by Thea Devine
She stared at it, and then hoisted herself upright to the edge of the bed. She would not believe there was no dissuading him. Once he saw her parading around in canvas and twill, he would get very discouraged.
She allowed her head to droop into her hands. She was so tired of fighting him —and tired of surrendering as though she had no will of her own. She just did not know how to fight him with her father's livelihood at stake. At that moment, she felt as if she did not know anything, and she was startled therefore when the door burst open and Deuce appeared, his arms full of clothing. "Take off your robe." His food pushed the door closed and he came by measured steps farther into the room.
"I can dress myself," Kalida said defensively, wrapping her arms around herself tightly.
"We do waste a lot of time in these futile arguments, don't we? Just do what I tell you."
She didn't move. He dumped the clothes on the bed and came toward her. "Don't forget that robe is one of Ardelle's treasures," he reminded her softly as he reached for the belt.
"All right," Kalida said abruptly, stepping back and away from his reaching hand. Anything not to be touched by him. To be touched by him meant enslavement to those hands. She slowly untied the belt and let the robe slip off
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her shoulders onto the bed to pool in riotous color that contrasted oddly with the pale silks and muslins beneath it.
His face seemed impassive, impervious to her nakedness, but his eyes . . . His glittering charcoal-deepened eyes kissed her breasts, and she shivered. "Give me a shirt," she commanded curtly, stretching out her arm, ignoring the eyes, ignoring the sudden torrid heat that arose from his awareness of her naked body, and her own tacit acknowledgement of it. And the futile feeling that went guttering to her toes.
His all-pervasive perception of her was in his eyes; she knew in that instant that even his smoky eyes could arouse her when they grazed her with that all-knowing look of complete awareness. Her whole body stiffened under that sensual scrutiny, and her arm fell to her side, useless. She was not the one to make demands here; he was, solely with his hot gray gaze, proving to her finally, she thought, just how little power she had over her own responses.
But he was not finished yet. He saw the still barely suppressed defiance of her stance, and he wanted her all over again. But he stamped down heavily on that urge and picked up one of the thick cotton shirts he had brought back, unfolded it, and held it up for her to slide her arms into the sleeves.
They stared at each other for a moment. Kalida knew that if she came to him, she would be giving in, but he made no move to hand her the shirt. He stood a few feet away from her, holding it, waiting for her patiently —as patiently as he could under the circumstances — and finally after long, tense moments, she turned her back to him and extended one arm to slide it into the sleeve, holding herself as far from him as possible.
But it wasn't possible. His body was a wave of pure heat coming at her from behind, and as she slipped her
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left arm into the sleeve of the shirt, his arms folded around her body so that she had to brace herself against him, and his now-brusque fingers began buttoning the shirt, oblivious to her hands pushing his away.
And she could see —even she could see—how the fabric draped and outlined her breasts in a way that hid nothing, and how, as his muscular arms inched downward and pressed against the sides of her breasts, they thrust forward and how She reacted when his palms just accidentally brushed against her distended nipples.
She wrenched away. He pulled her back by the tails of the shirt and twisted her around to face him. His hands reached for her shoulders, and before she comprehend what he meant to do, he pulled her to him, wrapped his arm around her, bent her body backward so that arm was supporting her, and fastened his mouth to her left breast.
It took mere seconds for the heat and wetness of his tongue to seep through the coarse cotton. ,Her breath caught in her throat. The material was no barrier to his succulent exploration; it enhanced the sensation rather than hindered it. His tongue worked harder against the encroaching thickness, and she felt the two layers of stimulation curlicue thickly down between her legs.
"All right!" Her voice was hoarse as she capitulated. "Please . . . Deuce . . ."
He lifted his head briefly. "No." His mouth settled on her breast again.
She pulled his hair violently, and his head came up again. "What?"
"You win," she whispered.
The tension eased. "I knew I would," he murmured with a grown of satisfaction.
"Then please let me get dressed." Was she begging? Or was her urgent desire solely to escape him and his sultry knowledge of her? No matter; he had made his point. She could not escape his desire, or her own. Her defiant navy-
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darkened eyes told him as much as he slowly straightened his body, clamping down on the rising passion that would have made still further demands on her quickening senses.
He watched her look down at the shirt as he moved reluctantly away. There was a dark wet patch over her breast and she looked up at him accusingly. He pivoted to the bed and picked up the dark heavy cotton skirt he had tossed there. His expression was mocking as he turned and handed it to her. She took it without a word, and he watched appreciatively as she stepped into it, pulled it up over her long bare legs, and fastened it around her waist.
When she looked at him again, she could read in his blazing charcoal eyes exactly what he was thinking, and it was precisely as he had said: Cotton and twill were no barrier to his imagination. The concealment only enhanced his desire. She whirled away from him and reached herself for the serviceable pair of boots that were the last item he had brought and dumped on the bed. She pulled them on silently as he watched. They were tight.
She stood up and curtsied tauntingly. His eyes kindled a dark warning, and her body quirked at the remainder. The rough cotton felt raw against her skin, damp in that one place she did not want to think about, against her sensitized nipple.
"I'm hungry," she said flatly, moving toward the door, determined to ignore the dark patch of shirt and even more determined to get away from him.
"So am I," Deuce murmured, steps behind her and already reaching ahead of her to grasp the doorknob and block her way.
She felt the force of his body behind her. He pulsated with some emotion that reached out to her, and she shook her head. "Yes," he hissed in her ear. "Isn't it clear yet?"
"Nothing is clear," she gritted, "except that you own me and I'm starving." She reached out her hand to grasp his and pull it from the door.
She could not give in to the mind-shattering pleasure her body was beginning to crave; she couldn't. It would just mean she would be his chattel, and she knew she was nothing more than that to him —a piece of property in a deal. She had more pride than that, no matter how her body reacted to his closeness and to his touch. She would never allow herself to come to the point where her intelligence gave in. She would never take anything from him without a fight, and she knew many women who would not scruple to do just that, because that would be the easiest thing to do.
There was no torrid heat between them now, only a cool calculation on both parts, a battle of wills, as their eyes clashed.
"You can't go downstairs like that," he said finally, moving his hand from the door.
"Can't I?" she flashed back, grabbing her opportunity as he relinquished the doorknob. The telltale patch was drying. In the dim kerosene light it would probably look like a dark shadow. She grasped the knob, turned it, and flew out the door before he could stop her.
He let her go, his mind still on the taste of her cloth-covered breasts in his mouth. She would have to face them, not he. He wondered how she would explain it.
Chapter Nine
She slept alone that night, and thankfully. She did not have to keep on her clothes, and she did not have to fight her own overwhelming desires.
"Of course Deuce and the men w
ill be going out tonight," Ardelle had said at dinner as if it were expressly understood by everyone. She was totally put out with Kalida, anyway, with her unsuitable dinner dress and that suspicious spot on her shirt. And Deuce being late. Only Ellie won her approval this night, with her tasteful new ready-made dress and her tacit and tactful taking over the duties of the hostess of the table. And that Hal Ryland, rather sitting there and looking smug and excited and hardly paying attention to any of the conversation or Deuce's instructions.
Ardelle herself spent at least twenty minutes detailing her plans for Kalida and Ellie the" following day. Kalida squirmed in her seat at all the talk of being measured for new clothes and being treated to an in-depth tour of Sweetland. Part of it was that her father looked so delighted.
As well he should, she thought wrathfully, digging a rebellious fork into a slab of meat on her plate that she had barely tasted. Hadn't she bargained away the rest of
her life for his share of it?
And then there was Deuce, with his steamy gray gaze all over her, making her aware, too aware of herself and him. No wonder she had no appetite, for all her protestations of hunger! She felt suffocated between the three of them—Ardelle, her father, and Deuce!
Her eyes focused on Ellie, sitting so cool and serene at the head of the table, only the barest glimmer of a smile on her lips betraying the fact that she was enjoying her new status enormously.
Ellie. Ellie had pinned up her hair this evening, the better to show off the fancy lace collar of a second new dress, this one a trifle large but becoming nonetheless, with its glowing golden color enhanced in the subtle light. Ellie, looking so elegant and perfect and the lady of the house. Lady. Yes. The veriest lady, the picture of what Ardelle envisioned as the mistress of Sweetland.
Kalida's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Imagine if Ardelle could be persuaded to become Ellie's champion instead of her own! If she could so disgust Ardelle with her antics and her contrariness that Deuce's aunt would want Kalida nowhere around. If, indeed, Ardelle could be made to perceive that she suffered in comparison to Ellie Dean's perfection.
And wasn't that just the logical extension of her initial thought as she had waited in the bedroom for Ellie's return from town? Hadn't she had that feeling as she had watched Deuce handing Ellie down from the wagon? Her plan formulated itself in its entirety even as she sat at the table and listened to the desultory conversation and watched Ellie directing the service. It was perfect, absolutely perfect. Deuce only had to be convinced she would not make a perfect mistress in any sense of the word. The contemplation of the means to that end gave her some degree of satisfaction as the dinner progressed, coffee was finally passed around, and her father and Deuce made
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ready for the evening's patrol.
Ardelle stood and signalled the end of the meal. "Madame Dupuis will be ready for us at nine o'clock," she said briskly, reaching for her cane, her words directed at Ellie as well as Kalida.
And it was Ellie who answered, "That will be lovely," as she pushed in her chair and followed Ardelle into the parlor.
Kalida hung back, seeing the first opportunity to put her plan into action. "I'm going upstairs," she announced upgraciously.
"Well you should," Ardelle snapped, turning back to her. "How could you come to the table dressed for the barnyard?"
"It was easy," Kalida muttered, lowering her lids over her gleaming eyes. How much more in character this was for her! And wasn't Ellie looking intensely interested?
"Be prepared for the dressmaker tomorrow," Ardelle continued, still in that chastising voice. "I'm really disappointed in you, Kalida. Good night."
Kalida nodded her head and turned on her heel. She couldn't imagine anything more delightful than an evening by herself. It seemed to her that she had not been alone for weeks. And then there was the relief of taking off the rough cotton shirt and the too-tight boots, and slipping on the crushed silk robe that she had so disdained. Now it seemed like the most comfortable garment in the world, and she reveled in its lightness against her skin.
Now, too, that Deuce was nowhere about, she could allow herself to go through the heap of material on the bed and separate out the bolts of silk, cotton, and gingham from the underclothing and the two ready-made dresses that Ellie had chosen for her.
The dresses were wildly inappropriate for her. One was a green checked gingham with a lace collar and ruffled
hem, which had no defined waistline. The other was a plain gray silk that buttoned up the front to a plain white collar and fastened at the sleeves with mannish cuffs.
She tossed them aside happily and slid into the cool sheets. Lovely not to have to fence with Deuce or fend off his seductive hands. Delightful to think there might be a way out of this situation for her if she were clever enough to manipulate Ardelle and Ellie. Funny she had never thought of Ellie in just that light before. But then Ellie had always affected a certain staid, prim attitude that made people view her as the straitlaced widow that kept the boarding house. Interesting that she had other qualities, that she was still interested in Hal Ryland. That was obvious. But Deuce's arrogant masculinity seemed to appeal to her too.
Well, Ellie was welcome to deal with it. Kalida Ryland wanted no part of it, deal or no deal. And she was going to do her best to pull it off. Starting tomorrow. Starting with the dressmaker. She would kick up a rumpus with the dressmaker. That would be perfect. . . .
Kalida slept, alone, unaware that in the early hours of the morning Deuce wearily returned and, throwing himself tiredly into the upholstered rocker, sat and contemplated her alluringly curved slumbering body for the rest of the night.
Kalida awakened early, threw the abominable green-checked calico over her naked body, washed, and headed downstairs.
Even this early there was a sense of suppressed energy in the air, as if beneath the serene surface a hive of activity was commencing.
As she came down the stairs she could see Ardelle's white-garbed figure on the porch, blocking the open door, and could hear her voi0ce talking to someone, low.
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". . . obvious Deuce hasn't got the men or the time for this kind of intensive patrol." A mumble of agreement from—it sounded like—Jake Danton, whose body was blocked by Ardelle's standing directly in front of him. ". . . choice? I don't know. He's talking about hiring a professional now; I don't like it. He's fed up with spending all the time and energy and getting nowhere. Especially because of the Ryland herd having to be got down next week. I don't know where he's going to put them— maybe Morgan field, so as not to mix them with the syndicate herd until branding. I don't know. You'll have to figure it out next week. Meantime, there's this problem first. . . ." Her voice lowered here so that Kalida, who was listening avidly to this conversation, could not hear the rest.
Obviously Deuce had already gone, and if she didn't want Ardelle to catch her eavesdropping, she thought, she had better scoot. But she did. Ardelle almost collided with her as she unexpectedly came in the door, caught Kalida's arm with unerring accuracy, and whirled her around so she could look at her.
"Good God, that looks awful on you," she commented deprecatingly.
"I expect it was the best Ellie could do—on such short notice," Kalida said mildly, her cobalt eyes guileless.
"It had better not be the best that Dupuis woman can do on short notice," Ardelle muttered, releasing her arm and motioning her into the dining room.
Prestina was there already, laying plates and arranging baskets of biscuits and platters of eggs and freshly fried thin slices of meat. She looked up as they came in and tamped down on a smile. Miss Kalida looked about thirteen years old in that dress, she thought. And Mr. Deuce would not like it one bit.
Ardelle was wondering whether she had deliberately pulled her inky hair back and braided it in just that childish way to emphasize the fact that her costume made her look younger. Just like Kalida, she thought, watching as Kalida seated herself
and looked up at her, her face wickedly serene, her eyes bright and glowing with a lambent blue light.
Ardelle shook her head. "Ellie chose this?" she questioned disbelievingly.
"I?" Ellie's voice just behind her feigned innocence. "I never would have chosen green for Kalida. Madame Dupuis must have misunderstood my instructions."
Kalida's eyebrows zoomed upwards at this audacity as Ellie entered, dressed in still a third new gown, this one a wool and silk morning gown whose rose color set off her black hair and eyes. She seated herself next to Kalida with a stately grace, not meeting Kalida's quizzically mocking cobalt gaze.
Kalida lowered her eyes so that Ardelle, who was staring at her fixedly, could not see the triumph there. It was as good as if she had given Ellie the words to say— like a play where she was directing the action. Ellie obviously wanted what Kalida wanted and, she thought, she would be perfectly happy to direct Ellie into Deuce's arms.
A tiny smile wafted its way around the corners of her mouth, a contended, mischievous smile that Ardelle did not miss as she pointedly began directing the service of the meal.
There was a palpable release of the small frieze of tension as Prestina began pouring coffee.
Even Ardelle's displeasure seemed to have eased as she said to Ellie, "Yes, Madame must have not heard you correctly. We'll remedy that today," which statement did not reassure Kalida.
Ardelle turned to her next and announced, "Did you know your father is leaving today?"
"Yes, I am," Ryland said, striding into the dining room
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just then, "but 1 wanted to tell Kalida myself."
