"Point three is totally insignificant to me, as it should be to you. What difference should it make if your parents couldn't produce a marriage certificate? Love is the most important thing, not someone's right to look down on you because your parents weren't—"
"My parents probably didn't even know each others' first names, Allison," he said icily. "My mother was a Comanche prostitute – or so I'm told. My father? Who knows?"
"Yes," Allie whispered softly. "Who knows? Who's to say they didn't have love between them, Brandon? Even if there was no paper to show for it? Who's to say they didn't speak the things to each other we all long to hear? Look at each other as if—" She stopped abruptly.
The dogged determination to hold on to her na?ve idealism shattered him. How could she think this way, with the circumstances of her own life being what they were?
"As if they were the only two people in the world," Brandon finished softly, reading that vision in Allie's features easily enough. It was what she yearned for – and she wanted him to be the one to share it.
The worst part was…what she said made sense. He wanted to believe her, to adopt her logical reasoning, but being born a bastard wasn't something he could ever change, no matter the circumstances. In the white world, it did matter.
She nodded, dropping her gaze. "Yes. For all we know, they were very much in love. For however long they had," she added. "And look what came of it, Brandon."
"Yeah—" he started, a caustic remark ready on his lips.
"See what I see – what I've always seen – when I look at you." Her fingers still held him lightly pinioned to the bed. Looking up at her, desire surged inside him. His only thought was to free his wrists and pull her to him. Maybe the only response was to roll atop her and take her, like the savage he was, under the civilized fa?ade.
"What would that be, Allie?" he asked slowly, filled with his own yearning to hear the answer, and his fear of it that was just as strong.
Her fingers shifted on his skin, caressing him for an instant before resettling around his wrists. The angry fire was gone from her gaze, leaving only the brilliant sheen of tears.
"A good man." She ducked her head as the tears spilled over, falling on his chest. "Just – a good man."
"I'm Comanche—"
"You're white, too," she countered softly.
"I'm a hired gun."
"For good, Brandon. Only for good."
"I'm a bastard."
A hint of a smile touched her lips as she met his gaze. "Sometimes. And then, only by choice."
Brandon gave a short laugh. "Maybe so. But others won't see what you see. 'Just a man,' as you say. I don't want to see you get hurt because of me, Allie. You deserve to be happy."
"Then, I guess it's not meant to be." She started to relieve the pressure at his wrists. "You're the only one who can do that, Brandon; make me happy. I don't know what else I can say or do to convince you."
Brandon closed his eyes as Allie let go of his wrists. Her thumbs drifted over his pulse points in a slow arc as her fingers opened. His breath caught, and his hips arched up, giving her a taste of what it would be like if she didn't have those tight, perfectly fitting men's jeans on. He groaned in a mixture of frustration, want, and need.
"Did I hurt your hand?" she asked innocently.
"No. Not – my hand." His tone was sulky to his own ears, and he laid his left arm across his eyes.
"What, then?"
"I hurt all over," he answered after a few seconds.
"You've never complained."
"Not complaining now. Just – hurting." He moved up toward her, hungry to touch her again where their bodies met, then stopped himself with a muttered curse. He moved his arm from his eyes, looking at her.
"Maybe I could make it better," Allie suggested, "if you tell me where."
"Here," he said quietly, touching his mending cheek. His gaze held hers as she leaned forward solemnly and brushed her lips over the wound in a feather-light kiss. He sucked in his breath, letting it out slowly. "And, here." He touched the stubbled skin just under his chin, close to his jaw.
Allie braced herself, her arm across his as she moved to kiss his jaw, then his throat.
He gave a low groan. "Allie," he whispered, his eyes meeting hers as she lifted her head. "Here—" He put two fingers to his battered mouth, and her lips slanted over his in the sweetest, gentlest kiss he had ever known. He let her kiss him, let her explore his mouth with her tongue, and when he could take no more of her tender lips on his, he pulled her to him, and took control. His heart pounded as if he'd run ten miles, his breath shallow.
His left hand splayed across the shining silken curtain of her hair, spearing through it, winding it around his flesh, and pulling her even closer as his mouth played on hers.
He rolled with her, pinning her under his half-clad body. His hands found hers, pulling them over her head, in helpless surrender. He lifted his mouth to look into her eyes.