Linda Castle (14 page)

“Thanks,” he grated out while he untangled the blanket from his upper body. Another flash of lightning charged the air as if to emphasize the anger she saw burning in his eyes.

“You are w-wel—welcome…” Constance took off her glasses and wiped them on the edge of the shawl covering Livingstone’s cage. The movement pulled the fabric free, allowing it to slip down from the top.

A white arc flashed outside the tent and Constance slipped her spectacles back onto her face.

“Awrk, wake up, wake up.” Livingstone fluffed his feathers and blinked in startled response to the violent storm. “Awrk, blast and stuff.”

“Where is your lantern? I’ll get us some more light in here.” Temple’s disembodied voice came from somewhere behind her back. But speech seemed to have abandoned Constance. She felt, more than saw,
Temple moving through the tent. The small hairs along her arms stood on end when he was near. And as she stood in the tent a peculiar thing started to happen.

The tent had seemed overlarge before, but now with Temple groping through its gloomy confines Constance fancied it was shrinking around her. The charged air was too thick to breathe, yet the cloaking darkness was not concealing enough to keep her from seeing with a sharpened sixth sense.

A spark flared as Temple lit the lamp, and her pulse quickened.

The golden glow of light drove the gloom to the edges of the tent. Constance took a deep breath and found herself staring into Temple’s eyes. She hoped he would kiss her again—prayed he would not—while the tension between them, like the storm outside, gathered force.

“Th-this is quite a storm.” Her throat was tight with anxiety. She had shared a thousand private conversations with him when they were younger, but now the act of putting together a few coherent words required all her concentration.

Temple swallowed hard and she watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down in his throat. Could he perceive even a tiny fraction of what she was feeling? Was it possible he might be feeling the same thing?

“It will blow over soon. Springtime gales blow in and out quickly.” His words were clipped and tight.

Constance felt as if they had been seized by some curious malady that constricted breathing and lowered their voices into seductive whispers.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” She couldn’t seem
to stop twisting the shawl in her hands. Temple’s gaze held her, transfixed. They stood staring at each other like statues, frozen together in awkward silence.

He cleared his throat and Constance found herself able to release the breath she had been unconsciously holding. His expression was taut—controlled. Lines of tension bracketed his stern mouth.

“Awrk, blast and stuff,” Livingstone chirped.

Temple took a step closer to Constance, and her nostrils filled with the heady smell of rain and him.

“Take off your clothes,” he commanded in a husky whisper as thunder boomed to emphasize his request. “Take your clothes off now.”

“I
beg your pardon?” Her voice squeaked and broke.

Did the merest hint of a satyric grin touch his lips, or was it a trick of the lantern light?

‘Take those things off and put on some dry clothes, or you’ll be nursing a fever tomorrow instead of digging.”

“Oh,” Constance whispered. Relief—or was it disappointment?—coursed through her at the familiar mocking tone in his voice. Whatever strained enchantment had bound them with invisible cords was gone now, banished by Temple’s taunting remark. The illusion of attraction between them wafted away like smoke. Clarity of purpose brought the reality of their situation into sharp focus. Her reason returned.

“Take off your clothes, take off your clothes, awrk,” Livingstone chattered above the din of the storm.

The bird’s voice helped her to regain her composure. She and Temple had shared one mad impulsive kiss but that was all it could ever be. They were
rivals—adversaries— trapped together for a short time because of the whims of weather. No more—no less.

“Yes.” She looked at the trunks and then at Temple. “I do need to change, but I…”

This time his full bottom lip curled upward without restraint or repentance. Constance felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment at the gleam in his flinty eyes.

“Regardless of what you may have read in the newspapers, or heard whispered in the halls of Dandridge, I am not a total bounder. I’ll turn my back. I have no intention of molesting you.”

More heat filled her cheeks. Had he read her mind? Or did he instinctively know a part of her wanted him to sweep her into those strong lean arms and kiss her once again? Kiss her until she could no longer focus on career or promises or far-fetched theories.

While she pondered the possibilities, Temple simply turned his back on her. She found herself staring at wide shoulders encased in clinging wet cloth. An unbidden sigh of appreciation escaped her lips.

Stop! she chided herself silently. Remember your pledge, remember the bones.

Constance swallowed her confusion and forced herself to turn toward her trunks, but indecision continued to keep her rooted to the spot. One trunk contained all her digging clothes—while the other was filled with the fashionable frocks. She knew she must be mad to even consider putting on a pretty dress, but the thought flitted through her mind on butterfly wings.

“Hurry up, Connie, you’ll end up with pneumonia—and find a way to say it was my fault.”

Temple’s hard impatient voice washed over her. Before the thought had truly congealed into a solid idea, she felt her feet moving. Constance tore at the sodden
clothing with sudden furious intent. No matter how capable she was, he insisted on treating her like a child. No matter what the situation, he barked orders at her as if she had not a single brain in her head. Disappointment and fury rippled through her.

“Hurry up, hurry, awrk.” Livingstone chimed the order and made her more determined to silence Temple.

Temple heard the sound of wet clothing being peeled away from rain-damp skin. A tight coil began to unwind deep inside his loins. The image of Connie in wet breeches was burned into his memory like a flash of lightning that comes with no warning. But that picture was nothing compared to the certainty that she was now removing those formfitting, too-flattering, all-revealing gentleman’s trousers.

“Temple, why are you here?” Her voice floated to him.

“What do you mean, why am I here?” He heard each sigh, each flutter of material even while he answered. She was peeling away layers of fabric, layers of protection. Soon she would be standing behind him as naked as the truth—a truth he wanted to deny.

“I mean that you are miles from your camp. Why?”

“I could ask you the same thing, except that your entire camp seems to be miles from where I last saw it”

There was a moment of silence. Only the sound of the storm could be heard. “I asked Mr. Hughes to help me move it,” she finally answered.

“Why?”

“I asked you first.”

He swallowed hard while the image of Connie undressing
gnawed at his insides. “I thought the digging would be better here. And you? Why did you move?”

Again a moment of silence where the patter of rain on the tent seemed to grow louder with each passing minute.

“I arrived at the same conclusion.”

“How curious that we both decided to move at the same time.” His voice was a husky purr, full of innuendo and promise, ripe with possibility.

“Yes, isn’t it?” Connie said softly. “Very curious, indeed.”

Temple closed his eyes. He tried to focus on the fact they were both here to dig in the same place, but the portrait of damp pliant flesh would not release its grip on his imagination. His mind was sluggish, as if he had been drugged by Connie’s potent kiss. He tried to focus on the fact that the damnable rain was keeping him from digging.

It didn’t work. He grimaced as he peeked through the flap of Connie’s tent and saw his bedroll getting soaked. He had dropped it in fear for Connie’s safety. That same fear had driven him across the ravine without thought. But even anger at himself for being so damned impulsive failed to take his mind off the woman behind him.

His skin itched where his own wet clothing chafed at his shoulders and waist. Heat mingled with an intense restlessness while his mind painted pictures of her flesh, of her eyes—of
her.
No matter what he tried to concentrate on, all he could really think about was Connie…beautiful Connie stripping away her men’s clothing until her lovely woman’s body was bare.

A soft sigh behind his back sent a frisson of passion clawing its way up his spine. He swallowed hard and
prayed the rain would stop soon. He wasn’t sure he was man enough to weather a long storm. Not inside Connie’s tent, where temptation stood only a few feet away.

“All right, Temple, you can turn around now.”

He heard her words but his legs refused to respond. He knew he was acting like a frightened schoolboy, but he dreaded having to look at Connie all the while he longed to. stare at every inch of her. What if she had put on another pair of men’s breeches? Could he look at those long elegant legs without moaning with physical need?

Or if she had covered herself in that hideous costume that she traveled in, could he look upon her without wishing he could peel away the layers until he found her form hidden inside like the flesh of a sweet and very much forbidden fruit?

“Temple? Did you hear me?”

“Yes, Connie, I heard you.” He dredged up the last of his courage and spun around on one boot heel.

She had chosen neither of the modes of dress he had thought about. Regret and appreciation flowed through him in equal measures.

Her hair fell in dark rippling waves, still heavy from the rinsing of rainwater. The baby-pink dress brought a pale Montana sunrise sweeping across her cheeks. She looked fresh and dewy and entirely kissable from head to dainty bare feet.

“Connie—you are…”

“I am what?” Her breath lodged beneath her breast while she waited for him to finish. She didn’t want Temple’s opinion to matter, but it did, oh dear Lord, it did matter.

Lovely, he wanted to say, but he held the word
back, clinging valiantly to the last shred of his resolve. “Finally dressed,” he said gruffly.

“Yes, I am. Thank you for noticing.” Constance pushed her glasses up on her nose.

He swallowed hard. Her nervous little gesture should have made him feel less awkward, but it only made her appear more vulnerable.

“I may not have said anything but I have noticed all the things you wear.” The admission tumbled from his mouth before he could stop the words.

Her eyes widened and she took a step forward. His body thrummed, just knowing that she was within arms reach. But then his gaze focused on her ears. His eyes were riveted to the cameos hanging from her delicate lobes.

“Connie, are those the same pearl and cameo earrings?”

“Yes, they are.”

He reached out, halting his hand only inches from actually lifting the dainty gold filigree with his fingertips.

“You kept them.” Amazement sizzled through him. “All these years.”

“Of course I kept them. It was the only present you ever gave me.”

Temple stared at the jewelry while a mixture of feelings washed over him. He had worked like a dog to earn the money to buy those earrings and a new pipe for C.H. And in the end those presents had led to his ruin. He could never reveal how he had earned the money, that he had broken his word to C.H. and associated with criminals. He didn’t have the courage to disappoint C.H., but by keeping his silence he had given Professor Andrew Pollock and his son, Herbert,
all the ammunition needed to blow Temple’s fragile world apart.

“They look lovely on you.”

“Lovely, lovely on you, awrk,” Livingstone agreed and gave Temple a moment in which to gather his tumultuous thoughts. He glanced outside, searching in vain for an avenue of escape. Rain pelted the earth without slackening. There was no place for him to go, nowhere for him to hide. He was trapped with Connie and his own conflicting feelings. He couldn’t leave and he couldn’t allow her to know how she affected him, because if she ever knew how hard it was for him to be here, she might use his weakness against him.

He stepped away from her and forced his hands to his wet thighs. Frustration nipped at his heels, compelling him to pace the width of the tent like a caged animal. He tried to ignore Connie and all the old feelings she had unintentionally prodded while he stared out the slit in the tent opening. And he fought to keep his thoughts and his hands off her while the storm grew worse.

Constance sat on the edge of her bed and counted the seconds between the blue-white flashes and the subsequent rumbling thunder. She had tried desperately to find something to engage her mind, but Temple’s presence tossed her thoughts willy-nilly.

“The storm is getting closer,” she commented when the rolling thunder vibrated through her tent.

Temple paused in his pacing to study her in silence, then his frown deepened and he resumed his strides in tense silence.

“Why don’t you sit down on one of those crates? You are wearing me out with your pacing, Temple.”

“Temple is a pirate.” Livingstone said quite clearly. “A bounder, an ingrate, pirate…pirate, awrk.”

Constance cringed when Temple’s scowling gaze slid to the bird.

“I wonder how he would taste boiled up with dumplings?” His eyes narrowed down to predatory slits and he tilted his head as if speculating on Livingstone’s taste.

“Temple!” She stiffened on the edge of her cot. “You wouldn’t. Would you?”

“Why wouldn’t I? That feathered chatterbox has done nothing but insult me since he arrived.” Temple’s gaze slid to her. “Well, perhaps not….” He graced her with a lopsided grin that softened his expression. She was reminded of the boy he used to be. “I won’t wring the beast’s scrawny neck. At least not right now. Besides, I shouldn’t blame him. He is only repeating what he has heard.”

“What do you mean?” she challenged defensively.

Temple’s smile slipped. In the uneven glow of the lantern light his predatory eyes glittered like polished agate. “The mynah bird is only aping what he has heard. Livingstone did not form his opinion of me all by himself, even if he is an extraordinarily bright creature.”

Heat filled Constance’s cheeks. The same thought had occurred to her. Since she and her father were the only people who lived with Livingstone, the implication was obvious.

“Do you think I taught him to say those things?” Constance asked in a small voice.

Temple gave her another twisted smile. “No, Connie, I do not.”

She could not avoid the unmistakable truth. And for the first time in her memory she was embarrassed by her father’s actions. If she had not taught Livingstone, then C.H. must have. “I—I’m sorry, Temple.” she said softly.

He peered at her from beneath his furrowed brows. “You have nothing to apologize for, unless you
are
the one who taught him to say that.”

“Oh, no,” Constance averted her gaze. “I wouldn’t repeat things I didn’t think were true.”

Temple told himself that Connie’s opinion of him didn’t matter. He told himself to turn away from her, to stare out at the rain-ravaged badlands. He silently said all these things but he did not listen to his own voice of reason.

“Would you say them if you thought they were the truth?”

Her head snapped up and she found their gazes locked in another silent tug-of-war. Something hot and almost as brilliant as a bolt of lightning arced across the tent between them.

“Temple—I….” Constance felt the invisible pull as if he held cords that had been bound securely around her heart.

She knew she was losing the battle and a part of her would have been happy to surrender to the compelling force that seemed to cocoon her tent, but she could not. Constance had given her word to her father, and a Cadwallender never ever went back on their word. But as she stared into Temple’s bottomless eyes a deep raw hollow of need seemed to open up inside her heart. The sound of thunder mingled with her pulse
while she wondered what her father was doing—and what he would say if he knew her traitorous thoughts.

C.H. wiggled his toes. Relief at finally having the confounded heavy cast off his foot surged through him.

“How does that feel?” Dr. Lambkin asked.

“Much better” C.H. reached for the stocking and boot he had carried to the physician’s office. “Now maybe I can move around without knocking over tables. Honoria is going to be peeved when she finds out I broke her favorite lamp.”

Dr. Lambkin shook his head and chuckled. “Why don’t you take a walk and see if some fresh air will improve your outlook, C.H.?” The stricken look on C.H.’s face nearly brought a burst of laughter from Dr. Lambkin, but he managed to restrain himself.

“There is nothing wrong with my outlook.” C.H. bristled. “How dare you imply I am not eventempered.”

“Really?” Dr. Lambkin raised his brows in doubt. He had known C.H. long enough to risk such familiarity. “Even-tempered, are you?”