Susan Johnson (57 page)

Her heart began a tremulous beating rhythm of hope, but wary still of Trey’s past, his child-of-fortune mentality capricious in its wanting but never for long. “I know the feeling,” she said, “with Valerie, with Arabella, with Clothilde at LeNotre’s tonight … with all of them,” she finished in a subdued murmur.

His head came up like a wolf scenting the wind, and the power, the energy so characteristic and enviable, was plain to see. He was sure, at least, of his own feelings, and her words were like a freshening wind to an alert animal, sweet with promise, fragrant with hope, the answer he’d been searching for. She saw him take a deep, controlled breath. “Could you give up”—he paused, and she saw, as he stepped closer, the merest shadow of the teasing smile he used so effectively—“the harem?”

“If you were less cynical, you would have believed me before.” Her small smile was the half-tempting, playful one he loved best. “There have not been other men.”

“The Duc,” he reminded her, his scowl reappearing.

“My answer to your good-bye last night … and pale-haired Clothilde at LeNotre’s,” she jealously reminded him.

“She wasn’t you,” he said very simply, “so I jumped out of her carriage halfway to her house and took a cab here.”

He had come for her. Finally. When she had given up hope completely. Even if all her dreams didn’t come true in this world, at least the most important one had—he was here. “Is this love?” She said the word first, less afraid than he to admit to her feelings, daring to hope, even though his scowl was not completely erased.

His scowl disappeared, and his eyes took on a tenderness she could imagine his mother had seen when he was very young. “If it isn’t, I wouldn’t wish this appalling misery on anyone,” he said with a humility she had never heard from him.

“Do you want your son?” she asked. After all the unanswered questions concerning Trey and babies and paternity, she had to know if his wanting Max was based on contentious possession or genuine affection. She had seen his charm used
too effortlessly to be certain when it was sincere, and her maternal feelings were as intense as those she felt for Trey.

“Almost as much as I want you,” he answered, his heart in his eyes, then he amended, trying to properly convey his feelings, “the same as I want you—oh, hell … no, it’s different, but the same,” he finished softly, shaking his head slightly and reaching out his hand to brush her cheek gently. “I want you both … want you desperately.” He took a deep breath, this favored young man who had never lacked for anything until he’d met Empress, and very quietly asked, “Will you have me?”

“Now?” The lighthearted teasing of victory shone in her fresh green eyes and wreathed her face in happiness.

His luminous glance took in the furniture arrangement, noted a suitable couch, and with an answering smile of jubilation he replied, “Now would be extremely convenient.”

“I warn you, I am so in love, I may fall into pieces before the overwhelming torrent.…”

“In that case I should lock the door,” he said, his smile lavish. “This could get excessive.” But he was earnest beneath the teasing, wanting to hold her in his arms for a thousand and one years and beyond. She was a courtly lady tonight in her beribboned and lace-trimmed glistening silk with jewels in her ears and at her throat and the fragrance of de Vec’s roses taking second place to her own sweet perfume. But he loved her as much in worn cowboy gear or in nothing at all, and he said it silently to himself in quiet wonder,
She loves me.

“Will you give up your harem as well?” Empress asked softly, following him as he moved to the door and secured it. With her usual unreserved directness she wanted certification and only one answer. An experienced man, Trey knew what she wished to hear, but this time, unlike all the soothing phrases in his past, it was true. He turned back to her, his pale, silvery eyes the color of moonlight, his stark cheekbones crinkled across the top from the smile lifting his fine mouth.

He was as beautiful as sin, she thought, Still. Always.

He opened his arms and she rushed into his embrace, lacing her hands around his waist, clinging tightly. Looking up at him, she said tenaciously, “Now tell me,” wanting to feel safe, wanting his undying love like a young girl.

“There is no harem,” he said, his rich, deep voice gentle. “It’s been gone a long time.”

“You still smell of ambergris.” There was a touch of distrust and suspicion in her green eyes. She knew what ambergris was used for … to heighten sensuality, to make sensations more vivid.

“It’s a toy,” he replied dismissively, his hands warm on the magenta silk of her back. “The ladies love it. It makes them feel wicked—it’s nothing.” Ambergris was always available at the parties for the daring ladies and venturesome men. And opium, too, for those searching more serious escape. He always politely declined the opium.

“What do you
do
with the wicked ladies?” Empress persisted, jealous of every woman who looked his way.

He shrugged and wished he could make her understand how none of them mattered. “We laugh a little,” he said mildly, “then—nothing. Someone says something silly, and everyone laughs again. Sweetheart, you know how banal this frivolous life is. But from now on,” he said, taking her face in both his hands, “you’re my ambergris.” He buried his nose in her scented hair, inhaling deeply, and murmured, “You’re my ambergris … my intoxicant … my aphrodisiac.” Lifting his head slightly, he rubbed his face against hers, sliding his cheek over the smoothness of her skin, his fine, straight nose tracing the curve of her jaw. He inhaled again. “You’re my opium dream come true.” And he kissed her very hard.

Even while she felt the warmth of his lips, tasted the sweet flavor of the cognac, and felt the exquisite flutters begin when the delicacy of his kiss changed swiftly to a luscious intensity that was the familiar, impatient passion she adored, she wondered in a tiny corner of her brain whether he’d kissed Clothilde this way tonight. Why did it matter about the women now? Still, why did she have to know when everything she wanted in the world was in her arms? Wouldn’t it be more sensible
not
to know? But she wasn’t sensible and never had been, so she wanted more clarification than a casual disclaimer about the women in his life. So when she drifted back from the sighing wonder of his kiss and Trey was tracing the gentle curve of her eyebrow with his tongue, she said in a determined way, “Trey, I want to know about the … 
wicked ladies.” Her voice was serious, and he knew what she was asking.

There was no teasing now in his voice, but a quiet graveness that reminded her of his tone when he spoke of the battles in the legislature. “I have been celibate,” he said softly. “Word of honor, strange as it may seem. Which might,” he added by way of apology, “account for my unfortunate behavior last night. I’m sorry,” he said in low tones, “if I hurt you, although,” he amended, “you’re partly to blame, too, goading me with all those drooling males forever around you.”

“You’re jealous,” Empress said joyfully, a warm glow of contentment spreading through her senses.

“And possessive,” he replied gruffly, tightening his hold on her.

“The next time you look at a woman like you looked at Clothilde at LeNotre’s tonight, I’ll show you what possessive is.” Empress’s chin jutted out with a belligerence that was only half mocking.

“You always were hard to handle.”

“And you were impossible.”

“A charming combination—the difficult with the impossible.” His grin was roguish. “At least it won’t be boring.”

“Have you, really?” she said, completely out of context, wondering in the next breath if she was going to drive him away with her demanding questions when she’d only just found him again, because she was so outrageously jealous and his answers were always just short of absolute, definitive answers, which she wasn’t sure was only vaguely male or by design.

“Really, what?” he teased, and that made her even more acutely suspicious, because he knew exactly what she was talking about.

“Been celibate,” she said with a pouty look, because he was smiling down at her with dazzling sparkles of amusement in his eyes. And his dark hair was much too beautiful for a man—any woman would kill for it, she thought as she gazed upward. And if another woman
had
run her fingers through that long, silky hair yesterday or last week or anytime … she would kill her instantly. How did one ever come to grips with
an irrational jealousy such as hers, she wondered, and stay out of prison?

“Have
you?”
he asked much too impudently; she would put him in his place.

“Is this a test?” she replied sweetly.

The amusement instantly vanished from his eyes, and his voice was definitely a growl. “Yes,” he said, “it damn well is.”

“Do you get points for partial answers?” she inquired with an arch smile, which she thought decidedly good enough for the stage.

“Only one answer is allowed,” he rumbled deep in his throat, and his large hands tightened around her waist.

“Oh, dear,” she said, and then when his dark brows had drawn together like great, dark wings, she answered very softly, “Yes, I have.” And grinned.

He laughed out loud, then kissed her nose. “I adore you.”

“Just so long as I’m the
only
one you adore.”

“You are, you have been, you will be. Is that clear enough, or would you like sworn affidavits from my parents that I was underfoot for months?”

“Speaking of parents, and truly I don’t mean to be difficult now when everything is absolutely heavenly”—she was giddy with happiness, and so was he or she would never have dared to be so outspoken—“but I might as well tell you, I won’t live at the ranch. Just because we’re married doesn’t mean I’m going to become an automatic part of the Braddock-Black empire.” The frantic pace at the ranch was all too overwhelming for her. Everyone was kindness itself, but lawyers were always underfoot, and accountants, and three telephone lines into the house constantly ringing from all the companies and mines and lobbyists who needed money or orders or help in a hurry. She was selfish. She wanted Trey to herself, at least part of the time.

“Who said anything about marriage?” Trey said blandly, and was gratified to see, for the first time, visual evidence of the phrase
struck dumb.

“Should I call the Duc back?” Empress replied silkily when she’d regained her breath.

“How does marriage, say at ten tomorrow morning, sound?” Trey’s smile was pure sunshine.

“I adore the sound of that.” There was triumph and assurance in her voice.

“I thought you would.”

“Arrogant man! Do you think every woman in the world wants to marry you?”

“Whatever,” he said modestly. “As long as the merry widow of Paris does, I’m content.”

“I love you,” she whispered.

“You’re my life, fierce kitten, for now and always,” he replied softly, and kissed her very tenderly, as though the taste of her was new. “Come home,” he whispered, his breath warm on her lips. “Come home with me.” His slender hands stroked her hair.

“To the mountains?”

He nodded. “Blue wired the other day. The crocus are coming through the snow in the sheltered areas on Winter Mountain. Clover misses you.” His palms drifted down her back, his smile for her alone.

“Springtime,” Empress breathed, remembering the lush and majestic peace, the promises Trey had made in the night silence of their hayloft bed.

“On Winter Mountain. Our first, like I promised you.” His voice was low and tender, his own memories of their love in the mountain valley filled with an aching poignancy. How much they had had, how fragile it was … how near he had come to losing it forever.

“Will it be the same?”

He knew what she was asking. “The same … and better.” He smiled with the old assurance. “I’ll build you a house.”

“With balconies.” Her voice was gentle. He nodded, smiling.

“And turrets.”

He kissed her yes. “With rooms for the children.” Then quickly, in guilty afterthought to his own intense happiness, he asked, “Will they mind going back?”

Empress laughed. “I had to drag them away.”

“Good, then rooms for the children.”

“And a nursery for Max,” she added softly.

“And for our little blond-haired girl,” he said, his voice husky, his heart in his eyes. Then he slid his fingers into her hair and, bending to her, kissed her with love and grace and care. And pleasure played upon pleasure.

And the door stayed locked in the library until shortly before ten the next morning.

T
hey were home for the trillium. And the turrets were all in place by the first snowfall. The following spring, the first baby born on Winter Mountain was christened Solange Braddock-Black. Sunny for short.

And her godmother, Daisy, went to Paris to see her goddaughter’s status as the heir to Empress’s portion of the Jordan inheritance.

Quite by accident, Daisy met the Duc de Vec. Their instant antipathy was mutual. She was in control of herself, aloof, immune to gratuitous charm—all personality traits similar to his own. It was natural that they would dislike each other.