Kit Gardner (13 page)

She’d barely seen him since their disturbing interlude in her bedroom four days past. He was inordinately busy, of course, as was she. He worked from sunup to sundown, and beyond, well into the night, barely pausing to take a meal that he’d requested be brought outside to him. He had yet to return to that chair at her kitchen table. He had yet to speak more than a few words to her, all insignificant exchanges of a sort more common to employers and employees, not lovers.

Oh, but to realize one possessed the soul of a heathen. Perhaps he was some sort of wizard. Yes, indeed, he
must
be. He’d cast some sort of ridiculous spell on her. Surely that would absolve her of this...this...unconscionable
need
to simply find herself sharing the same room with him, to envelop herself in his scent, to look into those whiskey eyes, and, worst of all, to relive again and again the feel of those callused hands and the undeniably swollen maleness of his pelvis rocking against her buttocks.

She jerked to her feet and lifted her face into the dust-blowing onslaught that was the hot afternoon wind. Anything to redirect her thoughts, though it was rather strange, while she still mused on Stark, that she hadn’t heard any pounding or sawing coming from the barn for quite some time. Just the lonely howl of the wind and the creak of the windmill. And no sign of Christian, either.

Instinct, getting itself all entangled with a hedonist’s immoral yearnings. What sort of woman—worse yet,
a woman engaged to another
—allowed herself such weakness? This could not be tolerated. Yet how did one contrive to vanquish such an inclination and at the same time keep all signs of it from one’s face, particularly where one’s fiancé was concerned? She could, of course, relieve Stark of his post and thus remove him from her life. That, logical as it might be, was out of the question at the moment. After all, things were going rather swimmingly...with regard to the barn, that is. No, her father had been one to face his obstacles and gain the upper hand. And so would she, blast it, no matter that when faced with that obstacle she’d rather throw herself into his arms than deny herself that pleasure.

The barn was empty, strangely quiet. Ah, his horse was gone, as was the buckboard. Funny. He’d made no mention of journeying to Twilight, and had he, the buckboard would have had to pass directly by her while she planted all those geraniums. They must have gone off in the opposite direction. But where? And was Christian with him, as usual?

She found herself following the wheel tracks west, through scorched brush, wishing she’d paused for a dipper of water from the well. Here, without the house or the barn for protection, Mother Nature was most brutal. The air, dust-choked and stifling...the sun, raining heat like some fiery tempest...the earth, scorched raw and uneven, so that her ankles twisted in the innumerable ruts. The wind whipped relentlessly at her skirts, hopelessly tangling them between her legs and laying complete ruin to her hair. Through the tangles, she spied in the distance, somewhere beyond the billowing waves of gold heat, the willows growing thicker, taller, along the banks of a narrow stream.

Her chest compressed as if beneath a crushing blow. The stream...deep enough for a child to drown in, especially a child who’d never learned to swim, one afraid to even put his head near the water. Jessica had attempted on several occasions to teach her son to swim, if only for her own peace of mind, but to no avail. Christian had balked and howled and stoutly refused. She had, therefore, forbidden him to venture anywhere near water, particularly the stream.

Stark had no way of knowing this. Would Christian, eager to impress his idol, foolishly plunge into that water and to certain death?

She clutched at her skirts and ran blindly toward that growth of willows. No...they weren’t there...they’d gone beyond...somewhere...to catch a rabbit or squirrel...to even shoot that blasted gun...anything, not the stream...

Yet why would Stark venture out here in this heat, if not to seek respite?

Her lungs collapsed of all air. Tiny lights flashed before her eyes. She should have told Stark, should have foreseen this...but no,
he
should have known not to take a young child in water, no matter the unbearable heat of the day. Tears blurred her vision. He should have known...he was to blame...and yet some part of her clung to the conviction that her son was safe with Stark, that from the moment he set foot on her farm, he’d protected Christian.

And then she saw it...the buckboard looming just ahead, in a tall growth of willows, and beyond, the sparkling waters of the stream.

She ran to the wagon, a cry choking her when she found it empty. Her fingers clutched at the curved ironwork, one palm smoothing the seat where Christian had perched that morning a week prior in nothing but his nightclothes. And then she heard it. The splash. And another. And something that sounded like a whoop of terror.

She whirled about and plunged through the brush, toward the sounds. Branches tore at her hair, her dress, drew blood from her face, and the sun beat with merciless zest upon her. Hell would feel much like this, replete with the horror of the unknown.

She shoved the last of the brush aside and froze. There upon the grassy bank, Stark and her son stood, side by side, very much alive, very wet, and entirely naked. Jessica blinked. And gulped and felt every last drop of blood drain from her limbs in a torrent of relief, and something more.

They’d joined hands, and they seemed poised there, just moments from plunging into the water, as if in open defiance of Mother Nature and the blistery heat. Indeed, they’d defied her. Here the sunlight danced about them, its touch softly muted, as though applied with a loving hand. Droplets glistened upon their backs and shoulders, Stark’s so broad, so bronzed and sleekly sculpted, Jessica felt her mouth water. She watched a trickle weave down his back to the impossible narrowness of his waist, and beyond, to the muscled high plains of his buttocks. He shifted his weight, and those muscles flexed. Jessica clutched at brush to keep herself upright.

His legs seemed miles long, magnificently made, undeniably strong. He was, without question, the most beautiful thing Jessica had ever seen...or could imagine. And she stared with unabashed admiration, entirely without guilt.

Christian let out a tremendous whoop, and they plunged as one into the water, submerging for what seemed a lifetime, then surfacing in one huge sputtering, giggling mass. Stark hoisted Christian entirely from the water, held him with one arm over his head, then tossed him skyward, caught him and again submerged with the boy in his arms. They surfaced, and Christian dissolved into a bundle of guttural giggles. Jessica had never heard him laugh like that. It was the kind that starts deep in the belly and bubbles forth in all its unfettered glee. And Stark...

With head thrown back, he bellowed and hooted at the sky. Staring at his exposed throat, listening to all that unrestrained passion and bravado in his voice, Jessica felt a yearning so deep she nearly cried out with the agony of it. Oh, but a heathen’s thoughts were torturous, indeed. To ache so desperately to be the one nestled in those arms, to be wet and frolicking with him and her son in that water, to abandon all reservations, along with her clothes, upon some grassy bank...
This
was what she had yearned for.
This
was the unknown, the mystery, that part of her that had yet gone unfulfilled. So long she had denied this disturbing emptiness in her, both with Frank and now with Avram, believing the lack her own, somehow. And yet how could she have known such wondrous passion could be stoked by a man even in an existence such as hers? Somehow, somewhere, she’d come upon the notion that one required beautiful couture gowns, a magnificent home, society standing and a posh New England setting to experience such things. This sort of thing didn’t happen to nervous little widows in gray muslin gowns, women consumed with responsibility and toil, here, upon a lonely, unforgiving, sun-baked prairie.

The idea left her weak-kneed and aching with melancholy. Good God, but she’d been half-alive for years, moving woodenly through her life, drowning in all her responsibilities. And now...could she even attempt to deny what this man had awakened in her, something she had no desire to suppress or shackle in puritanical thoughts? And could she marry another? No matter that she still believed him honorable, noble, the most worthy of her trust, the best possible father for her son...
a man who would not deceive her as Frank had.
Yes, this had been of utmost importance to her. It still was. And yet...

How could she deny herself this? What woman, once given a mere taste of it, possessed the strength to turn her back on the irresistible lure of the unknown and embrace a life certain in its predictability, its utter lack of passion? What woman who was no fool could keep herself from grasping at perhaps the one opportunity at complete fulfillment? The one opportunity to not grow old only to find herself one day a lifetime from now, staring out into that same prairie, with a heart heavy with regret for what could have been—if only.

With Christian clinging like a monkey to his back, Stark turned and waded slowly from the lake. Water spilled over his chest, his belly, plunged over his pelvis and the muscled lengths of his thighs. He was immense, all of him, thick and heavy, full of wild, wicked, wanton promise. A savage born of a woman’s most reckless imaginings. Jessica’s lips parted, her breath came in short gasps, and she realized one hand had clutched to her bosom. Heated pulse pooled in the thrusting peaks of her breasts and between her thighs. Her fingers itched to shred that restrictive gray muslin, to emerge from this thicket naked as he, to dare him to ignore her any longer...a man she barely knew.

And then? What then? Mystery that he was, she sensed he could be fierce if need be. And callous. No doubt legions of women had shared his bed. Without question, he’d left the better part of them in his wake. A woman such as she, all but inexperienced and wide-eyed with the wonder of her newfound sensuality...what would a man like him do to her? Refuse her, no doubt, if he was any sort of gentleman worthy of the name. Simply to spare her the embarrassment, perhaps.

Perhaps. But would he stay?

Once again they plunged into the lake, and Jessica turned about in a stealthy retreat before temptation got the better of her. No, best to keep her clothes on and devise some sort of scheme—that is, after she somehow managed to procure some guile somewhere, something she was grossly lacking. To scheme, to connive. She? All for the sake of a virtual stranger and all those unspoken promises?

Ridiculous. He would see it for what it was. A man as experienced as he surely would. He was too clever by far. He had a century’s worth of wisdom in the lines of his face. True, but she could be clever, as well, and she did possess a female’s superior ability to plot and contrive. Perhaps if she caught him unawares.

Yes, surprise was the best weapon. Something to throw him completely off guard. But what? Launching herself entirely naked into his arms was rather lacking in subtlety and altogether unimaginative. No doubt women had found it necessary to do such a thing innumerable times before for him. The man simply inspired such behavior. He could hardly be blamed for taking full advantage or finding such conduct rather predictable. And she harbored scant desire to be found the least bit predictable by Stark. She’d already allowed the man into her bedroom, and she wearing nothing but her camisole and pantalets, which she’d allowed him all but full exploration of. Utterly predictable, of course, something he’d done countless times in the past. No, this simply would not do.

She paused beside the buggy, one finger drumming upon the ironwork. Blast, but rearranging one’s thinking and behavior was not easily accomplished. These things required years of
learning.
Good heavens, women all but went to school to become accomplished coquettes. How the devil was she to succeed?

With a troubled frown, she turned, took a step, and almost trod all over a careless pile of clothes on the ground, which she found to be a tangle of faded denim and cotton shirting. With not even a moment’s hesitation, she snatched the pile to her breasts and took three very determined steps, then stopped, awash in indecision. She simply could not abandon the man out here without his clothes. It just wasn’t done. Besides, he would surely guess who had perpetrated such a scheme...or would he? Better yet, what if he did?

A hesitant yet triumphant curve softened her mouth, and her feet moved with a peculiar spring through the brush, beneath that sun, in all that billowing heat, the entire way back to the barn...until she spied the handsome curricle parked just beyond the back door.

“Jessica!” It was Louise French, swooping down on her with bustled crimson skirts swinging. “Good grief, whatever were you doing out there in all this sun and— Why, what have you there?”

Jessica blinked at the clothes crushed against her bosom, exceedingly aware that the cloth emitted a crisp male scent that set her pulse hammering in her ears. “This?”

“Yes, that,” Louise said with an arch of her brow and a closer look. “They look to me like a man’s pants. Far too long and rough-looking for your fiancé to wear. Good heavens, you’re blushing like one of your lovely red geraniums, Jessica. I
knew
I should have come sooner, and blast it, I
would
have, had John’s aunt Agatha not appeared upon our doorstep with six months’ worth of baggage in tow. We haven’t been able to budge the woman since, and I don’t believe we’ve a chance at that until the baby comes. Some folderol about lending me a hand around the house, though I’ve a notion John arranged it simply to keep me housebound. Little good it did him. Men. Such delightful creatures. I’m here, aren’t I, though he did insist upon driving me.”

Jessica’s eyes darted past her friend to the tall, smartly dressed fellow tending to the curricle and the gray gelding pawing the dirt before it. He cut a dashing figure in dove-gray topcoat and severely pressed trousers, his golden hair agleam in the sunlight, his beard neat and closely trimmed. He caught her eye and greeted her with a smile and a wave. A handsome man, successful, noble, in love with his wife to the extreme. Beneath all that starched and pressed cloth, that mien of respectability, did there lurk the soul of a heathen capable of stirring Louise to passion? Surely her friend would expect nothing less.