Beguiled (10 page)

I whimpered, desperately wanting more. Her finger found its way inside me, and she pushed home. I sucked in a breath, mesmerized as she trailed the tip of her tongue up and down the engorged little hillock crowning my sex.

“You taste sweet,” she said and sucked the nub between her lips.

My back arched off the bed. I never wanted her to stop. But, oh, she did stop. Frustration surged. I couldn’t stand this sweet torture.

“You taste like honeysuckles.” Her gaze lingered on my open sex, and she watched her slowly thrusting finger work its way in and out. “And you look like a butterfly. So delicate. So beautiful.”

Her mouth sought my nether lips again, and this time, she didn’t stop. She sucked my clitoris. Her finger prodded and pleased me, and I mewled helplessly as her kisses hurled me into that ethereal paradise where the world stopped and there existed only
this.

This. This understanding, this connection between Alice and me. Between two women.

Everything inside screamed at me to let go, to surrender, to face my fears and my passion and my deepest, darkest desires—to let Alice into my heart as well as my body.

Intense and violent, the spasmodic throes continued until I could tolerate them no longer. Gasping, I pushed at her head and cried for her to stop. “Please, Alice. Please. You’re killing me.”

I’d heard orgasm described as “the little death,” but I’d never understood that phrase until now. My body hummed with it, with her. And when I opened my eyes, she hovered over me.

Her gaze dropped to my mouth, and I knew—I knew—she wanted to kiss me.

Confusion and panic returned and rushed through me in a sickening wave. As many things as we’d done together, we’d never kissed. Not once. Not on the mouth. Somehow, that seemed too intimate. But I wanted to feel her mouth on mine. I wanted to taste myself on her sweet lips.

“
I fell in love with someone I shouldn’t have
…”

Her words intruded into my thoughts as she bent to kiss me. I held her shoulders. Until now, I’d wanted to pretend everything we’d shared was a fantasy, that it was innocent. It wasn’t.

It was far from innocent.

Alice hadn’t fallen in love with a priest or a married man. She’d fallen in love with a woman.

A woman.

How could I have been so blind to what was right in front of me? Worse, how could I combat the emotions in my own heart?

“Belle.” Her mouth was so close to mine, I could smell my sweetness on her breath.

“I—” Tears welled in the corners of my eyes. I wanted her so badly I ached. I wanted to kiss her and hold her. I wanted to taste her treasures as she had tasted mine. I wanted her to love
me
. But this…

I couldn’t.

Dalton…

“You’ve done this before…with women,” I said.

Her brow furrowed. “I told you that.”

I shook my head. The problem was that I hadn’t allowed myself to believe what I already knew. “I mean…you’ve fallen…in love…with women.”

“What did you think this was?” she asked, her voice edged with spite. “Hmm?”

She moved off me, and I scrambled to cover myself. “I don’t know what I thought,” I said. “I suppose I was pretending that you were…that you were—”

Her eyes narrowed. “That I was a man? That I was your husband?”

My heart broke for her. For myself. “No… At first. Not now.” I reached to touch her face, but she swatted my hand away.

She snorted as she bolted off the bed and began pulling on her breeches. “I should have known better. I have no one to blame but myself.”

I sat, and not knowing what to say, I gaped as she slipped on her shirt. She raked her hand through her short hair. “How could I have been so fucking stupid?”

And then she left the room. I listened to her now familiar limp as she stalked across the hall to one of the other bedrooms. Torn, I debated going to her. But do what? Apologize? To make love to her? To welcome her back into my bed? To tell her that this had to stop? I couldn’t decide. I didn’t know what to do or what to say.

I didn’t know what I wanted.

But I knew my body ached for her, for the comfort and unspoken acceptance she offered. The thought of Alice leaving left a hollow spot in my soul.

Trembling, I got up and donned my nightgown. I could not bear to be naked without her.

This was for the best. My friendship—or whatever it was—with Alice had been doomed from the start. I’d been weak. I’d done things I shouldn’t have.

And I knew the sooner Alice O’Malley was out of my life, the better.

Chapter Five

Alice wanted to pace, but her leg hurt too badly. Gritting her teeth, she leaned against the bed and gripped her thigh above the wound. She’d done too much today.

But her aching leg didn’t hurt near as badly as her heart. She sniffed. Tears burned the corners of her eyes. One escaped and slid down her cheek, and she angrily swatted it away. She would not cry!

She clenched her fist and beat it against the side of the bed in a silent release of frustration. “Damn,” she said through clenched teeth. “Damn.”

She wanted to scream. She wanted to march right back into Belle’s room, yank her head back by the hair, and plunder her mouth. She wanted to fuck her into submission, to make her—

Make her
what?

Blowing out a sigh, she dropped her breeches and crawled into the bed. Sleeping was out of the question. So was remembering what had just happened in Belle’s bed. Alice stared at the ceiling through the darkness. What had she been thinking?

Belle was married. Her husband was off fighting somewhere. But she’d been so kind. So vulnerable.

Unsated desire set Alice on edge. She still tasted Belle on her lips and smelled her on her fingers. Alice groaned. Belle was everything she was not: beautiful and soft and feminine. Her hair gleamed like a raven’s wing and smelled like lilacs. Her skin felt like silk. Soft and smooth.

Alice squeezed her eyes shut, but she couldn’t drive away the maddening visions. All her life, she’d fought her desires. She’d struggled against a life society deemed immoral.

But how—oh how—could love ever be wrong?

In Boston, she’d made the same mistake. She’d fallen in love with a girl, and their mutual curiosity and lust had led to ruin. The girl’s parents had forced her into a convent, and, turned out by her own mother, Alice cut her hair, dressed as a boy, and ran away to New York.

Living as a man had not been as liberating as Alice had thought—until the first time several of the boys visited a whorehouse. Even though the prostitutes had welcomed her without reproach, sexual encounters with them had left Alice hollow and aching.

That hadn’t been love. That had been assuaging a physical need.

She twisted onto her side.

Making love to Belle didn’t leave her hollow.

Alice sniffed, and she realized she was crying. Anger flared at her own weakness. What could she do? Leave? Belle needed her help. There was far too much to do here for two people. But damn. Damn! She punched the pillow. How could she spend one more day in this house knowing how she felt about the woman who’d cared for her, who’d killed a beloved animal to save her life?

She squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to admit she felt more for Belle than gratitude. These emotions were useless. Utterly useless. The war would soon be over. Belle’s husband would be coming home. Alice wondered where that would leave her. As soon as the man of the house returned, she would be sent away.

But to where?

There was nothing left for her in New York. Going home to Boston was out of the question. And now she’d ruined any chance of a life here.

Her stomach knotted. How could she have allowed herself to fall in love with a woman like Belle?

* * *

I awakened to the dreadful sound of my mother’s screams. My heart lodged in my throat. I flung back the covers and dragged on my robe as I flew down the stairs.

I stopped about halfway down when I saw four men standing in the foyer. All of them were dirty and unshaven. Instinctively, I knew they were the bushwhackers the Confederate office had warned me about.

“Well, lookie here, boys. A real Georgia peach.” The stout one in the front grinned at the two gap-toothed men behind him. They looked like brothers. Both with hair and eyes the same nondescript color of brown.

My heart pounded. The other, a black-haired man with a thick mustache, held my mother against him, his bony hand around her throat.

Heart thundering, I clutched the banister. “Let go of her.”

The one who’d spoken to me peered warily up the stairs. “Who else is here?”

I swallowed. Hard. “My servants. And…I-I took in some Yankee wounded.” I was afraid to tell him no one else was here but an old black man and an injured woman.

He took a menacing step closer, warily looking up to the second floor. “Come here.” He motioned his fingers for me come to him.

My spine flattened against the wall. I shook my head.

Ma yelped. The man with the mustache twisted her arm. “Better do as he says, peach.”

“Don’t hurt her,” I pleaded. “She’s not right.”

Ma wailed when he wrenched her arm again. “Do as you’re told!”

“All right, all right.” Shaking, I inched down the stairs, and the man in front snatched me and hauled me against him.

I gagged at the rancid stench of unwashed man and damp leather. His grubby hands swarmed over my body and into my open robe. Twisting me in his arms, he dragged my back against him and rocked his groin against my bottom. Bile rose in my throat. I struggled. He clamped his arm around my neck to pin me so he could squeeze my breast. Without thinking, without giving any consideration to any thought other than freeing myself, I bit into his arm. I tasted the bitter tang of gunpowder and sweat—and blood.

“Goddammit!” He flung me away. I reeled, but he snatched my wrist and jerked me back around. Before I could right myself, he backhanded me and would have sent me sprawling were it not for his vise grip on my wrist.

I cried out. Blood filled my mouth. All at once, he pushed me toward a table in the hallway and shoved my face down hard. My chin slammed the polished wood. My head swam. The others laughed while he wrenched up the hem of my nightgown.

This wasn’t happening. I fought to keep my wits and clawed at his hands. I kicked backward at his thick legs, but I was no match for his strength. He intended to rape me, and there was nothing—nothing—I could do about it.

A sudden, earsplitting
pow
rent the air. The man slumped over my back and then slid to the floor. I whirled.

Alice stood on the steps, her smoking revolver trained on the three remaining men. “Get out!”

“You can’t shoot all of us,” one of the brothers croaked, glancing fearfully at his dead compatriot.

“Nope,” Uncle Hewlett added. He cocked Pa’s rifle as he walked in from the back. “But we can take out two of you. The question is, which two?”

The one holding Ma released her. “Come on, Jake. Let’s get outta here.”

The three eased toward the door.

“Wait,” Alice said and gestured to the dead man with her pistol. “Take him with you.”

“We can’t—”

Holding the pistol with both hands, she aimed it at Jake’s leg. “Take him, or I’ll blow your damn kneecap off.”

I stepped back as two of them took the man by the shoulders and dragged him out the front door. Alice followed, never losing her intensity. Uncle Hewlett joined her at the door, and together, they watched as the brigands threw the dead man over his saddle and then rode off.

“If you cowards show your faces around here again, I’ll kill you,” Alice called after them.

My knees shook so badly I held to the table to keep from falling. “Ma, are you all right? Did they hurt you?”

“Hurt you? Hurt you?” she mimicked me before she wandered toward the back of the house.

At least they hadn’t injured her. Two hours from now, she would forget it had ever happened.

“We’ll be back!” one threatened. “Mark my words!”

“Give me that rifle,” Alice said, trading with Uncle Hewlett. She aimed it at the backs of the riders, and I watched, not breathing as her finger curled around the trigger.

Her posture straightened. She licked her thumb and wet the sight and then wrapped her finger around the trigger again.

She squeezed, and the blast split the air. The rider who’d threatened us arched and yowled like a kicked dog. At that, the others spurred their horses. Dust kicked up in their wake. The pounding of hooves grew increasingly fainter, and I breathed a sigh.

Once the bushwhackers were out of sight, Alice passed the rifle back to Uncle Hewlett. Then she turned to me. Her gaze scanned my face. Everything that had happened between us gushed forth in my head, and without thinking—without hesitating—I darted into her arms.

“Hush, Belle. Hush,” she whispered as trembling fingers brushed back the loose strands of my hair.

I lifted my head from her shoulder and looked into her eyes. Her gaze dropped to my mouth. “He hit you.” She grazed my bottom lip with the pad of her thumb.

“And you killed him.” I tried to give her a wry smile, but it hurt too much.

Gratitude for her swept over me. She’d protected me. This woman who at one time had been my enemy had become not only my savior…but my lover as well.

“Alice, I—”

“Are you ladies all right?” Uncle Hewlett asked, interrupting what would have been an impetuous and reckless confession.

I nodded, and Alice’s arms eased slowly away. I studied her as her gaze lingered on the front gates of Rattle and Snap.

She dragged in a deep breath and then blew it out. “They’ll be back.”

Uncle Hewlett nodded. “Yes, they will.”

* * *

After we’d seen to the goats, Alice and I set out to go check on Granny and to warn the neighbors about the bushwhackers. Because Alice still had trouble walking long distances, I hitched Jeff Davis up to the goat cart. At first Alice balked, believing the old billy would nab the chance to do her in.

Jeff pulled the cart with aplomb as if to show Alice the Yankee mules to which she was accustomed had nothing on him.