From Runaway to Pregnant Bride

by Tatiana March

  “What is Clay short for?” she asked. “Clayton?”

  “No.” Previously, his features had drawn into a scowl whenever she questioned him, but now one corner of his mouth kicked up into a crooked smile. “It’s short for a clay cup with a dragon painted inside it.”

  “Clay cup? What do you mean? You were named after a clay cup?”

  “Exactly,” he said and handed her a few nuggets to add into the glass jar. “A clay cup, and a necklace with green stones. Collier. That’s the French word for a necklace, I’ve been told.”

  Curious now, Annabel contemplated him. “Tell me more.”

  Instead of replying, Clay knelt by the creek, splashed water over his arms and chest to rinse away the dust from the ore. Then he ducked down to drink. When he’d had enough, he rose, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and walked over to her. Leaving a couple of paces between them, he stretched out on his side, facing her, his weight braced on one elbow.

  “I told you, I’m an orphan.”

  Annabel nodded. “You were six years old.”

  Something flickered in Clay’s eyes—surprise, but perhaps also pleasure that she’d paid enough attention to remember. He picked up a pebble from the ground and toyed with it while he spoke, keeping his tone light.

  “Someone took me to the nuns, and they asked for my name. I told them I didn’t know. But I had been holding a clay cup, and hidden in my clothing they found a necklace of green stones. Clay cup—Clay. Necklace—Collier. One of the nuns was French, and she came up with the word. And so Clay Collier was born.”

  “At six years old you did not know your own name?”

  He gave her a wry smile. “As it happens, I did. A whole dozen of them, and I had no idea if any of them was real.”

  Intrigued, Annabel leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

  “My parents were actors in a traveling theater show. Every few months, they left one troupe and joined another. And every time they gave me a different name. They had drilled into me not to tell my name if anyone asked, so it hardly seemed to matter, but I learned and memorized each new name anyway. Charlie, Benedict, Claude, Jeremy, Joseph. I’ve been them all.”

  “But why?”

  “I assume they were on the run. They changed their own names, too. Perhaps they had committed some crime. Perhaps one of them already had a wife or husband and was running away from responsibilities.”

  Her mind painted a different picture. “Or maybe your mother was the daughter of a nobleman who had eloped with a penniless cowboy and they were fleeing from her enraged papa.”

  Clay shook his head gently. “Don’t build up foolish dreams, Annabel. They were low-class people, drunk as often as sober, and they burned to death in their wagon when one of them knocked over a lamp and they were too full of cheap whiskey to get out in time. I know that’s how it happened, for I was down by the riverbank, trying to catch a fish for my supper because half the time they forgot to feed me.”

  Annabel held her breath. Clay’s tone remained even, but she sensed a store of hidden grief beneath his quiet words. To suffer a childhood of such neglect...and then to lose one’s parents in such a terrible way...

  She and her sisters had never mentioned it, but she knew they all had imagined how it might have been for their parents when they drowned. Did they know life was about to end? Did they share their final moments, or had the storm tossed them apart? Were they frightened? Did it hurt when the sea took your life?

  “Did you...?” Her voice faltered. “Did you see them burn?”

  Clay shook his head. “By the time I came up from the river, there was nothing left but the charred remains of the timber wagon and their burned bodies. They were buried in a pauper’s grave, and I was taken to the nuns.”

  “And then you went to the orphanage?”

  “I went to the orphanage and stayed there until I was fourteen.” Clay seemed to hesitate, as if reluctant to go on, but the words trickled out anyway. “At the orphanage I made friends with two younger boys, and I tried to look out for them. When it was time for me to leave, they were afraid to stay behind, so I took them with me.”

  Annabel heard the bitter note in his voice. Her pulse quickened. When they first met, she’d longed to put a crack into his stony facade. She had an inkling that she might be about to get her wish.

  Very softly, she asked, “What happened to those boys?”

  “They died.” Clay’s reply was bland. He picked up another pebble and tossed it along the ground, to scare away a squirrel venturing too close. “I should not have taken them with me. I was not equipped to look after them. If I had left them behind, they might still be alive.”

  Along with pity over Clay’s troubled past, Annabel felt a sting of disappointment. She’d been so close to getting a glimpse into his feelings, and then he had hidden behind that stony facade of his again.

  “What was it like, growing up in an orphanage?” she asked, hoping to push through the barrier that shielded his emotions. “Were you unhappy? Did you suffer? Did you have enough to eat? Did you get any schooling?”

  “I was not happy. I did not suffer. Much of the time I was hired out as a day laborer to a stone quarry. When I was small, I sorted out stones. When I got bigger, I pounded the rocks.” He shifted one shoulder, as if to cast aside the past. “The food was tasteless and scarce. I learned to read and write, but the education I have is from Mr. Hicks. He was a learned man, and he enjoyed sharing his knowledge.”

  Clay fell silent. Annabel waited. A cloud drifted in front of the sun, and a cool breeze rustled the autumn leaves. Even the rippling of the creek sounded darker, as if nature was announcing an overture for the winter.

  Then Clay spoke again. “Growing up in an orphanage seemed to affect boys in two different ways. With some, all softness goes out of them. That’s often boys who’ve been abused. They don’t know how to love. They turn hard and cruel.

  “The rest...most orphan boys...are the opposite. When they grow up, they are so desperate for the comfort of love, for the bond of human warmth, they give their heart to the first woman who asks, even when they should not.”

  His eyes met hers now, with a storm of emotion in them. Annabel’s pulse was racing wildly. She knew they were on the brink of some turning point, as if they had been teetering on a slippery surface ever since they met, and now they would either recover their balance or tumble into something unknown.

  “Which kind are you?” Her question came on a whisper.

  “I thought you would have figured it out by now.”

  And then Clay rolled onto his feet and walked over to her. He scooped her into his arms and carried her up the path. Past the arrastre they went, across the clearing, beyond the kitchen and the water barrel, his eyes holding hers as he clasped her to his chest and took her into the cool shadows of the cavern.

  * * *

  Clay laid Annabel down on the earth floor while he went to fetch his bedroll and spread it out. She was silent, but he could feel her watching him with concern in her eyes. Gently, he lifted her up, positioned her on the bedroll and knelt beside her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. To his surprise, the words came easily after all. “I hurt you last night. Let me make it up to you. Let me show you how good it can be.”

  “I didn’t know...” She took a sharp breath, then spoke on an exhale. “I didn’t know what to do...you have to teach me...”

  “There is nothing to teach,” Clay said. “Just follow the natural instincts of your body.” He adjusted his position, reached out with one hand and slipped a button free on her borrowed shirt...and another...and another, all the way down the front until he could ease the edges of the faded fabric apart.

  She no longer wore the strip of cloth tied around her chest, and her naked breasts shone white in the muted sunlight that spilled
into the cavern. Her amber eyes held his, trust and longing burning like a flame in them.

  Clay felt something shatter within him, as if the layers of defense he had carried inside him most of his life were crumbling away. How could he doubt what was between them? He should have more faith in Annabel. Again and again, she had proved her courage, her loyalty, her compassion.

  “You are shivering,” he said. “Are you cold?”

  “A little,” she replied. “My hair is damp, and my shirt got wet.”

  “Let’s get it off you.” With a new gentleness, Clay lifted Annabel’s shoulders and eased her arms free of the worn garment. He got to his feet, found a clean blanket and used it to rub her skin warm.

  A snatch of saloon talk drifted into his mind. Once, he’d seen a man haul a passing girl onto his knee and tell her he could make her purr like a kitten. The girl laughed and led the man upstairs, not even taking the time to negotiate the payment.

  Once, a long time ago, before his parents died, he’d had a kitten. He had enjoyed making the tiny tabby purr so hard its body vibrated with the motion. Now he was determined to do the same with Annabel.

  When she was lying down, dry and warm, Clay eased his hand beneath the blanket, letting it slide over her breast. Annabel sucked in a startled breath and quivered beneath his touch. Clay repeated the caress, then caught the pebbled nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Annabel made a tiny sound that conveyed as much protest as delight.

  “Did that hurt?” he asked.

  “No.” Her voice was dreamy, her posture languid on the bedroll.

  “Good,” Clay replied. “And neither should what we do together.” He slid the blanket out of the way to reveal Annabel’s nakedness. Lifting her hair aside, he pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck. “Do you remember what I told you once?” He spoke softly. “That a man can lose his sanity when running his hands through hair like yours. That’s what you do to me, Annabel. You make me lose my sanity. I’m sorry I was rough with you last night.”

  “It’s all right.”

  Clay ran his hands over her naked skin, seeking out new places to kiss...the curve of her shoulder...the dip of her waist...the narrow groove of her spine between those angel’s wings shoulder blades. He paid homage to her beauty, like a sculptor might admire a statue he had just completed.

  Only when Clay could see a languidness of arousal take hold of Annabel did he shed his own clothing and lie down beside her. “Just relax, let me touch you. Don’t think of anything. Just concentrate on feeling the pleasure.”

  She gave him a wordless nod and closed her eyes. Clay resumed that slow, gentle stroking with his fingertips, paying attention to her reactions. If she made a small, whimpering sound, it meant she liked what he was doing. And the low, throaty moan meant she liked it even better. And when she pressed her head back against the bedroll and let out a frantic cry, she liked it most of all.

  For long minutes, he touched and stroked her body, finding the places that rewarded him with those sounds of pleasure. Her breasts, the line of her collarbone, the shell of her ear, the inside of her elbow, the dip of her waist, the bend of her knee. He kissed all those places and many, many more.

  He turned her over onto her stomach, and kissed his way down her spine, then nipped at one rounded buttock with his teeth. She cried out and arched up on the bedroll.

  “You like that, don’t you?”

  Only when she was writhing with impatience, only when her breathing was swift and that throaty moan almost a constant sound, did Clay roll her over onto her back again and settle over her. He nudged her legs apart, cradled her face between his hands and looked deep into her eyes.

  “Tell me you want this, Annabel.”

  She gave him a hesitant nod.

  “Tell me with words.”

  “I want you to make love to me.”

  Carefully, taking his time, Clay eased inside her. He stilled and looked into her face. “All right?”

  “Yes.”

  He gave an easy thrust, then another.

  Annabel wriggled beneath him. “Wait.”

  Clay stilled again. “What is it?”

  “You didn’t mean...when you said an orphan boy can give his heart to the first woman who asks for it, even when he should not...you didn’t mean...you didn’t imply that it would be unwise for you to give your heart to me?”

  “No,” Clay said. “I didn’t mean that.” He flexed his hips and began thrusting deep, as if those simple words had sealed the bond between them. He studied Annabel’s reaction, ready to slow down if she showed any signs of distress. After a few moments of hesitation, her hips began rocking to meet his.

  This time, she was with him. Encouraged, Clay increased the speed and power of his strokes and felt her respond. Lowering his head, he kissed her, deep, consuming kisses that added to the heat between them.

  Slowly, he felt a tension build up in Annabel, felt the rising urgency in her movements. Clay held back his own climax, waited, waited. Finally, Annabel flung her head back, arched beneath him and cried out. Clay gave in to the release, let it roll over him and sank down on top of her, taking care not to crush her with his weight.

  Just as he had dreamed, Clay held Annabel in his arms while the tremors of completion buffeted her. Watching her in the throes of pleasure—pleasure he had given her—peeled away another layer of his defenses. In that moment, he decided there would be no other woman in the world who could offer him the same sense of belonging, the same sense of unity, the same hope for the future as Annabel did.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Annabel sat cross-legged on the ground by the creek, mending her torn trousers. Her body still tingled from the pleasures of the afternoon. Papa had taught her that if a person failed at a task, it was important to try again. She doubted making love was quite what Papa had in mind, but the lesson had served her well.

  Clay was operating the rocker box, shirtless but with a hat on his head and a gun belt around his hips. Occasionally, Annabel glanced up at him while she kept the needle rising and falling.

  She knew she was in love with him, but she possessed no yardstick against which to measure the emotion. Could it be merely a schoolgirl infatuation, a rite of passage that would soon pass? Or was it something deeper, something that could bridge the gulf between their backgrounds and survive the pressures of the real world?

  Not having told him about everything she had left behind had become a source of discomfiture, like a fishbone stuck in her throat. Cousin Gareth was her legal guardian, after all, and they were planning to marry without his consent. She should reveal the truth, soon, but for a little longer she wanted to hold on to her anonymity—be just herself, instead of the youngest Fairfax girl, the sheltered daughter of an affluent family.

  * * *

  After Clay had finished washing the ore, they took out the pair of gold scales from their protective wooden case and weighed the dust and nuggets, adding gold into one cup until it balanced with the weight in the other cup. They kept repeating the action until they had weighed the full quantity.

  “Just under fourteen ounces.” Annabel held the glass jar up to the sunlight, making the contents sparkle. “Together with what we already have, it makes almost twenty-one ounces in total. At sixteen dollars on ounce that’s worth three hundred and thirty dollars.”

  Clay glanced at her. “How can you count so quickly?”

  She shrugged. “I just can.”

  Impressed by her skill, Clay put away the jar with gold. He didn’t mind having a woman who outshone him in cleverness. She would never match his physical strength, so a more agile mind balanced the power between them.

  “Do you know how to shoot?” he asked as he moved along to inspect the boxes of rifle shells stacked in a metal box on the shelf.

  “Only an old-fas
hioned musket.”

  “I’ll teach you to use a handgun before we leave, and we’ll buy you a revolver in Hillsboro. It pays to go around armed in the mining camps.”

  When going through the small stack of papers Mr. Hicks had left behind, they found the location notice for the mine. If they didn’t submit evidence of labor at the claim every year, the notice would lapse and another miner could stake a claim—a possibility they could do nothing to prevent.

  In the papers they also found a Bible, with Mr. Hicks’s given name written on the flyleaf, and beneath it the name of a woman.

  Aaron Hicks.

  Sarah Milford.

  “Sarah Milford?” Clay said with a frown. “Never heard Mr. Hicks mention her.”

  He could see hesitation flicker across Annabel’s face. She spoke softly. “She was a woman he loved. She betrayed him by marrying another man, even though she had promised to wait for him. That was the cause of his bitterness toward women. He told me about it as he lay dying in the cave.”

  “A woman who can’t stay true is not worth a man’s love,” Clay said, scorn in his tone.

  Annabel gave him one of her wide-eyed looks and started to argue, one woman defending another, but gave up when she found nothing to say. Clay moved on and studied the pile of goods they had stacked on the floor, ready for packing.

  Kitchen utensils, pots and pans, blankets, mining equipment—shovels, pickaxes, blasting tools, buckets, a small tin of black powder, iron chains and bottles of mercury, magnets, gold pans, everything needed to work either a lode or a placer claim.

  “We need to cut the quantity in half.” Clay dropped down to his haunches and began shifting through the items. “The mule can’t carry this much.”

  “He could, if I ride the buckskin with you,” Annabel suggested. “The equipment is worth money. Anything we can do without, we can sell in Hillsboro. And I don’t want to ride into town bouncing on the back of a mule.”