Caress of Fire (8 page)

Patiently, Gil walked the limping stallion toward the chuck wagon. Where Lisette was concerned, his patience had ended. He wanted her. Here. Now.

Though the locale was fine for his skills as smithy, it wasn't particularly conducive to lovemaking, not with three thousand sets of horns plus their punchers in attendance. Plus, he figured Lisette herself would throw a shoe if he made motions to stop longer than it took to shoe Big Red. She expected to reach the night camp ahead of the herd so that the beans would be just right and the roast just so. And his men deserved her best efforts. The hell with it.

She was spoiling every man jack in the company, including Tecumseh Billy. Only this morning she'd had that steer eating carrots out of her hand. “T-Bill” could move on ahead–and eat grass for a change. The men could sup on steak and fries tonight. There was leftover vinegar pie–boy howdy, was it good, tasted just like lemon pie. No one would suffer.

Still guiding the limping stallion along, Gil motioned for the longhorns and their escorts to move ahead. “Matt, you know the way to Slick Rock Creek. We'll meet you there.”

Right here, in this deep green meadow, Gil would make Lisette his wife in fact, rather than merely in name.

There was no time to waste.

“Hold up, honey.”

Bent on making Lisette his woman today, Gil brought the limping Big Red abreast of the chuck wagon. She reined in the draught horses and turned her covered head his way.

“What is wrong?” she asked in that German accent which never failed to excite him.

Gil pointed to the sorrel's left front leg. “I need to fetch the smithy tools.”

“No need. I'll get them while you hobble him.”

Gil watched her climb into the wagon. Good gracious, she was pretty, even with her usual men's clothes and that peculiar headpiece. The man's hat was gone, replaced by the fedora he'd seen her wear in Fredericksburg, and it was a mess after the past days, all flattened feathers and road dust. No matter, she still looked pretty to him. He'd bet she'd be a helluva lot prettier without a stitch of clothing.

Trail dust swirled as the mooing herd continued on, over an incline. Thankfully Sadie Lou was doing her job, wasn't paying mind to him and the sorrel. By the time Lisette had fetched the collection of nails and a hammer–what the hell was keeping her?–the drag riders were in sight.

It took massive resolve for Gil not to grab Lisette into his arms when she handed over those implements.
Remember, Old Son, she's skittish as a doe and innocent as a newborn. Don't rush her.

Nonetheless, Gil wasn't above stripping off his vest and shirt to attack the horseshoeing. Hell, he wasn't kidding himself. He intended to capture his little doe's attention and give her a lesson in becoming a woman.

Yet, to be honest with himself, he'd turned a mite scared. If he didn't make the first time right for her, it might turn her off him forever. He'd make certain it was right.

Sun rays beat on his back as he raised the sorrel's front cannon. “Honey, wanna give me a hand?”

“S-sure.”

Since their wedding night, when he'd browbeaten her into helping him with his boots, Gil hadn't asked for anything special, and it pleased him no end that she hadn't fallen to her usual brand of objections. Maybe she was more ready than he had figured.
You'd like to think so.

She set the bonnet aside, thank goodness; it was all he could do not to snicker at the silly thing.

“Take hold of his leg, honey. That's right . . . just like that.”

He put nails in his mouth and took the hammer in his right hand. She leaned over to keep the horse's knee immobile. Around the iron nails, Gil inhaled the womanly scent of Lisette, drawing her musk through his nostrils, letting it seep through his senses.

While her aura spread like the gentle lap of water against a shore, he stole a glimpse at her breasts. They were so close to his mouth . . . so close. He considered himself fortunate not to swallow the nails, and Big Red was lucky to get a good shoeing.

The last nail in place, he gave the stallion a pat, tied him to the chuck wagon, and fetched some hay. Gil's back was to his wife, and if she saw the testament to his arousal, he figured she'd take flight. He yearned for her to see and appreciate all of him, but . . .
cultivate.

“I could use something. To drink,” he said hoarsely.

“It's . . . the lunch coffee . . . I–I kept the pot in the sun, so it should be warm, at least. Would you like a cup?” she asked, her voice catching.

Right now, he could use one of those beers she and her countrymen were so fond of. “Yeah, that'd be nice.”

She returned to the chuck wagon to fetch the coffee, and he willed himself into decent enough shape to turn around. Ambling over to the chuck box, he took the cup between his hands. He did not look at Lisette. If he had, sheer will wouldn't have been enough.

He settled on the ground, resting his naked back against a wagon wheel and extending one leg in front of him. As he sipped the tepid coffee, he watched Lisette seat herself a couple of yards to his left. She drew her knees up to rest her chin on them.

“Gil.” With a demure tilt to her head she studied his bare torso. “H-how did you get those scars?”

“From wars.”

“Wars? Not war?”

“Wars. Comanche arrowheads made a couple of holes in my arms.” He pointed to the silvery indention on his shoulder. “A Johnny Reb in Georgia got me here.”

She looked away, but not before he caught her startled expression.

“Lisette, you know I served in the Union Army.” This wasn't where he wanted the conversation to lead. If there was a problem, though, they needed to get it out in the open. “Why do I get the impression it bothers you?”

“It doesn't bother me. But I thought you knew Adolf... and my father . . . and my uncle were all Confederates.”

He hadn't known anything of the kind. Most of the German-Texans had sided with the Union. While he didn't hold with Confederate beliefs, he respected any man's right to fight for his own beliefs.

“Adolf was wounded at Gettysburg.” A tear rolled down her cheek; she swiped it away. “Thank God he didn't die.”

Gil could tell by the emotions issuing from Lisette that while she resented her brother and the hell he and his wife had put her through, she loved him. Such loyalty was a precious gift. Too bad Adolf Keller hadn't appreciated it.

She said, “General Hood himself lost the use of his arm at Gettysburg, but he was kind enough to send Adolf back to Monika. I–I suppose you've noticed how my brother limps.”

“I have.”

“My father and uncle were with the general, too–in Georgia.”

Her admission caught Gil in the gut, like the force of a minié ball. “They were valiant fighters,” he uttered. Suddenly he wished for a smoke, a habit he'd given up.

“Yes, valiant to the death.”

“I wish they could've returned to you.” Gil meant this.

“That would have answered my prayers.” Tilting her head, her eyes growing suspicious, she asked, “How do you know about their bravery?”

Gil was tempted to skate over the truth, but he wouldn't delve into deceit, even if the price was his wife's admiration. “I fought in Georgia. I was an attaché to General Sherman.”

Two of her fingers lifted to press against her temple, as if a pain had suddenly struck.

“Do you hate me for being a Yankee, Lisette?” he asked then.

“No.” She dropped her hand. “I haven't let the war rage on in my heart. But I won't lie and say your allegiance to Sherman doesn't stun me, because it does. From what I've heard of his assault against the people of Georgia as well as the soldiers of the Confederacy, I think it was an abomination.”

“Honey, war isn't a picnic. Each side has to use every weapon in the arsenal.”

“I suppose.” She hesitated. “Gil, if you had it to do over again, would you torch your way to the Atlantic?”

“I never left Atlanta. I never burned anything except for a hellhole of a plantation, and as an officer in charge of a brigade, I never fired at shot–in Georgia, anyway. I might've had to, but I was wounded in the initial battle. General Sherman put me in charge of a captured precinct after I left the field hospital.”

She wasn't saying a word; he got to the point of the question still evident in her set features. “I gave my best efforts to
win.
I fought to free human beings from the same sort of hell you experienced in your brother's household. Only true slavery is much worse than being in company with a demanding sister-in-law. Ask Dinky Peele, if you don't believe me.”

“Let's clear up your misconception. I
never
condoned slavery. My family didn't, either. Adolf and
Onkel–
I mean, Uncle–August and my father fought for the Lone Star.” She spread her arms. “The state opened its arms to us, gave us shelter when we needed it. When my kinsmen were conscripted, they didn't turn their backs. They answered the call.”

She got to her feet, rubbing her temple, and asked, “If you don't mind, can we change the subject?”

“I'd welcome it. Why don't you let me rub your temples?”

His eyes moved down her curvaceous form, then back up to her face. He intended to get closer to his wife–a helluva lot closer. Closing the distance between them, he said, “Come here, honey. I'm going to give you a good rubbing.”

“Nein!”
she repeated. Her English had left her, as it always did at times of greatest stress. Lisette scrambled away from her advancing husband. “I do not want you to rub anything. Go on to your herd. And put on your shirt!”

Ever since he had starting shoeing Big Red, Gil had been driving her to distraction. Their days of so-called married life had driven her to headaches, period. And now, with the two of them alone, his men and cattle north of the meadow, and she feared letting down her guard.

As never before.

His forehead creased with concern as he halted three paces in front of her. “You
do
resent my service in the Union Army.”

Once more she kneaded her throbbing temple, collecting her English to answer honestly, “No, I do not.”

“Well and good.” Gil's brow flattened, then concern marked his features anew. “But you've got a headache from something, and if it's not from Adolf's stories, why won't you let me massage away your pain?”

“Because I ... because I'm so confused I don't know what to do or which way to turn.”

It didn't help to center her attention on the picture of male perfection he presented, standing there shirtless, the sun kissing his muscle-bound, scarred shoulders and shining through the ink-hued, crinkled hair dusting his arms and chest. And why was it that she lacked enough will to turn her eyes from the network of veins above all that arm brawn and those strong, capable hands?

Her gaze dropped–but not to the ground.

Below his bare torso, the gunbelt still rode on his hips. And those chaps–they shone with the patina of years of working cattle. At the top of them, at the front of him, denim caught her eye, denim worn smooth with the outline of a formidable bulge of male virility.

“Still confused?” he asked.

Not about one thing. A
Tropf,
that's what she'd been for not realizing that there might be no retreat from this meadow, not without experiencing everything he offered. Was that so horrible? No! She wanted him, wanted to be his wife
in fact.

He murmured, “Let me rub your temples.”

“You've got to keep your distance. If you don't, you'll be taking your husbandly rights.” On a shake of her head, she cringed at her honesty.

“If that's not an invitation, your name isn't Mrs. Gil McLoughlin.”

A smile eased across his features, lit the eyes more blue in the sunlight than argentine under the moon and stars. Just one of his gazes had the power to mesmerize her, and he had welded many of them to her. This one had an intensity the others lacked.

Her face contorted as her headache intensified.

“Lisette, you are going to sit down.” His tone brooked no debate. “And you are going to let me at what ails you.”

“I ... I don't know.”

“I do. Let's get out of the sunshine.” He gestured to an ancient oak of low-reaching limbs. “It looks pleasant over there. No cattle tracks, just a quiet, soft place to sit down.”

It appeared so. Ankle-high grass carpeted the land between here and there. An early spring breeze rippled through the trees. Leaves clattered together, and many fluttering to the ground, making a carpet of umber and green. She heard mockingbirds exchange a call of
sooddy, sooddy.
A bee buzzed by, another following; the two danced in the air to flirt with each other.

It was a perfect place for relieving a headache–and much, much more. Therein lay the problem. She knew what he was after; she knew what she wanted.

“Lisette.” He drawled her name. “Let's go.”

Having had a wealth of experience with his determination, she let him take her hand. She expected he'd sit next to her under the canopy of the oak, on the leafy glade. But he didn't. Turning her head, she saw him kneeling behind her, his hands reaching upward.

His black hair, tousled as ever, gleamed blue in the daylight. As always, she had the urge to pat it into place. Don't even think about it, she warned herself.

“Turn your head, darlin'.” When she obeyed, he crooned, “Just relax, just relax.”

How could she be at ease with Gil so close? Yet his fingers had magic in them. They made deep, lingering circles on her temple and forehead, and she began to droop as the pain left her head.

“So schön
... feels so good,” she whispered.

“Yeah, beats a sharp stick in the eye, doesn't it?” he joked.

“Oh, Gil, you are so silly,” she murmured.

“Silly over you.”

Massaging a trail to her neck, he kneaded the tension out of her shoulders. Then his lips touched her nape . . . In thrall, she shivered.

“Relax, my sweet. Open your senses. Smell our surroundings. Inhale the scent of the leaves, the green of the grass, the sweet fragrance of bluebonnets. And the sun, smell the sun. Think about how it moves through your nose, the sun on flesh. Let the tension flow out of your fingers and toes.”

She was adrift with the scent of him. The warm sun on his skin, the faint traces of horse, the oil of the coffee she'd fixed him, his own musky scent . . . she found all of it endlessly appealing in her husband.

Yet, she could almost smell her own misgivings.

He was seducing her, and if she didn't do something–anything! –she had no one to blame but herself.

“There aren't any bluebonnets around here.”

“Pretend there are.”

“I think your senses are sharper than mine.”

He sighed. “I'm beginning to think there's not a romantic bone in your body.”

“I wouldn't agree,” she replied, and wished she hadn't, for he took it as invitation.

His voice laden with meaning, he said, “If your brother had allowed it, I'd have courted you properly. I'd have given you flowers, and you'd have seen me all slicked up.”

“You gave me flowers. They're pressed in a Bible I found,” she answered softly, again under his spell. “And you look fine the way you are.”
More than merely fine
, she thought.

Gil picked a twig that had drifted to her shoulder. “But it would've been enjoyable, getting polished up for you. Like, wearing the necktie my grandmother gave me.”

“The grandmother who gave you her wedding ring?”

“Your wedding ring now. But she's one and the same. Maisie–that's short for Margaret–Mc-Loughlin. I don't want to talk about her. I want to talk about us.”

The day before, Matthias had told her Gil had two brothers, that the parents were deceased, and Lisette wanted to ask questions. One was at the forefront of her mind: What about his former wife? What caused her to quit on their marriage?

Lisette had a word with herself. This union was for show, and his past was not her business.

Lightly, he placed a kiss on her shoulder. “I'd have been proud to escort you to church and to those dances you Germans are so fond of. If the Fredericksburgers would have allowed a divorced man in,” he added on a chuckle.

“Don't be harsh on yourself. The Lord's house is for everyone. As far as the dances, no one would've turned you away. I imagine they'd have been eager for the gossip.”

“Gossip? Who cares about it. What's that old saying, ‘Sticks and stones ...'?” Not one caustic syllable edged his words. “Besides, while they'd have been yammering about me, they'd've left someone else alone .”

“That's one way to think about it.” She, on the other hand, had done everything in her power to avoid the tongues of scandalmongers. The gossip theme had to be avoided, thus she turned the topic. “Gil, it was nice of you to say those things about courting me. I've never known a fraction of your kindness.”

“As pretty as you are? I'm surprised a thousand fellows haven't fallen at your feet. Or are you just being modest?”

Thankfully, he didn't give her a chance to answer.

“Forgive me, Lisette. What was I thinking of? The war made for lonely hearts . . . made many young women widows and spinsters. And your brother being a mother hen . . .”

“Yes, Adolf was persnickety,” she replied in truth, yet not delving into the war years.

“To hell with him. He's out of the picture now.” Gil looped his hands under her arms, raising and expanding his fingers across her jaw. His touch elicited a shiver, and she was almost lost when he whispered, “Why don't you want to be my wife . . . in more than name?”

“You . . . you promised you wouldn't force yourself on me.”

“Am I doing that, Lisette?” His fingers exerted a slight pressure. “Have I tossed you to the ground and ripped your clothes off?”

“No.” She needed something–anything!–to latch on to. “But you're trying to pry me away from my dreams. I ... I want my own hatshop. I want to see Chicago.” She still wanted these things almost as much as she yearned for her husband.

“Stifling your dreams, honey, isn't what I'm about. If you've a mind to do nothing more than stitch millinery, do it. Open a shop in Fredericksburg–I'll finance it.”

“That town is too close to Monika.”

“Just thumb your nose and tell her to go to hell.”

Lisette couldn't help but laugh. “It would be infinitely satisfying.”

“Since you're set on Chicago,” he said smoothly, “we'll make a honeymoon trip up there. By train, of course, from Abilene.”

“You offer too much.”

Doggedly, he went on. “I'm not stingy, despite my Scottish blood. And I'd spend my last penny just to be with you. I fancy the way you smile, I adore the way you walk, I near about pass out over your accent. Did you know it gets thicker when you get worked up?”

“And sometimes I speak German instead of English.”

“Yeah, and I love it.” One hand moved to her head, his fingers making designs on her scalp and loosening the hairpins. “All I think about is spending the rest of my life with you and your enchanting accent. I want to watch you sewing hats, and I want to be there when you open your shop. Proud as punch, I'll be.”

Gil would hand her the world. He needn't have suggested anything but himself.

And then he was changing positions, easing his legs around the outside of her thighs, settling her against him. Powerless to protest, she felt his fingers press her midriff. She yearned for the hardness insinuated against her derrière. No ... she wanted all of him, not just his passion.

His hand moved up to cup her breast, his fingers stroking the shirt-covered fullness. It bloomed under his caress, and heightened desire braided the core of her being.

His breath feathered against her neck as he said, “I've seen the way your nipples pucker when you look at me.” Gently, he worked one between his thumb and forefinger. “I get excited every time.”

Nervously, she protested, “You're embarrassing me.”

He touched her sleeve. “I don't mean to offend your sensibilities. If you'd rather, I won't say anything. We'll just spend the rest of our lives doing what's natural.”

A lifetime together . . . what a beautiful concept. She yearned to give and share, and meet all his needs, yet she lacked the courage to confess her sin. She needed more time, and if she didn't break away from his seductive touch and voice . . .

His hand moved to caress her inner thigh. Her thoughts a jumble, she propelled herself forward, grappled for footing. Once more she began to run away from her husband.

Lisette was running from him–again.

Sun rays glinted off her white-blond hair like the sparks of St. Elmo's fire as she raced toward the chuck wagon. Her braids came loose from the corona, were flying behind her as the remaining hairpins flew to the ground. To Gil she had never appeared so innocent nor so frightened. It was time for him to make peace with her.

But he was out of blandishments, which hadn't worked anyway. Just as when he'd had to scare her into accepting his proposal, it was time to get tough. The cultivating was over. It was time for celebrating.

He chased after his wife and caught her as she ran through the grass. Grabbing her arm, he tightened his fingers, whirling her around. Her eyes were wild with alarm.

He pressed her against his thighs. “We are married, woman–married. It's no sin to sleep with your husband. It is going to happen. Sooner is better than later.”

He had no idea what she said. But he figured it probably wasn't, “Yes, my darling, precious husband, do carry me to our lair and ravish me until my eyes are glazed, until I can take no more of your ardent aggression.”