During that heartbeat of time when Amy metamorphosed from woman to trapped animal, Swift whispered her name, gentled his arm around her, and withdrew his hand from her breast. But Amy didn’t register the change. She wrenched her mouth from his and struck out, blind with panic, her one purpose to get away from him. How she accomplished that, she didn’t notice. Swift’s unexpected attack had set her on a stimulus-and-reaction course.
He released her, and she ran.
“Amy!”
His voice, thick with desire, sounded like a stranger’s, and it spurred Amy forward. She didn’t know where she was going, didn’t care, just as long as it was away.
“Amy, honey, come back. Not into the trees. Amy, don’t!”
Amy’s scope shrank to a tunnellike path. There was only the rasp of her breathing, the slamming of her heart, the ragged little cries tearing up her throat. She barely felt her feet slapping the ground. A branch hit her in the face. She staggered. Brush loomed before her, specters blacker than the blackness, to tear at her clothing, grab at her legs.
And then she heard boots thudding behind her, coming hard and fast. Her skin shriveled. She threw herself forward into a faster pace, frantic, beyond thought. Oh, God—Oh, God—Oh, God. There was no safe place, no safe person. Swift was like all the others, racing after her, six feet of unleashed power. She wouldn’t be able to fight him or stop him, until he finished tearing into her, shuddered with his own satisfaction, and fell on her, an immovable anchor of sweaty flesh that pinioned her under the terror. Not again—not again.
“Amy! Watch out! There’s a log—Honey, watch out!”
Something hit her from behind. Amy screamed as she fell, manacled in a horrifying tangle of rock-hard arms and legs. Swift spun with her in midair, so he hit the ground first and cushioned the impact. But Amy scarcely registered that. She grunted and twisted, trying to escape him, and when that availed her nothing, she pressed a frontal attack, going for his face.
He swore and grabbed her wrists. Whipping his body, he came up off the ground, catching her in the backlash to pin her beneath him. She kicked, but her skirts tangled around her. He angled a muscle-roped thigh across hers and dragged her jerking arms above her head.
Breathing fast, his face a dark shimmer of menace above hers, he cried, “It’s all right, Amy. It’s all right.”
But it wasn’t all right. He had her. Black treetops, silhouetted against the sky, loomed and shifted, sentinels to witness her shame. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. He anchored her wrists above her head with one hand, which left his other free. She knew what was coming. A scream welled within her, tearing up her throat to be born as a pitiful mewling.
“Forgive me, Amy. I didn’t mean it. Sweetheart, I didn’t mean it.” His hand, which she expected to tear at her clothing, settled with trembling lightness on her hair. “It’s all right. I swear it, Amy. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The words came from a great distance, the same words, over and over, but the hard, heavy body on top of hers spoke much more clearly. She strained until she was drenched in sweat, until her muscles no longer twitched in response to the messages from her brain, until the fear moved back a little, hovering, waiting to reclaim her. She quivered and jerked, sobbing, unable to utter the pleas for mercy that crowded into her head.
“It’s all right,” Swift said again. “I’m sorry, Amy. I lost my head for a minute. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. I won’t hurt you. I swear it. Not now, not ever.”
He moved his hand from her hair to her neck, his warm fingertips curving over her nape, caressing the wispy, damp curls that lay against her clammy skin.
“D-don’t t-touch me. Don’t . . .”
His hand tightened on her nape. “Honey, I won’t hurt you. I swear it. Relax. There’s my girl. Take a deep breath.”
Amy did and burst into tears. Wild, hysterical tears. Swift swore and rolled off of her, carrying her with him in the circle of his arms until she lay atop him. It seemed to Amy his trembling hands were everywhere, on her hair, her back, her arms, caressing, soothing, forcing the brittle tautness from her.
“I’m so sorry,” he said again and again. “Please don’t cry. I’d rather be horsewhipped than hear you cry. I mean it. I’ll go to Hunter’s barn with you. You can lay me open with the strap. I deserve it. But please don’t cry.”
Lying on top of him as she was, Amy could feel his heart slamming. Her cheek was pressed to his shirt. She shuddered and went limp, soothed by the raw sincerity in his voice and the quivering regret she felt in his lean body.
Time passed, measured in her ear by the erratic thumping of his heart. The wind whispered, bending the trees, rustling boughs and parched leaves. Amy closed her eyes, her throat too raw to speak, the energy to weep drained from her. Insanity had surely struck, for it made no sense to flee a man in terror, then lie upon him, relaxed and motionless, once he caught her. But lie here she did, at peace in a way she couldn’t understand and didn’t have the presence of mind to contemplate.
Her feelings for Swift had never made sense, anyway.
After a very long while he threaded his fingers through her loosened braid, toying with it, running the strands over his knuckles. “I meant tonight to be perfect for you.”
His voice vibrated through his chest and into hers, hoarse with emotion. Amy nuzzled her cheek closer to him, soothed somehow by the smell of clean skin and soap and leather.
“I never meant to go after you like that,” he whispered. “Please believe me. It just came over me, and it happened so quick—you didn’t give me a chance to stop before you ran.”
She squeezed her eyelids closed against another rush of tears, “Oh, Swift, I wish with all my heart men weren’t subject to being overcome, especially you.” She gulped and shivered. “It turned you into someone I don’t know. And it frightens me to think that stranger lurks within you now, ready to pounce on me when I least expect it.”
“I deserve that, I guess. But, Amy, it’s not a stranger inside me. I want you like that all the time, and the wanting just got bigger than I was for a second. You felt so sweet, leaning up against me.”
Uneasiness niggled up her spine. She was lying against him now. Sighing, he cupped his hand to her cheek.
“Don’t be afraid.” His voice went husky. “I think I’d rather hear you cry, and hearing you cry about kills me.”
Digging her elbows into his chest, she levered herself up to peer at him, still alarmed by his admission. “I th-think we’d best get back to the social.”
“We can’t. You’re a sight. Your reputation would be ruined if anyone saw you like this.” He brushed a stray tendril back from her face. “Not that you aren’t beautiful, with that hair falling around your shoulders like spun silver and gold.” He trailed his knuckles along her cheek, then traced the tip of one finger over her lips. “Kiss me, Amy. Would you do that for me?”
Amy decided then and there that she wasn’t the only one suffering a bout of insanity. “What?”
“Kiss me,” he repeated gently. “I won’t force myself on you. Just kiss me. One time. A real kiss, with your lips parted and your tongue touching mine. A nice, long kiss. I’d like you to meet the stranger in me when he’s got his head on straight. If you don’t, you’ll be leery of that side of me forever, and I don’t want that.”
The way Amy figured, it would be far smarter to stay leery. It was a trick, she just knew it. She started to roll off him, but he caught her at the waist, holding her fast.
“Please. I won’t ever make you do it again if it’s awful. How’s that for a bargain? One kiss. If you hate it—” He broke off and seemed to ponder what he was about to say. “If you hate it, I’ll set you free from the betrothal promise.”
That got her attention. He might trick her, but she’d never known him to outright lie. She could scarcely credit her ears.
“If you hate kissing me, we’ll just be friends from now on,” he added in a strained whisper. “I’ll never peste
r you for more.”
Friends. That would be a dream come true—to be able to be with Swift and never have to worry. Her pulse went wild just at the thought of kissing him, but if he truly would release her from the betrothal promise if she hated it, which she would, she’d be crazy not to consider doing it. “D-do you m-mean it?”
“Have I ever lied to you? Name me one time, Amy.”
Swift watched her, heart in throat, afraid she might refuse, more terrified that she might not. If she kissed him and detested it, he would lose her. It was a hell of a lot to gamble on—the rest of his life. Her inexperience was bound to make even her best effort a fumbling pressure of mouths, not the stuff dreams were made of. But it was a risk he had to take. If he let her leave these woods with his pawing, panting attack on her foremost in her mind, he’d never get within ten feet of her again, unless he took her down in a flying tackle and forced her.
Her expression revealed her every emotion and thought, most of them unflattering. But there was also a shimmer of determination in her eyes. A release from their betrothal was clearly a powerful temptation. He had no choice but to accept that. Lying perfectly still beneath her, he waited.
After regarding him suspiciously for several moments, she let out a shaky breath and dropped her gaze to his mouth. Then, as if she had reached a decision that she feared she might heartily regret, she scooted upward, so her face hovered above his. Swift didn’t know which torture was worse, the scooting or the taste of her sweet breath on his lips. Her huge, luminous eyes settled once again on his mouth. She looked about as enthusiastic as a woman who had just been asked to jump off a cliff. He struggled not to smile. All he had asked for was a kiss, not a consummation of the sexual act. This was clearly a very daring feat for her to consider undertaking.
“Do—do you promise not to get overcome?” she asked in a dubious little voice.
Swift had been overcome by the mere sight of Amy ever since he had first seen her, a furious little hellion, with glorious blond hair and flashing blue eyes. It was strange, that. He’d fallen in love with her because she had such fiery courage, and now he loved her even more because she lacked it. This Amy, who had suffered so much and, because of that, fled from him in mindless terror, brought all his protective instincts to the surface, and he wanted nothing more than to shield her for the rest of her life. Except, of course, from himself.
“I promise not to lose my head,” he amended. “If I get your meaning correctly, I think I’m already what you’d call overcome.”
She stiffened and looked as if she were about to leap off him. Swift tightened his arm around her.
“Amy, it’s natural. Sometimes I just look at you and it happens. Or I smell your hair and it happens. I’m overcome most of the time I’m around you.”
A thoroughly horrified expression filled her eyes. “Oh, dear. Swift, let’s go.” She planted her palms on his chest and shoved to get up. “Now. Please.”
He kept his hold tight to keep her where she was. “Not until you kiss me. Don’t you want to? Think of it, Amy. If you don’t like it, we’ll just be friends, like you are with Hunter. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“It wouldn’t be like that, though. My hair doesn’t bother Hunter. I—I want to go. Right now.”
“Amy, listen to me. There’s nothing to be frightened of. A man aches with wanting a woman sometimes, and I ache for you. I was aching tonight when we were dancing. And when you leaned against me, I forgot everything but that, just for a second. People kiss each other all the time, and nothing happens. Try it. Come on. It can’t be so hard as all that. Think of what you stand to gain.” And what he stood to lose.
She went back to staring at his mouth again. And then, curling her hands into taut fists in his shirt, she bent her head and touched her lips to his. He parted his mouth a finger’s width, enough to allow her access but not enough to startle her.
She deepened the kiss ever so slightly, the contact so moist and sweet and shy that his heart started to slam and every muscle in his body screamed to hold her. Swift splayed his hand on her back, thoroughly and irrevocably overcome as the tip of her small tongue darted out and flicked the sensitive underside of his upper lip. He allowed her the touch-and-flee experimentation, careful to do nothing that might unnerve her.
Finally, as if she’d assured herself it was safe, she pressed her lips to his, shyly running her tongue across the edge of his teeth. He struggled to remain passive, but so much rode on this kiss that he forwent caution and put his other hand on the back of her head to get some control. Pressing downward, he settled her mouth more firmly against his, angled his head, and very carefully touched his tongue to hers. She flinched, but Swift firmed his hold on her until she relaxed.
As he felt the tension drain from her, his own lessened somewhat, and instinct took over. He knew he had won by the way her body molded to his. Amy, his Amy. Almost reverently, Swift explored her mouth, drawing upon all his experience with women and the love he felt for her to make this kiss beautiful.
For Amy, the world went into a spin. Swift’s mouth pulled on hers, hot and warm, his tongue teasing, retreating, the touch so tantalizing that she grew braver and thrust her own forward, wanting more. Which he gave her, groaning deep in his chest.
Someplace in the back of her mind, Amy tried to remind herself that it was crucial she not like this. Freedom rode on her not liking it. Independence and survival rode on her not liking it. If she responded, she could say good-bye to any hope at all of controlling her own life.
When it came, she felt the change in him, just as she had earlier. The passion sweat filming his body, the urgency of his breathing, the whipcord tension in the way he held her. But this time he held her tenderly. His hands floated over her like air, so lightly that her skin came alive and tingled with expectancy. She didn’t feel threatened, just treasured.
And feeling treasured was her undoing. Swift groaned again and rolled with her, coming out on top. Everything was already in such a spin that it didn’t matter. This time he didn’t touch her breasts. But he did touch her elsewhere. The electrical graze of his hands through the silk felt so wonderful that she didn’t want him to stop.
“Amy . . .”
He said her name as though he were uttering a prayer. Dizzy and flushed with heat, she fluttered her eyelashes, vaguely aware that his mouth had left hers and ventured to her throat, but she was so caught up in sensation, she couldn’t surface to protest. Featherlight lips traced the line of her collarbone, then trailed to the swell of her breasts. Amy blinked, but blinking didn’t slow Swift, and before she could think of some way to more actively relate her dislike of the liberties he was taking, he persuaded her into liking what he was doing after all.
He dove his tongue under the edge of her gown, tugging up on the lace, slipping under, grazing the peak of her breast. She gasped and made fists in his hair to pull him away. Before she could, her breast, shoved so high by the bones of the corset and tugged upward by his tongue, popped free of the flimsy lace and into his mouth. Shocked by the sensation that shot into her belly, she arched her back to buck, and Swift took full advantage, drawing hard on her nipple.
All thought fled. Amy forgot where she was, what she was doing, everything. Swift and his hot, relentless, demanding mouth was the only reality. She whimpered, then moaned as he nipped the swollen nub of her nipple until it throbbed, until her areola sprang taut and tingled with longing.
Sweet torture. Grazing and pinching lightly with his teeth, he soon had her trembling with frustration, pressing his head to her breast, begging with her arching body for the full heat of his mouth. Which he refused her. Amy felt as if she were melting, her bones turning to liquid fire that pooled low in her belly.
“Swift . . . Swift, please . . .”
The instant she voiced the plea, he drew all of her back into his mouth, not carefully this time, but hungrily, sucking hard and long, his mouth so hot that she trembled and jerked with every drag of his
tongue. An ache started deep within her, a sharp, tingling, insatiable ache.
A spiral to heaven, the fires of hell, Amy felt a bit of both, the strange need building, hurting, tightening inside of her. She wanted. There was no definition in her mind of what she wanted, just a primal recognition of a need as old as womankind, and she fell prey to it with quivering helplessness, too mindless to analyze what was happening.
Above her, Swift struggled for self-control, knowing he could push now for more, take her as he had been longing to do. But the risks. He had promised not to take her, damn it. And here he was, about to toss up her dress and do it on the hard, half-frozen ground. She was his. He was so close.
In all his life, Swift had never broken a promise. In the last few years everything he valued had been stripped from him, except his honor, which no one could steal, unless he abandoned it himself. To do so now, by breaking a promise to Amy, when the very fabric of her trust depended on his word, would be an irrevocable mistake. If one thing went wrong—one lousy thing—like her becoming frightened at the moment their joining began, what seemed so perfect could turn nightmarish.
He swallowed, trying to slow his heartbeat, to pace his breaths. Lifting his head, he gazed down at her sweet face, twisted with yearning he had built within her and only he could slake. “Amy, love . . .” His voice shook. “Amy . . .”
She quivered, clutching his shirt. Swift lowered his head back to her breast, gentling the kisses, slowly bringing her down. He scooped her small, perfect breast back into its cup of lace and smoothed the silk back over it—the hardest thing he had ever done in his life.
“Amy . . .”
He trailed light kisses up her throat to her mouth, whispering her name until sanity slowly returned to her eyes. With the sanity came disbelief. Swift reared back as she jerked to a sitting position. Placing his hands on his knees, he regarded her in watchful silence, not sure how she might react.