To want a man who didn't want her in return only made her feel miserable inside. What was wrong with her that a man only wanted her for her money? In Grant's case, not at all?
“Can we head to town when the storm clears?” she murmured, her eyes glued to the ridges of the length of his spine. She couldn't help it.
“We could, but we’re pretty far out. It’s almost dark and I can’t be sure what’s washed out. I don’t want to risk the horses twisting a leg in the dark.”
How was she going to spend the night alone with him, confined to a one-room shack without any clothes? She glanced at the bed and couldn’t imagine how he’d fit in it, let alone both of them. Both of them? Of course not. He’d sleep on the floor or something. Wouldn’t he?
At a loss of what to do, she sat down in one of the hard, wooden chairs, pulling it closer to the stove for added warmth, not that she needed it. It seemed all she needed was Grant, half clad in a blanket, to keep the chills at bay.
Listening to the rain pound on the tin roof, she tried to work the tangles from her wet, scraggly hair with her fingers, deciding she never wanted to get wet again anytime soon. The tendrils soon lay loose over her shoulder to dry.
He moved efficiently about the room, opening a tin and pouring the contents into a pot on the stove. He opened the door to the cabin and placed a kettle outside beneath an eave to catch the sluicing rainwater. Once filled, he shut the door. A current of damp air circulated around the room, causing goose bumps to rise on her skin. He placed the kettle on the stove, the drips sizzling from the heat.
Every time he stirred the contents of the pot, which she now smelled and recognized as beans, his hip and its scratchy wool wrap brushed her shoulder. She could feel the heat emanating from his body, mimicking her own once again. She slid her chair back from the warmth a bit, hoping to cool her burning cheeks—and other places.
He handed her a tin plate filled with steaming beans and rustic, metal silverware. “You must be hungry. It's not much, but it's warm.” She thanked him and dug into her meager fare, careful not to burn her tongue. “What do the men do to keep themselves occupied out here? Do they usually ride alone?”
“The men who work for Tom are used to the open spaces and are content on their own. More than likely they’d rather spend a night here by themselves than step foot in a big city. Most haven’t,” he said, digging into his meal with relish. “I’m not quite sure what they do to pass the time. Some play cards, some probably whittle a piece of wood. Who knows?”
“I think it would be quite lonesome.” She looked around the simple cabin.
“Finished?” He asked, holding out his hand to take her plate.
“Yes, thanks.”
He dunked the empty plate in a bucket of rainwater for a rinse. “There’s a big difference between being lonely and being alone.”
She thought about his words. They rang true and hit a nerve very close to her heart. She'd spent her entire life lonely but never alone, surrounded as she’d been by nannies and servants. She sighed. “Yes, I know what you mean.”
He looked at her pointedly, his dark gaze fixed as if trying to see into her soul, but she offered nothing else. Some things were meant to be kept secret. “Do you have brothers and sisters?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Other family?”
“No,” she said, swallowing a surprising lump of self-pity. “My father passed away two months ago and my mother died when I was quite young.”
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, as he poured two cups of coffee and handed one to her. He stood, leaning against the wall, watching her. Always watching, assessing, learning. It was a bit unnerving how it made her feel...exposed. As if the sheet wrapped around her was as waterlogged as her shirt had been earlier.
The heat from the drink seeped into her fingers. Still, she shivered, not realizing when she'd become chilled. Maybe from the depressing direction the conversation took.
“My relationship with my father was...not great,” she shared. It wasn't time to delve any deeper into their less than loving father-daughter bond. “We were never close.” She took a sip of the hot liquid, feeling it warm her insides. It didn’t do any good to dwell on the past, especially one so bittersweet. And like he had pointed out, lonely.
“It must have been hard being an only child. No one to play and fight with.”
She chuckled, although without any humor. “I don’t know any other way. I did have a nanny who played with me, and then there were the servants.” She tucked a wayward curl behind her ear. “They were always kind.” She thought about William and all the years she’d known him. Was that why she never felt attraction toward him? Did she think of him as a brother? The thought of what William had done to her, a pseudo brother, was revolting, making her shudder.
He pushed himself off of the wall and went to the bed. “I think we should call it a night.”
She stood, a hand at her chest to ensure the security of the knot on her sheet. “It seems we’re wearing the bedding.” Oh, God! What a ridiculous thing to say! Her cheeks flushed. Even with William's unwelcome and indelicate advances, she’d never let a man touch her before. Her innocence may have been stolen, but she knew she was still naïve in the ways of a man and a woman. She'd never, ever shared a bed with a man.
Mortified, she crossed both arms over her chest. There was no way she would separate herself from the sheet unless her clothes were dry. She turned and looked at the soggy items on the floor near the stove. Definitely not dry.
He lifted a squeaky lid on a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. “There are usually some extra clothes stored in here. Let’s see what we’ve got.” He dug through for a minute and pulled out a man’s shirt. “Here, I think you could put this on and consider yourself decent.” He lifted it to his nose. “Smells clean. Then we can have our bedding back.”
He held the shirt out for her to take. “What about the blanket?” She pointed to his waist.
“I’m not naked underneath like you are,” he commented.
She eyed the blanket, realized where she was staring and darted her gaze away.
“I think I’ll be decent enough for your sensibilities.” The side of Grant's mouth ticked up and she knew he was poking fun at her.
There was that word again. Sensibilities. Why did he keep thinking she was so fragile, so prim? She sighed. Because she kept acting that way. Grabbing the shirt from him, she gave him a pointed look. His smile widened into a full grin before he turned his back. She quickly exchanged the bed sheet for the shirt. Grant had been right, it reached nearly to her knees, but it certainly exposed more than any man had seen before. Except that night at Croft's.
“All right,” she said, tentatively.
He turned around and looked her up and down. “That should do.” He cleared his throat as he took the sheet from her and remade the bed. Once the sheet was spread smooth across the mattress, he undid the knot at his waist and removed the wool blanket.
She all but squeaked in surprise. “Um, what are you doing, Sheriff?”
He turned back to her, standing there only in his drawers. “We need a blanket to sleep beneath.” Looking down at his meager remains of clothing, he continued, “Maggie, I’m not naked.”
“I can see that.” She knew her cheeks must be beet red, but couldn’t help it.
“There’s really no other option but to share the bed. Even though it was hot today, it’s still cold at night. I’m not interested in sleeping on a hard floor, much less a cold one.”
She was unsure. It must have shown because he continued, “Look, if I promise to be a gentleman, will you concede?”
“All right, I guess.” Why was she so nervous? He’d been completely honorable so far, and when they were at the saloon he’d stopped kissing and touching her once he realized she was a virgin. An almost virgin. Actually, he’d stopped when she held his gun to his head.
It wasn’t his touch that bothered her. It was her reactions to
his touch. She warmed to her core as she remembered his kiss, his caress, his burning gaze. The look he gave her now had that similar...need in it. So, could she have been wrong? Did he actually desire her? What would he think of her if he knew her wayward thoughts? Shamed with her wanton desires, she climbed into bed, moving to the far side and pulled the covers up around her chin and closed her eyes.
The mattress sank with Grant’s weight, the wood frame creaking as he laid down. Margaret rolled toward him because of the sloping mattress, her arm landing on his chest. “Oh!”
Her warm body pressed snugly up against his. She felt the heat of the contact immediately and jumped away from him as if burned. One side of her body was heated, the other chilled. She adjusted her head on her pillow and tried to get comfortable.
“Will you lie still?” he asked. He rested on his back with his hands on his chest, the sheet and blanket coming to his waist.
Lie still? She couldn’t stop fidgeting and settle down to sleep with him next to her. How did one sleep with a man—a very big man—in their bed? “Sorry,” she muttered. “There’s not much room.”
“Room? There’s at least a foot between us. If you move any further away from me, you’ll fall off the bed.”
Was that humor she heard in his voice? Angry, she shifted one last time and settled in, squeezing her eyes shut and willing herself to sleep—she held on to the very edge of the bed.
***
Grant knew sleep would not come. It would be impossible to get a moment’s rest with Maggie next to him. The dampness of his drawers did nothing to diminish his need. He was rock hard beneath the blanket and would probably stay that way until he'd spent himself deep within Maggie's lush thighs. Her shirt had been completely transparent when they'd come into the cabin from the storm, and had offered him more than the tempting outfit from Croft’s had.
He’d seen her breasts in their full glory that night at Croft's, but they'd been skillfully lifted in a corset meant to tempt and lure a man in. Tonight, it was as if she had been stripped bare as nature intended. Her breasts were full, round and high, with just the transparent cotton covering them. Her nipples had been a dark rose, hard from the rain and chill. It had been impossible to tear his eyes from the sight. Desire shot through him, right to his cock, and pained him like the bullet wound in his leg.
If he didn't know any better, he'd think she was tempting him with her wiggling and shifting, mere inches away. But regardless of what she'd said, she was blatantly innocent. If she'd been out to seduce him, she'd have climbed on top of him, not grab hold of the mattress for dear life. She clung to the other side of the bed as if on a boat, afraid to fall overboard.
After what seemed like hours, she finally settled down completely, and he heard the even breathing of her sleep. He stared at the tin roof, a faint moon offering a bit of light from the small window. The rain had stopped, the wind ceased. Now all he had to listen to were his very carnal thoughts for this woman—his woman.
***
Margaret burrowed under the covers, warm and cozy from sleep. Content, comfortable and for once in a long, long time, felt safe. She rubbed her cheek across her pillow. So warm and soft. And hairy. That jolted her awake. Opening her eyes, she saw Grant’s solid chest, her head nestled in the crook of his arm, her body pressed up against his length. Her arm was thrown across his waist and her leg was entwined between his. The man's shirt she wore rode up her body and was now wrapped about her waist.
“Good morning.” His words tickled the hairs on her head.
She was pressed from head to foot against a man. Not just any man, but Grant. The only man her body seemed to respond to without a care for what her brain said. And her body felt every nuance of his hard planes, responding in a way it she’s started to recognize as desire. Her nipples tightened against his hard chest. And lower, she ached, pulsing with a need that was growing every day. But that would make her a—
She attempted to pull herself free but Grant held her tightly against him. What would the man think of her? “No reason to move,” he replied, his voice dark and rough like bark on a Cottonwood tree.
She wanted to agree with him. She wanted it so desperately, her body ached with it. But the new feelings scared her. Scared to be attracted to him, scared of how easy it was to lose her control. Here she was wrapped in Grant’s arms, an almost perfect stranger, and she liked it!
Did men like women who liked it? Who gave in to their wanton desires? Of course they did, or they wouldn't frequent places like Croft's Saloon. But she was not that kind of woman, and no man knew that better than him. She wasn't desirous, alluring or whatever it was that those ladies-of-the-night did to ensnare a man.
She was unappealing, and in her current state, dirty, a complete mess and most of all, spoiled. Used and left out like a bottle of milk. What man would want that?
She pulled herself away. He released her. Sitting up, her shirt drooped off of one shoulder. “We should be on our way, don’t you think, Sheriff?” She tucked her unruly hair behind an ear.
He yanked her wrist and she collapsed on top of him with an oomph, her breasts pressed into his solid expanse. His face was so close to hers, she could see the dark flecks in his eyes and feel his warm breath on her face.
“Let’s not think,” he replied.
She noticed nothing more except for the hot press of his lips against hers. It was gentle at first, a brushing, but quickly turned into more. He pulled her closer from the nape, his lips melding with hers in an onslaught to her senses. Weak from surprise, her defenses were down. The passion seeped in behind the wall she'd put up around her emotions, her feelings, into her very essence. The barrier she’d raised to protect herself all but crumbled like a sandcastle against the tide.
She gave in to the kiss, sensations washing over her like the pouring rain the night before. Her bare legs brushed against his, strong against soft, smooth against rough. His lips moved lower from her lips to her jaw, lower still to her bare shoulder. Unconsciously, she tilted her head back to give him better access to her warmed skin, to her desires.
A calloused hand swept up and down her leg, caressing a calf, tickling the back of her knee, grazing the inside of a thigh. She was shocked at being touched so intimately, but secretly desired for him to continue, to reach higher. But he taunted her instead, sliding his hand up to cup her bottom. Her exposed, bare bottom. She heard him groan and swallowed the sound with a deep kiss, their tongues meeting for the first time.
“Maggie,” he whispered against her lips.
She ran her hands through his hair, her leg moving up and down over his, savoring the feel of skin on skin. The sensation to crave another was strange, yet incredible. Intoxicating. It was as if she’d been dunked into the sea and was drowning. Her last thought before she succumbed was that he did desire her after all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Grant couldn't get enough of Maggie, her lush form cradled beneath him. He could feel every soft curve, every tantalizing inch of her. The man's shirt she wore had worked its way up about her waist, and now he was able to cup her bottom, pull her up against him. She would have no doubt of his need for her.
Her mouth was like a deep cavern. At the first tentative touch of her tongue against his, she'd moaned and that had been it for him. She was his, whether there was a ring on her finger or not. No other man would wring those sighs of pleasure from her, no other man would have her beneath him.
And these possessive, protective instincts had risen just from kissing and touching. He knew he could go no further, could not take her as his as he so desperately wanted. Yet.
If he took her the way he wanted, he'd be no better than Hunt or Dalton. She despised them both, and why not? They both wanted to take from her without giving anything in return. At least he would give her the woman's pleasure his touch, his body could give her. But this morning, he would give her nothing more. After her needs were slaked and the lusty haze cleared her mind, she'd lump him in with all the o
ther men in her life who'd used her for their own gain.
He didn't want that. He wanted her beneath him, calling out his name with those breathy little pants, to know he was the only man for her. The man who would take her body in all kinds of delightful ways—and her soul.
With much difficulty, he lifted his head, tucked a stray curl behind her ear, and said, “Maggie, love, we have to stop.”
Slowly, her lashes fluttered up. The passionate gaze she sent him was something he'd never forget. He made her this way, made her forget everything and think only about the pleasure they could find in each other's bodies.
“Oh,” she said breathlessly.
“I want you, Maggie. I think you can feel how much.”
Her cheeks flushed even brighter. It was the prettiest sight to see.
“But now's not the time or place.”
“Oh!” she said again, her mind finally clearing.
He let her get up, climb clumsily over him to escape the close confines of the bed to hastily retrieve her clothes from the floor. She wouldn't look him in the eye. It was obvious she was embarrassed by her own passion.
Swinging his legs over the bed, Grant sat up, made sure the proof of his desire was covered by the blanket, and held out his hand. “Maggie.”
She darted a glance at him.
“Maggie, come here,” he said, this time in a tone that left no room for argument.
Slowly, she made her way over to him, clutching her clothes in front of her. He took her hand and held it, again amazed by how small she was. Her fingers were long and dainty, her skin was soft as silk.
“You're Tom's fiancé.”
Her eyes flared at the forgotten agreement.
“But your body says you're mine.”
The Lady and the Lawman Page 11