Darling Annie

by Raine Cantrell

  Hunching forward, she drew as much of her hair around her as she could. “Have you no shame?”

  “Not a penny’s worth.”

  “I wish you would just go.”

  “Not for all your teacups, darlin’.” His lips twitched as the color rose in her cheeks. The lamplight burnished her skin and hair to a golden hue, and he had a sudden impulse to reach across the table to touch her cheek, to feel the warmth beneath his fingertips.

  She had the damnedest way of lifting her chin, almost as if she read his thought and dared him to touch her. Her move revealed the slender line of her throat, her pulse beating erratically in the smooth hollow. Knowing that he made her nervous gave him a feeling of primitive power. It was when she defended herself against any admission that she was a sensual woman that she aroused his hunting instincts.

  And there was the annoyance that she could also arouse him so easily and remain unaware of it.

  The mindless surge of lust—for that was all it could be—angered him. Kell immediately tried to suppress it. Why her? What was it about Annie Muldoon defending her virtue that made him want to kiss her senseless and wring an admission from her that she was a passionate woman with needs? What had she done to him? His reaction to her was too strong, and nearly uncontrolled. When he had first met her, he’d wondered whether he would make her a sinner or she would make him a saint.

  Annie steeped in pleasure—pleasure that he could bring to her—despite her calling it a sin, was too great a temptation for him to resist.

  Desire came, so powerful that he knew he wasn’t going to try to temper it.

  Chapter 11

  “You are not going to leave, are you?” Annie’s gaze sent a plea that briefly touched his eyes. Strands of his hair were drying, she could see the lighter hues as he shook his head.

  “Not on a bet, darlin’. Shall we see who outlasts the other? I should warn you, I’ve gone without sleep for days. Have you?”

  “Yes!” Pathetically eager, Annie embarked on tales of childhood illness. Near breathless when done, she saw that he was not impressed. “Last year, Aunt Hortense had a bout of grippe. I didn’t sleep for almost a week until she was better. Then there was the time I forgot to tell Fawn that I washed the stairs. She had a fall and suffered a bad sprain.”

  “Is that it?”

  Annie searched her memory, even as she wondered why. “I had a terrible toothache once. The pain kept me awake plenty of nights, but then it could have been some of the cures.”

  Shifting the moment she mentioned toothache, Kell once more shook his head. “Annie, have you ever stayed awake all night for pleasurable pursuits?”

  “Unlike you, I do not have an avocation for pleasure.” Annie exhaled a short, exasperated breath. “Is that all you think about?” She knew better than to let him see her anger. Any reaction from her would only add to his obvious enjoyment. Why he would find baiting her a pleasurable pursuit, Annie didn’t know. But the man seemed to thrive on doing it. In silence she watched him move around the table to her side and lean against the table’s edge, his long legs inches from her hand.

  “Annie, you make educatin’ you a difficult task. A lesser man could get discouraged.”

  “And you, of course, are not one?”

  “No, darlin’. I’m a man who loves a challenge.”

  Her eyes watched his hands rake back his hair, until the flax to burnished brown strands appeared as if a hot Texas wind had combed it. Every move was filled with sensual grace, an affront to a decent woman. He was a man born to raise hell and a few eyebrows—hers being the first—not to mention the feelings of dangerous excitement from his wicked smile and the restless heat of his eyes. Annie pursed her lips, trying to find the strength not to respond. Far easier to give up her goal to see a church built here. He always looked as if he had tumbled out of bed.

  And the devil’s imps were at work tonight, for she thought with longing that it would always be someone else’s bed.

  “Annie, have I told you how inspiring I find your samplers?”

  “My samplers?” she parroted. Annoyance crashed with vivid disappointment. Her samplers?

  “Have you stitched all of them hanging around the house?”

  She searched for a trap in answering him and found none. “Some are mine, a few my mother and grandmother sewed. Aunt Hortense never cared for needlework.” Confused, she stopped.

  “I like them, Annie. Truly I do. Is that one yours on the wall behind you?”

  Annie wasn’t sure what she was hearing and seeing in front of her. The effort to remember what was behind her was simply beyond her capability at this moment. She swallowed, then rising like a fish to unresisting bait, she nodded to his lure.

  “Busy Hands Are Happy Hands,” Kell drawled, flicking his gaze back to hers. Her embarrassment brought his reluctant admiration—Annie might be exhausted and crocked, but the lady was still sharp-witted. “Do you believe that’s true?” He glanced from Annie’s clasped hands to his own. “Of course you do, otherwise you wouldn’t have it there. Darlin’, if we don’t find something to occupy my hands, it’s gonna be a long, long night.”

  “Well, then Mr. York, you can help me empty the buckets.” Annie made her announcement with the smugness of a thrifty housewife getting the best of a bargain.

  “Then up you go.” Kell was not immune to her need to escape. He reached down and drew her tense body out of the chair.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Don’t do a modesty bit with me.” Kell uncrossed her hands and forced her arms down to her sides. “I’m trying to behave like a gentleman, Annie.”

  “Well,” she demanded with flaming blue eyes, “who asked you to?”

  “Ah, Annie. Darlin’, unpredictable wilted flower.” His voice a soft, seductive caress, he hooked his finger beneath her chin and lifted her face. “Look at me. Don’t hide with fluttering lashes.” This close, he could see the shadows that curved under her eyes. “Let me take you upstairs to bed. No, don’t panic. You rest, I’ll tend to emptying the buckets. If you stop moaning, you’ll hear that the rain’s almost stopped.”

  She didn’t seem to have the strength left to stand and Kell drew her closer. Sainthood did not sit well on his shoulders. He needed a shot or two of whiskey; holding her so near was too much to ask of himself. A tremor shook her body and Annie leaned against him, her red-gold hair caught between them.

  A glass or two wasn’t going to be enough. He needed a bottle—what’s more, he needed it right now.

  She didn’t utter a sound. The crick in his neck warned him he held an armful of trouble. He was too aware of her, had been from the moment he found her in her room, the feel of her shoulders and back beneath his hands, the soft fullness of her breasts against his bare skin, that worthless bit of thin cloth leaving none of the precious modesty she needed to protect her. The curve of her belly fit below his as she settled herself against him, her head at rest below his shoulder, her long hair draped over his arm.

  Fragrant and silky soft, her hair enticed him to bend his head and rub his chin over the tumbled curls. “Scented with flowers and sprinkled with spices,” he murmured despite his repeated silent warnings to himself.

  “Are we cooking?” she asked in a distracted voice.

  “Bubbling like a pot about to boil.”

  Annie lifted her head and looked at his face. Lamplight loved his features. She struggled to see the telltale marks of his sleepless state. Her hand moved of its own volition to cup his beard-stubbled cheek.

  “Kellian?”

  The meld of fear and plea in her eyes ripped his control. He knew he wasn’t a saint. He wanted to prove to Annie she wasn’t one. His mouth closed over hers, a tempered kiss, a few strands of her silky hair caught between their lips.

  Under her palm, Annie could feel the curving muscle of his chest and the steady heart rhythm mating with his breathing. Her own had the erratic pace of an overworked ho
rse. Under the subtle, clever pressure of his thumb, her lips parted, and she was rewarded with his mouth stroking the open softness. Long, slender fingers played in the wisps of hair at the side of her head and traced the outline of her ear, toying with the sensitive earlobe, then he gathered her hair at the back of her head, as if to hold her steady against the spinning sensations she was feeling. Gently then, he turned her head from side to side, dragging her mouth across his.

  Her small, involuntary whimper brought a reassuring stroke to her shoulder, the cupping of her waist that urged her closer to him. Her shivering body warmed against the heat of his skin. His arms tightened around her, and Annie gave him her mouth, swaying under the powerful feelings he unleashed.

  Insistent and urgent, his mouth tutored hers, his hands sliding down to cup her buttocks and lift her to him, the thin cloth that separated his wanting body from hers of no use to still the flow of desire that caused her to move instinctively nearer. He fed on the sugar-sweet, generous offering of her lips. Desire heightened, his hand shaped the curve of her waist, narrow and tight beneath his questing fingers. The swell of her hip invited exploration, the tips of his fingers delicately sculpting flesh and bone so rich with warmth, he could almost taste it.

  Annie cried out when his palm gently cupped her breast. It was shocking to have him touch her, but she was steeped in a deliriously pleasant cloud where his knowledgeable touch both soothed and brought to life a tension that ached. The sensation was too much, and she cried out again, her breath sharp and hurting.

  “Gently, sweet, gently,” he murmured. “Nothing hurts. I promised it wouldn’t.” The backs of his fingers brushed back and forth over the tip of one breast, his lips pressed coaxing kisses on her temple, her flushed cheek, the corner of her mouth. And just as gently, he nested the full softness of her breast in hand, his thumb forming slow, hot circles that brought her mouth seeking his.

  Behind her lids, Annie held the image of his hard, leancheeked face, hair streaked by the sun, thick and unruly, begging for a woman’s hand to tame it. Her hand. She parted her lips at his urging, but even as the blood rushed with sizzling force through her, she felt like a cloth torn in two. His touch promised pleasure, his mouth offered heaven, but a sane voice of reason warned her back from this seductive trickster.

  “Annie. Annie, open your mouth, sweet. Let me taste you.”

  The hot glide of his tongue on her bottom lip sent shocks racing. The slow, heated throb of her mouth was soothed and yet burned for more. The nudge of his powerful thigh between hers filled her with embarrassment. Below the pit of her stomach the tightening ball of tension frightened her.

  “Please. I…”

  “I’ll do the pleasin’, darlin’. Just open your mouth for me. That sugar-soft mouth drives me—” Kell silenced himself by taking her lips in a hard, exploring kiss, feeling the bite of short, neat nails digging into his shoulder. Her trembling thighs rode his, soft, hidden heat scalding him. Nothing hurts. Foolish words for him to tell her. He was hurting. Passion unfurled with the changing cry he wrung from her, his ending kiss forced her to draw air as though she were starving for it, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts fitting snugly against him. He thirsted for the honeyed moisture of her kiss, unable to think about anything but the need to bury his aching flesh in Annie. He was hot and hard, and the charming effort she made to capture his tongue told him the night wasn’t long enough for the ride he wanted.

  He drew her head to the side, his mouth gliding against the petal soft skin of her neck. His thumb and forefinger caught one end of the night gown’s ribboned tie. A light tug and the cloth obligingly fell open, bringing the warm fragrance—floral, feminine, and heady—to intoxicate his already aroused senses.

  With tender kisses and murmurs he brought her up to another peak, every tremor of her body a caress to his. He enjoyed women, and willingly lavished every moment spent to bring them pleasure, having learned after a misspent youth, just how much he had denied himself.

  There was acquiescence, not resistance, in his darlin’ Annie. He could feel the passion smolder to life in her as his mouth trailed lower to kiss the curve of one pale, rounded breast. Greedy, sharp-set passion led to his savoring her; his reward was a pleading litany of his name. Her fingers were curled within his hair, then slid down to his chest, open and kneading his skin like a purring kitten. Kell smiled and whispered every encouragement.

  “Please,” Annie pleaded through lips too dry and heated. “I implore you.”

  “Don’t beg, love. I’ll give you—”

  “No. No, you won’t listen.” Annie struggled to untangle herself from the web of sensuality that held her ensnared. She pushed at his chest, shaking her head.

  Kell wasn’t so far gone in his desire to bury himself within her that he didn’t stop. His head lifted slowly while he noted the effort it required to breathe normally.

  “This,” he said the moment she looked up at him, “is what I get for kissing a woman who likes lemons and blackberries.”

  “There is nothing wrong with my liking fruit.” Annie closed her eyes, licking her lips and feeling ravaged by the need to bring his mouth to hers.

  Kell clasped her hips in a gentle fashion, ignoring her renewed struggle and freed his thigh. Before she knew what he was about, he swung her up into his arms. “This time you are going off to bed.” He took a moment to settle her weight and order his unruly body to resign itself to abstinence.

  Annie didn’t have the strength left to argue or question him. Her arms tightened around his neck and she snuggled her head against the warm curve of his shoulder. Why she trusted him, she didn’t know. Closing her eyes against the sway of his body finally moving out of the kitchen, she knew she could not get upstairs without his help. Thinking of what happened between them was beyond her. Sleepily she murmured to his skin, “Why don’t you like fruits?”

  “I didn’t say that, petunia. There’s nothing wrong with fruit unless you try to pick ’em green.”

  “Green?” Annie shuddered. The mention of the word made her stomach roil. She would expire if she was sick on him.

  “That’s what I said.” Kell found he had to struggle up the stairs with his charming burden.

  “Pickin’ green fruit,” he explained in a whisper as he entered her room and quickly lowered her to the bed, “can give a man an Irish toothache.”

  “Wasted effort … ripe is sweeter…”

  “I know, darlin’, but there you have it. Green equals ache. And don’t tell me you have a cure for it.”

  “But I told you … I did tell,” she mumbled sleepily, curling up on her side.

  Kell drew up the quilt to cover her. “Trust me on this one, Muldoon. You aren’t ready for the cure. And somehow I’ll survive the ache.”

  He stood watching for minutes until he was sure her breathing was deep and even. Reaching down, he brushed a few stray curls from her cheek. “And you were wrong, Annie. The only one I don’t have a high opinion of is myself.”

  What was left of the night brought dreams to Annie where Kellian York whispered love words that led her needy spirit into believing something good and true might bloom from his seeking her out. There was the disturbing presence of green apple images that brought an ache she couldn’t quite disperse.

  But morning—late, to judge by the turn of the sun in her room—brought Annie to a saner time when she chastised herself for having had absurd wishes.

  Never, she swore, struggling out of bed, would she touch another drop of liquor. Every pamphlet, every sermon that proclaimed the evil effects of indulging in spirits had bespoken the truth.

  She had to cast aside any thought that Kellian York was about to give up his sinful ways to become her helpmate. He wasn’t going to denounce his pleasure-seeking life to join her in good deeds. It was hopeless to dream. Utterly hopeless.

  Just like her effort to recall exactly what had happened after he entered the kitchen last night. No, she amen
ded. It was long after midnight, after she had given up her fight with rain and buckets.

  Her feet slid on the sopping carpet, and Annie caught the post of the bed to keep herself upright. She bent down slowly to push the chamber pot back under the bed, her gaze just as slow to find the leak in the ceiling. The plaster was stained a dark, unbecoming yellow, crazed by minute cracks and a most definite sag. One more expense to be taken from her church fund.

  The first deep breath she drew brought a slight moldy odor rising from the carpet. Her shoulders sagged at the thought of rolling the carpet, then hanging it to dry. Not only her own, but the carpets from every other room where the ceiling leaked.

  Daunted, Annie eyed the bed. Just once it would be heaven to have someone else take up her burdens.

  But standing there brooding would not get the laborious chores done. Annie turned and found the tall mirror reflecting a wanton-looking creature that bore little resemblance to herself.

  Sunlight streaming in from the windows penetrated the frail cotton nightgown to reveal the darker shadow of her body. The image held her, for seconds or minutes, she didn’t know. There was a strange compulsion overriding her natural embarrassment, and she was compelled to move forward.

  This was the woman Kellian saw last night. The knowledge came with a clarity she could not deny. Her hair was a riotous mass of tangled curls framing her face, then draping over her shoulders to hang past her waist. Staring back at her were wide, dark eyes marred by shadows and lips that appeared to be bee-stung. But it was the reddened spots on her cheek and chin that drew Annie closer to the mirror.

  She touched her face, and fate was kind; only fragments of the time in the kitchen came back to her. Dark murmurs, kisses that … No!