Wild Texas Rose (19 page)

“You know, Mariah, my offer's still good. You don't have to depend on that sorry excuse for a farm. I can take care of you.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I don't want to be taken care of. God gifted me with the brains to teach, and I–”

“Why is teaching so important to you?”

“I guess I need to be needed,” she admitted quietly.

“I need you.”

“That is a different sort of need,” she whispered. “Could we leave our relationship out of this?”

“If that pleases you.

“Yes.” Her head nodded in fatigue. “And thanks for listening.”

“No problem.” He smiled. “But there's one more thing I'd like to–” Whit shut his mouth. There would be no more questions tonight, for Mariah's gold-tipped lashes had dropped to her cheeks, and she curled against the sofa's arm. An angel asleep.

His angel.

Whit thanked his lucky stars she wouldn't be leaving Trick'em any time soon. He wanted Mariah to stay here close to him.

A band squeezed at Whit's chest as he continued to watch her sleep. Life hadn't been easy for Mariah, and he admired her spirit. Closing his eyes, he recalled her words of this evening. She hadn't wanted his pity and he didn't pity her. Matter of fact, he understood a lot of her pains.

Funny how one's past messes up the present, he thought. His actions since Jenny had made him a cuckold were all motivated by the hurt she'd inflicted and he balked at trust and faith and love.

Mariah, on the other hand, was scared to death
not
to love. She needed to love and be loved. He figured something deep within her heart told her that if she gave all of herself, the object of her affection wouldn't turn away from that devotion.

Yet too many people had abandoned her, each in their own way. Her father had been cruel; her mother and grandmother had left her through death; her brothers had lives of their own.

Once, Mariah had had a chance at the love of giving and taking and sharing with that lieutenant fellow, but fate had intervened. After his death, she had tried to transfer that same affection to Joe but he had used her insecurities, guilt, and need to love to his best advantage. Even from the grave he held her within his grasp.

Whit was almost certain that Charlie Tullos was behind Joe's death, though he hadn't mentioned his suspicions to Mariah. He couldn't prove anything. Nonetheless ...

Threatening Joe had been a passion with Tullos, but bloody his hands? No. That kind of dirty work the hooked-nose bully left to a trio of hired guns, his ranch hands not being loyal enough to kill for him, but Whit had seen or heard nothing of T-Bone Hicks and the two others in quite a while. If Hicks and party weren't responsible, who was? And what difference did it make anyhow? The world wasn't worse off for the loss of Joe Jaye. No one gave a tinker's damn.

Except for Mariah.

Whit's eyes settled on her sleeping form, and he had better things to think about than murder. He was drawn to everything about her–her thick cloud of auburn hair, her oval face, her shapely body ... the list went on and on. Yes, he was drawn to
what
she was, but he felt a more powerful emotion: The
who
she was was even more appealing than her breathtaking outer beauty.

She was none of the things he had first imagined. She was honorable and good and true of heart. Could anyone blame her for almost marrying a rascal who had, for the most part, put her on a pedestal?

Whit had never treated her right, except in passion. He could, and would, change ... given the opportunity. A lump rose in his throat. Was there a chance she could be as devoted to a lanky, bitter cowpoke as she was to the memory of a no-good viscount? Time would tell.

Watching this adored woman, he mouthed the words, “I love you, Mariah.”

It shocked him to realize he meant it. Shocked him, and scared him witless. Love made a fool out of a man.

He felt that wouldn't be the case this time, but he was going to make damned sure Mariah returned his love before he made any sort of commitment for the future.

He prayed she would love him, forever and ever and ever, and if she did, Whit Reagor would never, ever, do her wrong. Never would she find a gold hairpin in his bed.

That Englishman had duped everyone he had come into contact with. Whatever the case, Mariah was stalwart in her belief that Joe's death had been unpardonable, and she was a woman who stood up for her idea of right.

Whit pushed himself up from the chair to reach for the glass of whiskey he'd deserted hours earlier. While quaffing his drink, he heard a feminine sigh. Mariah had turned to her back on the sofa, her forearm covering her eyes. Her breasts thrust against the material of her bodice, and he had the urge to stretch out beside her.

Not tonight, he told himself. She needed her rest. Walking into the bedroom, he pulled back the crazy quilt, smoothed the sheets, and plumped the pillows, just like his mother had taught him as a lad.

Ida Reagor had been calm as a glassy lake, her patient love extending not only to her family but also to anyone who needed a bite to eat, a place to sleep, or a friendly ear. She had adored his father, and Will Reagor had been just as enthralled with her.

Whit started. In all those years of his bitterness toward marriage, why hadn't he thought of the good life his parents had shared?

He turned his thoughts and his feet to the front room, to the present. To Mariah. Would she balk at his insisting she spend the night? Probably. But he wasn't going to take no for an answer.

He didn't have to. She barely moved when he unfastened her buttons and unlaced her ugly brown shoes. His lips touched her long toes, and he warned himself to stop while stopping was possible. The riding habit slipped off with relative ease. And she didn't seem to notice when he carried her to the iron bed. Okay, so his hand lingered too long on her creamy skin. He wasn't a saint.

Dropping a kiss on the top of her head, he retreated to the sofa and stretched out. Tomorrow he wouldn't be such a gentleman.

Chapter Eighteen

The diffused sun lightened the back of Mariah's eyelids, but her half-awake senses paid little heed. She snuggled deeper in the soft covers, but soon the scent of coffee and food tickled her nostrils. Sounds–horses and wagons and people and a rooster's crow–pene-trated her hearing, but those things were muffled, as if ... This wasn't the farm. Where was she?

She yanked up in bed, and almost upset the tray Whit was setting by her side.

“Morning, glory,” he said, winking an eye. “Ever had breakfast in bed?”

Still confused, she rattled, “ ‘Why, what . . . Good heavens. I shouldn't have ... Why'd you let me spend the night?”

“You fell asleep in the front room, Red. What was I to do? Strap you on your mare and give the ole girl a nudge in her side?”

A short laugh escaped her throat. “No, I guess not.”

She settled back against the pillow and tucked the sheet under her arms. Her now-clear eyes assessed the unshaven, half-dressed man who stood beside her and was placing the tray on a bedside table.

Butterflies tickled her midsection at the sight of his tousled jet-black hair. The flutters increased as she gazed at his olive-toned chest, which was bare save for whorled hair and scars. A pair of denim breeches, the top button unfastened, hugged his thighs. She realized her own state of dress. She wore only her thin chemise. Had they ...?

Surely she would have remembered their sleeping together, but her head turned to the opposite side of the bed for assurance. The other pillow had no indention.

“I slept on the sofa, Red.”

“ ‘What's the matter?” she teased, relieved. “Was I snoring?”

“You got that right. I never heard such a racket. Thought a big black bear was holed up in here.”

“Oh, you!” Laughing, she grabbed the unused pillow and threw it at his face. “Big black bear, my eye.”

“I'll teach you not to use violence with me, little red bear.”

He slung his leg over hers and, with lightning speed, pinned her hips between his knees. His fingers wiggled and descended on her ribs. Through her giggling beseeches to stop, Whit unmercifully tickled her.

“I'll withhold your honey and water,” he warned in feigned menace. “My fingers will continue to draw the bear's misery until repentance against my poor person escapes those snoring lips.”

“Never!” she cried.

“You will.”

His fingers stilled for a moment, his hands curving around her sides, and she smiled. She needed to be with Whit, and wanted nothing to diminish this wonderful feeling he roused within her. She wouldn't think about the world outside this bedroom.

“Don't look at me that way,” he teased. “I won't be taken in by soft eyes.”

Once more he set to tickling her ribs, but she was on the offensive. Her pelvis nudged against the juncture of his legs, and she taunted, “Then what are you going to do ... about your
problem?”

His fingers stilled, then moved to cover her chemise-draped breasts. “What would you have me do?”

Brazenly, she locked her brown eyes with the blue of his. “Whatever tickles your fancy.”

“Tickles
my
fancy, eh?”

“Yes.”

His voice was low as he asked, “You promise you'll grant me all my desires?”

“Yes, Whit, I'll grant your fancies.”

His Adam's apple moved up and down his throat once as he swallowed. “Kiss me.”

Whatever he wanted was fine with Mariah. Absolutely, breathtakingly fine. “Come here.”

He lowered his upper body, his face stopping within inches of hers. She caught mingling smells–soap, the spice of bay rum, warm skin–those wonderful scents which were Whit Reagor. Her hands cupped his unshaven cheeks, and she delighted in the rough feel against her sensitive palms. Her lips parted, her head leaving the pillow as she touched her tongue to the chiseled planes of his mouth. But it wasn't she who continued to give the kiss, for they both were willing participants.

“You taste so sweet,” he murmured, then trailed his tongue to her ear, eliciting her quivers of delight.

Her hand smoothed to his chest, encountering an indention that evoked a question. “Whit, how did you get these scars?”

“From a war not nearly as troublesome as you.

“Which war?”

“Civil,” he answered, his teeth nipping her chin. “Now shut up about such nonsense.”

She didn't say another word about wars or scars, but couldn't get either one out of her thoughts. The American Civil War was fought in the early sixties. Whit must have been very young at the time, and her heart went out to him as she ruminated over what must have been.

“Which side did you fight for?” she asked, unable to give up in spite of his request.

“What in the hell kind of question is that? The Confederacy, of course. I'm a Texan, for Pete's sake.”

“Well, I read that Texans were divided in their loyalties. Sam Houston–”

“You wanna talk about Sam Houston when we're trying to make love? Damn, woman, have I got body odor or something?”

“No, silly goose.” Chuckling, she snuggled against him. “I do believe you had a bath this morning.”

“Well, Red, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.”

“ ‘Why doesn't the man in question give me a big kiss?”

“I'll have none of that. Did you forget your promise?”

“No.” Her tongue dipped into one of the scars on his chest, and she felt him shiver. “I'm at your beck and call.”

He tensed, the air leaving his lungs. His eyes riveted to hers. “Make love to me, sweet Mariah,” he said, his deep timbre cloaked with desire. “Let me watch you undress. Grant me my pleasure, as you promised, and you'll be amply rewarded.”

Excitement surged through her. Even without the wild energy and skilled attention he had shown to her body on former occasions, she was tingling with wanting Whit. So easily he aroused her.

Drawing the hem of her chemise to the start of her thighs, she rose to her knees, facing him. Her fingers pulled at the top ribbon of her garment, then at another ribbon and another with excruciating slowness. She slipped the strap from one shoulder, and Whit groaned as a plump breast and its hardened peak were bared to his sight.

It gave her great pleasure to see him aroused, and she continued her disrobing enticingly. The other strap was slipped to the top of the remaining breast, but she pulled back the material when his nostrils flared with interest.

“Sweet mercies,” he murmured as she continued her tantalization by dropping the chemise to the curve of her waist.

“Had enough, cowboy?”

“Not on your life.” But then with a sudden oath he pulled the cotton material to the top of her thighs so that he could flatten his palm on her downy, coppery triangle. His lips moved to the valley between her breasts. “You drive me mad with passion.”

Her palm rubbed across the back of his huge, tanned hand, pressing him against her. “I think you've had enough,” she murmured.

“I reckon.”

He took the lead. His face replaced his hand, and he gentled kiss upon kiss to her tummy. The prickles of his cheeks rasped against her, and the feeling was marvelous, glorious, provocative. Her fingers lost power, the chemise slipping to her knees, and she tunneled her fingers through his thick curly hair. She could hold him like this for a long, long time, but she ached for the pleasures yet to unfold.

“Do you have another fancy, my lord?” she asked, meaning the title and drawing back to rid her knees of the accoutrement.

He chuckled. “I do.” Smoothly, he eased back on the mattress. “Unbutton my breeches.”

“Yes,” she teased, running her palm across his heated, manly bulge. “I can see how you might be uncomfortable. But you didn't say please.”

“Please.”

The toil was difficult, his breeches being so tight, but she worked one button free and then two more. He is glorious, she thought. Her hand slipped between the V of denim, and his manhood was hot against her fingers, hot and smooth and turgid.

“How you arouse me,” he said with huskily. “As none other has done before.”

Her heart raced at his confession. Her fingers clamped compulsively around him, the pad of her thumb resting on the smooth, moist tip. With his hoarse tutoring she discovered a way to bring him to even further agitation.

A minute later he urged her to refrain, adding, “Baby, baby . . .”

He swept the breeches from his thigh, sending the blue denim flying across the bed as she laid her head against the pillow. Lightly he covered her naked flesh with his own, his tongue flicking against her earlobe, his finger moving to the center of her desire. Deeper she swirled in the glory of passion.

Tenderly, gently, his finger led her on a journey to the heavens. Stars shooting through every vein in her body, she dug her nails into his back. “Oh, Whit ... please! I need you.”

His lips touched a closed eye. “Not yet. I won't let you renege on your promise.”

Barely able to think with any clarity, she lifted her lashes. “Your fancy isn't tickled, my lord?”

His fingers weaved around a long auburn lock of her hair, rubbing it across his rock-hard chest. “Oh, it's more than tickled, but . . .”

“What would please you more?”

His eyes were half lidded, and a crooked grin stole across his rugged features. “Ride me as if I were a stallion.”

“Whit, we've never ...!”

“I know,” he replied, his thumb trailing to the sensitive, aroused peak of her breast. “Never. But will you do it?”

She grinned. His idea had appeal. A great amount of appeal, even though it held a hint of the wicked and wanton. But in Whit's arms, she
was
wicked and wanton! And with his hands tantalizing her breasts like that ... “I don't know how.”

“My precious innocent, I'll teach you.” Again, he rolled to his back. Guiding her leg across his belly, he insinuated his throbbing shaft against her. His hands canvassed her hips, then lifted her to him. “Surround me with you.”

She did, and she heard him groan as he plunged upward, “So tight. So sweet. Oh, sweetheart ...” were his ragged words. Spreading her hair across her breasts, he said, “I've had so many fantasies about this.”

And he was so big, so filling, that she thought she had ascended the firmament as she rode him to the point she knew to be heaven. As he filled her with his seed, she collapsed against him, her face burying into the musky wall of his hirsute chest.

“Thank you,” he said, holding her close.

“For what?”

“For being you, my love.”

My love.
He had called her “my love”! How sweet those words ... even if they had been murmured in the afterglow of their passion. Oh, to be loved by Whit ...

She recalled the previous evening, and his patience and understanding when she had poured out her heart. He was a good man, a fine man, a man who was kind to others ... and who loved kittens.

“Love me, Whit. Please love me.”

He grinned, and began his tender touches again. “I was hoping you'd ask.”

That wasn't what she had meant, but she had her prayers. Someday he would love her, not simply make sweet, beautiful love to her. In her heart, she knew that to be true. In the meantime, she would enjoy what he offered... and he was offering something wonderfully enjoyable right then.

Much later she ran the pad of a finger across his flat nipple. “How are the kittens?”

“Great Scott, Mariah, you're thinking about kittens at a moment like this?”

“What are
you
thinking about?” she challenged.

“Your beauty.” He nestled her into the crook of his arm. “There's only one thing more beautiful in this world than your face and body. Your heart.”

His sincere, tender words wound through Mariah, and she smiled.

He gave her one more kiss, then scooted away to grab his breeches. “I'll bet you're hungry. Time for breakfast.”

Warmed by his tenderness, and by her love, she smiled. Her grin broadened while she watched him tug on those breeches. He was the beautiful one!

“Hope you're hungry, Red, 'cause I fixed us a whopper of a breakfast.”

Her eyes settled on his now-covered private parts. “I am hungry.”

He crossed to the bedside table, all the while pointing a finger at her. “Greedy. Disgracefully greedy, that's what you are.”

“Absolutely. I'm hungry as a . . . bear.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “You'll get plenty of what you're begging for as soon as we have our breakfast. I'm starving. For
food.”

Obviously proud of his endeavors, he placed the breakfast tray across her lap, but his face fell. “Guess it got cold.”

Mariah's stomach turned. Several pieces of unleavened bread–no, they had to be several flat gray biscuits–garnished a large platter holding a burned-to-black steak and a half dozen fried eggs. Fried eggs, each with a brown lace edge and a coating of congealed fat.

A tear formed, though, when she touched a wilted bluebonnet that centered an empty glass. A thousand roses would not have been more touching.

As Whit filled her plate, then handed it to her, she smiled. “The food smells delicious,” she lied, for the fare had no smell at all. “Cold doesn't bother me.” She crunched into the dry bread. The biscuit seemed to expand in her mouth. Would she ever be able to swallow it? It was all she could do not to choke as she complimented, “Mmm. Delicious.”