Keegan's Lady (26 page)

Lowering his gaze to his mug, he was stricken with the enormity of the task he'd taken on by marrying this girl. She needed help. The kind of help he wasn't even certain he was capable of giving. It was going to take one hell of a lot of patience to bring her around.

When he tackled a job, he liked fast results. It wasn't in his nature to stand around waiting for things to happen. Over the last twenty years, his sense of urgency had proved to be his worst enemy. More than once he had rammed his fist against a wall, enraged because he'd been unable to exact revenge against Joseph's killers immediately, frustrated because his only guarantee of success lay in the waiting and careful planning. Now, here he was, married to someone who wore wariness like a cloak.

When he heard her delicately slurp the last dregs of hot cocoa from her cup, he finished off his own with three large gulps. Extending a hand, he said, "Here, let me get us each some more. On a cool night like this, hot cocoa has a way of warming the bones, doesn't it?"

As she handed over her mug, she carefully avoided touching her fingertips to his. Ace bit down hard on his back teeth as he pushed up.

When he returned from the kitchen with their refilled mugs, he couldn't help noticing the way she sat with her shoulders hunched and her arms hugging her waist. The posture screamed, "Don't touch me."

Ace wasn't sure which was worse, drinking bucketfuls of hot cocoa when he yearned for a jigger of good Irish whiskey or trying to make small talk with a nervous bride. Fifteen minutes later, neither endeavor was one he cared to repeat.

After pouring them each a third cup of cocoa, he, resumed his seat on the stone hearth and lifted his mug to her in a mock toast. With wry amusement, he said, "To marital bliss."

Caitlin did not drink to the toast. Indeed, Ace thought it fair to say she nearly ran screaming from the house. So much for a note of levity.

Sitting on the roughly hewn tripod in the flickering firelight, she was impossibly beautiful. The bits of hair that had escaped the bunch of loose curls atop her head looked as though they'd been artfully arranged to best enhance her loveliness, wispy curls framing her small face, longer ones lying in shimmering splendor along the graceful slope of her neck.

Feeling unaccountably nervous, an affliction that seemed to grow worse by the moment, he glanced around the room, searching desperately for something, anything, as a topic of conversation. There was nothing.

He set his mug on the hearth and rubbed his hands over the denim that sheathed his legs. Then he lifted the mug again, gave it a turn, and proceeded to sit staring at it as if he'd never seen a cup before. Much more of this, and he'd be the one who ran screaming from the house.

He glanced over at Caitlin. She too seemed unaccountably interested in the conformation of a coffee mug. She was also absently toying with the onyx and diamond pinkie ring he'd slipped onto her finger, twisting it round and round, running her thumb over the upraised stone. Her eyelids were beginning to droop.

With a yawn and stretch to emphasize his point, he said, "It's getting late. I suppose we should probably be thinking about bed."

In the silence, his voice rang out like a rifle shot. Caitlin jerked and came wide awake, fastening huge blue eyes on him. Ace might have laughed, but at the moment, it didn't seem all that funny. The poor girl was miserable.

Regardless, he was tuckered. As frightened as she obviously was of going to bed, he couldn't pander to her all night. They both needed at least a few hours' sleep.

He shoved up from the hearth. "I'm beat." Gesturing toward the hallway, he said, "Why don't you go in while I bank the fire? I'm sure you could use a few minutes of privacy."

She threw a glance of sheer dread at the shadowy hallway. "Oh . . . yes." She touched a hand to her slender throat and gulped. "I, um . . . privacy, yes. Thank you."

She pushed slowly to her feet. Pretending a nonchalance he was far from feeling, Ace leaned a shoulder against the rock face of the fireplace and watched her walk to the bedroom. Every step she took appeared to be an effort.

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, half tempted to give in and let her have the bed to herself. But, no. The sooner she became accustomed to being physically close with him, the sooner he could make love to her. And the sooner he could make love to her, the sooner this agony of tension would be over.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

After banking the fire, Ace gave Caitlin an additional five minutes to prepare for bed. Then, turning out the lantern, he made his way down the dark hallway toward the slit of light shining under the bedroom door.

He found his bride standing before the window, which he'd cracked open that morning and forgotten to close. He guessed he'd been so wrapped up in his concern for Caitlin earlier that he hadn't noticed it. Her small hands clasping the top window rail, she turned slightly.

The faint smell of lavender wafted to his nostrils. Pushing the door closed, he paused a moment to savor the sweetness. He had been to bed with countless women, but this would be the first time he'd ever spent the night with one. The occasion was especially momentous because Caitlin was a lady, exactly the kind of female he'd made it a point to avoid. A decent woman usually expected a marriage proposal from a man who dallied with her.

As Ace moved toward Caitlin, it occurred to him that he'd probably spend nearly every night for the rest of his life with her. Caitlin, with her glorious red hair and ivory skin. Only a crazy man would object to such a forecast.

Clad in a voluminous white nightgown, she looked small, defenseless, and too nervous for his peace of mind. The folds of cotton seemed to swallow her. Dainty feet peeked out from beneath the gown's hem, her heels a rose-petal pink. Used to his own raw-boned feet, he was fascinated by her spindly little toes.

She was shivering again, he realized, as he drew up behind her. He reached past her to draw the window closed. Within seconds, he realized why she was standing there, shaking like a leaf in front of the upraised glass. The damned window was stuck.

"I, um, tried to open it earlier. It wouldn't budge."

Ace recalled her headlong dive from the back doorway and arched an eyebrow. "You tried to go out the window?"

"I couldn't fit."

Nudging her out of the way, he put some muscle into trying to move the double-hung frame. With a grating sound and a loud thunk, it finally gave way and fell closed.

"My talents definitely don't lie in carpentry," he said drily. "There isn't a window or door in the place that doesn't tend to stick."

His talents evidently didn't lie in seduction, either, if the wide-eyed gaze she trained on him was any indication. "Have you tried soap?"

"Soap?"

"You rub a door or window with soap where it sticks, and it usually solves the problem. If you have a bar, I'll happily fix this one."

Ace had a feeling she'd happily do anything to avoid going to bed. "In the morning, maybe."

Lightly grasping her by the shoulders, he turned her toward the bed. She moved ahead of him like a condemned person about to be executed. When her knees encountered the mattress, her whole body jerked. Though he tried not to, Ace felt sorry for her. After living his entire adult life as a bachelor, crawling into bed with a stranger of the opposite sex had become old hat to him. Such was definitely not the case for her.

Resigned, he leaned around her to drag the quilt and sheets back, then gave her a nudge. With unmistakable reluctance, she crawled in and curled into a shivering little ball on the far side of the mattress. Ace covered her with the quilt, then bent to turn down the lamp.

In the sudden darkness, he crossed to the other side of the bed, unstrapping his gun belt en route. As was his habit, he hung the weapon over the bedstead, just in case he needed it quickly during the night. Next, he removed his trouser belt, which he folded and laid on a chair. He sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots. As he peeled off his socks, he could have sworn he heard Caitlin's heart pounding.

With a sigh, he abandoned all thought of sleeping in the nude and settled for removing only his shirt, which he tossed in the general direction of his belt. As he slid under the covers, he felt the bed shaking. The sensation put him in mind of the time he'd awakened in the middle of the night to a San Francisco earth tremor.

Jesus H. Christ. These weren't just little shakes, but violent jerks that seemed to seize her whole body. He lay staring at her slender back, wondering what the hell he ought to do.

"Caitlin?"

"Wh—what?"

To be sure he wasn't imagining things, he curled a hand over her waist. Sure enough, she was quaking like a dry autumn leaf in a high wind. Ace was about to say as much when she sat bolt upright in the bed.

"I can't d-do th-this," she said shrilly. "I'm s-sorry. I just can't."

He pushed up beside her. In the moonlight, she looked ethereal—a fragile angel with one hand pressed over her heart, the other clutching her throat. "You can't do what?" he asked stupidly, playing for time.

"This!" Her voice went high-pitched. Waving a hand at the bed, she said, "I just can't. Promises or n-no, I can't."

The hysteria in her voice told Ace more than she could know. He sensed panic wasn't long in coming, and he knew he had no one to blame but himself. Instead of pussyfooting around her all evening and dragging out the misery, he should have insisted they go to bed an hour ago. Now her nerves were strung so taut, she could scarcely think, let alone reason her way through it. "Caitlin, sweetheart, come here." Ace slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her down and slightly beneath him as he lowered himself back onto the mattress. She gave a startled squeak, but before she could physically react, he used his forearm to anchor her, his hand to capture her wrists. "Easy, now. It's all right."

She bucked sharply with her hips. "L-let g-go of me! Please!" She punctuated the words with a low sob. "Don't hurt me. Please, don't. I w-won't fight y-you. I sw-swear it. Just, please, don't hurt me."

Half sick with regret, Ace angled a knee across her thighs, more to keep her from throwing off the covers than to hold her down. The warmth from the fire out front did little to take the chill off the bedroom, and with her already shaking as she was, he was afraid to expose her to the night air. "I'm not going to hurt you, honey. I promise. Calm down, hmm?"

"I—I'm calm. Just, please, turn loose. I can't br-breathe."