“That,” Wolfe said, letting Jessica slide down his body until her feet touched the floor, “is called priming a pump.”
Ruefully, he acknowledged that the pump wasn’t the only thing that had been primed during the lesson, but he could hardly blame Jessica for that. She hadn’t known what she was doing when she pressed her backside against his groin until he could feel the very feminine flare of her hips beneath all the folds of cloth in her traveling dress.
“Why did you do that?” she asked.
For an instant, Wolfe thought Jessica was referring to the change that had taken place in his body while he held her; then he realized she was talking about the pump. He opened his mouth to answer, but the thought of explaining to a wide-eyed elf the intricacies of suction, pressure, and pumping involved in the mechanism—while at the same time his body was on fire—defeated Wolfe.
“Think of it as a religious ritual,” he said finally.
Jessica tilted her head back to look up at him and realized anew just how large her husband was. Yet being held by him hadn’t frightened her or made her uneasy in any way. In fact, it had been very nice, as had seeing his eyes so close to hers and feeling the warmth of his breath on her cheek. The hard strength of his arm supporting her had been even more appealing, as had been the power and motion of his body as he worked the pump. Soft sensations shimmered through her at the thought of being held that way again.
“A religious ritual,” Jessica repeated in a dazed voice.
“I must have unpacked the parrot along with your sidesaddle.”
Laughing softly, Jessica shook her head. “Priming the pump is a religious ritual, and you unpacked the parrot with my sidesaddle. Oh, Wolfe, do you think our wits were addled by the long trip?”
“Very likely.”
For a moment she looked into the dear indigo depths of his eyes. The delicate shimmering sensation in the pit of her stomach strengthened.
“You do the most curious things to my stomach,” Jessica said in a husky voice.
“Nausea, loss of appetite?” Wolfe guessed wryly.
“Far from it. You make me feel as though I’ve swallowed golden butterflies.”
The innocent admission forced Wolfe to close his eyes, for if he kept looking at Jessica he would reach out and trace the delicate curves of her upper lip with his fingers first and then the tip of his tongue. It had been difficult enough to keep his hands off her; it would be impossible if she kept watching him with wondering, luminous eyes and talked of the first, delicate tremors of passion awakening within her untouched body.
Desire beat in harsh waves through Wolfe, but he remained motionless. He didn’t trust himself to touch Jessica. If she responded to an outright caress with the laughter and honesty she had just shown, he wouldn’t stop caressing her until he was sheathed within her.
Then the marriage would be all too real. She would be bound for life to a halfbreed mustang hunter, and he would be bound for life to a girl who was afraid of being a woman.
“I think,” Wolfe said distinctly, opening his eyes, “it’s time to get on with teaching you how to make coffee. There’s too much water in the coffeepot. Pour the extra into the priming pitcher. And next time, fill the pitcher first.”
“Why?”
“Because if it’s dry when you go to pump the next time, you have to walk to the spring for water before you can get any water from the pump.”
“I must pour water in the pump before I can pump water out.” Jessica shook her head. “That hardly makes sense.”
“Most rituals don’t.”
“What if I pump without adding water first?”
“The mechanism wasn’t made to work dry. You’ll ruin it.”
“And your temper, too?” Jessica guessed.
“Count on it. Reno’s, too. He helped me put in the pump.”
“Is he a neighbor?”
“No,” Wolfe said. “He hunts for Spanish treasure in the desert when he’s not staying with Willow in the San Juans.”
“Truly? What does Caleb think of that?”
“He approves.”
“That’s quite, er, exceptional of him.”
“Reno is Willow’s brother.”
Jessica blinked and muttered beneath her breath, “Daunting prospect, being brother to a paragon.”
Wolfe handed Jessica the coffeepot and gestured toward the stove. When she set the pot down, water sloshed onto the black surface of the stove. The cast iron was cold. After fumbling for a bit with the stove door, she managed to open it and peer inside. Kindling was laid out in orderly array.
“Looking for these?” Wolfe asked.
Jessica straightened. He was holding out a cup full of matches he had taken from a shelf near the stove.
“You do know which end to scrape against the iron, don’t you?” he asked dryly.
“The lamp didn’t light itself,” she pointed out.
Wolfe glanced at the lamp smoking happily on the counter. “So I see. Were you planning on smoking fish over the chimney?”
“Don’t be silly. Even I know the difference between a lantern and a fish smoker.”
Jessica scraped a match over the stovetop. It broke. She took another matchstick from the tin cup.
“Besides, I’m not to blame for the smoke,” she muttered, taking another swipe at the stovetop. “I did nothing but light the lamp.” The match didn’t catch. She pressed harder and tried again. No flame jumped to the tip. “It must be the oil you use that’s causing the smoke.”
“No, it’s the wick you used. It’s the wrong length,” Wolfe explained. “If you trim it correctly, the lamp won’t smoke.”
“Then by all means, trim the wick,” she retorted.
Jessica dragged the match over the stove yet again. The head of the match caught and broke off at the same time, sending a shower of burning sulphur tumbling down her skirt.
“Blast!” she said under her breath as she shook off the sparks.
When Wolfe had adjusted the wick properly, he went back to the stove. Jessica was in the process of breaking another match in half while trying to strike it on the smooth, greasy portion of the stove’s metal surface. With a muttered word, she took a new match from the diminishing supply in the cup.
“Here,” Wolfe said, reaching past Jessica and putting his hand over hers. “Hold onto the match. Now bring it across the spot where the fire below burned the hottest. The metal is clean there. No soot or grease is left to foul the match tip.”
As Wolfe spoke, he drew Jessica’s hand beneath his over the stove in a swift, firm stroke. The match blazed instantly to life.
“See?” he said.
Jessica looked over her shoulder at Wolfe. The burning match was reflected in his eyes. The contrast between the flame and the blue midnight of his irises enthralled her, as did the straight, black length of his eyelashes and the pronounced arch of his eyebrows. The intensity and intelligence in his eyes was brighter and more alluring than even the dance of flame.
The odd, shivering sensations returned to her stomach.
“Jessi?”
“Yes, I see.”
“Do you? You look rather baffled.”
“Just a bit shocked.”
“By lighting a match?”
She smiled oddly. “No. By you. I just realized how very handsome you are.”
Wolfe’s eyes widened a fraction, then narrowed. The pulse at his throat speeded.
“I mean, I’ve always known you were handsome,” Jessica continued, trying to explain. “Everyone from duchesses to maids has rattled on about your looks for years, but I never really knew. It’s rather unsettling suddenly to see you as they must have seen you.”
She laughed uncertainly. “Don’t stare at me so. I feel foolish enough as it is. How could I overlook something so obvious for so many—oh!”
Jessica’s hand jerked as the match burned down to her skin. She snatched her fingers to her lips and dropped the still flaming match onto the stovetop.
/>
“Are you all right?” Wolfe asked.
Jessica blew on her fingertips before staring at them critically. “Just a trifle scorched.”
“Let me see.”
He looked at her fingertips, then bent his head and gently ran the tip of his tongue over them. When he lifted his head again, Jessica was watching him with an expression on her face that could have been shock or disgust.
“You needn’t look so appalled,” Wolfe said curtly. “It’s only what a cat would do for a foolish kitten.”
Jessica opened her mouth but no words came out. A visible shudder ran over her. Wolfe turned away and lit another match with a swift slash of his hand.
“Go unpack the trunks, your ladyship,” he said as he set the match to the previously laid fire. “The viscount’s savage will fix supper tonight.”
Jessica flinched. She hadn’t realized how warm and affectionate Wolfe’s voice had become until she measured it against the return of ice and distance.
“Wolfe? What have I done?”
“When you’re finished unpacking, be sure to take some of those aristocratic bed linens you brought and make a pallet by the hearth. A nun like you wouldn’t want to do something so bestial as to sleep near any man, much less a savage like your husband.”
Wolfe stood up. Behind him the stove fire blossomed into orange flames.
“But—” she began.
“You said when I tired of your company you would leave me alone,” Wolfe interrupted, slamming the stove door shut. “Do that, Lady Jessica. Now.”
Even an aristocrat had some common sense. Jessica picked up her skirts and fled to Wolfe’s bedroom. But even there, she found no peace.
The sound of the wind was very loud in the silence.
5
W OLFE watched Jessica as she knelt over a washtub in the lean-to at the side of his house.
“You’re supposed to be washing the shirt, not making rags of it,” he said.
“I see little difference in the process.”
“Not the way you’re going about it, certainly. Tell me, your ladyship, while the servants accomplished all the useful work at Lord Robert’s house, what did you do?”
“I read, I played the violin, I oversaw the staff, I embroidered—”
“My God,” Wolfe interrupted. “Something useful. How did that creep into your daily regimen? Does that mean you’ll be able to repair the seams you’re pulling apart under the guise of washing my clothes?”
“Would you prefer initials, a coat of arms, or Jacobean-style flowers embroidered in your seams?” Jessica asked pleasantly.
Wolfe made a sound of disgust.
She didn’t bother to look up from the washtub and the lean-to’s widely spaced wooden slats. She knew what she would see if she looked at her husband. He would be watching her with cold eyes and an unforgiving line to his mouth. It had been that way for the three days since he had so startled her by running the tip of his tongue over her burned fingers.
And for those same three days, she had kept a smile pinned on her lips until her face ached.
Unfortunately, by now her face wasn’t the only part of her body that ached. She was as exhausted this afternoon as she had been at the end of the stage ride. When she wasn’t pumping water to wash and rinse clothes, she was carrying bucket after bucket to the stove to heat. From the stove she hauled buckets to the lean-to, poured water into the big tub, knelt, and went to work rubbing and scrubbing every piece of clothing. It usually took three or four times before the shirts pleased Wolfe’s critical eye.
“That’s about as much scrubbing as the poor shirt can take,” Wolfe said.
“I think not, my lord. It’s not perfectly clean.”
“Enough, your ladyship. That’s my favorite shirt. Willow made it for me last summer.”
The sound of ripping cloth carried very clearly over Wolfe’s last words.
“Jessica!”
“Oh, dear, look at that. One would think a paragon would choose cloth that was less frail, wouldn’t one?” Jessica dragged the ruined shirt from the water and wrung it out with real pleasure. “But all isn’t lost, my lord. It will make a wonderful rag for cleaning the privy.”
“You little witch! I should—”
Wolfe’s words ended in a curse as he leaped aside, barely avoiding the torrent of soapy water that came when Jessica upended the washtub.
“Sorry, did you say something?” she asked.
There was a simmering silence while husband and wife looked at each other. Then Wolfe smiled. Jessica smiled in return.
“I think it’s time your ladyship learned to scrub something more durable than a shirt,” Wolfe said.
“What’s that?”
“Floors.”
Jessica’s smile slipped, then was resurrected. “Ah, another quaint wifely ritual. It occurs to me, my Lord Wolfe, why Americans don’t have servants. Wives are ever so much cheaper.”
“Too bad you dumped all that hot, soapy water,” Wolfe said, turning away. “Now you’ll have to get more. You do remember where the wood pile is, don’t you?”
“Quite well.”
“Then hop to it.”
“Do I look like a rabbit?” Jessica asked beneath her breath.
Wolfe turned back. “Hurry up, my red-haired bunny. Daylight is free, but lamplight is expensive. Those of us not fortunate enough to be born into the aristocracy have to be concerned about such things.”
Standing up was easier said than done for Jessica. With an effort, Wolfe restrained his instinctive move to help her. Instead, he watched impassively while she struggled to her feet.
Despite her best effort to be silent, a groan got past her lips. Wolfe took it as a sign that he was finally winning the contest of wills. At least, he hoped he was. He didn’t know how much longer he could bear to twiddle his thumbs while the shadows beneath Jessica’s eyes deepened more each hour. The hard physical labor of housekeeping under his critical eye was draining what strength had remained after the long, strenuous trip to his home.
Even though Jessica had trapped Wolfe into marriage, he had too many good memories of times past to enjoy grinding her down in such a manner. Yet he forced himself to watch Jessica’s stiff movements without flinching. If he showed kindness, it would be mistaken for weakness, which would only prolong the process of getting Jessica to accept the futility of their marriage.
But even while he was telling himself to be strong, he was speaking.
“Just say the word and you’ll never put those delicate hands into wash water again.”
Jessica stretched her back and sighed. “The last time you made that offer, you objected to the word I said.”
Bastard.
Unwillingly, Wolfe smiled as he remembered. Jessica caught the softening of his expression and prayed that he would relent on the matter of scrubbing floors.
Wolfe saw her hopeful expression and knew he must not give in. Silently, he picked up the bucket and held it out to her. He saw both the dismay in her eyes and the straightening of her spine as she took the bucket from his hands.
Reluctant admiration grew in Wolfe. Jessica’s sheer determination was greater than that of men twice her size. But no matter how stubborn she was, her endurance was limited by her strength. In the end, he would use her own stubbornness as a weapon against her. In the end, he would win.
All he had to do was endure his own self-disgust while he wore her down.
“Jessi,” Wolfe said gently, “give it up. You aren’t cut out to be a commoner’s wife. You know it as well as I do.”
“Better your wife than Lord Gore’s.”
Wolfe’s temper slipped, for there was nothing he could force himself to do to Jessica that would equal Lord Gore’s drunken brutality, which put Wolfe at a disadvantage when it came to convincing Jessica to give up this farce of a marriage.
“Better for you,” Wolfe retorted coldly, “but not for me. There are many better wives for me than you.”
“Don�
��t count on it,” Jessica said, turning away. “Paragons aren’t so thick upon the ground that you can just pluck one like a daffodil in spring.”
“I don’t want a paragon. I want a wife.”
“How fortunate for the paragon Willow that she is already married. Her heart would be broken if she knew that even her astonishing perfection wasn’t enough to satisfy Tree That Stands Alone.”
At first Wolfe didn’t understand what Jessica meant. When he did, he smiled. It was the first real sign that his frequent praising of Willow’s accomplishments had rankled Jessica. She had just given him a tool with which to chip away at her own monumental confidence that their marriage would work.
“Willow has passion,” Wolfe said. “That’s something a nun wouldn’t understand, much less be able to equal.”
There was no answer but that of the pump handle being worked inside the kitchen as Jessica drew more water for scrubbing the floor.
FORWARD, back, forward, back, dip into the water, lean hard, harder, forward, back, forward, back…
The silent chant had been repeated in Jessica’s mind so often that she wasn’t aware of it any longer. Nor was she aware of the lateness of the hour. Her world had shrunk to no larger a space than the bricks within reach of her scrub brush.
At first look, Wolfe’s kitchen had struck her as small. Now it seemed the size of a ballroom.
Forward, back, forward, back.
The wind had risen with the descending sun. Now the wind moaned hungrily around the eaves and pried with transparent fingers at every crevice, searching for a way inside. Jessica began humming to shut out the horrifying, soulless cries that had disturbed even the exhausted sleep she succumbed to at night. No matter how forcefully she hummed, the sound of the wind was louder.
Lean hard, harder.
The brush moved sluggishly over brick despite Jessica’s desire to finish. Despairingly, she realized that her arms had no more strength. She locked her elbows and leaned her full weight on the brush. It rolled in her soapy fingers and rattled across the floor. She barely caught herself before she went sprawling.
Only Mine Page 9
