Caine's Reckoning. Sarah McCarty
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A log popped on the fire. She jumped and spun around. By the time she turned back, Caine was right there, close enough that the edge of his poncho touched her coat. His coat. She swallowed and risked a look at his face. He didn’t look angry, but with him, who could tell? His hand lifted. She flinched. His eyes narrowed. She braced her spine for the blow that was coming. His fingers grazed her jaw, slid along the bone, feather-light, but the drag of the rough callus left no doubt he was strong. His thumb came to rest against her mouth as his fingers cradled her cheek.
“The bedrolls are over here because we thought you might be a bit uncomfortable without privacy. The bedrolls are together because it’s damn cold and you’ve taken enough chill for one day, and also because you’re my wife, and my wife sleeps by me.”
“Why?” It felt strange to speak against his thumb, but she didn’t let that stop her.
“Because it’s my right to protect you.”
She pulled back against his hold. “I don’t need your protection.”
“Too bad. You’ve got it anyway.” He motioned to the right. “You got any business to take care of before we call it a night?”
The blush rose despite her desire to contain it. “No.”
“Good.” He bent, and with a few flicks of his wrists, resettled the blankets. “‘Cause I’m beat.”
“Don’t you have to stand guard?”
“It’s my wedding night. Tracker and Sam are giving me the night off as a wedding present.”
Just what she needed. She glared at the two men. “What was my present?”
His lips quirked and he pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Me.”
It just burst out. “I got shortchanged.”
Unbelievably, he laughed. “I imagine you see it that way now.”
He sat down on the blankets, sliding his hand down her neck, her shoulder, her arm, hooking her wrist in his grip when he reached the ground and tugging her down. “But you won’t always.”
He had no idea what she thought and what she planned. She fell, more than sat, beside him. He caught her the way he always did, as if nothing ever threw him off guard. He lay back against the saddle, his hand anchoring her wrist. “Lie down. Morning will be here before you know it.”
An owl hooted in the distance. The first she’d heard this spring. Was it a good omen or a bad one? She didn’t know, but looking at the sheer size of the man waiting for her to bed down beside him, she had to pray it was good.
“I don’t have a pillow.”
He patted the broad expanse of his shoulder. “I’ve got your pillow right here.”
He expected her to sleep against him. She bit her lip. The wind blew, rattling the bushes. A cold chill went down her spine. Caine’s smile faded to a frown. He pulled her toward him, lifting her arm over his head, directing her fall toward his chest, not giving her an opportunity to twist away.
“If you don’t get tucked in here fast, you’re going to freeze over faster than a stream in winter.”
He let her go when she was lying along his side, her cheek on her hand on his shoulder. “Sleeping like this is going to break my neck.”
One big hand came across her chest, pulling her into his torso as he hitched up. Her shoulder tucked under his arm. She had no choice but to drop her hand. Her fingers caught in the folds of his poncho. As much as she tugged, she was stuck under her own weight, elbow wedged to the ground, head at an even more awkward angle. His coat, made for a much bigger person than she, bunched up over her face. There was a deep masculine chuckle and then several tugs. The coat opened inch by inch, revealing the same amusement in his eyes that had been in his voice.
She frowned back at him. “This is not an improvement.”
Another button popped and the gap widened, enabling her to see his expression. Caine was smiling. A full-fledged smile without the usual reserve.
“I can see that.”
Another tug on the coat had her yelping. The buttons were now caught in her hair.
“Now for sure I know this coat is male.”
She twisted about trying to get a hand free to get to her hair only to find his hands in the way when she eventually got herself clear.
“This would go a lot easier,” he told her, “if you’d stop trying to help.”
“I’m trying to keep from being snatched bald.” Another tug had her wincing.
“No danger of that.”
She was so sick of him pretending to be nice to her. “Because you intend to be careful?”
He was shaking his head before she finished, that full smile diminishing to the level of a grin. “Nah.” The tension released on her hair, leaving only a sting behind. “There’s no danger for the simple reason you’ve got enough hair for two women and then some.”
She dug her elbow into his side as she forced her hand free, checking to be sure she still had hair in that spot. She rubbed the sting. “Well, you may not have that concern for much longer.” She ran her hand through her hair and got stopped about one inch into the procedure by a snarl too big to be called anything less than a mat. She gave it a good hard yank, wincing when it held. “We’re probably going to have to shave my head to get the snarls out.”
Once again, his hands pulled hers away. “No danger of that, either.”
“Because you’re going to forbid me to cut my hair?”
He smoothed his hand over her head, stroking from crown to end, smoothing down the wild tangle, lifting his hand halfway down when a snarl caught on his index finger. Men always loved her hair. There was something about the pale blond color and curl that had them always staring at it with a combination of fascination and awe. His gaze met hers, the smile still tugging at his mouth. “Pretty much.”
Nothing was more galling than his assurance that his forbidding would be enough. “I hate you.”
“You don’t know me well enough to hate me.”
“Trust me. I’ve built a real good case in the short time we’ve been acquainted.”
He didn’t look devastated by the statement. But the crinkles by the sides of his eyes deepened. “Then I guess I’ll just have to work at changing your opinion.”
Oh wonderful. He’d taken her comment as a challenge. “Why can’t you just act predictably?”
He lifted her up and scooted her down, a maneuver that would have left her a lot more comfortable if it also hadn’t left her pressed intimately against him. “If you knew me better, you’d know I am being predictable.”
When she tried to wiggle away, he merely curled in the arm she was lying on. The other hand went to her hip, slipped under the coat and rode down to her thigh, hitching it up. Panic immediately chased anger. The only thing that preserved her modesty were the long folds of her new skirt.
“Lift up for a minute.”
“I’m comfortable just as I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
She wasn’t but that wasn’t important. She tilted her head back and strained for dignity. “I am not sprawling across you. It’s improper.”
And if he said one word about the incongruity of a whore worrying about propriety she’d bite the end of his nose off.
“Gypsy, if both of us are going to keep from freezing our butts off tonight, seeing as our wedding night has us way over here in the hollow, we’re going to have to get closer than your sense of propriety deems