Silken Dreams (24 page)

He seemed to sag a little beneath the slight weight of her hand. Then he backed away, a look of quiet dignity spreading across his features. Without saying anything more, he turned and escaped into the kitchen.

Lettie watched him go with sad eyes, her hand slowly dropping to her side.

“It’s just as well, Lettie.”

She glanced over her shoulder to find her mother watching her from the grass by the side of the house. Celeste moved forward, cradling a cache of carrots in the scooped-up folds of her apron.

Lettie stiffened at her mother’s words. “Why? Because he’s just a boarder?” she asked defiantly.

Celeste shook her head and climbed the back steps, her movements slow and somehow weary. “No. Because he’s just a boy.” She reached out to touch Lettie’s cheek with a single finger, her skin slightly rough from the dirt of the garden and the calluses of her daily chores.

“You
have
grown up, haven’t you, Lettie?” Her voice grew soft, almost indistinguishable in the night air. “It’s happened all of a sudden, I think. Either that, or I haven’t been paying you much mind lately.”

Turning, she disappeared into the house. Through the windows, Lettie watched as her mother dumped the carrots onto the counter next to the pump, then unhooked a pail from the rack beside the stove. She pumped it full of water and began to scrub the baby vegetables.

Somehow, Lettie found herself shivering slightly in the sultry heat. Her mother seemed so frail in the harsh light of the afternoon, so… alone. Yet things had been different when Lettie’s father had been alive. So different.

Turning away, Lettie leaned against the railing, uncomfortable with her own unwitting insights. Although she might try to push happier thoughts into her mind, she couldn’t help wondering if she, too, would become a hollow shell once Ethan left Madison for parts unknown.

Lettie’s hands curled around the weathered wood of the railing, and she took a deep breath. Ethan had asked her to consider the consequences. The price. Yet, as the hot air settled around her, Lettie couldn’t help wondering if the price might be even more dear if she were to let him leave her without loving him. Just once.

Silence settled over Ethan with the same heavy weight as the muggy summer air. Soon after returning from the creek, he’d moved into Mrs. Magillicuddy’s room near the back staircase, so that the boarders would believe “Agnes” was in residence. He’d spent the afternoon poring over the information he’d gathered from the boarders’ rooms as well as his trip into town.

As the afternoon became evening, Ethan became drawn into the maps and periodicals spread across the bed. He barely noticed the way the ribbons of sunlight spilling around the window shade slipped across the floor, then extended across the coverlet. It was late when he finally surfaced from his own deep thoughts. A warm certainty began to seep into his mind as he stared at the grainy picture on the front page of a
Madison Gazette
dated nearly two months earlier. Though he couldn’t be sure, he thought that he’d just discovered the identity of one of the men he’d heard discussing his fate near the jailhouse corral.

Stepping toward the light around the window shade, he studied the photograph with great care, taking in the tall, lean build of the man. Although the picture was an imperfect shade of sienna brown and cream, Ethan thought that the man’s hair would probably be silver.

There was a rattling of the doorknob, and Ethan dropped the paper onto the bed and retrieved his revolver from beneath the pillow. Standing behind the edge of the armoire, he waited as a key was slowly turned in the lock and the knob turned. When he saw Lettie entering with a tray, he automatically relaxed.

“Supper,” she stated. “Sorry I’m late, but I finished cleaning up the rest of the dishes first.”

He pulled a face at the bland fare prepared for him by Celeste Grey, but since Lettie had told her mother he was suffering from a bad case of “dietary distress”—which prevented him from joining the other boarders—there wasn’t much hope in being offered a piece of beef steak or even a hearty stew.

“Looks good,” he commented nonetheless, taking in the rich smells of homemade custard, fresh fruit, greens, and bread.

Automatically, Lettie took the glass of bicarbonate from the tray, dumped it out of the open window, then returned. As she neared the bed, she glanced at the paper on top of the cover.

Reaching for a radish, Ethan waited until she had seen the picture before asking, “Do you know him?”

“Judge Krupp? Of course. He’s served Madison for years.”

“Judge?” he repeated.

“Mmm. Jacob knows him better than I. Judge Krupp seems to be nice enough, but he has a reputation for being a bit of a hanging judge.”

The radish lay forgotten in Ethan’s hand. “He’s a judge?” he asked again.

Lettie glanced up at him curiously. “Yes. Why?”

“Nothing.” Ethan bit into the radish. “The name seemed familiar.”

“He’s been in the news quite a bit lately.” She threw the paper back onto the bed. “Judge Krupp presided over a case involving the Willie gang in Dewey a few months back. Before the trial could end, there was an attempted escape and the men were executed by the Star before—Ethan?”

He jerked his mind back with great difficulty.

“What’s wrong?”

He shook his head. “Nothing, I…” His words trailed away, and once again, his thoughts began to whirl within him like grappling hounds. There was something that he should be noting, something that would connect.

“I’ve got to go. Mama will be suspicious if I don’t spend some time in the parlor.”

Once again, he yanked his thoughts back. “Yeah. Thanks for the food.”

“Ethan?”

She waited expectantly, and Ethan knew she waited for a kiss, a touch, some show of affection. But he made no move toward her. He couldn’t. If he touched her again, he knew his control would shatter. Though he would have laughed at any man for telling him so a month ago, Ethan found himself ensnared by a mere slip of a girl. A young, innocent girl. And he would do anything to keep from hurting her more than he had already.

“My brother came by,” Lettie stated softly. “A secret gold shipment has arrived in town. They’re worried the Gentleman will show up.” She hesitated. “I think he was trying to warn me.”

Ethan regarded her carefully after that statement. “Of what?”

“I don’t know. He seemed… jumpy.”

“Where’s the shipment?”

“Madison City Thrift and Loan—Mr. Gruber’s bank.”

Once again, the name teased something on the fringes of Ethan’s memory. “Gruber,” he repeated softly, more to himself than to Lettie.

“Silas Gruber—the man we saw today by the train. You know, Natalie’s husband. I told you about Natalie. The two of them don’t get along too well.”

Ethan took a step toward her, his eyes narrowing. “How long have the Grubers lived here?”

“I don’t know… five years. They came from Chicago, where Mr. Gruber managed a bank. Natalie’s always complaining about the fact that they were sent here as some sort of demotion. She was bitter about that for a while, but lately she seems to have adapted to—Ethan?”

His head jerked up, and he pushed aside his whirling thoughts to give her his full attention.

“Ethan, I…”

Her words trailed away, and she took a step toward him. One delicate finger lifted to push aside a lock of hair that had fallen to his forehead, and he jerked slightly. Her skin was warm, soft. She smelled of sunlight and lilac water.

Heaven help him, he wanted her. And her love.

“Don’t back away from me. Please.”

He closed his eyes against her plea. “Lettie.” He sighed. “I’ll have to go soon.”

“I know. Just don’t leave me before you actually go.”

He opened his eyes to gaze at her, his face once again masked, and she reached out to touch his heart.

“You’re leaving me here”—she touched his temple—“and here.” She stepped forward until her skirts brushed his thighs. And her breasts—dear heaven, her breasts feathered across his chest, filling him with a pounding hunger that grew sharper each time she stepped into the same room with him.

“I know what you’re trying to do, Ethan. You think I’ll hurt less if you stay as far away from me as possible in the next few days. But I’ll hurt more, Ethan. I need your strength, your passion, your tenderness. They’re the memories I’ll treasure forever. Please don’t leave me with memories of your distance.”

Closing his eyes to her earnest expression, Ethan slipped his arms around her waist and drew her tightly against him, holding her next to his heart as if he had the right to keep her there for all time. Her arms clutched his shoulders, and he felt her shaking. There was nothing he could deny her if only she were to ask.

“Can I come to you tonight?”

He froze, realizing that she was asking him to make love to her.

“Please?” she whispered next to his ear.

Ethan squeezed his eyes shut and held her even tighter, fighting the emotions roiling within him, before finally whispering, “I’ll come to you. After everyone is asleep.”

I eased deeper into the warm, fragrant water of my bath and rested my head against the porcelain rim. Dipping one idle finger into the petal-strewn water, I closed my eyes and allowed the scented liquid to lap over my breasts
.

He would be here. Soon.

Slowly, sensually, I smiled. As if he were already there, I breathed deeply of the pungent scent of the candles and the musky odor of the roses. My finger drew idle circles across the surface of the water, and I imagined the touch of his fingers against my ribs, the warmth of his breath against my nape.

The soft snick of a key in the lock split the silence, and I knew he had come. Just as he’d promised. Standing up, I reached for the bath sheet draped across my bed and turned, holding the cloth to my body and stepping from the bath.

I stood rooted as the door to my bedchamber opened, letting in a soft swirl of air. Around me, a forest of candles sputtered. Light shivered, danced. The pungent odor of smoke grew sharper, then disappeared as the musky scent of roses drifted through the garden windows.

He took a single step forward, his muscles moving sinuously beneath the tight fabric of his breeches and the fullness of his shirt Then the door snapped closed behind him, shutting out the blackness of the hall and sealing us in the whispered light of the candles. Silence shimmered like silk in the air. An eloquent silence filled with intimate words of the heart.

My lips tilted in a rich, provocative smile. Slowly, sensually, my hands lifted to the pins that held my hair. My fingers paused.

He barely seemed to breathe.

One by one, I drew the gold hairpins from the dark twists of my hair, allowing the pins to drop to the floor with a delicate metallic patter. Then I arched my head back so that my hair fell from its intricate coils in a thick swath that swung to a point just below my hips.

When I lifted my head and opened my eyes, he seemed to watch me more intently than before. A shimmering excitement filled my veins like the effervescent bubbles of champagne.

He wanted me. He needed me. And I was the only woman who could satisfy him.

The low purr of thunder overhead echoed my latent satisfaction as I moved slowly, gracefully, across the room. My hands lifted to touch him.

No words were spoken.

None were needed.

My towel dropped, and I lifted my hands to the buttons of his shirt and drew him irretrievably toward the scented water behind me.

“Love me,” I whispered, as I drew him backward.…

At the soft rattle of the doorknob, Lettie turned and waited. The door opened, inch by inch, and finally, Ethan stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

For a moment, he stood at the bottom of the staircase, gazing up at her. As his eyes slipped from her shining hair to her freshly scrubbed face to the simple lawn wrapper belted about her waist, something quiet within Lettie’s soul blossomed and warmed. Because she felt pretty. Loved.

“What took you so long?” she murmured.

He climbed the steps before speaking. “I wanted to make sure everyone was asleep.”

When he continued to study her with eyes that had grown dark and heated, she nodded and watched him with an intensity that she hoped would convey just a few of the emotions twining within her.

“I also brought us some refreshments.”

She glanced up to see him brandishing a jar of her mother’s currant wine and two tin cups.

“How did you know where to find it?”

“I was a thief, Lettie,” he answered with a quick grin. “Everyone was asleep, so it was a simple enough matter to slip through the house and gather what I thought we might need.”

She smiled in delight. Her heart was already pounding in eager anticipation and her skin seemed to tingle. But Ethan’s romantic gesture enhanced those emotions even more.

She turned to wave a hand toward the tin hipbath in the middle of the room. “I—I arranged for a bath for myself, then thought you might like one.”

He turned toward the tub. “I don’t think so.”

“I won’t look.”

He hesitated.

“The water’s cool and refreshing. It would wash off some of the grit from the creek.”

He glanced up at her.

“Please.” After a slight hesitation, she added, “It would make me happy, help me to feel like I’ve done something special for you.”

He glanced at the tub again, then at Lettie, before finally conceding. “All right. But first we drink.”

She smiled and took the jar from his hands. Taking it to the bureau, she uncapped the wine and poured a small measure into each of the cups.

Padding toward him, she offered one of the cups to Ethan. “Shall we make a toast?”

He nodded his head.

“To us.”

She drank from her cup, but he turned away, walking toward the window and pulling aside the shade to stare out at the moon-drenched yard. Seeming restless, he set his cup on the sill and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand.

“You know there can be no ‘us,’ Lettie,” he finally murmured.

Moving toward him, she slipped an arm around his waist and kissed his shoulder. “Please. Not tonight.”

His hand reached out to cover her own and they stood together for long moments, absorbing the silence of the house and the shivering awareness growing between them with each breath they took.

Finally, he turned. “I guess I’d better take that bath.”

Lettie smiled to herself in secret pleasure when his voice emerged just a little too low and a little too ragged.

“Take all the time you want.” She crossed to the bed and sat with her back to the tub, her shoulders resting against the footboard. “I’ll just sit right here and entertain us with a few poems.” Taking Natalie’s poetry book from the foot of the bed, she bent her knees and rested the book on top.

She paused for a moment, waiting for some sign that Ethan had begun to undress. When she heard no noises, she prompted, “Well? Aren’t you going to bathe?”

There was a pause, then: “Yeah. I suppose.”

She heard his bootstrides, then looked up when he approached the bureau, refilled her cup with currant wine, then handed it to her.

“Why, Ethan McGuire, are you trying to get me drunk?”

“It’s an idea.”

“It won’t work.”

“Then maybe
I’ll
get drunk.”

She grinned. “That’s an idea.”

Smiling at her impudent humor, he moved toward the hipbath. “Don’t turn around.”

“Afraid of what I’ll see?”

“No. But
you
should be.”

She giggled and took another sip of her wine. Behind her, she heard the soft rustling of Ethan’s clothing and she closed her eyes, savoring the sound. In her imagination, she could see him slipping the suspenders from his shoulders, one by one. Then he unbuttoned his shirt, tugged it free, and dropped it to the floor.

The noises stopped.

“What are you doing?” he demanded lowly.

“Imagining.”

“Imagining what?”

She smiled, though she knew he couldn’t see her. “I’m imagining each stitch of clothing as it falls from your body.”

“Oh, hell,” he muttered softly.

“Go on, Ethan.”

“With what?”

“Undressing.”

There was a pause, then she once again heard the rustle of cloth.

“One button.”

“What?”

“You’re unbuttoning your pants.”

“Lettie.”

“Two.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Three. Take your trousers off, Ethan.”

“Lettie!”

She chuckled. “All right, I won’t listen anymore.”

She heard the thump of his boots, the whisper of his socks, and the rustle of his pants. Taking a deep breath, Lettie held tightly to the image in her head: the image of Ethan, lean and naked, standing in front of the tub.

A soft moan of delight melted from her throat.

“Dammit, Lettie, stop that.”

She chuckled. “What poet do you want to hear?”

“Anything. Just wipe that smirk off your face and let a man wash up.”

“Yes, sir.” She took another sip of the wine in her cup and yawned deliciously, grasping the book and stretching her legs out before her.

As she heard the lap of water from behind, she turned to one of the last sections in the anthology of poetry. Walt Whitman. Months before, there had been a ruckus in the boardinghouse when Celeste Grey had discovered poems by Whitman in one of her subscriptions. Even the Beasleys had been atwitter. Before Lettie had been able to get a copy of the periodical, her mother had canceled her subscription and burned the magazine. When Ethan had forbidden her to read the poet several nights before, Lettie had read all of Walt Whitman’s poems in Natalie’s book, then read them again.

“Are you ready?” she asked, finding the appropriate page.

There was a pause, then Ethan muttered, “Just read.”

She giggled, then took another sip of her wine before settling back against the pillows she’d mounded against the footboard. The wine was evidently relaxing her, just a titch, because she felt all tingly and warm.

“ ‘From Pent-Up Aching Rivers,’ ” she slowly read. “By Walt Whitman.”

She heard a splash behind her. “Lettie,” Ethan growled in warning.

“Oh, hush up and listen,” she muttered, then took another sip of her wine. “From pent-up aching rivers,/From that of myself without which I were nothing,/From what I am determin’d to make illustrious, even if I stand sole among men/From my own voice resonant, singing the phallus—”

“Lettie—”

His protests were a little less forceful this time, and Lettie smiled. “Singing the song of procreation,/Singing the need of superb children and therein superb grown people.”

Turning onto her stomach, Lettie dropped her empty cup to the floor and stared at Ethan through the iron rungs of her bed. His chest rose from the barrier of the tub, strong and broad, dappled in moisture. His eyes met hers, heated and filled with passion.

The book dropped to the floor beside the cup and Lettie continued by memory: “Singing the muscular urge and the blending,/Singing the bedfellow’s song…”

Ethan’s eyes closed as if he were fighting for control, and Lettie smiled, a slow sultry smile. Standing up, she took a bath sheet from the foot of the bed and walked toward him, slowly, wantonly.

“O resistless yearning!/O for any and each the body correlative attracting!/O for you whoever you are your correlative body! O it, more than all else, you delighting!”

She knelt beside the tub and reached out to place her hand against his breast, absorbing the heat of his skin, the water-dappled texture, the swirl of hair.

“From the hungry gnaw that eats me night and day,/From native moments, from bashful pains, singing them,/Seeking something yet unfound though I have diligently sought it many a long year.”

She bent close, pressing her lips against his own, and Ethan moaned, grasping her behind the head and pulling her so close that her breasts were crushed against the wet expanse of his chest.

She hungrily met his need with one of her own, seemingly intent upon absorbing his essence into hers until there was no separating the two of them and they ceased to be two separate souls and became one. Her hand slipped down the muscled contours of his breast, tracing the hair that grew there, circling his navel with her nail, then moving farther down.

Her hand was captured by his own, and he forced her palm to a safer location higher on his chest, even as he held her tightly against him, his lips slanted against her own. His kiss was hungry and filled with a desperation that this time they might once again be forced to back away.

But Lettie wasn’t about to let that happen. She had given Ethan McGuire her heart and her soul. As surely as if she had spoken marriage vows, she knew she belonged to this man. For now. And for all time.

She drew back, her lips leaving his own in tender regret, then bent to brush another butterfly-light kiss against his mouth, as if leaving the caress were too much to bear.

Ethan shuddered, knowing that he had never felt such passion with a woman, such delight. It stretched far beyond the physical pleasures, blending heart and body and soul.

Smiling at him with the smile of Eve, she took his hand and stood up. Grasping the bath sheet in front of him, he allowed her to pull him upright in a rush of water. His skin burned as he felt her gaze sweeping over him in open curiosity.

Tugging gently on his wrist, she tried to draw him forward, but he slipped his hand free and wrapped the bath sheet tightly around his hips.

“Shy?” she murmured.

A shaky chuckle eased from his throat. “I guess so.”

She giggled in delight and took a step backward, her hands closed around the tie of her wrapper. “Make love to me, Ethan.”

Ethan swallowed hard against the tightness building within him, trying to tamp down the fire stoking within his own blood. The sultry heat of the garret closed about him, filling him with a tension, a yearning, that he knew he could no longer deny. Yet he still hesitated, all of the reasons he shouldn’t touch her tumbling into his head.

Lettie gazed at him with dark, slumberous heat. “Make love to me, Ethan. Please.”

If not for that last whispered plea, Ethan could have resisted. He could have gathered his clothes and slipped from the room.

Sensing his hesitation, Lettie continued her recital, and, being familiar with the poem himself, Ethan knew just what she was about to say.

“Hark close and still what I now whisper to you,/I love you, O you entirely possess me.”

“Lettie,” he moaned, trying to cling to the last vestiges of control within him, but Lettie merely smiled with the awareness of a temptress. Gone was the child, gone was the delicate girl in need of protection. And in her place was a woman. A woman of passion and grace.

Yet she offered him no relief, continuing with her poetry. “From exultation, victory and relief, from the bedfellow’s embrace in the night,/From the act-poems of eyes, hands, hips and bosoms,/From the cling of the trembling arm,/From the bending curve and the clinch,/From side by side the pliant coverlet off-throwing—”