He watched her mouth twist. He was too damned tired to argue, and if he touched her at that moment, he wasn't at all sure what it would lead to. "Please! For the love of God, lie down, Shannon."
She didn't say a word until she had settled down beside him, but then heard a tentative whisper. "Malachi?"
He groaned. "What?"
"What…what are we going to do now?"
He hesitated. "I should spank you, brat," he said softly. "And send you home."
"You—you can't send me home. You know that." There was just the touch of a plea in her voice, and the softest note of tears. "You can't send me back."
"That's right," he muttered dryly. "Justin is out there somewhere, waiting for you. Maybe I should let him have you. The two of you could keep on fighting the war, from here until doomsday."
"Malachi—"
"I'm not sending you back, Shannon. You're right about that; I can't."
"Then—"
"We're going to go onward for Kristin."
"But how will we find her? We'll never pick up the trail again. There's only a few of them left now, but they're so long gone that it would be impossible to find them."
"We don't need to find them."
"But—"
"Shannon, I know where they're taking her. They're taking her to Fitz. And I know how to find the town. We all know something about it, Cole, Jamie and I." He hesitated. "You forget, we've had dealings with the Red Legs before." He was silent for a moment, thinking back to when Cole's place had been burned down and his beautiful young wife killed. Malachi's jaw tightened. "I'm not sure if we can head them off quickly enough, or if we'll have to—figure out something else. We'll find her. We'll reach her."
"Do you think—do you think that she'll be all right?"
He lifted his hat and rolled toward her. She was staring at him so earnestly. Her eyes seemed old, so very wise and world-weary, and their tiredness added a curious new beauty and sensuality to her features.
He propped himself up on one elbow, watching her across the distance of the mere two feet that separated them.
"Shannon, they're going to take good care of Kristin. She is all that they have to use against Cole. Now, please, go to sleep." He lay back down, slanting his hat over his face.
"Malachi?" she whispered.
"What?" he asked irritably.
"Thank you—really."
Her voice was so soft. Like a feather dusting sweetly over his flesh. His muscles tightened and constricted and ached and burned, and he felt himself rising hard and hot.
"Shannon, go to sleep," he groaned.
"Malachi—"
"Shannon, go to sleep!"
She was silent. So silent then. She didn't try to speak again.
It was going to be all right. She was going to go to sleep; he was going to go to sleep. When he woke up, he wouldn't be so damned tired. He'd have so much more control over his emotions and needs.
A sound suddenly broke the silence of the morning.
He threw his hat off, leaping to his feet. She stared at him, startled.
She sat on her bedroll, cross-legged like an Indian, chewing on a piece of smoked meat. She had bread and cheese spread out before her, too, just like a damned picnic.
"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.
"Eating!"
"Now?"
"Malachi, I haven't eaten in ages! It's been almost two full days."
His temper ebbed. He hadn't thought to stop for food last night, and she hadn't said anything, either.
"Just hurry it up, will you, please?"
"Of course," she said indignantly. She stared at him with reproach. He threw up his hands, issued a curt oath and plopped back down on the ground.
He just had to have some sleep.
He didn't sleep. He listened as she finished with the food and carefully wrapped it up to pack in her saddlebags. He listened as she stretched out on the ground, pulling her blanket tight around her shoulders.
Then he just listened to the sound of her breathing. He could have sworn that he could even hear the rhythmic thumping of her heart.
When he closed his eyes, he could see her. Could even see the pink satin flowers sewn into the lace of her corset. He could see her flesh, silky soft and smooth, and he could see the length of her, and the beautiful blue sizzle of her eyes…
He didn't even like her, he reminded himself.
But then again, maybe he didn't dislike her quite so much, either.
Somewhere in time, he did sleep.
He slept well, and he slept deeply. Warmth invaded him. He felt more than the hard ground beneath him, more than the coldness of the earth.
He felt flesh.
He awoke with a start.
He had rolled, or she had rolled, and now she lay curled against his chest. His chin nuzzled her hair; his arm lay draped around her. He was sleeping on her hair, entangled within it. Her features in repose were stunning, a study in classical beauty. Her cheekbones were high and her lips were full and red and parted slightly as she breathed softly in and out. Her lashes lay like dusky shadows over her flesh, enticing, provocative. The scent of her filled him deliciously. His arm was over her breast, the fullness of one round mound…
He jerked away from her, gritting his teeth. He should wake her up. He should shove her from him, as hard as he could.
He bit hard into his lip, then carefully eased her from him. She didn't whimper or protest. It he hadn't felt her breathing, he might have been afraid that she had died, her sleep was so deep and complete.
He sat up and pulled off his boots and socks and walked down to the water. It was cool and good, and just what he needed. He shucked his shirt, and let the water ripple over his shoulders and back. He came back to his bedroll stripped down to his breeches.
He sighed and laid back. He looked up at the sky. It was midafternoon now. They should ride again by night.
Damn her. He was the one who needed sleep so badly.
He closed his eyes. They flew open almost instantly.
She had rolled beside him again.
He looked at her and then sighed, giving up. He slipped his arm around her and held her close to the warmth of his body. He didn't listen to her heart but he felt it, beating sweetly.
It was so much worse now. He felt her with his naked flesh, and it was good to hold her as a woman. Too good. But he didn't release her. He held her and swallowed back his darker thoughts.
Knowing Shannon, he thought wryly, she would rise in a fury, accusing him of all manner of things. She would probably never believe that she had come to him in her sleep.
Come to him for the simple warmth and caring that she could not seek when she was awake.
We all need to be held, Malachi thought.
He sighed, shuddering against the fragrance of her hair. He would sleep again, he would sleep again. And she would never know just how fully he had played the gentleman, the cavalier…
He would never get back to sleep.
But finally, he did. Perhaps the very rhythm of her breath and heartbeat finally lulled him to sleep. Perhaps abject exhaustion finally seized him.
When he slept, he dreamed again.
He was remembering, he realized. Remembering the day when he had been shot. To the day when he had fallen into the brook.
He was seeing things. Illusions. Soft sunlight playing down from the sky, glittering upon the warm, rich earth. Sunlight touching the earth…and touching upon the woman.
She had risen from the center of the brook like a phoenix reborn from the crystal-clear depths. She seemed to move with magic, bursting with gentle beauty from the depths. Her arms, long and graceful, broke the water first, then her head, with her hair streaming wet and slick, and then her shoulders and her breasts with tendrils of her hair plastered around them. And she continued to rise, rise and rise, until the full flare of her hips and the shapely length of her legs arose.
Venus…arising from her bath.