Sam's Creed. Sarah McCarty
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now he would waste the only thing they did have to treat it? She snatched the container from his hand. “You are not so big and bad that an infection will not visit.”
“Hand that back, Bella, before I paddle your butt for messing with a man’s liquor.”
The warning in his tone just fed the resentment pouring through her. He had no right to talk to her so, threaten her like a child. Risk himself so needlessly.
She dumped the liquor over the bandage. Too late, she realized what she’d done. She dropped the flask. “¡O, madre de Dios!”
Sam’s face flushed red and his mouth settled into a grimace of agony. She’d never heard such words as what came from his mouth as he grabbed at the soaked bandage. Nor the ones that followed once the alcohol found his wound. He would kill her.
Sam stood. Isabella ran. He caught her before she made it five steps.
“God damn, you get back here.”
She went with his tug, spinning around, fists up as she’d seen her guard Zacharias do when he was going to throw a punch.
Sam just stood holding her, breathing as if he’d run miles, eyes narrowed, mouth set in a flat line…and stared.
And then, catching her fists in his hand, he laughed. A real laugh that scalded her pride. A laugh that made her not care how handsome he was. A laugh that had her struggling wildly as he drew her arms wide and dropped a kiss on the end of her nose. And then her mouth. Their first kiss, and he had not asked!
She struggled harder. He paid no mind, just kept his lips on hers, letting her struggles dictate the pressure in soft slides and quick jerks. Her thighs brushed against his, her chest against his abdomen. Her struggles slowed as anger changed to something softer, something as fragile as the next skim of his mouth over hers. Her arms were pulled wider, bringing her body flush against his much bigger one. His lips parted just a hint. There was the moistness of his breath and then the shocking glide of his tongue, gentle and tantalizing, along the seam of her lips. Lightning flared in a brilliant arc along her nerve endings, jerking her up onto her toes before tossing her back.
Sam let her go. She did not immediately back away, anger and something else keeping her feet planted in place. Though he stood a foot away, Isabella could still feel the pressure of his lips, the heat of his breath, the temptation he presented. Why did he fascinate her so?
She clenched her fists. “You had no right to do that.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
He didn’t sound sorry, but she was. “I am sorry I poured the spirits on your wound. Though it needed to be done, I should not have done it like that.”
He cocked his head to the side and a grin ghosted his lips. “You just can’t help it, can you?”
“What?”
“Sounding so high-and-mighty.”
“I think my poor English gives the impression of arrogance.”
Sam’s smile broadened. “Yeah, that’s likely it.”
She had the distinct feeling he was laughing at her. He had no right to laugh. He was as wrong as she was. Putting her hands on her hips, she challenged him. “Kisses should not be stolen.”
“I agree.”
“They should be given freely.”
He turned and headed back to the fire, obviously favoring his injured leg. “No one’s arguing with you, Bella.”
He didn’t need to be so agreeable when she wanted to fight. She followed more slowly, her conscience nagging her. The alcohol must still burn. The truth popped out as it always did when she felt guilty. “Maybe I am arguing with myself.”
Sam sat back on the rock and pulled one of the sticks off the fire. A piece of the fillet fell off. In a move almost too fast for her to see, he caught it, tossing it in his hand to cool it. Shadows jumped on the wall in wild accompaniment. Her heart jumped with the same silly excitement as he cocked an eyebrow at her. “Now, why would you do that?”
She owed him for the manner in which she’d cleaned his wound. “Because I think it is wrong to enjoy stolen kisses.”
His expression closed up. “Very likely.”
She’d chosen honesty as a penance, but she had no idea it would be so hard to see it through. It would be easier to let him continue to think what he obviously was—that she was talking about him—but that wouldn’t be fair. Her cheeks burning hotter than the heat coming off the fire, she whispered, “But I enjoyed yours.”
He dropped the fish into the fire. It was the only sign her words had thrown him.
“Why?”
There was a limit to how far she would atone, and he had reached it.
“I do not know why.” She glared at him. “You are a very provoking man. By rights I should shoot you.”
He fished dinner out of the fire. “The man who saved your life?”
She sat down on the rock a couple feet away. “That would make me ungrateful.”
He handed her the other fillet. The one not covered in ash. The consideration made her feel even more guilty.
“But?”
He was an astute man to hear the but in her voice. “You are aggravating.”
“Because I won’t stitch a crease?”
That and other things, but since the other things were nameless worries in her mind, she settled for a simple “Yes.”
He took a bite of his fish. She tore off a piece of hers. It was a little big, but she was in a cave, in the wilderness eating off a stick. Surely manners could be flexible?
He waited until she had the too-big piece in her mouth before saying, “If you think that’s aggravating, I sure don’t want to see what you’re going to make of the fact we’ll be sharing a bedroll.”
Chapter 4
Sharing a bedroll with Sam had not been the exciting thing the forbidden should be. Here it was the next day and she was as much an untouched virgin as she had been lying down the night before. Darn it. She had not wanted him to rape her, but she would have liked to have a little tale about the night she’d slept with the infamous Sam MacGregor. Something more than that he’d rolled up a horse blanket into a bundle, set it between them like a bolster, rolled on his back and ordered her in a gruff voice to go to sleep. That was not what she expected from a man with his reputation.
Which just went to show how inflated legend could make a man’s reputation. Even in her little town of Montoya they had heard of Hell’s Eight and Wild Card MacGregor—a man so cold he could supposedly seduce or kill with a smile. She completely understood the former, and had witnessed the latter, which left only the question of why he had not seduced her. Was she so unappealing to him? The question nagged at her just as thoroughly as the leather of the saddle nagged at the insides of her thighs through her worn, fine lawn bloomers. This land could be very hard on the finer things.
She braced her hands on the pommel of the saddle and pushed up. The brief relief to her rear was welcome. Ahead of her, Sam rode easily, sitting in the saddle as if he was an extension of the horse. None of the weariness dragging at her showed in his posture. The setting sun behind them reflected off the silver conchos rimming his black hat. She glanced over her shoulder. The sunset was gorgeous. Even more gorgeous was the silhouette of another town backlit by the pink-and-orange glow. She bet there was a hotel in that town, and a soft mattress. She scanned the rickety outline of the buildings. Well, maybe not soft, but less hard than the saddle.
“No sense hankering about what’s not going to be,” Sam called back.
How had he known what she was thinking? She lowered her rear gingerly