The Wrong Cowboy

by Lauri Robinson

  Too full of elation to think straight, she asked, “Why didn’t you?”

  “Hell if I know,” he said, moments before kissing her again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “You still can,” Marie whispered. “Ask me. If you want to.”

  Stafford wanted a lot of things. Such as her wearing fewer clothes than she was, a comfortable bed, big enough for the two of them, and to never stop kissing her. He brushed his lips over both of her cheeks before taking a step back. “Marie Hall, will you marry me?”

  Her giggle was just one of the sounds he’d missed so much the past week. “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Whenever you want.” The smile dropped from her lips as she whispered, “I’m serious about adopting the children, Stafford. We all come together.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he answered.

  She took another deep breath. As she let it out, she whispered, “Mick told me about your brother’s wife.”

  Stafford had told himself he was over all that, and the fact nothing erupted inside him proved it. “I never loved her,” he said. “Not like I love you.”

  “I promise to do anything, everything I can to make you happy. I’ll learn—”

  He stopped her by whispering, “I’ve no doubt you will. Your determination is just one of the things I love about you.” Knowing himself as well as he did, Stafford kissed her one last time and then took her hand. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Home,” he answered.

  “But it’s dark, and it’s a long ride.”

  “I know. But we can’t stay here.”

  It took Stafford a matter of five minutes to gather his shirt, grab his other belongings and saddle Stamper. While helping Marie onto Ginger, he commended himself on his fortitude. He would not kiss her again tonight. Would not.

  He failed. It was a long ride home. His stamina was sorely tested several times the following week, as well. She’d become the center of his universe, and it delighted him to no end to realize he’d become the center of hers, too. They couldn’t be in the same room without touching, and the glimmer in her eyes drove him to the very edge of endurance at times. He held strong, though, and slept in the bunkhouse until the following Sunday.

  That afternoon he discovered that his house, as big as it was, wasn’t big enough. Not for the wedding. There weren’t enough chairs, either, so people sat in the backs of their wagons lining the creek bed on both sides, with the children right up front, as he and Marie stood on the bridge. It had been Gertrude’s idea. She said that way everyone could see them. The woman had also put her needle to work again, sewing him a new white shirt and Marie a shimmering gold gown that made her shine as brightly as the sun overhead when they exchanged their vows.

  Shortly after the ceremony ended, Stafford’s patience evaporated. The food—enough to feed the entire town, most of whom had shown up, including Verna Smith—was set up in Mick’s bunkhouse. His partner was playing host and doing a great job of it. He even had Verna blushing and giggling like a schoolgirl.

  “Come on,” Stafford whispered in his bride’s ear.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Home.”

  “We are home,” she insisted, even while walking beside him. She did glance over her shoulder, at the people entering the building for a plate of food or cup of punch. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Not for food.”

  “Won’t we be missed?”

  He scooped her into his arms while walking across the bridge. “No. Mick and Gertrude have everything under control, and what they don’t catch, Marshal Crane will.”

  “But it’s our wedding. Surely we should...” She pinched her lips together having caught his gaze. Then, smiling, she finished, “Go home now.”

  Stafford carried her all the way to his—no, their—bedroom. Once inside, he kicked the door shut and, with her still in his arms, fell onto the bed. He groaned, or maybe it was more of a growl. “I didn’t think this moment would ever come.”

  Laughing, Marie rolled off him and scooted into the center of the bed, resting her head on a pillow with her hair cascading around her face. He’d asked her to leave it down today. Crawling up to lean over her, he ran his fingers through the long, lush strands. “You are so beautiful.”

  “You’re only saying that because you love me,” she said.

  “You sound awfully sure of yourself,” he teased.

  “I graduated at the top of my class,” she replied tartly.

  He laughed. “Yes, you did, and I do love you, but even before I knew I loved you, I thought you were beautiful.”

  Her cheeks turned a soft shade of pink as she cupped his face with both hands. “I keep pinching myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.”

  “We aren’t dreaming.” It did amaze him, how much he loved her, but it completely astonished him how much she loved him. He’d questioned it, a few times anyway, but that was only because of his past, which he’d let go. Completely. This was now his life. Marie and all six of the children they were adopting.

  “I’m going to show you,” he whispered, “for hours, that this is no dream.”

  “Just hours?” she asked coyly.

  “All right, years.”

  Years were what Marie wanted, and she pulled Stafford’s face down, captured his mouth with the kind of kiss she’d wanted to initiate for days. She may not have ever been loved before, but that no longer mattered. Stafford’s love made up for it.

  The kiss had the fire inside her flaring hotter than ever. Or maybe it was the fact this kiss would lead to the ultimate union. The one Gertrude had told her about, assured her it was nothing to fear. As if she could ever fear Stafford.

  Love him. Want him. Support him. Cherish him. But never fear him.

  When his lips left hers, started kissing her nose and eyelids and forehead, her fingers found the string tie at his neck. After removing it, she started on the buttons of his shirt. Ever since seeing his bare chest, weeks ago while traveling out here, she’d dreamed about it, wanted to explore it at leisure, feel every curve, every inch of skin.

  She parted his shirt and leaned forward to kiss the hollow of his throat and nuzzle his neck.

  His hands had already roamed along her sides and were working their way up her torso. “Where are the buttons on this dress?” his whispered. The question tickled her ear.

  “They run up the back.”

  He growled. She laughed.

  Grasping both shoulders, he pressed her deeper into the pillows. “Fine, I’ll start somewhere else.”

  He sat up, and when she reached for him, wanting him back, he grabbed both of her wrists with one hand. Placing them on her stomach, he said, “Keep your hands right there.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you won’t need them for a while.”

  “What? Why not?”

  His grin was the most charming she’d ever seen, and the way he lifted a brow and then winked had a surge of fire bursting inside her, much like the one that had blown apart the stove in the cabin.

  Starting with her shoes, he removed the clothes covering her legs, article by article, inch by inch. He told her what he was doing the entire time, and explained how he was going to kiss her. Her ankles, her shins, her knees. Each one made her sink deeper into the mattress and several times she had to close her eyes, she was so overcome with pleasure. Her skirt was flared out across the bed, with his hands beneath it, slowly tugging her pantaloons down. The sensation was unfathomable, and had her giggling.

  “Ticklish, are you?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Just excited.” A flash of embarrassment heated her cheeks. “I always giggle when excited.”

  �
�Then I’ll have to excite you more often,” he said. Leaning forward he kissed the tip of one of her breasts, right through the material.

  “Stop that,” she said teasingly, while truly hoping he’d do it again.

  “Not on your life, darling.”

  She giggled again. “All right.”

  He pushed her skirt up, exposing her now-bare thighs. His hands rested on her knees, and then with firm, warm pressure, he moved them upward, toward her hips, his thumbs pressing into her inner thighs. Short of reaching her very center, his hands reversed, went back to her knees, slow, steady and firm. He repeated the action several times and created a mass of turbulence in the spot that, up until now, had been seen by no one but her. Now it wanted to be set free, exposed fully to him, and she experienced no embarrassment about it. In truth, she could barely contain her want, and she lifted her hips, trying to encourage his hands not to stop. Not to return to her knees.

  “Hmm,” he groaned huskily. “I almost can’t believe I’m about to see it again.”

  Trying to think beyond the misty, wonderful fog his touch created, she asked, “What? See what again?”

  He leaned down, kissed the underside of her chin and then her neck. “Your lily-white backside. The little glimpse I caught on the trail wasn’t nearly enough.”

  Not an ounce of the humiliation she’d felt that day returned. “Ah, yes,” she said, sighing at how wonderful life had become. “The day you became my hero.”

  “Your hero?” His hands were on her knees again, and he wrapped his fingers beneath them, lifting until her heels dug into the mattress so she could hold her legs up herself. “All this time I thought I was the wrong cowboy.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh, and then assure him, “You could never be the wrong cowboy, Stafford.”

  Starting at her knees, he kissed the entire length of her thigh, and when the warmth of his breath caressed her juncture, Marie lost all ability to think. She could feel though, the tender caress of his mouth, the undemanding brush of his tongue. Each foray, no matter how soft and gentle, had her responding. Her body needed no mental command to react. Her hips rose, her legs parted further, begging him to continue.

  He caught her bottom with both hands and lifted her, kissing her there as he did her mouth, with his tongue twisting and curling, exploring every inch.

  A fiery straining grew at her point of entry, and an urgent need had her legs trembling. Powerless, Marie was unable to protest, not that she wanted to. Not to Stafford, not at what he was doing, but she wasn’t able to encourage him, either. The sensation was so overpowering she couldn’t speak, tell him how glorious he made her feel.

  Marie flung an arm across her face, bit into her forearm to muffle the cry of absolute perfection building beneath his mouth. But there was more. Much, much more. Desire—she had no idea what else it might be—red hot and maddening in an utterly pleasing way, filled her very being until she was so full there was nowhere for it to go.

  She closed her eyes, only to wrench them open as the turmoil, the marvelous chaos inside her, let loose. A current of unimaginable satisfaction flowed throughout her body, making her heart hammer so hard she felt it clear to her toes.

  “Oh, my,” she mumbled, running a hand over the sweat beading on her forehead.

  Stafford lowered her trembling legs to the bed and, hands on both sides of her, leaned over and kissed her. As if she wasn’t already senseless enough.

  He chuckled, his breath filling her mouth. “Did you like that?”

  She managed to open one eye. “What do you think?”

  “Want more?”

  The exhaustion that had left her limp disappeared. The promise in his eyes replaced it with excitement, and she giggled.

  “Excited?”

  “Yes,” she admitted.

  “Good.” He pulled her into sitting position. “Then let’s get rid of this dress.”

  Completely forgetting the satisfaction that had just consumed her, she pushed the shirt off his shoulders. “You have a few clothes we need to get rid of, too.”

  In its own right, undressing Stafford filled her with a new kind of excitement, and when all was said and done, when they were once again on the bed, the throbbing in her breasts, which he’d kissed thoroughly without any material separating the heat of his mouth from her nipples, told her that the mind-stealing sensation he’d created before was on the way again.

  More powerfully than before, because she knew what to expect, her body took over again. Reacting to each touch Stafford provided, her blood rushed from point to point. She explored him, too, and relished the way he assured her that he liked her touching him, tasting him.

  He was a large man, in all areas, and though she anticipated the final act, the coming together, she did harbor a touch of alarm. How that would fit there, it seemed impossible.

  “Don’t fear,” he whispered, as if she’d expressed her uncertainties aloud. “I promise it will be all right.”

  His gaze was so sincere, and so loving, she had to believe him. “I know.”

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  “I know that, too.”

  “Then hold that thought,” he said, guiding the tip of himself toward her.

  His movements were slow, and Marie felt herself welcoming him, as if she’d waited her entire life just for him. She had, and remembering that had her pleasure increasing as Stafford entered her. Instinct made her hips arch upward again, as they had earlier, but Stafford wouldn’t allow that. With steady pressure he held her still while he moved into her.

  A quick, shocking slice of pain had her stiffening, and he kissed her then, deeply, wholly. Marie wasn’t sure if she’d relaxed, or if her body had expanded more during their kiss, but the sensation of his hips meeting hers, of him totally inside her, increased her pleasure tenfold.

  Stafford starting moving then, and kissing her, and the combination was as wondrous as it was commanding. That straining sensation was back, the one that said desire would soon overcome her, and this time, she accepted it fully, let it take her away.

  When she was beyond holding on anymore, the riot that let loose and fanned throughout her body was full of love. Stafford was holding her just as tightly, and his body was quaking, too, telling her they’d just shared the most intimate, profound act possible. True love fully united.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, after they’d both stopped gasping. He rolled off her but hugged her against his side.

  “All right?” she asked, propping her chin on his shoulder to gaze into his handsome face. The one she’d wake up to every morning and fall asleep beside every night. “Of course I’m all right. I’m married to you. Life couldn’t be more all right in any possible way.”

  They’d been married at three in the afternoon, so sunlight still shone through the windows, bathing them in its evening glow, and she wondered if others thought their disappearance scandalous. Too happy, too content to care, she twirled a fingertip in a few of the fascinating hairs covering Stafford’s chest. “Except,” she finally said, slowly.

  He laid a hand over hers. “Except what?”

  “Well, how would you feel about seven children?”

  One brow arched, and she grinned. He always looked so charming when he did that.

  “Six aren’t enough?”

  She shrugged. “For you?”

  He flipped around so she was flat on her back with him leaning over her again. “No. I was thinking eight.”

  “Eight?” She waited a moment, just until a tiny frown formed between his brows, and then she laughed. “I could live with that. After all, I am an excellent nursemaid.”

  * * *

  When all was said and done, Marie and Stafford raised nine children and had twenty-seven grandchildren, fifty six great-grandchildren and...
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  Keep reading for an excerpt from DARIAN HUNTER: DUKE OF DESIRE by Carole Mortimer.

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  Prologue

  March 1815—White’s Club, London

  ‘You wanted to speak to me?’

  Having been perusing today’s newspaper, whilst seated in an otherwise deserted private room of his club, Darian Hunter, the Duke of Wolfingham, now continued reading to the end of the article before folding the broadsheet neatly into four and placing it down on the low table beside him. He then glanced up at the fashionably dressed young gentleman who had addressed him so aggressively. ‘And a good afternoon to you, too, Anthony,’ he greeted his younger brother calmly.

  Anthony eyed him impatiently. ‘Do not come the haughty duke with me, Darian! Most especially when I know it is you who wished to speak with me rather than the other way about. You have left messages for me all over town,’ he reminded as Darian raised dark brows questioningly. ‘I presumed the matter must be of some urgency?’

  ‘Is that why it has taken you those same two days to respond to those messages?’ Darian was not fooled for a moment by his brother’s bluster. He knew that his brother always went on the attack when he knew he was in the wrong, but was refusing to admit it.