The Outlaw's Bride. Carolyn Davidson

      “Go ahead.” He dropped her hand and she turned away from him, only to feel his heavy arm slide over her waist, settling on her flat belly and then tugging her back against his warm body. “I’ll just hang on to you this way,” he murmured. “And don’t give me a hard time, little bird. It won’t do you any good.”

      “Don’t call me that,” she said sharply. And even as she spoke, she heard her mother’s voice, soothing her, encouraging her and speaking the words in a gentle voice. “My little bird. Don’t worry. Your mother is here.” She inhaled sharply as a tear slid from her eye and dampened the sheet beneath her. His hand swept up over her waist and breast to spread across her cheek, and she shrank from the touch of those warm fingers on her face.

      But to no avail, for the tears she’d thought to keep from him were swept away by his hand, holding the corner of the sheet, fingers that were gentle as he wiped her cheek.

      “I upset you. What did I say to make you cry?” She thought his voice softened a bit, losing the harsh edge, the threat of violence she’d sensed earlier.

      She resented his knowledge of her weakness and her voice was taut. “Take your hands off me. I don’t cry. And, I’m not going anywhere.”

      He chuckled a bit, a low, husky sound and bent his head lower on the pillow, brushing his face over her hair. She felt his breath, warm against the side of her face, and caught the scent of him, that of saddle leather and fresh air.

      “My arm and my hand will hold you against me. They will stay on you all night long. I offered you another solution, but you turned it down.”

      She shivered. “Tying me up wasn’t much of an option.”

      His chuckle was low, offering her no hint of softening. “It’s the only one you’ll get, so make up your mind.”

      And with that, he pulled her even closer to himself, curling his big body against her back, his knees pushing her legs upward. “Close your eyes, little bird. I’ll still be right here in the morning, and you can be angry at me then. It sure as hell won’t do you any good to get all upset tonight.”

      She thought a trace of amusement coiled through his lazy whisper, and she felt her anger rise in spite of his warning. “I’m not used to sleeping with anyone,” she said, wriggling in a vain effort to put him at a distance. To no avail, for he only pulled her closer and eased his hand across her belly to the hip she lay on, his fingers pressing into her flesh, almost guaranteeing bruises come morning.

      “You’re a little bit of a thing, aren’t you?” he mused, measuring the width of her body with his arm. “Sassy and full of piss and vinegar, but not big enough to fight me.”

      “I’m big enough to take care of myself,” she said stoutly, “except when a man uses his strength against me. And even then, I’ve been known to fight.”

      “Want to tell me about it?” he asked, his tone softly curious. “Who have you fought?”

      She was stubbornly silent, and he chuckled again. “I’ll just bet you landed a few good punches before any man ever got the best of you. You’re a brave one, I’ll give you that.” He paused and she sensed that he would speak a warning. “But don’t try to fight me, Debra Nightsong. I don’t play fair, and I always win.”

      “Especially against a woman,” she murmured. “I was right about you. You’re a bully.”

      “I can be kind,” he told her.

      He’d made his move, forced his way into her house, almost guaranteed a place to hang his hat for a few days at least. She’d just come from town, had brought supplies enough to last for some time in those burlap sacks. She wouldn’t be expected by anyone to be seen in Holly Hill for a few days.

      “I’ll be up at dawn, when the rooster crows,” she told him. “My cow likes to be milked early on and the chickens will need to be fed.”

      “Well, then rest easy. I’ll be with you while you milk and tend your stock. Might even lend a hand,” he whispered against her ear.

      The scent of man, of his yearnings for a woman, enveloped her. For the first time in her life, she shared her bed, and resented it mightily. Enough that he held her fast, did she also need the constant reminder that this masculine being presented a danger to her?

      He was clean, if she were any judge of it, smelling like the fresh hay in her field, a faint aroma of leather and horse surrounding him. An altogether appealing arrangement that tempted her senses.

      He seemed not to be cruel, for if he’d so desired, he could have hurt her badly already, could have taken her body in an act of pure lust. He’d done neither, and for whatever rules of behavior governed him, she was thankful.

      She must have dozed off, her body seeking the rest it required, for when she awoke, fully aware of the darkness and the man who lay beside her, she sat upright, his arm gripping her firmly.

      “What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

      She sought her pillow, remembered that it was under his head, and settled for the sheet beneath her. “I need to use the…” She faltered, unable to speak aloud the need for privacy.

      He released his grip on her and rolled from the bed. “Get up, Debra. I’ll be right here. Don’t think to escape or attack me with your hairbrush.” A note of amusement touched his voice and she muttered a curse beneath her breath.

      The screen shielding her personal space in the room concealed her from his eyes, and she hastily tended to her needs, then straightened her gown around her before returning to the bed. “Did you think I would be so stupid as to use a hairbrush as a weapon?” she asked, sitting once more on the edge of the mattress.

      “You’re not stupid, Debra. I was counting on your intelligence. I only warned you because I don’t want a battle with you in the middle of the night.” He gripped her shoulder and pushed her down against the mattress. Her pillow was soft beneath her head and she cut her gaze to him, his body barely visible in the moonlight.

      “Thank you. I’ll be more comfortable this way.”

      “I don’t want you angry with me,” he began, lying back beside her. “I know that sounds like a futile wish, but I mean it. I won’t hurt you, Debra, and I knew you needed your pillow returned.” He was silent for a moment and then his voice touched her again. “Decide which side you’ll sleep on and get snuggled in, girl.”

      “So you can hang on to me?” She recognized the bitter tone of her own words as she turned to her side, facing the edge of the bed and the window that overlooked the yard.

      “So I can make certain that you don’t try to escape in the middle of the night.”

      “I’m not going to give you the chance to hold me down, mister. I’ll lie where I am ’til morning.”

      “I wouldn’t mind holding you down,” he mused quietly. “As a matter of fact, I might like it more than I should. Let’s not take a chance on it.”

      Awake now, Debra lay facing the lone window in her bedroom, watching as the depth of night, the darkness before dawn, began its morning journey into daylight. Her eyes refused to close in slumber and she resigned herself to several hours of waiting ’til the sun rose.

      Yet, when she next stirred, it was to find broad daylight in her room, the man behind her still holding her firmly against his body, and the unmistakable nudge of his manhood against her bottom. She’d not experienced such a thing before, but her feminine instincts told her exactly what it was, and she felt the danger as a viable threat, her rapid pulse sounding as a warning, vibrating through her body.

      A man’s urges are strongest in the early daylight. Her mother had said those words to her. Debra had filed the knowledge away in her mind, certain that such a worry would never be hers to own, that the challenge of a man’s body in her bed would not be an issue in her life.

      The