“I’d be obliged if you would.” His voice had gone as chill as the air outdoors, and the depth of his dark eyes flat with shadows.
“Well, you’d probably get some good out of confession and forgiveness with your favorite neighborhood priest.”
The shrug of one shoulder dislodged his spare flannel shirt, so that things earlier tucked safely away suddenly stood up full and firm once more, demanding attention. How else could he respond, but to let his distracted gaze zero in front and center again? And subconsciously drool?
“But I’ll do what I can, from my perspective.”
“Ahuh. Have a go at it.” Because he was about ready to have a go at it himself; ready to throw sanity to the winds and those flimsy skirts over her head and tumble her right here, on top of the saddle blankets. Down, boy!
“I’m sure you know, with every bit of logic you have, that you were caught in an impossible situation when that battle was lost. Impossible, Jim. No way out. Nothing you could do. As a prisoner, helpless—much as it probably galls you to admit it. But for some reason, you refuse to believe facts. Why is that, do you think?”
She tipped her head to one side, like a bright, inquisitive squirrel, to study his face with its mulish expression.
“Dunno.”
Rarity of rarities, she voluntarily touched him. She stretched out one slim hand to curve, smooth and soft as an angel’s wing, along his clean-shaven cheek. Under the almost unbearable pleasure of that caress, gifted from the generosity of her own spirit, James closed his eyes to savor the sweetness.
“I think,” she said gently, leaning closer, “it may be because you feel such great responsibility toward those under your care. If you’re unable to fulfill your duty, for whatever reason, you see that as meaning you’ve failed somehow. And you take that failure very personally. It’s devastating.”
Silence. It’s hard to speak over a gigantic lump in your throat.
“Jimmy.” Her lips were near enough to whisper, “Let it go, Jim.”
Swallowing, he lifted a hand to cover hers, still laid so lightly upon his skin. “Molly.” A pause to regain focus. “Molly. Sounds like—you know me better’n I know myself…”
The light of a blissful universe shone from her eyes when she smiled.
Much later, he could try pleading temporary madness. For now, he was aware only that her lush and lovely body lay within reaching distance to his, and he had been far too long without a woman’s tenderness.
Swift as thought, James shoved himself up and hard to capture those elusive mounds beneath the blouse, to cup and cherish what lay within his grasp.
Her incredulous gasp and his low-pitched growl burst out simultaneously.
“Jim!”
“Molly!”
No corset! No stiffened, rigid, whalebone corset to contend with…only some thin silky stuff that immediately gave way as he impatiently pushed it aside. All that wonderful, marvelous, unfettered flesh, now naked to his sight, contained in both his eager hands, to stroke and knead and shape into delightful taut-tipped bloom.
“—Jim—” Helpless, and, surprisingly enough, surrendering without a struggle, she made some sort of a gurgling sound. “—Jim, you—shouldn’t—”
Raising his head from her breasts, he stared up at her with fire in his eyes. “Don’t tell me I shouldn’t,” he said fiercely. “Because I goddamned well should. And I will!”
His mouth had found her, suckling and teasing; his tongue had found her, flicking back and forth with an almost exquisite torture; his teeth had found her, to nip, to rasp, to harry.
Only her words could reach him now. She stammered, “Then—if you will, Jimmy, please make it soon.”
“Oh, Molly—Good God, Molly,” he groaned. “I want you so much. I love you so much. My sweet, excitin’, beautiful Molly!”
She squirmed lower, to afford easier access, and opened herself to him; he surged higher, caught her in his arms, and enveloped her with hard, demanding kisses that traveled from bosom to lips.
Breath hitching into tremulous little half-sobs, Molly murmured things she knew not what. It was not enough just to go along on this wild, dizzying ride of the senses; she must participate fully and joyously. Let her die tomorrow, if necessary, but tonight give her at least this much: that the man she loved would make her his.
And so she thrust her fingers into his rich curly hair and dragged his mouth down to hers, even as she arched up to meet him, breast to breast, loin to loin. All that was strong and powerful lay upon her, ready for use. And what magnificent use it would be!
Incoherent though she might be by the whole that was going on above and around her, yet she had actually slid one palm down to the buttons of his trousers for a daring squeeze when suddenly her fool’s paradise collapsed.
“Great God in heaven,” said James blankly, and pulled free from her embrace to jerk himself up, off, and away. “What in the hell am I doin’?”
Molly, yanked rudely from what had promised to be the culmination of her life’s dream, lay sprawled limp and flat across the blanket, unmoving, shamed, sick at heart. She felt much as any shell-shocked soldier must have felt, during the War. She looked like something roughly used and tossed aside. “Jim,” she managed to whisper.
“No, Molly.” James had turned his back on her to adjust the constriction of tight wool pants around an agonizing fullness. Settled, he sent a tortured glance her way. “This won’t work. We can’t—Molly, we just can’t do this…”
Her hair fanned out beneath her head, attracting light in the dim old barn like molten lava; her gauzy blouse and skirt bunched about her in complete disarray, half-covering, half-not; her sweet mouth, reddened and swollen by his kisses, worked once again to shape his name.
“Molly—”
No sound, no movement. Only a single tear that overflowed long lashes to ooze slowly down one cheek. So much for always being chipper, good-natured, and looking ahead to the future.
With a heartrending groan, James knelt to pull her upright, into his cradling arms. “Great gallopin’ Jesus,” he muttered. “Molly, sweetheart, please—seein’ you cry like this, somebody might just as well pull me apart on the rack, or flay me alive. Please try t’ understand.”
His only answer was a half-sob, then another, buried deep against his chest.
Very gently he held her away so that he could search her face. “Molly, I’m so sorry,” he choked out in a whirl of remorse and self-disgust. “I treated you like a—like a—”
“Whore,” she supplied. Recovering now, with her spine stiffened and her marrow turned to ice; only pride could see her through this humiliation. Later would come the grief and despair.
Abject color flamed into his cheeks. “You’re right, I did. But not a-purpose. If I could, I’d make you mine till the end of our days. But I can’t. Because there’s…”
“…Emma.”
His fingers were cutting deeply, almost painfully, into the flesh of her upper arms, but she hardly noticed a grasp that, tomorrow, would show bruises.
“I love you, Molly Buchanan,” he said stoutly. “Only you. But I can’t betray the woman I asked t’ marry me, long before I knew you even existed. I’m honor-bound to take her as my wife.”
“Of course you are. Honor-bound. Your precious honor. God keep me from the code of an honorable man.” Her voice rang with scorn. Slowly and deliberately she reached up to remove his hands from their grip, then took a step away.
Both arms fell limply, emptily, to his sides. The taste of ashes filled his mouth. “Emma is my responsibility, Molly. I owe her my loyalty. She’d be helpless, stuck out here on her own.”
“Emma may be a naïve little Southern powder puff, James; I’ll grant you that. But her aunt knew what she was doing, the minute your proposal was accepted, and so did that lawyer of hers. Did they give any thought as to what would happen to Emma if her circumstances changed? Bet your bottom dollar they didn’t!”
“Molly—”
&nbs
p; His eyes looked like burned holes in a sheet of paper, and his face could have served as the model for an El Día De Los Muertos mask. She cared not.
Tearing off the shirt that had comforted and cosseted, she flung it at him in a furious heap. “It’s getting dark, James, and the storm is past. Get me back to the ranch. I have plans to make.”
VIII
Before the floor-length silver-inlaid mirror in Emma’s suite of rooms, Rosa preened. Atop her thick black hair she had draped a lace mantilla from what was left of Emma’s substantial wardrobe; over her shoulders lay a golden brocade coat, deemed by Emma to be too heavy and hot for this climate; upon her feet rested a pair of intricately beaded high-heeled silver slippers, not comfortable enough for Emma to wear.
Much earlier, she had helpfully packed up everything Emma insisted upon taking for her harum-scarum trip south, and even waved a delighted farewell to the escaping couple at the front door. At last they were gone, leaving Rosa alone in the great rambling hacienda.
She had kicked off her shoes, spread her arms wide, and, laughing loud and long, danced her way barefoot through the hallway, across the parlor’s wooden floors, and toward the wall cabinet where liquor was stored.
“Mine. All mine!” she exulted.
A bottle of rich red sangría, a crystal goblet, and she was all set.
With Emma finally out of the way, Señor James would be completely adrift. How simple a thing, with Rosa’s many, earthy charms, to cast her net over the handsome ranch owner, and make him hers. And then her life would be arranged to her liking, a heavenly kingdom on earth, and she would reign over it as a gracious queen over her kingdom.
The first glassful of wine slipped down easily. As if she would ever have dared such an indiscretion while that pouty little sage hen remained in nominal charge! Pouring a second glassful, she carried it with her to see what she could scavenge from Emma’s leavings. Oh, certainly the girl had given every indication she would send for what remained, but Rosa knew that wouldn’t happen. Not with what lay in store for her.
The storm blew in while she was pawing through the wardrobe. With a shrug, Rosa lit a couple of lamps and continued. Had her brother and his inamorata been trapped somewhere by bad weather, even with several hours’ head start? Rosa had no way of knowing, and had no intention of caring. What they did from now on was beyond her concern.
With another smile, Rosa exchanged the exotic coat for a beribboned satin top half of a two-piece dress, both in alternating shades of mint green—Emma’s favorite. Pah. Neither the design nor the color flattered Rosa’s olive complexion or voluptuous figure. Disgusted, she flung the piece aside in search of more sumptuous wear.
Eventually the storm blew away, as storms always do. Fresh-washed leaves trembled with raindrops, puddles leached into the dry earth, clouds drifted away from a pink and orange dusk.
Sometime later, noise emanating from the front of the house interrupted her gratified frolicking: the slam of a door, and another slam; hard footsteps pounding in from somewhere; a male voice raised in unintelligible conversation. Or discussion. Or argument.
She met them coming down the hall. “Señor?” Rosa asked, taken slightly aback.
“Rosa.” He greeted her almost with surprise, as if he had completely forgotten her existence.
“Rosa.” Molly reached out to touch the maid’s wrist. “Rosa, I have a headache that’s about to split my skull. Would you mind terribly fetching me a glass of milk, and perhaps some bread to eat?”
A quick glance from one to the other. James wore the look of the vanished storm outside: rough, tough, even a trifle worn around the edges. While Molly’s expression, by contrast, could compare to the mountains themselves in steely determination. Except for the dusty, straw-ticked state of her skirt, her disheveled coiffure, tear tracks down her cheeks, and a blouse fit now for nothing but the ragbag with its torn bodice and bedraggled fabric.
Rosa’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. What had happened here? She had managed to rid herself of one rival; had another just unexpectedly appeared? “Señorita, is something wrong?”
“Wrong? No, of course not. Other than this horrendous pain that’s blinding my vision. I’m going to my room for some headache powders, and then I’m going straight to bed. Rosa, some food, please?”
Despite herself, the maid curtseyed in response to the unspoken command. She always did believe there was more to this supposed companion of Miss Emma’s than anyone realized.
“But, Molly, we have to—”
“You may have to, James. I don’t have to do anything. Good night.” Clamping down on any further dispute, she turned to hasten away.
Leaving Rosa alone with the man whose wealth and power she craved, with a desperation she could almost taste.
He stood there staring down the empty hall, wearing an unreadable expression, slapping his hat absent-mindedly against one thigh.
“Señor.” To gain and hold his attention, she offered her sweetest, most ingratiating smile. “There is something I may help you for?”
“Huh? Uh. No. No, thanks. Just—uh—take care of Miss Buchanan, okay?”
Ten minutes later, having complied with their wishes, Rosa sought out her employer, who had taken himself off to the library. Hardly for perusing his shelves and shelves of leather-bound books; more likely to leave behind the troubles of women.
Did he but realize—!
“Señor, I may interrupt, por favor?”
He was sprawled in one of the big leather chairs, looking like a tattered cloth someone had wrung out of muddy water and thrown over a bush to dry. A blank expression in the dark eyes that stared at nothing on the opposite wall. Hands hung loosely over the chair arms. Booted feet stretched straight out, uncaring for scuff marks on the wooden floor.
Seeing him so, she approached with unusual timidity.
“Tracked me down, didja? What is it, Rosa? Does Emma wanna talk to me? Tell her I’ll be along directly. Soon.”
“Señor, no. This is—Miss Emma had—” Grinding to a halt, she handed over the envelope, upon which Emma had scrawled his name, and the lengthy note inside.
Wearily he pried open the flap and began to read. As each line swam past his astounded vision, a welter of emotions took hold: outrage, incredulity, irony, relief, and outrage again. “What the hell?” he was muttering with every few words. “What the hell?”
He went through the whole thing once, twice, then a third time, before some of it began to make sense.
“Your brother?” James turned on the maid, who quailed before the look of a lightning flash twisting his features.
“Sí, Señor.”
“My future wife and your brother? Good God Almighty!”
“Is true, Señor. She tell me they fall in love, they leave for my family’s ranch…”
“Yes, yes, that’s all in here.”
He rose, suddenly too overcome to sit still, and began to pace in tempo to his racing thoughts. Wait till Molly found out about this. Feeling as sick and exhausted as she was, he would not risk disturbing her tonight. But tomorrow—first thing in the morning—what great news to share!
He was free!
So many paces to the painted adobe wall, so many more to the open terrace door, so many more back again. Clump, clump.
During the whole of their return trip from the old barn’s sanctuary, she had spoken not a word to him; not one word. The few glimpses caught of her face had shown a white, set expression and eyes that blazed green fire. Pitchforks and damnation could have presented no more bleak a picture than the memory of Molly’s despair.
But now…could things have worked out any more smoothly, after so much frustration? He needed only to go to her, to proclaim once again his everlasting love, to eagerly discuss plans for their future together…
How could he possibly wait until daylight to tell her what had happened? Did he dare wake her? No. He was mature enough to practice patience. He could get through the next few hours. Somehow, he woul
d get through them.
And soon…bliss! Ecstasy!
James halted dead on the patterned wool rug. “Rosa.”
Mistrustful, she had been hovering in the doorway, watching him stride about, muttering incomprehensible phrases. “Yes, Señor?”
He moved toward her, catching fast and locking onto her gaze. “You realize I can’t just accept from Emma’s letter that everything is all right. She’s still my responsibility, to some extent, no matter what arrangements she’s made. So I’m gonna haveta do some checkin’ up on her.”
“Checking up?” Rosa frowned. “Is my brother, Master James. You know Benito—a good man, safe, and she is where she wants to be. No need for checking up. Is good news for you, Miss Emma leaving, yes?”
James drew in such a deep breath to expel on such a huge sigh that the curtains might have fluttered as the air passed through. “It seems so, yes.”
“Then you celebrate. Ha. A bottle of fine wine, from your cupboard. I fetch for you.”
“Wine. Huh.” He considered that, then nodded. “Yeah. A celebration. One for me tonight. One more in the mornin’.” For me and Molly.
“Then you sit yourself down there, sir, and relax. I will tend.”
It took no more persuasion that that to resume his comfortable big chair, cross one booted ankle over the other knee, and relax. The sparkling goblet of provocative burgundy she brought to him a few minutes later, after some time spent drawing the cork and arranging details just so, had him nearly giddy with anticipated happiness.
So much he had to look forward to, with the love of his life, on the morrow.
He sipped the wine. Delicious. More potent that he had expected, maybe, especially on a stomach that was nearly empty and a heart that was overfull. But, still, delicious. He took another sip.
Then another. Quite delicious…
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Oh. My. God. Oh, my God!” Not quite a scream, not yet a shriek; more like a strangled cry of absolute, bone-chilling horror.
Blearily James opened one eye, then the other. Blazing, blinding sunlight stabbed into his brain with the force of a hammer blow wielded by human-hating imps; and, nearly overcome by the monstrous pain of a skull about to explode, he blinked incredulously.
A Western Romance: James Yancey - Taking the High Road (Book 3) (Taking the High Road series) Page 9
