Outlaw (22 page)

"Finish up...?"

He smiled, but somehow the easy intimacy
between them had evaporated like so much morning dew in the heat of
day.

"With my hair. We've got to get moving,
Curly Top."

Disappointment made Amelia's hand waver as
she raised the shears again. Trying not to think of all he'd said,
she sifted her hands through the thick, coffee-colored strands
beneath her fingers. Just a few more snips around his ears
and....

And it was no use trying not to think about
it. Mason wanted her! Why, then, had he refused her invitation for
a kiss only yesterday? Nibbling her lower lip thoughtfully, Amelia
went on combing and cutting, but her thoughts were on the man
sitting stoically on the rock in front of her.

She chanced a look at his face. Familiar,
yet changed without its shadow of beard stubble, it wore as
impassive an expression as ever. It was impossible to guess what
Mason was feeling. He possessed the finest poker face she'd ever
seen, much to her frustration.

Sighing, Amelia moved closer to snip the
fine dark hairs at his temples. She combed a lock of hair and held
it between her fingers, then slid the scissors upward to cut. They
wobbled in her shaky hand and conked him in the temple instead.

Nothing moved except Mason's eyes, then his
eyebrows raised. He looked at the scissors, then at her. "Didn't
mean to get you all riled up," he said, "with all that
talking."

He frowned, as though talking were the
vilest of activities.

"I'm not riled," Amelia lied, wishing she
could use both hands to hold the scissors. Maybe then she could cut
steadily. But she figured such obvious maneuvering would hardly
inspire confidence in her abilities. "You're wiggling."

His lips turned up at one corner. "So you
decided to bash me in the head for it? Remind me not to make you
really wrathy, Curly Top."

"I'm not wrathy," she protested, backing up
a bit. Her skirts brushed his legs. "It's just...just...."

Just the fact that Mason had piqued her
curiosity with all his kissing and talk of wanting. Amelia could
hardly stand to be left wondering. She wanted more of that quivery,
thrilling feeling, more low-pitched words of beauty and temptation.
If the determined set of his shoulders was anything to judge by,
she reckoned Mason wasn't going to give it to her.

"It's just nothing," she said curtly. "Turn
your head so I can cut the other side."

"Of my hair," he reminded, obediently
looking toward the mountains. "I like my ears where they are."

Amelia made a face. "And I like a little
more quiet while I work, please," she said, ignoring the smile he
gave her in return.

She needed to focus her attention on
finishing his haircut. To that end, she leaned forward,
unthinkingly propping her knee slightly on top of Mason's thigh for
balance. Instantly, his hands came around her leg, wrapping just
above her knee to steady her. The heat of his palms burned through
the layers of her skirts and petticoat, all the way to her skin
beneath. Suddenly, she became aware of the granite-hard feel of his
thigh, muscular and warm beneath her. Amelia's breath caught.

Their eyes met.

The pressure of his hands on her thigh
increased, became a gentle kneading that moved steadily higher,
bunching her skirts. She shivered, caught up in the sensation,
unable to take her eyes from Mason's. His eyes darkened as he
watched her, almost as though their senses were one, almost as
though he experienced every feeling as Amelia did.

Blindly she reached for him, felt his
shoulders bunch beneath her hands as she held onto him. His hands
roamed higher, spanned the width of her waist, pulled her closer.
The comb and scissors fell from her hands; dimly Amelia heard the
implements thud behind them onto the barely moist soil. Mason's
hands slowed, his movements sensual and dreamlike...but her pulse
beat faster, keeping time with her breath.

Exhilaration filled her. This was what she
wanted, what she needed. Twining her fingers in his shirt, she lay
her cheek across the top of Mason's head, felt the soft, uneven
ends of his hair tickle her skin. His arms flexed, holding her
tighter. His thumbs swept upward, making tender circles beneath her
ribs.

Amelia gasped, feeling like squirming, like
rubbing against him, like holding him tighter, all at once.
Wavering, she squeezed his shoulders for balance. Incoherent
whimpers rose in her throat, only to fade beneath a new onslaught
of sensation as Mason's head came forward, his face buried in the
neckline of her dress. He moaned, and his hands slid up her back,
flattening against her shoulder blades.

He pushed her closer, trapping her between
his hands behind her and his face at her bosom. His jaw, roughened
by the beginnings of a beard she hadn't noticed before, rubbed
slowly over the swell of her breasts, awakening her skin with each
tiny prickle of movement. He nuzzled her collarbone, inhaling
hoarsely as though he, too, felt breathless as Amelia did.

"Mmmm, so soft," Mason murmured, kissing the
hollow of her throat. His lips glided to just above the lace-edged
neckline of her dress, leaving a row of hot kisses along her
skin.

"So soft, so..." His fingers flexed at her
back and his body quivered with barely suppressed emotion. "Ahhh,
Amy. I'm just a man. I can't—"

"Please," she cried, digging her fingers
into his hair to hold him to her. "Please, Mason."

Her breasts ached, fairly throbbing with the
need for his touch. Surely he could ease the inexplicable longing
that rose within her, surely he couldn't bring her this far, only
to leave her wanting...wanting.

"I need...oh, I think I'll die if you stop
touching me, I—" Amelia's words ended on a strangled plea, wrenched
from her lips as his hands slid from her shoulder blades down to
the small of her back, then away. Releasing her?

Driven by the need to reach him, to make him
understand how she felt, Amelia clutched at his head, leaned down
to him. A kiss could change his mind. With her heart pounding in
her chest, her fingers trembling, she tilted her head to reach
Mason's lips. She closed her eyes. Before her courage could desert
her, she lurched forward to press her lips to his.

Her nose bashed into Mason's.

Pained tears sprang to her eyes. She opened
them to see him only inches away. Horribly, he was frowning at
her.

"Curly Top," he started to say, leaning
slightly away, "I can't—"

He was trying to stop her. No, no—she could
do this. Frowning with renewed determination, Amelia puckered her
lips and forced his head to tilt sideways too, then tried
again.

Their lips met. She kissed harder, and for
the first time in her life it occurred to her to resent the
inexperience that made her so clumsy. It filled her with
frustration. Amelia tried to mimic the way Mason had kissed her,
skimming her tongue gently over his lips, teasing his mouth
open.

It wasn't working, she thought miserably.
She didn't know what to do, how to touch him, how to share the
remarkable feelings he stirred within her. Screwing her eyelids
more tightly shut, Amelia flicked her tongue in tiny lapping
motions over his lips.

With a tortured groan, Mason threaded his
hands in her hair and cradled her to him. Their mouths melded into
hot, unending sweetness as he took charge of the kiss, hungrily
tasting her lips, teasing her tongue with his own, making her wild
for more...more. It felt like surrender and joining at once, like a
union she'd waited for all her life without knowing it.

Amelia couldn't think, could only feel as
the kiss deepened and went on. Mason's hands covered her breasts,
possessing her, and her body responded with all the eagerness her
heart had kept hidden. Her nipples tightened, yearning for his
touch. His palms skimmed over their delicate peaks, then he cupped
her fullness in his hands. He squeezed, ever so gently, and Amelia
cried out, the sound muffled against his mouth.

His shuddering moan wrested from her
whatever hesitation still remained. Nothing had ever felt so
heavenly as Mason's hands caressing her, his lips kissing her—his
heart, reaching out to her. Joyously, she kissed him back with all
the passion that swelled within her, holding him close.

No sooner had she done so than Mason ended
the kiss. With a roar of frustration, he clamped his hands onto her
upper arms and pushed Amelia away.

"
No
," he gritted out, holding her at
arm's length. He stared at the shadowed ground, his expression
ominous, breathing as heavily as if he'd just run all the way from
Maricopa Wells.

Without Mason's heat to warm her, goose
bumps prickled along her arms. Sundown had come and gone without
her noticing, Amelia realized. Suddenly everything seemed
colder.

"We're leaving," he said. He rose from the
rock slowly, as though the movement pained him, then released her.
"Get your things and get in the wagon."

"Now?"

"Now."

She could only stare at him, her body still
tingling with all the wondrous new sensations he—he!—had aroused.
Amelia reached out to catch hold of Mason's sleeve.

He shrugged off her hand and stalked toward
the front of the wagon. She followed him, struggling to catch her
breath after all that had just passed between them. How could he
turn away from her now, of all times?

"Mason, wait! Can't we just—"

"Just what?"

He rounded on her, teeth bared. She
retreated a pace, but he was already upon her. Mason towered over
her, silhouetted by the sunset's dusky, red-streaked skies behind
him.

"Just lie together here, on a rock, for God
and any passing
Mexicanos
to see?" He rubbed his whiskers,
frustration evident in every jerky movement.

Amelia tried to speak, but no words came
out. Hand on her throat, she stared up at him.

"You want me to strip you naked and take you
right here?" he went on, louder now. "You wanted to give yourself
to an outlaw? Well, you damn near did."

She gasped. Mason only glared down at her,
still breathing heavily. He looked as though he'd like to shake her
silly. As though he might even enjoy doing it.

"No!" she cried, anger and tears swirling
together to make her voice crack on the word. "No, I didn't
want—"

"
I did
."

His gaze held her, searing her with the
knowledge, the desire, it contained. Images of her and Mason
engaged in the kind of brazen, carnal coupling he spoke of rose in
her mind and called a heated flush to her cheeks. Was that what had
begun between them? What she wanted?

Something akin to disgust curled his lip.
Swearing beneath his breath, Mason whipped his hat from the rock
he'd been sitting on and jammed it on his head.

"Wait!" Amelia cried when he turned.
"How..."

Her voice cracked again, wavering, but she
refused to weep. Not here, not now. Her hands balled into fists at
her sides to keep from disgracing herself by reaching again for a
man who thought so little of her. She couldn't as easily keep
herself from asking the question that burned in her heart.

"After all that's happened," she asked, "how
can you turn away from me now?"

Mason stopped. All she saw was the
determined set of his shoulders, the hard denial of his stance, and
her hopes sank. He wasn't going to tell her anything more. She'd
have to wonder, and wonder....

Anger and helplessness loosed her lips. "Is
it because you don't know how to love? Don't know how to care
without making it into some cheap, vulgar—" Tears squeezed her
throat tight, making it nearly impossible to speak. "—animal thing!
Some kind of cruel—"

His hand closed on her shoulder, and even in
the dusky light Amelia could see the anguish that tore through
Mason.

"Don't," he said. "
Don't
." His thumb
stroked over her lips, silencing her. His eyes begged her to
obey.

An instant later, his unspoken plea had
vanished beneath a layer of gritty resolve as unchangeable as the
desert sky overhead. His hands left her—and left her confused and
yearning.

"It wouldn't be that way between us," he
said.

"Then why—"

He shook his head. "I'm just a man, Curly
Top. There's only so much tempting I can take. Enough of it, and I
won't be able to turn away."

"Then don't!" Amelia grabbed his arm. "Don't
turn away from me, Mason." Somehow, he needed her. She was sure of
it. Something within him called out to her, and she could no more
deny it than stop breathing.

His eyes turned dark and regretful. "You
don't know what you're saying."

"Yes, I do." She bit her lip, desperate for
something to convince him. Only one thing came to mind. Love. "I do
know, and I tried to tell you before, but you wouldn't listen."

"I still won't. We're leaving."

His rejection smacked at her pride. It
knocked the wind from her as surely as hitting the ground after
falling from the heavy, swaying branches of the old maple tree back
home did. Why wouldn't he listen?

Mason walked away from her into the darkness
gathering near the head of the covered wagon, leaving Amelia with
only one argument left.

"You can't walk away forever, Mason," she
called. "I'll still be here. And I'll still be falling in love with
you."

Time skidded to a stop. Mason did, too.
Around her, Amelia became aware of crickets chirping nearby, of
water rushing along the banks of the creek they'd stopped beside,
of the sage-scented breeze that tossed her skirts against her
ankles. Of the utter stillness of the man only a few feet away from
her.

It might as well have been a few hundred
miles.

"Love is pretty words and hoping," he
finally said, his voice gravelly. "It doesn't last."