The Men of Pride County: The Pretender (8 page)

He touched her hair. A mistake, he knew, but the gesture came unbidden, not to comfort her, but rather himself. How would she look with it long and luxurious about her shoulders? What would an evening gown of finest silk do for
her glorious figure? The image of her in torn flannel flamed across his memory.

Reminding himself that she was barely a woman couldn’t dissuade a bodily response. His first in longer than he could remember, and as inopportune as it was ill fated. Pleasures of the flesh were among those other enjoyable vices he denied himself by virtue of his station. If he were to be an example, he could not corrupt himself with worldly distractions. He didn’t smoke. He drank rarely, and then in moderation. He gambled when the social situation demanded it, and then only if he was winning. His language was governed by a control he almost never surrendered. And like any well-bred planter’s son, he took his rare ease, when necessary, upon the women in Louisville who made it their business to entertain those on business in the city.

He would have to marry. It was his duty as heir to Sinclair Manor, one he intended to pursue as soon as this war was over. Since he had no opinion on the matter, he would defer to his parents’ wisdom. His father would consider the financial benefit and his mother the practical in steering him toward the proper mate.

He pictured this unnamed female with indifference and disinterest. She would be pretty table dressing, as finely weaned as a show pony and trained as to her function—which was not to interfere with his life. He would give her whatever material goods she wanted, and she would give him a son. Beyond that, he saw a
wife’s position in his household as little different from the staff whose job it was to serve him invisibly.

Of course, he’d see that the position of being his bride was tolerable and prestigious. He would be considerate and kind and would even converse with the mother of his children, should the need arise. He knew how to be civil, though he found few instances in which to practice those skills. He wouldn’t burden his bride with his passions or his presence. He would model his relationship upon what he’d observed at home: his father ruling the roost, his mother quietly controlling the home.

It never occurred to him that he might like the woman he would wed. He had little admiration for females, aside from their physical appeal, which he preferred to observe like fine art—from a distance. They were shallow and flighty and given to irrational fits that could only be appeased by bribery. They were a necessary inconvenience when one needed a dancing partner or to procreate. He found them unpredictable and unreliable, a threat to a man’s well-being.

How often had some hare-brained scheme of his sister’s brought a whisper of disharmony to their home? Dramatic and temperamental, she was often more trouble than she was worth. He was anxious to push her out from under their roof under the control of some unfortunate fool who believed he could rule her. There were
times when he was genuinely fond of Patrice. She could be amusing in her own way, and a fierce loyalty lay behind her merciless teasing. He could almost concede that she was a rarity within the gender—until he met Garnet.

Despite their different upbringings, Garnet was in some ways similar to Patrice. They both spoke their minds—evidence that they actually had minds—and they displayed fortitude more often than feigned delicacy. He found their company … less than objectionable.

He closed his eyes, letting his mind wander in a dangerous direction.

What would married life be like if he were wed to a woman like Garnet? As soon as he posed that question of himself, a seditious whisper undercut it. Not a woman
like
Garnet.
Garnet
. Forget for a moment that that was impossible. Consider instead coming home to her conversation at dinner. Seeking out a mutual bed for more than just the obligatory heir. Enjoying the company of someone who was caring and clever, rather than self-absorbed and cunning. A novel idea. A damned attractive idea. One as disconcerting as the woman in question. Would he really want his life confused by emotions he couldn’t control?

Would he really want to commit his heart at the risk of it being broken?

His hand stilled atop her head.

No.

No.

He closed down his mind, guarding his feelings against the possibility. It was his duty to place property and profits before any personal pleasures. A woman like Garnet would disrupt his priorities. Never mind that he was about to betray everything that she held sacred. This wasn’t the time, this wasn’t the woman, and he’d be courting disaster to think otherwise.

Even as he shut her out of his thoughts, his body was aware of the contentment found in cuddling her closer. Hers was a form created for such a task—soft on the surface, steel underneath. And he yearned to embrace those pleasures. Pleasures that teased through a fitful sleep and roared to life upon waking.

He was still there.

Garnet lay unmoving, studying the relaxed features of the man beside her.

He hadn’t left her.

Hope quivered through her as she considered the way he’d cared for her, had comforted and encouraged her during her attack. The vulnerable embarrassment she might have felt was offset by the magnitude of his actions. She remembered the tenderness in the stroke of his hand, the gentle strength in his voice. That, combined with the way he’d kissed her, proved his intent was more than Samaritan.

Didn’t it?

She recalled the anxiety steeped in his eyes and the way he’d rocked her upon his lap. Could it be that he did have feelings for her?

Could the man beside her hold the secret to her future happiness? Or was she setting herself up for heart break at his hands?

It was early. Sunlight had yet to penetrate the winter gloom. Shadow softened the lines of Deacon’s face, making him seem more approachable, more attainable. Until his eyes opened with a snap, his body instantly alert.

“Good morning.”

At her soft greeting, some of the stiffness left his posture. Some, but not all. There was an edge of wariness to him she hadn’t noticed before.

“How do you feel?”

She took a sample breath and pronounced, “Fine. My chest hurts a little, but that’s to be expected.”

At the mention of her discomfort, the air of remoteness ebbed. His knuckles brushed her cheek. “I was worried.”

Humbled by his honest admission, she gave a shaky smile. “It’s scary. I’ve had spells for years, but they never fail to frighten my father witless.”

“You said he had breathing troubles, too. This same sort of thing?”

She nodded.

“And there’s no name for it? No cure?”

She shrugged philosophically. “The steam helps, so do some of the local folk remedies. It’s worse in the winter when it’s cold, or when I get
very upset about something.” She avoided his intent stare, focusing instead upon the light thatch of hair escaping the opening of his long johns.

“You’ve had a rough couple of days,” he agreed. “Good thing I’ll be leaving so you can get back to your normal pace.”

“Good thing.” Her voice trembled. She didn’t think it was a good thing at all.

She held her breath as his hand slipped beneath her chin to tilt her head up, forcing her gaze to return to his.

“I have to go.”

Was it her he was trying to convince, or himself?

“I know you do.”

“Is there anything you need before I leave?”

She could think of several things, actually. She nudged her cheek into his palm, feeling his fingers widen to cup the side of her face. “This is nice,” she said softly.

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t withdraw his hand, either. She felt his muscles tighten as her palm traveled up his arm, then heard his sharp inhalation as it glided across the sculpted terrain of his chest. The hard beat of his heart made her think of the campaign drum he followed … and would follow again once he left her bed.

But would he have to leave her life forever?

Give him a reason to return
.

Because she couldn’t comfortably phrase her wants in words, she stretched up to touch her
lips to his. His remained cool and unresponsive, so she pulled away in sudden shame. He regarded her unblinkingly, his gaze unreadable.

Had she read his interest wrong?

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, hot with humiliation. “I didn’t mean to obligate you—”

He shushed her awkward speech with the press of his fingertips. “No, I’m sorry. A gentleman should never place a lady in such a compromising position.”

Her gaze rose to his, wide and innocent in its appeal. “Even when she wants him to?”

A flicker of need crossed his steady stare, an expression so surprisingly revealing, she could read it as easily as her own heart. She saw loneliness in that stark and hungry gaze, a need for companionship as deep and fierce as her own. It was something neither of them would have acted upon had the circumstance been different. But at this moment, in this place, the time felt so very right.

Her eyes drifted shut in anticipation as he bent to kiss her.

Chapter 6

J
ust a kiss …

He should have known the moment her soft lips parted beneath his that it would be more than just that.

Much more.

At her invitation, he slipped his tongue inside to taste the sweetness of her offer. She stiffened slightly, whether in shock or surprise it soon didn’t matter, not when she was ripe for new experiences. She opened wider. And when her own tongue danced silkily around his, Deacon knew he was lost. Purpose faded. There was nothing beyond this warm, willing creature who sought so eagerly to fulfill what had been missing within him for so very long.

One kiss chased another, each varying in expression and design. This one a deep plunging hunger, the next a tender nibble, then a wet tangle that encouraged their hands into play. Her fingers raked through his hair, shifting, kneading, finally fisting as desire shivered
through her, hot and out of control. His palms slid down the undersides of her arms, revolving slowly to encompass and reverently claim the fullness of her breasts. Such lush, tempting bounty. His head dipped down. His mouth fastened over one pebbled peak. Even through a layer of cotton, the sensation made her gasp in awe and unexpected arousal.

She needed to feel him closer.

Her fingers trembled over the small buttons of her chemise, then peeled the fabric away so the next covering would be the surprising heat of his hands. He thumbed an even tighter welcome before bending to taste and tease and torment with the pull of his lips. Having never realized such delights, Garnet moaned wantonly and arched into his suckling kisses. A strange new yearning began to knot low in her belly, the sensation so disturbing, so raw, she sought a way to alleviate it. Moving against him in anxious little pulses seemed to help at first, then only made matters worse when he leaned back to give them both a saving space.

“We can stop now,” he told her. “We
should
stop now.”

But his eyes said different, and so did her quivering soul.

“No, we can’t. It’s too late, isn’t it?”

The storm brewing in his gaze broke with lightning intensity. “It was too late the first time I saw you and thought I’d gone to heaven.” Then he concluded with a husky, “I was right.
You’re my angel, and this is the only heaven I’m ever going to know.”

She pulled him to her, into her urgent kiss.

It was too late. Deacon surrendered to that fact with both reluctance and relief. He shut his mind to circumstance and consequence and opened his heart to this woman who deserved no less from him. He’d never wanted anything quite so badly as this brief chance to explore happiness in her arms, to have his sense of wonder reborn each time she gasped in discovery.

Awash in the first pink of dawn, he undressed them both. To overcome her awkwardness, he murmured whatever came to mind, praising her beauty, her femininity, her softness, her desirability in words that made her quake and all wooingly warm—because she’d never heard those things before, had never truly believed them until he’d made them so. She opened to him without hesitation, opened her heart, her eyes, her inhibitions, and then her knees, so he could settle between them.

“Don’t be afraid,” he crooned in a tight-throated voice, struggling to slow and control the moment so she’d have no reason for fear.

“I’m not,” she assured him with a shaky bravado, then confessed, “I don’t know what to do with my hands.”

Charmed by her naïveté, Deacon pressed kisses to her palms, then fit them over the swells of his shoulders. She grabbed on tight, sensing the moment was at hand when mystery would
be replaced by knowledge. Then there’d be no going back.

She felt him push hard and alarmingly huge against her. Modesty bade her to recoil, but instinct whispered for her to relax and trust him. The instant she let down her anxious guard, he breeched the last secret of womanhood with one swift, sure stroke. Innocence and her sense of isolation were both torn away at the same time. This was belonging, this wonderful, foreign fullness that spread all the way to her soul.

“Oh, Deacon,” she sighed, her eyes going misty with emotion. “Surely this must be heaven.”

He dropped a fierce kiss of agreement upon her lips and began to move within her. Slow and easy, with regard to her inexperience and his own healing injury. Slow and easy, to contain his raging passions. The degree of effort shook along his limbs but rewarded him at last with her sudden explosive cry of revelation. He drank up the sound and let himself go, riding out the same satisfying spasms that left her limp and smiling in sated lethargy beneath him.

Breathing hard and drained of all vitality, he rolled onto his side and continued to cuddle her close. And somehow that was as fulfilling as the act itself. He’d never lingered after the fact before, seeing no reason to remain nor feeling the desire. But this was a moment he never wished to end. He wanted to bask in the thrall of passions well met. He wanted to preen with accomplishment
and hear flattering claims of his prowess. He wanted to hold her tight and love her all over again, in case there was some small delight he might have missed during their first humbling encounter.