Simmer All Night (46 page)

"I get the feeling he's gonna love doing it more," Sarah replied, recalling the hardness she'd felt against her when he'd tongue-kissed her senseless at her front door after walking her home last night. For a minute she'd wondered if he carried a pistol in his pocket, then she'd realized it must have been his Rod of Steel.

Sarah wanted to bury her head in her hands and shudder and shake. Instead, she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. "It will be fine. I'll be fine. I love our new home, and I can't wait to arrange all the pretty gifts we received. I look forward to cooking for Nick—he loves my molasses cookies—and I'll plant roses by the front door and wash our clothes on Mondays, and we'll attend the Literary Society meetings on the third Thursday of every month. I want to do all those things. I look forward to doing all those things. We'll have a happy life, Nick and I, and someday we'll have children. I vowed to be his wife for better or worse. I keep my word, Abby. I won't deny him his husbandly rights."

"Oh, Sarah, you are much braver than I."

Sarah squared her shoulders and spoke in a martyred tone. "No, I'm a wife now, and I will accept my lot as such. Besides, Nick has always been a considerate man. Maybe I'll be lucky and he'll be quick about it."

* * *

Nicholas Ross wondered if acute sexual frustration could make a man ill. Considering he'd been walking around with his wick constantly lit for weeks now, he was in trouble if that were the case.

Luckily, it was almost time to take the cure, and Sarah was certainly the cure for everything that ailed him.

Nick grinned at the thought. Actually, he'd grinned at just about anything and everything today. For the first time in a long time, he was happy. He had a family again.

Family meant the world to Nick. Two years ago, through a combination of his own hardheadedness and the capriciousness of fate, he had lost the family of his heart, the family that had taken him in as an infant and raised him as their own. The one dark cloud in the sunny sky of this special day was the fact that his Scottish loved ones had to watch him wed from their places in heaven.

The thought sent a pang of emotion through him that he swiftly suppressed. He wouldn't think of sad things now; he'd turn his thoughts to merrier matters. He'd think about his bride.

Nick glanced at his pocket watch. Her mother had asked him to give Sarah an hour, and he still had twenty minutes left to wait. He could wait twenty minutes. Barely. He'd wanted Sarah since the moment he'd laid eyes on her.

She sparkled. She was blond, with rich, whiskey-brown eyes and a ready smile and laugh that warmed him from the inside out. Most men would call her pretty rather than beautiful. Most men would prefer a few more curves on her thin, relatively straight figure. But to Nick, Sarah was perfect, and he'd challenge anyone who claimed that Fort Worth had ever seen a more beautiful bride.

He wondered what she'd wear to greet him this evening. He had fantasized her in a filmy, Greek-goddess gown with one shoulder bare and tantalizing shadows visible beneath the clinging ivory silk. He would open the door and she'd smile invitingly, lifting her arms and beckoning him toward her.

Or, maybe she'd smile, then reach up and release the clasp at her shoulder and the gown would slip, slowly revealing the breathtaking beauty of milky skin and pink-tipped breasts and...

A spattering of laughter from the wedding reception guests still gathered in the hotel ballroom shook him from his fantasy. One side of his mouth twisted in a rueful grin. Knowing Miss Modest Sarah, he'd find her wrapped in flannel.

Sarah wasn't one to flaunt her femininity. Indeed, when it came to romance, the girl was downright shy. It had taken him two full weeks of determined pursuit to coax her into letting him kiss her the way he desired. As a result, Nick found himself a wee bit apprehensive about the wedding night to come.

Not that he was complaining. A man valued virtue in a bride. Besides, judging by the way she had taken to his kisses, once she got over being shy, Sarah worked up a fine enthusiasm toward the activity.

His task tonight would be helping her past her shyness. He prayed he had the patience to do the job properly.

A hand clapped him on the back. "Well, son," boomed Sarah's uncle's voice. "This is the first time I've found you alone since the wife and I arrived in town from Galveston. How about we take a short walk outside?"

All in all, Nick would rather have his teeth pulled out one by one than take this particular walk. He knew he had to do it, though. With Sarah's father dead for a decade, her uncle was her closest male relative. Nick hadn't expected to avoid the
Hurt our little girl and I'll kill you
conversation entirely. Hoped, yes. But not expected.

Outside the Blackstone Hotel, streaks of scarlet, orange, and gold painted the western sky. Wagons rattled up Main Street, while from the direction of Hell's Half Acre came the tinny sound of piano music and an occasional raucous shout that heralded the beginnings of a hell-raisin' Saturday night.

Nick resisted the urge to tug at his collar. "It is a beautiful evening."

"Yes, and I trust it will stay that way." Michael Banks opened his suit coat and removed a cigar from an inner pocket. After going through the ritual of lighting it, he blew out a pair of smoke rings and said, "You have a challenge ahead of you, son. I hate to say it, but the girl is spoiled."

Nick immediately jumped to her defense. "She's high-spirited."

"That, too. Make no mistake, I love her like she's my own, but the girl has suffered from not having a father around. Not that her mother didn't do her best, but Sarah was a willful child and my sister never learned how to say no. Take an old man's advice, young Nick, and teach her the meaning of the word from the git-go. Otherwise, you'll pay for it for the rest of your life."

Nick relaxed a bit with the unexpected direction the conversation had taken. It turned out he relaxed too soon.

Banks blew a puff of ratafia-scented smoke his way, then abruptly demanded. "Who are your people?"

Now Nick gave in to the urge to pull at his collar. "My people, sir?"

"Your family. The Rosses. My sister says you claim to be a Scot, but she mentioned some confusion about English parents, too. While I don't hold a man's character hostage to his family background, I do consider it something important to know. So, tell me about your family, Mr. Ross. Who is your father?"

Nick bristled at the older man's words. He refused to ruin this happy day with talk of his sire. "I'd rather not."

After two more puffs on the cigar, Banks asked, "What are you hiding?"

"Not a blessed thing. Sarah knows of my past. She has a right to know." Left unsaid was the charge that her uncle didn't share that right.

It didn't deter Michael Banks. "I understand you purchased the Seven-F Ranch just last month. You have family money?"

Nick sidestepped the question and attempted to guide the conversation in another direction. "I promised Sarah we'd live within a half day's ride from her mother. Since it's been just her and Mrs. Simpson for so long, Sarah is worried about leaving her mother alone in the house. In fact, we asked if she'd want to move out to the ranch with us, but she declined. Mrs. Simpson has worked hard to establish her private school, and she loves teaching. Although, after the way those McBride children acted at the wedding today, I am inclined to wonder why. Now I know why townspeople refer to them as the McBride Menaces."

Sarah's uncle didn't take the bait. "I understand there's no mortgage on your land. What did you do, Ross, rob a stage or two?"

Nick smiled grimly. "I have my own money."

"From what source?"

Nosy old fellow. Nick wanted to tell him to go to the devil. But because he understood the man's need to protect Sarah, Nick sighed heavily and surrendered. "All right, Mr. Banks. I'll speak of my family skeletons once, then never again. Two years ago, I discovered my parents had lied about the circumstances of my birth. I learned I wasn't their son, but the third son of an English marquess and his wife. It seems I was conceived during a time Lord and Lady Weston were experiencing trouble in their marriage."

"Oh," commented Banks. "You're a bastard."

"No, apparently not. Lady Weston swore I was her husband's get, though he believed she lied and hated me because of that. He knew she'd had a lover during the significant time. When within months of my birth it became clear he wouldn't accept me, and since Weston already had an heir and a spare, she sent me to Scotland to be reared by distant cousins of her husband, thinking it was better for a child to live in a home where he was loved by both parents than in a home where he was hated by his father."

"And was this a good choice?"

Nick hesitated as he once again felt the absence of the Ross family on his wedding day. Quietly he said, "An excellent choice. My greatest regret is that I forgot that for a time."

"My niece mentioned you recently learned your family was killed in an accident. Was this your English family, your birth parents and brothers?"

Nick didn't respond. Instead, he focused on the amusing sight of the older two McBride Menaces. They had abandoned all regard for the state of their clothing and lay flat on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, using their miniature rose bouquets to guide a trio of doodlebugs in the direction they desired. His bride's uncle shifted his gaze from Nick to the girls, then back to Nick again. "You inherited money from your father?" he pressed.

"Tis my Scots family who died." Frustration flared like a match. "Is there no question you winna ask? Lord Weston pays me a remittance to stay away from England. I dinna use it if I can help it, so it has added up over time. I bought the ranch with those funds." He made a show of checking his pocket watch, then added, "You'll have to excuse me, sir. My bride is waiting and I'm anxious to join her. It is, after all, our wedding night."

Banks scowled. "Oh, I remember, all right, and there is something I hope you remember, too." He tossed his cigar to the ground, then mashed it under the toe of his boot. "Hurt Sarah and I'll kill you."

Finally the message he'd expected. "Your niece is safe with me, sir. You have my word on it I'll treat her like a queen."

* * *

Sarah felt like a sacrificial lamb all gussied up and ready for the slaughter. She'd been bathed and brushed, powdered and perfumed, and left alone with her teary-eyed mother's words of wisdom ringing in her ears. "Remember, dear, marital relations are like menstrual cramps. Sometimes a swallow or two of brandy makes all the difference."

The words ran around and around in her mind as her finger idly traced the pattern of sharp edges and valleys cut in the crystal brandy decanter. She wished now that she'd asked her mother some of the questions that continued to plague her as time for the bedding approached. But Sarah's aunt had accompanied her mother and stayed in the room until the very end. She'd been too embarrassed to ask in front of Aunt Lena. Now she was left to figure it out for herself.

Or wait for Nick to show her.

Sarah shut her eyes and groaned. Why had she compared it to menstrual cramps? Sarah knew her mother had loved her father, and one time when she'd talked to her daughter about the private side of marriage, she'd even admitted she liked to be kissed.

Sarah liked to be kissed, too. She liked it very much. And hadn't she always been a lot like her mother? Didn't they have the same tastes in everything, from food to fashion to furniture? Hadn't they agreed on the choices for the wedding arrangements, from the flowers to the music to the gown and everything in between? The only time they'd differed in their opinion was when the time came to choose her nightgown for tonight. Sarah had pictured flowing white that bared one shoulder, the design right out of Greek mythology. Her mother recommended high-necked, long-sleeved, floral-sprigged flannel. They'd settled on emerald satin and lace and lots of it.

Could it be a physical thing?
Sarah wondered. Were some women physically more suited to it than others? Maybe that's why her mother never remarried after her father's death. Heaven knows, it wasn't for lack of admirers. Maybe her mother wasn't built to bed a man comfortably.

If so, the usual similarities between mother and daughter didn't bode well for the night's upcoming event.

Her mother's voice floated through her mind. A woman's lot. Rod of Steel. Like menstrual cramps.

Sarah shuddered, yanked out the stopper, and took a swig of brandy straight from the decanter.

Fire scorched down her throat to her stomach. Her eyes widened and watered. She coughed, then gasped a breath. "Mama thinks this will
help?"

Heavens. Sexual intercourse must really be awful.

As that thought flashed through her mind, a knock sounded at the door. Nick's voice called, "Sarah?"

Panic rose like a tidal wave within her. Sarah literally bit her tongue. Pain. Blood. A ramming Rod of Steel.

"Sarah? May I come in?"

She took a deep breath and shouted, "No!"