Last Chance

by Jill Marie Landis

  So much for protection, Rachel thought, then said to herself that Delphie might as well sleep soundly, because personally, she wouldn't be able to sleep at all. At the end of the hallway, she placed her hand on the crown of the honeyed oak newel post and started up the steep stairway.

  There was no sound from above. Although she would have liked to assume Lane had gone to sleep in the guest room without putting up an argument, she doubted he would let her off so easily and figured he was still in her room.

  Lane loved her.

  Although the admission seemed to have come easily, she knew it had not been given lightly. And his admission that he had never before professed his love to anyone had surprised her almost as much as his telling her he loved her had. He took nothing lightly, and after what he had confessed to her today, she knew why. When she thought of all he had survived to become the man he was now, she wondered at his strength and resilience.

  It was time to admit her feelings for him, time to let down her defenses and take another chance on love, time to let herself go, to feel, to know what it was to love and be loved. He was offering her something she had held little hope of ever finding—a love ignited by passion.

  He loved her. Forced to face the truth, she had to admit that she loved him, too. And that it was useless to put off the inevitable.

  Rachel paused outside her door. The light was out, the room swathed in shadows so deep she couldn't make out Lane's shape on the bed. Slowly, she stepped inside the room.

  He was not there. She whirled around, the hem of her full nightgown billowing out and then gathering around her ankles.

  Her fingers trembled as she covered her lips with her hand. She took a deep breath and attempted to slow her footsteps, but failed. She hurried down the hallway, the soles of her bare feet slapping softly against the polished hardwood.

  Her hand shook as she slowly turned the knob of the guest room door. Once again, she was greeted by shadows, but this time she heard the sheets rustle.

  "Rachel?"

  "Yes."

  She heard him sigh and recognized the sound of a gun sliding back into its leather holster. Trembling, she grasped the edge of the door and leaned against it. She heard him shift his weight on the bed, recognized the sound of his gun belt hitting the bedside table.

  "Come here, Rachel."

  She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. The window overlooked the garden, the shade raised to allow a blessed draft of night air into the room. She walked over to the window, braced her hands on the sill and took a long, deep breath before she turned around.

  "Please, Rachel. Come to me."

  He was little more than a voice in the darkness until she stepped up beside the bed and saw his suntanned skin against the white sheets. He was lying back on his elbows, staring up at her. She remained just out of reach.

  "I thought you would put up a fight and want to sleep in my room. When I didn't find you there, I thought you might have gone," she whispered.

  "Where would I go when all I want right now is to be with you, to touch you, to lie beside you and hold you close?"

  She shuddered, thankful that he couldn't see the way his words had the power to move her. The honeyed warmth flowed again, melting her resistance.

  "I love you, Rachel."

  "I know." She was afraid. So afraid she thought her heart might burst. Surely he could hear it beating. Surely he sensed her fear.

  "What happens now is up to you, you know," he said softly.

  "I know that, too."

  "What'll it be, Teacher?" He meant no disrespect; his voice caressed the word.

  "I want…" The words froze in her throat.

  "What is it you want, Rachel?"

  "I want you," she whispered, the truth finally out.

  "Why?" he pressed.

  "I love you," she said aloud.

  "Are you afraid?"

  "No. Yes. I don't know."

  He rolled over until he was on one elbow, watching her. She couldn't see them clearly, but she could feel his eyes burning through her thin gown, even in the dark.

  "Don't be afraid. Tonight I'll be the teacher," he promised.

  She waited, poised beside the bed. With Stuart it had always been the same. She would lie in bed beside him, waiting for him to shove her gown up around her waist. He would fall on her, press her down against the mattress as he took himself in hand and fumbled in the darkness, finally shoving into her whether she was ready for him or not. Then he would commence grunting and sweating, cursing and pumping until he found release and collapsed upon her.

  Stuart had been her husband. It was her duty. Her mother had always taught her to do her duty.

  She only prayed that whatever secrets Lane might possess would bring her the joy and fulfillment she had never known.

  Her eyes had adjusted to the dark. She could see Lane more clearly now as he lay there watching her. The sheet was draped low over his hips. He was stark naked beneath it. Rachel took a step toward the bed.

  "Don't move," he told her.

  She froze.

  "Take your gown off."

  Her lips felt too dry to move. She licked them, swallowed and whispered, "What?"

  "Take off your gown. Slowly."

  She had never stood naked before a man. Before fear could change her mind, she quickly reached up and unbuttoned the four ivory buttons that ran from the neck of her gown to the gathered bodice. They slipped open far more easily than she expected, what with her hands shaking so hard.

  Once the buttons were undone, she bent down and gathered the deep flounced hem in her hands and pulled the gown slowly upward, exposing her ankles, her calves, then her thighs.

  "Go on," he said, his voice sounding strained, when she halted just shy of exposing the dark triangle between her legs.

  "Lane…"

  "You're beautiful, Rachel."

  His words evoked the response he wanted. In one swift movement, she drew the gown up over her breasts, over her head and down her arms. As she blessed the darkness, she let the fabric fall. It became a milky stain against the floorboards.

  She stood before him nude, let him drink his fill of the sight of her clothed only in faded moonlight and deepening shadows. Slowly he reached out and touched her thigh with his fingertip, traced an invisible line down it to her knee and then up again and around to her hip.

  When he rested his warm palm on her hip, she shuddered, and realized that as soon as he'd touched her, a deep, needful longing had replaced her fear.

  He continued to stroke her hip, appearing quite casual as he lay there with his head resting on his open hand. His fingers moved over her hip, down her thigh, back around to caress her buttocks. He squeezed her gently. She wasn't able to stop the moan that escaped her throat.

  "Open your legs."

  She closed her eyes and did as he instructed. The floor was solid beneath her feet, surprisingly so, for the room was beginning to whirl. She felt his hand slide back along her thigh, down to her knee and then burn its way up the inside of her leg to the juncture of her thighs. She wanted to die of mortification when she realized he would find her moist and ready when he touched her.

  His fingers edged higher.

  She balled her hands into fists and held her breath.

  His hand brushed the curls that covered her mound, teased and explored, torturing her until she bit down on her lower lip to keep from crying out with need.

  He cupped her, rubbed his palm back and forth, and then she felt his fingers slide up and in, opening her, forcing her legs wide as he began to stroke her in earnest.

  Eyes closed, she threw her head back. Her senses flamed to life. She felt her unbound hair brush her waist, felt the fresh night air touch her heated skin, heard her labored breathing mingle with Lane's.

  "Let yourself go, Rachel," he teased her with a hoarse whisper as he continued to stroke her. "Give in to it."

  She moaned again and moved against his hand, urging him to quicken
the rhythm. Within seconds she was writhing on his hand, gasping aloud, repeating the word yes over and over on a whispered sigh.

  "Come, Rachel," he told her. "There'll be lots more before the night is over."

  Trusting him, she climaxed with his fingers inside her and his hand cupping her mound. She came and came until she thought she might die of pleasure. Finally, still shaken, she came back to earth. Lane had not let go of her. He used his hand to guide her up to the edge of the bed.

  "Reach out and pull the sheet down," he told her.

  She found it hard to focus, to concentrate on his words.

  "Pull the sheet down," he repeated.

  Rachel reached out and grasped the edge of the sheet, slowly drew it back away from his hips. With a flick of her wrist, she let it fall back to his ankles.

  He lay exposed to her now, fully erect. Wanting her.

  "This is how much I want you," he whispered as he slipped his hand out from between her thighs and reached for her hip. He pulled her down beside him, then took her hand in his and drew it down until her fingers touched his pulsing member. He wrapped her hand around him and lay back with a sigh.

  "This is what seeing you, touching you, wanting you does to me, Rachel."

  "I love you, Lane," she whispered, nuzzling her face against his collarbone.

  "I'm going to take all night showing you how many ways I love you, Teacher."

  * * *

  Chapter Twelve

  Frustrated by the ineptness of Arnie Wernermeyer and his posse, and furious at Lane Cassidy's uncanny ability to cover his trail, Robert McKenna paced the confines of his father's library, forced to listen to the old man as he ranted and raved and downed one snifter of brandy after another. It didn't matter that it was the finest money could buy—his father wasn't sophisticated enough to know the difference. As far as Robert was concerned, it was a waste of damn good brandy.

  "If she thinks she is going to waltz in here and take Ty after this… this incident, she can think again. Who is to say she didn't want to go with that scoundrel?"

  It was the fourth time in twenty minutes that Stuart had posed that particular question. Repetition had made Robert begin to question the events of the afternoon. Rachel had not struggled as if she'd feared for her very life. She appeared to have been shocked, confused, even frightened, but had she acted terrified of her captor? Everything had happened so fast that he couldn't recall enough detail.

  It was ludicrous to think that she and Lane Cassidy had contrived the scene for his benefit. If they had, to what purpose?

  Despite Stuart's loud protestations to the contrary, he simply couldn't believe that things weren't just what they seemed, that for some reason, Lane Cassidy had taken it in his head to cart Rachel off. Robert had to attempt to show that he had done all he could to rescue her.

  "Father, I think for your own health, you should calm down."

  "There's nothing wrong with me. I'm fit as a fiddle…"

  "You look about to go into apoplectic shock."

  Stuart glowered at him and shook his head in warning. "I'm telling you, it's the last time I'll let that woman take it in her head to ignore everything we have tried to do for her. I know what my boy would want if he were here." The old man's bloodshot eyes filled with tears. "We didn't always see eye to eye, but I know Stuart Junior doted on little Tyson, and I mean to see that my grandson doesn't grow up under that woman's influence."

  "Don't you think you're being a bit harsh on Rachel? I say wait until we find her—if we find her—and learn the facts. Good God, the poor woman could be suffering horribly right now, and here you are ready to pin a scarlet letter on her and take away her son."

  "Your mother's taken to her bed with the scandal of it all."

  Robert walked across the room, paused beside the tea cart and poured a half-inch of brandy into the bottom of a snifter. As he warmed the liquid in his palm, he shrugged off his father's words.

  "Mother takes to her bed when it suits her and you know it."

  He went over to the bank of massive crimson velvet draperies, pulled the center panel back and stared out at the darkened landscape. There was only a hint of moonlight, one of the reasons for calling off the search for Rachel until dawn. Beyond the extensive gardens around the house lay open pastureland, surrounded by foothills and the mountains beyond.

  He let the drape fall back into place and turned back to Stuart, who was slumped and rheumy-eyed in the high-backed leather wing chair behind his massive cherry-wood desk.

  "When we find Rachel—"

  "If we find her," Stuart cut in.

  "When we find her, I think you should let me get to the bottom of this. As volatile as you are right now—"

  "I'm not volatile!"

  "—you could do serious damage to your relationship with Ty. After all, Rachel is his mother. The boy will hate you if you try to keep them apart. Is that what you want?"

  Robert stood poised for an argument, but when Stuart spoke again he was calmer. "After this little incident, her reputation will be ruined beyond repair. She'll have to move out here with us."

  It wasn't the time or place for Robert to hint that he would overlook her soiled name and take Rachel to New Orleans with him—Rachel, the boy and the right to the other half of the McKenna fortune.

  "You may be right" was all he said.

  "I know I'm right. Tomorrow the posse is bound to pick up the trail and run that blackguard to ground. Rachel will move in and we'll have Ty here permanently—right where he belongs."

  Turning away from the sight of his father sloshing the last of his drink across his stiffly starched shirt-front, Robert walked to the massive double doors. He paused with his hand on the crystal doorknob and glanced over his shoulder, forcing a smile.

  "We'll see what the morrow brings, won't we?"

  Rachel rubbed her cheek against her pillow, her senses alive, attuned to the feel of the starched fabric against her skin and the lingering scent of lavender from the sachet that Delphie always tucked between the folded sheets in the linen press. She took a deep breath and stretched before she opened her eyes to the glory of a new day and the reality of what had happened.

  She gasped when she realized she was still nude beneath the sheet, which barely came to her hips. With a frantic glance at the door and then the open window, she grabbed at the bedding, jerked it up to her neck and held it tight against her throat. She snapped her eyes shut tight.

  She counted to ten. Then she counted again. Finally she had the courage to open her eyes again. Her gaze shot around the guest room. There was no sign of Lane, nothing that would hint that he had ever been there last night. Nothing except the thoroughly satiated languidity she felt, nothing except the constant blush that heated her cheeks and this newfound heady feeling that made her want to raise the shades and tell the world.

  The guest room was as orderly as always, with its organdy curtains fluttering at the windows, the quilt rack standing in the corner opposite the door. Bright yellow cabbage rose wallpaper filled the room with painted blossoms. The worktable across the room was still covered with her fan-making items, all the tins and boxes neatly lined in a row.

  Everything was the same, and yet nothing was the same.

  She had changed, moved by the power of love and imbued with a newfound sense of the confidence Stuart had stripped from her. Lane had made love to her last night in ways she has never dreamed possible, and sometime before dawn, she had awakened and been brazen enough to make love to him.

  Heat suffused her cheeks when she recalled how, during their last mating, he had even encouraged her to climb astride him, to take him inside her and ride him until they climaxed together. She had fallen asleep again in his arms.

  True to his word, Lane had become her teacher last night, and in doing so he had proved himself right. Stuart had spent their entire marriage convincing her that she was frigid and far from inspiring in bed. In a few hours, Lane had taught her differently. She had come ali
ve beneath his touch, and he had quickened again and again beneath hers.

  Her present predicament came flooding back as she lay there wondering how she could possibly get up, dress for the day and face Delphie. She winced as she recalled the scene at the line shack, followed by Lane's outrageous explanation for abducting her and his accusations that Robert was the notorious Gentleman Bandit. A mourning dove called in the branches of the willow tree outside the window, and Rachel's spirits plummeted.

  Lane had slipped away without so much as a good-bye and she was left to face the gossip alone. She threw back the sheet and avoided looking down at herself, at the body Lane had pleasured so lovingly. She forced herself to hurry. A china clock that sported frolicking cherubs stood atop the tall bureau near the door. It struck half past six, reminding her to dress and hurry to the sheriff's office. She had to tell Arnie Wernermeyer that she was safe.

  She found her nightgown in a heap beside the bed, snatched it up and threw it over her head. As she moved across the room, she shoved her hands in the sleeves and buttoned the top button to hold the neckline closed. She glanced over at the clock again to make certain of the time, and then saw what she had failed to notice earlier.

  A gathering of blossoms lay on the opposite end of the dresser. One was a perfect blush rose, one a lily and the rest a handful of violets from her own garden. Slowly she crossed the room until she stood staring down at the flowers. The velvety petals of the rose looked as fragile as her feelings this morning. She didn't dare touch it, simply bent down and buried her nose in the center of the full bloom.

  There was a folded sheet of paper beside the flowers. Rachel smiled as she picked up the page, bit her lips together and furiously blinked back tears as she read the words Lane had so carefully penned in a bold, even script.

  Dear Rachel,

  As I passed through your garden and saw all the flowers in the predawn haze, some lines I remember from a poem by Thomas Bayly came back to me: