by Patty Devlin
“Come to bed, sweetheart.”
Clint’s voice was low and husky. Did it sound deeper than usual? Was the added huskiness the ardent desire her friends had spoken of?
“Um, I’m not really tired. I napped late, remember?” She inwardly cursed her quivering voice.
“We won’t be going to sleep just yet, Em.” He stood, his hands going to his shirt as he undid the buttons.
She stood frozen, mesmerized by the sight of his chest slowly revealed in the open V. When he shrugged the linen off his broad shoulders, her eyes widened, and she swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat. Her eyes followed his hands to his belt, and she blinked. Oh my stars! She licked her parched lips as she looked away.
“It’s going to be all right, Em. Get in bed now.”
As if released from a trap that had ensnared her in place, she practically leapt to the far side of the bed, dove under the covers, and closed her eyes tight.
There were rustling noises and when his belt clinked as it hit the floor, she stopped breathing. The covers lifted next and the mattress shifted as his large body settled beside her. A yelp burst forth from her lips when his hand snaked around her waist and he hauled her against his hard body.
“Breathe, Em, or you’ll pass out.”
His mouth was next to her ear and the warm brush of his breath sent another tingling shudder straight through her. She tried desperately to take air into her lungs, but all she could manage was a short little pant. His hand at her waist imprinted heat upon her skin. She tingled beneath her gown wherever he touched.
“Don’t be afraid. I’ll make it good for you, sweetheart.” His hand moved toward the buttons of her high necked gown, and she stiffened further in his arms. “Do you know what is going to happen, Emmalee? Has anyone told you?”
“Only talk from my friends, both good and bad.”
“I promise we’ll have only good. First, this gown—”
“I don’t know how I’ll sleep in it. It’s ugly, scratchy and as big as a tent,” she complained.
“It is that, sweetheart, but you won’t be sleeping in it.” Her quickly indrawn breath was followed by his chuckle. “Let’s get it off you.”
“Can’t I keep it on?”
“No, I want to feel your skin against mine.”
She felt his hand go down to the hem of her gown, where he gathered it in his big hand and pulled it up to her hips. Bared to the waist, his hand stroked her softly, from above her knee and along the outside of her thigh. When he reached her hip, he stopped and propped himself up on a forearm. Looking down at her, his vivid blue eyes searched her face.
“Relax, Em. What did you friends say to scare you?”
“Rutting, pain, sweat and blood,” she blurted out, immediately regretting putting her thoughts into words.
“Oh baby, who told you that?”
She looked away, shaking her head, not willing to get into all that with him.
“It doesn’t matter, because that’s not what will happen here. True, I mean to make you my wife in body as well as deed, but I will be gentle. There might be a little pain when I take your innocence, but it won’t last long and I’ll make it up to you with pleasure. Do you trust me?”
She nodded.
“Look at me, Em.”
Reluctantly, she did.
“I love you, Emmalee.” He dipped his head and brushed her lips softly. “Kiss me, baby, like you did earlier in the parlor. That’s all you need to do, give me your passion, and I’ll do the rest.”
She lifted her chin and merged her lips with his. That part was easy. Kissing Clint had never been a problem. She could become so caught up in his kisses that she forgot everything around her except for the feel of his teasing, soft lips. He was very good at it, involving his tongue, which had shocked her clear to her toes at first. No one, not Isabelle or even Judith, had mentioned that was done. Clint had taught her to use her tongue, too. And when she did with feverish need, he seemed to enjoy is as much as she did, if not more. Now when they kissed, their tongues would dance against each other’s: tasting, tantalizing and savoring.
He’d asked for her passion, and that’s what she gave to him now, losing herself in his kiss so that she didn’t notice him unbuttoning and easing aside the placket of her gown until his chest hair grazed her breasts. When his lips left hers and slid down her throat, she trembled and her heart raced faster, thrumming a sharp staccato in her chest. Looking down upon his dark midnight hair, she couldn’t resist weaving her fingers into the soft wavy strands. His eyes flicked up to hers as his mouth moved over her, spreading light wet kisses along her breasts as he made his way slowly to the peak. Her nipple tightened as he hovered over it, the warmth of his teasing breath bringing it taut.
Opening, Clint sipped the tip between his lips. His mouth was intensely hot and wet as he claimed her sensitive skin. Emmalee cried out, overwhelmed by sensation. The hand in his hair clenched, pulling him closer, seeking more as she arched against him.
Breaking contact briefly, Clint demanded, “Arms over your head.”
He then swept the gown over her head, removing the cloth barrier. Once she was free of the voluminous linen, he returned to her breast: eagerly, greedily, but with gentle restraint. He divided his attention between her breasts, until Emmalee felt she’d go mad from the pleasure. Then his hand found the juncture of her thighs. With gentle fingers, he stroked her most private place, his fingertips easing over there, giving her time to become familiar with his touch.
“Relax into it, baby. Just savor the feel of us together at last,” he murmured softly right before he slipped inside, the new sensations strange and arousing at the same time. Involuntarily, her body in control of her movements now, she lifted her hips upward and into his touch.
“You’re ready for me, Em,” he murmured coarsely against her heated skin. “Spread your thighs wide for me now and let me in.”
She did without question, afraid but wanting more of the sensual feelings he evoked in her. Watching as he rose above her, she felt something hard—not his fingers—nudge at her center. Clint pressed against her, his hardness pressing into her yielding body. She felt unbelievable stretched by his length. It was unusual but exciting. Concentrating on breathing and relaxing as he told her, she felt him slide deeper, filling her to near bursting, and decided it felt completely wonderful and she wanted more.
Clint pulled back, and the sense of loss made her whimper in disappointment. Her fingers gripped him tighter, clenching in his hair and onto his shoulder.
“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart,” he whispered and, with a return glide, sank deeper. “I promise. Wrap your legs around me and hold tight, I’m going to move faster.”
Moving reflexively, she groaned as he repeated the motion, pulling back and sinking into her more. She could feel her flesh giving way to his driving possession. On the next stroke, he paused, his hand moving between them. When his broad thumb stroked her, rubbing against a spot near to where they joined, an arc of pleasure swept through her.
“Clint!”
“Let go, baby. Allow the pleasure to carry you away. When it does, you’ll be mine.”
Unsure what he meant, she was afraid to ask, lest he stop and her pleasure be at an end. His thumb strummed her faster, that special spot he’d discovered making the quickening feeling inside her accelerate. Her heart had begun to pound, slamming against her ribs as her lungs spasmed. The pleasure was so intense that her scattered mind couldn’t think. Giving in, she did as he said and let go. Immediately, her body trembled, muscles tensing as her channel clamped around his length deep inside. She cried out with pleasure, and when she did, Clint surged deeply. Emmalee felt a small pinch of discomfort, but it was nothing, a mere grain of salt in the endless sea. Compared to the state of pure bliss he’d created, she barely recognized he had taken her virginity.
Floating for a moment, she clung to him, enjoying their closeness until he started to move. The slow glide of his l
ength inside her drew her back in and soon the quickening and the burning need reignited. Her eyes opened in wonder, that he could evoke such a response. She found him watching her intensely, a small upturn of his lips and familiar gleam in his eyes. He’d worn that look before, most often when he’d kissed her. His eyes would darken to a deeper, sultrier blue at those times, and she often wondered why. Now she knew it was the sign of his passion.
His head lowered and his mouth covered hers, his tongue delving inside as he moved faster into her. One hand in her hair, the other beneath her bottom, he guided her body’s movements. In fact, he controlled them with a touch, a lick, a hard thrust; he knew just what to do to have her soaring again. As he stroked into her faster, more frenzied and less controlled, his breath quickened to match her own, his skin dampened, his mouth became more intense upon hers as she felt him searching for his own joy. Her cries of pleasure joined with his and she knew he was feeling what she did as she once again gave into it, and together they flew apart, as Clint did as he promised, making her his wife in both body and deed.
Lying in his arms in the aftermath, she snuggled against him despite the July heat. He’d pulled the sheet over them; nothing more was necessary. She should put on her nightgown, shouldn’t she? Sleeping in the buff was unseemly, although after what they had just done together she hardly felt proper. Still, to sleep in the all-together, especially in a boarding house, if there were an emergency and she needed to leave quickly, well, there were other boarders. An image of Homer intruded into her thoughts, and she shivered.
“You can’t possibly be cold in this heat. What’s wrong?” Clint’s voice, low and soft with fatigue, called to her in the stillness of the room.
Emmalee rolled to her side to get her nightgown, but his arm at her waist stopped her.
“Where are you going?”
“My nightgown is somewhere on the floor.”
“Hm,” he grunted, “just where it belongs. I want you just as you are. I like your skin against me.” He pulled her toward him, curling around her, his front to her back. His arm snaked around her waist, bent at the elbow so that his forearm held her upper body against him, his hand cupping one full breast. “Go to sleep. Morning will come all too soon.”
“Clint, I don’t want to stay here.”
“Don’t ruin our wedding night with that stale argument, Emmalee. It’s decided.”
“Mrs. Barton’s son gives me the creeps. He was staring at me during dinner. I don’t feel comfortable staying here with him lurking about.”
He stiffened behind her. “He stared at you? Did he say something to you or make advances?”
“No, but I caught him staring at my bosom—several times.”
He shifted behind her, and she lost his heat. Rolling over, she found him on his back, his arm crossed over his face, covering his eyes. Emmalee couldn’t help but notice the corded muscles of his forearm and bicep, or the manly dark hair of his under arm and chest. As her eyes swept over him, she noticed the smattering of chest hair tapered until it vanished on his rippled washboard–like belly. Sliding her gaze lower, she noticed it reappeared in a thin line below his navel where it continued until it disappeared beneath the sheet where it rode low on his hips. His body was so delightfully different from hers.
“Dammit! What am I supposed to do with you? It’s sixty miles to Omaha. That’s two hard days of riding, Em.”
She blinked. He was talking about danger, and she was ogling her husband’s body. How could she have gotten so distracted? The man played havoc with her senses. Replaying his last words—yes, riding to Omaha—she got back on track. “I can keep up, Clint. I promise.”
“You’ve never ridden farther than a few circuits around The Common. How are you going to manage thirty miles on back-to-back days?” He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed where he sat broodingly in silence for a moment. “No, it’s best if you stay here.”
“Can’t we wait for the stage? Mrs. Barton said there is one in a few days that will take us clear into Omaha.”
“That will be too late.”
“Too late for what? I don’t understand what is so pressing.” Emmalee was still in the dark as to the reason for this trip. Why were they on such a tight time schedule? And this personal business in Omaha, she had no idea what that was about.
He let out a long breath. More than just a sigh, it was a deep forceful exhalation and broadcast just how much frustration he’d been holding inside. Rising, he paced toward the window. With his back to the room, he spoke low into the quiet darkness. “I have to be in Denver by Monday for the reading of my father’s will.”
“Your father…” What? Had she misheard?
“If I’m late, I might miss meeting my four brothers. This might be the only chance I get.”
“Clint, I don’t understand. Jerome…"
“Jerome and Virginia Ryan adopted me as an infant. About a week ago, a detective tracked me down with news of my birth father. He has died, and named his sons in his will, his five bastard sons, evidently.”
“I had no idea. You look so much like your mother. You have her coloring.”
“A fluke, I suppose.”
His voice sounded hard and tight. She couldn’t begin to imagine what he was feeling. “This is a shock to you, I’m sure. No wonder you’ve been acting so distant and distracted.”
He turned with a surprised look. “I was? I hadn’t realized.”
She shrugged, brushing it off. She wasn’t about to bring up her silly concerns now that she knew the truth. “Thank you for telling me, honey. I agree. You can’t miss that meeting in Denver. Imagine, learning you have four more brothers, out of the blue. That is an only child’s dream come true.”
“You’re not upset to find out your new husband is a bastard?”
She flinched at the ugly word. “Pshaw! The terms of your conception are hardly your fault. No one really cares about that anymore. Not unless you’re heir to the throne of England, or some such nonsense.”
“From what little I know, Em, my father was not a nice man. He had five illegitimate sons and nothing to do with any of us, to my knowledge. I’m told he was a disreputable gambler and a womanizer. Not something you want to extoll to your children around the supper table.”
“Again, that is hardly your fault. The sins of the father should not be laid upon the son. Besides, you will have plenty of stories to extoll to your children about your father. Jerome Ryan is a successful shipbuilder and esteemed business man. You can tell them how he taught you everything you know about building war ships and that Ryan and Son’s ships were instrumental in suppressing the South and helped win the war. Once they see those towering masts with full sails, they’ll know the cut of their father’s jib.”
He chuckled, “You have no idea what a jib is, do you sweetheart?”
“No, but it sounded good all the same. Come back to bed, honey.”
Climbing in beside her, he pulled her into his arms again and settled them both against the pillows. More at ease, he kissed her temple. “I should have told you days ago and put my worries to rest.”
“Agreed… I am wise beyond my tender years, dear husband. You should take advantage of my skills.”
Nuzzling her neck, he chuckled. “Oh, I intend to, sweet Emmalee.”
“Clint!”
He kissed her, silencing her protests. When he lifted his head, his expression had turned serious. “You heard Homer at dinner. He’s heading back to his claim today. So you shouldn’t have to worry about him. If he’s around in the morning, he and I will have a little chat. I’ll put the fear of God into him if he so much as thinks about you.”
“Gold mining in Iowa, who ever heard of such a thing? Just goes to show what a fool the man is, so putting the fear of God into him won’t be worth two cents.”
“I’ll ask Mr. Hampton to keep an eye on you in case he returns.”
Em shook her head. “Mr. Hampton is seventy if he’s a day, Clint. What coul
d he do?”
“He has eyes to see what’s going on and could get the sheriff. Furthermore, he’s a retired soldier. That means he’s got instincts, and he told me he is never without his revolver, although these days he keeps it well hidden under his frock coat.”
“I still think I should come with—”
“No, Emmalee, of the two bad options you’ve left me, this is the safest. Keep your door and window locked at all times, stick to the regular meal times when there are other boarders around—I’ll ask Mr. Hampton to escort you—and of course, stay away from Homer Barton.”
“It’s not only Homer I’m worried about. What if something happens to you? I’m worried. Folks were talking at dinner about how dangerous the trail is into Omaha.”
“Nothing is going to happen to me, and the danger is precisely why you are staying here, Mrs. Ryan. Now, I need to get some sleep. I’ve got a long few days ahead of me.”
She liked the sound of that—Mrs. Ryan—it made her smile. However, she didn’t like anything else about his plan. Once again, she had a really bad feeling.
Chapter Four
Bouncing along on the back of the old nag the Stanton stable had sold her was an ordeal, and with a red and burning bottom, it was agony. She tried a posting trot, but after a while, her thigh muscles began to burn. Damn that man! If he hadn’t spanked her like a naughty child that morning, this would have been a piece of cake. Granted, there was no way he could have known she’d be trotting cross country on horseback, but she was incensed with him all the same.
Upon rising that morning, Clint had escorted her to the common bathroom down the hall and waited for her to attend to her morning ablutions. Upon returning to their room, instead of packing as she’d expected, he’d sat on the bedside and crooked his finger at her. When she approached, he upended her over his lap, her belly meeting his hard thighs and his hand raising her skirts in the back.
