Galahad in Jeans (Louisiana Knights Book 2) (24 page)

Beau, on a platform built like the top deck of the steamboat in his role as its captain, saw the backdrop start to fall. Carla was right under it as a handkerchief-waving passenger, a role she’d earned the night before. Next to her was Lizzie Masters in her little traveling bonnet and cape and with her parakeet, Twitter, in a cage.

Thrusting his hands up to catch the beam was purest reflex action. Its ungainly weight slid through them, slamming into his shoulder. The blow sent him to his knees.

A half a dozen men sprang from the wings, Lance and Trey among them. They took the load until Beau could ease from under it.

His shoulder ached like hell and was going to be black and blue tomorrow. Didn’t matter; it was worth it. The backdrop was lowered down to the floor, and nothing else looked ready to fall. The skit might have turned into a disaster, but it was okay as long as nobody was hurt.

The audience roared, since a large portion of them knew exactly what was going on with Jim and Merry Lou. Then applause broke out here and there. It soon became a standing ovation for the prevention of tragedy. The cast, even Jim and Merry Lou, but especially Carla, turned to give him a big hand. He felt heat surge up his neck, since he hadn’t done much of anything except be in the right place at the right time. Trey and Lance and the others had done just as much.

He gave them a short bow, anyway, because it seemed expected. Then he looked at Carla to be absolutely certain she was all right. Her eyes were luminous and her lips trembled a little as she smiled. His heart did a somersault in his chest, and he could feel an answering smile curve his mouth.

He wasn’t sure why he felt so good in that moment, but knew without a doubt that he’d never been happier.

Turning, he signaled for the curtains to be closed. Jim and Merry Lou, much chastened, were hustled off stage and sent home. Five minutes later, the curtain swished open again on the next skit, and the show went on.

As the soaring music of the final waltz of love and life began, Beau walked slowly toward center stage. Carla came toward him from the opposite side. As they met in the middle of the polished floor and he took her in his arms, it was like coming home. She fit so well, matching his steps so perfectly as they began the slow revolutions of the waltz. His chest swelled with his deep drawn breath, and he could feel the powerful race of the blood in his veins. With it ran the sober knowledge that this might be their last waltz. The pain of it added an edge of mastery to the way he dipped and turned, swayed and spun with her across the floor.

A minute or two into the poignant dance, she drew back a little to look at him. Her gaze was searching, as if she sensed the turmoil inside him. He couldn’t let her see. The last thing he wanted was for her to look at him with the kind of pity in her eyes she had when she first saw Crandall this morning.

“I’m sorry this last pageant night was ruined for you,” he said as they whirled. “Merry Lou asked me to apologize to you for it.”

Carla gave a swift shake of her head. “It wasn’t her fault that I could see. Her husband started it.”

“You think so?”

“At least she didn’t let him get away with anything. I was glad to see that.”

“Even if it turned into a brawl?”

“It wasn’t that, exactly.”

“Nearest thing to it.” That he could feel the bruising and soreness in his shoulder with every turn no doubt gave him a different perspective.

“What was she supposed to do? Let him act as he pleased? Yes, and punish her like a misbehaving child? No, I don’t think so.”

“Guess not, when you put it that way.”

They paused as the movements of the dance required that they revolve the other way. When the change was completed, she went on.

“Sometimes I wish my mother could have called out my father for the way he used her. If she had been able to tell him what kind of lowlife she thought he was, how self-indulgent and egotistical he had been with his two wives, two families, she might have gotten over him and what he did to her sooner. Maybe she could have stayed in Connecticut, faced down the scandal and moved on, instead of running away from the pity and curiosity, hiding from the shame of it all.”

“You’re probably right.”

It seemed to Beau it might also have been better if Carla could have done the same. That she might have carried less of a grudge toward men if she could have called out her father, the man who had hurt her the most.

Carla knew what she wanted. She wasn’t sure what she might have to do to make it happen, or even if that was possible, but she needed to try. It might turn out to be embarrassing, but that was all right. Better to be embarrassed than sorry for the rest of her life.

She thought about it as Beau walked her up the steps of Windwood and saw her into the house, also as she moved into the hallway while he left her to put the Lincoln away in the garage. She had choices for her approach, she thought. She could mount the stairs to her bedroom, get out of her costume and get comfortable first. That option certainly had advantages.

She could walk toward the kitchen in the rear of the house and see what Eloise might have left in case they were hungry after the pageant. That way would buy a little time until she could come up with a plan.

Yes, or she could stand right where she was and wait.

The decision was taken from her. Beau returned, jingling the car keys in his hand, before she could make up her mind.

He closed and locked the front door, then turned to where she stood dithering in the middle of the long hallway. “Not sleepy?” he asked. “Maybe you’d like a quick snack, or a piece of Eloise’s homemade cheesecake?”

“I’m—not really hungry.”

He studied her a second. “Nothing wrong, is there?”

Here it was, the moment of truth. “I could use a little help getting out of this gown.”

He watched her for a suspended moment while his eyes turned darkly blue. She knew he must realize she’d been managing without help for most of this week. Eloise, or one of the other women who acted as guides in the house sometimes zipped or unzipped the back of her gown for her, but not always.

His voice had a husky timbre as he said finally, “Sure. No problem.”

He was unclear about what she wanted, she thought, and he was a man who would need crystal clear direction on that point. “Upstairs?”

“Lead on.”

She mounted the staircase while almost painfully aware of his solid presence behind her, aware of her every step. She refused to be deliberately provocative, yet her blood sizzled in her veins so it was impossible to move without some small sway to her hips. Reaching the upper hallway, she stopped outside his bedroom door.

“Please?” she said, the word little more than a whisper as she turned, allowing her skirts to billow across his boots. She presented her back to him and bowed her head.

His fingers were warm and steady at her nape. Goose bumps ran over her, leaving her nipples pebbled and tight under her bodice. The loosening of the back of her gown seemed easily equal to the loosening of her inhibitions. As he finished, she turned to him with her hands holding the bodice of her gown to her breasts.

He met her gaze, his expression suspended between desire and helpfulness. It was possible he wanted her, but she could not be sure. And she required to be as sure as he did.

“I think I may need the Rhett Butler side of you tonight,” she said with a smile that trembled at the edges.

“Meaning?”

That question was tentative, yet rife with promise.

“It’s possible I not only need to be kissed, but to be loved as well, and by someone who knows what they are doing.”

“You’re sure?” he asked, as his eyes burned into hers.

“As sure as I can be.”

His smile was slow in coming, but worth the wait. “Then you really should have let me carry you up the stairs.”

Something in his face sent fire leaping along her veins, flushing her throat, scalding her face. “I’d have liked that.”

An instant later, he bent to slide an arm behind her back and another under her knees. Lifting her, he pushed into his bedroom and kicked the door shut behind him.

She was dreaming, she thought; she must be. To be caught in the firm strength of his arms at last, to be held with such tender closeness while carried toward the dark surface of his bed, was too much like some midnight fantasy to be real.

Yet he was warm and solid against her, the muscles of his chest and his arms beneath his clothing so rigid they seemed the essence of safety. She reveled in it, melting against the hard heat of his body like cookie dough in a hot oven. His instant understanding of her fantasy added fuel to the fire inside her. Her breathing turned quick and shallow as she flattened her hand with its cumbersome brace against him, feeling the hard, uneven throb of his heart.

He paused, gathering her closer still, his face turned to her while his warm breath ceased. She cupped his jaw and brushed his mouth with hers before settling upon it.

His taste was sweet, yet with an intoxicating flavor all his own. And his mouth was hers to explore, every smooth surface and tucked, beard-rasped corner of his lips, every depth. Exhilarated by her gentle victory and rising desire, she swept inside, touching his tongue and retreating, returning to entwine and entice, playing at mating with it, yet more serious than she’d ever been in her life.

He followed her lead, giving her complete access. The pleasure of it swirled inside her, mounting to her brain, and she speared her fingers into the thickness of his hair, closing them upon it for fear of losing the vital contact.

She didn’t quite know when he moved, but felt the cool softness of the mattress beneath her instead of his firm heat. The entanglement of her gown and hooped petticoats was drawn away. The bed dipped as he joined her on it, stretching alongside her before gathering her to him. He smoothed his hand down her back and over the curves of her bottom, carefully kneading the muscles with his fingertips while the breath he expelled stirred her hair. The reverence she felt in that careful and thorough exploration caught at her heart.

He wanted her, but his need was tempered by courtesy. He would not grab and stab in overexcited rut, though his was body was rock hard and ready. He seemed to understand the sybaritic impulse that flowed endlessly in her veins, the need to savor, to revel in the sensuality of the moment, to make it last as long as possible.

She still wore her corset that squeezed her waist while pushing her breasts up as well as any Wonderbra. He took what was presented, forming the pale mounds to fit perfectly into his hands, worrying the peaks with gentle concentration so it felt there must be nerves, strained and quivering, that stretched from there to her moist depths.

He laved her nipple with tongue, blew on that moisture so it turned chill and tightened instantly. His breath was warm against that coolness and his voice a little hoarse as he asked, “You’re sure this is what you want?”

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

The words were soft, but sure beyond imagining. Never had she wanted anything more. Awkwardly, with her left hand, she shoved at the coat he wore so he skimmed out of it then tugged at his old-fashioned cravat so it loosened and could be abandoned behind him.

With a sound of tried patience, he shifted away long enough to unbutton his shirt and toss it aside. When he rolled back again, she gasped at the sudden wall of warm, hard-muscled flesh that abraded her sensitive nipples. Feverishly, she kneaded his upper arm and his shoulder while her being expanded with the need to touch all of him, impress him upon every inch of her skin so she would have full recall later, when this was done.

He spanned the contour of her corseted waist with his hand, easing her back as he centered his attention on her breasts once more. She felt the brush of his lashes as he rubbed his closed eyes over the soft swells, then he took the peaks into his warm, open mouth, one after the other, while he slid his hand downward over her abdomen, past her navel to the small mound beneath her bikini panties. Whispering in half-heard phrases, he followed that same route with lips and tongue while her stomach muscles quivered beneath them. She moaned as he stripped away her miniscule covering and centered his profound concentration on the feminine folds it had covered.

Thorough, he was so thorough, as if enthralled with learning every tender crease, or perhaps with the small sounds he wrung from her. Incoherent, barely able to breathe, she writhed in his hands that held her pressed to his mouth, grew mindless with the pleasure that mounted inside her as he suckled there. On the edge of desperation, she felt him heavy and hot against her thigh, throbbing with the beat of his heart. She clasped him as carefully as possible, needing the pulsating solidity of him to ground her.

Never had she felt so free, so erotically open. She abandoned half acknowledged fears and protective instincts, holding nothing back. Hovering in her mind was the urge to demand penetration now to assuage her emptiness, but she subdued it. This was his generous favor to her; let him set the pace.