Her arms lay in a circle about his shoulders. The back of his head rested in her palms. Instead of releasing him as modesty dictated, she tightened that loop possessively.
And she wondered what she would have to do to wake up entwined with this man for the rest of her days. And nights.
She wasn’t ignorant enough to think that a simple kiss would do it. Though no small matter for her, she was certain he’d kissed his share of women without ever thinking of marriage. What could she offer that would make him want to return after this conflict was over? She’d saved his life by his own admission. Would that provide bonds strong enough to hold him, or would her sacrifices be forgotten the minute he rode out of her yard?
All she knew at this moment they fit together, was how quickly he’d filled all the empty corners of her existence. What she didn’t know about his life in details, she’d learned by example. He’d shown her fearlessness when she’d been desperate and tenderness when she’d been needy. And his kiss … his kiss had shown her the dormant power of her own desires. How could she ever quiet what he’d awakened in her? How could she be satisfied with solitude when she’d known the completing warmth of his body lying next to hers?
How was she ever going to let him ride away and out of her life?
“What’s wrong?”
The low caress of his voice startled her from her anxious thoughts but not from their purpose.
“Just thinking.”
“Bad dreams?” His hand fell upon the back of her neck to begin a light massage. At his touch, her bones went to butter.
“No, not bad dreams.”
“Then what?”
She took a small breath and forged ahead. “Just thinking how nice it is not to be alone.”
He was motionless for a long moment and she feared she said too much. Then his cheek rubbed the top of her head.
“It is nice. I’ve been alone for a long time, too.”
Was that an encouragement, or a simple statement of fact? She didn’t know. Cursing her naïveté, she proceeded with care. “This should feel all wrong, but it doesn’t.”
She felt his nod. “It feels comfortable.”
“Comfortable?” She rose up, frowning slightly. “Comfortable like with a sister?”
She could just make out the slightly crooked smile that shaped his mouth in the dimness. “No. Not like with my sister.”
“Oh.” Mollified, she snuggled back against him, then ventured, “Like a friend?”
The kneading movement of his hand stilled. “I don’t usually kiss my friends.”
“Oh.”
Not sister, not friend. What did that leave, if not lovers? A chill of anticipation swept her, making her burrow in closer to his heat.
What would that mean, lovers? She was thinking soul mates, of complementing partners in life, of courtship upon the promise of his return. What was he thinking? She wished she dared question him.
Instead she asked, “Do you think I’m pretty?”
“How old are you?”
Not exactly the reply she wanted. “How old are you?”
“Old beyond my years. Positively ancient. Too old for a young girl like you.”
“I’m not all that young.”
A chuckle vibrated beneath her cheek. The sound was husky and intimate, and she went weak inside.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“No, I don’t think you’re pretty.”
As she swallowed down that disappointment, he added, “I think you’re beautiful. And brave. And too desirable for us to be having this conversation. Go back to sleep.”
Sleep? How could she sleep now? Beautiful, brave … and desirable! She couldn’t stop, now that she’d gone this far. Concealing darkness gave her the courage to continue.
“Have you ever been in love?”
He was silent for a long moment, then said, “I thought so, once, but that was many years ago. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve never had anyone else to ask. Do you mind?” she added shyly.
“I guess not.”
Encouraged, Garnet smiled dreamily. “It must have been very wonderful.”
“As I recall, a tooth extraction would have been less painful.”
Hearing the hurt covered quickly by his quiet laughter, she pressed, “Did she break your heart?”
“No … yes … I don’t know. I was young. Younger than you are now. I should have known better than to start something I couldn’t finish. It was my fault if we both got hurt.”
How romantic it sounded, the way he drew a slow breath and let it out upon a sigh.
“What happened?”
“She was beneath my station. My family didn’t approve. I had to give her up.”
“Did they force you to?”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
But it did. From the tone of his voice, it mattered very much.
“What was her name?”
“Jassy.”
“Was she a neighbor?”
“No. She worked for my family. As I said, it was a long time ago.”
And best forgotten, his tone intimated. She obeyed his wish for once, lying quietly within the curve of his arm while mulling over his words and what they didn’t say. Finally, he asked, “And you? Have you some handsome beau picked out?”
She almost swallowed her tongue. If he only knew …
After a moment to cool her agitation, she said, “No one yet. But then, as you pointed out, I’m still a child, and not so very old as you.”
He chuckled, then winced at the pain it caused him. She could feel his smile against her hair. She would have liked very much to see it, for she guessed he didn’t smile often. She wondered if the loss of his young love had cast his life in a somber shape. At that moment, she wished ardently that she was clever enough or woman enough to fill that void in him. But being neither, she stayed silent, feeling his melancholy and aching for those long-ago lovers.
But if that first love had not been fated to fail, he wouldn’t be here in her arms.
If only there was a way to keep him from leaving them.
Garnet woke to find the warmth she’d snuggled up to belonged to a large snoring dog.
The room showed no sign that Deacon Sinclair had ever been there. For one brief moment, she wondered if last night had been some cruel sort of dream.
Then the unmistakable scent of coffee reached her.
Poor exhausted Boone never so much as twitched when she slipped out of bed and quickly changed her clothes. As she hitched a belt up to secure the baggy trousers about her waist, a sense of wistfulness overcame her.
How long had it been since she’d owned a new dress? How long since she’d felt the feminine sway of lacy petticoats? How could she get Deacon to see her as a woman if she didn’t even look like one? She touched a hand to her home-cropped hair, feeling the thick curl of it at the nape of her neck. What would it be like to have the heavy weight of long tresses pinned up in a sophisticated knot instead of in this loose boyish tangle?
Then would Deacon see her as a woman and not a girl?
There was no help for her lack of wardrobe or length of hair, so she would have to make the best of it.
She pushed aside the curtain and was greeted by the inviting picture of Deacon Sinclair at her stove, scrambling something delicious-smelling in her skillet. She paused for a moment to simply absorb the sight. Unfortunately, he noticed her almost immediately. He smiled in welcome, waving a fork toward the table preset for two.
“Good morning. I made myself useful. I hope you don’t mind.”
“You’ve been busy.” Her gaze touched on the snowy prints by the door.
“I thought you could use the sleep.”
“Not so much as you,” she protested, both liking and disturbed by the idea of him taking over her daily chores.
“I’m feeling much better, thanks to you, and I’m hungry. I figured you wouldn’t mind sharing the food so much if I prepared it.”
&
nbsp; “I wouldn’t have minded at all.”
He grinned at her prickly answer and the gesture made him so heart-stoppingly handsome, she hurt inside just looking at him. This was a man she could lose herself to every morning of her life.
“Sit. This is almost ready. How do you like your coffee?”
“With sugar.” She took the seat, somewhat dazed by the service and the server. He presented her with a steamy cup of hearty brew and a plate of questionable ingredients.
Noting her arched brow, he told her, “It’s mostly eggs and anything else I could find that was edible. Don’t worry. It won’t poison you.”
“I wasn’t worried.” She met his gaze for a long beat, then said, “You clean up nicely.”
He touched the fresh-boiled shirt and looked sheepish. “I hope you don’t mind. I borrowed this from your father.”
“And his razor, too, I see.”
He put fingertips to his smooth cheek. “I should have waited to ask.”
“The improvement outweighs the impropriety,” she told him with a smile. “Join me.”
For the simple pleasure of having another at the table, she would have forgiven him anything. The thought of him going through her father’s clothes cupboard and plying his straight edge were the least of her concerns. It was the fact of his apparent recovery that had her close to weeping. She could see in the way he moved that he would be gone much sooner than she’d hoped.
“You said your father was with the Union telegraphers. Was that his profession before the war?”
Glad for the casual conversation to distract her from the way her heart pounded so painfully, Garnet said, “No, he’s a farmer.”
“I wondered … seeing as how you’re so far from any town.” He took a sip of coffee, his features relaxed, his gaze upon hers in genuine interest.
Flattered to have him show curiosity about her life, she answered freely. “My father wanted to do something for the Union cause. Unfortunately, his poor eyesight and breathing troubles made him a poor candidate for the field. It broke his heart to think they couldn’t use him in some capacity.”
“Providing food for the troops is a noteworthy contribution.”
Garnet smiled gratefully but shook her head. “That wasn’t enough for him. You see, he was born in this valley, in this house. He wanted to make his mark on the outside of these hills.” Her wistful tone said she envied him that opportunity.
“So, how does a farmer become a telegraph operator?”
Garnet blushed slightly and focused on her plate. “Well, actually, it was my doing. I could see how much he wanted to give, but no one wanted what he had to offer. So I found something that they would want.” She glanced up to catch his encouraging half smile.
“And what was that?”
“I’ve always been good with numbers. There were no schools nearby, so my mother taught me to read and write and cipher. She said it was a natural gift, the way I took to mathematics. I’d been reading about the use of coded messages in the field, so one evening, I came up with my own series of coded dots and dashes for him to take to the federal command.”
He stared at her for a long moment without blinking. “You invented a code.”
“I adapted it from what had already been in use. The Union officers were impressed enough to bring my father into the telegraph corps. We’d made a deal, you see, I’d give him the code and he’d let me stay here to keep the farm going.”
“Very clever of you.”
She wasn’t sure the soft spoken statement was a compliment. The warm admiration was gone from his slate-colored stare. In its place was the steely intensity, as unreadable as it was unbending. Was he censuring her for bargaining with her father to get what she wanted? Color climbed into her cheeks when she considered how calculating it must have sounded.
“This is my family’s farm, Sergeant. It’s all we have to pass from generation to generation. Just this land and what sits upon it. If I’d followed my father’s edicts and had gone docilely to some big city where I would be safe and cared for as befitting my female gender, how long do you think this place would stand? What do you think the chances would be that there would be anything for us to come home to?”
“I wasn’t being critical of the choices you made, Garnet. I admire you for them.”
It was the way he said her name as much as the content of his phrase that fired her blood like heat lightning. “Oh.”
“I was marveling that a girl—a woman—like you could best the best of Confederate intelligence with a code they’ve found to be unbreakable.”
Her awkward blush returned along with a fluttering heartbeat. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
He made the sign of an X over his heart.
“Oh, I’m sure someone will figure out the combinations sooner or later, but until they do, my father is the unit’s darling and I’ve given him his chance to live a dream.”
“Show me.”
“What?”
Deacon reached out to slip his hand over the top of hers. His thumb stroked along its sensitive valley in devastating circles. As he held her gaze transfixed within the smoky mystery of his own, he gave a small, coaxing smile that set her budding passions ablaze.
“Show me how you did it,” he urged silkily. “Teach me your code.”
Chapter 5
She studied him for so long and so hard, Deacon panicked. She suspected. She might not have known for sure, but she intuited that something was wrong about his interest.
He shouldn’t have searched through her father’s belongings under the guise of finding clean clothes. Perhaps that alerted her. But the opportunity presented itself, too choice to ignore. And now all his plans teetered near ruin.
“Is something wrong?” His voice betrayed nothing of his inner alarm.
Garnet hesitated, then gave a funny little laugh. “It’s just that I’m not supposed to talk to anyone about it.”
He nearly sagged in relief. Embarrassment. That was what had her acting so strangely. She was embarrassed about not being able to tell him. Smiling easily, he pressed her hand.
“I understand. It’s a government secret, after all. You can’t give that information to just anyone.” He emphasized “anyone” ever so slightly, then began to withdraw his hand. Hers seized up around it. Slowly she turned his palm up and used her forefinger to tap out a series of stops and starts. His pulse beats were equally irregular.
“What did you say?”
Her smile was pure feminine mystery. “I can teach you. It’s a simple mathematical progression.”
“I don’t want you to get in any trouble.”
She shrugged. “Even if you knew the code, the secret’s safe. Only my father can use it.”
“Why’s that?”
“Those he contacts recognize his ‘fist,’ his manner of keying. It’s as individual as a signature. It’s a way to protect his value to the Union cipher corps.”
He smiled and again vowed, “Very clever.”
Her features brightened. “So I guess it couldn’t hurt to teach you.”
His smile widened. “I guess not.”
So he listened, and he learned, and soon he had all the information he’d been sent to discover, told to him with a sweet naïveté by a girl who trusted strangers. All he had to do was take what he knew back to the Confederate line.
But leaving was no simple matter.
He told himself it was a slight recurrence of his fever that forced him to seek a few hours’ rest. His head did ache. Not a fit of conscience. No, it was far too late in his life for him to experience a pause of reluctance. He’d done far worse things than tarnish the illusions of one lonely girl—far worse. So why couldn’t he think of any instances that made him writhe quite so uncomfortably as this one?
As he lay in the darkened room, on sheets redolent with her herbal scent, listening to the soul-plucking sounds of her harp, he asked himself one question.
When had he become such a loathsome
creature?
He could argue that the job demanded it. That the times commanded it of him. But he knew the truth. The truth was, there remained no scrap of decency in his soul, no sense of remorse. That’s what made him the perfect spy. No action was too abhorrent, no consequence too dire. The problems of others were not his, and he didn’t trouble himself over them. One had to look above and beyond the miserable coil of life if one was to be successful. Hadn’t he learned that at an early age? And he was always successful. Always.
So why did he feel so empty? Why could no action, no accomplishment, fill him up?
Why did the sum of all his victories fall so painfully shy of the satisfaction he found in one country girl’s admiring smile?
He was tired. That was all.
After he turned in his report, he would go home for a while to refresh his spirit and renew his dedication. Viewing the vast fields at Sinclair Manor never failed to instill him with pride and purpose. Then he would forget this one brave girl whose life he would inexorably change under the guise of duty.
But not today.
Today he wallowed in the murky swamp of ethics that made him question the right and wrongs of what should not be questioned.
And the sooner he left, the better off he’d be.
There was no mistaking the anguish in her gaze when he emerged from the bedroom in full uniform. She knew good-bye was coming, and the pain of it shone with guileless brilliance in her beautiful dark eyes. There was nothing he could do about that. He owed her nothing but his thanks—for the hospitality, for the selfless care, for the secrets she’d sworn not to tell another soul.
“I’ll pack you some food for your journey home.”
That was all she said. Her simple acceptance of the situation upset his balance more than any feminine plea could have. She didn’t have to say it. She was sorry to see him go.
And the hell of it was, he was sorry to be leaving.
“You don’t—”
Her smile disarmed him. “It’s no trouble.”
So he stood there in the cozy room, watching her in her ridiculous men’s clothing, preparing him a repast when soon she would be cursing his very existence. From under the table, Boone regarded him with wary hostility. The dog knew better than the master that he was not what he seemed. Perhaps it could smell a rotten core.
The Men of Pride County: The Pretender Page 5