He rolled with her, his arms urging her body to meld with his, one hand sliding to cup her bottom, relishing the firm curve of her hip and thigh beneath his fingers. His mouth left hers and he tasted the tender skin of her throat, her shoulder and breast, his tongue and teeth testing the resilience of her flesh.
Erin moaned, her fingers kneading his back, and he gloried in the sound of her passion. His touch slowed, gentling as he sought the hidden secrets of her woman’s flesh, and then he swallowed a sound of exultation as his touch gave proof of her desire.
He had vowed to bring her joy, had promised himself the gift of her pleasure. Now his own needs were put aside, almost forgotten as he worshiped the woman he’d taken as his wife. He wooed her, praising her for the beauty of her form, whispering words of encouragement as he brought her to the edge of completion. His hands caressed her, his fingers sought her pleasure in a hundred ways, and his kisses pressed her ever closer to fulfillment.
She cried out, a muffled sound that pierced his heart, and he opened his eyes, rising above her as she met his gaze with eyes that reflected his. “Quinn!” Her cry was frantic, as if she sought a goal she could not attain, and he covered her mouth with his own, his manhood urgent against her. She trembled in his arms, then opened to him, urging him to seek the haven he’d denied himself for too long.
She clung, as if her very life depended on the warmth of his flesh, the movement of his body against her. “Quinn!” The entreaty was whispered again and she lifted herself, offering entrance, entwining her limbs with his, straining to capture that part of him that promised a pleasure beyond bearing.
And then he was there, stretching her, filling her, bringing her once more to a knowledge of her own womanhood.
Erin groaned aloud. She’d known the touch of a man’s hands, the weight of a man’s body on hers. Yet never had she known this purity of love, the joyful acceptance that made two bodies into one flesh.
She could only whisper his name, her whole being alive with his presence, his arms enclosing her as his manhood claimed her depths with a sweet invasion. Gone was the terror of the past. Forgotten were the harsh reminders of another’s hands. Only the fresh, pure knowledge of Quinn Yarborough’s possession filled her mind and heart as she knew the primitive exaltation of belonging to the man she loved.
The letter came on the stagecoach from Denver, and was hand delivered by Tater Folsom just before noon. Erin scanned the envelope, her curiosity on edge as she read the return address.
Louis Hardiman, Special Investigator. What a special investigator in Denver wanted with Quinn was a mystery she stood no chance of solving, she decided. She stifled the urge to hold the envelope up to the light. Even if she could see through the heavy paper, whatever was written within was none of her business.
Or was it?
It was because of her that Quinn had come to Denver and made inquiries of people there. And it made sense to think that one of those persons who had led him to Pine Creek might have been Louis Hardiman.
Reluctantly she placed the envelope on the kitchen table, leaning it on its edge against the sugar bowl. From there it drew her eyes like a magnet, and it was with a sense of heartfelt relief that she heard Quinn at the back door.
“Dinner’s about ready,” she sang out, careful to ignore the envelope that had demanded her attention for almost an hour. “Wash up and I’ll fix our plates, Quinn.”
He shrugged from his coat and hung his hat over it near the door. “Sheriff wants me to consider working with him, Erin. What do you think?” He made a production of rolling up his sleeves as he walked toward the sink.
She glanced at him over her shoulder, her hands busy with a pan full of cornbread. “Is that what you want to do?”
Quinn leaned over the washbasin, working up a layer of suds and scrubbing at his hands. “Come pump some water for me, will you?” he asked.
Erin nodded, stepping to his side. She pushed the handle down, then allowed it to rise, feeling the surge of water as it rose through the small pitcher pump, watching as it poured forth to rinse Quinn’s hands.
He leaned against the sink, drying his hands on her dish towel, watching as she scurried back and forth between table and stove. “I want to have my own place, Erin.”
She halted abruptly, a plate in each hand. “Here? Here in Pine Creek?”
Quinn shook his head. “No, not here. This is just a place to winter. And before I say any more about it, I think we need to talk.”
“You don’t have to worry about me, Quinn. I’m not especially attached to this place. The only thing holding us here, as far as I’m concerned, is finding out about making sure Robert is legally ours.” She placed the two plates on the table, then stood back, eyeing the food she’d prepared.
“I think that’s it. Slumgullion and cornbread go pretty well together. I’ll just get the coffee.”
Quinn’s brow furrowed. “Slumgullion? Is this something new?” He peered at his plate. “Looks like goulash to me.”
Erin served the coffee and slid into her chair. “It’s beef and tomatoes and whatever else you can find to put in it. Alice gave me a couple of quarts of tomatoes she canned from her garden, and some macaroni she bought from the emporium. That’s about all I had, besides onions. I guess you can call it whatever you want to, so long as it tastes good.”
“Smells all right to me,” Quinn said agreeably, bending to kiss her cheek as he circled the table to his own chair. “I’ve learned to enjoy most any kind of food over the past few years.”
He sat down and lifted his spoon, only to eye the letter that faced him from in front of the sugar bowl. “What’s this?”
“It came a while ago. Tater brought it from the general store when he picked up the sheriff’s post. He said we probably should start checking on general delivery every few days, in case we get mail.”
Quinn slid his finger under the flap and opened the letter. “No one knows we’re here, so far as I know.” He glanced down. “Except for Louis Hardiman, I guess.” He scanned the single page quickly, then put it aside.
Erin picked up her fork and began eating, her eyes straying to the abandoned letter as she chewed. “Is it important, Quinn?” she asked finally, her curiosity getting the better of her.
“In a roundabout way, I guess,” he answered, reaching for a piece of cornbread. He buttered it carefully, frowning as if it took an immense amount of concentration.
“Is it about me?” She felt a flare of anger at his reticence, and chewed with vigor.
“Mr. Hardiman says someone’s been making inquiries about both of us in Denver. Joel Guinan got wind of it in New York and asked Louis to notify me that a detective’s been nosing around, and that Ted and Estelle Wentworth have left the city for an extended trip.”
“They’re coming here?” Erin asked, fork in midair as she awaited the answer. Her appetite was gone, washed away in the flood of anxiety that spread throughout her being.
Quinn shook his head. “He didn’t say that. Matter of fact, he didn’t offer them any information, either in person or by way of the detective they seem to have hired.” He lifted his fork to take another bite, and Erin eyed him with impatience.
“How can you just sit there and eat when I’m being hunted down like an animal?” Her voice was harsh, and she caught her breath in a sob as she pushed away from the table.
Quinn shot her a glance that stopped her as she would have risen to her feet. “Just stay put, honey. Getting all in a dither won’t help a thing,” he said quietly. “And this food won’t be fit to eat when it’s cold. Sit back down.”
His tone of voice left no room for argument, and Erin sat on the edge of her chair. Never had he given her an order before; but he was telling her what to do now, and in no uncertain terms. She relaxed the grip she’d held on the sides of her chair and watched as Quinn cleaned his plate.
“You don’t look very concerned,” she said with a tinge of accusation coloring her words.
H
e lifted an eyebrow and shrugged. “No sense in worrying about it until something happens. We don’t know if Ted has found out where we are or not. And if he does follow me here, I can’t see that he’s gonna be able to do much to harm either of us.”
“He’ll be angry that I managed to hide, and they’ll both accuse me of terrible things when they find out that my baby—” Her voice broke, and her hands buried themselves in the folds of her dress.
“Your baby died, Erin, and no one could have been more upset about that than you were. I can understand that they’d be unhappy about it That was their last link to Damian, and when they find out that the little fella didn’t make it, they’ll have a fit about it. But it isn’t going to do them a bit of good. All of Ted Wentworth’s money can’t bring that baby back, any more than money spent on a grand education and fancy tailoring could make a man out of Damian.”
She blinked back tears, facing him with a look of sorrow that had become familiar to him over the past months. Only when Damian’s name was mentioned did that blend of misery and distress color her visage.
“I’d like to erase that look from your eyes once and for all,” Quinn muttered, his quick anger a surprise. “I think you’re still afraid of him, aren’t you?”
Erin shook her head. “No, not of him, but of what his parents can still do to me. You don’t understand, do you, Quinn? Ted really feels I had something to do with his son’s death. What if he accuses me? What if the police come after me? What will happen to Robert then?” She got to her feet, and her gaze swept the edges of the room as if she sought escape.
“They won’t hurt you, Erin. I’ll see to it. You’re my wife now.” Quinn’s hands clenched, and his temper rose as he considered her fears. “So far as I know, the cause of Damian’s death was never disputed. If Ted wanted to cast doubt on you, he’d have done it then. And if the authorities were after you, I’d have known it by now.”
“How?” She tossed her head and her mouth tightened. “You know, you’ve never told me all the details of how you found me. How many investigators did you involve in the hunt for the missing widow, Quinn? And how, pray tell, did you plan on hauling me back to New York?” Her voice was shrill as she shot her queries at him.
He shook his head dismissively. “All that’s in the past, Erin. You know very well I wouldn’t have tried to force you to do anything. Whose side do you think I’m on?”
“Well, it must have cost Ted a pretty penny to hunt me down. He’s going to want blood before he’s done. I’d lay money on that. And private investigators don’t come cheap. How much was I worth, Quinn?” As if all the anger and fear and outrage of the past months had exploded in one grand-display, Erin faced him across the room. Her skin was pale beneath the flush of passion on her cheeks, her eyes blazed with an icy blue flame and her breasts lifted and fell with each breath, as if her lungs could not expand enough to contain the anger she exhaled with each breath.
“How much were you worth? Shall I tell you, wife of mine?” Quinn’s teeth were bared as he laughed with a savage inflection that allowed his own feelings an outlet. “You were worth every penny Ted Wentworth paid me. But it ended up coming out of my own pocket. I’ve already had a voucher sent to his bank for the amount of my retainer. I gave him back every bit of my advance monies. I haven’t made one red cent on this venture, lady.”
His hands fisted against his hips as he bent toward her. “All I managed to do was chop your wood, tend your stock, deliver your child and end up with a crease in my head for your benefit. Now, you tell me what that was worth!”
Erin’s mouth opened, then closed, one hand covering it as if she would hold back the words that might issue forth. Her nostrils flared as she inhaled, and she trembled visibly, the flush of anger overcome by a pallor that washed all color from her skin.
“I didn’t know I had cost you so much,” she managed finally, her hand spreading wide across her breast as she backed from him. “I’ve been quite a drain on your bank account, haven’t I?” Her head bent low, but her voice vibrated with pride. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Yarborough, for all the trouble you’ve suffered on my behalf.”
“Ah…hell, Erin! Cut it out!” As fast as his anger had infused him, as rapidly as he’d loosed his thoughtless words on her ears, he repented, shaking his head in regret
“No.” She stepped back again, coming to a halt against the wall as Quinn approached her, his hands outstretched.
“You know I don’t regret anything I’ve done,” he. said quietly, as cautious now of her unnaturally calm demeanor as he had been of the riotous frenzy she’d unleashed only minutes past.
“Don’t you?”
He shook his head. “No. I regret nothing except my failure to keep you safe. I married you because—”
“Yes,” she hissed, her head lifting as she interrupted him quickly. “Why did you marry me? For the child? Or was it because you thought I would provide you with a degree of entertainment during the long.” Her eyes closed, and she shook her head. “Even that didn’t work to your benefit, did it? I couldn’t even…I wasn’t worth much to you as a wife, was I?” Her mouth pouted with the words, and she looked away, turning from him.
“Have I complained?” he asked, lifting his hand to touch her hair, his fingers tangling in it. He saw the small movement she could not hide, the flinching of her shoulder from his touch, and he cursed beneath his breath.
“Don’t ever do that to me.” His words were steel, wrapped in a harsh whisper that brought her whirling to face him. “Don’t draw back from my touch. I’ve never given you reason to fear me, Erin.”
“Even now?” Her eyes defied him. “You look like you could shake me or worse.” Her jaw was clenched, and her shoulders drew back in a gesture of defiance he could only admire.
“You don’t want to hear what I’d like to do to you right now, Erin Yarborough.” He gritted the words out between his teeth.
“I’m sure I’ve heard it before. I know what comes next. Remember? I’ve been there.”
“Not here, you haven’t.” He noted her wince as his callused fingers tugged at her hair, and he ignored it He heard the smothered protest as he swept her into his arms, his actions pressing her face against his chest. And when he carried her up the stairs to the bedroom beneath the eaves, his arms held her firmly.
He placed her in the center of the bed that had held them only hours before, the bed he had prepared for her just last night. Now he stood over her looking like a man intent on proving a point His hair was ruffled, his jaw set stubbornly, and his eyes were glittering beneath lowered brows.
She should have been afraid. She should have been running for dear life toward the door, intent on escape. And yet, she watched him.
His fingers worked deliberately at the buttons of his trousers, until the denim fabric hung precariously on his hips. “If you make any noise you’ll wake the baby,” he said in a low voice, nodding at the dresser drawer where Robert nestled.
A flush of desire outlined his cheekbones, and his nostrils flared as he bent over her. “Are you afraid of me yet, Erin?” His whisper was ominous and his gaze swept across her bosom, even as his hands touched the buttons that protected her modesty.
She felt the rapid beat of her heart beneath his fingers as he uncovered the lacy border of her chemise. His index finger edged the plump rise of one breast, then the other, and Erin closed her eyes, aware that her body responded to his touch. He laughed beneath his breath.
“Look at me, Erin.” His finger stilled and she drew in a breath, shaking her head.
He sat on the edge of the bed, then rolled to lie beside her, and she was aware of the outdoor scent of him, the masculine aroma of his skin as he drew her into his embrace. Her nose touched his chest, the curls brushing against her mouth, and she turned her head away.
Quinn rose over her, holding himself on one elbow, the other hand brushing her hair from her cheek. “Look at me, Erin,” he repeated. “I want to see the fear in your eyes.”
Chapter Seventeen
Her lids rose slowly, her eyes appraising him as he watched her. “I’m not afraid of you, Quinn Yarborough. If you think I’m going to beg for mercy, you’re sadly mistaken.”
He lowered his head, his whisper taunting her as he brushed her mouth with his. “One day I’ll hear you beg, sweetheart. Maybe not now, but one day you’ll need me as much as I need you.”
“Beg you for what?” she asked, careful not to allow him entrance to her mouth as she spoke, holding her lips taut.
An amused gleam tempered the darkness of his gaze. “I can’t wait to show you,” he answered, a husky tension underlying his words. His hand tugged at her dress, pulling it up to expose her legs, and her own fingers tangled with his, wrestling for possession of the garment.
“It’s the middle of the day, Quinn Yarborough.”
“I’m well aware of that.” He grasped her wrist and moved the offending hand over her head, where, with very little effort, he managed to capture it, shifting to hold her in place. His thigh was heavy, keeping her leg immobile, and she grumbled loudly, wiggling against him in vain.
“Shh. you’ll wake the baby,” he whispered, exaggerating the words. His hand went back to the hem of her dress, lifting it to her waist. She lay beneath him, frustrated by his high-handedness, yet intrigued by the sensations those same shenanigans were producing in her body.
His nimble fingers untied her drawers and he stripped her of them, his hands moving with impudence over her legs as he pulled the cotton fabric down, stripping her of her house shoes as he went. And then those same fingers took a tingling path once more, finding their way back to the supple skin that covered her belly. They spread wide, flexing against her skin, teasing her with the promise of pleasure.
She rose instinctively from the mattress as his wandering fingertips touched her, as if her errant body sought closer contact with the hand that dared to claim her most intimate secrets as his own.
Carolyn Davidson Page 22
