Page 55 of Cutter’s Lady

“Captain Velasquez has kindly offered us the use of his home tonight,” Cutter told her, nodding his head toward the guard outside.

“Oh. How nice.” Leslie wondered if the man could hear her. “Please thank him for me.”

“Let’s eat outside. I put some food in there.” Cutter pointed to the roll in Leslie’s hands. “Bring it out here.”

He went back outside and sat down before the doorway with their guard. Leslie frowned after him; she felt like sticking out her tongue at him. He certainly was full of orders tonight. But there was something strange in his manner that told her it was best simply to go along with what he said. She couldn’t afford to spoil whatever act he was putting on for the guerrillas. She set down the bundle and dug in it for food. There were some unappetizing looking beef sticks, as well as cheese and crackers. She unwrapped the beef jerky and cheese, opened the crackers and took the food out to Cutter.

He took the food without comment and patted the ground to the side of and slightly behind him. Leslie hesitated, her temper rising at his high-handed manner, but she sat down where he indicated. Cutter offered their host his choice of food, then took some himself and finally handed it back to Leslie. Cutter and Velasquez talked in Spanish as they ate, and Leslie chewed away at the tough meat in silence, wondering to herself just how much of this macho act she was going to have to put up with.

She soon found out. When Cutter and the other man had finished eating, Cutter handed the remains of the meal to her and said, “Joaquin tells me there’s a well at the south end of the village.” He pointed in the general direction. “Take the bucket from inside the house and go to the well and fill it up. I want a bath.” Leslie’s eyes sparked, and she almost told Cutter to fetch the water himself. But she refrained, wet her lips and managed a sweet smile. “Of course, babe.”

She was rewarded by the unconcealed astonishment in Cutter’s eyes. She slipped back inside the house and stuffed their dinner into the bundle. Then she strained to see the bucket in the dark room. Cutter stepped into the room and lit a match, and she spied the elusive bucket against the far wall. Cutter followed her when she went to get it, blowing the match out and dropping it.

He grasped her upper arms and pulled her close to him, bending down to nuzzle her ear and murmur, a tremor of a laugh in his voice, “You ready to start throwing things at me yet?”

“Just about,” Leslie snapped, putting her hands up against his chest and shoving. He didn’t move.

“Gotta make it look realistic,” he whispered, his lips nibbling at her earlobe. “You’re my woman, remember?” Leslie made a faint, irritated noise. She could feel his smile against her skin. “It’s the only way we can be assured of your safety. You realize that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He kissed her full on the mouth, surprising Leslie. It was a long, leisurely kiss, and Cutter’s tongue played slowly through her mouth, taking full advantage of the situation. His hands moved down, pressing her up into him, and Leslie could feel him already hardening against her.

After what seemed like forever, he pulled his mouth from hers, leaving Leslie limp and flushed. His mouth trailed across her cheek and to her other ear. “Sorry to be so domineering.” His voice sounded a trifle shaky now. “These men wouldn’t understand my treating ‘my woman’ any other way. If we talked to each other the way we usually do, they’d decide I was weak. It would hurt our position. They might decide you were fair game—or that we’re both expendable.”

“What?” Leslie shivered, but she wasn’t sure whether it was from fear at what Cutter had said or from the velvet nibbling of his lips.

His mouth slid down her neck, bringing the tender flesh to pulsing life. “They might even figure you’d appreciate ‘a real man’ instead of someone who didn’t know how to handle you.”

“Cutter!”

“I won’t let that happen. But, frankly, I’d just as soon avoid getting into a fight over you. So do as I say, okay? And no protest.”

“All right. I promise.”

He kissed her again, a brief, firm kiss that was more a seal to their agreement than an erotic exploration. Still, even that touch of his lips was enough to raise her temperature several degrees. “Good. Then get your bucket and go.”

“Yes, master.” Leslie said sarcastically, but as she stepped back and out of his arms, she flashed him a smile. Then she bent to retrieve the bucket and started for the door. Velasquez sat outside, his gun on the ground beside him. She was sure that even in the dim light he had been able to see what they were doing inside, and she flushed at the thought that their kisses had been on display. But then, she reminded herself, that obviously had been Cutter’s intent.

She didn’t like walking down the middle of the encampment, with the dark silent huts on either side. She could feel the eyes watching her from the darkness, and now and then in the flare of the fires she could see the dark, impassive faces of the fighters. She glanced back toward Velasquez’s hut and was relieved to see that Cutter had come back outside and stood watching her, his arms folded across his chest. When she found the well, she wasn’t sure what do. She’d never drawn water from a well before, and she couldn’t find any crank such as she had seen on the ones in movies. She wished for the hundredth time that her cell phone wasn’t dead—though she wouldn’t have been able to watch a how-to video on YouTube this deep in the jungle anyway.

There was a rope dangling down into the well, so she grasped it and began pulling it up, hand over hand. It was heavy, and the rough hemp scratched her palms. At last she jerked it free from the well and found a bucket full of water attached to the end. Clumsily she tilted up the bucket and poured it into hers, spilling about a fourth of the water on herself during the process. Her bucket was only half-filled, so she dropped the bucket back in and hauled it up again. By the time she had her bucket filled, her palms were almost raw and her shirt was half-drenched.

She dropped the pail back into the well and picked up her own bucket, staggering a little at its weight. She trudged through the settlement, the large wooden bucket banging against her leg and splashing water into her boot. The bent wire handle bit into her hand, and halfway to the house she had to stop and transfer the pail to her other hand. But she kept on resolutely and at last reached Velasquez’s home.

The two men sat outside. While she had been gone they had built a small fire. The firelight flickered over Cutter’s face, highlighting and shadowing his features and turning his skin an odd coppery tone. He looked like a stranger to her, hard and dangerous, and she could not suppress the little tongue of anxiety that raced through her stomach.

Leslie started past the men into the house, but Cutter reached out a hand and curled it around her wrist, stopping her. “Set it down out here,” he ordered quietly. “Joaquin and I will talk while you wash me.”

Leslie bit her lip to hold back her startled response. She stared at Cutter in dismay as she set the pail down beside him. He began to unbutton his shirt and strip it off. “You’re going to bathe outdoors?” she asked finally, hoping her voice came out sufficiently subservient instead of appalled.

A smile broke his countenance then, and he tilted up his head to look at her. “Not entirely. Just wash my hair and chest. We’ll go inside for the rest. There’s a bar of soap with the clothes.” He nodded toward the hut.

Leslie thought for a split-second about pouring the entire contents of the bucket over Cutter and then hitting him in the head with it. But she took a steadying breath and retrieved the soap before returning to him. Cutter sat a few feet from the captain, talking to him, one leg drawn up and an arm resting casually on his knee. His muscled chest and arms gleamed in the firelight. Leslie drew in a shaky breath. She had no idea how to go about this, and she felt sure she would regret it.

When she stepped out, Cutter changed position, kneeling and sitting back on his heels. He placed his hands on his thighs and leaned forward so that the water would spill over his hair and onto the ground. “There’s a dipper hanging beside the door.”

“What? Oh.” She had been wondering how she was going to do this without getting them both thoroughly soaked. Though, the idea of the water-dumping and bucket-clobbering was still pretty appealing—he was getting far too much enjoyment out of this macho act. But the short-term gain was probably not worth endangering their positions, so she took the gourd dipper and carefully poured water from it over Cutter’s head.