Promises Reveal

by Sarah McCarty

  “Tell me, Evie. Are you a virgin?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Are you?”

  Memories flashed through his head. Women he’d known, some of them in laughter, some in misery. All of them as unsatisfying as trying to get drunk on watered-down whiskey. “Not by a long shot.”

  “Then don’t be asking me whether I am if you’re not.”

  It was just a short trip from her shoulder to her chin. His hand traversed the distance in the span of a breath. The silk of her dark blue dress wasn’t nearly as soft as her skin. “Being your husband gives me certain rights.”

  Her chin jerked in his hand. “None that you aren’t willing to give me.”

  He didn’t let go. She didn’t back down, just narrowed her eyes further and dared him. He’d always been a sucker for a dare.

  “That sounds fair enough.”

  Her eyes narrowed further. “What exactly does that mean?”

  She was right to be suspicious. He stroked his thumb over the tight line of her lips. By morning her lips would be soft and swollen, compliant rather than defiant. By morning he’d have her seduced into a better frame of mind. He’d done it many times before, with many women before. His thumb paused midway through the second pass. He’d never seduced a wife . . . and never his own. “That I’m agreeable to a fair exchange in the bedroom.”

  “That wasn’t what I was talking about.”

  He figured that. She was too busy worrying. “Are you saying you don’t want fair in the bedroom?”

  “I want fair everywhere in this marriage.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Why do you need to keep it in mind?”

  “Because I’m the man, and in case you were wondering, I have every intention of wearing the pants in our relationship.”

  “And you think pants equate to power?”

  “Well, that and a couple other things.”

  She stepped back, bumped the table, muttered something under her breath, and sidestepped free. “Which would be?”

  “About six inches of height and about ninety pounds of muscle.”

  Grabbing her satchel, she headed down the hall. “I’ll try to remember to be impressed.”

  She’d try to remember. Smiling and shaking his head, he followed. Evie was a tall woman but he was taller. Matching her angry strides was no strain. When she got to the bedroom door, he reached around and took the satchel from her hand, trapping her between the jamb and his body. Her breath caught. Nerves or interest? It was hard to tell with Evie. She was a bundle of nervous energy.

  “I’ll take that for you.”

  “I don’t need you to take it for me.”

  “I’m your husband, Evie. It’s my job to stand between you and anything unpleasant.”

  “Carrying my satchel is not unpleasant. It’s a necessity.”

  He opened the door. “One I can help you with.”

  She didn’t immediately step into the room. He supposed that might have to do with the big bed dominating the space. The bed had been an eye-catcher when he’d seen it piled on the wagon of a busted farmer heading back East. The farmer had been focused on heading home with less stress on his team; Brad had been focused on his wedding night with Evie. Both had been satisfied with the deal.

  “Something wrong?”

  Dragging her gaze away from the ornate posts of the canopy, she muttered, “There’s only one bed.”

  Evie never muttered. “How many were you expecting?”

  Her intricate bun brushed his chest, releasing the scent of wildflowers into the air as she looked over her shoulder.

  “Two, of course.”

  Of course. “Well, we’ll be bunking down in one.”

  Half turning, she frowned up at him. “Were you always a preacher?”

  Dangerous territory. “What makes you ask?”

  “Just curious.”

  Because of his phrasing. Normally he was better at covering that, but because he was thinking about the two of them in that big bed, he’d made a stupid mistake. “A preacher meets all kinds of people from a lot of different backgrounds. You pick up sayings.”

  “I guess you would.”

  She still hadn’t moved into the room, and she was still staring at that big bed like it had teeth and might bite. “Is this Elijah and Amy’s bedroom?”

  Translated, she wanted to know if that was Elijah and Amy’s bed. The one Amy had died in. The one that had put an end to Elijah’s reformation. “Yeah, but I bought the bed this week.”

  “Good.”

  Her fingers on the dark wood were long and delicate, the fingernails pale pink and well shaped. He hadn’t noticed her hands before. It suddenly seemed like a huge thing not to have noticed, leaving him to wonder what else he hadn’t noticed about her.

  “The day is not getting any longer.”

  Her grip on the doorjamb tightened. “I’m not sleeping with you tonight.”

  “Throwing down the gauntlet?”

  She half turned. “I might as well start, as I mean to go on.”

  He slid into the space between her and the jamb, blocking her instinctive move to escape with the satchel, excitement humming under his skin at the challenge. “On that I completely agree.”

  The backward step she took brought her flush against the jamb. Her tongue flicked nervously over her lips. The lower one gleamed with residual moisture, inviting the brush of his mouth, promising the softness of her kiss. He stepped in, bringing them a fraction closer. The folds of her skirts wrapped around the heavy cotton of his pants. Her head tipped back and connected with the hard wood with a soft thunk. A heartbeat later her hands pressed against his chest, denying him the taste she’d offered. He didn’t think so. “So now that we’ve agreed on that, why don’t we settle who is going to be the one whose rules get followed.”

  “I’m not the obedient type.”

  Dipping his head, he inhaled her scent—woman and wildflowers—before releasing it in a gentle breath that blew across the exposed shell of her ear. “Then I guess it’s up to me to educate you.”

  “In obedience?”

  The snap in her voice was belied by the little shiver that shook her body as his lips brushed the top of her ear. She had a slight point to her ears. He smiled at the realization. “In learning to follow my lead.”

  “I can lead myself well enough.”

  “How do you know you won’t like my way, too?”

  “I don’t, I guess.” The breathless whisper shuddered over the skin of his neck.

  Ah, an invitation to be seduced. He leaned in a little closer, trapping her a little better. The tender hollow beneath her ear commanded his attention. It was one of his favorite spots on a woman—so seductively available, so innocently exposed. So completely sensitive. “So maybe you should find out. I could be a heck of a lot more fun than you’re expecting.”

  She turned her head, unwittingly giving him better access. He took full advantage, brushing airy kisses along the column of her throat, testing the chord of her neck with a swift nip of his lips.

  “Maybe I don’t want fun.”

  And maybe pigs could fly.

  “Then this marriage is going to take some compromise.”

  “That’s just occurring to you?”

  This time, when she ducked under his arm, he let her. It was always better to let a woman contemplate pleasure rather than push her toward it. “Pretty much.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s a bit of a shock to me, too.” One last breath of her scent, one last glimpse of the confusion in her blue eyes and he stepped past her into the bedroom. Feeling her consternation trailing him like a mosquito, he tossed the satchel on the bed.

  “Don’t do that!”

  She was at his side in the space of a heartbeat, grabbing the bag off the bed.

  “Do what?”

  “Put that on the quilt.” Her hands smoothed over the brightly colored, interconnecting cir
cles that decorated the white background.

  He hadn’t noticed the quilt. He’d been too distracted by the uniqueness of her response. It wasn’t something he’d purchased.

  Her fingers lingered on a pink patch with white polka dots. “It’s a wedding quilt.”

  “For us?”

  She looked at him like he’d taken leave of his senses. He likely had. It was very hard to watch her stroke that quilt with a lover’s touch and focus on the mundane question of where it came from.

  “The patches are sewn from pieces of material from our lives and from pieces of material from our friends and families. It’s supposed to bring good luck.”

  “My contribution must be the black.” The only darkness on the bright, happy surface.

  It amused him God thought he needed reminding.

  It’s not like you let me forget.

  “Probably.” She tapped the pink patch. “This is from the dress I wore to my first basket social.” The heavy satchel bumped her leg as she whispered, “They must have worked on this night and day to get it done in time.”

  “They” would be the women of W.O.M.B. The town’s secret social club, made up of the most influential, interfering, well-meaning, whiskey-drinking busybodies he’d ever met. He shook his head, a smile touching his lips. And they’d done it all without once calling on him to sneak them their liquor. That was indeed a sacrifice.

  “Well, the one thing you can’t say is that this marriage is starting off without a lot of well wishes.”

  Evie’s fingers stilled on one of the black patches. “Just not a lot of hope.”

  Her pessimism was beginning to irk him. He took the bag from her hand. “Speak for yourself. I have a lot of hope.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  He grazed his fingertips across her cheek. “You forget. My job is believing in miracles.”

  Color flared in the wake of his touch, bringing back the heat to her cheeks and the brightness to her eyes. Brad had plenty of experience reading women, and Evie was a woman at the end of her rope, desperate, looking for a direction in which to jump. All he needed to do was provide her with one.

  Her fingers curled to a fist over the quilt. “To the point you think you can create them?”

  “I’m a confident man, sweetheart. I think I can work a miracle or two where you’re concerned.” At least between the sheets.

  “To what end?”

  “Enough to make you comfortable in this marriage.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “The way you’ve always watched me.”

  “You know . . .”

  That hollowing of her cheek probably meant she’d just bit her tongue. Evie might be impulsive, but she was also proud. If he left her thinking he saw her as a gawking child, he’d have the devil’s own time warming her up later. He caught her chin and lifted her gaze to his, stretching her neck a little, letting the tension feed her awareness. “A man always notices when a beautiful woman takes an interest in his goings-on.”

  “I wasn’t pining after you.”

  No. She’d been suspicious and hunting for clues. “Now that’s a shame. A man likes to think a pretty woman has a penchant for his presence.”

  “Why?”

  She was a cautious thing, wanting him to spell things out. He eyed her from head to toe, letting his gaze linger on her lips, her breasts, noticing how her breath caught and the ruffles on the front of her dress shimmied with her exhale. “Besides the obvious, I happen to enjoy your sense of humor. The time you painted those measles spots on Bull Braeger when he was passed out was pure genius.”

  Her eyes narrowed but she didn’t pull away. “He deserved it. He’s a mean drunk.”

  “Is this the part where I’m supposed to say vengeance belongs to the Lord?”

  “Yes.”

  Bull Braeger was a problem he’d discussed with Asa and the McKinnelys just last week. What to do about him had yet to be decided but if they were lucky, the cowardly wife-beating son of a bitch would believe he had whatever Evie had concocted and die from the suggestion, saving Brad the effort of killing him.

  “Well, I tend to see things a bit differently.”

  “I noticed.”

  She would. Most everyone else was inclined to believe the face he gave the public, not looking deeper, not suspecting a puzzle. Evie not only sensed the puzzle, she wanted to make the pieces fit. It was the way she looked at the world that gave her such insight. Her vision was sharpened by artistic interpretation, her intuition always filtering what her eyes saw. He found it fascinating. “Well, you’ll have to go elsewhere to find criticism. As far as I’m concerned you can convince Bull he’s down with plague every day of the week.”

  Another blink and a pause, and then, as if just realizing she stood submissively chained by his touch with awareness blossoming between them, Evie jerked free and rapidly moved to the other side of the room. “You make no sense.”

  “And here I thought I tended to the blunt.”

  No immediate answer. She was definitely off center.

  A cooler breeze crept through the open windows, riding the last shafts of sunlight, rifling through the stagnant heat of the room. Ten feet away, Evie stood braced for a fight. His wife, his partner, and more than likely the person who would be hurt most when this was all over. Too good and too sheltered for the likes of him, yet they were married. As her husband, he owed her a lot of things. About the only thing he could deliver was a little fun until the showdown came, but there couldn’t be any fun if she saw him as the enemy. “The only direction we have to go is forward, Evie.”

  The face she turned toward him was completely controlled, the only indication of her distress was the way her hands fisted at her side. “Is that what you’re planning on doing? Moving forward?”

  “Yes.” He held out his hand. “Want to come with me?”

  She stepped back, eyeing his hand as if he were the devil leading her into temptation, and ran up against the barrier of the bed. Sunlight, still struggling to maintain dominance in the small room, accepted her into its embrace. She looked like an angel with her hair shining pure gold and her eyes glowing so blue. She nervously licked her lips. His gaze dropped to the pink fullness. A very tempting angel.

  “You’re saying you don’t want to fight,” she whispered.

  If he were closer he could lean down and take the fullness of her lower lip between his teeth, tease it with his tongue, catch the little expulsion of breath she’d make in his mouth, taste her pleasure in the small caress, make it his . . . “Not on my wedding night.”

  Her head canted to the side, feeding his imaginings. “We’re going to fight eventually.”

  Yes they would. Passionately, he imagined. His cock throbbed at the possibility. And then they’d make up, just as passionately. For a heartbeat, he pictured it, her eyes flashing defiance and invitation as she sprawled naked on the bed, her perfect breasts flushed with desire, her legs opening in challenge—welcome—as he came over her.

  “More likely than not.”

  That was something he was definitely looking forward to experiencing. He picked up the satchel she’d dropped. Putting it on the chair, he flipped the latch. A froth of lace spilled into the vee of the hinge. Fingering the silky nightgown, he caught her gaze. “I’d like to see you in this.”

  The color in her cheeks flamed to a brilliant red. She rushed through the shadows striping the room. The chair rocked on the wood floor as she snapped the satchel closed, trapping a lacy fold in the hinge. “What you want doesn’t matter.”

  He crossed to the bureau and helped himself to the decanter there. He poured two fingers of whiskey into each of two glasses. They were both going to need something to steady their nerves. He handed her one. She eyed the contents suspiciously.

  “What’s this?”

  “Whiskey.”

  Sniffing cautiously, she asked, “Why?”

  “For the shock.”

  “I’m not in shock.
”

  He smiled. “You’re going to be when you find out what I want tonight is about all that does matter.”

  “You’re trying to scare me.”

  Was he? Maybe. The way she had of charging through life as though there were no consequences scared the piss out of him. Not to mention made him incredibly hard, picturing that lack of restraint set loose in his bed. He touched his glass to hers. “To a happy marriage.”

  “May it be short and painless.”

  Shaking his head at her stubbornness, he lifted his glass to his lips. Evie followed suit. The whiskey was smooth and burned a familiar path to his stomach.

  Evie took a large swallow, immediately turned red-faced, and spit half back into her glass, gasping as the rest burned down her throat. Obviously, this was her first time indulging.

  He shook his head, taking another quick swallow before reaching over to pat her back. Good sipping stock did not deserve the sputter and wheeze Evie was indulging in. “That’s no way to treat good whiskey.”

  Eyes watering, she tried to give him back the glass. “That is not good.”

  He took another sip of his, ignoring the glass she held out. “You’ll be hard-pressed to find better.”

  “Really?”

  Holding the glass up so the last bit of sunlight was absorbed into the pool of amber, he nodded. “Doc’s finest, to be sure.” He motioned with his glass. “Drink some more. It’ll settle your nerves.”

  “I don’t have nerves.”

  Like hell she didn’t. “Humor me. Pretend you do.”

  Frowning, she accused, “You just want me drunk.”

  “Nope. Drunk you’d be no fun at all. I’m betting though that you’d be a chuckler with a couple drinks in you.”

  She blinked. “I can be fun without being drunk.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing it.” He motioned again. “Take another sip.”

  “It was bad enough the first time.”

  “The taste grows on you.”

  “Now, that’s hard to believe.”

  “Want to place a little wager on it?”

  She perked up. “What kind of wager?”

  If Evie had a weakness, it was that she couldn’t resist a dare. The tendency made her vulnerable in all sorts of ways a cad could exploit. A husband would protect her from that vulnerability—as long as that husband wasn’t also a cad. “If you get to liking it, then you agree to wear that lacy bit of nothing for me.”