Wild Texas Rose (9 page)

He grimaced and set to finishing the chores. If he could just get through this night ... Come hell or high water, they were going to make Joe's farm tomorrow. Then he could deal with her twitching behind and bewitching presence.

If Whit could make it through the night.

But that was not to be. When she returned from the stream, he saw how raw her face was from the blisters. Finding an aloe vera plant, he sliced one of the spicate leaves lengthwise and brushed the medicinal juice on her reddened face. His hand shook and he took his leave. Fast. Using his Colt, he bagged dinner. She prepared the rabbit, plus a salad of wild greens and a pot of delicious coffee. In addition to her intriguing physical attributes, Mariah was a helluva good cook.

Darkness fell. He tried to bank his fires with a plunge in the cold stream. Beside the campfire, he crouched back on his heels, and she sat on the ground, hugging her knees and staring into the orange glow. Theirs was an uneasy silence.

“Any coffee left?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He reached for the pot to refill her cup. Their fingers brushed as he handed it over. A jolt shot up his arm, passed by his heart, and landed in his groin. He jerked away.

“No matter what you think of me, you don't have to treat me as if I'm belladonna.” Hurt was in her voice. “You were wrong the other night. I never set out to entice you.”

“You did a pretty damned good job of it though.”

Her eyes leveled with his. “So did you.”

Nipping the end off a cigar, he struck an acrid-smelling sulphur match to the tip. The cigar glowed orange as he ruminated over the situation. A puff of smoke rose in front of his face as he rested an elbow on his knee. “Before I knew who you were, I decided to go after you.”

“Then your conscience took over?”

“Right.” He pitched the cigar into the fire. “I don't believe in stealing another man's woman.” His gaze settling on Mariah, he said, “You're Joe's fiancée.”

Truth was on the tip of her tongue, but before she could utter a word, Whit said, “You're more than his intended. You're a two-man woman, and that gets me in the craw.”

“Dash it, I don't know where you get your ideas!” She wanted to continue of her tirade, but on second thought, she cooled her temper. It did appear she was playing Joseph false. Beyond that, his were the words of a jaded man hurt by love. She yearned to know about the woman in his past. “Who made you lose your faith in women?”

“My dead wife.” He drained his tin coffee cup, and with measured words Whit told her about the ending of his marriage. “Now you know why I don't trust unfaithful women.”

Astounded at his admission, and her heart going out to his suffering, she said, “I'm not like Jenny.”

“Think Joe would agree?”

Mariah stretched her legs before drawing them to her chin once more. “Probably not.”

“I respect your honesty.”

“Thank you for that.” Her voice was devoid of self-pity “I was beginning to think you couldn't find anything to respect about me.”

Whit stared at her. Rising to his feet, he rounded the campfire and squatted down beside her. He wrapped his fingers around her cold hand. “I admire a lot of things about you. You're a fine shot; kept me from getting killed this morning. You're a good cook, and a fine hand to have along on a campout.” On a lighter note, he added, “Except when it comes to Fancy, you've got a tender heart.”

Her free hand playfully thumped his rock-hard shoulder. “Leave that cat out of this,” she warned, grinning.

“Fine with me. As I was saying, it takes guts to leave your home and family to follow a man to the wilds of Texas. Who wouldn't admire your spirit?”

When she glanced away, as if uncomfortable with his statement, Whit went on. “I understand why Joe loves you. I ... I . . . oh, God!”

Suddenly he was holding her. Burying his face in her hair, he groaned. “Too bad we had to meet. Too bad for all of us. You, me, Joe. Oh, Mariah, beautiful lady, the temptations ... temptations that can only bring heartbreak to your man.”

These words, a mirror into Whit's soul, brought Mariah to her senses. Though it was unfair to Joseph, she needed to tell him about her decision, but first she must be honest about herself.

Pulling free from his warmth, she began the truth. “The other night when you kissed me, I wanted that kiss. And I've thought of it since. You are a temptation the likes of which I never dreamed possible. I don't know what's wrong with me. My mother taught me to be a lady, but I seem to be a prisoner of my ... of my . . .”

“Needs of the body,” he finished for her.

“Yes.”

“Marriage ought to fix that.”

She picked up a twig to break it in two. Aligning her gaze with his, she admitted, “Marriage won't fix what's wrong with me. I don't want the marriage bed.”

He drew back. “Why not?”

“I ... I d-don't like it.”

“Maybe you didn't pick the right partners.”

“Partners! There haven't been
partners.”

Was she telling the truth? Somehow Whit believed her. “Okay. Partner.”

Whit tensed, thinking of Joe. Had he been gentle with her? Whatever the Englishman had done, it hadn't satisfied her needs. Beyond that, why had he lied about her past? “You've never been with anyone but Joe?”

“Never. What makes you think I have?”

“Ah ... um ... he mentioned someone else.”

“How dare he gossip and imply that I–!”

“Great Scott, Mariah, I probably made too much of it.”

“Maybe.” With the remaining piece of twig she drew small circles in the dirt. “There was a man in my life. I loved Lawrence Rogers with all my heart, you see. We were engaged to be married, but he d-died.”

Near tears at those remembrances, she could speak no more of dear Lawrence–of anything! “Excuse me,” she said. “I'm going to turn in.” She jumped to her feet, took a lantern, and stepped toward the wagon. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Whit echoed, issuing no protest and allowing her to cut the evening short. Her admissions had been difficult, and she needed time to collect herself. Whit realized Mariah had turned to Joe in grief, and he understood the pain of loss.

He unrolled his bedding, drew off his boots, and stretched out, using his saddle for a pillow. Her silhouette against the wagon's canvas cover drew his attention. He prayed she wouldn't undress within his sight, for how much tantalization could he endure? Her vulnerability made her no less desirable.

She didn't doff her clothes in the wagon. He watched her alight from the Conestoga and disappear into the darkness. Her ablutions, he figured. Closing his eyes, he tried to sleep. Impossible. He craved what the scrawny Englishman had had a taste of.

“Damn you, Joe.” Whit yanked his Indian blanket over his legs to ward off the night's biting air.

Ever since he had discovered Mariah's identity, he'd been eaten up with doing right by the erstwhile viscount. Why should he feel honor-bound to a liar? What kind of man gave the impression his intended had known more than one man?

A sidewinder undeserving of either loyalty or a beautiful intriguing woman like Mariah, that was who.

Should he go after her? Some measure of sanity warned him against such a move. Your justifications don't mean a damn, Reagor, he told himself. She's still Joe's woman.

His ears trained on the night sounds, he listened to crickets, cicadas, a wolf's bayings. Where was she? A panther screamed its womanlike cry. Or was it a panther?

“Mariah?” he called, uneasy. No answer. Damn, he shouldn't have let her go out by herself! Whit jackknifed to his feet. “Mariah!”

Twenty feet away, she stepped from behind a wide pecan tree, a hairbrush in her hand. The moon lit her in beautiful relief. “No need to shout. I'm right here.”

“Don't scare me like that.” He forced those words past his frozen throat. “Didn't you hear that panther?”

She glided toward him, but halted. A wool shawl around her shoulders, she wore a white flannel nightgown that was buttoned up to her chin. The scantest of women's undergarments had never aroused Whit the way this sturdy nightgown did now.

Whit took ten steps toward her. Five feet separated them. He swallowed hard. The full moon behind her, she tilted her head to one side and brushed her hair. Long hair. Red. Thick and flowing. Beautiful hair that invited his fingers. He yearned to take the hairbrush from her hand and pull it gently through those dark-russet tresses. He ached to wrap a curl around his finger and bring it to his lips.

“To hell with right and wrong,” he whispered. “Let me show you how good it can be between a man and a woman.” Whit offered his hand. His voice was hoarse with desire as he murmured, “Mariah, come here. Let me be your man.”

Chapter Eight

“Come here,” Whit repeated above the surrounding night sounds. In the light of the full moon, he held his arms out to Mariah. “Let me hold you.”

Her pulse quickened, yet she didn't comply. Her heart filled with doubt, she glanced at his tousled curly hair, then lowered her gaze to the dark tufts of hair on his chest revealed by the unsnapped shirt, which was pulled free of his close-fitting dungarees. Sensuality emanated from him.

They would make love. It was inevitable, she realized. Since their first meeting she had refused to admit the force majeure of it, but no more.

Would lovemaking be different with Whit, different from Joseph's fumblings?

“You don't have to be frightened, sweetheart,” Whit said huskily. “I just want to show you how good it can be.”

“I might not think it's good.”

“Don't bet on that.” Whit rubbed his chin. “But if you don't want me, say the word and I'll back off.”

“No. Please don't.” She shortened the gap between them, but her muscles were stiff with uncertainty.

“Relax, sweetheart.” He combed his fingers through her hair. “Let yourself go with the feeling.”

How was she supposed to do that? With Joseph she'd been asleep. With Whit she knew there would be no sleeping.

“Go with your instincts, sweet baby.”

She did. He drew her close, the heat of his body blanking out the chill brought by evening, bringing ease. Now pliant, she murmured his name. Her arms lifted to his shoulders. Leather and tobacco and wood smoke mingled with the warm clean scent of him. Lowering and tilting his head, he covered her lips with a kiss of fire and tenderness.

Feeling the tip of his coffee-tinged tongue touching her teeth, sliding into the interior, she was surprised, and delighted, by this new experience. She welcomed his deepening kiss. Her fingers slipped through the curls at the back of his head; his hair was soft, though coarse, and the feel of it tingled the nerve endings in her fingers. His lips moved to her neck, his hands to the curve of her waist, and he caressed her midriff with his thumbs. The tender ministrations aroused her senses. Overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through her body, she gave up her dread.

“Put your arms around my neck,” he requested, then swept her from the ground to carry her to his bedroll and there to lay her across the thick cushion.

Her arms reached for him as he stripped his shirt from his sinewed torso. “It's cold without you,” she whispered.

“We can't let that happen.”

He descended to their lair, bringing her gowned body against the warmth of his flesh. Anew he kissed her, his big hands caressing her cheekbones and earlobes. Instinctively she thrust her pelvis against his, receiving an answering movement in kind, and felt the hard bulge in his britches. She was aflame.

With fluid grace he removed the barrier to his manhood by sweeping the denim trousers from his long, long legs. Fascinated, she stared at his naked splendor.

“You're more magnificent than I remembered,” she admitted, yet a fleeting moment of uncertainty wrought from innocence plagued her. “But must you take your clothes off?”

He smiled. “It's better this way, darlin'.” Levering above her, he touched the hair that enticed him so, spreading those locks across the rust-colored Indian blanket. “Am I going too fast for you, my sweet?”

“Yes, but maybe not. I . . . I don't know, really.”

“Hey, now. You're not an innocent,” he replied, his thumb and forefinger working the buttons of her nightgown. “Don't be shy.” His callused palm slid over a firm, rounded breast. “Tell me when it feels good.”

“Th-that feels good,” she murmured as he tweaked her nipple.

Brushing the nightgown bodice to the side, he placed his lips where his fingers had been. “I could do this for hours,” he murmured, drawing her nipple into his mouth.

Trembling at his magic, she held him to her breast. And when his palm traveled along the inside of her thigh, she was caught in a wondrous vortex, swirling and spinning. Her legs refused to be still, those movements causing her nightgown to ride up her thighs. Her hands wandered over the taut muscles of his back. Scars and all, he was male perfection.

Whit's talented fingers and lips found other sensitive places–the inside of her elbows and wrists, the hollow of her collarbone, the center of her ear. Something within her begged for him to possess every inch of her body. And she wanted all of him, too.

“Still like it, sweetheart?” he taunted in a silky tone.

“Oh, yes.” Having no wish to be coy about her desires, she was totally abandoned to the wonder of discovery.

“You'll like this even more.” Whit's hand caressed her shapely body, making its way slowly, provocatively, between her thighs. “I haven't been able to keep my wits,” he murmured huskily, “thinking of doing this to you.”

Ever so gently and carefully, he slid the tip of his finger rhythmically across the bud of her desire. She moaned with pleasure. Never, never had she imagined lovemaking could be anywhere near this rapturous!

At the point when she believed nothing could be more fulfilling, Whit positioned himself between her spread legs. The tip of his manhood touched her portal, and he leaned forward to take her lips in a kiss of wild, unbridled desire.

“Why must sin be so sweet?” he asked, his voice a mixture of agony and bliss.

An answer eluded her, for she was beyond reason and clear thought. Instinctively, her thighs tightened around his hips, for something within her now sensed there was something more ... more exciting and fulfilling to be discovered.

And he had to have more. He thrust into her, but was stopped by her virginal barrier. “Oh, my God,” he groaned in agony, his teeth clenching. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“T-tell you wh-what?”

“No man's had you before, Mariah. No man.”

All she knew with any certainty was that her primitive needs were unsatisfied. “D-don't understand. J-Joseph–”

“Goddamn Joe Jaye.” Whit tunneled his fingers through her hair, his thumbs pressing her jaw. “And goddamn me, too, because I can't stop, and it's going to hurt you.”

“D-don't want you to stop.”

“Sweet mercies.” With one powerful lunge he claimed her, and she cried out. Once more, Whit stilled his movements. “I'm sorry,” he whispered after inhaling several times. “Please don't cry. The pain will pass, I promise.”

“I'm not crying. I feel better already. But ... are we finished?”

He chuckled. “Not hardly, sweet witch.”

At first gently, then with surer rhythm, he moved within her. Within seconds she was on fire again, aflame with passion, thrashing with ecstasy. Deeper and deeper he lunged to draw heightened awareness from both of them. Over and over he groaned her name in rhapsody's litany, and her fire–their fire!–turned to a conflagration of passion. Barely able to breathe, she reached the pinnacle of ecstasy. Raising her hips to receive his final thrust, she realized for the first time in her life what she'd been created for. To be a woman to this man.

Breathing fast, he rolled to the side, bringing Mariah with him. Her head nestled against his shoulder, he pulled his Indian blanket over their bodies. “You okay?” he whispered, wiping the beads of perspiration from her brow.

“Whit, you talk too much,” she teased, then she drifted into contented, sated sleep.

Whit, however, could not sleep. With quite an effort, he managed to fish a cigar from his saddlebag. Striking a match on a rock, he drew smoke into his mouth. Now that his breathing and wits were halfway back to normal, he wondered why Mariah had lied to him about her virginity.

“You've just deflowered Joe's woman,” he muttered, snuffing out his smoke. Guilt plagued him, but there was no turning back now.

He didn't know what the hell he had gotten into, but the trouble was, he wasn't sure he wanted to get out of it. He'd made love to more women than he could ever remember, but none of them, not even Jenny, had aroused him this mightily. With only tonight to love Mariah, how could he get his fill of her?

His hand cupped her elbow, his mouth touched her temple. Only tonight ... Tonight was theirs, and he was determined to make the most of it. Which he did.

By morning, however, Whit Reagor knew if he lived to be a hundred, he could never get his fill of Mariah McGuire. But that took him back to his problem. He hadn't been able to get his fill of Jenny, either.

Whit didn't speak of his thoughts as they readied the wagon to begin the last leg of their journey, and he sensed Mariah, too, had something on her mind. Both delayed the inevitable, for to voice their questions and statements would burst the moment's bubble. They were enjoying those final hours together–before the time came to confront Joe Jaye.

At noon, they stopped the wagon to make love again, this time in one of Crosswind's line shacks, which Whit had made a slight detour to reach. In the aftermath, they rested amid the rumpled sheets of a narrow bed, Whit leaning against the wall with Mariah settled between his spread knees as he gently drew a hairbrush down the curled length of her hair.

“Mmm, that feels marvelous,” she said, then teased, “and you have exactly two weeks to stop.”

“Glad you like it, darlin'.”

“Your gentleness amazes me. How can a rough-and tumble rancher ... ? Tell me about your ranch.”

“It's just a li'l ole place,” he replied modestly.

“Whit, don't kid with me that way. Tell me.”

“All right, it's a hundred sections of cattle land. Not all in one piece, but scattered around west central Texas–my headquarters ranch, and home, three miles southwest of Trick'em. Now, enough about me. Tell me about Guernsey.”

She did, and he tried to imagine being cooped up on an isolated island in the English Channel. He was glad for the wide-open spaces of Texas.

The brush encountered a tangle, and Whit tried to be easy in the untangling, but she jumped forward. “Ow!”

“Didn't mean to hurt you.”

“You didn't. I hurt myself scooting on my bottom.” Pivoting her face toward him, she blushed. “I'm a bit sore.”

His question could wait no longer. “Mariah, why didn't you tell me you were a virgin?”

“I thought I wasn't.”

“Care to explain?”

Shame-faced, she summarized the events of that night with Joseph, finishing with “... I had no idea, and he never told me any different.”

“Oh, my poor innocent baby. He duped you.” Wrapping his arms around her, Whit guided her to a prone position and rested the side of his head against her breasts. “Sweetheart, what did he write you about ... uh, about his farm?”

“That pears grow in abundance and that he's doing quite well.”

Whit put his legs over the bed's edge. “He lied.”

“How so?” Mariah's eyes rounded before she shuttered them. “Don't answer that. I think I know. Since leaving the port of Galveston, I've seen this big state grow more and more desolate. How can pears thrive here?”

“They can't. Joe's broke.”

“Poor Joseph.” Rising to a seated position, she pulled the sheet up, tucking it under her arms. Her hair cascaded forward as she dropped her head. “Whatever will he do?”

“Whatever will the two of you do, don't you mean? Soon you'll be his wife.”

She shook her head slowly, and her eyes were veiled as she admitted, “I'm not going to marry him.”

“Why not?” Whit asked suspiciously, his face turning to stone. “Because he can't provide for you in the manner befitting a nobleman's lady? Or because ...” He lunged to his feet and yanked on his breeches. “Or because of what we've been doing since last night?”

“My decision had nothing to do with you,” she replied quietly. “I decided days ago that I couldn't go through with the marriage.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“Was it any of your business?”

A few seconds later, Whit nodded. “You've got a point.”

She rose from the bed, wrapped the sheet around herself, and made for the pitcher of water sitting on a crude table of unvarnished wood. Studying her movements as she bathed her perfect body, Whit reached for a cigar and lit up. Should he believe her words about him having nothing to do with her decision? He wanted to ... or did he? Last night he had realized he wanted her within his reach, and now she'd told him of her impending freedom. She'd be free, he was free, and they could continue what they had started.

So what if history repeated itself? So what if she, like Jenny, found another man and took off? Well, this time in his life there would be no binding ties to make his suffering all the more difficult.

“You're my woman now,” he stated.

The plain white chemise she was slipping over her head stopped moving halfway to its destination. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. Your place is with me.”

Her brown eyes trained on Whit, she fitted the undergarment around her hips. “What do you mean?”

“Yeowwww!” Fancy screeched from her cage, interrupting their discussion. She began to twist and writhe in the small confines. Again, she howled.

“What's the matter with her?” Mariah crossed the room.

“Beats me.”

Together they observed the fat cat's strange behavior. Fancy continued to display distress. “She's in pain,” Whit said. “We'd better get her out of there.”

Mariah eyed Gus to assure herself his cage was out of harm's way. “Yes.”