The Men of Pride County: The Pretender (31 page)

She moved restlessly beneath him, hips lifting as her hands pulled down, creating an exquisite friction where his hardness channeled along her feminine grove. His body grew rigid with strain. Her spine arched, a soft, needy moan wavering from her as her naked breasts flattened against his damp shirtfront. The sound intensified as his hand swallowed up one plentiful globe, molding it, shaping its nipple into a turgid peak, then feeding it between the pinch of his thumb and forefinger into his mouth. Sensation shook her at the first fierce, startling suction, then became a stabbing pleasure as the pulsing echoed the bump
and grind of their hips and the slow, steady dip of his fingers inside her ready heat.

“Deacon,” she pleaded, as her breaths quickened into ragged little gasps. She was shaking apart inside, muscles tensing, nerves dancing, skin quivering as if provoked by a thousand tiny shocks. Showing no mercy, he continued the erotic attack at each sensitized point until tremors massed low in her belly and raced along her thighs. The balls of her feet punched down into the mattress as she said his name again.

His tongue mashed her nipple against the cut of his teeth and she came in glorious abandon.

Even before she began to spiral down from that high plane of pleasure, he buried himself within her, catching those tight, milking spasms at their pinnacle and pushing them further, faster, to reach the heart of her with every thrust. With no chance to recover, she found herself lifted to another soul-shattering climax. It quaked through her limbs, rattling down her spine, exploding at the core as he burst inside her in scalding pulsations.

For a long minute he didn’t move, couldn’t move. Reaction twitched through him in nerveless shudders. He waited.

He’d expected the guilt to come afterward. He knew it would be there, just knew it. Another sin heaped upon the many others to punish him. But all he felt was sinfully good; relaxed, relieved, and reborn.

Garnet was his. William was his. No one else had a claim to either.

Now was the time to tell her, the time to come clean with all he’d discovered. But the moment he lifted his ridiculously heavy head off her shoulder, he was met by the sight of her satisfied smile. Everything inside him went to mush. God, she was beautiful. And brave. Think of all she’d endured when she’d thought he’d abandoned her.

He did abandon her. There was no escaping that ugly truth.

Beautiful, brave, and resourceful. Alone and afraid, she’d found the means to take care of herself and the child to come. He would never fault her for that, not ever. Montgomery Prior would have his eternal gratitude for taking her in and raising their child. But that’s all he would have. Woman and child were now out of his reach.

And he had to make sure they were safe.

Seeing the frown lines gather above the distancing chill of his gaze, Garnet experienced a shiver of dread. She brushed her fingertips along his jaw, sampling the tension there.

“Deacon, don’t.”

Surprise softened his expression. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t pull away from me.”

The remote glaze melted from his eyes, leaving all the warmth and devotion she’d dreamed of. And a glint of wry humor. He nudged his hips into hers. She felt him stir inside her, a slow awakening that soon pulsed with renewed life.

“I hadn’t planned to, angel. At least, not for a while.”

It wasn’t what she’d meant, but it would more than do. She moved her legs lazily so that the soles of her feet stroked his calves and thighs. Her fingers made idle circles about the muscle groupings on his arms. Just touching him with such casual intimacy excited powerful emotions. Possession was foremost among them. In her heart and mind, he would never belong to another. He would be hers. If only reality could be so obliging.

Noting the sudden glimmer in her eyes, it killed him to think it might be regret. Deacon bent to take her lips in a long, reassuring kiss, not letting up until he’d coaxed her tongue into play with his. He’d be damned if he’d let her feel guilty about something that was meant to be. Him and her and their son. Meant to be.

First, to convince her. Then to take action.

He lifted up onto his elbows, his expression growing serious even as his body grew more impatient with the idea of delay.

“We need to talk,” he began. It didn’t help that she’d begun to raise and lower her hips in tiny, devastating pulses.

“We need each other,” she contradicted, a reasonable request, considering how he’d doubled in size inside her. Her thumbs grazed the jut of his cheekbones, her fingers spreading wide to capture his head, directing him back down to greet her sweet, wet kisses.

The gentle rock of motion escalated into a sea-swept tempest. Tidal passions roared, surging madly, wildly, to break finally upon a peaceful shore … where they lay entwined for a timeless moment, lulled by each other’s breathing.

Until the sound of Boone galloping down the hall roused them. And the slam of the front door brought them up and apart.

Garnet shoved against his chest as footsteps pounded up the stairs. “Quick.” She gestured to the sitting room. “Dress in there.”

He snatched up his clothing as Garnet arranged her robe. Just before he ducked into the other room, he paused to catch her anxious gaze. A brief flare of sentiment calmed her. Her faint smile sent him on his way.

Deacon wrestled on his muddied trousers in the dimness of the dressing room. He didn’t have time to wonder what kind of evidence he was leaving on the hardwood floor. As he stuffed in his shirttails, he cast a look around him, stunned by what he saw.

He saw a man’s bedroom, with signs of it being fully occupied.

If Montgomery Prior was sleeping in this room, did that mean he wasn’t sleeping with his wife?

Then chaos took hold.

Garnet answered the pounding at her chamber door. An anxious house servant burst out, “Mrs. Prior, it’s your husband. He’s been shot!”

Chapter 22

C
lots of mud disappeared as recently disheveled covers were thrown back to receive an insensible Montgomery Prior. Deacon stood in the background as Garnet and Hannah listened anxiously to Doc Anderson’s prognosis. It wasn’t good. Monty had taken a bullet to the chest, a dangerous wound for even a young, fit man, lessening the odds for an older, sedentary gentleman who’d lost a great deal of blood. The situation was grave, each second critical. If Monty held on for the next twenty-four hours, his chances to survive doubled. If no fever set in, the percentage kept increasing. What the doctor stressed was the immediate constant care he’d need. Both women volunteered to see someone was always at his side.

Helpless to do much more than stay out of the way while the ladies set up a hospital room with quick efficiency, Deacon lingered by the doorway, distressed by his own dark thoughts.

How much better everything would be if the Englishman died
.

He hated the idea, and himself for thinking it, but a rational part of his brain recognized the truth of it. If Monty quietly slipped away, Garnet would be free to marry. She’d never need know about her departed husband’s past and he could correct any overtures Monty had made so far to bilk the people of Pride. Skinner would lose his leverage, but if Roscoe was right, Deacon would lose his chance of ever getting his home back.

He watched Garnet bending over the gray-haired gentleman to carefully blot his forehead. Moved by the tender sympathy in her exquisite face, he realized that having the Manor and his inheritance was a far distant goal. Having Garnet and the child they’d made between them was everything.

Monty’s survival or demise wouldn’t change that fact.

Then Garnet’s gaze lifted, meeting his for a brief, telling moment. In the dark pool of worry, he could see deeper eddies of distress. Because she’d been unfaithful in the same bed her wounded husband now occupied? Because she couldn’t trust that the moment of passion between them would develop to something more? He saw the splintering doubt in that fleeting communion, an unanswered pain of past betrayal and fresh uncertainties. He deserved that from her even after the beautiful love they’d made. She needed more from him now. More
than physical pleasures. She needed words. She needed to hear the truth to wash away the tinge of his dishonorable actions. He wanted to reassure her that his motives were solid, that his love would overcome the stain of infidelity. But they were not alone and she looked too quickly away.

What if her guilt placed an insurmountable wall between them? Deacon began to frown.

“Tough old bird, isn’t he? Who would have thought.”

Deacon’s glance stabbed to where a pale Roscoe Skinner leaned on the door jamb at his side. While he might plot the old fellow’s death, he didn’t like the idea of Skinner taking pleasure from it.

“Who shot him?”

At Deacon’s terse questions, the women turned toward them.

“Mr. Skinner, should you be up and around?” Hannah cried worriedly.

“Thank you for your concern, ma’am, but the doctor said I was in no danger. Blade just grazed my ribs. Nothing vital got perforated.”

“What happened on the road, Mr. Skinner?”

Roscoe grew somber at Garnet’s directness. “Your husband was carrying a stack of investor’s money. The attack was unexpected. It happened so fast, I couldn’t have prevented it.”

“Who pulled the trigger?”

“Tyler Fairfax.”

That news stunned even Deacon, who wouldn’t
have believed the scheming drunkard could have fallen any farther in his esteem. But cold blooded murder? For financial reasons? It could have happened that way. Could have, but he suspected it didn’t.

“Now that I know Mr. Prior is holding his own, I aim to go after Fairfax myself.”

Skinner’s hard claim alerted Deacon. Roscoe was going hunting, and it wasn’t to bring Tyler back alive. If Monty died and Tyler didn’t survive to tell his side of the tale, Skinner’s word would be all they had to go on. And that didn’t sit well with Deacon. Skinner’s word wasn’t something he’d take at face value—not knowing as he did that Skinner had more than one face.

“Where do you plan to look?”

“He’s wounded. At his home, at his sister’s, then I’ll start checking with his friends. Don’t worry, Mrs. Prior. I’ll find him. And he’ll pay for what he did to your husband.” And as he turned out into the hall, he gripped Deacon’s arm, turning him out for a private word. “And you’ll pay, too. Don’t think you’re getting off easy, Sinclair. I’ll take care of you when I get back. You might want to make yourself scarce before I do, or things will get ugly, real ugly.”

Deacon smelled Garnet’s unique scent as she moved to stand beside him as Roscoe wobbled down the hall. He was almost afraid to look at her, afraid he’d see regret, remorse, or even anger over what had happened between them
while her husband was being attacked. He couldn’t bear the thought of her guilt.

But Garnet wasn’t thinking in a carnal direction.

“Do you believe him?”

He started at her low, calm question. “Skinner? No. Not until someone backs up his story.”

“What if Monty never wakes up?” Anguish colored her voice, making him wince at his earlier thoughts. She obviously loved Monty, regardless of the nature of their marriage.

“That’s why I have to find Tyler before Skinner does.”

He started again as her fingers brushed across the back of his hand to slip into his palm. His closed up for a heartening squeeze.

“Find him, Deacon,” she urged. “I don’t want any doubts to remain. Not about anything.”

He nodded, giving her hand another press. “And then we need to talk.”

“Yes,” was all the encouragement she’d give him, before sliding her hand free and returning to her husband’s bedside.

Deacon saddled his horse and spurred it in the opposite direction that Skinner had gone. He had the advantage, that of knowing a thing or two about Tyler Fairfax and who he would first think to go to if he were in any real peril.

If she hadn’t been up with Jonah’s feeding, Patrice would never had heard the knock.

At least, she thought it was a knock.

She’d tucked the sated baby back into his bassinet, then gone downstairs to put the infant’s soiled linens to soak. She stopped in the kitchen to pour a glass of water for herself and was carrying it across the front foyer when the noise brought her up short. Someone or something was on the porch making that weak thump against the solid panel.

Made cautious by harsh experience, she padded on bare feet into Byron Glendower’s former study. Trembling hands a contrast to her cool demeanor, she drew a loaded pistol from the big desk and returned to the hall. If it was nothing, she wouldn’t disturb her husband and child in vain. If it was something, she wouldn’t be caught unprepared.

The freezing rain had finally stopped leaving a heavy mist rising from the ground in a cold, thick curtain. The stables were silent, no sign of disturbance there. She stepped out onto the porch warily. That’s when she saw a single horse cropping on their corner bushes. Its reins were trailing on the wet grass. Its empty saddle was dark and slick with an all too recognizable stain.

“ ‘Trice …”

The sound came from behind her, making her heart leap and the gun in her hand jerk up in self-defense as she whirled back toward the house. The glass in her other hand shattered on the stone porch floor as it fell from nerveless fingers.

“Oh, my God! Reeve, come quick!”

Even as she shouted for her husband, Patrice was kneeling down before the figure slumped next to the door, searching out the source of the terrible blood flow.

“Patrice? What is it?” Reeve barreled through the door dressed only in long underwear washed to a faded pink. He carried a rifle, expecting anything, ready for everything. Except the sight of his onetime friend bleeding all over his doorstep. “Tyler.” He looked to his ashen-faced wife. “How bad?”

“Bad,” she answered, tears in her eyes.

“Let’s get him inside and I’ll go for the doctor.”

Tyler gripped his arm, dragging himself back from the brink of unconsciousness. “No,” he whispered hoarsely. “Deacon. Bring Deacon. No one else.”