A Lady of the West (32 page)

One of the Mexican cowhands produced a guitar and began strumming it. As the sun went down, the liquor was brought out. Whiskey and tequila ran down the male throats. A few of them grabbed the women and began whirling them around the courtyard, stomping in an enthusiastic fashion that had little to do with an actual dance, but a great deal to do with their high spirits.

Jake kept Victoria at his side. As darkness blotted out the sky the bright Mexican lanterns cast their magic over the courtyard and the laughter ringing out eased Jake's tension.

Without a word he put his arm around Victoria's waist and eased her against him, moving her into the slow shuffle that was all he knew how to do. She gave him a quick, startled look, then relaxed in his arms. Her head dropped onto his shoulder and she sighed, but he thought it was a sigh of contentment, or at least relief.

She felt so delicate in his arms. Her bones were as slender as a child's, her shoulders straight but still only a little more than half as broad as his. Her head tucked neatly under his chin, and the sweet, faint perfume of her hair elusively teased him. Her breasts were soft against him; he remembered how round they were, how pale and delicately veined, and how he had rubbed his face against them. Her slender thighs moved gracefully against his as they swayed together in dance; last night they had clasped around his buttocks in eager passion.

He had been half-aroused all day, unable to keep his thoughts from returning time and again to the night before. Now his erection pushed painfully against his pants, and he stifled a groan as he unobtrusively moved her in a hidden caress against his swollen groin. She looked up at him, and he saw her swallow. Her blue eyes were shadowed, but she made no
protest, and after a moment she returned her head to his shoulder.

Ben leaned against one of the posts, watching Jake dance with his new wife. He liked Victoria, but then he should have known that Jake never would have planned to marry her if she'd been a shrill, condescending sort. He didn't know what they would have done, but marrying her would have been out.

He looked around the courtyard and caught sight of Emma dancing with Lonny, of all people. Ben would have sworn that Lonny had never even seen a dance before, but there he was, whirling and stomping and having the time of his life. Emma was laughing. Ben stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he stared at her. She wouldn't even look at him, but she'd dance with every clumsy cowhand who asked her.

Lola brought out refreshments, doughnuts and some squares of plain cake. The men swooped down on the doughnuts, which they called “bear sign,” with yells of delight, and the dancing momentarily stopped. When it started again, Ben noticed that Emma laughingly declined all invitations in favor of some much needed rest. She found a seat on a bench at the opposite side of the courtyard from where he stood and contentedly watched the others dance. Most of the men were dancing with each other since there were so few women, but it made no difference to the mood of celebration.

Ben made his way around the courtyard and came up behind Emma. She didn't know he was there until he propped his boot on the bench beside her, and leaned forward to rest his arm on his raised knee. “How long are you going to run away from me because of what happened?” he asked in a cool, hard voice.

Emma didn't look at him. “Nothing happened, Mr. Sarratt.” Her voice was as cool as his.

“The hell it didn't. You got me hard, and we both enjoyed it.”

She hitched her shawl higher on her arms, but still
didn't look at him. “I think, Mr. Sarratt, that you must be used to a different type of female. I'm not responsible for your—your body, and neither do I enjoy being treated like a slut who would welcome your rubbing.”

Ben's voice got even harder. “What I think, Miss Gann, is that your personality would be a lot sweeter if you had more rubbing.”

Though Emma knew it was dangerous even to continue this wildly improper conversation, let alone make it even more personal, she couldn't prevent herself from sneering, “From
you?
You flatter yourself.”

Ben straightened, a little shocked, then stepped over the bench to stand in front of her. Without a word he caught her wrist and pulled her to her feet, then dragged her out of the courtyard. Emma cried out a protest, but there was so much noise that no one noticed. When they were outside he whirled her around and flattened her against the wall, holding her there with both hands clasping her rib cage. Only a few inches separated them; he smelled hot and faintly sweaty, and she trembled with primitive response.

Out here it was dark, although light and music and gaiety were just on the other side of the wall. A peculiar bubble of silence surrounded them, broken only by the raspy sound of his breathing.

He bent his head. Emma pushed her hands against his chest and said sharply, “Don't you dare!” but her protest was useless. His mouth covered hers, and when she tried to turn her head away he shifted his hold on her so that her head was anchored against his shoulder, his hand clenched in her hair to hold her still. The hard pressure of his mouth bruised her soft lips. Desperately she bit him, her teeth sinking into his lower lip. He cursed and jerked his head away, and wiped at the blood that smeared his mouth.

“Do that again and I'll blister your bare ass,” he snarled.

Emma found that she couldn't free herself from his tight grip. She threw her head back as she faced him defiantly. “You were hurting me! Was I supposed to do nothing?”

He paused, then said, “I guess not.” He lifted his fingers to her lips and lightly rubbed them. Even in the faint light spilling over the wall he could see that they were already getting puffy. “I didn't mean to hurt you.”

She could barely breathe, though she struggled to draw air into her constricted lungs. She wished he would release her, wished she couldn't feel his hard body pressing against her from breast to knee. She pushed against his chest again and found that the effort still had no effect.

He was still looking at her mouth. “We have to do something about this,” he said under his breath.

“No, we don't,” she quickly replied.

He gave a soft laugh. “That's what you think, girl.” Then he kissed her again, claiming her lips with hunger, but no longer with violence. He moved his tongue into her mouth, penetrating deeply and drinking her taste. Emma jerked in his arms, then the tension abruptly drained out of her body and she sank against him.

A fine, heady madness welled up in her, born of the increasing pleasure she felt at his invasive kisses. She wound her arms around his neck and forgot about the protests she should make, forgot that no man could possibly respect a woman who let him kiss her like this unless they were engaged. Nor did she protest when he slid his hand to her bottom and arched her forward, nestling his hardness in the notch of her legs as he had done the day he'd wrestled her to the ground. Instead she whimpered, her head falling back to rest against the wall, and her legs parted even more in an instinctive yielding. Ben instantly took advantage, his hips moving in the slow grind and thrust of sex. He put his hand on her breast, kneading the soft
mound through the barrier of her clothes. He felt her tremble, felt her legs give way, and caught her weight against him.

He kissed her jaw and the soft hollow below her ear, his mouth hot and wet. “Have you had a man before?” he asked roughly, praying that the answer would be yes.

But she dazedly shook her head. “No,” she whispered.

He swore mentally for a long time, using every curse word he'd ever heard and coming up with a few new combinations. Damn, why couldn't she have done it just once before? As soon as he had the thought, his mind rebelled against it with angry possessiveness. He didn't want to think of another man sliding inside her, even though that would leave his conscience clear to do the same.

There were only two kinds of women: good women and bad ones. A good woman let no man except her husband enjoy her favors, but all it took was one slip to turn her into a loose woman. A good woman was both respected and protected; if a man ever forced himself on a good woman, he could expect himself to be hanged as soon as he was caught. That was the way it was, and Ben would have gladly helped hang the bastard who forced any woman, good or bad.

But other folks didn't see it like that; if Emma went to bed with him, she would automatically be stepping over the line that divided respectable women from the unrespectable ones.

The barrier was so black and white, so absolute, that Ben took a deep breath and stepped back. If he'd been thinking marriage it would be different, but Ben wasn't inclined to marriage. He wanted Emma, but the decision had to be hers because the risk would be hers, and he refused to seduce her into it.

“Then it's your choice, Emma,” he said. The words were low and harsh; he could barely make his throat work. “We can go upstairs to my bedroom, right now,
or we can stop. If you decide you want to go upstairs with me, I want it understood up front that I'm not a marrying man.”

That was certainly honest, painfully so. Emma stared at him, bereft by the sudden loss of his touch, the pulse throbbing wildly at the base of her throat. In truth, her entire body was throbbing, hungry for more.

She hadn't thought of marriage, either. She had thought of nothing except first, the anger that had filled her, which she realized now was her protective response to the instincts he triggered in her, and then the wild urge to give in to those instincts.
Marriage?
No, that wasn't what she wanted, she barely knew the man. This was only the second time she had spoken to him.
And the second time she had felt him lying against her with heavy arousal.

But his words were a slap of reality, showing her what she had been about to do. She could lie with him, but for no reason other than lust. And when she rose up from that bed, she would no longer be a respectable woman. If she ever married, and she hoped she did, she would have to explain to her husband why she wasn't virtuous. The only other alternative would be to go completely away from her family and anyone who knew her and begin a new life as a “widow,” which would explain her lack of chastity.

She had so much to lose and so very little to gain. A few moments of pleasure, weighed against a lifetime of respectability. If she had loved him it would be different, but she didn't even have that.

With the inborn dignity with which she faced every hardship, Emma braced herself and gave him his answer. “Nor is marriage what I'm looking for. Thank you for giving me this choice.”

Ben smiled crookedly at her. “What's the answer?” he asked, though he already knew.

“No,” she replied, and walked away.

A
t nine o'clock Victoria excused herself and went up to her bedroom. She didn't know how soon he would follow, so she scurried like a madwoman to undress, wash, and cover herself decently in a nightgown. He had taken everything she had and she needed to regain part of herself, some small bit of modesty. She was only twenty-one and had twice been taken to wife, once for what she represented and now for what she owned, but not yet for love, for herself. She felt a need for whatever small defenses she could muster.

She was glad she hurried because the nightgown had barely settled into place around her feet when Jake opened the door and walked in. He eyed the nightgown. “That was fast.”

She didn't answer, because it was obvious to him how she had hurried.

He stripped his shirt off over his head and dropped it on a chair, then bent down to untie the leather thongs from around his thighs. She watched as he removed his guns and realized that he hadn't worn them the night before. He had come to her unarmed,
and she wondered if he had done so to prevent her from trying to grab one of his weapons and shoot him.

His powerful brown torso rippled with muscles as he poured fresh water in the washbasin and bent down to splash it on his face. Victoria watched him, feeling her body already beginning to throb and come alive for him, and he hadn't even touched her. Her gaze slid over him, loving the hard strength of his body. He had several scars, she noticed, some of them so old they were nothing more than white lines, some of them still new enough to be red. She ached to touch them, to feel his heated skin beneath her hands.

He toweled his face and shoulders dry, watching her as she watched him. “Go ahead and take your hair down,” he instructed, and she lifted her arms to obey.

Her hair reached her hips in silky waves when it was down. When she had all of the pins out, she went to the dresser and pulled her hair over one shoulder to brush it. Jake sat down to remove his boots and socks, but didn't take his eyes off of her.

“Good,” he said softly. “Now take the nightgown off.”

She moistened her lips. “I always sleep in a nightgown.”

“No. You used to sleep in a nightgown. You don't now.” He stood and began unbuttoning his pants. She watched without blinking as he shed his clothes, her gaze locked on his loins. He was heavy and aroused. By the time he was naked, she still hadn't moved.