by Jillian Hart
"That's the truth, but it hasn't been a year yet. The boy is still hurting." Winston agreed, turning his attention back to his newspaper with a sigh. "Well, maybe Maggie can help us with that too."
"Oh, no. I see where you are going with this." She flipped her book open again, moving aside the length of old, fraying red ribbon she used as a bookmark. "Don't think because I wanted to marry a man I'd never met before, that I'm desperate enough to marry Miles. Don't even try match-making. Believe me, I'm not that bad off."
"She's funny," John said to Winston with a chuckle. "I like her. I think she's just what Miles needs."
"I don't argue there." Winston turned the page with a rustle. "Maggie, maybe if you stayed on long enough, Miles could grow on you."
"I doubt it." She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Honestly, she tried to picture it. Stern, stoic Miles wandering into the kitchen every morning, brow furrowed, mouth clamped tight, turning his back to her as he poured a cup of coffee. Not exactly the wedded bliss she was looking for. "I thought Chester was poetic and open-hearted. That he was looking for a wife to cherish."
"Oh, you want true love. That's what you're looking for." Winston smiled at her over the edge of his newspaper. His gaze warmed as if with a treasured memory. "Well, that's something that comes around once in a lifetime. You can't expect to find it at the other end of a mail-order bride advertisement."
"Callie did." Her chin went up, a tad defensively. Maybe because deep down inside she knew the kindly older man was right. Very right. Had she been naïve, maybe even foolish, thinking that a dream so rare could happen so easily? Troubled, she stared down at the page in front of her, stark black letters in neat rows across the crisp white page.
Maybe true love was never going to happen for her. Maybe it was time to accept the truth.
"Well, Callie didn't marry the man she'd corresponded with," Maggie explained, hanging her head. "When she arrived in Clark Creek, she discovered he'd lied to her terribly. He was completely the opposite of what he'd made himself out to be. Just like Chester did to me. But she married a different man and he is everything she'd been looking for."
"Then maybe that can happen to you too, missy." Across the room, John grinned at her. "Miles is quite a catch, you know. Maybe not now, but that could change. You could change him."
"I'm not interested in changing a man." She traced the first line of the page, the words just jumbled letters she couldn’t make sense of. She couldn’t concentrate. Maybe because this had been her only chance to find real love. She was going to have to accept that love and all that went with it (a husband, babies, and a family of her own) would pass her by. It really might be too late for her. She took a painful, grating breath. "Or I could have tried to get one of the widowers in town to change his mind about me being a faded rose."
"You are no such thing. You're lovely," John argued affably. "But Miles changed because of a woman, it stands to reason another woman could change him back. It would be good to see the old Miles again. Wouldn’t it, son?"
"That it would," Winston answered from behind his newspaper.
"Well, it's getting late. I'm heading up," John said, turning to her as if he had something to say. Hopefully it was nothing more about Miles.
Maggie launched out of her chair, taking her book with her. "I think I will, too. It's been a long day."
"That it has." Winston opened his newspaper to the first page, all settled in to read. "Personally, I can't wait until morning for that breakfast you're going to make us."
"Don't get your expectations too high," she warned him, feeling lighter as she left the room. "I'm not the best cook in my family, but I'm passable."
"Passable is more than we've been getting lately," John informed her as he waited for her to head up the staircase. "It's a great relief knowing I won't be cooking. I burn everything, and if there's one thing you don't want to eat it's burned eggs."
"I'll take your word for it." Oh yes, she thought climbing the stairs, she did feel a little lighter. Talking with John and Winston this evening had helped. Maybe she didn't have a ring on her finger or a new life as a bride (maybe her sister Emma had been right all along), but she felt safe here and welcome. Maybe Callie would have a baby one day, which would make her an aunt. That wasn't the same as being a ma, of course, but she would have a little niece or nephew to dote on. That was something special, too. Maybe she should be content with that.
"And before you head for bed, Maggie, you might want to check the necessary room." John opened the first door on the left, his bedroom. "When I left the parlor for a while, I poured a bath for you. My Elma, God rest her, said a hot bath before bed always soothed her. Go on and soak for a bit. That will help comfort you after your loss today."
"Oh, I will. Thank you." Surprised, she paused in the middle of the hallway, touched. John only smiled at her, stepped into his room and closed the door.
Which room was Miles's, she wondered? Her feet shuffled forward, turning the corner and following the shadowed hallway. A lamp sconce tossed light far down the hall, faintly guiding her. The storm battered the house, scouring the walls and gusting against the eaves. An icy chill penetrated the wall, making her shiver.
Miles was outside. He had to be much colder, probably hiding from her in one of the barns she'd spotted out the kitchen window when she'd been washing dishes. She blew out a sigh, troubled. She didn't want to be the reason he was uncomfortable, because she liked him. He'd probably not like that if he knew, but it was the truth.
She turned a final corner in the hallway, suddenly feeling uneasy for no good reason. Lemony light fell from another wall sconce, lighting her way. She walked past her bedroom door, which was closed and kept walking toward the last room at the end of the hall, where a second set of stairs led down near to the kitchen. She opened the necessary room door and stepped into a warm, candlelit glow.
Oh, my. Her hand flew to her throat, surprised at the trouble John had gone to. Steam curled upward from a big slipper shaped tub, gleaming copper in the dozen candles flickering on the nearby windowsill. It would be the perfect way to relax, she realized, setting her book on the little wooden shelf next to the tub. The tension in her body unfurled as she imagined slipping into that hot, delicious water. Tears burned behind her eyes. She'd never had anyone do something so nice for her before—anyone who wasn't family, that is.
Eagerly, she shut the door, unbuttoned her dress and shimmied out of her clothes as fast as she could go. Callie had written about a bathtub like this at her house—a cozy and comfortable home Mason had owned before they'd married. Maggie smiled, starting to feel truly excited about her decision to visit Callie. Wait until she knocked on Callie's door! Callie would be so surprised to see her. Her spirits soared just thinking about it and put a big smile in her heart.
She slipped into the water—ahhhh. Every muscle she owned relaxed. Her bones melted. She slipped back, resting her head against the upper curve of the tub, her eyelids closed and she savored the decadent, wonderful bliss. Now this was living.
Outside the room in the hall she heard the faint pad of footsteps. Light and quick, which was odd because with three strapping men in the house, they boomed everywhere they went. Maybe it was the wind or a sound from outside and she was mistaken, she thought, reaching for a hand towel on the stack of things John had left tub-side.
But then the door handle turned, the hinges whispering open and she didn't have time to react. She instantly crossed her arms over her breasts, squinting at a man's shadowed form in the doorway, silhouetted by the light behind him and yet standing out of reach of the candlelight.
"Miles?" she asked, although she knew that was wrong. The man wasn't Miles. He was too thin, his shoulders too narrow. His stance wasn't right. Something dark emanated from him.
It wasn't John or Winston either. Her breath caught. There is a strange man in the house looking at me naked.
Vulnerable and defenseless, she didn't think, she acted. Her
hand grasped the corner of her book and she tossed it with all her might. It sailed in a blurred arc and struck the shadowed stranger in the head. He cursed low and mean—did she recognize that voice? It sounded vaguely familiar somehow—and fell to the floor with a loud thud.
"Is someone up there?" A man's voice (Miles, she thought with relief) called from downstairs. "Maggie, is that you?"
Before she could answer, the shadow darted away, slipping into the hallway. She caught a glimpse of a dark coat and dark, disheveled hair, but that was all before he disappeared from her sight. Breathless, pulse pounding in her ears, Maggie realized she was on her feet, standing in the tub with water trickling down her bare, completely exposed body as Miles pounded up the stairs and into sight.
Chapter Six
Miles's knees buckled at the sight of the naked woman bathed in the mellow glow of candlelight. Wow. His brain stalled, every thought faded away and he stood there, paralyzed. He knew he ought to follow the intruder down the hallway, but he couldn’t make his feet move. Mainly because all he could see was Maggie—soft ivory skin, water sluicing over the curves of her full breasts and hips. Wow, wow, wow. His jaw dropped, his blood stilled in his veins. He hadn't seen anything like that since, well, since forever.
He'd never seen anything so beautiful or sensual. In the heartbeat it took for her to react, she crossed her arms over her rose-pink nipples and sank back into the water, hoping to disguise her nakedness. Really, there was no point to that because the image of her remained emblazoned in his mind, so vivid and amazing and provocative he was never going to forget it. Not ever. He could be ninety years old and not know his name, but this, he would always know. Always and forever.
"Who was that?" she demanded in a shaky voice, the water sloshing over the rim of the tub. "That wasn't another member of your family you keep in the attic or something?"
"Huh?" He blinked several times, tried to purge her gloriously naked image from his mind, but no luck. He tried to concentrate on what she was saying, but no luck there either. Something about an attic? His pulse began to thud, deep in his chest, hard in his groin. Right, he thought. The intruder.
"No," he choked out, his brain crossing onto the right track. Of course he was befuddled. Any man would be. He cleared his throat, hoping she wouldn't know about the throb in his, er, groin. "There shouldn't be anyone else in this house. I'll be back."
"He's probably long gone by now." She sounded doubtful. "Good thing I wasn't in mortal peril."
"True. My reaction time needs improving." His physical reaction time, he thought, shaking his head. His sexual reaction time was just fine. He tossed an apologetic look her way as he closed the door and bolted down the hall, intent on finding who'd broken into his house.
And he had a suspicion who. It was just a matter of getting his hands on the rat. As Miles pounded down the hallway, he heard the faint sounds of water sloshing as she moved around in the tub and that brought back that image of her naked. Damn. Desire tingled on his skin and the low, deep throb in his, er, groin intensified.
Just concentrate on finding Chester, Miles told himself. It could only be Chester, he reasoned. Sure enough, he found an upstairs window wide open in one of the empty bedrooms. Bitter-cold air and snow whirled into the dark room and began falling to the imported carpet.
Furious, he slammed the window shut, frowning, hands fisting, protective rage rising up like a fire in his chest. No sense going out after that drunk. That tree outside would be a tough climb down in this weather. It would be easier to go out the kitchen door and follow his trail from there.
Or, easier yet, just to pay him a visit and make it clear Maggie was off limits. A few choice words and the threat of violence ought to do the trick. The Collins brothers were nothing but lazy cowards, when you got down to it. They preferred easy targets, and that's one thing Miles would make damn sure of—Maggie would be no target. Not while she was in this house and under his family's protection.
"Oh." A soft voice filled the room, echoing along the walls. "Part of me had hoped I was just imagining someone there. I knew it wasn't true, but it was better than being scared. I mean, I was in my bath. It's a private moment."
"I know." He grimaced against those tantalizing images—soft skin, mesmerizing curves, the water damp on her thighs. He swallowed hard, his throat feeling way too tight, and he fought to gather his self-control before he turned around.
Somehow she was even more beautiful wearing his old robe with her blond hair tied up on her top of her head, little gossamer wisps tumbling down to frame her heart-shaped face. The navy blue terry robe engulfed her, hiding her delicate frame and spellbinding curves, but he remembered them well, oh yes, he really did.
A painful knot gathered in his chest as he watched her clutch the edges of the robe more tightly around her and give the sash a tug to draw it tighter around her slim waist. The robe's hem fell to her mid-thigh, showing a good length of her lean, perfect legs. Dainty knees, slender calves, sweet ankles and bare feet. He groaned, imagining those long legs wrapped around his hips, imagining how he could take her right here against the wall, pull that robe aside and feast on her breasts—
"Why aren't you going after him?" She bit her bottom lip, looking vulnerable. Then she planted her feet, bracing them apart, like a woman settling in for an argument.
Hell, he knew that stance far too well. That was one thing Bethleigh had loved to do. Argue. He grimaced some more. "Not in this storm. Don't worry, he's gone. I'll deal with it in the morning."
"But you don't know he's gone, do you?" She spun around, the hem of the robe twirling around her legs as she stalked into the hall. "He could still be out there. Let me put some clothes on and I'll help you catch him."
"You'll help me?" Miles' boots thumped in the hall behind her. "Little you? How are you going to do that?"
"I have no idea, but I'm stronger than I look." She whipped around the corner and reached for her doorknob. Only to realize the door was already open, just a bit, but definitely not the way she'd left it. A sick feeling crawled into her stomach. "Were you in my room?"
"You know I wasn't. I was in the barn all evening." He came to a stop beside her, towering over her, immense and powerful. Intensely male.
She realized just how much, standing beside him, naked beneath the robe. She felt vulnerable and small compared to his brawny strength. She shivered deep inside...and that shiver felt more like a thrilling sensation deep in her pelvis.
I'm attracted to him, she realized, tipping her head back to gaze up at him. The dark shadowed him, tossed his profile in silhouette. His very large hands splayed on the door and gave it a shove and she shivered again, wondering what his touch would feel like on her skin.
"Someone was in here." He sounded grim, terse, his wide shoulders rigid. There was a clink of glass and the snap of a match flaring to life as he lit a nearby lamp. "He was going through your things."
Her jaw dropped, taking in the scene. The satchel she'd left on the beautiful chaise by the window was sprawled on its side, her petticoats and dresses scattered across the green upholstered cushion. Her reticule lay beside it, the contents strewn about—letters, hair pins, a brush and her empty money purse. Shocked, violated, she took a hesitant step forward, relieved to find the little bit of money she had on her was still here. Robbery hadn't been the motive, she realized.
"Don't worry, I'll deal with this." Miles ground his teeth together, muscles bunching along his jaw. He looked fierce, muscles cording, hands fisted, rage radiating off him like fire. "I'll have some choice words for the man who did this. He won't dare set eyes on you again."
"Thank you, Miles." Chills broke out on her skin, creeping up her arms and down her legs, digging into her spine. "I don’t understand why someone would do this."
"I do. I think it was Chester. He got drunk enough so he lost whatever common sense he owns and thought he'd help himself to his new 'wife.'" Miles stepped close. His solid arms came around her, drawing her int
o his granite chest.
Ka-thump, went her heart. A shiver quaked through her, hard and deep as she leaned into his heat, leaned into his iron-solid strength. Nothing had ever felt so good. Liquid heat spilled into her bloodstream. She'd never been more aware of the man—the dark growth of whiskers on his jaw, the pleasant, masculine smell of his skin, the faint, fast pulse of a vein in his throat.
Oh, yes, she was attracted to him. Very. At least judging by a primal thrum low in her body, a thrilling breathlessness. She wanted to nestle against him so they were close, body pressed against body and lay her cheek on his shirt. She wanted to feel the strength of his arms hard and tight around her. But he released his hold on her and rocked backward, as if burned. As if he'd just realized what he'd done, trying to comfort her. He'd let her get too close.
"Go back to your bath and relax," he ordered over his shoulder as he marched into the hallway, back straight, perfect shoulders tensed, big hand fisted. "I'll deal with this, don't you worry. Forget it ever happened."
"But—" She tried to argue but he was already gone. She stood in the hallway a little forlorn, not realizing she'd followed him out of the room, and wrapped her arms around herself. He turned the corner and disappeared. Finally the heavy, angry thump of his boots striking the floor faded, leaving her feeling empty and unsettled.
Go back to her bath and relax? After this? She shook her head, not sure if she was more bothered by the intruder's audacity to walk in on her in her bath or by her strong attraction to Miles.
Because yes, she was definitely attracted to him, she thought as she padded down the hall to the necessary room, and that was clearly one colossal mistake.
* * *
Damn Miles, that rich, useless bastard. The man in the shadows shifted, peering through the trees to get a good look at the back of the McClintock's estate. He gritted his teeth, furious he'd almost been caught. He still wasn't sure if the girl or Miles had recognized him. Even in the dark, veiled by snow, he pulled his hat farther down over his forehead, snapping with rage. He'd been too impatient to get his hands on her. He should have waited until everyone was asleep.