And blinked.
His jaw dropped.
What the devil? Can’t that woman follow a simple direction?
It was bad enough that she stayed, but standing there in the moonlight, making herself an easy target… His anger spilled over. He lifted his free hand and motioned her away. She stood still, refusing to go.
“Go to the sheriff,” he hissed.
“Why?”
An awkward feeling rolled over his shoulders. He knew he had been had. “There was no one.” His words were matter of fact.
“Not in the house,” she told him.
The bile of betrayal filled his mouth. He slid away his pistol and narrowed his gaze. “I do not enjoy being played for a fool, Mary Rose.” His words were stiff and sharp. “Shut the door and we will talk.”
Trace turned to the kitchen and, spying a kerosene lamp, pulled a match from his pocket. Within moments, the room was flooded with light. He heard the door click shut. Afraid he would grab her to shake some sense into her, he moved toward the sink and stared out the window, trying to remain calm. Her soft steps came to a halt at the table.
“Explain yourself.” His words snapped like the crack of a whip. In the silence that followed, her inhale sounded loud.
“I didn’t know it was you.”
“You usually fire at strangers? Through your door?”
“No,” she whispered.
“I knocked.”
“It made me jerk. I think that’s why the gun went off.”
His ears detected the anguish in her voice. She moved closer, and laid her hand lightly on his arm.
“I thought you were the man at the window. The gun… It was a means of defense.”
He turned with a jerk. His brow wrinkled. “The man at the window?” he repeated, as she gasped.
“You’re hurt.” She raised her hand toward his cheek.
Ignoring her concern, he grabbed her forearm. “What man at the window?”
Her eyes locked with his blue ones.
“I, I came home,” she began, “and went into Daniel’s study. When I turned out the lamp, I saw him.”
He watched the pain fill her eyes, and his anger softened. “Stay in the house,” he ordered. Picking up the lamp, he paused. “I will knock. Should you hear me shoot, run for the sheriff, screaming at the top of your lungs.”
She nodded.
He could hear her following him to the door. “Lock it after I leave.”
“Go to the left. That’s the side where Daniel’s room is. I saw him at the second window.”
Trace nodded and moved out. He waited until the lock clicked. Holding the lamp high, he made his way around the left side of the house. A cottonwood shaded the southern side of the wood-framed dwelling. Moving to the second window, he crouched down and stared at the ground. There was just enough grass to cover someone’s tracks. Rising, he backed away to the edge of the dirt and turned slowly. He stopped, in front of him the faint outline of a pair of boot prints, definitely smaller than his own. She’d been telling the truth.
With a sigh, he made his way back to the porch. Lifting his hand, he knocked twice. This time the door opened and she welcomed him inside.
“Let’s go into the kitchen to talk.”
She nodded and took a step, then stopped. Turning, she held out her hand. Lying in her palm was the derringer.
“Querida,” he whispered. Extending his right hand, he rescued the gun from her grasp. His hand upon the small of her back, they moved to the rear of the house.
“Sit down,” he told her. “I will make us some coffee.”
“I haven’t any kindling for the stove.” She pushed a strand of hair from her face. “I was tired when I came home.”
“I will get it. Is it right outside?”
She nodded.
Opening the back door, he stepped onto the small porch, picked up an armful of wood, and brought it inside. Minutes later, he had the oven heating and the pot waiting to perk. Crossing to the table, he took a seat and, leaning over, touched her hand. “Tell me what happened.”
“I told you. I came home and went to Daniel’s study. I wanted to look at his things. I wanted to try and figure this all out.”
Trace nodded. It made sense. She was still reeling from the events of the other day. “What did you do when you saw the man?”
“I hid,” she whispered. “I hid in the shadows, until I was sure. Then, I went for the gun.”
“Where did Daniel keep the gun?”
“In the desk drawer.” And she explained how she’d crept forward to retrieve it and check that it was loaded.
“That was a very brave thing to do,” he said.
“I’ve never been so scared.”
“Querida,” he whispered again, this time with growing reverence, and rose to extend his hand and pull her into his embrace. “You have every right to be scared.”
His left arm surrounded her, holding her tight. The tremor of her voice filled him with remorse for his sharp words. He closed his eyes as her head found his shoulder. When he felt the shudders rolling through her body, he slid his right hand down her left arm and brought her hand to his lips. The acrid smell of gunpowder stained her flawless skin. “It is all right, my sweet,” he murmured once more and pressed his lips to the tips of her fingers. Then, turning her hand over, he kissed the velvet of her palm.
Beyond the gunpowder, she tasted of honey, the sweet intoxicating nectar of the gods. His tongue pressed past his lips and traced a line beyond the heel of her palm to the juncture of her wrist. He swirled against the sensitive skin and brought a moan from her lips.
“My sweet Irish rose,” he whispered, gazing into her heavy-lidded eyes. The slightest pressure of his left hand turned her face closer. He looked down, watching her moisten her lips. The urge to brand her as his own brought a fire raging nearly out of control through his veins. “Mary Rose, you are a temptress. You torment my dreams. I believe you have bewitched me,” he whispered, and their lips met.
This time, she anticipated his move and met his kisses with abandonment. Her hand on his chest crept around to his back to hold him to her. His trousers grew uncomfortably tight. He traced the line of her mouth and, with his left hand, he slipped his fingers between hers, extending their arms to the sides.
Sliding his middle finger beneath their closed palms, Trace boldly stroked the warm flesh. Up and down, he performed the heated dance while their tongues brushed and stroked. Her back arched, and Mary Rose pressed against him. There was no doubt she could feel the depth of his want through her clothing.
His hand let go of hers and moved to her waist. Beneath his fingers, he could feel the flutter of her breathing and knew their kisses affected her. Her fingers pressed against the muscles of his back and dragged down toward his waist. A deep growl rose from his chest as his hands moved up. One thumb brushed the swell of her breast, and she whimpered for more.
Her cry spurred him on. His fingers moved against her breasts, feeling the heat as he kneaded them. The pads of his thumbs grazed her nipples and, through her layer of clothing, he felt them bead. She gasped and stilled.
Releasing her lips, Trace pulled her face away to enjoy the look of rapture that encompassed her features. He wanted nothing more than to bend her over the table and make love until neither of them could stand. It would be easy. She was so willing, but it would be so wrong.
Mary Rose must have sensed his change. She opened her eyes and looked questioningly at him, her lips swollen from their ardent kisses, her skin stained with the blush of passion. Never before had he seen any woman so beautiful. The words of the priest echoed. Listen to your heart. Could he trust it?
“You’re still bleeding,” she whispered.
“It’s only a scratch.” He felt her tender fingers on his cheek. Her right hand again found his chest.
“Sit down and let me take care of this,” she said.
Somehow he managed to make himself comfortable on the chair despite the t
ightness of his trousers, which threatened to cut off circulation to an important part of his body. Listen to your heart. Her arm swept by him and picked up the sling before she moved to the pump.
“Your arm?”
“It’s sore, but much better, thank you.”
The metal handle groaned as she primed it with two tugs before water spilled into the cast iron sink. Watching her, he thought about her hand and those strokes. He squirmed. Oh, his imagination was evil. It would do him no good to dream about the feel of her strokes on a certain part of his anatomy. He must gain control of the lust he felt around this delectable creature.
She turned and offered him a beguiling smile. The room seemed to light up with her presence. Bringing the damp cloth to the table, she folded it over and stood in the V made by his legs. “This may hurt,” she said.
Her words were prophetic.
He closed his eyes, wondering if she knew how her nearness strained his control. Her scent filled his nostrils. A flower? Perhaps a rose? He breathed deeply once more. No, something a bit more exotic. It stirred a memory, but he could not grasp it. He opened his eyes just as she leaned forward. Those ripe breasts were mere inches from his face. Even though concealed, he could hear them call out, begging him to take them into his mouth and make love to them until she called out his name. His body throbbed.
Reaching his hand up, Trace slid his fingers under hers and took control of the cloth.
“It’s fine.” He clenched his teeth together.
She gave him a questioning look. Could she not see the tent in his trousers? He squirmed against the chair.
“Do you hurt? Is there something I can do?”
Yes, he hurt. He hurt for the mere want of her. The yearning to slide his throbbing member into her lush velvet folds grew with each second. Trace groaned again. “Do not tempt me, woman.”
Something in the strain of his voice tipped her off.
In a voice that turned soft and inviting, she spoke. “What if I want more?”
His heart stilled. God, is it possible she would be willing to throw it all away for a primal need? He struggled. His chest heaved as the cotton plastered to the perspiration that dotted his skin. Around them, the air hung heavy with heat, begging them to remove their clothing and allow the breeze to cool their fevered skin. Then, her image arose. From the depths of his own hell, the woman he considered the devil incarnate rose, mocking him with her smile and reminding him of her actions. Like a bucket of cold water, his lust and the siren song of Hell chilled his heart.
“No, I will not shame you, my Querida. For when we come together—” He paused, his eyes bearing down on hers—“and we will, nothing will stand between us.”
Under his dark gaze, her face blanched. “Why, Marshal, I almost consider that a threat.”
He pulled the cloth away. Reaching his hand up, he brushed her cheek. “No, my sweet, I assure you that is a promise.”
They stared into each other’s eyes and, for a few precious moments, time stood still.
The pot on the stove began to boil and hiss.
“The bleeding has nearly stopped.”
He nodded. “I believe our coffee is nearly done. Let us drink a cup, then you will go up to bed—alone. I will sleep on your couch.”
“My couch,” she repeated.
“I believe whoever did this to your brother now knows you are alive, and you, my lovely, are the witness who can send them to the gallows. As of this moment, my little spitfire, you are under my protection.”
****
Mary Rose pulled a sheet and a pillow from the linen closet in the hallway upstairs. She’d offered Trace the use of Daniel’s room. However, once he found out it lay directly across from hers he respectfully declined. She didn’t know whether to be angry or relieved that her virtue remained intact. Closing the door, she leaned against it, her mind wrapped around the kiss.
She wasn’t a novice. Mary Rose knew what it was to be kissed. Yet his lips turned her insides to jelly. She shifted her bundle against her hip and rubbed her hand across her middle, hoping to calm her jittery nerves. Kissing that man was like playing with fire. At any time, the flames of desire could consume her.
Pushing away from the door, she moved down the hall. At the end of the stairs, she glanced to the bottom of the steps. He stood with his back to her. Something pulled at her gut; Mary Rose gazed with affection upon his dark head. She couldn’t deny it. This man, this U. S. Marshal, excited her. She wanted to be in those arms, her lips pressed to his. A shiver of delight raced down her backbone.
The stair step creaked at the touch of her foot on the wood. He turned. A beam of moonlight caught his face, bathing it in silver light. The need in her sapped the strength from her legs, and she put a hand to the rail to steady herself. Unable to help herself, Mary Rose stared, unabashed, at his face until his brow furrowed.
“Your blanket and pillow,” she said, remembering what she was supposed to be doing. Her feet moved onward until she paused at the last step. “There’s still Daniel’s room,” she whispered. The corners of his mouth twitched. She held her breath, praying he would say yes.
“Your sofa will serve me well,” he answered.
Stepping up, he reached out and took the linens from her. Their hands touched, and the warmth traveled up her arm, straight to her heart. She wanted to walk into his embrace. To kiss each slanted corner of his lips and in between. Then pray to the saints to forgive her as she guided him upstairs where she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“Why?” she heard her voice ask.
“Go up the stairs, my Irish rose. Should someone break in, it will be my wrath they encounter before they reach Hell’s front door.”
Her stomach pitched as he gathered the blanket and pillow from her and turned away.
“Now, go,” he ordered.
She opened her mouth to protest and stopped. He sensed her worry and glanced back. His face softened.
“I look forward to seeing if you are as beautiful in the morning as you are in the moonlight.”
Mary Rose felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “Goodnight, Marshal.”
She turned and moved back up the stairway. At the last step, his voice stopped her.
“The name is Trace, Mary Rose. Now and forever more, Trace.”
She could feel her lips widen into a smile. She didn’t turn, instead continued on, rounding the landing to the hallway. When she knew she was out of sight, she pressed her back against the wall and called back, “Goodnight, Trace.”
She knew he still stood below. She could feel him in the tingle of her skin. She waited. A soft chuckle floated up. Her ears picked up his voice. “Until tomorrow.”
Her hand found her door. She didn’t remember moving. “Until tomorrow,” she repeated, loving the sound of the words and their promise. Entering, she couldn’t stop the happiness that poured through her. She pulled her coverlet back and reached for the gown hung on the back of her door. Placing it on the bed, her fingers brushed the buttons across her waist front.
Did he know how easily the buttons slipped through their holes? If he had, would his conquest of her body have stopped so easily? She glanced across the patchwork coverlet on her single bed. Pulling the cloth from her shoulders, she contemplated the feel of his hands upon her flesh. Would they be warm, or could his fingers scald her tender flesh? Dropping her skirts and petticoats into a puddle at her feet, she drew her belongings together and laid them across the chair near the open window. Kicking off her shoes, she padded back to the bed and lay down. Mary Rose extended her good hand and touched the side of her bed. Would there be enough room for two?
Perhaps, if they snuggled close together—the thought filled her with renewed longing. Maybe one day she’d know. With a sigh, she pulled the extra pillow close. Confessions with Father Tomas were going to be hard.
Chapter Thirteen
The smell of coffee woke her from her slumber and the sweetest dream she knew, an enchanting dream, one in w
hich a dark-haired man with bright blue eyes made love to her with his lips. The thought of it brought a smile to her face. She didn’t need to see his face, for she already knew he was just below. Mary Rose rolled over and lay quietly, listening as he stirred around downstairs. Tossing the covers back, she rose carefully so as not to strain the tender skin around her wound. She paused and rotated her shoulder to relieve the stiffness.
Then she moved to her wardrobe and opened the doors. She studied her choice of practical options. The words Trace had spoken the night before replayed in her mind. Would the morning show she was just as lovely? She reached for the simple figured blouse and gray skirt, both pieces easy for her to manage with one good hand. She slipped them over her chemise and petticoat, then moved to her dresser.
Sitting down, she stared at the woman in the mirror. Her gaze focused on her lips. With her fingertips, she traced the length of her bottom lip and recalled the urgent feel of his lips there. Even in the light of day she shivered with delight. A soft blush filled her cheeks, and she watched the outline of her nipples press against the print of the fabric. Lord, all she had to do was envision the events and her body seemed ready.
“Mary Rose, you are becoming a wanton woman.”
She gave her head a shake, then picked up her brush and ran it through her curls, sweeping them away from her face. Unbound, they fell loose about her shoulders. “This will have to do.” With a sigh, she rose and hurried out the door.
Coming down the steps, she heard a knock at the door. “I’ll get it,” she called out and slid the bolt back to open the door. Sheriff Weston greeted her with a smile.
“Morning, Mary Rose.”
“Sheriff.” She held the door open. “Won’t you come in?”
He pushed the door wide and entered. “Is the marshal here?”
She watched his gaze move about the room and rest on the pillows and blanket Trace had folded and left at the end of the sofa. The sheriff turned a penetrating glance back to her.
Her mind racing to come up with some reasonable explanation, her lips parted, but Trace’s voice spoke. “I’m here. Been here all night.”
Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose Page 13
