by Jillian Hart
Hell, he could not think of the dawn to come. Not yet. He brushed the tip of his nose to hers and her smile grew. Dazzled, he was helpless as she moved to rock against him, her body supple, her fingers sliding along his chest and cradling his face.
He matched her pace, rolling against her. He was rewarded by a low purr of pleasure and her tantalizing kiss.
“Oh, Duncan,” she sighed, clinging to him, this precious and beautiful creature; and he loved her, and, helpless, he moved to her demands, her quiet mews of pleasure and the quickening of her inner muscles hugging him too tight.
He could not find words to speak of the depth of love he felt for her. He did not know how to measure anything so large. He never knew a man could feel this for a woman. Beyond devotion and affection and faith.
Nothing else in his life would ever mean so much, and nothing ever had.
Every breath he took, every thing he did and every word he said would be, from this moment forth, for her.
“Oh, yes.” Sheer love glowed in her eyes as she began to arch.
Her gaze never left his as her release washed through her and he felt the first shuddering wave rippling through her and into him.
“Oh, oh, I love you so much,” she whispered, her words broken by the second and the third current of her climax.
“What did you say?” He had to hear it again, to be sure. To be absolutely certain he wasn’t imagining those rare words.
“I love you.”
She smiled and held him tight while he came. Found, when he should have been lost. Whole, when he should have remained broken.
Healed, when he thought nothing or no one could save him.
Chapter Fifteen
Was there a way to hold back the dawn? Betsy couldn’t think of one as she lay in the warmth of Duncan’s arms, snug against him. Their legs entwined, they were naked and satisfied.
Oh, she’d missed this part of marriage, not that it was the most important part, but the intimacy, the closeness, the sharing…and yes, the passion. How lucky she was to find this bond again. She’d all but given up hope. Love was too important to settle for anything less, and this man…
Oh, this man. Her grin broadened and she could feel the stretch of it on her face.
She could feel him stir awake. The ripple of awareness, the intake of his breath, the realization it was her he held. And how his big masculine body burned against hers. He nuzzled her hair. “I thought I was dreaming for a moment.”
“Hmm, if this is a dream, then it’s the best one I’ve ever had.”
“Me, too.” He leaned back, fixing a hand on her fanny to bring her with him as he stretched out. His arousal was obvious and quite substantial.
She couldn’t help the smile that widened until her entire face hurt. Joy shone inside her like first light and she gave him access to her breasts and kissed his forehead and he suckled and pleased her.
“Are the birds loud enough for you?” He peered over the crest of her bare bosom.
He was substance in the prelight shadows and she welcomed him into her body. Sighed as his thickness stretched her. “Are they this loud every morning?”
“I don’t know. I can’t seem to pay attention to them.”
“I wonder why?” She liked that he chuckled, that in the dark he was revealed. A tender, gentle giant of a man.
Love so pure left her breathless as they moved together, his hand firm on her hip to guide her. Whatever this connection was between them, it was more than sex, more than passion.
Her heart felt wide open, her entire being shimmered and never had anyone mattered to her so much. He buried his face in her shoulder, clutching her as his big body stiffened, driving into her as deep as he could go, so deep she swore their souls touched.
As joy spiraled through her and she came, crying out his name, the first golden rays of light broke through the shades drawn at the window and she saw him illuminated.
The grave, honest love in his eyes was unmistakable as he brushed the tangled curls from her face. She was his now, they both knew it, and she could not bear to part from him. She pressed her face against his throat, one last effort to hold back the day from coming, but it was coming anyway.
Duncan pulled out of her and in the intimate morning shadows, regret lined his face. He moved slowly, climbing out from beneath the thick furs and into the frigid air where his breath rose in great clouds and his skin goose-fleshed. He hurried into his clothes, pulling on layer after layer.
Sadness filled her up until she couldn’t speak.
“Stay in the blankets until the room warms up a little.” He’d fed the fire through the night, and he filled it full, leaving the damper and the oven door open to encourage hot flames. “I’ll tend the horses.”
He meant harness her dear Morris. She could only nod and hide her face in the furs. She waited until the back door clicked shut—apparently the snowdrift had shifted and he was able to leave. The twilight shadows lengthened, as if pushing back the dark.
Outside the shrill cacophony of more birds than she could name or count chattered and squealed and whistled and sang in great disharmony. The sound was so loud, it was as if every winged creature in existence had perched in the trees just outside the back door.
Dawn was arriving in new bits of color. Or the first hues of purple and magenta giving way to a rosy light. The birds silenced. The world became multicolored again as golden new light spilled through the windows, bringing with it the reality of the outside world.
Her family would be looking for her. Probably organizing a search party—no, a lynching party if they’d known what she’d been willingly doing with the highly inappropriate, for her, mountain man. That, of course, would undoubtedly be her mother’s opinion. But Mother would simply have to alter her opinion, for the impossible had happened.
If only I could stay. She glanced around the kitchen and saw it for the first time. She gathered the furs around her, holding them tight to keep in her body’s heat, and released the shutters.
Once the main window was uncovered, she saw that the high drifts had been blown away in the night. Light slashed through the hand-carved windowpanes and into the room. The gentle light warmed the honey log walls and shone on the floor. She noticed the table first, shimmering varnish pine of a heavy masculine design. Simple and striking and matching the chairs tucked neatly into place. When Duncan had been up to feed the fire, he must have picked up some of the mess.
What surprised her were the books. Tucked beneath the window seat were two shelves of leather-bound volumes. Shakespeare and Chaucer. Dickens and Jules Verne. Hawthorne and Twain. She eased onto the wooden seat and, trembling with the chill in the room, looked through the brand-new volume of Twain’s latest, The Prince and the Pauper. She’d been saving up to buy this very book before she’d bought furniture instead.
It was so easy to dream. Dreaming was something she hadn’t dared to do, and now it came so readily. How pleasant it might be to sit here on a winter’s morning, when there was little work needing to be done, with the breakfast dishes finished and a second pot of coffee set to boil, and read.
She could make pillows and cushions and this would be a beautiful place to spend hours, soaking up the sunshine and reading. And, when she stopped to fill her and Duncan’s coffee cups, to look at the view. The mountainside sloping past the house was littered with chunks of rock and broken boughs, but the scenery was breathtaking. Regal forests and somber mountain peaks painted with the bronzed light.
What perfect happiness there could be to spend her life here, with Duncan. Her eyes burned and she rubbed at her tears. Mama was always saying she was too prone to extremes of emotion, but she was like the sun. Shining so brightly, she could not keep it all in.
She’d been well loved, her body felt that thrilling exhaustion and the awareness of where he’d been lodged deep within her remained.
She felt him before she heard his boots on the hard packed snow. She knew before he pushed through the
door that he was already searching the room for her. He still limped and favored his wounded side. Even more as he dropped into the chair nearest to her.
Sadness made his eyes black. “I put my runners on your buggy. I hope you aren’t mad, but there’s no other way to get you home.”
“Thank you.” She carefully closed the crisp volume. “Have you read this yet?”
“As soon as I brought it home. I had to order it from town.”
“From the mercantile? It’s hard to convince the McIntyres to order a book without payment up front. I had been saving up to do the same.”
“You like Mark Twain?”
“I do.” She swallowed, as if it were painful to talk.
Yep, I know just how that feels. Duncan cleared the thickness from his throat. Betsy had already knelt to replace the volume where she’d taken it from the shelf, and he covered her hand, stopping her. “Why don’t you borrow it?”
“Oh, it’s too costly to borrow. I couldn’t afford to replace it if anything happened to it.”
Duncan had to stop for a moment to study her. Was she truly being sincere? He thought of Ginetta, the young woman who’d destroyed his life with a lie. He’d been enamored of her and she’d used that knowledge to manipulate him and the circumstances. She was the type of woman he thought only existed. The kind out for gain and advantage and nothing more.
But Betsy, after a night of passion, was assuming nothing. Was asking for nothing. Was not the kind of woman who borrowed routinely, not by the worry pinched into the adorable creases in the corners of her eyes. The old bitterness was still there, and he had to fight it back, had to bite his tongue to keep from saying that she was acting that way simply to hide the fact that she wanted the book. But he knew it wasn’t true.
The Betsy he’d held in his arms, the woman who’d given him her love freely, was the same one stubbornly replacing the book with a smile. The fur wrapped tightly around her began to slip off her shoulder, revealing the fragile line of her collarbone and the curve of her neck where he’d kissed and stroked countless times through the night.
Love pulled him down and he was suddenly with her, handing her the volume. Hell, it was only a book and, right now, to keep her here, he would give her anything. Everything. If only she could remain his for a while longer.
“Keep it,” he urged, because he could not ask her to stay.
Because he had to let her go.
“I’ll borrow it. And I’ll be so careful, I swear it.”
“No. It’s yours.” He brushed her lush mouth with his and drank in her passionate taste. He loved how she sighed against his lips. How her spine arched and she surrendered, and they were both breathing faster.
“My family is going to be worried about me.”
“I know.” There would be consequences for loving Betsy. He was ready for them. Duncan held back all the things he wanted to tell her—about how wonderful she was, how he wanted to keep her right here with him forever and how she’d saved him.
But she was no longer his. The sun was rising, her horse was harnessed and her buggy awaited her. She had a life and a family. She did not need him.
And from this moment on, he could not need her. He gathered up her clothes for her and, while she shivered into them, adjusted the stove, put on some coffee. Hiding the pain from his healing injuries.
Hiding the pain in his soul.
A man with a future to offer would let her know how much she meant to him. But he had nothing, and he could not know what consequences were to come from loving his Betsy. But whatever trouble came his way, he would bear it gladly. If he never saw her again, if he never had the privilege of holding her through the night, or of being together in the most intimate way, then it would be a great sorrow.
But he would never regret her.
At last, when she was dressed and bound up in her coat and muffler and scarf, he poured the steaming coffee into his thickest cork jug, a drink to warm her on her long, icy ride home. There was nothing left to do but to tell her goodbye. And he could not.
So she wouldn’t know how it shattered him, how he wasn’t made of steel in truth, he simply walked away. Brought her horse and buggy, mounted on the sled runners, to the door and held the gelding’s bridle while she climbed aboard. Since she didn’t have a blanket, he wrapped her snug in one of the furs. Not looking at her. Not daring to speak.
“Thank you.”
He didn’t answer her. He handed her the thick reins, holding the straps so she could easily place them through her fingers.
“Oh! I forgot your laundry.”
His jaw worked. He shook his head and deliberately looked away toward what remained of the road that wound through the forest and down the hillside and far away from his cabin.
She saw what secret hid in his heart, for it was the same within hers. Encouraged, she pressed a kiss to his gloved hand, wishing more than anything she could stay. And knowing she had obligations and a day of work ahead of her.
“I love you.” She let those brave words into the air, knowing he needed to hear them.
He smiled, no longer the bear of a man she’d mistaken him for. “If you don’t come back, I’ll understand.”
It wasn’t possible that there would ever be the chance to keep her as his, but he was merely a man and he had one thing he hadn’t had in over half his lifetime: hope. He had hope.
“Hungry bears couldn’t keep me away.” She smiled.
And it was his future he saw.
When she drove down the road and out of his sight, it was his heart that went with her and his soul, which would never be his again.
Betsy had been worried during the long ride home. Anxious over leaving Duncan behind to fend for himself. Half-sick over the expectation that Mama would be waiting for her with news of the search party looking for her broken and wrecked buggy.
Her only consolation was that the snow remained deep and hard-packed all the way into town. The blizzard may have come here, too, and if that were the case, then of course she wouldn’t have shown up for Sunday dinner.
And maybe Mama would have no notion of where Betsy had spent the night. It was unlikely, but a girl had to hold on to whatever hope she had.
When she saw her mother’s imposing surrey, also on runners parked in the lee of the small stable, she knew there was no escape. Mama would be waiting for her inside the house and she’d immediately see that no morning fire had been lit. The bed had not been slept in. That she—Elisabeth Gable Hunter—had spent the night experiencing passion with a man her mother would never accept.
And what a passion it was. Betsy sighed, savoring the glow shining through her body. The wisps of memories from last night remained and her body felt forever marked. Claimed. As she pulled Morris to a halt in front of the stable door, she stood and was reminded of places where she was deliciously sore.
There, where Duncan had been inside her, she still felt textured by his seed. And it was an amazing, intimate sensation, remembering well how he’d emptied into her more times than she’d thought to count.
Not that anything would come of it. That made her sadder still. She and Charlie had never been blessed with children. And there was no reason to believe that events might turn out differently with another man. No, it was a hope she couldn’t let in, for it was one that would only lead to disappointment.
Yet somewhere deep within her spirit she harbored that tiny wish. The image of a child of Duncan’s for her to hold. With his beautiful bronze complexion and eyes dark like the night—
“Elisabeth! There. You. Are.” Mama marched around the corner of the house, her skirts flying, her mouth pursed into a furious line and looking more like a battlefield general than one of the most respected women in town. “I. Was. Worried.”
“Goodness, there was no reason to be.” Ducking so as to keep her face hidden, for her mother was an excellent face reader, Betsy industriously worked the buckles of Morris’s harness. “Wasn’t the storm something?”
> “I sent Joshua over to make certain you had enough dry wood and he said you were not here.” Out of breath, with both rage and the effort of moving too quickly with a too tight corset, Mama was barely able to manage her usually imposing, “Humph!”
“I am perfectly capable of bringing in enough coal to keep the house warm. Did everyone make it over for dinner yesterday?” She was not trying to deceive her mother, for if Mama continued to demand the truth, Betsy was not one to foster lies. However, if Mama happened to become distracted and forgot to keep pestering…that was a different matter entirely. “How are James and his new wife?”
“Miserable.” The strategy worked, for Mama wrapped her arms around her middle, scowled as if she’d gotten a particularly strong whiff of the soiled straw pile. “I told him he’d be absolutely wretched if he married her, but would he listen to his own mother who loves him more than her very life? No, of course not! He’s a man. Men don’t listen to anyone. They think they know everything, but they don’t. And now he’s sorry!”
It was better that Mama went on about James’s wife than about Duncan Hennessey. If her mother went into a conniption over the admittedly selfish Eileen, then Betsy hated to think how Mama would react if she found out her only daughter had just crawled from a mountain man’s bed and still had the scent of him on her.
Besides, there were matters to sort out. The fact that her family had left Duncan injured and alone made her quite angry. She yanked the last buckle loose, startling Morris, and she had to reassure him before she could lift off the heavy shoulder harness. “What did Eileen do this time?”
“Do! She came into my kitchen yesterday afternoon, as pompous as you please, and gave orders to my servant. Mine! I pay her wages. I provide room and board. Then that woman had the audacity to ask for Anya’s help this Wednesday for a ladies’ luncheon she’s hosting. That woman presumes far too much!”