Silken Dreams

by Bingham, Lisa

  His breath sucked into his chest in a harsh gulp when a bolt of sensation shot through his body. Her hand was so small, so delicate. She seemed to savor the contact between them, as if she were experiencing something special she’d never felt before.

  “Ethan, couldn’t you kiss me again? Just once?”

  When he glanced up from her hand, he found her studying him with a steady gaze and he couldn’t speak. The awareness in her eyes was clear to see. But so was her innocence.

  And damned if that wasn’t what had kept him from touching her for the last few nights. Ethan had wanted nothing more than to drag her onto the bed and love her until they both ached. But Lettie wasn’t that kind of a girl… and Ethan liked to think he wasn’t a total bastard.

  “Lettie—” he rasped, pushing her away and striding past. He lifted his hands to rake his fingers through the dampness of his hair. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he stated firmly, turning to face her. “You don’t know that when a man kisses a woman…”

  She planted her hands on her hips. “For your information, Ethan McGuire, I probably know more about kissing than most people my age. I’ve lived too long in a boardinghouse to be ignorant of a few of the more basic facts of life.”

  “Lettie,” he growled, deep in his throat, then strode toward her and jerked her into his arms. His mouth dipped to cover her own, tasting, plundering.

  And Lettie soon discovered that she knew nothing about kissing. Nothing at all.

  He pulled back, and his eyes grew hot and vibrant, a blazing azure blue. His hand lifted toward her face… even as the rest of him seemed to take an emotional step back.

  “Is that what you want?”

  She opened her mouth to refuse, hesitated, then whispered, “Yes.”

  At her frank response he sighed. “Dammit, Lettie.” His fingers slid across the edge of her jaw and lingered in the hollow beneath her ear. Lettie shivered in unconscious delight, her eyelids growing heavy at the sudden rush of anticipation that thundered through her body.

  Ethan’s hands slipped to the gentle swell of her hips, and he pulled her tightly against him.

  To his amazement, she moaned low in her throat, nudging against his grip like an eager kitten, as if needing to feel the heat and strength of his body.

  “Why do you have to feel so good in my arms, Lettie?” he muttered, more to himself than to her. Despite their proximity, he dragged her even closer.

  Lettie could feel the heat of his body flowing into her own. She could sense the sweat-dappled texture of the hair upon his chest, the musky scent of his skin. Her hands flattened against his chest, delighting in the firm muscles beneath her palms and the tickle of chest hair between her fingers.

  When he bent his knees to nudge his hips against her own, a gasp tore from Lettie’s throat.

  “Ethan?” she whispered.

  His lips tilted ever so slightly in a self-deprecating smile, as if he’d flirted with temptation, then willingly succumbed. His head dipped, and his mouth captured anything more she might have said.

  At the bold nudge of his lips, Lettie sighed in delight, slipping her hands from his chest to his shoulders and then around the back of his head, molding herself as tightly as she could to Ethan’s form.

  His own hands drew her against him, lifting her onto her toes and holding her weight against him so that they were pressed chest to chest, hip to hip.

  Boldly, insistently, Ethan’s lips nudged at her own, until finally, her mouth opened and his caress became more demanding, and more passionate.

  Swirling in a sea of intoxicating sensations, Lettie clung tightly to his shoulders, reveling in the pressure of his arms, the persuasion of his lips. But Ethan was not one to take all of the initiative himself. Lifting his head, he murmured, “Now you try it.”

  “What?”

  “Taste me, Lettie.”

  Her pulse began to throb, low and sweet, seeming to center deep within her stomach.

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Taste me, Lettie.”

  Needing no further bidding, Lettie hesitantly drew him close. When their lips pressed together, she paused, eyes half closed, wondering if she dared to be so bold. But the teasing of Ethan’s tongue against the curve of her lip seemed to bid her to follow suit.

  Her lashes drifted shut and Lettie surrendered to temptation herself. Softly, tentatively, she flicked her tongue against the curve of Ethan’s lip.

  “I like this,” she murmured against his mouth. Then she tangled her hands in his damp hair and kissed him with all the fervor and passion of her youth.

  After several long moments, Ethan groaned and broke away, whispering, “This is dangerous, Lettie girl.” He pulled back and gazed at her with eyes that were hotter than a summer sun and filled with a tinge of regret, as if he hated to act as the voice of caution. “You don’t know where all this is leading.”

  “No!” She framed his face in her hands. “They’re just kisses, Ethan.”

  “I’m wrong for you, Lettie.”

  “You aren’t wrong for me, Ethan. Something that feels this good couldn’t be wrong.”

  “But it can’t last.”

  “It can!”

  “One day soon, I’ll walk out of Madison and never come back. I won’t be taking you with me.”

  She grew still in his arms.

  Ethan sighed and pulled away, crossing to the opposite side of the room. Lettie wrapped her arms around her waist, feeling suddenly bereft.

  “Ethan?”

  “I don’t want kisses, Lettie.” His voice was tight and a little rough around the edges.

  “But you—”

  “Dammit, Lettie, I want you,” Ethan finally rasped. “I want to make love to you. Now. I want to drag you onto the floor, and in the mood I’m in, I wouldn’t be gentle.”

  Lettie felt the air whoosh from her lungs. Her heart slammed against the wall of her chest.

  Suddenly she knew just why Ethan had avoided touching her for days. In his eyes, she saw the hunger of a man for a woman. She saw the raw heat of desire. The unbridled light of passion.

  The sultry air grew thick and heavy between them, rife with their own unspoken thoughts and fantasies. Awareness became a living thing that twined between them with wicked glee.

  “I want you, Lettie,” he whispered again, the velvet-and-smoke texture of his voice brushing against her.

  For a fleeting moment, Lettie saw a flash of vulnerability in his expression. And loneliness. Dear heaven, this man was as lonely as she. He needed her touch, her gentleness, just as surely as she needed his strength, his humor.

  His love.

  But they were two people who should never have met. She could never allow herself to grow attached to Ethan McGuire. Just as he could never allow himself to care for her. Because feelings like that would destroy them both.

  “Are you willing to take me as I am, Lettie? Are you willing to make love to a man who will never offer you commitment or promises, who will only use your body as he’d use any other convenience?”

  “Don’t be crude.”

  “I’m being honest. Now it’s your turn.” He held out a hand, palm up. “Are you willing to make love to a man like that? Now?”

  Silence pounded between them, thick with regrets.

  But Lettie couldn’t speak. Try as she might, though the silken whispers of temptation weaved through her head, she couldn’t take a step forward to take his hand.

  “I’m going to check some things in the center of town after dark tomorrow,” Ethan finally muttered, turning away. “I may not come back.”

  Lettie fought to keep from reaching out a hand to touch him and draw him back into her arms. Because she knew that to do so would mean admitting to herself that she just might accept this man and what dregs of affection he could offer her. Under any conditions.

  Chapter 10

  Lettie held the hem of her apron in front of her so that it formed a scoop of fabric large enough to hold seve
ral large handfuls of chicken feed, then unlatched the gate to their enclosure and stepped inside. Immediately, a flurry of hens scattered about the pen, squawking and flapping their wings while the rooster grumbled to himself and paraded from one end to the other in a preening manner.

  Murmuring softly to the skittish fowl, Lettie took a handful of dried corn and scattered it on the ground, chuckling to herself when the chickens stampeded toward the yellow nuggets, abandoning their reticence.

  Once she’d littered the chicken feed throughout the enclosure, Lettie threaded her way through the pen to the coop. Taking a wire egg basket from a peg on the inside door, she spent several minutes gathering eggs and carefully setting them one on top of the other in the basket. Finally, after she was sure she’d found all of the eggs, including those carefully hidden below the straw, she slipped out of the pen and fastened the gate behind her.

  “Morning, Lettie.”

  Lettie whirled, then smiled when she found Ned Abernathy standing behind her.

  “Good morning, Ned. Are you and Mr. Goldsmith drumming again today?” she asked, noting the way Ned had carefully dressed in a brown suit, starched shirt, and dark bowler.

  Ned nodded, quickly reaching up to yank his hat from his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Petesville.”

  “You’re taking the train?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose it must be exciting, traveling all over the countryside, visiting with storekeepers and processing orders.”

  He grimaced. “There are other things I’d rather do.”

  Her brow creased. “Then why are you apprenticing with Mr. Goldsmith?”

  He opened his mouth, hesitated a moment, then stated slowly, “I have some debts to pay. Some debts that are long overdue.” Suddenly he looked at her, and she was shocked by the intensity of his gaze, but then he smiled and his features lightened. He finally said, “I haven’t seen you as much as I usually do.”

  She fidgeted slightly, bending to pay a great deal of attention to her eggs. “I’ve been a little busy.”

  “I see.”

  “Lettie!” Lettie started at her mother’s call from the back porch. “Lettie, I need you this instant!”

  Lettie flashed Ned an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I’d better go.”

  Ned’s eyes seemed to flash with impatience for a moment, then he nodded. “I understand. I only wanted to tell you… how pretty you look today.”

  Lettie smiled ruefully at the compliment. She’d worn one of her best navy calico skirts and bodices—an unconscious bid for Ethan’s admiring glance—but it seemed she’d attracted Ned’s attention instead.

  “Thank you.”

  “Lettie!”

  “Coming, Mama!” She once again flashed Ned a regretful smile, then hurried toward the house, where her mother stood on the back porch, her arms crossed, her lips tight with disapproval.

  “Lettie, how many times have I told you not to become familiar with the boarders?”

  “But I—”

  “Ned Abernathy is a pleasant man, but he is without funds and without station. I will not condone your becoming involved with a man like that.”

  “But Mama, he only wanted to talk for a minute.”

  “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Lettie. Ned has a bad case of cow-eyes every time you walk into the room, and I won’t have you encouraging him. Now come into the house and wash those eggs. We’ve got butter to make and milk to strain, and it’s already nine o’clock.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Lettie answered, a little more subdued. As the screen door slammed behind her mother, she sighed. Between her mother’s worries that Lettie would marry a man with no money—or, worse yet, a boarder—and Jacob’s fears that she’d marry a man who wasn’t purer than God, she supposed she was lucky they didn’t just hang a sign around her neck that said “No males allowed within a fifty-yard vicinity.” She could only imagine what her guardian protectors would say if they knew she had a wanted man hidden in her bedroom.

  Sighing again, Lettie bent to lift her skirts into her hands so that she could climb the steps into the house and wash the eggs. She was about to straighten, when her movements were arrested by a flutter of white caught beneath the lattice work surrounding the porch.

  Thinking it must be a handkerchief or napkin blown free from the line during the dust storm, Lettie set the basket of eggs on the top step and marched around the porch to the side of the house where the lattice had been pulled free by the wind.

  Knowing her mother would chide her for carelessly allowing the laundry to be left outside in a storm, she shimmied under the porch, awkwardly crawling on her hands and knees toward the bright patch in the shadows. When she reached out to grasp it, she groaned to herself when she discovered it was not a handkerchief, but a scrap of half-singed paper.

  Still muttering, Lettie backed out from under the porch and dusted her skirts off. Knowing her mother would be irritated by her less-than-tidy appearance, Lettie cursed herself even more for having wriggled under the porch for a single piece of paper. Her thumb ran over the burnt edge and she idly unfolded the crumpled sheet. What she found made her pause for a moment, a slow chill beginning to seep through her veins. Despite the burned portions of the page, there was no disguising the eight-sided star that had once been drawn in the center. Though the flame had eaten a portion of the star, the initials S and C were clearly visible, as was a part of a J.

  The Star Council of Justice.

  Lettie felt her fingers begin to tremble and she crushed the paper into a ball, shoving it into her apron pocket. She whirled to face the wide expanse of land behind her, and, despite the early morning heat, she shivered.

  The Star Council was a fierce, determined lot, and their modes of justice were fatal.

  The chill within Lettie seemed to settle deep in her bones. It was her fault that Ethan had stayed as long as he had. She’d been the one to make him feel safe in her room. She’d wanted him to stay, just a little longer. He’d filled her days with such adventure and awareness—things she’d never felt before—that she hadn’t wanted him to leave a moment sooner than he had to.

  Now she’d waited too long.

  Her hand plunged into the pocket of her apron and clenched around the half-burned note. She must see to it that Ethan left Madison. Tonight. He’d have to catch a train out of the state and never return.

  Otherwise, if he were captured and killed, his blood would be on her hands.

  Perhaps it was only Lettie’s imagination, but from that moment on, everything seemed to go wrong. Her mother came down with a migraine and had to remain in bed until the doctor arrived. When Dr. Matz ordered Celeste to remain in her room for the next few hours and prescribed another vial of sleeping powder, Lettie naturally assumed her duties, even as she chafed under the restrictions.

  Within hours, the boardinghouse seemed to close in upon her like a jail cell, while the boarders became children who needed to be endlessly entertained and kept out of trouble. Despite her care to keep things organized and tidy, the Grubers had a bitter argument, supper burned in the oven, and Mr. Goldsmith spilled ink in the parlor. Because of all that happened, Lettie had no time to join Ethan, no time to even take him some fresh water or a sandwich to tide him over until dark.

  As the day wore on, Lettie began to peer at each boarder, each visitor, each neighbor, wondering who was watching her on behalf of the Council. And Lettie had no doubts that someone was watching, since rumor had it that the Council was based somewhere within a thirty-mile radius of Madison. The Council must surely suspect Ethan was in the vicinity of the boardinghouse, otherwise why would a note be found so close?

  As Lettie scrubbed the last of the supper dishes, she was struck by another chilling thought: What if they suspected her own involvement as well? The Star wouldn’t believe her innocence, nor her innate trust in Ethan’s goodness. Just for harboring the man, she could be punished. She could be foun
d dead in an alley with a star pinned to her chest like all the other Council victims.

  Her hands trembled as she swiped the beads of water from the last pan and hung it on a metal rack beside the stove. She’d never admired the Star—not like some people in town. The whole idea of their organization had always seemed a little frightening.

  Now she was beginning to believe that the men involved were savage bounty hunters who killed without first proving the guilt of those they executed.

  Lettie stood for long moments gazing out of the kitchen window, staring at the whipping of the grass beneath the gusts of the hot June wind. Though she hated to see the moment when Ethan would really go, she knew he would have to leave Madison within the next few hours.

  Her arms wound about her torso and she hugged her chest, fearing the inevitable. She probably wouldn’t see him again. Not for a very long time. Not for the rest of her life.

  Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath and turned to march up the back steps. There were a few things she needed to gather. Then Ethan would have to be told.

  Just as he had a hundred times before, Ethan crossed to the garret window and reached out to lift the edge of the shade enough for him to peer outside. Although evening had come, the temperature of the bedroom was sultry, sapping his strength and his ability to think.

  His hands closed into slow fists and he shook his head. As if he could think clearly. For nights, Ethan had endured the soft murmur of Lettie’s voice, the heat of her glances. In the dim lamplight, he’d watched the way the fiery highlights of her hair seemed to shimmer and dance. Removed of their restricting plait, the long, silky tresses had waved about her shoulders and down her back in braid-crimped strands, reaching beyond her hips to puddle on the bed beside her. Every time he looked at her a tingling excitement seemed to ripple within him like spring water. More than once, Ethan had found himself wondering what her hair would feel like sliding against his skin, or what her hands would feel like clutching his shoulders.

  But Lettie was not a girl to be dallied with.

  Not without hurting her spirit. Not without destroying her trusting nature.