Never Marry a Cowboy (16 page)

Every wilted petal represented a tear he had not been allowed to shed in public and been unable to release in private.

He saw a drop of water hit the ground between his
feet. The sand greedily absorbed it. And then another drop. Five years of holding grief at bay, and just when he thought Clarisse no longer mattered, he was discovering quite the opposite.

He felt slender arms slip around him, a body nestle against his back as a woman placed her head against his shoulder. She held him so he couldn't wipe the disgrace of tears from his eyes.

“I thought you were taking a nap,” he said brusquely.

“I thought you said the advantage to marriage was that it gave us someone to lean on.”

Damn the woman for tossing his words at him. “If I lean against you, we'd both tumble over.”

Her arms tightened around him. “I'm sturdier than you think, Christian Montgomery.”

He shook his head, unable to stop the tears now that he'd given a few their freedom. “I didn't want Clarisse to be dead. That's why I send her flowers every day. Although if she's looking down from heaven, she probably thinks they're coming from Christopher. All the little surprises I left for her, she thought came from Christopher.” He released a shuddering sigh. “Remember when I told you how connected Christopher and I were?”

“Yes.”

“Sometimes I wonder if it was his love for Clarisse that I felt and not my own.” Damn his chest for aching as though it was caving in on him and the tears that flowed more freely.

She sidled around him, met his gaze, and tenderly gathered his tears with her fingers. “You loved her. I
saw it in your eyes the first night I heard you speak of her at David's. And I see it now.”

He bowed his head. “You should return to the house.”

She threaded her fingers through his hair and pressed her bosom against his face. “So you can wallow in grief alone.”

“I prefer it.”

“Then you shouldn't have married me.” She kissed the top of his head, his forehead before leaning low to kiss the tears that dampened his cheeks. “I love you.”

His spirits soared with such joy before they plummeted with unequalled despair. “I don't deserve your love.”

She gave him an innocent smile and cradled his face between her hands. “You judge yourself too harshly. How can you doubt your feelings for Clarisse were real? They are the reason you have flowers laid on her place of rest every day and gave her a stone angel to watch over her.” She touched her lips to his. He opened his eyes. “She had an angel in life, Christian. Just as I do.”

“I am no angel!” He surged to his feet and stalked to the water's edge. He felt her presence more than he heard her approach.

“Didn't you marry me to ease my dying, give me memories, and lessen my regrets?”

He released a strangled laugh. “I don't know anymore, Ashton. My misguided reasons have turned against me because the one thing I do not doubt is what I feel for you.” He turned to face her. “I love you.”

He circled one arm around her, bringing her closer. He touched his knuckles to her cheek. “I don't want to see you suffer.”

She gave him a tremulous smile. “I'll be back in Dallas long before I reach that stage, and you'll be in Fortune doing your best to stop men from murdering floors.”

The ache in his chest was almost unbearable. Love was hell. Why in God's name couldn't he ever love a woman who would live long enough for her hair to turn silver?

C
lutching Kit's arm, Ashton strolled along the shell-paved path known as The Strand. As twilight eased in, the gaslights that lined the streets of Galveston were already casting their faint glow to ward off the approaching darkness. Sighing contentedly, Ashton refrained from pressing her hand to her full stomach. She couldn't recall ever having eaten so much. It seemed with each meal that she ate more than she ever had before.

“I cannot believe the grandeur of this city,” she said quietly. The ornate buildings and the three-story homes with turrets, spires, and columns fascinated her. “Next to Galveston, Dallas seems like an unwanted stepchild.”

Kit smile warmly. “Don't underestimate Dallas. It has an aura about it, and I have no doubt that it will someday take its place among the notable cities of this state.” He placed his free hand over hers and squeezed slightly. “But you are perceptive. Galveston is special. In some ways, it reminds me of London.” His smile deepened. “I should take you on a walk along The Strand there.”

“I'd like to see London.”

He shook his head. “I spoke out of turn. It's a long journey, and I fear the weather would not be agreeable to you. You shiver in the night here. It is much cooler there.”

“Then I'll be content with Galveston. Thank you for bringing me. I would have never imagined a city such as this or that oceans never ceased to move.”

He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her fingers, sending warmth cascading through her. His gaze held hers. “It's been my pleasure.”

She felt the heat brighten her cheeks as she remembered the physical pleasure he'd brought to her the night before. The pleasure had been
all
hers.

She looked away, trying to concentrate on the intriguing architecture, lingering oleander fragrance, and bustle of people surrounding her. Instead, her mind wandered and she wondered if Kit would gift her tonight with another journey into the realm of incredible sensations.

Distracted, she released a small gasp as she stumbled over a shell. Kit caught her, drawing her close. She caught a whiff of the bay rum he wore, mingled with a scent that captured the essence of his masculinity. She loved his scent, the impeccable manner in which he dressed, and the mien of nobility that was such a part of him.

He was not a Texan. He never would be. She thought it a shame that he didn't return to the home that he loved and missed.

“Are you growing tired?” he asked, concern clearly reflected in his voice. “We could take a mule-drawn
street car back to the spot where I left the carriage, if you'd like.”

“I want to walk. I don't think I've ever walked as much in my entire life as I have since we arrived here.”

“I'm afraid I may have forced my passion for walking on you. As a lad, I enjoyed walking great distances just to prove I could do it.”

She studied him, trying to make sense of his words. “Why would you need to prove anything?”

He cocked his head and leaned near as though to impart a secret. “When I was a boy, I was quite sickly.”

Her eyes widened. “You're teasing me.”

He gave her a grim smile. “I wish. I spent much of my time abed with a cough or a fever or simply not feeling quite right. I always seemed tired, and I could see in my father's eyes that he detested my weakness. I'm certain he thanked God every night that I was the second son born and not the first.”

“But you look perfectly healthy now.”

He shrugged. “I forced myself to get out of bed, to walk when my legs trembled, and to eat when I had no appetite. My mother coddled me, my father loathed me, and Christopher promised that if I became strong enough, we would fool everyone and switch places.”

“And did you?”

“Only once,” he murmured quietly, and she knew without asking that it was the night Clarisse had died.

“You see,” he continued, “in my desire to become stronger, I also became obstinate and contrary. While Christopher remained the perfect gentleman,
I became a rapscallion. As I grew stronger, I took pleasure in embarrassing my father. I imagine over time, he came to wish that I had remained weak and died.”

“No father would wish that.”

“Perhaps not. He had Christopher, the perfect son, and me, whom he constantly sent hither and yon, out of sight and out of mind. I enjoyed earning his wrath. It was much easier to accept than his pity.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You constantly shove food into my mouth.”

He nodded brusquely. “Because you do not place it between your lips yourself.”

“Each day our morning and evening walks grow longer.”

“I saw no harm in it, and I keep a close watch to ensure you don't wear yourself out.”

“You manipulated me,” she accused.

“With the best of intentions, I promise you. I discovered I have no desire to become a widower.”

She pressed her head against his arm, needing more contact with him. “I don't want to make you a widower, but I fear I have no choice. Last January, the doctor was certain that I would not survive another winter. Yet I feel less tired than I've ever felt. Maybe it's the salt air and the excitement of seeing everything. I don't want to miss a single sight. What if everything changes when we leave?”

“Then we'll come back.” He began walking, and she was conscious of the fact that he took smaller steps when he was with her. She'd watched him walk
along the shore when she wasn't beside him, his strides long and purposeful.

“This city actually has culture that you can't find elsewhere in the state,” Kit told her. “There are theaters and an opera house. Would you like to see a performance while we're here?”

She squeezed his arm. “I'd love to. I've never been to a theater.”

“I'll make arrangements tomorrow.”

“I suppose you've seen many plays and operas,” she said.

“In London, yes. I miss the finer aspects of British life, which is one of the reasons Galveston appeals to me. The people here are more educated and wealthier than most in the state. Regrettably, though, I think all cities must have a balance. You'll also find the poorest and filthiest of wretches here.”

“Have you seen much of the state?” she asked.

“I traveled its length and width shortly after we finished our trail drive. The state is so diverse that it fascinates me.”

“But you prefer England.”

He furrowed his brow. “I don't know that I prefer England. I only know that I miss Ravenleigh.”

She heard the wistfulness in his voice. “Then you should return to your home.”

He laughed. “I've told you before that I have nothing awaiting me there.”

“Is your home there similar to any of these?” she asked, grandly sweeping her arm around to encompass the Georgian-and Victorian-styled homes.

“I could not even begin to describe the manor house. It is three, nay, five times the size of the largest home you would fine here. Too many servants to count scurry about dusting and polishing all the furnishings and decorative pieces that have been in our family for generations. It's rather like living in a museum.”

“I don't understand its appeal then. It sounds cold and uncaring.”

“I can't explain it, but it's in my blood, I suppose.”

She stopped abruptly, and he turned to look at her. “While we're here, you should talk with one of the architects or builders and have something similar built for you in Fortune,” she suggested.

“So I could hear my footsteps echo along the empty hallways for the remainder of my life? No, thank you.”

He began to walk away. She grabbed his arm and spun him around. He raised a brow. Although they'd spoken as though she would not die, she knew it was a false hope and reality would one day intrude, bringing death with it.

“You're a young man. You'll find someone else to marry.”

“I'm not going to search, sweetling.”

The obstinate man! She wanted to bop him with the broom only she'd snipped off all the straw while catching the escaped crabs. “Then you'll stumble into her.”

“No.”

She placed her hands on her hips. “Christian Montgomery, if you don't find someone else, marry, and
raise a family, I swear I shall haunt you from the grave.”

Sadness touched his eyes. “I fear, Ashton, that inevitability shall come about regardless of what I do with the remainder of my life.”

 

Lying in bed, with the lamp turned down until its light was almost useless, Ashton watched her husband prowl through their bedroom, slowly removing his clothes. She'd never in her life been so nervous, wondering if he would remove everything, if she should remove her gown.

One night of intimacy left her longing for more. She considered suggesting a late-night swim, but she feared he'd say no, although he had yet to deny her anything she asked. No moon outlined his form, yet her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and she could see his silhouette.

The doors to the balcony were open and the warm salt breeze whispered into the room. He'd discarded his jacket. She watched as he stepped onto the balcony and unbuttoned his shirt. What were his thoughts as he stood out there alone? Should she join him?

Pulling his shirt over his head, he walked back into the room and tossed it onto a nearby chair. He sat on the edge of the bed. “Why are you nervous?” he asked.

“I'm not,” she answered, surprised that she sounded as though she had no breath in her body.

Even in the shadows, she could tell that he'd twisted his head to look at her. “You haven't moved since you finished drinking the milk I brought you.”

She swallowed. “I…um…I was thinking is all.”

“About what?” he asked in a low seductive voice that sent shivers rippling through her.

“Last night,” she confessed. “I was wondering if married people make love every night.”

“Depends on the couple, I should suppose,” he said, before standing and removing what remained of his clothing.

Her breath caught as he lay beside her, raised up on an elbow, and trailed his finger along her arm.

“Every night, every morning, every afternoon,” he said quietly, “if the mood should strike.”

“During the day?” she asked, shocked to think of making love without the benefit of shadows, more dismayed to realize the thought appealed to her, to have the ability to clearly see Kit's hands moving over her flesh, to gaze into his light blue eyes.

He brought his mouth near her ear and whispered, “No rules govern passion, sweetling.” He nibbled on her lobe. “Did you want me to bring you pleasure tonight?”

She closed her eyes and the heat swamped her. “Yes.”

“Then why did you wear clothing to bed?”

“Because I didn't know there weren't any rules.”

“Mmm. You smell like oleanders,” he murmured.

“I took a sponge bath while you were seeing to the horses.” She was grateful the night hid the blush that she knew was creeping up her face.

“So you liked my gift of scented soap,” he said as he deftly unbuttoned her nightgown. “I should bring you back to Galveston when the flowers are again in bloom.”

Next spring. To see them, she'd have to survive the winter. She held his words close to her heart, not daring to rebuff them. For tonight, for as long as he was with her, she would pretend that death would not come.

He slipped his hands between the parted material, cradling her ribs, and forcing her to sit. “Remove your clothes,” he ordered quietly.

She slipped her arms out of the sleeves and squirmed until she worked her nightgown past her hips, along her legs, and over her feet.

“So much better,” he said as he eased her back down to the mattress. He loosened her hair and fanned it over the pillow. “Gossamer wings,” he murmured. “All angels have such delicate wings.”

With a gentle nudge of his knee, he parted her thighs and placed himself between them. Her breathing became almost nonexistent. She had expected exactly what he'd given her last night, knowing only the feel of his chest against her breasts, his hands caressing her flesh, his lips teasing hers. She had not anticipated this position, of having the ability to press her thighs against his hips and feel his sturdiness at the juncture of her womanhood. She felt fear mingle with exhilaration.

With clothes to separate them, he had taken the same position on their wedding night, only anger had spurred his actions. She threaded her fingers through his hair, scraping her nails along his scalp. Tonight anger found no purchase within their bed.

Lightly, he kissed her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. “Trust me, Ashton,” he whispered
hoarsely, “and I shall take you farther into the realm of pleasure than I did last night.”

A shiver cascaded through her. “I don't know if I could survive such a journey.”

“You will,” he promised before possessively covering her mouth with his.

He tasted of brandy and fire, his lips hungry, his tongue insistent as he explored the confines of her mouth. His hands cradled her face as though he feared she might resist. Instead, she dug her fingers into his shoulders and returned his kiss with equal fervor.

She felt the dampness between her legs and realized that tonight she would know the full extent of love, the joining of bodies. He would give to her all that he had to give, and she would gladly receive it.

He withdrew from the kiss and trailed his mouth along her throat. “Trust me,” he rasped.

An inane command when she already did, with all her heart.

He cupped her breasts, his hand gently kneading one while he paid homage to the other with his mouth, his tongue circling the budding tip. She raised her hips, pressing against his stomach, wishing he hadn't slid down, denying her contact with the hard evidence of his desire.

He licked at the valley between her breasts before taking his hot mouth on a slow sojourn over her ribs and along her stomach. The heat swept through her, flames licking at her core, creating needs stronger than anything she'd experienced before.