He drew his hand from his pocket and intertwined his fingers with hers. Before Amy realized what he was about, he had tugged her forward and increased their pace. There was no mistaking what his hurry was or what he had in mind.
Their feet tapped a rhythmic tattoo on the frozen ground. The wind funneled between the store buildings, lifting her skirts, then backlashing to whip them around her legs. She shivered and peered ahead of them into the shadows. What if Brandon Marshall and his friends lurked in the darkness? What if— She cut the thought short. She had to stop thinking negatively.
Swift glanced down at her. “Cold?”
“A little.”
“Here in a few minutes, I’ll warm you up, Mrs. Lopez.”
Even in the moonlight, she could see the twinkle of devilment in his eyes. She glanced away. Could she make love with him tonight, so close on the heels of what had happened to Indigo? And if she couldn’t, what then? Would he grow angry? Would he believe she was holding him responsible in some way? It wasn’t at all like that, but how could she make him understand?
As they drew near her house, her already accelerated pulse beat became a pounding in her temples. As she walked up the steps and opened the door, what little composure she had left disintegrated. Should she do the ordinary things, light the lamp, lay the fire, dress for bed? What if the memories surrounded her again when he touched her?
When they entered the dark sitting room, he answered one question by tending the lamp himself. Light flared in the globe. While he adjusted the wick, she stood waiting, mind racing. He straightened and turned toward her, tall and dark, his broad shoulders blocking the lantern’s glow. She couldn’t read his expression.
“I, um, would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
Though she couldn’t see his mouth, she could tell by his voice that he was smiling. He leaned a hip against the table and folded his arms, his body relaxed. She fastened her gaze on his boots. “Shall I lay a fire?”
With a breath of laughter, he said, “We won’t need one.”
Her throat felt as if it were being squeezed by hard fingers. “I’ve got leftovers from last night. You didn’t eat dinner. Is there anything you’d like?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is something I’d like.”
“Some chicken? I have cornbread left over. Mashed potatoes and gravy. It won’t take long to heat up.”
“No, thanks.”
She forced her gaze upward from his boots to the vicinity of his knees. “What would you like, then?”
“You.”
The single word hung between them, making her wish she hadn’t asked. She licked her lips, then dragged her gaze to his shadowed face. “Well, I guess I’ll, um . . .” The words trailed off, the thought lost to her. Pictures of last night flitted through her mind. A shivery sensation pooled at the base of her spine and worked slowly upward, raising goose bumps across her shoulder blades. “Why are you staring at me?”
“I like looking at you. Now it’s my turn for a question. Why are you so nervous?”
He shifted and braced his hands on either side of him to push away from the table and pick up the lamp. Holding it high, he ambled toward her, the light playing upon his face as he moved, bathing his features in amber, then shadow. She recalled thinking once that he looked exactly as she imagined the devil, so tall and ebony dark, cloaked all in black. There was something not quite civilized about him, she decided, especially when his eyes got that gleam in them.
“Do you want to go to the bedroom?” he asked.
Amy nodded, hardly able to believe he could be so insensitive. He had to know how unbalanced she felt right now, how fresh everything was in her mind. It wasn’t like Swift to disregard her feelings. Her mouth had gone so dry that her tongue cleaved to her teeth. He pressed a large hand to her back and turned her toward the hallway. She moved ahead of him, watching their shadows dance larger than life over the walls. The bedroom doorway yawned like a cavern waiting to swallow her. She stepped into the blackness. He came in behind her, bathing the room with light.
Nothing seemed the same with him there. The space seemed narrower, for one thing. The lace curtains looked too frilly, the bureau cluttered. He made room on the nightstand for the lamp, then sat down on her bed and began unfastening his shirt, his gaze on hers, his mouth tipped in a half smile. He looked out of place sitting there, too dark and rugged to be framed by a backdrop of lace.
She tried to moisten her lips, but her tongue was still parchment dry. His shirt fell open to the waist, revealing a swath of muscled chest and flat belly that gleamed like polished oak in the lamplight. He bent one knee and seized hold of his boot, his gaze still leveled on hers.
“Amy?”
The word was laced with question, and demand. She forced her hands to the collar of her dress and fumbled at the tiny button there. When at last it slipped free, she proceeded to the next, and then the next. He dropped one boot to the floor, then removed the other one, his attention still riveted on her. Amy wished with all her heart that the lantern would run out of fuel or that he would look away. Neither happened.
“Could you douse the light, please?”
“If I did that, I couldn’t see you as well.”
That was the general idea. Amy’s hands stilled. “I’m not quite ready to undress with the light burning.”
He jerked one side of his shirt loose from his belt and ran a hand over his ribs. “You’ll never feel ready if you always hide in shadows. I want to see you when I make love to you, Amy. And I want you to see me.”
“But—” The word, cut short because she had no idea what she meant to follow it up with, rang in the silence.
“But what?” He jerked the other side of his shirt loose and stood up. “This isn’t just shyness, is it?” He moved toward her. “Are you still upset about what happened to Indigo?”
Maybe he would understand, after all. “Yes.”
“That’s natural.” He brushed her hands aside and began unfastening her buttons. “Perfectly natural and understandable.”
“It is? Then why can’t we—” She clutched his hands to stop their speedy descent. “By tomorrow night, maybe I’ll be feeling better. For tonight, couldn’t we—”
“You’re going to be feeling better in about two minutes.” His fingers evaded hers and continued their downward course until the last button slipped free. He slid back the front plackets of her dress, his warm palms skimming down her arms as he peeled the sleeves toward her wrists. “Trust me, Amy.”
A frantic feeling welled within her. “I don’t feel comfortable with the light burning.”
“You’re not supposed to feel comfortable.” He dipped his head and feathered a hot kiss across her temple. “You’re supposed to feel quivery and weak and breathless.”
She felt all those things, and worse. She also felt betrayed because he didn’t understand that. Never before had Swift failed to sense what she couldn’t put into words.
He tugged on the ribbon that held up her petticoat, then pulled both her dress and the undergarment over her hips, letting them slip to the floor. Next, he advanced on the sash of her pantalets. Amy got the distinct impression that he didn’t intend to stop, no matter what she said.
“Swift?”
The pantalets dropped. Her belly knotted and twisted.
“Swift, I—”
He hunkered before her and grasped one of her ankles. After unbuttoning her shoe, he dragged it off, then drew her foot from the leg of her pantalets. She stared down at the back of his dark head while he switched his attention to her other shoe. Within seconds he divested her of the pantalets. Then he slowly lifted his gaze the length of her legs to the black tops of her ribbed hose. Drawing close, he kissed her above the band of cotton on her bare thigh, his lips warm and velvety, his breath moist on her skin. Amy’s lungs quit working.
“Swift?” she squeaked. “Please turn out the light.”
He rolled one stocking, garter and all, down her thigh, his lips following its descent. “Give me five minutes, Amy, love. If you still feel so tense, I’ll turn it out. But first let’s try it my way.”
He ran a hand behind her leg and bent her knee, tugging the garter and stocking off. She gasped when he nibbled her instep and then her toes. He peeled off the other stocking, then tipped back his head, his hands clasping her thighs, his fingers warm and gentle, yet relentless. His dark eyes met hers, lambent and determined.
“You’re not frightened, are you?”
“No, but I—”
“No buts. If you’re afraid, just say so.” His mouth twisted in a knowing smile. “Shyness doesn’t count. Are you frightened?”
“It’s just that, after what happened, I don’t want to make love. Just thinking about it makes me feel”—she searched for a way to describe it—“shriveled up inside.”
He rose and reached for the ribbons of her chemise. “Give me a little more than two minutes on that. Five, maybe? I think I know just the cure. Relax and leave it to me.”
“I can’t. It’s bright as day in here!”
“Close your eyes and you won’t notice.” The chemise fell open. “Then we’ll both be happy.”
He bent his head to kiss her bare shoulder as he slipped the chemise down her arms, “Such a beautiful woman and you think I shouldn’t look at you?” He ran his lips to her throat, nudging her head back with his jaw. The kisses set her skin afire. “God, Amy, I love you.”
“It’s freezing in here. I’ll take sick.”
He chuckled and nipped her below the ear. “You won’t either.”
“I’ve got goose bumps. I’ll die of croup before the winter’s out.”
“You won’t be cold for long,” he promised, and promptly swept her into his arms to carry her to the bed. With a speed that made her dizzy, he dumped her onto the coverlet and straightened to strip off his shirt.
Amy grasped the coverlet to pull it across herself. He clamped a hand over her wrist. “Don’t, please.”
She abandoned the coverlet and hugged herself instead. By rolling onto her side and drawing up her knees, she managed to hide herself. His eyes warmed on hers. With a flick of his wrist, he unfastened his belt buckle. When he started to peel off his pants, she followed his advice and squeezed her eyes closed. Denim rustled.
“Amy, you saw me last night.”
The mattress sank under his weight. His warm hand settled on her hip. The other clasped her knees. He forced her legs to straighten so he could press close to her. The heat of his chest brushed against her arms. His lips grazed her jaw.
“I love you,” he whispered. “God, how I love you.”
With gentle strength, he forced her arms to her sides and rolled her to her back, pinning her there with his chest. The shock of his hot skin against her breasts made her breath catch. She opened her eyes to find his dark face hovering inches above hers, his brown eyes filled with tenderness.
“Look at me, Amy, love, and say my name,” he whispered.
She swallowed. “Swift.”
He ran a palm over her waist, up her side, his fingertips grazing the underside of her breast. “Again, Amy, love. No, don’t close your eyes. Look at me and say my name.”
His hand, warm and sandpapery, closed over her softness. His face drew closer, his eyes still holding hers.
“Swift,” she whispered.
He feathered a thumb across the peak of her nipple. She gasped at the electrical sensation that shot through her.
“Again,” he commanded.
“S-Swift.”
“Swift Lopez.” He trailed his lips down her throat. “Say it. And don’t ever forget it. Yesterday is over. It’s
my
hand on you now.”
Tears filled Amy’s eyes. She hadn’t believed he understood. Now she realized that perhaps he understood too well. Swift Lopez. He touched her with a branding heat, his hands cleansing her in a way that soap and water could never have done.
“They can’t hurt you anymore,” he whispered raggedly. “Never again. You’re mine. Do you understand?”
Amy ran her arms around his neck and clung to him. “Oh, Swift . . . it does hurt. The remembering hurts.”
“Tell me.” He pressed his lips to her throat.
She began to shake. She clung to him more desperately. “I can’t. I’m afraid. I don’t let myself remember. Never. Don’t you see? I can’t. If I do, I’ll go mad.”
He tightened his arms around her, splaying one hand across her back. Amy felt surrounded by him, by his heat and strength. “Not even when I’m here with you? We’ll go mad together. Just one memory, Amy, love. Can’t you face just one while I’m holding you? Start at the very beginning. What were you doing when the comancheros came?”
With a choked sob she whispered, “Laundry, Loretta and I were doing laundry. I was stirring the soaked clothes with a paddle, and we didn’t hear them coming until it was too late.”
The memories hurtled at her. Swift’s hand kneaded her back. His arms hardened around her. “It’s all right. It’s just words, Amy. You can stop whenever you want. Tell me.”
“I—I wouldn’t go inside when Loretta told me to. Maybe if I had, they wouldn’t have taken me. But I—” A shudder shook her. “It was my fault. I didn’t mind what she said, and they took me.”
“No. That’s crazy, Amy. What kind of person would have left Loretta out there all alone?”
“I never minded what anyone said. That time, I paid for it.”
“You were too brave for your own good,” he amended. “Even if you had gone inside the house, Santos would’ve gone in after you. What happened next?”
“M-Ma came out with a gun. One of the—comancheros put a knife to my throat. He said he’d kill me if she didn’t drop it.”
“And so she did?”
“Yes.”
“And they took you with them?”
“Y-yes.” Amy buried her face against his shoulder.
“And you wished she’d let the man kill you. . . .”
“Why didn’t she? It would’ve been kinder. Oh, God, why didn’t she let him kill me!”
He made a fist in her hair. “Because you were meant to be here with me tonight. Because I wouldn’t have anyone to love if you had died. No one to love me. Everything has a reason, Amy. All of us have a purpose. Tell me. . . .”