Renegade Bride (18 page)

"Creed Devereaux. I might 'a known it was you," said the man in a low easy drawl. "Damned careless of you to let horses this fine go across the Sun alone."

"Jesse? Jesse Winslow?" Creed released a breath and his lips parted in a half-smile.
"Pardieu!
That wolf of yours nearly scared the life out of us."

Winslow's cornflower-blue eyes flicked curiously to Mariah as he reached for Creed's hand. "Last I heard, you had more lives than a cat, my friend."

"Yeah, well, I guess I just used up another couple. You couldn't have picked a better time to turn up."

Winslow's smile faded as he clasped his hand. "You're freezing, man." He turned to his pack mule and pulled several sun-warmed woolen blankets from the bundle and threw them to Creed.

"Thanks." Creed draped one over Mariah, then himself. She looked pale and ready to faint. He pulled her close and wrapped an arm around her. She accepted his support without argument and placed a hand against his chest for balance.

Jesse regarded them sideways as he rummaged through his saddlebags. The long fringe that ran the breadth of his buff-colored deerskin shirt from shoulder to wrist swayed with his every movement, jangling the decorative trade beads musically. "Hell, those horses of yours came crashing out of the river like ol' Satan himself was chasin' them. A little early in the year for a swim, isn't it?"

"We had some trouble in the crossing."

"You don't say." He pulled out a small tin of matches and stuffed them into his belt. "If anyone else had gone swimming in that river they likely would have wound up fishbait." His gaze went to Mariah and he winked. "And you come up with a mermaid. A beautiful one at that."

Creed's expression darkened. "Miss Parsons is a lady, despite the lack of wardrobe, Jesse," he said in warning. "Mariah, my old friend, Jesse Winslow."

"When he says
old,"
Jesse corrected, "he's talkin' about himself, I assure you. Because I'm nowhere near as doddering as he. Anyway, I beg your pardon, Miss Parsons. Bein' out here in the wilds, I don't have much call to practice my manners. Forgive me?"

She blushed in spite of his rough but charming grin. Tugging the edges of her blanket together, she said, "I can only imagine how this must look."

Jesse untied a huge, beautifully tanned and painted buffalo robe from his mule and handed it to them. "The Blackfeet would consider this a peace offering, but I hope you'll accept it as an apology."

Her teeth chattered and she nodded with a weak smile.

"I suggest you both wrap up in it until I get a fire going. You'll be all right for a minute?"

"We will be," Creed replied, "as soon as we get warm." He pulled Mariah to the ground with him before she fell down, then wrapped the robe around them both, fur side in.

"Right." Jesse tipped a curved silver flask out of his pocket and tossed it to Creed. "Warm is comin' right up. You two take a few pulls on that. It's bacanora—imported straight from the Utah Territory. It's guaranteed to take the chill off."

"Obliged, Jesse."

Winslow hitched a nod toward his pet. "Don't worry about the wolf." Mahkwi stood with legs braced apart and snout raised, sniffing at them suspiciously. "She'll get to know you, and then you won't be able to get rid of her." He shook his head affectionately as the wolf nudged his hand for a pat. "See what I mean? C'mon, girl!" The wolf bounded after him, and they disappeared into the thick stand of lodgepole pine.

Creed took a swallow of the potent-smelling brew, then inhaled with a long hiss. He passed it to Mariah. "Take it easy on this," he said, drawing in a pained breath. "It's nearly lethal, but it will warm you up."

He pulled the edges of the robe together. Mariah was painfully aware that their legs touched from hip to knee beneath the robe. Despite the impropriety, Mariah welcomed the warmth.

The flask trembled in her hand and she sniffed delicately at it. The fumes alone were enough to intoxicate an elephant. "I-I'm not in the habit of partaking of spirits. You don't suppose he has something milder, do you? Brandy, maybe?"

He almost laughed. "Jesse? Hardly. This is distilled cactus juice, but it does the same thing. You need it."

He was right. She was so cold she could barely hang onto the polished metal flask. Tentatively, she took a sip. At first the bacanora seemed smooth, almost tasteless.

But the second it hit her throat, it exploded.

"Whaugh-hh!" she gasped, fanning her mouth.

Creed laughed and took the container. "I said a
small
sip."

Her eyes watered and she nodded mutely while the liquor curled fingers of fire through her stomach. Once the burn subsided, the sensation was rather pleasant. It was undoubtedly a trick of the brew that the effect negated the painful cause. "Oh, my."

With a grin, Creed stood and walked to Buck. He unbuckled his saddle bag and withdrew a tightly wrapped oil cloth pouch. Inside were a clean buckskin shirt and an extra pair of Levis. He laid the trousers and shirt on her lap and slipped into his own dry cotton shirt and threw a fresh pair of pants over his shoulder.

"You'd best get out of those wet things. You can change under the robe. I promise I won't look." He stood with his back to her, sipping more of the fiery concoction and unlacing the front flap on his soaked deerskin leggings.

She stared up at his back. "But these are your things."

"They're all you've got at the moment. And they're a lot more practical for traveling, even if you have to roll up the legs."

Mariah shivered and cast a nervous glance at Jesse Winslow off in the woods. Quickly, she tossed the soft buffalo hide over her and peeled off her wet under-things, stockings, and shoes. Shrugging into his pants, she buttoned the fly with slow, trembling fingers under the heavy robe, then pulled on the soft fringed shirt. Though they were clean, the smell of horses, leather, and Creed's particularly masculine scent clung to the clothes. She inhaled it briefly, then with a guilty flush, threw back the heavy robe.

Creed worked the last button on his own dry pair of Levis and put on a fresh shirt. His clothes were sizes too big for her and hung on her small frame, but it was her bare toes that caught his eye. Her feet were delicate—pretty even—but reddened with the cold. Reaching into his bag again, he tossed her a dry pair of socks.

"Thanks. Do I look silly?" she asked, pulling them on.

"You look warm."

She rubbed her hands briskly up and down her arms. "They feel so good. I didn't think I'd ever feel warm again."

Creed shivered in reply, sat down on the buffalo robe, and pulled it around them again. He took another swig and exhaled sharply. "Ahh-hh. Here, have another."

She did. This sip went down easier and swirled through her with delicious heat. It made her dizzy and her vision fuzzy. "If you're trying to get me drunk, it's working." She hiccupped.

A low chuckle rumbled in his throat. "I can think of worse ways to die of the cold."

So could she. She had only to remember the frigid water closing over her, suffocating her. She swallowed another drink, then handed it back to him with a shudder. Her gaze followed Jesse Winslow's movements in the distance. "Your friend thought I was a... a—"

Creed shrugged, his humor fading. "It doesn't matter what he thought."

She looked down at her hands, curled in the buffalo fur. The alcohol seeped into her brain, muddying her thoughts. "It's my own fault. If all this gets back to Seth, it's my own fault."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I had no choice about cutting your clothes off, Mariah. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Seth would have done the same in my place—"

"I wasn't thinking about the clothes," she whispered low. "I was thinking about the kiss."

He stared at her for a long heartbeat. "It will never happen again."

Something akin to disappointment shimmied through her, though she couldn't imagine why. "No. Of course not. But what if... what if he can tell? What if he sees it on our faces?"

"He won't. It didn't mean anything, Mariah. It just... just happened."

It was a lie and he knew that as well as she did. But she didn't say that. She'd never tell him how his kiss had affected her. Mariah closed her eyes to stop the ground from spinning. "No, you're right. It meant nothing. It didn't even count as a real kiss, right?"

Creed slugged down another drink. "Right."

The silence stretched between them. Creed let the flask dangle between his knees, his head bowed in thought. Was he thinking of Seth, she wondered. The man they both loved? Was he remembering their kiss, as she was, or had he truly dismissed it as if it were nothing? It was a kiss born of relief or possibly lust, after all, not of any true or even honorable emotion. She imagined he would have done the same with any woman in those circumstances. The thought stung like a thistle.

As if he'd read her mind, Creed looked up at her, his chameleon eyes reflecting the green of the shirt she wore. Perhaps the fuzzy feeling brought on by exhaustion and that brimstone she'd just drunk clouded her perception. Perhaps the stark look she thought she saw in his expression—a half-born wish he'd left unspoken—was only her imagination. Perhaps even the tingling awareness of his physical presence that curled low in her belly like warm fire was artificial.

She was aware of him nonetheless: the taut way he held himself, knuckles whitened around the flask, the sinewy strength of his forearms, the way the sun glinted silver on his dark, wet hair.

And I want him to kiss me again.

Stunned by her thought, she straightened a little too fast and the world wobbled. He was right after all. She was an idiot. And now, a drunken idiot.

The liquor had a curiously paralyzing effect and drifted through her veins like a hot, languid mist. She felt odd—slightly out of control and appallingly tired. Unwillingly, her eyes slid shut; she swayed gently against him and coughed.

He frowned. "Are you all right?"

The world seemed to tilt as she cleared her throat. "I think... I need t' lie down."

Creed caught her as she slipped down woozily onto the thick fur. He pulled the robe from his shoulders and covered her. "Rest now,
ma petite.
It's what you need."

She nestled into the fur, eyes half shut. "Creed?"

He smoothed the damp hair off her forehead. "Hmm-m?"

"You know what the Chinese say?" she mumbled thickly, her eyes half-closed.

"No, what?"

"—When a person saves another person's life they're bound t'gether forever. D'you think that's true?"

His chest expanded with a deep breath. "I—I don't know,
cherie."

She curled into a ball, nestling her head on the crook of her arm. "Creed?"

"Oui?"

"You won't leave me, will you?"

His heart twisted. "No, I won't leave. Go to sleep,
petit moineau.
Go to sleep."

Chapter 10

Jesse shoved a larger log on the fire and watched it spiral up to the cerulean blue sky. The flames crawled along the surface of the pine and ignited it with a whoosh. He leaned back on the ground, propping himself on one elbow, and crossed his long legs at the ankle. Taking a protracted pull on the flask, he exhaled sharply and back-handed the moisture on his mustache. He smiled at Creed, who was stretched out beside him. "Here, have some more of this. You look like you could use it. Hell, Devereaux, I think you need a keeper."

Creed grunted, took a long swig, and hissed out a breath. "What's in this devil's brew anyway, Winslow?" he croaked. "Oil of asp?"

Jesse shrugged and sent him an easy grin. "Nothing so lethal. I suspect the trader who bartered this to me put a pinch or two of gunpowder in it. It's good for the blood and otherwise,"—he grinned—"deadens the mind."

Creed cocked his head in silent agreement and slugged down another drink. It had taken only a thimbleful to get Mariah pickled and while he considered himself well able to hold his liquor, a pleasant buzz already thrummed through him.

He glanced over at Mariah. He could only see the top of her head where it poked out of the buffalo hide.