“But would you have asked me to marry you?”
“As God is my witness…yes. My mistake, Abbie, was in allowing my friends to think it was the land I coveted, and not you. It was easier to reveal greed instead of my heart.”
He wrapped his hand around her arm. “Give the land to Johnny or sell it. We’ll become gypsies. I don’t care. As long as I have you, I don’t care.”
“Where would you hang your hat?”
“On a wagon wheel?”
She wiped the tears from her face, smearing mud across her cheeks. “You mean it? You love me—even if I come without land?”
“With all my heart.”
John ’s funeral was held three days later, after the rising waters had receded and the ground was not as wet. Abbie did not care what her neighbors thought as Grayson stood beside her and the children. And when her grief caused the painful ache in her chest and her tears flowed, she didn’t care if tongues wagged when Grayson put his arms around her. He was her strength, her comfort.
After the memorial service, with Grayson’s hand pressed to the small of her back, she stood beside John ’s grave and accepted condolences. A widow once. A widow twice. She hoped never to be a widow again.
When the last of friends and family left, she knelt beside the headstone and pressed a cottonseed into the soil. As she rose, Grayson slipped his arm around her. She glanced at the blue skies. “Those clouds remind me of cotton.”
Grayson’s arms tightened around her, and she knew no words needed to be spoken.
“When they told me that he had died in the war, I didn’t cry. Not one tear. I married him at sixteen. We were husband and wife, but never friends. He was always so formidable, so strong that he frightened me. And when he came home, I realized he was just a man.”
She gazed up at Grayson. “I think a husband and wife should be friends. You asked me once to marry you.”
His hand crept down to cover her stomach. “And I shall ask again when your period of mourning is over.”
“I mourned John once before, and I will probably mourn his passing until the day I die, but I love you, Grayson Rhodes, and I don’t want to wait a whole year to be your wife.”
He bestowed upon her a tender smile. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“I want to sleep in the barn, too,” Micah announced in his froggy voice.
Grayson watched as his wife—his wife, by God; his father would never believe it—hugged the lad closely.
“You can sleep in the barn tomorrow night,” she said.
“How come not tonight?”
Abbie blushed a deep red. “Because Grayson and I need time alone to get used to being married.”
“Will he live in the house with us after it’s built?” Lydia asked.
Abbie smiled at her daughter. “Yes.”
Lydia snapped her gaze to Grayson. “Will you read to us every night?”
“Every night.” He had already ordered several books.
“We should have a tournament to celebrate you getting hitched,” Johnny said.
Grayson patted his shoulder “We will, lad. As soon as it gets a bit drier.”
“Come on,” Elizabeth said. “Hug your ma and Grayson so we can head home.”
The children did as she bade before scrambling into the back of Elizabeth ’s wagon with her daughters. Elizabeth embraced Abbie. “You sure you don’t want to come to my house, too?”
“I’m sure,” Abbie said.
Elizabeth cast a narrowed glance at Grayson. “A wedding night in a barn. Well, I suppose it’ll be something to tell your grandchildren.”
“Indeed it will be,” he assured her. Grayson had considered taking his new bride to a room at the saloon, but that seemed tawdry. So he had selected a place that had surprisingly been spared the hurricane’s wrath—a place of fond memories: the loft in Abbie’s barn.
With a great deal of complaining, Kit and Harry had hauled a proper bed and mattress up to the loft. Jessye had hung lacy curtains over the opening. With a blush, she’d confided that women liked lacy things and he might do well to remember that.
“Good God, you almost look respectable,” Harry said.
Grayson smiled. In the end, both Kit and Harry had stood beside him as he’d exchanged vows with Abbie. It had somehow seemed right.
“I don’t think I kissed the bride,” Kit said, reaching for Abbie.
Grayson clamped a hand on his shoulder. “You kissed her.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” It had been no small peck on the cheek either, but a full-fledged kiss on the mouth that had Grayson contemplating punching his friend.
“And she didn’t leave you for me? Incredible.” He winked at Abbie. “Be happy, Abbie, and don’t make him give up all his disreputable ways.”
Smiling, she slipped her arm through Grayson’s.
“There are some I will insist he keep.”
Kit laughed before shaking Grayson’s hand. “We’ll be leaving tomorrow.”
A tightness settled in Grayson’s chest that had nothing to do with the bindings that held his mending ribs in place. “Let me know if you have any luck gathering a herd together.”
“We will. Give some thought to joining us when we get ready to take them north. It has to be easier than cotton.”
“I will, but I think it unlikely that I’ll go. Based on all the information you collected, it seems to be an occupation more suited to a man who has neither a wife nor children.” He shifted his gaze to Abbie. “And now I have both.”
Grayson would have liked to carry Abbie to the loft, but neither his mending ribs nor his arm would allow it. When the house was built and he was completely healed, he would carry her over the threshold and to their room, a room they would share for the remainder of their lives.
But for now, he had to content himself with following her up the ladder. By the time he climbed into the loft, she was standing by the opening, the moonlight filtering through and around the billowing lacy curtains, casting an ethereal glow around her.
“I think I fell in love with you here,” he said quietly as he walked toward her. “When I saw you holding my book, touching it…I wanted you to touch me.”
Reaching out, she trailed her fingers along his cheek before curving her arm around his neck and stepping within his clumsy embrace. “I think I fell in love with you when I saw you give Micah his first shave.” She angled her head thoughtfully. “Or maybe it was that first night you caught me bathing…and you put the towel just beyond my reach. It seemed like something naughty that a rogue would do. I was surprised you didn’t stay and watch me stand up to grab it.”
“I did.”
Her eyes darkened, and her brow furrowed. “What?”
“I only walked far enough into the shadows so you couldn’t see me. Then I waited. And watched. When you came out of the water, I thought I’d never seen anything as beautiful in my whole life.” He began to loosen her buttons. “It was pure torture to stand there and not touch you.” He eased her bodice open to reveal the gentle swells of her breasts. “Thank God, I will never have to not touch you again.”
He lowered his mouth to the tantalizing flesh, cursing the splint that made his right hand awkward when he cradled her breast and skimmed his thumb over the already tautening nipple. She smelled of roses, cotton fields, children’s milky kisses, and a woman’s musky sensuality. He trailed his lips along the column of her throat, nipped her chin, and settled his mouth possessively over hers.
She was his, completely, absolutely. From this day forward. He had not expected the relief that swamped him when the minister spoke those words—when she repeated them. No one, by God, would take her from him again. No one.
She would be his until the day he died. He planned for that day to be a long time coming.
He felt her fingers working to loosen his buttons. He drew away, giving her the freedom to remove his clothes.
“I fear that I’m a bit hampered by my in
juries,” he said as he watched her lower his trousers.
She gave him a wicked smile. “You don’t look hampered to me.”
He laughed, richly, deeply. “Dear God, Abbie, I think you’re more of a rogue than I am.”
“I never knew being wicked could be fun until I met you.” She gave him a gentle shove, and he dropped onto the bed, relishing the sensations as she removed the remainder of his clothes.
Then she moved away from him, drew the curtains aside until she was limned by the moonlight, and began to remove her own clothes.
Abbie watched the appreciation creep into her husband’s eyes, heard his rapid breathing, and saw his uninjured hand clench around the sheets as he sat on the bed, his gaze fastened on her. She had thought independence was being without a man. Independence was being with the right man.
With Grayson she was an equal, a partner. Her strengths tempered his weaknesses and his tempered hers. She smiled inwardly. If she had any weaknesses.
“Come here, Abbie,” he rasped when the last of her clothing had pooled at her feet.
She stepped between his spread thighs and cradled his head as he buried his face between the valley of her breasts. She dropped her head back as he trailed kisses along the curves of her flesh, moaning throatily as his tongue circled, then his mouth closed around her nipple to suckle gently.
He wrapped his arm around her, pressing her against him as he lowered himself to the bed, carrying her with him. Awkwardly, he scooted to the head of the bed, and it wasn’t until she saw him grimace that she realized he was experiencing discomfort.
Straddling his hips, she pressed a hand to his chest, just above the bandages. “Grayson, we don’t have to do this.”
He chuckled low. “Yes, we do.” He cradled her cheek with his uninjured hand. “I love you.”
“Oh, Grayson.” She lowered her mouth to his, thinking she would never tire of his saying the words, never grow weary of his wanting her. With him by her side, she would never be alone or feel lonely.
She raised up, meeting and holding his gaze, shadowed by the night.
She slid off him and scrambled off the bed. He rolled over. “Where are you going?”
Very carefully, she removed the lace curtains from the opening. “I know Jessye meant well, but I prefer the light to the darkness.”
She returned to the bed, returned to him.
“She said women liked lacy things,” he told her.
“They do, but if I have a choice between lace and you in the moonlight…” She smiled seductively. “I prefer you.”
“Thank God.”
His callused hands skimmed over her body. She would not trade his roughened touch for the softest of silks. He cradled her hips, lifting her. His fingers dug into her as she lowered herself, sheathing him to the hilt.
She heard him release a deep sigh that more closely resembled a groan as he momentarily closed his eyes, and she silently thanked the moon for being so generous with its light so she could see the passion in his eyes when he opened them.
While he kept his injured hand on her hip, he cradled her face with his other hand and drew her down, down to his mouth for a devastating kiss that spoke of love and impatience. She rocked against him and the kiss deepened, their tongues imitating their bodies.
She tore her mouth from his, gasping for breath, reveling in his harsh breathing. She felt the sensations unfurling until she felt like the blossoms of cotton unfolding in the night.
He cupped her breast, shaping, molding, taunting the erect nipple, sending pleasure cascading through her. Her body tightened until she felt like the swelling boll of cotton, waiting…waiting…
Then the heightened sensations peaked and burst forth like the exploding cotton, revealing the whitened glory of fulfillment. As her back arched, she heard Grayson’s roar of triumph, felt his final deep penetrating thrust, and the tremors wracking his body that so perfectly matched those rippling through her.
She collapsed on top of him, listening to his harsh breathing, feeling the rapid thudding of his heart beneath her cheek. His hands lay heavy on her shoulders.
Summer was behind them and a cool breeze whispered over their bodies, lighting upon the dew that covered their flesh, slick and warm. She shivered, and he tugged the blanket over her.
“Am I too heavy?” she asked lethargically, thinking that it would be a shame if she was because she didn’t think she could move off him if her life depended on it.
“No.” He sighed, sounding equally content and relaxed.
He skimmed his fingers over the ridges of her spine. Her eyes drifted closed. She thought that of all the things she loved about Grayson she might love best that he prolonged making love even after the culmination of passion—with gentle touches and soft strokes—as though he loathed the separation that occurred after the joining as much as she did.
“Abbie?”
“Mmmm?”
“I don’t think I’m accustomed to being married yet.”
With a great deal of effort, she lifted her head and smiled. “Then we’ll just have to keep working on it.”
“That, sweetheart, was not work. That was my pleasure.”
“Mine, too,” she whispered as she lowered her mouth to his, kissing him tenderly, planting the seeds for another harvest of passion.
Epilogue
October 22, 1865
To the Duke of Harrington
Dear Father,
You told me this was a land of opportunity. How right you were. My land is especially so.
Yes, if you can believe it, I am a landowner. Not a great estate by any means, but I consider myself the wealthiest of men .
I suppose I should mention that I got married as well. I have a wonderful wife and three children. Soon we shall have a fourth. I always fancied this child would be a daughter, but Abbie assures me it is a son .
I have learned to trust her judgment .
We have weathered many a storm, she and I, and grown stronger as a result. Although she assures me I am still a rogue at heart and loves me in spite of it, or perhaps because of it .
If you should ever have occasion to visit, rest assured, we shall provide you with a place, as Abbie would say, to hang your hat .
My fondest regards,
Grayson
December 15, 1865
My dearest Grayson,
Reading your letter brought me intense joy—joy equal to that which I experienced the first time I held you in my arms.
You have succeeded where lesser men, including myself, would have failed. How proud I am that your mother graced me not only with her love but with you for a son .
I often wish that things might have been different, but obligations, you know—they are often a damnably hard burden to carry .
Hold your wife close for it is through the love of a woman that a man truly gains wealth, and through the love of his children that he gains immortality .
With my deepest love,
Your father
“Grayson?”
At the softness of his wife’s voice, Grayson set his father’s letter aside. He knew it by heart anyway. He rose from the chair by the window, walked to the bed, and stretched out beside her. Spreading his hand over her stomach, he waited for the movement of his child.
“Do you think your father will ever come visit?” she asked, threading her fingers through his hair.
“Perhaps. I’d like for my father to see my land.” He had used the money he’d given Westland to purchase the farm next to Abbie’s when the owner had decided to move on.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said.
He glanced up, meeting and holding her violet gaze, thinking how much he loved the depth of emotion they so often reflected.
She licked her lips. “I think you should go with Kit and Harry in the spring—when they take the cattle north.”
“I have no idea how long they’ll be gone. Could be months. I want to be here when the baby is born.”
“But it’ll be exciting—a new venture.”
“Being with you is quite exciting enough, thank you.”
“It’s about to get more exciting.”
He quirked a brow. “Oh?”
Nodding, she brought an apple out from beneath the blankets. Very slowly, very carefully, she twisted the stem until it snapped. Then she slipped it into her mouth.
His own mouth went dry, his heart pounding as he watched the hollows in her cheeks, the pursing and pouting of her lips. With a triumphant gleam in her eye, she pressed her fingers to her lips and withdrew the knotted stem.
His stomach tightened, his breath caught. “My God.”
She gave him a deliciously sensual smile. “You should see what else I can do with my tongue.”
He moved up, cradling her cheek. “Ah, sweetheart, I have a feeling it will be my pleasure.”
“You are so incredibly wicked,” she purred.
“Incredibly wicked.”
About the Author
LORRAINE HEATH began writing at the age of seven, when she fell in love with the magic of words. Her novels have received a Romance Writers of America’s RITA Award, a Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Award, as well as other awards and recognition from review publications, writers and readers’ groups. She enjoys hearing from readers.
Her address is:
P.O.Box 941673
Plano, TX 75094-1673
Or via e-mail: [email protected]
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A ROGUE IN TEXAS . Copyright © 2007 by Lorraine Heath. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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