Damning herself for this sudden need to nurture him, she lay wide awake for hours thinking of ways to mend his tortured soul. The waning moon was high in the sky before she finally drifted into a fitful sleep.
****
Blair sat in his chair by the window, sipping at the smoky whiskey and thinking about Rowena. Moonlight lay across his lap, and he stroked at the silver smear with shaking fingertips, remembering the way her soft hair tickled his cheek when she brought him back to his chambers. Downing what was left in the glass, he rose, took off his robe, and climbed into bed. Perhaps this night he could sleep, exhausted as he was.
A blade of moonlight slashed across his face and he punched at it, flung both arms free of the covers, emitted a roar of protest that only the dreamer could hear. Cool fingers grasped his arm, nails dug into muscles that jerked. Her voice, sweet and clear, said his name over and over, till he turned to wrap her in his arms. Drive away the nightmares that gripped him. She pressed naked breasts to his chest, mounted him, and he slipped inside her, smooth and warm as submerging himself in sweet oil. She leaned forward, hair fanning across his chest, and rocked to and fro, gently, till he grew to fill her.
“Oh, dear God.” His moan one of torture, of delight.
She made not a sound but kept moving long after he was finished. When she reached orgasm it was with a tiny cry and a gripping of her insides that sent tremors through him. Tremors that renewed his desire, causing her to continue the sensual movement till once more he climaxed with joyous abandon.
He held her until she disappeared, leaving his arms empty, fists gripping at the sheets. Moonlight slipped through darkness to reveal bloody prints across the bed. Men screamed, and the acrid stench of gunpowder filled the air that echoed with thundering cannons. Hands covered in gore, he could not move, could not escape. Asleep or awake? He could never tell when one began and the other ended. And the fear. God, the fear that he would be trapped on those killing fields.
As always, he awoke to the emptiness of his chambers, empty of life. Which world was worse, this lonely one he already shared with the dead, or another that beckoned with dark promises made by a beautiful ethereal woman? Surely promises she would not, could not, keep.
With a groan of despair, he flailed for the whiskey glass on the nightstand. It fell to the floor with a crash, splintered into needle-like shards that glittered in puddles of moonglow. He rose to both elbows. Sweat poured from his face, ran down his back. The sheet, already soaked from the dark battle, held him captive, marked by evidence of the orgasms that had dragged him from the night terrors. No matter how much he drank or where he slept, they pounced on him like a hidden tiger.
Worst of all, he didn’t know who the woman was who soothed him, for no such person existed. She was not real, yet he felt her, smelled her, saw her with such a clarity. He would frighten her away, just as he had the lovely Wilda, who had arrived with a winsome smile and an ever-present hate for him. What had he been thinking when he summoned her here?
But his wild one was gone, fleeing into the depths of this savage country that so suited her. And he wished her well. Such a fool to build this castle for her, to believe for even one second that he could live like a normal man, loving a fragile, vulnerable woman. Even as the men he had sent to rescue Wilda grew near she had begged that outlaw to lift her into his saddle, as if sensing what her life at Fairhaven would be like. It was said they had left the country, headed west. Together. He would not pursue them. Wished her well.
Poking his feet into the slippers tucked under the bed, he fetched a robe from the bedpost and shrugged into it, picked his way through glass that grated like gravel underfoot, found an unopened bottle of whiskey and a fresh glass, and padded to the chair near the window, where he collapsed. Twisting off the top, he half filled the glass, twirled it for a few seconds. Firelight reflected in the amber liquid, and he downed it in one gulp. Embraced the heat that crawled down his throat and into his stomach, waited for it to creep through his bloodstream and blot out the horrid memories of war. Such a futile hope he could not help but pursue.
Chapter Two
Rowena’s Journal, November 1, 1875
I am so excited. Blair will attend the fall harvest dance with me tonight. How foolish of me, but I cannot help it. Are we officially walking out, or is he only being kind? As a spinster in this strange country, I have no idea what my fate may be should I not find a suitable husband. Yet I do not want a man I cannot love. And as long as I live I know I shall love Blair. If only he could overcome what haunts him. It would kill me to watch him drink himself to death.
He is the only man I want, and he may not be attainable. Is there a chance that’s the only reason I want him? Am I afraid to love after what happened at St. Ann’s? Can I only love this man I can never have because he is unattainable? Considering that possibility could drive me quite mad. Drat, why do I need a man, anyway? I’m perfectly capable of…of what, exactly? Driving one of those dreadful freight wagons? Taking in laundry for filthy ranchers? Whatever sent me thinking in this direction?
I hear from Grady that Calamity Jane is visiting Hays City. Now, there is a woman who relies on no man to sustain her. Though it is said she is the paramour of Wild Bill Hickok, she goes her own way and asks nothing of any man. In fact, she shuns their assistance. I should try to become like her, but I do not think I have the stamina. My sister Wilda better fits that role. I want to marry and love a man who loves me, and someday have children. What is so wrong about that?
A drop of ink darkened the question mark and Rowena laid down her pen. Enough of this nonsense. What she needed was something to do. She would go downstairs and help Annie tidy the kitchen after breakfast.
A fist hammered on her door.
“Let me in. Hurry!” A breathless Tyra. Goodness, what was the child up to now? She had been absent for several days.
Rowena unlatched the door and was nearly knocked to her backsides when her cousin flew into the room.
“Thank God you’re here.” The young woman stood near the bed, hands on hips. She wore men’s breeches and a chambray shirt with the tails out, and her long red hair was frizzy from neglect.
“Well, of course I am here. Where would I be? And what have you been doing? You look like an urchin off the streets of Hays City.”
“I need you to ask his lordship for something. I need some money.”
“Why do you need money? You have a perfectly good place to stay, you have all your meals provided. What could you possibly need?”
Tyra tilted her head and an incredulous look passed over her face. “You mean you have everything you want and need living here like some prisoner?”
The question cut right to the core of her recent problems, and Rowena could not answer for a moment. “It’s better than whatever it is you are up to. Where do you stay? What dangers do you put yourself in, a young woman wandering around like a vagrant?”
“No one’s after me. I have a friend who needs to get away from an ornery husband. I thought if you could get me some money, I could give it to her and she could go home to her family ’fore he kills her.”
“My goodness, child. What have you gotten yourself mixed up in? And who is teaching you to speak like a western ruffian?”
“I’m not mixed up in anything. I just want to help her.” Tears filled her eyes, and she backed out of reach of Rowena, who picked straw out of her curls. “Please? Blair could afford to give me some money. Talk to him.”
“You should ask him yourself, but I understand your reluctance. You would do well to treat him with more respect. I will help you, if you agree to do me a favor. Stay here and get yourself cleaned up. If you were to do that, it would go a long way toward convincing Blair to help you.”
“Shit.” Tyra frowned.
“Where do you hear such language?”
“Why, from my western ruffian friends.” Tyra sighed and glared at Rowena. “When did you become such a prude? Why do I have to change who I am f
or you to care about me? And to hell with what your precious Blair thinks of me. He’s going to have to earn my respect, and that’ll take him a spell.” She stomped a foot. “Are you going to ask him, or not?”
“Yes, okay, I shall ask him. But I do wish you would not use such vulgarity.”
Tyra grinned. “But you’ll ask anyway, even if I don’t take a bath or clean up my language?”
“Fine, even if you do not bathe. But I’d be happier if you did. You stink, and that’s disgusting, as is your way of speaking.”
Tyra leaned against the door frame. “I’ll take a bath. For you. But I like the way people talk here. They don’t sound like they’ve got prunes in their mouth. Hurry and ask him, please, would you?” Her eyes sparkled, and she literally danced on the balls of her feet.
“Yes, now, go on. Tell Simmons to get you some hot water, and I shall go see if Blair’s awake.” Prunes in her mouth, indeed. Rowena wanted to give her a slap, but refrained.
“Awake? It’s almost noon. Why would he still be laid up in bed?”
“Never you mind. Get going.”
Tyra ran down the hallway. Rowena stepped in front of the mirror, tucked errant strands of hair off her neck and into the bun, smoothed her skirts, and headed toward Blair’s rooms. At his door, she leaned an ear against the paneling and listened. Silence. She rapped softly. No reply. Drawing in a deep breath, she rapped harder.
“Who is it?” A gruff voice filled with impatience.
Her heart pounded. She did not want to disturb him or anger him, yet this was important. “It is I. Rowena.”
Silence prevailed for so long she almost walked away, then the lock disengaged and the door creaked open a few inches. His eye appeared in the slit. A decidedly bloodshot eye. “Surely it’s not time for the dance already.”
“No, no, it is something else. Could I speak to you for a moment?”
“We are speaking.”
“I need to come in.”
“I’m not clothed.”
“I could wait.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” He swung the door open, and she gasped.
“Well, you asked for it.” Scowling, he stood before her, wearing nothing but a pair of unmentionables.
Despite his gaunt appearance of late, he was still a fine figure of a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, his flat stomach tightly muscled. A scar that matched in color the one on his face curved from his lower rib cage to disappear beneath the waistband of his drawers. She whirled quickly so her back was to him, and took a deep breath.
“Well, madam, what is it?”
There was no way she could speak, he had taken her so unawares. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“I apologize.” The gruffness was gone from his voice, replaced by the earlier tenderness of when she helped him during his nightmare. “I should not have done that.”
“No, you should not have,” she managed to croak.
“Wait. I will put on a robe. You may come in, if you wish.”
His behavior swung between polite and rude so quickly she never knew what to expect. She stepped inside, fearing what she might find, but he had shrugged into a knee-length robe and tucked his feet into slippers. A contrite expression framed by rumpled dark hair gave him a boyish look.
“Sit. Again, I am sorry. What is it you want?”
“It is Tyra.”
His eyes widened as if startled. “Is she all right?”
“Oh, yes. I did not intend to upset you. She needs some money.” She continued to stand, feeling a need to be able to escape quickly.
“I am not surprised. Is she in trouble? Please sit down, Rowena.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Trembling knees dumped her into one of the two chairs arranged by the front windows. Because of his soft kiss of the night before, being in his bedchambers alone with him made her nervous, and she cast about for something to pin her gaze on. Her search ended in studying him, and those bloodshot ebony eyes.
He sat opposite her and leaned back casually, the slightest curl to the corners of his mouth as if he were amused. The pose annoyed her. Was he laughing at her? Or did he just feel superior? Which, of course, he was. How did he accomplish that so easily, becoming lord of the manor when only minutes earlier he’d been an ill-mannered dirt farmer?
“Why does she want money? I give her everything she needs, if only she would remain here at Fairhaven.”
“I have no answer for her absence. She says the money is for a friend who is in a dreadful marriage and needs to escape. You know Tyra…or perhaps you do not, but she has always been a soft touch. Well, at least since her parents, and ours, were killed. Always collecting strays, and I hope this is not someone who will take advantage of her good nature.”
He raised an eyebrow and studied her, then gazed out the window into the bright afternoon sunlight. “I do not begrudge her the money, but I would like to meet this person first. What do you think of that idea?” He swung back toward her.
“Why, I, uh, think it’s a fine idea.” His suggestion, plus asking for her opinion, so shocked her that she couldn’t think what more to say.
He stood, slapped his thighs. “Well, that’s settled, then. Tell Tyra to fetch this woman and bring her here. If she truly is in need of help, then I will be pleased to lend a hand.”
Rowena leaped to her feet. Stricken speechless by his offer and his total change in demeanor from the past few days, she wondered if there were two men living in the same body.
“Well?” he said when she stood staring at him, mouth agape.
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Fine, I will tell her.” It was difficult not to run from the room, and his next question halted her at the doorway.
“The harvest celebration? Is it tomorrow night?”
Deep inside her something stirred that had lain asleep so long she had a problem naming it. “No, it’s tonight.” Amazing she could still speak.
“Then I’ll remind Simmons to order the carriage for quarter-past seven. Is that acceptable?”
Hope, it was hope, and it rejoiced. “Yes, that is completely acceptable. Thank you, Blair.”
As she swung the door shut, he said so softly she barely heard him, “No. Thank you, Rowena.”
****
Now, why the bloody hell did he thank her? Odd, how lightheaded he felt, how his heart pounded. Beyond the window, he actually noticed the beautiful day. Anticipation of something. Of all things, the harvest celebration. Or more correctly, squiring a beautiful woman who actually seemed eager to accompany him. Almost like being young again, before the war. Well, there, he’d gone for several minutes without thinking of the war. All the while she’d been in the room, he felt enclosed in her warmth. Protected from those brutal memories that hovered around him constantly.
He hurried to dress, taking great care with his white shirt and vest, then stepping into trousers and mid-calf boots. At the mirror, he combed his unfashionably short hair and rubbed at his stubbled jaw. He could use a shave, but it would have to wait. He wanted to join Rowena for tea. Perhaps she would forgive a slight shadow if he was otherwise properly attired. Besides, a late afternoon shave would assure no shadow during the ball. Pouring himself a double shot of whiskey, he downed it quickly, then, after one last glance at his reflection, turned and left the room.
Before he reached the staircase, she swept from her room into the hallway, saw him, and smiled. As always, she wore a simple frock, this one of an azure color that matched her eyes. It was buttoned up the front to a lace-trimmed collar and fell softly to the floor. No stiff petticoats held it away from her long legs, and he suspected no stays to push her firm breasts upward.
He smiled back at her and reached a hand out. When she came to him, he wrapped her delicate fingers around his elbow and they walked down the stairs together. The light scent of her rosewater and the soap she must have bathed in mixed with her feminine essence. And he wanted her. Fool that he was. A fragile woman like her deserved more than a damaged man such as himself.
But what did he deserve? The answer terrified him.
“Have you spoken to Tyra about bringing her friend here?”
“No, she’s bathing and probably won’t join us for tea. You know how she is. But I’ll speak to her. You know, Blair, that’s very kind of you.”
He chuckled. “Unlike me, hmm?”
“Of course not.”
Nice of her, but he didn’t think she believed that for one minute.
“If she is in dire straits and seems honest enough, I see no harm in giving her some money to go somewhere away from this bully and start her life over again.”
“Be careful. You could get a reputation for being a soft touch.”
“I seriously doubt that. What sort of celebration is this harvest ball? It’s certainly not an English tradition.”
“I think Mr. Grant wants to develop some traditions that will embrace both worlds, as long as we remain very English.” She put an accent on the last two words that made him laugh.
“Well, it’s better than being an ornery, no-account cowboy.” His voice mimicked the western drawl so closely they both laughed, which felt damn good.
Simmons, who had laid out tea for Rowena in the small breakfast room, turned with an expression of surprise when Blair walked in with her on his arm, and hurried to set another service. It had been many days since he’d shown up for tea, asking instead that the man bring his meal to his room every afternoon. Not that he ate much of it. But today he found himself hungry. Very hungry indeed. And for a lot more than was on the table.
He pulled out a chair for Rowena before Simmons could do so, then kissed her lightly on one cheek before taking his own seat. When he looked up, a blush flamed her throat and face.
“I apologize. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s simply that you look so refreshingly pretty, I could not help myself.” He flipped a napkin into his lap and picked up the tray of sandwiches, offered one to her before taking two onto his plate.
Rowena's Hellion Page 3