At the Midnight Hour

by Alicia Scott

  Alycia had been an unhappy woman. It appeared she’d been married to Richard, yet had had affairs with Blaine and probably Parris, as well. In a jealous rage, either of the three men could have killed her. But what about now, five years later? Richard had looked honestly shocked when she’d mentioned the oil portrait—and he had been present when the rifle was fired at the picnic.

  She frowned, and urged Honeysuckle into a trot, sitting deep in the saddle as the hill bounced by. Maybe, with all his money, Richard had paid someone to fire at them? She shook her head. She couldn’t believe that. She could possibly accept Richard pushing Alycia in a moment of rage, but she couldn’t see him cold-bloodedly plotting to hurt her or Andy. Especially Andy. She believed what she’d said last night—Richard honestly cared for the child.

  Which meant, she thought after a minute, that she could probably eliminate Richard as a suspect as he couldn’t have been responsible for what had happened since.

  Her head cleared a fraction, and she felt the beginnings of relief. She could trust Richard. She would give him the diary, she decided resolutely, and show him the note. Maybe he could make more sense of it, knowing Alycia better than herself. Together, they would get to the bottom of this thing.

  Nodding to herself, she leaned forward and urged Honeysuckle into a canter. The grass rushed by as the horse slid into the smoother gait, the last of Liz’s nerves easing with the steady rhythm. She could trust Richard. She could tell him everything.

  She smiled, and clicked Honeysuckle into a full gallop.

  The horse had just leaned forward, when the saddle began to slide. Startled, Liz threw her weight to the right, but it wasn’t enough to halt the progress. Honeysuckle kicked up wildly, unsettled by the unbalanced weight on her back. The motion jolted Liz out of the gallop’s rhythm, and she lost control completely. Panicked, she kicked free of the stirrups and threw herself forward onto the horse’s neck, exchanging the loose reins for thick handfuls of mane. It was too little too late. The leather saddle fell to bang against the horse’s hooves, and Honeysuckle gave another startled kick. Already off balance, Liz hurtled over the horse’s neck and through the air.

  Her last thought was to duck and roll. Then she only saw blackness.

  * * *

  “Liz! Liz, sweetheart, can you hear me? Damn it, open your eyes, Liz! Open your eyes!”

  Slowly, with a low groan, she complied with the insistent voice. Her heavy lids fluttered open, making out the blurry image of Richard’s face. His eyes were intent, his face stark with worry. She tried to move, and instantly winced.

  “Lie still!” he ordered immediately, an order she was only too happy to obey. This time, more carefully, she tested out each limb. Fingers wiggled, toes wiggled. She seemed to be all here.

  “What the hell happened?” Richard demanded curtly, his hands still running along her neck and shoulders for signs of serious injury.

  “I’m fine,” she managed to get out, sitting up slowly. Her vision swam, then cleared. Wincing, she rolled her neck. She hadn’t taken a tumble that good for a long time, and she’d bounced more as a child. “What are you doing here?”

  “Running after you. And it looks like I came just in time,” he finished curtly. Damn it, he’d lost twenty years off his life when he’d come out to the stables looking for her, only to find Honeysuckle trotting back in half-unsaddled. Mrs. Pram had said that Liz had headed out toward the stables, allowing him to put two and two together. When he’d first seen her crumpled form on the ground, his blood had run cold.

  He searched her face for signs of further injury. Then carefully, his hands came up and brushed through her long hair, probing the back of her head. His fingers were strong but gentle as they searched for a lump. He found one tender area, earning another wince from her. Frowning, his fingers eased more carefully, finally coming down to knead the tension out of her neck.

  God, he’d hated seeing her on the ground like that, knowing once more that something bad had happened and it was probably all his fault. His hands rested on her shoulders as he fought the urge to sweep her into his arms and just hold her, hold her until all the darkness went away once and for all.

  Her midnight eyes met his, and the intensity of his gaze made her breathless.

  She could see the harsh remnants of guilt in his eyes and it tore at her. She wanted to tell him fiercely that she knew it wasn’t his fault. He could be cold, he could be harsh, but he wasn’t a killer. He was the man who wanted to believe in his son once more. The man who scorned all things soft, then held her with amazing tenderness.

  She understood that. She understood everything about him from all those midnight conversations.

  She loved him.

  She caught her breath, and very slowly, her hand came up to cup his cheek. She could feel the faint roughness of his morning beard, feel the scouring intensity of his unreadable gaze. He’d come out looking for her because he cared, and even now, he searched for signs of her well-being because he cared.

  How could she have been so blind to it all? The nervousness when she was around him, the need to see him, the need to touch him. She had never met anyone like the dark beguiling Richard Keaton. He was the antithesis to her whole upbringing, her approach to life. And yet, he’d chased the last of the tragedy from her life. He’d filled her thoughts, and allowed her to finally leave Nick behind. He’d challenged her to stand up and be strong, and he’d held her when the pain had been too much.

  And he needed her, in a way she wasn’t sure she’d ever been needed by anyone.

  “I’m really all right now,” she said at last. She smiled at him, a small luminous smile, and wondered if her heart shone in her eyes. Her gaze fell languorously to his lips.

  Richard’s stomach clenched at the movement, his eyes darkening with desire at the unconscious invitation. He should help her to her feet now, and get her back to the house so she could relax fully. But he couldn’t seem to move. Instead, his eyes remained on her face while images of her crumpled body washed through his mind.

  What if she’d been seriously harmed? What if he hadn’t come looking for her? His insides churned, his jaw tightening with the raging intensity of the emotions warring inside of him. He should move, but he didn’t want to let her go. Hell, he didn’t know what he wanted. He didn’t know what he needed.

  Or maybe he did, and that was what scared him so much.

  He stopped thinking, leaning forward instead. He didn’t give her a chance to say yes or no. He simply pulled her to him, and with his lips began to show her all the things his heart could never say.

  He kissed her, slowly and sweetly, yearning. She didn’t fight him. No, she melted against him like the sweet molasses of her voice, until he could feel her body meld with his own. He pulled her closer, even as her arms entwined themselves around his neck. She smelled like horses and fresh fall air, the scent tantalizing and seductive in its own way.

  Slowly, he eased them down fully onto the ground, until she lay half across him, her breasts firm against his chest. He stroked her hair, kissing her deeper as he pressed closer. His hands slid under her sweater and found the smooth curve of her naked skin. She was so soft to the touch, soft and warm and vital.

  He kissed her harder, deeper, demanding more and reveling in each heady response. He could feel her gasp against his lips, feel the rapid beating of her heart against his own chest, feel her breasts swell with desire. One hand came up, and he cupped her cotton-covered breast with his warm palm.

  She shivered, arching against him, and he felt the fire in his groin. He wanted to make her cry against him, wanted to hear the whispered plea of his name upon her lips. He wanted to consume her as she had consumed him. Until she could taste only him, feel only him, want only him.

  Until she would never leave.

  The kiss became more urgent, his lips demanding her total surrender. And she gave it to him. With a murmured sigh of submission, she turned herself over to the raging fires he was building in he
r blood. She gave herself up to the magic of his touch, the brand of his lips. She knew this man, his temper, his control and his pain.

  And she loved him. God help her, she loved him.

  He rolled over abruptly, cushioning her head with one arm as he plundered her mouth fiercely with his tongue. Her hands raked down his back in response, urging him on. He found the edge of her sweater, and together they tugged it off. The fall air chilled her skin, but she only pressed closer to him for warmth. Her bra floated down, to be followed by his coat, then his shirt. Each item was practically ripped off and then thrown carelessly on the ground to form a wanton testimony to their desire. And then at last was the electric feel of his callused hands on her soft skin, of her breasts against the rippling heat of his muscular chest. Her hands splayed across the naked expanse of his pectorals, exploring and discovering. She could feel the powerful thundering of his heart against her palm. She ran her hands through the crisp black curls of a light smattering of chest hair, then she traced the hairs down as they formed a thinner line, running into his slacks. Her hands lingered there, and she was rewarded by his low groan.

  Then suddenly, he had her hands above her head, capturing her mouth in a raging kiss, blazing a burning trail down the graceful curve of her neck to the soft promise of her breasts. His mouth found her right nipple, rolling it luxuriantly in his mouth while she arched against him. Helplessly, her hips shifted against his, seeking the relief that would put out the flames. In response, he ground his hips against hers, pressing his burning hardness into her welcoming curves.

  “I want you now,” he said thickly. “I have to have you.”

  She nodded, her eyes closed against the quivering sensations flooding her body. Every nerve felt on fire, every fiber of her being screaming for his touch. She wanted him, too, needed him, too. She wanted to feel him, hot and slick, sliding into her. She wanted to hear her name torn raggedly from his lips. She wanted the furious pounding, the building heat, the crashing release.

  His hands were already unfastening her jeans, and she didn’t stop him. She wanted him too much. She would give herself over to him at last, follow the will of her heart. And...

  The thought penetrated like a painful chill in her oversensitized mind. And would he love her? This man that claimed there was only lust? This man that even after all those burning kisses, could look at her with eyes so cold she thought she didn’t know him at all? He wouldn’t love her. He would take her now to slake his hunger, and turn away the minute he was satiated.

  He had the control. And she would just be the foolish woman that had given her body and heart, while ignoring her mind.

  She closed her eyes, willing herself to have the strength to pull away. But when she opened them again, it was to find his eyes burning into hers with raw, ragged need.

  And she knew then, as the first of the tears stung her eyes, that this time she wouldn’t pull away. Because she only knew one kind of love, and that was to give all of herself. So she put her body and her heart in his hands, and hoped she had the strength to handle a second loss.

  Slowly, she drew his head to her with her hands, and found his tongue with her own. He groaned against her mouth, delving into the moist recesses and sucking on her tongue as her hips arched against his. He didn’t need the hint. With impatience, he pulled off her jeans, cupping her mound with his palm while his tongue explored her mouth.

  With his fingers, he slowly outlined the rim of her panties, then dipped one finger beneath the cotton to find her warm, moist folds. She gasped, moving against his hand, feeling the tension twist voluptuously inside her.

  His first finger penetrated, sliding in slow and languorously while she shuddered against him. It had been so long, so very long. Her body cried out against the abstinence, longing to be filled, to be loved. He pushed deeper, and she cried out his name.

  Her panties disappeared and then she pulled him back down, embracing the warmth of his chest against her breasts as her hands found the front of his jeans. With one finger she outlined his rigid form, shivering with anticipation. In a matter of minutes, they’d wrestled off his jeans, freeing him to her touch.

  She sighed, enjoying the heavy weight of him in her hands. Raising her hips, she guided him into her.

  He gritted his teeth at the first penetration, the muscles on his neck cording with the effort at control. She was so tight and delicate, he didn’t want to hurt her. But she was gasping beneath him, arching up against him while her legs wrapped securely around his waist. He sank in deeply, and felt her teeth sink into his shoulder with her passion.

  He thrust again, creating a smooth, demanding rhythm that made her cry out his name. Deeper, faster, he plunged into her. He felt her hips arch one final time, her body trembling like a fine wire, then abruptly she collapsed beneath him, her body convulsing around him. With a dim roar, he let his own control go, and poured himself into her as his head fell against the curve of her neck.

  She held him tight, her hands warm and sure on his back. The first of the tears escaped from her lashes to mingle with sweat on her cheeks, but she didn’t say a word. She just held him, and wondered how long it would last.

  * * *

  The brisk air forced them to recover their clothing sooner than either would have liked. In silence, they pulled on their jeans and sweaters, not quite meeting each other’s eyes. And suddenly, one arm through her sweater, Liz knew she had to tell him about the note and the diary.

  For the first time, she wondered how he would take it. She hadn’t told him in the beginning because she hadn’t trusted him. Of course, she trusted him now. But would she be able to make him realize that?

  “Richard,” she began hesitantly, pulling the sweater down over her head. “Richard, what would you say if I told you that I’d found the diary?”

  Richard froze in the motion of pulling on his coat. “What?”

  Liz took a deep breath, and forced herself to stand tall. “I found Alycia’s diary,” she said levelly. “It was hidden in the floor of my room—or I guess, Alycia’s room.”

  “When?”

  She paused, then swallowed. “A few days ago.”

  He didn’t say anything, but a muscle suddenly twitched in his jaw. “Anything else?” he asked quietly, too quietly.

  “There was a note,” she whispered. “A note from Alycia that appeared on my bed. It said I should leave. I compared the handwriting with the handwriting in the diary. It wasn’t really from her.”

  “How reassuring,” he drawled darkly. His eyes landed upon her face, the depths suddenly icy steel. He didn’t have to ask why she hadn’t told him. She hadn’t trusted him.

  She, of all people, had believed she couldn’t tell him... because he’d killed his wife. The realization hurt more than he’d ever expected. He felt as if daggers had been stabbed into his chest and he had to grit his jaw just to breathe.

  “Richard—”

  “Don’t bother,” he said curtly, cutting her off. “I understand completely. After all, half this town thinks I killed Alycia, you might as well think it, too.” And then, because he was hurt and he hated the pain, he gestured casually to the ground, where minutes before they’d lain. “And don’t think you have to explain on account of what just happened. Lust is lust. It needs no more explanation than that.”

  She winced, her head falling to hide the stricken look on her face. She’d known that was coming, known what he thought about what had just happened, but it was harder than she’d ever imagined to hear it from his lips when her body was still warm from his touch.

  She’d hurt him, but his repayment was more than adequate.

  “We should go back to the stables,” she whispered woodenly. “I need to see to the horse.”

  Richard just nodded, his face closed off and grim. Goliath was tied nearby, so they rode the horse double, trying not to touch too much even as the horse’s gait threw them together. Liz was grateful when it came time to finally slide down off the beast.


  It turned out that the groom had already taken care of Honeysuckle. Richard, however, walked over to the discarded saddle with a frown on his face. The groom had thrown the girth aside, as it was now in two pieces. But Richard ran a finger over the separated ends, noting that three-fourths of the leather wasn’t ragged and frayed, but clean-cut, as if sliced. He looked up sharply to find Liz staring at him with bleak eyes.

  Someone had obviously tampered with the saddle, and there were only two people who rode Western: Richard and Liz.

  Chapter 13

  Richard remained glacierlike on the way back to the house. He was still hurt, and the pain infuriated him. She should not have been able to hurt him; he’d sworn never to be that vulnerable again. Lust was lust. He’d had her, now he would move on.

  But he didn’t feel finished as he stormed behind her into her room. He felt tightly strung, deeply wounded. And looking at the fresh renovations of the room, the fury washed over him once more. Someone had come into this room, under his roof, and placed an intimidating note on her bed. Someone had shot at her on his property, someone had tampered with her saddle in his stables. That he’d been so remiss only fueled his anger higher.

  He took the diary without a word, not even muttering a single syllable as she offered a brief recap of its contents. He merely waited for her to finish, then whirled with the small volume in his hand. Refusing to notice Liz’s look of hurt and regret, he thundered down the hall.

  He had only one destination in mind.

  He didn’t bother with the preliminaries of knocking as he bore down on Blaine’s room in the upper level of the house. Instead, he slammed the door open with all the force of a five-year-old rage. He had a moment of grim satisfaction, seeing the way Blaine bolted upright in bed in the shadowed room, with shock and fear rippling across his playboy face. Then Blaine’s face settled into the wariness Richard knew so well as Richard stepped fully into the room.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing,” Blaine demanded, “barging into my room like this?”