Her uncle stood by the smokehouse door. With a wicked grin, he gestured for the two captives to enter the outbuilding. “Your chamber awaits you.”
The idea of such close quarters filled Kirsten with alarm. “My father will kill you for this,” she said between clenched teeth.
But her mother's brother only laughed at her.
She stepped inside, and Richard followed her.
“Wait!” Greene said. “They could escape. Tie 'em up first.”
“No!” Kirsten felt she'd go mad if she were bound.
Greene nodded to the guard. “Do itâ
now!
”
Joseph tied Kirsten up first, roping her wrists behind her back and then looping another piece of hemp about her ankles. The smokehouse was specially constructed, with a platform above the area where a fire was usually lit to produce the smoke. The guard shoved Kirsten onto the platform, before he turned his attention to Richard. He tied up Richard in a similar manner, but made his bonds tighter than Kirsten's. Pushed, Richard fell onto the platform beside Kirsten.
“Sweet dreams, niece,” Randolph said, and he shut the door.
The door slammed closed, and she heard the scrape of wood and metal as she and Richard were locked inside.
The odor inside the smokehouse was vile. It smelled strongly of burnt wood and ashes combined with the lingering scent of smoked meat.
Kirsten could feel Richard's thigh pressed against hers. The room was small. She could hear him inhale and exhale.
“Richard . . .”
“You should have stayed home where you belonged.”
“You fool! I was concerned for you!”
His chuckle was loud in the small smoke-scented area. “We've been locked up in a smokehouse, have no idea what the Tories have decided is our fateâwhether we'll live or dieâand all we can do is argue. What a waste of precious time.”
Kirsten didn't respond, but thought on his words.
“And what shall we discuss then,” she asked, “the weather?”
“Kirsten,” he warned, his voice suddenly sharp with anger.
“I'm sorry.” She was sincere. “But I hate this place. I feel I can't breathe in here and the smell is awful.”
Richard sighed. “Is it my fault that we're here?”
She flushed. “I told you I was sorry!”
A moment of tense silence followed her apology. “I couldn't have picked anyone else I'd rather be locked up with,” she said in an attempt to lighten the mood.
There was a moment of charged silence. “Thank you,” he said, but he sounded amused.
“How are your ropes?” Kirsten asked. They'd become quietly contemplative for a time, but she feared he might be in pain.
“Tight and uncomfortable. And yours?”
“Mine aren't too bad,” she said. “Can you turn your back to me?”
“For what?”
She sighed with impatience. “I thought I'd try to untie you, but if you'd rather spend the entire night here . . . Maybe you're anxious to see Greene again?”
“Wench!” he muttered, but she heard him shift in the darkness and felt the warmth of his body as he brushed against her in his efforts to move around.
Kirsten shifted about, turning to the side to give him her back. “Try to untie me first.”
“No good,” Richard said after one attempt. “I can't move enough.”
She wiggled her wrists. The rope bit into her skin painfully, but she could still move her hands. Determined to get free, Kirsten rolled over and stretched out her fingers, feeling for the knot of Richard's ropes.
She couldn't find it. “I can't feel it,” she said. “This will never work!”
“Wait,” Richard bade her. “And keep your voice down! I'll wager our gentleman guard is not far off.”
They both kept silent, their ears alert for any foreign sounds outside the smokehouse. After a time of quiet, Kirsten said, “I don't hear anything.”
“Keep your voice low anyway,” he urged. “He may be sleeping.”
She nodded and then realized that he couldn't see her in the dark. “All right,” she whispered.
They struggled against each other for what seemed like hours, but in actuality it went on for only about a half-hour.
“I give up,” Kirsten said. “It was a dumb idea anyway. ”
“No, I think it's loosening. I can move my hands more. Try again.”
Kirsten was disgusted. “One last time. And if it works, youâ”
“What?” Richard's voice turned husky. “Owe you something? My life perhaps? My arms? A kiss?”
She swallowed. The air between them had become fraught with sexual tension, and she didn't know what to make of this sudden shift of feeling. She was afraid to believe him . . . to trust in him. He had saved her father's life, but could she trust him with her heart?
Gritting her teeth, Kirsten attempted to free Richard of his wrist bonds. She leaned against him, her muscles straining as she groped for Richard's rope. With a cry of gladness, she found the knot and was able to insert the tip of her middle finger in it.
“I think I've got it!” she breathed. She was afraid to say it too loudly, for fear that doing so would somehow jinx her ability to undo his bands.
The piece of hemp started to slip beneath her fingertip. Soon, she was able to place her entire finger in the opening. She fit two fingers in next, but she grew dismayed when she found she had no leverage. There was not enough room to pull.
“I can't free it!” she wailed. “I can't move enough to tug it!” Frustrated, she relaxed her efforts. To have come so close!
“Hold on, love,” Richard said. “I'll help you. Perhaps if I move in the opposite direction from you. Between the two of us, we should be able to manage it.”
Richard jerked his body forward while Kirsten did the same. Finally, the knot came undone, and Richard's hands were free.
“Good girl!” he exclaimed. And he bent to untie his feet.
“Now me,” she said. She felt him hesitate. “Richard?”
He chuckled as if the hesitation had been a joke, and soon she felt him undoing the ropes at her wrists. Kirsten flinched as he worked at the knot. “Am I hurting you?” he asked, his voice husky.
“A little. But it's all right, keep trying.”
It was difficult for him. Her movements as she attempted to free him had tightened her bindings, and it was too dark to see.
Finally, Kirsten's hands were free and she bent to undo her feet. The knot wasn't as tight at her ankles.
“Richard? What shall we do now?” Freedom from the ropes added some hope to what had seemed an impossible situation. But Kirsten was suddenly and distractingly reminded of the old mill and the night they'd spent hiding from the British soldiers, waiting for them to leave.
Richard didn't immediately answer her. She heard him shift in the dark and then heard a noise along the inside wall. She thought he had risen to his knees. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“I'm searching for loose boards . . . for any way we can get us out of here.”
“It won't help,” she said with dejection. “This building is too new. Uncle William is meticulous in his upkeep.”
He cursed and the noise stopped. “Locked up tight,” he agreed. “Why in hell would Randolph secure a smoke house?”
Kirsten's reply was dry. “There's a war on, haven't you heard? There are always soldiers about looking for food. Uncle William might be willing to share his grain but not his meat.”
“I wish there was meat here now.”
“You're always hungry,” Kirsten said without thought.
The mood changed from one of light bantering and became emotionally charged.
“Kirsten, come here.” His voice was low, seductive.
She tried to recapture the lightness of moments before. “I'm right here, Richard. This room is hardly large enough to travel far.”
His low, husky laughter filled the smokehouse, rippling along Kirsten's spine. She hugged herself and felt gooseflesh rise on her skin.
“Tell me again why you came to our camp,” he said.
She refused to answer, for fear she'd reveal her love for him.
“Kirsten?”
Suddenly, he was too near. She could feel his breath at her neck and ear, stirring the tiny blond hairs there. “Something about being concerned?” he said.
She was nervous. She didn't want to be hurt again, and since she'd met him, it seemed she'd experienced nothing but emotional turmoilâand pain.
Richard leaned in close to the woman beside him and detected a fragrance about her that was familiar . . . and sweet. Either the smell in the smokehouse was gone, or he was getting used to it, because all he could sense now was Kirsten's alluring scent.
He felt her tension and was somewhat puzzled by it. They'd been lovers before. She was no shy, inexperienced virgin. And it was obvious to him that she cared for him. If it wasn't exactly love she felt, there was at least a physical attraction. That was evident. That she couldn't deny.
Richard couldn't forget the time they'd made love . . . Kirsten's passionate responses to his touch . . . her wild cries as he thrust into her. Did she regret it? Had it been as good for her as it had been for him?
The memories brought heat throughout his body, hardening his loins and tightening his muscles. He had the most overwhelming urge to take her sweet lips and ravage them tenderly with his mouth.
He searched for her arm and found it, and heard her gasp as he ran his fingertips lightly over her skin. He felt the tiny bumps that had formed on it, and he couldn't help smiling.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
There was a moment of silence. “No.”
His sense of touch was acute in the darkness, as was his imagination; for he could envision her expression as he continued his wandering caress. He stroked the curve of her neck and imagined her eyes closing in sensual enjoyment; he fondled her nape and then slipped a hand around in front to trace the fragile column of her throat.
She didn't say a word, but he was encouraged, because there was no sign that she wanted him to stop.
Richard moved closer and bent his head until his mouth grazed the warmth of her cheek. He nuzzled her there, then moved down to kiss her throat. He was rewarded when she moaned and dropped her head back.
“Kirsten,” he gasped. His ache for her was intense, reaching new heights of desire. “Kirsten,” he begged, “kiss me.”
He shifted toward her fully and leaned closer until he felt sure that his mouth was nearly touching hers. She didn't kiss him, and he was mildly disappointed but not put off.
He sought her breast and gently cupped the mound, intending to stroke it until it swelled in his hand. When the breast budded, Richard bent his head and encircled her nipple with his lips, moistening the fabric over it, nibbling the tiny nub until she cried out with pleasure.
He withdrew his mouth to pull up her shirt. He wanted no barrier between them. He wanted to taste her bare skin, to lick and suckle her sweet breasts until she was whimpering with desire.
Kirsten gasped as he caressed her flesh through the linen cloth. It had been so long since he'd touched her. It seemed like forever. She felt her nipple bud beneath his questing fingers. She reached out to find him, having the strongest desire to touch his warm skin . . . his hard muscles.
She found his shirt, tugged it from his breeches, and slipped her hands beneath the hem. The heat of his chest spread to her own quivering flesh as she delighted in letting her palms wander from male nipple to male nipple, then dipped her fingers to his navel and lower . . .
Richard rejoiced in her response, his groin tightening and his manhood stiffening. “Kirsten, Kirsten, love . . . touch me. Yes, that's it. Now, let me touch you . . . everywhere.” He raised her shirt, touched one nipple with his lips, and then the other. Emboldened by her response, he caressed her leg, running his fingers from thigh to ankle and back to thigh.
And then he found her most private area, cupping that feminine mound, rubbing it with his fingers.
Kirsten stiffened until Richard's soft words of encouragement made her relax and glory in the intimate caresses through cloth. Richard encouraged her with soft loving words. He praised her beauty, the soft texture of her breasts, the wonderful, sweet taste of her. And then he was dipping his fingers inside her breeches.
She let out a muted cry as he found her most sensitive spot. Her pleasure was intense. She wanted to share it, to be joined with Richard, to feel him deep inside her.
“Richard,” she begged.
They struggled briefly to adjust their garments to make the joining possible. Then, he reached for her and shifted her to a more comfortable position, until she was lying on the wooden platform with him above her.
He kissed and fondled her. She touched him everywhere, rejoicing in his groans. “Now,” she said.
He impaled her with his staff, thrusting inside until Kirsten felt the earth spin and her whole body explode with pleasure. Richard cried out, signaling that they had reached the pinnacle together. Afterward, they rolled over and lay joined, side by side, enjoying the sweet aftermath of their union.
After a time, when he began to suspect Kirsten's discomfort, Richard pulled away to fasten his breeches. He then helped Kirsten to dress.
Suddenly, Richard sensed a change in her. She seemed tense, afraid. “What's wrong?” he asked.
“Sh-hh!” she said with a sense of urgency. “There's someone outside!”
He froze and listened. And he heard footsteps on the earth, the brush of a body against the outer wall of the smokehouse.