The Next Mrs. Blackthorne (Bitter Creek Book 6) (23 page)

“I stepped into the role of mother. Until I met you, and had a daughter of my own.”

“Why didn’t your father hire a nurse or a nanny or whatever people do—”

“When they don’t want anything to do with their children?” Libby said.

Clay shrugged. “People who can’t be home with their kids need outside help. There’s no crime in—”

“I know that,” Libby interrupted. “King did hire a nanny. But there’s a big difference between a caretaker and a mother.”

Clay arched a brow, “So the nanny was the caretaker, and you became the mother?”

“Someone had to love them!” she said fiercely.

“Who loved you?” Clay said quietly.

It took her a while to answer. “King loved us all…in his own way. When he married Sassy, I thought maybe I’d been given a reprieve. Before Sassy started drinking, she was a wonderful mother to all of us. Then Breed was born, and that was the end of that.”

Libby fell silent.

Clay tried to imagine how awful it must have been for Libby to lose her own mother so young, and then have King divorce the only one of his wives who seemed interested in mothering. “I’m sorry you—”

“It’s all water under the dam,” Libby interrupted. “I didn’t tell you all that so you’d feel sorry for me.”

Clay wondered how he’d managed to spend the better part of a summer with Libby twenty years ago and never understand the kind of life she’d led before she’d entered his. “Then why are you telling me all this now?”

“I want you to understand why I hated you—your family, all Blackthornes—so much. Why I seduced you. How I could plot and plan and manipulate to make you fall in love with me, knowing every minute I was with you that I intended to walk away, leaving you brokenhearted—if such a thing was possible. I didn’t know if you even had a heart.”

Libby set her untouched cocoa down on a small table between the two rockers and scooted forward in the rocker. “Jackson Blackthorne had stolen Eve DeWitt away without a care for the heartbreak he left behind. I blamed Blackjack—North and I blamed him—for how unhappy our mother was. And for the succession of mothers that came and went, women with whom King couldn’t be happy, because they weren’t Eve DeWitt.”

“I still don’t understand why the Blackthornes are to blame for King’s behavior,” Clay said.

“Don’t you see? Your father never loved Eve DeWitt, even when he married her,” Libby accused. “And she committed suicide when she realized your father was going to leave her for the woman he’d loved since the day he married her. The only time I ever saw King cry was the day he heard Eve was dead.”

“Lots of people don’t end up with the one they love,” Clay said. “Look at us.”

“Yes, look at us,” Libby said. “You certainly went on with your life without a thought of me.”

“That’s not fair,” Clay said. He hesitated, then added, “And it’s not true.”

Libby’s brow furrowed. “If I’m not mistaken, the only thing that kept you from getting married within months of our separation was the bride getting murdered before the wedding.”

Clay swore.

Libby covered her face with her hands. “I can’t believe I said that.”

“It’s true,” Clay said through tight jaws. “And it’s true I married Giselle, and it’s true I got engaged to her sister, Jocelyn. That doesn’t mean I stopped loving you.”

“Oh, please!” Libby said, rising from her rocker and standing with her hands on her hips confronting Clay.

He rose and met her toe-to-toe, his hands on his hips. “You wanted to break my heart? Well, goddammit, you did! There, are you happy?”

Libby looked stunned. “You went on with your life. You got married. You—”

“So did King. So did my father. That doesn’t mean we didn’t love other women the whole time.”

Libby put a hand to her brow, as though she were dizzy. Clay reached out a tentative hand to support her and was suprised when she took a step forward and leaned her cheek against his chest. He felt a swell of emotion in his throat when her hands went around his waist and she held him tight. He could feel she was trembling. His arms circled her and he pulled her close, offering the comfort that he hadn’t been able to give her twenty years before.

“This is all such a mess,” she murmured. “What are we doing here this weekend, Clay? It isn’t possible to go back.”

“We can go forward,” Clay said.

Libby leaned back and looked up at him, searching his features for something he hoped she would find there. “In what world?” she asked. “My home and my work is in Wyoming. Your home and your work is in Texas.”

“I don’t have to be a federal judge. I can quit.”

“I’d never ask you to do that.”

“Does that mean you’d be willing to move to Austin?”

“What would I do with myself?”

Clay knew what he wanted to say, but he didn’t have the courage to say it.
We could have more children. We could raise them together.
Instead he said, “Be my wife.”

She pulled herself from his arms and took a step back. “I think we’ve already established that I wouldn’t be happy passing canapes.”

“I don’t want a hostess. I want a wife.”

“I need something to keep me busy. I need—”

“What about more children? We could—”

“Are you out of your mind? I’m thirty-five years old.”

“Last I heard, women your age are still bearing children.”

Even in the scant stream of light from the kitchen doorway, Clay could see her face was beet red.

“Who says I want more kids?” Libby demanded.

“I don’t know if you do or you don’t,” Clay said. “But I’d like a chance to raise kids with you.”

Libby shook her head. “It wouldn’t work, Clay.”

He took the steps necessary to catch her up in his arms and pull her close. He looked down into her upturned face and said, “Why not?”

“We don’t even know if we can live together. By the time we find that out, I
will
be too old—”

“The only thing that kept us apart all these years was my stubborn pride,” Clay said. “Even though we haven’t lived together, even though I wasn’t able to be with you when Kate was born, we’ve managed to get along all these years. Even if we decided never to see each other again, we’d always have Kate to bind us together. So why shouldn’t we reach for the gold ring, Libby? Why shouldn’t we make ourselves happy?”

“Marrying me would make you happy?” she asked skeptically.

“I know this is sudden—”

Libby barked a sarcastic laugh. “Unbelievable, is more like it.”

She shifted to be free, and he let her go.

“We were always good together, Libby. What was there between us twenty years ago is still there.”

“I doubt that,” she said.

“Let me prove it.”

She lifted a brow. “You want to make love to me?”

He was dying to make love to her. But he didn’t think eagerness was going to help his argument any. “Yes.”

“And this will prove what, exactly?”

That we’re soul mates.
Clay thought it, but he felt foolish saying it. He wasn’t a romantic. He didn’t believe in romantic nonsense. He was too practical a man for that. But he had the example of men around him—his own father and King Grayhawk came to mind—who had loved one woman, and one woman only, for the entirety of their lives. He’d never been able to stop wanting Libby, even when he’d hated her for deceiving him. And he’d long since admitted that it was only because he’d loved her so much that he’d been so devastated by her betrayal.

“Let me make love to you,” he said. “Afterward, if you still think there’s no hope for us, I’ll take you back to Austin.”

He watched her face to see what she thought of his proposal. She seemed wary, skeptical, perhaps fearful. He felt his heart sink, because none of those emotions suggested the answer he wanted to hear. “Well, Libby? What’s your answer?”

“Take me to bed, Clay.”

The more Libby had listened to Clay, the more desolate she’d felt. He’d said he wanted another chance with her. He’d said he wanted to have children with her and raise them together. If Clay had recognized the truth and forgiven her—or if she hadn’t been so immature—twenty years ago, she would have run pell-mell into his arms. But so much of her life had been lived alone, Libby wasn’t sure she could go back and pick up where they’d left off. She was older now. And wiser. More cynical. Less trusting.

She was also aware of what was at risk. What if she’d been yearning all these years for a relationship that had died a natural death when Clay had walked away? Would they be able at this late date to forge a life together? More to the immediate point, could Clay’s lovemaking possibly be as wonderful now as it was in her memories?

Libby had been a virgin when she’d lain with Clay the first time. What if she’d glorified their time together? What if the special something that had existed between them during those youthful, halcyon days had been extinguished over time?

She glanced sideways at Clay, looking for the physical changes time had wrought. His body was still lean and strong, his shoulders broad and powerful. But the silver in his hair, the deep parentheses that bracketed his mouth, and the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes attested to the years that had passed.

What if making love to him disappointed her? Or—she shuddered at the thought—disappointed him? That would be a great laugh, the two of them languishing for each other when the spark that had brought them together had long since gone out. They’d hurt each other so badly then. Could they come together with love now?

It was frightening to make herself vulnerable. Had Clay truly forgiven her in his heart? Could she forgive him?

“Twenty years is a long time,” she said as Clay led her upstairs and down the hall.

“Too long,” he said. He opened the door to a moonlit bedroom with twelve-foot ceilings and an enormous canopied four-poster bed.

When Clay reached for the light switch inside the door, Libby put her hand over his. “No lights.”

“I want to see you,” he said.

Libby laughed softly and repeated, “Twenty years is a long time.”

He smiled and said, “There are candles on the mantel. How about if I light them?”

Candlelight sounded very forgiving. “All right,” she said.

Libby waited by the door as Clay made his way across the shadowy bedroom and lit a half dozen candles of odd sizes on the wooden mantel. He also bent to set a match to the fire that had been laid in the stone fireplace.

Libby waited at the doorway until Clay returned and stood before her. The flickering candlelight made the moment seem too romantic, too fraught with expectations. “I don’t think I can do this,” she said.

“We won’t know until we try.”

“Does that mean you’re as nervous—as scared—as I am?”

“I thought Grayhawks were fearless,” he said as he tucked a blond curl behind her ear. “Blackthornes don’t fear anything.”

“Kiss me, Clay.”

His lips were soft against hers, but his hands grasped her waist as though he was afraid she would run.

Libby gripped Clay’s forearms, feeling the power of muscle and sinew, and the trembling that revealed he recognized the danger in what they were doing. How awful to replace treasured memories with an awkward coupling. And what were the chances they could match the wonder of those summertime afternoons when they were young and carefree and so much in love?

Libby broke the kiss and said, “Wait.”

“For what?” Clay asked, his breathing unsteady. “I never expected this to be easy.”

Libby was surprised to hear Clay acknowledge the trepidation that she felt. “Then why don’t we wait until—”

“I don’t think waiting—”

Libby put her fingertips to Clay’s lips, astonished at the quiver of feeling even that small touch caused. Maybe this was possible. But she still wanted more time. “I’d like to spend the night with you in that bed. But I don’t want to do more than talk.”

She saw the crinkles form at the corners of Clay’s eyes as he smiled, and felt his lips curve under her fingertips. “Agreed. With one condition.”

“What’s that?” Libby said warily.

“We do it naked.”

“What’s the point of that?” Libby asked.

“It’ll give you a chance to get over any shyness you might feel about—”

“Fine,” Libby interrupted, flushing at the thought of exposing her thirty-five-year-old body to Clay’s gaze.

Clay lifted an eyebrow. “I expected you to argue more.”

“I want to see you. I might even want to touch.”

“Uh-uh,” Clay said. “No touching, unless you remove the ban on sex.”

Libby wrinkled her nose. “We used to be able to touch without having sex. We used to kiss for hours—”

“I was a younger and stronger man,” Clay said with a wry smile.

“Are you suggesting you don’t have the stamina—”

“All right. Fine. But if you can touch, I can touch.”

“No intercourse,” Libby said firmly.

“How are we defining intercourse?” Clay asked. “Is this the presidential definition or—”

Libby laughed. “It’s anything likely to produce—”

“An orgasm?”

“A baby,” Libby said.

“That leaves a lot of room for…play.”

“Oh, I hope so,” Libby said with a teasing smile.

When Clay started to unbutton his shirt, Libby stepped forward and moved his hands away. “I want to do it.”

His breathing became ragged as she stepped closer, brushing her hands across his bare flesh as she shoved the crisp white button-down Oxford-cloth shirt off his shoulders. Libby reached for Clay’s tooled western belt, unbuckled it, and slowly pulled it free. When she reached for the snap on his jeans, he caught her wrists and said, “My turn.”

Libby held out her arms as Clay unbuttoned her cuffs, then her blouse, before shoving it off her shoulders and down her arms. She wasn’t wearing a belt, and when he reached for the button on her jeans, she said, “Boots first.”

“You’re right,” he agreed.

A pair of wing chairs were arranged in front of the fire, and Clay gestured toward them. Libby sat down in one, and Clay gestured for her to give him her foot. He pulled off one boot, then the other, dropping each of them onto the cowhide that covered the wood floor.

“Your turn,” Libby said. Clay sat and Libby took the booted foot he extended, straddled his leg with her back to him, then hooked her palms around the heel and pulled. When the first boot was off, she followed the same procedure with the other, except Clay put his socked foot on her rump and gave a little shove to help.

She dumped the boot, then turned, and as Clay was rising, pressed a flattened hand against his furred chest to push him back into the chair. She sat on his lap, her folded legs on either side of his hips. She sat back far enough that there was no direct contact where Clay might have wanted it most.

She shoved her hands through his springy hair, easing a curl off his forehead. “I’ve been wanting to do that for ages.”

He wrapped his hands in her shoulder-length hair and pulled her face down to his. “Ditto.”

Their mouths were close enough that Libby could feel Clay’s breath against her cheek.

“Kiss me, Libby,” he said.

His voice sounded like a rusty gate. His eyes invited her to take a chance, and Libby closed her eyes and leaned close until her lips touched his.

“Ouch!” she said, jumping back as a painful electrical spark arced between them.

Clay laughed and said, “I guess the spark’s still there.”

“Scientific phenomenon,” she said. “Socks brushing cowhide, creating friction which—”

Clay captured her nape and pulled her down so his mouth covered hers. Libby felt like she’d dived into warm, welcoming waters. It was an easy kiss, without demands, a “How are you? I’m feeling fine,” kind of kiss. She broke it to gasp a breath and sat up to stare down into Clay’s eyes. His gaze was interested, but not aroused.

“What would you like to talk about?” he asked, his hands settling high on her jean-clad hips.

Libby rested her hands on his shoulders, because she wanted to feel the play of muscle and bone, and said, “Do you think Bomber Brown is guilty?”

Clay laughed and shook his head. “You know I can’t discuss that.”

“If we were together, if we were a couple, you’d be coming home to me after a day in court, and I’d expect you to let off steam. How do you usually do that?”

“I usually play a game of squash,” Clay said. “After I whack the ball around for an hour, I don’t feel so much like bashing heads together.”

“And you feel like that—like bashing heads—after a day in court?”

“Not so much as a judge,” Clay said. “I just listen to the evidence. I don’t have to develop it against a defendant. But yes, work as a prosecutor was stressful.”

“How much of your life would you be able to share with me?” Libby asked, finding the curve of Clay’s ear fascinating. She traced it with her fingertips and tasted the lobe with her lips and teeth. “I mean, if we lived in the same house.”

“Ah,” Clay groaned.

Libby stopped what she was doing and met Clay’s gaze. “Ah? That much, huh?”

Her smile was cut off when his hands slid around to her buttocks and he pulled her close, so her heat was pressed tight against his hardness. She framed his cheeks with her palms, then leaned down and pressed her lips to his. It was a close-mouthed kiss, a simple meeting of warm flesh. And yet she felt butterflies take delighted flight in her stomach.

“I’ve been thinking about what work I could do here in Texas,” she murmured against his lips.

He put his hands on her shoulders and eased her back so they could look into one another’s eyes. “I’m listening.”

“There are lots of hunting leases on ranches around here—for deer and turkey and javelinas. I think some of those businessmen from back east coming out here to Texas might enjoy having a guide.”

“You’ve lived in Wyoming your whole life,” Clay said. “Can you be happy waking up without the Tetons?”

“All I would need to wake up to is you.”

“Ah,” Clay said again.

Libby rubbed her silk bra against Clay’s chest, purring in her throat, like a cat with a bowl of cream.

“How about if we get rid of this?” Clay said as he unsnapped the front clasp of her bra and slid it down her arms.

Libby felt self-conscious. She lowered her gaze shyly. These weren’t the perky breasts she’d had at sixteen. Then she felt Clay’s warm hands cup her breasts and watched her nipples peak, amazingly perky, as he brushed them with his thumbs.

“Ah,” she purred. Libby rubbed herself against him, feeling the rough hairs on his chest against her tender breasts. She wrapped her arms around his neck and found his mouth with hers.

Clay made her welcome, opening his mouth to her intrusion, and returning the favor. She remembered this. How they fit together. How good he tasted, how right. How he seemed to know where to touch her with his hands, as he made love to her with his mouth. She felt passion rising between them, and wanted more. Needed more.

She felt his hands gentling her, his mouth disengaging to give their struggling lungs a chance to catch up.

“Wow,” he said, with a breathless laugh. “That brings back memories.”

“Good ones, I hope.”

“The best.” Clay nestled her body against his, tucking her head under his chin and said, “I have a question for you.”

“Shoot,” she said on a gust of air.

“When did you know you loved me? I mean, the summer we met. You obviously plotted to seduce me and leave me high and dry. When did your plans change?”

Libby tried to lift her head, but Clay captured her nape and kept her tucked close.

“I’m not trying to put you on the spot,” he said in a voice that rumbled against her ear. “I’m just curious.”

“I don’t know, exactly,” she said at last. “One moment I was planning the destruction of a Blackthorne. The next, I was willing to go against everything I’d always known was true just to be with you. I can’t believe you never suspected how young I was.”

She heard Clay make a sound in his throat before he said, “I was surprised by your virginity, that’s for damned sure. The way you flirted, the way you kissed, I never suspected you were untouched. When we made love, when everything I did seemed to surprise you, that’s when I began to wonder if you might be younger than you’d told me.”

“Why didn’t you confront me?” Libby asked. “I would have caved, I think, and spilled the beans, if you’d acted the least bit suspicious.”

“I don’t think I wanted to know,” Clay admitted. “I think I was already in love with you.”

This time when Libby raised her head to look into Clay’s eyes, he released her to do so.

“You loved me?” she said, searching his eyes for the truth.

“If you’ll recall, I was willing to marry you when you told me you were pregnant.”

“I thought that was just—”