Anything for You (20 page)

She pushed him away as she realized nothing had changed. “No! I'm not like Nissa's girls.”

He shrugged, shocking her. “If making love isn't what you long for—although I know you desire me as much as I do you—then let's eat.”

“Eat?”

With a flourish, he pulled the cloth off the tray. He handed her a napkin and served her a generous portion of pie.

“This is sweet potato pie!” she gasped. “Where did you get sweet potatoes?”

“Anything is possible if you want it enough.” He put his hand over hers and drew the fork away. “As much as I want you.”

“I can't.”

“Yes, honey,” he murmured before his tongue teased her ear. “You can if you want to.”

“But I can't let anyone close to me! When I let someone in my heart, they end up dead.” She stared down at the plate on her lap. “I don't want you to die, Adam.”

“Right now, the only thing I'm at risk of dying from is this deep craving to savor every inch of you.”

Gypsy dampened her lips as his hands covered hers. When he lifted her fingers to his mouth, his tongue toyed with her fingertip. He drew it into his mouth, sucking gently. The plate fell to the floor, splattering pie across the boards, but she paid it no mind when he sat beside her.

“Be mine,” he whispered as he framed her face with his hands.

Her breath battered against her chest. She wanted him. She wanted him as she had wanted nothing else in her life. Yet …

She drew his hands down and clasped them in hers. Swallowing roughly, she said, “Adam, if I share my bed with you tonight, no one must know of it. And it can be only this one night.”

His brow furrowed. “Why?”

“Don't ask. Tonight I'll be yours—if you will never ask me again.”

“Gypsy—”

“No. Don't say anything but yes or no.”

“How can I?” Sorrow left his face bare to reveal his longing to hold her. “If I say yes, you'll be mine, but only tonight. If I say no, I deny us the rapture we could share.”

“You must choose, Adam.”

“Do you think I'd tell you I don't want you tonight?”

“No.” Asking herself what else she had expected from the man who made no secret of his desire for her, she shivered. She turned away, unable to meet his eyes and the longing they displayed. Slowly she began to unhook the front of her nightgown.

She gasped as he brought her to face him. In the moment before he claimed her mouth, he whispered, “Be mine, honey.”

Her hands stroked upward along his flannel sleeves and the brawny muscles beneath them. When she touched his shoulders, his arms swept around her. Held against him, she sensed his escalating desire.

His tongue darted within her mouth, warmed by her sigh of eager passion. As her fingers sifted upward through his thick hair, he explored each succulent surface of her mouth, enticing her to touch him as sweetly. Tremors burst outward from the slick stroke of his tongue against hers.

Loosening her hair to fall about her shoulders, he pressed his mouth against the crook of her neck. When he leaned her back into the bed, she slipped her hands beneath his shirt. His warm, rough skin urged her to explore farther.

Lying next to her, he drew her into his warm embrace. She whispered his name when he tasted the skin at the base of her throat. His hair brushed her skin, stoking the inferno bursting to life within her. With a fervency she did not recognize, she stroked the firm muscles of his back.

His lips sought along the modest neckline of her loosened nightgown as he drew it lower. His heated mouth caressed the curve of her breast, and she moaned with quickening need. Her trembling fingers fumbled on the buttons of his shirt, for she ached for his skin against her.

His laugh swirled through her as he lifted her hand from his shirt and pressed her palm against his mouth. Gazing up at him, she wondered how she could have thought he was interested only in his own pleasures. He was maddening, perhaps. Arrogant, without question. Alluring with his ever-changing eyes, undeniably. But she saw his determination to make this night one that would haunt them forever with memories of ecstasy.

When she began to undo his shirt, a button fell off in her hand. He chuckled and tossed it on the table.

“I'll have to get another spool of thread from Chauncey,” she whispered. Her gaze swept along his broad chest as she pushed his shirt along his arms with a whisper of worn material. “Forgive me if I'm clumsy. I don't know what you want … I've never …”

He rolled her onto her back. Leaning over her, he murmured, “I want rapture, honey, pure rapture.”

Greedily he took her mouth with his. As she clasped his naked shoulders, she gave herself to desire. She wanted this, and she wanted him. Not just the sweetly romantic wooing she had seen her sister enjoy with suitors, but the mind-emptying passion he could evoke.

When he grasped the front of her nightgown, he gave a sharp tug. The buttons flew in a dozen directions as it tore. Her half-voiced cry of protest vanished when he traced the top of her chemise with his tongue. As he pulled her nightgown down, his mouth placed sparks along her skin.

He threw the gown onto the floor as he entwined her legs with his. His hands moved along her, entreating her to press against him. The thin fabric of her undergarments sent the heat of his touch all along her.

Steering his mouth over hers, she needed no urging to reach for the buttons at his waist. She slid his denims along his hard legs as her eyes delighted in the virile strength of his male body. Tentatively, then more boldly, she touched him, finding the thrill of giving him pleasure. Each texture of his body was so different. Along his chest, a mat of hair teased her fingers to tangle in it, but she followed its narrowing toward his waist to discover far more silken skin which burned beneath her fingers.

His breath pulsed savagely against her as he loosened the ribbons on her chemise. The brush of his fingers against her inflamed her craving. As he swept her remaining clothes aside, she clung to him, wanting the joy only he could give her.

His fingers skimmed higher along her leg as his lips branded fire into her. She moaned when his tongue circled her breast before drawing its tip into his mouth, taunting it to hardness beneath his gentle assault. Moving against him with the rhythm his hand was creating on her thigh, all thought faded.

She gasped his name when his fingers sought the depths of the flame within her. Each probing stroke accelerated the blazing heat until it threatened to devour her. Hearing his breathless voice against her ear, she could not understand anything but desire.

When he leaned over her again, his rasping breaths filled her mouth as he melded them into one. Everything evaporated in the craving which consumed her. She became the sensation of his body over and within her. As need metamorphosed into ecstasy, she shattered into perfection.

A knock on the door woke Gypsy. She rubbed her eyes as it swung open.

Adam peeked in and asked, “A cup of swamp water to get your day started before the other flunkeys get here, Gypsy?”

“That sounds excellent.” She wished he would come closer, so she could let her fingers curve along his unyielding jaw again. “And another piece of that pie before it gets gobbled up.”

He shoved the door aside as he carried two cups toward her. “What pie?”

“The sweet potato pie.”

He put the cups on the table. “Sweet potato pie? Are you all right?” He put his hand on her forehead. “You're all sweaty. Did your fever return last night? Maybe you should stay in bed today.”

When he tucked the blanket more tightly around her, Gypsy stretched past him to look at the floor.

“What do you want?” he asked. “Did you lose something?”

She stared up at him. Why didn't he know she wanted him? Didn't he know she had lost her virginity to him?

Or had she?

Her fingers groped at her throat where the high collar of her nightgown was damp, but not torn from his passionate haste. The pillow beside her bore no indentation from his head resting there as they slept cuddled together. Frowning, she reached up to touch the front of his shirt. No buttons were missing.

His hand over hers imprisoned her fingers against the rough flannel. “Can I hope this is your answer?” Gentle humor filled his voice. “Do you want me?”

Shouts came from the kitchen as the other flunkeys arrived for the beginning of the day. Adam bent and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Telling her he would let the others know she was going to rest a while longer, he walked out of the room.

She hid her face in her hands. For the love of heaven, the ecstasy had been only her imagination heightened by a fever that was not as hot as his touch had been—a touch she must never allow herself to savor beyond her fantasies, or this last, most precious dream could be destroyed forever.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

At the sound of footsteps which were lighter than any male boots, Gypsy paused. The glitter of interest in the flunkeys' eyes warned her who was walking toward them. She wiped her hands on her apron as she turned to greet Rose Quinlan, who looked like an angel in pale pink wool.

“Miss Elliott?” Rose's squeaky voice ruined the perfection of her pose and reminded Gypsy that Rose could not be much more than a girl.

“This is a surprise,” Gypsy answered. When the young woman's brows wrinkled in a frown, she added, “A very pleasant surprise. How can I help you, Miss Quinlan?”

Rose turned her back on the men staring at her. Raising her chin in disgust, she pointed toward Gypsy's room. “I would appreciate some privacy.”

“Go ahead, Miss Quinlan. I'll be with you as soon as I finish here.”

“As soon as—but this is important!”

“So is being sure the jacks are fed.” Gypsy smiled coldly. “Farley wouldn't be pleased if his loggers went hungry.”

Rose turned on her heel and walked toward Gypsy's room.

When the men started to grumble, Gypsy ordered, “Get to work. You can complain just as well while you're working. As soon as Adam and Oscar get back from delivering lunch, tell them to start tonight's desserts.”

She went to her room before someone could see her relief that Adam was not here. If he had an inkling of how her fantasies had come to life in her fevered mind, she did not know what she would do. Or what he would do. Would he laugh? Or would he try to persuade her to make that dream come true in his arms?

Closing the door, she forced a polite smile. She pushed all thoughts of Adam from her head as her smile became a frown.

Rose turned from examining the items on the table. Without apologizing for her curiosity, the blonde sat on the chair as if she were a queen awaiting an audience with her humblest subject.

Gypsy sat on her bed and asked, “What is it you didn't want to discuss out there?”

“I want to leave Calvin.”

“What?” This was the last thing she had expected Rose to say. “Why?”

Nervously, she rubbed her gloved hands together. “I have my reasons, Miss Elliott.” She touched a bump beneath her glove.

Gypsy guessed it must be a large gem set in a ring. After hearing the adoration in Farley's voice each time he spoke of his mistress, she should have guessed he was beggaring himself to buy Rose grand gifts.

“Why do you want to leave Farley?” Gypsy asked.

Rose moistened her wide, bottom lip. “I would prefer to leave private matters out of this.”

Gypsy leaned her elbow on the iron footboard. “Then why did you want to speak to me?”

“I want you to convince Calvin to let me leave.”

“Me?” She choked, then laughed. “I don't know what you think, but it's purely business between Calvin Farley and me.”

Rose put her hand over Gypsy's fingers, which were ingrained with flour. “I'm not suggesting something ridiculous like your replacing me.”

“I hope not.” She bit back her retort that she had repulsed Farley's eager proposition the first year she worked at the camp.

“Miss Elliott, he respects you. He'll listen to you.”

“About what?”

Rising, Rose went to the mirror and adjusted her hat with trembling fingers. Gypsy frowned as she noticed gray crescents beneath Rose's eyes. Rice powder could not disguise her fear.

With her hands clasped in a pose of vulnerability, she whispered, “I'm afraid to stay here.”

“Afraid?” Gypsy stood. “Of what? Certainly not of Farley! The man dotes on you.”

“It's not Calvin. It's—it's—” Her face lost all remaining color. “It's someone else.”

“One of my men?”

“I don't know, Miss Elliott.” Tears bubbled from her eyes, and her lip shivered. “I feel his eyes.”

“You should be accustomed to the stares of the men.”

“Nissa Jensen is leaving. Her girl was killed. Calvin told me, but he said I shouldn't worry.”

“He's right.”

A calculated expression aged her face. “I know what you're thinking. You consider me a mindless fool who has nothing to be frightened of.”

“How can you expect me to speak to Farley when you won't tell me why you think you're in danger?” The temptation to laugh taunted her. Rose Quinlan was scared by shadows. Gypsy wondered how Farley's mistress would act if she had received the threatening notes Gypsy had. She let out her breath in a soft sigh. There had been no more letters. Maybe whoever was sending them had gotten tired of the sadistic game.

“All I want you to do is tell him to listen to me,” Rose moaned.

“I—”

“Please, Gypsy!”

She blinked at the fervor in the blonde's voice. Rose must be terrified. “All right.”

“Today?”

“I can't promise that.”

“By tomorrow.”

Sighing, Gypsy nodded. When Rose mumbled her thanks and left, Gypsy sank to the bed. She rested her head on the iron rail as the familiar tightness cramped her chest.