Jane Bonander

by Warrior Heart

  Lifting his glass toward her, he said, “I applaud a woman who doesn’t truss herself up like a turkey at bedtime.”

  Heat flared in her face and she felt her nipples tighten. “Just how many glasses of brandy have you consumed, Mr. Wolfe?”

  One side of his sensual mouth lifted. “What makes you think this isn’t my first?”

  She shivered beneath her lightweight dressing gown and eyed the fire, aching to be closer to the warmth. But that meant being closer to him, and she sensed that wasn’t a good idea. “Because your demeanor is totally out of character with the gentleman you appeared to be earlier this evening.”

  He took another swig, his gaze never leaving her. “Yeah, you’re right. I have one hell of a rotten demeanor when I drink.” He smirked, his eyes glittering as he studied her. “I’m likely to say a bushel of things I’ll regret, but you’re a damned fine looking woman, and I don’t usually find white women attractive.”

  With hesitant steps, she moved closer. “Is that supposed to be a gentlemanly compliment?”

  “Didn’t it sound like one?”

  His gaze moved over her so slowly she almost felt it. “A sober man is a gentleman. A man who imbibes seldom is.”

  He winced. “ ‘Imbibes.’ Damned fancy five-dollar word for something as simple as taking a drink, don’t you think?”

  She stepped closer still, beginning to feel the warmth of the fire. This arousal, this…excitement was new to her. It was so seldom that she allowed herself to let go, to explore dangerous sensations. “What word would you use, Mr. Wolfe?”

  He expelled a healthy sigh and pulled a thoughtful expression. “Let me see. How about ‘bibulate’?”

  She repressed a smile. “ ‘Bibulate’? That’s good, but ‘guzzle’ and ‘swill’ seem more appropriate.”

  Frowning, he shook his head. “Too crass. How about…” His gaze found her mouth, and Libby held her breath. Her tongue came out to wet her lips.

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have done that.” His voice was husky and deep. Like warm whiskey. She shivered, repeating the gesture, nervous to the bone.

  One side of his mouth lifted into a half smile. “You did it again.”

  She shook her head. “No. I… I was taking it back.” Lord, what kind of foolishness was this?

  A warm, raucous chuckle escaped. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  Her face was on fire. “It means I was taking it back.”

  “Oh, no,” he argued. “It’s an invitation to a kiss. It’s part of an obscure Australian ritual.”

  If nothing else, he was an intriguing drunk. In spite of her discomfort, she had to smile. “Since I’m ignorant of Australian rituals, obscure or otherwise, rest assured that what I did was not an invitation.” Her body hummed beneath her gown, and the pulse at her throat hammered against her skin. His gaze continued to tease. Taunt.

  “How ’bout ‘suck’?”

  She shook herself. “What?”

  “Suck.” His gaze moved from her mouth to her chest.

  She swallowed, feeling an odd pulling sensation on her nipples. “Suck?”

  He lifted his glass. “You know, ‘bibulating’?”

  An exquisite yet foreign feeling scudded through her stomach. She folded her arms across her chest and pressed them against her waist. “I don’t believe that word makes any sense in this context, Mr. Wolfe.” Why was she bothering with him at all? Sober, he was gentle and solemn. Drunk, he was disgusting, just like every other liquored-up boob she’d ever known. Yet she was fascinated.

  He waved the glass in her direction. Some of the liquor sloshed over the brim, spilling onto the floor. “I disagree. So does Mr. Webster. Wanna look it up?”

  She watched the liquid seep toward the rug, then lunged, using the hem of her dressing gown to stop the stream. Finding herself on her hands and knees in front of him, she slowly lifted her head. He was staring at her chest. She glanced down to find her gown gaping open. He had an unrestricted view of her bosom.

  Their eyes met. Libby’s heart continued to pound, and her body thrummed as she folded the neck of her robe in her fist.

  He touched her arm, his grip a light pressure. “I’ve been all over the world, Mrs. O’Malley, and you are as intoxicating as any woman I’ve seen.”

  With a twinge of reluctance, she drew her arm away. “Intoxicated is the word, Mr. Wolfe, although it describes you, not me.”

  His hand drifted onto her thigh, and Libby stood up so quickly she saw spots before her eyes.

  He sighed and took another swig of his brandy. “I shouldn’t drink.”

  Why she didn’t turn and run, she didn’t know. “Nothing is good unless it’s done in moderation,” she answered.

  “Except sex.”

  His lack of inhibition shocked her. No man had ever spoken so boldly to her before. He probably deserved a sharp smack across the face, but oddly, she’d been lured into the conversation like a trout to a fisherman’s fly.

  “Sex in moderation is truly a bore,” he announced, his words beginning to slur. He raised his finger at her and shook it. “I oughta know. I’ve been searching for the cure to boring sex all over the world.”

  Libby’s gaze roamed to his thumb, and she swallowed hard, remembering Mahalia’s comparison. It wasn’t just his thumb that was big; his entire hand was huge.

  She shook her head, trying to empty it of foolish musings. “It’s just like a man to think his problems lie elsewhere, when they usually begin within the man himself.”

  He frowned, tossing off the remainder of his brandy. “Are you insulting me?”

  She pushed her hair away from her face. “I’m surprised you’re sober enough to realize it.”

  He sat before her, grinning like a wicked cat, his arms resting on the chair and his legs spread wide. “Your hair shimmers in the firelight like rich red wine. I’d love to bury my face in it.”

  She turned abruptly toward the fire, allowing the image to form in her mind. Her insides were a-tumble, her blood ran hot. Despite his drunken state, he was beside her in an instant, his huge hand enveloping hers.

  Tingles sped up her arm, yet she continued to study the fire, her heart racing. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m collecting my kiss.”

  “Don’t—” She gasped, attempting to wrench free, but he tugged her close. His body was hard against hers, and she was forced to tilt her head back to look into his face. Desire should have softened his features, yet they were tight and as hot as iron freshly pulled from a furnace. The intensity in his eyes both excited and frightened her.

  “Let me go.”

  “I should.” His fingers raked her hair, and his palm cupped the back of her head. “I would, if I were sober. Hell, if I were sober, I’d be in bed, thinking about kissing you instead of doing it.”

  She was just getting used to the smell of brandy on his breath when his mouth came down on hers. He blatantly parted her lips with his tongue. She pressed her fists against his shoulders, yet she had no strength to ward him off or push him away.

  The kiss deepened. The stubble around his mouth chafed her skin, and she liked it. Oh, God, she liked it…He tasted of brandy, and as if that small tidbit had power of its own, it gave her a feeling of intoxication, as if she’d had a drink herself.

  His mouth was harsh one moment, then soft, pliant…pleading. His tongue played with hers, and something inside Libby burst, sending hot seeds of pleasure tumbling through her blood. His knee parted her thighs, a movement that brought her closer to him, and she captured his leg between hers, as if by doing so she might satisfy the ache in her belly.

  He finally lifted his head, but Libby was swimming with desire and didn’t have the strength to open her eyes.

  “I gotta tell you something, Libby.”

  The sound of her name on his tongue was almost as arousing as the kiss. Almost. Libby took a deep breath and forced herself to move away. She touched her face, aware of the tingling left not only from his
kiss but from his beard. In an instant she felt ashamed, the sensation a strong antidote to her desire.

  “I don’t think we have anything more to talk about.” She moved awkwardly toward the door. Her legs felt like useless water-soaked pegs.

  “Oh, I think you’re gonna wanna hear what I have to say. Hell, Libby, I gotta say it or I’ll bust wide open.”

  She waited near the door, eyeing him warily. “So say it.”

  Several emotions flickered across his face, and his gaze never left hers. “You’re not gonna like it.”

  His slur was becoming worse. His plastered state began to disgust her. “Just say it, you drunken lout, and let me go to bed.”

  He rested his hand on the fireplace mantel. “Do you sleep alone?”

  Her insides jumped; her nerves were as taut as piano wire. “That’s none of your business. Tell me what you want to say, so I can go.”

  There was a mysterious shimmering in his eyes, and his smile disappeared. It appeared again, although it was a smile of an entirely different sort. “You’ve got a damned fine ass, Mrs. O’Malley.”

  She gasped. “That’s what you had to tell me?”

  “No,” he answered, his eyes bleary, “but it’ll do for now.”

  “Well, I hope that in the morning you’ll have a damned fine hangover, Mr. Wolfe.”

  She marched to her room, wondering at her tottering feelings. She hated herself now; she would despise her weakness in the morning. But she was also disappointed. She’d thought he was different. She’d hoped he was. Even so, she’d thrown herself at him with no more reticence than a hungry whore. Perhaps she was no better than he.

  5

  Mountain goats clambered up the sides of Jackson’s head, their spiky antlers jabbing at his skull. He ran his tongue over his teeth and shuddered at the taste left there, which was comparable to that of Himalayan goat shit. Not only did he wish it were tomorrow, he deplored the thought of having to face today.

  Throwing a protective arm over his eyes to ward off the morning sun, he groaned and cursed, hating himself for drinking again. When would he learn? Had he really thought this time would be any different than the others?

  He knew why he’d done it: it had been damned near impossible to sit and talk with his own daughter and pretend to be a stranger, even though, in essence, he was. That was what had driven him to the brandy. He’d wanted to announce to the world that he was the father of this beautiful, bright child. He’d wanted to scream, “She’s mine, you miserable peasants. Show me something you’ve created that’s anywhere near as perfect as this! I dare you!” Of course he couldn’t do a damned foolish thing like that, but it was getting harder and harder to keep his mouth shut.

  When Liberty O’Malley offered him brandy, he’d thought, Why the hell not? Then one glass had become two, and after that, he couldn’t remember most of the conversation he’d had with her.

  He winced. No doubt it was awful. Drinking made him stupid. Insensitive. Crude. If he’d stayed true to form, he would have a lot of making up to do just to get back into her good graces. How in the hell could he purport to be a good father if he came off as a sloppy drunk? Most women found drinking itself offensive, and he had no doubt Liberty O’Malley was like most women in that respect.

  He didn’t recall much about their conversation, but he recollected how she looked in that dressing gown. One of the last things he remembered was gazing at her ample bosom while she was on her hands and knees, attempting to clean up the booze he’d spilled.

  Now, in spite of his pain, his body responded. There was nothing wrong with him below the neck, he thought with a wry grimace, and mornings usually rendered him horny, anyway. Reliving the moment when he’d gazed at her dusky breasts made him harder, causing the quilt to tent over his groin.

  Like most men he knew, he was a breast man. He admitted it. He never quite believed men who professed to prefer legs or asses. Everyone had those. But breasts … ahhh, breasts. So many different shapes and sizes. And colors.

  To him, a handful was never quite enough. He was ready for a woman with a full, lush figure, ample thighs and breasts with nice perky nipples. He loved it when a woman teased him with just enough clothing to accentuate her curves.

  Not that his landlady had consciously sought him out wearing that flimsy thing she had on last night. But the moment she’d walked in, he was lost. The fabric had clung to her breasts, and he could almost tell exactly what shape they were. And though ample, they didn’t sag. They were taut and opulent, and had sent carnal sensations racing through him. And the nipples. Ah, yes, the nipples.

  He let out a whoosh of air. Even though in his experience dark-haired women often had dark brown nipples, he would bet hers were pale, nearly the color of her skin.

  Abruptly, he swore and groaned. That wasn’t all he remembered, dammit. He’d kissed her. Even now he recalled how her lips had glistened with the moistness of that kiss. And she’d responded.

  He swore again. Everything was coming back to him, every detail of his vile behavior. He’d almost told her who he was. Surprisingly, a tiny shred of sense had kept him from blurting out the truth.

  He swallowed, ignoring the putrid taste in his mouth as he returned his thoughts to the kiss. His erection grew, heightening the hungry itch of lust at his groin.

  Suddenly the door opened, slamming against the wall.

  “Laundry day, Mistah Wolfe. We gotta have that quilt.”

  Jackson attempted to grab his bedding, but it was whisked off the bed, leaving him bare and cold.

  “What in hell!” Dumbfounded, he discovered the big black cook standing over him, her eyes dancing with amusement. Before his brandy-soaked brain could react, Liberty O’Malley raced into the room.

  “Mahalia, don’t wake—”

  Both women stood there, gaping at him. Too late, he snatched the extra pillow off the bed and covered himself.

  Mahalia chuckled all the way down the stairs and outside, while Libby brought up the rear, holding the other end of the quilt. Neither spoke as they dunked the quilt into the tub of hot, soapy water, and Libby refused to look at her assistant, for Mahalia continued to laugh the sort of laugh she used when she was highly amused.

  “Stop that,” Libby ordered, attempting to sound firm.

  Mahalia stopped poking at the wet quilt with the paddle and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Can’t help it. Did you ever see such an expression on a man’s face? Did you?”

  Libby hadn’t been looking at his face. What she had looked at had shocked her. She wasn’t entirely innocent, but never had she imagined one that size. It was reprehensible to allow the thought to materialize at all, but she couldn’t ignore it. She gave herself a good strong scolding, then smirked. A lot of good a reprimand would do. There were some things she simply couldn’t banish from her thoughts, and she was afraid this was one of them.

  Earlier, she’d awakened, feeling that odd sense of dread that people have when they’ve said or done something they can’t take back and can’t quite recall. Then she remembered the kiss, and her feelings of shame returned. She’d kissed him with the fervor of a seasoned trollop.

  She gripped her paddle tightly so Mahalia wouldn’t notice that her fingers shook. Truth to tell, she was shaking all over, inside and out. Her heart fluttered against her ribs, and her stomach quivered.

  The kiss had been one thing, but seeing him lying in his bed, naked as a jay, with his…She expelled a whoosh of air. It had been like…like a pole, thick and long, slanting toward his flat, hair-covered belly, the base nestled in a profusion of dark hair. And hair grew over his chest, too, dense and dark. Her first thought had been a shameful one: Could she have touched her thumb to her index finger if she’d tried to span the pole?

  Her cheeks flamed. How had such a brazen thought found its way into her head? She could never look him in the eye again. And heaven help her if she inadvertently glanced lower.

  In spite of everything, the sight of him w
as emblazoned in her brain. There were scars aplenty, she remembered that. Now, as she thought about it, she wondered just what kind of work Mr. Wolfe had done to incur such a physical battering.

  “If it had been stickin’ straight up, it would’ve been tall and upright as a lamppost.”

  Libby’s face continued to burn. “Mahalia,” she warned.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Mahalia ignored the warning. “His thumbs said it all, yes, they certainly did.”

  Libby had gone to bed the night before, disappointed to learn that he drank so much. She should have known that no man was as perfect as Wolfe had appeared to be. Any decent man would be embarrassed by what had happened this morning, and she had no doubt he would be. She prayed he had a roaring hangover as well.

  “I asked you to see if he was up. Otherwise, I told you not to bother him.”

  Mahalia snorted. “I ain’t runnin’ this place like a grand hotel. I got my schedule to keep. Besides,” she added with a sly grin, “he’s usually up and gone by this time.”

  Libby raised her eyebrows. “You can tell his daily routine after only a week?”

  “He didn’t seem like a slugabed to me.” Mahalia continued to pound the quilt with her paddle. “I think we’re gonna have to take these feathers out or they won’t dry till spring.” She stopped working and adjusted her bosom beneath her loose-fitting frock, the motion causing her breasts to look like puppies squirming in a sack.

  “We’ll put another quilt on his bed. I have an extra one in my room,” Libby answered. “Meanwhile, you go in there and see that he gets breakfast, and I’ll—”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. I’ve taken care of the beddin’ since the day I arrived, and we ain’t changin’ the rules now. You get in there and see that he’s fed.”

  Libby gave her a jaded look. “I guess it’s too late to remind you who’s the boss here.”

  “I only do what’s best for you, Libby honey.”

  “And in this case that would be…” Libby stopped, waiting for her to explain.