my waist. What’ll it be?”
She was silent. His fingers were hard against her skin, but not cruel, not enough to cause bruises, unless she fought his touch. The thought of being tied to him was unacceptable and she lay back down, accepting his imprisoning fingers binding her close.
He turned toward her, as if accepting her surrender, and laughed, a sound smacking of derision. “Close your eyes, Debra Nightsong. It’s going to be a long night.”
She did as he said, knowing that for now, she was under his control, and God forbid she make him angry with her.
But her mind was spinning like a child’s top on Christmas morning. All she’d ever asked for was a peaceful life, alone here on the property her father had bequeathed to her. She’d done well, raising chickens, one of them a rooster who kept her hens in line, and awoke early every morning to hail the new day. Then there was the cow she cared for, and her golden mare. Now her herd had increased with the arrival of the three mares.
A garden thrived behind the house and her nearest neighbor cut the acres of hay she shared with him for his work. It was a good life, one she’d thought held a measure of safety and peace.
The dark-haired man beside her was a stranger, tall, well-built, and, as he’d said, probably a hundred pounds heavier than she. A big man, whose dark eyes had frightened her with their lack of emotion. As though he felt nothing, as if his feelings were locked up somewhere inside, he gave no hint of softness, no apology for his hands on her body, his presence in her bed.
She trembled, fearful of him, his presence in her home and the fate that might await her. Physically, she was no match for him, leaving her only her wits to depend upon.
The mystery was too much for her tonight, she decided. Just getting through the hours ’til morning was what concerned her right now. Her mind was whirling again, her wrist was held in an unshakable grip and she wanted to turn over. Away from his eyes that were even now focused on her. She could feel his gaze, knew he watched her.
“Let go of me,” she said, as if she expected his cooperation. “I’d like to turn over.”
“Go ahead.” He dropped her hand and she turned away from him, only to feel his heavy arm slide over her waist, settling on her flat belly and then tugging her back against his warm body. “I’ll just hang on to you this way,” he murmured. “And don’t give me a hard time, little bird. It won’t do you any good.”
“Don’t call me that,” she said sharply. And even as she spoke, she heard her mother’s voice, soothing her, encouraging her and speaking the words in a gentle voice. “My little bird. Don’t worry. Your mother is here.” She inhaled sharply as a tear slid from her eye and dampened the sheet beneath her. His hand swept up over her waist and breast to spread across her cheek, and she shrank from the touch of those warm fingers on her face.
But to no avail, for the tears she’d thought to keep from him were swept away by his hand, holding the corner of the sheet, fingers that were gentle as he wiped her cheek.
“I upset you. What did I say to make you cry?” She thought his voice softened a bit, losing the harsh edge, the threat of violence she’d sensed earlier.
She resented his knowledge of her weakness and her voice was taut. “Take your hands off me. I don’t cry. And, I’m not going anywhere.”
He chuckled a bit, a low, husky sound and bent his head lower on the pillow, brushing his face over her hair. She felt his breath, warm against the side of her face, and caught the scent of him, that of saddle leather and fresh air.
“My arm and my hand will hold you against me. They will stay on you all night long. I offered you another solution, but you turned it down.”
She shivered. “Tying me up wasn’t much of an option.”
His chuckle was low, offering her no hint of softening. “It’s the only one you’ll get, so make up your mind.”
And with that, he pulled her even closer to himself, curling his big body against her back, his knees pushing her legs upward. “Close your eyes, little bird. I’ll still be right here in the morning, and you can be angry at me then. It sure as hell won’t do you any good to get all upset tonight.”
She thought a trace of amusement coiled through his lazy whisper, and she felt her anger rise in spite of his warning. “I’m not used to sleeping with anyone,” she said, wriggling in a vain effort to put him at a distance. To no avail, for he only pulled her closer and eased his hand across her belly to the hip she lay on, his fingers pressing into her flesh, almost guaranteeing bruises come morning.
“You’re a little bit of a thing, aren’t you?” he mused, measuring the width of her body with his arm. “Sassy and full of piss and vinegar, but not big enough to fight me.”
“I’m big enough to take care of myself,” she said stoutly, “except when a man uses his strength against me. And even then, I’ve been known to fight.”
“Want to tell me about it?” he asked, his tone softly curious. “Who have you fought?”
She was stubbornly silent, and he chuckled again. “I’ll just bet you landed a few good punches before any man ever got the best of you. You’re a brave one, I’ll give you that.” He paused and she sensed that he would speak a warning. “But don’t try to fight me, Debra Nightsong. I don’t play fair, and I always win.”
“Especially against a woman,” she murmured. “I was right about you. You’re a bully.”
“I can be kind,” he told her.
He’d made his move, forced his way into her house, almost guaranteed a place to hang his hat for a few days at least. She’d just come from town, had brought supplies enough to last for some time in those burlap sacks. She wouldn’t be expected by anyone to be seen in Holly Hill for a few days.
“I’ll be up at dawn, when the rooster crows,” she told him. “My cow likes to be milked early on and the chickens will need to be fed.”
“Well, then rest easy. I’ll be with you while you milk and tend your stock. Might even lend a hand,” he whispered against her ear.
The scent of man, of his yearnings for a woman, enveloped her. For the first time in her life, she shared her bed, and resented it mightily. Enough that he held her fast, did she also need the constant reminder that this masculine being presented a danger to her?
He was clean, if she were any judge of it, smelling like the fresh hay in her field, a faint aroma of leather and horse surrounding him. An altogether appealing arrangement that tempted her senses.
He seemed not to be cruel, for if he’d so desired, he could have hurt her badly already, could have taken her body in an act of pure lust. He’d done neither, and for whatever rules of behavior governed him, she was thankful.
She must have dozed off, her body seeking the rest it required, for when she awoke, fully aware of the darkness and the man who lay beside her, she sat upright, his arm gripping her firmly.
“What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
She sought her pillow, remembered that it was under his head, and settled for the sheet beneath her. “I need to use the…” She faltered, unable to speak aloud
