Lynna Banning Read online

Ben watched her a moment, then stepped to her side and lifted the tin dishes and the spoons out of her hand. “I don’t think you should do any walking around that you don’t have to, seeing how you’re…encumbered.”

  “What? Oh, you mean my blanket. Well, it is hard to keep closed.”

  “So I noticed.” Ben shot her a quick look. “I’ll just set these plates outside the door—let the rain wash them clean.”

  He had to admit he’d enjoyed watching her struggle to keep the tan wool covering over her shoulders and chest. In fact, he’d been preoccupied with her nearness for the past hour. Not many women could ride—or walk—all day in a driving rain and end up looking as unconsciously alluring as she did, draped in that army blanket with her hair hanging loose.

  He took another long, careful look at her. Not many women could measure up to Jessamyn Whittaker, no matter what the weather. Yankee or not, this lady was one of a kind.

  And, he reminded himself, none of his goddamned concern beyond keeping her warm and safe for the next twenty-four hours.

  Night came quickly. Except for the glow of firelight from the window in the stove, the interior of the old shack was cast in shadow. Hunched in her chair by the stove, Jessamyn watched Ben prowl about the tiny cabin searching for candles to dispel the darkness.

  He flipped over the two pairs of jeans spread out on the floor and ran his hand across the smaller garments—shirts, underdrawers, her frothy camisole—feeling for dampness. Almost dry. Soon she could get dressed, or at least partly dressed. Enough to sleep in, anyway. The thought made his groin tighten.

  On four different nights now, he and Jessamyn had shared sleeping quarters. Each time was more strained than the last. It was getting difficult to be around her, watching the little feminine things she did before bed—taking down her hair, scrubbing dirt off her face with a dampened bandanna. He wanted to reach out and smooth her cheek with his thumb. When she rolled against him during the night, snugged that soft, round little derriere into his groin, oh, God. Every bone in his body ached for her. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since she’d come into town on the stage.

  He found the remains of a tallow candle and touched a flaming pine sliver to the wick. Soft light pooled about him. He sensed more than saw Jessamyn move toward him out of the darkness.

  “Are our clothes dry?”

  “Not yet. Maybe another half hour.” He bent, tugged her jeans closer to the stove. “The…uh…smaller things should be wearable, though. What do you need for sleeping?”

  “The small things,” she said after a moment. “And my shirt. Over there, on a nail.” She gestured behind him.

  Ben turned to retrieve the garments, leaving Jessamyn in shadow as he raised the candle to illuminate the wall. Wind-whipped rain splatted against the single window. Water sluiced onto the roof in erratic bursts, now drumming hard on the surface above them, then subsiding into a whispery wash of droplets. The wind moaned around the eaves.

  He lifted her shirt and the lacy white drawers from the nails where he’d hung them and held them out to her. When she took them, the tips of her fingers brushed his knuckles. His heart thumped as if a horse had kicked it.

  She retreated to the far corner of the room, away from the candlelight. Ben turned away, concentrated on the sound of the storm raging outside. His body tense, his blood pounding with need, he thought about the woman he had come to know these past few days.

  The truth was, he was afraid to be alone with her. He didn’t dare risk reaching for what his body hungered for, didn’t dare because his heart hungered, too. He didn’t trust the emotion. It seemed a lifetime since he’d opened himself to another human being, and now he had nothing to give a woman save a weary, battle-scarred body and a spirit that life had sucked dry.

  It was not enough. It would never be enough. But, God in heaven, he wanted her.

  He did not hear Jessamyn’s noiseless footstep behind him.

  “Ben?”

  He jerked at the sound of her voice.

  “Ben?” she repeated.

  “Yeah?” Fear tightened his throat. Even to him, his tone sounded brusque and unfriendly.

  “Where do you want me to sleep? Next to the stove or—”

  Want? Want? He wanted her beside him, in his bed. In his arms.

  “Over there.” He pointed with the guttering candle toward the stove. “Lay your bedroll out close to the fire.”

  She hesitated. “What about you?”

  He listened to her soft breathing in the darkened silence, heard the thunder growl and rumble overhead. He ground his teeth in frustration, wanted to lift his head and howl into the night, his longing for her was so sharp. Instead, he heard his own voice respond in an almost normal tone. “Between the stove and the door. I’ll sleep with my rifle ready,” he added. “Just in case.”

  Jessamyn shivered. “Do you think anyone…”

  “No, I don’t. But I won’t take chances, either.” He knew he’d spit the words at her. Inwardly he winced.

  She bent to arrange her blankets, then straightened and stepped forward into the circle of light shed by the candle he held in one hand. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it, Ben? I can tell by your voice.”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” he lied. “I get moody sometimes. Just ignore me.”

  “No, I won’t. I can’t.” Her gaze held his for a heartbeat, then dropped to her toes. “The candle is dripping wax onto the floor.”

  “It’s happened before.”

  She cocked her head. “And over your hand,” she observed quietly.

  “That, too.”

  “But don’t you feel it? Doesn’t it burn?”

  He felt it, all right. He concentrated on the discomfort, hoping it would take his mind off other things. “Not if I don’t think about it. Pain is relative. Some kinds are worse than others.”

  She stared at him. In the flickering pool of light, her green eyes widened. “What pain? What are you really talking about, Ben? Tell me.”

  He realized how much he had inadvertently revealed. Anyone else would have taken his remarks at face value, but not Jessamyn. Not a lady reporter with a printing press where her heart should be. Inside, he had to laugh. Her damned guileless curiosity about life, about him, was part of what made her the way she was—perceptive. Sensitive. Maddeningly alive.

  “What pain?” she repeated, her voice gentle.

  He turned away from her. “I was wounded in the war.” He lugged his bedroll over to the stove and spread it out opposite hers.

  “I know. I’ve seen your scar.”

  “The scar isn’t all on the outside,” he said without thinking. He wished he hadn’t spoken. He wanted no one, not even his old friend Jeremiah, to see inside him. He felt transparent as a cold winter stream when he revealed his feelings. If he were seen—known and understood—he could be hurt.

  “I know that, too,” she said softly.

  Caught off guard, Ben laughed. “For a maiden lady, you seem to know a lot about men.”

  He regretted the comment the instant he said it. He’d blurted it out in an attempt to reestablish the protective shell he felt cracking with Jessamyn’s every statement.

  She faced him, her fine, dark eyebrows lifted. “Yes, I do. I’ve spent my whole life observing the males of this world at close range. It’s a rare man who shares his real feelings. Papa never did. Not with Mama, anyway. And not with me. It made me lonely all my life.”

  Ben’s insides turned cold. “You’re wrong, Jessamyn. If you’ve been lonely, it’s because you chose to remain single, not because Thad abandoned you. But I’m sorry for the ‘maiden lady’ remark. I’m sorry I snapped at you, but you’re just…wrong.”

  Inexplicably, she gave a low laugh. “I’m not wrong, Ben. And you know it.” She turned away, spread over her pallet the blanket she’d been wearing. In the firelight her long hair gleamed like satin.

  A wave of heat swept into Ben’s throat, moved through his chest. “Jessamyn, you are the goddamned
est woman…”

  “Yes,” she said with a sigh. “I know. I’m stubborn and I can be difficult, I’m sure.”

  She drew in a deep breath, straightened her spine. “But you like me, Ben. I know you do.”

  Dumbfounded, Ben stared at her back as she tugged her blankets into place. “I do,” he echoed.

  He was more than surprised by her matter-of-fact statement He was completely undone. One thing about Jessamyn he’d never get used to was her candor, her complete lack of artifice. She reminded him of his mother. A more soft-spoken, proper lady he’d never known, yet Kathleen Kearney’s mind had been as logical as a lawyer’s, and she’d expressed herself with the quiet eloquence of General Lee addressing his troops. In spite of his fraying nerves, he found himself chuckling at the similarity.

  Jessamyn spoke over her shoulder. “It’s because of Lorena, isn’t it?”

  His entire body froze.

  “Jeremiah was in love with her, too,” she continued, her voice gentle. “Or did you know that?”

  Ben jerked. “Jeremiah? He told you that?”

  “Actually, he said very little. I guessed most of it.”

  “You guessed it,” Ben repeated, his voice hardening. Part of him was relieved that he didn’t have to explain. Part of him wanted to thrash her for delving this close to the core of his wounded spirit.

  “Ben, that—Lorena—was years ago.”

  “Yeah.” He busied himself checking and positioning the rifle on the floor within easy reach of his bed.

  “You know that Jeremiah’s smitten with that Indian girl, Walks Dancing?”

  “I know. He’d like to marry her.”

  “Well, then, why doesn’t he?”

  “When a man wants to marry an Indian girl, especially the daughter of a chief, he has to pay her father a price. Black Eagle’s price for Walks Dancing is plenty high.” He paused to draw in a shaky breath.

  “Jessamyn, why all the questions? Why tonight, when we’re cooped up in this damned cabin with a storm blowing outside and no way to get out until morning?”

  “Because I… Well, because we’re here together, alone, and… Well, I’ve never been alone—really alone—all night with a man before. I wanted to know some things about you.”

  His heart leaped. He knew she relied on him, depended on him. Trusted him. Was it possible she liked him, as well? As a man?

  The thought made his palms sweat. Being with a woman he didn’t care about was one thing. If she meant nothing to him, he could not be hurt. Rejection would not matter. But being with a woman who mattered—a woman like Jessamyn—was different.

  “Why, Jess? Why do you want to know things about me?” He resisted the urge to step toward her. Touch her. He studied her face in the candle glow.

  “Because when you kissed me the other day at the river, I—I liked it,” she blurted. “And—”

  As if suddenly aware of what she had said, she stopped short. A flush of crimson washed up her neck to stain her cheeks.

  “And?” he queried, his voice low and hoarse.

  “Ben, I…” She licked her lips.

  “And?” he repeated. “Answer me, Jess.”

  “Oh…oh, bother!” She gave a little moan of embarrassment and angled her face away from the light. “Don’t look at me, Ben. I know I’m blushing—I turn red at all the wrong times. Please, just don’t look.”

  Quick as a frightened bird, she dipped her head and puffed out the candle flame. In the darkness Ben heard her suck air into her lungs.

  “Oh, dear,” she whispered. She swallowed audibly.

  Ben imagined her soft pink tongue again rimming her lips. He clenched his hands into fists, concentrated on keeping one closed around the candle stub, the other at his side. His knuckles brushed against the blanket he wore about his waist. Suddenly he became excruciatingly aware of his lower torso, his bare thighs and calves, his hips, his manhood touching the soft wool. His entire body seemed bathed in flames.

  A breath of air against his chest told him Jessamyn had spun away. Before he could stop himself, he reached out for her.

  His fingers closed on her bare forearm. Very, very slowly, he pulled her backward toward him until her spine pressed against his rib cage. Barely able to breathe, he waited.

  For a long moment neither of them moved. The sound of the rain drummed in his ears. By the dim light cast by the stove, he could see the outline of her breasts.

  He dropped the candle stub and took hold of her shoulder with his hand. Her head came up, tumbling her hair against his bare chest.

  “Ben.”

  Her voice was no more than a sigh, but he reacted as if a cannon had been fired inside him. A searing hunger surged through his body. He bent his head until his lips found her warm neck.

  “Jessamyn.” He murmured the word at her ear, moved his mouth to the smooth area beneath her cheekbone and blew his breath out against her skin.

  She stiffened. After a long minute, she let her head roll back against his chin. Oh, God. Her hair, thick and warm against his skin, spread across his chest like a mantle of silk. He opened his mouth, inhaled its fragrance.

  “What did you want to ask me, Jess?” He kissed her hair, her earlobe. “Tell me now.”

  “I… N-nothing. Nothing.”

  “You’re lying,” he said gently.

  “Yes,” she whispered, her voice so soft it was barely audible. “I know I am.”

  Ben lifted his head, smiled up at the roof over their heads. Water pounded down in irregular bursts like volleys of rifle fire. He closed his eyes, remembering the sheer terror of battle, of risking everything in a desperate pitting of life against death. Despite the fear, he had moved forward, led his troops to safety and a renewed belief in their cause and their own survival. God knows how he had managed it, but he had.

  In a way, he was facing the same thing now. He wanted her. He wanted her as he’d never wanted a woman before, as if something inside would shrivel and die if he couldn’t have her. The feeling, hot and sweet and urgent, drove out the hard ball of fear he’d carried for so long, made him tremble with the joy of being alive. Something buried within him broke free.

  “Jessamyn,” he breathed against her temple. “Walk away from me if you don’t want this.”

  For a long moment she remained motionless. Then she murmured a single word. “Ben.”

  In the dark, her ragged breathing told him everything. Very deliberately, he lifted his hand from her shoulder, moved it in front of her, across her chest, and curled his fingers around her upper arm. With a little twist, he turned her to face him.

  She tilted her head to look up into his face. “Ben,” she said again. Hearing her trembling voice speak his name fired a hot ache into his loins.

  He’d make it good for her, slow and sweet and easy. He wanted it to be beautiful, something she’d never forget.

  Very gently, he pulled her into his arms. When her body pressed against his bare chest, he bent his head and spoke near her ear. “We don’t have to do this, Jess. You know that, don’t you?” His own voice shook.

  She nodded, her hair brushing his skin.

  “Up to a point, you can tell me to stop. After that, though, I can’t promise…”

  “How will I know?” she whispered.

  Ben smiled, his lips caressing her hair. “I’ll tell you when.”

  Silence. Then her voice, low but steady. “Ben?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Kiss me.”

  He found her mouth, warm and slightly open under his. His senses reeled at the heat of her, the fire she kindled in his blood. He kissed her once more, deeper, and then he couldn’t stop.

  She arched against him, moved her hands to his neck and clasped them behind his head. Ben groaned. She was like honey and flame mixed up together—sweet and hot, and so strong, so alive.

  She uttered a little moan. His heart thrumming, he broke contact. “We’re at that point now, Jess,” he said in a ragged voice. “Tell me to stop or…�
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  She stared into his face for so long he thought maybe she didn’t understand. Then she astounded him.

  “I want you,” she murmured. She met his lips, opened her mouth under his.

  Blinding happiness washed through him, like a flood of white light shining into his dark soul. “Jessamyn,” he whispered. He kissed her again, let his tongue taste the sweetness of her mouth. When he broke free, she kept her eyes closed.

  “Don’t stop, Ben,” she murmured. “Don’t…just kiss me.”

  He gathered her close, his mouth hungry, then forced himself to slow down. Lifting his lips from hers, he kissed her neck, swept his tongue into the hollow at the base of her throat.

  She gave a little sigh, and he swirled his tongue into the shell of her ear. She sucked in her breath and stiffened. Then with a low cry, she laid her palms against his chest and arched her neck back.

  Ben slipped the top button of her shirt free, then slowly worked downward, one button at a time. Parting the fabric, he slid one camisole strap off her shoulder, moved his hands down her rib cage to her lower back. Curving his fingers under her buttocks, he lifted her against him.

  He bent his head. With his tongue he circled the nipple straining under the thin fabric of her camisole. She cried out, and he continued until the spot was wet

  Half sobbing, she called his name.

  “Jess, Jess,” he whispered roughly. “I want you.”

  “Yes.” She moaned the word. “Yes.”

  He picked her up, walked to the bedroll spread near the glowing stove, and laid her down.

  Then, while she watched, he freed the blanket wrapped at his waist and let it fall away.

  Chapter Eighteen

  In the faint glow of the firelight, Ben’s eyes burned into Jessamyn’s with an intensity that stopped her heart.

  Was this what loving a man was all about, this inexplicable joy tearing at her insides, pushing at her, compelling her toward some kind of completion? No man had ever made love to her before, kissed her until she was wet and aching between her thighs, stroked his tongue in secret places. It was the most glorious thing she’d ever experienced. Waves of exquisite sensation pulsed through her body until she thought she would die of pleasure.