Silken Dreams (17 page)

Her breath paused, then quickened. The sheet had slipped low upon his hips. So very low.

Lettie straightened, her chin lifting from her knees without her really being aware of it. Her eyes widened ever so slightly, and she found herself tracing the dark hair that feathered down his stomach from his chest, swirling around the slight indentation of his navel before slipping lower.

Lettie felt herself growing warm. Though the sheet covered Ethan where it counted, there was no denying the washboard honing of his stomach, the flat scoop of his pelvis, and the masculine jut of his hips beneath the sheet.

Lettie’s eyes grew wider still. Her heart began a slow, methodic pounding at the base of her throat and the pit of her stomach. Impulsively, she pushed aside the covers and slipped from the bed.

Her bare feet made no sound on the hooked rug in the center of the floor as she padded across the garret to where Ethan lay beside the wardrobe. Slowly, silently, she knelt beside him, her nightgown puddling onto the floor beside them. Her hair became a curtain of honey-brown waves as she bent toward him.

“Ethan?” she whispered, so softly that he probably would not have heard her had he been awake.

Trying to breathe against the warmth flooding her body and the heavy beat of her own heart, Lettie leaned forward and brushed a light kiss against his mouth. His skin was warm and still smelled of soap.

Once again, she bent to brush the opposite corner of his mouth, then moved to trace the tip of her tongue against the lower swell of his lips.

Ethan awakened with a start and she drew back, ever so slightly, smiling at his expression of confusion.

“Good morning, Ethan.”

He blinked at her, still obviously disoriented from his heavy slumber. The events of the previous night had evidently taken their toll, and he’d slept without stirring most of the night.

“You seemed to sleep well,” she commented softly.

Ethan’s eyes narrowed, becoming azure hot as they slipped over her features and the hair that spilled over her shoulders and surrounded them like an intimate set of bedcurtains.

“At least you
must
have slept well,” she continued. “I didn’t hear you stirring.”

In fact, she was very aware that he had spent part of the evening watching her. She’d felt the warm heat of his gaze long into the night until, finally, he’d succumbed to his own exhaustion.

“You’re up early,” he murmured, his voice sleep-gruff and endearing.

“Boardinghouse rules,” she teased. “Late to bed, early to rise.”

His eyes dipped, and Lettie became acutely aware of the way her unfettered breasts swayed provocatively above him. She tried to draw back, but he grasped a strand of her hair and wound it around his wrist, drawing her irresistibly forward. Once again, she found the intense heat of his gaze directed toward her. And there was no denying that he wanted her. Now.

Lettie balked slightly. “I guess I’d better get dressed.”

“No.” He drew her closer, so close she could feel his breath whispering against her cheek. “I haven’t thanked you for helping me last night.” His voice was low, husky. Firm.

“There’s no need.”

“Oh, but there is. My mother tried to teach me—”

“Manners,” she supplied, laughing softly.

“As I said once before, I wasn’t an exemplary pupil.”

“But you try.”

“I try.”

With an insistent tug of her hair, he drew her to him and their lips brushed, then met again for a kiss that revealed their mutual hunger and the desire that had been growing steadily between them for days.

Placing her hands on his shoulders for balance, Lettie allowed herself to be drawn tightly against his chest. She moaned deep in her throat when the heat of his body seemed to seep through her nightgown with the intensity of a burning brand—branding her as Ethan’s woman. When his hand slowly moved from her waist, to her back, then around the curve of her ribs to rest beneath her breast, she jerked slightly in an unconscious reflex, her heart beginning to pound, her breath locking in her throat. Without being aware of it, she nudged her chest against his own, unconsciously bidding his hand to cover her breast.

“Do you suppose we’ll have flapcakes or cornbread this morning, Sister?”

They sprang apart when the Beasleys’ voices drifted up from the floor below.

“What do you think, Alma?”

“I’m putting my money on the cornbread.”

“I have to go,” Lettie breathed. “Otherwise Mama will come looking for me.” She turned back to Ethan, knowing her eyes must mirror some of her own passion and regret. He was watching her, and, for a moment, she thought she saw a hint of softening within his features, before they settled into their usual blunt-hewn lines.

“I’m sorry.”

He pressed a finger over her lips, then drew her down for a soft kiss. “I’ll miss you.”

Her smile was shy, despite their intimate position.

“I’ll miss you, too.”

Reluctantly, regretfully, she untangled herself from Ethan’s embrace and moved toward the wardrobe to retrieve something to wear for the day.

When she turned to find Ethan watching her, she gave him the all-too-familiar swirling gesture of her hand to signify that he should turn his back.

“And no peeking in the mirror this time,” she scolded, then blushed when she realized she’d given away the fact that she’d known he’d seen her undressing on occasion by watching her reflection in the mirror.

To her surprise, Ethan chuckled. A low, rusty sound, but a chuckle nonetheless. Following her command, he pushed himself into a sitting position and swiveled so that his back was presented to her.

Lettie swallowed against the sudden tightness of her throat when her gaze slipped across the width of his shoulders. His skin was smooth and dappled with a light beading of sweat. Broad shoulders tapered to the firm span of his ribs, delineated by the curving length of his spine. A slim masculine waist tapered into narrow hips and the bare curves of his buttocks.

“Why, Ethan McGuire, you aren’t wearing any drawers!” she blurted, then slapped a hand over her mouth at the impropriety of her hasty words.

Ethan peered at her over his shoulder, his eyes hot and blue. “No, Lettie Grey, I’m not.”

After that, it became harder than ever to slip into a gingham day dress and fasten the tiny hooks along her hip and waist, let alone fasten the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons that marched up the front of the bodice.

When she announced that she’d finished dressing, Ethan wrapped a sheet around his hips and pushed himself to his feet.

“You look pretty in that color,” he murmured softly, moving toward her.

His compliment flustered her slightly, and she glanced down at the tiny Wedgwood-blue squares amid their field of winter white.

“Thank you.”

He stopped only inches away. “I like the way it fits, too.” His finger lifted to feather across her chest. “It’s nice and tight here—” his fingers slipped down the side of her ribs and she gasped—“and here.” His hand slid around her waist. “It’s fitted here, then flares here.” His hand moved from the tight tailored bodice to the gentle gathering of her skirt, slipping down the curve of her derrière.

“What the—” The pressure of his hand grew a little firmer and she tried to bat his hand away, but he insistently kept it where it was, grasping a fistful of skirt. “That isn’t all you, is it?”

She grunted in outrage. “I’ll have you know I’m wearing a bustle pad under there.”

“So Natalie Gruber isn’t the only one padded to her eyeteeth?”

“Well, I never!”

Ethan chuckled and his hand flattened, drawing her firmly against the cradle of his hips. “Never mind,” he murmured next to her mouth. “I like a woman who can fill my hand like a luscious peach.”

“Ethan!”

He silenced her shocked outburst with his mouth, immediately coaxing a response from her that she found she could not willingly deny him. As he explored the tempting sweetness of her mouth, one of his hands reached to take her own and lay it against the firmly toned muscles of his stomach.

Moaning in delight, she moved closer still, her fingers curling slightly to test the resilience of his skin before slipping around the side of his waist to the hollow of his back. For a moment, her fingers ran up and down the crease of his spine in a tantalizing motion before pausing and dipping.

“Lettie?”

Once again they separated at the sound of Alma Beasley’s voice.

“Your mother asked me to come get you.”

“Coming!” she called, then turned back to Ethan. “I have to go now or she’ll wake the whole house. I’ll come up again as soon as I can.”

“When?”

She reluctantly backed away, ignoring the way his hand lingered on the curve of her ribs before finally dropping away. Something had changed within him since the night before, Lettie realized. Somehow he’d softened, though ever so slightly. His features were a little less bitter. His eyes a little less grim.

“Soon,” she answered, taking a ragged breath. “We have to get Mrs. Magillicuddy into town.”

“Lettie, I’ve been giving it some more thought and I don’t think it’s such a good idea for me to dress up like a woman.”

“Be brave, Ethan,” she teased, then turned and clattered down the steps. At the bottom, she hesitated, looking up to see him peering at her over the edge of the railing. “Bye,” she mouthed, then slipped into the hall.

She shut the door behind her and glanced up to find Alma and Amelia regarding her with curious gazes. Afraid of what they would see in her features, Lettie mumbled a good morning, then hurried down the staircase.

Alma watched her with a considering look. “That girl’s up to something, wouldn’t you say, Sister?”

Amelia glanced at Lettie’s retreating figure, then back at her sister. “She did seem a trifle flushed.”

“I’d say she’s in love.”

Amelia gasped. “Really? How can you tell?”

“When a woman starts acting daft, it’s usually one of two things: love or senility.” Alma glanced at her sister, and her eyes twinkled. “Course, in our case, one can never tell, can they?”

Breakfast at the boardinghouse was served at seven o’clock without deviation. Because of this, Lettie and her mother rose at dawn in order to prepare for the first meal of the day. On most occasions, the boarders arrived a little early. They would chatter and gather around the table, eat quickly, then disperse, intent upon their own daily tasks.

But there was a difference today. Lettie could feel it. Jeb Clark’s death had cast a mood of mourning over the assembly. The boarders talked less frequently and their appetites were slightly off—all except for Natalie Gruber’s. She swept into the dining room, her features wreathed in smiles.

“Good morning, all!” she called, then proceeded to settle herself on one of the far chairs, her spine at least three inches from the back of her chair, a snowy napkin carefully covering the peach dimity morning gown she wore. As the other boarders spoke of Jeb Clark in regretful murmurs, she began to dine upon one cup of tea, one slice of bacon, and one piece of nonbuttered bread, with her usual delicate enthusiasm.

“It’s a shame, that’s what it is,” Alma Beasley stated with a sad shake of her head. “A man cut down in his prime. The person responsible should be shot!”

At her words, Dorothy Rupert suddenly jumped from her chair, causing it to clatter behind her. “I’m sorry, I—” Holding a trembling hand to her mouth, she darted from the room.

Amelia made a
tsk
-ing noise of concern. “Oh, dear. It must have been something you said, Sister.”

Despite the embarrassment she felt at her own wayward tongue, Alma rolled her eyes.

Lettie sighed and moved to right the chair, sliding it under the table. When she turned back, Mr. Goldsmith was stuffing a bright yellow napkin into the collar of his shirt and reaching for a helping of fried eggs. “I hear tell they’ll have the funeral tomorrow.” He scooped three eggs onto his plate, then a healthy portion of fried potatoes. “Ned, see to it that you exchange our train tickets to Chicago for a later time in the day so that we can attend.” He fixed Ned with a stern glance.

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Goldsmith stuffed a forkful of dripping egg yolk into his mouth and chewed with eager enthusiasm. “I also hear tell there’s a hefty reward for the culprit,” he added, after swallowing and scooping another bite of food.

Lettie stiffened and reached out to brush an imaginary crease from the tablecloth.

“More than a thousand dollars, if I remember correctly. And they’ll take him dead or alive. Personally, I’d see to it I brought him in dead. I wouldn’t want to rastle with a no-account weasel like that.”

Lettie’s heart began to pound, and her breathing became short. The Star had done this. The Star was to blame. If they had been doing their job correctly, they would have known Ethan wasn’t responsible.

She looked up to find Alma regarding her in concern, Amelia in surprise, and Natalie with a piercing stare. Glancing down at her hand, Lettie saw that she had unconsciously grasped a thick fistful of the tablecloth and seemed ready to yank it free from the table.

As casually as she could, Lettie released her grip and smoothed the wrinkles she’d caused. “I’ll just get some more coffee,” she muttered, then turned and strode from the room. Once in the hall, she leaned her back against the wall, taking deep, gulping breaths. She had to be more careful. The Star could be watching her even now, and the first wrong move could mean Ethan’s death.

She glanced up, starting when she saw a man’s shadow stretching across the parlor floor. Pushing herself away from the wall, she crept toward the threshold until she could peer around the edge. Her fingers curled tightly around the woodwork when she found her brother standing at the far window, staring out at something in front of the house.

“Good morning, Jacob,” Lettie remarked softly, stepping forward.

Her brother jerked away from his intense study of the front yard. He’d seemed so deep in thought, she’d been hesitant to disturb him. But the expression on his face had not been one caused by pleasant thoughts.

When he didn’t speak, Lettie moved farther into the room, gesturing behind her at the dining-room doors. “Did you come for breakfast?”

“Yeah.”

Despite the fact that he’d spoken in the affirmative, he turned to stare out of the window once again.

“Is something wrong?”

Her brother stiffened, then turned. “No. Nothing.”

“You look tired. Did you sleep at all last night?”

He gave a jerky nod, but Lettie knew he was lying. His features were pinched in exhaustion, and dark hollow circles punctuated his eyes.

Lettie hesitantly took a step forward. “I’m sorry about Jeb,” she whispered, knowing how close her brother had been to the older man.

His jaw hardened and he glanced away from her, seeming to blink against the sun streaming through the windows.

“Has Abby been told?” she asked, referring to Jeb’s wife.

Jacob clenched the brim of his hat in his hand, then slapped it against his thigh. “Yes. I—” He swallowed. “I told her.”

“I’m so sorry, Jacob.” Impulsively, she moved to embrace him, lifting herself on tiptoe to slip her arms about his neck.

He remained stiff for a moment, then something inside of him seemed to crumble and he hugged her back. “Damn, Lettie, why did it have to be him? He wasn’t supposed to be on that shipment. He was supposed to be home.…”

Lettie held him even tighter, feeling his pain as her own. It had been a long, long time since she’d seen her proud brother this vulnerable.

“He didn’t have to die,” Jacob continued. “He was shot in the hip. Hell! Men have lived from worse than that.”

“Then how did it happen?”

“The explosion. He must have died in the explosion.”

Without warning, he jerked free of Lettie’s embrace. His arm swiped at his eyes, then he moved to brush by her, but Lettie reached out to grasp his arm.

“Jacob, I—”

At his harshly indrawn breath, she gazed at him in concern. Then she glanced down. A small patch of blood was beginning to seep through the white cotton of his shirt from a spot on the inside of his forearm.

Lettie gasped. “You’ve hurt yourself! How in the world—”

Jacob wrenched his hand away. “Don’t touch me. It’s none of your concern. I don’t need your coddling, Lettie. I’m not another of your wounded sparrows.
I’m
in control of this one.”

Lettie took an involuntary step backward as if he’d slapped her. “I see,” she murmured stiffly.

“Lettie!” he called, reaching out to stop her. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“Then just what
did
you mean, Jacob?”

“I…” He sighed. “I’m just tired. Don’t pay me any mind. I’m sorry.”

“Let me take a look at that.” She gestured to his arm. “If I don’t, you’ll get an infection.”

“No.” His voice became firm. “I just came for breakfast.”

“Jacob, you can’t leave a bleeding wound untended. At least let me bandage it.”

But her brother wouldn’t listen to her; he merely stepped around her and refused to answer.

Sighing in disgust at Jacob’s pig-headed stubbornness, Lettie marched into the dining room. Before he left, she’d see to it that his arm was washed and bandaged. Even if she had to hog-tie him to the chair in order to do it.

In the end, she accomplished the feat by “accidentally” spilling coffee down the front of his shirt. Jacob swore and darted into the kitchen to strip his shirt away and splash cold water over his chest. When he turned, Lettie stood behind him with her mother’s basket of bandages and ointments.

“Sit down.”

His eyes narrowed in dawning anger. “Lettie, that was a low-down, rotten, sneaky trick.”

“Sit down.”

When Celeste Grey entered the room, Jacob reluctantly took a seat on the far end of one of the trestle benches lining the kitchen table.

Lettie stood at the head of the table, motioning for Jacob to stretch out his arm. She gasped at the horizontal cut made across the upper portion of his forearm. “How in the world did you get this?”

Jacob glanced at his mother, then mumbled, “I cut myself shaving.”

Lettie shot him a look of sibling disgust at his sarcastic comment, but, sensing he would not say more in her mother’s presence, she set the basket on the table and moved to pump fresh water into a basin.

After Celeste Grey had examined Jacob’s arm and chided him for not taking better care of himself, she returned to the dining room, instructing Lettie to care for the wound.

The moment she’d gone, Lettie walked back to the table and set the basin next to Jacob’s arm. Taking a scrap of flannel, she began to swipe away the blood. As the wound was wiped bare, she noted that the cut was cleanly made—as if it had, indeed, been made with a straight-edged razor.

Lettie glanced at the door between the kitchen and dining room to ensure her mother was truly gone, then commanded in a low voice, “Now tell me what really happened.”

Jacob winced beneath her ministrations. “I told you: I cut myself.”

“Don’t he to me, Jacob Grey.”

“Why not, Lettie? You’ve been lying to me.”

A chill feathered through her body and she looked up, but Jacob didn’t press the issue. He was staring at his arm and the collection of ointments in the basket.

“I think that’s fine now, Lettie. You don’t have to use that—”

Ignoring his words, Lettie chose a jar of ointment and quickly unsnapped the iron wires that held it shut.

“Lettie, I told you that was enough! You don’t have to—”

Without compunction, she slapped a healthy measure of ointment into the cut, despite the fact that she knew it would sting on the open wound like the fires of hell.

“Dammit, Lettie! You didn’t have to use so much!”

“This cut hasn’t been bandaged. You’re lucky your arm didn’t turn green and fall off.” Taking a roll of bandages from the basket, she began to bind the wound in quick, no-nonsense motions. “How did you get it, Jacob?”

He refused to speak.

Her fingers tightened for a moment on his arm, before she quickly tied a knot in the ends of the bandages. “It’s a clean cut. Looks almost as if you made it yourself.”

At her words, Jacob wrenched free. “Keep out of this, Lettie.”

“You’re my brother!”

He regarded her with dark eyes. “Then it’s about time you remembered that fact. I’ve been good to you, Lettie. I’ve taken care of you and protected you.”

“And smothered me!” she blurted, then slapped a hand over her mouth in regret. But it was far too late to retrieve the hasty words.

Jacob looked as if he’d been struck.

“I’m sorry, Jacob. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“But you meant it, didn’t you?” When she didn’t speak, he added more forcefully, “Didn’t you?”

“Yes!” She took a calming breath. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. I’m not a little girl, Jacob. I’m a woman. And I can’t have an overprotective brother hovering over me every minute.”

“Well, I’m sorry I ever inconvenienced you,” Jacob growled, snatching his hat and shirt from the table and striding from the room.

“Jacob!” She lifted her skirts and darted after him. “Jacob, I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Jacob!”

But he didn’t listen, didn’t pause. He simply stormed from the house and slammed the door behind him. Lettie stood in the front hall, in full view of the boarders, feeling that she’d failed some sort of a test.

And lost her very best friend in the process.

Jacob paused a few yards away from the house and turned to glance over his shoulder. For weeks now, he’d been fighting the gut instinct that something was out of place at the Grey Boardinghouse. And though he’d fought his suspicions, Jacob was beginning to believe that it was not the house itself that had somehow changed.

But his sister.

Nearly an hour later, Celeste Grey strode into the kitchen, where Lettie was finishing the last of the breakfast dishes. “Lettie, I need you to take the buggy into town and pick up supplies at the dry goods.”

Lettie straightened slightly, eyeing her mother in surprise. Celeste usually made the trips to the dry goods, since she and Mr. Schmidt had a long-time routine of haggling for the best prices and arguing over the choicest goods.

“I meant to go myself,” Celeste continued without pause, “but because of Mr. Clark’s funeral, the ladies’ auxiliary has asked me to do some baking for the supper afterward.”

“Yes, Mama.”

As if her mother already had her mind on the task ahead, she took a voluminous apron from the hook on the inside of the pantry and wrapped it around her waist.

“I put a list on the hutch by the back door. Take the Beasleys if they wish to go. Or perhaps our new boarder, Mrs. Magillicuddy, would like a chance to ride into town. You could show her the area, help her get acquainted. That is, if you can find her,” Celeste muttered. “I knocked on her door, hoping to introduce myself, and the woman didn’t even answer.”

“Sh-she’s a little hard of hearing,” Lettie blurted.

Her mother sighed. “I suppose that explains it. Though I had hoped to get her first week’s fee ahead of time. If she decides to go into town with you, get her money for the room first, understand?”

“Yes, Mama.”

Lettie quickly dropped her gaze to the last plate she’d been scrubbing so that her mother wouldn’t see the sudden delight that leapt through her body. This was just the opening she’d been waiting for. She and Ethan could hurry into town, then hurry back.

“I’ve also fixed a basket of jams and a loaf of bread for Mrs. Clark, if you’d please stop by for a condolence call. Assure her that the church has made all of the arrangements for the meal after the services, and she isn’t to trouble herself.”

“Yes, Mama.” Lettie placed the plate atop the stack on the hutch and untied her apron. “I’ll just change into something more suitable,” she added quickly.

“Yes, of course, dear.”

Not waiting another moment, for fear her mother would change her mind, Lettie lifted her skirts and rushed up the back stairs, stripping her apron from her waist as she went. After carefully knocking on the Beasleys’ bedroom door, she gathered a few supplies, then hurried upstairs. At the garret door, she paused to glance behind her, then unlocked the door and slipped inside.