Dare to Dream (18 page)

He’d made her mad, but since he shared the emotion, they’d call this a draw.

Dozens? He could count the women he’d been with on his two hands. Granted, he’d been with most more than once, but he was a man. That was to be expected. Hell, Charlie had taken him to Miss May’s on his sixteenth birthday as a rite of passage into manhood.

Was she a whore then as Charlie had suggested? Why should the notion bother him if she was?

Meghan rose from her knees to glare at him, and he returned the favor as best a man can with his britches round his ankles.

“How many of these do you think Kathy has seen and, more importantly, felt?”

“Leave Kathy out of this. She’s a whore. It’s what she does.”

Meghan’s laughter rode on a wave of pain, like a sharp knife stuck between his ribs. “So, as a job requirement, my sleeping around would be okay? Seems pretty odd reasoning, even for the 1800s. I grew up in an orphanage, Will. We all worked from the time we were old enough to be helpful. From my thirteenth birthday until the day I left, I worked in the nursery. I changed a lot of diapers.”

The pain in Will’s chest lessened. He smiled and reached for her.

Meghan stepped back, scowling at his smile. “I’m not a virgin, Will. You didn’t concern yourself enough to ask before we screwed this morning. Does my impure state make you sick, or do you just need a tally? I’ve been with three men. No, to be completely accurate it was one boy and two men, although frankly, there wasn’t much difference. You make number four. One time each. The last was over five years ago. I’m sorry if my sullied condition bothers you, but I can’t change the past.”

Will held his tongue. He hated the very idea of anyone else touching Meghan. She belonged to him. But they shouldn’t count. They came before, before he met her, before they made love. She’d called it screwing. Was that all it had been to her?

His eyes met hers, both defiant. His hardened, hers filled.

“Once,” she whispered as she shook her head, turned, and left him standing in the cold room with his britches around his ankles.

He yanked his drawers up and reached for his pants. What the hell just happened? He located and shrugged into his shirt, buttoning randomly. Suddenly, all the air seemed to be squeezed from his lungs. Why?

Will sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. This was to be their bed, their room, and she seemed so happy with the idea. What changed? When did their happiness turn cold? He analyzed each touch, every spoken word.

He’d enjoyed her touch. Her abandon to curiosity had almost been his undoing. The problem wasn’t there. He was pretty sure he could even have recovered from the horrible story she told in the right hands. Her hands.

She’d been with three men. Not so very many. Three more than he’d have liked, but as long as they came before him, he could make his peace. He wasn’t a saint.

What word or act had done the damage?

Meghan said they
screwed.
The whores at May’s referred to sex as a
poke
or a
tumble.
In his mind, the name lessened the importance of the act somehow. The terms fit what transpired at the brothel. A physical act, nothing more. He made love to Meghan, using his heart as much as his body. How could she not know the difference?

Even as the thought came to him, he remembered her eyes brimming with tears, and knew he’d called her bluff. They didn’t really understand one another yet and, as a result, played their cards close to the vest, each afraid the other might use an unconscious tell to their advantage. She’d used the word to hurt him, as his questions had hurt her. Will ran his fingers through his hair.

They’d both overplayed their hand and folded.

Unused to dealing with a sensitive female, he was capable of dealing with a sensitive horse. Gentle hands and kindness went a long way to soothe a scared and timid creature. If you rushed the process, failure was your reward. He would change his methods to suit this filly, the most sensitive one he’d dealt with yet.

He grinned. First, he’d better never let her hear him refer to her as a filly. She’d probably take umbrage, and rightly so. Now he needed to make amends.

Way to go Meghan, nothing like scaring a guy’s Johnson half to death! Poor thing crawled back in its hidey-hole. It was supposed to be in hers.

She wiped her eyes on her sleeve as she used the other to turn the spigot to release hot water from the boiler into the bucket. Now she wasn’t just stinky, she felt dirty. Will thought she was a whore. Three men in ten years made her a slut in this time. She started to giggle on the edge of hysteria. Technically, she remained a virgin since she hadn’t been born yet. If she wasn’t born, how could she have had sex? Why hadn’t she thought of that sooner?

Donna would call Will a chauvinist pig, and she’d be right. Attitudes hadn’t changed much in a century. Perfectly acceptable for a young buck to sow his wild oats, but no one seemed to worry whose row was being plowed. Some father’s daughter—or son—had to give up their virtue.

Meghan never understood casual sex. She needed the emotional element, which was why she hardly ever used her vibrator. Sure, it got the job done, but left her hollow and lonely. So why throw the rock of spite at Will? The hurt look on his face when she referred to their lovemaking as a
screw
almost killed her. But she didn’t know how to take the phrase back. How could she when she only knew her feelings for Will, not his for her? Well, she had an inkling now. He thought of it as more than casual sex, but how much more?

She gave up counting buckets of water. Her arm ached. She took a break. She needed chocolate. She wanted Will. Meghan got a bacon biscuit from the tin she’d placed them in after breakfast and poured a cup of coffee. Donna would suggest a blow job as a way to make amends. He already thought her a whore. So oral sex hardly seemed the way to go, even if she had been sure of her technique. Was fellatio legal in these times? What would the Miss Manners of the 1800s say in answer to her question? She’d probably drop dead.

Perhaps a peace offering would suffice until she came up with something better? She gulped her coffee and rose to get the ingredients together.

She swore like a sailor and her right arm muscles spasmed by the time she got the tinned peaches open. Had she ever used a manual can opener before? She thought not. She put the cobbler in the oven with a sigh. The remainder of the water for her bath would have to be carried with her left hand.

With the tub half full, she figured it was deep enough. The cobbler smelled done, so she removed the pan from the oven and set it in the warmer for later.

A search for something resembling a bath towel proved futile. Surely they had something of the sort, but she had been unable to locate the hiding spot. She took a well-worn blanket from the chest to use in one’s place. She located the lye soap and tried not to think what the harsh ingredients might do to her skin, much less her hair.

Meghan planned to wash her hair come hell or high water. The gash seemed closed under her fingertips, but regardless, she couldn’t stand the itch any longer. Unbraiding her hair took a while with her uncooperative right hand, but she persisted until her hair hung in loose waves.

She wedged a chair under the front door handle, not willing to risk the embarrassment of visitors, and then shed her clothes. She placed a pitcher by the tub and knelt to wash her face with one of the kitchen towels. The soap tingled her skin, but wasn’t too bad. Bent at the waist, she leaned forward and dunked her head in the water, using the pitcher to get her long hair uniformly wet. Meghan rubbed the bar over her head several times before setting the soap aside to work up lather.

* * * *

Will brought in the trunk from the barn to set at the foot of the bed. He heard her stirring about in the kitchen, but was determined to leave her alone until everything was ready. He laid a fire in the fireplace and surveyed his efforts. He hoped they’d do for now.

He stood and arched his back until his spine cracked. He must be getting old. He caught wind of a wonderful aroma drifting from under the door. A compliment to her cooking would be a good start and far from a lie. Everything she’d made so far had been perfect.

He eased the door open, not wanting to startle her by just bursting in. Turning his head to the right, he saw the chair under the door handle and frowned. Was she trying to bar his way? He turned his head to the left and forgot to breathe as his heart tried to escape his chest and his cock, the tight confines of his britches. He stepped through the doorway to gape.

In the lantern light, her pale body bent over the tub rim, slender and perfect. Fair hair swirled in the water as her right arm groped for the pitcher. He grimaced when the spasm set in, watching her cradle the limb to her chest until the pain passed.

“Meghan?” He spoke her name softly so as not to startle, and she froze. He unbuttoned two buttons of his shirt and pulled it over his head. “Let me rinse your hair.”

She didn’t speak, nor did she move to rise. Will knelt behind her, knees on either side of hers and dipped the pitcher into the tub. He poured the contents slowly along her nape, using his other hand to squeeze the soap out. The bulge of his erection rubbed against her bare bottom with each movement. He leaned farther in order to draw her mane from the water so he might rinse the last of the soap away, and her ass wriggled.

Wrapping her hair around his hand, he pulled her head back gently, forcing her to gaze up at him. Tears streamed down her face.

“Hush, love, hush,” he cooed as he pressed her to his chest.

“I’m sorry. I’d take it back if I could.”

He pulled her face around, her hair still his handle. “Take what back?”

“The others, if you’d come first, they never would have been. But you weren’t there. I had to come find you.”

Will smiled despite her tear-stained face and kissed each eye. They must be destined for each other if he understood what she meant. “What or who came before doesn’t matter. I was wrong to ask. Everything started new the day we met.”

“So you don’t think I’m a slut? You don’t care I’m not a virgin?”

Will wiped at the tears on her lashes and cursed himself as twice the fool. He kissed her tenderly. Breaking the kiss, he pulled his lips only far enough away to say, “No, I would never think that of you. I just couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else touching you, or you them.” He allowed his hand to roam over her breast. “As to the other, at this moment I am happy you’re not a green maiden, else what I plan to do might shock your sensibilities.”

A shiver ran through her, and her eyes widened. “What did you have in mind?”

Will smiled wickedly, and then kissed her senseless. When her body went limp in his arms, he turned her around until she again faced the tub. His tongue dipped into her ear, causing her to buck against him. He chuckled.

“Lean way over, sweetheart. Get a good grip on the rim.” Will urged her arms outward, curling her fingers over the tub’s edge. He angled her butt up and nudged her knees outward, sat back, and assayed her position. “Mmm, stay put. I won’t be long.”

He took longer than he should have to get his boots off. The lantern light glistening off the dew already collecting between her thighs became horribly distracting, or maybe it was the knowledge she wanted him as bad as he wanted her. He tossed the last boot across the room and she made an—
eep!
His britches and drawers came off as one.

Knelt behind her, he ran a finger down her spine, and she arched her back like a cat. When the same finger ran the length of her slit, her back bowed, and her ass went up. Wet and perfect. He seemed to continually promise to take things slow and then make a liar of himself. He’d try again for her sake.

He eased his rampant rod down to rest between her lower lips, swallowing the groan that rose from his depths as they touched. Cupping her breasts in his hands, he massaged them while he danced his tongue along her neck and shoulder.

“Will?” Her butt tilted more in invitation.

“Mmm. Sugar, I’m tryin’ to take this slow.” The groan escaped as she wiggled her ass.

“Can we save slow for another time? Please?”

Her skin went goosepimply under his hands. Pure meanness made him ask, “Please, what?”

“Love me, now.” The plea ended in a sob.

The need in her voice stole the air from the room. Will drew back slowly, allowing the swollen head of his shaft to stroke back over her bud then further until he reached her entrance, wet and ready. He held himself in check and moved forward an inch at a time. His hands stilled her hips when she would have thrust back onto him, possibly ending everything before they started.

When his groin touched her butt, she pushed back, taking up that last bit. A shudder ran through her and into Will as her inner muscles trembled and squeezed the length of him.

Her sigh turned to a moan when he began to thrust.

Donna paced the floor of the sheriff’s office, getting madder with each step. She stopped, spun, and slammed her fist down on his desk, hard enough to slosh coffee all over the blotter. “What do you mean she’s a cold case? Meg hasn’t even been missing two months, two fucking months, you sorry son of a bitch!”