The Barefoot Bride (11 page)

Molly shuddered. It was Seth. Good lord. She'd been fighting her own husband. Her knees felt like jelly. He helped her to sit as her legs collapsed under her, then joined her on the steps.

She covered her face with her hands and fought to hold back a sob of relief. “I thought you were—I don't know what I thought.”

“I didn't want you to scream and wake everyone up,” he said. “I'm sorry I frightened you. What are you doing out here?”

“I couldn't sleep.” She met his concerned gaze and raised a sardonic brow. “I thought it
might be relaxing to sit on the porch for a while, maybe take a walk/’

“It's not safe for you out here alone.”

“So I found out.”

His smile flashed white in the moonlight. “Come on. I'll walk with you.”

“That's not necessary. I—”

He took her hand and pulled her up and without looking back started off toward the pond. He stopped abruptly when he heard her yelp in pain. “What's wrong?”

Molly stood on one foot and lifted the other to expose a huge sticker.

“Don't you ever wear shoes?” he asked with amused exasperation.

“Believe me, I will from now on,” she responded tartly.

“Here, let me help.”

Before she could object, Seth lifted her into his arms and headed back to the porch. He set her down on the top step and sat down near her, but on the lowest of the three steps. Gently, he lifted her foot into his lap and turned it so he could see the burr in the moonlight. A moment later, he had it out.

“That wasn't so bad, was it?”

“Not nearly so bad as the beesting I got running in a field of clover when I was seven,” she agreed.

He smiled again. “So going barefoot is an old habit with you?”

She laughed. “When I was little, my family had a farm in Ireland. I can still remember the feel of grass between my toes and the cool softness of new-plowed earth. Funny, I haven't thought about that in years.”

His hand surrounded her foot. His thumbs pressed into her arch, causing a disturbingly erotic response.

Molly tried pulling her foot away, but he not only held on, he reached for the other one and rested them both on his thigh. “Your feet are like ice. Let me warm them up.”

“No, really, I—” She gasped as he pulled up his long-john shirt and set her feet against his bare flesh. She instinctively curled her toes into the wiry black hair that covered his chest.

He chuckled and grabbed her toes to hold them still. “You're liable to tickle me to death if you aren't careful.”

Instantly Molly stilled, abashed. In all the years she had been married to James, they had never done anything quite like this.

“So how does an Irish farmer's daughter become a Massachusetts lady?” he asked as he began to caress her feet again under the pretense of warming them.

Molly was slightly breathless as she answered, “Like so many others, my father brought his family to America, looking for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.” She shivered from the touch of his hands and hid it with a shrug. “He found it—selling whiskey on the waterfront in Boston.”

With her feet situated where they were, Molly felt Seth stiffen. She didn't know what she had said to offend him, but guessed, “Is it spirits in general you're against? Or those who sell them?”

He stopped what he was doing and searched her face a moment. ‘Tor married folks I guess we really don't know much about each other,” he admitted ruefully. “As a doctor, I've seen too many hurt by bad whiskey—and good whiskey, for that matter. In Fort Benton there's a man named Drake Bassett who's selling the bad kind. He's hired Pike Hardesty to back him. I guess my neckhairs just naturally came up when you mentioned the subject.”

He began stroking her feet again, his thumbs pressing into the tender flesh of her arches, his fingers caressing her toes. It was the most exquisite, the most sensual experience Molly had ever had. But it wasn't only the soft soles and arches of her feet that
caught fire. With every titillating brush of his fingers there was a corresponding flare deep within her. She knew it had to be wrong to let him do this to her. They'd only just met, for heaven's sake! But he made it seem a mere kindness. And after all, it was only her
feet

“About this man selling bad whiskey,” Molly said. “Why doesn't the law stop him?”

“There isn't any law to speak of in Fort Benton right now. Pike Hardesty shot the sheriff eight months ago—in a fair fight—and no one else has been willing to take his place. Pike has everyone too scared to make a move.” He paused and added, “Except the Masked Marauder.”

“Who?”

Seth grinned. “The Masked Marauder. Nobody knows for sure who he is or where he comes from. But he's on the side of the law, which makes him Bassett's enemy. Whenever someone is in trouble, the Marauder rides to the rescue, guns blazing.”

“He sounds like a very brave man. Why do you suppose he keeps his identity a secret?”

“He has his reasons, I'm sure.”

“I'll bet he's well known in town,” Molly guessed. “And if people saw him, they'd recognize him.”

“Maybe,” Seth said. “And maybe he's nobody and wants to stay that way.”

Molly angled her head so she could see Seth's face. His features had hardened, along with his voice. She caught her breath and said, “You know who he is.”

Seth abruptly stopped rubbing her feet. “Nobody knows who he is.” And to make sure she knew the conversation was at an end, he said, “Are you about ready for bed?”

With Molly sitting on the top step and Seth on the bottom, they were almost eye to eye. She reached up a hand in an unconscious action to smooth the hair from his brow, as she might have done with one of her children. He grabbed her wrist to stop her, then changed his mind. His hand dropped to his side.

Self-conscious now, Molly met his piercing gaze as she finished what she had started. His black hair was thick and surprisingly silky. She felt him shiver as her thumb brushed his temple. Then her hand fell away, and they sat there staring, totally aware of each other.

“I don't love you,” Seth said in a quiet voice. “I'm not sure I can ever love another woman. But I want you—desire you—with every breath I take.”

“Seth, I—”

He began murmuring words he might have used to soothe a frightened colt, because he could tell she was skittish. He had never suspected that simply caressing a woman's feet could arouse her. It had started innocently enough. But as her lids had lowered over her eyes, as her mouth fell open to draw shorter, panting breaths, and as her toes curled sensuously against his flesh, he had realized she desired him. His hands circled her ankles, and slowly, languidly, he began to draw her legs around his waist.

As she slid down onto his lap, his hands traveled up the velvety length of her legs, pushing her flannel nightgown up and out of his way so that her bare legs could surround him.

Moments later, she was sitting on his lap facing him, the heart of her snug against the heat of him. Her hands rested tentatively on his shoulders. Wide-eyed, she stared at him as his hands slowly curved around her naked buttocks and lifted her up and more fully onto him.

Molly couldn't breathe, the feelings were so exquisite. She could feel him. He was hard. And there was a throbbing heat. Molly laid her head on his shoulder but could not
bring herself to do anything to further his seduction of her.

Seth framed her face with his hands. He forced her head back and looked deep into her eyes to see what she was feeling. And then his mouth closed over hers. It was a kiss of possession.

His voice when next he spoke was hoarse with need. “Come to bed with me, Molly.”

Molly blushed scarlet. “But Whit—”

“We can go to the barn or—”

“I can't! I never intended—”

“I want you, Molly Gallagher Kendrick.”

“I can't! James—”

“You're my wife now!” he said fiercely.

Seth's mouth was hard, and his embrace nearly crushed the breath out of her. His need, raw and honest, spurred her response. She thrust her fingers into his hair and opened her mouth under his. His tongue plundered, his hands ravished. He grasped her hips and pulled her hard against him. The cloth of his jeans abraded her tender skin, sending small tremors of pleasure rolling through her. Molly couldn't catch her breath; she felt out of control and couldn't catch up with the turbulent sensations roiling through her body.

“Mama?”

Seth and Molly broke apart like two teenagers caught spooning when the preacher comes to call. There was a mad scramble as Molly tried to scoot out of Seth's lap. He just grabbed her at the waist and stood. Her bare feet dropped to the ground, and the flannel nightgown surrounded her once more. He held her tight against him for an instant. Then with a monumental effort of will and a gusty sigh of resignation, he let her go.

A moment later, Nessie shoved open the front door.

“I couldn't find you, Mama,” the little girl said. “I got scared.”

Molly scooped the child up in her arms as she tried desperately to regain her equilibrium. Her breathing was still ragged, her pulse thrumming. “I couldn't sleep, Nessie. I just came out to sit for a while on the porch with Seth. Come on. Let's go back to bed.”

As she stepped inside the house, she threw a quick look over her shoulder. Seth stood in the shadows, tall and forbidding. It had been a narrow escape. She might even now be lying beneath him on a bed of straw, had Nessie not interrupted them. And how would she have felt tomorrow morning if she had?

Wonderful! It would have been wonderful!
a voice cried.

But the grieving widow was appalled at what she had nearly done. It was nearly dawn before Molly closed her eyes at last.

Seth didn't have much more success getting to sleep. He hadn't stayed on the porch much past Molly's departure, just long enough for his blood to slow and his body to settle down. When he finally returned to his bedroom, he found Molly's son sitting up in bed waiting for him.

The whites of the boy's eyes showed his fright. “Who's there?” Whit asked in a small voice.

“It's me, Seth.”

He watched the boy visibly relax.

“I woke up,” Whit said, “and no one was here.”

Whit didn't admit he was scared. With what Seth had seen of the kid's pride, he knew the boy probably would have been appalled to know Seth even suspected such a thing.

“I just stepped out for some fresh air,” Seth said. “You'd better get to sleep. We've got a hard day ahead of us tomorrow.”

Whit lay back down, but his body was stiff. Seth pulled off his boots and socks, then skinned out of his jeans, leaving him in his long John underwear. Normally he would
have removed that as well, but in deference to the boy, he left it on. He slipped under the covers and lay as stiff as the youth on the other side of the bed.

He closed his eyes, which made his other senses more acute. He heard Whit's indrawn breath and the muffled sound of what might have been a sob. And felt the small jerky movements of the body beside him. Seth wasn't sure what he could, or should, do. To notice at all would be to humiliate the boy.

Suddenly, Whit rolled over and pulled the pillow hard against his mouth. His legs drew up into his stomach. Seth felt Whit's desolation; he couldn't ignore it.

“I lost my father when I was only a little older than you,” he began. “I was fifteen. My mother died when I was born. Pa always told me if I wanted to see her, I could look in the mirror, because I had her eyes.”

The sobbing stopped abruptly, and the small form on the other side of the bed was still. Seth kept on talking.

“Pa and me, we had a small place southwest of San Antonio with a few head of cattle. Texas had been annexed by the States, and Mexico decided to make an issue of it. I wanted to join the army and fight Mexicans. Pa absolutely forbade it.”

Seth paused, remembering the ferocious argument they'd had, the harsh words that had been spoken.

A small voice from the other side of the bed said, “I wanted to go to sea, to be a whaler, like my pa. I left a note when I ran away, but Mother came and made me get off the ship. She brought me here to keep me away from the sea.”

Seth smiled in the darkness. That explained why Molly Gallagher had accepted his offer of marriage so promptly. ‘That story sounds a lot like mine,” he said.

“One night, I took my hunting rifle and a bag of food and set out to enlist in the army. I didn't get far before I ran into a band of cutthroat Mexican outlaws. Those bandidos had my rifle and my horse, and I was saying my final prayers when my father showed up to fetch me home.

“I'd never been so glad to see anyone in my life. He'd been a Texas Ranger, my pa, and he knew how to fight bandidos. When the shooting stopped, what Mexicans weren't dead had turned tail and run. But my pa had been mortally wounded. He died on the trip back home.”

Seth didn't say that he'd always blamed himself for his father's death. Or that remorse
over that one incident had shaped a great deal of his life. “My pa was one brave hombre,” he murmured.

“I saw my da fight once on the waterfront,” Whit said in a wistful voice. “He was a brave man too. I want to grow up to be just like him.”

“That's a good goal, Whit. A man can't wish for more than to have his son grow up following in his footsteps.”

Only Whit's father was dead. And the only footsteps for Whit to follow would be Seth's. Suddenly, the immensity of what he had done, the responsibility he had accepted, struck Seth. Would the boy see who he really was? Or would he only see the man Seth must pretend to be?

“I miss Da,” Whit admitted in a choked voice.

“You always will,” Seth said. It wasn't much, as comfort went, but it was all he could offer. “It'll get easier as time goes on. You'll always have your memories of him, of the good times you had together. They'll stay with you the rest of your life.”

“Da used to tuck me in at night.”

Seth held his breath. Was Whit asking him to do that? Would he let him? Not if Seth asked. The boy had too much pride for that.
Seth didn't say what he was going to do, didn't ask permission that the boy couldn't, or wouldn't, give. He just sat up and leaned over and tucked the covers firmly around the boy, up one side, and down the other.