by MJ Fredrick
“Tender,” she said on a gasp. She dragged his hands up her bare thighs to her own sex, and tossed her head back in pleasure when he touched her, finding her swollen, wet and ready.
This time when she said his name, her voice echoed with need. She shifted her body to brush over his sex, chasing his breath away, before she took him inside her.
He tightened his grip on her, lowering his head to her breast, unable to stop the groan of pleasure as her body encircled him, slick and hot. Her knees dug into his hips as she began to move, an awkward slide at first. He cupped her bottom in his hands and guided her, raising his hips into hers, lifting his gaze to watch her, lips parted, eyes wide with wonder as they explored the new rhythm.
Their mouths found each other, open, eager. Her hands coursed down his back, his arms, curling in his hair. For the first time, she didn’t have to be quiet, and she moaned her pleasure with each thrust. He shifted his grip to her thighs, the better to tease her to the completion about to consume him. To his surprise and delight, she moved into his touch, arms tight about his shoulders as she looked into his eyes.
He watched hers glaze with pleasure. Her head fell back as a keen of delight vibrated from her throat. He followed her into the climax as her body clutched around his.
They fell together to the bed, facing each other, her fingers still dancing over his skin, all energy.
“I love you,” she murmured, pressing her lips to the hollow of his throat. “I’ve missed you.”
Before he could force any words past the emotion in his throat, he felt a poke against his stomach. Not Kit, whose fingers now twirled in his hair. The child. The child had kicked him.
His skin iced even as Kit eased back to look at him, delight in her eyes.
“Did you feel that?”
He had. The hope conveyed by that little kick was followed by pure terror. He’d experienced this before, the joy of a new life, the proof of it, before death had snatched it away. He sat on the edge of the bed, reaching for his pants, his body numb, as if he hadn’t just experienced the pleasures of making love with the woman who owned his heart.
“I’ll speak to our priest,” he said without looking at her. He hadn’t been to church since Angelina died, and would likely have to atone for that—monetarily if not spiritually—before a wedding could occur. “I don’t know how long it will take to arrange the wedding. Certainly it will happen before the baby’s born. In the meantime, I would like you to meet my family. I’ll arrange a dinner, then send word here.”
Her breathing had changed, but he dared not look at her. He could sense her disappointment in his altered mood, and didn’t want to see it reflected on her face.
“I won’t come to your room again. I’ll call for you from the lobby.”
The mattress creaked as she shifted on the bed. “I didn’t come here for your benevolence, Trace. I came to share this with you. You know as well as anyone I can take care of myself, and my child.”
He chanced a look over his shoulder to see her propped on one elbow, still naked, her hair tumbled over her shoulder, her hand caressing her stomach as if the child could feel her affection.
“We will share.”
“How? When you’re pulling away from me already? Do you think I’m not frightened?” She sat up then, drawing her legs under her, so beautiful, so determined, so brave. Wasn’t that what had drawn him to her in the first place? “Yes, you lost a child. So did I. I, too, remember the pain. How could I not? But now I feel the life growing inside of me and I remember the love. More than anything, I remember the love. And this child? Trace, when I feel this child move, I remember how you loved me. When I felt this child move for the first time, I knew I had to come to you. I don’t want your money or your protection. I want you to love me as you did in Texas. I want you to love our child.”
Her words twisted in his heart, but he couldn’t respond. Instead, he drew on his shirt and jacket and crossed the room to the door. He owed her more, so much more than to leave her bed without a kiss, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch her right now.
“I’ll call for you tomorrow for supper. Do you have the money you need?”
Her response was to hurl a pillow, hard enough to make a thump against the wood of the door.
“Coward!” she said as he opened the door and slipped out.
***
Kit debated moving to another hotel, just to see how long it would take Trace to track her down. But she hadn’t come to play games. Trace would need to accept her and the child or she would return to Texas. Her child had a name. She just wanted him to have his father as well.
Trace wasn’t the only one with fears. And her fears didn’t end at the birthing chamber. So much might go wrong. Riding on the edge of joy was a fear so strong, she couldn’t address it because it would choke her. How could she get Trace to understand?
He still needed time. She’d had months to adjust to the idea, and he’d had hours. She’d believed, when he had come to her last night and put his arms around her, that he’d accepted their child and all her hopes for the future. That intercourse was all he’d wanted hurt. She wanted that and so much more. He’d always given her more without her asking.
Now he waited in the lobby to take her to his mother’s table. Tension tightened her body, and the baby, sensing it, flipped frantically within her. She needed to calm down for his sake.
She saw Trace the moment she stepped onto the landing of the staircase. He stood in the middle of the marble lobby, hat in his hands, his hair once again combed against his head, giving him such a severe look. She wanted to run her fingers through it to muss it.
His expression relaxed when he saw her, though the look in his eyes remained distant, as if he were playing out every possibility in his head. What must his family be like, to have him so uptight? He moved to the foot of the stairs, ready to take her arm as she descended.
“You look lovely,” he murmured when she tucked her arm in the curve of his.
She knew it wasn’t so. She wore the same dress as yesterday, though she’d visited a modiste today to order some larger dresses. Still, this was her best dress, and mostly concealed her pregnancy.
“Does your family live far?” she asked when he led her to a waiting carriage, one that made Almanzo’s look like a hay wagon, with a matching team of bays. A far cry from the means with which they’d crossed the Texas coastal plains. She knew his family was wealthy, but seeing proof of it didn’t put her at ease.
“No, but I don’t like walking through the Quarter after dark.” He handed her into the carriage.
“This is their carriage, or yours?” she asked.
“Theirs.”
“And Atrius? He’s well? He made the return journey?”
“He’s fine, on the family farm playing stud. Well deserved after his trek, don’t you agree?”
How were they holding such a conversation? So banal, nothing like they had discussed in Texas. How could she long for such hard times when she sat in this luxurious coach?
Because she’d been with the man she loved. This man was a stranger.
They pulled up in front of a red brick two-story home, situated flush against a street just east of the Quarter.
“This is your home?” Kit asked, breathless, as he stepped down to assist her. She couldn’t keep her eyes from the place, even as he took her hand in his.
“My parents’ home, yes. I’m staying here until I can find suitable lodgings.” He looked down at her. “I suppose we should begin working on that—finding our home.”
There was no joy in his face, in his voice, when he said the words. She wished she’d never come here. She wished he’d never taken her into his arms last night and made her vulnerable to him again. Why was he so different? Was he that afraid? Or was he still hurt that she’d stayed with her ailing husband instead of coming with him?
“I wouldn’t wish for anyplace so grand,” she said as he lifted the knocker on the door. “Or so much in the
middle of everything.”
He didn’t have a chance to respond before the door opened and a servant greeted them with a formal bow.
“Mr. Watson. Your mother is expecting you in the parlor,” the man said in a deep voice.
Butterflies tumbled in Kit’s stomach as Trace guided her through the gleaming foyer with polished floors and banister, sparkling mirrors and a modest chandelier overhead. Shipping, he’d said, was his family’s business. Apparently they did very well. Ahead of her in the hall was a family portrait: a stern, tall father who looked like Trace when his hair was combed down, though his brow was more prominent and his dimples non-existent; a beautiful, dark-haired mother with lovely light brown eyes like Trace’s, her serene expression marred by her tight mouth; three boys and a girl, all dressed in their finest. Kit moved closer for a better look. Trace was the oldest, no more than fifteen in this picture, slender, his hair very short. Even in the portrait she could see a wildness in his eyes, a need to escape.
So why had he returned?
“How old were you here?”
“Thirteen.”
“I thought you had only one brother.”
“The youngest died,” he said shortly, stepping back toward an open doorway. “My mother is waiting to meet you.”
Again Kit battled back nerves. She wouldn’t be so anxious if Trace were acting as he had before, as if he would support her no matter what. She no longer got that feeling from him. In fact, she felt he was leading her into the lion’s den.
His mother sat near a window, looking not much older than she had in the picture, her chestnut hair a shade darker than Trace’s. She wore a lovely dark blue gown with lace around the neckline and sleeves, and beside her rested a tea service with three cups. Kit’s stomach rumbled. She’d thought Trace had said they would be eating dinner, so she conserved her funds and hadn’t eaten much for lunch. They were only having tea?
Beside her sat a young woman with Trace’s features, odd-looking on such a narrow face. His sister Jillian, she presumed.
“Mother, Jillian, I would like to introduce Mrs. Katherine Barclay, the widow of my friend John.”
Kit wished they’d discussed this further. Was Trace to have known John before? How? Lying about their relationship seemed disrespectful to John’s memory.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Watson, Jillian.” Kit moved forward to take the older woman’s hand.
“Mrs. Barclay.” Trace’s mother’s back was straight, as if she was drawing away from Kit. Her gaze fixed on Kit’s belly. What had Trace told her? “Will you have some tea?”
“Yes, please.” She sat on the edge of the formal settee, hoping Trace would sit beside her. Instead, he kissed his mother’s cheek, patted his sister’s head as if she were only five and turned toward the door.
“I’ll say hello to Papa,” he said.
Kit waited for a grin or something as he closed the door behind him. She needed some gesture to connect them as he abandoned her, but he didn’t even glance her way. She felt more alone than ever.
“George told us you traveled to New Orleans all alone,” Mrs. Watson said as she poured the tea.
Kit jolted at the name George. Would she ever be accustomed to people calling Trace that? “I traveled with another family.” Kit accepted the delicate china cup. She’d never held something so fine.
“They’d had their fill of Texas?” Jillian asked.
Kit smiled and lifted the cup to her lips. “It’s not an easy place.”
“It cost you your husband.”
Kit was taken aback by Mrs. Watson’s directness. “Yes.” She didn’t add that it cost her child too. She didn’t know what Trace had told her, and she didn’t want to discuss Daniel’s death the first time she met Trace’s family, for she would certainly end in tears, and she didn’t want to leave the impression she was weak.
“And your family? Are they here?” Jillian asked.
Again, Kit was surprised by the question. But she thought she understood. Trace had money. Kit showed up, pregnant and widowed. His family would think her a fortune hunter.
“They live north of the city.”
“Yet you came here first, to George.”
“To let him know John, my husband, had died.” That she was free. “After the journey, after being in Texas, I wanted to be in a city for a bit, as well. There aren’t many luxuries in the colony.”
“You have the funds for that? For the hotel where you’re staying?” Mrs. Watson asked. “It’s very dear.”
“I won’t stay long, just long enough to decide what to do next.”
“You don’t dress in mourning,” Jillian pointed out.
Kit gripped the fine teacup with both hands. “As I said, there aren’t many luxuries in Texas. The one store in the Austin Colony would only get fabric every few months, and black is hardly a color one wants to wear in that Texas heat.”
“But you mourn your husband?” Mrs. Watson asked, not touching her own tea.
Kit stiffened her shoulders, working very hard not to find offense. “Of course.”
“And you have the means to support your child?”
“Mother,” Trace said from the door. “That’s enough.”
She turned to her son. “You want to marry this woman, to raise her child. Don’t you think I should know everything about her?”
“No, Mother.” He crossed to the couch and stood behind Kit.
His show of support was too late. Kit shook all over with anger and shame.
Mrs. Watson straightened further. “You don’t find it strange that she doesn’t even want a mourning period?”
“She wants a father for her child, the protection of a husband.”
Anger rose in her and she battled it back. That wasn’t what she wanted at all. She wouldn’t live this lie.
“I’m sorry.” She stood. “I’m not feeling well. I appreciate your hospitality, Mrs. Watson.” Such as it was. “But I must excuse myself.” She held out a hand to Trace. “I’ll find my way back to the hotel. You should stay and have dinner with your family. I thank you again for the invitation.” She prayed her stomach wouldn’t rumble again and betray her.
As Trace had done.
Her mind already spun with questions about what she would do next as she set the fragile teacup back on the tray. She hadn’t even tasted the tea. She wouldn’t have been able to swallow during her interrogation anyway. At least her hands hadn’t trembled.
She didn’t glance at Trace as she turned to the door, concentrating on not allowing her footsteps to echo with her anger, her frustration, her disappointment.
“Kit. Kit!” Trace’s voice bounced off the walls, and his footsteps were quick and heavy behind her.
She didn’t turn. He caught her arm.
“It was a mistake, coming here.” She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. But even when she closed her eyes, she saw his beloved face as he held her last night. “Don’t worry. I’ll go to my family in the morning. You won’t see me again.”
“Do you think that’s what I want?”
“I don’t know what you want,” she said with a quick glance past him to ensure no one had followed them. She wanted love, wanted a partnership, everything they’d shared in Texas. She bit the inside of her lip to keep from crying. She pulled her arm free. “I don’t know if you do, either. Goodbye, Trace.”
“I’m not going to let you walk away.”
“Why? So you can subject me to humiliation again? Why did you come to me last night, Trace?”
“Not for the reason you think.”
“I am not a whore. You may think that I am, but I love you.”
“I don’t think that. I wouldn’t have brought you to meet my family if that was what I wanted from you.”
“You didn’t bring me to meet them. You brought me to be tested.” She did look at him then, standing in his finery, carefully combed and shaved in the expensive home. “You aren’t the man I thought you were. I’m sorry I came.”
<
br /> His jaw tightened. “At least take the carriage, if you won’t allow me to accompany you,” he said. “I want to make sure you get back safely. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”
She agreed to take the carriage, but only because she was too wrung out to fight. But on the way back to the hotel, she determined they wouldn’t talk about this in the morning. She’d be gone.
Chapter Fifteen
Kit’s eyes were gritty and swollen the next morning as she rode the stage out of town. She’d cried most of the night, mourning the man she thought she’d known, the future she thought they’d have together. She’d crawled out of bed early and packed, then walked down to the dressmaker to arrange to have her new clothes sent to her mother’s house. Then she bought a ticket on the stage, settled her bill at the hotel and was on her way.
The whole time she’d made her preparations, she looked over her shoulder, half hoping, half dreading Trace would come after her, determined to make things right.
He hadn’t, and her disappointment would have brought more tears, had she had any left.
She didn’t need him, or his money, and especially not his family. Her child had a name and, when she reached her mother’s farm, a home.
Never would she have thought she would miss Agnes and her unflinching loyalty.
But she missed Trace more, the man who’d seen her as a partner, not the man who’d seen her as a threat. The man who’d worshiped her body and admired her bravery and spoke to her as an equal. She hadn’t changed. Why had he?
Had she wasted those last days with her husband longing for a man who hadn’t really existed?
Her mother’s farm was not at all as Kit remembered. Of course, she’d been gone five years. Her father had died shortly after Daniel was born, and though her mother had begged her and John to stay to help out on a farm that could one day be theirs, John had been determined to go to Texas.
Guilt weighed heavily on Kit as she walked up the rutted drive, toting her meager satchel of possessions. She hadn’t wanted to return. She’d known she’d find conditions like this and she wanted more for her child. More for herself. She didn’t want them to have to scratch out their survival. And she didn’t want to be alone.