Bound for Sin

by Tess LeSue

  “Touch wood,” Matt warned, knocking his knuckles against a wagon side.

  “Yeah,” Joe laughed, “especially considering the havoc those whores are playing. You owe me for that one. I thought for sure I woulda had a shooting or two by now, the way the men fight over them.”

  Matt saw how Georgiana glowered at the mention of the whores. He wrapped his arms around her once they were alone and tried to kiss her soundly. But she resisted, pushing him away. “Jealous?” he teased.

  “I think anyone would be,” she said stiffly.

  “You got no call to be.”

  “Why? Because she’s a whore?” Her expression went as black as a thundercloud. “I don’t want you touching anyone but me.” And now she was tearing up again. He sure hated when she did that. It caused a sick feeling to settle in his stomach.

  “I ain’t like your last husband,” he said huskily.

  She jumped like she’d been bitten by a flea. “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged. “Look, I never met the man, and I hate to speak ill of the dead, but he sounds like he had a silver tongue and a black heart. I ain’t like that. My tongue is pure wood. I couldn’t charm a grouse, let alone a bird out of a tree. I ain’t going to lie to you, sweetheart. I ain’t the lying type. Or the cheating type. It ain’t the way I’m made.”

  Her tears were falling now.

  “You do that a lot,” he said, pulling her close.

  “You’ll get used to it,” she sniffed. She pulled away again. “I know you saw that whore back in Independence.” She held up a hand to silence him when he tried to speak. “Don’t. I know you did. You were with her the night of the dance, that first night, when I wore my blue dress.”

  “You looked mighty pretty,” he told her, dropping his head to rub his cheek against her curls. “You should wear that dress to our wedding.”

  “I wore it for you,” she said sharply, “but you weren’t there. You were with her.”

  He frowned. She was serious. Hell. “You got no call to be thinking that I’ve been with her.”

  “She came to see you at Mrs. Tilly’s.”

  “To do business, sweetheart.”

  She was scowling again.

  “Not that kind of business. Wagon train business.”

  She pursed her lips. “I know men have needs,” she said.

  He nodded. He could feel his needs every time she leaned against him.

  “And I don’t blame you for consorting with whores before we got engaged. Properly engaged,” she amended, “not pretend engaged. But I just need you to know that now that we’re getting married I can’t, I won’t, share you.”

  And there she went, crying again. That Leonard Blunt must have been a real horse’s ass.

  He sighed. He’d been hoping to put this off until the wedding night . . . but he sure hated to see her hurting like this when he could easily put her out of her misery. “Georgiana,” he said carefully, “I need you to know that I never slept with that whore.”

  “It’s fine,” she sniffed, although it wasn’t. “I understand.” She clearly didn’t. The thought of him sleeping with Seline was clearly cutting her up inside. He understood—he felt the same way when he thought about her sleeping with Leonard Blunt.

  “No, you don’t understand. Not at all.” He tensed. Hell. How could he tell her? He’d look like . . . God only knew what he’d look like.

  “I do understand,” she wailed, and then she burst into proper crying.

  He held her at arm’s length. “I need you to listen to me, honey. Take a deep breath and try to stop crying for a minute. Just a minute. Once you’ve heard me out, you can cry all you want.”

  “I don’t want the details!” She sounded outraged.

  “I think you do.” He squeezed her shoulders and sighed. “I never slept with that whore . . . or any whore.”

  She searched his face, looking suspicious. “You didn’t?”

  “No.” He cleared his throat. “In fact . . . I ain’t never slept with any woman.”

  “What?” She’d stopped crying completely now.

  He closed his eyes and braced for ridicule. “That’s right,” he said, feeling time draw out interminably, “I’m . . . well, I’m a . . . virgin.”

  27

  A VIRGIN.

  Oh my. He was a virgin.

  How was that even possible? He was so . . . well, virile. He was the manliest man Georgiana had ever encountered. He was an expert kisser. He was clearly aroused when he kissed her. So . . . how? Why?

  “I don’t know,” he’d mumbled. He’d gone the shade of a beetroot when he’d told her. Wilby and the boys had interrupted them before she could pursue it further, and Matt had avoided her for ages afterward. When she finally managed to speak to him alone again, they were scouting South Pass, which wasn’t so much a pass as a broad, grassy meadow. He kept riding ahead so she couldn’t see his face, which was both touching and exasperating.

  “I know it ain’t normal,” he said sullenly. “I know a man’s expected to be more experienced than his bride.”

  “I don’t see why,” she retorted, pushing Wishes to catch up to Pablo. “Slow down so I can talk to you!”

  “Do we have to talk about it?” He wouldn’t meet her eye.

  “I guess not.”

  He looked startled.

  “I don’t see that it changes anything.” She smiled at him. “Except that it makes me very happy that you never touched that whore.” She wheeled Wishes around so that she blocked his way. “Now, before we go on, I think you owe me something.”

  “An apology?” He didn’t look pleased. “I don’t know that I want to apologize for it.”

  “No, not an apology,” she laughed, “a kiss.”

  Knowing he was a virgin made everything more intense, she thought as he kissed her. The idea of his inexperience was highly arousing. No other woman would touch him the way she touched him. And when she did get to touch him properly on their wedding night, sliding her hands over every last warm inch of him, it would be with the knowledge that he’d never felt a touch like that before.

  As she lay restless and wakeful through the hot July nights, she imagined all of the things she could introduce him to, the ways and places she could kiss him, the art of running her tongue down the length of him, of taking him into her mouth, of taking him into the aching wet depths of her.

  Oh, but July had too many days in it, and the trail had too many steps until Fort Bridger.

  * * *

  • • •

  BY THE END of July, they’d reached the Green River, which was at high water and was too treacherous to cross except by ferry. Georgiana watched proudly as Matt organized his train in the fields by the Mormon Ferry. They had to camp for a couple of days, as the ferry was congested with another party, this one headed for California. They paid their fares (an exorbitant sixteen dollars per wagon) and settled in to wait. It was hard to get a moment alone in the congested campground with the children at a loose end, and Georgiana was going mad with being so close to Matt but unable to touch him.

  “You know what?” Matt finally suggested to the children when the day was waning and he and Georgiana were champing at the bit for some time alone. “Let’s play hide-and-seek.” He winked at Georgiana.

  She flushed as she realized what he was up to. She was itching to touch him.

  “I’ll be it,” he volunteered. “I’ll count to fifty and then come and find you all.” He ostentatiously closed his eyes and started counting. The children scattered. “Go to the bushes over past the ferry,” he hissed at Georgiana between counting, “I’ll come find you. We oughtta get a good ten minutes alone at least.”

  She skipped past the ferry and just about dove into the bushes and onto the pillowy grasses beneath.

  “How long do you think it will take for
them to realize no one’s looking for them?” he asked breathlessly, when he tumbled in after her. He didn’t wait for her to answer, falling straight into a kiss.

  Their kisses had escalated over the month. Kissing just wasn’t enough anymore. Today, as the children played hide- and-seek, Matt and Georgiana struggled to contain themselves. Their hands slid over each other hungrily. Matt was obsessed with the full curves of Georgiana’s breasts, holding her through her shirt until she moaned. She’d taken to not wearing her stays, just so she could feel his touch more intimately. With only her thin shirt and a linen chemise between them, his hands drove her wild. His thumb rubbed over her swollen nipples, sending sparks through the heart of her. He covered her breasts with both hands, his tongue penetrating the heat of her mouth as he bent her backward, sliding between her legs until the friction of him against her sent her wild. She would have let him take her right there and then, if he’d been willing. But he held himself back, trembling with the effort it took. They writhed, cradled in the high cool grasses, pushed to the very edge of desire.

  “Georgiana, stop,” he moaned. “Stop or we won’t . . . stop.”

  She couldn’t stop. She didn’t want to stop. She rolled him onto his back and straddled him. “There are things we can do,” she whispered, leaning down to kiss him. He tried to protest, but she took his lower lip between hers and gave it a nip. His golden-brown gaze was drugged with lust.

  Feeling powerful, she sat up, enjoying the grind of him against her aching center. Slowly, she unbuttoned her shirt. The weight of his gaze made her senseless with desire, and the friction of her chemise against her breasts was torturous and wonderful all at once. The shirt parted, revealing the sheer linen beneath. His hands were trembling as he reached up to ease her shirt wider. She heard his breath catch. The chemise was the sheerest whisper of fabric; the contours of her breasts were clearly visible, as were the pebble-hard thrusts of her dusky nipples.

  “Georgiana . . . ” He sounded like he was in pain. But there was something else there in the aching sound of his voice. She thought it might be wonder.

  No one had ever looked at her like that before.

  The sheer admiration in his eyes made her burn, made her melt. Feeling like she was moving through the weight of water, slowly, languidly, she pulled the ribbon holding the neck of her chemise together. She could feel the hard swell of him between her legs. He was pulsing with wanting her. She couldn’t help herself from grinding gently against him. He groaned and grabbed her hips to keep her still.

  “Don’t,” he begged, “or I won’t be able to . . .”

  “I don’t mind,” she said, feeling wicked. The ribbon pulled free, and the neck of her chemise gaped open, showing the plump swell of her cleavage. His eyes were riveted. She lowered her hands and placed them over his, where they rested on her hips. He was trembling like a leaf in a strong wind.

  His inexperience was intoxicating. She’d never been so wet, or so ready to be taken. The delay increased her desire to an unbearable hungry pleasure.

  “Touch me,” she whispered. If possible, the hardness against her grew harder still. She squeezed her thighs against his hips as she guided his hands up her body until they were resting on her rib cage, directly under her breasts, which were swollen and aching. She arched her back.

  “Touch me,” she sighed again, arching and pressing down hard against the iron length of him.

  He groaned. His hands seemed frozen, clenching her ribs.

  “If you won’t,” she threatened, “I will.” Teasingly, she took the edges of the chemise between her fingertips and eased it open, revealing the swell of her breasts inch by inch. He couldn’t look away. His hands had tightened on her until it was almost painful. Her breasts were sore with wanting him. Oh God, she wanted him to touch her.

  She felt cool air swirl against her skin as she peeled the linen free, until she was completely exposed. As he watched, eyes glazed, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, she ran the tips of her fingers lightly over her exposed breasts. She had large, high, round breasts, and now, aroused as she’d never been aroused before, they were even larger, taut and heavy to the touch. As her fingers passed over her hard nipples, she felt lightning spike through her, all the way to her wet depths.

  He moaned again. She trailed her hands down to his and peeled him away from his death grip on her ribs. She twined her fingers through his and brought his hands up to her breasts. She pressed him to her, feeling his palms hot against her nipples. She let go of his hands as he cupped her, gently at first, and then squeezing as he felt the weight of her. It was the most delicious thing she’d felt in her entire life.

  She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, and he clumsily felt his way. His inexpert fingers drove her wild. He traced her curves, rubbed her aching nipples, cupped her and squeezed her, stroked her and held her until she thought she might die of pleasure. Unconsciously, she rocked against him.

  He sat up abruptly and she gasped, feeling the thrust of him against her as their angle of friction shifted.

  “Oh God,” she sighed as he pressed his face into her chest, his hands settling on her hips. His lips traced a path between her cleavage. “Matt . . .”

  She was shivering, trembling, close to the edge, ready to come. The pleasure was a bright shimmering feeling, darting through her.

  “Matt,” she begged, as his lips led a hot trail to her nipple.

  Just when she was mindless with want, her head back, surrendering to the promise of his mouth, a scream broke the spell.

  “Mama! Mother! Motherrrrrrrrrrrr!”

  It was Susannah.

  Georgiana and Matt snapped apart. Georgiana felt like someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over her.

  “Motherrrrrr!” Susannah was screaming, endlessly, the single word rending the evening. And the terror in her voice changed Georgiana’s world forever.

  28

  “WILBY!” THAT’S ALL Susannah could say. She was hysterical, her voice rising with every word. “Wilby! Wilby! Wilby! Wilbeeeeeeeeee.” She was pointing to the river.

  Georgiana tore down the banks. Her hair flew behind her, her hastily buttoned shirt flapping. Oh God, please, let him be all right. Please, God. Please, please, please, please.

  But she knew in her gut he wasn’t. It was the terror in Susannah’s voice; it was the silence of the camp; it was the fact that the twins were sobbing in panic as they thrashed about at the edge of the river. The twins never panicked. They never cried. They always seemed indestructible.

  “He fell in!” They were white, their eyes rolling like spooked horses.

  Time trapped Georgiana in a horrifying moment that seemed to last forever. As though from a great distance, she heard Matt’s voice, barking questions, giving orders; she saw men fan out along the river; she felt the cool slap of the grass as she ran along the riverside. The smallest details leapt out at her with shocking clarity: the spangles on the surface of the rushing river, the barking of a dog, and above it all, there was a strange high-pitched noise. It went on and on, ringing in Georgiana’s ears.

  Distantly, she realized it was her. She was wailing. And like her daughter, her wails consisted of a single word . . . Wilbeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

  And then they found his wooden sword.

  Tangled in storm debris, there it was. Wilby’s chipped and well-loved wooden sword. The one he played knights with. The one he whacked his brothers with. The one he took with him everywhere he went . . .

  She could hear screaming now. On some level she knew it was her screaming, but the sound seemed to come from outside of her. And there was no way she could ever stop it.

  * * *

  • • •

  “I’VE SEDATED HER,” Doc Barry said when Matt eventually returned to camp. It was close to dawn, and he’d only come back to eat and saddle Pablo. He needed to keep looking, and he’d searched
as far as he could on foot. He’d need to be on horseback to cover the rest of the ground.

  He knew at this point he was only looking for a body, but he couldn’t leave the boy out there alone. The thought was almost his undoing. Wilby was barely more than a baby. He needed his mother. Even dead . . . Oh God, how could that be? Of anyone, why did it have to be Wilby . . . ?

  “Is she . . . ” Matt had to clear his throat. It had tightened up to the point he could barely speak.

  “She’s about as to be expected,” Doc Barry told him. “I’ve given her laudanum so she can sleep. The boys are with Becky.”

  Matt grimly kept about his business. He didn’t have the stomach for food, but he needed fuel if he was going to get through the hours ahead. The bread tasted like sawdust. He felt like gagging but choked it down.

  “Matt,” the doc said, stepping in front of him, “you need to rest.”

  “No.” Matt shook his head. He needed to find Wilby.

  “At least think of the children.”

  Matt looked up, startled.

  “She’s not capable right now,” the doc told him, “and you’re as good as their nearest kin. The little girl is sleeping with her mother, but those boys need you.”

  “You said they were with Becky.” The bread was like a lump of clay in his mouth. He couldn’t face those boys.

  “They are with Becky.” Doc Barry sighed and fixed him with a sad gaze. “But Becky’s barely more than a child herself.”

  “I have to find him, Doc.”

  “I understand, but you can’t help him. You can help those two.” The doc nodded at the tent closest to Georgiana’s lead wagon. The tent was glowing with lamplight, and Matt could see the shadowy figures hunched within. “I can only imagine the night they’ve spent.”

  Matt managed to swallow the bread. Barely. He tossed the rest of the crust aside.