Only My Love (21 page)

"Did he believe you?"

"You're still alive, aren't you? I hate to say it, Michael, but that's the only measure we have of what Houston believes." He saw her face pale. She turned on her side, drawing her knees protectively toward her chest. Her eyes were accusing.

"You enjoy frightening me. You never miss an opportunity."

"You're wrong. I just figure fear will make you a little more cautious. Your book's in the pocket of my coat. It's yours if you want it back."

"The pencils?"

"I'll return them only if I get to read everything you write. No surprises, Michael. In the unlikely event you leave Madison, you're not going to write something you can use against any of us. Houston's also going to be interested in what's in that book of yours."

What choice did she have? "All right," she said reluctantly.

"The pencils are with the book. Lower left hand pocket. Your spectacles are in the upper right." Ethan had a glimpse of long legs and fair skin as she threw back the covers. The nightshirt fell quickly as she stood.

Michael sat cross-legged on top of the covers as she skimmed the contents of her notebook. Her spectacles rested near the tip of her nose and there was a faint line between her brows as she read. Frustrated with her hair which kept falling over her shoulders and getting in her way, she finally pulled it back and held it in place with one hand. Both pencils had been nested neatly behind her right ear.

"Oh, Lord," Ethan said softly when he looked up and saw her. Her mouth had flattened in a way that was becoming familiar to him; the frown was not disapproving, merely thoughtful. He had a sudden urge to do something about that serious mouth of hers. Like kiss it.

The notion was enough to make Ethan attend to his back.

Michael glanced up when she heard Ethan wince. "What's wrong?"

He dropped the washcloth as his hand went to his shoulder. His fingers searched gently around a tender spot on his back. "It's just a bruise," he said, trying to tilt his head at an impossible angle to see it.

Michael closed her book and placed it on the bedside table. She scooted off the bed and padded softly over to the tub. "Let me see."

"It's nothing."

"Be quiet, and move your hand." Michael knelt behind him. There was a bruise the size of her fist near his shoulder blade. There were also inflamed abrasions and scratches. "Hand me the cloth," she said in no nonsense tones. "This needs to be thoroughly cleaned. The soap, too. Do you have any alcohol in here? A touch of that wouldn't hurt."

"For you or for me?"

"I'm not that squeamish, Mr. Stone."

"Ethan," he said. "I'm naked. I'm in a tub. You're wearing my nightshirt. You've already slept in my bed. I think you should call me Ethan."

"Where's the alcohol, Ethan?"

"Bottom of the wardrobe."

"Thank you." She found it quickly and returned to his side.

Michael washed the cuts carefully, gauging the pressure of her fingers by the sudden tensing of muscles in Ethan's back. She gave him the bottle of whiskey.

He took a long swallow. "God, what are you doing back there?"

"You have bits of thread from your shirt in the cuts. I have to get them out if you don't want an infection." She waited until he finished taking another drink.

"Save some of that for these cuts. I plan to wash them out with it."

"You're enjoying this."

Michael stopped working and rocked back on her heels. "Do you want me to send for a doctor?"

"No," he said after a moment. "You go on with what you're doing."

She leaned forward again and ran the damp soap cloth over his back. "How did this happen?"

"I was blasting out a tunnel this afternoon. I guess I set the fuse too short."

"I guess you did," she said softly.

"I dove for cover when the rocks started flying. I don't remember anything falling on me. It must have happened when I hit the ground."

"Give me the bottle back."

He handed it to her, clenching his teeth for what he knew was coming. His fingers curled around the edge of the tub.

She was mercifully quick about it.

"You can let your breath out," she said, moving around to the side of the tub. She gave him the bottle again. "Here, have another drink. I'm all done. You're going to live."

"I knew I was going to survive the injury," he said lowly. His eyes held hers. "I didn't know if I was going to survive your attentions."

Michael stared at him over the top of her spectacles. One of his hands reached for her, slipping beneath her hair at the nape. He held her gently, just steadying her, feeling the panicked heartbeat in the pulse of her neck. He didn't pull her toward him. Instead, Ethan was the one to lean forward.

Chapter 6

His lips tasted faintly of whiskey. They moved over Michael's slowly, sipping, learning the texture, the shape. The hand at her nape exerted no pressure. The choice was hers and she remained where she was. Her eyes closed. His mouth was firm and the kiss was warm. He searched without hunger, without demand. His touch was persuading.

Michael's lips parted under his. She felt the damp roughness of his tongue as he traced the soft inside of her upper lip. She tasted him again as he ran his tongue against the ridge of her teeth. Her mouth opened a fraction more. Water from his arm dampened the front of her nightshirt. A rivulet curved past her throat and between her breasts. It was as if he had touched her there too.

Her lips were more than pliant beneath his touch. Her mouth was yielding. She thought nothing. She felt everything.

Neither of them heard the door open. Detra stood just inside the room watching them a moment before declaring her presence by clearing her throat. "I knocked," she said as Michael pushed back from the tub. Ethan's arm fell away from her neck.

"What do you want, Dee?" he growled. He cursed himself for not securing the door when he came back with the tub. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Michael was forcing a composure she didn't feel. Her spectacles had been pushed up the bridge of her nose and her shoulders were set straight and stiff.

"Customers are asking for you downstairs," she said to Michael.

"She's not going down again," Ethan said. "She's here for the night. And while we're at it, Dee, tell Michael whose idea it was that she should start dancing tonight."

Dee fingered a curl at her ear. "I don't see what harm it's done. She was a success. They like her."

"Too much. She's not going down again tonight."

Dee's dark blue eyes made a leisurely, insulting inspection of Michael. "I think my customers thought you'd be through with her by now." She saw Michael suck in her breath and smiled. "Appears you're only starting to thaw this block of ice."

"Don't let us keep you, Dee," Ethan said, his eyes flinty.

With a cheeky smile, Detra pivoted on her heel and made her exit without bothering to shut the door.

"Get the door, Michael," Ethan ordered. When she simply sat there he barked at her again. "The
door,
Michael."

Michael scrambled to her feet. She latched the door quickly and hurried to the bed, turning away as Ethan reached for a towel and started to rise from the water.

"Don't let Dee bother you," he said. "She's just trying to gauge the threat you are to her. The more possessive I am, the happier she is. She's counting on me to keep you away from Houston."

She nodded slowly, not quite meeting his eyes. "Then, thank you. I wouldn't have wanted to go back down there tonight. Do those men really think... what Dee said?"

"Probably. We've told them you're my mistress, remember, not my wife. I suppose they think I should be a little more accommodating. Share you more."

"You mean they think
I
should be more accommodating."

"Something like that." He fastened his drawers and rubbed his hair briskly with the towel. "The other girls do more... entertaining. It's natural for them to expect the same from you."

"What about Detra?"

He shook his head. "She's Houston's woman."

"Perhaps if I was Houston's woman..." She let the sentence trail away.

"You wouldn't have to worry about the men. I told you before: Detra would kill you."

"Is it true she poisoned her husband?"

"So you heard the story. That didn't take long." He checked the fire in the stove. "I can't say if it's true one way or the other. It supposedly happened long before I got here. I don't have any reason
not
to believe it though. And if you think I'm saying that to frighten you, you're right." Ethan got the blankets from the wardrobe and snapped them out beside the bed. He took one of the pillows from the bed and tossed it on the floor, then blew out one of the lamps, leaving the one on the bedside table for Michael. He stretched out on the floor. "Houston was asking me questions tonight. About you. About me. About you
and
me. He let me know he wants you."

Michael moved to the edge of the bed and peered down at Ethan. She considered telling him Houston had had a similar conversation with her earlier in the day. She decided against it.

"But he thinks I'm your wife."

"It doesn't weigh that heavily on his mind, Michael. He thinks he's done his part just by telling me his intentions. I can't say that I'm all that eager to fight him over you."

Michael hoped they killed each other. She took off her spectacles, folded the stems carefully, and laid them aside. Patting down her hair, she found the pencils and put them aside also, then she turned back the lamp. Michael lay on her side, one arm curved under her head, the other hugging the pillow. "I don't want you to kiss me anymore."

"Tell me that when I'm kissing you and I'll stop."

"Do you think I can't?"

"I don't know. Shall we find out now?"

"No!"

Ethan chuckled. "Don't worry, Michael. The moment's past. I'm miserably tired, my shoulder aches, and I have to do some more blasting in the mines tomorrow. Go to sleep."

She bristled at his directions. "I'm tired of your orders." She was physically exhausted but mentally alert. Sleep seemed impossible.

"Fine. Don't go to sleep."

Twenty minutes later he heard her breath catch in a soft snore. Ethan removed the bullets from his gun, put them in the drawer, and returned to his bed on the floor.

She was the most irritating woman he'd ever known. Most of his dreams that night were about kissing her.

* * *

Ethan was gone again when Michael awoke. It became a familiar pattern over the next two weeks. Ethan's bed on the floor was always removed, his shaving instruments put away, and his clothes from the day before were stuffed in a laundry bag just inside the door. He always left Michael fresh water in the pitcher and sometimes a note on the table telling her if he planned to be back early or late from the mines.

Michael realized that over time she had become, if not precisely comfortable in Ethan's presence, then accustomed to it. There were times that she forgot she was not free to come and go as she pleased, times when she was almost content to be in Ethan's company. When she realized she was feeling that way she fought against it... and Ethan. The evenings that started out the best ended in the worst arguments.

Rehearsal for the evening's routines was just after breakfast. Michael took part because she always danced in the first show, if not the second. After the first night it seemed useless to pretend she had never taken part in the evening's entertainment. When rehearsal was over Michael did her share of the chores, whether it was polishing brass or watering down the liquor. Detra was never far away while Michael was working on the main floor. It was Detra's continual presence that reminded Michael she was a prisoner in the saloon.

The other girls warmed to Michael's presence in varying degrees. Kitty was invariably kind, Josie just a little less so. Lottie and Susan were the most helpful during rehearsals but didn't talk much to her outside of them. Carmen made no secret about wanting Ethan in her bed again. Her jealousy could have taken a venomous turn except, unlike Detra, Carmen tempered her feelings when Ethan wasn't around.