Only Mine (30 page)

Wolfe stared at Willow, unable to believe what he was hearing.

“I wanted to go,” Willow continued. “Jessi wouldn’t let me. She said if something happened to me, Ethan would die. But if something happened to her, nobody would die.”

“
The little fool.
”

“Is she? She may have been born and raised an aristocrat, but she’s not the useless little decoration you believe she is.”

Willow was talking to herself. The door slammed behind Wolfe as he headed for the barn.

W
HEN
the steeldust caught Wolfe’s scent, she nickered softly in welcome. He leaned over the stall door and looked inside. The breath went out of him as though at a blow.

Jessica was slumped in the far corner, asleep. The shotgun was propped against the wall within easy reach. A newborn blood-bay foal was curled against her, taking advantage of shared warmth. Silence grew while Wolfe measured the changes between the girl who had danced with him in London and the girl he was looking at now.

In London, Jessica’s skin had been as fine-grained and flawless as a pearl. America hadn’t been so kind. She had scratches and welts on one side of her face and her cheeks were chapped by the wind. In London, her color had been vivid, almost incandescent. Now her lips were pale, and exhaustion ringed her eyes with darkness.

It was only the beginning of the unhappy comparisons. In London, Jessica’s hair had been as sleek and burnished as flame, and jewels had glinted from its intricately coiffed depths. Now her hair was wild, wind-tangled, and mixed with straw. In London, her clothes had been designed and executed in the most expensive materials available
, and her skirts had billowed like clouds. In America, she wore a boy’s flannel underwear, a boy’s buckskin shirt and breeches, and the evidence of her assistance at several foalings was spread from her shoulders to her small, durable boots.

In London, Jessica’s days were composed of teas and balls, plays and the latest books. In America, she worked like a scullery maid and stablehand combined. In London, she entertained her guests with wit and silver laughter. In America, she rarely laughed and had nearly died.

Jessi, what have I done to you?

There was no answer to Wolfe’s silent, anguished question except the truth: He had almost killed the girl who trusted him when she trusted nothing else on earth.

Making no sound, Wolfe went into the stall. He picked up the shotgun, took the shell from the firing chamber, and closed the gun. The small noise woke Jessica. She sat up with a start, automatically reaching for the corner where she had propped the shotgun out of the way.

“It’s all right, Jessi. The wolves are gone.”

She focused on Wolfe, blinked, and smiled sleepily. “All save one, and he is my very own Lord Wolfe. I’m safe with him.”

Pain went through Wolfe like black lightning, scoring his soul in ways he couldn’t name. He could feel it, though, a kind of agony he had never known before. Jessica trusted him without reservation, yet he had brought nothing but unhappiness and harm to her.

“My stupidity nearly killed you, elf. When I think how close you came to being torn apart by wolves…”

“You’re a fine shot,” she murmured, sliding back into sleep.

“I’m a fool.”

Though Wolfe’s voice was harsh, he was very gentle as he lifted Jessica into his arms. When she realized he meant to carry her from the stall, she woke up in a rush.

“Wait. You haven’t even looked at the steeldust’s foal,” she protested. “She’ll be a wonderful foundation mare for our herd. I’ve never seen so fine a head on a foal, nor such a deep chest. It’s a filly. Isn’t that grand? In a few years she—”

“To hell with the steeldust and her filly both,” Wolfe interrupted savagely. “Don’t you understand?
You could have died.
”

Jessica blinked. “So could you.”

“That’s different. It ends here, Jessi.”

“What?”

“I’m taking you back to London as soon as the passes are safe.”

“Going to give that carriage another shot at me, is that it?”

“What are you talking about?”

Jessica smiled and nuzzled Wolfe’s hard jawline. “I nearly got run down by a carriage in London, remember?”

Wolfe’s mouth flattened. “I remember.”

“You should. You beat that driver to within an inch of his life.”

“I would rather have killed the drunken bastard.”

“There are a lot more like him,” Jessica pointed out.

“So?”

“So I’m no safer in London than I am here, am I?”

The tip of Jessica’s tongue drew a line of sensual fire down Wolfe’s jaw.

“That’s not the point,” he said roughly.

“Then what is?”

“I’ve nearly killed you trying to make you admit that you aren’t cut from Western cloth. You’re a British aristocrat and you deserve to have the elegant life of ease for which you were bred, born, raised, and trained.”

As Wolfe spoke, he stepped out of the barn into the brilliant moonlight. The ground was cold and shiny with melting snow. The air was like warm silk.

“Nonsense,” Jessica said, yawning. “You wouldn’t be happy in England.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

Jessica went very still in Wolfe’s arms. All sleepiness fled before the wave of unease that swept through her.

“What are you saying?” she whispered.

“I’ll leave England as soon as our marriage is annulled.”

“I haven’t agreed to an—”

“You don’t have to,” Wolfe interrupted savagely. “I’ll be the one to seek the annulment.”

“But why?” she whispered. “What have I done to make you hate me so?”

“I don’t hate you. I never have, even when I wanted to throttle you for trapping me into marriage.”

“Then why are—”

Jessica got no farther in her question, for Wolfe’s mouth descended on hers. By the time he lifted his head once more, both of them were breathing quickly, hungrily.

“It’s over, Jessi. It never should have begun.”

“Wolfe, listen to me,” she said urgently. “I want to be your wife in all ways. I want to live with you, work beside you, bear your children, care for you when you are ill, and laugh with you when the rest of the world is a hundred shades of gray.”

The words were knives turning in Wolfe, tempting him unmercifully, slicing away at his self-control, making him bleed with all that could never be—an aristocratic elf and a halfbreed mustang hunter. He had known it was impossible since she was fifteen.

And since she was fifteen, he had known what Hell was: living with what he wanted forever just beyond his reach, forever calling to him across an abyss he must not cross, for if he did, he would destroy the very thing he wanted.

He had nearly done just that despite his best intentions.

“I love you,” Jessica said. “I love—”

“No more,” Wolfe interrupted savagely, cutting across the words that were more painful to him than any blow he had ever received. “I am Tree That Stands Alone. You are Lady Jessica Charteris. You have nothing to fear in England any longer. I’ll see that you get a suitable husband or none at all.”

Wolfe would have preferred none at all. The thought of another man touching Jessica added another dimension to his own personal Hell. He wasn’t sure he could bear it. Yet he must. He took in a deep breath, let it out, and spoke more gently.

“I should be hung for ever bringing you to this wilderness.”

“But—”

“
No more.
”

Jessica flinched at the raw pain in Wolfe’s voice.
It stopped her as nothing else could have. Fear went through her in a cold wave. She closed her eyes and turned her face against Wolfe’s neck, not wanting him to see her despair.

His anger she could fight, and had. His pain defeated her.

When Wolfe opened the kitchen door, Willow took one look at his dark face and breathed a wordless prayer. Wolfe walked right by her as though only he and Jessica existed.

“What is it? Is she hurt?” Willow asked anxiously, following.

“Just exhausted.”

As Wolfe kicked the bedroom door shut behind him, he saw that food, brandy, and pans of warm water had been set out in the bedroom. The hearth was alive with the dance of flame.

“Can you stand?” he asked quietly.

Jessica nodded.

Wolfe set her down near the hearth he had built for Caleb’s home and began undressing her with gentle hands. Jessica neither looked up nor objected. She simply stood with a docility that made Wolfe glance sharply at her from time to time. Soon she was wearing nothing but her filmy pantelets and camisole. They looked startlingly clean, fragile, and feminine after the condition of her outer clothing. He eased the undergarments from her body as delicately as though they were made of moonlight.

Jessica shivered when the last bit of lace fell to the hearth, leaving her naked before the fire and the man she loved, the man she had hurt in ways she had never intended.

Wolfe swept the fur coverlet from the bed and wrapped it around her.

“Warm enough?” he asked.

Without looking at him, she nodded.

“Are you hungry?”

She shook her head.

“When did you last eat?” he asked.

“I don’t remember.”

The tone of Jessica’s voice went through Wolfe like an icy wind. There was no music, no laughter, none of the mischief and warmth that had danced in her voice since he had become her lover in all ways but one. The barrier of her maidenhead still lay between them, the abyss that must not be crossed.

Aristocrat and halfbreed bastard.

“Jessi…” Wolfe whispered.

But there was nothing more he could say. It had all been said. All that remained was to return her to the land and the life for which she had been born; a land and a life that were impossible for him to share.

In silence, Wolfe found Jessica’s hairbrush and went back to the fire where she stood. Without a word, he began combing her snarled hair.

“I’m no longer so useless I can’t brush my own hair.”

Wolfe’s eyes narrowed at the loss of color and life in Jessica’s voice. It was the same for her body. Like grass flattened by a storm, she was defeated. Yet like grass, she would regain her resilience after the storm passed. He was certain of it. All she needed was rest and a return to her own place, her own people.

“I like brushing your hair,” Wolfe said. “It’s both cool and fiery, and it smells of roses. The feel and scent of you will always haunt me.”

Jessica made no other objection, because to speak
would have been to reveal the tears aching in her throat. Wolfe was standing very close to her, yet he was withdrawing from her with every breath, every instant, and the brush was whispering his good-byes through her hair.

Eyes closed, Jessica stood with the patience of the damned while the man she loved tormented her with all she would never have of life and of him. If she could have died, she would have, but she could not. She could only endure the pain and pleasure of his touch and pray that tomorrow would never come, separating her from the only man she would ever love.

When Jessica’s hair swirled about her in a shining, softly curling cloud, Wolfe reluctantly put aside the brush. Air stirred by the movements of his body disturbed her hair, weaving firelight through the silky strands.

Wolfe’s breath came out in a soundless rush as he memorized the picture of Jessica standing in front of the fire. He wanted to see the aquamarine gems of her eyes, but they were hidden behind half-closed lids and thick eyelashes, as though she were too weary to bear even the sight of the man who had dragged her through Hell.

Wolfe brought the basins of warm water to the hearth. He wrung out a small, soft cloth in one of the basins, soaped it lightly, and began washing Jessica’s face. The fragrance of a summer rose garden slowly expanded through the room.

“I’m not so useless that I can’t wash myself,” she said quietly, looking at the stone hearth rather than at the man who was so gently and so completely tearing the heart from her body.

“I know. You’re tired. Let me take care of you as I should have from the beginning.”

Jessica’s eyelids flinched at the brush of the cloth on her cheek.

“Sore?” Wolfe whispered.

She shook her head wearily.

“Are you certain? Those welts look tender. How did you get them?”

“I don’t remember,” she said tonelessly.

Wolfe’s fingertips caressed Jessica’s cheek with great tenderness. Her breath hesitated, then frayed. When he eased the fur coverlet down to her waist, she made a tiny sound.

“Don’t worry, elf. I’m not going to demand any sensual games from you. You’re too tired…and I came too close to seeing you die to trust my own control tonight.”

Jessica’s eyes widened, seeking Wolfe’s for the first time. He didn’t notice. He was looking at the picture she made with the silver fur wrapped around her hips and her hair a mahogany glory spilling over the creamy curves of her breasts.

Slowly, Wolfe rearranged Jessica’s hair until it fell down her back. Even before the washcloth touched her breasts, the nipples gathered into tight velvet crowns, contrasting starkly with the pale satin of her skin.

“You’re more beautiful than fire itself,” Wolfe said huskily. “I’ll remember you like this until I die.”

And I’ll want you until I die.

Yet Wolfe said nothing of that, for the knowledge had just come to him in another stroke of black lightning, another raw wound burning in the depths of his soul.

Breath trembled out of Jessica when she saw the harsh lines of Wolfe’s face. She wanted to ask what was wrong, but didn’t trust herself to open her
mouth without crying out her need and her love for the man who didn’t love her. So she stood silently, unable to speak for the sadness locked within her throat.

The fur wrap slid from Jessica’s hips into Wolfe’s hands and from there to the floor. He ignored the luminous beauty of the coverlet, for the curves of Jessica’s legs and the dark mahogany cloud concealing her feminine core were far more compelling to him than the rare arctic fur.

Slowly, Wolfe raised the washcloth and resumed bathing Jessica in a hushed silence. The first warm touch of water made her breath unravel in a soundless rush. When Wolfe asked wordlessly for more freedom of her body, she shifted, allowing him the intimacy. For long minutes, there was only the liquid dance of water, the whispering of flame, and the glide of cloth over skin. Finally, reluctantly, Wolfe rinsed away the last bit of soap, leaving behind the mingled fragrance of rose and warm woman.

“All done,” he said huskily.

He stood up in a rush and closed his eyes, unable to look at Jessica any longer without touching her in a way that had nothing to do with unspoken apologies and everything to do with the hunger whose fiery claws had long since raked him into readiness for the coupling that must never occur.