Big Sky Rancher (8 page)

His hands felt warm against her, one on the small of her back, the other holding her arm as they approached the stairway. In the hall above them, a candle had apparently been lit for their benefit, the stairs were visible in front of them, shadows of the banister falling to the hallway below.

Jennifer walked beside him up the flight of stairs, not even considering a protest, lest Ida be disturbed from her slumber. What would be, would be, she decided, certain that Lucas would not harm her tonight, no matter that he'd been harsh in his threats earlier.

“You all right?” he asked in an undertone, and she nodded once more.

“Lost your tongue?”

She looked up at him, a considerable distance, and shook her head.

“Scared of me?”

Again she shook her head, and then nodded, indecisive and bewildered by her own hesitation.

“Good answer,” he said, and chuckled. “Now you've really got me confused.”

He opened the bedroom door and ushered her inside. “Get undressed, Jennifer,” he told her. “I'll undo your dress for you.” The buttons came from their buttonholes readily and he let the garment slide to the floor. “Now your petticoat,” he muttered, bending to see the tapes that held it at her waist.

“Sit down on the bed,” he instructed her, “so I can take off your slippers.” She obeyed and he slipped them from her feet. “No stockings?” he asked, leaning back to glance up into her face, and then recalled watching her slide into the house-shoes earlier.

“My gown, please,” she murmured, and he reached beneath her pillow to find it, holding it aloft, looking with disgust at the white folds that hung from his hands.

“Are you sure you want to wear this?” he asked. “I'd think you'd be more comfortable in your shift, or whatever you call that bit of stuff you're wearing.”

“My gown, please,” she repeated, and he sighed.

“I won't argue with you tonight, sweetheart. If you want to be all bundled up in this thing, that's your choice.”

He pulled her vest off, untied the tapes for her drawers and purposely kept his eyes on the wall over her head as she slipped into the gown. “You didn't take off your shift thing,” he said, looking down at her with a grin. “If I turn my back, will you do it?”

She nodded and he reached to lift her gown over her head again, and then turned with the garment in his hands, waiting until she whispered her readiness before he made his move. He faced her, his eyes moving over her, noting the fullness of her breasts, the narrow span of her waist and the length of her legs.

“Please,” she whispered, holding up her arms, and he did not refuse her, lowering the gown over her head. “Thank you.” Her voice was muffled as she bent her head, attempting to do up the line of buttons that centered her bodice.

“I'll do that,” he offered, and brushed her hands aside, his own perhaps slower at the project than hers, hampered as
they were by her soft curves. But in moments, he'd managed to sort out the buttons.

“Now, get into bed,” he told her, bending to pull back the sheet so that she could slip beneath it. With one glance in his direction, she did as he asked.

Moonlight's faint glow illuminated the two people who watched each other, she from her position on the bed, he from his stance beside her. Lucas stripped without hesitation, his clothing falling to the floor. By the time he reached for the sheet, he was down to his drawers, and as he sat on the edge of the bed, he dropped them to the floor.

He pulled the sheet over himself and scooped her close beneath its sheltering folds. “Hush,” he murmured. “I'm only going to hold you a little. I won't hurt you, Jennifer. You said you weren't frightened of me, remember?”

“I'm not,” she told him. “At least, not very.”

And at that he laughed, a full-bodied sound that no doubt should have frightened her, but apparently didn't, for she buried her face against his chest and lifted her arm to place it around his waist. Altogether a fine idea.

And that was his last thought as he drifted into slumber.

L
UCAS CHANGED HER
bandage again after breakfast, glowering at the greasy spot where bacon had splattered. “I don't want you to get dirt on this,” he muttered, lifting the pad and peering beneath it with a satisfied look. “That burn looks better today than yesterday.”

“I told her I'd do the cooking, but she doesn't listen well,” Mrs. Bronson said.

“I know.” Lucas shot Jennifer a look that made her smile. “She's got a mind of her own.”

“We're going to do laundry today,” she told him. “I can't use the scrub board yet, but I can hang clothes.”

Lucas glanced at Mrs. Bronson for support and, at her nod, shook his head at his wife. “Not yet, you won't. You'll get that thing wet and I'll have to change it again. Why don't you just take it easy today and maybe by tomorrow you'll be able to fix a meal pretty much on your own?”

“I'm going to make dinner today. We've got leftover beef and cans of vegetables, and Ida will do the lifting and jar opening for me.”

Her smile was radiant as she spoke of the simple chores she would accomplish. He didn't have the heart to deny her this small bit of independence, so he just nodded and then bent
to kiss her lightly before he took his leave, only to turn back on an impulse.

“I've chores to do. You want to help?”

“Can I?” She glowed. There was no other word to describe the brightness of her eyes and the clarity of her skin—creamy, with an overlay like that of a pale pink rose.

“Think you can gather eggs? Or maybe give the horses their oats before we turn them out to pasture?”

“Of course, I can.” Her tones were confident now. “So long as I'm back in the house in time to start dinner.”

“You will be. I'm planning on being hungry along about noontime.”

She accompanied him out the door and he grasped her elbow as they stepped down onto the grass from the porch. She didn't pull away, and he slid his arm around her waist, holding her against his side. She carried her bandaged hand against her breast, protecting it, and he felt a pang of guilt as he remembered his part in the injury she'd suffered.

Inside the barn, he leaned against the wall and pulled her closer, turning her to face him, his arms around her waist, then dropping a bit lower to press her body against his. She felt soft yet firm, her youthful form womanly yet strong, and he gloried in the scent of her as it rose to his nostrils. She was fresh, smelling of the sachets she had tucked in her valise. He'd caught the aroma when he hauled her nightgown from its depths the first night.

Now he inhaled it, recognizing it as typical of Jennifer. Soft yet invasive, filling him with an urgency he could barely contain. He wanted her, needed to feel the lush lines of her body pressed against his, without the barrier of clothing between. And yet he knew it was too soon. She was not yet ready to
match his desire with needs of her own. And he would not force her into the choice. She must come to him, show him in some way that she was willing for their marriage to become a reality.

Yet she lifted her face to him now and he could not resist the promise of lips that curved as she met his gaze. He lowered his head and touched her mouth with his, felt the lush lips open beneath his teasing touch, and he accepted the kiss she offered. His tongue skimmed hers with an easy gesture, not trying to invade, only offering a caress that would tempt her into a closer union of their lips. Perhaps not now, he thought, but in the future.

He held her closer, fitting her breasts against his chest, her belly against his, aware that his arousal was prominent, his need for completion too obvious to be hidden from her. And yet, she did not pull back, only leaned against him and offered her lips. Her arms circled his neck and he rejoiced, aware of the unspoken message she sent.

I'm yours. When the time is right, I'll be your wife.

“Jen, I have to stop this,” he said, his voice rasping as he bent his head farther to cradle his face in the curve of neck and shoulder. He found warm skin just beneath her ear and suckled there, pacing himself, lest he lower her into the empty stall and push her dress upward. She deserved better than that, at least the first time.

Another day he might take her here in the barn, where such a primitive act might well be accomplished, where passion and desire might meet in a collision of need between two people. But for today, he satisfied himself with the taste of her skin, the feel of her breasts, the knowledge that she was soft and giving, the curves of her hips filling his hands.

“Lucas?” She sounded bewildered, and with good reason. She was a virgin, untouched by a man, and his intent was no doubt more than obvious to her.

“I won't hurt you, Jen,” he murmured. “I've promised that already and I don't break my word.” He held her away and smiled at her, recognizing the effort of halting his seduction so swiftly.

“Use that can in the feed barrel and put one measure in each horse's feed bucket. Can you do that? Are you afraid of animals?”

She met his query with a look of scorn. “Afraid? Of course not. Animals like me, at least the ones we had at home did.”

“Can you ride?” he asked, his thoughts surging ahead to a day when they might travel together the boundary lines of his property.

“I've never used a saddle. Only bareback.” She grinned at him as if they shared a secret. “I have a pair of britches in my valise, you know. I wore them at home when I rode.”

“Astride?”

“Of course. Is there any other way?”

He swept her into his embrace again, his delight almost a visible thing between them. “Ah, Jennifer. You're going to make my life interesting. I can tell already.”

 

D
INNER WENT WELL
, Jennifer decided. The soup was simple, the meat being cut into chunks by Ida, who watched closely as if her prize pupil might try to do too much. She lent a hand with the chopping of an onion, but let Jennifer mix the corn pone with her left hand. The savory aroma filled the room by noon, and when Lucas came in the back door, he halted and sniffed.

“Smells good,” he told both women.

“She catches on right quick,” Mrs. Bronson said. “Next time we do this, we'll put dumplings on top. Would have today, but I thought of it too late.”

“I'll settle for this.” Lucas washed at the sink and touched Jennifer's shoulder as he passed her in front of the stove. She glanced up at him and he smiled.

“Maybe there's hope for me yet,” she said, sitting at the table and lifting her spoon. Mrs. Bronson carried full bowls of soup from the stove, deeming Jennifer too unhandy with her left hand to do so. They ate silently, Lucas waiting and watching as Jennifer bowed her head, Mrs. Bronson following suit without hesitation.

“You could do that out loud, if you wanted to,” he said. “I guess my food could use a blessing, too.”

“It had one.” Picking up her spoon, Jennifer stirred the soup in front of her. It was thick, the vegetables and meat swimming in gravy, and she felt a pang of hunger. “Looks more like stew, doesn't it?”

“Almost.” Ida nodded and pushed the plate of corn pone across the table. “You did well.”

“She gathered the eggs, too,” Lucas said, as if proud of his wife's accomplishment.

“Once we get that bandage off her, she'll be tip-top.” Her mentor beamed at Jennifer, clearly sharing Lucas's pride.

 

B
UT IT SEEMED
the bandage would not be discarded for several days. Lucas changed it daily, inspecting the burn with care, slathering salve over it and binding it again. Careful not to brush against it unwittingly, he took care at night to cushion it on his chest. If she turned to face the wall, he placed a small pillow beneath it.

“You're good to me, Lucas,” she said, long after he thought she'd gone to sleep. They'd been husband and wife for more than three weeks now, and his need for her was uppermost in his mind.

“Am I?” His words were hoarse and he cleared his throat, aware that he sounded angry, or maybe just frustrated.

“Better than I'd expected,” she admitted. “In fact, I was afraid of you at first.”

“You said you weren't,” he reminded her.

She laughed. “I lied. To tell the truth, I don't like to admit fear of anything. A matter of pride, I suppose.”

“We're all allowed moments of pride. Especially a woman like you, with so much working against her. And yet, you persevere, as if to show all of us what you're capable of.”

She turned to face him. “I want to prove myself. To you and Ida both. I want to learn all I can.”

“She tells me you're doing well, and I've seen evidence of it myself.”

“I want you to leave the bandage off tomorrow morning. I want to see if I can work with my hand uncovered.”

“Not a good idea,” he said, disputing her theory. “I don't want you to get infection in it. It'll take longer than ever to heal if you're not careful.”

“It's my hand, Lucas. And I want to use it. It needs exercise.”

He bowed to her opinion, bending his head to hers, his mouth touching her forehead. “All right. But, understand one thing. If you're well enough to use that hand, then you're in good enough shape for me to—”

“Not yet. Please, not yet,” she whispered.

His hand settled over her breast and she caught her breath, holding it as if to make herself smaller, perhaps hide from his
touch. “I won't hurt you.” Once more he repeated the words, the vow he'd made over and over in the past weeks.

“I know. But no one has ever done that to me before.”

“I know. That's what makes this…” His hand curved beneath her breast and his fingers clasped it. “It makes this something beyond the ordinary to me. To know that you're untouched, that you come to me with a purity I hadn't thought possible in a woman.”

She uttered a soft cry, a sound of yearning that pleased him, and he bent his head, brushing his mouth against the curve of her breast, only the fabric of her gown keeping him from the texture of her skin.

It wasn't enough. He fought the urge to peel the gown from her, the need to possess her as his wife, and came close to succumbing to the desire that pounded through him, bringing him to a peak of passion that threatened to rule this moment.

“Damn.”
The single word dropped from his lips and she stiffened against his touch. His fingers tightened and he felt her cringe, knew a moment of guilt as he released her from his hold. “I'm sorry, Jennifer. I thought I could hold you, touch you just a bit more, without being tempted beyond my control.” He breathed deeply, bowing his head against her shoulder.

“I was wrong. If I don't leave you alone in this bed tonight, there'll be hell to pay. I fear you won't forgive me in the morning.” He laughed, a sad sound with no trace of mirth to soften it. “You won't forgive me now, I suspect, and I haven't even done anything.”

“You haven't?” She smoothed the bodice of her gown and her words were muffled, as if she might be shedding tears.

“No, I haven't.” Cupping her breast in his hand certainly
didn't qualify as lovemaking, as far as he was concerned. Now, if he'd managed to get his hand on her skin, if the gown had been stripped off and her body exposed to him… Now that might qualify as lovemaking…almost.

He muffled his chuckle against her throat. Almost was just not good enough. He'd been too long alone, too many months without a woman's warmth to comfort him, and having a wife, yet not possessing her, was more than any man had the patience to cope with.

He was not a patient man. Not by a long shot.

He rolled from her, releasing her, then sat on the edge of the bed.

“Lucas?” She sat up behind him and his reaction was instantaneous. His snarl of warning was harsh and cutting.

“Don't touch me, Jennifer. Don't say another word, just lie down and let me be. Unless you want to find yourself stretched out beneath me, just leave me the hell alone.”

He felt her movements as she moved as far from him as she was able, given the width of the bed, and then he rose, grabbed his pillow and stalked to the door.

“Lucas?” She sounded frightened now and he was glad. Better that she be frightened than angry. Better that she be confused than violated, and that was a dire possibility right now.

“I'll be in the other bedroom.” He opened the door and stepped into the hallway, aware that he was naked, hopeful that Mrs. Bronson would not peer out her door, awakened by their voices.

The extra bedroom was dark and uninviting, the bed unmade, but he cared little for comfort. A quilt lay on the chair beside the bed and he wrapped it around himself, then lay down, his pillow doubled over beneath his head. It was a fit
ting end to a miserable day. Alone in a bed, his bride just a foot or so away on the other side of the wall. If ever there had been a moment in his life when Lucas O'Reilly felt sorry for himself, it was right now. He snarled a single curse word, recalled the ones he'd so recently uttered in Jennifer's hearing, and growled beneath his breath.

He wouldn't apologize this time, nor feel remorse for using what she termed
vile language.
The woman could sleep alone, and right now, he hoped she was miserable, all by herself in that big bed.

And then he heard her muffled sobs through the wall. He'd warrant she had the pillow over her head, but the sound carried through to him.

“Don't cry, Jen,” he murmured, knowing she could not hear but unable to listen to her misery in silence. The sound of her sorrow ceased, and he wondered if she'd heard him. Surely not. The walls weren't
that
thin.

The headboard of the bed she slept in thudded against the wall then, and he knew she had turned from one side to the other, perhaps making herself comfortable before going to sleep. She'd been more than satisfied to lie in his arms, he remembered.