Megan Chance (15 page)

Crashing right into Conor's chest.

His arms went around her, his fingers tightened on her forearms. "You're right, it is a pretty night," he said softly, his eyes glittering like the stars in the darkness. "How do you think we should celebrate it?"

S
ari's heart thundered in her ears. "What—what are you doing out here?"

"I saw you leave," he said. "I didn't want you out here alone."

Sari pulled away, her arms tightening around the blankets as if they were armor. His arms fell limply to his sides.
"I
imagine
I
'm safer alone than with you."

"Probably."

Sari swallowed. "I suppose I should thank you for what you did inside—for not telling them the truth."

His slight smile was lit by the moonlight. "You're welcome."

Sari licked her lips nervously. His stillness made her anxious.
"I
'm not sure why you did it, but
I
—
I
'm grateful to you."

"You didn't answer my question," he said.

Sari frowned in confusion. "Question?"

He gestured to the sky. "How should we celebrate?"

"I've nothing to celebrate," she said brusquely, stepping around him. "I should go back inside before they wonder what happened to me." She began walking, unexpectedly frightened of herself. Of him. Of what it meant to be alone with him in the frigid, beautiful night.

He caught up to her easily, and she stopped. There was nowhere to run, nowhere she wanted to go. And suddenly she knew this moment was inevitable, as certain as day and night.

Slowly she turned to face him, fighting the urge to shiver as she met his eyes. They were shadowed and dark in the moonlight, his face cast in planes of light and darkness. The breeze ruffled through his hair, pulling it back from his face to sculpt his jaw, the line of his nose, the full lower lip. He'd stepped after her so quickly, he'd left his coat behind. The wind billowed under the edge of his collarless shirt; she saw the shadowed darkness of the hair that began just above his collar bones.

"Don't do this to me," she whispered.

He said nothing. Simply reached out and took the hairpins from her chignon. Her hair fell in heavy strands, tumbling over her shoulders.

"Sari," he said slowly. "My name is Conor Roarke. I'm not Jamie O'Brien, I'm not a cattle rustler. I'm not a Pinkerton man." He took a deep breath. "I'm just a man. A man who wants to kiss you."

She stared at him, unable to move, unable to say anything. The raspiness of his voice made her feel like liquid inside. Sari was suddenly sure that her knees would not be able to hold her another second. She fought for enough breath to speak.

"I—there's too much—" She couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't even finish it in her mind. Because when she looked at him, she no longer saw Jamie O'Brien. She no longer saw pain and blood and sacrifice. She saw a different man, a man who cared enough to reassure her on a bitter winter's night. She could no longer even think of him as Jamie O'Brien, and the longing she felt had nothing to do with the past, but only with the man who stood waiting in front of her. Only with Conor Roarke.

Sari retreated, but two steps brought her up against the wall of the barn. Her breath caught in her throat.

He stepped toward her, stopping only when his hips were pressed against hers, through her heavy coat. Slowly, carefully, he pried her fingers loose from the blankets and let them fall in a soft rumple of sound to their feet. One by one he unfastened the buttons of her coat, and when they were all unfastened, his hands slipped inside, curving around her waist, pulling her closer still.

"I hate you," she said quietly, but the words were more for herself than for him, a final warning, a useless reminder.

He lowered his head, his lips nearly brushing hers. She couldn't see his eyes, only the soft, short lashes resting on his cheeks.

"Ah, love," he whispered, and she heard the softness of self-mockery tainting his words. "I hate you too."

She told herself to struggle. Just a little bit. But she couldn't. Her bones were without strength as she melted against him. His leg pressed between hers and she felt his hipbone against her stomach; his strong hands sent shivers of pleasure over her skin. She had no power to resist him, there was nothing else but the feel of his body, the warm, compelling need.

Sari was lost, falling into the chasm of Conor's eyes and mouth, giving way to his hands. Oh, she had been right to be afraid. Because now she knew there was nothing she wouldn't give him, nothing that wasn't his for the asking.

The stars were blanketing them. Sari imagined she saw them touching his hair, lighting his cheeks. Her skin felt raw, her breath rasped in her throat. There was nothing but the feel of him, the press of his body against hers, the taste of him, of coffee and salt, the bay-rum taste of his lips.

He pressed her farther into the sod bricks of the barn. His heartbeat pounded against her breasts, his hands tightened on her waist. She felt the press of his tongue against her lips, urging them farther apart, stealing inside, stroking, caressing as his hands moved up her body, his fingers fumbling with the fastenings of her bodice—

She twisted away, her hands came up against his shoulders. "No," she breathed. "Conor .. . no."

He stiffened against her. She felt his withdrawal even though he didn't move away, caught the glitter of his eyes in the starlight.

"Sari—" he said.

"I... can't do this," she said, looking away, past him. "Not yet. Not... now."

He sighed. His hands left her, he stepped back. Her body, the air around her, was suddenly freezing.

"Is it Jamie?" he asked in a low voice. "Has he come between us?"

She laughed sadly. "He's always been between us." She hugged herself tightly. "But that's not it. Not tonight. I just... I want to trust you, Conor. I do. I'm trying. I just need ... more time."

"More time," he repeated thoughtfully. Then he nodded. "All right,” he said. He looked at her, and she saw something in the darkness of his eyes—concern, caring, a tenderness that made her warm again, that filled the hollow places in her heart.

"I've missed you, love," he whispered.

Sari touched his cheek. "I've missed you too."

S
ari tried not to look at him for the rest of the evening, but it was impossible. He was everywhere—his voice, his laughter, his smell. Oh, especially his smell. She was sure everyone knew that she and Conor had been kissing. Her skin smelled of his inimitable scent of bay rum and musk, she felt burned on her throat where his stubbly jaw had scraped her. How could they not know?

But they didn't seem to. Her guests laughed and talked and played a game of charades that kept getting interrupted by arguments and jokes. It was almost as if her and Conor's absence hadn't even been noticed. Except by Charles. Sari avoided her uncle's thoughtful gaze almost as studiously as she avoided Conor's.

Sari shifted in her seat. It was all she could do to keep from climbing to the loft and burying herself beneath a mound of quilts and darkness. She needed time to be alone, to think. Her mind whirled with images, with feelings she couldn't separate long enough to identify.

"Oh, I could just sit here all night." Mary Anderson said with a tired sigh. "It's so nice to be around other people. Sometimes the cows seem to be the only friends I have."

"I know what you mean." Berthe smiled and tapped her husband's hand. "Just the cows and Will here."

"You calling me no better than a cow?"

"You're almost beginning to look like one," Berthe teased. "Not like Mr. Roarke over there. I declare, you're a sight for sore eyes, Conor. You haven't got that beaten look about you. Not yet."

Conor smiled slightly. The expression caused butterflies to dance in Sari's stomach. "You don't strike me as 'beaten.'"

Berthe chuckled. "You must have been a regular flatterer in the big city."

"Yeah, be quiet, Roarke." John Graham leaned back in his chair, putting an arm around a sleepy Miriam and pulling her close. "You're making us all look bad."

"It's good for you," Miriam provided softly.

John smiled down at her. "I suppose it is."

Sari felt strangled by their intimacy. Hastily she rose. "Would anyone like coffee?"

There was a murmur of refusal. Sari went to the stove. "I'll start some anyway. Maybe later—"

"Sit down, Sari," Conor said gently. His voice was like warm oil sliding down her spine. "The night's about drawn out."

She looked over her shoulder, catching his gaze despite herself. He was staring at her as if he could devour her face; his eyes almost burned her with their intensity.

She turned away again, remembering not their kiss but the quiet walk back to the soddy. She remembered how he paused at the door, buttoning her coat with sure fingers, gathering the loose strands of her hair into a chignon and anchoring it with the few hairpins they'd been able to find. She'd been nervous and edgy; his quick squeeze of her hand had been warm and reassuring.

"You are beautiful, Sari," he'd whispered, his breath stroking her jaw. "Don't let anyone make you forget that."

For those few moments after she stepped through the door to face her friends' welcoming glances, she'd felt that way. Beautiful, cherished.

But it had vanished as soon as she'd seen her uncle's gaze. He knew, and embarrassment enveloped Sari when she remembered her adamant denials of the other night. It was humiliating to have to admit that her uncle was right, that her hatred for Conor had been a lie. Her protests had been a shell of a defense. How could she explain that she had no control when it came to Conor? How could she explain what she didn't even understand herself?

Her pleas for more time tonight—those had been the words of a frightened girl, a girl afraid of her own emotions, of what one man did to them. More time, she'd asked for, but there would never be enough time.. She had never had any control when it came to Conor, and it was useless to pretend otherwise.

"Look at the children," Miriam said softly. "Peter's asleep already."

Sari glanced at the six children huddled around the kitchen table. Their voices had become whispers, and then faded altogether in the last half hour.

"Well, well," Berthe was on her feet instantly. "Up with you now—all of you. Out to the barn."

"But Mama—" Becky Schmacher was instantly wide awake. "But Mama, we don't wanta go to sleep!"

Everyone was rising, readying to go to bed. Conor rose with them, and when Sari caught his thoughtful gaze, her heart dropped. He would want to talk about tonight, and she wasn't ready. Nervously she stepped forward.

"Perhaps Mr. Roarke will tell you a story once you're ready for bed," she said hesitantly.

"Me?" Conor asked, surprise coloring his voice. "Why me?"

"The children are staying in the barn tonight," shesaid. "Since that's where you sleep, it seemed only natural that you should look after them."

His hand dragged through his hair. "But—"

"If it's too much trouble, Roarke..." Will Schmacher got to his feet.

"I'm sure it's no trouble at all," Sari interrupted before Conor could say a word. "Mr. Roarke loves children. He's told me so often."

Conor smiled wryly. "Of course. I'd forgotten."

"If you're sure—"

Conor shrugged. "How much trouble can they be?"

"Obviously you haven't spent much time with children." Miriam giggled.

Conor stood. He tossed a mock-threatening look to the children. "But these are such well-behaved ones." He held out his arms for the blankets Berthe and Mary handed him. He walked to the door, throwing Samuel Schmacher a blanket and shoving the rest under his arm. He grabbed Becky's little hand in his big one.

"But I don't wanna go out there!" Becky wailed.

Conor paused. The smile that lit his face when he spoke to Becky made Sari melt inside. "Why, you should be feeling sorry for your poor mama, Becky, since she has to stay in here."

Becky looked at him uncertainly.

His smile broadened. "We'll be having so much fun in the barn, she'll be sorry to miss it. But if you'd rather stay here and take care of her ..."

Becky tightened her fingers around his. "I'd rather go with you."

The cold winter air rushed into the room as the group went outside, Conor flanked by Samuel and Becky, Peter Johnson stumbling sleepily beside. The other three children ran after them, suddenly revitalized by the excitement of their new adventure and the man who was there to lead them.

Conor walked toward the barn, one hand wrapped around Becky's, the blankets held loosely in the other. The sight made Sari's insides tighten; she couldn't look away. He walked slowly, matching his steps to the little girl's, now and then cocking his head to listen to her nonstop chatter. The other children trailed behind him as though he were some latter-day Pied Piper leading them to some precious storybook land.

C
onor's thoughts were jumbled as he herded the children to the barn. He tried not to think of how uncertain Sari had looked when he left the house, as if she couldn't decide whether she wanted him to stay or go. He tried not to remember the way she'd twisted her hands together or the way she'd leaped at the chance to banish him to the barn.

He wasn't sure what it was he'd wanted to see in her eyes. Longing, maybe? Desire? Devotion? Or maybe just simple need. God knew, he felt it. The need for her was burning him up inside; the hasty interlude against the barn wall had only left him aching for more. He wanted to spend the night in her bed, with her warm body pressed against his, his hands in her hair.

"I can't get it open, Mr. Roarke!" Samuel Schmacher's voice carried, thin and reedy, over the wind. The boy pulled at the barn door.

"Push it." Conor struggled to shove away the image of Sari. If he had to spend the night with a bunch of children, he was damn sure not going to be thinking about her.

He pulled Becky along beside him and quickened his step. Samuel was slamming his narrow shoulders against the unrelenting door while Ida and John Johnson looked on. Conor dropped Becky's hand and pushed above Samuel's tousled red head. The door opened; Samuel went tumbling to the floor.