Logan's Outlaw Part 13

"Come here, sweetheart. Let me look at it. It's a tattoo, not a scar."

She moved woodenly forward. What did it matter what he did to her? It would be no worse than what Swift Elk's braves had done, time and again. She stood between his legs, waiting for him to start grabbing at her, hurting her. The trout she'd eaten at supper threatened to come up.

Logan put one hand on her waist. His hand was large and warm. It seemed to cover half her side. He traced the outline of the blue image with his other hand, his touch as light as b.u.t.terfly wings.

He shook his head, then looked up, looked into her eyes. "I travel all over these plains, buying items from different tribal artisans. Some of it I sell. Much of it I keep. But some of it I save in a special warehouse. Pottery and blankets by Navajo artists, beadwork by several Sioux and Cheyenne families. All of it tells a story. Each piece bears the echoes of a people, their stories, their dreams, their sorrows. I search high and low for these treasures."

He held her with both hands at her hips as he stared up into her eyes. He shook his head. "I heard the story of your spirit when our eyes met. I knew, in an instant, that you were special, but I never expected you to be a work of art. Exquisite beyond any I've ever seen."

Sarah blinked the tears from her eyes. "I am not a work of art. I am scarred and ugly. They did this against my will. Swift Elk said it was his mark so that all the men he let use me would know I belonged to him."

"Swift Elk is a d.a.m.ned idiot, a cruel G.o.dd.a.m.ned b.a.s.t.a.r.d who makes war on women. But the women who did this did not brand you." He traced the images again, his touch whispering over her skin like the faintest of breaths. "The women who drew this felt your pain. They drew the story of you." His hand flattened against the blue tattoo. "They marked this over your heart so that your heartbeat would broadcast the truth of you out to the world. It was a protection of sorts."

Sarah wiped at the moisture on her cheeks. He smiled up at her. "The name they gave you was Yellow Moon. The moon is incredibly important to a tribe. It lights the village, illuminates predators and enemies who might try to attack it in the shadows of the night. The moon is the circle in the center of these two funnels." He drew a finger over the shapes as he explained them. "This upper half shows the darkness of the night. The clouds push down threateningly. This lower one shows the village lit by your glowing light. They show that you were the light of the village. It is quite an honor they did you."

He held her waist again. His face was close enough to her body that she felt his warm breath on her skin. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s thrust embarra.s.singly forward, but he didn't seem to even notice that she stood nude before him.

The silence stretched between them as they looked into each other's eyes. Slowly he stood up, so close that she had to arch her neck to look up at him. "Laughs-Like-Water gave me a salve for your scars. She made it from mock orange that she gathers when they go to the mountains. She said it has soothing properties that will help any soreness your wounds cause. After we bathe, I will put it on your skin. You will let me do this because you have already given me permission to see to your care."

Sarah slowly leaned into him. He was a force of nature, irresistible, unavoidable, determined. She wrapped her arms around his waist as she laid her head against his chest. His skin was warm. She liked his smell. When his arms slowly closed about her, something inside her s.h.i.+fted. He accepted who she was, what she had been, what was left of her. He looked at her, clothed or nude, as if she lit his world, as if she were his Yellow Moon.

Logan tried not to breathe too deeply, tried not to do anything that would make her fear being in his arms. He ran his hands up her back. Her bare skin was soft like velvet. His arms tightened around her, drawing her closer, closer against his body until her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were pressed against his chest. His body hungered for hers. He could feel himself swelling, hardening. His hand moved up her spine, beneath her braid, cupping the back of her head as he held her against himself.

"I've waited for this, Sarah, waited every day of my life to hold you in my arms. I can't believe I found you. If I'd been a half hour later, I would have missed running into you." He nuzzled her hair. "I would have found you, though. I know it. I would have heard your call. You heard mine. You went to my town, my people." He drew back so that he could see her beautiful face. He rubbed his thumbs on either side of her jaw. "We were meant to be, Sarah."

Sarah did not argue. His belief in their souls being meant for each other was a way of thinking she didn't understand. She wished she had heard his call before Eugene came into her life, before her world had turned black. Logan knew her dark secrets. All of them. Even the ones she hadn't yet told him. There was no need to say anything else. She wasn't the first white woman who'd come back to society with shocking accounts of her treatment while a captive. Perhaps it was time to start over, begin her adult life now, with Logan. Let the past go like the ghost that it was.

"We should take that bath, before the evening grows cold," she prompted.

He handed her the bar of soap, a small was.h.i.+ng cloth, and the towel. He unfastened his pants, loosened the string of his drawers, and pushed them both down his hips. His erection sprang free, jutting straight forward.

He was huge. A chill spiked through her as she stared at his member. "Ignore it, sweetheart. I desire your body. I cannot hide that fact. But we have an agreement, and I will not break it." He took her hand and led her toward the water.

She set the towels on a rock by the bank, then stepped into the cold river. They knelt a few feet in so that the water came to their waists. Her hands were on her legs, her eyes downcast. He could feel her withdrawal. He took the soap from her and lathered up the cloth, then set it back on a nearby boulder. Lifting one of her hands, he began to wash her. He started with the tips of her nails, focusing on each finger, swirling the cloth around her palm, the back of her hand. He wrapped the cloth around her wrist and pushed it up her arm.

Despite the chilly temperature of the water, Sarah felt a strange heat flood her body. She looked up at Logan, bracing herself for the look of l.u.s.t and possession that would be all over his face. He would see her slight reaction to his touch, her pleasure. He would break his promise.

She did not see what she expected. He was calm, entirely focused on the strokes his hands made over her skin. He was a man filled with self-possession, not one lost to his pa.s.sion.

She could not draw her eyes away from the hard profile of his face. His brows were a tawnier shade than his sun-bleached blond hair. A day's growth of beard darkened his jaw. There was a hollow between his cheekbones and his jaw that made him look edgy. Predatory. His bottom lip was more rounded and full than his upper lip. He must have felt the weight of her gaze, for he looked up at her. His lashes were a dark brown, softening his piercing gray eyes. Sitting this close to him, she could see the thin rim of dark blue that outlined his irises.

Watching her, he moved the cloth over her collarbone, one of his hands still holding hers. Involuntarily, her fingers tightened against his. She wanted to feel his hands on her body, but she had to satisfy herself with the touch of the cloth as he moved it over her neck, around her chest, between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, over her ribs, beneath her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her breathing grew shallow as she antic.i.p.ated the cloth rubbing over the hard peaks of her nipples.

He paused, adding more lather to the cloth. He reached forward and took hold of one of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, pressing it into more of a peak as he moved the cloth over and around the soft flesh. He lavished the same attention on her other breast. She couldn't help arching into his hand, wanting more. More pressure, more heat. The feel of his hand against her skin.

He wrapped an arm about her waist and lifted her from the water so that he could wash her stomach, her hips, her thighs. Her body felt on fire. The touch of the cold water did little to soothe her.

"Straighten your legs out for me," he directed, setting her on her bottom on the smooth river rocks. He lifted a leg and drew the cloth around one lean thigh, over her knee, behind her knee. Resting her foot on his leg, he used both hands to draw the cloth over her calf, her s.h.i.+n, around her ankle. He washed her foot, moving tenderly over the scars on her sole.

He reached for the soap, lathering the cloth so that he could repeat his ministrations on her other leg. Sarah shut her eyes, giving herself over to the sensations set aflame by his touch. "Kneel again," he said. She complied. He reached a hand around her waist again, lifting her. Her knee was between his legs. She felt his erection brush her leg, but before she could push away, he swept the soapy cloth between her legs, against her feminine core. A sensation she'd never felt before flared at his touch. She bucked against his hand, arching, seeking more. And then his hand was gone. He brushed the cloth against her b.u.t.tocks, between them, over the small of her back, up the center of her spine, over her shoulder blades to the back of her neck.

Her body was wet and slick against his. His skin was warm. She moved her hands over his shoulders, feeling the muscles that bunched and cabled as he held her, washed her. Her face was pressed to his throat. She rubbed her face against the hard column of his neck, feeling his body tighten as she did so.

"Turn around and lie down so that I can do your hair," he ordered, his voice a rough whisper. She pulled away from his body and lay down, exposing the front of her body to the air and the lapping touches of the river current. Her head was between his knees, kept aloft by his hands. He brushed the soap bar against the top of her head, starting a lather that he drew down throughout the rest of her hair. His strong fingers ma.s.saged her scalp, wringing a little moan of pleasure from her.

She felt his hands moving once again over her body, rinsing the soap from her skin, stroking her with cool detachment. When the lather was gone, he drew her to her feet and led her to the river's edge, where they'd left the towels. He took one and draped it over her head, squeezing the moisture from her hair. He wrapped the towel around her body, then folded the corner in at the top to hold the cloth in place.

"Go back to the wagon and get into bed. Don't dress. I want to put the salve on you." She didn't immediately move, couldn't seem to lift her leaden feet. His erection pointed fiercely at her. She realized she wanted what he wanted, wanted to be intimate with him. Wanted him to wipe out the memories of all the others. She spun on her heel and hurried to the wagon, shocked by that realization.

Logan trudged back into the river to see to his own bath. He'd thought the cold water would ease his raging desire, but touching her body, feeling her reaction to him, seeing her pa.s.sion, had only deepened his need for her. He ducked his head beneath the water and then soaped up his hair, his back to the wagon. He knelt in the water, felt the current flow over him, curling around his erection.

He drew the soap bar down his chest to his c.o.c.k. He was in pain, aching for release. He couldn't go to her like this. Never in his life had he broken a promise. He would not break his promise to her. He palmed his shaft, imagining her body against his, her slim arms around his shoulders, her legs spread over his. His hand slipped down his shaft, squeezing, releasing, clamping as her body would do when he took her. He began to slip his fist up and down, faster and faster. He was so close. His thumb circled the crown of his p.e.n.i.s, over and over, then fire shot from his b.a.l.l.s as his s.e.m.e.n burst from him, shooting into the river.

He slumped back on his haunches, dragging deep, calming breaths into his lungs. When the cold water had cooled the fire within him, he finished his bath and returned to the wagon. He pulled on a fresh pair of drawers and collected the jar of salve. The skin tied over the mouth of the jar was saturated with the oil inside and spread the sweet scent of mock orange flowers. He tucked the base of the jar near the embers at the edge of the fire, letting it warm while he shaved and did his teeth.

Sarah lay between the cool cotton sheets. She'd washed them just that morning. They smelled of suns.h.i.+ne and fresh air and moved against her bare skin in unfamiliar ways. She was used to wearing a nightgown to bed, except for the dark months when she wasn't allowed to wear anything at night in Swift Elk's camp. It had been better when he had taken her as a wife, simply because he shared her less frequently with the other warriors. Some nights she'd been able to sleep through without any demands being made upon her person.

The memories flooded her mind, chilled her body, reminding her why she couldn't be intimate with Logan. She couldn't do it. It would hurt.

The wagon s.h.i.+fted as Logan entered. The sun had dropped below the horizon, but it was still light enough beneath the canvas covering to make out the pale glow of Logan's gray eyes. Sarah swallowed hard and looked away. She gripped the edges of the sheet in a white-knuckled hold. She could do this. Logan wouldn't hurt her. It wouldn't be like before. Just get it over with, she told herself. Tension threaded through her stomach until she feared she would be ill.

She looked at Logan again. He was naked except for his drawers. The terrible bulge between his legs was less p.r.o.nounced. He held a small clay jar. A sweet, floral scent drifted up to her. It was a pleasant smell that she filled her lungs with.

"I hope you like this salve. Laughs-Like-Water makes several batches a year. The people of her village rely on it to ease their wounds and sore joints." He climbed up to sit on the edge of the bed. "I have warmed it at the fire. Will you trust me to touch you again?"

Sarah studied his icy gray eyes. He had shaveda"his face looked a bit less stark. She did trust him. It was her memories she didn't trust. It was as if an invisible wall stood between him and her, as unscalable as a fortress. She nodded.

"Then take the sheet off you."

She hesitated only briefly before drawing the sheet away. She lay back, blanking out her mind, concentrating only on the sweet scent of the oil Logan was pouring into his palm. He sat at the end of the bed and lifted one of her feet. He ma.s.saged the oil into the bottom of her foot. She was embarra.s.sed to have him touch her scars, but his hands kneaded and ma.s.saged until her tension seemed to fall away. She looked up at him, meeting his eyes. He finished with her first foot and started on the other one.

A breeze blew through the wagon, making a muted sigh as it caught on the edges of the opening, stirring the sweet scent of the salve around them. "Close your eyes. Sleep if you will. You are safe with me, Sarah Taggert."

She did close her eyes, but only because his look sent a heat swirling through her that she was not willing to accept, a heat that told her surrendering to Logan would be a wonderful experience, that whispered he was the missing answer to a question she'd long held.

His hand rubbed the heated oil into her calves, knees, and thighs, kneading her muscles, melting her bones. His hands brushed the tops of her thighs, almost touching her hips. It was all Sarah could do not to push into his hands. Her reaction made no sense to her. She hadn't wanted any man's hands on her like this, not even Eugene's.

Logan tipped the oil jar and poured out a thin stream of the warm liquid on her belly, drawing a line from hip to hip. He set his hand on her lower abdomen, spreading the oil into her skin, moistening his fingers with it. His face was a mask of concentration, but a slight flush gave away the fact that he wasn't as unaffected as he pretended to be about what he was doing. He moved a hand up to her ribs even as his other hand moved the oil into her feminine curls. He ma.s.saged the oils between her legs, letting his hands slip into the folds at her entrance.

She tightened her legs, bringing her knees up defensively. His hands stilled as his eyes sought hers. Slowly, he shook his head, watching her until she'd straightened her legs out once again. He moved his hand from between her thighs, easing the oil up to her ribs, careful to work the healing salve into the old scars of burns, cuts, and lash marks.

He tipped the jar and poured thin streams slowly around one nipple, then the other. A low vibration began somewhere deep inside Sarah, like the beating of distant drums, visceral and rhythmic. His big hands palmed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, pressing, ma.s.saging. It was entirely too stimulating. When his thumbs and fingers trapped her nipples, rolling the peaks back and forth, she almost cried out. What was he doing to her? It was torture. It was wonderful. She couldn't take any more. She wanted it to never stop.

Her hands came up to capture his, holding him to her. He smiled, a dark and lazy curving of his mouth, a mouth she suddenly wanted to taste.

It was the oil. It was giving her a madness. A fever. She ached all over. Wanteda"something. Not his body. Not to surrender. Never that.

He took her arms and drew them up over her head, capturing her wrists in one hand as he continued his ministrations with his other hand. She stared into his eyes, wondering if he knew what was happening to her. He was leaning on one elbow, his chest so near hers, his heat singed her.

He flattened his hand, rubbing it so just the hard peak of her nipple brushed his palm, back and forth, around and again. Her breath was coming in short gasps. He smoothed his hand over the blue drawing on her chest. He reached over and spilled a bit more oil onto her chest. He rubbed it into her skin, up both sides of her throat, his fingers ma.s.saging the base of her neck.

He turned her face to him as he ma.s.saged the oil into her jaw, her cheeks, her forehead. "You are beautiful, Sarah." His voice was a raw whisper. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, which hovered so near her own. He grinned. She sensed he knew about the madness stealing through her, closing in around her fear, urging her to reach for him.

"Time to roll over."

Sarah closed her eyes, severing the strange connection she felt between her and Logan. She rolled over, lying still while he repeated the whole process from her feet up. He took great care to ease the oils over her back and shoulders, where old marks discolored her skin. By the time he'd made his way back down to her hands, she doubted she could have formed a coherent sentence.

She heard him set the jar of oil aside. The bed s.h.i.+fted as he stretched out beside her. She pushed herself up. "I should dress."

"No." He looked at her, his thoughts impossible to read. "I want to hold you like this tonight, skin to skin."

She scooted in close to him, resting one of her knees between his. She could feel the press of his erection against her belly, but she gave no sign she was aware of his arousal. He pulled a pillow up under her head. She wrapped an arm around his chest, leaning in to him, hearing his heart beat against her ear.

"How do you feel?"

Sarah heard the rumble of his voice through his chest. "Warm and tingly on the outside. And very, very afraid on the inside."

"Afraid?" He moved so that he could look at her. "Of what?"

"Of losing you. Of needing you. I want to know if this is real, if it will last." When you'll become like all the other men I've known.

He smiled a lazy, very male grin. "You'll have to stick around and see. Maybe you can tell me the answer in fifty years or so. Go to sleep now, sweetheart."

It was a long time before sleep claimed her. She kept thinking he would realize he held a naked woman in his arms and a.s.sert his marital rights. If that happened, she schooled herself, she would forgive him. He was a kind and gentle man. He was fearless, full of light and love and joy. If he needed her, she would not turn him away. She would not.

Despite her vow of acceptance, she held herself very still, fearing as much as hoping he would bridge the divide she'd set up between them. But he did not. He simply held her, slowly stroking her back. His breathing was even, almost inaudible. She wondered if even in his sleep he still sought to comfort her.

Eventually, her mind surrendered to her fatigue. Sleep twisted her senses. The arms that held her became someone else's. Swift Elk had bartered her yet again in a game of chance. And lost. One of his warriors was pulling her away, forcing her out of the village, over to a slight dip in the prairie, giving them privacy only when they lay on the ground. She didn't fight him, didn't resist. Swift Elk would punish her by letting all of his men have a turn with her. One was better than seven.

He pressed her to the ground, freeing himself from his breechclout, pus.h.i.+ng up her dress. She fought the terrible panic, the rising nausea, the need to run. She fought it and lost. She clawed at the muscled arms binding her, raked her nails down his hard chest. She screamed. She screamed and screamed and screamed.

And woke herself up.

She was in a bed, in a wagon. Her attacker was near her, also sitting up, his hands stretched toward her as if he would grab her. She was naked, as he seemed to be. Where was she? The nightmare wouldn't leave her mind. It flashed back and forth until she didn't know which reality was true.

"Easy," the man said. She knew that voice. "Easy." Logan. He didn't touch her. He didn't need to. He was poised to pounce on her. She would never get away. She gulped a deep breath of air.

Logan watched as Sarah blinked at him, watched the last vestiges of the nightmare retreat back into her soul. She was balanced precariously on the edge of the mattress, near the back opening of the wagon. "You're okay, honey. No one's gonna hurt you. No one's gonna make you do something you don't want. We got our agreements, remember?"

He slipped off the bed, into the core of the wagon to find a pair of pants he could pull over his drawers. Holding her bare body, skin to skin, had been hours of torment. His body burned for hers. The pants would at least help cover his raging need. He should never have made her sleep naked. He'd finally given in to the sleep he needed, leaning in to her warmth, resting partly on his stomach, partly on her, one leg between hers. It was heaven. Until she started screaming.

He lifted the chest beneath the bench seat at the table and withdrew a nightgown for her, then fetched another blanket. She sat where he'd left her, the sheet drawn to her chin. She stared at him with wide-open eyes, her gaze dark in the shadowy s.p.a.ce of the wagon. "I've brought a nightgown for you. Will you put it on?"

She tucked the sheet beneath her arms and reached for the nightgown. She pulled it over her head, b.u.t.toned the sleeves and the front opening, then rose to her knees and drew it down the length of her. Logan fetched a tin cup of water and handed it to her. She held it a moment, staring vacantly at it. Her hand was shaking. She tried to fight off the wave of sorrow that threatened to consume her. She held a hand to her mouth as the sobs came.

"Whoa there." Logan climbed back up to the bed. He set the water aside and pulled her huddled body into his arms. "You just go ahead and cry it out, my sweet wife. Cry as much and as long as you need to. I've got a hold of you, and I'm not letting go." He pretended a bravery he did not feel. Her sobs sliced at his soul even as her tears burned the cuts she'd opened on his chest.

He wished he could undo what had been done to her. An empty wish. How many women who had been taken captives didn't survive their return to white society, their spirits so broken, they couldn't fight off common illnesses. All he could do was show Sarah another path, one filled with love, and stand impotently by while she decided to live or die.

He closed his eyes. This was his fault. He'd pushed too far this evening. Her sobs began to subside, but tension throbbed through her body, tying her to her fear. He lifted her face, smiled down at her as a crazy idea took root in his mind. He swept his thumbs across her wet cheeks.

He eased free of her and slipped off the bed. He grabbed a s.h.i.+rt and pulled it over his head. She frowned at him, looking as disgruntled as a wet kitten. He grinned, then turned from her to keep himself from taking her back into his arms. He fetched his moccasins from the bench trunk where his things and the beadwork he'd purchased from Laughs-Like-Water were stored. He dug through until he found a pair of moccasins that would fit Sarah. "Come outside. Don't change."

A few minutes later, she came around to the back of the wagon. Her stride was hesitant. She looked at him, a worry frown wrinkling her brow.

He smiled. "Sit down," he said, directing her to one of the two chairs they used when the table was folded down. She did as he ordered. He knelt before her. Lifting her nightgown, he untied her boots and drew on the exquisitely beaded moccasins he'd bought with her in mind.

"Logan, what are you doing?"

"We're going for a run."

"You want to run. Now? At night? Give me back my boots. I'll ruin these."

"These are yours." He looked up at her, his hands on her knees. "Everything I have is yours." He opened her cuffs, folding the fabric back at each wrist. "Open your collar a bit. You'll not like the restriction at your throat."

He stood up, held a hand out to her. "Ready?" "This doesn't make sense."

"Humor me. Run."

"Where?"

"It doesn't matter. Just run. Go. Feel the night air take away your fears. Run."

He was crazy. That had to be the explanation. She started walking north, deeper into the prairie, letting the bright moon light her way. He walked behind her. Close. Like other times. Other terrible times she'd been taken in the gra.s.s. Used. He was behind her.

"Run."

She wanted to run. She wanted to run and run and never stop. She picked up her pace. She couldn't outrun him. Men were built for speed, and he was so close behind her.

"Run, Sarah," he ordered.

And then she did. She lifted her hem and ran. She quit looking at the terrain streaming by her, quit fearing a misstep. Her legs moved fast. The cool night air pulled at her hair, brushed past her neck, stole her breath. Her legs stretched beneath her. She lifted her nightgown high up her thighs. Each step brought her farther from something, closer to something. Freedom. She settled into a steady, swift pace, feeling the muscles of her legs working. She forgot that Logan ran behind her. She lost herself to the run until she ceased to even be aware she ran. It seemed she floated effortlessly through the night, with no tethers, no destination, no worries. Just going. Somewhere. Anywhere.

Logan came even with her. She looked at him and laughed. She stretched her arms wide, lifted her face to the night sky. She never wanted to stop. She lost track of time. She wondered if Logan had been right, if she could surrender her nightmare to the sky and the wind and the night, let her spirit be healed.

She pictured the wind not just slipping over her but through her, filtering out the pieces of her soul that harbored memories of the evil done to her, lifting it away like dust caught on white lace. It was working. She could feel herself growing lighter, easier. She felt fearless, endless. Whole.

Gradually, she became aware of her body growing fatigued. She was hot and thirsty. She slowed to a walk, then doubled over and held her knees. "I can't run anymore."

She straightened and looked at Logan, who had kept pace with her the entire time. She smiled, panting. "That was amazing. It helped. I feel better inside."

Logan watched her, and there was no humor in his face. "You laughed."

Sarah's stomach tightened. Had she broken a rule? Had she done something wrong?

"It was the most beautiful sound I've ever heard." He looked over her head at the night sky and drew a deep breath. "I thought I would have to wait years before I heard that." He said no more, but started back to the wagon.

She fell into step beside him and reached for his hand. He looked at her. She smiled. "I want to run every day."