Rogues in Texas 03 - Never Marry a Cowboy

by Lorraine Heath

  As soon as they were on the porch, Ashton wriggled free of his grasp and hopped to the ground. “What are those pink and white flowers on the shrubbery by the house?” she asked.

  “Oleander. They’re not native to the area but they grow in abundance here. Galveston is famous for them.”

  She neared one, plucked a blossom, and brought it to her nose. “It smells sweet.”

  “Ashton, on the stairs—”

  “Do you think I could take a plant back to Dallas with me?”

  He didn’t care about the plants, but he did care about her wishes. “Not one of these. They’re too large, but perhaps I could locate a small shrub.”

  She smiled sweetly. “I’d like that. I wouldn’t be able to enjoy it for long, but I think Madeline would like it. I wanted to take something back that was unusual.”

  “That would certainly be unusual. Ashton, when we were on the stairs, why did you say, ‘Oh, that?’” he asked quickly, before she could start another thread of conversation.

  Holding her arms out, she spun around. “The sand feels wonderful beneath my toes. I’m glad you said no shoes.” She started walking toward the shoreline. “Should we go to the water?”

  Dumbfounded that she was blatantly ignoring his inquiries, he hurried after her. “Ashton, you’re avoiding my question. What did you mean by ‘oh, that?’”

  She glanced over at him, a twinkle in her eyes that made him suspect she was annoying him on purpose. “What should I have said?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps, ‘How scandalous!’”

  She arrived at the water’s edge and planted her feet so the shallow waves could creep forward, wrap around her toes, and retreat. She wrinkled her nose as though concentrating deeply. She shook her head. “I don’t think it was scandalous.”

  “You don’t find it scandalous that Harry’s mistress had her portrait painted while she wore not a stitch of clothing—”

  She spun around, her smile bright and a look of relief on her face. “So it was Harry’s mistress? You didn’t say whose mistress she was.”

  He groaned. He’d left out that little tidbit of information on purpose. “What difference does it make whose mistress it was?”

  “I suppose he had the mistress before he got married?”

  “Good God, yes, and don’t you dare mention this conversation to Jessye. She’ll have my hide and Harry’s as well. She would not like it at all if she discovered I was gossiping about his past lady friends.”

  “Did you see the painting?”

  “How could I not? His mistress hung it over the hearth in a gaudy gold frame.”

  Her eyes alight with interest, she stepped closer. “Was it scandalous?”

  “Of course. She left nothing to the imagination and seemed quite at ease flaunting her attributes.”

  “So you didn’t like the portrait?”

  “Whether or not I liked it is not important.” He rolled his eyes. “How did we manage to wander so far off the point of this topic?”

  “You wanted to shock me until my hair curled and you’re upset that you didn’t. Now, had it been his wife, then I might have found it scandalous.”

  The woman baffled him, but her eyes held a special glint that hinted she was enjoying the direction of the conversation. So he decided to indulge her. “What possible difference could that make?”

  “A mistress should be scandalous. She’s supposed to be bold and daring, all the things a man’s wife isn’t supposed to be.”

  Kit scoffed. “She is supposed to be discreet.”

  Ashton turned away and took several steps into the water, until it swirled around her ankles. “I’ve seen sketches of the human body. In its natural form, I think it can be quite … provocative.” She lowered her lashes. “Of course, you’re the closest I’ve come to seeing a man in the flesh, and you’re very careful to keep some things to yourself.”

  Careful? His wife had a gift for understatement. With his heart and his head, he’d made a personal vow before he asked her to become his wife. The lower part of his body seemed intent on rebelling, and only because he was extremely careful that he maintained his modesty was he able to keep the heathen in control.

  His wife also had a captivating manner of looking like an innocent standing on the precipice, wanting to jump into a pool of improper knowledge. He threaded his fingers through hers, enjoying the intimacy of the contact, palm to palm, so much better than her hand simply resting limply on his arm. “Come along. We were supposed to take a brisk walk.”

  Her fingers tightened around his as she strolled beside him. “Do you think I’m shameful for not being shocked?” she asked.

  “No, even though it caught me unawares that you weren’t shocked.”

  “I don’t like being so innocent, Kit. Sometimes I feel like a child when I desperately want to be a woman.”

  He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Hold on to your innocence, Ashton. Once lost, it can’t be regained.”

  “Do you wish you were still innocent?” she asked with a rebellious tone in her voice.

  He met her gaze steadily. “Sometimes, I wish it with all my heart.”

  *

  CHAPTER 11

  « ^ »

  K it couldn’t recall taking an afternoon nap since he was eight years old. He’d only done it then because his mother had insisted, and he hadn’t wanted to disappoint her.

  Today, he’d been exhausted, more so than he was last night. After lunch, he’d laid down for a nap. The final thing he remembered was Ashton removing his boots.

  He stretched his body and opened his eyes to see dust motes waltzing in front of the open balcony doors as the late afternoon eased its way into the room. The temptation to stay here until dawn was strong, but he had to tend to Lancelot’s needs.

  The horse had traveled tethered to the back of the stagecoach. Kit had brought the gelding so he could ride him after he returned Ashton to Dallas . He preferred the freedom a lone horse would give him to the predictable route and monotony of the trail a stagecoach followed.

  He turned his head slightly and could see no indentation in the bed where his wife might have taken her rest. Perhaps she’d decided to use the bed in his room.

  With a yawn, he got up and pulled on his boats. He glanced at the empty balcony and search beyond it to the shoreline. He saw no sign of Ashton. He checked the other bedroom. Empty.

  He went down the stairs into the kitchen, welcoming the aroma of cinnamon. He heard Mrs. Edwards singing a song about the Red River Valley . He’d visited the area once. As far as he knew, he’d seen most of the state.

  As though sensing his presence, she stopped singing and smiled at him. “Have a good nap?”

  “I slept like a babe. Have you any notion where my wife is?”

  “Yep. She went to the infirmary.”

  Kit felt as though his heart had stopped. “The infirmary?”

  Wiping her flour-coated hands on her apron, Mrs. Edwards nodded. “St. Mary’s in Galveston . Martha took her.”

  “Dear God in heaven, why didn’t you let me know immediately?” Kit yelled as he stormed across the room.

  “Because Mrs. Montgomery said we wasn’t to disturb you,” Mrs. Edwards shot back.

  “Don’t ever follow my wife’s orders again,” Kit called over his shoulder as he hurried out the door and down the steps. If there ever was an again.

  Why hadn’t Ashton told him that she wasn’t feeling well? What was she thinking to let a woman she barely knew take her to a hospital while Kit slept?

  He approached the lean-to where he kept Lancelot and hastily prepared him. He mounted the horse and urged him into a gallop toward town. He could only hope that he wasn’t too late.

  He could not bear the thought of Ashton dying with no one beside her.

  *

  “Then Sir Kit, the bravest of all the knights, thrust his powerful sword into the heart of the dragon. It roared out its anger and blew flames into the heavens, kno
wing that it had been defeated. It fell to its side, deader than a doornail. Sir Kit took the princess from the dragon’s lair and they lived happily ever after.”

  As the children surrounding Ashton clapped, Kit decided he would strangle his wife. He’d rushed into the infirmary like a raving lunatic, demanding to know where his wife was, only to discover she was regaling children with tales of damsels in distress.

  She wasn’t ill at all. He knew he should be incredibly grateful, and once he stopped shaking, he would be. But right now, he could only envision his hands around her soft throat as he placed his thumbs below her chin … and tilted her face toward his to receive a deeply satisfying kiss.

  The woman had scared the bloody hell out of him, and he didn’t like it, not one bit. She was destined to die, but he didn’t want it to happen while he was within reach of her.

  She walked around the room, giving each child a hug, most with dark smudges at the corners of their mouths. Then Ashton spotted him and gave him the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen, and his heart melted like the damned chocolate she’d eaten last night.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked as she approached him.

  “The question, madam, is what are you doing here? I thought the worst when Mrs. Edwards said you’d asked to come to the infirmary.”

  Her smile withered, and he cursed his temper for making his words clipped and harsh.

  “I thought I’d be back before you woke up.” She turned briefly, smiled at the children, and waved as they scampered back to their beds.

  She followed him into the hallway. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think that you’d mind if we brought the leftover food from lunch—”

  “Ashton.” He spun around and faced her. “I don’t give a bloody damn about the food. I thought you were having another spell like the one you had the night we wed, and that you’d come here”—he swallowed—“instead of coming to me.”

  A softness touched her eyes as she laid her hand reassuringly on his arm. “I didn’t mean to worry you.” She nibbled on her lower lip. “Although I’m glad you were worried. I’m an awful person for being glad.”

  He touched her cheek. “You’re not awful. How did this adventure come about, anyway?”

  “Martha asked if she could bring the food that we didn’t eat at lunch, and I asked to come along. Actually, we were very quick about delivering it, but then I saw the children…” Tears surfaced in her eyes. “I just wanted to make them smile. It’s horrid to lie there in bed with nothing to do but wait to get better.”

  He took her arm and led her outside. “As frail as you are, a hospital is probably not the best place to spend your time.”

  “I know.” She looked up guiltily. “I brought them all my chocolate.”

  “We can purchase more. We can even make arrangements to have some sent here daily if you like.”

  She smiled warmly. “I’d like that.”

  “Just please give me your word that you will not go on another adventure without telling me.”

  “I promise.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Sir Kit, heh? I didn’t catch the princess’s name.”

  “Why, she was Princess Ashton, of course.” She clutched her hand more firmly around his arm.

  “And he killed the dragon deader than a doornail? What exactly does that mean?”

  “It’s just an expression.”

  He dared not ask the name of the dragon, for he feared he already knew it. Consumption. Unfortunately, Sir Kit had no powerful sword with which to defeat it.

  *

  Standing alone on the balcony with the remnants of a hellish nightmare rippling through him, Kit watched the mist roll in from the sea, thick and heavy, silent but menacing. He heard the deep timbre of a horn blasting from the lightship, its light a muted glow hovering in the dense fog.

  Wrapping his hands around the railing until he felt the wood bite into his palms, Kit tried to decipher his dream. The gossamer images were unclear, and he was certain of only one thing: he’d been lost, confused, stumbling in the dark, struggling to find his way.

  He’d awakened bathed in sweat that he could attribute to the warmth of the night coupled with Ashton’s heat as she lay within the circle of his arms, but the chills, the trembling, the inability to form concrete thoughts had forced him to gasp for air like a drowning man.

  Was that how the end would be for Ashton? Desperately trying to draw in air when there was none to be found?

  He took a deep shuddering breath. Perhaps his concerns for Ashton had prompted the dream. Within the past week, since their arrival at Galveston ‘s shores, his fondness for her had deepened, and the thought of her facing death was becoming increasingly unbearable, but he didn’t think his emotions had prompted the dream. He’d been frightened, disoriented, like a ship tossed on a turbulent sea, unable to find mooring.

  He’d felt ill upon awakening—as he had aboard the ship when he’d traveled from Liverpool to Galveston . Two weeks of heaving his meals over the side before he’d managed to adjust to the constant roiling of the boat. Poor Grayson had never adjusted. Harry had never gotten ill. Luck always rode his shoulder. Well, almost always.

  “Kit?” Ashton whispered.

  He glanced over his shoulder. She stood near him, a blanket draped around her, the hair he’d loosened from the braid while she slept hanging in wild disarray around her face and shoulders. It had become a game between them. She braided her hair each night before bed, and once she drifted off to sleep, he unwound the strands, careful not to disturb her. He found her unbound hair incredibly enticing. He’d considered a dozen times convincing her that they should sleep without clothing, but he didn’t think he could withstand the assault on his senses. To have the full length of her flesh pressed against his—the thought alone was dangerous. His restraint was being sorely tested. Perhaps the demons he fought had brought on the dream.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked quietly, studying him warily. “I woke up and you weren’t there.”

  “Nothing more than a disturbing dream. Go back to sleep. I’ll be there shortly,” he said.

  With the fog swirling around her, she seemed to glide toward him, ethereal, and he wondered for a moment if he still dreamt.

  “It’s scary out here,” she said in a low voice. The horn sounded, and she jumped.

  Smiling gently, Kit reached out, took her arm, and pulled her into his embrace, nestling his chin on top of her head. “It’s only a bit of fog.”

  “Isn’t this dangerous for ships?” she asked.

  “It could be, but since there’s no wind, the ships are probably just bobbing on the water.”

  “The fog distorts everything. Maybe that’s what disturbed you.”

  “No it was the dream.”

  She turned in his arms, bent her head back, and studied his face. “What happened in the dream?”

  “The images were foggy.” He grinned. “No pun intended. The thoughts, however, were clear.” He gazed past her and stared at the lone light struggling to serve as a beacon. “The thoughts were crystal clear,” he repeated. “Perhaps they weren’t mine. Maybe they were Christopher’s.”

  “You can read his mind even though he’s an ocean away?” she asked incredulously.

  How to explain what he didn’t begin to understand? “It’s not reading minds so much as sensing his feelings.” He shook his head in exasperation. “It’s impossible to describe what I experience.”

  “Try,” she said with the determination in her voice that never failed to amuse him. “You’ve explained it a little, but I still find it odd.”

  He dropped onto a nearby chair and drew her onto his lap. “Odd, you say? A fitting word for my relationship with my brother. Had my father not always been so quick to point out that Christopher were the older, and therefore the favored, I would have thought us equal.”

  “It’s not as if years separate you,” she pointed out.

  Kit settled more comfortably into the chair and pressed
her head into the crook of his shoulder where it felt that the shallow curve had been created expressly for her face. He liked having her there, feeling her breath skim across his bare chest. “Actually, only a few moments separated our births, and yet, they were deciding moments, elevating Christopher to the exalted position of heir apparent and marking me as the lesser second son.”

  “You’re as important as he is,” she said indignantly.

  He wrapped his arms more tightly around her, deeply touched by her defense of him. Christopher had been equally protective, never one to lord his position over Kit, but at times seemingly uncomfortable with the hierarchy of their family. “Not within the realm of English inheritance laws.”

  “I don’t like your laws.”

  “I have no quarrel with the laws. They serve a purpose.”

  “Tell me how you and Christopher share thoughts,” she prompted.

  He grimaced. “Not thoughts, exactly. Impressions. At first, I always think it’s what I’m feeling, but when I analyze the sensations, I begin to realize that they aren’t mine. Tonight I awoke feeling unanchored, betrayed, angry. Something is troubling Christopher, but I don’t have a strong enough sense of what it is. By the time I write him and he sends a missive, the crisis will have passed.”

  “Crisis? You think something horrible happened?”

  He gazed into the fog. “Not horrible. Baffling. Not to worry. He’ll sort it out.” He brought the blanket up to shield her face from the dampness in the air. The foghorn blew.

  “That’s such a lonely sound,” she murmured.

  The moments passed until he eventually felt her grow limp against him, her breathing becoming shallow and even. He needed to carry her to bed and remove the dew from her hair. Instead, he gathered her more closely against him. He’d been adrift for too many years, and now one frail woman was beginning to serve as his mooring. The thought troubled him more than his dream.

  *

  CHAPTER 12

  « ^ »

  W hat harm can come of it?

  As Kit sat on the blanket spread over the sand not far from the cottage, he feared the answer to the question he had tossed out with such nonchalance in Fortune more than a month earlier.