Rogues in Texas 03 - Never Marry a Cowboy

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Rogues in Texas 03 - Never Marry a Cowboy Page 13

by Lorraine Heath


  He strikes me as dangerous. A man who would break hearts. I would willingly offer mine up as a sacrifice to have his attention for a single moment.

  Kit glanced at his wife. He wondered if David had read her journal and if it had influenced his decision to ask Kit to marry her.

  He remembered Ashton’s words spoken on Mrs. Gurney’s front porch. “There is little about me to capture the attention of a man such as yourself.”

  Had he been so inattentive and uncaring of her feelings then? Probably. At that time, he had still been unable to look beyond his guilt.

  He set the book aside and knelt beside the bed, studying the way her blond lashes rested lightly on her cheeks. So four years ago she was willing to sacrifice her heart to him. And now, did she wish to take the memory of a broken heart to her deathbed?

  He doubted it. Her words had been written before she knew death hovered, when she thought she would have time for her heart to heal and find someone else to cherish her.

  Until this moment, he had not comprehended that whatever memories he gave her would shine the brightest as she lay waiting for death because they would be the most recent.

  And what had he given her yesterday? Anger. Regardless of the fact that he was angry with himself, the fury had manifested itself to a degree that had upset her.

  He had been correct in the beginning. Marriage to a dying woman was lunacy.

  Why did he continue to prolong the farce when it would mean nothing except more regrets? Quietly, he unfolded his body and walked from the room, wishing he had no reason to return.

  *

  Guilt gnawed at Kit unmercifully as he rode through Galveston on Lancelot. He had desperately needed to escape death.

  If he could but find a way to help Ashton elude its clutches…

  He guided the horse along the waterfront. The waves that so intrigued his wife roared against the shore. He heard the boisterous guffaws of men, followed by the gentle laughter of women, the grunts of fishermen working to bring in their day’s haul, ladies gossiping about the latest fashion.

  He looked toward the blue sky. All around him, people acted as though nothing were amiss, while at the end of the island, a delicate woman fought not to touch Death’s hand.

  He was beginning to understand why Christopher had sent for him, why his brother had been unable to be with Clarisse at the end. Christopher had watched his wife wage the same battle that Ashton now valiantly fought.

  It was not Clarisse’s demise that he’d been unable to face, but her futile attempt to be victorious over death. He had not wanted to witness her defeat.

  As one who did not belong, Kit merely watched the people mingling on the docks, yelling from the boats as the sun cast them in an orange haze. He looked toward the western horizon. Twilight would be upon the land soon. He had not meant to be gone so long, and yet a part of him wished to stay away forever.

  He was to have made Ashton a bride only, not become her friend, not come to care for her, to resent that death would deny her so much of life.

  He jerked on the reins and began the trek back toward the cottage that seemed more a prison than a home. Tomorrow, he would purchase the tickets for their journey back to her brother’s. The decision came that simply and with unequaled difficulty.

  He knew she would accept his decision, understand his reasoning, and bear him no ill will. But could he say the same of himself when his gut already clenched and he felt like a man headed for the dungeon of despair?

  The house came into view, and he could not help but smile. She would no doubt be watching the sunset. In future years, when he saw the sun ease over the horizon, he would remember her. He would honor her as he continued to honor Clarisse. Tonight, he would tell her so. Perhaps the knowledge would bring her a measure of peace.

  He drew his horse to a halt near the small stable and knew that referring to it as such was granting it a title it did not deserve. It had a roof, one solid wall, a trough for oats, and one for water. But the gelding could live without luxury for a while. It was a small request he asked of the beast, and he would make it up to him once they returned to Fortune.

  Kit knew he’d want solitude during the journey back from Dallas . He might even take a few detours. Anything to rid himself of the guilt that was already flaying his conscience.

  He heard the screech ring from inside the house, and raw fear speared his soul. Ashton had been sleeping when he’d left, but the cook and her daughter had been at the house. Only now did he realize that their carriage was not in sight as he heard his wife screech again.

  Like a madman, he tore across the lawn toward the back of the house where the door that led into the kitchen was open. Not an uncommon habit in order to allow the breeze the freedom to keep the house cool. But he heard another tiny scream.

  By God, if anyone so much as laid a finger on his wife, he’d rip off the man’s arm.

  He leapt onto the porch and staggered to a stop in the doorway, stunned by the sight of his wife shaking a broom over a pot of boiling water.

  “Get in there, you wretched beast,” his wife growled, but the crab clinging to the bristles of the broom didn’t seem inclined to follow her orders. With a pair of scissors, she snipped off the straw and the crab plopped into the water. Ashton visibly shuddered before spinning around. Other crabs skittered across the floor.

  Amused at her temerity, Kit crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorframe. “Madam, what are you doing?”

  With a squeal, she spun around. Breathing heavily, she stared at him. Her bun was askew as strands of hair that had gained their freedom flew wildly around her face with the breeze easing in through the doorway. Her face was covered in a mixture of white flour and black ashes. Her bodice was soaked and water had splattered over her skirt.

  Damnation! The woman was without undergarments again. Lust slammed into him with a vengeance. Dear Lord, but no woman dressed in her finest for a ball had ever appealed to him more.

  Tiny legs clicked as her prey moved across the floor. She jerked around, holding her broom as a weapon like some fierce warrior goddess. “Get away, you miserable creature,” she said as she swiped at a crab, knocking him onto his back.

  Avoiding the bucket that lay on its side, the other crabs scampered across the floor, their claws poised high in the air.

  Ashton twisted her head around and glared at him. “Don’t just stand there. Help me!”

  He unfolded his arms. “They are as afraid of you as you are of them, sweetling.”

  “I’m not afraid, but I don’t like getting pinched.”

  “Did one pinch you?” he asked, not certain if he should be concerned or amused.

  “Pinched my shoe. He’s at the bottom of the pot now.”

  He fought back his laughter. “I should do well to remember not to pinch you.”

  She lifted her broom. “Don’t you dare laugh at me, Christian Montgomery. I had everything under control until I knocked over the pail.”

  Along with the grin he could not hold back, he averted his face as he grabbed the bucket. Judging by the condition of the kitchen that he estimated would take a week to straighten, he and his wife had a different understanding of control. “Yes, I can well see that you did.”

  He glanced at her, wondering why he found her mutinous expression so intoxicating. Dear God, the mouse had a temper, and he loved it. “See if you can sweep them back into the bucket.”

  He held it on the floor while she trooped across the kitchen like a determined soldier. With quick, brief strokes and only a few jumps back, she urged the crabs toward the bucket. As soon as one or two made their entry, he righted the pail, walked to the stove, and dropped them into the pot of boiling water.

  He heard Ashton’s squeak and glanced over to see a crab dangling from the broom.

  “They grab on and won’t let go,” Ashton explained as she stomped to the stove. “Move aside.”

  He obeyed quickly while she held the crab over the pot and
snipped off more of the broom. At this rate, they’d have nothing left with which to clean the floor.

  Twenty minutes later he dropped the last crab into the boiling water with a sense of accomplishment. But he noticed something now that he hadn’t before. He turned to Ashton. “What’s that stench?”

  “Oh, no!”

  She grabbed a towel, shoved him aside, and opened the oven. She jerked out a pan of blackened something. Biscuits, he supposed, or possibly rolls. She tossed the pan onto the table, dropped into a chair, and slumped forward.

  He knelt beside her, his heart tightening at the solitary tear rolling along her cheek. Had it been more, he might have laughed, but one hurt him for reasons he could not fathom.

  He brushed back the hair from her face. “Sweetling, don’t cry. This debacle isn’t your fault. Where the bloody hell is Mrs. Edwards? I hired her to prepare the meals, and when I’ve given her a piece of my mind—”

  “I sent her home,” she said in a voice that sounded as though she’d pushed the words past a lump in her throat.

  “Why in God’s name did you do that?”

  She cast him a furtive glance. “Because I wanted to cook dinner for you. And now look, everything is a disaster. The rolls are burned, the crabs are obstinate, the flour sack burst. The recipe called for half a cup and I couldn’t find one so I had to break a whole one which seemed such a waste, but how else was I to know if I had the right measurement? The kitchen is a mess.” She lifted a frail shoulder. “I just wanted to do something for you because you do everything for me.”

  He cradled her cheek. “You have given me something.”

  “What?” she asked, hope sparking within her eyes. An evening he’d never forget. Twilight shadows eased in through the doorway and windows, and he couldn’t bring himself to tell her what she’d truly given him.

  “English rolls,” he said seriously.

  She furrowed her brow. “They’re burned.”

  “Which is the way the English cook them. I haven’t had rolls such as these since I left England , and I’ve missed them terribly.” He grabbed a knife and worked one out of the pan. He tossed it into the air until it cooled down so he could hold it. Then he began to scrape off the charred crust. “You see, cooking them as you have adds a special flavor. Then you open them, slather on lots of butter—” He tried to pry the obstinate thing open. “Of course, a true English roll needs to soak in milk for at least a week—”

  She laughed. “The English don’t eat rolls like that.”

  He crouched before her and smiled warmly. “No, they don’t. I know you mentioned that you’d never cooked, but I thought surely you’d watched someone else do it.”

  She shook her head. “I haven’t done anything in my life but lie around and be ill.”

  Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he gently wiped the flour and soot from her face. “Ashton, I hired servants because we have servants at home. In England , I had a valet, a man who dressed me. He buttoned every button on my shirt and saw to it that I always looked sharp.”

  “You don’t have a valet now,” she pointed out.

  “No.”

  “Do you prefer having someone do everything for you?”

  This conversation hadn’t gone where he’d planned, but somehow he wasn’t surprised. Ashton had a way of turning his world around. “I did at the time because I knew no different.”

  With his thumb, he scrubbed the soot from her chin. “But you’re quite right. I discovered that I preferred to do for myself.”

  She smiled. “I suppose I should have started with a smaller task.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I think the crabs will turn out now that they’re in the pot.” An odor hit him. “Bloody hell. I think the water’s boiled away.”

  He grabbed the towel, jumped up, and rushed to the stove. He moved the pot off the fire and carried it to the table.

  Ashton stood, frowning. “Are they ruined as well?”

  “Only the fellow on the bottom. I think the rest are salvageable.”

  Relief washed over her face. “Thank goodness. My dinner isn’t a total failure.”

  With his handkerchief, he wiped away the soot on her neck. “I’m not sure we want to risk dining in, however. Why don’t you grab a quilt, and I’ll build us a fire near the shore? We’ll watch the last of the sunset and the moon rise.”

  *

  With a contented sigh, Ashton lay back on her elbows and looked at the grandeur of the sky. The moon was only a smile tonight, but the stars glittered in abundance.

  “I’ve never seen you eat so much,” Kit said as he stretched out beside her on his side. Behind him a driftwood fire burned low.

  “Revenge,” she said with satisfaction. “And guilt. I didn’t like tossing the crabs into the water alive, but Mrs. Edwards said I had to. I didn’t want any of them to have died in vain.”

  He laughed loudly, the sound such sweet music to her ears. Reaching out, he trailed his finger along her chin. Her heart pounded.

  “Dear God, Ashton, but you are a delight. Whatever am I going to do with you?”

  She shifted her gaze to him. “We’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t we? That’s the reason you went away this afternoon. To make the arrangements.”

  “I made no arrangements for our departure.”

  “But you considered it.”

  He held her gaze. “Yes.”

  She looked back at the stars and inhaled deeply. “I like the air here. You can almost smell the life in the sea.”

  “Why do you not wear undergarments?”

  She snapped her gaze to his. “How can you tell?”

  “Because I’m not a novice when it comes to women or their clothing.”

  She shrugged. “I find them confining, and I think a woman in my position should be allowed certain luxuries.”

  “It drives me beyond madness, you know.”

  She studied him. “What do you mean?”

  He eased closer, cradled her cheek, and pressed his lips against the side of her throat, working his way toward her ear. “I mean,” he whispered hoarsely, “that it makes me want to rip away your dress and luxuriate in the glorious sight of your body.”

  Her heart fluttered, and the warmth of his mouth seared her flesh. Her breathing became shallow. “You’ve seen my body.”

  He trailed his mouth across her chin and brought it to rest at the corner of her mouth. “You mean the night you were shivering?”

  She mumbled a yes, wondering how he could utter complete sentences when she could barely think.

  “I paid no attention then and have regretted it ever since.” He eased his mouth over hers.

  She jerked back. “No.”

  “Don’t deny me a simple kiss, Ashton.”

  “But what if my theory is right, and you get sick.”

  “It is a risk I am willing to take. What is the point in life if passion is forever held at bay?”

  He pressed his mouth to her throat, and she felt his tongue taste her flesh. She wanted to do the same with him. To know passion and the full grandeur of life.

  “Why seek to please me with a meal if you don’t care for me?” he asked, nuzzling her neck.

  “I do care for you, but we vowed—”

  “Not to consummate the marriage. A kiss is not consummation.”

  His mouth came down hard on hers, silencing all protests, relieving her of any rational thoughts, save one: she wanted to spend the remainder of her life within his arms.

  His tongue touched hers as he shifted his body, easing his leg between her thighs. Warmth swirled within her, cascaded through her. Instinctively, she raised her hips, pressing against his hardened thigh. If this was passion, she thought she would gladly die of it.

  Moaning, she slipped her hands inside his shirt so she could clutch his bare shoulders. He moved his mouth from hers and blazed a path to her ear.

  “I’m on fire,” he rasped. “Let’s go for a swim.”

  Opening her eyes,
she gazed past him to the blanket of stars overheard. “Swim? In the ocean?”

  He lifted his head, his eyes shadowed by the night, but his smile warm. “Do you know of some water elsewhere?”

  “I’ll catch my death.” She slapped her hand over her mouth and laughed. “My mother always warned me against going in the water. I don’t know how to swim.”

  “Then we won’t go far,” he said as he freed a button on her bodice, “and I’ll hold you all the while.”

  He undid another button.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Helping you remove your dress.”

  “And your clothes?”

  “Shall come off as well.” He pressed a kiss to the shallow valley between her breasts, now exposed courtesy of his deft fingers. “You may remove them if you like.”

  He eased off her and drew her into a sitting position on the quilt she’d spread out earlier. She felt the breeze riffling with her loosened bodice as he pulled the pins from her hair.

  She swallowed hard. “This seems a bit indecent.”

  He chuckled low. “There’s no one about to see, and even if there were, you’re my wife.”

  He tossed the last pin aside and her hair cascaded around her shoulders. Slowly, he eased his hands between the parted material of her bodice, his palms skimming along her flesh as he drew the material over her shoulders. Heat shot through her as the flames from his low fire cast dancing shadows around them.

  He worked her arms free of her sleeves until her bodice was pooled around her waist. He trailed his finger along her collarbone. “Incredibly lovely,” he said in a voice so quiet as to be almost wiped out by the roar of the ocean waves.

  With trembling hands, she began to unfasten the buttons on his shirt. She had expected his hands to be as still as hers had been while he unbuttoned her bodice, but it seemed as though he were unable not to touch her. His hands ran up and down her arms, circled her waist, and traveled along her ribs, halting only when they rested just below her breasts.

  Her mouth went dry. “I’ve finished with your buttons.”

  He made a low growl of approval before removing his hands from her and pulling his shirt over his head. She took the opportunity to cross her arms over her chest. “Kit, I don’t know if this is such a good idea.”

 

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