God, she was beautiful, intelligent, soft and—he smiled to himself—stubborn, courageous, exasperating and positively wonderful. She was the epitome of feminine propriety on one hand, but in the blink of an eye, she was a hellcat of fiery independence. With a simple swing of her mood, she made him roll with the giggles of a little boy or ache with the smoldering passions of a virile man. It was that tantalizing combination of genteelness, individuality and unpredictability that had branded her on his thoughts—awake and asleep—and scorched a path from his conscious mind to deep within his very soul. He cherished and loved her above all else.
Kyndee was his friend, his confidant and his love. There was nothing they couldn't talk about, didn't talk about. She was everything he needed and wanted—and, oh Lord, he wanted her every day, every night. Fletcher managed to restrain himself because he wanted her first experience to be as passionate and sweet as he could make it, not a stolen moment which she might later regret and remember with shame, possibly even doubting his love for her. No, he would not savor her innocence until he took her to wife legally which, to his own anguished impatience, was years away. To strengthen his noble intentions and temper his overgrown unbridled passions—lest he gush like a hot spring—he sated his desires by coercing his way into Madam Louisa's, allowing her nymphs to hone their skills and teach them a few of his own. The visits afforded him relief but did not achieve the release he sought. Deep within him he knew only with Kyndee would he find that ultimate pleasure.
Kyndee sighed contentedly and cupped his face with her hands, her thumbs gently toying with the corners of his lips. The mere touch of her fingers against his skin kindled a slow burn and his own desire was hot and hard between them. He claimed her mouth again, deeply this time, and shuddered when she responded in kind. Her tongue darted against his, hesitant at first then with clear impudence explored the recesses of his mouth, gliding along his teeth, answering his silent summons to join his with no fear, no indignation and more than a slight clinical curiosity. It was the curiosity which caused him to chuckle and pull away.
Kyndee pursed her lips. "You're laughing at me!"
"No, never, Bonbon," he moaned in excuse against the silky hollow beneath her earlobe. Rising on his forearms, he grinned at her and touched the tip of his nose to hers. "Have you any idea what it is you do to me?"
"What does it feel like? What I do to you?"
A groan rumbled in his chest. "Little minx, you ask me to describe that which defies description." He cast his eyes heavenward. "Ah, Bonbon, for me you are like...a tidal wave...fire and ice...a sweet crescendo of passion's hunger and a promise of wondrous perfection. You are sweet agony that sets me to trembling as with cold while a warmth radiates from wherever you touch to forge an ache coiling deep within me. You shatter my soul and my sanity and become them at the same time. I burn for you in places I dare not mention and—" He chuckled. "—I'm surprised you haven't slapped my face and taken me to task for braving such indecent liberties with you."
She hiked herself up to her elbows and wriggled free of him. "Why should I do that? I wanted to know how you felt and…and how you tasted." A warm wine color rose in her cheeks as she nuzzled his cheek. "You tasted quite delicious—like sun-ripened wild strawberries—and I fear I may be developing this hunger you speak of." Her hand caressed his face as her whisper caressed his heart. "How could this hand be anything but tender when I know you'd never do anything to hurt me. You know I feel the same way about you. To hurt you would be the same as hurting myself."
Liar! Traitor! Then why did you insist I go with Buck that day?
Like all dreams, the scene changed swiftly. Fletcher was there again—on the road. It struck without warning—the searing pain in the back of his head. Again and again it came, unrelenting, from everywhere, from nowhere, not giving him a chance to breathe, to find his own limbs and fight. Fight what? Fight whom? Brutal hands holding him; something hard beating him, crushing and breaking him, not allowing him a second to think, to react. He reached out to grasp something, anything, but as he did the pain struck his back and his sides, tearing sinew, splintering bone.
Merciful blackness was descending on him as he fell, yet he could still hear the panting of the attackers as they kept on with their torture. The glint of a metal blade shimmered in the sunlight a millisecond before it slashed his face and jabbed in his neck. He tried to cry out but couldn't; something was choking him. His brain struggled for an answer.
Liquid? Blood! Then Fletcher heard a voice.
"Enough! Enough!. I told you I didn't want him killed—just subdued sufficiently for you to take him. However, from what Kyndee said, I did think he'd put up more of a fight."
He knew that voice. It was Buck's voice! Buck had done this to him! The rage in him coursed the blood faster through his veins, choking him even as he struggled and tried to scream. No human sound came. He heard only the terrorized scream in his skull as another agonizing pain cracked the side of his head. Mercifully, the blackness became complete...
* * *
His own cries woke him with a scream and a shudder. Panicked, Fletcher shot up and looked around the room. Moonlight, streaming through the hotel window, assured him he was alone and, wiping his hand over his eyes, he fell back into the mattress. The pillow and bedclothes were damp.
As he lay there trembling, his chest heaving, he covered his face with his arm. He wanted to rise and read, to do something, anything to chase away the nightmares, but he was too tired. He bit his fist and willed himself to take deep breaths. Finally, as in his nightmare, the blackness reached out and took him.
* * *
"Mr. Brown? Mr. Brown? Are you in there?" The knocking at the door was insistent.
"Yes, yes, go away!" he growled with a vengeance. His mouth was dry; his eyes burned and his head ached. Hell and damnation, even a good hangover was preferable to the way he felt now.
The knocking resumed. "Mr. Brown, the farrier left a message that your horse is ready. He said you'd want to know immediately. Will you be wanting supper before you go? Mr. Brown?"
Supper? What the devil time was it? Had he slept away the whole blasted day? Damn! A waste of the good weather.
"All right. All right. Don't break the goddamned door! I'll be there directly."
He glanced down at himself—fully clothed right to his boots. Disgusting. He'd have to have a bath and clean clothes before he started out. He chuckled wryly; Whiz was fastidious about his riders.
Groaning with a heavy sigh, Fletcher rose, crossed to the window and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Pulling aside the lace curtain, he leaned his forearm on the casement and peered out. His impression from the evening before hadn't changed. This was another nameless town like the rest. He wasn't about to tarry here long.
As he turned, he caught his reflection in the mirror. He didn't like what he saw. Always having been clean-shaven, he hated his new furry look. But his full beard hid the lower half of his face. It also hid the thick scar that ran the entire length of his right cheek and under his jaw.
"Damn, do you look abominable," he said to the reflection. His voice was raspy and harsh. It had sounded that way since the assault nearly ten years ago. The attackers had apparently severed something in his neck when his face and throat had been sliced open. It had taken weeks for him to be able to speak at all. The deep shadows under his eyes made their color appear black and sinister.
No, they wouldn't recognize him at home. He barely recognized himself. Besides, what dead man returns from the grave? That is, if the asylum had informed Buck of his supposed death over three years ago. Perhaps they hadn't cared to relinquish the payments and had kept his death a secret. Fletcher wouldn't know the answer to that and many other questions until he came face to face with Mr. Buck Bannistre, himself.
Pouring water into the basin, he splashed water on his face, finger-brushed his hair and left the room.
* * *
"Hello