by Gini Rifkin
“Do tell.” Her aunt was seeing quit a bit of Samuel Colt. His visits put a glow in her cheeks and spring in her step. “And Walker? Has he gone to town?”
The older man looked up. “He rode out to inspect the lower forty. He seems to like the out-of-doors. I expect he misses being at sea, Miss Trelayne…I mean Mrs. Garrison.”
“Oh Merrick, you mustn’t call me Mrs. Garrison. It makes me feel ancient. Besides, you and Wynona are family. Simply call me Trelayne. Please,” she added at his contrary expression. “I insist.”
“It isn’t the natural order of things,” he grumbled. “And you know I’m a stickler for orderliness.”
“Well, at least give it a try. Do you think the Captain misses his former lifestyle?”
Merrick considered his answer before speaking. “He’s the kind of man accustomed to open spaces, and if I may say so, to adventuring.”
His words rang true. She hadn’t thought enough about what their marriage meant to Walker in this respect, or what he had given up. How selfish. She just assumed he was happy living here at Royston Hall. But perhaps he wasn’t. Perhaps his needs and desires were not being met. A prickle of unease poked at her. Walker was a man of action—he’d been a soldier and a sailor. How dull for him to worry over whether or not the crops were growing properly, or how disappointing for him to monitor the docks and watch the ships leave port without him.
“He’s probably back by now,” Merrick said. “Most likely in the stable.”
She grinned and snared her old wool cloak on the run. At the barn, she silently slipped inside and paused. After the noontime glare, the atmosphere seemed muted. Dust motes twirled through the streaks of sunlight boldly spearing between cracks and holes. It was very quiet, not the usual melody of snorting, stomping, and hay munching. After a moment, her eyes adjusted to the dim light, and she spotted Walker.
His back to her, he brushed the only horse in the stable, crooning to the beast as he worked. She held back to admire his broad-shouldered physique. He was so big and tall and solid. She still marveled every time he held her in the shelter of his embrace. He was her fortress.
Having tossed aside his tweed jacket, he stood clad only in shirt, vest, tight breeches, and those rugged American boots—of which he seemed to have an unending supply. She liked that he maintained his own style. His big black hat and tickly mustache were two of her favorite things about him, although at present, thoughts of the rest of his body and the desire to see it here and now, took precedence. She pressed her thighs together to ease the throbbing brought on by her thoughts. She could never get enough of loving him, and prayed he felt the same.
Quiet as her cat, she sneaked up behind him and slipped her arms around his waist. With no hint of surprise, he continued brushing the horse. Nudging her hips against his backside, she slid her hands lower, covering his crotch. The brushing stopped, and what lay beneath his trousers came alive and alert.
“Is that you, Mrs. Garrison?” he asked, over his shoulder.
“Well, I should hope so. Who did you think it was?”
“There was a quite fetching maid traveling with the tin monger. They came by only this morning. I thought perhaps she’d returned alone for more than pleasant conversation.”
“You rogue. What a wretched thing to say. Besides, the woman who travels with Mr. Brisbane is no maiden. She’s at least forty years old, and the way she’s always complaining about her chilblains, she would never survive a tussle with you.”
“A tussle? Is that what they’re calling it now days?”
“A proper rogering then,” she dared to say.
He turned to face her.
“What unexpected vocabulary from such sweet lips.”
Dipping his head, he captured her mouth with his, stifling further discussion. He dropped the currycomb, and grazed one hand across the bodice of her dress—quickening her heartbeat. They were kissing in the daylight, right here in the barn. It was outrageous, it was daring. What if they were caught?
Coming up for air, he eased her away from his chest, and smiled down at her. The horse whickered and bobbed his head as if in approval.
She glanced around. “Where are Jeb and all the other horses?”
“The farrier is here. Except for Mr. Darcy, Jeb’s taken the lot to the far paddock for trimming and shoeing. They’ll be at it for hours.”
He slid one hand down to the apex of her thighs and pressed his fingers into the yards of fabric, finding the spot that led to bliss and the point of no return.
“I can think of something I’d like to be doing for the next few hours,” he said.
With a come-hither look, she braced her hands against his chest as he rubbed between her legs and nuzzled her neck. A moan stuttered in her throat, and eyes closed, she was once more transported to a world holding only pleasure.
Shifting his hands, he gripped her bottom, held her close, and propelled her backward across the stable toward a mound of hay. His gaze never leaving her face, he loosened the clasp on her cloak. The garment tumbled to the ground, coming to rest beside the woolen jacket he’d abandoned earlier.
Taking her hands, he dropped to one knee, encouraging her to follow. The fragrant smell of grass-hay billowed around them as they stretched out side by side. Before he could distract her beyond her capacity to think clearly, she levered upward and boldly shifted to straddle his thighs.
Perched astride his body, her hands on his chest, she stared down at his wonderful face, and when he gave her that crooked smile that said he intended to make love to her no holds barred, a tremor quivered through her. He reached to make good his objective, but she captured his hands, and stayed the action.
“What’s the matter, too good to do it in the barn?” he teased.
She released his wrists, and stroked the bulge below his belt. “I’ll show you good—and better,” she shot back. “But I want to talk to you first.”
“Talk,” he sputtered, “with you touching me like that, I can barely think, let alone talk.”
“I wanted to be sure I had your full attention,” she explained.
“Undivided.”
“Are you happy here?” she asked.
“Delirious.”
He eased his hands under her skirts and worked his way between the folds of material. Seeking and finding her pantaloons, he gently rent the seam in the crotch and proceeded to explore with his fingers what lay beneath the fragile material.
“I’m serious,” she gasped, barely able to talk now herself. “I don’t ever want you to regret marrying me. I don’t want you to yearn for the sea or anything but me.”
“I love you Trelayne, and I’m yearning only for you—burning only for you,”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” His hands stilled, resting on her thighs. “Traveling the world and being at sea was a good life, but a hard one. Now I’ve got the memories to last me forever with none of the adversity.”
“But what about New Bedford? I know you miss it. I see it in your eyes every time you speak of America.”
“I do miss Massachusetts,” he admitted, “and someday we’ll travel there, and I’ll show you my house. We’ll share the adventure together. To return by myself would make me unbearably lonely. And if you said you couldn’t or wouldn’t go with me, I would stay here forever. Wherever we are together is home. Now be a good wife and unbutton my trousers.”
Rather than obey his direct order, she unbuttoned his vest and shirt, smoothed the linen aside, and grazed her hands across the wide plane of his torso. He watched her every move, the expression in his eyes hazy with contentment. When she finally reached for his belt and undid his trousers, he bucked his hips upward in anticipation and the part of him now belonging to her sprung forth big and full and ready to take her to a place she coveted more and more.
Just the thought of what was to come made her wet, and taking the initiative, she crawled forward and hovered above him. Guiding the most needful part of him through the
opening rent in her pantaloons, she slid downward in one, slow, delicious movement.
“Oh, God, Trelayne,” he groaned.
Savoring the feel of him deep inside of her, she dug her fingernails into his bare chest.
“So it’s hot lust you want today, and not sweet gentle loving.”
“Yes,” she breathed, rocking back and forth.
He let her move at will. It was exhilarating to be in control, to set the pace and conquer the male beast. She rode the man-animal without a care for his desires, lost in a world of gratification, although her enjoyment always seemed a please him as well.
Suddenly he spanned her waist with his hands, and lifting her off his body, set her aside.
“What are you doing?” she cried, scrambling to her hands and knees atop the abandoned coat and cloak. She wanted more, wanted to scream with disappointment and unfulfilled need.
“Walker,” she keened and panted.
“Shhh, little tiger, we aren’t done yet.”
Kneeling behind her, he brushed her skirts aside, and tearing the opening in her pantaloons larger, he took her from behind. She twisted her fingers in the wool, bracing her body as he slammed against her, forcing the air from her lungs and a moan from her throat. He took command now. Gripping the fabric of her dress in one hand, he held her in place then sliding the other hand around to the front, he sought the delicate spot he so skillfully tortured to perfection.
They had never done this before—it felt naughty—it felt wonderful. Each slow, deliberate, driving force sent a wave of animal hunger rippling through her body. Each groan escaping Walker raised her desire.
Moans became guttural cries. Uninhibited, she arched her bottom taking in the full length of him, and clawing at the wool, head back, she writhed with pleasure. The sweat of rising need dampened the inside of her thighs, and flushed with a craving that could wait no longer, she cried out and went over the edge. Wrapped in a release more overwhelming than ever before, she lost contact with the world around her. Walker grabbed her around the waist with both hands, and with one last forceful thrust, followed her to the end delight, leaving them both panting.
With a playful growl, he bent over her, and nuzzled and nipped at the back of her neck.
Then they smelled the smoke.
****
Lucien tossed the empty bucket of lamp oil aside, and watched the flames curl up the north wall of the stable. She was a bitch in heat. Just now he’d seen her screwing the good Captain like an animal.
On the outside looking in, he’d watched through the cracks in the barn. He felt like a beggar boy denied entrance to a fine restaurant—hungry for what he could never have, watching the man he hated partake of a feast that should have been his.
How could he ever have thought her worthy of his love and devotion? She was no better than a common whore. No better than Beatrice. He missed Beatrice, more than he ever imagined he would. Now he had no one—other than the voices in his head.
Limping away from the heat and smoke, he took shelter by the corncrib. His body, broken and bruised, throbbed and ached and he rubbed his thigh to ease the pain. When the balloon had gone down, he’d been dragged for miles along the rocky coast, tangled in the ropes, no escape from the agonizing battering of his face, left hand, and left leg. He’d languished in the night barely alive, wishing to die. But a fisherman had found him on the shore the next morning. And like it or not, he’d lived. Now, a monster scraped raw and scarred for life, he was the ugly hideous part of society he had always scorned and hated.
Clasping his head in his hands, he tried to make the pain stop. It was agony, greater than any he had known existed. And it kept getting worse. The voices trapped in the pain told him it was her fault, and she deserved to die. She had refuted their bright and glowing love, turning it into a dark malicious cloud. It was a putrid caul poisoning his thoughts, leading him to this end. Now she would suffer the pain he felt.
****
Walker leaped up, dragging Trelayne to her feet. They jammed their clothing into place and ran to the walk-through door. It was locked.
Catching the scent of smoke, Mister Darcy reared up, snapping the lead on his halter. Frightened by the acrid smell, the poor beast charged about, first one way then the other, knocking over feed bins, hay forks, and wheelbarrows.
“Stay behind me,” Walker ordered, as he tossed his vest aside and slipped free of his shirt.
One hand resting on his back, she kept pace as he stepped closer to the horse.
“It’s all right, old boy. Calm down, Mister Darcy. Good boy.”
For one split-second, the horse paused and turned toward the familiar voice. Walker grabbed the halter, slid the shirt over the horse’s face, and tucked the tails of fabric beneath the leather straps. The horse reared one more time, nearly jerking Walker off his feet, but he held tight not relinquishing his hold. Then the animal pawed the ground and stood trembling.
Trelayne ran to the sliding barn door and pulled with all her might. It wouldn’t budge. The smoke was drifting lower creating a swirling cloud of choking fumes. Through the haze she saw flames on the roof. If it caved in, they were dead, no mistake.
“Trelayne...”
She hurried back to her husband’s side. He took her right hand and placed what remained of the lead in it. “Take him over to the big door. A little fresh air should be seeping in around it. I’m going to try and break down the walk-through.”
Tears burned in her eyes from the smoke, and from the fear they may not survive this ordeal. She didn’t want to leave his side, but knew she must. “I love you,” she whispered.
“I love you, too.” He kissed her forehead, and smoothed her hair back from her face. “We’re going to be all right,” he added, and eased her on her way. “Don’t try to hold him, tie him up. He may get out of control again when he hears the noise I’m about to make.”
With his face still covered, Mister Darcy followed obediently.
Using an iron crow, Walker levered the hinges on the door. Built to withstand the abuse of rambunctious livestock, it was solid built, and wasn’t about to give way easily.
When the roof creaked, Trelayne cringed, expecting the wooden beams to come crashing down at any moment. How could this have happened? Surely someone would see the smoke and come to help.
“Easy, Mr. Darcy,” she soothed, petting the nervous gelding. “My husband will save us. He’s very resourceful and brave and handsome, and oh dear Lord, please don’t let it end like this.”
Trying to filter the smoke from the air, she buried her face in the horse’s mane.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The hinges burst loose on the wooden door, and Walker wrenched open the portal only to shove it back into place. A wall of flames waited on the other side. Someone had piled tree limbs and debris against the opening, creating a barrier Hell would have been proud to call to its own. With the exit rendered useless, he groped a path back across the stable, trying to tamp down his fear, hoping it didn’t show in his face
“It’s no good going that way. We might be able to get out through the roof.”
“But what about Mister Darcy? We can’t leave him here. I won’t leave him here.”
He hadn’t brought along his pistol today. An amateur mistake. He was becoming too comfortable in this civilized environment. He slid his hand to the hilt of the knife Hargis had made for him. That would be a horror. Having no compassionate means of dispatching the beast, he supposed it was all for one and one for all.
Optimism fading fast, he wrestled again with the sliding door. It remained jammed tight, but at least no roaring infernal met his gaze as he peered through a nearby crack.
“Maybe we could tunnel beneath the door,” she suggested.
“Good idea.”
As he turned to search for an implement with which to dig, Trelayne was seized by a coughing fit, and the horse snorted snot and slobber. There wasn’t time for trenching. Before long they wouldn’t be able to
breathe.
“I’m going up top,” he said. “No matter what happens, you must stay right here. I’ll drop down on the outside and open the doors.”
****
“It’s too dangerous. There are already flames up there.”
“It’s the only way.”
“Wait.”
She took off her petticoat and tore it into strips. After wetting the fabric in the water trough, they tied one piece across Walker’s mouth and nose and wrapped the others around and around his hands.
Their gazes locked, and he chucked her under the chin. The expression in his eyes said he wouldn’t let the magic die, wouldn’t let this be the end.
Wringing her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks, she watched Walker climb the ladder to the haymow. Then his image disappeared in the smoke billowing down from above.
Pounding ensued followed by a flash of daylight. Fresh air streaked in through the new opening, offering relief. Then fear returned tenfold as the downdraft breathed life into all the pockets of smoldering hay. Fire leaped up from all sides creeping closer. Grabbing a bucket, she sloshed water over the horse, herself, and the ground around them.
Her chest ached from the smoke, and from the deep sobs she couldn’t hold back. A prayer on her lips, she remembered being a little girl and playing in the barn. She remembered when Mister Darcy had been foaled, and how her father had laughed good-naturedly when she insisted on naming him after a character in one of her favorite novels. No, no, no. Didn’t people about to die have their lives flash before them? She must think of the future, not the past. A future where her parents were recovered and returned home. A future where she was big with child—Walker beaming at the prospect of being a father. Just the other night, she’d had such a dream. What a surprise and delight to have such a happy vision.
The gelding trembled, and she hugged him close. His eyes remained covered, but he needed no vision to grasp the dire circumstances. Sweat trickled down between her breasts. Her back felt scorched, the air so hot it hurt to even think of taking another breath. Walker coming to her rescue was the only thing keeping paralyzing fear at bay.
