The Stranger's Secrets (8 page)

Whitman realized he himself was uncomfortable, so she was probably in agony. Her body wasn’t in good physical condition. No doubt the bumps felt like punches to her.

“Do you want my coat?” He started to take it off to give her to sit on.

“No, thanks, I’m not cold.”

“Well, I didn’t offer it to you for warmth. I’m being a gentleman again. I thought maybe you might want another cushion.”

She glanced down at the seat. “Another cushion? I didn’t think I even had one. This thing probably lost all comfort twenty years ago.”

“Exactly why I offered you my coat.” Whit held it out to her.

“I’d rather have your lap,” she challenged.

“Excuse me?” Whitman’s blood rushed through his veins at the very suggestion. What the hell was that all about?

“You heard me.” She raised both brows. “It’s a long ride, so I thought maybe we could make it, ah, smoother.”

Whitman almost choked on his words as they tumbled out of his mouth. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Sarah pursed her lips. “I understand. Now that you’ve had the whole cow, the teats aren’t quite as good, right?”

“That’s not what I meant. Why do you always turn everything into an insult?”

“Because that’s usually what happens anyway. I strike first before I get hurt.” She almost bared her teeth then. “You think you’re too good for a crippled whore?”

Whitman’s temper bubbled nearly to the top. Sarah had the innate ability to make everything into an argument. For some stupid reason, she reminded him of his own behavior as an angry ten-year-old boy in a new house of strangers.

“You are an angry woman, Sarah Spalding.”

“You have no idea how angry I can get.”

What Whit didn’t expect was for her to nearly launch herself at him. Her lips collided with his and then he forgot why he was angry.

The sensations of the night he spent in her bed came back at him like a tornado, with just as much force. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him. Her round breasts rubbed against his chest, the hardened nipples leaving goose bumps in their wake.

Their tongues coiled around each other, angry and full of passion. The argument had brought back everything he loved about being intimate with her. How could anger lead to sex? It should lead to them going their own separate ways.

Yet it hadn’t. Not even close.

She yanked up her skirts and straddled his lap. He could feel the heat from her pussy already, and so did his dick. It jumped to life, hard as an oak tree in seconds.

“What are we doing?” he gasped into her mouth.

“I don’t know but I don’t want to stop.” Sarah yanked on his hair on the back of his head. “If you do, I’ll have to shoot you.”

Whitman doubted she had a gun, but in any case, he didn’t think he’d be able to stop what he was doing anyway.

She unbuttoned his pants and freed his dick. He groaned as her strong hand pulled at his throbbing erection. Surprisingly nimble for a woman with a cane, she positioned herself above him.

When the head of his dick touched her hot pussy through the slit in her bloomers, he gripped her hips. “Oh, God, put it in.”

“Nope, not God,” she gasped. “Sarah.”

With that, she lowered herself onto his waiting staff and they both groaned. Sarah bit his earlobe, then moved her way down to his chest.

She clenched around him, driving him insane while she bit his nipples, then laved the tiny nubs.

“Move, woman, before you make me lose my mind.”

She laughed against his skin. “Mm, but I love the way you fill me up, Yankee. You’re so damn hard.”

He thrust up against her and she bit him hard enough to make him groan. “Sarah.”

“Hmm? I’m enjoying myself on the feast.” She kissed the spot she’d bitten and he thrust up again.

The combination of her teeth and being buried deep inside him was intoxicating and more pleasurable than he imagined.

“Do it again.” He surprised himself.

Bite. Thrust. Bite. Thrust. Bite. Thrust.

“I’m going to come all over you,” she whispered in his ear. “Now fuck me hard.”

Whitman was beyond thinking at that point. He simply obeyed.

He grabbed her hips and thrust into her hard and fast. Groans and the deliciously wet sound of their joining were the only sounds in the carriage.

He shouted her name as his orgasm spread through him. Sarah found his mouth and plunged her tongue into him even as he plunged into her. Shards of pure ecstasy spread out from the contact.

Whitman had never guessed he was the type of man to enjoy having amazing sex in a carriage with a woman. Yet he had, enough that his legs were shaking as bad as the rest of him.

He knew then his heart was sincerely in trouble. Really big trouble.

As the harsh breathing in the small carriage slowed, Sarah regained control of her senses and her bodily urges. She felt sated. Even more than that, she felt content. It was the only word she could think of to accurately describe how she felt.

Of course, her legs would probably not thank her at all considering her acrobatics in the carriage and on top of Whitman. His hair was mussed. She remembered yanking on it. The chocolate curls stuck every which way.

“You know we shouldn’t have done that.” He continued buttoning up his shirt, but Sarah could see little bite marks all around his nipples.

Somewhere deep inside her a primitive female creature sighed with satisfaction.

“Just because we shouldn’t didn’t mean we couldn’t. I told you before, Kendrick, we’re adults. We can make grown-up decisions.”

He stopped buttoning and stared at her. “I don’t believe I had a choice in that decision.”

Her brows snapped together. “That is a big fat lie and you know it. I’m a crippled, skinny woman and you’re a big, strapping man. Are you telling me you couldn’t pluck me off you if you really wanted to?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But that’s what you meant. You meant that I forced you, which isn’t true.”

To his credit, he didn’t continue that line of thought. He obviously knew he was only lying to himself. Sarah would never believe it, not even for a second.

He had enjoyed what they’d done immensely, judging by the whisker burn on her neck and breasts, which were currently pulsing. There’s no way his body could lie even if his mouth did.

“I don’t remember the last time I felt so tired.” He blew out a breath and sank down lower on the seat.

Sarah laid out on the seat across from him, using one of her bags as a pillow. Her legs were already beginning to stiffen, but she didn’t care—at that moment, anyway. She’d care quite a bit later when she fully recovered.

“Where did you grow up, Whit?”

Startled, he simply stared at her until she repeated the question.

“It’s not a secret is it? You didn’t pop out of an egg fully grown, did you? Or maybe it was a pumpkin?”

“I was just surprised you asked is all. You don’t seem like the type that, uh…”

“Type that what?”

“Type that’s interested in getting to know someone.”

“Well, you’re right, I’m not, but we’re stuck in this carriage for God knows how long. And we certainly can’t repeat what we did for at least several hours, so I thought I’d be polite and ask you about your childhood. To pass the time.”

“You’ve got a chip on your shoulder bigger than the entire state of Texas, you know that?” He frowned at her.

Sarah narrowed her gaze. “That’s obvious. Most people notice it right away. But thank you for pointing it out. I had forgotten.”

A small grin played around his mouth. “You’ve got a lot of sass, woman.”

“And you’ve got a nice set of balls. We’re even. Now, where did you grow up?”

A rusty chuckle sounded in his chest. Sarah wondered for just a moment or two what it would feel like to have her ear pressed against that chest when he laughed. The warm skin, the crinkly hairs, the safety of being in his arms.

It was a fairy tale, a dream. The type she never allowed herself to have. Somehow it had wormed its way into her thoughts after meeting Whitman Kendrick.

“My parents owned a farm in New York. We raised corn, a little tobacco.”

“Did you have chickens and pigs too?”

“You don’t need to look down on me because I’m the son of a farmer.”

She flapped her hand. “That’s not what I was doing. I basically grew up on a big farm with the fancy name of plantation. But it was a farm, a cotton farm. We had chickens and pigs.”

Whit held her gaze for a few moments before nodding. “We had a couple of chickens, but no pigs. My mother couldn’t abide them. Said they were the dirtiest creatures on the planet. Of course, she’d play with the dog who ate his own, ah, leavings.”

This time it was Sarah’s turn to chuckle. “It’s all about perception, isn’t it?”

“That it is.”

“So why did you leave the farm and how did you end up in that natty-looking suit on a train headed to Kansas?” She tried to find a comfortable spot.

“I left home because my father died when I was a boy. I’ve only been back once.” He cleared his throat. “My mother, unfortunately, refused to leave until she couldn’t keep up with the payments.”

She could tell by his body language and his tone, there were raw emotions attached not only to the farm but also to his mother. Of course, Sarah couldn’t cast stones. Her mother was the epitome of what not to do as a parent.

“So where else did you live?”

“New York City, in a brownstone on Seventy-fourth Street.”

Sarah tried to picture what a brownstone was but gave up. She had no idea. “Interesting. I don’t think I would have guessed you were a farmer, but I wouldn’t have guessed city folk either. Did your kin take you in? Is that why you didn’t live on the farm anymore?”

“Something like that.” He speared her with an intense green gaze. “You grew up on a plantation. Tell me about you. Tit for tat.”

Sarah shook her head at him. “You’re avoiding the question, Kendrick.”

“So are you, Spalding.”

She couldn’t deny that—it was the truth. “Yes, I grew up on a cotton plantation in Appleton, Virginia. I was the younger of two children. My older brother, Micah, and I were very close as children.”

“And your parents?”

Since she started the conversation it wasn’t as if she could claim that he was being nosy or pushy. However, she didn’t want to answer the question either.

“My father was killed early on in the war. My brother fought and survived. He’s living in Colorado, getting married actually.” She pictured Micah as she had last seen him, his face bloody with the stitches she had sewn together with her clumsy, shaking hands, and his haunted silver gaze that mirrored her own. “I’m looking forward to seeing him.”

“It’s a long journey. You must love him.” Whit’s eyelids grew droopy.

“He’s all I have.” Sarah was startled to hear the admission, and even more startled to realize she meant it. She’d left behind everything she had become accustomed to for Micah. She didn’t know if what she felt for her friends was love, or just fierce loyalty.

Sarah didn’t know if she could love enough for a real relationship. That, of course, was part of her deepest fear.

“What about your mother? You haven’t mentioned her.” Whit let loose a jaw-cracking yawn.

Sarah yawned too. “That’s another story for another day.”

“No fair.”

“Sometimes life’s not fair and there’s nothing we can do to change it.” Sarah closed her eyes and the rocking motion of the carriage became soothing instead of annoying.

“You are a very secretive woman, Sarah.” Whit sounded a thousand miles away. She heard him shift on the seat and grunt as he punched the cushion. “And this carriage is mighty uncomfortable.”

“Baby.” She shifted her traveling case until she found the perfect spot.

“Obnoxious hag.”

Sarah let loose the chuckle that threatened slide from her throat. “You know, I think I like you, Kendrick.”

He grunted a response, but she didn’t hear it. This time her eyes slid shut completely. Sleep crept over her like a thief in the night, snatching away her thoughts and leaving her to slide into the blackness of unconsciousness.

Whitman woke from another dream about Sarah to her sleepy voice calling his name.

“Whit, wake up.”

He forced his eyes open to find the dying afternoon sun making the interior of the carriage glow pink. Sarah leaned up on her elbow, her hair tousled and clear pain written on her face.

“What’s wrong?”

“My legs hurt.” She sucked in a breath. “I need you to distract me.”

Whitman rubbed his eyes, the grit telling him he barely had gotten any sleep. “How do you want me to distract you?”

“Tell me a story. Any story. Please.” Her tone was almost pleading, something he would never have expected from her.

He peered at her across the deepening light. “Sarah, how bad does it hurt?”

“Bad enough that I want to listen to you tell a story.” Her chuckle was more like a sob.

Whit stepped across the carriage and picked her up. As he sat with her snuggled on his lap, her sigh gusted across his neck.

“Who’d have thought a big ox like you would be comfortable?”

He held her close, absurdly pleased to feel her heart beating next to his. “After my pa died and I went to New York, I was like an apple in a room full of oranges. You see, he had left behind a rich family to marry my mother, a common maid. The almighty Kendricks had disowned him, left him to live in squalor without a dime.”

“Snooty bastards.”

Whit chuckled. “That they were. I was twelve years old, scared to pieces, and the first person I met was my grandmother. She was cold and stiff, never had a hug or kiss for me. They wouldn’t even allow me to see my mother. And she wouldn’t leave the farm. It was all she had left of my father.”

“You missed her.”

Whit wanted to say no, but it would be a lie. He chose instead to ignore it. “My grandfather was a self-righteous old man who wanted to make me into what he’d wanted his own son to be. They sent me to a private school.” He closed his eyes against the memory. “I did my best to get kicked out.”

She laughed against his chest. “So you were a bad boy, hmm?”