With a confident smile, he headed for the kitchen.
* * *
Lost in thought, Rebecca sat in the window seat in her bedroom, watching pink and yellow streaks of sunlight chase away the night. The cooing of mourning doves caught her attention, and she pushed back the lace curtain to look out more easily.
The world looked perfectly normal, the way it did every morning. Except it wasn’t normal. Nothing was as it had been. Nothing would ever be the same again.
Fear fluttered through her, and she drew up her legs, her chin resting lightly on her knees. Her silk dressing gown fell away, and she tucked it securely around her body. Beneath it, she was still naked from a night of lovemaking.
Two hours. Two hours she’d been sitting here. At least she thought it was two hours. The time, like the night spent with Luke, was a blur in her mind.
She remembered quite clearly seeing the light on in his room, remembered going in with the intention of thanking him for saving her son. That was the polite, reasonable thing to do, wasn’t it?
He’d looked so helpless there, trying to pull those splinters from his fingers. More like a little boy than the harsh, cold man who had accompanied her into that alley. Maybe it was his helplessness that had gotten past her wall of defenses. Maybe it was simply exhaustion from the days and nights of worrying. Whatever it was, it had seemed that one moment she was sitting on the edge of the bed, helping him with the splinters that laced the tips of his fingers, and then...then she was in his arms. He was kissing her with a passion that inflamed her senses; holding her with a strength she was powerless to overcome; touching her with an intimacy that ignited an all-consuming desire.
Oh, God, how could this have happened? Heat and guilt and shame washed over her like a tidal wave, leaving her breathless and frightened. This could not have happened. It was too awful, too terrifying, even to contemplate. A shaking started inside, the subtle beginnings of an earthquake. Her muscles cramped.
Rebecca Tinsdale did not—repeat, did not—give herself wantonly to men, and certainly not to this man...never to this man.
Her arms encircled her knees, pulling them tighter against her, and her head lolled back against the smooth, cool plaster wall, trapping her hair tightly behind her. Annoyed, she shifted and pulled it over one shoulder.
As she glanced down at her hair where it covered one breast, she remembered Luke arranging her hair in just such a way, his knuckles brushing enticingly over her breast, and her nipples puckering into hard, aching nubs.
She swallowed hard against the sudden memories.
This was awful, and getting worse by the second. It had seemed so innocent when she went to his room. A simple conversation, nothing more, had been intended. An expression of thanks, and a goodbye—most importantly, a goodbye. How could it have gotten so out of control? How could she have gotten so out of control?
All she had to do was close her eyes, and the images of them together flashed hot and erotic in her mind, making her pulse quicken. Like a series of mind-searing photographs, they flashed one after another; naked and writhing under him, her legs wrapped around his waist, his mouth sucking on her nipples, while she moaned and pleaded and demanded more.
Heat seared her mind and body. Her breathing got a little more intense, a little more unsteady. Oh, this was worse than she’d thought.
In all the years of her marriage to Nathan, their times together had been nothing, nothing, like this. There had been quick kisses, an occasional coupling under the covers in the dark. Over the years she’d convinced herself that that was married life, that her memories of lovemaking with Luke were merely exaggerated daydreams.
Now...oh, now she knew, with a heart-pounding certainty, that they were real—wonderfully, deliciously, luxuriously real. Last night he had done things, said things, made her feel things that, in her most vivid dreams, she’d never imagined. How could she? How could she possibly know that a man and woman could give and take and please each other in ways such as that?
It was wrong. It had to be wrong. Everything about it was wrong, and yet...yet it felt so right. She’d never felt so alive in her life.
That earthquake inside was racing toward her soul, threatening to destroy her in the process.
How would she face her family, her friends? They would know what a wanton she had been. Surely no one could do the things she’d done with this man and survive intact.
Abruptly she stood and paced toward the closet, pausing to gauge her reflection in the mirror. Could it be? She looked exactly the same. There was no scarlet brand, no mark to indicate what she’d done. Perhaps it would be all right. She would simply go on as before, she thought with a confident tilt of her chin.
The terror inside her began to subside—for about thirty seconds, until she realized that this was not over. She would have to see him, at least, this morning. Maybe not. Maybe she’d take her breakfast in her room and hope that he would be gone by the time she went downstairs.
She sighed at the absurdity of that idea. She was going to have to face him sooner or later. The question was, what was she going to say?
Ah, so now we’re down to it, Rebecca. How do you feel? What do you want?
How did she feel? She felt glorious. What did she want? She wanted him to leave, to go away and never, ever come back, because he was too tempting, too dangerous, and she had responsibilities to others that had to supersede all her personal feelings, no matter how heavenly.
She frowned. Logic and guilt merged in her mind, and her joy was replaced by hostility. It galled her, how willingly she had surrendered to him, despite all her fine words and pledges.
Well, all was most certainly not lost, not yet—and she intended to keep it that way. There would be no repeat of eight years ago.
She was not the naive girl of eighteen he had seduced and left shattered and disillusioned. No, dammit! She was a woman now, assured and in control of her life and her emotions, she told herself fiercely. After all, she had made the choice to stay with him last night. She conveniently ignored her guilt-ridden thoughts of moments ago.
Feeling more confident, she strode for the wardrobe cabinet. She yanked open the door and grabbed a blouse, forest green, and a skirt, straight and black, to suit her ever-darkening mood.
She shrugged out of her dressing gown and washed up in the basin next to the wardrobe, scrubbing her face and arms hard, wishing she could wash him out of her mind as easily.
She put on her undergarments and reached for the corset she’d worn the night before. As she picked it up, the laces slipped to the floor, and she snatched them up. She started the arduous task of threading the laces through the dozen or so sets of eyelets, her resentment building.
A shiver passed through her as she remembered his expert fingers loosening the laces with exquisite slowness, freeing her breasts and body to his masterful touch, his mouth teasing the valley between her breasts.
Her eyes slammed shut against the sensual images.
“No,” she said out loud to the empty bedroom. “No,” she repeated more firmly, her hands curling into fists.
Would it always be like this? Whenever she saw him, would she remember every touch as though it were happening again?
With every speck of will she had, she would resist the temptation of Luke Scanlin, and all that he stirred within her. Not just for herself, but for the others, and for the secrets she guarded. Oh, yes, for those secrets most of all.
What was done was done. The past could not be changed, but the present could.
She would face Luke straight on, the same way she’d faced most things in her life. She would handle this calmly, firmly, and with dispatch. Now that she’d given herself to him, there was nothing to keep him here...once again, she thought with a tinge of sadness, he would go. She was certain. Only this time it was the best thing—the only thing for all their sakes.
* * *
The distinctive aroma of fresh-brewed coffee greeted Rebecca as she pushed through
the kitchen door. It was too early for the staff to be up, she was thinking, when she heard, “Good morning, darlin’.”
Luke. His tone was cheerful. He was perched on the edge of the kitchen table, acting like he owned the place. “I made coffee.” He gestured with his cup. “Want some?” He wore a white shirt and black wool trousers, and his hair was damp and finger-combed back from his face. It ought to be illegal for a man to be that handsome this early.
For the span of two heartbeats, all she could do was look at him.
His smile was warmer than sunshine, and his eyes were soft and familiar; his expression was like an unspoken invitation. She fought the impulse to walk to him, to touch him, to ask him to take her in his arms again.
Her gaze flicked to his hand, curved around the white porcelain cup, and she remembered that same hand curved over the sensitive flesh of her breast. She was flooded with memories, and she couldn’t speak or tear her gaze away.
Erotic thoughts, flashes of their naked bodies writhing and moving together, the moaning sounds of pleasure, the pleading demands, all seemed to engulf her in an instant. Swift and crystal-clear, they heated her body with anticipation and flushed her cheeks with shame.
It was the shame and fear that she hung on to like a lifeline, in a desperate attempt to strengthen her crumbling resolve.
Pulling herself up to her full height, she faced him squarely. “I expected you to be gone this morning.”
He stilled, his coffee cup stopped in midmotion. His eyes widened in open surprise, and she saw him straighten slightly. He raked her with an assessing stare. It took every bit of willpower she had to stand there and not flinch. She was braced for an argument.
Evidently he wasn’t. “Not exactly the greeting I was expecting. Most people are at least civil to their lover the next morning.” He put his cup down and advanced toward her. “Have you forgotten already? Maybe you like to be kissed first thing in the morning? You have to tell me these things.”
He was dark and powerful, and his intentions would have been clear even to a cloistered nun. She was not as immune to him as she had thought. As she watched him close in on her, her throat went dry and, God help her, she actually felt her body sway toward him, as though reaching for the enchantment that logic demanded she refuse.
Teeth-gnashing willpower kept her anchored to the spot. It didn’t keep him from touching her, though. If only he wouldn’t touch her. If only he weren’t so heart-stoppingly handsome.
Though it felt like a retreat, self-preservation made her take a firm step backward. “Don’t touch me!”
Alarm was obvious in her voice, and it gave him pause. His hand dropped away. “What?” His tone was incredulous.
“I said, don’t touch me.”
Luke stare at her intently. “That’s not what you said last night.”
She spun away and walked to the cupboard near the sink. Reaching up, she helped herself to a coffee cup. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, pleased her voice sounded so casual, so calm. She didn’t turn around to face him.
“I’m talking about us making love last night—until just a few hours ago, actually,” he added, his tone firm.
Discreetly she gripped the edge of the counter, needing support. “We... I... Last night was a mistake.” She straightened and turned to face him, though her hands still sought the support of the counter.
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, I do. Furthermore, I will not discuss it, now or ever again. It will not happen again. And if you bring it up or mention it to me or anyone, I will continue to deny it.”
Here in the middle of this kitchen, on a bright October day, her announcement could not have surprised him more than if he’d been struck by lightning.
Was this some kind of a joke? It was a joke—right? Okay, her expression was grim, but she had to be joking.
His mind was working overtime. What the hell was going on? Could she have been that wild, that willing, and not care anything for him? Could he have been that wrong?
Not moving, he sought her gaze. That was when he knew. She was serious. He could see it in the hard glint of her eyes, as clearly as he’d seen the unbridled passion in them last night. It wasn’t anger or even shame. No, what he saw there was fear, stark and raw. He knew it, had seen it in men’s eyes before they made a deadly miscalculation.
But there was no miscalculation here, no reason to flee. Was there? Their lovemaking had been beautiful, passionate, endless.
His head came up with a start. Was that it? Was she afraid of the passion he’d ignited in her, afraid of her wild abandon?
Being with her, making love to her, had been more than he’d remembered, more than he’d imagined. What they had shared was soul-searing in its power. But her eyes held only fear and regret. It was perhaps the regret, most of all, that ate at him.
His desire faded under her cold stare. What had been blissfully beautiful dissolved, transformed into something quite different, something dark and ugly and cold.
An hour ago, he would have bet his life on her, on them—he’d been that certain. When she walked in here ten minutes ago, he’d been ready to reveal his feelings, tell her he loved her, tell her she’d given him all he ever wanted from this life.
Instead, here she stood, telling him that she wished last night had never happened. It hurt.
Though his expression was hard, Rebecca saw the emotions cloud his eyes. He raked both hands through his hair, his mouth pulled down in a hard line.
“Let me see if I have this right. You’re telling me that what happened— Sorry,” he said sarcastically, “that nothing happened. Is that it, sweetheart?” His face was stiff. A muscle played back and forth in his cheek. “If it wasn’t you who left bloody claw marks on my back, then who the hell was it? Tell me, and I’ll thank her for a mighty fine fu—”
“Go to hell, you arrogant bastard!” she snarled at him.
His eyes narrowed and his face went stone-hard. Rebecca inched backward, suddenly afraid, knowing firsthand the fury he was capable of.
But he never moved. In a voice that was tinged with barely controlled rage, he said, “I don’t care what you say or what you do or how you lie, it won’t change things. We did make love, and dammit, it was good, really good.” His voice softened. “You enjoyed every breathless minute of it as much as I did. You can lie to yourself and you can lie to me, but I’m in your blood, sweetheart, and God help me, you’re in mine.”
Rebecca cringed, hating herself for hurting him, hating him for being right. She had enjoyed it, but the risk was too great. If her secrets were revealed, lives would be in jeopardy. There was no way she could explain without revealing the very thing she was guarding so fiercely. If she stayed with him, let him stay with her, it was only a matter of time until he guessed. No, she had to end this, had to send him away. It was her only choice, her only hope.
“It’s over. Please leave.”
“You’re dismissing me? What’s the matter...I’m not good enough for you, Princess? Afraid of what people would think if you were consorting with a common cowboy, instead of some high-class banker?”
“That has nothing to do with it, and you know it.”
He shrugged. “It appears I don’t know anything, sweetheart,” he offered smoothly, glancing around the room with a disdainful look before focusing on her again. “Except you, of course. I know you quite well.”
Heat flushed her cheeks, and she drew in a sharp breath, the air fueling the rage inside her. “Please accept my sincere thanks for your assistance in returning my son,” she replied, her words cold and flat. “If any remuneration is required, I’ll have the bank send you a check.”
“Payment is not mine to accept,” he said, with equally cold politeness. He started for the door, his boots drumming on the polished plank floor. “It was you who came to my room, remember, so if anyone is due payment...”
He tossed a gold piece on the counter. It landed with a piercing clink.
He walked out of the room. For a long moment, she stood there, trembling with rage.
Damn the man. She grabbed hold of the counter edge, her fingers white-knuckle tight. She clenched her jaw so hard pain shot down her neck, then ricocheted up to give her a pounding headache. She wanted to shoot him. How dare he say such a thing to her—no matter what they’d shared, what she’d done, how she’d hurt him!
She rubbed at her temples, hard enough to make the headache worse instead of better. How she could have been attracted to him for even one instant was beyond her. She dragged in a couple of cleansing breaths, trying to still the anger that his remarks had evoked. She never wanted to see him again, she never wanted to hear his husky voice or see his sable-soft eyes or feel his provocative touch.
She dispelled the image of him by pounding her small fist on the smooth pine of the countertop. Yes, she thought with satisfaction, she’d made her feelings perfectly clear.
Luke Scanlin was gone from her life for good.
Chapter Fourteen
He was there before breakfast the next morning. Rebecca stood in the shadows inside the back door.
Every single member of her household, including all the servants, was in the backyard. They were laughing and shouting and throwing a ball in ways that made no sense to her.
“Here. Throw it to me, Luke,” Andrew shouted. His small foot was braced on a five-pound sack of cornmeal that was leaking badly, apparently from being kicked.
“Run, Jack,” Mrs. Wheeler called to the stable boy, who was racing between the other sacks of cornmeal and headed right at Andrew.
Luke tossed the leather-covered sphere to Andrew, and it sailed right past him. He took off after it while Jack slammed into the sack Andrew had just vacated.
There was more shouting and cheering, and Andrew was hollering something about the game not being over. Everyone was laughing and having a good time.
Mrs. Wheeler picked up a large stick and rested it on her shoulder, seemingly heedless of the dirt mark it left on her navy blue uniform. The usually perfect bun at the nape of her neck was loose and half-down.
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