Lorraine Heath (28 page)

“No.”

“Do you want a woman to touch you?” “No.”

She stilled, and Clay pushed himself up. He cradled her cheek in his palm. “I want you to touch me.” He kissed her deeply, with more urgency than he’d ever experienced. The curve of her breast brushed against his chest, and he wanted to crush her against him, to feel her weight on top of him.

Her hand slowly caressed his upper thigh, circling higher. His breathing stopped altogether. Her fingers journeyed across his stomach, trailed along his other thigh, then cut across the pass, and stroked him with an intimacy that caused his body to buck with a series of nearly violent spasms. Lost in the fiery sensations, he buried his face in her hair until his body was replete, and his breathing slowed. “I’m sorry,” he rasped.

Cradling his cheek, she moved his face away from her neck. “It’s what I wanted.”

Slowly as his senses returned, he realized that her other hand was still stroking him. If she’d been repulsed by his body’s reaction to her touch, she had a strange way of showing it.

“I’m the one with the experience.” She kissed him lightly. “If you’ve never been with a woman, I didn’t think you’d be able to hold out long. My body doesn’t react quite as swiftly, so I was hoping to even us out.”

“You might have warned me.”

“That I’m a brazen hussy who enjoys a man’s touch?”

“That you were gonna take me straight to heaven.” He gave her what he hoped was a devilish grin. “Now it’s my turn to take you to heaven.”

Her eyes widened. “I didn’t think you had any experience.”

“I’m a fast learner.”

“You might start by pretending you just finished carving me from stone. I love to watch your hands move over the stone after you’ve carved it.”

Using his fingers, he brushed her hair off her shoulders so her curves were a visible silhouette in the night. Slowly, he skimmed his hands along her shoulders, down her side until he could feel the weight of her breasts nestled in his palms. “You’re nothing like stone, Meg. Stone’s harsh and rough. Countless times, it’s made my palms bleed. It’s toughened my hands so I often forget there are soft things in this world. You make me wish I’d never run my hands over stone, that I’d kept them soft for you.”

“I’ve told you before that I like your hands. I like the way they feel on my skin. I feel like they’re whispering secrets.”

He eased her down to the quilt. “Is there something special I should do?”

Meg studied the shadows of his face. Even in the dark, he appeared older than he was; even his innocence had been tainted by the war. “Just touch me … with your hands … with your mouth … with your body.”

He laid his body partially over hers. “I want you to enjoy being with me.”

“Then kiss me.”

He swooped his mouth down to cover hers. Meg welcomed him with a desperation that unsettled her.

He swept his tongue inside her mouth as he brushed his thumb along the underside of her breast. She felt her breasts swell and the warmth travel through her body. Rolling slightly, she pressed up against his bare thigh.

He was incredibly solid, his muscles firm and tight. She ran her hands along his back and wondered how he could look so lean and be so strong. His touch contained a strength tempered with gentleness.

He trailed his mouth along her throat and dipped his tongue into the hollow at its base. Then he moved lower and his tongue swirled around her nipple. The touch of his hand had hardened it, the promise of his mouth caused it to pucker. He closed his mouth around the tip and suckled gently. Moaning softly, Meg arched her back and turned into him.

“You taste good,” he said without moving his mouth from her breast.

“So do you when you’re not stingy with your mouth.”

He chuckled and shifted his weight so he was nestled between her thighs. He trailed his mouth from one breast to the other, then brushed it along her stomach as he sat back on his heels. Slowly, he glided his hands over her body. “You’re perfect, Meg. Did you know that? If I was a real sculptor, I’d always use you as my model.”

“You are a real sculptor.”

“No, Meg. I dreamed of being a sculptor, thought I could be one, but I’m not. I’ve already made some mistakes on the monument. They’re small, barely noticeable, but I know they exist. Thought you should know before we take this any further.”

“The monument has nothing to do with what’s happening between us tonight. I love you, Clay.”

His name whispered on her lips was something Clay’d yearned for as much as he’d yearned for her love, her touch, her eyes holding his as though she saw nothing about him to be ashamed of.

Sitting up, she palmed his cheek and whispered his name once more before kissing him tenderly.

He gave his heart into her keeping.

Meg kissed his cheek, his chin, the hollow at the base of his throat where she was certain the sweat gathered when he worked. Running her hands along his shoulders and arms, she eased back down to the quilt. “Come to me, Clay.”

He laid his body over hers. Sliding her hand between their bodies, Meg opened herself to him and guided him home. He shuddered and stilled. “Oh, God, you feel good. I didn’t expect you to feel like this.” Braced on his elbows, he lowered his mouth to hers, accepting her offering.

Instinct took over and he rocked his hips against hers, slowly at first, timidly, until his confidence grew and they found their rhythm. No hair covered his chest, and his body rubbing over hers felt like silk upon silk.

Meg felt the warmth between her thighs kindle and ignite into a raging fire. Writhing beneath him, she met his thrusts and dug her fingers into his back.

Clay listened as her soft whimpers filled the night. He’d never heard anything more beautiful in his life. She gasped, and he wanted to ask her what she needed from him. He increased the tempo of his thrusts and delved deeper. She arched her back and called his name to the heavens. It was all he needed to send him spiraling over the edge.

When the storm passed, he could still feel the slight pulsing of her body around his. He kissed her throat, her chin, her cheek, her lips, before burying his face in her hair. He tightened his hold on her. “I didn’t think anyone would ever want me,” he whispered.

She trailed her fingers along his back, over his shoulders, and took his face between her hands, turning it so their gazes could meet in the darkness.

“You were wrong.”

S
TANDING BY THE WAGON
, C
LAY WATCHED CLOSELY AS THE
congregation poured out of the church. Meg’s father and brother ambled toward their wagon.

Then he saw what he was waiting for: Robert walked out of the church alone. His departure left only one person inside. Clay brought the brim of his hat low over his brow. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he threw over his shoulder to his brothers before he began walking back toward the church.

To his surprise, Meg had looked radiant playing the organ even though he hadn’t taken her home until dawn. He’d yawned through most of the service and would have fallen asleep if it weren’t for the fact that he would have been deprived of the pleasure of gazing upon her.

He tried to be discreet as he walked to the church, but the murmurs of people standing in the churchyard rose like locusts swooping down to devour the crops. Removing his hat, he walked through the open door into the sanctuary. The clapboard building echoed his hollow footsteps as he strode down the aisle. Stopping, he smiled as Meg walked toward him. “Morning.”

Her step faltered, and she glanced quickly around the empty church.

“Thought I might escort you home or to Mama Warner’s … wherever it is you’re going.”

She paled. “Please, don’t talk to me here. We had an agreement to ignore each other in town.”

She started to brush past him, and he grabbed her arm, spinning her around. “I thought what passed between us last night sent that agreement to hell.”

“My father will kill you if he sees you talking to me.”

“I’m willing to risk it.”

“I’m not.”

“Get your hand off her, you yellow-bellied coward.” The young male voice reverberated off the church walls.

Clay glanced over Meg’s shoulder to see her brother standing in the doorway, legs akimbo, hands balled into tight fists.

“Please,” Meg whispered. “I don’t want any trouble here.”

He released his hold on her. As though she might say something further, she parted her lips slightly. Then she walked out of the church.

“Touch her again, and I’ll kill you,” Daniel said.

Clay wondered if he should tell her brother that he’d be doing him a favor if he killed him … because his heart had just died.

Darkness cloaked Meg. The night before she’d found comfort in it; now she felt as though she’d fallen into a well of loneliness.

She’d waited for hours by the swimming hole, but Clay hadn’t come. She looked at his house. Everything appeared serene. Surely if he’d been hurt or fallen ill, she would have seen some sign.

Running toward the side of the house where she knew his bedroom to be, she tripped and fell. Sitting up, she rubbed her scraped shin. In the darkness, she could barely make out the shape of a rabbit with a solitary ear.

She scrambled to her feet and walked carefully through the stone graveyard until she reached the house. A pale light spilled through the uneven cracks in the shutters. She tapped on the wood. “Clay?”

Pressing her ear to the shutter, she heard movement within the room. “Clay?”

Someone blocked the light escaping through the cracks. “Go home, Meg.”

“I need to talk to you. Please let me in.”

Opening the shutters, Clay was a dark silhouette against the backdrop of the lantern. “You said all that needed to be said in church.”

“Please let me explain.”

Releasing a deep sigh, he pulled her through the window and closed the shutters. Leaning against the wall, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Explain.”

She brushed the dirt off her skirt and smoothed the stray strands of hair away from her face. “You didn’t meet me at the swimming hole.”

“I didn’t see any point in going.”

“I know you’re angry—”

“I’m not angry.”

If he wasn’t angry, he certainly did a good imitation. His voice was clipped and as hard as stone. She wrung her hands together. “I love you, Clay.”

“No, you don’t.”

Meg felt as though he’d just slapped her. “Yes, I do. When you leave this town, I’ll go with you.”

Narrowing his eyes, he studied her. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

“Will you give me children?”

“If I can. Kirk and I were never able to conceive, but if I can have children, I want to have yours.”

“In this town that we move to, wherever it is, will you walk down the street with me?”

“Of course.”

“Holding my hand?”

“Yes.”

“And the hands of my children?”

“Yes.”

He unfolded his arms and took a step toward her. She wanted to fling herself into his embrace, but something hard in his eyes stopped her.

“And what happens, Mrs. Warner, when someone you know rides through town and points at me and calls me a yellow-bellied coward? What will you do then? Will you let go of my hand and take my children to the other side of the street? Will you pretend that you haven’t kissed me, that you haven’t lain with me beneath the stars?” With disgust marring his features, he turned away. “You think I’m a coward. Go home.”

“I don’t think that. I love you.”

He spun around. “You don’t believe in that love, you don’t believe in me.”

“Yes, I do.”

He stalked toward her. She backed into the corner and bent her head to meet his infuriated gaze.

“How strongly do you believe in our love?” he asked, his voice ominously low. “If they threatened to strip off your clothes unless you denied our love, would you deny our love?”

He gave her no chance to respond, but continued on, his voice growing deeper and more ragged, as though he were dredging up events from the past.

“If they wouldn’t let you sleep until you denied our love, would you deny our love so you could lay your head on a pillow?

“If they stabbed a bayonet into your backside every time your eyes drifted closed, would you deny our love so your flesh wouldn’t be pierced?

“If they applied a hot brand to your flesh until you screamed in agony, would you deny our love so they’d take away the iron?

“If they placed you before a firing squad, would you say you didn’t love me so they wouldn’t shoot you?”

He stepped back and plowed his hands through his hair. “You think I’m a coward. You don’t think I have the courage to stand beside you and risk the anger of your father. I’d die before I turned away from anyone or anything I believed in. You won’t even walk by my side.”

He looked the way she imagined soldiers who had lost a battle probably looked: weary, tired of the fight, disillusioned.

“You don’t believe in me,” he said quietly. “How can you believe in our love?”

A shot rang out through the night, followed rapidly by another and the pounding of hooves.

Clay jerked open his bedroom door and stormed into the front room. Meg hastened after him. Lucian and the twins were looking through the slats in the shutters that covered the window to the right of the front door. Clay moved to the window on the other side, peered through the shutter, and bowed his head.

“Get out here, you yellow-bellied coward!” Another shot echoed in the darkness.

Clay captured his brothers’ gazes. “Give me your word that no matter what you hear, you won’t come outside.”

Everyone stood as still as statues.

“Your word!” Clay barked.

Lucian gave one quick deep nod. “You got it.”

Clay settled his gaze on the twins, and they rapidly crossed their fingers over their hearts.

“Keep her in here,” Clay said with a quick jerk of his head in Meg’s direction before he slipped out the door.

“No,” she gasped as she rushed after him. Before she reached the door, Lucian snaked his arm around her waist, lifted her off the floor, and slapped his hand over her mouth. She struggled, fought, clawed, and kicked at him, but he wouldn’t release his hold.