Silken Thunder

by Fayrene Preston

  “Why?”

  He flicked his finger under her chin. “We’re bound to run into Delaneys over there, and on our honeymoon I want to concentrate on one Delaney. You, my love.”

  A low laugh escaped from her, unknowingly seducing him with its sound. “I can’t argue with that. And perhaps they’ll have strawberries in Paris.”

  He gathered her to him. “Brianne Delaney, when I found you, I found my life.”

  Chapter 13

  The crash of thunder invaded the soft cloud of Anna’s untroubled sleep. She stirred and felt Wesley at her back, curved around her, his hand tracing the lines of her waist and hips. Was it the violence of the storm that had awakened her, she wondered, or the warm gentleness of his touch?

  His hand slipped over her side to cup her breast, and she rolled onto her back.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” She reached up to him and brought his mouth down to hers.

  Hunger grew slowly, and Wesley didn’t rush her. It was as if he felt as she did — the storm raging outside could not touch them. Not tonight. Strangely it was as if their protection was being in each other’s arms rather than the walls and the roof of the house. Out-

  side it was cold and dangerous; inside it was warm, secure, and pleasurable.

  He raised up on his elbow, and in the brief illumination of a lightning bolt she saw his face. His features were, as always, hard, but the flash of brightness also showed tenderness. The impression vanished with the light.

  In the darkness he found her breast, and his lips closed carefully around the tip. With easy pulling movements of his mouth, he sucked and teased. His gentleness was the most sensuous thing she’d ever known and caused muscles deep within her to clench with rapture.

  Just as a crack of thunder sounded overhead and a white light momentarily shafted through the window and across the bed, he raised his head. She saw his mouth, firm, well-shaped, with the bottom lip slightly fuller and — unexpectedly — vulnerable.

  Then faster than her eye could blink, the room was plunged into darkness once more, leaving her feeling as if she had imagined both the white light and the vulnerable shape of his lips.

  She slid her hands down the smooth skin of his back and felt the muscles ripple beneath his flesh.

  Heat riveted through her and seemed to follow the path of his hands, around her breasts and down her stomach. When his fingers burrowed through the golden curls to delve into the softness between her legs, there was fire flaming with a rhythm that kept time with the rapid beating of her heart.

  Wes could feel his body tremble with the urgency of his need for Anna. Yet, without hurry he rose over her and positioned himself between her legs. Then with a slowness that rivaled the pace of a flower unfolding its petals to the heat of the sun, he sank into her and began to move.

  He was lost to the beat of the rain against the window. Lost to the lightning and thunder. There were only passion and need. Beneath him Anna was all silk and heat. A powerful sweetness flooded through him, and he was left drenched with wonder.

  Anna felt languid, sated, and yet she was wide awake, vividly aware of the storm outside and the peace within. She felt Wesley stir beside her, and heard the scrape of a match. Lamplight cast a golden glow over the bed, muting the storm.

  “I still can’t sleep.” He sounded almost apologetic. “The storm, I suppose.”

  She listened to thunder rolling away to the mountains and turned her head to look at him. He was on his stomach beside her, raised on his elbows, looking down at her. She didn’t know what he was thinking, couldn’t guess from his expression. He seemed calm, but she wondered if he could ever really, truly, be at peace. “The storm,” she said finally, agreeing. “I can’t sleep either.”

  He moved one hand far enough to touch a strand of her hair on the pillow, winding it around his fingers absently. His gaze shifted, focusing on what he was doing. “I’ll build another house for us,” he said suddenly.

  She watched his face. “What’s wrong with this one?”

  He half shrugged, bronze shoulders hunching for an instant, muscles rippling. “Nothing. But it wasn’t built for a — a family.” The last word emerged almost tentatively, and he shot a quick look at her face before returning his gaze to what he was doing.

  “I see.” She didn’t, really, but she was curious to see and to understand. She had committed herself to this man; understanding him had never been so important.

  Wesley seemed to feel the need to explain. “A bigger house,” he said. “Farther out of town.”

  “With a porch swing?” She heard the wistfulness of her own voice.

  His face seemed to soften a little, but he didn’t look at her. “With a porch swing.”

  Anna was aware of thunder rumbling distantly as the storm faded, but all her senses and thoughts were trapped in the glow of the lamplight. It was a fit place for dreams, and she allowed herself that luxury. What could be the harm in it?

  She kept her voice soft. “A little garden for spices? One for roses?”

  “If you like.” He was almost smiling.

  “And big windows to let in the sunlight?”

  He nodded. “Big windows. Even a white picket fence.”

  For an instant she suspected sarcasm, because there had been something in his voice. His expression was the same — calm and almost smiling. Still, it had been enough to remind her that she was dreaming.

  She didn't doubt Wesley would build a house. There would be a porch swing, and gardens, and big windows. There would even be a white picket fence. She felt her throat close up, felt the hot sting of tears.

  “Anna?”

  She realized that she was no longer gazing at him, that her eyes were fixed on the ceiling. And her voice sounded flat to her ears, flat and numb. “It will be a nice house.” But not a home.

  “I’ll be good to you, Anna.” His voice had changed as well, had become slightly rough. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Wesley, I know that.” He would be good to her. He wouldn't beat her or bully her. She would always have the best of everything money could provide. But she would never have the heart of her husband.

  Nothing had changed, really. He hadn’t changed. He had married her to give his child a name because he knew the pain of being a bastard. He had asked her to remain with him, to live with him as his wife, because the child was his. She was the mother of his child, and so her place was assured. If she hadn’t loved him, it might have been enough.

  “Anna?” His voice was a little tight.

  “Yes, Wesley.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then she felt his hand move on her neck, felt the chain she wore tighten. She half turned her head, and watched as he unfastened the chain and drew it away, then freed the ring.

  “Give me your hand.”

  She hesitated, but something in his taut voice pulled at her. Slowly she held out her left hand. He slid the big signet ring on her third finger and frowned slightly.

  “I’ll get a proper ring for you tomorrow,” he said.

  Anna felt a sudden urge to laugh, even though she felt no humor. Proper. As if anything between them had ever been proper. She felt his gaze on her and tried to smooth away the bittersweet smile. But he must have seen it, because his fingers tightened on hers.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked, his voice on edge.

  She was wondering if he had placed his ring on her finger to remind them both she belonged to him now. It was likely, she thought. But it wasn't a question she wanted to hear him answer. So she said, “Nothing. I’m thinking of nothing.”

  “I can’t get inside your head.”

  She looked at him, surprised by the frustration she heard in his tone of voice. “I didn’t know you wanted to,” she said slowly.

  He didn’t respond for a long moment, just stared at her with narrowed eyes she couldn’t read. She heard a rolling boom of thunder, realizing
vaguely that the storm was returning, building again. It fit the mood she could feel growing in him, fit the tension of anger and something else … something she didn’t understand.

  Still holding her left hand, he slid his free hand suddenly over her stomach, resting it there possessively. “I put this baby inside you,” he said softly with a strange intensity. “I forced you to be my lover, made you my wife without giving you a choice. I’ve changed your life, Anna, changed your future. And I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

  Anna didn’t know how to respond to that. Her heart was thudding unevenly, and she felt as though she were teetering on the edge of a precipice. I’m thinking how sad it is that I love you. No. No, she couldn’t tell him that. He hadn’t changed. She thought she could bear that, but she couldn’t risk telling him that she loved him because he could turn the knowledge into a weapon, and that was something she would never be able to bear.

  “I don’t know what you're thinking either,” she countered, holding her voice steady with an effort. “I never have.”

  Wes looked down at his hand on her as a sudden flash of lightning replaced golden light with stark whiteness for an instant. His flesh lay over hers like a shadow. Bronze against ivory fairness, hardness over softness. Ruthless male strength possessive over female flesh nurturing a new life.

  What was he thinking, he asked himself. What was he feeling?

  Mine. Anna was his wife; her child was his. He had tied her to him with bonds that were primitive and ancient. He hadn’t stopped to think when he had carried her off that night. He had been conscious only of the implacable determination to make her his wife.

  He wondered now, for the first time, how long it had been in his mind. What would have happened if Anna had not been backed into a corner by her pregnancy, with little choice but to marry him? Had he married her for that reason alone? Because he had known she had no choice? He had known … and yet he had swept her off in haste, giving her no time to think, no chance to reject him.

  Wes heard a ragged sigh escape him. How long had he wanted her to be his wife? Long enough to have hidden the desire even from himself. He had wanted something from her that he couldn’t take, couldn’t steal, couldn’t force her to give him, and he hadn’t been willing to risk her refusal. He hadn’t even known how to ask her.

  Mine. But not by her choice, not really.

  “Wesley?”

  He tore his gaze from his possessive hand and looked at her lovely face for a moment. Then he reached over to put out the lamp, and in the darkness lit only by flickering lightning, he pulled her into his arms and held her close to him.

  “Nothing, Anna,” he said thickly. “I’m thinking of nothing.”

  Wes took in the sight of Anna in his black silk robe. “It never looked that good on me.”

  Her dimples appeared as she smiled at him. “Would you please come roll up the sleeves for me?”

  “I’d just as soon you wore nothing at all.”

  Silently she held out the arm that was lost within folds of black silk.

  “Oh, all right.” Grinning good-naturedly, he crossed the room to the bed where she was propped up against the pillows. A breakfast tray rested on her lap.

  “I hope you like what I fixed,” he commented as he concentrated on the sleeve. “I didn’t know if you’d be sick this morning or what you’d be able to eat, so I made a little of everything.”

  He finished rolling back both sleeves and sat down on the end of the bed.

  “I feel wonderful, and I’m amazed you’ve prepared all this.” Her hand waved across the tray. A large plate held crisp strips of bacon and a mound of light, fluffy eggs. Another plate displayed a stack of perfectly shaped pancakes, topped by a pat of butter and a river of maple syrup. On a smaller plate a stack of golden brown toast resided, and, beside it, a little bowl of plum jelly.

  He shrugged. “One way or the other, I’ve been responsible for my own food for as long as I can remember.”

  She laughed softly. “I know, but do you really expect me to eat all of this?”

  “I’ll eat whatever you don’t.”

  She picked up a strip of bacon and bit off the end. “Ummm, just the way I like it.” She took another bite. “Tell me,” she said teasingly, “am I going to get this treatment every morning?”

  “Why not? As long as you’re pregnant, there’s no reason for you to drag yourself out of bed. You need to rest.”

  Last night, when he had said he was going to take care of her, he had meant more than providing a good home for her. She was intrigued. “And after I have the baby?”

  “It would still be better that you not cook, at least in the mornings.” His eyes darkened with emotion. “The baby will want to be fed.”

  Suddenly he took the tray off her lap, set it aside, then shifted closer to her. Pushing the black silk robe off one shoulder, he took the tip of her breast into his mouth and gently pulled at it. The unexpected action had Anna gasping for breath.

  When he finally raised his head, he said, “I can hardly wait to watch. My baby suckling on your nipple.”

  “Wesley … ”

  They both heard it at the same time. Someone was knocking at the front door. He made a face. “Be back in a minute.”

  He left the room, and she smiled to herself. They’d better finish eating breakfast in the kitchen, she decided, or they probably wouldn’t eat anything at all. She got off the bed, picked up the tray, and followed him out of the room. She’d only reached the top of the stairs when he looked up and saw her.

  “Put that tray down,” he ordered as he opened the front door. “It’s too damned heavy for you.”

  She shook her head with amusement but did as he said, placing the tray on a nearby table. “I don’t know how I’ve managed to take care of myself all this time.”

  He didn’t answer. He was on his way back up the stairs, reading the telegram that had just been delivered to him. As she watched, his face hardened savagely, and within seconds all traces had vanished of the man who had indulged and pampered her this morning.

  “Wesley, what’s wrong?”

  “That son of a bitch, Sloan Lassiter! This is from the president of the railroad, informing me that Sloan Lassiter is now the major shareholder, and has requested ‘that all future dealings with me be halted.’ ” He looked at her, and his eyes were like slivers of ice. “That means Sloan now has the power to cut me out of the railroad altogether. By God, he’s gone too far!”

  He brushed past her and hurried into the bedroom.

  She started after him but stumbled and had to pause to gather up the long hem of the robe. “Wait, what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to make him goddamned sorry he didn’t die with his brother at Turtle Rock.” He was back on the landing with her, buckling on his gun belt. “Stay in the house. Don’t go out for any reason.”

  “No, Wesley, wait. Don’t do this. You’ll get yourself killed!” She grabbed at his arm to stop him, but he jerked out of her grasp and ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  At the front door he turned and looked up at her. “Stay out of this, Anna. You don't understand. By doing this he’s taken everything I’ve worked so hard for from me.”

  He threw open the door.

  “Wesley!”

  He looked over his shoulder, then froze. Obviously intending to come after him, Anna put her foot out, then brought it down on the first step. But the long sash of the robe trailed to the floor, and her foot came down on the end. Watching in horror, he saw her lose her balance and pitch forward.

  Speed, his brain told him. But his muscles wouldn’t respond. As he tried to move, his legs felt like lead. Outstretched toward her, his arms felt as if they were carrying two hundred pounds.

  She was tumbling down the stairs, and the sound as her body struck each step made the hair on the back of his neck stand up and his blood turn to ice.

  Terror for Anna had chased everything from his mind but the pict
ure of her falling like a lifeless doll someone had hurled down the stairs.

  Why couldn't he get to her?

  Why couldn’t he stop her?

  Why were there so goddamned many steps and posts to batter and beat her?

  He made a diving lunge and caught her just as she hit the bottom step.

  Dear God, she was so still. Tenderly he brushed the hair away from her face and and saw that her eyes were closed and her skin was white.

  He held her. Tears streamed down his face.

  “Anna,” he whispered. “Anna.”

  * * *

  He couldn't get drunk.

  Wes had tried though. All through a hellishly long day and a worse night, he had tried. Alone in his study, drinking whiskey that hadn’t blunted the pain and fear, he had paced. There had been no sounds from upstairs, but he knew what was happening. It hadn’t taken the grave expression on the doctor’s face to tell him.

  Oh, Christ, she’d been so pale and still!

  He had killed their child.

  He recalled the agony that had twisted inside him when, hours after Anna’s fall down the stairs, the doctor had told him she had lost the baby.

  He had gone upstairs despite the doctor’s orders for him to stay out of the way, knocking on the door of his own bedroom, terrified to open it and go in because it was so quiet in there.

  “Wait downstairs, McCord,” the doctor had said brusquely after cracking the door.

  “My wife … ” He hadn’t recognized the sound of his own voice, and he hadn’t been able to see the bed because the angle was wrong. “The baby … ”

  The doctor had given him a sharp look, and his voice had slowed briefly to compassion. “I’m sorry, but I couldn't save the baby.”

  Wes had seen his hand come out and grasp the doorjamb. He had felt a painful constriction in his chest and a sick, icy fear. “Anna?”

  “I don’t know.” The doctor’s voice was brusque again. “Wait downstairs. I’ll tell you when I know anything.” The door had closed firmly.

  Shutting him out.