Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02 (27 page)

She startled, but allowed him to pull her closer so that she rested against him from his chest to his thighs. Being tall for a woman, she fit perfectly.

The vanity was low and they were both taller than the mirror, so their faces weren’t reflected in the glass. But their bodies were, and his sun-darkened arms looked alien against the paleness of her soft skin. Lifting a hand, he brushed one of the long curls back over her shoulder, then ran his lips along that vulnerable tendon that joined her shoulder to her neck.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered into her ear.

She shivered.

He felt it all through his body. Heard surrender in her sigh.

Watching in the mirror, he ran his hands over her, gentling her to his touch . . . drawing out her fear . . . learning what made her sigh and tremble in his arms. He stroked her breasts, watched her nipples grow tight, then moved his hand lower. With one callused fingertip, he gently traced the faint white lines where her body had stretched to accommodate Jamie. He hoped someday it would stretch again to accommodate his child.

She put her hand over his, stopping his exploration.

He started to take his hand away, but she held him fast. “I didn’t want what he did to change me. Make me different, or less than I was. I wanted it not to matter. But when I see these marks, I know it did. I’m sorry you have to see them.”

He thought of his own scars—ugly, reddened dents where the bullets had gone through, tearing out flesh and muscle and chips of bone. A brutal, meaningless maiming.

But her scars . . . they meant life.

He turned her in his arms. Cupping her face in his hands, he kissed her, putting into that one point of contact all the love and pride and wonder he felt for this fearless, forceful woman. “You’re perfect,” he murmured and kissed her right cheek. “The only woman I’ve ever truly loved.” He kissed her left cheek. “The only woman I will ever love.” A last kiss, square on her mouth. “For all of my life.”

A tear slipped down her cheek as her arms went up and around his neck. Her breasts flattened against his chest, hot and soft, centered by two small, hard points pushing into his skin. “Show me,” she whispered into his ear.

That was all he needed. Sweeping her up into his arms, he carried her to the bed, laid her across the coverlet, and climbed up beside her. Resting on one elbow, he smiled down at her as he stroked her again, his hand sliding lower until she opened her legs in invitation.

Soon she was squirming beneath his fingers, her hands tangling in his hair as he dipped his head to kiss her breasts.

“Aren’t you going to put on the preventative?” she asked in a breathy voice.

Hell.
He’d forgotten. He rolled onto his back. “Let’s hope it still fits.”

She looked over at his face, then her eyes drifted down. Her expression of alarm was both gratifying and a clear indication of how miserably the weasel had failed to measure up. He couldn’t help but be pleased.

“That’s a joke,” he said. “Although if we don’t get started soon, it might not be.” Sitting up, he reached for the preventative on the night table.

She caught his arm and pulled him back down. Smiling, she slid her arms around his neck. “Never mind.”

Relieved and grateful, he settled in to kiss his way from one end of her long, beautiful body to the other.

He tried to go slow, wanting it to be perfect, as good for her as he knew it would be for him. But she wouldn’t let him, driving him on with restless touches and gasps of pleasure. She came alive under his hands, all taut curves and hot, smooth skin, and her quivering responses added fuel to the fire that raged inside him.

“Yes,” she cried, rising up beneath him.

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He became a tool for her pleasure, a trembling shell in her eager hands. And when he moved inside her and her strong legs gripped him tight, pulling him even deeper, the feeling was so intense he had to close his eyes so nothing would distract him from the heat of her, the sweet, salty taste of her on his tongue, the sound of her cry when she soared into bliss.

It was a wonder. More than he had ever imagined. And as he shuddered above her in a final pulse of pleasure, he knew in that one searing moment his life and everything in it had finally become all he had ever dreamed it could be.

 • • • 

Josephine awoke, disoriented and groggy. Shivering, she sat up, the sheet clutched to her naked body. The room was cold. The air smelled faintly of their lovemaking and burned coal oil. Although the lamp on the bedside table had run out of fuel long ago, there was enough light coming through the window for her to study the man sprawled on his back beside her, snoring softly.

Most of his bruises had faded, except for one at the corner of his eye. Asleep, he looked younger. Less determined. Still handsome, but in a softer, more boyish way. She loved this Rafe, too. Vulnerable in sleep, his strong limbs relaxed . . . hers to touch, and admire.

He wasn’t a true blond, judging by the dark brown hair that covered his chest . . . except for the three shiny dents where the bullets had gone in. They saddened her. But the scars were part of him now. A signpost pointing back to a troubled time in his past. A reminder of how fragile life could be.

“You fixing to buy, ma’am, or just take a gander?” a drowsy voice said in an exaggerated accent.

Laughing, she looked up from her perusal of his chest to his beautiful deep blue eyes. “You’re an amazing man, Rayford Jessup.”

“I’m pleased you think so. But I’d be happy to prove it again, if you’d like.”

Her smile faded. “You will be careful today, won’t you?”

He studied her in that quiet, calm way he had.

“I doubt Father or William would—”

“William? Oh, you mean the weasel.”

She thumped his shoulder. “Don’t laugh, Rafe. These men could hurt you.”

He smiled and reached over to cup her breast.

“Or hire someone to hurt you.”

Idly stroking her, he continued to smile.

Which frightened her even more. Big, capable men like Rafe thought they couldn’t be hurt, but he had scars to prove that wasn’t always so. Realizing that admonitions to be careful would fall on deaf ears, she tried a different approach. “In fact, why don’t you simply hang back, let someone else take the lead and the punishment. Now that the earl has offered you a position, you don’t have to win.”

“And lose the big bet I placed on Pems? Did I mention how much I love your breasts?” He started that circling, tugging, massaging thing again, making it difficult for her to follow what he was saying. He looked up at her, his jaw stubbled with dark whiskers, his blue eyes alight with desire. “Stop worrying, sweetheart. Pems will do all the work. I’m just along for the ride. And speaking of rides . . .” He lifted her thigh over his hip, opening her to his touch. “Are you sore?”

The intimacy of the question shocked her. She was still not accustomed to how natural and at ease he was with his body and hers. “A little.”

One finger slipped inside. “Shall I soothe you?”

“We don’t have time.”
Oh, my.

“I’ll make it quick.” Another finger joined the first.

She gasped. “You’ll turn my head with such lofty promises.”

But she didn’t stop him. And he did soothe her, without a thought to his own needs. And when she sank trembling onto his chest, she felt as boneless as a rag doll.

Kissing the top of her head, he slid from beneath her. “I better go. I can hear the servants moving in the hall.” He made sure she was all tucked in, patted her bottom, and told her to go back to sleep.

She watched the play of muscles from his shoulders to his buttocks as he pulled on his trousers. “I’m too worried to sleep.”

“You needn’t be. You know I won’t endanger Pems.” He bent to pull on his boots. “Or myself. But I intend to win. Pems has earned this chance, and I won’t hold him back.”

She sat up, the sheet tucked under her arms. “Promise you’ll be careful.”

He buttoned the placket on his shirt, tucked it into his denim trousers, then faced her, hands low on his hips, his weight resting on one muscular leg. “You’re not going to lose either of us, Josie,” he said with quiet conviction. “The race is barely four miles long. Less than half an hour. Then we’ll leave this soggy island behind and be on our way to America.”

Not wanting to burden him with her fears, she gave him as brilliant a smile as she could muster. Still wrapped in the sheet, she rose and crossed to a trunk. Pulling out a blue satin sash, she held it toward him. “Take this as a good luck charm. It perfectly matches your eyes.” Seeing his dubious look, she laughed. Using her free hand, she draped the scarf around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. One kiss led to another, then a third. After the fourth, she finally released him and walked with him to open the door. “I love you, Rafe.”

“I love you, too. And I won’t let you down, Josie. I swear it.” A last kiss, then he stepped into the hall.

“Rafe?”

He looked back.

She dropped the sheet. “I’ll be thinking of you.” And smiling, she closed the door in his surprised face.

R
afe crossed to the stable, still so rattled by the vision of Josie standing nude in the early dawn light he didn’t see Thomas until he plowed into him.

The Cheyenne shoved him aside. “See? I do not have to sneak. You white people could step on a diamondback before you heard the first rattle.”

“I was thinking.”

“You cannot think and watch where you step at the same time?” Shaking his head, he fell in beside Rafe. “How did we let you people defeat us?”

“So you admit defeat?”

“The war is not yet over.”

Rafe doubted it ever would be, but didn’t allow himself to be drawn into a discussion of it. The morning was mostly clear, he was pleased to note. But clouds were building in the west over the Irish Sea. He hoped the rain would hold off a few more hours.

Even though the horses weren’t allowed to test the course before the race, he and Ash had walked the area several times. In addition to a dozen other jumps, there were three water obstacles—two brooks, and a river deep enough in one spot to require the horse to swim a short way. That would be a trial for Pems. But the stallion did have one big advantage—a long final sprint. If he got that far.

Thomas studied him. “You look tired,
nesene
. Bad dreams? Or did something else keep you awake?”

“Actually, I slept very well, and without a single troubling dream.” In fact, rather than keeping him awake, Josie had curled against his side, insisting that he sleep so he would be well rested for the race. Sated and blissfully relaxed, he hadn’t argued. But tonight . . .

“Did you see any sign of Cathcart or the weasel during the night?” he asked the Cheyenne.

“No. And the man the Scotsman put outside the room of Gordon Stevens saw no one, either.”

“Good.” When they entered the stable, Rafe saw Ash standing outside the room he and Thomas shared with the guard. He looked impatient. But then, he frequently looked impatient; he didn’t handle idleness well. “Is he awake yet?” Rafe asked as they approached.

Motioning them to silence, Ash led them inside. Hicks still lay sprawled on the floor. “It willna be long,” the Scot whispered. “He’s starting to groan. Heathen, put the chains back on before he awakens and sees you’re loose.” He gave him the key he’d retrieved from the guard’s pocket.

Muttering in his native language, Thomas locked the manacles over his wrists and handed back the key. Ash slipped it into Hicks’s pocket a moment before the ex-private rolled to a sitting position, one hand clamped to his brow.

Bending down, Ash spoke loudly into the bleary-eyed face. “Your duties are done now, Mr. Hicks. Release the savage so he can relieve himself and help Jessup prepare for the race. I’ll keep a watch on them.”

Hicks swept a coated tongue over his dry lips. “But I have to escort them to the docks,” he said on the heels of a rumbling belch.

With a look of disgust, Ash backed away. “So you will. After the race.”

Mumbling, the guard fished out the key and unlocked the manacles.

As soon as he was free, Thomas and Rafe left to ready Pems.

To deter mischief, Lord Brantley had posted a man in the aisle of the stable overnight to watch over the seven horses entered in the race. Not trusting an Englishman to do the job right, Ash had posted one of his own clansmen outside Pembroke’s stall as a further deterrent.

Neither man reported trouble during the night.

While Thomas ducked into the tack room to finish the modifications he was making on Pembroke’s saddle, Rafe went in to attend the stallion.

“Morning, fella,” he said in answer to the horse’s soft whicker when he stepped into the stall. “Sleep well? Me, too.”

Speaking quietly, he told Pems about his night with Josie while he went through the motions of currying the glossy bay coat, but using his hands, instead of a brush. “I slept like a log. Not a single evil dream.” Making small circles with his fingertips, he moved down one side of the stallion’s spine, then the other. “But then, it’s hard for Satan to find you,” he went on, “when you’re sleeping in an angel’s arms.” After working his way down the horse’s legs, he started a deeper massage on the slabs of muscle along the animal’s shoulders and rump. “Do you still have bad dreams, Pems?”

The stallion answered with a deep sigh and let his head droop, his eyes half-closed.

“She’s a wonder is what she is.” Rafe pressed, then released, his fingers digging deep into the dark fur until he felt the tension in the muscles begin to give. “But you know what I’m talking about, don’t you, boy? I’ve seen the way you look at that new little warmblood mare.”

The stallion was almost asleep now, resting on three legs, partially leaning into Rafe’s hands. Pems loved his massages. And in return for taking the time to give them, Rafe earned a little more of the animal’s trust with each session.

“You’re a good horse,” Rafe told him. “With a strong, brave heart.”

Pems had gone through his retraining as well as any horse Rafe had ever known, and had approached his fears with the strength of a champion. Hopefully, he would prove his courage in the race today. But more important, Rafe prayed nothing would happen to damage the trust he had worked so hard to rebuild in this magnificent animal.

“You’ll do well today. There will be no finer horse on the course.”

After an hour of deep kneading, Rafe gentled his touch, stroking the stallion as he had at the beginning of the massage, slowly bringing the horse back out of his doze.

Josie had responded well to his touch, too. He smiled, remembering how she’d trembled beneath his hands. He found himself mentally devising new techniques he might try once they were safely on the ship and headed home.

Home.
A word he hadn’t used in a long time. But it felt right. No matter where he rested his head, when he was with Josie and Jamie, he felt like he had finally found a home.

“The saddle is ready,” Thomas said in a quiet voice so he wouldn’t disturb the drowsy stallion. “I have tested the extra straps. They are strong.”

With the modifications Thomas had made to the saddle—giving him an extra hand- and foothold in case he was shoved or bumped—and the tricks the Indian had taught him, Rafe felt better prepared to handle whatever punishment the other riders might send his way. But he was more concerned about Pembroke’s safety than his own. Horses were a lot more delicate than they looked.

“Has he eaten?” Thomas asked.

“I was just fixing to get it.”

“Then I will wait to weave the loop into his mane.”

Rafe had continued the same diet he’d put Pembroke on during his training—several scoops of sweet feed morning and night, along with twenty-five pounds of hay. But since he’d arrived, he’d been supplementing with an oats and molasses mash, thinking it might give the stallion an extra boost during the race.

After Pems ate and Thomas had finished braiding the loop in the mane near the stallion’s withers—another handhold to replace the raised horn that was missing in English saddles—Rafe checked the horse’s hooves and shoes. Then he turned him out into his paddock to become accustomed to all the comings and goings, and the scent of the other horses. The race wasn’t for a couple of hours yet, and Rafe wanted the stallion as relaxed and rested as possible.

When he came out of Pembroke’s stall, he saw Ash leaning against the wall, talking to one of his grooms and tapping a short, stout whip against his leg.

Masking his distaste, Rafe asked if he had entered his wager in the book.

“Aye. Right now, Brantley’s own Phantom is the favorite. The odds turned heavily against Pembroke’s Pride after Cathcart bet on Brantley’s gray, rather than his own horse.”

Rafe was surprised. “He bet on another man’s horse?”

Ash nodded. “Which will make it that much sweeter when you win.”

Rafe hoped so. Even though Josie was correct that he didn’t need the extra funds now that he’d accepted the position Ash had offered, winning a big bet would allow him to set up his own stable sooner than he had anticipated.

“You will need this.” The Scotsman held out the leather bat.

“I don’t hit horses.”

“’Tis no’ for Pems, ye numptie, ’tis for defense against the other riders.” He shoved the whip into Rafe’s hand, then murmured, “Look sharp, lad. Company.”

Rafe turned to see Josie and Jamie entering the stable.

When the boy caught sight of him, he ran forward. Rafe hadn’t seen him since his arrest, and was pleased to see the commotion hadn’t affected him. “Mother said I could watch at the finish line. She said Pems would be the very first horse across.”

Rafe smiled and ruffled the boy’s blond hair. He hadn’t yet married Jamie’s mother, but he already felt like the lad’s father. “I hope so.”

Looking up, he watched Josie continue toward them and felt a hot rush of desire, tinged with an almost overwhelming drive to protect her. He had felt that way once before, but this time, it brought peace, not pain.

His woman. His son.

She moved with a natural grace, fully feminine, yet forceful at the same time. A woman of confidence and purpose, one any man would be lucky to have in his life. As she stopped before him, he studied her face for lingering regrets about the previous night. But all he saw was a warm smile, an answering heat in her unusual eyes, and a faint blush tinting her cheeks.

“You’re looking well, Miss Cathcart.”

“I am well, Mr. Jessup. Quite well, in fact. And you?”

“Never better.”

“I’m delighted to hear it.” Darting a glance at the Cheyenne and the Scotsman blatantly watching their exchange, she gave a small nod. “Gentlemen.”

“Miss Cathcart,” they said as one.

“We’re well, too,” Ash added with a wickedly innocent smile. “In case you were wondering.”

“Me, too, Mother,” Jamie piped in, not wanting to be left out.

“I’m delighted to hear it.” The blush deepened, even though a smile teased the corners of her lips. Turning back to Rafe, she asked if she might have a word. “I wish to say something to Jamie and would like for you to be there when I do.”

“Am I in trouble?” her son asked in alarm.

Rafe mentally speculated on what the boy might have done to put that guilty look on his face.

“Not at all,” his mother said.

“Am I?” Rafe asked, shifting her attention away from Jamie.

“Not yet.”

“What a relief. Shall we walk along the drive?”

“Excellent.” With a nod to the watchers, the three of them strolled out of the stable and onto the pebbled drive that circled past the house and on to the massive entry gates. Jamie lagged behind, apparently still concerned about the upcoming talk. Picking up a stick, he whacked at rocks along the way.

After a short distance, they left the drive and crossed a freshly scythed field toward a tall chestnut tree. Jamie followed, this time beheading weeds.

A comfortable feeling moved through Rafe. He pictured the three of them walking together in Heartbreak Creek, maybe returning from a boisterous sermon at the Come All You Sinners Church of Heartbreak Creek and heading toward the hotel for Sunday dinner. A family. Smiling and happy, with a rich future stretching ahead of them.

Amused, he glanced at the woman and boy walking beside him and wondered if they knew what awaited them. The ladies of Heartbreak Creek weren’t known for their restraint—nor was sometime sheriff Declan Brodie’s brood. For a boy who had grown up with few friends, Jamie might be overwhelmed by the three older Brodie boys. Especially the mischievous Joe Bill. Rafe would keep an eye on them.

“Jamie,” his mother said when they stopped in the sparse shade cast by the few remaining leaves on the tree. “Would you mind terribly if we didn’t go to Scotland?”

He looked up at her, his worried expression changing to puzzlement when he saw her smile. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“Because Mr. Jessup has asked us to go with him to America, and I would rather do that, I think.”

“You
think
?” Rafe murmured.

Jamie glanced from his mother to Rafe. He looked like he wanted to believe, but wasn’t sure if he dared. “Forever?”

“We might come back for a visit someday, but yes . . . forever. Mr. Jessup has asked me to marry him, you see.”

The hazel eyes went wide.

Thinking the boy might need reassurance, Rafe went down on one knee so his eyes were almost at the same level as Jamie’s. “But as pretty as she is,” he said in a solemn tone, “and as much as I love her—and you—I won’t marry her unless you approve and say you’ll come to America with us.”

That wasn’t entirely true. No matter what the boy said, Rafe had no intention of letting Josie get away from him, or of leaving either of them behind. He’d prefer Jamie’s cooperation, of course. But if he didn’t get it . . . well, he had already been accused of poaching; kidnapping wasn’t much worse.

He needn’t have worried. With a shouted “
Yes!
” the boy threw himself against his chest as he had in the Cathcart stable when he’d been worried about losing Blaze. Only this time, Rafe was the one with tears in his eyes.

After a moment, Jamie pulled back to look into his face. “If you marry her, will I be your son?”

“Yes.”

“Will I still be called a bastard?”

Unable to answer for the knot in his throat, Rafe shook his head. He would make sure that word was never spoken to the boy again.

“Can Blaze come with us?”

“He’s already on the ship.” Another choking hug. Before he let the boy go, Rafe whispered in his ear, “But you have to promise me that you’ll never bet on horse races again. Gambling can ruin a man.” Feeling the boy stiffen, he added, “I won’t tell your mother about it. But I’m curious. What did you wager?”

“Your cowboy kerchief against a chipped knife that Lord Brantley’s grandson has,” Jamie whispered. “But you mustn’t worry. Pems will win your kerchief back.”

 • • • 

By nine o’clock, people were coming down from the house. Hours before, an early breakfast had been served in tents set up on the front lawn near the starting point, and now the guests were coming to the stable for a last look at the horses on which they had bet so heavily.