Fireblossom (25 page)

What point was there in struggling back into her gown when she was wet and the sun was beating down on her—and Fox had already seen her completely naked? Still, to walk right up to him in broad daylight clad only in an undergarment that left nothing to the imagination...!

"I see that you decided to put on some clothes," he remarked now, hunkering down next to her on the quilt.

"A few." She was furious at herself for blushing like a schoolgirl, for feeling shy with him when she was supposed to be reveling in her newfound abandon.

Fox didn't know what to think. He shrugged into the clean shirt he'd unpacked earlier, ran his hands through his wet hair, and marveled at Maddie, who was wearing loose pants, probably borrowed from her father, and a smaller shirt that most likely belonged to Benjamin. The latter was unbuttoned in front so that her sweet chemise peeked through. Never had Fox seen a more innocent undergarment—or one that aroused him as acutely. It was an insane situation.

The more he told himself that he could not, must not, have her, and could not, must not,
care,
the more insane he felt.

One moment she was cavorting naked in a waterfall; the next moment she was dressed like a boy, her luxuriant hair caught back in a ribbon, her face turned away to hide a demure blush. Her mouth looked more delicious than the array of food she had spread before him.

"I hope this will suffice," Maddie said. "I decided to forgo your offer of a fire. It's still so warm, and I've no desire to reek of woodsmoke."

"Fine with me." His eyes wandered over the meal—a loaf of Susan O'Hara's rye bread with a chunk of butter set next to it, a bowl of dried apricots and raisins, some thin slices of smoked ham mated with cubes of cheddar cheese, and a plateful of oatmeal cookies. Not only did it all look tasty and tempting, but the colors and arrangement of the food and dishes pleased Fox in an aesthetic sense. He considered sharing his pleasure with Maddie but decided it would be wiser instead simply to eat. Inside, he might feel warm, peaceful, and intensely alive, but perhaps it was better to keep his feelings to himself.

Maddie tried to eat, but found herself watching Fox most of the time. The embers of twilight burnished his chiseled features and the stubble of his beard; coral-tinted shadows moved slowly over the lines of his strong body. For a time, Fox ate half sitting in a crouch. His companion didn't speak and her movements were almost soothing as she sliced bread and replenished dishes. Night sounds mingled in the stillness; frogs and birds and crickets and the distant howl of coyotes drifting in on the warm breeze.

At last he unfolded his lean-muscled legs and stretched out across the quilt. Lying on his side, propped up on an elbow, he slowly met Maddie's intent gaze. Her heart skittered.

"God, what beautiful country this is," he whispered. "I've never seen such sunsets in my life as we have in Dakota. Just... breathtaking."

She swallowed hard. Fox was talking about her and the way she looked bathed in the fiery hues of the setting sun. She knew it. After a moment he leaned forward, past her, and pulled something from his haversack.

She saw that it was
Leaves of Grass,
by Walt Whitman, whose controversial works had so shocked Colleen Avery and her friends among Philadelphia society. Maddie eyed the slender volume with curiosity. "Will you read a poem aloud?" she dared to ask.

Amused, he lifted a brow and opened the book. "Are you hoping for descriptions of the honest pleasures of the flesh; of men and women writhing together in feverish abandon? If so-"

"You are simply horrid!" she burst out, cheeks aflame. "Why are you treating me this way?"

"I don't know what you mean," Fox replied coolly as he thumbed through the pages. "Never mind; there's no need to take everything I say personally. I was only referring to the fact that everyone seems to think Whitman is the most scandalous of characters—some sort of hedonist left over from ancient Rome. The truth is that he writes about
life.
All of it."

Maddie began gathering up the dishes. "That sounds reasonable."

"Listen: this is called 'A Prairie Sunset.' " Fox breathed deeply of the fresh evening air before he began to read:

Shot gold, maroon and violet, dazzling silver, emerald, fawn,

The earth's whole amplitude and Nature's multiform power consign'd for once to colors;

The light, the general air possess'd by them—colors till now unknown,

No limit, confine—not the Western sky alone—the high meridian—North South, all,

Pure luminous color fighting the silent shadows to the last...

His voice drifted off so that each word had time to sink in. "Incredible, isn't it?"

Maddie was awestruck. "I've never heard more perfect words. 'Pure luminous color fighting the silent shadows to the last.' That's exactly what's happening now."

"When we're above the Hills and the western view is only prairie, the sunsets will be even more spectacular."

Fox felt as if he were floating in a world of fantasy. Maddie herself was like a fantasy: hazy gold, fresh and sweet, her green eyes gleaming with both innocence and intellect as she contemplated her first encounter with Walt Whitman. He longed to take her in his arms, to smell, taste, and touch her.

He yearned to feel pleasure again.

Flipping onto his back, he stared at the gathering stars and pondered the knot of guilt his life had become. Until that day in June near Little Bighorn, Dan Matthews had been both introspective and adventurous, devil-may-care yet committed and courageous when the situation demanded. Now, lying on the threadbare quilt, brown arms crossed above his head, it came to him that these days he was ruled by his tormented conscience. It stifled all other facets of his personality. He was possessed by guilt for failing to pacify Custer... and guilt for surviving when his comrades were dead... and guilt for the moments when he caught himself enjoying life. Anger and resentment were offspring of Fox's guilt, and all the more frustrating because he didn't know where to direct them.

"Fox," Maddie said softly, "can I ask you a question?"

He felt a little thrill of anticipation when he turned his head and saw her leaning forward. Her face was shadowed and golden above him; he caught the faint scent of her soap when he inhaled. "What?"

"Why do you hate me so?"

Fox's voice, when he found it, burned. "I don't hate you, Madness... but I cannot give you what you want from me, and sometimes, when you are near me, wanting, it makes me angry." She was staring at him so intently, trying to make sense of what he was saying, that the clenching pain started again in his chest. "I'm not really angry with you—more like at life."

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I, particularly."

"Do you have a wife somewhere else? Back East?"

He very nearly lied to her. "No. I just—just can't love anyone right now, and I can't explain, either." His voice was harsh. "If you were a different sort of woman, we'd have a love affair, I suspect."

Tears of frustration pricked her eyes. "You called me 'Madness.' Why?"

Fox's face softened at last and he put a hand up, caressing her cheek. "I didn't mean to say it aloud; it's what I call you in my mind because that's what you do to me. You're my Madness."

"This
is
madness!" she exclaimed, moving closer until her breasts touched his chest and she could feel the telltale thud of his heart. "Here we are, a million miles from places where they worry about silly details like what 'sort' of woman one is, and yet you are denying both of us fulfillment for that most inane of reasons! You've told me over and over again to stop clinging to my rules of ladylike behavior, to let go and enjoy life, and yet-"

"It's not that simple," he protested, catching her hands in his. "You know better."

"I can't make you explain to me what's standing between you and a whole life, but whatever it is, it isn't here tonight. Fox, I have never felt like this before. Ever! I don't care if there's no future for us. All I care about is this moment." Madeleine's face was inches above his, her eyes starry-lashed and aglow with desire. "Stop punishing yourself for whatever it is that's weighing on your mind. Stop punishing me. Give us both a reprieve... just for tonight."

Still holding her delicate hands, Fox drew her nearer and lifted his own head just enough to surrender a slow, melting kiss. "Yes," he replied at last.

"Just for tonight," she repeated, as if fearing he would change his mind or she had misheard. Joy coursed through her veins like liquid fire.

Of course, Fox knew better, but he nodded. Reaching around, he pulled the ribbon from her hair and watched it cascade toward him like the sunset itself. Every single inch of him ached for her. Fiercely. As she came to him, lying against him on the quilt fashioned of scraps of calico and chintz and gingham, Fox gazed into her eyes and managed a ragged whisper:

"My own Madness..."

Chapter 15

August 4-6, 1876

Soft gusts of evening air whispered against Maddie's flesh, thrilling her as the sunlight and water had earlier. Fox removed her clothing almost reverently, and she gazed at him through her lashes.

In the burnished twilight, she was extravagantly luscious. Fox bit his lip against the desire that surged outward from his loins. "Sweet Jesus," he muttered disbelievingly. Her breasts, the graceful arc of her arms raised above her head, fingers tangled in that glorious hair... she was exquisite.

"What?" Maddie murmured. Sensing his approval, she allowed herself a small smile as she watched the play of emotions cross his face.

"You're beautiful." Fox barely recognized his hoarse whisper. "Too beautiful. Dangerous...."

Madeleine couldn't even blush in this dream world. "You know me, Fox. Sometimes I think you understand me better than I do myself. I'm not dangerous." She studied his dark, arresting face. "If anyone's dangerous, it's you."

Her slim hand reached toward him, touching the portion of his tanned chest that showed between the unbuttoned halves of his shirt. Fox drew in his breath, shocked by his fierce response, but he didn't allow himself to wonder what it meant. Instead he moved slowly, deliberately, with tenderness. First he tugged at the waistband of her trousers and drew them off along with the rest of her chemise, then he pulled off his own clothing and stretched out beside her on the quilt. The sun had nearly set now, leaving behind lavender shadows, but the air was still warm.

"I don't mean to be dangerous." His fingertips traced the curve of her hip.

"I know." And she did, somehow. Their eyes were inches apart, and for that moment Maddie saw inside him. There were no answers to the riddles that twined about Fox, but she knew that underneath the pain he felt and could not help inflicting on her as well, there was honest goodness and laughter and courage. He'd hurt her again if she stayed around... but not tonight.

"One of the reasons I was so mad at you about what happened between us in the wagon... is that it was all wrong," Fox said softly. He laced his fingers through hers, kissed her hand, then continued, "I still can't give you what you really need, which is my heart and a future to go with the love-making, and that's why it never should've happened—No, don't try to convince me otherwise because I know a hell of a lot more about the world than you do, Miss Avery. You're an innocent when it comes to the workings of the human heart."

Maddie swelled inside with pure joy just to have him talking to her this way. "Mm-hmm."

"I mean it! You should've kept your distance; it makes me furious that you went against every warning I gave you. But, since we can't undo what happened, I can at least try to amend the experience for you. If I'd had any idea that it was you..."

Now she did allow herself a smile. "You wouldn't have laid a finger on me!"

"Better than taking you for the first time as if you were a whore."

She stared, her smile fading. What did he mean? "But, you weren't unkind or rough," she protested.

"My dear," he said grimly, "you have no concept of what you missed. However, tonight I can give you the experience you deserve"—Fox slipped a hand down her back and drew her hips against his—"one time only—with me, at least."

Maddie was confused, yet so excited that her heart pounded in her ears and a long, slow chill swept down her body, prickling her flesh. "I don't—"

"But you will," he cut in, "if we stop talking." His breath tickled her ear, then he was kissing her eyes, temples, brow, cheeks, and finally, her waiting mouth.

Maddie melted utterly, a slave to Fox's skillful hands and lips as she lay shivering and gasping. How could the simple sensation of touch evoke such delicious arousal? With excruciating deliberation he kissed her throat, feathered her inner arms with his fingertips, all the while making low murmuring sounds that dissolved the last of her inhibitions. She opened her mouth, feeling the balmy night air sigh between her parted thighs. Could this possibly be real?