This couldn’t be happening, she thought wildly. It was broad daylight, for heaven’s sake. She couldn’t be standing there, letting him do this to her. She had to stop this before it went any further, had to stop him.
Bishop turned his attention to her other breast, dragging the edge of his teeth across the puckered nipple before soothing the sensitive flesh with his tongue. She whimpered out loud, her fingers digging into his shoulders as her knees buckled under her.
He caught her as she sagged, lifting her in his arms as he rose. Lila turned her face into his shoulder, her hair streaming over his arm, a deep auburn curtain trailing almost to the floor. He set her down beside the bed, one arm circling her back, offering much-needed support as he stripped the covers back. Lifting her as easily as if she were a child, he lay her on the bed. The linens felt almost unbearably cool against her sensitized skin.
Looking at her, Bishop felt a hunger like nothing he’d ever known before. It was gut deep and almost painful in its intensity. In some distant part of his mind, he knew there was a danger in a need this powerful. There was a hazard in wanting her so much, in the raw hunger he felt. But the warning voice was drowned out by the drumming of his pulse. If it had meant his life, he couldn’t have walked away from her at that moment. He shrugged out of his jacket and reached for the buckle of his gun belt.
Lila closed her eyes only to open them again almost immediately, curiosity winning out over modesty. Years ago, just before the war, she’d walked over to the Sinclair house one hot, summer afternoon. Cutting through the fields between the two houses, she’d passed by the pond. Billy had been swimming there and was just getting dressed.
She’d ducked behind a tree before he saw her and had stayed there, hardly breathing, until she heard him start for home, whistling cheerfully to himself. As soon as he was gone, she’d run for home lifting her skirts in a way that would have earned her a sound scolding if she’d been caught. She’d run straight to her room, throwing herself on the bed and closing her eyes, the better to remember that single quick glimpse of Billy’s bare chest. The memory had been enough to make her cheeks flush and her heart beat double time.
Though she was years removed from that young girl, she’d never forgotten seeing her soon-to-be fiancé's body and the way it had made her feel. From that day to this, she’d kept that image in her mind of the way a man’s body looked. Now, looking at Bishop as he stripped his white shirt down over his arms, she realized how foolish she’d been. Billy had been seventeen, hardly more than a boy. Bishop was very much a man. His muscled body was a far cry from Billy’s narrow chest and slim arms.
Forgetting discretion, Lila stared at him. Dark, curly hair covered his broad chest, emphasizing the solid muscles there before tapering to a thin line that arrowed downward across his flat stomach before— Lila jerked her eyes away, her cheeks warming, as his hands dropped to the waist of his pants.
Bishop was grateful for her sudden attack of shyness. Having her watching him, those wide green eyes filled with curiosity, had put considerable strain on his somewhat tenuous self-control. He already wanted her so much that he felt like he was sixteen again. He stripped off the rest of his clothes, letting them fall to the floor.
Lila started as the mattress dipped beneath his weight. With a muffled sound of panic, she grabbed for the covers. Bishop’s hand was there before hers, catching her fingers in his.
“Leave them,” he ordered, his voice low and husky.
“I’m cold.”
“I’ll warm you,” he promised. He pressed her hand back against the pillow beside her head. She left it there, even when he released her, her fingers curling into her palm. Satisfied with her compliance, he lowered his head, planting a series of soft kisses along her collar bone.
Shivers of awareness worked their way up her spine. Bishop’s hand closed over her breast, his thumb brushing across the acutely sensitive peak. Lila was shocked by the sound of her own whimper of pleasure. Looking at him, she saw that he was watching what he was doing to her, his attention completely focused on the tiny bud of her nipple as he caught it between thumb and forefinger, plucking it gently. The sensation was so acute that it hovered on the knife edge of pain. She arched her back, not sure whether she was pleading for more or begging him to stop. But Bishop knew exactly what it was she needed. He lowered his head, taking her swollen nipple into his mouth.
In some distant part of her mind, Lila was shocked to find her fingers sliding into his hair, pressing him closer, all but begging him to continue his sensual assault. Closing her eyes, she gave herself up to the pleasure, so absorbed in the feel of his mouth at her breasts that she was barely aware of his hand moving downward, stroking the inward curve of her waist, the soft flare of her hip. And then he flattened his hand on her stomach, just above the curling triangle of hair that guarded her most feminine secrets, and she was jerked out of the sensual haze.
“No!” She grabbed his wrist, her slender fingers falling well short of circling it. She tugged but his hand didn’t move.
Bishop lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers. “It’s all right.”
“No.” But the protest sounded weak even to her own ears. It was hard to think when he was looking at her, his blue eyes holding both promise and demand.
“Let me,” he whispered.
Mesmerized by the heat of his gaze, she released her hold on his wrist, surrendering the last fragile remnant of her resistance, giving herself over to him.
His mouth caught her soft cry of surprise as his fingers slid through the soft thicket of curls, finding the damp heat of her.
Bishop felt the slick moisture of her arousal against his fingers and groaned softly. She was incredibly responsive, like a fine instrument tuned to his touch. The lightest stroke of his fingertip had her arching against him, a whimper of pleasure leaving her throat. It was like holding a flame in his hands, her skin burning to his touch. She whimpered again and his control snapped.
He lifted himself over her, his legs sliding between hers, opening her to him. His arousal pressed against the silken nest of auburn curls and Lila went still, her green eyes staring up at him, wide and full of sudden uncertainty. Every nerve in his body screamed for him to complete their union, but he forced himself to stillness. Though she carried his child, she was far from experienced. Bracing his weight on his elbows, he wound his fingers into her hair, his eyes holding hers.
“Look at me,” he said.
As if she could do anything else, Lila thought dazedly. He filled her vision. Lost in the brilliant blue of his eyes, she forgot how to breathe, forgot how to think. Forgot everything but the slow, steady pressure of him easing into her body. This was what it had been like before—the sensation of emptiness filled, of being completed, made whole in a way she’d never known possible. This was what she’d been afraid to remember.
Her body gloved him as if made for him alone, Bishop thought as he sheathed himself with her. He closed his eyes for an instant, gathering the tattered threads of his control. This was the way it had been the first time, this feeling of coming home to the place he’d always been meant to be. It had haunted all too many of his dreams and filled him with a sense of loss he hadn’t been able to shake.
Lila’s hands clung to his back, feeling the dampness of sweat and the ripple of muscles as he began to move over her. Instinctively she echoed that movement, her body arching to welcome each thrust. The soft drag of withdrawal was an exquisite torture only partially soothed when he filled her once again. Tension coiled within her, growing tighter and harder each time the pattern was repeated.
Her entire world was reduced to this room, this bed, this man. Her vision was filled with Bishop’s face, with the searing blue of his eyes. Layers of sensation built one upon the other, each more exquisite than the last, each adding to the tension spiraling inside her. Her movements took on a frantic edge, her breath coming in soft little pants. She was striving toward something, something she had to have, had to have
now.
“Please.” She couldn’t have said what she was asking for but she knew it was within his power to give it to her. “Please,” she whispered again.
Looking down at her, Bishop felt a purely masculine sense of triumph. Her face was flushed as if with fever and her eyes were a deep, smoky green, unfocused and looking inward as her slender body strained toward the peak that lay just beyond her reach. At another time, he might have slowed the pace, drawing out the moment. But he’d spent too many months thinking about her, too many nights wanting her. His patience was gone, his self-control stretched thin.
He slid one hand beneath her bottom, tilting her to receive him more fully. He thrust once, twice. Her eyes widened, the breath catching in her throat as she reached the goal toward which she’d been striving. Bishop felt her body tighten around his, delicate contractions gripping him, dragging him into the maelstrom of her climax. With a groan, he gave into his own burning need. His body arched into hers, shuddering as the heavy pulse of completion took him.
Joined together, they tumbled headlong into pleasure. Bishop’s only coherent thought was that she was his. Finally and completely his.
CHAPTER 11
Lila stepped out of the hotel and onto the boardwalk. Twilight pulled a dusky veil over the town, softening the harsh edge of reality and lending an air of solidity to the false-front buildings that daylight refused to grant them.
“You seem to be in something of a hurry,” Bishop said as he stepped through the door behind her.
“It’s impolite to be late.” She pretended to be absorbed in arranging the strings of her reticule just so around her wrist.
“It’s no more than five minutes away, even if we crawl.”
“That would make something of a spectacle, don’t you think?” It was a humorless response to his light comment, but she wasn’t in the mood to be amused. At least not by anything her husband had to say. And he was her husband in every sense of the word, she thought, memories of the afternoon sweeping over her. She’d been quite thoroughly made a wife, not just once but twice. Worse than that was the fact that she’d been an eager participant both times. And as if that wasn’t enough, there was the fact that Clem Lyman had come looking for Bishop and found him in her room.
“Are you still upset about me answering the door when Clem knocked?” Bishop asked, reading her thoughts with disturbing accuracy.
“I don’t know what he must have thought, finding you in my room like that,” she muttered, still fussing with the strings of her reticule.
“I doubt he thought much at all. I was dressed. And even if I hadn’t been, I don’t think he’d have been too shocked. We are married,” he pointed out.
As if she could forget, Lila thought. There wasn’t an inch of her that didn’t bear the stamp of his possession. She was tender in places she’d been taught not to think about, aware of her body in a way she’d never imagined. After he’d left in response to Clem’s summons, she’d taken a sponge bath, using her cold bathwater, but it would take more than soap and water to wash away the memory of his touch. And her own passionate response.
“Considering you’re the one who told me about Mr. Lyman’s propensity for gossip, I should think you’d be more concerned with his reaction to finding you in my room,” she said, aware that her tone verged on prissy.
She jumped when Bishop caught her chin in his hand, tilting her face up to his. Even in the dusky light, the vivid blue of his eyes was clearly visible. “You’re the only one who thinks my presence in your room is news. If anything is likely to excite comment, it’s the fact that we’re in separate rooms. If you’re so concerned about the possibility of gossip, maybe we should put the children in my room and I could move into yours,” he said softly. He brushed his thumb across her mouth, which was tender and slightly swollen from his kisses. “Then you wouldn’t have to worry about what Clem would think if he found us in the same room. Or in the same bed.”
There was an unmistakable sensual threat in the words. His touch was a reminder of how little she’d objected to his presence in her bed just a few hours ago. Lila stared up at him, mesmerized by the look in his eyes, her entire being concentrated on the light pressure of his thumb against her lower lip. She felt herself leaning toward him, her body going soft and pliant as hunger stirred deep inside. It took a conscious effort to drag her gaze from his and turn her face away from his touch.
“I don’t think it would be a good idea to change our arrangements,” she said breathlessly. “The children are nicely settled. There’s no sense in moving them around.”
It was a thin excuse at best but, to her intense relief, Bishop accepted it without argument. “We’ll be moving soon enough” was all he said.
“Good,” Lila said without conviction. Living in the hotel meant that her every move was under the scrutiny of Clem and Dottie. But moving into a house would mean sharing a room with Bishop. After this afternoon, that was a prospect fraught with even more hazards than she’d realized. It was one thing to resist his desires, something else altogether to resist her own. She didn’t like the fact that, with little more than a look and a touch, he could make her forget everything but the need to have him hold her. She’d never felt that way before, not even with Billy. And she had loved him.
They didn’t speak again during the walk to the Sundays’. They passed a few people on the street but no one showed any inclination to stop and talk. Most of the businesses had closed for the day, except the saloons, and it would be a couple of hours before they hit their full stride. The town was quiet, at peace. Lila wished she felt the same.
The minister’s home in Paris was a far cry from the elegant stone rectory occupied by Reverend Carpenter back home in Pennsylvania. The white paint had begun to fade and one of the green shutters hung at a drunken angle, courtesy of Bridget’s oldest son who’d attempted to climb onto the roof using the shutter as a ladder.
Reverend Carpenter had taken considerable pride in the beauty of the gardens surrounding the rectory. They had been started by one of his predecessors and had been admired even before he took over the ministry, but he’d taken it upon himself to improve upon them, installing a sunken rose garden and an elegant allée of maples leading up to the rectory itself. All for the glorification of the Lord, of course, he’d insisted modestly.
Joseph Sunday was also a plant lover, but he preferred to study them in their natural element. Spring through fall, he spent a great deal of his spare time tramping through the local mountains, sketching the native plants and observing their growth habits. Bridget had proudly shown Lila some of his drawings. She’d been impressed by his ability to re-create every detail of leaf and bud, making the black-and-white sketch seem almost alive. But he wasn’t much inclined toward planting and tending gardens of the traditional sort. The closest the Sunday home came to a formal garden was a somewhat scraggly rosebush that occupied pride of place next to the front gate, and that was Bridget’s doing.
The rose was the offspring of cuttings Bridget’s mother had brought all the way from Ireland. Bridget, in her turn, had hand-carried cuttings from Boston to brighten her home in the untamed West. The rose’s survival in its harsh new environment made Lila feel better about her own chances. Since Bridget had told her the story of how the rose had come to be where it was, Lila had felt a certain kinship with the shrub and had made it a point to bestow a fond smile on it whenever she passed by.
But tonight she barely glanced at the plant. Tonight her attention was all for the man at her side. Bishop pushed open the gate and stood back to allow her to enter first. Lila walked past him, trying not to allow even her skirt to brush against him. If he was aware of her attempt to keep distance between them, he ignored it, setting his hand against the small of her back as the gate swung shut behind them.
The light touch seemed to bum right through the layers of her clothing, making her skin tingle with awareness. She was grateful when, just as they reached the front step, the door burst ope
n and two children tumbled out. One of them was Bridget’s only daughter, Mary. The other was Angel. Mary was five, and with her red hair and sparkling hazel eyes, she was the spitting image of her mother. She looked like a mischievous sprite next to Angel’s golden curls and soft blue eyes.
Lila used the children as an excuse to step away from Bishop’s touch, bending down to hug Angel. The child returned her hug with gratifying enthusiasm and Lila felt some of her tension ease. In the confusing tangle of her life, Angel was a bright and shining exception. She’d grown to love the little girl as if she were her own. Gavin kept her at arm’s length and viewed her with, at best, a certain wary acceptance. And Bishop ... Well, she couldn’t even begin to define her relationship with her husband. But Angel had accepted her new stepmother completely, treating her with a sweet affection that was impossible to resist.
“Did you have fun today, Angel?” Lila asked as she straightened.
“Yes.” Angel nodded enthusiastically. “Mary and me played with dollies.”
“Mary and I,” Lila corrected as she brushed a stray curl back off the child’s forehead.
Angel frowned in confusion. “But you wasn’t there.”
“Weren’t there, darling. You weren’t there.” Lila straightened the sash on Angel’s russet-colored dress.
“I was too there,” Angel said, giving her stepmother a look that suggested doubts about her intelligence.
Bishop’s snort of laughter made Lila decide that the grammar lessons could wait for another time.
“Of course you were there,” she said briskly. “And I’m very glad you had a good time this afternoon.”
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