Mail-Order Man (16 page)

At feeling blood under her nails, she heard another leonine roar, this one reverberating in her skull.

“Get off me,” she moaned.

But he didn't. His fingers clamped her shoulders; he held her to the floor. The sheer weight of him nearly smothered her, and she wasn't strong enough to stop the onslaught of his lips. His tongue, harsh and cruel, invaded her mouth. The punishment should have caused her to fight him all the more, yet the torture became tinged with sweetness as his hold on her shoulders lessened and his tongue began to slide along her teeth in an action not unlike the primal motions of mating.

Mindless, she moaned. Her arms closed around his back as he writhed against her. He murmured her name into her mouth, and she met his undulations with her own. A cry of passion on her lips, she dug her fingers into his back and arched against him. It was then that he rolled to the side. They were a mess of cake and icing and the trickles of blood from his jaw.

“I'm going to take this chemise off you.”

When she was naked below him, he ran his hand along the indentation in her calf. She tried to move away, could not. When his mouth settled on her scar, she bit her lip.

“This is the charity I feel for you, Skylla Hale.”

His tongue slid along the mess of cake and the damage war had done her limb. A gentle massage followed, one that slew her insecurities about her appeal. He murmured words of reassurance and affection that went straight to her heart.

His gooey hand traced a path to her hip. His lips then replaced it. When she forced herself not to respond to his touch, he brought her atop his long, hard body. He reached behind her head to cradle her nape. “I love you, Skylla Hale. I love you with all my heart.”

“Don't say things you don't mean.”

“You
don't.
I've yearned for you since the day I first saw you standing beside that magnolia tree, a butterfly on your finger. I love you, you're my wife, and I aim to claim you.”

“You lie about your feelings.”

“Yeah, I'm a liar. I'm a lying son of a bitch. I'm not worth the soap to clean your shoes, but I'm your husband. A husband whose blood is afire for you.” His lips ascended to her throat. “Don't ask me to stop, because I won't. I've lain awake too many nights wanting you. For tonight, for now, don't let anything stand between us. I need you so badly I don't know what I'm capable of if I don't find out what it's like to put myself deep inside you.”

Her arms closed around him again. Tomorrow, she could cry for shattered illusions.

Their mouths met with a fevered passion befitting to lovers. Rearing above her, Braxton curved his palms around her breasts, his thumbs and forefingers teasing her nipples. Skylla combed through the curls of his hair, while with a masterful touch he caressed her. She responded to his touch, from her toes to the top of her head, feelings settling deliciously into her womanly parts. She must have moaned in delight, for he laughed softly, bringing her fingers to the prickly, sticky hairs on his chest. To doubt his passion would be idiotic. He wanted her. She didn't doubt that.

The lamp that had illuminated a king's ransom flickered, then died, leaving the dining room in shadowy moonlight.

“I've got to get these britches off.” He left the floor to stand above her, his gaze never leaving her face. His torso was limned in silver as she watched him.

“On second thought . . .” Stretching out beside her, he brought her hand to the top of his trousers. “Take them off me.”

Sticky fingers fumbled with the buttons; her attention centered on the bulge of his sex, swollen and straining against the material. His hand clamped over hers, and pressed her palm against it. “Touch me, Skylla. Touch me.”

Her fingers slipped beyond his waistband, and she sucked in her breath at the feel of velvet-covered steel. But he then countermanded his own order. Saying he needed more, he rolled onto his back, lifting his slim hips to shove the last of his clothing away. Naked, he brought her into his arms again.

Yet terrible thoughts raced into her mind. What if this turned out to be their only night of marital congress? What if he left her for the greener pastures of California?

“You're pulling away from me,” he said.

“I'm not.”

“You are. Stop, Skylla. Stop it right now.” Aligning himself with her nude body, he brushed hair and goo from her temple. His voice troubled, he asked, “Am I losing you?”

“Have we lost each other?”

“Never. We'll work something out. I promise we will.” His gaze gripping hers, he ordered softly, “Open your legs, sweetheart. Let me into your body. Let me stay in your heart.”

Appeased, she let him nudge his knee between her legs. Oh, how she relished the feel of him. Levered above her, he dipped his mouth to hers, his hands encircling her face. She felt his long and thick member settle at her womanly crevice. Her legs spread wider. And with one magical thrust he sealed their marriage.

She moaned her pleasure. He moved slightly, then, with a forceful lunge, caused her to gasp for air. He withdrew and plunged again, and her arms closed around him, gripping him. Even before she reached the shattering climax that left her panting for breath, she knew he was her husband for all the days of their lives.

And beyond.

She was Mrs. Braxton Hale.

Completely, unequivocally.

Mrs. Hale of the Nickel Dime Ranch. The property that would remain in this family beyond the time she and her husband were in their graves. She would accept nothing less.

Somehow she'd talk him out of California.

 

 

The place stank in more ways than one. Claudine scorned her poor excuse for a lover, as she did their chicken-coop meeting place at the Burrows farm. “Get dressed, Charlie.”

In the dark and amid the roosting chickens, he stepped into his britches, then snapped his suspenders. “Pumpkin, ain't you gonna say nothin' about me not bein' too old for ya?”

“You're wonderful.” Her lie flowed smoothly.

“Don't ya wanna hear 'bout that Menard whore?”

“What about her?” Claudine bundled up their pallet.

“I was over to Ecru yesterday. That good-looking gal what lived there 'fore the war was in town—Jane Clark—be wearing the cameo I seen here at the ranch.”

In Claudine's estimation, Charlie Main had no eye for the finer things in life. To her, he'd mistake a toad for a cameo. And anyway Skylla would never believe the story. Unless Claudine could get some hard evidence against Brax Hale, the cameo tale wasn't worth looking into.

If it proved true, the marriage between Brax and Skylla was done for. Skylla might not believe gossip, but she'd have to believe her own eyes.

“You'd best get back to the ranch, Charlie. You're supposed to round cattle up in the morning.” Claudine left the coop and crawled back into the bedroom window of her temporary room at the Burrows farm.

 

 

In the still of night, Braxton carried her to the room that had been laid out for them, and Skylla marveled at the magnolia blossoms that carpeted their bed. He set her onto her feet, those blooms filling her nostrils with the rich scent of their oils.

“There's wine,” he whispered. “Let me pour you some.”

She nodded, speechless. Though he might not love the Nickel Dime, love for her was evident in the attention given to making their wedding night special.

They sipped from the same glass, smiling and kissing between swallows. When they had finished, he broke away, saying, “I think we should avail ourselves of the pitcher and bowl.”

“We are a sight,” she returned with a small chuckle.

He ran a soft wet cloth over her body, his lips checking the result. Anew, her passions built. And she gave the same ardent care to his sinewed flesh. Once more, he lifted her into his arms to settle her on the heady blossoms.

And they made love again, this time with even wilder abandon. At some time before dawn, they fell asleep, locked in each other's arms. Never had she slept with a man, and her dreams were involved with the joys of this new experience. When she awakened, the scent of magnolias clinging to her skin, she burrowed into his warmth.

Yet California whirled into the forefront of her thoughts. How could she talk him out of such an idea? How could she make him love something he didn't love?

 

 

The parlor was a mess. Skylla glanced toward the closed bedroom door. Should she awaken her husband and ask him to help with the cleanup? No. She needed quiet time to amass her strategies to keep Braxton here at the ranch.

With no clear plan in mind, and determined that no one would see the evidence of last night's argument, she scooped up dollops of mashed cake and threw it into the pail collected from the cookhouse. As well, she carried well water indoors, and was scrubbing the floor when Geoff tapped on the front door.

She gave silent thanks that it wasn't Claudine returned.

Rather than invite him in, she walked onto the porch. “I thought you and Charlie were rounding up cattle for the Army.”

“Dey rounded up. He watching dem at dat ol' Safe Haven Canyon. Me, I gots to go to town. Gots to get da saddle fixed, 'fore dat ole skewbald throws dis darkie into da cactus patch.”

“I'll tell my husband to meet Charlie Main at the canyon.”

Geoff's canny gaze assessed her. “Are you all right, Miz Skylla?”

Gone was his usual uneducated voice, which she wondered about. “I'm fine.”

“Where's Bubba? Did he hurt you?”

“Certainly not.”

Geoff collected his wits. “Da massa, where he be?”

“He's asleep.”

“I off to town, then.” Geoff swung to alight the stairs.

“Wait just a minute, please.”

He turned his face up to her.

“Geoff, where's your family?” she asked.

“I gots none. 'Cept for da massa and Bella.”

“How long have you known Braxton?”

“My mammy, Bella, been wit' da Hales befo' I borned.”

“I've long suspect your ties were of long standing.” Skylla moved to the top of the stairs. “I suspect you've known all along about his plans for California, too.”

“What's Calibornion?” he replied guilelessly.

Skylla exhaled, yet . . . “Tell me something, Geoff. Are you brother to Braxton?”

His toast-tinted complexion went pale. “Dat Miss Claudine been talkin' to you. Doan you believe her, Miss Skylla. Ain't no way dis darkie be brother to your man.”

He was lying. But his was an understandable lie. Skylla turned away from the boy, then stopped to say over her shoulder, “Take care what you say about Mrs. St. Clair. And don't ever lie to me again, Geoff.”

Skylla finished cleaning up the parlor, afterward going to the cookhouse. Within minutes she had a cookfire built, the coffee brewing, and sausage, cheese, and bread sliced. Idly, she wondered why Electra didn't arrive to beg for a portion.

As she took biscuits from the oven, she heard her husband enter the kitchen. She faced him. His hair tousled and a morning beard poking through his strong jaw—and with livid scratches that gave testament to her former anger—Braxton yawned and scratched his biceps. “Mornin', wife.”

“Good morning.” She slapped a plate on the table.

Ignoring the repast, he took a giant step to take her in his arms. He might not have shaved or brushed his hair, but his breath had been attended to. And he wore bay rum. Such a normal scenario. A man greeting his wife on the morning after their marriage. If only California didn't stand between them . . .

“Don't you want coffee?” she asked, needing to settle matters and not in his arms.

He read her mood. “Skylla, about last night—”

“I don't want to discuss it on an empty stomach.” Yet she had no appetite for food. “The men have the cattle rounded up. Geoff's had to ride into town, though. Something about seeing the saddlemaker. You'll want to help Charlie. Won't you?”

Braxton let her go to step back. “Forget the cattle drive.”

“You promised Major Albright you'd deliver at the earliest possible time.”

Silence fell.

“Are you planning to go back on your word?” she asked.

“We don't need a few measly Yankee dollars.”

She scrutinized her husband's expression and didn't care much for what she saw. “You took Yankee dollars and Yankee horses. And you spent Yankee dollars. We owe Major Albright.”

More silence.

Braxton gave in. “I'll make good on my debt.”

“And then what?”

“I'll hightail it back here, what else?”

California was on the tip of her tongue. She swallowed her comment. Turning away and pouring Braxton a cup of coffee, she yearned for him to say he'd given up the idea of leaving.

Even before he walked up behind her, she sensed his presence; tiny hairs lifted on her neck.

“Skylla, I want you. Again.”

He nuzzled her shoulder, eliciting a shiver of desire, and caressed her hips. His britches-covered shaft pressed against her backside, and she did nothing to hide her sighs. He swung her into his arms and smothered her sighs with a kiss hotter than a cookfire. They were on the dirt floor in no time, her skirts in disarray around them. His lips and hands began another conquest, yet the conquered railed.

She held him away. “You and I need to talk.”

“Later.”

When he fumbled with the buttons at her bodice, she tried to roll away. “Damn you, Braxton. Damn you!” She beat her bailed fists against his shoulders. “We've settled nothing. Don't do this when my mind is troubled!”

He stilled. “What do you want, Skylla? For us to stay here the rest of our lives at this hellhole of a ranch?”

“Yes.”

“Don't force me to promise something in passion—something that I'll regret later.”

“You won't regret it. We'll have a wonderful life here, Braxton. We have money for everything we want and need. This ranch will prosper. For us. And for our children.”

“I'd love to have children with you. But . . .”

“Then let's build a firm foundation for them. Let's create them a legacy that will sustain and support them—and their children. Let's give them what you and I were torn away from.”

“Is this damned place that important to you? Is the Nickel Dime all that's tearing us apart?”

She recalled all the things he'd never told her about himself, including his ties to Geoff, yet she answered, “Yes.”

His eyes closing, he swallowed. With a ragged voice, he replied, “Then you've won. We'll stay here. Forever and ever. This land will remain ours.”

Pure joy filled her breast. He loved her enough to make a huge concession, so what else could she ask for? “This land will be ours. And our children's.”

Yet their conflicts weren't settled, for he said, “Skylla, I may be sterile.”

“Whatever makes you think that?”

“I never got a child on my first wife. She had two babes from her first marriage, so I know the problem wasn't Songbird.”

Throughout her life, Skylla had dreamed of being a mother. Could she go to her grave childless? Yes. Yes, she could. While she hoped he worried for nothing, she, too, could make concessions. “I didn't marry you for children, Braxton. I married to spend the rest of my life with you.”

The clouds over his face lifted. “Then let me make love to you before I leave to settle my debt with Mr. Grant's army. If you'll allow me.”

“I will let you. More than willingly, I will let you.”

He smiled. His fingers brushed the material away covering her breasts. He took her nipple into his mouth. Once more he made luscious love to her. With his mouth, his words, his hands. And when he reared up to unfasten his britches and say, “Take me out so that I may finish our lovemaking,” she went to the task without haste. His whisper as sweet as their wedding wine, he enjoined, “Now guide me in.”

She did.