Cross the Ocean (13 page)

Sanders had picked out a gentle mare for Melinda and another for Gertrude. The groom led the animals to a mounting block as she and Melinda approached on the arms of Cameron Fawcett.

“I’ve picked horses for you both,” Sanders said as looked at Gertrude up and then down.

Melinda placed her hand in the groom’s as he helped her mount.

“I’ll pick my own, thank you,” Gert said as she walked by the calm chestnut-colored horse, towards the stables.

“Miss Finch,” Sanders shouted and followed. He whispered when he approached. “What are you wearing?”

“What I ride in at home,” she said as she walked from stall to stall. “Fine animals your friend keeps.”

She turned to a groom. “Would you saddle this one for me? No, not a side saddle.”

“That animal is far too strong for you too control,” Sanders said. “Choose another.” He turned to the groom. “She’ll take a sidesaddle.”

The groom looked from Gertrude’s shaking head to Sander’s stern face. He picked out a sidesaddle.

“Oh never mind,” Gert said and pushed past him. “I’ll saddle him myself.”

Blake stood beside her describing disasters she would befall all the while pointing a finger her way. She saddled the horse, led him from the stable, turned the stirrup and pulled herself up. Blake continued his chatter when she kneed the mount and shouted ‘yaw’. Gert burst past sedate riders and her hat flew to her back held by the string tie. The wind whipped at her face as she let the animal hit a full run. The horizon of trees flew past and she leaned close over the magnificent animal’s neck. Gert pulled up as they approached a low stonewall. The stallion took it with ease. She blinked back tears. She hadn’t realized how much she missed home until then. Gert reined in under a stand of trees to admire the countryside. It was beautiful and well manicured. But not like home. There was no wild primitive landscape here. Even the fox they were to hunt had been let out of a cage. Other riders joined her in a thunder of hoofs.

“Remarkable seat you keep, Miss Finch,” Cameron Fawcett said.

Sanders nearly ran her down and her horse sidestepped and snorted.

“Get control of your mount, Sanders,” she shouted.

“You’re the one in dire need of control, madam,” he said. “You ride like a demon.”

Gert smiled broadly. “I’ve been riding for years.”

“Would you care to meet me by the lake, Miss Finch,” Fawcett asked with a wry smile.

Gert tilted her head. “Last one there is a ninny,” she shouted as she kneed the horse, leaving Sanders and Anthony watching.

* * * *

The weekend dragged by for Gert. She studiously avoided Sanders and spent as much time on the back of a horse as possible. Because she had nothing to add to the clusters of women’s conversations after dinner, Gert retired early. She knew nothing of fashion or protocol, nor could care less about gossip, especially about people she had never heard of. Mentally she was already sailing and traveling by ship to her home.

Gert sat in her nightclothes by the window of her room at the Morgan’s. She stared through the polished glass. It had been a grand adventure to be sure. She had met relatives she didn’t know she had and liked them. The Sanders children were engaging and lively. Hopefully they understood the privilege they accepted as their due by birth. And the constraints that privilege brought. There would be no enlightening revelation by their father. Gert slouched back in the overstuffed chair. Blake Sanders. In her wildest dreams she had never imagined a man as handsome as he, kissing her. She laughed at herself. She could imagine no man kissing her. It would with all likelihood never happen again. Gert pulled her robe around herself and blew out a breath. As much as she hated to admit it, she would miss the anticipation of Blake’s kisses.

After the very first time, she found her mind wandering often to when he would take her by the arms and kiss her with the wild abandon he did. It was nothing to him, for sure. But to her, ah, to her it was the fulfillment of a dream buried deep. She could imagine him looking into her eyes with love, as he broke away, rattled from their embrace. Looking at her, yes, she said aloud as she sat up straight in her chair, Gertrude Finch with affection and possessive desire. She would be the object of that man’s deepest passion, the match to his soul and keeper of his faith and dreams.

Gert sighed and wilted back against the flowered chintz. Elizabeth was right. She was a hopeless romantic. Caught in a tall body with a sharp tongue honed to keep men away. For a man such as Blake Sanders would never hold her, love her and be her mate. She had chosen her life. Her passion, the liberation of women enslaved by money, power and ... love. Her ship sailed on Tuesday. She would return to the women who needed her. To Uncle Fred and the hands, where she was comfortably ignored. She would return to her speeches and causes and the land she loved. And she would tuck away her memories. Pulling them out and reliving them as she watched the sun set over the ranch.

Gert knelt to pray then, not for safe passage or the health of her loved ones. She did not beg God to keep poor women safe or for hungry children to know a full plate. She prayed instead, to her own mortification, to remember visibly, tacitly the feel of Blake Sanders’ mouth upon hers.

She tossed and turned for an hour, dancing pirates whirling through her head. Every time her eyes drifted closed, she felt the wash of Blake’s breath on her cheek and the strength of his grip on her arm. She had prayed fervently to never forget the feel of Blake Sanders. Maybe God played a grim joke on her. Never allowing another sensible thought to filter through her brain. But sleep came finally, if not rest.

* * * *

Gertrude had retired early and quietly both nights at the Morgan’s. Blake watched her slink away. She had made herself scarce to him. And rode like a she-devil when she thought no one watched. It was for the best that she left. For Blake knew he was nearly at the end of his rope. If he didn’t bed a woman soon he would explode. He shifted and straightened himself behind a potted palm. Even the thought of sex made him rock hard. What a deplorable situation he found himself in. No wife, no mistress all the while a piece of his anatomy begged for solace. He closed his eyes and envisioned his Aunt Ethel’s whiskers. Tried to hear her shrill voice and pick up the scent of soured soup that he associated with her.

It had always done the trick in the past. One thought of his father’s sister and the gray, stiff hairs protruding from her ears had wilted any unwanted desire. The ears he imagined now were hairless and pink. Small and holding back volumes of hair under a flat brimmed hat. The smell of roses hit his nose and he opened his eyes. Elaine Bentmore stared up at him and fluttered her lashes.

“If you need anything, Your Grace. Anything at all,” Elaine tittered. “I’ll do my best to help.” She ran a tongue over her lips and a painted nail over her breast and dropped her gaze to his crotch. “Third hallway on the right. Past the portrait of the dogs. Up the staircase, turn left.” She paused and blinked. “Mine’s the second door on the right.”

Elaine would do most certainly, Blake thought. Willing and he remembered very able.

“At midnight.” Elaine turned away to look at him over her shoulder. From his boots to the top of his head. Her eyes dropped demurely.

Blake could have rubbed his hands together with glee. The trick in these cases was to remain sober enough to do the deed and be soused enough to not hear any of the woman’s drivel. Ah, yes, he said to himself as he lightly made his way around the room, nearly whistling. Where’s the whiskey?

An hour and a half later, Blake felt sure he tottered suitably on the peak of not being smashed or a drunken fool. Anthony eyed his smug smile but Blake would give no particulars. No one here needed to know the months it had been since he bedded a woman. Only to have his needs engorged further with the damn American. Kissing him anywhere it suited her, Blake thought to himself and stumbled over the edge of the carpet. Kissing him and bouncing those magnificent, large, white breasts, nearly under his nose. Quite a flirt, he thought, actually. The room began to spin and Blake put his drink down. Still confident in his manhood but wholly deaf in his mind to Elaine Bentmore’s silly talk. Now what were those directions, he asked himself at the bottom of the staircase.

Blake wandered the Morgan home looking for a portrait. As in every titular home in England, there were hundreds. He peered and wobbled as he looked at another. Blake jumped back with a start. Damn ugliest woman he had ever seen stared back from the canvas. He grimaced and hoped his manhood would prevail. If Blake didn’t get himself between a woman’s legs tonight, he surely would be able to identify every one of Morgan’s relations. Blake chuckled and the sound reverberated down the deserted hallway. He turned to the echo of his laughter. Ah, here’s a staircase. Up he went and turned right.

Second door on the left. Yes, he remembered dear old Elaine’s instructions now.

Blake undid his cravat as he inched open the door. The little tease was under the blankets! Probably imagining him sucking her skin dry, he said to himself as he pulled off his boots. Waiting for me to spread her legs he thought and growled aloud as he worked himself into a frenzy and out of his tight pants. Blake hopped around on one foot in the darkness He lifted the blanket and stretched out.

Had Elaine grown taller? Ah, well. Her back was to him and he fit one hand between her arm and her side, reaching for a breast. Oh, yes, he cried to himself as the nipple hardened. He didn’t remember Elaine’s breasts filling his hand to overflow like this. She moaned from deep within and Blake buried his head in her hair. Burrowing through, hunting for a neck, an ear. Any naked flesh. Elaine Bentmore in a flannel nightgown? Ah well, he would have it off her soon enough.

Blake ground his hips against a round, lush bottom. He filled the small ear with his tongue and she arched back against him. Slowly he lifted the nightgown and let his hands run their course over long silky legs.

She turned to him as his hand skimmed her stomach and lower. Blake’s mouth was on hers then. He kissed her fast and slow, languishing and burning, with restraint and consuming passion. She came alive under his mouth. Returning his kisses with moans. He was atop her now. Pushing himself at her, feeling her yield, impatient and out of his mind with hunger. Vaguely a thought filtered through his muddled brain.

He didn’t recall Elaine’s hands burning his flesh as they did now. Nor gifting him with a passionate response such as this. He could swear he smelled lemons. The scent was driving him mad. He was long past the ability to speculate on why.

Blake was breathing hard through his teeth, eyes closed. He entered her swiftly and groaned.

* * * *

Gert thought she awoke when a deep moan emitted from her throat. She was kissing Blake. She dreamed. Oh, what a torment. So real. Hips ground against her and she held them and ran her fingers up a wide muscled back. That tongue. It ran circles around her mouth and her lips. Licked her neck and settled on a breast through thin cotton. Surely a merciful God would not make a dream this real. A dream wouldn’t smell like a man and like whiskey. A dream wouldn’t wet the nightgown on her breasts. Her back arched as he entered her with a male moan. Her eyes opened wide to the dim filtered moonlight.

“Sanders,” Gert shouted. She looked down between their bodies at the same time as he.

“Gertrude!” Blake shouted.

She shifted and pushed.

“Dear God woman, hold still.” He sank further into her. His eyes rolled.

“What are you doing?” Gert shouted. “Stop.”

Blake was gritting his teeth and his lip twitched. “Miss Finch. I am struggling greatly for control. Can you please hold still?”

He was buried inside her. This would be the end of the dream. This connection, this stretching, this exquisite filling and tension. It would cease. She inched away and pushed back. What prompted that, she wondered. Instinct? Pleasure? Surrender to herself? To him? What superb torture. His voice opened her eyes.

“Please, madam. I am begging you. I am only a man after all,” Blake growled. Gert stilled under him. His eyes opened wide. “Have I hurt you?”

Her head tilted left and right. A fat tear rolled down her cheek.

“Please, Gertrude. Don’t cry.”

Her lip trembled.

“Lie still. I will extricate myself as gently as possible,” Blake said softly.

Gert gave in and sobbed. Real, hiccoughing, tortured cries. Tears streamed down her temples and wet her hair. “It will be over then?” she asked.

“Not concluded as usual, Gertrude. But over, yes,” Blake said as he brushed a damp strand of hair from her face.

What a memory this would be. It would be enough to store away and hold loneliness at bay for years to come. Gert’s voice shook. “Could you ... finish as usual? Would you want to?”

He dropped down on his elbows and held her face in his hands. “There is nothing in this world I would treasure more than staying right where I am.”

Blake kissed her lips softly. He deepened the kiss and stroked slowly, laboring over her mouth and breasts. A mystery of life had been revealed and Gert was certain no man could have shown her in the same masterful way. He murmured wicked intentions in her ear and then fulfilled them as Gert moaned and shifted under him. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her atop him. Never more in her rational sane life had Gert felt so in touch with her body and soul. Surely, her hands could paint a masterpiece, her voice ring clear in an opera. There was no task, no talent beyond her reach. She was as alive as she could possibly be.

Blake rolled her to her back and set a furious pace. He may have moaned. She didn’t know. She was too far away in her own pleasure. His weight descended on her. Whatever words he spoke were muffled in the pillow his face was buried in. Gert stared at the canopy above. She had no regrets. What of this joining was to doubt? It was mystical and erotic and far beyond any of her expectations.

Gert stroked his hair and back, wondering what he would say. How would they ever be casual after this act of total intimacy? She would forever view him, whether he sat at a table or rode a horse, in this fashion. Straining and gentle, carnal and slightly stewed, pure man, fairly itching to take her. She was running her hands down muscled arms when she heard the first snore. With a push he rolled on his back, eyes closed, mouth open. It would have been easy to shout at him. Wake him up and explain to the lout he was climbing in her bed, loving her and in a wink of an eye sound asleep. But all Gert could do was push a black lock of hair from his face and rub the back of her hand the length of the whiskers on his cheek. In a blustery slapping of lips, he pulled her down on his shoulder, still snoring. She landed on his chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart. Gert’s eyes closed immediately.