by Tess LeSue
He felt obligated to sit too. It felt wrong standing over her.
But now he was stuck with her, sitting at the table. The lamplight caught the planes of her face and made her eyes big pools. Matt turned himself to the task of finishing his last sandwiches as quickly as possible.
He was quickly sobering up. They’d lapsed into a charged silence. It dragged on so long, Matt had no idea how to break it. He could feel himself starting to sweat. Women made him so damned uncomfortable. Every time he moved, she looked at him like he was about to speak. He resolutely kept his mouth full so he wouldn’t have to. Because what did one say to a lady?
What he should say was that he had a solution to her problem. What he should tell her was that speech Wendell had worked out for him. But Matt had planned to have that little talk in the morning, in the cold light of day, somewhere formal and stuffy like the public parlor. Not in the middle of the night, in the intimacy of a circle of lamplight, when he was drunk and she was flushed and damp and looking as sexy as all hell.
“Well,” she said awkwardly, once she’d finished her cup of milk, “I should get back to work.”
He nodded and crammed another bite in, so he wouldn’t have to talk. She fetched him a candle from the mantelpiece and took the lamp with her. Matt breathed a sigh of relief when she left. He slumped in his chair. It didn’t matter how many miles he traveled, how many people he brought safely through the wilderness, how many disasters he averted, how many violent men he faced down, he still found himself unsettled by women. It wasn’t likely to ever change, he thought glumly. He was too old now.
It was all right if he was in a business situation, or if there were other men around. It was being alone with them that was the problem. Particularly when he was attracted to them.
Hell. Why couldn’t he be like his brother Luke? Luke thrived on being around women, much to his wife’s disgust. He could talk a woman into a swoon within all of half a minute. Matt didn’t have that knack.
It was probably because he’d spent so much of his childhood without them. His mother had died when he was no bigger than a gnat, followed not long afterward by his father. Once his brother Luke had managed to get them set up in Oregon, it had just been the three of them for the rest of Matt’s childhood. Three boys in a leaky, smoky hut in the middle of nowhere. Luke had taken to scouting and eventually being a guide on the trails, so he was often gone for months at a time, and when Tom got old enough, he’d headed out too, running cattle. Matt knew he mostly used it as an excuse to head down to Mexico. Tom had never got over leaving. He would have moved back to their old home in Arizpe, where their mother was from, if Luke and Matt had come with him. But Luke liked Utopia and their land in the foothills of the Cascades, so they all stayed in Oregon. Or rather, Matt stayed. They wandered.
Most of his life had been spent by himself, keeping the homestead running while his brothers flitted about; he only ventured into town when he absolutely had to. He used to find social interactions painful beyond belief. When his brothers were home to look after the place, he took himself off trapping and hunting, avoiding other people wherever possible. His life was a solitary one. And he guessed he liked it that way.
Although, it had been pretty nice when Alex and her family had moved into the big new house. The fires had always been lit, and the rooms were warm; the smell of coffee and biscuits drifted through the house at all hours of the day, and wherever you were you could hear the sound of other people. It had been odd and unsettling but also kind of . . . pleasant. Only it wasn’t Matt’s home anymore. It was Alex and Luke’s. And day by day, he’d felt more alone, even though he’d been surrounded by other people.
He could hear the slap and slop of water in the tub as Georgiana scrubbed her clothes, and he saw her shadow leap on the wall opposite. After a minute, he fancied he could hear a soft sniffle or two. Then a hitching breath. He knew why she was crying. It was because she had to face up to Wendell and Kipp tomorrow, because she was alone with all those young ’uns, without a husband, and facing a two-thousand-mile journey across some pretty hard land, and all without servants.
Matt shook his head. He couldn’t imagine what her life must have been like until now. Imagine never having washed a shirt. The trail was going to be mighty rough on her. He sighed. He guessed the least he could do was put her out of her misery tonight. Maybe then she could get some sleep.
He brushed the crumbs off his hands and went out to the laundry room, feeling much steadier than he had before the sandwiches. Sure enough, she was crying.
“Here,” he said gruffly, taking the sodden clothes from the tub. “I’ll work the wringer.”
“No,” she protested. Her hands flew up to her face again, clearing away evidence of her tears. Not that she really could. She was all pink and watery looking.
“You’ll be here into next week if no one helps you.” He fed the first shirt into the mangle. “Besides, you don’t look tall enough to reach the handle.”
Even that didn’t raise a smile.
“Thank you for your help.” She sounded tired. Deeply, thoroughly exhausted.
They lapsed into silence as they worked. There was the sound of water running out of the clothes as Matt winched them through the mangle, and the rub of the washboard as she worked the grime out of the children’s clothes. The lean-to was steamy and Matt was sweating. It wasn’t pleasant. He could smell the booze coming off him. He hoped she couldn’t.
“Look,” he said abruptly, not knowing a gentle way to break it to her, “I had an idea.” It wasn’t his idea, of course; it was Wendell’s, but he couldn’t tell her that. “An idea about us not being married . . .” he continued.
The washboard fell silent. Matt didn’t look at her. He kept his gaze fixed on the mangle. “I ain’t going to marry you,” he said firmly, “so put that idea out of your head right now. And I ain’t of a mind to pretend to be married to you neither.”
“I know.” There was another little sniffle.
Matt let out a gusty sigh. Hell. He really was going to go through with this. Against all of his better judgment. “But I was thinking . . . there probably wouldn’t be any harm in pretending to be engaged to be married . . .”
He heard a sudden intake of breath.
He risked a look. She was frozen, her eyes all huge and inky again.
“Only until Fort Hall, mind,” he said firmly. “No more ’n that. That’s what you asked for today. I can get you safely to Fort Hall all right. You can tell everyone we’re planning to marry, but we’re waiting till we get to my family in Oregon. That should keep the wolves at bay. But we’re breaking off our ‘engagement’ at Fort Hall, you hear? And then I’m going home. Alone.”
“Engaged . . . ?” she breathed. She said it like it was some kind of miracle.
He scowled. It sounded even dafter now he’d said it aloud to her. “You know what?” he said, feeling contrary as all get out. “I reckon I can try and take on a bunch of eligible bachelors when I put the train together. Since you still need a husband. You can spend the trip evaluating them, and then you can propose once we end our arrangement.” He felt a jab of pleasure at the thought of irritating Wendell Todd. Imagine his face if she announced her intention to marry someone else at Fort Hall. Especially after the way the bastard had spent the night squawking about Matt’s “engagement” to every saloon in Independence. “It’s a darn sight more sensible than picking one after a single interview.”
“But today you said . . .”
“I said I wouldn’t marry you, and I won’t. I won’t pretend to marry you either. I ain’t the marrying kind. But I reckon it won’t do no harm to pretend an engagement. It shouldn’t bind us—not in any way we cain’t get out of.”
“But we told Wendell and Kipp we were married . . .”
“We didn’t,” Matt said grumpily. “You did. And don’t worry about them. I already spoke
to Wendell.”
“You did?” The look on her face was indescribable. It was kind of like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. She had no call to look that delighted. Like he’d just proposed to her for real.
“And what did he say?” she asked anxiously.
Matt shrugged. He didn’t know what to say to that. He put his gun away. “We parted with an understanding.”
“You mean he accepts our engagement?” She pressed a hand to her chest.
Matt wished she wouldn’t. It was hard not to look at the way her breasts swelled over her hand. He grunted. “He seemed happier to think of us engaged than to think of us married,” he said honestly.
“Oh, Mr. Slater!” She kind of erupted with happiness, and to Matt’s horror, she flung herself at him. Her arms wrapped around his waist, and her cheek pressed hard against his chest.
He held his hands in the air and stood stock-still.
“Thank you!” She was crying again. He could feel her hot breath on his shirt. It was alarming. His nipples tightened in response.
He could feel the press of her breasts, the weight of her skirts brushing his legs, the heat of her hands against his back. He would have jumped out of her arms if she hadn’t been holding on so tight, and crying so hard.
He gave her a tentative pat on the back.
“I can’t tell you what a relief this is,” she hiccupped. “I’ve been beside myself all evening. I couldn’t see any way out of this mess.”
As far as Matt could see, this wasn’t a way out of the mess either. It was just a different mess.
Oh hell. She looked up at him. Her eyes were shining. Her mouth was swollen, all red and plump. The feel of her body was beyond intoxicating. He wanted to kiss her, he realized stupidly. More than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. Every thought fled his head. All he could see was lips. All he could feel was the steamy heat of the room and the damp press of her against him. He was swollen and aching and crawling out of his skin with lust.
Maybe he could have kept it under control, if her gaze hadn’t dropped to his mouth, if her hand hadn’t given his lower back a slow circular stroke, if her red lips hadn’t parted and if she hadn’t uttered the sexiest little moan he’d ever heard.
“Oh,” she breathed.
And then he didn’t think anymore. He just gave in and kissed her.
She melted into him. She tasted like salt and honey. When his tongue touched her mouth, she opened for him, and the sensation, the heat, the wet, drove him wild. He hauled her harder against him, one hand plunging into her curls, the other spread against her lower back. He felt her hands sliding up his back. He was rock-hard. He pulled her against him, and the feel of her pressing against his cock was a pleasure so intense he groaned. And then her tongue touched his and he lost all power to even groan.
He didn’t know how long they stood there, lost in the steam, their mouths locked together, their tongues sliding, their hands slipping. He only surfaced when her hand settled on his hip and her thumb brushed the tip of his cock through his pants.
“Jesus.” He shoved her away from him. “No. Just no. We ain’t doing this.”
She swayed on her feet, looking more than a little drugged.
“No,” he said again, firmly, talking to her like he would to Dog. “This ain’t part of the deal.”
She tilted her head, clearly confused.
“We’re pretend engaged.”
She frowned. “You kissed me,” she reminded him.
“You shouldn’t have kissed me back,” he said defensively. “You took advantage of my drunkenness.”
“Took advantage . . .” Her mouth fell open in astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”
“No!” Matt couldn’t stay here. Not with the way she was standing there, looking all rumpled and kissed and delectable. “No! No. No. No.” He couldn’t seem to stop saying “no.” He shook his head. “This was a mistake.”
“It was,” she agreed. And now she was frowning in earnest.
“If we’re going to be pretend engaged, you’re not to do that again,” he warned. “I won’t have it.”
“Have what?” she asked waspishly. “Have you kiss me? I’m not sure that’s entirely in my control.”
He felt like kicking something. Hell. He had been the one to do the kissing. He cleared his throat. “Yes. Fine. It was the drink. And that whore got me all riled up.”
“Whore!” Her eyes narrowed.
That probably hadn’t been the right thing to say. Matt’s head hurt. “Let’s forget this happened.” He caught himself. “Except for our conversation about the engagement. Pretend engagement,” he corrected. “That happened, but nothing else did.” He didn’t want to have that conversation again. “You’re happy to still have the pretend engagement, I guess?” Maybe she wouldn’t be. After he’d kissed her like that.
She had kissed him back though. Hadn’t she? What if she’d been trying to wriggle out from under him and he’d mistaken it for her kissing him back? He flushed, feeling ill. He might have made a colossal fool of himself.
“Of course,” she said tightly. “Thank you for agreeing to the pretense.”
She didn’t look happy anymore.
Goddamn it.
“You go to bed,” he growled. “I’ll finish all of this.” He gestured to the laundry. It was the least he could do. He felt lower than a bug.
“It’s my laundry,” she protested. She sounded a bit angry now. “You go to bed and I’ll finish all this.”
“No.”
“What do you mean no?”
“I mean no.” Obstinately, he went back to working the mangle. He heard her mutter under her breath. The word “impossible” was in there a couple of times.
Stubbornly, she went back to the washboard. He wished she wouldn’t. It was supposed to be a gesture, him staying to finish the chore for her. It wasn’t much of a gesture if she stayed and did it too.
The early signs of a hangover started setting in as he cranked the mangle in the seething silence. He felt vaguely poisonous. Waves of nausea washed over him. A cold bath. That would help. There was a tub propped against the wall. Maybe once all these clothes were on the line and he’d packed her off, he could fill it up and sink into it. It was the thought of the tub that kept him going through the next hour as he cranked load after load, and then pegged them out on the line in the yard.
She didn’t look at him once. But he couldn’t help looking at her. Much as he tried not to, his gaze kept slipping back to her. She wasn’t crying anymore, but she looked lower than she had when she’d been crying.
This. This was why he should keep away from women.
It only led to misery. Theirs as much as his.
12
OH NO. GEORGIANA’S heart sank when she realized she’d left the key down in the laundry. She was painfully tired. So tired it was hard to move. The thought of going back down all those flights of stairs was enough to set her off weeping again. She’d never been so tired in her whole life. It must be nearly dawn.
It had been the most endless, godforsaken day. She rested her forehead against the door and tried to summon the energy to go back downstairs. Oh God. She’d have to face Matt Slater again.
She cringed at the thought. How could she have kissed him like that? Shamelessly, wantonly. A man she barely knew.
Well, you are engaged to him.
Pretend engaged.
She remembered the disgust in his voice when he kept saying “no.” No, no, no, no, no. He’d been flat-out horrified. And he was right, she had taken advantage of him. He’d been glassy-eyed and wobbly on his feet, a man clearly not in control of all his faculties.
But what was a girl to do when a man kissed her like that? And not any man . . . Him.
When she was at her lowest ebb, he’d appeared in the doorway, rumpled and boy
ish, his dark hair tousled, his mouth soft. It was the most relaxed she’d ever seen him. The dimple flashed when he spoke. The lamplight cast the angles of his face into sharp relief. He was an enormous presence in the lean-to, smelling of sweat and whiskey. And the way he looked at her. Georgiana hadn’t seen a look like that in years. Intimate and full of desire, his gaze followed her every move, his golden-brown eyes intense. It ignited a slow pulse in her that she’d half thought she’d never feel again. The air was charged with desire. Georgiana could feel every inch of her skin, and her heart seemed to slow and skip a beat.
It was glorious.
She felt young again. Not like a tired mother doing laundry, but like a debutante on the dance floor, in the arms of an attentive beau. It was a feeling she’d always associated with summer nights and champagne and being sixteen. It was a revelation to be feeling it in a dim and sweaty lean-to, over a washboard and a pile of wet clothes. It was a feeling she’d thought she’d never have again, and yet here it was, fluttering into her life like a butterfly out of season.
So when he’d kissed her, of course she’d kissed him back. She hadn’t been kissed in years, and she’d never been kissed like that.
It was nothing like kissing Leonard. Leonard had been slow and careful—prissy. That was unkind. But true. She’d had a few clumsy kisses with boys in her youth, but they weren’t like this either.
Matt Slater’s kiss was elemental. There was nothing practiced about it. He fell into the kiss without thought, moving against her as though he felt her smallest response. He was firm but tentative, gentle but insistent, hungry and wild, tender and slow. It made Georgiana’s legs turn to water, and she had to hold on to him to stay upright. It was without a doubt the best kiss of her life.
But, even so, he’d been right. She had taken advantage. She’d half known what she was doing when she’d flung herself at him. She’d been so overcome with relief at his plan that she’d given in to the urge to hug him, but she’d also known the risk. She wasn’t actually a young girl, after all. She knew about men and lust.
