Only Mine

by Lowell, Elizabeth

  “No aristocrat, surely,” Wolfe retorted. “But a Western woman would. Ask Willow Black. She and Caleb share the same bed night after night after night, and both of them spend their days looking like they’ve swallowed the sun.”

  The naked longing in Wolfe’s voice irritated Jessica so much that she forgot her fear of sharing not only a bedroom with Wolfe, but a bed as well.

  “Willow again,” Jessica said, concealing her annoyance beneath a sigh. “What a paragon she must be.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where do Western women who aren’t paragons sleep?” Jessica asked mildly. “In the stable?”

  “Only if they don’t spook the horses.”

  “No stable for me, then.” She took off her hat and shook down her half-unraveled braids. “The horses will take one look at my hair and think the hay is on fire.”

  Unwillingly, Wolfe’s expression softened. In the days since the attack on the stagecoach, it had become nearly impossible to be with Jessica and not enjoy her company. She had been unfailingly cheerful, agreeable, charming, and witty. With one exception, she had enlivened the long stage ride for everyone.

  The exception was the powerful blond stranger who had given them only one name: Rafe.

  Wolfe and Rafe had tacitly realized they would tangle if they both stayed caged up with a laughing young woman dancing between them. Without a word spoken on the subject, Rafe had spent the remainder of the ride with the driver. At the second stage stop, Rafe had bought a horse and saddle from a homesick Easterner and ridden off toward the setting sun after expressing his appreciation of Jessica’s nursing once again.

  Rafe had been much too appreciative of Jessica, as far as Wolfe was concerned. Watching Jessica’s glance follow the soft-spoken Rafe until he vanished into the incandescent eye of the sun had rankled Wolfe deeply. He couldn’t help wondering if Jessica would have stared at Rafe in fright as she had at Wolfe when she awakened on the stage and found herself in his arms.

  “You may sleep in my bed like a Western wife or you may sleep on the living room hearth like a favorite hound,” Wolfe said coldly. “It’s your choice, just as the marriage was your choice.”

  Jessica forced herself to smile. “That’s very generous of you. I know how well you like hounds.”

  Wolfe’s indigo eyes narrowed, but before he could say anything, Jessica turned away and looked at his bedroom once more. At first she didn’t really see it, but gradually the lines and colors beguiled her as they had at first glance. The room was like Wolfe himself, elegant and very masculine at the same time. It was the elegance of a falcon or a cougar, a matter of balance and strength rather than delicacy.

  Like the exterior of the house itself, the room’s walls were composed of peeled logs. The inner face of the logs had been sanded to smoothness and polished to a fine luster, giving a warm, subtly rich feel to the room. Although the furniture had been made by a man who loved the grain and flow of wood, the stark simplicity of the design was almost startling to eyes accustomed to European luxury.

  Yet the lines of bed and dresser, table and chair drew Jessica’s eyes again and again, pleasing her in the same way that patterns of geese flying against an autumn sky pleased her. The beautifully colored blankets and the pale, luminous fur throw that had been folded at the foot of the bed were as rich as anything owned by a duke. A sunburst of clear crystals had been placed like a bouquet on the bedside table, but unlike a bouquet, the crystals would never fade and die.

  “You have a fine sense of texture and proportion,” Jessica said slowly. “The room is quite beautiful. The furniture is…extraordinary.”

  “Sarcasm, Lady Jessica?” Wolfe retorted, looking around his bedroom.

  She stared at him, startled by the bite in his voice. Before she could speak, he did.

  “The furniture was made by a backsliding Shaker in exchange for room and board over a long winter. The blankets are standard trade goods from the Hudson Bay company. So are the furs.”

  “If I intend sarcasm,” Jessica said tartly, “you won’t have to inquire. You’ll know.”

  “Will I? Then tell me what you see in this room to please a gently raised lady’s eye.”

  “Many things,” Jessica said, accepting the unspoken challenge. “The lines of the furniture are simple to the point of starkness, which emphasizes the appealing warmth of the fire, the rich colors of the blankets, and the inviting texture of the fur. The fireplace is quite clever, for it opens into two rooms at once. And is that a hipbath behind the screen?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s quite large.”

  “So am I.”

  Wolfe watched as Jessica ran her fingertips over the straight back of a nearby chair.

  “You have everything you need for comfort, and you have beauty as well,” she said quietly. “Whoever made this was a fine craftsman who loved wood. See how the grain of the wood both matches and repeats the lines of the chair?”

  Wolfe saw more than that. He also saw the latent sensuality in Jessica, the sheer physical pleasure she took from the feel of the smooth wood beneath her fingertips.

  “And the fur,” she added, walking over to the foot of the bed, “is magnificent.”

  “It comes from Arctic foxes. They live at the foot of glaciers whose crevasses are the exact blue of your eyes.”

  “Is it a beautiful color?” she asked softly.

  “You know it is.”

  “It never seemed so to me.”

  Jessica’s fingers speared through the thick white fur, seeking and finding its softest textures. The sound of pleasure she made as she stroked the fur brought every one of Wolfe’s hungry senses to alert. The thought of those slender fingers tangling in his own hair sent a shaft of desire through his body. He turned away abruptly.

  “I’ll bring your trunks in here. No matter where you decide to sleep, you’ll use this as your dressing room.”

  Jessica looked up curiously, caught by the husky note in Wolfe’s voice.

  “While I finish unloading the wagon,” Wolfe continued, “you start fixing a cold supper and some hot coffee. The supplies are in the burlap sacks. You might as well put everything away. Then you’ll know where everything is when you need it for cooking.”

  “Wolfe,” Jessica said quickly.

  He turned around.

  She started to explain that she didn’t know the first thing about fixing suppers, whether cold or hot. The aura of expectancy in his stance told her that he was waiting for just such an invitation to bait her again on her inadequacy as an American wife. She wasn’t certain her temper was up to that at the moment.

  The long, uncomfortable wagon ride from the stage terminus in Denver had tried Jessica’s resilience and resolve to their limits. She was stiff, cold, bruised, and more exhausted than she had ever been in her life.

  But she was expected to cheerfully conjure a meal for that most demanding of all creatures, a Western husband.

  “Yes?” Wolfe asked in a silky voice.

  “I was just, er, wondering where to put my clothes.”

  “As I didn’t know I was going to acquire a wife in England, I didn’t buy any dressers or armoires for your clothes.” His smile was a thin white curve against the darkness of his face. “Not that it matters. You won’t be here long enough to repay the trouble of unpacking even one trunk.”

  “Oh? Does that mean we’re leaving on another trip right away?” Jessica asked in an artificially bright voice.

  “We aren’t. You are. Back to London.”

  “Ah, that trip. Well, you know how foolish it is to count unhatched chicks. I feel the same could be said of unhatched trips.”

  Wolfe looked at Jessica’s bright smile and felt his temper fraying. If she had sulked or complained, he could have berated her, but her inexhaustible well of cheerfulness made that impossible.

  She knew it as well as he did. Better, perhaps.

  “The kitchen, your ladyship, is through that door.”

  “Why,
so it is.”

  She gathered the skirts of her ruined travel outfit in her hands and eased through the doorway that was filled by her unwilling husband.

  “I’ll expect supper within the hour,” Wolfe said as yards of soft wool brushed over his thighs, tightening every muscle in his body. “I’ll expect the coffee a hell of a lot sooner.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Jessica agreed.

  But she wasn’t sure Wolfe would get it.

  The kitchen had a brick floor, cupboards everywhere, a pump, a sink, and a big stove. The small table in one corner obviously had been made by the Shaker craftsman who had furnished the bedroom. Sacks of supplies were lined up the length of the floor.

  Now that Wolfe was no longer present to measure Jessica’s mood, her smile vanished as thoroughly as though it had never existed. In the place of her determined cheer was a physical fatigue that made even standing upright an ordeal. Mentally, she was no more resilient.

  Nor was there any relief in sight. No matter how hard she tried to coax some simple human warmth from Wolfe, since the Indian attack he had remained abrupt, difficult, cold, and impossible to please. If that wasn’t bad enough, the wind seemed to moan without pause over the land. When she was alone, she heard the wind with terrible clarity.

  She was always alone now, and never more so than when Wolfe was nearby. Automatically, her hand went to her breasts. Beneath her clothes, the locket lay concealed among soft folds of lace. The familiar contours of the necklace reassured her.

  “Well,” Jessica said, forcing cheerfulness into her voice, for anything was better than the unborn horror keening within the wind. “Where do you suppose Wolfe has hidden his coffeepot? And what do you suppose it will look like when I find it?”

  The low ululation of the wind was more answer than Jessica wanted to hear. Hurriedly, she fumbled for the matches and lighted a lantern, for Wolfe had shuttered the windows before he left for London. She had watched various servants light various lamps all her life, but it took several tries for her to get the right combination of match, wick, and oil. The lamp smoked annoyingly, but it was better than nothing.

  The wind raked over the roof and made the cap on the stovepipe rattle like distant chains, reminding Jessica of her childhood in Scotland, when she had hidden in the kitchen with the scullery maids because she could no longer bear the sounds coming from her father’s suite of rooms. It had been a very long time since Jessica had thought of such things. She didn’t wish to begin now.

  Humming to shut out both the wind and her darkly stirring memories, Jessica set to work. The air she hummed was one of her favorites, “Bonnie Laddie, Highland Laddie.” The words had always stuck her as over-simple, but the melody had a fine lilt that lifted her spirits. The more fiercely the wind blew, the more loudly Jessica sang her lively, wordless song, opening and closing cupboards as she searched for the coffeepot.

  After opening every cupboard, peering in, and holding the smoky lamp aloft, Jessica still hadn’t found anything that resembled the graceful sterling silver urns Lord Robert’s servants had taken coffee from. Nor did she find anything like the small, plump sterling silver pots or tissue-thin china that had been used for service in the bedroom.

  “Blazes,” she muttered.

  Jessica began the search and the song all over again. Halfway through the cupboard, she sensed that she was no longer alone in the room. She spun around.

  Wolfe was leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest and an odd expression on his face.

  “That song…” he said.

  “’Bonnie Laddie, Highland Laddie’. It’s a rather silly air about a Scotsman wearing a cap.”

  Wolfe cleared his throat and tried not to reveal the laughter that was shaking him. “Of course. It’s been so long since I heard the original words, I’d forgotten.”

  He made a strangled sound and looked away from a moment.

  “Are you well, Wolfe?”

  Silently, Wolfe struggled not to smile.

  “I know my voice isn’t of stage quality,” Jessica said, smiling wryly, “but no one has ever laughed at it before. However, if it amuses you so, I’ll sing more often.”

  “I doubt the verses you know would be as amusing as the ones I know.” Wolfe watched Jessica tilt her head and look at him with wide aquamarine eyes. “You look like a cat when you watch me with such stillness.”

  The intensity of Wolfe’s eyes made Jessica’s breath catch in her throat. An odd sensation trembled in the pit of her stomach, as though he were stroking her hair. But he wasn’t touching her. He was simply watching her.

  With an effort, she forced herself to speak. “What verses do you know that I don’t?”

  “Many.”

  “Wonderful. Teach me and we’ll sing together.”

  Wolfe compressed his lips against the smile that threatened to overwhelm his efforts at self-control. “The verses I know would horrify you.”

  “Why?”

  “They deal with Adam’s staff, among other things,” Wolfe said blandly.

  Jessica looked blank. “Why would talk of Adam’s staff horrify me?”

  “It’s also celebrated as a flea shooter, a hoe, a fishing rod, a drummer’s stick, a Roman candle, a branding iron, a dagger, a sword, a dowsing rod, a ramrod, a pistol and, lately, a repeating rifle.” Wolfe’s voice vibrated with suppressed laughter. “There are other names as well. Many names. And for each one, a verse to the tune you were singing.”

  Jessica frowned. “A tool for many purposes, is that it?”

  Wolfe gave up the fight, tipped back his head, and laughed without restraint.

  The rich, masculine sounds made Jessica feel as though she was standing close to a fire. Some of the tension seeped slowly from her. The feeling of relief was almost dizzying, telling her how much she had feared that she would never be able to make her husband smile again.

  “As you say,” Wolfe managed finally, “an allpurpose tool. Fortunately, Eve was equally well endowed.”

  Jessica blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Adam’s staff had its complement in Eve.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Eve had a fertile field for Adam to till,” Wolfe said gravely, “a shadowed pool for him to fish, a deep well to be discovered by his dowsing rod, a supple sheath for his knife or sword to lie within…ah, the sunrise of understanding shines pinkly on your face.”

  Blushing, Jessica covered her mouth with her hands, but couldn’t prevent the sound of her giggles from escaping. Her laughter was contagious, setting off Wolfe again. Soon Jessica was laughing so hard she had to hang onto the cupboard door or fall.

  Wolfe was little better off. It had been years since he had teased Jessica until they were both weak with laughter. He hadn’t known how much life had lacked until this moment.

  “I’ve missed you,” he admitted before he could think better of it.

  “Not as much as I missed you.”

  “Did you?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, blotting tears of laughter from her eyes. “When you’re with me, I never hear the wind.”

  “What an odd reason to miss someone.”

  “Elves are odd creatures.”

  Wolfe looked at the row of open cupboard doors. “Yes, they are. Why were you going through the cupboards, elf?”

  “I was looking for your coffeepot.”

  “It’s on the stove.”

  Jessica straightened and stared at the pot-bellied stove. She saw nothing but a battered container that looked like a tall, rather narrow pot. It was wider at the bottom than the top and had a slight flare on the rim. A wire handle stood upright above the lid.

  “A coffeepot on the stove,” she said neutrally.

  “Umm.”

  The sound Wolfe made was rather like that of a very large, contented cat. Jessica glanced at him from beneath thick auburn lashes.

  “How does this coffeepot work?”

  “Quite simply. You fill the
pot with water, put it on the stove to boil, add coffee grounds, boil for a time, and then add cold water to settle the grounds.”

  “Ah,” she breathed, brightening. “Simple indeed.”

  Jessica went to the stove, took the lid off the pot, and looked around for a pitcher of water. There was none.

  “Water comes from pumps,” Wolfe said. “You do know what a pump looks like, don’t you?”

  “You’re teasing me.”

  “I’m not sure. Elves are unpredictable creatures. It’s difficult to be certain what they know.”

  Jessica hadn’t ever used a pump, but she certainly had seen one used. She went to the sink, set the pot down beneath the pump’s spout, and picked up the long iron pump handle. She had to go up on her tiptoes to lift the handle to its fullest.

  “Wait.”

  Jessica froze, teetered, and began to lose her balance. Before she could topple and accidently bring the pump handle down, Wolfe rushed forward and snatched her off her feet. She made a startled sound.

  “You forgot something,” he said calmly.

  She looked into midnight blue eyes that were intriguingly close to her own, for Wolfe had lifted her until her head was on a level with his.

  “What did I forget?”

  “You didn’t prime the pump.”

  The blank look Jessica gave Wolfe told him that she didn’t know what he was talking about. He started to set her down, but her small, warm waist felt too good between his hands to let go of just yet.

  “See that pitcher of water next to the pump?” Wolfe asked.

  The deepening of his voice ruffled Jessica’s nerves in a way she liked without knowing why. She nodded. He shifted her suddenly, turning her away from him. The breathless sound she made was lost in his words.

  “Pick up the pitcher, elf.”

  She leaned across the counter, and in doing so, pressed her bottom into the cradle of Wolfe’s thighs. He closed his eyes and told himself to put her down. Instead, his hands tightened around her, savoring the supple warmth of her against the ache of male hunger and need that had concentrated between his thighs.