Bride of the High Country Page 17

  Masking his distaste, Tait slipped the packet into his coat pocket. “How long to Pittsburgh?”

  “It’s not that far but it takes a while, since we have to go slow through the horseshoe curves and stop often to cool the brakes. Eight hours. Maybe ten.”

  “Best make it two packets, then.”

  Doing a poor job of hiding his skepticism, George handed over a second packet. “Have an enjoyable journey, sir.”

  Tait ignored that. After stopping by the lavatory to wash up, he went back to the compartment. Using his key, he opened the door.

  The room was dark, and for a moment he thought she had already climbed into her bunk. Then he saw her standing at the window in her robe, staring at the eastbound train.

  He crossed toward her. It wasn’t until he reached her side that he realized she was watching a couple on the other train, framed by candlelight in their compartment window.

  They were making love.

  The woman was facing the window, her dress gaping open as the man reached from behind to cup her unbound breasts. Her head was tilted back against her lover’s neck. Her eyes were closed. Tait watched the man’s hands tease and stroke, watched the woman arch to his touch, her lips curved in a half smile. It was the most erotic thing he had ever experienced, standing there in the dark, watching them and knowing Lucinda was watching, too.

  Heart pounding, he looked over at her, expecting to see shock, perhaps even disgust. Instead, she stood frozen, her gaze fixed on the couple across the way. He could tell by her breathing that she was aroused, too.

  “Lucinda.” He stepped closer, brushed his battered knuckles lightly across her cheek. “Sweetheart.”

  “He must love her very much,” she said as the woman leaned back against her partner, the dress slipping low on her shoulders, opening her body to more of his touch. Her breasts were small and dark-tipped, the man’s hands dark against her pale skin. “It’s in the way he touches her. Like she’s something rare and precious.”

  Puzzled by the wistful tone in her voice, Tait looked back at the couple on the other train.

  The man’s hands slid down below the gapping waistline of the dress to stroke low against the woman’s belly. Her mouth open, she twisted against him, turning her head to meet his kiss. When he tried to push the dress off her hips, she broke away and, with a laugh, reached up to snap the drapes closed.

  Lucinda stared at the dark window a moment longer, then said, “I almost died today. And I’ve never been touched like that. I’ve never known what that woman is feeling right now.” She turned her head and looked at him. In the dim light cast by the gas lamps lining the tracks, her eyes looked wet and sad. “Is it so wrong to want that? Just once.”

  His mouth was so dry his tongue felt clumsy. “Doyle—”

  “Never touched me like that.”

  “He’s your husband. It’s his right—”

  “No,” she cut in, her voice sharp. “He has no rights to me. This is something I decide.”

  He knew he’d blundered again. He could feel her drawing away, could almost see the walls coming up, and knew if he didn’t act now, she would slip away from him forever.

  He brushed a loose curl off her bruised cheek. “Are you asking me to make love to you, Miss Hathaway?”

  He felt a shiver run through her. Nerves? Fear? Anticipation?

  “You misunderstand, Mr. Rylander,” she said with a shaky smile. “This has nothing to do with love. I’m not seeking a grand passion like in one of those lurid dime novels.”

  “Then what is it you want?”

  She shrugged. “An experience. A memory. Since it’s unlikely I will ever share a marriage bed with a husband, I thought I would—”

  “Use me, instead?” He smiled, despite the sadness in his heart. He had hoped for so much more. Lifting a hand, he pulled loose the first bow in the row of ties down the front of her robe.

  “‘Use’ is rather a harsh word, don’t you think?” she mused.

  He heard the tremble in her voice, felt it against his fingers as he pulled the next tie free. His heart kicked in his chest. “Is it?”

  “I implore you not to read more into this than is there.” She gave a laugh that sounded forced. “I’m not some timorous virgin, you know.”

  “A woman of vast experience, are you?” Another tie. Then another. Then another. How many damn bows did one robe need?

  She moved restlessly as his knuckles grazed the tip of her breast. “Not vast. Just once, in fact. The greengrocer’s son. Over a dozen years ago. It was all rather sordid. And painful. Shouldn’t you remove your coat at least?”

  She was babbling. Which meant she was nervous. Which made him even more determined to do this right and take his time. “Was that your decision, too? Dallying with the greengrocer’s son?”

  “I thought if I weren’t a virgin, men would no longer want me.”

  Tait didn’t even try to make sense of that one. “Poor lad. He probably never knew what he had.” Tipping his head down, he whispered into her ear, “Rest assured, I do,” and pulled the last bow loose.

  That shiver again. It made him smile. Having set his course, all doubt left him, and he began to see the humor in her attempts to keep this on an impersonal level. If she were thinking clearly, she would know that was impossible for either of them. This moment had been coming for a year. And it wouldn’t be some brief dalliance.

  He pushed the robe off her shoulders. It landed with a sigh on the thick rug. Heat rose off her body, filling his mind with the scent of flowers and woman. It robbed him of thought.

  He watched his fingertip trace the soft rise of her right breast and felt the tip pucker beneath the thin cloth of her gown. “So now you choose me?” When she didn’t answer, he lifted his head to find her looking back at him out of eyes that carried too much fear and doubt and pain. “Or will any man do?”

  “Not . . . any man.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek. He leaned down to lick it away, then drew his tongue along the seam of her lips, letting her taste the salt of her own tears. It took monumental effort not to pull her body against his and wrap his hands in her hair and feel the pulse of her heart beneath his lips. “You’ll have to ask me, sweetheart. So we’ll both know this is your decision.” He watched her face as he moved his hand to her other breast, felt her frantic heartbeat against his palm. “Say, ‘Tait, I want you to make love to me.’ That’s all.”

  She leaned against his hand, her breath coming short and fast. Her eyes fluttered closed. “Tait . . . I want you . . . to make love to me.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes . . . I’m sure.”

  He took his hand away. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  Her eyes flew open.

  He laughed. And before she could start arguing, he cupped her face in his shaking hands and kissed her like he’d been wanting to do ever since the Wallingford garden party over a year ago.

  Ten

  “You still have on your coat,” she reminded him when he finally let her come up for air.

  Grinning and a bit winded himself, he spread his arms wide. “Have at it.”

  She stripped him bare to his waist, then seemed to suffer a maidenly attack of nerves.

  Just as well. He didn’t know how much more he could take without embarrassing himself.

  “How is this going to work?” she asked glancing around.

  He sat on the couch and began unlacing his shoe. “Three ways, at least. Maybe four if you don’t wear me out.”

  “No. I mean where will we do this? Trying to fit both of us onto one of those tiny berths would be like trying to fit a family of clowns into a steamer trunk. It would probably come crashing down and wake up the whole train.”

  Clowns? Surely not. “We’re intelligent peop
le. We’ll figure a way.” He already had several in mind. Kicking off one shoe, he started on the other.

  “The couches are too small, too. I know sometimes people use chairs for this purpose, but those arms seem too high. I doubt it would be very comfortable.”

  Good God. What had that greengrocer’s son put her through? And how did she even know about such things? “We’ll come up with something.” He almost popped the buttons on his fly as images burst into his mind. Lucinda nude, draped over the couch, one leg hooked over the back, the other—

  “Standing seems impractical, too, don’t you think?”

  He was beyond thinking. Rising on bare feet, he motioned her aside.

  “What?”

  “Move over there.” He pointed toward the windows.

  When she stepped out of the way, he pulled both pads off the berths and tossed them side by side on the floor between the couches. “How’s that?”

  She frowned at the rumpled bedding. “I suppose it will do.”

  “Good.” Picking up his coat from where she’d dropped it on the couch, he dug through the pockets. After retrieving matches and the packets of preventatives, he dropped the packets on the table within reach, lit the candle on the wall above it, then pulled the drapes closed. Turning, he found her studying him with an appraising look.

  “No wonder you could carry Mrs. Throckmorton up three flights of stairs.”

  Taking that as a compliment, he smiled. “Take down your hair.”

  “It might get tangled.”

  “I’ll brush it later.” More images—her sitting naked in his lap, her long blond hair trailing over her breasts as he—

  “But it knots easily.”

  “I’ll brush out every snarl. I promise.”

  “But—”

  “Now?” He threw up his hands, caught between laughter and aggravation. “You want to argue about your hair now?” Shaking his head, he slipped off his trousers, then started on the tabs on his drawers. The woman could wear down stone.

  “I’m not arguing,” she argued. “I’m simply saying that my hair—you’re taking off everything?”

  “It works best that way.” He stepped out of his linens, tossed them aside, then straightened to find her gaping at him again. This time it was more in shock than admiration, he was disturbed to note. “What’s wrong? I thought you said you’d done this before.”

  “I have. But . . .” She cleared her throat. “But you’re . . . well . . .” With a backhanded wave at his groin, she looked away. “Different.”

  “From a green kid? I hope so.”

  “Actually, he was seventeen,” she said to the wall. “And rather well built. What I saw of him, anyway. Although not as well built as you, of course.”

  The train lurched. Stumbling for balance, he caught her around the waist before she fell. He kissed her, almost lost his footing as the train moved forward, then kissed her again. “Take off your gown.”

  She pulled away. “Is that really necessary?”

  He watched her chin set and her arms cross over her chest in that defiant pose. Sensing this was about more than just the gown, he kept his voice mild. “What’s wrong?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t like being on display.”

  What display? “It’s just me, Luce. Me and you. That’s all.”

  A look of impatience crossed her face. “All right. If you insist.” She started to pull off the gown.

  He put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. “No, I don’t insist. Anything we do here is because you want it, too. Whether you take off your gown or not is entirely your decision.” He took his hand away and stepped back, hoping for once she would trust him.

  I’m not your enemy.

  She studied him in that assessing way of hers, then gave a hesitant smile. “All right,” she said, and pulled off her gown.

  Breath left him. She was even more beautiful than he had imagined. Perfect. All a man could ever—“What happened to your knees?”

  She looked down at the puffy bruises. “I fell.” Suddenly shy again, she dropped down onto the pallet and scrambled under a sheet. Then she dragged a blanket over the sheet. Then she grabbed the other blanket and thrust it toward him. “Here. You must be cold. Standing there . . . like that.”

  He was anything but cold. In fact if he didn’t get the preventative on soon, it might be too late. Turning his back, he went to the table and opened the packet.

  “What are you doing?” she called.

  “Putting on a preventative.” He hoped he wouldn’t have to explain what that was. Getting the thing on was distracting enough without having to go into a detailed explanation of how it worked.

  “You carry one around with you? That’s a bit presumptuous, isn’t it?”

  “More hopeful than presumptuous. I got them from George.”

  “You planned this all along?”

  “Planned it, fantasized about it, plotted it, and executed it in my head about a thousand times over the last year.”

  “The last year?”

  “Ever since the Wallingford garden party.” Christ. Goodyear must have been a sadist to dream up this thing. “You have any oil?”

  A rustling behind him, then she appeared so suddenly at his side he almost fell into the table.

  “That looks uncomfortable. Does it hurt?”

  Dumbfounded, he blinked at her.

  “Can I help?”

  Heat rushed up his neck. “I appreciate the offer, but I assure you I’ve done this before.”

  “Oh, really?” She smirked at him. Actually smirked. “Well, your part there seems to be getting smaller. Perhaps that’ll ease the fit.”

  Good God. Recognizing the absurdity of the situation—him standing there, with his shrinking, half-dressed cock in his hand, while she offered helpful solutions as if he were trying to choke a chicken rather than suffering through the most humiliating attempt at seduction in his entire life—he had to laugh.

  And laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You. Us. This. You astound me.”

  “Not equal to your fantasies, I take it?”

  He looked down at her perfect body. “Hardly equal. Much better.”

  She gave a tentative smile, as if she wasn’t sure she should believe him, then held out a small glass vial. “This is the only oil I have. Attar of Roses. Where do you want me to put it?”

  With those words, images flooded his mind. His cock bounced back to life, and suddenly he was on track again. “Here,” he said and pointed.

  “It’s perfume.”

  “I don’t care. Just hurry.” He inhaled sharply when her fingers found him. “Or not,” he added on a gasp. “In fact, sweetheart, take all the time you need.”

  “There,” she said a moment later. “I believe it’s on as far as it will go. Shall we?”

  He blinked at her out of dazed eyes. “Shall we what?”

  She pointed toward the pallet on the floor.

  “Oh. Sure. Okay.” Struggling to bring his body under control, he took several deep breaths to clear his mind, then followed her to the makeshift bed.

  He had never felt this way. This . . . involved. Or pressured. It occurred to him that his feelings for this woman were stronger than he had thought—stronger than he had ever felt for any woman. And with that realization came the determination to do it right, take his time, and give her the sweet memory she sought. Perhaps then, he could break through her distrust and create even better memories.

  So he kept his hands slow, and his voice soft, and his tongue anywhere she would let him. The rocking of the train added it’s own music and motion, and when she was breathing as hard as he was, and urging him on with gentle touches and whispered words, and her restless movements told him sh
e was ready, he took them both to a place of pure sensation, where control shattered, and the world lost form and color, and rapture began.

  * * *

  Nestled against Tait’s side, Lucinda yawned as she idly ran her fingers through the dark hairs on his chest. Beneath her ear, his heartbeat sounded like the distant thud of a hammer against a plank wall. Steady and sure. Like the man himself.

  He smelled like roses. They both did. The room, too. They’d probably used up the whole bottle. Thankfully, during the night, Tait had risen to push aside the drapes and crack open a window just enough to pull out some of the overpowering scent. She remembered laying there, watching his long, strong form move against a spray of stars and thinking how much she had come to care for this contradictory and complicated man.

  She knew him better now—in ways she had never imagined—both physically and emotionally. His quirky sense of humor. His playfulness. His fiercely intelligent and curious mind, and that unyielding sense of right and wrong. In the dark, after the candle had burned out, she had even been brave enough to learn his body as well as he’d learned hers—that ticklish spot behind his knees, the puckered bullet scar on his thigh, the slick band of skin on his neck where the rope had burned, his poor battered hands. He was hers now—if not in fact, then forever in her memory—as the man who had given her back the part of her soul that Smythe and Horne had stolen from her so many years ago.

  Smiling, she stretched up to press a kiss against his damp neck, then settled back, replete and happy. Contented. She wondered if the woman on the other train was as deliciously worn out as she was. Probably not.

  Beyond the window, the first hint of dawn revealed that the earth had flattened out. From their bed at floor level, she could see no hills rising above the sill, no silhouetted trees rolling past. Soon they would be in Pittsburgh and decisions would have to be made.

  “Do you know Franklin Horne?” she asked, gently stroking his chest.

  He yawned. “Somewhat.”