Amelia

by Diana Palmer

  "King," she said under her breath.

  "I'd forgotten that he was working out here today," Alan said unconvincingly.

  "He sits a horse like the centaur of mythology," she murmured, her eyes helplessly watching the approach of the horseman. "He is majestic, Alan," she added involuntarily. "How wonderfully he rides!"

  "Quinn said that you used to ride. King didn't believe him, of course."

  "I had a friend whose father owned a riding stable," Amelia said, smiling at the memory of the long afternoons she and Mary had spent in the saddle. "I rode quite well, they said. Of course, when Mother died and I had Father to care for, there was not much time for it. Father was different in those days," she added quietly. "He drove me to the stables himself. It pleased him that I had what Mary's mother called a natural seat for riding. He was very proud of me."

  "This change in him, when did it begin?"

  "Only a handful of years ago," she said sadly. "He is not the man he was, Alan."

  He wanted to know more, but King was within hearing distance now.

  The tall man swung out of the saddle with incredible grace and threw the reins lazily over the horse's neck, letting them trail the ground to keep him close. The animal had been trained to stand when his reins were dragging.

  "Join us," Alan invited. "We have chicken and biscuits!"

  "Coffee?"

  "It is just brewing," the younger man said, nodding to where he'd set the coffeepot boiling on the small fire he'd made with fallen limbs.

  King stretched out beside them, tossing his hat to one side. His hair was sweaty, like his shirt. He looked tired.

  "Still branding new calves?" Alan asked.

  King nodded. "It's hot and thirsty work." He glanced at the crystal glasses. "Champagne?" he drawled mockingly, with a silvery glance that Amelia avoided.

  "Wine," Alan replied. "Lemonade was too much work," he added with a chuckle.

  "Fill a plate for me, Amelia," he instructed, and leaned back against the tree trunk to watch her do it. Her hands fumbled under his unblinking scrutiny. That seemed to amuse him. A corner of his mouth pulled up, and his lids dropped over glittering eyes.

  She handed it to him. He took it, his hand brushing hers deliberately as he took it.

  She jerked her hand away and dived for a fork to give him. He did the same thing with that, making an excuse of it to caress her fingers with his. She met his eyes, and lightning seemed to jab through her body.

  His eyelids narrowed, and the smile faded from his mouth. He sat holding the plate, holding her in thrall, while Alan handled the coffeepot, trying to get some of the steaming black liquid into a cup.

  "Ah," Alan exclaimed, "there we go!"

  King, his attention diverted, allowed Amelia to escape him. She went back to her own corner of the cloth and picked at her chicken and biscuit, her appetite routed by the shocking pleasure it gave her to be near King.

  He ate heartily, while he and Alan talked about the state of the cattle and the far-reaching effects of the lack of rain.

  "We'll have to buy hay to feed if we don't get some rain soon," King remarked, having finished his meal and returned the empty plate with its bones to the cloth. "Water is going to be the real headache. I've had the men start drilling a second well in the lower pasture."

  "Good idea," Alan replied. He glanced at Amelia, who must surely feel left out of the conversation. "We have to make sure the cattle have enough water," he told her.

  "I see."

  King lounged back against the tree trunk again, taking his time about lighting a cigar. Thick smoke curled up from his lean fingers, and he stared at Amelia through it.

  "How do you like your new home?" he asked her.

  "It's very nice." She began to put the food away.

  "Just nice?"

  "It is well-located, of course, in a good section of the city."

  Alan looked from one to the other of them, secretly amused at the thick atmosphere of tension they were projecting.

  King's eyes narrowed for a minute before he turned toward his brother. "Take my horse and ride down to the corral, will you? Ask Hank to move the next lot of calves in. I rode off to see who was up here without telling him."

  Alan hesitated, just to seem reluctant. "Well, I suppose I could." He eyed the horse warily. "I don't like riding the 'iron horse' there."

  "Kit won't hurt you," he was assured. "He's just strong-willed, that's all."

  "Pretty dangerous, too, I'd say, but maybe he won't dump me off."

  "He couldn't unseat you the one time he tried, could he?" King asked, smiling affectionately at his younger brother. "You can handle him."

  "All right, then. I'll be right along, Amelia," he told her. "Save some of that coffee for me," he cautioned King before he swung into the saddle and rode off down the hill.

  Amelia was unsettled at being left alone with King. They could see the corral, but were too far away to be seen, especially under the shade of the tree. She couldn't imagine why he'd sent Alan away unless he wanted to harass her again.

  She turned toward him, ready to defend herself, and stopped dead at the look on his face. That wasn't mockery or sarcasm or a need to hurt. It was pure, helpless desire.

  He put the cigar aside, crushing out the fiery coal at its tip. Then he turned his head back toward Amelia, his pale eyes blazing.

  "Come here," he said quietly.

  She hesitated, and his hand shot out, grasping her wrist. He jerked her down beside him and trapped her there, looming over her like a conqueror.

  "King," she protested.

  "Be quiet." He leaned closer, his chest pressing down on her breasts to prevent her from rising. Even as he moved, his head lowered and his mouth eased down over her startled lips.

  She reacted helplessly to the taste and feel of him, even though she did try feebly at first to resist him. But his mouth was warm and coaxing, and she couldn't help her willing response to it. Her hands fell beside her head. She lay close in his embrace, feeding on the ardent tenderness of his hard mouth while the wind blew ceaselessly around them.

  "Open your mouth," he whispered against her lips, and when she did, he deepened the kiss with deliberate passion. He felt her breathing change under him, felt her mouth tremble as she yielded.

  A soft sound came against his body, and he knew that she was lost, completely his.

  It went to his head. He groaned, and his hands found her head, cupping it, his thumbs exploring her cheeks, the corners of her mouth, while the hard, hungry kiss went on and on.

  She sobbed something against his mouth, and he lifted it just a fraction, his breath jerking out against her lips. "What?" he whispered, half-dazed by the sweetness of her in his arms after weeks of being haunted by the memory of her kisses.

  "King Alan will come back soon," she choked.

  "Kiss me," he said roughly, bending to her mouth again.

  She did, but her hands came up to his chest and started to press against it.

  "Not there," he whispered. "Here, Amelia. Here, little one, here !"

  He fought the buttons apart and drew her hand against his bare, hair-roughened muscles. She moaned at the sensations it gave her to touch him so intimately. Her lower body began to throb sweetly, and her nails dug into the thicket of hair, tugging rhythmically.

  "Amelia," he groaned harshly, aroused beyond bearing. His body eased closer to hers, shockingly close.

  She came to her senses at once when she felt his long, powerful leg sliding against hers. "King, no," she choked, dragging her mouth away, "oh, you mustn't!"

  His head was spinning. He lifted it to look at her, seeing her swollen lips and big, dark eyes and flushed face. She wanted him. It was in every line of her body, in her eyes. He wanted her with such a fever that it took precious seconds for his mind to register that she was trying to make him stop.

  "Alan will be back any minute!" she exclaimed shakily.

  "Alan." Alan. His brother. Amelia's suitor. His silver
eyes flashed down at her angrily. "Do you let him kiss you this way?"

  "No!"

  It had popped out before she could stop it. She gaped at him, shocked by her abrupt answer.

  King was placated. The anger left his eyes, his face, and he studied her in a trembling silence. His lean hand brushed against her cheek, her swollen lips. He looked at her as if he couldn't drag his eyes away, oblivious to everything except the soft womanly scent of her body and the beauty of her face beneath his. Slowly, boldly, he let his eyes slide down to the lacy bodice. It betrayed nothing except the quick beat of her heart and her rapid breathing. He wondered what she looked like under it and if her skin was as soft there as it was on her face and mouth. He wondered what her breasts were like

  "Please," she whispered frantically, as the distant sound of a horse's hooves registered.

  He heard it, too. His body lifted away from hers. Down the slope, Alan was just starting back up. Appalled at what he'd done, King's face went hard and cold. He got to his feet in one fluid motion and turned to watch his brother ride up.

  "That is one fast horse," Alan chuckled, flushed with the pleasure of riding the beautiful animal.

  "Get down from there," King said tersely.

  Surprised, Alan dismounted. He was barely clear of the horse when King flung himself into the saddle and wheeled the horse. Without a word, without a backward glance, he rode off.

  Amelia had managed to compose herself by the time Alan turned, puzzled, back to her. But her mouth was still swollen, her cheeks flushed, from the ardor of King's lovemaking.

  "What happened?" Alan asked curiously. "Did you argue with him?"

  "One is never permitted to argue with your brother," she said stiffly. "He simply says what he feels and goes away."

  Remembering a dozen similar arguments, with King flailing him verbally and storming off, Alan could sympathize. But privately he thought that Amelia looked not as much argued with as kissed. And if King's expression was anything to go by, the older man was as upset as she was by the experience. Seeing King shaken was enough to amuse him, but he was careful not to let Amelia know that he suspected anything.

  "Here," he said. "Do have some more wine, Amelia. We're in no hurry to leave, are we?"

  She settled back on the cloth, keeping her eyes down. "Of course not," she said, and reached for the wine bottle and Alan's glass. If only her hands hadn't shaken so badly, she might have managed to convince him that she was quite calm.

  Alan wanted to take her back to Latigo to spend the rest of the day and have supper, but she refused in a panic. He didn't press her. It didn't take a genius to realize how unsettling she found King, and the older man apparently had no more resistance to her than she had to him.

  He stopped the buggy in front of Amelia's house and got out to tie the horse before he helped her down and escorted her to her door.

  "I enjoyed this afternoon," he told her gently. "I only wish that it had not ended so soon." He held both her hands in his. They were cold, and there were new lines in her face. "If only you could talk to me," he added on a heavy breath.

  "I will be all right," she assured him with much more certainty than she felt.

  "It was because of King that you insisted on coming home, was it not?" he asked shrewdly.

  Her face tautened. "Yes. Your brother does not like me. You must know it."

  "I know more than you realize. If you need me, for any reason, will you promise to send for me?" he added solemnly.

  She nodded. Her hands pressed his. "Thank you, Alan. You are a good friend."

  "Don't you realize that King would be, also, if you were ever really in need?" he added suddenly. "All his imagined grievances would be immediately forgotten if you asked him to help you."

  She laughed bitterly. "Do you think so? For I do not. If I were drowning he would toss me an anchor."

  "That is a delusion. Very well, if I cannot convince you" He smiled at her gently. "Sleep well, Amelia. Will you come to dinner tomorrow? King will be lunching with the Valverdes," he promised her quickly.

  "If I do not have to see him," she said hesitantly, "I will come. If my father is well enough to leave. I cannot ask strangers to sit with him, regardless of their kindness. He is my responsibility."

  "I will come for you after church, in that case, and return you within two hours if it is necessary. Good evening."

  "Thank you. I, too, enjoyed the picnic."

  He smiled and waited for her to go inside before he left.

  Her father was in the bedroom sound asleep. The man who had been sitting with him had left a note for Amelia, telling her that her father had been quite congenial for most of the afternoon and had wanted to take a nap about lunchtime.

  That meant that he had been asleep for most of the day, Amelia thought gratefully. Perhaps he would sleep through the night as well.

  She stood at the foot of his bed, contemplating his pale face and labored breathing. He was dying. The doctor had said as much. Now she was fiercely glad that she had realized her father was ill instead of brutal and that she had stayed with him.

  Her father was going to die, that much was certain. But when, and how, she didn't know. She hoped that he wouldn't become too violent toward the end and that she would be able to cope. She could hardly leave him.

  There was another very big worry to go along with that of his condition. If he kept deteriorating at this rate he soon would be unable to work. There would be no money coming in. Amelia felt a surge of panic. Quinn would not let her starve, but she would not be able to keep the house. She would have to have a job and rooms. Hysterically, she wondered if Miss Valverde needed a maid.

  Of course, she could marry Alan, she reminded herself again. He had hinted in the past that he wasn't quite ready yet but would probably be agreeable to the idea now. But it would cheat him, because she could never feel for him what she felt for King. Her eyes closed on a wave of remembered delight. He had wanted her, as surely as day was separate from night. His arms had trembled, and his mouth had demanded for that sweet, sweet space of minutes. Amelia had never felt such love for any human being as she felt for him. But King only wanted her and took pains to make sure she knew it. He was not making promises he could not keep. Nor would he countenance any continuation of her relationship with Alan that might end in marriage. He would stop her if she even tried to marry his brother. Not that she would. Poor Alan could never be to her what King was.

  She tiptoed out of her father's room and gently closed the door. She went to tidy the sitting room, wondering what was to become of her and how much worse it would get before her father was finally released from his torment, and she from hers.

  Chapter Ten

  » ^ «

  King had raged at his men until one of them threw a punch at him and got knocked into the dirt for his pains. That was what brought him to his senses and made him realize that he was losing his balance because of Amelia.

  He rode back home that evening in a vicious temper, made worse by Alan's constant praising of the woman and his announcement that she was coming to the noon meal the next day.

  "She's not for you," King told Alan harshly, his silver eyes flashing as he confronted his brother in the parlor. "I've already told you that I will countenance no alliance between the two of you!"

  "You're my brother, not my keeper," Alan replied congenially. "I shall continue to see Amelia, and you can do your worst."

  King's face actually went ruddy over his high cheekbones. He glared at his brother with something like hatred.

  "And if we decide to marry, we'll live in town," Alan continued, pushing the knife in deeper. "You will hardly ever have to see her."

  "Damn you!"

  Alan's eyebrows lifted in twin arches. He couldn't remember ever seeing his older brother so livid, so shockingly out of control. "Why do you hate her so?"

  King's hands clenched at his side. He didn't answer. He couldn't.

  "Besides, you had planned to hav
e dinner with Darcy and her parents tomorrow, had you not?"

  King turned on his heel and strode furiously out of the room, almost colliding with his father on the way. Brant stepped to one side, mildly surprised that King hadn't even bothered to speak to him.

  "What ails him?" Brant asked Alan, jerking his thumb toward the hard slam of the front door.

  Alan lifted the brandy snifter to his smiling mouth. "I won't stop seeing Amelia Howard."

  Brant frowned. "You don't love Amelia."

  "Nor does she love me."

  "Then why" He saw the twinkle in the younger man's eyes and let out a slow breath. "I see. You're tempting fate, in more ways than you know. It is unwise to prod King."

  "You've seen how they are together," Alan defended his actions. "The air fairly trembles with emotion, but King has a low opinion of her and is perhaps afraid that fate will kick him down again. I'm merely helping him to see things as they are."

  "You may be prompting tragedy for both of them," Brant said firmly. "It never pays to play God."

  "What harm can it do to give them a helping hand? King is certainly smitten with her. And you must admit that marrying Darcy would be the worst mistake of his life."

  "That much is certain," Brant said wearily. He lit his pipe and sat down. "I find Miss Howard delightful, and so does your mother. She, too, thinks that King is enamored of Amelia. However," he added, staring at his son with the same gray eyes that King had inherited, "from now on, leave things between the two of them alone. You could do severe damage."

  "I don't see how," Alan replied with a smile. "You must admit, it could hardly get worse."

  Brant adjusted the pipe between his teeth. "I wonder," he said, his voice deep and quiet and thoughtful.