Never Marry a Cowboy (15 page)

He trailed his fingers along her hip, into the curve of her side, and brought them to rest against her ribs, his thumb sweeping along the lower swell of her breast. An intense shiver rippled through her, causing her fingers to spasm before pressing into his hot flesh.

He adjusted the positioning of his hand slightly and his palm swallowed her breast. “A perfect fit,” he
murmured, and she thought she'd never loved him more, for accepting her as she was.

“Kit—” Whatever she might have said on a dreamy sigh was lost as he covered her mouth with his own. The hunger she sensed coming from him surprised her. His tongue traced the outline of her lips as his hand glided down her body. She felt the heat intensify, her body quivering with needs she didn't understand. With skill and determination, he parted her lips as his hand cupped her intimately.

She tensed and he stilled, only his tongue teasing her mouth, daring her to follow where he led. When his tongue retreated, she whimpered and pursued, for the first time learning the secrets of his mouth, skimming her tongue across his lips, over his teeth until it met his tongue.

He groaned as he shifted his body until the hardened planes of his chest met the soft curves of hers. With his free hand, he cradled her head and tilted it slightly, kissing her more deeply, his tongue waltzing with hers until she swore she could hear the echo of violins, a ghostly reminder of their wedding night when they had danced.

At the juncture of her thighs, his fingers began a slow, gentle caress in direct contrast to the rapacious hunger of his mouth. Her hands tightened their hold on his shoulders, anchoring her to the earth when she wanted to reach for the heavens.

With his mouth and hands, he was an artist creating a tapestry of sensations she'd never dared to imagine. She grew hotter, her body quivering from her toes to the top of her head. Even though he wasn't touching
all of her, he may as well have been. She'd never known the journey to pleasure encompassed every aspect of a person: her heart, her body, and her soul. Intertwined, inseparable. He made them all tremble with wonder.

Sweet pleasure spiraled from her core, shimmied up her spine, and spread through every limb, and when she thought she could stand it no longer, it erupted into a maelstrom of passions that knew no boundaries. She cried out, her back arching, her hold on him tightening.

His hand stilled. His breathing as strained as hers, he rained kisses over her face, her jaw, her neck, and her shoulders. He moved his hands to either side of her ribs and buried his face between her breasts.

With her breathing growing even, she wished they could stay here forever. She might have died without ever knowing the pleasures of the flesh. She wanted to thank him but could think of no words adequate enough to express the awe with which he'd satisfied her.

She combed her fingers through his hair. With his tongue, he drew a circle over her flesh. She lifted her gaze to the stars.

Not one shone as brightly as the gift Kit had just bestowed upon her.

K
it awoke, the unmerciful predawn light threatening him with another day.

He could not believe how something as innocent as a swim had resulted in him ultimately bringing pleasure to his wife. But while he cursed himself, a small part of him, male vanity no doubt, was glad, glad that he'd given her a taste of pleasure.

No one should leave this earth without experiencing it.

He'd carried Ashton into the house while they both wore only that with which they'd been born. Unless the tide had washed away all evidence, he supposed he needed to return to the shore and gather up the blanket and their clothing. Should the items be spotted by Mrs. Edwards or her daughter, Kit was certain they would guess what had transpired on the shore last night. Only their imaginations would take it a step farther.

Dear Lord, but he had wanted to. Giving physical pleasure while receiving none was not his usual style. But then normalcy had walked out the door with his
common sense the night he had asked Ashton to become his wife.

Yet he had no regrets. Moments of anger, yes, unrequited frustration, undoubtedly—but no regrets. Only a deepening desire to give her more.

She was content with so little when he'd known women discontent with far more. Why could greed or avarice not be a requirement for disease? Why did it choose as its victims those least deserving of its wrath?

He felt the sheet shift and opened his eyes into narrow slits. Then he opened them fully, unable to believe the sight he beheld.

Raised up on an elbow, his wife had tucked her head beneath the sheet she'd lifted slightly. They were both nude, and he could well guess at what she was staring.

Although he was not by nature a modest man, still he felt the heat suffuse his face. “Madam, what are you doing?”

With a start, she jerked the sheet down, clutching it against her breasts, her mouth as open and wide as her eyes. She blinked. “It changes. I couldn't see in the dark, but I thought last night that I could feel that it seemed…to be different…at times.”

Ah God, he was torn between laughter and despair. He raised a brow. “It?”

She nodded vigorously and wiggled her finger toward the center of his side of the bed where the sheet was rapidly peaking. “Your anatomy.”

“My anatomy?”

“Stop repeating everything I say and making it into
a question so I sound like a dunce. I read all the medical books I could find hoping to discover a cure for my illness. Therefore, I am familiar with anatomy, and I know
it
has a name. It simply escapes me at the moment.”

“I don't know how it was referred to in your anatomy books, but I could give you a whole list of names to use, although I don't think any should pass between a woman's lips.”

She furrowed her brow. “Why does it change?”

Inwardly he groaned, biting back several curses. He cleared his throat. “Because when a man makes love to a woman fully…in order to join his body with hers, he requires a certain…sturdiness.”

Disappointment filled her eyes. “I see. So last night you didn't make love to me
fully
.”

“I brought pleasure to you, did I not?”

Blushing, she lowered her lashes. He cradled her face. “Making love comes in many forms.” He brushed his thumb beside the corner of her eye until she opened both and met his gaze. “We agreed upon no consummation, but as far as I am concerned, I did make love to you last night.”

She nodded slightly. “I felt as though you did. It was the most glorious moment of my life.”

“Then that's all that matters, isn't it?”

She touched his bristly cheek and unexpected desire surged through him.

“Does it hurt when it's sturdy?”

Yes, by God, it was bloody well killing him right now. If he didn't get out of bed this instant, he was go
ing to roll his sweet, delicate, innocent wife onto her back and consummate this marriage with a fierceness that terrified him. His needs were those of a barbarian.

He jerked the sheet aside and clambered out of bed. “Put on a dress,” he ordered. “No undergarments.”

“Why?”

With his back to her, trying to shield his uncontrollable body from her, he glanced over his shoulder. “We're going for a ride.”

 

A ride. Why had she thought of a romantic excursion in a carriage at dawn?

Ashton wondered if there ever came a time when a wife knew exactly what her husband meant without his having to go into a detailed explanation.

She certainly hadn't envisioned herself sitting astride a great black horse with no saddle beneath her, her skirt whipping against her legs while she felt the power of the beast as he galloped along the shallow edge of the surf, spraying water in his wake.

She clung to his mane while her husband wrapped one arm around her like an iron band and held the reins with his other hand. She sat nestled between his firm thighs while they journeyed toward the rising sun, with the surf thundering through her ears.

She felt the heat from Kit's body burn its way through the thin material of her bodice. She loved the freedoms he showered on her. More, she loved his touch, his nearness, his honesty, and his blush.

Lying in bed this morning, asking questions, and watching the red stain of embarrassment creep into
his face, she'd felt her heart burst forth like a flower unfurling its petals. She thought she'd fallen in love with him when she'd met him in Dallas.

But now she knew it had been nothing more than an infatuation. Four years ago, he had intrigued and fascinated her.

He still did, but her feelings had blossomed, were as radiant as the dawn. She loved him.

A blessing and a curse, for she would leave this world happier than she had ever been, yet grieving the loss of time with him as she'd never thought possible.

He brought the horse to a halt at the edge of the inlet. Kit drew in breaths much deeper than hers.

She tried to breathe and instead was hit with a coughing spell. With resentment at her body's reminder of her frail health, she took the handkerchief he offered and covered her mouth. He massaged her back until the seizure passed.

Expecting the worse, she glanced at the white linen. No blood. She released a shuddering sigh of relief as she stuffed the cloth into the pocket of her skirt.

“Are you all right?” he asked, genuine concern reflected in his voice.

She leaned back against his chest and nodded. “I was actually getting hopeful. I can't remember coughing since we've been here.”

“It's good air as long as we're upwind of rotting fish,” he said quietly.

“Have you always been such an early riser?” she asked.

He pressed his lips to the nape of her neck. “Mmmuh.”

She smiled slightly. “That must have been a disappointment to your mistresses.”

“I've never had a mistress. The word implies a relationship of sorts, a commitment. I sought neither.”

She twisted her head around. “But you've been with women.”

“Too many to count, and I seriously doubt you want to traverse this conversational path.”

She studied the lines of his face shaped by hardships, not joy. “Is Clarisse the only woman you've ever loved?”

“No. I loved my mother.” She watched him swallow as he trailed his fingers over her face. “And you.”

Her heart leapt at the same moment it plummeted. The joy and grief caused an unbearable ache. She forced a smile that she knew wobbled. “You are too kind to say that.”

He touched the corner of her eye with his thumb. “If I were kind, I would have ignored your question. From the first moment I met Clarisse until the day I took you as my wife, I awoke with thoughts of her.”

He gently touched his lips to hers. “Now the only time I think of her is when you mention her. I always imagined that when I died alone and with no family that my last thought would be of her. Now, I know it will be of you.”

Her eyes burned as she swung her head back around to stare at the sunrise. Through the tears, she could see nothing but a kaleidoscope of colors. “You weren't supposed to love me.”

He sighed deeply. “Believe me, sweetling, it was not my intention to fall for you.”

“You're not to die alone and with no family. Promise me that there will be someone after me.”

She heard nothing but the breeze whispering loudly over the ocean waves. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the tears to roll down her cheeks. “Promise me, Christian.”

“A promise tossed onto the wind is forgotten the moment that the wind ceases to blow.” He released his hold on the reins and brought both arms around her. The horse snorted and sidestepped. She felt Kit's thighs tighten as he controlled the animal with only his legs.

“The sunrise is especially beautiful this morning,” he said in a low voice.

Her heart constricted and a lump rose in her throat. Unable to speak, she opened her eyes to welcome the dawning of a new day. But deep within her heart, she felt as though a tiny part of her had already died, knowing the life he had carved for himself.

She felt his breath skim against her ear.

“Don't concern yourself, Ashton. Time spent with you has been a gift I did not deserve.”

She shook her head. “I don't want you to be alone.”

“Then don't die.”

Her heart constricted with his command.

“You say that as though I have a choice.”

“I do sometimes wonder if you've accepted your fate with too much grace, and with acceptance comes fulfillment.”

“It's easy enough to spout philosophy when you are not facing death.”

He chuckled low, cynically. “I can spout philosophy because I have
been
death.”

She twisted around. “What does that mean?”

Averting his gaze, he reached for the reins. “Let's go into town today and purchase some trinkets that you can hold as memories.”

He turned the horse about. Anger burst through her. “You'll give me no promises or explanations.”

He met her gaze. “I promise you this: I shall give to you no less than I gave Clarisse. A marble statue of an angel to watch over you in your eternal sleep and fresh flowers on your grave every day.”

She grabbed his forearm, digging her fingers into him, stilling him. “Why would I want a promise that consisted of cold marble and flowers that wilt? What purpose could either possibly serve?”

She saw the confusion and fury swirl within his eyes at her questioning his promise.

“They show that you are loved and remembered.”

“They honor my death and not my life.”

Recognizing within the depths of his eyes that she'd truly hurt him, she laid her palm against his cheek. It was not his vow to her that was causing his pain, but his gifts to the woman he'd loved before her, gifts he'd thought worthy of her. “I don't doubt the sincerity of your gifts or that Clarisse was worthy of your devotion.” She smiled warmly. “Fresh flowers every day and an angel to guard over her. Any other woman would be honored to be remembered in such a manner. But I have grown up and lived within Death's shadow. If you wish to honor me, whatever
money you would spend on flowers or statues give to a physician who seeks a cure for any disease that causes suffering or death. I won't feel neglected if weeds cover my grave.”

“You deserve more than weeds, and I won't allow you to settle for less than you deserve.”

She touched her lips to his. “One flower then. A white rose like the one you gave me the afternoon when we had our first outing. But no more than that. Did you know that in this city known for its oleanders and grandness that half the deaths recorded each year are those of children? Find a more worthwhile cause than decorating my grave.”

He narrowed his eyes, and she worried that he wouldn't capitulate. Finally, he sighed deeply. “One rose every day and a small statuette.”

“A tiny statuette.”

He cupped her head and brought it into the nook of his shoulder. She heard him swallow hard.

“If that's what you prefer, sweetling, then that is what you shall have.”

“I'm not faulting you for sending Clarisse flowers. I simply don't want any.”

“You like sunsets,” he said quietly.

She nodded. “But I prefer sunrises. We take for granted the luxury of time, living our lives as though tomorrow were a guarantee instead of a gift.”

 

Standing at the water's edge, Kit watched sandpipers dart and race along the shoreline. Overhead the seagulls vied for his attention, but his mind drifted to thoughts of his wife.

They'd decided to delay their trip to the heart of Galveston until later in the day, after she'd taken her nap. They were going to have dinner at a restaurant.

He'd gone into town earlier and rented a buggy. He'd visited St. Mary's infirmary and spoken at length with a physician. Long walks, a good diet, and dry air were his offerings as a cure for consumption. Sometimes consumptive patients recovered—even those who coughed up blood on occasion—and he had no idea why.

The physician had given him a spark of hope, but Kit would have preferred an absolute cure. Perhaps a cure would exist if he'd given the hospital the money he'd earned that first summer picking cotton instead of sending it to his solicitor in England so he could ensure Clarisse always had fresh flowers on her grave. She had so loved flowers. He'd wanted to give her in death what he'd been unable to give her openly in life.

With a portion of the money from his first cattle venture, he'd had a statue sculpted for Clarisse. Christopher had written him that it had turned out handsomely.

Kit crouched and bowed his head, his chest tightening. He dug his elbows into his thighs and clasped his hands, an aching grasp that was doing little to stop the pain. He had not wept when Clarisse had died. At her funeral, he had remained stoic and strong, his feelings known only to himself and his brother.