Blood Brothers

by Anne McAllister

  Strangely, it was easier to communicate when they were not alone. He discovered that when she came in late one evening, when he was talking to North about the MBbar.

  “I understand now why Gabe once told me he couldn’t live anywhere else,” Randall was saying. “I feel that way about my own land.”

  “Yours? Thought you were just the heir,” North said.

  “I am, but I rent one of my grandfather’s farms. I hardly see it because I’m chasing newspapers all the time, but I keep promising myself I’ll go back to farming for good.”

  “Why don’t you?” Claire asked, pouring them both whiskey, and settling down on the floor, by the fire.

  “Well, I can hardly let the old man down. His publishing empire means so much to him. So I let it drift, promising myself, next year, and next year.”

  He sighed, looking into the drink.

  “Now I feel like a man who found the right woman, deserted her, then found he’d made a mistake.”

  The words hung between them. North looked from one to the other, but Claire’s eyes were on the fire, not Randall.

  “It’s easy to make some kinds of mistakes,” she said.

  “And some you spend your life paying for,” Randall agreed quietly. “It can be hard to know what you really want, and sometimes you only find out when it’s too late. And you think-if you’d done something sooner-”

  “But maybe you can’t,” Claire interrupted. “We don’t really have any say, do we? Things happen, and we react, but it’s never really up to us. It’s like someone’s pulling the strings and having a good laugh.”

  “Hell, Claire,” North said in alarm. “You’re a philosopher.”

  She laughed shakily. “Nobody ever called me that before.”

  “Philosophy doesn’t solve any problems,” Randall said. “Only feelings do that.”

  It seemed a good moment for North to slip away, leaving them alone. And he did. But when he’d gone, Claire said awkwardly, “Well, I suppose it’s about time to be turning in.”

  “Yes, it must be. Goodnight, Claire.”

  “Goodnight, Randall.”

  That’s how it was between them these days.

  On the night of the dance Randall presented himself downstairs, hoping he looked right.

  North was there, sunk deep in Jane Austen, which he’d carefully covered in brown paper. He jumped, but relaxed when he saw it was only Randall. Randall grinned.

  North eyed the soft flannel plaid shirt. “That’ll do.”

  “It’s Gabe’s.”

  “I know. Claire gave it to him last birthday.”

  “Oh, lord!” But before Randall could go up to change it Claire appeared on the stairs and both men turned, dumbstruck.

  She’d swapped the flowered cotton for an olive-green silk that followed the lines of her figure with flattering emphasis. North indulged in a long, fervent wolf whistle.

  “Claire, when you buy a new dress, you sure buy a new dress!” he exclaimed.

  “It’s not new,” Claire said quickly. “I’ve had it over a year.”

  North frowned. “Could have sworn I saw it in that catalogue you got two weeks back, and-”

  “You’ve got shaving cream on your cheek,” she interrupted him.

  It wouldn’t do to let Randall suspect how she’d pored over the pages of that catalogue, trying to find just the dress that he might admire: how she’d paid an extra charge to be sure it arrived on time, how she’d agonized in case it didn’t fit.

  But it had got there in good time, the fit was perfect and Randall was smiling at her in a way that made her tremble.

  “You look beautiful, Claire,” he said softly. “Really beautiful.”

  “Do I look like those fashionable ladies you know back home?” she couldn’t resist asking.

  “Not a bit,” he replied. “Thank goodness.”

  The late February dance was the big event in the locality, a kind of promise that spring wasn’t far away. Everybody went, including Susan, and there wasn’t a vehicle left on the MBbar.

  Frank called with his family, to collect Dave. North drove Susan and Olly in an old sedan that was kept for emergencies. Randall and Claire went in the truck.

  “What’s that book North keeps hiding under the cushions?” she asked when they were out on the road.

  “Leave a man his secrets,” Randall said with a grin.

  “But it’s in a brown wrapper. North isn’t reading porn, is he?”

  At this Randall shouted with laughter.

  “What is it?” she demanded. “Randall, what is it?”

  “I can’t tell you-I promised-” He went off into another paroxysm of mirth, and the next second he’d lost control of the truck.

  For a few hairy moments they spun on the icy road. He heard Claire gasp, and he prayed frantically, wrestling with the wheel. But it was more luck than driving that brought them to rest against a tree with a jolt that sent her sprawling against him.

  “Claire?” he said in fear. “Are you all right?” His arms were tight about her.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “What’s a little bump?”

  He clasped her more firmly. “I thought we were both goners then.”

  “Mmm.” She knew she should move, but it was so comfortable here in his arms, and instead of releasing herself, she rested her head on Randall’s shoulders.

  “Claire?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Do you really want to go to this dance?”

  “No,” she said dreamily. “I don’t.”

  “Neither do I.”

  They sat in silence for some moments, letting the alarm of the moment before die down, just enjoying themselves.

  “Shall we go back?” he said, so softly that he wondered if she heard him. She didn’t answer in words, but she lifted her head, and nodded.

  They drove back in silence. The house, too, was silent when they reached it, and growing chilly as the fire burned low. Randall piled on some logs and the flames flickered up, throwing dancing shadows over Claire’s face, for they hadn’t put the lights on.

  Randall put his arms right around her and drew her close.

  “Claire,” he said thickly. “Claire, I-”

  “Don’t talk,” she whispered. “We’ve both said too much, and it only makes problems.”

  “But are you sure-?”

  “Hush,” she silenced him with the touch of her mouth.

  They kissed feverishly, but it was only a brief prelude to what was to come. They both knew now that they couldn’t stop at kissing. The feeling of their mouths in contact only increased the need to touch each other everywhere.

  They chose her room, the place where he had first seen her half-naked, first wanted her with a crazy longing that had given him no peace ever since. It had been physical then. Just physical. Wanting to touch the soft hills and valleys of her contours, wanting to caress her intimately, to claim and conquer.

  But somewhere along the line it had become more. When had it begun to be so important to win her stubborn, contrary heart? And would he win it like this?

  He would know in the morning. But that was a long way off.

  The lovely dress, so carefully chosen, slipped to the floor. Claire barely noticed. It had done all she asked of it. Every inch of her was fevered with longing. She must have him, and soon. Only the feel of his body united with hers could ease the ache of need that had been growing in her for weeks. She wanted to touch him everywhere, with her hands, her lips, her breasts, her thighs.

  At some point Randall had removed his shirt, and when he drew her against him and she felt the silky hair of his chest, it excited her still more.

  His hands moved up until he could cup her breasts in his palms, letting his thumbs drift slowly across their fullness again and again. The sensation was so good that Claire drew a long shuddering breath. Her nipples were peaked and hard with anticipation, and the pleasure radiated out from the rasping movements.

  She was aware of his
body tensed against hers, the stomach hard and flat, the thighs steely with power. Her heart skipped a beat as she thought of that power. He was her first man, but she was no ignorant girl. The sheer force of her feelings for Randall had taught her what it was like to be caught up in desire, possessed by it, altered beyond recognition by it.

  His lips burned her shoulders and she let out a long breath. Randall heard it and thought he understood.

  “Claire-do you want me?” he murmured.

  “Yes-” she said raggedly. She could hardly speak the word for the roaring in her ears.

  “Let me hear you say it,” he commanded.

  “I want you-”

  She wasn’t sure whether she’d said the words aloud, for her whole body seemed to be saying them in its clamorous response. She wanted him. She wanted him now.

  Her arms seemed to find their way about his neck of their own accord, and she was kissing him frantically, trying to drive him on to the thing she craved with all her being.

  “Randall,” she whispered, “Randall-”

  Some new note he heard in her voice seemed to decide him. He began to toss aside the rest of his clothes, and she quickly did the same. When they were both free he drew her down onto the bed. After his earlier urgency he seemed content now to take his time, enjoying her with his eyes and his hands.

  He rested his face between her breasts, pressing his mouth against the silky skin, bestowing light kisses and exploring until his lips touched one proud nipple and began to tease it. She thought she would go out of her mind with that sensation. Her breath came in long, slow gasps that shaded into groans, and she wove her fingers in his hair, pleading, yearning, demanding.

  His response was to insert his knee between her legs which fell apart for him. She gasped as she felt his movements become more purposeful.

  Slowly, with a fierce, controlled power, he entered her. As she felt him drive in deeply Claire knew that this had been inevitable from the first moment, and that it was right. She arched against him, wanting more. He was triumphant, but so was she as they did the thing for which they’d both been born. She held him close, wrapping her thighs about him, imprisoning him for her delight.

  He watched her out of dark brooding eyes, her hair spread out over the pillow, her face wild with ecstasy. Her soft moans of pleasure excited him further. “Claire-”

  His thrusts became deeper, harder. All his power was now concentrated on being one with her. She was lost to everything but this, driving back against him in mindless delirium, asking and giving. They were two halves of a whole, perfectly attuned to each other, finding completion together. The moment, when it came, was shattering, a long, ecstatic climax in mounting waves of pleasure that peaked and crashed, fading away and leaving them trembling. Claire cried out and clung to him, hearing his voice in her ear, saying her name over and over.

  As they parted he held her more tightly than ever, not wanting the moment to pass. And she clung to him, as though she needed him to hold her hand to the end of the journey. Randall knew she’d given him what she’d offered no other man. Gabe might have been her first love, but he’d been too dumb to value her. So she’d turned to Randall, who did, pouring out lavish gifts of beauty and passion that awed and humbled him. He wondered if she had any regrets, but soon she propped herself up on her elbow and looked down at him.

  It was too dark to make out her expression, but he could see a faint glint in her eye, and hear her soft chuckle.

  “What are you laughing at?” he asked in delight.

  “Nothing. I’m just happy.”

  He pulled her down, feeling her long hair flow over him like a river.

  “Be happy, Claire,” he said. “Be happy forever. If only-”

  He stopped, entranced by the sound of a gentle snore. Claire was as natural and simple as a young animal that sated itself, and fell asleep, at one with the world.

  Possessed by tenderness, he stroked her hair. He, too, was happy, in a way that he’d thought he would never know.

  From some mysterious place a memory came back to him. Claire saying, “We don’t really have any say, do we…like someone’s pulling the strings and having a good laugh.”

  And he’d said, “Philosophy doesn’t solve any problems. Only feelings do that.”

  He wondered suddenly if the feelings of love and passion, mixed in with protectiveness, that consumed him now, would solve any problems.

  Or whether some nameless deity was having a good laugh. And if so, what about?

  At dawn Claire was awoken by a distant noise. She padded out of bed and opened the bedroom door. Sure enough, the phone was ringing. Pulling on her dressing gown she left Randall sleeping and padded down the corridor to his bedroom, where the nearest extension was situated.

  “Lord Randall, please!” said a female voice.

  Claire drew in a sharp breath. There it was, the English “toffee” voice she’d so resented in Randall-except that he didn’t really sound anything like that.

  “Are you there?” asked the woman sharply. “Kindly fetch Lord Randall for me.”

  “He’s asleep. It’s early here.”

  “Oh, I see. Are you the housekeeper?”

  “No, I live here. My name is Claire.”

  “Really. I’m the Honorable Honoria Gracewell. I expect Randall has told you about me.”

  “No,” Claire said in a hollow voice. “He hasn’t mentioned you.”

  “Never mind. This can’t wait. I must speak to Randall urgently. I might have known there’d be a disaster when he went swanning off to the back of beyond.”

  “A disaster?”

  “Well I certainly don’t want to be related to Frederica Crossman. The Stantons do have a position to keep up.”

  “Does she make it hard for them to do that?” Claire asked tersely.

  “She certainly will if she’s allowed to marry Gabe McBride. Randall should be here to put a stop to it.”

  “Did you say-marry Gabe?”

  “They’re announcing it today, bold as brass. And the wedding’s set for three weeks. I suppose she wants to make sure of him while she can.”

  Claire sat down suddenly. Gabe was getting married.

  “Are you there?” Honoria demanded sharply.

  Claire pulled herself together. But it took an effort to speak. “This Frederica Crossman-what’s she like?”

  “A widow with two children. Respectable enough, but not out of the top drawer.”

  “But how will you be related to her if she marries Gabe?”

  “Because he’s Randall’s cousin, and Randall and I-this is hardly your business, is it? The point is that the Stantons don’t marry nobodies.”

  “But Gabe isn’t a Stanton,” Claire said, a tad sharply.

  “I suppose you’ve got a point. Maybe his wife doesn’t matter too much, especially if he takes her back to Tennessee, or Wyoming-”

  “Montana,” Claire snapped.

  “Wherever. But Randall’s wife does matter. Eventually she’ll be Lady Stanton, a Countess, holder of one of the oldest titles in England-”

  “That’s not what Randall says,” Claire couldn’t resist interrupting. “He says the Stantons are a load of jumped-up nobodies who bought the title a mere four-hundred years ago, and-”

  Honoria’s intake of breath was as sharp as a knife.

  “Randall will have his little joke,” she said in a tight voice. “Countess Stanton has to come from suitable stock, but I wouldn’t expect you to understand-”

  “Hell yes, I understand,” Claire said. The twang in her voice had become emphatic to the point of parody. If this snooty woman thought she was talking to a backwoods hick then Claire would give her hick with bells on. “That’s just what we say when we’re breeding cows.”

  “I-I beg your pardon?”

  “Suitable stock. Nothin’ like it. ’Course you’ve got to know your bloodlines. We keep charts. Is that what you do?”

  “I-”

  “Hell, Gabe
don’t never buy a bull ’cept he knows his pedigree. Why, we’ve got one now, biggest thing y’ever saw, with the most eee-nor-mous-”

  Honoria audibly gulped. “There’s no need to go into detail. Just tell Randall to call-”

  “No need, ma’am, here he is.”

  Randall had awoken to find Claire missing, and followed the sound of her voice, puzzled as to why she was talking the worst stage Yankee he’d ever heard.

  “Phone for you,” she said. Thrusting the receiver into his hand, she fled.

  North, who’d just arrived sleepily in the stables, was alarmed to see her dash in, saddle her horse and ride off as if the fiends from hell were after her.

  She rode hard until the ranch house was out of sight and far behind her. She stopped in a clump of trees, tethered the animal, and looked around for something vehement to do. She found it in a lone tree that stood fifty feet away. Snatching up some stones, she aimed them at the tree and had the satisfaction of scoring a bull’s-eye with every one.

  Then she sat down on a log and buried her face in her hands. What was she doing, throwing stones like a man? She ought to cry or something, like other females did. But everything about her was wrong. It always had been. She didn’t know who she was or where she belonged. She’d learned all the wrong skills, and she’d never felt so much like a foundling in her life.

  Gabe was getting married, and so was Randall. For she hadn’t missed Honoria’s silver-tongued message. They were engaged, near as dammit. She was blue-blooded, and “suitable” to be an earl’s wife. A lot more suitable than a woman who didn’t know who her Ma and Pa were.

  She couldn’t blame Randall for last night. Her desire had more than matched his, and she’d gone eagerly into his arms, meeting passion with passion, spurring him on, driven by an instinct beyond reason.

  She’d had her moment when love was everything, and she would treasure it forever. But before her eyes rose the vision of the long years, filled with nothing because she was apart from Randall.

  And apart from Gabe. And if only she knew which one of them she minded about most, it would be easier. Wouldn’t it?

  No, nothing would ever make it easier.