Winter's Night (6 page)

Then again, he'd never really minded her clumsiness, since she had such wonderful ways of making amends for it.

His breath caught in his throat at the memory of how she had made amends for his nose. Closing his eyes, he could still see her lowering herself down on him, feel her mouth teasing his flesh. Her teeth nibbling him all over.

And his body grew harder, hotter, until he could barely stand it.

Lord above, but she had such a sweet little mouth that tasted like honey and felt like hot silk as it slid over his flesh.

It really was true a body couldn't feel pain and pleasure simultaneously. Because when she teased his flesh with her tongue and teeth, all his pain evaporated like dew on a hot July morning.

Catherine returned to the kitchen, carrying a small wicker basket in her hand. She placed it on the table beside his hat, then leaned over to examine his foot. A stern frown drew her brows together. “Did I do all that?”

“Yes, you did,” he said petulantly.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'd best get some butter for it.” As she reached for the porcelain butter jar on the table, she accidentally brushed the wicker basket off the side.

It landed straight on his injured foot.

O'Connell sucked his breath in between his teeth as pain exploded up his leg.

“I'm sorry,” she repeated as she bent over to retrieve the basket.

His gaze feasted hungrily on the site of her round bottom as she fished for the basket under the table. Oh, but she had such a nice, round bottom. One that felt incredible under his hands, or against his loins.

He forgot all about his foot until she straightened, teetered ever so slightly, then grabbed his injured foot to steady herself.

This time he cursed out loud.

Color exploded across her face. “I'm—”

“Don't,” he snapped, cutting her off. “I know you didn't mean to, just please give my foot time enough to recuperate before you do anything else to it.”

Her cheeks darkened even more as she set the basket back on the table. “It's your own fault, you know.”

“How is that?”

“You make me nervous,” she confessed.

“I make
you
nervous?” he asked in disbelief. If anyone had a right to be nervous, it should be him, since he never knew what injury she might inflict on him next.

“Yes, you do. The way you sit there and stare at me like I'm some prime roast and you haven't eaten anything in a week. It's quite disconcerting, Mr. O'Callahan. If you must know.”

He stopped fanning his foot and looked up at her. “Why did you never tell me that before?”

“I used to not mind the way you looked at me.”

“And now?”

“I mind it and I wish you'd stop.”

O'Connell locked his jaw at her words. There had to be some way to chisel away the ice around her.

Of course, he'd never in his life had to practice chiseling ice away from a woman. Women had always melted in his presence. They had only shown a token resistance before lifting their skirts to him.

Catherine had been the only one he'd ever courted. But then, she'd always been different in his book. Her shy innocence had been what captivated him. The way her smile carried all the warmth of the sun in it.

Pete had mocked him for his love of her. “The woman's as plain as yesterday's bread.”

But to him, she'd always been beautiful.

Catherine leaned over him and gently spread the butter on his foot. Her light touch shook him to his core, and a thousand needles of pleasure tore through him.

In spite of himself, he smiled. Her ministrations on his foot reminded him of how they first met.

He'd just turned nineteen and had only been working for her father a few weeks. The main gate to her house had been damaged by a storm and he'd been trying to patch it when all of a sudden she had come riding up over the hill like the Devil himself was chasing her. He had barely ducked out of the way before her horse leapt over him.

The post he'd been hammering into the ground slipped sideways and as he tried to grab it, the hammer had fallen from his hand and crashed down on his toes, breaking the little one. If that hadn't been painful enough, the entire post had also fallen on him.

She had instantly turned around and come back to check on him. Even now he could see her in the dark green riding habit that had no doubt cost more than a year's worth of his pay as she helped him push the post off his legs. Without any thought to her dress, she had knelt down on the muddy ground, carefully removed his boot, and checked on his toe even while he told her not to.

She had insisted that since she broke it, she should tend it.

That had been the first time in his life anyone had ever truly been kind to him without expecting something back in return.

Later that night when she brought out a tray of steak, potatoes, and biscuits to the bunkhouse he shared with the rest of the ranch hands, he'd known he was in love.

She had looked like an angel coming through the door with that large silver tray in her hands.

And that stupid daisy she'd put on it … The other men had mocked him for weeks after that. But he hadn't cared.

Nothing had mattered to him, except her smile.

“You're doing it again,” Catherine snapped, drawing his attention back to the present as she reached for her burn ointment. Her touch even more gentle, she spread it over his burned toes.

“Doing what?” he asked.

“Ogling me.”

O'Connell smiled at her. “Do you know why I'm ogling you?”

“I can't imagine.”

“Because you're still the most beautiful woman on earth.”

Disbelief was etched onto her face as she straightened and looked at him. “Is that why you left me?”

“No.”

“Then tell me why.”

3

O'Connell barely caught himself before he spilled the truth out. Now as then, he couldn't stand the thought of her knowing what he'd been.

What he'd become.

He'd never been proud of what desperation and family obligation had led him to. He knew he should have walked away from Pete and his crazy schemes years ago. But every time he thought about hurting Pete, he remembered his childhood, when Pete had been the only thing that stood between him and starvation.

The world was a harsh, cold place for two orphans alone, and filled with unscrupulous people who would quickly take advantage of them. But Pete, who was seven years older than him, had always kept him safe.

If only Pete could let him go. Unfortunately, his big brother saw them as inseparable twins joined at the hip.

And no matter what he did to escape, his brother managed to track him down like some possessed bloodhound.

No, there was no way he could ever have her while Pete trailed him. Sooner or later, his brother would show up and use her as leverage against him—just as he'd done five years ago in Nevada.

O'Connell could only stand strong against Pete when just the two of them were involved.

Catherine made him weak. Vulnerable.

Besides, she was a good woman, with a good heart and he would rather she think him a sorry good-for-nothing lowlife, than ever learn she'd married an outlaw. No good could come of her knowing the truth.

So he answered her question with the first stupid answer that occurred to him. “I don't know.”

She arched one dark brown brow at him as she lifted her gaze from his foot to his face. “You don't know?”

“It just seemed like the right thing to do,” he offered as a consolation.

By the irate look on her face, he realized too late he should have just kept his mouth shut.

Catherine narrowed her eyes on him. “Why don't you just go and…” her voice trailed off.

He waited for her to finish.

She didn't. Instead, she stared strangely at his right arm.

“And?” he prompted.

She stepped around the bench until she rested by his side. She grabbed at the sleeve of his black shirt, and bent down to look closer at it. The contact brought her head right up under his nose. His gut wrenched. She still smelled like springtime. Her hair held that same delectable scent of fresh flowers and warmth.

And right then, all he wanted to do was lay her down on the kitchen table, lift her skirt up, and bury himself deep inside her warm body.

It took all of his willpower not to yield to that desire as the scent of her circled him, making him dizzy. Hungry. Inciting him beyond thought or reason.

A full minute passed before he realized she was staring at his blood on her hand.

“You're bleeding?” she asked.

Unwilling to explain to her that Pete had shot him as he ran off with the stolen money, he rose to his feet. “I probably should be going now.”

“Sit!” The sharp tone coming from her was so unexpected and out of character that he actually obeyed.

“Take your shirt off and let me see what you've done now.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he murmured sarcastically as he unbuttoned his shirt and obliged her.

Catherine opened her basket, then made the mistake of glancing back to him.

His slow, languid movements captured her gaze as those long, strong fingers of his worked the buttons through the black cambric. She had always loved those hands. The way they felt laced in hers, the pleasure and comfort they had always managed to give her.

Her throat dried at the memory.

He opened his shirt, then set to work on the buttons of his white union suit. And with every white button that opened, she saw more and more of his perfect, tawny flesh.

She had forgotten just how nerve-wracking the sight of his bare skin could be. The years had done nothing but make his muscles leaner, more defined. And all too well she remembered what it felt like to slide her hand over those taut ripples. The way his hard stomach felt sliding against her own as he held himself above her and drove her into paradise with long, luscious strokes.

Her body growing hot, it took all her concentration to force herself to reach for the makeshift bandage on his right biceps. His arm flexed seductively as her fingers brushed his skin, and a jolt of molten lust tore through her. There were few things on earth that felt better than those hard, strong biceps flexing beneath her hands.

Catherine clenched her teeth in frustration. How could he make her so breathless after what he had put her through?

Why was her body so determined to betray her? And right then, she wished desperately for an off switch to stop the overwhelming desire coursing through her veins.

Tend his wound, tend his wound
—she mentally repeated the words over and over, hoping to gain some control over herself.

I will not succumb to him!

By all that was holy, she wouldn't.

Untying his bandage, Catherine immediately saw the bullet wound. “You've been shot?”

“And can you believe it wasn't by you?”

She stiffened at his playful tone. “You're not funny.”

“Not even a little?”

“I told you, Mr. O'Callahan, I'm immune to your charms.”

Don't you wish!
If only she could live up to those brave words.

“I wish you'd stop calling me that,” he snapped at her. “I have a name and you used to use it.”

She didn't dare use it right then, because if she did, she had no doubt she would be his to do with as he pleased. Just the sound of those syllables on her tongue would be enough to finish her off.

She struggled to bring herself under control. “I used to do a lot of things with you that I don't do anymore.”

“Such as?”

“Use your imagination.”

That silver-gray gaze dipped to her breasts, which drew tight and heavy at his heated perusal. “Oh, I'm using it, all right. And I can
well
imagine the sound of your sighs of pleasure in my ear as I nibble the flesh of your neck. Do you remember?”

“No,” she lied, her voice amazingly calm.

But in spite of her denials, she felt her body melt against the heat of that silver-gray stare. Even worse, she could smell the warm, uniquely masculine scent of him. It was all she could do not to bury her face in the crook of his neck and inhale the intoxicating scent.

Tend his wound, tend his wound!
She forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand.

“Is the bullet still in there?” she asked as she examined the hole in his arm.

“Woman,” he said huskily, his gaze never leaving her breasts, “right now I have a loaded gun just waiting to…” his voice trailed off.

He finally looked up and met her gaze, but she couldn't read anything in the smoldering depths of his eyes except the raw hunger that scorched her through and through. “Did I just say that out loud?”

She nodded.

He cleared his throat and looked across the room. “No,” he said quickly. “The bullet passed clean through.”

Disregarding his answer, she gingerly examined the wound to see for herself. As he predicted, it looked to be clean. “It needs to be stitched.”

He met her gaze again. Only three inches separated their faces and she could feel his breath on her face as he spoke. “Then by all means, have at it. I'm sure nothing would give you greater pleasure than to take a needle to my hide.”

She should take pleasure in it, but she knew she wouldn't. How could she ever delight in hurting the man who had stolen her heart?

But she would never let him know that. Not after he'd hurt her. No, she'd never let him know just how much power he still held over her.

Never.

“Actually, I won't feel anything,” she said, reaching for her basket.

O'Connell clenched his teeth in repressed frustration.

I won't feel anything,
he mocked silently as she reached for a needle and thread.

You stitch the wound, and when you're finished, I promise you you'll feel something, all right.
She was going to remember his touch if it was the last thing he did.