Читать книгу Sam's Creed - Sarah McCarty - Страница 7

He was crazy. Isabella watched as Sam rested his rifle against the cave wall and propped three sticks shoved through several cleaned fish beside it. A dark stain spread downward and outward from the bandanna tied around his thigh. Blood from where he’d been shot, defending her. She did not know much about bullet wounds, but it looked like a lot of blood. Enough blood that they should have stopped back when she’d told him to instead of continuing on to this cave. Kell slid up beside Sam, sniffed his wound and then whined. The wag of his tail knocked one of the sticks. Sam caught it before it could tumble to the dirt floor. “Easy on dinner, mutt.”

Kell stepped back. Isabella wanted to move back, too, when Sam turned toward her. Except she couldn’t. The wall was to her back and her pride was in her face. After all her bold talk, it would be very humiliating to cower now that they were alone.

She motioned to the wound on Sam’s thigh. “You must take better care of yourself.”

Shadows hid his eyes, but she could tell from the angle of his head that he was looking at her. “Worried about losing your guide to San Antonio?”

“Sí. You are very important to me right now.”

He favored his leg as he brought the fish over. “Good for a man to know where he stands.”

From where she sat, it seemed he wouldn’t be standing much more. The firelight highlighted the paleness of his face and the lines carved deeper at the corners of his eyes. He was hurting and tired. Because of her. She motioned to the boulder across the fire and against the wall. “You will sit and let me tend to your wound.”

“I will?”

“Yes.” Standing, she brushed the dirt from her skirt. “Unless it is your wish for your wound to fester and for you to die.”

His gaze burned a path from her head to her toes. “I can’t say that I’m anxious to meet my maker just yet.”

The intensity of his gaze made her uncomfortable, but oddly enough, not scared.

She pointed to the boulder. “Sit.”

“Is that an order?”

It had been, but maybe ordering a man like Sam around was not such a good idea. She crossed to the saddlebags and rummaged around. “You should think of it as a reasonable request.”

He followed her with that miss-nothing gaze of his. The hairs on the back of her neck rose in response to the look—so strong that it felt like a touch. Her fingers closed over a silver flask.

“When you were thinking of this reasonable request, did you stop to think I’d have to remove my pants to accommodate it?”

She had, but thinking ahead did nothing to stop the blush from rising to her cheeks. She had never seen a man naked. It wasn’t done for a young woman of her station, but Sam did not need to know that. “I will do my best to preserve your modesty.”

While gaining as much of an eyeful as she could. She was very curious about the male body.

Sam didn’t answer immediately. His boot sole scuffed over the sandy cave floor. A glance wasn’t any more revealing as to his mood. The press of his lips could be anger as easily as it could be amusement. He was a very hard man to read.

“Well, I appreciate that.”

Uncorking the flask, she took a sniff. The odor of strong drink made her eyes burn.

Sam grunted as he sat down. “That you can pass on over.”

She tapped the cork back into the bottle. “You will drink it if I do.”

His holster scraped rock. “That’s sort of the point.”

He was always so on guard. “I will need it to clean your wound.”

“Like hell.”

Frowning over her shoulder at him, she pulled out a flat packet tied with rawhide. “There is no need for such language.”

“You ever had rotgut poured over an open bullet hole?”

“I am not so foolish as to throw myself in front of a bullet.”

It angered her that he had. Even more that he wasn’t taking the wound seriously. People died from infection.

“Duchess, I was saving your life. That makes me a hero, not a fool.”

She opened the packet and found a needle and catgut inside along with plenty of strips of material for bandages. She didn’t want to think how dangerous Sam’s life must be that he carried such things with him. Nor did she like how little catgut there was compared to bandages. He must be injured often. She snapped the packet closed and brushed the hair from her eyes with the back of her hand. “You were needlessly reckless.”

“That’s my job.”

He said that as if it was the truth, but she did not think so. Grabbing up the items, she headed back toward him. He watched her the whole ten steps. There was something in his eyes that had not been there before.

She dropped to her knees by his injured leg, wincing as her muscles protested. She was not used to riding so much. “I think you are too enthusiastic in your doing of this job.”

The soft leather of his glove skimmed her temple, tangled in her hair before curving behind her ear, taking the annoying strand of hair with it. “Pardon me, duchess, but what you know about about my job wouldn’t fit on the head of a pin.”

She carefully placed her hands on his thigh, feeling very bold. Women of her station did not get this close to strange men. It was nothing like touching her leg. There was no softness beneath her fingertips. Just rockhard muscle. Which only led her to wonder how else men were different. “I do not think I need to know a ranger’s job to know what I see.”

“And what do you see?”

Muscle bunched under the press of her fingertips. She glanced up, catching his gaze. The answer just popped out. “Trouble.”

For one heartbeat Sam didn’t react, and then he laughed, a deep soft sound that slipped over her nerves like warm honey. She slid her hands higher toward the blood-soaked bandage.

“On that you’ve got the right end of the stick.”

“So maybe I have the right end of other sticks, too.”

“I wouldn’t lay money on it.”

She noticed he didn’t deny it outright. Sam Mac-Gregor was an honest man, if maybe a little evasive. The makeshift bandage was stiff with dried blood. It took her a few minutes to work the knot free.

When she parted the edges, she had full view of the hole in his pants and a glimpse of the raw wound beneath. Her stomach heaved. She swallowed it back. She no longer had the luxury of weakness.

“I think I will decide for myself where to put my money.”

And right now everything she had was riding on Sam. Placing the dirty bandanna on the floor, she indicated his pants. “As I have laid my money on you, I would appreciate your help.”

The humor clung to his expression as he pushed his hat back. “You want me to shuck my pants?”

Her blush rose and her mouth went dry. “This would be helpful.”

Again the brush of his fingers over her temple. And then his fingers were under her chin, lifting her face up. Her senses tuned to the four points of pressure, the softness of the leather glove, the scent of his skin, the cool blue of his eyes.

“You ever ask me that with something more lighthearted in mind, I’ll have them off before you can blink.”

It took her a second to process the meaning through the intensity of awareness arcing between them. He was telling her no. She blinked the cobwebs from her mind. That was unacceptable. “They need to come off now.”

So she could get to that ugly-looking wound, among other things.

The fire popped. The aroma of roasted fish drifted closer. Isabella wrinkled her nose. Sam grinned. His thumb touched her lips.

“Hand me the flask and the kit.”

He couldn’t mean what she thought he meant. “Why?”

“Because I’m tired, and hungry, and I’m not wearing long johns.”

Now, that was an interesting fact. “You cannot treat yourself.”

His smile broadened. His thumb pressed harder. Her breath caught as her lips parted. The scent of leather and smoke—the scent of Sam—invaded her mouth on a lazy drift, strong enough that she could savor the illusion of his taste. “I can do a lot of things that would stretch your imagination.”

“We are no longer talking about stitching your wound, are we?”

“We should be.”

His fingers pressed upward in a silent command. The stiffness in her legs made standing more difficult than it should be. The hunger in his eyes made staying put even more difficult. Even Tejala had not looked at her with such want.

“For future reference, Bella, getting on your knees in front of a man is not a good idea.”

“Why?”

His grip shifted to her upper arm as he helped her up the last few inches. “That you will have to ask your husband.”

It was not her imagination that his fingers lingered on her upper arm. Nor that where his fingers lingered, tiny fires seemed to start under her skin. “I am not married.”

“Then you’ll have to wait for the why until you are.”

“This would require patience.” She stepped back, the heat from his gaze strangely finding a home under her skin. “I do not have much patience.”

“So I’m beginning to understand.” He reached into the top of his boot. “Turn around.”

“Why?”

Pulling out a wicked-looking knife, he slid it into the hole in his pants. Material ripped under the lethal blade. “Because today’s been bad enough without you puking up your guts on the floor.”

He saw too much. “I can control my stomach.”

He stuck the knife blade in the fire. A quick glance showed the furrow carved in the hard muscle of his thigh. Blood seeped out in a sluggish flow. Her gorge rose and for a split second she thought she would actually throw up.

With a sigh, he stood. She felt like a monster when he winced. As a result, she offered no resistance when he took her shoulders in his hands. “Do us both a favor and show me how tough you are tomorrow.”

With that, he turned her around. The weight of his hands was not unwelcome. Her reaction to him was very confusing.

The minutes stretched. No sound came from him. Isabella would have felt better if he had moaned or groaned. The silence left her with nothing but her own imagination to fill the emptiness.

“You should let me help.”

He grunted. Something fell to the ground with a small thunk. “Nothing much to do. It’s just a crease.”

“Then why do you need the knife?”

“The bullet was stuck a bit under the skin.”

The small thunk. “It is out?”

“Yup.”

She turned around. He was tying a fresh bandage over the wound. “You did not sew it.”

“No need.”

“It will scar.”

The thought of that bothered her.

“One more isn’t going to kill me.”

“It is unnecessary.”

“A needle and thread is what’s unnecessary. Especially with dinner waiting.”

Isabella couldn’t forget the size of the furrow now hidden by the white bandage. The scar would be large. Unnecessarily so, forever marring the beauty of his thigh. The danger of infection was very real. “Your leg is more important.”

He grabbed up the flask. “Tell that to my stomach.”

Anger, unreasonable and hot, snapped through her. He hadn’t sewn the wound, and 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.”