A Stone Creek Collection, Volume 2

by Linda Lael Miller

  He approached the bed, threw back the lovely faded quilt and top sheet beneath. “Which side do you want?” he asked, before yawning expansively.

  Lydia managed to move far enough to lay the folded wedding dress down carefully on top of an old steamer trunk in one corner of the room. From what she could see of that bed, it was barely big enough for Gideon, let alone the both of them. And he expected her to choose a side?

  “Maybe I should sleep on the floor,” Lydia said.

  “You’re not sleeping on the floor,” Gideon countered immediately, and with a touch of impatience. A pause followed. “And neither am I.”

  Lydia realized she had to make a decision and act upon it. “You sleep next to the wall, then, and I’ll have the outside.”

  Gideon, still wearing his trousers and nothing else, executed a sweeping bow, and when he straightened, the lamplight splashed across his face and Lydia saw that he was grinning. “A wise choice, Mrs. Yarbro,” he said. “That way, if I decide to ravish you in the middle of the night, you have at least a fighting chance to escape.”

  “I wish you’d stop calling me ‘Mrs. Yarbro,’” Lydia said, embarrassed because Gideon had guessed exactly why she’d chosen to sleep on the outside. Thank heaven he couldn’t suspect how strenuously another part of her had argued for the inside. “It sounds so—formal.”

  “Formal or not, you are legally my wife. That makes you Mrs. Yarbro.” Gideon unfastened the top button of his trousers as he spoke, causing Lydia to turn around again, this time with a whirling motion. And making Gideon laugh again, a throaty rumble that struck a corresponding note deep inside her. “Some husbands would wonder if they’d married a virgin or not. I’d say there’s no doubt about that where you’re concerned.”

  Lydia heard the creak of bedsprings and knew Gideon had finally reclined, leaving her with nothing else to do but climb in beside him or curl up on the hooked rug like a dog settling down for the night.

  When she could make herself meet Gideon’s gaze, she found that his face was in shadow once more—except for the flash of his white teeth. He was grinning again, apparently amused by her discomfiture.

  “For God’s sake, Lydia,” he said, “get into bed before I change my mind, break my word, and have you right and proper.”

  “That,” Lydia responded pettishly, “is hardly reassuring.” But she drew nearer, reached for the ornate key that would turn the wick and extinguish the china lamp.

  “Leave that,” Gideon said gruffly.

  Although she had neatly skipped over the word obey in the vows she and Gideon had so recently exchanged, Lydia found herself doing as she was told, leaving the lamp to spill light over them both, squeezing into bed next to him.

  The warmth and steely hardness of Gideon’s body were hard to ignore, pressed against her like that, but Lydia was determined to notice as little about her husband’s anatomy as she could. She shifted onto her back, thinking it was a good thing neither of them were any bigger than they were.

  She’d almost convinced herself that she could close her eyes and sleep lying next to a naked man, when Gideon stretched across her, his arm brushing her suddenly sensitive nipples as he reached to turn the lamp key.

  Lydia felt like a patch of tinder-dry sagebrush in the path of a wildfire.

  Gideon was almost on top of her, and if he so much as kissed her or stroked her hair, she knew she would ignite and be consumed. The wanton hussy, barely under control even now, would surely assert herself.

  But Gideon did not kiss her.

  After passing over her again, having plunged the room into darkness by turning the lamp, he lay down, and within a few moments, Lydia knew by his breathing that he’d gone to sleep.

  She felt both relief and disappointment—she’d expected him to at least try to seduce her. After all, agreement or no agreement, it was their wedding night, and given the incendiary nature of the kiss they’d shared the day before—had it really been only yesterday?—she’d thought he might succumb to temptation.

  Not that she’d tried to tempt him in any way, of course.

  She’d been the very soul of modesty.

  Maybe she should have, though, she reflected fitfully, feeling hot and achy and oddly moist in the private place between her legs. As sheltered as she’d been, she knew that men were by nature lusty creatures and could not be expected to control their impulses in certain situations—the aunts had warned her about this on numerous occasions, usually after they’d had too much sherry.

  Lydia knew Gideon wanted her—they were in such close proximity in that narrow bed that no amount of naïveté would have allowed her to delude herself in the matter—but it seemed he was quite able to control his masculine appetites, because he was most certainly asleep.

  A deep and sudden stab of loneliness struck Lydia then, and that was indeed strange, given that Gideon was lying not just beside her but against her.

  Tears stung her eyes; she blinked them back.

  Although she’d dreaded having relations with Jacob Fitch, she imagined the worst would have been over by now if she’d gone through with the first wedding of the day. Having sated himself, Mr. Fitch would probably have lapsed into near-unconsciousness long since, leaving Lydia free to creep out of bed, wash herself thoroughly, and find a private place to cry.

  As much as she abhorred the idea of submitting her body to Mr. Fitch night after night, she knew she would have gotten used to it eventually, learned to endure what happened in the marriage bed by thinking of other things until it was over. Millions of women did just that, didn’t they? According to Helga—who had been unhappily married at one time, before her husband had had the good grace to run off with a dance-hall girl, never to be seen again—the first experience was painful, the next few merely uncomfortable. After that, though, it was something one simply waited out, and invariably quick to end.

  Yes, it was true that Mr. Fitch had made her feel revulsion and not much else, and Gideon inspired desire instead. But at least if she’d stayed and married Mr. Fitch, she and the aunts and Helga would still have their home and their own things around them—the books in the library, the garden full of hardy flowers they’d worked so hard to coax from the earth, the dour but blessedly familiar portraits dominating virtually every wall.

  What would happen to the flowers now, with no one to carry water to them? The thought of them waiting in vain and then wilting deepened Lydia’s sorrow, made it nearly unbearable.

  Now, suddenly, she was a guest in another woman’s house, sleeping in a man’s shirt because she didn’t own a nightgown and didn’t want to traipse through dark rooms to recover the one she’d borrowed. She had a husband who did not want to be married to her.

  The tears came again, and this time, Lydia couldn’t hold them back.

  Some inner sense must have alerted Gideon; he shifted behind her, rested his arm across her waist, though not heavily.

  Lydia bit her lip to keep from sobbing aloud.

  She felt the backs of Gideon’s fingers brush her wet cheek.

  He drew her closer, if that was possible, so they lay tucked together like spoons in a drawer, and that comforted her a little. At the same time, it made her want him more.

  “Don’t be afraid, Lydia,” Gideon murmured. “Don’t be afraid.”

  “I’m n-not,” Lydia lied.

  Gideon drew her around to face him, wrapped her in a loose embrace. He was hard everywhere, his chest, his shoulders, his arms and thighs—and, of course, there.

  “We’ll find a house of our own tomorrow,” he said. “Then you can have a room all to yourself.”

  A room to herself.

  That was what he thought she wanted.

  And she didn’t know how to tell him how wrong he was, because she wasn’t at all sure what she did want, beyond release from the physical n
eed he’d aroused in her.

  What such a release would be like she couldn’t say precisely, but she knew instinctively that it was part of the reason Lark glowed the way she did, especially when Rowdy was around.

  Lydia cried all the harder.

  Gideon sighed. He’d told her he had to work in the morning; he was growing impatient because she was keeping him awake. “What is it?” he asked, very quietly.

  She hadn’t meant to say what she did next, it simply came out. “The way Lark is—”

  “Pregnant?” Gideon prompted, with a tinge of amusement in his voice.

  In for a penny, Lydia thought, in for a pound. The darkness gave her courage—or just made her reckless. “The way she is with Rowdy—”

  “Ah,” Gideon said. “That.”

  “That?”

  “If I show you what makes Lark shine like she swallowed every streetlight in town, will you go to sleep?”

  A thrill of sweet terror went through Lydia. “That depends,” she said, suddenly breathless.

  Gideon rested his hand on her lower belly, began easing the shirt upward, baring her thighs and then more of her, and still more. With a low, sleepy groan, he nibbled at her earlobe, sending fire racing under every inch of her skin, making her quiver.

  “Depends on what?” he asked lazily.

  “I’m—I’m not sure,” Lydia admitted.

  He chuckled at that. “I’m going to hate myself for this,” he said.

  Lydia squirmed as the unnamed need intensified with every featherlight pass of his fingers over her bare skin. Gave a little gasp when Gideon suddenly parted the nest of curls between her legs and began to caress her in earnest, though very slowly.

  “Oh,” she whimpered, stunned by the delicious sensations launching themselves from that tiny nubbin of flesh to race skyward like Chinese rockets. “Oh.”

  “Umm-hmm,” Gideon affirmed, his fingers making circles, going around and around. Moist before, Lydia was wet now, and the slickness of her skin increased the rising, panicked pleasure with every movement of his hand, however slight.

  “Ooooh,” Lydia gasped.

  “Shh,” Gideon said, teasing her now, plucking at her, drawing a strange, silent music from the very core of her body, leading her, note by note, toward some shattering crescendo.

  Lydia’s hips began to move, with no prompting from her mind, causing the bedsprings to squeak slightly.

  Gideon chuckled into her hair and worked her harder, and yet with a tenderness that opened new places inside Lydia, revealed a world of fierce desire she’d never dreamed was there. “Easy,” he mumbled. “You don’t want to get there too soon.”

  Lydia had no idea where “there” was—all she knew was that she wanted more of what Gideon was doing to her—much more. That she would surely die if he stopped caressing her.

  “Oh—Gideon—” she pleaded “—Gideon—”

  He slowed his fingers, nibbled at her neck and the edges of her ear, sighed again.

  “Faster—oh—Gideon, faster—”

  “Shh,” he said again.

  She tried to part her legs farther, but there was no way to do that, in such a confined space, and Gideon seemed to find the dilemma amusing, because another hoarse chuckle escaped him. Finally, he left off stroking her toward madness to run his hand along the quivering flesh of her thigh to her knee. He grasped it, though gently, and lifted and, again by instinct alone, Lydia caught her foot behind Gideon’s calf.

  When he went back to plying her with his fingers, she couldn’t keep quiet anymore. She turned her face into the pillow, to muffle the ragged, involuntary cries of ecstatic desperation.

  Gideon continued to pleasure her with his hand, groaned again as he brushed his lips across her nape.

  Lydia was feverish by then, mad with need—and with curiosity. “What is—oh, dear God—what is happening to me—?”

  “You’re about to find out,” Gideon drawled, increasing the pace.

  Lydia’s hips wanted to fly now, but Gideon had somehow pinned her against him, making it impossible to move. When a low, steady moan poured from her, one even the pillow couldn’t stifle, he shifted her to lie flat beside him and covered her mouth with his.

  When his tongue passed her lips, all of Creation splintered into a blinding light, full of color and fire.

  Lydia bucked wildly under Gideon’s hand, and he contained her cries by deepening the kiss. And even as she came apart in his arms, he didn’t stop making those slow, fiery circles with his fingers.

  That first release was so calamitous in scale that it nearly consumed Lydia and yet, as she descended from the heights, Gideon continued his leisurely pleasuring. Every few seconds, she’d catch on another, softer peak, and then soar helplessly, and then fall again.

  When he’d coaxed her body through the last spasm of surrender, never letting the devastating kiss end, he somehow knew she was finished, and slid his hand to her lower belly, let it rest there.

  “That,” he said, “is why Lark lights up when she’s around Rowdy.”

  Lydia’s face burned in the darkness. It was a long time before she could breathe well enough to answer. “But there’s more—isn’t there?”

  “Yes,” Gideon answered. “There’s more. But that isn’t going to happen—not tonight—so go to sleep.”

  “But what—what about you?”

  “I’ll survive,” Gideon ground out in response. “I think.”

  “Gideon?”

  “What?”

  “It was—wonderful. I never—I never guessed—”

  “Neither did I,” Gideon said. “Neither did I.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT WAS A DREARY RELIEF to Gideon when the first pinkish-gold light of dawn finally crawled over the eastern hills to seep into the darkness and slowly diffuse it. Ahead of him lay a ten-hour shift spent sweating and straining in the belly of the earth, loading copper ore into carts on iron rails, keeping his eyes and ears open the whole time. By comparison to the night just past, it would be easy.

  After he’d introduced Lydia to that most innocent of pleasures, she’d sunk into a blissful sleep, just the whisper of a contented little smile resting on her mouth. He, on the other hand, still ached with the need of her.

  Resigned, he eased out of bed without waking Lydia—no small feat, given that he had to span her to do it, using complicated motions of his elbows and knees—pulled plain trousers and a shirt from the wardrobe where he kept a minimal supply of clothing for visits to Stone Creek, dressed himself.

  Down the hall, in the fancy bathing room, he splashed his face a few times at the sink, scrubbed his teeth with baking soda and a brush, ran his fingers through his rumpled hair. There was no time for a bath—he could have used a very cold one—nor did he take time to shave. He needed to look like a miner, not a dandy, and he’d lingered too long in his bed, wanting Lydia and silently reciting all the reasons why he shouldn’t take her.

  It was crazy, but in the daylight he thought of her as a child—the ailing little girl whose father had frozen to death in a buggy, on a lonely winter-buried road. Lydia had certainly been all woman the previous night, though, responding to his every touch with soft moans, small, rippling quivers he felt through the silken warmth of her flesh. That first lusty climax that would have roused the household if he hadn’t covered her mouth with his, but there hadn’t been much he could do about the complaining bedsprings.

  Carrying his boots in one hand, Gideon descended the back stairway, found Rowdy in the gaslit kitchen, with coffee brewing on the stove.

  “Mornin’,” Rowdy said, and when he turned to nod at Gideon, there was a little smirk quirking the corner of his mouth and his blue eyes were dancing.

  So his brother had heard enough to guess that something had happened,
Gideon concluded glumly, despite his efforts to keep Lydia quiet. Lark probably had, too—and that possibility added significantly to his embarrassment.

  “Mornin’,” Gideon responded, without smiling.

  Rowdy poured a second mug of coffee, set it on the table in front of Gideon when he sat down to pull on his boots. “Lark fixed you a lunch,” Rowdy said. “It’s over there on the sideboard, in that lard bucket.” With a glance at the clock, ticking loudly on a shelf, he added, “Reckon you didn’t leave yourself enough time for breakfast, though.”

  “I’ll be all right,” Gideon said, wondering if he would. He supposed it was a good thing that the house was full of people, because if it hadn’t been, he’d probably have said to hell with his lucrative assignment at the Copper Crown, gone back up those stairs and shown Lydia Fairmont Yarbro every trick he knew, and a few he’d only heard about.

  “You want to tell me what you’re really up to?” Rowdy asked easily, after pulling back a chair of his own and sitting down. Pardner came over and rested his muzzle on Rowdy’s thigh, for an ear-ruffling.

  For a moment, the question didn’t fully register with Gideon, given the distractions going through his mind. He shook off the mental seduction of his nubile wife, reminded himself that he couldn’t afford to let his thoughts wander, not if he wanted to live into old age.

  He looked at Rowdy over the rim of his coffee mug, took a sip, savored it and swallowed before replying—and even then, he hedged. “Up to?” he echoed, raising one eyebrow in feigned puzzlement.

  Rowdy thrust out an irritated sigh. “Spare me the theatrics, Gideon. You were a Pinkerton agent before you signed on with Wells Fargo, and before that, you plied your trade with one of the biggest railroad companies in the country. Now, suddenly, you’ve decided you want to be a miner instead. Half the pay, if that, and ten times the work. So I’ll ask you again—what are you up to?”

  Gideon wished he could tell Rowdy the truth—there wasn’t a man on earth he trusted more—but he’d given his word to the mine owners when he’d accepted the job and a sizable initial payment for his services, and that was that.