“Then don’t doubt me now, honey. I didn’t turn into an ogre when I promised to spend my life with you.”
Shame brushed its heat over her cheeks once more and she turned her head, resting her forehead against his arm. “I’m sorry, Quinn. Truly sorry.”
“He gave you a bad time, didn’t he?”
She didn’t pretend not to understand. She nodded her head. Speaking the words that would admit her unhappiness was too painful a task.
“I’m not Damian Wentworth, Erin. I’ve never been a man to force myself on a woman, no matter the circumstances, and I can’t imagine being a husband who would visit attention on his wife if it wasn’t wanted.”
Quinn spelled it out clearly, Erin realized. He would not demand his marriage rights, at least not now. At least not tonight.
Full dark fell early; and once the baby was settled, clean and dry within his small bed, Erin found herself with nothing more to do. The dishes were put away, the coffeepot was ready for a hot fire in the morning and a kettle of water was set to warm atop the stove.
She’d pulled down the quilts and sat on the edge of the bed to take off her shoes. As if he attended the small signal, Quinn had excused himself, murmuring about the cow and taking a last look around outdoors. She’d taken the chance to slide into her gown, burrowing beneath the covers in the bed only moments before he came back inside.
They’d gone from friends of a sort to husband and wife. Too quickly, she thought. With reasons that had nothing to do with love, honor and all the rest of the vows she’d taken with barely a sense of misgiving. Stunned by the suddenness of the proceedings, she’d blithely assumed that it would be a marriage of convenience.
She shivered beneath the quilt as her foot moved from the small cocoon of warmth she inhabited. A bubble of nervous laughter pushed at her lips as she wondered at her own naivete. Quinn Yarborough would never be content with a pale imitation of marriage.
He was male, through and through. Even the energy that drove the man was masculine in its intensity. His steps were firm, his stride arrogant. His body spoke of muscular strength, of a man’s powerful need to be in control.
She should have known, should have recognized the need of a man for a woman that gleamed from the depths of his dark, hooded gaze.
And yet, she’d never met a man like Quinn Yarborough before. Never been treated as Quinn Yarborough had treated her. Never known the kindness and understanding of a man who was strong enough to be gentle.
Her eyes half-closed, she watched him from the bed. He sat before the stove, his big body shading her from the lamplight, his hands busy with the ritual of cleaning his gun.
When would he come to bed, crawling into the side next to the wall, sharing her quilts, easing his presence onto the mattress beside her? Maybe he was waiting for her to go to sleep, so as not to embarrass her.
Beside the bed the baby stirred, and she rose to lean over the crib. His mouth was pursed and he sucked, frowning just a bit, and her laughter was captured once more within her throat.
“You awake?” Quinn’s voice was low, rumbling in his chest as he turned his head to look at her. His hair was rumpled, his shirt pulled from his trousers. His beard was dark against the paler skin of his jaw.
She nodded and then settled herself against the pillow. From beneath the shadow of her lashes she watched as he placed his gun across the table and tidied up around himself. A metal box held his gun-cleaning equipment Her eyes followed his movements as he replaced the soft cloth he had just used to wipe down the barrel and polish the wooden stock.
He moved deliberately, with a flow of energy about him that intrigued her. He knew how to do so many things that she was ignorant of, things she should have been aware of before she set out to live alone in the wilds of Colorado.
He stood, moving to the wall where a shelf held an assortment of his belongings, stowing his box there. “Need anything?” he asked, removing his shirt and hanging it over the back of a chair, then hesitating before he bent to blow out the lamp.
“No.” The word was a whisper, but he heard it, inclining his head in silent reply. With an audible breath he brought darkness to the room, and she blinked against the inky blackness that enveloped her.
His trousers rustled and Erin heard the sound of footsteps, then felt the sudden draft as he drew back the covers of her bed. The ropes gave with his weight, and she was hard put to stay where she was, his greater weight tugging at her.
“Is the baby warm enough, do you think?” he asked as he shifted beside her.
“I wrapped him good and then covered him with my shawl.”
Quinn’s scent filled her nostrils, the smell of woodsmoke and fresh air, underlaid by a musky aroma that spoke of all things sensual and forbidden.
But it wasn’t, her inner self reminded her. Not forbidden between a husband and wife. Yet the soft touches, the gentle caressing, always evolved into something more, something not nearly so appealing. At least, not to a woman. What had always followed was obviously for a man’s benefit, certainly not for the object of hisShe closed her eyes tightly, counting in her mind. She breathed deeply. One…she would not remember! She inhaled again. Two…tomorrow might find the sun shining through the windows. The breath escaped between her parted lips. Three…soon the baby would wake. She relaxed her hands and drew in another shaky breath.
Four—a foot brushed against hers and she bolted upright.
“What?” She choked on the word, coughed and looked about frantically. Her eyes were used to the dark now, and beside her Quinn sat up, reaching to press against her shoulder.
“It’s all right, Erin. I just shifted around a little. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She settled against the pillow and watched as his shoulders took up the space between her own and the edge of the bed. “I was going to sleep,” she muttered.
He chuckled. “You were breathing like a locomotive, honey. What on earth were you thinking about?”
“Nothing special.” Not for the World would he ever find out that her thoughts had been in the wide bed she’d shared with Damian Wentworth. And “nothing special” about covered the events that had taken place there, she thought grimly. Not unless you were interested in pain and humiliation and the taunts of a man who derided your womanhood.
“Better get to sleep. I’ll warrant that baby’s gonna be looking for something to eat before too long.”
She nodded, turning to look in his direction. His face was a pale blur, but she thought he smiled. “Yes, all right.”
“It’s going to be just fine, Erin. I promise you.”
He moved closer to her and she felt the heat of his body radiating beneath the quilts. She shivered, resisting the urge to scoot closer, and he chuckled.
“Want me to get your back warm?” he offered, the words silky with promise.
Maybe with Quinn it would be different. But probably not. Somehow, she had the feeling that when it came to the physical part of marriage, men were probably all alike.
She shook her head. “No, I’ll be fine.”
Then she bit at her tongue, lest she be tempted to accept his offer.
Chapter Eight
New York City
“Where is he? Has he found her?” Estelle Wentworth spoke sharply, turning from the fire that burned with a subdued flame to face her husband. Never had a fire blazed out of control in this room. Seldom was a word spoken in less than a well-modulated voice. Rarely was an emotion allowed to escape that might suggest lack of discipline.
Until now.
Ted Wentworth faced his wife, lifting his hands in a gesture that spoke defeat. “Joel Guinan said he heard from him well over a month ago. Quinn was in Denver then, and thought he had a good lead.”
“And you believe him?” Her voice had lost some of the rasping urgency, but the tone was doubtful.
Ted approached the fireplace and his wife, who stood near the hearth. “We have no choice, Estelle. Joel is Quinn’s partner. He’d h
ave no reason to lie to me. He knows Quinn is working for us.”
“You know as well as I do that you can’t trust the Irish.” Her face contorted with distaste. “We probably should have gone somewhere else to begin with. Quinn Yarborough may have a good address, but you can’t get away from his beginnings.”
“He’s an honest man, Estelle. If anyone can find Erin, he can.”
Her mouth pinched as she stepped back from the fireplace. “She’s a decent-looking woman, and Quinn always had an eye for the ladies.”
Ted shot her a look of rebuke. “He won’t be taken in by a pretty face. My money is in his pocket, and when he finds her, we’ll hear about it.”
“Well, I think we should locate someone in Denver to follow up on him. It’s been too long without any word. She may have already had the baby. Our only chance was to find her when she was—”
“That’s enough! I’ve gone along with you on this from the start, and managed to scare the girl away with the pressure we put on her. I’ll give Quinn another couple of weeks, and then we’ll follow up on it Besides, I don’t believe the child was to be born for another month or so.”
Estelle sniffed, stalking toward the window that overlooked Central Park. Her pale, slender hand rested against velvet draperies and her back was stiff and ungiving. “I want my grandchild. I don’t care what else comes or goes, I want Damian’s child. If I have to find Erin myself, I will.”
Ted leaned one hand on the mantel and gazed into the fire. “We’ll give it two weeks, Estelle, like I said. If we haven’t heard anything by then, we’ll change our course of action.”
Colorado
The little pine standing in the corner bore no resemblance to any Christmas tree Erin had ever decorated before. In the place of fragile, blown-glass angels and bells hung pinecones with white-tipped edges. She’d mixed a bit of flour and water together, then dabbed it on each cone, adding small red berries for color.
Instead of garlands of tinsel, she’d managed to paste strips of brown paper into circles, paper she’d colored with a set of paints brought from New York. For some reason, she’d had it in mind to once more take up her love of painting, and she smiled in self-derision now as she considered that idea. She’d be hard-pressed to find the time to do any drawing, let alone put brush to canvas or paper.
It had never occurred to her that life would be so full, that she would be so intent on the art of survival. Indeed, keeping her body warm and nourished had become the order of the day over the past months. There had barely been time to feed her soul. Now she brushed color onto the pieces of paper she’d cut, smiling at the primitive decorations she’d devised.
Quinn had carried the tree in the door this morning with a jaunty step. He’d announced that Christmas was only a day away according to his calculations and they needed a tree in order to celebrate properly.
She’d almost forgotten, which was proof that survival wiped all but dire necessities from thought. Quinn was obviously not concerned about survival. His confidence in his ability to handle their situation was beginning to carry her along with the tide. Else she could not now be pasting colored rings of paper together, feeling the elation of a holiday as she readied her home for Christmas.
The scent of her cookies baking filled the room, and she stood quickly to check their progress. She’d formed the dough by hand, delighted when she could identify the shapes of angels and stars on the pan as she slid it into the oven. There would be no icing, no decorations, but Quinn would appreciate the addition to the holiday he’d insisted they celebrate.
Her hand slid into her pocket, fishing for the wrapped package there. Her fingers caressed the length of it, identifying the penknife that had so recently been hidden in the corner of her purse. It had been her father’s, years ago, long before his business had prospered, when she was but a child. She’d watched him peel apples, long curls of red dangling from the silver blade, as he carefully prepared the fruit for their mutual enjoyment.
In later years, when he could have purchased much more expensive pocketknives, he’d clung to the memento of his early years.
It had been a part of his legacy to her, a gift her mother had pressed into her hand after the funeral. It had meant more than the house and its elegant furnishings, more than the library of books and the velvet-lined box of jewelry that had finally been hers after her mother’s death several years later.
Now the knife would be Quinn’s, and she could only hope that he would grasp the value of it, would sense the respect she paid him in the giving of her cherished keepsake into his possession.
The cookies looked even better now, she decided as she slid them from the pan to a plate. The edges were ragged, the forms blurred, but anybody with half a brain could make out the form of angels in those sugared delights.
“What’s that?” Quinn stood behind her and she whirled to face him. In the midst of her clanging the oven door and bustling around the table, she’d missed his entrance. Now he faced her, smiling, his cheeks and ears red from the cold.
“What?” Confused, she turned back to the table where his gloved finger was aimed at her cookies.
“Those are sure enough cookies. I figured that out right off.” He bent closer. “They’re all lumpy lookin’, honey.”
She drew herself up and cast him a scornful glance. “Anyone who can’t recognize angels and stars when they see them certainly doesn’t deserve to have his share.”
“Angels, huh?” He took off his gloves, grinning delightedly. “Maybe I can see a little wing here.”
“That’s the head,” Erin told him, tilting her chin as she pushed at him. “You don’t have to eat any cookies. I can manage to eat every one of them, Mr. Yarborough.”
“Aw, I was just teasin’ you a little, ma’am,” he drawled, bending to rub his nose against hers. “I knew right off those were angels and Christmas trees.”
“Stars. Angels and stars,” she retorted, scooping up the plate from beneath his nose.
“Stars. Right, that’s what I meant.” He followed her across the room to the shelf where she placed the plate. “You don’t want to leave them there, honey. They’re too far from the supper table.”
“They’re for Christmas.”
“That’s tomorrow, but doggoned if it doesn’t feel like Christmas tonight,” he told her, sliding from his coat. “Stars are bright as fireworks, and that big one over to the east is shining like a house afire. You suppose that’s the one the wise men followed?”
“Do you believe the Christmas story, Quinn?” she asked, returning to her paper chains.
“Sure, doesn’t everybody?” he asked. “I heard it from my mama when I was just a little tad. I thought it was wonderful, kind of like magic, the way the angels sang to the shepherds. Didn’t you hear the story every year on Christmas Eve?”
“I imagine so, when I was small. And then I guess I lost track of it for a lot of years, when it seemed that all the promise of Christmas was wasted on fancy gifts and noisy parties.”
“Well, I’d say you’ve come full circle. This is about as humble as it gets, Erin,” Quinn said softly. “A man, a woman and a child. We’ve got a shed full of animals and all the stars anybody’d ever need, just shining away up there. All we need is a choir of angels.”
She laughed aloud. “You’ve made Christmas happen for me, Quinn Yarborough. And we really don’t need a choir of angels to do the trick. That one on the bed over there is all the angel I need.”
He rested his hands on her waist and bent his head to look into her eyes. “My angel is right in front of me, Mrs. Yarborough. Merry Christmas.” He touched her lips with care, his mouth forming to press tenderly against hers. And then he whispered the phrase again, their lips brushing as the words breathed against her mouth.
She felt her breathing accelerate, her heart thumping rapidly, and she leaned against him, lifting her arms to circle his neck. “Merry Christmas, Quinn.” Her head tilted back and she pursed her mouth. “I guess aft
er all those nice words, I ought to let you have a cookie.”
“Yes, ma’am, that’d be mighty nice of you,” he agreed solemnly, one hand leaving her waist to reach for the plate.
“After supper,” she amended, frowning.
“Before and after,” he told her, biting off an appendage. “See there, now it looks better,” he said, showing her the transformed shape.
Erin shook her head. “If you only knew how hard I worked on those.”
“And I certainly do appreciate your efforts,” he said. “Let me show you how much.” The cookie disappeared quickly as Quinn stepped to the far side of the cabin where his saddlebags were stacked.
Sifting through his belongings, he withdrew a small package and brought it back to where Erin stood near the stove. She watched, her curiosity piqued by his smile and the gift he carried. It was wrapped in silver paper, tied with a bit of red ribbon, somewhat tattered but festive nonetheless.
“I’ve carried this around for a long time,” he told her, offering the gift on his outstretched hand. “It was my mother’s. She’d want you to have it.”
Erin’s fingers circled the flat package. It was round, and through the paper she felt a raised carving on the edge. “May I open it?”
He shrugged. “It’s close enough to Christmas, I think.”
Her fingers trembled as she undid the ribbon and tucked it into her pocket. The paper held its shape well, and she worked at it, finally revealing a compact, with a clever opening.
“It’s still got her face powder in it. Probably no good anymore. We can buy you some to replace it someday.”
“Oh, Quinn!” Erin felt a lump rise in her throat “I’ll cherish it always.” She looked into the mirror, dusty with a powdery residue, discovering a wistful, youthful expression upon her own face.
“You’re prettier than she was,” Quinn said quietly.
“Thank you.” Erin blinked back tears, then dug into her pocket. “I have something for you, too.” She offered the wrapped knife on the palm of her hand and watched as Quinn’s long fingers took it from her.
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