Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Storm by Marina Gimenes Matiazi. All graphics by me.
Book 1: The Green, Book 2: Lynch's Boys, Book 3: The Road Home, and the Riders & Kickers Anthology are available on Amazon under the name Regina Shelley. So if you hate waiting for chapter posts and/or want a more polished read, the finished product is available now.
Ah, marde she's furious. She's going to kill me. Storm involuntarily recoiled into the narrow, shadowed alley where the back of the guest quarters butted up close to the stockade wall, watching Fiona turn the corner around the cabin and stalk towards him. Her face was a pinched mask of barely-contained emotion, and Storm would not have been in the least surprised to see fire shooting out of her eyes.
After releasing he and Dev from the brig, the Captain and his angry Lieutenant had convened to the Captain's office and slammed the door behind them. It had taken every ounce of Storm's control to force himself to focus his attention on Mr. Lynch, and to ignore Fiona as best he could. To her credit, Fiona had managed to avoid looking at him. In fact, they had ignored each other so hard it had made him wonder if they had looked suspicious doing it. I felt less vulnerable when I was watching them build a gallows to hang me.
Fiona looked as if her face might dissolve into weeping as she strode towards him. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks were pale. "You weren't supposed to come," she whispered, her voice almost inaudible. "I didn't mean for..." She threw her arms around his neck, her mouth claiming his.
He pulled her against his chest, groaning as her presence overwhelmed him and every nerve in his body lit up like a lightning-filled cloud on a summer night. How I've missed you, woman. The softness of her curves against his body, and the sweet, bergamot scent of her took him over, consumed him. As through a fog, he felt the burn on his shoulder pinch and complain. He barely noticed it. Nothing existed but Fiona in his arms, her soft curls tickling his face, and her lips on his, soft and sweet and hungry. I've been dead since the last time I saw you, Fiona. I don't think I've breathed since then.
She pulled her face away, breaking the kiss with a soft gasp. "You can't be here," she breathed, arching her head back to look at his face. "The whole reason I came out here was because..."
"I am here." He leaned close to her ear and whispered. "What did you expect? That I'd just sit at home while this was going on?"
She pressed her face into the side of his neck, and he felt heat and the wetness of tears.
Drawing in a deep breath, she steadied herself. "There were things I needed you to know. In case...in case I didn't make it back."
If you didn't make it back...He shook his head, cupping her face with his hands and looking hard into her eyes. "No. You'll make it back. Or neither of us will. Dev and I came to bring you and Mr. Lynch home."
She sighed, and he couldn't tell if it was from relief or worry. Probably both. He could feel her damp eyelashes against the side of his neck and had to make a conscious effort to keep his knees from buckling. She whispered, her breath hot on his skin. "It's not safe for you to be here."
"This is Fort Bridger," he murmured against the shell of her ear. "It's not safe for anyone to be here."
"I suppose you're right..." She had turned her head and was whispering against the hollow of his throat and suns were exploding behind his eyelids and in the pit of his stomach. He could hear a tiny, faraway voice shouting, as if something were calling to him from inside a locked and mostly buried trunk. He realized it was probably the Voice of Wisdom, and what it was saying was "Don't mind me." Other, louder voices were busily filling in the rest of the dirt over the pit.
He pulled her closer, his hands brushing against the buttons at her back and it took every shred of strength he had in his possession to leave them alone. Her lips brushed against his collarbone as her fingers strayed into the open neck of his shirt, and he wondered if she had any idea what she was doing to him. He suspected that she might, and the thought had him mentally stacking rocks over the fresh grave of The Voice of Wisdom. Just in case. Leaning back against the cabin wall in an effort to remain upright, he let his hands stray over the frustratingly heavy brocade of her dress. If we are found out...
The Voice of Wisdom probably would have told him, had it been able, that what he was doing right now...with his employer's niece, no less...and under the very noses of a regiment of armed soldiers, no less...was absolute, profound idiocy. And that he certainly shouldn't be compounding his folly by getting an illicit thrill out of it. But alas, Wisdom was buried. The Other Voices, the ones telling him this was a good idea, were walking away from the grave and tossing their shovels aside.
Her hands felt cool against his heated skin, feathering over his shoulder under his shirt. His heart was pounding in his ears. She stiffened and jerked her head up. "What the bloody hell is this?"
Storm felt as though he had been slapped awake and doused with icy water. "Fiona...wha...?" He was breathing hard, confused and disoriented. Fiona jerked aside the collar of his shirt, exposing the bandage across his burned shoulder. His heart sank. Tabarnac...
Her mouth dropped open as she held the collar of his shirt wadded in a fist. Her eyes were full of fear, and she stared at him as if seeing him for the first time, suddenly noticing the tiny, scabbing burn on his neck, and the faint, healing bruises he'd gotten from struggling with Hooper. She grabbed his hands and stared, the breath leaving her body in an agonized gasp when she saw the welts and bruises around both his wrists peeking from beneath his shirtsleeves. "What happened?" she whispered. "What's going on at home?"
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