No Angel's Grace

by Linda Winstead Jones

  His intention to pass by her room without a sideways glance had been hopeless from the beginning. His step slowed as he neared her door, and he finally came to a reluctant stop. All he had to do was reach out his hand and touch the doorknob. He pulled his eyes away from the door and took three steps forward before he stopped again. The house was completely quiet. He couldn’t hear a sound from Grace’s room or from the room she’d put her guest in. What if they weren’t asleep, but together in one of these rooms? He could almost see Grace, snuggled in Renzo’s arms and holding her breath as she waited for him to pass by.

  The very idea made him long to feel Renzo’s throat in his hands. It had been bad enough to watch them kissing, Grace’s face upturned to welcome the bandit’s lips on hers. He hadn’t been fast enough to catch them, and he sure as hell couldn’t admit that he’d been spying on them through the window.

  He laid his hand on the doorknob. If Grace was sleeping soundly she’d never have to know that he’d checked on her. If she wasn’t alone…then Renzo was a dead man.

  He turned the knob slowly, noiselessly. The light from a bright moon spilled over Grace’s bed, illuminating a lumpy pile of covers. He breathed a sigh of relief before it occurred to him that he ought to step forward to see if it was really Grace there, and not just a pillow or two positioned beneath the quilt to fool anyone who might think to look for her. She had fooled Billy once with that little trick, the night of Abigail’s party. At least there wasn’t enough bulk there for more than one person to be nestled in the bed.

  He took a step forward, and his shadow fell across the bed. She stirred then, just a little, and he knew that it was Grace. She made that sound in her sleep. A little satisfied sigh. It was one of the things he missed about sleeping with Grace. Those little sighs, and the way she wiggled around, always ending up snuggled against him, like she couldn’t get enough of touching him. Sometimes her hair came loose from her nighttime braid as she moved about, and fell across her face—strands of black silk across a pale and perfect cheek. He’d never told her that he’d often awakened early in the morning and just watched her. He could never tell her now. He could never tell anyone.

  Without intending to, he moved to stand beside her bed so he could see her face. How was he going to stand it when she truly belonged to another man? Renzo or any other? He reached out to brush back the strand of hair that had come loose and fallen across her face, but his hand stopped inches short. He couldn’t touch her. He had to let her go. For her own good, and for his.

  He left the room as silently as he had entered it, closing the door gently behind him.

  Renzo sat in Dillon’s high-backed chair, and Grace placed herself on the edge of the sofa. The role of teacher was a new one for her, and she was most certain Renzo had never been much of a student.

  But he gave her all of his attention, and worked very hard. It had been less than a week, and they’d spent most of that time working on his speech and his physical appearance. There was just a trace of an accent now, and though nothing could make Renzo appear ordinary, he at least looked respectably dashing.

  The grin he flashed frequently was nothing less than wicked. Grace had tried, for a day or two, to subdue that smile, but she finally gave up. It was so much a part of Renzo, she’d decided it would be a crime to take it away.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Jewel,” Grace said primly.

  Renzo repeated her sentence, and Grace decided that his speech was near perfect. A slight, mysterious accent…that formal use of words. He would sweep his poor unsuspecting jewel right off of her feet.

  Renzo leaned forward and laid his hands on Grace’s knees. “Come away with me, querida,” he said in a low voice. “Let me carry you away from this vile, dusty place, and build you a castle where the fields are green and the winds are cool.” There was that incorrigible smile again, and Grace returned his smile as she took his hands from her knees and placed them on his own. She was just about to tell Renzo that that was much too bold for the initial meeting, when a voice behind her interrupted their lesson.

  “Jumpin’ the gun a bit, aren’t you, Mex?” Dillon asked calmly.

  Grace jerked her hands back to her own lap. Blast him, she hadn’t even heard Dillon enter the room!

  Renzo just continued to smile, and shrugged his shoulders casually.

  “How do you intend to pay for this castle? That’s an awful lot of stagecoaches.”

  “Do you not believe that God provides for the few true lovers who walk the earth?” Renzo’s smile faded slightly as he studied Dillon over Grace’s shoulder. She still couldn’t make herself turn around.

  “I believe a man provides for himself, Mex.” There was a harshness in Dillon’s voice that made the back of Grace’s neck tingle. He was so angry…but that was the plan. Wasn’t it?

  “I have provided for myself for many years, señor,” Renzo said defensively.

  “Thieving…”

  “However I could,” Renzo said almost angrily. “I am doing my best to leave that part of my life behind me. I will leave that part of my life behind.”

  There was a short span of absolute silence before Dillon responded. “For Grace?”

  “For the woman I love,” Renzo said in a low voice. “Because Grace insists it is the only way.”

  Dillon said nothing, but Grace knew he was still there, behind her. Of course, as far as Dillon knew, she was the woman Renzo was changing his life for. Still, he said nothing. It wasn’t working. Not at all.

  Tears stung her eyes, and she prayed that Dillon wouldn’t come into the room and face her. She didn’t want Dillon Becket to see her crying over him again. But she heard him step closer, until he was right behind her. Another step and he would be able to see her face, and the tears would fall.

  “Ah, querida,” Renzo said in a velvet voice, and he slid from his chair, seating himself beside her and placing her head against his shoulder protectively. Grace bent her head, presenting to Dillon nothing but a tight knot of black hair.

  She heard Renzo whisper to Dillon, “Women can be so emotional, even a woman as strong as Grace. Each time I tell her how I long to change my life for love, tears of joy fill her eyes.”

  She felt Renzo’s fingers touch her hair, and still she kept her head down. If she looked at Dillon at that moment she would probably grab him by the collar and try to shake some sense into him as the tears she had held back spilled down her face.

  Dillon’s only response to Renzo’s statement was to make a low and rather disgusted noise just before he stalked from the room. When he was gone, Grace lifted her head and Renzo moved away from her, returning to his chair.

  He sat in that high-backed chair and studied her with a supremely satisfied expression on his handsome face.

  “Very well done, I think,” he said with more than a trace of pride.

  Grace’s tears were gone, and she stared at the satisfied man with a frown on her face. “It’s not working.”

  Renzo grinned. “It is working.”

  Grace shook her head, and Renzo leaned forward. “He is furious with love for you.”

  “Furious with love? That makes no sense.”

  “He loves you.”

  Grace shook her head, denying her deepest hope. “I thought he did. I was certain he did. But if he loves me why hasn’t he—”

  “Tried to kill me?” Renzo finished with a smile.

  “I don’t want him to kill you, Renzo. But he just doesn’t seem to care at all. I guess I was wrong to think that I could make him change his mind.”

  Renzo took her hand and ran his thumb over her skin. Not so long ago she would have jerked away from his touch, from any touch.

  “Mi amiga,” he whispered. “Trust me. I know love.”

  Renzo’s lessons were a stunning success. The former highwayman was an apt pupil, and absorbed everything Grace taught him. When his accent was almost nonexistent—he had a remarkable ear for the English language—Grace began to instruct him in the finer
things. He learned a phrase or two in several different languages. There was no time to teach him to speak and understand French, Italian, or Latin, but a few phrases, well placed, could be very impressive.

  They discussed politics, literature, and music until Renzo knew enough tidbits to carry himself in an intelligent conversation. He was by no means an expert in any field, but Grace felt certain he could carry on adequately.

  They worked for hours on his manners, which were already courtly. Still, she found his table manners lacking, and concentrated her efforts there.

  Best of all, Dillon was rarely far from the house. Since that day he’d burst in on them, he found work that kept him in his study, or near the corral. He managed to interrupt their lessons at least three times a day, and Renzo had developed an uncanny sense about when these appearances might occur. He usually managed to be leaning over Grace in some almost but not quite intimate way, or clasping her hand in his very casually.

  But Dillon never protested, nor did he show any sign that he cared one way or another. He was just there, watching her. Watching over her.

  On this particular morning she was alone in the parlor, bent over a novel she had found in Dillon’s study. It wasn’t very entertaining, but it did allow her mind to escape from the constant worry that had been plaguing her.

  “Where’s your student?” he asked as he stood in the doorway and surveyed the room, almost as if he expected Renzo to pop out of a corner or from behind a chair.

  “He had a few errands to run,” Grace said, closing the book and resting it on her lap. She certainly couldn’t tell him that Renzo had finally felt confident enough to approach his little jewel.

  “Banks or stagecoaches?” Dillon asked, tossing his dusty hat onto a very nice wing chair.

  The Becket parlor was rather plain, and occasionally a tad dusty if Olivia had been too busy in the kitchen to bother with much housework. The parlor had been a rarely used room, before Grace had begun giving Renzo his lessons there. She managed to give Dillon a stern look as he deposited his dirty hat so carelessly.

  “Really, Becket. Shouldn’t you have left a little of that dirt outside?” she asked haughtily. She was furious with him. If her plan was working—if he was regretting his decision—he was hiding it well. She should have known that he wouldn’t give even an inch. He really did love the Double B more than he loved her.

  “There’s enough to go around.”

  Grace placed her novel on the sofa and stood slowly. She had waited for days for Dillon to approach her, and now she was terrified. She certainly couldn’t carry on a normal conversation with him.

  She had walked past him, and felt herself safe, when his hand flew out and grabbed her arm. It was so unexpected that she cried out as she spun on him.

  “Get your hands off of me, Becket!”

  He didn’t release her. He kept a grip on her arm and pulled her closer to him. “This is the first time in days that I’ve seen you without your highwayman.”

  “I told you, Renzo has changed,” Grace said sharply. “Please do not call him a highwayman, or a thief, or Mex, or any of those other disgusting names you have for him.”

  “Do you love him, Grace?” Dillon asked softly, and she could see the pain mirrored in his eyes.

  She wanted to shout yes. She wanted to hurt him the way he had hurt her. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t look into his eyes and lie.

  “No,” she whispered. “You know I don’t.”

  Dillon pulled her close to him and bent his head down to kiss her. “I’m glad,” he whispered onto her lips. “I shouldn’t be, but I’m so damn glad.”

  Grace felt herself melting as he placed his lips over hers. Dillon’s hands were against her back, in her hair, and she was falling. Falling past that point where she could stop herself. She did want him, and he wanted her. But he didn’t love her. The truth hit her like a lightning bolt out of the blue. He didn’t love her. She’d been fooling herself to think that she could bring him to his senses. He didn’t love her. If he did he wouldn’t even think of marrying Abigail or allowing her to become another man’s wife.

  Willing herself to be strong, Grace pulled away from Dillon. “You’ve made your decision, Becket,” she said coldly. “You can’t have everything you want, and you chose Abigail and your ranch over me. You’re the one who told me that it was over.”

  “I know,” Dillon rasped.

  She had to get away from him and out of this house. He wasn’t going to change his mind. He wasn’t going to love her the way she loved him.

  Grace ran from the room and through the front door. She heard it slam behind her, and she kept running…around the house and past the garden. She didn’t stop until she was in the barn. Maybe she was like Dillon. Maybe the cool shade and the animal smells were becoming a comfort to her, just as they had been to Dillon when he’d been away from home.

  She leaned against the empty stall and took a deep breath. A trickle of sweat ran down her back, and her heart was beating fast and hard. And she was crying. The tears she’d sworn she would not shed were pouring down her cheeks—silent, salty tears that had been locked inside her since Dillon had told her it was over. She placed her hands over her face, shielding her eyes and covering the tears that fell.

  And then he was there, taking her in his arms and holding her close. She didn’t have the strength to fight him anymore. And she didn’t want to. She wanted to hold him, as hard and as long as she could until it was too late. Until he was another woman’s husband, and she was another man’s wife.

  “Don’t cry, honey,” he murmured into her ear.

  “I’m not,” she insisted weakly.

  Dillon kissed away the tears she claimed not to have shed, holding her face in his hands and raining soft, tender kisses over her cheeks and then her lips.

  Grace clasped her hands behind his back, holding him to her, her gift she couldn’t keep. It was too late to turn back now, too late to pretend that she didn’t need him.

  He took her strength with his lips on hers, and with his hands he promised to take her away, to make her forget that she couldn’t keep him.

  Dillon cupped his hand beneath her breast, and brushed his thumb over a taut nipple, deepening his kiss when Grace moaned low in her throat.

  “I want you, Grace,” he whispered huskily, pain in his voice as he drew slightly away from her.

  Grace pressed her body against his. She could feel his heart beating as hard and as fast as hers, drank in his heat and his desire.

  “You know I’m yours,” she whispered. Then she took his hands in hers, laying one against her heart, and the other against her belly.

  “I’m hollow without you,” she whispered, holding his hands firmly in her own. “There’s no one else but you.”

  She laid her lips over his, and felt the almost imperceptible tremor that passed through those lips and the hands she still controlled. Nothing could make her run away from him now. Nothing.

  Grace released Dillon’s hands and wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. His hands and his lips were demanding, hungry. Hungry for her. He lowered her into the straw, towered over her and slipped a hand beneath her skirt to caress her thigh and then rest between her legs.

  His mouth never left her, but trailed over her cheek, her throat, her chest, lips that were tender and then harsh pushing her, demanding everything. Her legs instinctively spread apart as his fingers danced and delved where she grew moist and ached for him.

  She took Dillon’s head in her hands and drew him against her, claiming his lips and then touching her mouth against the throbbing beat of his heart there at his throat. She tasted the salt of his sweat, savoring him.

  His hands danced over her skin, and with every touch her frantic desire grew. There was nothing but this—the warm feel of his hands and his lips, the passion, the almost desperate wanting that drove away everything else.

  A piece of straw pierced the back of her dress, stabbing her with a sharp, dry poi
nt. She said not a word, but Dillon must have known, because he rolled over onto the straw himself, and set her down on top of him.

  It was quick, the initial thrust, and Grace sucked in her breath and held it. She’d never had him so deeply inside her before, filling her so completely. With his hands on her waist he led her, slowly, rhythmically, until she was certain she couldn’t stand it anymore.

  Grace licked her lips and stared down at Dillon. Her skirt was hiked up and pooled around them both, and Dillon was still half dressed. She leaned forward to kiss his lips, to take the very breath from his mouth, and still she rocked until her mind ceased to function and instinct took over, driving her toward completion, driving her toward the end. But she didn’t want it to end.

  When fulfillment came, building and finally shattering her senses, it shook her to her bones, rushed over her and swept away all her pain and heartache. I love you. She didn’t know if she whispered the words or shouted them or simply heard them in her mind, but they were there.

  Dillon thrust into her farther than she’d ever imagined, and she threw her head back as he reached up to her, and with a tortured and husky voice whispered her name just once.

  He gathered her to him, drawing her head against his shoulder and smoothing her hair. His hands were gentle, but he said not a word. And his earlier words came back to her. I want you, Grace. Not I love you, not even I need you…but I want you.

  She could feel the chill growing around her heart. Dillon Becket had learned how to turn her own body against her, and he didn’t even love her. It had been too long since he’d had a woman, and there she was—practically offering herself to him on a silver platter.

  I want you, Grace.

  He held her, caressing her hair and her back, and they were still locked together, joined and yet suddenly separate. This had nothing to do with love. It was sex, raw and desperate. What had been hot was now cold.