The Gambler (10 page)

Tristan sighed and stared up at the ceiling
until his heart rate returned to normal. Of all the things to
happen. He laughed and shook his head before wrapping his arms
around Emmaline’s body and rolling until she was under him. He
crawled off of her and stood, staring down at her lax face and
sighed.

He righted his pants and turned to the
fireplace, lit the wood lying inside and waiting until he had a
blaze before poking at it until he knew the wood would burn enough
to keep the room warm but not get out of control.

Covering her with the blankets from the bed,
Tristan left her room, crossed the hall to his own and once behind
closed doors stripped from his clothes and groaned while taking his
cock into his hand. He was still hard. Lying on the bed, he closed
his eyes, imagined Emmaline there with those lush lips wrapped
around him and stroked himself until his balls tightened and his
back arched, his head thrown back as he came, Emmaline's name on
his lips as he spent himself.

* * * *

She was going to be sick. The rocking motion
of the stagecoach and the stench of food from the basket the woman
across the seat from her held caused Emmaline’s stomach to roll and
heave again.

Waking to the sun blinding her, only to roll
over and have her stomach protest in the most foul way possible,
had ended badly. She was on the floor, her face in the chamber pot
when Tristan walked into the room.

He didn’t say a word, just packed her things
then left, returning a few moments later with clean water and a
washing cloth. He cleaned her face, gave her a cool drink to wash
her mouth with then helped her change her dress. He’d brushed her
hair and pulled it back into a somewhat decent braid before
gathering their things and sitting them by the door.

Leaving again, he returned with a man who
carried everything to the stagecoach station while he helped her
walk the two blocks down the sidewalk.

Sitting beside him now, he still hadn’t
spoken. Every time she looked at him, he glanced away with a
peculiar look on his face. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say
he looked embarrassed but from what? The fact she’d gotten drunk?
That he’d found her on the floor crying into her chamber pot? That
he had to dress her like a child because she was too sick to do it
herself?

She leaned back in the seat and closed her
eyes. The swaying of the stagecoach only intensified then and she
lifted her eyelids to stare at the woman who was now staring back
at her. The woman’s face looked pinched with a disapproving scowl.
Emmaline had half a mind to tell her where to stick her uppity
opinions but didn’t have the strength to move, let alone speak.

The night before was a blur of fragmented
images. She remembered following Tristan to the saloon, but things
got fuzzy at that point. She concentrated on what happened and the
events registered in bright flashes. A few of them, involving
Tristan, she wondered if she only wished them to be true.

Glancing at him again, she wanted to ask. To
point blank demand to know if she’d taken him in hand, and her
mouth, then kissed him. If he’d kissed her back and ended up in bed
with her.

She discounted the notion as wishful
thinking. He hadn’t been in her room when she woke and she’d still
been wearing the dress from the night before. If anything had
happened, wouldn’t he have still been there? Would she have at
least been naked?

The stagecoach hit another bump and her
stomach felt as if it lodged in her throat. She closed her eyes,
moaned past the rumblings and the swaying was too much. Everything
seemed to pitch sideways, the bile and sour whiskey on her stomach
rose and she gasped and reached for the door on her left and flung
it open, leaning her head out. A few strangled shouts were heard
before a strong arm was around her waist. It was the only thing
that kept her from falling from the stagecoach face first into the
road passing by her as she purged her stomach. The noise inside the
coach rose as the other passengers yelled, screamed and someone
beat on the side of the walls until the coach stopped.

She sucked in a breath and was lifted,
carried outside as the cool morning air licked her face and neck
and when she could breathe again, her stomach empty—she
hoped—Tristan was there, his fingers smoothing her hair back. “Feel
better?”

Emmaline laughed but it almost sounded as if
she were crying. “Just shoot me, Tristan. Leave me here for the
buzzards.”

She felt his chest move as he chuckled.
“Can’t do that, Emmaline. I’ve invested too much time in you at
this point. Besides,” he said, turning her so she could see his
face, “I don’t think we’ll have to worry about you tying on another
drunk at the saloon any time soon, now will we?”

Emmaline looked up at him and noticed again
how blue his eyes were. Small flecks of gold and purple were
visible near the center. He was smiling at her, the look on his
face filled with concern. She blinked and looked away. “No. I'll
never step foot back inside one."

"I didn't think you would." He stood, picked
her up and carried her back to the stagecoach, helped her inside,
and took the seat beside of her, wrapping his arm around her
shoulder and pulling her close to his side. The coach moved again,
the rocking ignored as she closed her eyes. The other passengers
were speaking in low, hurried tones and as she drifted to sleep,
she heard Tristan, his voice angry as he whispered something to
someone. The last thing she remembered was feeling him place a soft
kiss to the top of her head. Either that, or she dreamed it, like
she had the kiss from the night before.

* * * *

The hotel room wasn’t as nice as the one
they’d stayed in the previous night, but Tristan had stayed in
worse. Emmaline wasn’t complaining, although she was too
disoriented to do much more than sleep.

He secured them a room, only one as that was
all that was available, and asked for their things to be brought up
and paid extra for a tub of hot water. Bathing was probably the
last thing on Emmaline’s mind but truth be known, she stank to high
heaven.

Carrying her up the stairs, he entered the
room, laid her on the bed and waited for their bags, and the bath,
before closing the door. He pulled the lone chair in the room over
to the metal tub, placed the drying and washing cloths on the seat
and sent a silent “Thank you,” to the person thoughtful enough to
send a bar of soap up with the bath.

Standing, he approached the bed, removed
Emmaline’s boots then woke her. She blinked up at him and he
noticed again how young she looked. He smiled and leaned down,
sliding his arm under her shoulders to help her sit up. “Come on,
Emmaline. I had a bath brought up for you.”

She turned to look around the room and nodded
her head when she saw the tub. He walked away, bent over the bath
and stuck his hand inside to test the temperature of the water. It
had cooled a bit since they’d brought it up but it was still warm
enough to be comfortable.

Looking back at Emmaline, he blinked when he
saw her. She was pulling her shift over her head and was left in
nothing but her bloomers and those ribbon-tied stockings. His gaze
roamed her breasts before sliding to her waist and when she dropped
the silk bloomers to the floor, he swallowed the sudden lump in his
throat.

She glanced up at him and made a face. “Don’t
look so scandalized. It isn’t as if you haven’t seen it all
before.” She bent at the waist, untied the ribbon on her stockings
and pulled them both off, crossing the room and grabbing his arm to
steady herself, sinking into the tub with a sigh.

Tristan stared down at her, watched the water
ripple over her breasts and his entire body jolted. The blood in
his brain fled and ended up in his groin, his cock twitching before
he looked away. He heard Emmaline sigh again, the water splashing
over the side of the tub, and he took a steadying breath before
taking a step back. “I'll just be outside if you need anything,” he
said, resisting the urge to take one more look. He turned and
reached for the door but stopped when she said his name.

“I’ll never get out of this tub if you
leave.”

Her head was to one side when he glanced back
and he could only imagine how that hot water relaxed her. Being
already drowsy would cause her to fall asleep in minutes. She could
drown and he’d never even know.

Well, that’s the lie he told himself in order
to rationalize his staying. He turned, his gaze drawn to her
breasts again, her rosy nipples in plain sight. Lord if her breasts
weren’t ideal. Not too big, not exactly small. Perfect for fitting
the whole thing in ones palm and his itched to do just that.

She reached over the side of the tub,
reaching for the washing cloth and leaned back before touching it.
“Tristan, my head is pounding. Are you going to help or just stand
there stealing peeks at me?”

He grinned. “If you insist, I’ll do my best
to see every inch of you is squeaky clean.”

She turned her head and peered up at him.
“I’m sure you will.”

Removing his jacket, he tossed it to the bed
and rolled up his shirtsleeves before settling beside the tub. He
wet the washing cloth and soap, worked up a lather and started with
her face, his hand shaking by the time he reached her breasts.

At the first touch, she exhaled a long
breath, her eyes fluttering closed. His thumb rubbed across her
left nipple, the little bud tightening until the urge to do it
again ached in his bones. He cleaned her arms, her stomach and legs
and moved up her thighs to the one place he’d been thinking about
since the night before when she kissed him, took him into her
mouth, then passed out on top of him, leaving him to take matters
into his own hands in the darkness of his room.

He ran the cloth between her legs and she
shifted her hips, raising them ever so slightly and he did it
again, watching her face. Her bottom lip was between her teeth and
damn it all that fabric covering his hand was too much of a
barrier. He wanted to touch her, feel the heat of her on his
fingers but worried what she’d do.

Probably enjoy it, that little voice in the
back of his head taunted him. It told him she’d already offered
herself twice. He let go of the cloth, his fingers tangling in
those soft curls and she gasped, her back arching, and as wrong as
it may have been, he found that small bundle of nerves and
manipulated it until she was moaning, her head thrown back over the
edge of the tub. He slipped two fingers inside her, his thumb
finding that small pleasure center and when she shuddered, her body
wracked with spasms, he watched her face, listened to every breathy
sigh and couldn’t imagine anyone ever looking as lovely as she did
in that moment.

When she stilled, her eyelids fluttered open
and she looked at him lazily before licking her lips. “If this is
your idea of playing nursemaid, I'll get drunk more often.”

Tristan laughed and slid his hand up her
ribs, cupping her breast, toying with her nipple. “I have no
problem playing nursemaid to you but leave the whiskey alone.”

“Why? You were drinking last night."

“I also know when I've had enough.” He stared
down at her, watched the flesh of her breast slide between his
fingers and shook his head. “What am I going to do with you,
Emmaline?”

She snorted a laugh and closed her eyes. “You
don't have to do anything with me, Tristan. This trip was your
idea, remember? I was perfectly content staying back at the cabin.
I've been more or less by myself since I was eight and I made it to
twenty without anyone's help. I would have made it the rest of my
life without you.”

He didn’t comment. His thoughts turned to
what her life must have been like before she crossed his path and
the picture he got wasn't pleasing. He didn't know her whole story
but what he'd heard was enough to make him realize he'd had a
perfect childhood compared to her. And he'd hated every minute of
it.

Removing his hand from the water, he turned
and grabbed the towel and dried his arm. He knew without being told
he took his family for granted. He always had. He saw his brothers
as bossy siblings who did nothing but order him around and his
father couldn't go a day without giving him some sort of lecture
about his sinful behavior. It was worse after his ma died. It was
one of the reasons he'd left. She was the only one who understood
him and without her there, he'd been lost. He left to find his way
and nine years later, he was still looking.

Glancing back at Emmaline, he wondered if
that was why he'd taken her on as his responsibility. To keep her
from spending her life searching for something she'd never find.
Lord knew he'd yet to find it but that didn't mean he couldn’t help
her. He had the means to provide for her and maybe his good deed
would even the score when he met his maker. It eased his conscience
to think so.

She blinked at him before sitting up. He
reached for her, helping her to stand before wrapping the towel
around her. She stared at him, those large brown eyes glistening in
the filtered light coming from the window and if asked later why he
leaned down and kissed her, he wouldn't be able to answer. One look
at her and everything in him begged him to take care of her whether
she wanted him to or not.