Rogues in Texas 01- A Rogue In Texas

by Lorraine Heath

  He knew he had her at a disadvantage and if he were a gentleman, he would hand her the towel and be on his way. Instead he tossed the soft linen onto his shoulder. “As well I should have been.”

  He strolled around the tub, hearing the water splash as she twisted her body to follow his movements.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  He sat on the top step and stretched out his legs. “Watching you,” he said in a low voice.

  “You can’t!”

  “Ah, but I can.”

  Abigail stared at the man who had just made himself at home on her back porch. “It’s scandalous for you to be out here while I’m bathing.”

  “Who’s going to see? If you honestly believed anyone would happen by, you wouldn’t be out here.”

  She suddenly despised logical men. “You’re…you’re…” She couldn’t think of a word bad enough to describe him or his behavior. In the moonlight, she saw him flash a grin.

  “Disreputable?”

  “You’re no gentleman!” she blurted.

  “I never claimed to be. I’ve always fancied myself a rogue. A bit of a loner, a little mischievous, but harmless.”

  She thrust out her hand. “Give me the towel.”

  “Finish your bath and I’ll dry you off.”

  “No!” She cursed the tremble in her voice.

  “What are you afraid of?” he asked quietly. “I won’t ravish you—at least not without your permission.”

  “You touched me!”

  “That was an accident. Probably one of the most pleasurable accidents I’ve ever experienced.”

  Beneath the water, she clenched her hands. She knew she’d been a fool to come out here for her bath, but she’d always found it peaceful, and she’d been certain he’d sleep hard after working the fields most of the afternoon. Now she was naked and vulnerable, and she could feel his gaze latched onto her, watching her, studying her.

  “I never would have thought to take a bath outside, but it must be rather relaxing to have the hot water caressing your skin while the stars look down.”

  She jerked her head up to look at the night sky. She’d always enjoyed having the stars to count while she bathed. She’d never considered they were watching her. She didn’t like the thought one bit.

  “It’d be a sight more relaxing if you weren’t here,” she snapped.

  He had the gall to laugh, loudly, joyfully.

  “Shhh!” she chastised. “You’re gonna wake the children.”

  She heard him swallow his laughter.

  “Sorry,” he said, but she didn’t believe for one minute that he was sorry at all.

  “If you were really sorry, you’d leave so I can wash up.”

  “I’m not stopping you from washing. You’re only a shadow in the night, Abbie.”

  Lord, she hated the way her name rolled off his tongue, soft and lyrical like a song.

  She felt along the bottom of the tub until she found the soap that she’d dropped when his hand had accidentally carressed her breast. The memory caused the heat of embarrassment to scald her cheeks. Her fingers closing around the soap, she brought it up, rubbing it back and forth across her breast, but she seemed unable to wash away the feel of his palm cradling her flesh…

  “Tell me about your husband,” he said quietly.

  His voice startled her and the soap slipped through her fingers. “He’s dead.”

  “Yes, I know that. What was he like?”

  She eased her shoulders back against the tub, sought out the soap, and began to wash her arms. “He was like the cotton, sturdy and strong.”

  “How old are you, Abbie?”

  Her stomach did that little flutter again as he spoke her name. “Twenty-five.”

  “The eldest lad, Johnny, is he your son?”

  “Of course he is. What kind of question is that?”

  “You must have been a child when you gave birth to him.”

  “I was seventeen. Married John when I was sixteen.” She said the last to make certain he understood she wasn’t a woman of loose morals who would let a man bed her without the benefit of marriage. She couldn’t say the same for her sister. Elizabeth’s first child had come into the world barely eight months after her parents were married. But then Elizabeth had loved Daniel something fierce, and to hear Elizabeth tell it, loving a man made all the difference in the world.

  “Your children look like little stair steps. There can’t be many years separating them.”

  “Ten months. My husband wasn’t a…patient man.” She felt the heat flame her entire body with that confession. She held out her hand. “Please give me the towel.”

  “I’m not like him.” His voice, warm as the embers of a fire stirring to life, sent shivers racing along her spine.

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Your husband. Unlike him, I have all the patience in the world.” He stood and draped the towel over the railing, close enough for her to reach, far enough away that she would have to bare a portion of her body to him to retrieve it. “Some night, Abbie, I will dry you off.”

  She watched him disappear in the darkness, the velvet threat lingering on the breeze.

  3

  T he next morning Grayson awoke when the first stream of milk hit the galvanized pail. He would not have thought a man could ache in so many places and still be alive.

  A smile touched his lips at a memory of Abigail Westland bathing in the moonlight. She had not been attempting to be a seductress, but he had been well and thoroughly seduced. That a man of his reputation had kept his backside planted on the porch step when he’d really wanted to strip out of his clothes and dive into the tub with her was incomprehensible.

  Neither Kit nor Harry would believe he had not undertaken the challenge of luring Mrs. Westland out of the water and into his arms. Unexpectedly, he realized he had no plans to tell them of the meeting. Not because he was disappointed that the encounter had not ended as it should have—with the woman screaming his name in ecstasy. He wouldn’t tell them because quite simply he didn’t want those peaceful, tender moments to become sordid.

  He struggled to sit up, grimacing as his raw hands pressed against the quilt. He painstakingly made his way to the end of the loft and slowly eased down the ladder. He hadn’t even bothered to remove his boots the night before.

  With his hands gently squeezing the cow’s teats, the lad jerked his head around and stared at him. “You all right?”

  “I think I’m beginning to know how my grandfather feels.”

  “You got a grandpa?” the lad asked, obviously in awe.

  Grayson hobbled to the stall. As a bastard, he was considered no one’s son, no one’s relation. But his mother’s father had been as unconventional as she was, and on rare occasions, he allowed Grayson to visit. “Yes, haven’t you?”

  “Nope. They all died. What’s it like having a grandpa?”

  “Well, I suppose it depends on the grandfather. I wasn’t very close to mine.”

  “Ezra Jones has a grandpa. He gave him a rifle when he was only six.” The lad’s eyes widened. “And a knife!”

  “Indeed,” Grayson murmured, thinking six was a bit young to be loading a child down with weapons.

  The lad nodded with so much enthusiasm that his dark hair flopped against his forehead. “His ma said he couldn’t have the rifle but his grandpa just winked and gave it to him anyway. Did your grandpa give you a rifle?”

  “No, but he gave me a slap on the backside a time or two.”

  “What did you do to deserve a lickin’?” Johnny asked.

  Grayson gave him a rueful smile. “I’m not certain.”

  Johnny scrunched up his face. “I was gonna fix you a fishin’ pole so you could go fishin’ with me and Micah, but Ma said you were gonna go live with Aunt ’Lizbeth.”

  Stunned, Grayson stared at the boy. “When did she say that?” he asked with deadly calm.

  “This mornin’.”

  “Where is she no
w?”

  “Out back, washin’ clothes.”

  “Fix me a pole,” he said before spinning on his heel and stalking from the barn. He heard a whoop echo through the building as he strode into the predawn gray. He stormed around the side of the house and saw Abbie scraping his shirt up and down a washboard. The cloth would be threadbare by the time she finished.

  “What did I do?” he demanded as he came near enough to smell the rose water that had scented her bath the night before.

  She spun around, her cheeks burning brightly. “Nothing,” she stammered.

  “Then why are you sending me away?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sending you away exactly.” She dipped the shirt back into the water before wringing it out.

  “Johnny was under the impression I’m going to stay with your sister.”

  She gave a brisk nod and draped his shirt over a rope strung between two trees.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Elizabeth has more rooms in her house. You’ll have a bed to sleep in.”

  He touched her shoulder, and she jerked around to face him, her eyes wide, her breath coming in short gasps.

  “Have I complained about sleeping in the barn?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Then why?” he asked again.

  “I don’t want you!”

  “My father didn’t, either. If I’d spent my life where people wanted me, I would have rotted in a gutter. I’m not leaving.”

  “But I want you to leave.”

  “Have I hurt you since I’ve been here?”

  “Yes! Last night. You shamed me, sitting there watching…” Tears welled in her eyes. “I just needed some time to myself, a few moments to dream, and you ruined it. No matter how much I scrub, I can’t get the feel of you off me—” She slapped her hand over her mouth.

  He thought he’d grown accustomed to women not wanting his touch, the marriageable maidens fearful that his illegitimacy might rub off on them. The sudden sting he felt in the center of his chest surprised him.

  Reaching out, he snatched his trousers from the pile. “Thank you for washing my clothing. You’re quite right that I’ll want to take clean clothes with me to your sister’s, but I’ll finish up.”

  “I’ll iron them this afternoon—”

  “That won’t be necessary.” He dipped his trousers in the hot water, clenching his teeth against the scalding pain gripping his palms.

  “I’ll get you some hot water so you can shave—”

  “Again, not necessary. This water should suffice.”

  “You’ll be happier at Elizabeth’s.”

  “Yes, I’m quite sure I will be.” He wrung the water from his trousers and slapped them over the rope.

  She took a step back. “I need to see about breakfast.”

  She scurried away, the rose water fragrance trailing after her. He dunked another shirt into the water and bowed his head. He of all people knew that pain could be inflicted without blows being struck.

  He simply hadn’t realized that his wanting to spend a few moments with Abbie in the moonlight would have hurt her.

  Abbie pulled the pan of biscuits off the shelf within the hearth. They were cooked to a golden brown, just the way John liked them. She had done everything in her life just the way John liked it.

  And even then, it had seldom been enough.

  She had grown accustomed to not having a man around, to doing things the way she wanted to do them. To prepare the foods she enjoyed eating, to keep the house the way she wanted it kept.

  To soak in a hot tub with nothing but midnight for company.

  If only the Englishman had left when she’d told him to, if only he hadn’t made her feel incredibly vulnerable, if only her stomach didn’t flutter like a fledging bird trying out its wings in the spring—

  “Micah! Watch where you’re goin’!” Lydia cried.

  Abbie turned in time to see Lydia shove her youngest brother away from her.

  “Lydia, don’t push your brother,” she scolded.

  “But he ran into me! He never looks where he’s goin’ and he’s clumsier than a three-legged calf.”

  She saw tears gather in Micah’s eyes. She reached for him, but he darted through the door before she could comfort him. She gazed at her daughter. “He can’t help that he has two left feet.”

  “He did it on purpose.” Lydia stuck out her bottom lip in a pout.

  “I’m sure he didn’t,” Abbie assured her.

  “You always take his side ’cuz he’s the baby, and you take Johnny’s side ’cuz he’s the oldest—”

  Abbie wrapped her arms around Lydia and held her close. “I take your side because you’re my only daughter.” She tucked her finger beneath Lydia’s chin and tilted her face up. “I love you all the same, but for different reasons. Now finish setting the table while I find Micah.”

  Grayson saw the youngest boy barrel around the corner of the house and slam into the porch post. He almost laughed at the startled expression that crossed the boy’s face before he flopped back onto the ground. Grayson leapt off the porch and knelt beside him. “You all right, lad?”

  The boy scrambled to his feet. “Yep. Just didn’t see it,” he croaked.

  Grayson stared at the child. He’d never before heard the boy speak. His voice sounded as though a bullfrog had taken up residence within his throat. He came to his feet. “I’m not surprised you didn’t see it, running as fast you were.”

  “Didn’t see Lydia neither.” Tears welled in the boy’s eyes, and he wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

  “Bad morning?” Gray asked.

  The boy nodded.

  “Am having one myself. A brisk shave usually makes me feel more human. What do you think? Would you like a shave?”

  “Ain’t got no whiskers.”

  “Oh, but I see one or two. Come on.” He led the boy to the porch and grabbed a rickety chair that someone had set in the corner. He placed it in front of the mirror, then set the boy on top of it. His hair was dark, probably like his father’s. But his eyes were his mother’s.

  “Well, Micah, should we leave you with a mustache?”

  The lad squinted his violet eyes and stared hard into the mirror before giving a brusque nod.

  “Very good.” Grayson stirred his shaving lather before handing the cup to the boy. “You want to put a little on your jaw.”

  He bit back his smile as the lad gingerly touched the brush to his cheek, leaving a ball of lather to slide down his face. He took the cup from the boy and picked up his razor. “Until you get the hang of it, I’d best do the actual shaving.”

  Using the dull side, he skimmed the razor over the lad’s face. Micah’s eyes grew bigger and rounder as Grayson gathered up the lather. When he was finished, Grayson met the boy’s gaze in the mirror. “What do you think?”

  The boy twisted his body around. “Ma, I shave-ed.”

  Grayson snapped his head to the side. Abbie stood beside the porch, tears shimmering in her eyes. “I see that.”

  The boy hopped off the chair, fell to his knees, and scrambled back up. “Gotta tell Johnny.”

  His legs churning, he hurried around the corner of the house and out of sight.

  “Wonder what he’ll run into next,” Grayson murmured.

  “All children are clumsy at first. He’ll grow out of it.” She gnawed on her lower lip. “Thank you for giving him a few minutes of your time.”

  Grayson shrugged and turned to put his shaving equipment away.

  “I found you a pole!” Johnny cried.

  Grayson spun around. Johnny sauntered toward him, waving a long thin branch through the air.

  “What’s that for?” Abbie asked.

  Johnny nodded enthusiastically in Grayson’s direction. “He said he was stayin’ and for me to fix him a pole.”

  Abbie snapped her attention to Grayson. He held her gaze as he spoke. “Actually, I only told you to fix me a pole. I won’t be staying,
but I’m certain we can fish together sometime. I don’t have to live here to do that, do I?”

  Johnny furrowed his brow. “I reckon not. We could go Sunday morning.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  “I’ll get you a line and a hook fixed on here,” Johnny said before walking away.

  “You told him you were going to stay?” Abbie asked.

  “I may have indicated that but it was before you and I had our conversation. You needn’t worry, Mrs. Westland. I won’t be staying. You’ll have all the private moments you could wish for.”

  Grayson chopped at the ground with a vengeance, ignoring the pain in his hands and his body. Tomorrow, he would begin preparations to leave for Galveston. He had been a fool to think he could make a difference here, to think he might have found a place where he was needed. He had spent his whole life being neither needed nor wanted.

  When his father had told him about his plans to send him to Texas, Grayson had pounced on the idea like a dog that had just been tossed a bone. Here, he hoped to find opportunities that weren’t tainted by the prejudices of his birth.

  But without truly knowing him, Abigail Westland had deemed him unworthy of touching her, was casting him aside like so much rotting fruit. Before he left, perhaps he would enlighten her as to the nature of his birth so she could be truly horrified by the fact that he’d touched her.

  “You’re going to kill those plants,” Harry said.

  Grayson spun around, his temper tethered on a short cord. “How the bloody hell would you know?”

  “Because of the three of us, I am the most observant—”

  “You’re the most idle, strolling up and down the furrows like the lord of the manor when there’s work that needs to be done.”

  Harry’s green eyes blazed. “I agreed to stay. I did not agree to work.”

  “So you’ve got a roof over your head, a bed to sleep in, and food for your stomach while you do nothing to deserve it,” Grayson taunted.

  Harry drew back his shoulders. “I am not a complete scoundrel. I pay the lovely young Widow Denby a dollar a day for my keep.”

  Grayson snorted. “What do you pay the lovely Widow Westland for the noon meal she prepares for you?”