“Everybody—the servants, my father, Nacia—wept and wailed as if I had died,” he said.
Wrapped in one of her secret little silences, Katherine glanced at him. Since the morning he’d awakened in the de Casillas bedroom, she’d been restrained and quiet. Nacia told him about Katherine’s devotion, and he’d put her peculiar quiet down to weariness. Now he wondered.
Using his querulous invalid voice, he demanded, “Come here.”
On a cloud of powder and soap, she came to the bedside. Her hands smoothed his brow. He didn’t even think she knew she had done it, but it gave him hope. “Lie down on the bed with me.”
“What?”
“Come on, come on.” He waved his hand at her. “You rode half the morning. You were in charge of getting me carried up the stairs. You bathed me and put me in my nightshirt. You got rid of the soggy servants. Take off your shoes and lie down. You’re tired.”
She stared at him as if he’d gone mad.
“Don’t you think I can tell if you’re tired? Take off the dress, too. I need a nap. So do you.”
“You’d sleep better alone,” she said gently.
“That just proves you’re not always right. Turn around and let me unbutton you.” He shoved at her. “What happened to your riding habit?”
“My riding habit?” She sounded amazed, and she turned obediently. “What riding habit?”
“The royal blue one. The one you wore to become a heroine.”
“It’s in a bag somewhere.” She shrugged under his hands. “I thought I’d burn it after I showed it to your father.”
“The state of it should shock him. The next riding habit he gives you will be made of iron.” He patted the bare skin above her chemise. “Don’t burn it. I’ll save it to show our grandchildren, to prove what an extraordinary woman their abuela is.”
She didn’t say a word about that. She dragged the new dress off her shoulders and kicked off her shoes. He examined her remaining clothes. The chemise, the corset, the petticoats, the stockings. “You’ll never be comfortable in all that.” He snagged his fingers in her corset strings as she tried to move away. “I’ll loosen your corset, you put on your nightgown.”
“Don Damian, it’s just after noon.”
“What better time to take a siesta? If it were nightfall, we’d be going to sleep. Hurry up. I’m getting cranky.”
Turning, she watched him thoughtfully. “You do a lot of that when you don’t get your own way.”
He widened his eyes.
Removing her nightgown from a chest of drawers, she moved behind the screen and he heaved a silent sigh of relief. Katherine was too clever. Now that her shock and distress had eased, he had to move fast. Settling himself on the pillows in an artistic pose of suffering, he closed his eyes and waited.
In his mind, he imagined her every move.
She was taking off her clothes and hanging them neatly on the pegs. She was donning the soft cotton gown, her arms outstretched as she put first one, then the other in the long sleeves. It slithered around her breasts, her waist, her legs. . . .
He clenched his fists, fighting down a groan. Playing sick was more difficult than he’d thought.
She was fastening the long row of buttons from the floor-length hem to the collar; she was walking to the bed, lifting the sheet, snuggling close to him. She should be with him by now. She’d had sufficient time to change. Hearing the soft rustle as she moved past him, his suspicions crystalized into certainty and he barked, “Get in here.” Opening his eyes, he lifted the covers. “Get in. You don’t need to sleep in a chair anymore.”
Her guilty look betrayed her. He tried to appear both stern and irascible, and apparently he succeeded. With suitable meekness, she climbed into bed, making soft noises about not hurting him.
He tried to avoid looking at her, all prim in her nightgown. For a man who’d faced death not two months before, the sight of her proved magnificently invigorating. He didn’t want her to know yet. He’d been languishing in a mixture of infirmity and desire for too long to spoil his plan at this late date. She tucked her feet inside the gown to keep from touching his bare legs, and he ordered, “Lie here on my shoulder, where I can hold you.”
“Your wound—”
“That’s true.” Stroking his chin, he suggested, “Climb over me and sleep against the wall.”
“If you need something—”
“I won’t.”
Her shift over the top of him wasn’t nearly as tidy as she would have liked. He could tell by the squeak of dismay when her knee touched down between his legs, by the way she gathered the sheet close to her neck. He gathered her against him in a grasp that belied his supposed weakness, but he was past the point of caution. “Your hair’s all fastened up.” Attacking her pins, he pulled them out with ungentle hands.
“Ouch. That hurts.” She swatted at him. “I’ll have a mess. It’s still damp from my bath.”
“So?” He dropped the handful of hairpins beside the bed. “Mine’s still dam p from my bath, too, but I’m not complaining.”
“It’ll take me forever to comb it out.”
“Go to sleep. You’ll need it.” He wondered if the threat had carried too plainly into his voice, but he didn’t move again, seeking slumber greedily as a bolster against later weariness.
As the afternoon reached its zenith, that moment when the sun shone brightest before it began to dip towards evening, his inner clock woke him. His fingers prickled; Katherine still slept, tucked onto his shoulder. He liked it; he absorbed the closeness, satisfied with it for the moment. That moment wouldn’t last long, he knew, but he’d learned to treasure every bit of happiness as it came his way. Flexing his hand to bring the circulation back, he eased her head onto the pillows and faced her.
As she had predicted, her hair was a mess. An erotic, tousled mess.
He loved it. He loved her.
There was unfinished business in this bedroom. Not merely the unfinished physical business, but the unfound solutions to their disagreements. Damian was a wiser man than he’d been before; where before he’d made love to Katherine to stir her desire and satisfy his own, now he made love to Katherine to bind her to him. With this woman, he needed every advantage, no matter how unfair. A little smile crept over his face.
If he found rapture in this curbing, so much the better.
Like thieves, his fingers wisked down her buttons and stole her covering. The buttons close to her feet proved to be the most difficult; his eyes were occupied by the glories above, and he fumbled. This wasn’t the return of his illness, only proof that his memory could never replace the reality of Katherine.
The bruises and scrapes of their adventure had healed. Only here, on her knee, and there, on her ankle, were faint pink reminders of pain. The skin of her fingertips were no longer ragged from her struggle with rock and rope, but callouses still marred her palms. He kissed each mark in homage.
Damn, the woman had long legs. Muscular, too. The type that could wrap themselves around a man and never let him go.
Once, he’d promised her heaven.
From her ankle, his hand skidded to her thigh, then her waist. Strands of her long, blond hair tangled around her hip; he pushed them aside. He dipped his tongue in her navel, and the act that it symbolized crystalized in his mind.
He whispered soft curse words against her skirt as he fought to maintain his sense of balance. He’d schemed for this moment. He’d imagined every variation possible. But in every version, Katherine had been mindless with pleasure. Mindless, overcome, and less than her sensible self. In no version had he had to fight for his own control, but he should have suspected it. Had there ever been a time when he hadn’t desired her? Perhaps before he’d known her—even then he’d known she was out there, somewhere.
Mindless? He could make her mindless, but was she ready for novelty? Waves of temptation swept him. His lids drooped as he remembered her surprise in her own erotic savagery. The pleasure he found in he
r overwhelmed him, and deliberately he followed her lure. His freshly shaved cheek glided down.
He explored every curve of her, relished every flavor, used all his skill to arouse her fledgling hunger. This was Katherine.
Rising to rest on the pillows close against her, he smoothed the ridge of her nose, the ridge of her eyebrows. He waited until she opened her eyes.
“You are the most magnificent woman in the world.” He said it as if he meant it.
“I don’t feel like that,” she whispered. “I can’t imagine why you would think so.”
“That’s not the right answer,” he reproved. “You’re to tell me I’m the most magnificent man in the world.”
“You’re the most magnificent man in the world,” she repeated obediently.
“Who would the most magnificent man in the world pick as his mate?”
Eventually she suggested, “The most magnificent woman in the world?”
“That’s correct, mi vida. Now close your eyes and let me kiss you.”
It was easy to let her eyes glide shut, easy to let him sample her mouth.
“You’re mine.” He held her head in his hands. “Forever mine.”
She didn’t answer, only stared at him with her heart in her eyes.
Still, the unspoken feelings of her heart weren’t enough for him. His hands dropped away and he sighed.
“This is too much for you,” she said, struggling from her lethargy.
He couldn’t allow that. Wetting his finger in his mouth, he smoothed the rim of ear. “Such erotic little shells,” he murmured. “You like that, don’t you?”
She shuddered at the chill his touch created, her breasts tightening. Her gaze dropped to her chest; she seemed to be aware of her near nudity for the first time. Tweaking her buttons back into their holes, she scolded, “You must go back to sleep.”
“Sleep?” His laugher hiccuped from him. “I’m afraid that’s quite impossible.” He took her hand and wrapped it around him. She jumped as if she’d been burned, stammering, “Oh.”
“Oh?” he teased, all confidence and amusement. “Is that the best you can do? What about, ‘let me help you take care of that’? Or ‘lie still, darling, and I’ll do the work’?”
“You’re in no condition to do anything.” Caution and curiosity fought a battle; curiosity won. “What do you mean, I can do the work?”
He settled himself against the pillows, trying to look tired, but not too tired. Ill, but not too ill. “I need support for my head,” he complained.
Leaning over him, she adjusted the pillows. Her breasts, barely covered, swung against his chest. He wanted to cup one in his hand, but instead, he asked, “Could you help me take off my nightshirt?”
She sat back a little, but he kept his gaze fixed on her lips. “I feel like half a man. I have this—” she wrestled him a little when he brought her hand to him again, but he won the skirmish “—but I can’t do what my body wants me to. If you could help me . . .”
A frown puckered her forehead.
“Only if you still feel like it,” he added faintly. Would she take the bait? The bait of pleasure for his sake? His backup plans were endless, but the longer they waited, the stronger she would be. He wanted to exhaust her with passion, relax her with love.
She helped him to sit up, lifted his nightshirt over his head. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
Absently, her hands stroked him and he braced himself against his surge. If she’d looked into his face at that moment, she’d have known . . . but she didn’t.
She stared out the window as if she could distance herself from her act. “It’s just I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“Your buttons are crooked.”
“What?” Her gaze flew back to his.
Sweeping her conservative neckline, the tip of his finger just brushing her skin, he repeated, “Your buttons. They aren’t in the right buttonholes.”
She didn’t want to change them. He could see that. But her clumsy fingers unbuttoned the buttons—all the buttons. She glanced at him when they were open, and he shook his head. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“You know what I mean.” His hands met hers. “There can be nothing between us. There’s no shame in this. We’re married.”
“Not according to the Church.”
“Even if we never go before a priest and speak our holy vows, we will be married. Even if we’d never stood before the alcalde and repeated our civil vows, we would be married. Our marriage is of two souls, two bodies.” With a gentle care, he eased her towards him. “Watch. Watch as we fit together.”
Her nipples touched first, nestling into the hair that covered his muscles. Her breasts flattened. Their two bodies connected as they pressed together, from the stitching of his bandage to their bare stomachs, their bare chests.
His hand cupped her face, lifted it to his. Their lips almost touched; their eyes locked. “Por favor, mi mujer. I die for you.” He pushed her nightgown off her shoulders; she let it drop off her hands.
“Tell me if I hurt you,” she whispered.
“Tell me if I excite you,” he whispered back. “Tell me of every feeling. I want to hear.”
Tanned skin and light skin. Tough muscles and soft curves. The contrasts occupied her as he moved surely to his goal.
All her shyness melted in the heat of the afternoon, the heat of his gaze, the heat of his enthusiasm. “I’ve never seen another woman as wonderful as you. I’ve never felt a woman . . .” He closed his eyes as if her ecstasy was his.
She put one palm flat on his stomach.
He opened his eyes and stared into hers. “Who taught you to tease?”
She tried to speak, but she could only whisper. “You did.”
“It’s all right, then.” He halted, the effort of coherence too much for him. “I’ve never felt a woman as wonderful as you. Did I say that already?”
“You tried.” She moved closer to him. “Oh, Damian, I wish I knew what to do, how to please you.”
“I’m losing my eloquence.” His laughter rippled, hoarse and deep. “I’m losing my mind. I want to feel you in another way. Please, Katherine.”
He brought her close, and her hands grasped his shoulders for support. Deftly, he caught one breast in his mouth. She waited for directions, waited in suspense, and he murmured against her skin, “Surprise me.”
Chapter 25
Katherine tucked her cheek tighter into the curve of Damian’s shoulder and stared out the window.
This was Damian, the man she loved. That would never change, could never change. But that rush of euphoria she’d experienced up on the mountain had changed. Now when she thought of loving him, a pain sank its claws into her.
Any other woman would have understood her emotion sooner; her own good sense had denied her that knowledge. Good sense said that two such unlikely people could never form a functioning union. Good sense was undoubtedly wrong.
She loved him. He loved her. Life was perfect. Except for the fear that tightened in her belly whenever she remembered how fever and infection had overwhelmed his defenses. Death would put no better mask on him than it had on Tobias or on her mother.
She’d loved them, too. Tobias she’d loved with the wholehearted gratitude of a prison escapee for her partner in crime. Her mother she’d loved with the devotion of a daughter. They were both dead, and when they’d gone they’d ripped her soul into bits. She’d put herself together again, but her soul wasn’t whole. Some parts of her soul she’d never found again. Some parts wouldn’t fit back in.
Now she loved a man who had the ability to destroy her. Julio was right, she knew. Everything he’d said on the mountain was right. She was better for having Damian. Still she held a tiny shield between them, protecting herself just in case . . . just in case he fell from his horse or was killed by a lightning bolt or caught pneumonia or . . . died of old age at her side.
“Katherine.” His voice was a bass rumble under her ear.
“For a woman who’s clinging to me in a most intimate manner, you’re remarkably stiff.”
“Am I hurting your side?” she asked, but she didn’t stir.
“Not at all. It’s almost healed, which is more than I can say for us.” He rolled over and she rolled with him, landing on her back on the sheets, the pillows skittering away.
Like a procrastinating child, she stayed close to him, hoping to avoid the confrontation she knew was coming. He peeled her away, forcing her head back with his hands on her hair. “Katherine, do you really believe that I would marry you for what you can do for me? I can say with all honesty that such mercenary scheming never crossed my mind.”
His eyes pierced hers and she blinked away the shame that rose in her. “I should never have believed Smith. That was foolish of me, and I can only offer my agitated state of mind as an excuse.”
“Are you sure he didn’t echo your own suspicions?” he asked shrewdly.
She stirred against him, and he flung a leg across her to keep her in place. “The heart of the matter,” he marveled.
“I could never understand why you wanted to marry me.” Her hands clenched in fists at his shoulders. “When Smith said you’d married me because I could help you keep your land, it seemed such a good idea, so sensible.”
“Was perhaps something you wanted to believe? You have let your family have too much influence over you. You believe them when they say you have no worth.”
“I don’t!” She bit her lip. Her very vehemence betrayed her.
“Yet any man would be privileged to marry you. Why do you think I laid claim to you so quickly?”
“You said it was to protect me from harm,” she pointed out.
He shifted under the prod of culpability. “That’s true, but not entirely. If I hadn’t, every other hidalgo in California would have been around you.” His indignation at the thought showed in the flare of his nostrils, the straightening of his shoulders. “I have saved myself many duels.”
“That’s sensible,” she approved.
She was laughing at him. A self-conscious smile crooked his mouth, and he pinched her ear lightly. “You’d do well with a little conceit—but not too much.”
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