Heartstrings

by Rebecca Paisley

  “Please take your hand off my—”

  “Miss Worth, I am not a genius like you are. You’ve probably spent years studying the senses. Would you refuse to teach me things I don’t know anything about?”

  “No, but I—oh, very well. Sensory functions are carried out through a rich variety of nerve endings, which bring the primary sensory modalities of touch, heat, cold, and pain into consciousness from discrete receptor points—”

  “Yeah, I think I remember reading that somewhere. Let’s move on to hearing.” He slid his palm down her leg, all the way to her ankle, then glided it back up again. “Well, what do you know? Not only can I see and feel that I’m touching your leg, I can hear it too. Skin against skin. Has a sound to it. How do people hear?”

  She laid her hand over his to keep it still. “The ear is considered in three parts, the outer, middle, and inner ear. The outer ear receives sounds in the atmosphere, the middle ear conducts said sounds inwards, and the inner ear, through its receptor cells, translates their effects into patterns—”

  “Amazing things, ears, huh?” Slowly, he traced her earlobe with his finger.

  “You are trying to arouse me, Mr. Montana.”

  “Miss Worth, I’m only experimenting with my senses. Arousing you is the furthest thing from my mind.” He leaned nearer to her, so close that the curls around her face brushed his lips. “With just a little bit more experimenting, I’ll be a professional sense-understander.”

  At his nearness, her breath began to come in short pants. “I can’t—”

  “Breathe?” he supplied, listening to her gasp. “Miss Worth, you are getting all hot and bothered by what I’m doing, and you’re not supposed to. Now, please try to control yourself and let me learn about the senses.”

  “But—”

  “Smell is a sense,” Roman continued in a whisper. “Even if I shut my eyes and ears, I would still know I was near to you because I can smell you.”

  She yearned to ask him what she smelled like to him, but still she could not control her breathing.

  He heard her unspoken question. “Flowers, but not the kind that smell strong. The kind that you have to smell real hard to smell. Ever smell flowers like that, Miss Worth? They have a perfume, but it’s a barely there kind. And then, almost as soon as you’ve gotten hold of the scent, it fades away, and you have to wait for a while before you can smell it again. Wonder why smells go away like that?”

  Theodosia struggled for a shred of composure. “Fatigue. The olfactory nerves become fatigued.”

  He leaned even closer to her and smiled, the corner of his lips spreading across her temple. “Don’t tell me,” he murmured. “Those old factory nerves are in your nose.”

  Heat flashed over her skin. “Your nose—um…brain too. Olfactory nerves—they are the pair of nerves that are the first cranial nerves, and they arise in the olfactory neurosensory cells of the—”

  “Sure am glad I’ve got some of those smelling nerves.” He nuzzled the warm satiny skin on her neck. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to smell the barely there flowers you wear. Handy nerves to have, huh?”

  He moved his hand upward, over her hip and side, and finally to the velvet ribbons that closed the front of her nightgown. “And last, we come to the sense of taste. Another of the senses that I happen to find a lot of uses for. I probably wouldn’t even want to eat if I couldn’t taste what I was eating. I guess taste keeps me alive, wouldn’t you say so, Miss Worth?”

  She felt his other arm go around her back and instinctively leaned into it. All rational thought fled from her mind as she yielded to the power of his sensual skills.

  He lowered her to her sleeping pallet, and by the time she was fully stretched out upon it, he’d already succeeded in untying the ribbons of her nightgown. “Taste,” he whispered, leaning over her and touching his mouth to hers. “Tell me everything you know about taste.”

  His long, black hair flowed over her cheeks and neck. The feel of it upon her skin sent her reeling. Words spilled from her lips as if by their own volition, for she neither heard nor thought about anything she said. “The sense organs of taste,” she whispered into his mouth, “are…the taste buds, which—which are goblet-shaped clusters of cells that open by a small pore to the…mouth cavity. The buds contain—”

  “Fascinating,” he murmured, then slid his tongue over her bottom lip. “Tell me more.”

  She closed her eyes, savoring his caresses while summoning to mind further information concerning taste. “The middle surface of the tongue is insensitive to taste, but…but salt sensitivity occurs around all edges, sweet sensitivity primarily at the—at the tip, sour at the sides, and bitter at the…back.”

  He lowered his kisses to her slender throat while his hand moved to open the front of her gown. “So you say I’ll taste sweetness with the tip of my tongue, huh? Well now, let’s see if there’s any truth to what you say.”

  Before Theodosia could understand his intentions, she felt him lick a straight, quick path to her bare breast. When he began to circle his tongue around her stiff nipple, she arched her body directly into him, mindless to everything but the pulsing need that mounted within her.

  Roman caught her by the waist and stretched out beside her. His mouth suckling one full breast, he cupped the other with his hand. It filled his palm with all the lush softness he’d known it would. God, how he wanted her. Right here and now. “You were right,” he whispered. “The tip of the tongue tastes sweet things. And you, Miss Worth, are the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

  She heard his voice but had no idea what he was saying to her. Longing desperately for more of the pleasure he had brought to life, she shoved her fingers through his hair, locked them behind his neck, and pulled him even nearer to her chest.

  Her action nestled his face between her breasts. A man could suffocate within such succulent flesh, he thought.

  But what a pleasant way to go.

  His intuition telling him she wouldn’t stop him if he dared to proceed further, he lowered his hand to her leg again, then slipped it slowly beneath her gown. He found no undergarments to hinder him. Moaning quietly into the valley between her breasts, he glided his fingers over the warm, soft mound nestled between her thighs.

  Gasping for breath and fulfillment, Theodosia raised her hips, pressing herself against his palm. Tension, hot and irresistible, built steadily within her, and she knew instinctively that if Roman would only move his hand upon her, the tension would peak.

  He knew her every thought by listening to the pelting of her heart. Wanting to see her fulfillment happen to her, he raised his head and watched her face as he began to rotate his palm against the wet silk of her femininity. “Easy,” he murmured. “Slow and—”

  A sudden movement to his left broke his concentration. In the next moment, he felt cold water splash against his cheek. And when he felt Theodosia stiffen, he knew water had sprinkled her as well.

  His eyes narrowing, he stared at the culprit, John the Baptist.

  The parrot flung a sunflower seed next. “The olfactory nerves become fatigued,” he announced, blinking his round black eyes. “Every male in the world, even a feathered one, craves a little wenching now and then. I must concentrate all my efforts toward finding the perfect man to sire the child, Mr. Montana.”

  The words were barely out of the bird’s beak when Theodosia, with one powerful movement, rolled out of Roman’s arms. Infuriated with herself and the rogue whose sensual expertise had robbed her of her wits, she rose from the ground and tugged down her nightgown. “Sir, you possess a facinorous nature!”

  Mad as she was, Roman decided he didn’t want to know the definition of facinorous.

  “Which means,” Theodosia continued, “that you are exceedingly wicked. If not for John the Baptist, you—I—Mr. Montana, you might have succeeded in—”

  “But I didn’t because your damned parrot had to go and open his big fat beak, and—”

  “How mu
ch longer will it be before we arrive at Kidder Pass? My attraction to you and my obvious inability to resist it makes finding the child’s sire an extremely urgent matter. With each day—no, with each moment that passes, I am at further risk of—”

  “Kidder Pass is a fifteen-minute ride down the road.”

  “What? Fifteen minutes? We were that near the town, and you had me sleep on a bed of rocks? Mr. Montana, how could you!”

  He rolled to his back and stared at the sky. “How could I? I’m facinorous. That’s how could I, how would I, and how did I.”

  Too angry to speak, Theodosia flounced to the wagon, retrieved her clothes from her bags, and tramped out of sight to dress.

  When she was gone, Roman turned to his side and glared at her parrot. “Did you know that the real John the Baptist got his head cut off?” he asked the bird. “Then it was brought to some lady on a silver platter. I’m warning you now, you mimicking, maddening, meddlesome, molting moron, that if you ever stick your beak into my business again, I will cheerfully see to it that you meet the same messy end your namesake did!”

  Chapter Eight

  His stomach growling with hunger, Roman paced in front of the sheet Theodosia had had him string from wall to wall to partition their hotel room in Kidder Pass. Splashing sounds came from behind the sheet as well as the delicate scent of wild flowers.

  In the tub, Theodosia listened to his boot heels hammer the wooden floor. “Is something the matter, Mr. Montana?”

  “I’m starving! Look, I was going to take you to that fair we passed right outside town. Some of the best cooks in the world are the women who live in little towns like this one, and they cook for days before a fair. But if you don’t hurry up, Miss Worth, all the food’s going to be gone. You’ve been in there for three hours already. How long does it take to wash off a little grime, for God’s sake? Just rub on some soap, rinse it off, then get out!”

  She cupped some warm water in her hand and let it slide down her arm. “I have been in here for no more than half an hour, Mr. Montana. And I will have you know that I do not accumulate grime upon my person. I merely become a bit dusty.”

  He shoved his fingers through his hair. “You’re taking your own sweet time in that bathtub just to get back at me for what happened this morning! But what you’re forgetting is that you liked it!”

  His reminder caused her to stiffen with frustration. Although she’d refused to dwell on the morning interlude, her body could not forget and continued to ache for the bliss she’d only begun to understand. “I, however, did not initiate the morning’s encounter,” she said shakily. “You did, and you should not have. And that is the last time we shall speak of it. Now, why do you suppose the newspaper office is closed today? It is a business day, and I thought to have my circulars printed—”

  “The newspaper man is, at this very minute, doing exactly what I wish I was doing.”

  “And what is that, Mr. Montana?”

  “Eating food at the fair!”

  His extreme ire made her smile. “Well, at least the telegraph office was open. While you saw to the horses, Mr. Montana, I wired a message to Lillian and Upton. I assured them of my well-being, allowed you all the credit for keeping me from harm, and informed them also that I was in the scintillating depths of researching the oral meandering common to many of the people I have met during my travels through Texas. Such digressive discourse is—”

  “Would you just scrub your dust off and get out so we can go?”

  She slipped deeper into the tub. Water lapped at her lips as she smiled a contented smile. “I am not scrubbing. I am macerating.”

  He stopped pacing. What had she said she was doing? Had he heard her correctly? Surely she wasn’t doing that! But maybe she was, he mused, a rakish smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He had done some rather sensuous things to her this morning. The effect he’d had on her had most likely stayed with her.

  Yes, plagued with unfulfilled desire, she now had no choice but to resort to what she was doing behind that sheet.

  “Mr. Montana, did you hear what I said?”

  “I heard. How does it feel?”

  “Oh, it feels divine. It’s a pleasure that I would like to continue feeling forever.”

  In an effort to loosen them, Roman pulled at his pants, which were becoming rather snug due to the desire brought to life by the thought of Theodosia’s sensual activity. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  “Oh? Do you enjoy macerating, too, Mr. Montana?”

  “What? Uh…”

  “Of course, one cannot truly indulge in the pleasure of macerating forever,” she rambled on, trailing her warm, wet fingers across her face. “One would wrinkle terribly.”

  “Wrinkle?” He took a moment to think. “I’ve heard of going insane, blind, or growing hair on the palm of your hand, but I’ve never heard the one about wrinkling.”

  Theodosia frowned suddenly. “Who told you that to soften by soaking would cause insanity, blindness, and hair growth?”

  Roman stared at the sheet. “Soften by soaking?”

  “To macerate is to soften by soaking, Mr. Montana. What did you think I said?”

  “I…” He raked his fingers through his hair again. Damn the woman and her almighty vocabulary! “That’s enough soaking and softening! You’ve got exactly three seconds to get out of that tub. Take any longer than that, and I’ll come get you out myself. And if I have to do that, Miss Worth, I promise you that I will finish what I started this morning.”

  His vow made her light-headed with a curious combination of fear and excitement. Her eyes riveted to the sheet, she wondered if he would really do what he said he would.

  “All right, here I come,” Roman called. He ran his hands over the sheet, causing it to ruffle.

  Theodosia nearly drowned herself in her haste to get out of the tub. “I’m out, Mr. Montana, and will be dressed and ready for the fair in only a few more moments.”

  Her “few more moments” turned out to be closer to an hour. By the time she finally stepped out from behind the sheet, Roman swore his empty stomach had shriveled into a dried-up knot of nothingness.

  “Well, I don’t sew often, but I did a fine job on that shirt,” Theodosia said when she looked at him. “Even if I do say so myself.”

  “Shirt? What—’’

  “The shirt you are wearing. I mended the rip in the sleeve. You do remember that the sleeve was torn, do you not? When we got to the room, you emptied your bags on the bed and left to see to the horses. While you were gone, I began putting your things away and found that shirt. I mended it for you.

  Slowly, he raised his arm and looked at his sleeve. At the sight of the delicate stitches that closed the tear, he forgot his empty stomach.

  Her caring gesture fed another sort of hunger. Indeed, he felt as if some deep void inside him had begun to fill.

  “My sewing doesn’t meet with your approval?” Theodosia asked after a long moment of watching him stare at his sleeve.

  He lifted his gaze and met hers. “It’s fine,” he said softly. His brows rose in surprise when he heard the thick emotion in his own voice and realized Theodosia had heard it, too. Ah, hell, he thought. If he didn’t do something fast, she’d start that psychological probing of hers, forcing him to talk about things he wanted left buried.

  Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he cleared his throat and gave her a good glare. “We’re wasting time standing here talking about a stupid tear in my sleeve and the unmatched sewing skills that fixed it! Now, for God’s sake, let’s go!”

  She studied him carefully. “What, may I ask, brought about your tonitruous mood, Mr. Montana?”

  “Of course you may ask, Miss Worth. The problem, though, is that I don’t know what the hell tittirons means, so I can’t tell you what—”

  “Tonitruous.”

  “You say it your way, and I’ll say it mine!”

  “Tonitruous means ‘explosive.’ ‘Thundering.’”

&
nbsp; He saw an “I-dare-you-to-argue” expression in her eyes and quieted immediately.

  Theodosia walked to the bureau, and battling the temptation to smile at Roman’s agitation—which she knew was somehow related to his mended shirt-sleeve—she pinned her ruby brooch to the collar of her gown and slipped her ruffled sunbonnet over her head. “Suppose you tell me what people do at fairs. Besides eat food prepared by the best cooks in the world, that is.”

  He gaped at her. “You’ve never been to a fair?”

  “No.”

  “They don’t have fairs in Boston?”

  She slid her hands into her gloves. “I’m certain they do, but I—”

  “You were always too busy studying something to go.” Reminded anew of the many things she’d missed out on, Roman took her hand and led her into the corridor. “You have fun at a fair, Miss Worth.”

  “But what form of fun, Mr. Montana?”

  He smiled when he thought about what her idea of fun was. A freshly dug plant root sent the woman into rapture.

  But he was going to change all that. Today he would begin to show her a world she’d never known. A world where rain had a taste and stars were made for wishing.

  It was the very least he could do for the only woman on earth who had ever taken the time to mend his clothes.

  After they enjoyed a dinner of flaky meat pastries, fresh crisp salad, and cold lemonade, Roman led Theodosia through the crowd of people gathered in the meadow. “There now, look at that,” he said, pointing to a group of children who were dancing around a large tub filled with water and apples. “That’s what you call fun.”

  The music of fiddles, guitars, songs, and laughter floating all around her, she watched the children take turns bobbing for the apples and clapped when one little girl succeeded in sinking her teeth into one of the floating fruits. “You did that as a child, Mr. Montana?”