A Promise of Roses (7 page)

"I sure do miss them,” she said, trying to sound forlorn. “Why, do you know that I was the first woman
Dougie
and Tommy had ever been with? That's something you don't forget. And Frank, well, he was wild.
Even more passionate than Evan."

"You let them pass you around, huh?” Lucas
asked,
his voice full of derision.

"Of course not.
I told you, I was in charge. I picked who I wanted to be with and when."

"Where did you stash the payrolls?"

She shrugged a shoulder and plucked at a loose thread in the bedspread. “You don't really think I'm going to tell, do you?"

He pushed to his feet and started unbuckling his gun belt. “You seemed eager enough to cut Evan in on your little plan.” He dropped the leather and Colts to the floor. “I'll bet if I tickled you in just the right spot, you'd tell me where the money is."

For the first time since she'd come up with the absurd idea of confessing to a crime she hadn't committed, Megan felt a tug of apprehension. She watched as Lucas started slipping the buttons of his shirt through their holes.

"No. No.” Her voice squeaked. “I wouldn't tell you a thing."

The shirt fell away from his bronze skin in a puff of white. His fingers moved to the top button of his trousers, and Megan truly began to panic.

"Don't you dare,” she said. “You're a lawman. You can't become involved with a prisoner."

"I don't wear a badge. I'm just doing a favor for a friend, remember? He didn't say anything about keeping my hands off."

"Well, I'm saying it. Keep your hands off."

He laughed, long and deep. “You don't have a choice in the matter."

Megan pulled the quilt up to her neck and scooted back against the headboard. Lucas came to the side of the bed, his pants completely unbuttoned now.

"Come on, honey. It's not like you haven't done this before.” He grabbed a corner of the spread and gave it a little tug.

She tried to get the quilt away from him, but his grip only tightened. The more she fought, the harder he yanked. Megan had to either let him pull her close or abandon the blanket altogether. And somehow she didn't think running around the room naked would raise her odds any.

With one strong tug, he brought her flush against his body. The bedspread suddenly seemed terribly thin, for she could feel the heat from his skin burning her own. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed to disappear.

His warm breath on her cheek alerted her to the nearness of his mouth. Then she felt his lips brushing hers. At the soft touch, some of her fear fled on a breathy sigh. The tip of his tongue darted between her slightly open lips and began a slow exploration of her mouth. He took his time, kissing her fully, sliding a hand inside the blanket to cup one breast.

She moaned and instinctively pressed upward to allow his callused hand better access to the sensitive flesh. He kneaded the mound, flicked the pebbled nub with his thumb. When he released her mouth, she gulped for air, struggling to regain her equilibrium. But what sanity she had left disappeared the minute his tongue circled her nipple. She gasped, let go of the bedspread, and ran her hands over his back, twisting her fingers in his hair.

He moved to her other breast, giving it equal treatment. Then his hands slid over her dampened skin, enticing her every nerve ending to the surface until her body became an exquisite conductor of his lightest touch.

He broke away and lifted his head to meet her eyes. Megan dug her nails into his shoulders, silently begging him to continue his bewitching ministrations.

"Where's the money?” His chest heaved; his voice rasped.

She shook her head, unwilling to let anything tear away the web of pleasure he'd spun around her.

He kissed her again, hard and demanding, letting his weight push her into the mattress. She could feel his arousal pressing against her thigh.

"Tell me."

"I don't know,” she said, only half aware of what he was asking.

"Tell me where you stashed the money, Megan."

"I don't know."

"You do. Tell me."

"I lied.” She closed her eyes, letting her arms fall to her sides. “I don't know where the money is. I wasn't in on it. I lied."

Lucas stared down at Megan a moment longer,
then
shoved himself up from the bed. He
rebuttoned
his trousers and moved back to the chair, picking up the gun belt to rest it on his thigh.

Damn, but he'd almost lost control. A second longer and he would have forsaken everything to be buried inside her. He swore and reached for his shirt, just about ripping it in his haste to get it on.

His gaze returned to Megan. He watched her chest rise and fall as she tried to calm her breathing. It didn't matter how many other men she'd spread her legs for. She was right. He was playing the role of a lawman, and as such he had no right to have intimate contact with her. Even if her dark eyes and firm breasts seemed to call to him. Even if he couldn't be within ten feet of her without remembering that he hadn't been with a woman since Annie's death.

Five years.
Five long, celibate years.
Damn, those years were taking their toll now.

He ran a hand through his hair, vaguely registering its new shortness. He stood and took a step toward the bed, only to see Megan grab the spread, wrap it around her body, and shrink into the pillows.

A knock sounded at the door. He gave a weary sigh, buttoning his shirt before going to answer it. He opened the door only a crack, using his body to shield Megan's blanket-covered form.

"Got your packages here, Mr. Campbell."

Lucas held the door in place with his foot and took the paper-wrapped bundles. “Thank you."

"The dinners will be up as soon as possible, sir. Should I send someone to retrieve the bath?"

Lucas nodded. “That would be fine,” he said before closing the door. Then he lifted the ivory-handled knife out of his boot and cut the thin strings binding the packages.

"Here.” He pulled back the paper for Megan to see her new skirts and blouses, tossing them onto the bed. “Everything you need should be there."

Megan sat up and peered over the edge of paper. “These are all for me?” she asked softly.

"I'm wearing my new clothes,” he said, holding up his arms and looking down at the now-wrinkled cotton shirt. “The lady over at the mercantile didn't seem to think you could get along with anything less.” He shrugged. “I don't know much about women's clothing, so I let her decide what I should purchase."

She looked up at him. Her eyes held a trace of moisture, and Lucas felt decidedly uncomfortable.

"Thank you."

"Whatever,” he said gruffly. “Better get dressed before they come for the tub."

She gave a little smile, grabbed the packages, and ran behind the satin and mahogany dressing screen, the long quilt trailing behind her.

Within minutes, several young men came to remove the porcelain bathtub. Lucas took a seat in a brocade chair near the window and let them do their job. A moment later, the maid bustled in, giving orders to an older black man who carried a small square table. He set the table where the maid told him, covered it with a pristine white lace cloth, and arranged the flatware and a vase of fresh-cut flowers.

The woman clicked her tongue and waved the man out of the way. She brought in two plates heaped with boiled potatoes, green beans, and thick, blackened steaks, then gave a wink and backed out of the room.

Lucas chuckled at the maid's motherly manner. He looked at the bouquet in the center of the table, then at its reflection in the mirror above the bureau. A movement caught his eye, and his breathing all but stopped.

In the mirror, he could clearly see Megan behind the screen. She seemed unaware of her nudity, comfortable and relaxed. She'd laid out all the different pieces of clothing, studying each. Lucas watched, mesmerized. He couldn't have looked away if a thousand-pound bull had charged him head-on.

She picked up the yellow skirt and held it to her waist, then set it down. She stepped into a pair of silk drawers that shimmered in the bright lamplight, tying them at the waist. Then she slipped the matching camisole over her head.

Lucas thought he would be disappointed to see her finely proportioned figure covered, but the white of the undergarments only accentuated the paleness of her flesh, drawing his attention to the length of her shapely legs.

She put on the ruffled blouse, leaving it open at the neck. Lucas expected her to don the yellow skirt she'd picked up earlier, but instead she chose the red. And he'd been right. The color set off the auburn highlights in her hair.

As she piled the rest of the unworn clothing together, he noticed that she had opted not to wear the corset. For some reason, that pleased him. She rolled the sheer silk stockings into a ball and set them aside, along with the garters.

Lucas sat up straighter when she came around the dressing screen and into view. He cleared his throat. “Does everything fit properly?” he asked.

"Fine, thank you.” She tugged at the skirt, as if wearing feminine attire were alien to her. “You shouldn't have gone to so much trouble."

"You needed something to wear while your other clothes are being laundered."

"Still, two skirts, two blouses.” Her cheeks turned an attractive shade of pink.
“And the other things.
It's too much."

He got up, dragging the second armchair to the table, setting it opposite his own. “Sit down,” he said. “Your dinner's getting cold."

She came forward and sat, sweeping the skirt aside to fold one leg beneath her. Lucas saw a bare foot sticking out and smiled.

"I don't think two changes of clothes are too much if you can wear them,” he said, returning to their earlier conversation.

"That's just it,” she said. “I probably won't wear them once I get my old clothes back."

"You don't like dressing like a lady?"

She shifted in the chair, cutting through the crisp crust of her steak. “It's not very practical to wear expensive gowns while trying to run a business. Layers of petticoats tend to get in the way."

"So you choose to wear men's clothes."

Megan swallowed before answering. “I didn't used to. My mother would have swooned if I'd dared to wear trousers. But Mother is in
New York
, and I have to keep the Express afloat. You get more respect from people—especially men—if you face them on their terms. Do you really think my drivers would pay a whit of attention to me if I was wearing a frilly, lacy gown and fanning myself? No. They would humor me and then go behind my back to Caleb."

"Your brother?"

"Yes. But he doesn't own the Adams Express. I do. Papa left it to me in his will."

"Did your father always want you to take over for him?"

Megan laughed and speared a chunk of potato.
“Hardly.
At first he fought it tooth and nail. I started by working on the books at home, keeping all the figures straight. After a while, it seemed second nature for me to be in the depot. Caleb didn't really want the business, anyway. He tried to get involved to make Papa happy, but it wasn't in his blood. Cattle ranching suits him better, I think."

She looked up and met Lucas's gaze over the rim of his glass. “Did Annie always wear dresses?”
Good
Lord, where had that
come from?

The same thought must have gone through his mind, for he choked a bit before managing to swallow his mouthful of wine.

"Did she?” Megan asked again.

"Do you always blurt out whatever comes into your head? Or do you just enjoy probing people's personal lives?"

"I didn't think it was such a difficult question. It could be answered with a simple yes or no."

"Until the next question, of course, which I'm sure you'd fire off within seconds."

She pursed her lips. “My mouth has always run a bit rampant. I don't seem to be able to help myself. I think most people have a sort of sieve in their brains that keeps them from saying things they shouldn't. My sieve is broken, I believe."

Lucas broke into laughter.

"It's not funny. Truly, it's caused me nothing but trouble. I should probably see a doctor. Maybe there would be something about it in his medical books."

"You think he could look up a cure for a broken strainer in your head?” he asked, still chuckling.

"Not a strainer,” she corrected.
“A sieve."

That caused Lucas to clutch his belly in amusement. He all but doubled over and fell to the floor.

"Well, don't think of it as a sieve, then. How about a door? Yes, that's better. Most people have a door in their mind that closes and keeps them from blurting out foolish things. My hinges must need greasing, because the door has ceased to swing shut."

In silent, helpless mirth, Lucas slapped a hand on the table, causing the silverware to jump and jingle.

Megan sat back, crossing her arms in front of her chest in vexation. What had come over him? She didn't find a brain disorder at all humorous.

When his booming guffaws subsided to
hiccuping
chuckles, Megan focused once again on her meal. The outside of the thick steak looked burned, but the inside was pink and tender. She popped a bite into her mouth and stoically ignored the arrogant man sitting across from her, chuckling now and again.

Long minutes passed, and they had all but cleared their plates before he said, “Always."

She raised her eyes and stared at him. “Excuse me?"

"Annie always wore dresses,” he clarified.

"Oh.” Megan had almost forgotten that she'd asked. “She must have been a real lady."

"She was. I don't remember her ever looking mussed or tired. Even after a full day of backbreaking work."

Megan's fingers tightened around her fork. She didn't know why it should matter, but she suddenly felt like a scruffy waif overshadowed by the beautiful, always proper Annie McCain. Then a stab of guilt hit her
midgut
. Good God, how could she possibly feel inadequate compared to a dead woman?

But then, Annie had evidently been so wonderful.
Beautiful, gracious, soft-spoken, kind.
She'd won Lucas's heart and borne him a son. Megan had thus far called him every vile name she could think of and slowed him down in his race for vengeance. Oh, yes, comparisons were called for. And clearly, compared to Megan, Annie McCain was like a sparkling new yellow-fringed surrey parked next to a pile of horse manure.

Megan waved a hand in front of her face, suffering the sudden, overwhelming sense that flies were buzzing around her head.

"It's too bad you're stuck with me,” she said, a hint of bitterness entering her tone. “I'm sure you'd rather pass the time with a lady."

"And you aren't?"

"Do I look like a lady to you?"

"That depends. If I were to judge by your clothes, I'd have to say that the outfit you're wearing is plenty pretty. The skirt brings out the red in your hair and the sparkle in your eyes. But then, it is a mite less extravagant than what most ‘ladies’ would wear. And your trousers—no lady would be seen in them."

"There you have it,” Megan said grimly, draining her goblet of wine.

"Of course,” Lucas continued, “anyone with an ounce of sense would know you're a lady just by the way you carry yourself."

His words caught her attention. She glanced up. His eyes shone like sapphires, deep and fathomless.

"Your spine is always ramrod straight. Even now, with one leg tucked underneath you, you're not touching the back of the chair. You hold your head high and look people in the eye when you address them—whether it's with polite words or foul names."

She had the courtesy to blush at the mention of her rude language.

"And I happen to know you were brought up to be the most proper of ladies, living in New York City until you were sixteen."

"How do you know so much about me?"

"Brandt Donovan filled me in. I don't like surprises.” He waited a moment,
then
continued. “Maybe it's the West that tarnished your image a bit. Made you thicken your skin to protect yourself. Wearing trousers ensures that you're taken seriously as owner and operator of the Adams Express. I'll bet it also protects you from the attentions of certain men."

"What men would those be?” she asked sardonically.

"The ones who would be pounding down your door if they ever saw you cinched up in a proper gown."

"
Hmph
."

"You don't believe me?"

"No one's come knocking at my door for some time now."

"How about Evan and the boys?"

"I told you that was all a lie. I made it up to convince you that the idea of me being involved in the robberies was ridiculous. Unfortunately, it failed."

"Miserably"

"Yes."

"So tell me about the men in your life.
Other than ‘the boys’ that is."

"No."

"No?"

She shook her head. “There are none to tell you about."

"You mean to tell me that no one, not a single man, has called on you? Even before you stopped wearing dresses?” He sounded almost incredulous.