Page 55 of West Wind

She stopped suddenly and backed away from the intense fire.

“Forget the rest?” Shelley asked.

He rose from his seat and crossed to her, offering his hand. She placed her hand in his, shuddering as he closed his long fingers over hers. That was all it took, his hand on hers, to make her anxious for his kiss.

She nodded her head, unable to speak.

“What was that?” he asked as he pulled her to her feet. “More of the ‘real’ Shelley?”

Annabelle nodded again and lifted her face to his. She’d lied to him, but it was a small lie. She never forgot a line of a song, or a verse from a poem, she was too well-trained for that. But she couldn’t let him see how much she really cared for him, or know that if she could she’d keep him with her forever. If she’d finished the poem that had sprung into her mind as she’d watched him across the fire, he would’ve known how she felt.

She’d never forget the first time she’d realized her love for Shelley and had made the collossal mistake of telling him. He’d pushed her away and run from her with an anger she still didn’t understand. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, make that mistake again.

“You are my passion, Shelley,” she whispered as he lowered his head to kiss her. She’d been afraid tonight would be awkward, but it was the most natural act in the world to have him take her in his arms and carry her to their secluded corner of the world.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

For nearly a week they traveled west, the weather continuing to bless them with cloudless blue skies and cool nights. It was as if they were charmed, for a short time. At night Annabelle sang for Shelley as they sat by the fire, and when she demanded a limerick he quickly provided one.

She felt wanton as she anxiously waited for him to take her in his arms. Some nights they made love only once, and then slept intertwined beneath the stars. Other nights they barely slept at all, reveling in the intimacy that neither tired of.

They were truly blessed. She pushed the persistent fears about what awaited her in San Francisco out of her mind, taking her life one day at a time. With Shelley at her side they were happy days. He didn’t mention again that what they shared was a physical attraction he’d dismiss when they reached San Francisco, that nothing more than simple lust drew them together.

She watched him across a low fire. Each night he found a beautiful campsite, off the trail and usually buffered on two or even three sides. Private. Quiet. In her heart she knew that anywhere they stopped would be beautiful as long as she was with him.

He lifted his head and grinned at her. She couldn’t stop the wide smile that spread across her face as he leaned forward and began to recite in an almost melodious voice:

“Now, Annie’s a lovely young lass,

With poise, and bearing, and class.

Her face, oh how fair,

Her lustrous brown hair,

But nothing compares to her ass.”

“Shelley!” She laughed. “That’s terrible.”

He frowned, but his eyes sparkled with laughter. “You don’t like my poetry anymore.”

“I do.”

She rose and sauntered around the fire to stand behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders and pressing her fingers gently into his muscles, kneading as his head rolled forward.

“But must a limerick always be so disgraceful?”

“Um-hum,” he answered with a contented murmur. “Always, darlin’.”

The muscles in his back tightened seconds before he stood, shaking off her hands. “Where’s your derringer?”

“In my saddlebag.”

“Get it,” he ordered as he removed his rifle from its sheath and set it near the flat rock where he’d been sitting.

There was no trace of a smile on his face as she removed the derringer from her saddlebag and stuck it in the waistband of her pants. She’d moved to stand beside him before she heard what had alarmed him moments earlier. Riders.

He placed his big hands on her shoulders. “Stay close to me. It’s probably just travelers like us, but there are three of them and…”