Judith Bowen

by The Man from Blue River

  She heard the magistrate ask if she accepted this man, Fraser James, as her lawful husband. She heard her own voice answer, “I will.” She heard the magistrate ask Fraser if he took this woman, Martha Virginia, as his lawful wife. She heard his voice, deep and strong and steady. “I will.”

  She closed her eyes. The deed was done. She heard the magistrate invite the man beside her to kiss his bride. There was a murmur from the guests assembled behind them. Martha’s eyes flew open and she looked up. She was his wife.

  Fraser’s face was impassive. Their eyes met, his dark and tormented. He’d been through this before—was he thinking of that first time? Of another woman? A woman he’d loved?

  She tilted her face up, offered herself in obedience to the magistrate’s words, feeling like a complete fool. Fraser placed his palms on her cheeks, warm, dry, one on either side of her face, and covered her mouth with his. His lips were cool and firm, his kiss brief, but she felt the quick intake of his breath as their mouths met. Her own skin prickled and her eyes filled.

  She was glad she’d closed her eyes. She was glad she hadn’t seen his face.

  She was marrying a man who’d shown no indication that he even particularly liked her. Yet she wanted him to father her child, dreamed of his hands touching her face, her breasts, his naked body against hers, the scent of his skin and she felt utter humiliation. He so clearly wanted none of that.

  Or at least not with her.

  Martha couldn’t have said what she ate at the hastily arranged luncheon that followed the brief ceremony. Afterward, she accepted the congratulations of the few guests, neighbors mostly—her mother hadn’t been able to come at such short notice and none of Fraser’s family was there—kissed the girls, resplendent in new dresses, and allowed Fraser to escort her outside to the Bronco. Birdie had insisted on keeping the girls while Fraser took his bride on a weekend honeymoon.

  Honeymoon! What a joke. But Fraser had told her that although he wasn’t any crazier about the idea than she was, it made sense to go through with at least the appearance of normal wedded bliss at this stage of their marriage. He wanted nothing to jeopardize the adoption application he planned to make as soon as they got back.

  The trip to Jackson was as silent as any other she’d made with Fraser. Only this time he was her husband. They had suitcases in the back seat, ski clothes, hers newly purchased. They were going to share a room when they got to where they were going. They were going to share a bed.

  Martha didn’t think her heart had slowed once since he’d changed his mind about marrying her just over a week ago. But he was still the stranger he’d always been. At least to her. Would that ever change? She scratched at a wedge of frost on the window with her fingernail. What had she done?

  “Martha?” She turned and caught his quick look of concern. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She’d never been further from fine in her life. “How about you?”

  “Oh, I’ll make it.” He gave her a wry smile. “Look, is there anything you want to talk about? Anything you want to say about what we should do when we get back to the ranch? How we should, uh, handle things?”

  Things. He meant the marriage, he meant their lives together, he meant their new roles with the girls. She shook her head. He was trying—she had to give him that. She ought to try, too. It was just that she couldn’t think of a thing to say. It wasn’t every day a person got married to someone who needed a wife so he could adopt someone else’s kids.

  “I think we should do everything we can to look on the bright side of this situation.” His voice was stern. “Don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Martha glanced at him, and his eyes burned into hers, putting the lie to the indifference of his words. The Bronco slowed. Then, his jaw grim, Fraser pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the vehicle with a jerk. He turned toward her, one arm along the back of the seat, the other resting on the steering wheel.

  “You’re probably regretting this already, aren’t you, Martha?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I’m not.” That at least was the honest truth.

  “Okay.” He looked ahead at the pavement, at the snow that blinded her on both sides of the road, then back at her. He seemed to have come to some kind of decision. “Look, I know this isn’t exactly a match made in heaven, you and me. And that’s probably putting it mildly. But we went into this with no illusions, both of us.”

  She smiled a little. He took a deep breath and went on, “What I am is a hard-scrabble sheep rancher who prefers his own company, always has. You’re a city woman used to, I don’t know—” he shrugged “—whatever people do in the city. You’re used to apartment living, all the amenities. People around, excitement, fancy stores.”

  Martha smiled again. He made it sound a lot better than she remembered.

  “It’s always tough to make changes. Especially changes like this. I know we haven’t had much time to get to know each other. But even if we don’t have a lot in common, I’m giving you my word that I’m going to do my damnedest to make this work. I hope you are, too.”

  Martha swallowed, unable to take her eyes from his. She nodded slowly. “Yes, I am.” Her lips felt dry. “I— I just need to get used to the idea, that’s all.”

  “Good.”

  “Did you stop just to tell me that?” she asked faintly, wanting to inject a lighter tone into the suddenly too-serious conversation.

  “Yes.” He leaned toward her and captured her face in his hands. His eyes had a strange light in them she’d only glimpsed once before. That day in the snow… “And to do this.”

  His mouth covered hers, warm, seeking, tentative. Then, as she made a small startled noise in her throat, he shifted to put one arm around her and pull her hard against him. His other hand gripped her head tightly, his fingers wound into the back of her hair, holding her steady for his deepening kiss, his relentlessly questing mouth.

  It wasn’t necessary for him to hold her still. She wanted to kiss him. She welcomed his kiss. She’d waited so long for this. She’d prayed for the day he’d kiss her like this—freely, because he wanted to. She reached up and touched his hair as she’d longed to do. It felt warm and silky, and his scent, masculine and unique to him, to who he was, was so strong and rich in her lungs, so surprising and yet so expected, that she felt herself begin to tremble violently, uncontrollably…deliciously.

  “God, Martha.”

  His voice was as shaky as her knees, and she didn’t answer, just struggled to free her other hand, which had somehow been trapped between their pounding hearts. She wanted to pull him to her again, and she did, burying her fingers deep in his hair. She wanted to stretch and to press fully against him, feel her breasts flatten against the hard plane of his chest, the muscle and bone. She wanted nothing between them, not her jacket, not his shirt.

  This was crazy!

  Desperately she tried to control her spinning senses, but as she managed to whisper a tentative no—only a reaction, only what she thought she ought to do, not what she wanted—his answer was to growl a fierce yes. He claimed her mouth fully, thrusting deep, deeper, until the heat of his tongue, twined with hers, made her crazy, humming with need. Sudden, hot, insistent. She wanted him. Right here, right now.

  She felt his hand on her breast, under her jacket, on the silk of her dress, searching for the tiny buttons that kept him from her. Then she felt him abandon his search and wrap both arms around her, iron-hard, and pull her tight, tighter, against him, his mouth clamped on hers, until the sudden jab of the gearshift in her thigh made her draw back with a cry of pain.

  “Hell!” Abruptly Fraser released her. But his eyes held hers, and their breaths mingled as one cloud in the rapidly chilling air inside the vehicle. “You okay?”

  She nodded, panting. “Just my leg. It got stuck.” For one hysterical second she wanted to laugh.

  One thumb traced her lower lip roughly. She shivered, unable to look away. “We may not have much
in common,” he said softly, “you and me. But I’ve got a feeling there’s one place where that’s not going to matter a whole lot.”

  She blushed. She actually blushed, and she a woman of some experience and in her thirty-sixth year.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  JACKSON, WYOMING, was a town of several thousand and an entry point to the Grand Tetons. It was also God’s country to the nation’s skiers. Fraser liked to ski and he loved the Tetons, but it wasn’t aplace he would ordinarily have picked for a honeymoon. Too many diversions.

  On the other hand, this was no ordinary honeymoon. He should be grateful that Martha—his wife now, he reminded himself—could ski. And a few diversions were probably in order, considering.

  He was married. Mrs. Martha Virginia McKenna. And she was no virgin, despite her name. He felt the heat rise in his veins just at the thought of what had happened when he’d stopped the Bronco twenty miles back and kissed her. She wanted him. She wanted him damn near as much as he wanted her. And it scared him to realize just how much he did want her.

  Maybe if he’d faced that fact before now, their wedding wouldn’t have been the hurry-up shotgun affair it was. Maybe they could’ve had a chance to get to know each other, the way other couples did.

  Only trouble was, he wanted her on his terms. Not hers.

  Right now he didn’t want to think about her terms. She wanted a child. It had taken three long years for him to give Charlotte the baby she wanted. It had occurred to him—and made him feel sneaky and guilty as hell about keeping it to himself—that it might have been his fault. Maybe Martha wouldn’t get pregnant right away, either, and maybe by then, all this marriage and adoption business would have worked itself out, one way or another. Maybe she never would get pregnant. It happened. He hated himself for the secret hope he felt.

  Should he have told her? Was it fair, when the woman so desperately wanted a baby, not to tell her that she might stand a better chance with someone else? Still, she could have put two and two together herself; she knew how long he and Charlotte had been together. Fraser didn’t like the feeling all of this was giving him, or the surge he felt at the thought of just how they were going to find out if he was right or not. This thinking about Martha’s getting pregnant with his baby and exactly how she was going to conceive, if she was— in the usual garden-variety, time-tested way—was driving him crazy.

  Would she have left if he’d told her? He didn’t think so. She was just the type to dig in her heels and hang tight to what chance she had. In case he was wrong. She was a believer. And baby or no baby, she had said she wanted to be a mother to the girls. Perhaps that was enough, or would be in the end.

  A bird in the hand...

  Hell.

  Fraser pulled into the parking lot of the hotel. Martha hadn’t said a word since he’d kissed her. The afternoon light was already fading. That meant no skiing this afternoon, which meant…

  All he could see ahead of him was a couple of nerve-racking hours to kill and then a big white rumpled-up honeymoon bed.

  Then, suddenly, they were registered and in their room, and the bellboy was adjusting curtains and turning up the thermostat and flicking on lights. There was no honeymoon bed. Just two perfectly straightforward queen-size beds, copies of a million others in a million other hotel rooms. He hadn’t been idiot enough to reserve a honeymoon suite. It would only have embarrassed them both.

  The bellboy whistled tunelessly and gave him an odd look.

  Damn! Fraser dug in his pocket and found a bill for the kid. He felt like a teenager himself.

  And Martha. How did she feel? He glanced at her and was surprised to see how pale she was.

  “Martha?”

  She turned toward him and her eyes looked bigger and bluer than ever in her pale face. “Yes?”

  The boy had left. Fraser put one hand on her shoulder gently, surprised—and hurt—to feel the tiny way she shrank from him. Was she frightened? Shy?

  “Listen, maybe you want to take a rest or something. I’ll go down and, uh—” he cast about wildly “—organize some rentals for tomorrow.”

  Her eyes clouded and she glanced away for an instant. Then she looked back at him and her eyes were clear. “Thanks,” she said simply. “I guess I am a little tired after…after everything.”

  “I’ll make dinner reservations, too.”

  “Sure.”

  “Seven o’clock, all right? Downstairs?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay.” He frowned, not sure if there was something else he should be doing, should be thinking of. “Maybe you’d rather eat someplace else?”

  “Downstairs is fine.” He felt her hand on his sleeve. “Fraser? Don’t worry about me. I’m a big girl. I’ll be fine.”

  Their eyes held for a few seconds. There was some feeling inside him that swelled and swelled. Then it broke and, panicking, he turned away.

  “Okay.” Somehow he managed a smile. “See you later.”

  He organized the rentals and bought lift tickets for the next day and stopped in at the dining room to make the reservation for dinner. Then he still had an hour and a half to kill, so he went for a walk and came back to have a beer in the hotel bar. Just one. He’d used booze before to kill the pain, but this one was for courage. And to waste another half hour.

  The hotel wasn’t busy, nor were the slopes. It was the slow season before Christmas. Fraser wished the place was busier. He’d have preferred the bar full of noisy skiers, the dining room crowded, people waiting in the lobby. The last thing he wanted to face right now was being virtually alone with Martha. Being alone meant intimacy. Intimacy meant talking, meant maintaining a conversation over dinner, all the while thinking about that empty bed upstairs.

  Having dinner with her meant putting in the hours until the usual time people went to bed, trying to pretend it didn’t matter one way or the other. It was going to kill him. He almost wished he’d stayed upstairs and made love to her right away. Gotten it over with, put that first time behind them. Maybe then they could relax, both of them.

  Just the thought of her lying there naked and warm and willing made him hard. He’d dreamed of it a thousand times since she’d arrived and now it was for real, something he had to face in a couple of hours. She was his wife. They had a deal—she expected him to make love to her. He shifted uncomfortably on the bar stool, oblivious to the looks he’d been receiving from a table of women nearby.

  God. He wanted Martha Thomas more than he could remember wanting a woman in years. So much it hurt. Then why, dammit, did he feel like a man on death row who had a date with the executioner in the morning?

  Why couldn’t life be simple? Straightforward and simple?

  He drained his glass and stood up suddenly, tossing some bills onto the polished surface of the bar. Time to head upstairs.

  HE COULDN’T BELIEVE IT. Here she was in his arms, dancing. Here was the top of her head, not six inches in front of him, shining in the light from the stage where the band, a bunch of guys in bow ties, played golden oldies. He could bend down and kiss the top of her head without the slightest effort.

  And that dress. The color of her eyes, the color of the big Wyoming sky he loved so much. The dress she’d been married in. Married him in. It was silky and soft, and he could feel the warm firmness of her skin beneath his hand on her waist. He moved his hand slightly, just to feel the smoothness of her body under the fabric, and felt her fingers tighten fractionally in his left hand.

  Then she raised her head. Her eyes were smoky and liquid and filled with dreams. He felt an overwhelming urge to kiss her, to pull her closer. Somehow, under the guise of avoiding another couple on the dance floor, he managed to drag his gaze from hers. Still, he knew what he wanted. And she knew, too.

  Neither spoke. They hadn’t said a word since he’d asked her to dance fifteen minutes before. Even that had been unplanned, an impulse to escape the intimacy of talking—and to deny himself the unexpected pleasure of watching the play of
light on her hair and in her eyes, the sparkle of her champagne glass as she lifted it to her mouth, the sound of her laughter, which sent pure electricity down his spine.

  It hadn’t worked. He’d gone from the frying pan straight into the fire.

  Fraser took a deep breath and straightened. He had to get a hold of himself. This was crazier than crazy. He felt like some sex-starved teenager. He had to remember what this marriage was, why they’d married at all. Whoa, boy. Slow down. Don’t forget what she wants from you, McKenna. What she could get from any man, if he was willing.

  And what man wouldn’t be? Fraser took another deep breath and moved past the bandstand into the relative darkness at the side of the room. When Martha stumbled slightly, he caught her. She murmured something and he bent his head to catch what she said, and the instant she turned her face toward his, so close, he kissed her.

  Her mouth tasted of champagne and the particular sweetness of Martha. He’d tasted it once before and knew he’d never get enough of it. His blood heated and surged as he felt her body imprint his, soft and yielding, her hands wind round his neck, the eagerness of her tongue meeting his.

  He was lost. He explored the amazing sweetness of her mouth again and again, his heart hammering until he thought it would burst. He shifted and pulled her against him discreetly—although there were no other couples near them on this side of the room—so that she could feel just how much he wanted her. Her soft gasp utterly snapped any control he still had.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” he whispered, barely able to tear his mouth from hers. He buried his face in her hair, filling his lungs with her scent, waiting.

  “Yes,” she whispered finally, her voice soft and as shaky as his.