Her gaze slid from his. “I’m sorry.”
He tipped her face back to his. “I kind of like the idea of carrying your mark.”
Confusion replaced worry. He let her chew on that while he unbuttoned her camisole and pulled it over her head. Her hair got tangled in the buttons before he could pull it free, leaving her with her arms pulled over her head and her torso stretched high. Those full breasts, with their dainty enticing tips, were face-level. With the faintest of movements, he could have one against his tongue, know her taste. Saliva flooded his mouth and his cock jerked in his pants. All he had to do was be bastard enough to lean forward, and he could have what he wanted. She’d let him. She wouldn’t fight him. She’d hold still and let him do whatever he wanted.
And probably die a little bit in the process.
He took a steadying breath, reined in his lust, and untangled her hair from the buttons. He needed to back off with her. Forget all his big talk and base plans and start over.
When she lowered her arms, her face and chest were beet red. The only indication of what she wanted to do was the twitch of her hands toward her breasts, but then she placed her hands at her sides, palms up, and lowered her gaze.
He took her hands and crossed them over her breasts, pressing them into her upper arms as her gaze flew to his. “If you don’t want to show me your body, you don’t have to.”
“But…”
“No buts. Except in a situation where you’re hurt and there’s a need, I won’t touch you again without permission.”
“You’re my husband!”
“Yes I am, but I don’t rape women.”
“I’m your wife.”
“And a damned tempting one, but that doesn’t change anything.”
“I can’t tell you no.”
He touched the full curve of her lower lip. “Yes, you can. It’s a one syllable word and real easy for most people to get out.”
Her fingers dug into her arms, her lip slipped between her teeth, betraying her confusion and revealing her dimples. “You don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t. But I’ve never forced myself on a woman, and I’m not about to start now.”
He pushed to his feet. Son of a bitch, doing the right thing was painful. “Which means, as much as I’d like otherwise, I’ll be letting you handle your own bath.”
It almost killed him to say that, too. She was so tempting, with her plump arms squeezing her breasts together and up, creating a valley he’d love to explore, her dimples teasing him from the redness of her cheeks, and those big blue eyes shining bright in her face. As he watched, a tear slid out of the corner of the left one and trickled down her temple to blend into the bright gold of her hair, darkening a strand.
“I’m going to fill the tub.” He dropped the blanket over her. “You just lie here and relax while I get it ready.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“I know, and that’s a damned shame.”
She clutched the blanket to her chest, bounced a glance off of his erection as it strained down his thigh, and another off of the wet stain on the leg of his denims near where his cock head rested.
“I repulse you.”
“You know that’s a lie.”
“You’re ashamed of me.”
He admired the gumption that kept her head up while she put forward her convictions. “Not hardly.”
“You will be.” He didn’t like the way her eyes skirted his. He tilted her head up.
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know—”
“I don’t need to,” he cut her off, holding her gaze through sheer force of will.
“But—”
He cut her off with a shake of his head. “Here’s where my being half-Indian plays in your favor. I was raised white, but a lot of my mother’s beliefs stuck with me. One being, if you say it, it’s true.”
“Like when you said I was your wife and Brianna was your daughter?”
“Yes.” He tugged her lower lip free of her teeth, letting his thumb slide along the moist inner lining. “The other is, all you need to do to start over is to put one foot in front of the other and do it.”
“That’s crazy.”
He shrugged, stroking the smooth skin of her cheek where her dimple would be if she were happy. “Maybe, but it sure can be a useful philosophy if you want to grab hold.”
He dropped his hand back to his side. She didn’t say a word or look at him again. She just kept twisting her hands under the blanket and chewing on her lip. He turned on his heel and entered the bath.
* * * * *
She was going to have to leave the bathing room sometime. Jenna knew that. The last fill on the tub had exhausted the hot water and while the air surrounding her was warm and scented with the rose bath oil Clint had dumped in, the water itself was getting chilled. The problem being she didn’t know what she wanted to do when she got out.
She’d never heard of a man giving a woman a choice when it came to anything. Her father had ruled her house with a heavy hand and her husband had made her father look positively benevolent. Having the protection of a man’s name without having to suffer the attentions of a husband was every woman’s dream. It was her dream. She just couldn’t shake the feeling that it was too good to be true.
Which meant she had to think. She had to make this work for her. Not just for today, but down the road, because as of yesterday she was Mrs. Clint McKinnely, married to one of the most powerful, respected men in the territory. She’d asked God for a miracle and He’d seen fit to send one to her in the form of Clint, and she wouldn’t be offending the Almighty by snubbing his offering. Or treating it shabbily. Which she would be doing if she took on all the trappings of being Mrs. McKinnely without keeping up her end.
She stood. Water poured off her body in a cascade of sound. She glanced at the door while grabbing a towel off the rack, half-expecting Clint to come through it like Jack always had. Jack had liked catching her vulnerable and naked. Liked turning her pleasure to humiliation. Seemed to relish the power he felt when he did. But there were no sounds of footsteps and the knob didn’t rattle.
And now that she thought on it, there wouldn’t be. By all accounts, Clint wasn’t like that. He was a hard man. A dangerous man, but he wasn’t a bully. Tales about his ruthlessness when it came to criminals were widespread and the whispers that followed him when he came to town were many. Enough so that she knew he was hard on women, but no one ever complained that he had a heavy hand, which was more than she could say for Jack. And he was fair. Clint McKinnely was scrupulously fair.
She squeezed out the thick rope of her hair and then wrapped it up in a towel. She took the second towel and dried off her shoulders. Stepping out of the tub, she wrapped the towel around her and probed her knowledge of Clint. He was a sucker for little things. He’d held Brianna for all of two minutes before he was under her spell. He liked kittens and fed them rather than killing them. And more importantly, he tolerated their affection. He’d been demanding in the barn, but not cruel. And to be fair, she’d started it. And last night, he’d been kind, not beating her when she’d unthinkingly refused him. She could do a lot worse. It was scary that he was so different in that she couldn’t predict what he’d do, and it was possible that she could inadvertently trigger his temper. But, if she were careful, and did as he asked, there would be no reason to anticipate him losing his temper.
She pulled the towel from her hair. And tonight he’d asked for the right to pamper her. And she’d turned him down. She closed her eyes. Her husband had wanted to be nice to her, and she’d rejected him. Oh God, how stupid could she be? She hung the towel on the hook. She’d prayed for the Almighty to send her a husband, one who would be kind to her, and when he had tried, she’d told him no.
She had to fix that. She eyed the doorknob. It looked so innocuous. A simple black metal latch, but if she did what she was thinking, there’d be no going back. No changing her mind. She bit her lip so ha
rd it brought tears to her eyes. The knob blurred out of focus.
If she did this, and Clint took it wrong, there would be no forgiveness. She reached for the handle, doubt eating at her gut. She’d never been bold and this went against everything she’d been taught, but she honestly didn’t know what else to do to fix the mess she’d made. She turned the handle, lifted the latch quietly, let the towel drop, and stepped through the door.
Clint was sitting in the big leather armchair to the right of the settee. His forearms were resting on his knees. He cradled a cup in his hands. The scent of coffee filled the room along with a hint of wood smoke from the stove. On the table before him was a tray with a porcelain pot and another cup. Bright light spilled through the windows, the sun amplified by the freshly fallen snow. The harsh light accented his hawk-like profile, the firm set of his lips, the harsh set of his jaw. He did not look like a happy man.
Oh God, this was such a bad idea. Such a stupid plan. She was always coming up with stupid plans. She grabbed for the towel. Clint looked up. The cup dropped from his hands, and his eyes—those black eyes—lit from within with a searing heat.
“Jenna?”
She swallowed hard, all her courage gone right along with her voice. She straightened, the towel dangling from her hands. She stood there while he looked her over, vividly aware of every bulge, every scar. Such a stupid plan. He called to her again, his drawl deeper, hoarser.
“Come here, Sunshine.”
She wanted to. Knew she had to, but her feet wouldn’t move. She was frozen in the door, the soft scent of the rose bath salts she’d used wafting around her, incapable of doing anything except drawing short hard breaths and panicking.
Unbelievably, Clint smiled. A genuine smile that softened his hard face and took it from handsome to mesmerizing. He rolled to his full height with a lazy flex of muscle.
“Cat got your tongue?” he asked as he came toward her.
It took him only ten steps to get to her side. She knew because she counted them, trying to focus on anything except her pounding heart and her inability to breathe. She expected him to stop, but he didn’t. He just kept on coming until she was in his arms, her cheek pressed against the hard muscles of his chest and her body flush against his. All she could think of to say was, “You changed your clothes.”
“And you lost yours.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Care to tell me why?”
“Please don’t make me.” His big hand cupped her head, dwarfing her, overwhelming her with the gentleness of his touch when she was expecting roughness.
“Can I guess?”
She nodded, the button on his shirt scraping her cheek. Anything was better than trying to make her voice work again.
“Would you be trying to tell me you want me?”
“I want our marriage to work.”
Which wasn’t exactly the same thing, Clint knew. Jenna’s muscles were like rock under his hands and she was shaking. She was scared to death. He just wasn’t sure of what.
“So you decided to step out here and catch my eye?”
“You said you wouldn’t touch me.” He couldn’t tell if she was complaining or reminding.
“Unless you asked,” he qualified.
There was a long pause and then a harshly croaked truth, “I don’t know how to ask.”
He suspected she didn’t know what to ask for either, but this was a start and he could teach her what she needed to know. He let his hand slide down to the base of her spine, urging her closer. Her flesh was soft under his hands. A silky, delicate, womanly expanse he’d love to run his mouth over.
“Lean into me, baby.” She did immediately. He took advantage of her distraction to swing her up in his arms. Her squeal and grab made him smile. “I won’t drop you, Sunshine.”
“But…”
“No buts.” He shook his head at her. His words didn’t result in an appreciable lessening of her grip, but since holding him so tightly kept her breasts squashed against him, he wasn’t going to complain. The damp towel was wadded between them. The first thing he did after settling them on the settee was to discard it. “I don’t think we need this.”
For all that she agreed, her fingers were reluctant to let it go. He grabbed the knitted comforter off the back of the settee and draped it over her. She seemed flustered by the small consideration but let the towel go. He tossed it in the direction of the stove. It landed on the hardwood floor.
“Oh no!” Jenna sat up straight in his lap. He had to duck her elbows as she tucked the throw around her. He recognized that tone. He’d heard it from Mara often enough.
“What?”
She froze, looked at him, the towel, and then back at him before dropping her gaze. “Nothing.”
It was obviously something. She was practically twitching. “Out with it, Jenna.”
“The towel will stain the wood.”
“Ah hell.” If Jenna felt halfway about household things the way Mara did, he wasn’t going to get anywhere until the towel was moved. He slid her onto the settee and grabbed the towel off the floor. With a flick of the wrist he tossed it over the arm of the parlor chair. A quick glance at Jenna had him checking it again. Her lip was between her teeth and a frown pleated her brow. Son of a bitch. He took it off the chair and draped it over the handle of the stove. If she didn’t like that it was just too damned bad.
He headed back to the settee, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. From the way Jenna shrank back into the seat, he might be letting his impatience show through. He worked on gentling his expression. He needn’t have bothered. She took one look at his chest, and all the fear left her face.
“Oh my God!” Her eyes rounded in horror.
Damn! He’d forgotten about the scars. “Sorry.” He started buttoning back up.
She was off the settee and at his side, her hands undoing buttons faster than he could do them.
“No one told me,” she whispered as she parted the halves of his shirt. Her soft hands were infinitely careful on his chest. She looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears and pity. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“Because it didn’t matter.” And he didn’t want it mattering now. He caught her hands and pulled them away from his body.
She yanked her hands free and swatted his arm. “Of course it matters.”
He looked down to where she’d hit him. Hit him. This from the woman who ate until she vomited because he’d ordered her to.
She traced the broad puckered scar that cut diagonally across his chest and abdomen. “You got these that night, didn’t you?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“My God.” Jenna stared at those scars that covered his hard muscled chest and abdomen. They were broad, newly healed, and had to have hurt like hell. She couldn’t imagine voluntarily enduring them for any reason. Least of all saving her. She rode the ridges of the biggest as it followed the hills and valleys of the slabs of muscle cutting across his abdomen until it disappeared beneath the waistband of his denims. She’d never thought, not once, that he’d been hurt saving her. Never thought it because she couldn’t conceive of a man doing something so unselfish. She placed her palm over the scar, feeling the smoothness of the new skin, the ridges of the perimeter and the heat and strength of the man beneath. “My God.”
He’d endured hell for her and had never said a word, asked for a thing. Except last night when he’d asked for her trust. She leaned forward and kissed the smaller round burn just to the left of his breastbone. He could have anything he wanted of her. Anything at all.
“Son of a bitch!” Clint’s hands on her arms were rough. Not hurting, but not gentle either, as he set her away from him. “I don’t want a goddamned gratitude fuck.”
The words hit her like blows until she looked into his face. His face was like stone, not an emotion showing. In her experience the only time a man hid his emotions was when he felt vulnerable. Of course, her experience was limited, and if she called this wr
ong, she would be paying for it for the rest of her life, but she touched his chest. She didn’t think she was calling this wrong.
“Clint.” He didn’t let her go, but he did frown.
“What?”
“I want to be your wife.”
“You already are.”
“Your real wife.”
“Because you think handing over your body is going to make up for a few scars?”
The derision in his tone flicked her like a whip.
“No.” She was no reward for anything. She took a step back. He didn’t let her go. Just held her with an ease that sent flickers of panic racing up her spine. He wanted his pound of flesh. She could understand that.
“I don’t have anything else to give you.” She took a steadying breath. “I can never thank you enough for what you did.” She tightened her grip on the throw and squared her shoulders. It took everything she had to meet his gaze. “You can have anything you want of me.”
“Anything?”
His face, his voice, his grip—all three were as implacable as the man himself. Her stomach sank. There was no end to the demands he could make, but she’d given her word. “Yes.”
“Then I want your trust.”
She couldn’t have heard him right. “What?”
“I want your trust.”
“But I’ve done everything…”
But she hadn’t. She’d refused him last night.
His finger under her chin brought her gaze to his.
“I don’t want your obedience, Jenna.”
She didn’t believe that for a minute. “I don’t understand.”
His thumb stroked cross her lower lip. It was a strangely possessive, yet soothing caress.
“I want you to trust me to take care of you.” He tugged the throw from around her. “Starting now.”
Chapter Ten
“I don’t have anything else to give.”
He’d been pissed right up until she’d whispered that truth. She’d held his gaze and offered him everything she had, leaving herself vulnerable in a way that he couldn’t conceive of ever making himself vulnerable to anyone. And he’d been bastard enough to throw her offer back in her face, attacking her where he knew it would hurt the most.
Promises Prevail Page 14