“Yes, miss.”
The waiter was gone in a flash, and Libby plopped her head against the back of her chair with a groan. “Now why did I do that?” she whispered, regretting her decision already. But she’d never been this nervous around Finn before, at least not in the last seventeen years. She’d always had her anger to keep him at bay, but since he’d put his foot down about her behavior after she’d arrived, something had changed. She was starting to respect him again, laugh with him again, enjoy his company again.
And fall in love again?
She bolted the last of her wine, the very thought scaring her silly.
Because heaven knows that wasn’t what she wanted.
She swallowed hard. Was it?
“Your wine, miss.” Placing a fresh glass of wine before her, the waiter removed the other, and Libby thanked him with a grateful smile, well aware Finn would not be happy. He hadn’t objected to wine on the train because he knew she was upset, and he couldn’t very well deny her wine with dinner, although it was clear he didn’t approve. But he’d be fit to be tied to see her drink another when she was already tipsy as a top. A smile sneaked in as she nipped at her lower lip with her teeth.
Oh, what a glorious shame!
A hiccup sneaked out, and she slapped a hand to her mouth, carefully looking around to make sure no one had heard. A wispy sigh drifted out as she set her glass down, regretting she had to resort to alcohol to help her cope. But Finn was wearing her resistance thin with dinners out, concerts at Piper’s Opera House, or evening rides and picnics, treating her with such kindness and respect, she was starting to care all over again.
She grunted and upended her wine. Who was she kidding? She’d never stopped caring, and that had become abundantly clear when she’d learned they were returning to the scene of the crime: The Ormsby House Hotel.
Where we’d spent three nights of wedded bliss, barely leaving our room.
Over the years, her volatile Irish temper had convinced her she’d escaped a bully who didn’t really care. But in light of the facts he’d professed on the train, she found her resolve wavering, and she couldn’t afford that. Not when his mere presence could still flutter her stomach, woefully confirming he still controlled a piece of her heart. Her hand shook as she hurriedly took another deep swig.
But I can’t ever let him control a piece of my life.
He entered the room, and her bones immediately went to jelly, stomach quivering more than the lemon-walnut gelatine mold they’d had at dinner. Of course, he’d always had that effect on her from the start, but she’d managed to tuck it away over the years. Out of sight, out of mind. But heaven help her, he was dead center in sight at the moment and in her mind, sorely tempting her to fan herself with the napkin.
Mercy, but he was a good-looking man, and unfortunately that assessment had only improved with age. He stopped briefly to talk to the maître d’, and she took full advantage, scanning from thick dark hair templed with gray to a handsome and hard-sculpted face weathered by hard work and time. Once tall and lean, Finn now sported massive shoulders far broader and a hard-muscled body that seemed thicker—and more powerful—than before, causing her pulse to stumble all over itself. Hands suddenly moist, she threw back another gulp, heart teetering as much as the glass when she set it back down.
Shaking hands with the maître d’, Finn turned his focus on her, hazel eyes burning right through her as he approached with that infuriating smile that confirmed everything was under control.
She guzzled more liquid courage.
Including me, if I’m not careful!
“Miss me?” He took his seat and reached for his glass of water, gaze flicking to her near-empty goblet of wine before resettling on her with a humorous smile.
Another hiccup slipped out, followed by a giggle. “The last five minutes, yes. The last seventeen years?” She raised her glass in a toast, reverting to the easy camaraderie they’d obtained over dinner. “Nope.” Delivering a wink as uncharacteristic as drinking wine, she sank back into her chair with a contented sigh.
“Well, that’s progress, I suppose,” he said with a dry smile, retrieving his wallet to lay several bills on the table. Glancing at his pocket watch, he rose and pushed in his chair. “Ready to go? You have just enough time to freshen up before we head to the station.”
“Mmm …” Libby laid her head back once again, suddenly too relaxed to do anything but close her eyes. The moment she did, however, the room started to spin, and she jerked straight up, head as dizzy as her heart when Finn squatted to study her with a tender look.
“Are you all right, sweetheart?” The graze of his thumb on her hand might have tumbled her insides if her stomach wasn’t already awhirl, threatening to dislodge her dinner.
“Uh … I … I’m not sure,” she managed in a shaky voice, knuckles curling white on her napkin as she gripped his arm. “I … I think I m-might be sick—”
Napkin and hand flew to her mouth just as Finn swept her up, striding out of the room and up the stairs while the contents of her stomach started to rise.
“Open your eyes!” he commanded in a tone that would have set her temper afire if she wasn’t so blasted sick. Her lids snapped up, and the awful spinning abated somewhat. “Hold on, darlin’,” he said softly as he jangled a key in a door, “just a few minutes more …”
Which, unfortunately, wasn’t quite long enough. Feeling like death, Libby spewed her dinner on the floor of the water closet before Finn was able to hold her steady over the bowl, sicker than she’d ever been. Crumpling to her knees when she was through, she vowed to never drink again.
“Here, sweetheart,” he whispered, and she felt a wet washcloth blotting her face before he gently prodded a glass of water to her dry lips. “Swish and spit.”
She did as she was told and tasted peppermint in the rinse, well aware Finn always carried the leaves in his pocket, a habit since she’d known him. He patted her mouth with the cloth again before refilling the glass and handing it to her with more peppermint-scented water. Taking a long, long sip, she finally pushed it away, her voice as dry and raspy as her throat. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Always.” His voice was no more than a wisp of warmth in her ear, but it calmed her far more than any wine or tea could ever do. Eyelids suddenly heavy, she felt languid and limp, as if she were slowly sinking away. A breeze cooled her face when he whisked her up once again, her body and her brain utterly weightless while he quietly carried her to the bed. The heat of his chest against her cheek lulled her to a heavenly place she’d only been one time before.
“Please don’t let go …” Her voice was a worried rasp when he tried to lay her down, panic rising at the prospect of his glorious warmth fading away.
“Never.” His husky response carried a promise that set her free to curl against him when he lay down on the bed. He drew her close, strong arms cocooning her in a heavenly warmth that soothed her into the peace and safety of sleep, taking her to a place she hadn’t been in a very long time.
Home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
He was tired, he was hungry, and he probably smelled like vomit. But Finn McShane hadn’t been this happy in a blue moon.
Seventeen years of “blue moons,” to be exact, but holding his wife in the same bed in which he’d once made love to her made a puke-permeated hotel room seem like the gates of heaven.
His mouth hooked. Or a mite further south when Libby woke up, discovering she’d just spent the night in his bed.
Again.
He chuckled softly as the light of dawn streamed through the window, helpless to wipe the smile from his face. Because for all her protests and temper, he was pretty darn sure Libby O’Shea McShane still loved him—enough to get stinkin’ drunk when he knew she never indulged. And enough to cling all night long like a second skin. His smile bloomed into a grin.
And heaven knows he loved her. How else could he explain cleaning her up—and himself—when the sigh
t and smell of vomit had always made him sick? Then traipsing down to the train station to hire Mason as a messenger to inform Aiden and Maeve their daughter had taken ill, necessitating an overnight stay in Carson City. He shook his head, hardly able to believe he had hand-washed her shirt and his in the tub without throwing up himself.
The bluish pallor of her skin and lips had alarmed him, knowing full well the effects of too much alcohol. She’d been like a piece of ice, curled into a ball, so he’d done the only thing he’d known to do. He slipped into the bed to hold her—her in just a chemise and him in trousers and no shirt—worried sick. He relinquished a grunt. He was sick all right—lovesick to the core—and he’d be hogtied and hung up to dry if he’d ever let her go again.
“Don’t let go,” she’d whispered before she’d faded into a deep and peaceful sleep, and whether it had been intoxication or revelation that had loosed that plea from her lips, Finn had no intention of doing anything else but holding on.
Forever.
“Mmm …” Arm tucked around his bare chest, Libby released a soft moan before rolling over with an adorable little grunt, legs tucked.
Turning on his side, he cuddled from behind like he used to, arms wrapped around her waist while he breathed in the scent of her hair. Obviously fallen loose in her sleep, the touch of it felt like silk against his skin.
Unable to resist, he carefully lifted it aside to gently graze his lips against the nape of her neck. His body instantly reacted with a flood of heat that all but swallowed him whole, leaving him powerless to do anything but mold closer and skim his mouth once again.
He knew the exact moment she awakened because she went completely stiff in his arms. Then with a harsh gasp, she shot up from the bed like a bottle rocket on the Fourth of July, her voice a startled stutter. “W-What on earth are y-you d-doing?” she rasped, ripping the sheet from beneath the blanket to cover her chemise.
With a sheepish cuff of his neck, Finn sat up, delivering the boyish smile that had always worked wonders before. “You asked me to hold you last night, Libby, so I did.”
“All night?” she said in a near shriek, “in my—” she glanced down at the sheet she’d haphazardly wrapped around her body and jerked it higher, her face suddenly as white as the linen in her hands. “My chemise?”
Finn rose from the bed with an awkward scuff of his chest. “You threw up, Libby, all over your dress and my shirt, so I had to wash them both in the tub.” He retrieved the laundered items from the wash room, smile fading as he cautiously laid her blouse on the bed. “I was worried about you,” he said quietly. “You were like ice, and too much alcohol can cause body heat to plummet dangerously low.”
She avoided his eyes as she reached for her blouse, fingers quivering while she clutched it to her chest. “And my skirt?”
“Right here.” He retrieved her skirt from where he’d neatly draped it over the back of a chair along with her jacket. “I figured sleeping in your chemise would be a lot more comfortable, so I hope you don’t mind.”
____
Mind? That she’d just spent the night with her estranged husband in a bed where he’d been nibbling her neck? Heat blasted through her body like a radiator gone awry, making it difficult for her to breathe, much less speak. Feeling faint, she put a shaky hand to her throbbing temple while the most handsome man she’d ever known—or kissed—stood there shirtless, muscles cording his arms and dark hair matting his chest.
“You were pretty sick, darlin’,” he said softly, “and asked me to hold you, so I did.”
Her breathing stopped as a knot ducked in her throat. “Merciful Providence, we didn’t …?” She couldn’t even finish the sentence, mouth suddenly drier than dust.
“No, ma’am.” He held up a firm palm as if to reassure, but it wasn’t working. “I just held you, Libby, you have my word.” The off-kilter smile was back as he gave a shrug of those ridiculously broad shoulders. “Well, that and a few innocent kisses on the back of your neck.”
“Innocent!” Her voice was a croak. “For the love of all that’s decent and holy, Finn, we just slept together in the same bed!”
He casually scratched the back of his neck with a smoky look she remembered all too well in this very room alone. “Yes, but I guarantee you, darlin’, a lot less happened than the last time we did.” His mouth took a tilt. “Which is a darn shame to my way of thinkin’.”
“Finn McShane!” She stomped her bare foot, the effect totally lost against a thick-pile rug. “We are not married,” she said in a croak, motioning him to turn around with a slash of her blouse in the air. “And the least you can do is look the other way so I can get dressed!”
A muscle flickered in his cheek while his smile tightened a hair, the steel edge of his jaw all the more ominous with a dark shadow of beard. “Actually, we are married, Libby, and to be honest I’d been well within my legal rights to make love to you every hour on the hour if I wanted. So maybe you best say ‘thank you’, darlin’, and go ahead and get dressed.”
Blood gorged her cheeks till she thought she might faint. “Then, please turn around!” she managed with an unsteady thrust of her chin.
“Nope.” He took his time buttoning his own shirt while he stared her down with a mulish look. “I’m perfectly entitled to see whatever is under that sheet, darlin’, so I suggest you dress quickly before I decide to take advantage.”
“You wouldn’t,” she whispered, the pounding of her heart far louder than the frail rasp that escaped her lips.
“Probably not.” He retied his string tie while he fixed her with a pointed stare. “But I seem to remember you owe me some kisses, Mrs. McShane, and I surely aim to collect.” Gaze never faltering from hers, he lifted his suit coat off the chair and slid it on, the kick of his smile issuing a clear warning. “Just up to you whether it’s sooner or later, darlin’.”
All moisture fled from her mouth while her hands grew moist, and spinning on her heel too quickly, she groaned with a hand to her eyes. But she had no one to blame but herself for the awful throbbing in her head. Expelling a wavering sigh, she dropped the sheet in a puddle and put on her blouse, startling when Finn offered her skirt from behind.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, the words scratching raw from her throat.
“You’re welcome.” His footsteps receded as he walked to the door, the turn of the knob unloosing a strange reluctance to let him go. “I’ll let you freshen up alone, then meet you in the dining room for breakfast when you’re done, all right?”
She nodded, heart thumping as much as the pain in her head. “Finn …?”—she swallowed hard, desperate to dispel the awful pride that clogged in her throat—“I’m sorry,” she whispered, shocked when a sheen of tears blurred in her eyes. “For … all of this.”
Both he and her breathing painfully paused before he finally spoke, his voice gentle and low. “Don’t be, Libby—I’m not.” His statement was punctuated by the soft click of the door.
She stood there frozen for several seconds before a sob finally broke free, a flashflood of revelation spilling along with her tears when it became abundantly clear …
That neither was she.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
“Goodness, I never thought I’d say this,” Maggie whispered to the ladies sitting at her end of the table, “but thank God for corsets!”
Leaning back in her spindle-back chair on Finn’s back porch, she fanned herself with a cloth napkin while she offered Mrs. Poppy—Finn’s special guest for the evening—and Maeve a limp smile, praying her stays wouldn’t bust.
The heat of the day joined forces with the bountiful barbecue she’d just consumed to make her feel like a melted lump of lard. She attempted a heavy sigh despite the tight pinch of her corset, quite sure vanity was not worth the loss of air. “Although I fear my figure will be lost forever, corset or no, if Angus and Gert continue battling it out in the kitchen.”
“What’s a corset?” Shaylee asked, more barbecue splotche
s on her face than on the napkin tucked around her neck.
“An implement of torture,” Aunt Libby said with a wry smile, slipping Shaylee a wink. Her gaze traveled to Finn at the other end of the table where the men were discussing the upcoming state rodeo. “Designed, no doubt, by men such as your uncle to keep all women restrained.”
Mrs. Poppy chuckled as she patted a blue-veined hand to Libby’s own, her snow-white topknot as crooked as her elfin smile. “As much as you’d like to saddle poor Finn with every grievance against women over the ages, Libby dear, I doubt he had any control centuries ago.”
Libby’s lips took a swerve as she eyed Finn over the rim of her cup. “Maybe not, Mrs. Poppy, but he certainly acts like he does.” The dryness of her tone belied the twinkle in her eyes that Maggie had noticed since she and Finn spent the night in Carson City three weeks ago.
Grinning, Maggie shook her head as she dipped her napkin in her water glass, proceeding to wipe barbecue sauce off of Shaylee’s chin and nose. “A corset is an undergarment that’s pulled tight with lacing to flatter a woman’s figure, Shaylee,” she explained to the sweet tomboy who’d stolen her heart over the last month and a half. “But I’m not sure you’ll find too many women who think corsets are worth it.”
“Well, I have it on good authority that they’re not.” Sheridan flipped a pickle in her mouth. “Which is why I never intend to wear one.”
“Excuse m-me?” Poor Aunt Libby sputtered as if she were choking, hand to her chest while she grappled for her tea cup to take a healthy swig. “Good heavens, Sheridan, every well-bred woman wears a corset, darling.”
“I don’t understand why.” Sheridan filched an uneaten pickle from her sister’s plate. “Because men sure don’t like them.”
Libby spewed her tea, eyes bugging wide while she quickly swabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Great day in the morning, Sheridan Marie, it’s the proper thing to do, sweetheart, that’s why. And how on earth would you possibly know a man’s opinion on such things?”
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