Only in My Arms Page 16

  Ryder felt heat rush into his face as Mary's green eyes narrowed on him coldly.

  Mary was satisfied with his reaction. "Now tell me why I should take off my clothes."

  He held up a hand and began ticking off the reasons. "They're damp. They're mine. They don't fit you. They look ridiculous."

  Mary stared at his hand. Four fingers had already come up and now the thumb was slowly being raised. "And?" she asked, her eyes going from his hand to his face.

  "And I want you naked."

  She blinked. Astonishment silenced her.

  "You wanted to know," he said simply. As Ryder took another step toward her, Mary's hands flew to the first button of her shirt. He was careful not to smile as he walked past her.

  Mary watched Ryder go to the clothesline and begin removing her habit and shift. She expected him to toss the items in her direction, even held out her hand to catch them.

  Out of the corner of his eye Ryder saw the movement. He turned, his arms full, and looked at her outstretched hand questioningly. "Yes?"

  Confusion showed in Mary's drawn brows. "Aren't you going to give me those?" she asked.

  Ryder raised one thumb and wiggled it. "Reason number five. I want you naked."

  She gaped at him.

  Ignoring her, Ryder opened the trunk and tossed in her habit and shift. He plucked the towels off the line, folded them, and laid them on top. He found the valise, removed the clothes he had worn in the stockade, and added them to the items in the trunk. Glancing around the chamber, he saw a few more items that Mary might make use of and put them away as well. When he had gathered everything he closed the lid and sat on it. He looked in Mary's direction, his arms folded in front of him, his expression expectant. Her hand was still closed over the uppermost button of her shirt, and there was a dazed look to her luminous green eyes.

  "Mary," he said calmly. "I want you to remove your clothes."

  What was it, she wondered, about the way he said her name that was so compelling? She actually had to think about what he was asking before she could respond. "You have to give me something," she said. "Let me wear the shirt."

  He shook his head. "It's still damp. I don't need you getting sick on me."

  "My shift."

  "No."

  Mary closed her eyes for a moment. "A blanket at least," she said. "Please, Ryder."

  He pretended to think it over. He had always intended to give her one, but he needed her cowed first. Ryder didn't like himself much for doing this, but he didn't regret it either. "A blanket," he said, as if granting a great boon. "Now get undressed."

  Mary nodded slowly. She had undone two buttons and the bandana belt around her waist when Ryder interrupted.

  "Are you doing this show for my benefit?" he asked.

  She frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, this isn't a Chicago stage. Throw a blanket over the line and get undressed behind it." His comments had the desired effect. He watched Mary flush to the roots of her fiery hair, confused, off balance, and embarrassed. "Go on," he said. He left the trunk, picked up a blanket from the bed and tossed it to her. "Use this."

  Mary's hands tightened around the blanket. She glared at him, but kept her jaw clamped and her thoughts mostly to herself. He was welcome to interpret the expression on her face in any way he wanted.

  Ryder sat in the wing chair, his long legs stretched casually in front of him, while Mary fixed the blanket over the line. Her head was visible, as were her legs from knee to ankle, but Ryder didn't bother looking in her direction. Instead he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

  As she undressed Mary looked over the rim of the sagging line at Ryder. He wasn't gloating. There was no smirk to wipe off his face, no gleam to cast out of his eyes. He merely looked bone weary. It moved her in a way that was as unexpected as it was unwelcome. Compassion for her captor made no sense, yet it was the emotion that tugged at her thoughts, clouding them.

  "I'm finished," she said.

  Ryder opened his eyes and raised his head slowly. Sleep had been a very near companion, but he was alert now, watchful. Mary was standing in front of him, wearing the blanket that had been slung over the line and carrying an armload of his clothes. Ryder stood and took them from her. "Go lie down," he said. "I'll join you in a moment."

  She sat on the edge of the stone bed, her feet dangling over the side while Ryder put the clothes away. There was no key to lock the trunk, but he effectively sealed it by placing the case of Henry rifles on top. Mary saw the effort he exerted to lift the case and knew she could never remove it, at least not quietly and quickly.

  Ryder blew out one of the two lighted lanterns and carried the other to their bed. "I said lie down."

  Mary eased herself back on the blankets, her body stiff. "Are you going to tie me again?" she whispered.

  "It didn't work the first time." He put the lantern beside where he would lie and stretched out himself. "That's why you don't have any clothes now." Turning on his side, he drew Mary close to him and slipped an arm across her waist. He could feel her breathing quicken as her body was brought flush to his. When his hushed voice came again it was close to her ear. "If you try to escape again I won't even give you a blanket."

  "If you catch me."

  He wouldn't permit her small show of bravado. "I'll catch you, Mary," he said. "I'll always catch you."

  She fell asleep wondering why she heard those words more as a promise than threat.

  * * *

  He let her have her clothes when he woke. It was a pattern that was repeated over days that were maddening in their sameness. There was neither morning nor night in the chamber. They slept when they were tired and rose when they were rested. Their inner clocks didn't always work in concert, but Mary was forced to follow Ryder. Anytime he was ready to sleep she was made to undress and lie beside him. Her clothes were placed out of her reach in the trunk, and he always slipped one arm around her waist before he closed his eyes.

  She told herself she should fight against sleep on the principle of having no choice as to when or how she took it. She never did though. When his arm stole around her middle she accepted it, drew comfort from it, and, in her secret heart, began to look forward to it.

  During what passed for their days Mary read. Sometimes Ryder would disappear for hours, but she never tried to follow him. There was only one way out of the cavern from their chamber so their paths would have crossed. She envied him for being able to take his fill of sunshine and starlight, but she never asked to accompany him. She couldn't bring herself to make the request and have it refused.

  Mary suspected that Ryder's reasons for leaving the cavern had to do with watching for search parties and gauging the safety of their position, but he never volunteered any information, and it was again a matter of pride to her to remain silent on that. He always returned with something for her. The gifts were usually laid in her lap like an offering. She would lower her book and try not to look too pleased, but she was largely unsuccessful. He brought her a handful of nuts one time, small sweet berries at another. On a third occasion he gave her a rough piece of turquoise, which he later polished into a smooth stone half the size of her thumbnail. When she thought herself unobserved Mary would take the stone out and study it, not certain what to make of Ryder's odd thoughtfulness.

  He let her explore some of the deeper recesses of the cavern with him. Routes that led in the opposite direction from the entrance were open to her as long as he was with her. She knelt at the source of the spring that supplied their chamber's cold water and drank from her cupped hands. He showed her another chamber where at the very center her own whispered voice would echo hollowly in her ears. Mary would hike up her skirts and clamber over rocks and tenuous stone bridges while Ryder followed with a raised lantern.

  It was an unusual prison, she thought. Spacious beyond belief, yet more confining than the convent. Sometimes when she first woke it was difficult to breathe.

  For other reasons s
he had that sensation now. The weight of Ryder's arm pressed the rough blanket to her skin. He drew her closer as he prepared to sleep.

  "What is it?" he asked.

  She was not prepared for the question. By some mutual, though unspoken, agreement, they rarely exchanged words once they were sharing the bed. It seemed that speech was too intimate, too penetrating and personal. It was better to save it for the waking hours when they had all their faculties and defenses. Mary continued to stare at the play of shadows on the chamber wall and didn't answer.

  She wasn't relaxing beside him as she usually did. Ryder raised himself on one elbow and looked down at her. She was staring, dry-eyed and vaguely anxious, at the far wall. "Your heart's racing like a rabbit's," he said.

  "Give me a moment," she said quietly. "I'll be all right."

  Ryder lifted the arm that was around her waist. The touch of his fingers on her cheek, then her forehead, was light and tentative. Her skin warmed under his fingertips.

  He shouldn't touch me, she thought. It isn't fair.

  She spoke because words right now would be less of an invasion than his touch. "How long have we been here?" she asked.

  Ryder's fingers slipped away from Mary's face. They dragged lightly through her silky hair before his palm came to rest on the curve of her hip.

  Mary's breath caught in her throat, but she didn't ask him to remove his hand. For his part, he did not seem to be aware of its position; for Mary's, she could be aware of nothing else. "How long?" she asked again.

  "Twelve days," Ryder said.

  "So long," she said more to herself than to him. Mary sighed. "Christmas came and went. Did you know that?"

  He had known. He had brought her the turquoise. "I didn't realize."

  She merely shrugged as if it weren't important, but tears gathered in her eyes.

  "Mary?"

  She wished he wouldn't say her name. It always seemed to prompt the response he wanted even when she wanted a different one. "It isn't fair," she said finally. "It isn't fair that my family doesn't know I'm safe, that they spent Christmas wondering about me, worrying. Isn't there some way you could let them—"

  "No," he said. "There's no way."

  "And the new year. We'll spend it here and they won't have any idea that I'm not injured... not dead."

  "No." Ryder removed his hand from her hip and let his arm fall around her waist. "But you're right. It's not fair."

  She hadn't expected that. His admission didn't change anything, not really. The fact that it made her feel better was troubling in its own right. "You could let me go," she said.

  He didn't bother responding to that. "Go to sleep." Ryder stretched his other arm out above his head and lay down.

  "I want to see the sun again," she said softly.

  Ryder didn't answer, but he was awake a lot longer than Mary thinking about it.

  * * *

  "Do you want to come with me?" Ryder paused in the stone archway as he spoke. He had not planned to ask. It was not like him, but the words were simply there, on the tip of his tongue, and then they were given sound. He could not call them back. He only hoped she had not heard him.

  Mary lowered her book. Ryder was not even looking at her, and she suspected the invitation was reluctantly offered and already regretted. That didn't bother her. She didn't ask him to repeat himself or wonder aloud if he was serious. Dropping her book into the basket, Mary came to her feet. "Yes," she said. "I'd like that."

  By the time she reached the exit, Ryder was already striding down the corridor. Lantern light made a slow sweep of the walls as the lamp swung in his hand. Mary stayed close enough to follow the light, but didn't try to come abreast of him. He was making it patently obvious that he didn't want the company.

  She was so intent on following that light that when Ryder stopped she almost ran into his back. Glancing around, she saw they hadn't come very far. The corridor forked and to the right was the chamber used for nature's calls. Mary's disappointment was deep. She was certain he had intended something else when he'd made his offer. She had expected a trip to the outside, not a trip to the privy.

  Ryder placed the lantern on the ground and turned to Mary. "You'll have to wear this," he said.

  She looked at him in confusion until he raised one of his bandanas in front of her eyes. "A blindfold?" she asked.

  He nodded. "Do you agree?"

  "Yes," she said quickly. "Oh, yes."

  The alacrity of her reply, the eagerness in her voice, struck Ryder like a physical blow. Her face was raised to him, and her eyes were already closed in a gesture of offering. Long lashes fanned the curves of her lids. Her mouth was set in a faint smile, anticipation warring with impatience. She had the ripe, expectant expression of a woman inviting a kiss, not a blindfold.

  Ryder's head bent.

  Mary opened her eyes.

  They stared, hardly breathing. Time passed. An eternity, a few heartbeats. It was all the same.

  Ryder drew back first. Mary swayed slightly, her slender body pulled forward by his withdrawal. He steadied her with firm hands; then he put the blindfold around her eyes, picked up the lantern, and took her hand. "This way," he said.

  His voice was a little rough, a little husky, and it vibrated through Mary, unsettling but not unpleasant. She gripped Ryder's hand. "You won't go too fast?" she asked.

  "No, Mary. Not too fast."

  * * *

  At the entrance to the cavern Ryder finally let Mary remove the blindfold. She tore it off quickly, squinting as she anticipated the sunlight that would shower her face. Her eyes widened slowly, and she was horrified by the depth of her disappointment.

  "It's night," she said. And not just any night, she thought, but one so thick with clouds that starlight and moonshine couldn't penetrate.

  Ryder tucked one end of the bandana into his waistband, then moved to stand behind Mary. He nudged her closer to the lip of the cavern, resting his hands on her upper arms. "Give it time," he said quietly. "Night doesn't last forever." When she nodded he could feel strands of her silky hair brush his chin. If they had been intimate he would have kissed the crown of her head then or lowered his mouth to her ear. His eyes fell instead to the habit's collar that framed her slender neck and the black fabric that shrouded her shoulders.

  A gentle breeze swept the mouth of the cavern and lifted the fragrance of her hair to his nostrils. Ryder breathed deeply. She never wore the veil and wimple anymore; she hadn't since the day they'd arrived at the cavern. He'd never wondered about it. Now, with the subtle fragrance of Mary's soft hair filling his senses he had cause.

  "You don't wear your veil," he said.

  In an immediate, self-conscious gesture, Mary's hand went to her hair. She tugged at the curl near her temple and tucked it behind her ear.

  Ryder's hand closed over hers and drew it away. He let her hand fall, then again placed his own on her upper arm. "There's nothing wrong with your hair." Quite the opposite. "I just wondered about the veil."

  She shrugged. "It seemed too much," she said vaguely. His palms were warm on her arms, and where her back touched his chest she could feel his heat. Mary crossed her arms in front of her as another breeze eddied through the entrance, whistling in the chamber behind her and raising a soft sighing sound from the pine trees ahead.

  "You're cold," said Ryder.

  "A little."

  He rubbed her arms lightly. "I should have brought a blanket."

  "No, it's all right." She turned her head to the side, raising it slightly to see him better. "This is enough," she said. "To smell the pines... the fresh air... even if there's no—" Mary broke off as a crescent of light appeared on the horizon. Almost immediately there were bands of mauve and deep lilac running along the underbelly of the clouds. The vision blurred as tears washed Mary's eyes.

  Sunshine scattered its bright light across the plateaus and mountain peaks and carved out an arc that crossed the mouth of the cavern. Mary and Ryder stood in the center of i
t. Her solemn face was raised in greeting, in thankfulness. He was watching her.

  Ryder handed Mary the bandana. She stared at it, stricken. "Already?" she asked hoarsely. "Can't we stay—"

  "For your tears," he said. "We can stay."

  Mary gave him a discomfited, watery smile but her eyes radiated her pleasure. "Thank you."

  Ryder took his bandana back and wiped her tears himself. The backs of his fingers brushed her cheek when his hand fell away. He turned her around to face the sun before her pleasure prompted promises from him that he shouldn't make and couldn't keep.

  The clouds lifted, spread, and claimed the sky like a sheer white shroud floating in a cerulean sea. The first rays of heat had just radiated from the ground outside the cavern when Ryder touched Mary's shoulder lightly and said it was time to go. She nodded in understanding, but she didn't move and Ryder didn't force the issue.

  "The Apache call this time of year ghost face," he told her.

  "Ghost face," she repeated softly. It fit. Sunshine was falling on a mostly barren land. Evergreens brought color to the landscape, but the shrubs were bare and the low vegetation was brown and scrubby. "That's a proper name for winter in this part of the country."

  "Not winter exactly. The Apache divide the year into six seasons, not four. We've just finished earth-is-reddish-brown."

  "Autumn," she said.

  "Late fall," he corrected her. "When your survival depends on the availability of wild plants you're particular about naming your seasons."

  "And spring?"

  "Little eagles is March and April; many leaves is May and June."

  "How do you say those names in the Apache tongue?" she asked.

  Ryder told her.

  Mary listened to the unfamiliar language, trying to catch its cadence and intonation. "What do they call summer?"

  "Large leaves." He gave her the Apache word and smiled at her attempt to repeat it. "Early fall is the season of large fruit. The Apache reckon a month as a moon and a year as one harvest. There are thirteen moons to one harvest and six seasons."