Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose(29)

“Think, Querida. Close your eyes. Concentrate.”

Rand watched her eyes close and the wrinkles on her brow become more pronounced.

“Rifles,” she whispered. “They carried rifles.”

“Keep your eyes closed,” Trace whispered.

As Rand watched, Trace knelt beside her, his hand moving softly over hers as she gripped the arm of the chair. “How many men were there?”

Her hands curled around the arms of the chair. She started to shake her head.

“No, relax,” he continued almost in a monotone. “Focus on what you remember.”

“I remember seeing five men. Three were on horseback.”

He nodded. “Excellent. Now look at their faces.”

“I’m afraid,” she whispered.

“Shh,” he consoled her. “It will be all right. I am with you.” Trace pried one hand from the wooden arm and held it between his palms. Her ragged breathing filled the room.

“A tall man is the leader.” The words brought a fresh trickle of tears down her cheeks. “Their faces are painted, but they aren’t Indians.”

“It’s all right,” Trace whispered. His thumbs brushed away the moisture.

“You don’t recognize him?” Rand asked, surprised to find his own voice husky.

“No, all I remember are his tall black boots.”

Under Trace’s gaze, her eyes opened. She looked like a wounded sparrow afraid of another’s touch. Sensing he wasn’t needed, Rand slid the papers back into his desk, rose, and went to retrieve his hat. Their gazes still locked, they paid no attention.

“I need to go over to the hotel and speak to Elaine about a piece of pie. Lock the door, won’t you, Trace?” His hand grasped the knob and turned it. “I’ll be gone about two hours.” Smiling, he shut the door.





Chapter Fourteen

Listen to your heart. Trace did just that. His hands framed her face. “Do not cry,” he whispered, and leaned forward, tracing the salty path from her left cheek to her eyelid. She opened her eyes, and he gazed deeply into those limpid pools of blue. “My Querida,” he whispered as his lips met hers. Soft, molding, his mouth slid across her skin, and then with his tongue he traced the tender skin beneath her bottom lip. She opened and he suckled the flesh, eliciting a moan of delight.

He felt the flick of her tongue as she met his flesh. Leaning away, he watched the flicker of disbelief cross her face. Then he traced the path up to the other eye. Salt and sweet, kissing her was much more pleasurable than a drink of tequila and lime. Their lips met again, and he felt the warmth of her palms upon the sides of his face. She tilted her head, allowing him better access. Her mouth opened and he sent his tongue inside.

The warmth of her mouth, like a velvet glove, aroused him. He swirled against the roof and felt her tongue stroke the tender underside of his. She rocked forward. He moaned and she captured it. The fire in his blood erupted. He would have her, now, today. Breathing hard, he broke their kiss and leaned his head upon hers, their brows touching.

“So it comes to pass, my Irish Rose.” His voice was raw with emotion. “I need to know, are you ready?”

Her eyes, half-lidded, looked upon him. A pained expression twisted her face. The soft touch of her fingers traced the line of his lips. Her gaze moved back and forth across his face and a trembling smile tugged at her cheeks. “Yes,” she whispered.

Relief flowed through him. “I believe Rand asked us to lock up.”

She gave a tentative nod.

Letting her go seemed so wrong, but Trace knew it would only be for a few precious moments. He moved to the door and slid the bolt into place. The sound of metal hitting metal rolled across the silence. He turned and found her standing to face him, her hip resting against the edge of Rand’s desk.

He moved toward her, each step made with purpose. Her eyes stared with a longing that turned quickly to hunger. Like two opposite poles, their bodies attracted, rushing them together. With eagerness, his hand sank deep into the copper curls. They felt like silk and his fingers could not get enough. He tilted her in his arms so that she rested against his right shoulder as he plundered her lips, hoping she understood the urgency he felt.

Something intense flared between them, a need unquenchable in the openness of the sheriff’s office. He let her go and watched her lashes flutter open. Trace Castillo held out his hand. To his satisfaction, there was no hesitation. Looking into her eyes, he felt the warmth of her palm in his.

“Come,” he urged her, not attempting to hide his rising need.

They paused at the bottom of the stairs. He let her hand go and, without waiting, she lifted her skirts and moved up the stairs.

Thirteen steps, but no hangman’s noose awaited, only the chance for love he’d missed. Each step seemed to last a lifetime. Each step put his past farther behind him. He paused a moment and prayed she wouldn’t change her mind. His heart racing, he rushed up the last few steps, until his arms braced his body in the doorframe.

Mary Rose had not vanished. She stood in the center of his room. Her gaze locked into his.

From the saloon came the strains of a Mexican guitar. The unknown musician strummed the notes and played in sync with his heart. Then he recognized the strains of the song. The same song most Texans knew was played before Santa Anna advanced on the Alamo and meant no quarter. He advanced and recognized her desire by the rise and fall of her bosom beneath the calico she wore.

His eyes begged her not to be afraid as he slid one hand around her waist and pulled her close to his side. Her head turned toward him, her lips full from his earlier kisses but needing so much more. He dipped his head for a sweet taste of nectar and heard his mind whisper, Listen to your heart.

“Mi amour,” he murmured, lifting his lips from hers.

Her eyes grew seductive. She raised her hand and he felt the brush of her fingers against the open collar of his shirt. Skin to skin, the timid first touch of intimacy had begun. A blush stained her cheeks. Lifting his hand, he took his finger and traced the outline of her face.

The hesitation left her eyes. His fingers moved down the side of her neck, feeling the pulse of her heart, before they touched the buttons of her blouse. The deft movement of his hands released them from their restraints. “Turn around,” he whispered.

She turned. He drew the cloth from her body. Then the lace of her chemise fluttered as he slid a finger along her shoulder’s edge. She inhaled sharply. Carefully, he draped her garments on the chair before pulling her back into his arms.

Lips found lips, and his mouth blazed a trail across her cheek to the tender skin of her neck. He nipped and then soothed the tender bites with his tongue swirling over the pounding of her blood. His hands loosened the skirt. It fell, pooling around her feet.

Trace’s mouth brushed across her shoulder. He felt Mary Rose lift her hands to his shirt, her movements apprehensive, a reminder that she wasn’t experienced, which made the gift she bestowed upon him even more precious.

His shirt jerked against his neck in an almost frantic motion as the buttons finally came free. He lifted his head to look again into her eyes. She blushed as his hand covered hers. Offering a crooked smile, he loosened the last two, and drew the cloth over his head, tossing it aside.

Trace heard a gasp of delight and reveled in her eagerness as the warmth of her palms found his chest and her fingers traced the contour of his torso. She leaned forward and kissed his skin just above his heart. He tilted his head and closed his eyes, enjoying the splendor of her lips. A tempest of emotions rose and swirled in his gut as those kisses spread to the other side of his chest.

Her sweet administrations turned to torture as her tongue laved his nipple, causing his groans to fill the air. Blood rushed to his loins. His trousers grew snug. He could stand no more of her exquisite torment. With a rumbling growl, he slid his hands around her back and beneath her knees, lifting her from the floor.

He could see the anticipation in her eyes as they moved across the room and he laid her onto the bed. Trace gazed at her with pure male delight. She was his. The wanting need to fill her with his seed erupted like a wildfire. He lowered his body to the bed.

“Lean forward,” he whispered.

And she did. Trace brushed her hair from the back of her neck to fan across his pillowcase. His breath caught in his throat. Even his wildest dreams had left him unprepared for this reality. Lifting his hand, he brushed his knuckles across her tender cheek, and she leaned toward it, bestowing his hand with a kiss.

Under his gaze, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The sheer cotton fabric of her chemise framed the outline of her rising breasts. Dusky rose nipples peaked. He leaned down and blew a warm breath across the fabric, plastering it against the skin before drawing it into his warm mouth. He suckled her through her clothing and Mary Rose arched against him. Her fingers threaded across the back of his head, into his hair, holding him close.

“More,” she breathed behind a shuddering breath.