by Martha Hix
“Still confused?” he asked.
Not about one thing. A Tropf, that’s what she’d been for not realizing that there might be no retreat from this meadow, not without experiencing everything he offered. Was that so horrible? No! She wanted him, wanted to be his wife in fact.
He murmured, “Let me rub your temples.”
“You’ve got to keep your distance. If you don’t, you’ll be taking your husbandly rights.” On a shake of her head, she cringed at her honesty.
“If that’s not an invitation, your name isn’t Mrs. Gil McLoughlin.”
A smile eased across his features, lit the eyes more blue in the sunlight than argentine under the moon and stars. Just one of his gazes had the power to mesmerize her, and he had welded many of them to her. This one had an intensity the others lacked.
Her face contorted as her headache intensified.
“Lisette, you are going to sit down.” His tone brooked no debate. “And you are going to let me at what ails you.”
“I ... I don’t know.”
“I do. Let’s get out of the sunshine.” He gestured to an ancient oak of low-reaching limbs. “It looks pleasant over there. No cattle tracks, just a quiet, soft place to sit down.”
It appeared so. Ankle-high grass carpeted the land between here and there. An early spring breeze rippled through the trees. Leaves clattered together, and many fluttering to the ground, making a carpet of umber and green. She heard mockingbirds exchange a call of sooddy, sooddy. A bee buzzed by, another following; the two danced in the air to flirt with each other.
It was a perfect place for relieving a headache–and much, much more. Therein lay the problem. She knew what he was after; she knew what she wanted.
“Lisette.” He drawled her name. “Let’s go.”
Having had a wealth of experience with his determination, she let him take her hand. She expected he’d sit next to her under the canopy of the oak, on the leafy glade. But he didn’t. Turning her head, she saw him kneeling behind her, his hands reaching upward.
His black hair, tousled as ever, gleamed blue in the daylight. As always, she had the urge to pat it into place. Don’t even think about it, she warned herself.
“Turn your head, darlin’.” When she obeyed, he crooned, “Just relax, just relax.”
How could she be at ease with Gil so close? Yet his fingers had magic in them. They made deep, lingering circles on her temple and forehead, and she began to droop as the pain left her head.
“So schön ... feels so good,” she whispered.
“Yeah, beats a sharp stick in the eye, doesn’t it?” he joked.
“Oh, Gil, you are so silly,” she murmured.
“Silly over you.”
Massaging a trail to her neck, he kneaded the tension out of her shoulders. Then his lips touched her nape . . . In thrall, she shivered.
“Relax, my sweet. Open your senses. Smell our surroundings. Inhale the scent of the leaves, the green of the grass, the sweet fragrance of bluebonnets. And the sun, smell the sun. Think about how it moves through your nose, the sun on flesh. Let the tension flow out of your fingers and toes.”
She was adrift with the scent of him. The warm sun on his skin, the faint traces of horse, the oil of the coffee she’d fixed him, his own musky scent . . . she found all of it endlessly appealing in her husband.
Yet, she could almost smell her own misgivings.
He was seducing her, and if she didn’t do something–anything! –she had no one to blame but herself.
“There aren’t any bluebonnets around here.”
“Pretend there are.”
“I think your senses are sharper than mine.”
He sighed. “I’m beginning to think there’s not a romantic bone in your body.”
“I wouldn’t agree,” she replied, and wished she hadn’t, for he took it as invitation.
His voice laden with meaning, he said, “If your brother had allowed it, I’d have courted you properly. I’d have given you flowers, and you’d have seen me all slicked up.”
“You gave me flowers. They’re pressed in a Bible I found,” she answered softly, again under his spell. “And you look fine the way you are.” More than merely fine, she thought.
Gil picked a twig that had drifted to her shoulder. “But it would’ve been enjoyable, getting polished up for you. Like, wearing the necktie my grandmother gave me.”
“The grandmother who gave you her wedding ring?”
“Your wedding ring now. But she’s one and the same. Maisie–that’s short for Margaret–Mc-Loughlin. I don’t want to talk about her. I want to talk about us.”
The day before, Matthias had told her Gil had two brothers, that the parents were deceased, and Lisette wanted to ask questions. One was at the forefront of her mind: What about his former wife? What caused her to quit on their marriage?
Lisette had a word with herself. This union was for show, and his past was not her business.
Lightly, he placed a kiss on her shoulder. “I’d have been proud to escort you to church and to those dances you Germans are so fond of. If the Fredericksburgers would have allowed a divorced man in,” he added on a chuckle.
“Don’t be harsh on yourself. The Lord’s house is for everyone. As far as the dances, no one would’ve turned you away. I imagine they’d have been eager for the gossip.”
“Gossip? Who cares about it. What’s that old saying, ‘Sticks and stones ...’?” Not one caustic syllable edged his words. “Besides, while they’d have been yammering about me, they’d’ve left someone else alone .”
“That’s one way to think about it.” She, on the other hand, had done everything in her power to avoid the tongues of scandalmongers. The gossip theme had to be avoided, thus she turned the topic. “Gil, it was nice of you to say those things about courting me. I’ve never known a fraction of your kindness.”
“As pretty as you are? I’m surprised a thousand fellows haven’t fallen at your feet. Or are you just being modest?”
Thankfully, he didn’t give her a chance to answer.
“Forgive me, Lisette. What was I thinking of? The war made for lonely hearts . . . made many young women widows and spinsters. And your brother being a mother hen . . .”
“Yes, Adolf was persnickety,” she replied in truth, yet not delving into the war years.
“To hell with him. He’s out of the picture now.” Gil looped his hands under her arms, raising and expanding his fingers across her jaw. His touch elicited a shiver, and she was almost lost when he whispered, “Why don’t you want to be my wife . . . in more than name?”
“You . . . you promised you wouldn’t force yourself on me.”
“Am I doing that, Lisette?” His fingers exerted a slight pressure. “Have I tossed you to the ground and ripped your clothes off?”
“No.” She needed something–anything!–to latch on to. “But you’re trying to pry me away from my dreams. I ... I want my own hatshop. I want to see Chicago.” She still wanted these things almost as much as she yearned for her husband.
“Stifling your dreams, honey, isn’t what I’m about. If you’ve a mind to do nothing more than stitch millinery, do it. Open a shop in Fredericksburg–I’ll finance it.”
“That town is too close to Monika.”
“Just thumb your nose and tell her to go to hell.”
Lisette couldn’t help but laugh. “It would be infinitely satisfying.”
“Since you’re set on Chicago,” he said smoothly, “we’ll make a honeymoon trip up there. By train, of course, from Abilene.”
“You offer too much.”
Doggedly, he went on. “I’m not stingy, despite my Scottish blood. And I’d spend my last penny just to be with you. I fancy the way you smile, I adore the way you walk, I near about pass out over your accent. Did you know it gets thicker when you get worked up?”
“And sometimes I speak German instead of English.”
“Yeah, and I love it.” One hand moved to he
r head, his fingers making designs on her scalp and loosening the hairpins. “All I think about is spending the rest of my life with you and your enchanting accent. I want to watch you sewing hats, and I want to be there when you open your shop. Proud as punch, I’ll be.”
Gil would hand her the world. He needn’t have suggested anything but himself.
And then he was changing positions, easing his legs around the outside of her thighs, settling her against him. Powerless to protest, she felt his fingers press her midriff. She yearned for the hardness insinuated against her derrière. No ... she wanted all of him, not just his passion.
His hand moved up to cup her breast, his fingers stroking the shirt-covered fullness. It bloomed under his caress, and heightened desire braided the core of her being.
His breath feathered against her neck as he said, “I’ve seen the way your nipples pucker when you look at me.” Gently, he worked one between his thumb and forefinger. “I get excited every time.”
Nervously, she protested, “You’re embarrassing me.”
He touched her sleeve. “I don’t mean to offend your sensibilities. If you’d rather, I won’t say anything. We’ll just spend the rest of our lives doing what’s natural.”
A lifetime together . . . what a beautiful concept. She yearned to give and share, and meet all his needs, yet she lacked the courage to confess her sin. She needed more time, and if she didn’t break away from his seductive touch and voice . . .
His hand moved to caress her inner thigh. Her thoughts a jumble, she propelled herself forward, grappled for footing. Once more she began to run away from her husband.
Lisette was running from him–again.
Sun rays glinted off her white-blond hair like the sparks of St. Elmo’s fire as she raced toward the chuck wagon. Her braids came loose from the corona, were flying behind her as the remaining hairpins flew to the ground. To Gil she had never appeared so innocent nor so frightened. It was time for him to make peace with her.
But he was out of blandishments, which hadn’t worked anyway. Just as when he’d had to scare her into accepting his proposal, it was time to get tough. The cultivating was over. It was time for celebrating.
He chased after his wife and caught her as she ran through the grass. Grabbing her arm, he tightened his fingers, whirling her around. Her eyes were wild with alarm.
He pressed her against his thighs. “We are married, woman–married. It’s no sin to sleep with your husband. It is going to happen. Sooner is better than later.”
“Du machst mich ganz verrückt!”
He had no idea what she said. But he figured it probably wasn’t, “Yes, my darling, precious husband, do carry me to our lair and ravish me until my eyes are glazed, until I can take no more of your ardent aggression.”
She opened her mouth, but he clamped his fingers over her lips. “I’m going to kiss you, and I’m going to touch you, and I’m going to make love to you. And you’re going to let me.”
She fought him. “You promised not to force me!”
“There’ll be no force. You are going to yield.”
Her balled fists beat against his bare shoulder; she tried to twist out of his reach. Out of control, he swooped his mouth to hers, his tongue prying her lips apart. The inside was ice and heat. His hands cupped her squirming backside. When he terminated the kiss, he didn’t let go his grip.
Chest heaving, he gazed into her teary eyes. “Say you don’t want me, and I’ll leave you alone.”
She said something–several things–in German, none of which he understood except for “pretzel.” He decided she was admitting her own needs. Of course, she might be expressing an intention to twist his arms into pretzels if he didn’t leave her alone, but he doubted it.
Better make it a simple question. “Do you want me?” He pressed her to his blatant need. “Just say yes or no.”
“Ja!” Hiding her face against his chest, she grasped his upper arm. And he felt her tears as well as the heaving of her shoulders. “Gil! Du musst verstehen–ich bin keine Jungfrau!”
“Hush!” He would have no more of her protests, be they English or German. “Nothing you can say will stop me from making you my woman.”
She grew still.
Her accent became thicker than ever. “You mean it?”
“Take a cat-o’-nines to me, honey, if I ever lie to you.”
The fight in her vanished. Her arms went around his waist. She reared her head, looking into his eyes, as she laughed for the joy of it. There was no doubting her joy.
He beamed. The minx had wanted the chase, had asked for the fight. His innocent Lisette . . . all fire and the promise of a wanton. Well, the chase was over.
Without a word he swept her into his arms and carried her to the oak tree. He set her to her feet, unfastened her braids. His blushing bride’s face radiant, he finger-combed the hair cascading to her waist.
“You wore your hair down for the wedding. I like it this way,” he said, his voice rough with admiration. He corded the silvery mass around his fingers, letting it slide across the palm. “You don’t know how much I wanted to do this.”
She smiled shyly. “And I’ve always wanted to pat your hair into place.”
“We black Celts have lots of hair. Too curly to control.”
“Black Celt?”
“That’s what I am. Black as the Douglass himself.”
“I don’t know about any Douglass . . .”
He unbuttoned her shirt, parting the chambray. “The only black Celt you need concern yourself with is right here.”
He held her away to gaze at those proud, coral-crested breasts. She tried to cover herself, but he wouldn’t allow it. In a frenzy to see all his Lisette, he stripped her. As each garment floated to the leaves below, he caressed her exquisite flesh. He felt her trembles of modesty.
“Unbuckle my gunbelt,” he ordered in a husk.
Her fingers worked the buckle, and he was dying a thousand beautiful deaths at the feel of her clumsiness. Or was she being all that awkward? He could only hope.
Taking her hand, he guided her to the leaves. Yet she turned on her side and pulled her hair across a shoulder.
“Don’t hide from me, Lisette. Look at me. Allow me to look at you.”
She pivoted her head, taking in his six-foot-two frame as he rid himself of chaps, then shucked his footwear. With an arched brow, she teased, “I notice you didn’t have trouble getting free of your boots.”
“It’s, uh, well, I ... You know, you’re right.” He could have gotten them off if they had been much, much tighter, but he didn’t point this out. At this moment he had superhuman strength. “But you wouldn’t be a harridan and make too much of it, would you?”
She smiled and replied, “Of course not.”
“Good.”
He rid himself of his britches, and quickly, demurely, she averted her eyes again. She’s gonna need some tutoring, Old Son. Take your time, don’t pounce on her.
Hence he allowed himself a stare. She was lovely from her head to her toes. Her feet were slim, her ankles narrow. A ray of sun cutting through the tree caught those long, long legs, the gentle curve of her hip, the indention of her waist, and her flat belly. He dropped down to the deep pillow of leaves, easing against her. His hand shook as he traced the fine ivory down on her arm. He grew hotter, both from the sun and from her nearness.
He trailed his lips to the arched length of her neck, and her trembles enticed him to greater exploration. Rolling her to her back, he captured a nipple between his lips to draw on the peak. She moaned. The arms that had lain limp on the leaves lifted, and she laced her fingers in his hair. The wonder of her response shot through his every muscle, his every nerve, and invaded the marrow of his bones to settle in his already aroused groin. This was how lovemaking ought to be, how it had never been before for him.
His mouth withdrew from her breast, moving toward the other. Yet he paused to nestle his face between the cleft. “My precious maiden
, how I adore you.”
She tensed.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he crooned, and dislodged a twig from her hair. “All I want is to make you happy.” His words seemed to soothe her. “I promise to take enough time.”
It would have been easier having his fingernails ripped from their roots. Her breasts teased his jaw, her crisp thatch his abdomen. Moving upward, he nestled his shaft against her belly.
At her quick intake of breath, he explained, “It means I want you, my getting all stiff like this.”
Her brow quirked, as if he had said something she didn’t understand.
“I want to be inside you, my darlin’–deep inside you. That’s the way it is with husbands and wives.”
Her voice barely audible, she said, “Such coupling could bring a child.”
“I hope so.”
Not any time soon, he thought but didn’t add. For the next half year, give or take a few weeks, they would be on the trail, and then there was Chicago and the journey home. No, now was not the time for progeny. Though if one came, who could regret it?
More than a quarter minute passed before he added, “I don’t even know if you like children.”
“I like them.”
The idea of Lisette bearing his child brought a sweet–a bittersweet–vision to Gil. Once before a child had borne the name McLoughlin. Don’t think about the boy.
“Do you like children?” she whispered.
“If they are ours, I’ll adore them.”
She smiled.
Again his lips moved to her enticing flesh. On instinct, her leg curved around him. He yearned to plunge into the depth beckoning him. Instead he let his fingers bask again in the sensation of her long, gossamer hair. He felt her tremble when he caressed her shoulder and the underside of her chin. He knew he had nearly reached his limit of restraint.
“Oh, Gil,” she murmured as his lips descended to the dip below her collarbone.
Tears sprang to her eyes, and he almost disliked himself for what he intended to–no, what he would–do to her. His fingers moved to the apex of her thighs. His thumb furrowed into her pubic hair, his middle finger . . . She was wet, wet and hot. Innocence and heat.