Fancy Free (Three Times a Bride Anthology)

by Catherine Anderson

  Rachel didn’t like the way he studied her—a lazy appraisal, his eyes glinting as if at some private joke. It seemed at odds with the stories she’d heard, namely that he was a charmer. Instead, he was making her feel awkward and more than a little frightened, which seemed more in keeping with the stories she had heard about his older brother, Clint. Now there was a man to avoid, always serious, never smiling. His gray-blue eyes could sear right through a woman, according to her friends.

  After completing the slow appraisal of her person, Matt flicked his gaze to hers and said in a deep, silken voice, “That must’ve been quite some mold, sweetheart.”

  Mentally, Rachel stumbled about, trying to make sense of his comment. In her bewilderment, she forgot all about looking owlish. Lands, he was attractive. No wonder poor little Molly had gotten a crush on him. “Pardon?”

  A smile flickered across his firm mouth. “The mold that got broke after they made you? Judging by the results, it must’ve been quite some mold.”

  “Oh!” Rachel gave a horrified little laugh. “That mold. So much time passed that—well, I totally forgot—” She realized she was babbling and waving her hands like a lunatic. She punctuated the inanity with another shrill laugh.

  “What are you doing out at this time of night? Good little girls like you should be home in bed with the covers tucked up to their chins.”

  Coming from any other man, the appellation “little girl” would have infuriated her. At eighteen, she was still new enough to womanhood to be easily offended if someone insinuated she wasn’t yet an adult. Not so with Matt Rafferty. Compared to him, she’d be a child at ninety. In the silvery gloom, his features, sharp, uncompromising, and blatantly male, looked as if they had been carved from polished mahogany, giving his face a hardness that made her pulse skitter.

  “Maybe I’m not the good little girl you think I am.”

  Touching a fingertip to the edge of his hat, he nudged back the brim and arched one black eyebrow. “Is that so?”

  Shoving her hand into her skirt pocket, she curled her fingers around her spectacles and raised her chin a notch. Swamped with old resentments, she glared at him through the gloom, remembering another man who had laughed at her.

  “It’s been my observation that good little girls don’t have very much fun.”

  “True,” he agreed with a slow grin, “but, then, most good little girls don’t realize what they’re missing.”

  “Well, I do.”

  Judging by the way one corner of his mouth twitched, that proclamation amused him. “Oh, really? And who was the lucky fellow?”

  Rachel couldn’t see how any one fellow played into it. “Pardon?”

  He chuckled, the sound a low murmur from deep in his chest.

  “Is it a private joke, Mr. Rafferty, or will you share it with me?”

  “It’s nothing, really. Just that you answered my question.”

  “What question?”

  “As to whether or not you realize what you’re missing. I have a hunch you don’t.”

  Rachel’s chin went up another notch. “If not, why would I be here?”

  “Good point. Care to enlighten me?”

  “Because I’m tired of living a dull existence, that’s why.”

  His full but firm mouth tipped up at one corner again. The grin had scarcely left his lips when he yawned. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. When he looked at her again, his eyes were a little unfocused. “So you’re tired of a dull existence, are you? Why do I have this feelin’ you’re hopin’ I’ll remedy that?”

  “Possibly because I am.” Rachel affected a sultry smile and tried not to think about the seconds that were racing by. “Who better than you when a girl’s lookin’ for an exciting experience? I hear tell you’re a carefree fellow and always game.”

  “You must have me confused with someone else, darlin’. Carefree isn’t in my vocabulary, especially not when it comes to you. I have an aversion to bein’ locked up, you see. A man’d have to be crazy to mess with Big Jim Constantine’s daughter.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re scared of my pa?”

  “Damned straight.” His mouth tipped into another teasing grin that flashed perfectly straight white teeth. “And scared I’ll stay as long as he’s wearin’ that badge.”

  “But, Mr. Rafferty, my pa’s never gonna know about this. You have my word.”

  “He ain’t gonna know because there ain’t gonna be a this,” he said with a laugh.

  Driven to brazenness by sheer desperation, Rachel stepped closer to him. Recalling Dora’s instructions, she hooked a finger under the front placket of his shirt. She couldn’t help but notice how iron hard his flat belly felt against her knuckles.

  Trying to remember all that her friend had told her to say, she crooned, “I know this is going to sound terribly forward, but I can’t help myself, Mr. Rafferty. I want you.”

  His smile deepened. “Say what?”

  Rachel wiggled closer, not at all sure she liked the tingling sensation in her nipples as she grazed his shirt with her bodice. “I want you.” She paused, trying to remember the other things Dora had suggested she say. “I’ll do whatever I have to. Deep and slow, or hard and fast, however suits you, I’m yours for the taking.”

  He gave another low laugh. “All right. I’ll bite. Why?”

  His response was so unexpected that Rachel’s heart leaped. “What?”

  Stressing each word as if she were an imbecile, he said, “Why do you want me?”

  Of all the questions she and Dora had anticipated he might ask, this wasn’t one of them. The truth was, Rachel didn’t have a clue why any female would be attracted to him. Oh, he was handsome, she’d give him that, but he was also a little terrifying.

  “Because you fascinate me,” she blurted, which was the unvarnished truth. She was fascinated by him—in a morbid sort of way.

  “Why are you fascinated?”

  “Because you’re exciting.”

  Even in the moonlight, she saw his eyes twinkling. He chucked her under the chin. “More exciting than you can handle. Go home, honey. If you want to cut your teeth on some poor fellow, go gnaw on your little friend Lowry, the minister’s son. He won’t bite back. I just might.”

  “Lawson, his name is Lawson. And he’s not the one I’m interested in.”

  He touched the brim of his hat. “G’night, sweet cheeks. I appreciate the offer. It’s mighty generous and about as sweet a proposition as I’ve ever had. But, unfortunately, I’m going to have to pass.”

  With that, he started to walk away. Rachel saw him sway slightly before he caught himself. Filled with a sense of urgency, knowing that this chance would be forever lost unless she acted fast, she grabbed his arm. “Please, don’t go! Please?”

  He swung back around. In a tone that was suddenly serious, he said, “Rachel, I told you to go home.” He paused for a moment as if to let that sink in. “If you’re smart, you’ll run, not walk. From the way I’m startin’ to feel, I’d say I’ve had a little too much to drink, and you’re too tempting by half. My head isn’t real clear. When a man can’t think straight, he doesn’t have as much willpower as he ought. Keep on, and I’m liable to accept your offer. We’ll both regret it come morning, you more so than me.”

  Rachel had news for him: he would be the one with regrets. “What can I do to make you change your mind?” She pressed her body against his. “I’ve already thrown myself at your feet. Don’t humiliate me more by walking away.”

  “Christ!” Teeth clenched, jaw muscle twitching, he squeezed his eyes shut.

  Rachel rubbed herself against him more insistently. “Please?”

  “Damn it, girl,” he said in a gravelly voice, “go home. Play with fire and you’re bound to get burned.”

  “Oh, yes, if you’re the fire, I want to be burned. Please, I wan—”

  He vised an arm around her waist and settled his mouth over hers. For an instant, she wasn’t sure what had happened. S
lowly, measure by measure, her stunned mind began to register sensations: his mouth, hot and silken, pressed firmly against hers; his arm cinched around her waist; his hand splayed over her back; his fingertips curled over her side; his steely thighs bracing hers. Fire didn’t describe Matt Rafferty. A blazing inferno, more like. She felt as though she were being consumed.

  Just last week, she’d finally permitted Lawson to kiss her. The techniques of the two men were about as much alike as warm milk and jalapeño juice. In Lawson’s arms, Rachel had felt safe and faintly bored. In Matt’s, she felt as if she were dangling from a cliff, he her only anchor. His kiss was hard and demanding. There was no shyness in him, no hesitation, only steely determination. Beneath her hands, which she’d instinctively brought up to push him away, his chest was roped with muscle that lay rigid under a layer of firm yet resilient male flesh. His torso was like an unyielding wall of granite, crushing her breasts, making her intensely aware that her body was far more sensitive and vulnerable than his.

  When he finally drew back, Rachel gasped for breath, her gaze startled. “Are you still sure you want to be burned?” he demanded gruffly. “I’m warnin’ you—think carefully before you answer. There comes a point where there is no turnin’ back, you know, and I’ve about reached it.”

  It occurred to Rachel in that moment that he had deliberately kissed her roughly to frighten her away and that now he expected her to bolt. Well, she didn’t scare quite that easily. He burned hot, all right, but thanks to some whiskey laced with valerian, his flame would soon flicker out. The most he could do in the time he had left was singe her edges a bit.

  “Oh, yes,” she whispered, “I still want to be burned.”

  For just an instant, he hesitated, his gaze delving deeply into hers as if he searched for answers. Then, as if he’d found them, he bent his head and settled his mouth over hers again, more gently this time, but with even more devastating impact.

  Two

  Wet silk. Cool fire. Icy flames licked Rachel’s skin, making her burn and shiver.

  “Part your lips, sweetheart,” Matt Rafferty whispered urgently against her mouth.

  Afraid to deny him for fear he’d guess that her seductive act was all a ruse, she did as he told her. The next thing she knew, his tongue slipped past her teeth. Shock snapped her body taut. She made fists on his shirt front. As if he sensed her startlement, he drew back to nibble lightly at her lower lip. “It’s all right. Just trust me.”

  Rachel would have sooner trusted a snake, but deep within her, everything that was feminine responded to the husky timber of his voice. When he kissed her again, she parted her lips, allowing him to taste her mouth. He plundered the sensitive flesh, tickling the roof of her mouth and drawing sharply on her tongue, forcing it to dance with his in a rhythmic thrust that made her belly tighten and tingle in a strange way.

  The unfamiliar sensation frightened her, but when she tried to end the kiss, she discovered that he’d curled a hand over the back of her head. She remembered his warning, that after a certain point, there was no turning back. Fighting down panic, she reminded herself he’d lose consciousness soon. But somehow that wasn’t very reassuring. A flash fire could cover a lot of ground in a few short minutes.

  His breathing was uneven with need, and when she writhed to disengage herself from his embrace, he moaned, the sound catching and quivering at the base of his throat. Another wave of panic surged within her when he slid his hand from her back to her side, his fingertips searching out the shape of her breast and homing in on its peak. She jerked at the contact and managed, finally, to draw her mouth from under his.

  “Christ,” he whispered against her cheek, each huff of his breath as hot and moist against her skin as the steam from coffee. Through the layers of her clothing, he staked claim to the hardened tip of her nipple, tugging and rolling the sensitive flesh. Rachel was so stunned by the feelings that rocked her, she couldn’t breathe, let alone protest. “Ah, sweetheart,” he rasped against her temple. “I want that in my mouth.”

  Given the location of his hand, there was little doubt in Rachel’s mind what part of her anatomy he referred to. The very thought appalled her.

  “I bet you’re as sweet there as sun-warmed honey.”

  The picture that had begun to form in Rachel’s mind was so indecent she nearly kicked him. How dare he even suggest—well, no woman, lady or otherwise, would engage in such outrageous conduct. She jerked his hand from her breast. Because she didn’t dare reveal what was actually on her mind, she settled for saying, “Mr. Rafferty, we are standing in the middle of the street where anyone might see us.”

  “Then let’s find someplace private,” he murmured near her ear. “It’s not every day I have Rachel Constantine beggin’ me to make love to her.”

  He had that much correct, at least. With careful maneuvering, she managed to get some space between their bodies. Cheeks afire, she found it difficult to meet his gaze, so instead she focused on his nose. Even in the dim light, she noticed that there was a knot along its bridge. She wondered if he’d broken it in a fight. Given his reputation as a scrapper, he probably had.

  “How about if we go to the church?” she suggested shakily.

  “Where?”

  By his shocked tone, she guessed he had understood her perfectly. “The church,” she repeated. “It’s as private a place as we’re likely to find.”

  “The church?” He gave a sharp laugh. “I’m not usually what you’d call a finicky man, but that’s not exactly my idea of a suitable spot, darlin’.”

  “Of course it’s suitable. One might even say perfect! Just think. Who ever goes there at this hour on a Saturday night? Even Preacher Wells is home in bed.”

  “That’s true, but—”

  “Just think of all those pews, those lovely pews, empty and waiting. It’ll be dark in there. We can have hours and hours of uninterrupted privacy.” On that last word, Rachel squeezed her eyes closed for a second and sent up a quick, frantic prayer that he wasn’t going to be difficult. “It’ll be wonderful, just wait and see.”

  He traced the shape of her ear with the tip of his tongue. “It just doesn’t seem right somehow, fornicating in a holy place.”

  Of all the things she had planned on, Matt Rafferty having scruples wasn’t one of them. Thinking quickly, she said, “Oh, pshaw. Paint and wood, that’s all. It’s the folks gathering inside the building that makes it holy, not the structure itself. A barn would be just as sacred if people gathered there to worship.”

  “A barn?”

  “Or any other building. Trust me, if we use the church, God won’t mind a bit.”

  He laughed again, more mellowly. “Why do I have this feelin’ you’re bent on doin’ it on a church pew?”

  Rachel assumed an impish smile and leaned back. “It’s a wonderfully wicked idea, isn’t it? And, oh, I do so want to be wicked. Deliciously wicked…with you.”

  It seemed to her that he was beginning to lean his weight more heavily against her. “Then let’s go,” he said. “Oh, and by the way, hard and fast.”

  “What?”

  “Hard and fast,” he repeated, bringing his face closer to hers as he spoke. “You gave me a choice, remember? Deep and slow or hard and fast. I’ll take hard and fast.”

  Rachel shoved against his shoulders, but it was like trying to hold back a mountain. “Um…Mr. Rafferty?” She twisted her face to one side so that his hot, silken lips landed harmlessly on her ear again. Or maybe not so harmlessly. He caught her lobe between his teeth and—Rachel gulped. Oh, dear God. He was sucking on her earlobe. “Mr. Rafferty?” she tried again, fighting off panic. “Not out here. We have to go to the church, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah…”

  He straightened so abruptly that he staggered, carrying her along with him. She hugged his waist and struggled to regain her balance, terrified he might fall. If he landed on top of her—well, she’d be in a pickle, and no mistake. He was well over six feet tall, and proba
bly outweighed her by close to a hundred pounds.

  “Lead the way, ma’am.” He stepped aside and swept his hat from his head in an unsteady bow. “Believe me, makin’ love to such a pretty lady will be my pleasure.”

  Rachel grabbed his arm, helped him get his hat back on, and then struck off for the church, an endeavor she quickly learned was going to take far longer than she had estimated. For every step Matt Rafferty took forward, he executed anywhere from two to a dozen in either direction sideways, dragging Rachel with him.

  The possibility that he might collapse in the street became more of a threat with each passing moment. If that happened, she could still steal his trousers and leave him where he lay to sleep it off, but it wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying as having him wake up in church. After his public rejection of Molly, he deserved to be repaid with the ultimate humiliation. On that thought, Rachel felt him sway again. She was a little amazed at how suddenly the sedative seemed to be hitting him now.

  He draped his arm over her shoulders for support. “I think I’m drunk. Not just a little, but real drunk.”

  “Really?” she asked, feigning incredulity.

  “My senti—sendimun—well, shit. I can’t even talk straight.”

  “Sentiments?” she supplied.

  He snapped his fingers, nearly taking off the end of her nose in the process, and then started to laugh. “Sent—uh—ments. My sent—uh—ments exack-ly. Only now I can’t remember what I was sent-uh-mentin’ about.”

  Looking up at him, Rachel smiled in spite of herself. For a low-down, dangerous, heartless scoundrel, he had a way about him. She decided it was partly that lopsided grin of his, so boyishly disarming in contrast to his harshly planed features. Then, of course, there were his eyes, which always seemed to be twinkling.

  “You were just making the observation you might be drunk,” she reminded him.

  “Boy, howdy.” He snapped his fingers again. “On three measly drinks.”