“Did I hit something?”
“The hay bale.”
Her eyes widened. “Really?” she squealed, letting go of the
gun. Nicholas held onto it as she jumped up.
“Hey!” he snapped. “Careful there! The gun’s loaded.”
“Yes, but Nicholas, I
hit
something!”
He chuckled as he laid the gun on the crate. “Yeah, O.K.,
you did.”
“I didn’t think I was ever going to,” she said turning to
him in delight.
He rose and grinned down at her. “Me neither.”
She grimaced. “I suppose I didn’t, really, did I? You were
the one who pulled the trigger.”
Still grinning, he shook his head. “Couldn’t have done it
without you, and that’s a fact. Reckon I just don’t have the strength all by my
lonesome.”
She gave his arm a little squeeze. “Oh, no, I ‘reckon’ you
do well enough.”
“Well maybe I have the muscles, but you sure got a way of
drainin’ ’em of strength.”
A ripple of sensual excitement passed over her own muscles.
“
You
have a way of drawing all the air from my lungs,” she said in a low
voice.
His face tensed. Desire crackled in his eyes before they
drifted down to rest upon her breasts.
“Seems to me you’re breathin’ just fine.”
She wasn’t, as he must certainly observe, for her breathing
was just shy of gasping. She stepped forward, shrinking the tiny space between
them.
“Would you like to discover if you can take my breath away
entirely?”
A battle fought in his eyes, as if he didn’t want to kiss
her, but could not resist. Then he lowered his head to hers, while placing his
hands on both sides of her face, the calluses of his palms raspy against her
chilled cheeks. His lips were rough, but his kiss chaste and gentle, slowly
warming her cold lips. His tongue slipped out to caress her bottom lip, and her
breath caught in her throat. She opened for him and he deepened the kiss,
plunging inside to touch, to taste, to titillate. Heat flashed through her
blood, vanquishing reason. She slipped her hands inside his jacket to run along
the rough cotton of his shirt, reveling in his tight, flat belly. A man, all
man; he smelled of leather and pine and gun smoke.
His self-control edged away, and he shifted closer, hips
tight against hers. His arousal pressed against the soft junction of her legs
and she started to tremble. Oh, she wanted to feel his bare skin under her
hands. She pulled at the buttons of his shirt, and then his long johns until
she could slide her hand inside, over the muscles of his chest, glorying in the
warmth of his skin and the silky hair gliding between her fingers. He gasped,
raised his head, and gripped her shoulders. “Oh hell,” he swore softly. He
buried his head in her hair, his breath warming her ear. “More. . .” he
whispered.
Her blood rushed through her veins, making her skin hot and
tender under the scratching of his whiskers. While his mouth coasted over her
ear and along the sensitive skin of her neck in tiny, flaming kisses, she
continued her investigation. Her palms passed over his nipples, causing him to
shudder, bringing her the same delicious reaction. Conscious thought
evaporated, replaced by a yearning for more, to explore the most male of all
parts, rigid and proud against her lower belly. She shifted her attentions
downward to pull at his belt.
He tensed. “No.”
No?
He dropped his hands and stepped back. Under his whiskers
and lightly tanned skin, his face was flushed, his eyes dark and glassy. “No,
ma’am,” he said shakily. “This is wrong.”
Her body was cold where his had been, but the area between
her legs was tickly and moist, begging for attention. Why, she thought foggily,
why had he moved away?
“I can’t do this,” Nicholas said. “I
won’t
do this.”
He was talking. He was thinking. How could he think?
And then she was thinking, too. They were outside. She could
feel the sun on her head. Clouds over them—in a clearing. A gun. They’d been
shooting.
“Why?” she asked, taking a step forward. She didn’t care
about shooting, she just wanted him to pull her back into his arms and kiss her
again.
“Why?” he asked, buttoning his shirt. Her eyes rested upon
the movements of his hands, then lower to where she saw that remarkable bulge
straining the fly of his pants. “Because it’s wrong,” he said. “That’s why. You
oughta know that.”
His tone was accusatory, but she didn’t care. She’d long
since come to terms with the hot, Montgomery blood flowing through her veins.
Modern-day doctors believed women to have little or no interest in passion, but
she was an exception. Montgomerys were born sexual creatures. “Why is it
wrong?”
Frowning at her, he pulled on his gloves. “For a whole slew
of reasons. Like we aren’t married, or even courting. Like your father—” He
stopped, shook his head and grabbed the rifle and bag. “Better head back now.”
“I think we should discuss this.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” Brushing by her, he strode
toward the path leading to the ranch house.
“I don’t agree,” she said, hastening to catch up to him. “I
think perhaps you misunderstand the situation. I’ve determined never to marry.
You know that, as does my family, and so you need have no fear of ruining me.”
She squeezed in next to him on the narrow path. “And yet, I see no reason why
my dedication to the cause ought to compel me into a lifetime of celibacy.”
“A lifetime of celibacy.” He stopped abruptly and frowned
down at her. “You mean this isn’t just me? You’ve done this with other men?”
“Yes. . . No. . . .” He appeared cross, while her whole body
still thrummed with hot, liquid craving. She must, must change his mind or risk
madness. “I only meant that you needn’t feel guilt, or fear repercussions. With
discretion we might indulge—”
“No,” he said and started walking again with quick angry strides.
She followed him. “But why?”
“Because it’s wrong, that’s why. Women ought not to behave
that way outside of marriage. Nobody’s forcing you to marry, but if you don’t,
well then you forfeit the rest. You live with the consequences of the choices
you make.”
“But
why
can’t I have both?”
“Because that’s the way it is.”
She bit her lip and searched for another tack. “All right,
what about those women in town?
You
aren’t married, but
you
still—get—them.”
He glowered down at her. “That’s different. And not
something you should talk about, either.”
She stiffened. “I shall talk about whatever I wish to talk
about.”
“Then you’ll be talkin’ to yourself.”
Drat. Stubborn, stubborn man! “Honestly Nicholas, this makes
not a particle of sense. You have the same needs that I do. Why can you not put
aside
my
morality and think of me like those other women?”
“Like a whore?” he snapped coming to another stop. “You want
me to treat you
that
way?”
She stopped too. His eyes glittered down at her with a
combination of barely-leashed lust and anger. “Why no, of course not,” she
reasoned. “There’s no
payment
involved, but no ties, either. Merely a
few hours of pleasure.” A muscle jumped in his cheek. She bit her lip and
added, “Or more. We aren’t leaving for almost a fortnight.”
“Or more,” he repeated. “While you’re living under my roof?”
“Naturally. That is precisely what it makes it all so
perfect.”
“With your parents sleeping only a few rooms away?” His
hands formed fists at this side.
“They don’t—”
“I won’t take advantage of a woman living under my roof.”
“But you
won’t
be taking advantage of me. I’ve spent
weeks attempting to persuade you of that. I am perfectly willing to be your
lover, Nicholas. You haven’t seduced
me
, this is
my
choice.”
He was breathing heavily, his eyes almost black with that
vibrating combination of desire and outrage. For a moment it seemed like his
whole body wavered, and she thought he might relent.
He’s a rancher
, she
told her pounding heart.
A cowboy. It isn’t as if he need follow Soci—
“No,” he cut off her thoughts. He turned on his heel and
started down the path again. She did a little jog to keep up with him. “It’s
the wrong choice.”
Her heart sank. She waited for him to explain. He remained
silent and the silence stretched into minutes. They were almost back to the
house.
“I think you ought to let me decide that, don’t you?” she
said at last.
They stepped out of the cottonwoods and into the yard. “Suit
yourself,” he growled. “Just find a different man. I’m not interested.”
Melinda opened the front door just as Nicholas’s words
turned into dynamite and blew apart weeks of dreams and fantasies.
***
“Supper in half an hour,” Melinda said, as they entered the
house. Nick returned her interest with a scowl, turning to lean his rifle
against the wall. “How did the lesson go?”
“Apparently I’m not naturally talented at shooting,” Star
answered.
Miz Montgomery,
Nick reminded himself sternly. It was Miz
Montgomery, always would be. It had to be, now, tomorrow, forever. “For which
the tin cans must surely be grateful,” Miz Montgomery added. In spite of her
attempt at mirth, her voice was low and hoarse. Almost like a woman shortly
after—
“Star not naturally talented?” Ward Montgomery asked from
the top of the stairs. “It’s not possible.”
Sonuvabitch, Nick thought, jaw clenching as he lay the bag
of bullets on the table next to the hat rack. All he needed to make this the
most uncomfortable situation of his life was to bring Ward into it. Guilt mixed
with the fire still burning in his veins, ending in a thick sludge in his
belly.
“Perhaps she merely needs practice,” Melinda offered, as
Ward descended the stairs.
Practice—he remembered her hands on him, teasing—
The last thing in the world Miz Montgomery needed was
practice.
It was the first thing his body wanted.
“I’m—I’m not certain that would make much of a difference,”
Miz Montgomery answered. Her voice was stilly raspy, and unusually hesitant.
He turned her way as she removed her coat. The lines of her
face, still pink from the cold, were tight. She met his gaze with a defiant
lift of her chin and bright, sparkling eyes. Not with her usual merriment, but
with unshed tears.
He sucked in his breath. Damn it, he hadn’t meant to hurt
her. What the hell kind of cad would do that to her?
“It’s been my experience that few activities do not improve
with practice,” Ward said.
The kind who would not betray a friend, a father. If Ward
knew the thoughts he had about his daughter—
What kind of woman would ask
that
of him?
The kind who thought shotguns and rabid cougars were exciting.
The wild kind.
He’s spent twenty years taming the West, but he still hadn’t
the smallest notion of how to tame a Boston Aristocrat.
“I’m prob’ly not the best teacher,” Nick said gruffly.
“You’ve done a fine job with Dickie,” Melinda said.
“It’s different with a woman. You oughta ask Jim,” Nick said
to Miz Montgomery, hanging his coat on the rack. She stepped forward at the
same time and her arm brushed against him. Desire flared like birch bark added
to a smoldering fire. He clenched his teeth.
She drew in her breath and then gradually exhaled. “I fear
that Jim would be of little help,” she answered in a tight voice.
He held her gaze as his skin itched with the need for more
contact, his body suddenly cold where she’d touched him earlier. Cold and lonesome
and yearning for more. Touches, caresses, kisses until they were both panting
and desperate. . . .
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Jim’s a fine shot.”
“Being good at something does not necessarily qualify one
for teaching,” she replied. “It has also been my experience that the best
learning comes when teacher and student are well-matched.”
She was near, too near, and he was starting to harden again,
his brain barely functioning due to the visions bursting in his mind’s eye: of
his mouth on her breasts, her hands on his staff, of her thighs parting and the
ecstasy on her face as he drove inside. . . .
Behind him, Melinda and Ward had fallen silent, waiting for
Nick’s reply. Every answer that came to mind vibrated with eroticism. The
seconds ticked into minutes, then hours and days and still no good response
came to him, just the increasing tension in his muscles—and down below.
He had to get out of here.
“Reckon so,” he finally answered.
“I have observed that also,” Ward said, “but I believe that
something can be learned from everyone, if one applies his or her mind to it.
Perhaps you’ll discover the truth in that as well, Star. Nick, I believe you
promised me a few hands of bridge before supper time?”
“Sure. Lookin’ forward to it. If you’ll give me a few
minutes to wash up?”
“I’ll meet you in the parlor.”
Nick nodded, and then strode swiftly across the room and up
the stairs, without a backward glance at Star and her damnable tongue.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Michael Angelo
Shakespeare, King John III
The acrid smell of coal smoke floated under Star’s nose. The
hiss of steam from the train behind them filled her ears as she watched
Nicholas taking his leave of her parents. While her heart sat heavy as stone in
her chest, passengers bustled around them, eager to board the train to Denver.
I
won’t cry
, a voice in her brain said over and over again.
He is only a
man, only of passing physical interest. He’s not worth weeping over.