Marry Me (13 page)

“Everybody who mattered knows,” he said. “Emily and I know. I knew from the moment I saw her.”

“Really.”

“She never had a chance.” Emily turned in his arms, looking up at him, her eyes soft and wide with wonder. “
I
never had a chance.”

“How romantic,” Kate said, but Jake barely heard her. If Emily’s sister hadn’t been there, he would have kissed her. Kissed her for real, for them alone, hard and long, until her mouth and his grew tender and bruised with it, until they had to stop or the kissing would inevitably turn into something more.

God, she had to go. She
had
to. It was a narrow ledge he walked, precarious slopes on either side, and he’d never had good balance. The very things he did to convince her sister, every action he took to hurry Kate on her way, were the same things that made him all the more willing to let Emily stay.

Let?
Hell, much more and he’d rope and tie her before allowing her to go.

“Emily?” Kate sniffed. “How long are those birds supposed to roast?”

Emily shrieked and sprinted for the house.

Kate stayed put.

“Aren’t you going to go help?” he asked.

“I’m of so little use in a kitchen, I’ll be far more help out here,” she said without a trace of embarrassment. And then, more kindly than he would have thought her capable of, “I’m sorry about your wife.”

“Yeah.” He snatched up the shovel and rammed it into the ground with such force the blade was buried to the hilt. “Yeah, I am, too.”

Another night. Harder than the first, because now he knew what it felt like to hold her.

Jake stood beside the bed, hands on his hips, in a clean pair of pants and a shirt that promised to be damned uncomfortable to sleep in, but no way in hell was he stripping down in front of her sister. Or her, for that matter. Behind him was the rustle and bump of Kate settling in for the night, making it clear she was not thrilled to be sleeping on the floor, but her big-sister martyrdom wouldn’t let her give in and sleep with Emily on the bed. He hadn’t quite figured out why, because any fool with eyes could see that she hated the idea of his sleeping next to her sister.

Emily lay curled on her side, her back to him, a snug little ball beneath a light, crazy-patched quilt. She’d tied her hair up, one thick horsetail, and a wash of moonlight kissed it, a glassy shimmer of silver on the pale brown. She hugged the far side of the bed, nudging up against the wall, leaving him plenty of room despite the fact that the width of the bed was better suited to snuggling than sleeping.

He’d always taken the outward side. Seemed only fitting—a man slept between his woman and whatever trouble might come through the door. But Emily put her pillows on the other end of the bed, and it felt odd to have to sleep on his right side to face the door. He’d slept alone for a long time; strange how weird it felt to climb into a bed and have a woman there. A half step out of rhythm, like coming down a staircase and not finding the tread where you expected it.

Was she asleep already? He saw the slow, rhythmic shift of her shoulders, as if her breath was steady and deep. But he doubted it. Didn’t think a young and sheltered woman could so easily accustom herself to a man lying beside her and slide into sleep. Surely she pretended. Something that, watching her with Kate, he’d discovered Emily, with her innocent face and sunshine smile, was far better at than he would ever have suspected. He wondered just how much else she feigned.

He picked up the extra blanket at the foot of the bed and began to roll it up. Yeah, that had worked
so
well last night. He’d kicked it away in his sleep and had her in his arms probably before he started snoring. Whyever did he think it would make a better barrier tonight? That his arms would be any more satisfied with a pile of batting and calico when they could wrap around her? He pitched the quilt to the foot of the bed, where it landed in a useless heap.

Emily rolled to her back, her eyes wide and wondering. Maybe it would be easier if it were darker, if he couldn’t see a slash of white cotton nightdress above the edge of her blanket, the slight swell of her breast. Ah, was there ever such a wondrous thing as the sight of a woman in bed? His head swam with it, then filled up with other, imagined images, of her lifting her hand to him and welcoming him home. Of her bringing her mouth to his, and him sinking into her, filling up all the lost, empty places inside him with the feel of her.

Was that so wrong? The doing of it, yes, a hundred times wrong. She was not truly his wife.

But nothing could possibly happen with Emily tonight. If he so much as put a finger wrong, no doubt Kate would rise from her bed and drag him off, screeching like a banshee. He couldn’t ask for better insurance.

So why couldn’t he revel in the dream? He could sleep by her. Slip his arm around her again, maybe put his nose against her neck and go to sleep breathing in her scent. Let the desire come, let his heart thump and blood rush and his head spin. It couldn’t be any more than that. Would never be any more than that. But oh, how he burned to have at least that much. Only for this brief time, in this specific place…if he didn’t take it now, he’d never have another chance. And he’d go through his whole life alone. It was no more than he deserved. No more than he’d expected.

But this was such a gift. He didn’t know if he had the heart to turn it down.

And then she smiled at him. Not the blazing, easy, impersonal grin she usually wore. This one was more intimate, a touch wary, unsure, and more potent than the strongest whiskey. She peeled up the edge of the quilt, making a place for him to slide in.

Jake took a deep breath and gave in to the dream.

E
mily didn’t move. She didn’t dare. If she twitched, if she even breathed, Jake might come to his senses and pull away.

And this was too sweet, far too rare, to risk.

He’d slid in beside her, no attempt to put barriers between them, no careful distance between their bodies. He moved right up beside her, first the flat of his chest—so hard, so solid—firmly pressed against her. The heat came immediately, flooding the space. It was unnecessary, the night comfortably warm, but she loved his heat anyway, the blast of a live, male body next to hers.

And then his arm came around her waist. It nestled into the slope between her ribs and her hips and her breath snagged in her throat. His chin was at her shoulder, and she could feel his breath washing over her skin.

Oh, it was heaven, this stolen bliss. She didn’t consider herself a truly innocent woman—too many hours with the more graphic volumes in Dr. Goodale’s library had given her a practical, working knowledge. But she never suspected the power of it, the seductive draw of Jake’s body near hers. She hadn’t earned this pleasure—he wasn’t her husband, her suitor, her
anything
. It made it all the more scandalous, all the more precious for being unexpected, and because it might be snatched away at any second, never to be repeated, leaving her all the more inclined to savor every moment, each sensation.

His legs, so much longer than hers, stretched out alongside hers as she lay on her back. How could they possibly be as hard as they felt? She dared to wiggle her right leg a fraction. Nope, no give at all. If her leg was a pillow, his was fashioned from solid steel.

He was covered from neck to ankle; so was she. But his feet were bare, and he brushed one against hers. His toes kneaded the top of her foot. Drew a line up her instep, which made her foot twitch and him chuckle softly.

Goodness.
Feet.
Prosaic, ordinary, completely uninteresting feet. And the wickedness caught her completely. Made everything inside her go soft and weak, her skin feverish, her breath shallow and uneven. Heavens, she knew nothing! Nothing at all, if
feet
could do this. Anything more, she was sure, would send her flying.

And then he put his hand on her belly. Just rested it there, on the flat beneath her navel. So big it covered almost the entire space, so warm it seared her through the sturdy cotton of her nightdress.

“Shhh,” he murmured, so quietly she barely heard it. And spread his fingers, so that his thumb bumped up against the lower swell of her breasts, and she arched a little, without realizing it was her intent. “Don’t move.” He pressed down against her midsection, keeping her in place, and his thumb moved. Back and forth, a small, modest, oh-so-wonderful motion, nudging her left breast, a slow sweep across the valley between them, then a brush against the right. More, less—she didn’t know which she longed for, knew she needed
something
.

And then his little finger moved, and her hips shot up, coming off the bed. He began to pull his hand back. “No!” she said, before she stopped to think, and yanked his hand back, pressing it flat against her stomach.

Mortified, she squeezed her eyes shut. What had she done?

But then his head dipped, his mouth coming against her shoulder—not a kiss, a mere resting of his lips against her, and even through the fabric she could feel his smile.

Her embarrassment fled. So what if she had done something naive and wanton? If it could make Jake smile, she’d do it again, and a hundred times more.

She tried to puzzle it out. Logically think through whether it was wrong or not. He was not her husband. Not even a man who might someday be. But sharing this bed was so far beyond the bounds of propriety already; this hardly seemed like a larger transgression. He wasn’t…
putting
himself inside her. She formed the words in her mind deliberately, knowing no others except a few bare clinical ones. Intercourse. Sexual relations.

Loving?
Just thinking the terms caused a delicious thrumming in her, low in her belly where his hand claimed her.

But they were doing nothing of the sort. Nothing so clearly wrong. A touch, a cuddle. No worse than simply sharing the bed.

Except that it made her giddy and hot and made her think of those other things.

But it made him smile.

He spread his fingers again, drew them back together. Again. Again. And then wide, until his smallest finger brushed against the top fringe of her private hair. She knew he had to feel the springy curls beneath the cotton. His breath came harder, with a wild, ragged edge.

She held herself completely still. Oh, this
had
to be wrong, this sweet-painful ache. Wanting his finger to slip further down. Too wicked. Too impossible. Too wonderful.

He shifted closer, hard against her side, his lower leg looped around her ankle, his foot resting between her two, spreading her legs a sinful fraction. Anticipation surged, spiraling up like wildfire.

He was hard against her hip. It was…oh! She’d seen pictures. A few times, a quick, accidental glimpse of a patient’s private areas. She was a curious woman; she’d availed herself of the information accessible to her, which she figured was far more than most women of her age and upbringing.

But it couldn’t be…this was too large. Hard, bold against her. Nothing like that innocuous, funny little appendage in Dr. Goodale’s books.

She whispered without considering her words: “I didn’t expect it to be so
firm
.”

She felt a burst of breath against her shoulder, his muffled laughter before he spoke low in her ear. “I didn’t, either. At least not anymore.”

A violent coughing fit seized Kate. Emily jumped, a guilty bolt, but Jake refused to let her go; his arms held firm, gently unbreakable.

“It’s all right,” he told her. “Remember?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Another explosion from Kate, loud enough to detach a lung from its anchor. “Don’t mind me. I can’t imagine what’s gotten into me. I’m just so sensitive to dust—you remember that, Emily—and down here on the floor…I do apologize if I woke you.”

“You didn’t wake us,” Jake said, his voice a husky growl.

Dead silence, during which Emily’s cheeks burned. “Oh.” Kate cleared her throat delicately. “I’m even sorrier then.”

Against Emily, Jake shook with silent laughter, and she wanted to whack him. Why’d he have to make it sound like that? Now Kate was convinced she’d interrupted them right in the middle of…well,
that
.

“It’s all right,” Emily said quickly.

“Easy for you to say,” Jake whispered in her ear. His hips remained pressed against her side, and she was suddenly reminded that he hadn’t…receded, not one bit. Despite everything, desire jolted through her, enough to make her lose the thread of the conversation momentarily. “It’s not all right at all.” She poked him then, in his side—heavens, but there was absolutely no give to the man—and he spoke over his shoulder to Kate. “Can I get you a drink of water?”

“Oh no, that won’t be necessary—” was all she got out before the coughing seized her again. “Well, perhaps. If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition.”

“That’s not what I’d call it, no.” Before he got to his feet, he spoke low to Emily again. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

She didn’t. Not the whole time he was gone after he slammed out into the night, cup in hand. How could she?

Because she was almost—maybe—completely sure that, right before he’d let go, he’d…hugged her.

Kate Goodale considered herself an excellent judge of people in general and men most specifically. But she could not get a satisfactory fix on her new brother-in-law.

She tried her best to set aside her own disappointment at Emily’s precipitous marriage and formulate an objective opinion. Jake did not make it easy.

For many years she’d cherished an image of the kind of husband Emily would eventually marry. Cultured, handsome, well-mannered, educated, genteel, and cheerful. If not wealthy, at least comfortably and solidly well off, and—this one went without saying—completely devoted to Emily’s every wish.

Jake was…she didn’t know what he was. Poor, but she had an inkling that wouldn’t always be the case. He worked like a madman, sunrise to sunset, constructing that lean-to with fierce efficiency and putting together his press with a maximum of swearing but a minimum of time. And then, sweaty, ink-stained, as rough-looking as if he’d just wandered in from the meanest street in Philadelphia, he plopped down at the kitchen table and wrote an elegant analysis of the homestead movement for his first issue that was so convincing, bordering on poetic, that it almost made
her
want to stay.

He had more manners than he chose to use on most occasions. Cheerful—well, you could forget that one; Jake Sullivan had grouchiness refined to a high art. Unfortunately, he failed miserably at what Kate considered the most important test, which was that he would worship at her sister’s feet.

Except that, once or twice, she’d caught him gazing at Emily with such raw hunger and pained longing that it made her own knees go weak. As soon as he realized she was watching he retreated into his usual scowl. But it had been there; she was sure it had been there. And that was the one thing that kept her from simply dragging Emily back to the city, which, despite Emily’s protests, Kate had no doubts she could accomplish if events required.

And so she was stuck in Montana, unable to ease her fears enough to go, but without convincing evidence that would justify forcing Emily to leave. This had been, she had no doubt, the very longest week of her life.

To Kate’s surprise, Emily worked nearly as hard as her husband. She didn’t seem to mind a bit, while Kate felt out of place and distinctly unuseful. She was excellent at managing a staff, at planning a party for two hundred, at budgeting for a household of any size. She was utterly abysmal at washing clothes in the creek or wandering over the plains and grubbing up wild onions.

Imbert Longnecker had apparently wasted no time in spreading the word of Emily’s nuptials. A parade of acquaintances—far more than Kate would have thought were squirreled away throughout the territory—trooped over to wish the perhaps-happy, perhaps-not (the jury was still out) couple well. Emily beamed. But then she always beamed. Jake groused. But then it appeared he always groused. Emily also seemed far jumpier than Kate had ever seen her, something that deeply concerned her. However, she’d never seen her as a new bride before and tried very hard not to read more into it than there was. She was aware of the fact that she’d prefer to take it as proof that something was amiss, thus giving her an excuse to pry Emily out of this marriage before it was too late. Still, she was determined to be fair.

And thus Friday found the three of them tromping over hill and vale—more like bumps and shallows—on their way to the home of May and Joe Blevins, two of those multitudinous, well-wishing neighbors, who’d insisted upon having a small dinner in their honor.

Small
was the operative word. The Blevins home was no larger than Jake’s, and so the only additional guest was Art Biskup.

“Here you are at last!” May rushed forward, her hands extended to greet Kate, bumping her husband with her sturdy hip to move him out of the crowded doorway. “Oh, excuse me.” She laughed and wiped her hands on the strip of toweling she’d wrapped around her waist in lieu of an apron. “I was kneading the biscuits.”

“No problem at all.” Kate eyed the sticky bits of dough on her fingers, and after contemplating the blue silk of her skirts, she edged over to Emily and surreptitiously wiped them off on the back of Emily’s dress, which was already the worse for its time in Montana.

“Hey!” Emily batted at her hand.

“It’s French silk. I waited three months for its arrival.” And was most unlikely to be able to replace the garment, and therefore was determined to preserve it as long as possible.

“This is my Joe,” May said proudly.

Joe was as young as his wife. Neither one of them looked as if they’d been weaned long enough to be so far from home, round-faced and blond and broad-shouldered, from neighboring farm families in Illinois. Joe was the fourth son, May informed them, and so their only chance at having a farm of their own was homesteading, and they’d come out there two weeks after their wedding, and they were so happy to have another couple nearby, and wasn’t it wonderful?

“Wonderful,” Emily and Kate agreed.

“And you remember Mr. Biskup, don’t you?”

“Sure she does.” Art, who’d no intention of giving up his prime seat in the rocking chair to the new arrivals, waved from his corner. “Even if I don’t make an impression, nobody ever forgets Mr. Smithie.”

Mr. Smithie, comfortably settled on Art’s shoulders, took one look at the clever felt-and-feather birds on Kate’s hat and let out a screech that rattled the lone windowpane. “Hush now. Mind your manners.” He pulled out a plump date from his bulging chest pocket and handed it to the monkey.

“Yes. I remember Smithie.” As inconspicuously as possible, Kate flattened herself against the wall farthest from the unpredictable creature.

She didn’t move while Emily and May went to finish the last few details of supper and the men clustered in the tiny sitting area. Jake, clearly on his best behavior, was extremely complimentary of the condition of Joe’s fields, at which point the young man lit up with pride and launched into an extensive explanation of the new dry-cropping farming method he intended to employ.

When he ran out of steam, Art, who appeared to have been lulled to sleep by the discussion, sat up so quickly Smithie grabbed a fistful of hair to maintain his perch. “So. You got yourself another wife, did you, Sullivan?”

Kate edged closer, eyeing Smithie with rampant suspicion. “You knew his first wife?”

“Sure. Been here longer than anyone else, most likely. Only Indians and buffalo when I came—they were the best to paint, I can tell you. Not as good now, but I’m too old to go galloping off after new subjects. Then the cowboys and the cows. They’ll all be gone, too, before much longer, I suppose.” He sighed gustily. “Not that I don’t
like
you all. Nice to have people to chat with. But the painting”—he shook his head sadly—“it’s something to chronicle the changes, but it ain’t as much of a challenge.” Then he perked up. “Now you, Miss Kate, I could do something with.” He narrowed his eyes.