Outlaw’s Bride (27 page)

“Ignoring facts won’t change them,” Boyd retorted.

“How can you say something like that and call yourself Ethan’s friend?”

Patch watched Boyd struggle to contain his temper.
She had a fair idea how angry he was. She could hear him grinding his teeth.

“As you pointed out yourself,” he said through tight jaws, “I stood up for Ethan when nobody else would. I offered to buy his ranch when it looked like his mother would lose it. I’ve spent the past week hunting night and day for Chester Felber. And as far as you’re concerned, Ethan knows I plan to marry you!”

The blood drained from Patch’s face so quickly that she thought she might faint. But two fainting ladies in one day was really one too many. She closed her eyes until the dizziness passed. When she opened them again, she said, “I think I’d like to go home now.”

Boyd put a tentative hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right? You look ready to fall over.”

She shrugged out from under his touch. “Probably too much sun. I should have worn a hat.”

Back at the picnic site, Patch practically pulled the quilt from under Frank and Merielle. She packed all the leftovers into the straw picnic basket in record time. Her parting from Merielle was as warm as she could make it, considering her state of distraction, and they agreed to get together again soon.

The last thing Patch wanted to do was ride back to Ethan’s ranch alone with Boyd, but there wasn’t any other choice. Frank had to take Merielle home. She climbed into the buggy without waiting for Boyd’s assistance and sat with the iron rod down her spine waiting for him to join her.

During the ride home Boyd asked, “How much
longer do you think you’ll be staying at Ethan’s ranch?”

“As long as I’m needed.”

Patch refused to be cajoled, teased, or goaded into further conversation. The two people in the buggy were equally agitated by the time they arrived back at the Double Diamond.

Ethan took one look at Patch’s sun-warmed, rosy face as the buggy came to a stop in front of the house and felt his body flood with jealous possessiveness. Patch,
his
Patch, was seated in easy familiarity next to his best friend, her thigh practically resting against Boyd’s. Adrenaline flowed. His senses came alive, and he could see and hear and feel everything as though it were magnified under a glass.

He saw the way Patch jerked as her elbow bumped against Boyd when she raised a hand to wave a greeting. Heard the rustle of fabric as Patch’s skirt brushed against Boyd’s trousers when she reached for the picnic basket under the seat. Felt the charged atmosphere between them when Boyd took Patch’s hand to help her down from the buggy.

He knew without being told that Boyd had made advances to Patch. There was an unmistakable tension between them that reeked of intimacy. Had Boyd tried to kiss Patch? Had she let him? Did Boyd know how Patch tasted, how she felt cradled in his arms? His muscles flexed and tightened. Rage banded his chest, making it difficult to breathe.

Before today, if anyone had asked him how he
felt about Patch Kendrick, Ethan would have replied that he felt affection and a certain responsibility for her, feelings rooted in the past when a twenty-five-year-old man had admired the spunk and fire of a twelve-year-old hoyden in britches. He had come to realize that all the things he had cherished in the child, the daring and the gumption, the mettle and nerve and spirit, were embodied in the woman she had become. And he wanted that woman for his own.

“Hello, Boyd. Have a nice time?” Ethan’s words were laced with menace that Boyd was quick to discern.

“Certainly did. Spent the afternoon with a beautiful lady. Even got her to listen to my proposal of marriage.”

Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “What did she say?”

“I told him it was ridiculous,” Patch snapped, annoyed that the two men were talking to each other as though she weren’t even there. She turned to Boyd and said, “Thank you for driving this afternoon.”

Before she knew what he was going to do, Boyd took her hand again and turned it palm up. She managed to jerk her hand away, but not before he had kissed it. “Good-bye, Boyd,” she said pointedly.

Patch felt Ethan come up behind her. If she could have seen the deadly look in his eyes, she would have known why Boyd didn’t persist in his attentions to her.

Boyd tightened the cinch on his horse, which he had left tied to the rail in front of the house,
mounted, and waved a wordless good-bye with his hat. When he was gone from sight, Patch turned and ran square into Ethan’s chest. His hands clamped down on her shoulders.

“Why didn’t you say yes to Boyd’s proposal?” Ethan demanded. “He can offer you everything I can’t.”

“I don’t happen to love Boyd,” Patch retorted.

“Did he kiss you?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Did he?”

“If you care so much, you should have come along.”

“Did he?”

“What does it matter to you?”

Provoked beyond rational thought, Ethan responded as primitive man had for ages when possession of his mate was threatened. He picked Patch up, threw her over his shoulder, and retired to the closest dark cave to stake his claim in the most demonstrative way possible. Of course, a cave not being particularly handy, Ethan made do with the barn.

Once inside, Ethan dumped Patch off his shoulder and turned to barricade the doors. She had barely gotten her balance when he picked her up again. He headed for a stall at the rear of the barn that was filled with clean straw.

“Ethan, stop! I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have provoked you! What are you going to do?”

“Something I should have done a long time ago.”

“You’re not going to spank me! You wouldn’t
dare!” But he had once. When she was twelve, she had snuck into his cabin and played with his gun. It had gone off accidentally, shattering a window. Ethan had come on the run—or as close to a run as Ethan ever got—and caught her trying to wrap the gun back up in the blanket in which it had been hidden.

She had felt sheer bliss when he hugged her tight in relief that she wasn’t hurt. The next minute, however, he had taken her over his knee. She couldn’t sit down for an hour. Worse, she had been so humiliated at being treated like a child that she hadn’t been able to face him for a week.

Ethan threw Patch down off his shoulder, and she landed hard on the straw. While she stared at him, with the wind knocked out of her, he began unbuttoning his shirt. He pulled the tails out of his Levi’s, yanked his shirt down his arms, and tossed it behind him. She saw two scars where he had been struck by bullets, one on his shoulder and one near his ribs.

“Take off your clothes,” he said.

“I most certainly will not!”

“Then I’ll take them off for you.” Ethan dropped to his knees and reached for the buttons on her blouse.

Patch protected them as best she could, but Ethan wouldn’t be denied. He got impatient and tore her blouse off. “You’re out of your mind!” she cried.

“I wouldn’t doubt it. You’ve been driving me crazy ever since you crossed the threshold of the Oakville Hotel.”

Patch had wanted Ethan to make love to her for so long she didn’t know when it hadn’t been a part of her dreams. But not like this. Not in a frenzy. Not in anger. Not the first time, anyway.

“Do you love me, Ethan?”

He had her skirt off and was working on her petticoat. “What kind of question is that?”

Patch bucked under him and kicked her legs to hinder him as much as she could. “Just answer it!”

“How could any man not love you?”

It wasn’t exactly the answer she wanted, but it wasn’t a denial, either.

Ethan got the tapes undone and pulled her petticoat down over her legs, leaving her in chemise, corset, and pantalets. He rolled her over and began unlacing the corset.

“I don’t know why the hell you wear this thing,” he muttered. “With your figure, you don’t need it.” He yanked the corset up over her head.

“A lady—”

“I don’t make love to ladies, only to women.” His green eyes glittered with need. “Are you my woman, Patch?”

There it was. The need for her and her alone. The claim of belonging. She hadn’t known she was waiting to hear the words of commitment until they were spoken. They signaled her surrender to the man she loved—not with the infatuation of a child, but with her heart and soul, as a woman loves the man she is destined to be with forever.

“I’m yours, Ethan. I always have been—always will be—yours.”

He pulled the delicate pink bow that laced her chemise, spreading the cotton wide with his fingers so her breasts sprang free in his hands.

“Good Lord, Patch, you’re so beautiful!”

The frenzy was gone from his eyes and his hands. In its place was reverence. For a moment Patch feared he might stop. Then she saw the possessive light in his eyes and felt the solid shoulders under her hands.

Patch wasn’t afraid, exactly. Molly Gallagher had been an exceptional stepmother, in that she had explained the pleasures to be found in the sexual act. But it was one thing to understand how things were supposed to happen. It was quite another to actually experience the feel of a man’s hand against her flesh.

The medal hanging on a piece of rawhide around Ethan’s neck felt cool against her skin. She took it in her hand and read the inscription.
For Valor
. “This is a medal for heroism! Is it yours?”

Ethan took the medal out of her hands. “No.”

“Then why do you wear it?”

“For luck.” Ethan slung the medal around so it lay on his back and concentrated on kissing his way down Patch’s body.

She soon forgot entirely about the medal. Being loved this way was like nothing she could have imagined. Her skin felt taut, and her body arched reflexively toward Ethan. When his lips caressed her, when his mouth sought the tip of her breast, she moaned. It was as though a drawstring pulled up tight inside her belly.

Ethan’s whole being was focused on bringing pleasure to the woman in his arms. He felt her hands circle his neck and twine in his hair. His mouth tasted her—breast, shoulder, throat, the shell of her ear, temple, cheek—and finally found her mouth, which was open and eager for him.

He thrust his tongue inside, mimicking the action of bodies joined. She tasted of cinnamon and ginger. He knew she must have eaten some of the gingersnaps she had made that morning for the picnic. His hands roamed, uncovering more of her and touching virgin flesh.

Patch writhed in his embrace, loving the feel of his strong, callused hands, wanting more, but not certain what that
more
was. Her hands roamed his back, feeling muscle and tendon and bone. Then she sought out the scars on his chest, marveling that he had survived so long, against such odds. She let her fingers slip down into his Levi’s and felt him jerk when she touched the crease where his buttocks began.

She froze. “Is it all right to touch you, Ethan?”

He swallowed hard. “Do you want to?”

“I do.” Her voice was husky and sounded nothing like her own.

“All right. What do you want to touch?” He sat up, and Patch rose to face him.

She reached out a hand and touched his nipple, which immediately tightened into a hard bud. “It happens to you, too,” she said in wonder. Her hands tangled in the black curls on his chest that arrowed downward. When she reached for the top button on his jeans, he covered her hand with his.

“Have you ever seen a naked man?” he asked.

Patch blushed rosily. “No. But I’d like to.”

Ethan stood and reached down a hand to Patch. “Let’s do this together.”

Patch stood slowly, aware that her breasts were bare and that she wore only a pair of pantalets. Ethan pulled her into his arms, and she couldn’t believe how right it felt. His flesh was warm and the hair on his chest abraded her breasts, sensitizing her flesh. She felt Ethan’s hands sliding into the back of her pantalets and tensed as he slid them down over her buttocks. When she stepped out of them, she stood there in her shoes and gartered knee-length stockings, naked except for the remnants of her chemise.

Ethan reached up and pulled the last of the pins out of her hair so it flowed like golden silk down her back and over her shoulders.

“Your turn,” he said.

“Take off your boots and socks,” she said.

Ethan balanced on one foot, then the other, as he complied with her command. “Now what?”

“Come here.”

Ethan took a barefooted step closer, wincing as the straw prickled under his feet. He sucked in his stomach reflexively when Patch reached again for the buttons on his jeans. He held his breath while she tugged one free and reached for the next. His jeans hung on his hipbones for a moment before she shoved them down.

He noticed she was looking into his eyes, rather than down at what she had exposed. He watched her swallow hard before she said, “Take them off.”

He pushed his Levi’s and long johns down and stepped out of them, kicking them out of his way. “All right, Patch. You can look now.”

He saw the uncertainty in her eyes before she glanced down. She took her time looking. The longer she looked, the harder he got. He felt himself flushing with embarrassment, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

“Can I touch it?” she whispered.

“If you like,” he croaked.

But it was the scar on his leg she touched, not that other part of him.

“It’s ugly,” Ethan said.

Patch shook her head. “No part of you is unpleasing to me.” Then her hand traced its way upward to the part of him that made it very clear how he felt about her.

Soft
, Patch thought.
Smooth and warm. But hard too
. She circled him with her hand and heard a wrenching groan. She released him immediately, but his hand caught her wrist and brought her hand back to cup him.

“Don’t stop touching me. It feels good.”

“When you groaned like that, I thought I’d done something wrong,” she explained.

“It was good. Great,” he amended. “Would you like me to touch you, too?”

Patch nodded shyly. She had her eyes lowered, so she saw his hand moving toward her. It took all the courage she had to wait for him to touch her
there
. His hand slid down her belly and through the dark curls at the apex of her thighs. He slowly pressed inward with a finger. She thought her
knees would buckle then and there. She caught herself by grabbing his shoulders.