The Gunslinger's Bride

by Cheryl St. John

  “I did say please about the blanket,” he said with a smirk.

  “I’m really a very polite person.”

  “Yes, and I’m your fairy godmother.”

  He chuckled—a rusty sound that surprised and pleased her. She softened a little more than she knew was wise, and found herself thinking about his needs and comfort. “Have you eaten?”

  “Hours ago.”

  “Would you like something? And perhaps a cup of coffee?”

  “Now I know you’re right.”

  “About what?”

  “You are my fairy godmother.”

  She turned toward the kitchen. “If I was, I’d turn you into a toad and let the dog eat you.”

  “I think you’re mixed up,” he said from behind her.

  “Fairy godmothers grant wishes, they don’t turn men into toads.”

  “You’re right. Men do that on their own.”

  He pulled out a chair and stood behind it, shrugging into the shirt, which wouldn’t close over his chest. The cuffs rode halfway up his forearms.

  She placed a slice of pie on the table and sized him up with a frown. “Forget the shirt.” She glided behind him and grasped the collar, peeling the garment over his bare back and down his arms. “I’ll wash yours, and if I hang it near the heater, it will be dry by morning.”

  “It’s late, Abby—”

  “Eat your pie.” She tested the coffeepot, found it hot and poured him a cup. “Sugar?”

  He nodded.

  Washing the shirt gave her something to do other than stare at his naked torso while he ate and drank. She wrung the water from his garment, rolled it in toweling and then draped it over the back of a chair she pulled near the heater.

  “Thank you,” he said, placing his plate and cup in the enamel pan.

  “That’s twice.”

  “Told you I’m polite.” He caught her wrist, where the fabric was wet from the chores, and turned her toward him. “Mind my manners, say please and thank you.”

  There was nowhere for her gaze to go except the broad expanse of smooth, hair-dusted skin or his mobile lips. Her gaze fluttered from one to the other.

  “May I please kiss you?” he asked.

  Her heart jerked against her ribs. At that moment, his mouth was the most appealing sight she’d known, and she’d love nothing more than to feel it against hers. “You’ve never asked for a kiss in your life.”

  “Sure I have.” He lazily grazed her wrist bone and his eyelids lowered to a slumberous slant.

  She concentrated on breathing. “When?”

  “Just now.” One hand went behind her waist and edged her closer. Oh, but he smelled good. Familiar.

  She raised a hand to protest, but realized it would come in contact with his flesh, so let it flutter. “That doesn’t count.”

  “Why not?” Heat spread from his fingers to her tingling skin beneath her dress.

  She was losing track of the conversation and didn’t know if she wanted to reply, anyway. She moved her hand again, and this time allowed herself to touch him. His warm skin flinched beneath her fingertips. Surrendering to her own craving, she flattened her palm on his chest. Beneath her hand his heart beat steadily. He was so warm, so alive….

  He closed his eyes and cursed under his breath, but she heard it.

  “That was not polite,” she said, her voice more breathless than she’d intended.

  He leaned toward her, each inch heart-stoppingly slow, and inclined his face to touch his nose to her hair. “What wasn’t polite?”

  “That word.” Daringly, she ran her palm from his chest downward and caressed his hard belly for her own pleasure, slid her hand to his ribs.

  With a groan he said another coarse word, pressed his face to her temple and inhaled.

  They stood that way, hearts beating erratically, breath escaping in shallow pants, for an eternity. He released her wrist to bring his hand up and cup her jaw, turning her face to his. He spread his hand beneath her ear and worshiped her with his eyes.

  “Yes,” she said with a sigh.

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes, you may kiss me.”

  That spectacular mouth turned up in a self-satisfied grin. “Maybe I never said please before…” he inched so close, the warmth from his lips teased hers “…but you never said no, either.”

  At that moment, he could have said anything and she wouldn’t have cared, so attuned was she to the sensual onslaught of his dizzying nearness. She slid both hands to his back and pulled him closer.

  Chapter Eleven

  He hauled her against him as roughly as she grasped him in return, an explosive clash of bodies that pressed the buckle of his holster into her belly. With one arm around her back, pulling her forward, and the other hand at her nape, he kissed her with surprising restraint, his lips warm, pliant, insatiable.

  Abby ran her hands over his back, relishing the glorious feel of him, lost in the magic of his deep-drawn kiss. No one had ever kissed her as thoroughly and splendidly as this. No one had ever turned her insides to liquid heat and created this delicious eagerness in her body. Dimly, she thought of Jonathon, of the possibility that he could awaken and stumble back out.

  Brock must have considered that, too, because he broke the kiss, released her, but kept hold of her hand, and leaned to extinguish the lamp on the table.

  Abby’s pulse beat all through her awakened body as the darkness enfolded them.

  When he tugged her toward her room, she resisted.

  “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he whispered, still coaxing with a gentle pull.

  That was the problem. She wanted to.

  “Just a few kisses if that’s all you want,” he said. “In here where Jonathon wouldn’t see us if he woke up.”

  Against her better judgment, she went. Eagerly. Wantonly.

  Brock sat at the foot of her bed and pulled her between widespread knees to frame her hips through her skirts and tip his face up to her throat.

  She skimmed her palms over his shoulders, kneaded his neck.

  “You don’t know what heaven it is when you touch me,” he said, his voice gruff.

  If it was half what she felt when he touched her, she knew.

  He moved back, coaxing her forward to straddle his lap. “I have my shoes on,” she objected.

  He set her away, raised one foot at a time to his thigh and unbuttoned her shoes, dropping them to the floor, then guided her back.

  “You know I hate those guns,” she said, when her knee bumped one holster and startled her.

  Obliging, he leaned back to unbuckle the belt and remove the revolvers, hanging them over the bedpost.

  “Is that everything?” he asked teasingly in the dark. “Anything else you’d like one of us to take off?”

  “You don’t have much left,” she replied, stroking the skin of his shoulders and upper arms.

  “Feeling left out?” He brought his hands up her rib cage. “We can even things up.”

  She leaned against him, bringing her breasts under his chin. “You’re much to bold for someone who should be far more repentant.”

  “What do you want me to do? Beg your forgiveness on my knees?”

  She thought about it, and couldn’t picture him doing so in a million years. She shook her head, not caring whether or not he could see. His hair beneath her chin was cool and silky. She speared two handfuls and pulled his head back so their faces were close, but tauntingly kept her lips from touching his.

  He lowered his hands to cup her bottom through layers of skirts and petticoats, an intimacy all the same.

  She nuzzled his forehead and temple, inhaling his erotic scent. They hadn’t kissed since they’d come in here, but her body thrummed as though they’d never stopped. He arched his hips up against that place where she pulsed for him.

  “Remember how it was with us, Abby?” he breathed against her cheek.

  “I remember.” How could she ever forget?


  “You were a little scared that first time, but so beautiful in your eagerness.”

  His words seduced, but still she kept her mouth a hair’s breadth from his. “I believed in fairy godmothers back then, too.”

  He ignored that. “Your breasts were always so sensitive to my touch. I remember their perfect shape and—”

  “I don’t have a young girl’s body anymore,” she interrupted.

  “Knowing that has kept me awake at night for weeks,” he replied, then darted out his tongue so that it reached her lower lip.

  Startled, she sucked in a breath, lost track of her thoughts and gave herself over to the sensation of his mouth, kissing him hungrily, controlling the pressure by her grasp of his hair.

  Never passive, Brock explored her bunched skirts to find the hem and glide his hands up her calves, beneath her drawers and over her knees to the tops of her stockings, where he found her skin and tickled enticingly with his fingertips. When the fabric restricted further exploration, he flattened his palms on her thighs through the cotton and rubbed upward.

  He created a rapturous suspense in her body, one she knew too well he could kindle and feed until both of them were sated and replete. One thumb found the placket in her drawers, and tentatively, enticingly, he stroked over the folds of her femininity and found her moist readiness.

  Abby sucked her breath in, squeezing her eyes shut in expectation, releasing her hold on his hair until her wrists draped over his shoulders.

  “Abby,” he said, kissing her throat, her neck beneath her ear. “Abby.” Each vocal caress of her name paralleled his stroking thumb.

  She shuddered uncontrollably under the focused assault, shamelessly indulging in the pleasure he gave. She wanted this in her life. She wanted passion and fire and anticipation and the intense perfection of lovemaking she’d only ever shared with Brock.

  His scent was in her nostrils; her blood pounded in her ears, her every sense compromised by his inflaming assault.

  She found his mouth with hers, tasted him impatiently. He drew his hand away, and she almost wept.

  He found the buttons at her throat and made quick work of opening her dress. Her head cleared enough to know it was time to make a decision. If she didn’t stop this now, there would be no turning back. He kissed the skin of her chest, bared above her chemise. “No corset.”

  The kisses sent tingles across her shoulders and down to tighten her breasts. “I don’t wear one to work.”

  Finding the ribbons that held her chemise closed, he pulled them loose and spread the fabric, letting the cool air wash over her fevered skin. He buried his face between her breasts, and she hugged him close, tears coming to her eyes at the vividness of feeling. She didn’t want to end this experience. She wanted to revel in it.

  Brock stood her up to remove her dress. Untying her petticoats, he helped her kick them off, then peeled down her stockings and drawers. He ran his hands over her hips and along her thighs, worshipfully, then guided her to the bed, where she hastily peeled back the coverlet and sheets and reclined while he made quick work of the rest of his clothing.

  “Have we ever made love in a bed?” he asked, leaning over her, his hard body sliding against her sensitized skin from her breasts to her thighs.

  “I—I don’t think so.”

  He closed a hand over her breast, and she bit her lip against a lusty groan. Drawing her other nipple into his mouth, he tortured it with his tongue and lips until she wanted to scream.

  Her powerful responses awakened a realization that her memories and fantasies had not blown Brock Kincaid’s effect on her out of proportion. This tantalizing rediscovery was no dream.

  Beneath Brock’s hands, her sweet body trembled and tensed, twined and pressed. He remembered the combination of fragility and strength that had always made Abby unique and desirable. The energetic passion that had always matched his was still as fierce as ever.

  He explored leisurely, giving lavish attention to each place that caught his fancy or stole her breath, all the while gauging her arousal, yet prolonging the enjoyment for both of them, honing the inevitable to a fever pitch. Her breasts were fuller than he remembered, her hips more curvy—womanly changes that made him crazy with wanting her.

  She returned the caresses until he caught her wrists, stroked her damp shoulders and slowed her down. He pushed to his knees and pulled her to a sitting position in the V of his thighs, facing away from him. She snuggled backward, eliciting an unrestrained groan from him. He caught her disheveled braid, ran his hand to the end and fumbled to unfasten the tie.

  Using his fingers as a comb, he loosened her hair from the ends to her scalp. Once the tresses were free and flowing over her back, he caressed her through the silky coolness, leaned into her and inhaled her mind-numbing essence.

  Arousal pounding now, he pulled her back, weighed her breasts in his palms, flicked the nipples with his thumbs until she drew up her knees and whimpered.

  Brock guided her to lie down, then stretched over her and took pleasure in the way she opened her silken body to him, eagerly drawing him close. Pressing into her, he captured her cry with his kiss, groaned against her mouth and held himself perfectly still lest he end the ecstasy as soon as it started.

  The tide abated and he moved. Abby caught his face with one palm, and her chest jerked with a sob. At her cry, his heart dipped. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Yes, don’t stop.”

  “I just want it to be good for you,” he said, meaning it with all his being. “This is for you, beautiful lady.”

  “You know I’ll hate you now,” she said, her breathy voice lacking conviction.

  “You hated me already,” he replied, hearing the sadness with which he said the words.

  “Not like this,” she whispered. “Not like this.”

  “Oh, Abby,” he said, and slowed his movements.

  “If you stop now, I will get one of those guns and shoot you in your black heart,” she threatened.

  Despite the sadness in his heart, he smiled at her spirit, admired her never-flagging gumption. And thrust them both over the edge.

  She hadn’t been imagining how it had been between them. The years hadn’t blown their explosive attraction out of proportion in the least. If she’d been testing that, she had an answer. And how.

  Brock had pulled the covers over both of them, but she had drawn away, torn between wanting to hold him close so badly that her arms ached, and needing to distance herself so she could think.

  They were too different, and the past had built too many hindrances to conceive of any kind of compromise. She had accepted part of the responsibility for his leaving, but how could she forgive him his part? True, he hadn’t known she was going to have a baby, but if he’d cared in the least, he would have stayed to find out.

  That thought jolted her into awareness and her head buzzed for a full minute while she collected her thoughts. What if she’d gotten herself with child again? Abby clutched the edge of the covers and squeezed her eyes shut. It was highly unlikely that this one time had created a baby. She was a little more knowledgeable than she’d been back then, and she knew the number of times they’d been intimate in the past had increased the likelihood. This was one time, and she’d just finished her menses. The time between cycles made a difference, too, she’d read.

  Besides, fate couldn’t be that cruel twice—not that Jonathon was a mistake. She had never regretted her child a day of his precious life. And she never would.

  “Abby,” Brock said from beside her.

  “Don’t say anything,” she ordered, and pushed herself to a sitting position, taking the sheet with her. “You’ll only make it worse.”

  “Worse than what? What just happened couldn’t have been any better.”

  “For you. You have no responsibilities. No concern for tomorrow. If things don’t go your way, you simply leave and don’t look back.”

  “You’re being unfair. And cruel.”

  She got
up and found her robe on a hook. “I told you not to talk.”

  He sat; she heard the movement and saw his outline in the darkness.

  “Just go,” she said, turning her back.

  “I’m not leaving.”

  She’d known that. But she didn’t have to condone his presence in her bed.

  Behind her, movements indicated he was pulling on his trousers, picking up his guns, preparing to leave the room.

  “I have something for you,” he said. “It’s in my coat. I’ll be right back.”

  “I don’t want anything from you.” But he was gone. He returned a few minutes later, carrying an oil lamp.

  The light embarrassed her, and she tightened her robe around herself, refusing to look at him.

  He came to where she sat at the edge of the bed, and extended a tiny velvet pouch.

  She glanced at it and away.

  Brock set the lamp on her bureau and slipped something from the pouch to show her. A lovely opal-and-diamond brooch twinkled in the lamplight.

  His offering cheapened what had happened even more, and a sick feeling cramped in her belly. “You don’t have to pay,” she choked out.

  Anger flickered in his eyes. “I’m offering you a gift.”

  “I can’t accept it.”

  “It was my mother’s,” he said curtly.

  Caught completely off guard by that announcement, she looked at the pin again. Why would he give her a piece of his mother’s jewelry when he felt nothing for her? Why did he imagine she would accept it? Did he think to appease her somehow?

  Brock held the brooch out to her, suddenly feeling as vulnerable as he did when he went without his revolvers. He’d thought of Abby the moment he’d seen it among the heirlooms he and his brothers had divided. And he’d known there would never be another woman who meant what Abby meant to him. This was hers.

  “I don’t want it.”

  Her rejection bit deeply. With her scent still on his skin and the acute memory of what they’d just shared filling his mind, he absorbed the affront with stoic resolve. “Save it for Jonathon, then.”

  Brock jerked her hand from the front of her robe and pried her fingers open, placing the jeweled pin in her palm. “He should have something that belonged to his grandmother. Maybe it will mean something to him someday, even though it means nothing to you. He can give it to the woman he—” Brock stumbled over the word that almost fell from his lips. She would take any declaration of love or affection and turn it against him. “Marries,” he finished, and stalked from the room.