at his inventions and encouraged his new ideas. She was the other half of himself, the part that kept him in check against his own reckless nature. Kyndee could find the best part of anything. He recalled the time his father had jeered at one of his inventions and called him a dimwit.
"You are a dimwit," she chided him when he recounted the incident to her. "You're dimwitted if you let him stop you from exploring everything you can be." She leaned back against the trunk of their favorite tree and crossed her ankles. "But you're my dimwit, Fletcher, and I won't allow anyone else but me to call you that." Gracing him with one of her glowing smiles, she reached to caress the hair at the nape of his neck. "You're my Mister Dimwitty." She threw her head back and laughed. "Oh, but you must have a name." Her eyes squinted, her lips puckered and her finger tapped her chin as she struggled in her search. "Mister—uh—Carmack Dimwitty. That will do nicely." She shook her head and pointed with her forefinger. "No, you're my Sir Carmack Dimwitty, because you're my knight in shining armor."
He touched a wildflower against her temple. "And I shall call thee my lovely Lady Bonbon because thou art the sweetest thing in my life." Rising, he swept a low bow. "My lady, always remember that Sir Carmack Dimwitty shall be at thy service until the last breath of his life."
How they had laughed and giggled at their fairy tale. He tickled her, and they rolled over and over on the ground. Fletcher landed on top of her and, without asking, kissed her soundly on the lips.
The sweet kiss tantalized both of them. There were always sparks between them when they touched. While Kyndee gazed up at him, Fletcher ran his finger down the side of her cheekbones and slowly lifted her chin, pulling her mouth to his. When they were but a breath apart, he whispered, "Always, Kyndee, my luscious little bonbon, always at thy service." And he devoured her mouth again, delighting in the velvet feel of her lips and the floral scent of her hair. His hands slid down her sides to her narrow waist, pressing against her rib cage. She felt unbelievably small and delicate next to his own chest, but her size didn't prevent her from being a true spitfire when riled. Kyndee was not easily daunted and gave as good as she got with increasing frequency. Her wide eyes studied him as he traced the line of her jaw, the hollow in her neck and dared to touch the fully blossomed roundness promised under the lacework of her bodice.
God, she was beautiful, intelligent, soft and—he smiled to himself—stubborn, courageous, exasperating and positively wonderful. She was the epitome of feminine propriety on one hand, but in the blink of an eye, she was a hellcat of fiery independence. With a simple swing of her mood, she made him roll with the giggles of a little boy or ache with the smoldering passions of a virile man. It was that tantalizing combination of genteelness, individuality and unpredictability that had branded her on his thoughts—awake and asleep—and scorched a path from his conscious mind to deep within his very soul. He cherished and loved her above all else.
Kyndee was his friend, his confidant and his love. There was nothing they couldn't talk about, didn't talk about. She was everything he needed and wanted—and, oh Lord, he wanted her every day, every night. Fletcher managed to restrain himself because he wanted her first experience to be as passionate and sweet as he could make it, not a stolen moment which she might later regret and remember with shame, possibly even doubting his love for her. No, he would not savor her innocence until he took her to wife legally which, to his own anguished impatience, was years away. To strengthen his noble intentions and temper his overgrown unbridled passions—lest he gush like a hot spring—he sated his desires by coercing his way into Madam Louisa's, allowing her nymphs to hone their skills and teach them a few of his own. The visits afforded him relief but did not achieve the release he sought. Deep within him he knew only with Kyndee would he find that ultimate pleasure.
Kyndee sighed contentedly and cupped his face with her hands, her thumbs gently toying with the corners of his lips. The mere touch of her fingers against his skin kindled a slow burn and his own desire was hot and hard between them. He claimed her mouth again, deeply this time, and shuddered when she responded in kind. Her tongue darted against his, hesitant at first then with clear impudence explored the recesses of his mouth, gliding along his teeth, answering his silent summons to join his with no fear, no indignation and more than a slight clinical curiosity. It was the curiosity which caused him to chuckle and pull away.
Kyndee pursed her lips. "You're laughing at me!"
"No, never, Bonbon," he moaned in excuse against the silky hollow beneath her earlobe. Rising on his forearms, he grinned at her and touched the tip of his nose to hers. "Have you any idea what it is you do to me?"
"What does it feel like? What I do to you?"
A groan rumbled in his chest. "Little minx, you ask me to describe that which defies description." He cast his eyes heavenward. "Ah, Bonbon, for me you are like...a tidal wave...fire and ice...a sweet crescendo of passion's hunger and a promise of wondrous perfection. You are sweet agony that sets me to trembling as with cold while a warmth radiates from wherever you touch to forge an ache coiling deep within me. You shatter my soul and my sanity and become them at the same time. I burn for you in places I dare not mention and—" He chuckled. "—I'm surprised you haven't slapped my face and taken me to task for braving such indecent liberties with you."
She hiked herself up to her elbows and wriggled free of him. "Why should I do that? I wanted to know how you felt and…and how you tasted." A warm wine color rose in her cheeks as she nuzzled his cheek. "You tasted quite delicious—like sun-ripened wild strawberries—and I fear I may be developing this hunger you speak of." Her hand caressed his face as her whisper caressed his heart. "How could this hand be anything but tender when I know you'd never do anything to hurt me. You know I feel the same way about you. To hurt you would be the same as hurting myself."
Liar! Traitor! Then why did you insist I go with Buck that day?
Like all dreams, the scene changed swiftly. Fletcher was there again—on the road. It struck without warning—the searing pain in the back of his head. Again and again it came, unrelenting, from everywhere, from nowhere, not giving him a chance to breathe, to find his own limbs and fight. Fight what? Fight whom? Brutal hands holding him; something hard beating him, crushing and breaking him, not allowing him a second to think, to react. He reached out to grasp something, anything, but as he did the pain struck his back and his sides, tearing sinew, splintering bone.
Merciful blackness was descending on him as he fell, yet he could still hear the panting of the attackers as they kept on with their torture. The glint of a metal blade shimmered in the sunlight a millisecond before it slashed his face and jabbed in his neck. He tried to cry out but couldn't; something was choking him. His brain struggled for an answer.
Liquid? Blood! Then Fletcher heard a voice.
"Enough! Enough!. I told you I didn't want him killed—just subdued sufficiently for you to take him. However, from what Kyndee said, I did think he'd put up more of a fight."
He knew that voice. It was Buck's voice! Buck had done this to him! The rage in him coursed the blood faster through his veins, choking him even as he struggled and tried to scream. No human sound came. He heard only the terrorized scream in his skull as another agonizing pain cracked the side of his head. Mercifully, the blackness became complete...
* * *
His own cries woke him with a scream and a shudder. Panicked, Fletcher shot up and looked around the room. Moonlight, streaming through the hotel window, assured him he was alone and, wiping his hand over his eyes, he fell back into the mattress. The pillow and bedclothes were damp.
As he lay there trembling, his chest heaving, he covered his face with his arm. He wanted to rise and read, to do something, anything to chase away the nightmares, but he was too tired. He bit his fist and willed himself to take deep breaths. Finally, as in his nightmare, the blackness
