Lady X's Cowboy (7 page)

“To new friends.”  She held up her glass for a toast.

He seemed to like the sound of that.  “Here’s how,” he said, and their glasses made a chiming sound in the normally still room.  She felt it like a ringing bell in her own heart.

“You never answered my question, Mr. Coffin,” she said after taking a sip of whiskey.  It slid down her throat and pooled warmly in her belly, but she wondered if it was the scotch that made her feel that way or the lanky, raw man beside her.  When he looked at her questioningly, she explained, “How is it that you are in England?”

Coffin took a drink of whiskey, and gazed into the fire, contemplative.  “Jake left me a note in that safety deposit box.  He told me to get out of pushin’ cows while I still had all my fingers and toes.  He said I had too much goin’ on upstairs to sit on the back of a horse the rest of my life, and he wanted the money to be a way out.”

“Do you agree with him?”

He shrugged.  “A body can’t cowboy forever.  I know that.  Eventually, a man’s going to wind up dead.  And the railroads are makin’ men like me unnecessary.  Soon enough, there won’t be any cattle drives any more, and I’ll be just another blowhard sittin’ in the saloon, spinnin’ yarns.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“That’s what brought me out to your lovely country, Lady Xavier,” he said, a smile disappearing under one side of his mustache.

Coffin reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and produced a brittle, blackened piece of paper.  It looked to be damaged by fire and years of use.  Setting down his glass on the mantle, he carefully unfolded the paper.  It astonished her to see him handle something so tenderly and with such care—his hands seemed capable of immense strength, and yet he opened the paper as gently as holding a baby chick.

“Careful, now,” he warned as he handed the paper to her.

Also setting down her glass, she took the sheet and scanned it.  It was written with a man’s sure hand, but the ink had browned and faded.

“Dear Mister Hardene,

We have at last settled and the baby is fine.  Tomorrow we will start blasting out some of the larger rocks so we may begin clearing our fields.  It is so different here than in London, but we are determined to make a new start.  Please be sure to let my father know that—”

“That’s all there is,” Will explained.  “The only thing my parents left me is that little scrap.”

 “You want to find the rest of your family.”  She returned the letter to Coffin and he put it away.  She leaned back against the side of the fireplace and felt a small touch of the cool marble against her shoulders.  “You want to know about where you come from before you determine where you’re going.”

He frowned in contemplation, absently stroking his mustache.  “I hadn’t thought about it like that,” he said slowly, then nodded, “but it makes sense.”  He gave a little snort of recognition.  “Me comin’ out here to figure myself out.  Yeah, I guess that’s what I’m doin’.” 

“Probably, you understood that already,” she demurred, “though not knowingly.”

“You sure are quick, Lady Xavier,” he said with admiration.  For a long time, he stared at her me, and the only sounds came from the pop of the fire and the ticking chinoiserie clock.  His stare was direct, penetrating, more keenly perceptive than she would have liked.  But approving, too, that look.  He came to stand in front of her, then braced his hands on either side of her.  His arms were long, so he did not hover too close, and yet he
was
close, closer than any man had been to her in years. 

“You’re the only person I’ve met who’s been able to figure that out,” he said.  “All the guys I know back in Colorado think I’m off my rocker.  They think I should just open my own ranch and quit wastin’ time.”

She felt it, too, this thing between them, a small, secret understanding that drew them together.  She ought to slip out from under his arms.  She ought to tell him to stand back—no gentleman would lean so close to a lady—but she could feel the warmth of his body over hers and she saw the growing interest in his eyes, the bright spark of primitive awareness which found an answer deep in her own belly.

“I think you are doing the right thing.”  Her breath wouldn’t come fast enough.  Had someone slipped laudanum into her drink?  She felt profoundly drugged, fluid.

“I think so, too.”  His voice was even rougher, a harsh rasp full of grit. Then he leaned down further, his arms bending out to the side, and he kissed her.

And she kissed him back.  Their mouths met, a light brush at first, and then becoming more definitive, slightly wet.  She tasted whiskey and tobacco on him; the careful exploration his lips and tongue were conducting were counterpoint to these aggressively male flavors.  The brush of his mustache against her top lip felt faintly, pleasantly abrasive.  Again he surprised her.  So much more refinement, if such alert sensuality could be called refinement, than she had anticipated.  And it felt so
good
.  A rumble came from his throat.  Ah, mutual pleasure.  Her hands at the small of her back tingled with it.

Pleasure being too mild a word.  She hadn’t felt such marvelous unfolding sensations since...long before David died.

That was when she stopped, turning her head to break her mouth away from Will Coffin. 

“Lady Xavier—” he began, dropping his arms.

She wasn’t about to let him speak.  “I have to get to bed.”  She started to rush towards the door but made herself slow down.  “It’s late, and we’ve had a long day.  I must get some sleep.”  At the door, she added.  “If you have need of anything, just ring for the butler.  But I—good night.”

And then she was literally running for her room.

Will watched silently as she left—darting out as though she were leading the stampede.  He cursed himself when she had gone.  Stupid, clumsy idiot, slobbering over her, like he’d never been near a woman before. 

He was a fool who was completely stumped.  Lady Xavier had him as lost as a pirate ship in the Rockies.  He couldn’t figure out what it was about her that had him tied up in knots.  She was handsome, the handsomest woman he’d ever seen, and she could laugh and smile in such a way that it made his eyes sting with gratitude.  But under all that, there was something else, that fine sharpness he’d never known anywhere else. 

His gaze fell on a small framed photograph on the mantle.  It held a place of honor between two vases of yellow flowers.  He had a goodly idea who the man in the picture might be, so he went back to examine it, drawn by morbid curiosity and—what?  Jealousy?  But that couldn’t be.

All the same, he stared down at the face of David Xavier, the face of a man now dead for years. 

The picture Sir David Xavier took was clearly meant for family, for a wife.  He was sitting in a chair, wearing some kind of long silk robe over his clothes to show that he was taking his leisure.  The man wasn’t large, but he wasn’t overly small.  Just average.  He had a slight paunch filling out his expensive waistcoat and a fine watch chain looped around the buttons. 

It was the face that interested Will the most.  Not unkind, and tending towards shrewdness, handsome in a soft, well-kept way.  The lines around the eyes showed a man who’d squinted a lot.  His medium brown hair was thinning up the sides and would eventually give way to baldness had he lived.  All in all, David Xavier looked like a man in possession of a large amount of money, a goodly bit of power, and a lot of self-satisfaction.  Will couldn’t blame him—the man had what most wanted.  Including a beautiful, clever wife.

Will found himself absently stroking his mustache.  Xavier had a mustache, too.  Not that it was unusual.  Most men sported some kind of hair on their face of one variety or another.  It was a sign of maturity, manly pride.  He had started getting his first beard when he was fourteen.  Anxious to prove himself a man and able to work, he’d let it grow in and hadn’t been bare-faced since.  Only once before had he shaved his face completely, and he’d gotten so much riling from the boys in the bunkhouse and catcalls from the girls in town, he’d grown his mustache back as soon as he could.

That’d been six years ago.  He didn’t know what he’d look like without it.  Someone else.  Someone different.

Different from David Xavier.

Chapter Four

A stranger walked into her breakfast room.

Alarmed, Olivia rose nearly out of her chair, her morning toast and tea half consumed, to summon Mordon.  Her butler never let strangers in without at least announcing them, and she wondered what he could have been thinking to admit this unknown young man.

And then the stranger opened his mouth and Will Coffin’s voice came out.  “What do you think?”

She slowly lowered herself back down, stunned beyond words.  He had shaved off his mustache either last night or this morning.  The transformation was astonishing.  And disquieting.   

If she had suspected him handsome before, now she had full proof that Will Coffin was one of the most magnificent-looking men she had ever seen in her life.  It was no wonder his kiss last night had felt so marvelous—his mouth was perfectly sculpted, just shy of being too full, too sensuous—and all tempered by the clean, sharp severity of his good looks.  And somehow his eyes were lighter, more intense, drawing her own eyes immediately to them by the purity of their cool blue blaze.

Oh, God, this stunning man had stayed the night in her home?  And she had kissed him?  A disaster.

Seeing the dismay on her face, Will Coffin grimaced.  “That ugly, huh?” he asked.  He paced to a mirror over the sideboard and looked disapprovingly at his own reflection, touching the tips of his fingers to his clean upper lip.

“No, no,” she said.  “Not ugly at all, Mr. Coffin.  You’re quite...agreeable.”  Which was the equivalent of calling the Pyramids headstones. 

Still staring critically at himself, turning his face from side to side, he muttered, “I don’t know what I was thinkin’.”

Her modest breakfast room was filled with him.  She ought to have taken her morning meal in the dining room—at least in that formal, large space, she would be less aware of his outsized masculinity, which took all space and left little to breathe.  Shaving his mustache had not domesticated Will Coffin at all.  Now, he was like a well-groomed lion standing in front of the rosewood sideboard, ready to pounce. 

Something else occurred to her as she watched him critique himself.  “If I may ask, how old are you, Mr. Coffin?”

He turned and faced her with a wry smile.  “Call me Will.  This ‘mister’ business makes me feel like a trail boss, which I sure ain’t.”

“Very well.”  She struggled to compose herself.  Everything was growing more complicated by the second, and if she asked him the question she’d been thinking about all night, she would have to keep her wits.  “How old are you, William?”

He grinned, and her heart contracted.  It did not seem right that one man could be so attractive, especially
this
man.  “Just Will, ma’am.  Jake never got around to the rest of the name.  But to answer your question,” he continued, thoughtfully and hypnotically running a finger back and forth over the expanse of fresh skin above his top lip, “I don’t know.  When my folks died, I was about knee high, but there weren’t records of my birthday, so I just estimated.”

“And what is your estimation?”

“About twenty-seven, twenty-eight, or so.”  He shrugged.  “It never made a difference.  Long as I could push cows, none of the foremen ever cared how old I was.  Are you all right?  You don’t look so good.”  He took a few steps forward and she pressed herself back into the cushions of her chair.

“I’m fine,” she said, though she knew she looked ashen.  She tried to cover by drinking her tea, a futile gesture.  “I just...did not expect you to be so young.”

He chuckled, moving back, and she swallowed.  “Where I come from, I’m an old man.  Folks like me are lucky to live so long.”

Olivia smiled wanly, then stared down at her plate, where her toast had grown hard and cold.  She doubted she could swallow another bite, anyway.  Despite what Will said, he really
was
young, four or five years younger than herself, and between his age and his good looks, Olivia’s carefully wrought plans were beginning to appear unfeasible.

But what choice did she have?  Things were starting to grow desperate.

Managing to recollect herself, she said brightly, “Why don’t you help yourself to some breakfast, Mr....Will?  I’m sure you didn’t mean to start your day with my discourtesy.”

“Nothin’ discourteous at all,” he said, and his manner was so affable and genial she knew she would have to be on her guard.  He took a plate from the sideboard and heaped it with eggs, bacon, fried bread, tomatoes, and sausages.  The Sèvres china looked fragile and childlike in his large, square-fingered hand, something to decorate a well-appointed doll house.  “You eat all this, yourself?” he asked, sitting down beside her.  “If so, I’m amazed.  You’re no bigger around than an aspen sapling.”

She shook her head.  “Of course not.  But since you’re here, I thought you might appreciate something more substantial than my usual marmalade and toast.”

And it did appear as though he appreciated it.  Will began to shovel his food into his mouth with the speed of a fireman stoking coal into a train’s firehole.  He must have felt her eyes on him, because he abruptly stopped.  “Sorry, ma’am,” he said with a sheepish grin.  “No chuckwagon can compete with the grub you got here.”

“Don’t apologize,” she said.  “I’m glad you enjoy the food.  And perhaps,” she hesitated, then continued with more conviction, “you might call me Olivia.  ‘Ma’am’ makes me feel a trifle old.”

“Old?  You?”  He shook his head in disbelief.  “You’re as fresh and lively as a field of columbine.  But if it’s Olivia you want, I’m happy to oblige.”  He sipped his coffee and smiled.  “This ain’t Arbuckle’s, that’s for damned sure.”

She decided to let him finish his meal in peace before springing her proposition on him.  As critical as the situation was becoming, she did not spend those years at finishing school in Geneva to rudely accost her guest with projected schemes.  So they ate quietly together—or rather, he ate and she sipped at her tea.  She thought briefly about correcting his hunched-over posture, which indicated that he was protecting his food from any scavengers, or the way he held his cutlery like weapons, or even the napkin he had tucked into the collar of his shirt.  She had no intention of playing Pygmalion with Will Coffin.  He was not her project, her raw clay to be formed and shaped to her liking.  Besides, table manners notwithstanding, she rather enjoyed him the way he was.  Even though his youth and appearance had unsettled her, she found the experience of breakfasting with Will much more agreeable than she had anticipated.  Almost homey: domestic, yet with a frisson of wildness—somewhat like taking tea with a slightly trained grizzly bear.