There were murmurs of agreement from the other men. Obviously Cleav's insinuated superiority as a gentleman was a sore spot.
"I don't want to kiss her at all," Armon stated baldly. "If I had, I'd a done it years ago."
The others laughed in agreement, and Esme blushed in fury at his boastful supposition.
"But a bride's got to be kissed. It wouldn't be a shivaree without it."
Armon looked to his cohorts, who nodded agreement.
"If we ain't going to get to kiss her," Hightower explained, "then at least we get to see you do it."
"What?" Cleav and Esme exclaimed simultaneously.
"Kiss her," Will Gambridge encouraged. "And not that sissy little peck she got in church. Let's see you buss her for all she's worth."
"Yeah," the eldest Roscoe agreed. "And put some tongue in it!"
"You—" Esme sputtered angrily again, but Cleav patted her consolingly.
"My wife and I have no intention of entertaining you," he said emphatically.
Armon laughed. "Suit yourself, Mr. Storekeep," he replied. "Best make yourself comfortable, then, 'cause you ain't going nowhere, and we got a night full of drinking ahead of us."
As if to emphasize his words, Hightower crossed his legs and seated himself on the ground, making himself comfortable. "Tie her back up, Will," he ordered his henchman. "If they won't pay up, they're not going anywhere."
As Gambridge made a move toward them, Cleav held up his hand. It was obvious that the drunk quartet had every intention of getting drunker. Shivarees were normally just nasty little jokes, but more than one in the hills had turned ugly.
"You want to see me kiss her?" he asked unnecessarily. "Hell, she's my wife. I don't mind kissing her one bit."
Turning to the woman beside him, he whispered, "Just play along with me, and we'll get out of here."
Esme hadn't time to reply when Cleav pulled her into his embrace, bending her backward over his left arm. With her throat so exposed, he gifted it with a breathy kiss and a gentle bite. His actions brought a startled exclamation to her lips. Then he kissed her.
His kiss was neither gentle nor sweet. It was a kiss of lust and power. A kiss of masculine domination. A kiss designed for his audience. He thrust his tongue deep into the hot, sweet recesses of Esme's mouth. His only hope was that she wouldn't fight him, that she would let him finish the lewd display that would earn them their freedom.
The last thing he expected was her response. But slowly a low, soft moan emerged from Esme's throat, and her arms wrapped around his neck. She was pressing against him and kissing him back.
Cleav forgot his escape plan and his worry about the drunkenness of his captors. He forgot Armon Hightower's scurrilous little scheme. He forgot he was surrounded by slobbering hill boys. The rough kiss melted to one of tenderness, and a moment later he, too, was moaning and pulling the woman in his arms more closely against him.
"Whew-lordy!" The oldest Roscoe brother's exclamation penetrated the hot fog of desire that had blinded him. "Is that Esme a saucy-tail or which?" he asked of no one special.
Cleav jerked away from Esme, shocked at his own loss of control. In two steps he stood before Roscoe. Without a thought to the potential consequences, he grabbed the big, ruddy blond man by the scruff of the neck and slammed him none too gently against the scrub pine at his back.
"You keep my wife's name off your lips," he said with dark fervor. "Or I'll cut your balls off and feed them to that prize hog of yours."
The Roscoe boy choked out an agreeable reply, and Cleav dropped him abruptly. Turning, he held out his hand to Esme.
"Come on," he ordered, and she followed him without a word.
He was halfway down the mountain before he realized that both his anger and his daring were born out of lust. Lust had empowered him to call the bluff of those besotted bullies. At least, he hoped it was only lust. Were there cracks in the gentlemanly veneer that barely covered his rough cracker heritage?
Either way, it didn't set well with him.
The night wasblack as pitch as the exhausted couple made their way down the mountain to the wide porch of the large, white house. His jacket missing, his knees splotched with mud, his muscles aching, Cleav made no attempt to enter but seated himself on the top step of the porch.
He glanced at Esme as she sat down beside him. She, also, looked a bit worse for wear. Sophrona's made-over dress was no longer white but splattered with dark, dirty stains. Her hair was loose and flying, and her shoes were missing.
"I'm sorry," she said woefully as she propped her elbows against her thighs and rested her chin in her hands. "Sure to graces, you must be just too vexed to live."
