, grinned outrageously at her and dropped it into the water. “You looked so peaceful I hated to disturb you.”

“Then why did you?” Glancing down, she realized that he could see her wavering naked form in the clear water.

As if he knew precisely what she was thinking, his lips curled in a crooked grin. “I’m asking myself the same thing. I could sit here and watch you all day.”

“Go away. Turn around. Stop staring at me.”

He nodded, but didn’t go away. “That’s not so easy. You are one fine looking lady, you know that?”

At this very moment she could have this man. His expression told her so, but the rigid Victorian principles by which she had always lived forbade such a thing. Forbade even the thought, though heaven knew she’d broken that rule often enough since meeting him. Yet she no longer trusted him. He ought to have prevented what happened with Baron. An irrational thought, yet one she couldn’t get rid of.

Bad enough she had indulged in his kisses, became a wanton woman who allowed herself to enjoy such sinful pleasures as his touch. Only in her fantasies could she behave exactly as she wished without consequences. And in that place she had invented, she wished to have him.

His green eyes darkened, smoldered. Then without shifting his gaze from her, he unfastened the top button of his shirt.

Mesmerized, she watched as he took off the shirt, then worked the front of his pants open, revealing coils of dark hair. When he dropped them, she gasped in wonder. He wore no underdrawers, and his masculinity revealed a definite urgency that took her breath away. Pants around the tops of his boots, he stood there with a goofy look on his face until she couldn’t help herself, she burst out laughing.

He glanced down, then back at her. The battle he fought within himself painted his features with an expression of desire.

Her laughter trailed away, and she slowly lowered her arms to reveal rosy nipples puckered by the cold. Fascinated by her own desire, she reached toward him. This was not real, it couldn’t be. She watched two fantasy figures as if from a distance, commanded their movements like she would in a daydream.

“Why don’t you come in and join me? You look as if you could use a bath.” The unbidden words fell from her mouth and her heart kicked at her ribs painfully. But she didn’t take them back, instead, caught his gaze and held it, for a very long space of time. Then she smiled. “Are you coming in with your boots on?”

He sat down on his bare behind and removed his boots and pants, then lowered himself into the pool, not once taking his smoldering gaze off her.

What was she doing? Standing naked in front of an equally naked man like some slattern, a hussy, practically inviting him to take her? Surely he would, and gladly. Then what would become of her? No man wanted a woman who would give herself so willingly. She would be doomed. Even this man certainly would not look back, and he’d already made it clear he would not take her with him. Trailing a finger over one tingling breast, she sighed with desire. She did not care. All that mattered was this man who wanted her and satisfying the burning desire in her loins.

With amazement, as if removed from the scene entirely, she watched him reach out, saw her own hand close around his trembling fingers and guide them to her breast. Leaned into his touch with a moan. And then her eyes closed and she saw no more, could only experience the ecstasy of his caress, his mouth moving over her body, inflaming her flesh. His sex pressed against her. A hungry, fevered touch, gentle embrace, exquisite agony of desire, oh, so near fulfillment. Like flames licking in exquisite pain.

All so strange, so strange and wonderful.

“Dear God,” he whispered as if he worshiped her.

Her curves, the soft skin and firm breasts, her breath in his ear, against his throat. Teeth, lips, tongue, his, hers, coming together. He lapped beads of moisture from her satiny flesh, tasted the depths of her, groaned when his tumescence nudged urgently at the sweet, smooth skin of her belly.

How long, how long, since he’d had a woman? Or even wanted one, for that matter. Foolish, stupid question. He’d never had a woman like this one. Nor a feeling like this, ever. She wanted him, then she didn’t, pulling back, inching forward, as if she couldn’t make up her mind. All the more tantalizing to the heat of his passion. The cold of the water had no effect on his iron hardness, for she was searing heat and flaming color, the high scream of wanton lust, the silent blue of tranquility, the red of her hair a raging fire that consumed them.

He had no idea, none at all, that such a craving as this existed. Had known only lust, and it did not compare to this yearning, this blissful longing, this damned itch that would not be scratched into submission.

“Wilda, please,” he begged, all pride gone. “Please.”

She touched him down there, reluctant fingertips barely brushing, kindling the urge into an explosion of life.

“Calder? Calder?” A wide-eyed, deep throated plea of wonder, desire.

“Sit, there.” He could hardly speak, moved her with gentle persuasion toward the grassy bank, where she sat in the sweet, green grass, long shapely legs dangling in the pool. He slipped between them, sank into the heat of her throbbing flesh. Eased forward until they molded one to the other.

Arms coiled about his neck, head arched back, she wiggled her hips forward until he pounded at the barred gates.

Oh, God how good this felt, and how desperately he wanted her. Out of the depths of his soul, the resentful black anger grew like a thundercloud. An unleashed, roaring passion fought back, but he could not stop it. It festered, fed on memories of death and destruction. He could not take something so good, so beautiful and ruin it. If he loved her, if they loved each other, that left only betrayal. Hers probably, his for certain. He would not do it to her. Not this lovely Wilda. He could not.

He sucked in a deep breath, opened his eyes. She waited, trusting and innocent, and him about to take advantage of that trust. That sweet innocence. A virgin waiting to be torn and battered and bruised. He must be crazy to resist.

He could have her now. This minute.

Pain grew in his groin, the urgency to do it and be done. Take her. What did it matter? She was just another woman, meant for this act men performed with no regret. Go ahead, relieve the pressure, the throbbing, the ache that hammered at his heart and soul with each heartbeat.

With a mighty groan he pulled away, an inch, two, out of the warm sweet clasp of her womanhood. Cried out with anguish, with unfulfilled need. Her eyes flew open, she eased toward him. Coaxed him with tongue and fingers. But he could not, would not ruin her life and move on as if he didn’t care. Never.

Backpedaling, he lurched away, out of the reach of her seductive flesh, stumbled and went down. When he came up, swiping wet hair from his eyes, she stood waist deep in the pool, gazing at him with tear-drenched eyes.

“What is it? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no. Never. It was me. I almost did.”

“But, I thought we were…I mean, I wanted you too.”

A welcome anger drove out the passion, shriveled his heart and his masculinity. Rightly so. He had no need for this, and neither did she. This proper English lady no man had ever touched. Give her back to the Lord of the manor, let him break through that maidenhood, make her his wife. Calder Raines would never take a wife, he had other more important things to do.