Belle told her softly, “Thank you, Charlotte. We’re fine.”
“All right, then. We will see you downstairs.”
“Yes, we’ll be right there.”
With a nod, Charlotte turned and left them.
As soon as she disappeared from view, Pres shut the door again. This time, he was the one who leaned on it. He folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. “That was awkward.”
Belle chuckled. The sound lifted his spirits. She didn’t seem so sad and wounded anymore. “Charlotte is very perceptive. She’s also the soul of discretion. And she never presumes.”
Pres translated. “You mean she knows about us, but she won’t make judgments or shoot her mouth off.”
“Precisely.”
“How does she know?” he asked carefully.
She gave him a patient look. “I didn’t tell her, if that’s what you’re asking. We haven’t discussed what happened in this room last night. And yet, I do believe she knows.”
“Yeah, well. And we know about her and the old man.”
“Yes, Preston, we do.”
He confessed, “I worry about the old man a little, that he’s getting carried away with her.”
“Perfectly understandable,” she said lightly. “Because Charlotte, after all, is a dangerous seductress.” She was joking, he got that.
He just didn’t think it was all that funny. “I don’t want him to get hurt is all.”
“I could say the same for Charlotte. But then I remind myself that she is a mature adult and more than capable of making her own decisions about her life and about love.”
“Love?” He said it a little too strongly and he knew it, a little too accusingly.
She gave an elegant shrug. “Or...romance or relationships. Whatever you would prefer to call it. Charlotte’s relationships are her own affair. I trust her judgment absolutely.”
He looked at her sideways, thinking that she was way too smart and sophisticated for a man like him. And too beautiful. He wanted to touch her, to pull her close again. But if he put his hands on her now, it wouldn’t be to comfort her.
Which was why he wasn’t going to reach for her. Now was hardly the time to be thinking about getting her out of that pretty blue church suit of hers. The others were waiting for them downstairs.
He kept his arms folded across his chest. “You lecturing me, Your Highness?”
“Let’s just say I am reminding you that what is between Charlotte and your father is not for us to judge.”
When she talked like that, all prissy and correct, it got him hot—but then, whatever she did, it got him hot. And that bugged him because he knew that what he should do was call a dead halt to this thing that was going on between them. He knew he should stop it with her—and he also knew that as long as she was in his house, he wasn’t going to be able to keep away from her. Not as long as she was willing.
And she was willing. Even as she lectured him, he could see his own desire reflected in those golden-brown eyes, see how much alike they were deep down—even though they belonged in different worlds. Both careful people. Controlled.
Until now. With each other.
With her, especially since last night, he felt he teetered on the brink of losing control.
Feeling on the verge of losing it made him hotter still. In a minute, if he didn’t rein himself in a little, she’d be asking him if he had a gun in his pocket.
To keep from grabbing her, he taunted, “And your bodyguard knows about you and me, too. Were you aware of that?”
She didn’t turn a hair. “It is Marcus’s job to know such things. And like Charlotte, he is the soul of discretion.”
“The soul of discretion,” he echoed in a growl.
She drew her slim shoulders up. “That is what I said.”
“The point is, he knows about us and it’s none of his damn business.”
“Of course it’s his business. That we are lovers concerns him directly. It’s his task to protect me. That means he must stay close to me. And that means he will have to know things about me and my...activities that no one else knows. The point, though, is that he is trustworthy and discreet and will only use what he knows in the furtherance of his job as my bodyguard.”
“Wow, you said a mouthful.” He laid on the sarcasm—and yeah, okay, he should back the hell off. He knew it. She was not the enemy. But this whole situation was eating at him. Every time he touched her, it only made him want her more. And where could it go? Nowhere.
She said, “I’m only trying to make you see that Marcus will keep my secrets. And yours as well.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Your preference is duly noted,” she replied, so proper and prissy, it made him long to snatch her up and throw her on the floor and have his evil way with her, right then and there.
He muttered darkly, “Around these parts, the women don’t need some hired man living off the kitchen to protect them.”
Those amber eyes flashed real fire. She opened her mouth to come right back at him—but then she shut it without saying a word. She gave him a long, searching look. And then she asked him quietly, “What’s happened? Why are you so angry? What did I do?”
Shame flooded him.
She had only ever treated him with respect and honesty and tenderness. He had no right to go getting up in her face because she trusted her companion and had confidence in the ethics of her bodyguard.
He made himself answer truthfully, “I’m not angry. I just want to kiss you so bad it hurts. And now’s not the time for kissing and I feel like the biggest damn fool in Montana. I...” He forgot whatever he was going to say next.
Because she stepped right up and into his arms.
Chapter Eleven
“Then kiss me,” she said.
Her mouth was right there, inches below his. She smelled of flowers and wonderful, sweet spices he didn’t know the names of. And beneath her perfume: woman. All woman.
He tried to remember all the reasons that kissing her now was not a good idea. “We have to—” She cut him off by surging up and sealing his lips with her own.
That did it.
He hauled her even closer, banding his yearning arms tight around her, lifting her feet right off the floor. She opened beneath the hot push of his tongue. He tasted the sweet wetness within. His pulse was pounding, his blood roaring in his ears.
Never ever in his life had he felt like this. He wasn’t...that kind of man.
The kind who took without thinking. The kind who let himself lose control.
She lifted her legs and hooked her dressy little boots around his waist. The roaring in his blood got louder, it blocked out everything but the primal need to be with her.
Joined with her.
All at once he was reeling, kissing her without end, carrying her, all wrapped tight around him, to the bed.
They fell across it, mouths still fused, her pinned-up hair coming loose, tangling between them, catching in the beard shadow on his cheeks, caressing his throat.
They rolled, their hands all over each other, unzipping, unbuttoning, tugging up and away. She took down his zipper, kicked off the short boots she wore. He heard them go flying.
He hadn’t thought to lock the door. It was crazy and stupid. But that didn’t make it any less urgent, any less absolutely necessary.
She had on tights. Pantyhose. Whatever women called those things. But she hiked up that slim skirt without a second thought and shimmied them down. He pulled them off the rest of the way.
He touched her there, at the womanly core of her. Wet. Hot. Ready.
She moaned as he stroked her, rocking her hips against his hand.
He absolutely had to be inside her. And she was reaching for him, pulling him down. He took her mouth again and below, he touched her some more, stroking the velvet-slick secret flesh, seeking the center of her pleasure. He found it. She cried out. He took the sound into himself. He drank that cry.
“
Please.” The word passed from her into him. And again, “Please...” She reached down between them, found him, wrapped her fingers around him and guided him home.
At the last possible second before he buried himself in her, the all-important word appeared in his reeling brain: condom. With a groan of pure agony, he jerked his hips back. She moaned in protest and tried to pull him to her again.
“Wait. Condom,” he somehow managed to tell her. He made low, reassuring sounds as he reached for the bedside drawer.
“Contraception.” She breathed the word against his lips. “So inconvenient.” She laughed into his mouth. The low, teasing sound ricocheted inside his skull. She had one hand around the back of his neck, holding the kiss, holding him. Her soft, clever fingers sifted up into his hair. Her other hand remained between them, encircling him, stroking, driving him out of what was left of his mind....
He lifted up enough to glare at her. “We shouldn’t even be doing this.”
“Oh, yes.” Her eyes were so deep. Oceans of amber. So deep, so impossibly soft. “We should. We absolutely should....” She tried to pull his mouth down on hers again.
“Wait...” And at last his fumbling fingers closed over the box of condoms in the open drawer. Somehow, he got the top flap back, pulled one out. He ripped the package open with his teeth.
She helped him then, taking the opened pouch from him, removing the condom and then easing both hands between them to neatly roll it on.
“There.” She gazed up at him, shameless. Beautiful. Waiting.
How did he get so lucky?
She held up her arms.
He went down to her, claiming her mouth again, burying himself in her with one quick, sure stroke. She gasped. They stilled, the world centering down to only the two of them, only this magic that would not be denied.
Finally, she lifted her legs to wrap them around him. He surged into her harder. Deeper.
Everything flew away. There was this moment and it was endless. They moved together toward the heart of the fire.
When his climax shuddered through him, she held him tight. She pressed her body up to him, giving him everything, making it last. And then, finally, she joined him, all that wet, hot sweetness, pulsing around him.
She said his name, “Preston,” soft and low and tender. And her body went loose and easy beneath him.
* * *
Belle couldn’t believe what had just happened: urgent, amazing sex in the middle of the afternoon. She’d never done anything like it before. She hadn’t known what she was missing.
“I don’t think we locked the door,” she whispered as she tried to catch her breath.
“Nope.” He was breathless, too. “We didn’t.” He kissed her temple, his lips so soft and warm, and he smoothed her wildly tangled hair.
She laughed low. “Oh, we are very, very bad.”
He caught her face between his big, rough, tender hands. And he kissed her mouth again. “It’s not funny.” But in those blue eyes she saw the spark of humor he was trying to hide.
And she thought how never ever in her life before had anything felt so right, so good, so exactly suited to her as this man—as being with this man.
She gazed up into those sunny-day eyes and she knew, right then. At that moment.
I love him.
The room all at once seemed suffused with light.
But only for a second or two. Then her more logical self prevailed.
She’d known him for exactly one week. He belonged here, was rooted here, on this land, in this harsh and beautiful northern state in the brash, young country where her father had been born. He wasn’t going to leave Montana, would not walk away from his horses, from his family ranch. She knew that in her soul.
If she chose him—and if he chose her in return—her life would change dramatically. She would be a rancher’s wife.
She waited to be horrified at the very idea.
But she wasn’t horrified. Instead she felt...excited. Anticipatory.
If I married him, I could stay here, with him. And with Ben. In this lovely little town, in this big, sturdy house...
All right. So the thought of moving here did hold a certain appeal. At least it did right now. And she could still do the work that mattered to her. She could travel when necessary, could still speak up for those in need. There might even be important causes right here in Montana to which she could contribute a helpful voice.
But she didn’t have to leap straight to forever-after. They could take a little time over this, see how it went in the next couple of weeks, see if this thing that felt like love right now got stronger.
There was no downside to giving the two of them more time to know each other, more time to discover if they could be a team in a forever kind of way.
Yes, she might be a hopeless romantic who had always dreamed of finding just the right man for her.
And Preston might very well be that man.
But they had weeks yet, together, here in this house, in this fine, rugged land he called home.
He was a careful man in many ways. And cautious. He would probably be scared out of his wits if she announced right now, out of the blue, that she loved him.
In fact, he was already starting to look a little anxious. “Belle? What is it? What’s the matter?”
She laughed again and pulled him closer and kissed him slow and deep and sure. “Nothing’s the matter,” she said when he lifted away to frown down at her. “On the contrary, things right now are just about perfect.”
“If you keep looking at me like that, we’ll never pull ourselves together and get downstairs.”
“So true. And then they will be certain that we’re up here doing exactly what we have been doing. But then again, they’re probably already certain.”
He kissed her once more, hard and quick, then he pushed himself away and stood. “We need to go down there.”
Her skirt was still up around her waist. His Sunday trousers were all in a wad down on his boots.
From the waist up, they were both fully dressed, although more than a bit rumpled. He turned away long enough to dispose of the condom, after which he pulled up his trousers. Tucking in his shirt, he zipped and buttoned and hooked his belt.
She sighed and put a hand to her tousled head. “I’m going to need a few minutes to pull myself together.”
He held down a hand. She took it and rose to stand with him. So sweetly and tenderly, he smoothed her skirt back down. “Go ahead, then. I have to change into work clothes anyway. Once we’re both ready, we can go down together.”
* * *
Pres stopped in the kitchen with Belle before he went out to check on the sick mare. It didn’t seem right to leave her to face the others alone after what the two of them had been doing up in his room.
But it turned out to be no big deal. His dad, who’d changed from his Sunday clothes into jeans and an ancient sweatshirt, sat at the table reading the Sunday issue of the Elk Creek Gazette. Charlotte, wearing one of Doris’s aprons, stood at the counter cutting up vegetables. Marcus was nowhere in sight.
“Need some help?” Belle asked her companion.
Charlotte looked over with a warm smile. “I just popped that lovely rib roast Doris left for us into the oven. Feel like peeling potatoes?”
“I would adore peeling some potatoes.”
The old man didn’t even look up from his newspaper.
Pres said, “Well, I’ll head on out, then, check on Lady Bluebell.”
The paper rustled as his dad turned the page. “No need, son. I’ve been out there. She’s looking good. Breathing easier. More alert.”
That his dad had done his chores for him was the last thing he wanted to hear. He’d been all ready to escape the house for a little while, kind of pull himself together after what had happened upstairs.
He needed some time on his own. “Good. But there are a few other things that want tending to. I won’t be long.”
The paper rustled again
. “Suit yourself, son.”
* * *
Belle, still aglow with what had happened upstairs, with the blinding realization she’d experienced right afterward, heard the door close as Preston went out. She picked up another potato and went to work with the peeler.
I love him. I love Preston McCade.
Every time she thought the words, they seemed more real to her. More true.
Charlotte said, “It’s supposed to snow later tonight.”
From behind his newspaper, Silas added, “Six to ten inches, maybe more. Says so right here.”
Belle beamed down at the potato in her hand. Such a beautiful potato, such a fine, comfortable kitchen. And truly, Charlotte and Silas were two of the dearest people in the world. She could already smell the savory aroma of that rib roast in the oven. Doris had studded the meat with garlic and rubbed it with fragrant herbs. Out in the side yard, which she could see through the window over the sink, the snow had already started falling, great, white flakes of it gently drifting down.
It was going to be a lovely holiday evening.
And best of all, at the end of it, she would spend at least a few perfect hours in Preston’s big, strong arms.
“It’s already starting to get dark out there,” Charlotte said.
Belle picked up another potato. “We should turn on the tree lights.”
“We should indeed.”
So Belle finished the potatoes and then went around the downstairs turning on the tree and the lights strung across the mantels. She even turned on the television to that channel that played holiday music. When she returned to the kitchen Michael Bublé was singing “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.”
“Very festive.” Charlotte nodded approvingly.
When Preston came back in, it was full dark outside—or it would have been if the yard hadn’t blazed with thousands of Christmas lights. Belle was in the dining room by then setting the table. She heard the door close and knew that it had to be him. That lovely, fluttery feeling happened in her midsection. She paused in the act of adjusting a fork and listened for the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. Already, she knew his habits. When he came in from working, he would go straight upstairs to clean up.
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