Color of the Wind

by Elizabeth Grayson

  He kissed her again, but this time the tenderness gave way to passions she had tasted only once before.

  He sought her mouth, teasing her tongue with his, inciting her to answer. And as her tongue rose to play with his he circled her lawn-veiled nipple with the rough pad of his thumb.

  She stirred beneath his touch, moaning just a little. He smiled against her mouth, teasing her with that slow, insistent friction.

  Delectable weakness spilled down her arms and legs.

  He fluttered kisses over her brow and temple, her nose and eyelids, and the point of her chin. He lingered over the lobe of her ear, whispering wicked proposals between kisses. A shiver of delight ran through her.

  She wanted him lying over her. She wanted to feel his weight, feel the heat of his chest and belly and legs sliding over her, feel the press of his desire against her thighs.

  She wanted him naked. Her cheeks flamed with the carnality of such a thought. Yet she turned her face against his throat and told him that.

  Baird gave a quick, delighted laugh and eased her up to stand beside him at the side of the bed.

  Nakedness was not an easy state for either of them to achieve. There was her tight-fitting bodice to slip down her arms. There were buttons on his coat and waistcoat. He cursed at the hooks at the waistband of her narrow skirt, and the tapes that held the draping in place. She fumbled down the placket of his trousers.

  "Hurry, hurry," he whispered his hands tangled in the laces of her corset.

  He got distracted somehow, murmuring about the grace of her neck and shoulders and lavishing slow, sensual kisses on that delicate skin. But at last the offending object joined the rest of their clothing on the floor beside the bed.

  Her chemise gave way, as did the soft well-washed fabric of her tucked-lace drawers, so that when he thrust back the covers on the bed and laid her down across the sheets she was very nearly naked.

  Only her shoes and thigh-high stockings remained.

  She knew she should feel ashamed to lie unclothed before a man, and yet for the first time in her life she was pleased with the full, soft turns of her own body, the lushness of her breasts, and the flare of her hips. She could see appreciation in his sky-dark eyes, see the need her femininity roused in him.

  In that moment she came to believe that in Baird's eyes she was beautiful. It was a liberating notion, one she'd dwell on later, when there were less fascinating things to divert her.

  He let her watch as he stripped off the remainder of his clothes. The days of hard work had honed him well, and she longed to trace the sleek, spare lines of his body. She'd finally have the chance to draw him like this, she thought hazily. She could capture the breadth of that powerful chest and the strength in the muscles of his legs, the grace that was so much a part of him.

  She told him what she wanted to do.

  "Why, Miss Merritt, I never before suspected you had so many licentious ideas in that head of yours," he teased her.

  "I've never before, Mr. Northcross," she shot back, "been so well and truly inspired."

  He laughed again and finished removing her shoes. He left her knitted stockings in place and brushed his hands up the contours of her long legs. The sensation of his palms working slowly upward immersed her in sweet, seeping pleasure.

  With gliding strokes he breached the boundary between the sheer black fabric of her hose and her pale, ripe flesh. The intimacy of that contrast was shocking and set off a voluptuous tingling that made her gasp with the overwhelming delight she took in him caressing her.

  Baird was smiling when he stretched out beside her, smiling as he splayed his hand at the juncture of her legs, smiling as he lowered his head to her breast.

  "You're delectable," he whispered, and it was Ardith's turn to laugh. It was a throaty, provocative sound that turned ragged as he drew her nipple into his mouth.

  Fine filaments of pleasure, delicate glistening threads of delight—fluttered through her. As if he sensed her pleasure, he sought her most intimate flesh with his fingertips.

  She sighed and rose against him.

  "Oh my sweet, magnificent Ardith," he breathed and kissed her even more deeply.

  As she turned to him, the hair on his chest and belly scoured her. His manhood brushed hard and hot against her legs. With one sinuous motion she could have had him inside her, but she wanted to wait. She wanted time to touch him as he was touching her. She wanted time to savor the deep, sweet pleasure of sensual beneficence.

  She swept her hand along the long, lean contours of his body. The muscles in his back bunched and flexed, and she savored the way they slid beneath her hands. She trailed her fingers down his ribs, scaled his hip and moved down the slope of his belly.

  Baird shivered as her hand encompassed him. She caught the rhythm that pleased him, a rhythm that was suddenly beating in her blood, her brain, in the substance of every cell.

  He moved with her as she kissed him, tasting the wanting on his mouth, the fervor on his tongue.

  "Oh, Ardith, love," he breathed. "I need you."

  "Yes," she whispered in answer. "I need you, too."

  He rolled over her and made her his. For that moment it was as if the world stopped turning, as if nothing but the two of them existed in the wide, vast scope of earth and sky.

  "I love you," he pledged.

  "And I love you."

  They held to the moment as long as they could, though fiercer needs were beckoning. They clung together for a few seconds more, until the lure of sensation became too compelling to resist.

  The wildness took them, the frantic beat of life, the search for pleasure, the fiery celebration of their unity. It came in a rush, in a tumult of sensations sweeping over them. They held fast through the maelstrom, each caught by the flare of passion in the other's eyes, each bound by emotions they'd been denying far too long. They gave themselves up to something so bright and sweet that they cried out in mutual joy and clung together as deep, sweet peace swept over them.

  They lay tangled together for a very long time, joined and whole and sated. But at length Baird shifted onto his side, taking her with him and tucking her protectively in the bow of his arm. He lay quiet after that, stroking his fingers over her as if he would be content to contemplate the curve of her shoulder and the rise of her hip for the rest of their days.

  Ardith curled closer, her leg across his hips and her head tucked into the curve of his shoulder. She was spent and dreamy and besotted by him. By them. By the wonder of what had passed between them. She had never thought she could be so happy.

  Some miracle had happened in both their lives. After a long and lonely time, they had found this place, themselves, and each other. It was the love for the children that had brought them together—children who probably had no idea that she was about to marry their father.

  She raised her head and kissed him. "Baird?"

  He groaned with something that sounded like resignation. "I know that tone of voice."

  "What tone of voice?"

  He wrinkled his nose at her. An new expression, one she'd never seen on him before. "It's the tone of voice that means you're about to ask me to do something I won't want to do."

  Ardith huffed a little and proceeded anyway. "I just wondered if you'd told the children about this. About asking me to marry you."

  His face went serious. "I didn't want to get their hopes up. Or mine, either."

  "Don't you think we should?"

  "Should what?"

  "Go tell them we're getting married?"

  Something about the way he was touching her changed, the rhythm or the pressure or the intent. She couldn't say what, but it was making her heart beat a little faster, making her head a little light.

  "Now?" He blinked at her, sloe-eyed. "You want to get dressed and go tell them now?"

  She could feel heat creep up her chest and into her cheeks. She didn't know what he was doing to her exactly, but her blood had begun to hum.

  "I thought we
could..." Her voice sounded breathy even in her own ears.

  "Well, we can, if you like."

  His hand curled over her breast.

  "Oh," she said. "Oh." She closed her eyes to concentrate on the pleasure of his touch. They weren't going anywhere.

  "Someday you're going to have to teach me how to do this," she mumbled hazily.

  "Oh, I will," he promised her. "And now, about the children?"

  She was already aching for him to take her. "We'll tell them—" She paused on a sigh. "I think we'll have to tell them in the morning."

  He laughed and kissed her.

  Epilogue

  Daniels Galleries

  Boston, Massachusetts

  November 1884

  The matron with the magenta-feathered hat lifted her lorgnette to get a better look. "I find this work shocking, quite shocking! Imagine, painting a woman with a tattoo on her face and calling it art!"

  "Oh, but don't you find it fascinating?" her friend asked, drawing her peacock-patterned shawl close around her shoulders. "What I mean is, she's a beautiful woman. Her hair and gown are lovely. Then there's that mark on her face—"

  Through the crush to their left the gallery owner, Justin Daniels, was speaking to a group of Boston collectors. "We believe that A. E. Merritt has captured a truly unique perspective on the West. The paintings of Western women suggest an attitude of strength and fearlessness and nobility that has never been expressed before. And her landscapes are exquisite—jewels, every one of them. The Boston Museum has already purchased several of the works for their collection. You could do far worse than to invest in such a promising—"

  An aesthetic young man trailing a white silk scarf was holding court in another corner of the crowded gallery. "There's no question that A. E. Merritt has broken new ground with these paintings," he was saying to a gaggle of fascinated art students. "They're bright and fresh, and while one may see the influence of Mary Cassatt in the portraits, Merritt has made her women partners with men in the settlement of Western America. Take this woman for example—"

  Baird Northcross stood in the center of the gallery, his youngest child asleep on his shoulder. As he listened to the comments being made around him he smiled and glanced across the room to admire his wife.

  Ardith had painted nearly every day for the last two years preparing for tonight. She'd expanded the size of her canvases and worked in oil, her technique improving with every brush stroke. He was so proud of what she'd done and that she was getting the attention she deserved from the Boston collectors and critics.

  Ardith stood out in this throng like an eagle in a nest of parakeets. She moved among them chatting, laughing, clasping the hands of old friends and new admirers. She had never looked more magnificent. Her bustled gown of bronze silk showed off her lush figure, and her face glowed with delight.

  He just wished all the children were here to share Ardith's success, but China was in London with her grandfather, midway through her Season in society. She was just eighteen and so beautiful Baird had to catch his breath every time he looked at her. According to her letters, she had more beaus than any father cared to contemplate, yet she possessed a surprising maturity and undeniable sense—Ardith's gift to her, he supposed. Or Matt's.

  Durban was back at the ranch in Wyoming, helping Buck and Myra run the place while he and Ardith were gone. And Khy—well, Khy was around somewhere—probably up to his nose in trouble. He hadn't changed a lick since Ardith had brought the children west, except for his passion for drawing and painting.

  Just then the baby raised her head, blinked sleepily at her surroundings, and settled again. Baird rubbed her back and swayed with an expertise that bespoke months of practice.

  "Mr. Merritt?"

  Baird paused, amused to hear that he'd suddenly taken to using Ardith's name. When he turned, he found "Magenta Hat" addressing him. He'd heard the woman criticizing Cass Jalbert's portrait and had taken exception, though he knew for Ardith's sake he ought to be polite.

  "Yes?"

  "They tell me you're married to the artist, this A. E. Merritt, is that right?"

  "Yes, ma'am, I am," he answered.

  "And what do you think of a woman painting these kinds of pictures?"

  Baird wondered why she wanted to know, or if she'd just come to bedevil him. "I think Ardith's paintings bring a special perspective to the West, a woman's perspective. What do you think?"

  Baird could see he'd boxed her in and smiled to himself.

  "I think some of them are quite—scenic. Is this really what the Wild West looks like?"

  Baird nodded, smiling outright. "There's nothing in the world to compare with the beauty out there in the mountains."

  Going west had saved his life.

  "They say you break horses in Wyoming?"

  Not break exactly. Baird didn't believe in breaking horses, but he didn't expect Magenta Hat to understand the distinction.

  "We have a ranch in the foothills of the Big Horn Mountains," he answered shortly.

  After a couple of years of struggle when they'd lived on Ardith's earnings, they were beginning to turn a profit. With the breeding stock they'd bought from the Jalberts, next year promised to be even better.

  "That's a pretty little girl," Peacock Shawl ventured to cover the lengthening silence. "What's her name?"

  Baird smiled again, this time with a father's pride. "Cheyenne."

  "I hear," Magenta Hat spoke again, "that your children are all named for where you were when they were born. Were you in Cheyenne when the stork brought this one?"

  He compressed his lips before he spoke, measuring out his words. "No, ma'am," he answered quietly. "It's where I was when she was conceived."

  It was a moment before the meaning of his words dawned on the two dowagers. He waited, smiling politely.

  Peacock Shawl caught the gist of them first and ruffled like a sparrow in the rain. Magenta Hat flushed a shade or two darker than her clothes.

  "Well!" she huffed and spun away.

  "Alienating my patrons, are you, dear?" Ardith asked, appearing at his side just in time to watch the two women elbow their way through the crush to the door.

  "Not any more than they deserve."

  "Oh, that's Mrs. Warburton," Justin Daniels observed, coming up behind them. "She has piles of money and never buys a thing. I think the only reason she comes to openings is the sherry."

  Baird laughed, and Cheyenne raised her head. She smiled at her mother then nestled again.

  He hadn't expected to like Daniels so much. He'd imagined the art dealer would be snobbish and oily. Instead the man was practical and shrewd, with a sense of humor that was as wicked as it was perceptive.

  As the press in the gallery thinned, Gavin Rawlinson came to join them. He bussed Ardith's cheek and beamed at her. "It looks like tonight's an unmitigated success."

  In spite of experiencing a twinge or two of jealousy when the man took liberties like this one, Baird liked Rawlinson, too. He would have been happier if Gavin wasn't quite so handsome, or as bright as a new-minted penny. Or still quite obviously in love with Baird's wife.

  But when Rawlinson looked at Ardith like this, with tenderness and longing and deep regrets, Baird found he couldn't help feeling sorry for the man. He never had been entirely able to fathom why Ardith had chosen him over this paragon, but he'd be grateful until the day he died that she had.

  Just then Meggie Jalbert joined the small group. "I've just ushered out the last of our patrons and locked the door," she reported to Justin Daniels. She'd been working at the gallery since she'd come to study in Boston and would have a small showing of her own paintings in the spring.

  "Good!" Daniels said. "Now that the riffraff is gone, I can break out the champagne."

  "Champagne?" Ardith echoed. "Have we done well enough to warrant champagne?"

  "Indeed we have. I also have a copy of the review that will run in tomorrow morning's paper." Daniels withdrew several folded sheets from
his pocket and began to quote. "They said your work was 'wondrously fresh.' They called your technique 'masterful,' and said you brought 'a woman's perspective, to the art of the West.'"

  Baird beamed at her. "I guess that does warrant champagne."

  "Oh, let me see!" Ardith begged and looked over the article while Justin uncorked the bottles of champagne. Baird read over her shoulder, his smile broadening with each line.

  Ardith looked up at him when she was done. "I did it," she whispered.

  "I'm not surprised." Yet he knew she needed these accolades to confirm what Baird had known from the moment fate had reunited them. That she was something special.

  Justin came around with a tray of glasses just as Khy wormed his way into the crook of Ardith's arm.

  Baird shifted Cheyenne on his shoulder and raised his glass. "I'd like to make a toast," he said. "First, to friends, old and new. To Justin and the continued success of your gallery—and especially with my wife's work."

  "Hear, hear!" Ardith said with a laugh.

  "To Meggie, in anticipation of her own successes in the art world. And Gavin, whose friendship made so many things possible."

  Ardith smiled her approval.

  "And last, to my wife." Across the rim of the glass Baird met Ardith's rainwater-bright eyes. For an instant he simply smiled at her, so much in love with this woman he couldn't think.

  Finally he cleared his throat. "Do you remember, Ardith, the night you first got word that Justin was willing to represent your paintings?"

  Ardith smiled at the memory.

  "I told you then I hoped A. E. Merritt would set the art world ablaze."

  "Yes."

  He leaned across and kissed her. "Well, tonight, you have."

  The End

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