The Men of Pride County: The Pretender

by West, Rosalyn

  Garnet brought him a carefully wrapped parcel, offered with a frozen smile. She wasn’t as successful at keeping the emotions from her uplifted gaze. Unshed tears shimmered there, and he was the cause.

  “This should see you for a couple of days.” Her words fractured slightly. She hid the failing of her voice with a pretended cough.

  Deacon took the generous gift. “You’ve been more than kind, considering the inconvenience I’ve caused you.”

  “The excitement, you mean.” Her small smile sent another spear to prick his conscience. “You certainly managed to shake up my daily routine, Sergeant.”

  He wanted to correct her, to have her call him by his given name, but it was better that she didn’t. Better that she remind him of the pretense and his reason for being here in her cheery home. It wasn’t to get personal with her.

  “Before I go, I’ll help you bury those two men. It’s the least I can I do,” he concluded quietly.

  Her reluctance was clear, but she nodded. “Yes, that’s probably a good idea. I’ll get the shovels.”

  So they dug into the hard soil a distance from the house while Boone sniffed happily about the trees. When one large hole was ready to receive the morbid evidence of what they’d done, they hauled the stiffened bodies out of the storage cellar, leaving twin trails through the snow. They were dumped unceremoniously one next to the other.

  “Should we say something over them?”

  “I say good riddance.”

  He regretted the wry sentiment the instant he saw her expression. His callousness horrified her. She didn’t deserve the additional distress.

  “Whatever you feel would be appropriate,” he amended.

  With her eyes actually tearing over the fate of the two vermin, Garnet murmured, “Lord, accept these unfortunate souls into Your forgiving embrace. We cannot commend them for any of their good qualities, having known them only as thieves, but I’m sure You are aware of them, whatever they might be. Forgive us for sending them into Your care. Amen.”

  “Amen,” he echoed half-heartedly.

  Would she speak as charitably at his own graveside, he wondered, casting the first spadeful of dirt atop the deceased. He winced as pain jumped in his side but continued to backfill the hole with steady repetitions. Once the villains were covered, he hoped Garnet could forget they’d ever shadowed her idyllic valley. As if sins of the past could be so easily buried.

  Despite the chill, he was soon running with sweat and favoring his injured ribs. He didn’t look over at Garnet for fear that she’d read the discomfort in his eyes and force him to quit before the unpleasant job was done. He refused to quit on her in this one thing.

  But it was something altogether different that made him pause in his laboring. An odd sound. A wheezy rattle.

  Garnet had bent over double, clutching at her knees. Her lovely face was flushed and running wet as she struggled to catch her breath. She did not struggle as if tuckered out by effort, but actually fought to fill her lungs with any degree of relief.

  “Garnet?”

  She glanced up.

  One look at her fear-rounded gaze and he let the shovel drop. His hands slipped beneath her elbows for support. Up close, the sounds were worse. Panic knifed through him. Was she suffocating? Choking?

  She clutched at his forearms, fighting to say the words. “Must get inside. The cold. Can’t breathe.”

  He didn’t wait to hear more. He scooped her up and jogged toward the house, alarming Boone into following on his heels, barking frantically. He found it easy to ignore the agony in his side because the sudden shock to his heart was ten times worse.

  The attack was a bad one. If she hadn’t been so distracted by the pain of Deacon leaving, she would have felt the symptoms coming on.

  She hadn’t had one of her spells for several years, but there was no mistaking the way it gripped her chest with crushing savagery. The more she battled for breath, the tighter the constriction grew. Helpless and immobilized, she never would have made it back to the house if not for Deacon’s quick action. He whisked her back into the cabin’s warmth, where he heeded her objection to the bedroom over an upright position in a rocker. After tearing off her damp overcoat, he knelt before her.

  He looks terrified.

  The observation bemused her. He hadn’t displayed a flicker of dismay when fighting against Cale for his life, nor when he’d pressed a burning brand into his own flesh. But her distress scared him. She put a calming hand to his cheek, letting her fingertips trail down his neck to rest upon his shoulder.

  “It’s not as bad as it seems,” she wheezed, speaking the lie to reassure him. Fear almost at once muted to concern.

  “What is it? Do you know? Has this happened before?”

  At her jerky nod, he became a man of purpose.

  “Tell me what I can do to help you.”

  She fought to bring out the words. “Steam helps.”

  He was up and gone. She heard pots banging and the splash of water. Then he was back, crouching down to open the first few buttons of her shirt, then blotting her face and neck dry. His touch was gentle, his manner comforting in its control. When he said, “You’ll be all right,” she believed without question.

  Even Boone seemed convinced of his sincerity, for the pup lay beside the chair soundlessly.

  When the kettle he’d put on to boil reached a roiling intensity, Deacon carried her carefully to a high stool angled in front of the stove. While he held her in the curl of one arm, she leaned forward into the hot, wet steam, getting as close as she could stand. He draped a towel over her head to capture and contain the moist air so it could work its magic against the swelling in her throat and lungs. And for the next hour, Deacon held her in an easy circle, massaging her back and shoulders, soothing her panic with his wordless encouragement.

  Gradually, relief came.

  She knew the crisis had passed when the first cough spasmed through her. With each violent seizure, more saving air was allowed to pass. Deacon carried her back to the rocking chair. She looked like a drowned kitten; the steam plastered her hair to her head in wet strings. Her shoulders convulsed with the force of each harsh, yet productive cough.

  She glanced up wearily when he held a cup to her lips.

  “Drink,” he ordered. “It will ease your throat.”

  She drank, tasting honey and a sear of her father’s celebration whiskey, which was only taken out for a sip or two on holidays or occasions. She guessed this qualified. Then she made no protest as he slipped off her heavy woolen shirt, now dampened and clinging unpleasantly to her skin, and restored her to his lap. As the coughing spells dwindled down to raspy sputters, he rocked her slowly, letting her sag upon his chest until the attack was at an end. She barely noticed when he moved into the bedroom to lay her down upon the sheet they’d shared that past evening. All she knew was that when he straightened away from her, she wanted to share that same comfortable closeness again.

  “Don’t go.”

  Her voice rasped like sand on a wood floor, the plea so soft, her look so vulnerable, Deacon could deny her nothing. First, he removed her wet boots, then his own, followed by his ruined Yankee uniform jacket and pistol belt. Then he eased down gingerly and stretched out beside her, opening his arm wide to invite her up against him. The fit of her along his form seemed so familiar, so right, he would have been disturbed by it if he’d not been so drained by worry and fatigue. His own wound ached as if ravenous teeth chomped down on his ribs. The only thing making it bearable was Garnet, who even now was dead to the world in slumber.

  He touched her hair. A mistake, he knew, but the gesture came unbidden, not to comfort her, but rather himself. How would she look with it long and luxurious about her shoulders? What would an evening gown of finest silk do for her glorious figure? The image of her in torn flannel flamed across his memory.

  Reminding himself that she was barely a woman couldn’t dissuade a bodily response. His first in longer than he could
remember, and as inopportune as it was ill fated. Pleasures of the flesh were among those other enjoyable vices he denied himself by virtue of his station. If he were to be an example, he could not corrupt himself with worldly distractions. He didn’t smoke. He drank rarely, and then in moderation. He gambled when the social situation demanded it, and then only if he was winning. His language was governed by a control he almost never surrendered. And like any well-bred planter’s son, he took his rare ease, when necessary, upon the women in Louisville who made it their business to entertain those on business in the city.

  He would have to marry. It was his duty as heir to Sinclair Manor, one he intended to pursue as soon as this war was over. Since he had no opinion on the matter, he would defer to his parents’ wisdom. His father would consider the financial benefit and his mother the practical in steering him toward the proper mate.

  He pictured this unnamed female with indifference and disinterest. She would be pretty table dressing, as finely weaned as a show pony and trained as to her function—which was not to interfere with his life. He would give her whatever material goods she wanted, and she would give him a son. Beyond that, he saw a wife’s position in his household as little different from the staff whose job it was to serve him invisibly.

  Of course, he’d see that the position of being his bride was tolerable and prestigious. He would be considerate and kind and would even converse with the mother of his children, should the need arise. He knew how to be civil, though he found few instances in which to practice those skills. He wouldn’t burden his bride with his passions or his presence. He would model his relationship upon what he’d observed at home: his father ruling the roost, his mother quietly controlling the home.

  It never occurred to him that he might like the woman he would wed. He had little admiration for females, aside from their physical appeal, which he preferred to observe like fine art—from a distance. They were shallow and flighty and given to irrational fits that could only be appeased by bribery. They were a necessary inconvenience when one needed a dancing partner or to procreate. He found them unpredictable and unreliable, a threat to a man’s well-being.

  How often had some hare-brained scheme of his sister’s brought a whisper of disharmony to their home? Dramatic and temperamental, she was often more trouble than she was worth. He was anxious to push her out from under their roof under the control of some unfortunate fool who believed he could rule her. There were times when he was genuinely fond of Patrice. She could be amusing in her own way, and a fierce loyalty lay behind her merciless teasing. He could almost concede that she was a rarity within the gender—until he met Garnet.

  Despite their different upbringings, Garnet was in some ways similar to Patrice. They both spoke their minds—evidence that they actually had minds—and they displayed fortitude more often than feigned delicacy. He found their company … less than objectionable.

  He closed his eyes, letting his mind wander in a dangerous direction.

  What would married life be like if he were wed to a woman like Garnet? As soon as he posed that question of himself, a seditious whisper undercut it. Not a woman like Garnet. Garnet. Forget for a moment that that was impossible. Consider instead coming home to her conversation at dinner. Seeking out a mutual bed for more than just the obligatory heir. Enjoying the company of someone who was caring and clever, rather than self-absorbed and cunning. A novel idea. A damned attractive idea. One as disconcerting as the woman in question. Would he really want his life confused by emotions he couldn’t control?

  Would he really want to commit his heart at the risk of it being broken?

  His hand stilled atop her head.

  No.

  No.

  He closed down his mind, guarding his feelings against the possibility. It was his duty to place property and profits before any personal pleasures. A woman like Garnet would disrupt his priorities. Never mind that he was about to betray everything that she held sacred. This wasn’t the time, this wasn’t the woman, and he’d be courting disaster to think otherwise.

  Even as he shut her out of his thoughts, his body was aware of the contentment found in cuddling her closer. Hers was a form created for such a task—soft on the surface, steel underneath. And he yearned to embrace those pleasures. Pleasures that teased through a fitful sleep and roared to life upon waking.

  He was still there.

  Garnet lay unmoving, studying the relaxed features of the man beside her.

  He hadn’t left her.

  Hope quivered through her as she considered the way he’d cared for her, had comforted and encouraged her during her attack. The vulnerable embarrassment she might have felt was offset by the magnitude of his actions. She remembered the tenderness in the stroke of his hand, the gentle strength in his voice. That, combined with the way he’d kissed her, proved his intent was more than Samaritan.

  Didn’t it?

  She recalled the anxiety steeped in his eyes and the way he’d rocked her upon his lap. Could it be that he did have feelings for her?

  Could the man beside her hold the secret to her future happiness? Or was she setting herself up for heart break at his hands?

  It was early. Sunlight had yet to penetrate the winter gloom. Shadow softened the lines of Deacon’s face, making him seem more approachable, more attainable. Until his eyes opened with a snap, his body instantly alert.

  “Good morning.”

  At her soft greeting, some of the stiffness left his posture. Some, but not all. There was an edge of wariness to him she hadn’t noticed before.

  “How do you feel?”

  She took a sample breath and pronounced, “Fine. My chest hurts a little, but that’s to be expected.”

  At the mention of her discomfort, the air of remoteness ebbed. His knuckles brushed her cheek. “I was worried.”

  Humbled by his honest admission, she gave a shaky smile. “It’s scary. I’ve had spells for years, but they never fail to frighten my father witless.”

  “You said he had breathing troubles, too. This same sort of thing?”

  She nodded.

  “And there’s no name for it? No cure?”

  She shrugged philosophically. “The steam helps, so do some of the local folk remedies. It’s worse in the winter when it’s cold, or when I get very upset about something.” She avoided his intent stare, focusing instead upon the light thatch of hair escaping the opening of his long johns.

  “You’ve had a rough couple of days,” he agreed. “Good thing I’ll be leaving so you can get back to your normal pace.”

  “Good thing.” Her voice trembled. She didn’t think it was a good thing at all.

  She held her breath as his hand slipped beneath her chin to tilt her head up, forcing her gaze to return to his.

  “I have to go.”

  Was it her he was trying to convince, or himself?

  “I know you do.”

  “Is there anything you need before I leave?”

  She could think of several things, actually. She nudged her cheek into his palm, feeling his fingers widen to cup the side of her face. “This is nice,” she said softly.

  He didn’t answer, but he didn’t withdraw his hand, either. She felt his muscles tighten as her palm traveled up his arm, then heard his sharp inhalation as it glided across the sculpted terrain of his chest. The hard beat of his heart made her think of the campaign drum he followed … and would follow again once he left her bed.

  But would he have to leave her life forever?

  Give him a reason to return.

  Because she couldn’t comfortably phrase her wants in words, she stretched up to touch her lips to his. His remained cool and unresponsive, so she pulled away in sudden shame. He regarded her unblinkingly, his gaze unreadable.

  Had she read his interest wrong?

  “I’m sorry,” she blurted out, hot with humiliation. “I didn’t mean to obligate you—”

  He shushed her awkward speech with the press of his fingertips
. “No, I’m sorry. A gentleman should never place a lady in such a compromising position.”

  Her gaze rose to his, wide and innocent in its appeal. “Even when she wants him to?”

  A flicker of need crossed his steady stare, an expression so surprisingly revealing, she could read it as easily as her own heart. She saw loneliness in that stark and hungry gaze, a need for companionship as deep and fierce as her own. It was something neither of them would have acted upon had the circumstance been different. But at this moment, in this place, the time felt so very right.

  Her eyes drifted shut in anticipation as he bent to kiss her.

  Chapter 6

  Just a kiss …

  He should have known the moment her soft lips parted beneath his that it would be more than just that.

  Much more.

  At her invitation, he slipped his tongue inside to taste the sweetness of her offer. She stiffened slightly, whether in shock or surprise it soon didn’t matter, not when she was ripe for new experiences. She opened wider. And when her own tongue danced silkily around his, Deacon knew he was lost. Purpose faded. There was nothing beyond this warm, willing creature who sought so eagerly to fulfill what had been missing within him for so very long.

  One kiss chased another, each varying in expression and design. This one a deep plunging hunger, the next a tender nibble, then a wet tangle that encouraged their hands into play. Her fingers raked through his hair, shifting, kneading, finally fisting as desire shivered through her, hot and out of control. His palms slid down the undersides of her arms, revolving slowly to encompass and reverently claim the fullness of her breasts. Such lush, tempting bounty. His head dipped down. His mouth fastened over one pebbled peak. Even through a layer of cotton, the sensation made her gasp in awe and unexpected arousal.

  She needed to feel him closer.

  Her fingers trembled over the small buttons of her chemise, then peeled the fabric away so the next covering would be the surprising heat of his hands. He thumbed an even tighter welcome before bending to taste and tease and torment with the pull of his lips. Having never realized such delights, Garnet moaned wantonly and arched into his suckling kisses. A strange new yearning began to knot low in her belly, the sensation so disturbing, so raw, she sought a way to alleviate it. Moving against him in anxious little pulses seemed to help at first, then only made matters worse when he leaned back to give them both a saving space.