by Jenna Kernan
He nodded and departed.
She lifted the sweetgrass rope in one hand and a raven feather, wrapped in red trade cloth and sinew, in the other. “They won’t take any money and each one has given me some odd little gift.”
Tributes, he thought.
He raised the bucket. “Lunch.”
She stood, her eyes sparkling, bright as a summer afternoon as she cast the offerings aside. “Mr. Price, just look at the number of paintings.” She motioned to the pages lying about at her feet. “I think one or two have potential.”
He glanced about. They all looked good. The aroma of roasted fowl reached him again and he lay his offering upon her chair beside the others.
“I’ve got our mules and gear ready. We’ll leave tomorrow.”
Her eyebrow rose. “Very good then.”
“You got anything suitable for trail riding?” he asked.
She bit at her bottom lip, thinking. His head pounded as blood rushed south in response to this gesture. He wiped the sweat from his brow.
“I have several riding habits.”
He had no notion what a habits was, but the riding part sounded promising. “Boots and a coat?”
“A few.”
“Lay out what you mean to take—clothes, painting gear, everything. I’ll check the load tonight. What we can’t take, we’ll store.”
“Very well.”
He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “See you later.”
Was that disappointment upon her face? He hoped not.
“Won’t you join me for lunch?” she asked.
He’d planned on it. But now he found his need to stay clear of her outweighed his hunger.
“Got work. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
He walked away from the scent of roses as fast as he could manage without making his retreat obvious to all.
He spent the hot afternoon repairing his bridle and making a new cover for his rifle. He had a boy bring the woman dinner. As the afternoon light waned and long shadows fell across the courtyard, he could delay their meeting no longer. But he felt no more prepared after spending the day apart from her.
She opened the door at his first knock and ushered him into her room to inspect her gear. He was struck again with the scent of roses. He moved away from her, facing the bags, bundles and boxes that completely enveloped her bed, spilled onto the floor beneath the window and filled the washtub that occupied more space than the bed. His jaw dropped.
She gave him a helpless look.
“I’ve weeded through the lot and cut to barest essentials.”
He pointed to the bed. “That load alone would kill two mules.”
“I’m sure a third mule…” Her voice dropped off under the intensity of his scowl. She lifted her hands in a gesture of surrender. “I have done my best.”
He turned to the task and opened an odd-shaped case.
“A fiddle?” His voice rang with building exasperation.
“That is a Stradivarius.”
His scowl deepened at her indignant tone.
Memories of his father, stomping one foot as he drew his bow, flashed in Troy’s mind, followed by the familiar stabbing grief. The sound of lively music blending in his memory with his mother’s lilting laughter. He stared at the fiddle. Could this woman fill a house with music?
“You play?” he asked.
“Certainly.”
He couldn’t bear to hear the sweet trembling notes, so he pointed to the floor.
She set the fiddle aside.
“What’s this?” He pointed.
“A Dutch oven.”
He set the box beside the fiddle. “This?”
“Camp chairs, foodstuffs and a portable table.”
He placed this beside the oven and pointed at the next crate.
“My painting supplies.”
This he laid in a separate pile.
“You are not going to leave these,” she cried.
“No. I’m leaving those.” He pointed to the oven, furniture and foodstuffs.
“What will we eat?”
He laughed. “Feeding us is my job. I guarantee you won’t starve. What’s this here?”
“Mr. Thornton’s tent.”
He let her keep that.
She spoke before he asked about the next. “Bedding.”
He kept this and the telescope, but put aside her silver hairbrush and mirror, then turned his attention to her additional belongings.
“Lanterns.”
Discarded.
“Easel.”
Discarded.
“Oh, no. I must have this.”
They faced off again as she hugged the easel, and then placed it in the pile she would keep. It was then he noticed that the hairbrush and fiddle had somehow reappeared in the pile, and glared.
He removed a complete set of ten volumes of poetry, two novels, the glass jar of spices, all the dishes and silverware and several bottles of rosewater.
Eleanor wrung her hands as he attacked her camping gear. He paused at the guns. Each one was masterfully crafted and inlaid with gold. Finely etched hunting scenes decorated the rifle and shotgun. He fingered the outline of a wild boar brought down by hounds.
“Saint’s alive,” he whispered. Never in his life had he held a weapon of such obvious quality. He aimed the rifle and then reversed the stock to inspect the odd sight. It revolved, changing from a white, to red, to black. The white would be handy against the dark hide of a buffalo, the black good to sight wolf or mountain goat.
“My father had them made for my expedition.”
To give a firearm like this to a woman who only shot clay pigeons nearly made him weep. “What a waste.”
She stiffened. “Mr. Price, I know you do not approve of my upbringing. You are right to think I have been pampered. But I assure you, I can shoot and I know how to clean and care for these weapons.”
Did she expect a pat on the head?
“That’s the barest minimum of the skills you need to survive.”
He disliked the haughty slant of her chin. “I expect you will know the rest.”
“I do. But what happens if I get a fever or step in a hole and break my leg? You gonna bring down enough meat to feed us?”
Her chin remained high, but her hands clutched each other until her knuckles turned white.
“I thought not.” He turned back to the gear. “We are leaving tomorrow. I’d say you got one more night to sleep on it.”
Eleanor gave him her best aloof stare. If he thought she would turn back now, he was sadly mistaken. He stood waiting. She merely lifted her chin in resolve. He snorted and turned to one of her trunks.
Eleanor shifted, certain he would not delve into her personal belongings. Would he?
“Those are my clothes.” She tried to press the lid closed before he had his hands on her unmentionables, but was too late. He held her bodkin in one hand.
“What’s this?” He gripped the center insert for her corset in his large hand.
“None of your business, Mr. Price.” She extended her hand.
He pointed to the elaborate scrimshaw etched on the whalebone, depicting London sights. “Looks like a picture book.”
“That is not its intended use.” Her cheeks burned with a mortification of which he was blissfully unaware. One large finger traced London Bridge and she twitched as if he stroked her.
“This near your home?”
Her breath caught and she only managed to shake her head. Her hand remained open and hopeful before her. “No, that is a scene of London and the piece is called a bodkin. May I have it now, please?”
With reluctance, he laid it across her palm. For just an instant the heat of his hand scorched her. He must have felt it as well, that tingling sensation that raced up her arm from point of contact, for his gaze snapped to hers. She stood motionless, his hand blanketed hers and the bodkin pressed between them. Her breathing came in shallow little gasps and his eyes widened as he withdrew, steppi
ng back two paces.
With trembling fingers she tucked away the ivory board, wondering at her strange reaction to this man. When she straightened, she found him poking in a crate of her shoes.
He reached for a box containing her undergarments.
“No, Mr. Price. You will not open that.”
He hesitated only an instant, then a devilish smile appeared. She lunged and missed as he flipped open the latch. There on the top was the white lace-and-silk robe she wore this morning when she clung to him like a climbing rose. She thanked God that was on the top and not her corset or bloomers. He paused as if stunned by a simple glance at her sleeping garments, then lifted the robe before him.
His gaze flicked from the robe to her and she felt the heat rise in her from his scorching regard. Her heart accelerated its beating until she could not hear past the staccato rhythm.
She extended her hand, silently demanding the return of her attire. He pressed his face into the white silk and inhaled deeply.
Her breathing stopped. She stood shocked to immobility by the sensuality of the simple gesture. It was as if he held her in his firm embrace instead of her dressing gown. His eyes never left her and she trembled beneath his regard.
“Please,” she whispered.
He stepped closer until his breath fell upon her flushed face.
“Please what?”
She stood speechless.
He leaned in, inhaling the air about her neck and she closed her eyes at the quickening that urged her to step forward and draw his mouth down to meet her exposed neck.
“What is it you want, Lena?”
Lena? Her mother called her Nora, her father Eleanor, but she liked the way he said it, like an endearment.
“My robe,” she whispered.
“You smell like roses.” Another intake of breath and the air rushed cool about her and then hot as he exhaled, lifting the small hairs at her neck. Her body tingled with excitement as she realized what she really wanted. A kiss—his kiss.
As if reading her thoughts, one hand closed on the column of her throat and stroked until he held her jaw, lifting to bring her mouth close to his. She came alive under his touch. The simple brush of his thumb sent her insides all atremble.
“Have you ever been kissed?” he asked.
“Certainly.” Several men had pulled her away from the dancing to steal a kiss.
His words brushed her lips. “What did you think of it?”
“I rather found dancing more invigorating.”
He chuckled. “Did they kiss you like this?”
He dipped to brush his lips gently to hers.
She nodded, thinking he rather had a better hang of it than the others.
“I thought so. That’s not how I want to kiss you.”
She did not understand the thrill of excitement but rather sensed that something unexpected would happen. Her body trembled like a plucked violin string as she waited for him to come to her. It took every ounce of her upbringing to wait.
“Do you want me to kiss you, Lena?”
A lady would never say yes.
“Yes.”
At her word, his lips touched hers then pressed firmly. His hand moved to cradle the back of her head as he leaned over her. Their torsos met and sharp shafts of pleasure radiated from her unexpectedly sensitive breast to the center of her belly.
She gasped in surprise and his tongue entered her mouth. She stiffened at the unexpected intrusion, while his fingers tightened in the hair at her scalp. He had control of her and she discovered that realization as potent as his kiss. His tongue made darting little thrusts that drove her nearly to distraction. All she could do was cling to this man as his kiss filled her with desire, sharp as the stab of tiny needles. All the strength in her arms was not sufficient to draw him close enough to fill the aching need tearing through her quaking body.
She pressed against him as he withdrew, denying her need as he pulled at her clasping arms now encircling his neck.
Bewildered, she released him and stood staring up at this stranger whose touch awakened this terrible monster of need.
“What did you do?” she asked.
“Kissed you the way a woman is meant to be kissed.”
She pressed her hands flat over her trembling belly where the worst of her desire now screamed for her to reach out to him again.
“I didn’t know.”
“Now you do.” His voice rumbled in an animal growl that lifted her skin to gooseflesh once more.
With just a kiss he had stripped away all her refinement like layers of varnish from a fine table, leaving only her naked desire. She turned her back and attempted to rein in her emotions. She was Eleanor Hart and he was her guide. She covered her mouth in shock as the scandal of what she had done washed over her like ice water. She stood paralyzed, as her upbringing collided with her new awareness for this man.
Her actions were the equivalent of kissing the stable boy. Her gut twisted at how easily she had abandoned her good breeding. She spoke four languages, knew how to play the piano and violin and did not go panting after servants. It was simply not done.
“Mr. Price,” she began, and stopped at the strange tenor of her voice. She balled her fists and tried again, speaking to the wall. “Mr. Price, that was completely inappropriate. You had no right to take advantage of me.”
“I didn’t until you gave me leave.”
Had she? Good gracious, she had!
“I had no idea what you intended.”
“Next time you’ll know.”
How she wanted to strike his arrogant face, but recalled that she had given her consent. She turned to face him, angrier with herself than with him.
“I can assure you that there will be no next time.”
“I’ll leave that up to you.”
“Will you? I have enough concerns without wondering if my guide will attack me.”
He made no reply. It was only then she noticed he looked pale and more wary than she’d ever seen him. Had the kiss affected him as it had her?
“I didn’t plan that.”
She knew at a glance he hadn’t and that frightened her even more. If neither of them had the slightest control when in close proximity, it did not take long to see where that might lead.
He stood watchful, his breathing and pallor revealing his distress. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he looked rather more disquieted than she.
“I’ll ask you to leave my room now.” Why had she let him in to begin with? It all happened so fast. Now the rigid rules of propriety snapped into perfect clarity. Never be alone with a man. In only a matter of moments he had her nearly mindless with desire. Who could have predicted such things were possible? Goodness, she didn’t even know if she liked him. But heaven knows he did things to her insides—wild, dangerous things.
She shook her head to remove the images from her mind and found he already stood in the open door. What might have happened if he had not pulled back?
“Mr. Price, can you assure me that we will have no reoccurrence of such behavior?”
“I can’t. That’s just one of the reasons you should turn back.”
“Is this some kind of trick to frighten me?”
“No trick.”
He handed back her robe.
Tentatively she accepted the garment, careful not to brush his outstretched arm.
“You still fixing to go upriver?”
She studied him, trying to assess his motives. Had he planned this? He stood as far from her as the cramped room allowed, staring cautiously as if suddenly caged with a wild cat.
“Why did you kiss me, Mr. Price?”
His gaze turned serious. She stood bolstered by her corset as she faced him.
“Why did you let me?”
“I don’t know.”
He nodded. “Same reason.”
It had just happened. He had not planned this any more than she had.
“I see.” She now realized that the dangers sh
e faced outside the fort walls included this strange attraction between them. But she was a lady after all. She need only follow the rules of social behavior and there would be nothing to fear. She eyed him. Would there?
“Are you the sort that would kiss an unwilling woman?” she asked.
His smile seemed wise and ruthful all at once.
“No.”
She drew a reassuring breath. “Then I shall be ready to depart tomorrow.”
He nodded his acceptance.
“I’ll send a boy ’round to collect your gear so I can load it up in the morning. I’ll be waiting at daybreak.”
“Very well.”
“Lena? Is there something you ain’t telling me? Some other reason besides painting that brought you here?”
She stiffened as his question struck too close to the truth. She collected herself and lied.
“I need a portfolio of animals to show Mr. Audubon. That is the sole purpose for this expedition.”
Chapter 5
Troy closed Lena’s door and made it just twelve steps before his knees gave way. He sank onto the lid of a barrel.
What had just happened?
He’d never experienced this quicksilver reaction to a woman, never felt so out of control. She shook him to the core.
What was that?
Lust maybe, animal attraction.
One moment he’d been holding her sleeping robe and the next he was holding her. Had he lost his mind? After spending the last two days convincing himself to stay clear of her, he pulled a stupid stunt like kissing her.
No good could come from this. It was those eyes. He lost all sense when she gazed up at him.
He pushed back his hat as he recalled her reaction. He had expected her to kiss like a child. Instead she’d burned him up like tinder. He mopped his brow with his sleeve.
She dressed like a lady and talked like a lady, but she sure didn’t kiss like one. Underneath all that velvet, there was a woman of passion. She made him lose control faster than straight whiskey. He didn’t have the head for either one.
Yesterday, he thought it best to be rid of her as soon as possible. Today he found himself desperate to do so.
For if there was one thing he did not need, it was another woman to break his heart. He couldn’t stand to lose one more person in his life and the best way to avoid that was to keep clear of women—particularly Miss Eleanor Hart.
