The Innocent And The Outlaw. Harper George St.
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willing to stare her down as he awaited her capitulation. When she didn’t speak, his gaze went to the dangerously gapped-open bodice and the locket gleaming in the firelight. Unwelcome butterflies fluttered along with the nerves in her belly. “You wanted to keep your trinket,” he reminded her.
“Please.” She tugged on the bonds at her wrists, wincing at the pain. “This is horribly uncomfortable. Cut me down and I’ll tell you where the farm is.”
Hunter allowed his gaze to linger on the swell of her breasts before bringing it upward to settle on her eyes. They held his attention just long enough to make her squirm as he pretended to weigh her request. He’d cut her down because what had begun as a game to expediently get information from her had turned into something more dangerous. There was something provocative about having her bound before him, but he’d never taken a woman by force and he wouldn’t start now. The same instinct that made him want to protect her made him want to make her his.
Despite her attractive face, he’d expected her to be different than she was. These past years, they’d traveled through many backwater hells avoiding the law, avoiding outlaw hunters, avoiding all the sons of bitches looking to make a name for themselves by taking one of them out, but all the women he’d ever come across in those dark places were just like their men. Uneducated, coarse and almost willfully ignorant in their spurning of the outside world.
She was different.
The way she spoke made him think that she’d had some education, but he didn’t know how that could be, considering what he’d seen of Whiskey Hollow and what he knew of her stepfather. Her deep blue eyes sparkled with an intelligence that was intriguing with the challenging way she looked at him, as if taunting him to figure out her secrets. Those eyes coupled with the unexpectedly soft curves that he’d felt as he’d searched her for weapons had been damned pleasing. The mere memory made blood rush to his groin. The firelight flickered, gave her skin a golden hue as she hung there, tied like an offering to him. Her unbound breasts begged for his palms, as they were all but revealed to him, the black lace at the edge of her bodice only just managing to keep the pink of her nipples hidden. The locket taunted him from its prized position nestled between them. It didn’t help that the looks she gave him said she was as attracted to him as he was to her. She tried to hide it, but she wasn’t as afraid of him as she should be, at least not afraid for her safety like a normal captive would be. Her fear stemmed from what crackled between them.
Pushing a hand through his hair, he forced a breath out and decided he’d been too long without a woman, a situation he’d have to wait until he got back home to Helena to rectify. Damn Campbell to hell! He’d happily kill the man with his bare hands once they recovered Miguel. She startled when he made a quick grab to pull his knife from its sheath strapped to his boot. He approached her more slowly so she knew his intention, the knife raised to the rope securing her to the wood beam above her head.
When her arms fell free she stumbled forward into him. “Whoa, I’ve got you.” He wrapped an arm around her small waist, his fingers noting each fragile bone as his hand rested along her rib cage, and a shard of anger tore through him. Campbell had done a piss-poor job of taking care of her. It was clear that she hadn’t had a decent meal in months. He could break her in two if he wasn’t careful. He gentled his hold as he half bent to sheathe his knife. She was trembling, but probably more from muscle fatigue than fear, or at least that’s what he wanted to believe.
Before he could suppress it, a wave of tenderness for her moved through him. She must lead a very lonely life with Campbell gone for months at a time. The thought brought back unwelcome memories of his own childhood. With his mother living so far away in Boston and his father working all hours of the day and night, he’d known what it meant to be lonely. His hands tightened on her waist as he straightened.
Nostrils flaring, he took in her scent, a faint undercurrent of wildflowers. The silken waves of her dark hair brushed against his knuckles, giving him the urge to tangle his fingers in it and pull her head back to taste her. He closed his eyes as he stifled the notion. She was his captive, not his woman. That line could not get blurred. What in hell was wrong with him?
Slipping a fingertip underneath the rope that still held her wrists tied together in front of her, he made sure that it was loose enough that it wouldn’t hinder circulation while still keeping her somewhat restrained. His palms settled on her hips, helping her to find her footing before moving on to her arms, stroking up and down her forearms in a massage to help get her blood flowing again.
“Thank you,” she murmured a few moments later, her voice slightly hoarse.
He stifled a twinge of guilt that she would thank him for cutting her loose, as the soft catch in her voice brought his eyes to hers. He saw reflected there the same awareness that thrummed through his body, that attraction that refused to be cowed whether it was appropriate or not. Like lightning drawn to iron, his gaze moved down to her small mouth and lush, red lips that made his breath quicken. As if readying themselves for him, they parted and it was all he could do not to take them.
But he wasn’t that man. He didn’t need to take advantage of a woman who was at his mercy.
Annoyed at his own response to her, he demanded in a low voice, “The farm. Where is it?”
* * *
Caught in their dangerous spell, it took her a few seconds to realize what he had said. He was so close that his scent enveloped her. Leather, the subtle salt of perspiration, the spice of some long-ago applied aftershave—none of which were overpowering, but combined in a heady blend that was pure male and unexpectedly appealing. It was more than his scent and his handsome-as-sin looks that intrigued her. Though he was an outlaw and danger poured off him, she recognized gentleness beneath the harsh exterior. He’d not been rough with her at all, when any one of Ship’s men would have gloried in their power had they been in his position. And, though at first she hadn’t been sure of his intention, she knew he wouldn’t force himself on her.
A grudging respect for him had grown within her. True, she was his captive, though she didn’t really think that was a situation he had wanted. But she also knew that he was an outlaw, probably wanted from here to Texas, and she couldn’t forget that. And despite the fact that he had checked the bindings on her wrists to make sure they weren’t too tight, he had put them there.
Buying some time to get her thoughts in order, she pulled away from him and rubbed her hands together. “I’m cold.” It was true, but she said it more to stall because she had no idea what she planned to tell him about the farm.
His nostrils flared slightly as he took a deep breath and moved away, walking backward the few steps it took him to reach his saddlebags. When he stood back up, holding the winter dress that she was sure had been lost back when they’d taken her, she found herself smiling for the first time since she’d left the saloon. The brown wool was a welcome sight. It wasn’t the prettiest dress in her paltry wardrobe, but it was warmer than the dance-hall costume and much less revealing. “Here.” She automatically held up her wrists so that he could cut the rope free.
Except he didn’t move but to raise a brow at her.
“Well, how else am I to get that on?” she challenged and reached for the dress, but missed because he raised the wad of fabric higher.
“I’ll help.” The lazy, teasing smile had returned to his mouth now that the fire had been banked...slightly.
“Thank you, but, no.” Holding her hands out for him again, she nodded to the knife sheathed to his boot. “Just untie me. You can tie me back up after I’m done, if you think I’m such a threat to you. Please,” she added at the end when he just stared back at her.
Faster than she had imagined possible, even having seen him grab it before, he smoothly reached for the knife and stood with it in his fist. Slowly, not quite so certain now that he held the weapon, she offered him her wrists and he held them tight with his left hand, stuffing the dress beneath his arm, as he sawed at