Rogues in Texas 03 - Never Marry a Cowboy

by Lorraine Heath

  Wearing a white dress, Ashton lay beside him on the blanket, raised on her elbows, her small breasts jutting up as proudly as the largest ones he’d ever seen, her face tilted toward the sun, her eyes closed. She was lost in her surroundings and damn his already condemned soul, but he was becoming lost in her.

  Each day she was like a small child allowed to take her first outing. She took joy in every sight, every sound, every aspect of life that touched the senses and yet, she would be denied the greatest sensation of all.

  The warm ocean breeze billowed her skirts and lost itself somewhere between her ankles and her thighs. He knew the extent to which a delicate breath skimming over flesh could delight and arouse, a coolness that had the power to ignite a fire.

  “Can you hear the roar of the ocean?” she asked quietly as though she feared silencing it. “I never thought it would sound so powerful.”

  All he heard was the thundering of his blood between his temples. She had stopped padding her clothing, and now in her supine position, her bodice stretched taut across her chest to reveal the tiniest of alluring buds. Three loosened buttons, four at the most, and he could close his mouth around one of those hardened nipples and run his tongue across it in a variety of ways: up and down, side to side, a figure eight, a complete circle—

  “Are you listening?” she asked.

  He snapped his gaze to hers, trying to control not only his breathing but his errant body. Each morning and evening, they took long walks along the shore. He was beginning to realize he had made a grave error in judgment. He should have left his walks as a solitary endeavor, a private time for himself, but he enjoyed her presence so damned much. He cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon?”

  She smiled at him as though he were a child to be indulged for daydreaming during lessons. “I asked if you had any idea what created the waves?”

  “The waves?”

  She nodded. “You see way beyond them, the water is incredibly calm. The waves seem to begin with no rhyme or reason, huge and majestic and then they fade away against the shore. What starts their journey?”

  “How the bloody hell should I know?” He surged to his feet and stalked to the water’s edge. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Ah, God, he was not a man prone to losing his temper. Even when Christopher had taken Clarisse as his wife, Kit had maintained his dignity as he stood at his brother’s side, repeating vows within his head that were not his to keep. Breaking them had come much harder than he’d expected, but easier over time. He could never have carnal knowledge of the woman he loved, and now he could not make love to the woman who was his wife.

  The irony of life made him want to laugh like that lunatic in the saloon shooting at the floor.

  “I’ve made you angry with my incessant babbling,” she said softly behind him.

  “No.” Surprised him was more like it. He had not expected to be undeniably attracted to her. He had thought they could travel here as friends, and by God, that was what they would be. Friends. Husband and wife in name only. He could hold his body and his thoughts in check for a few more days. Then he would cart her back to Dallas and she’d have memories of the ocean. He faced her.

  She was standing, the infuriating wind blowing her skirt against her legs and creating a hollow that stopped at the juncture of her thighs. Was the woman not wearing a petticoat? Her feet were bare. That he could understand. What was the point in shoes when you wanted to feel each grain of sand beneath your soles—but undergarments? It suddenly occurred to him why her bodice gave him such a clear image of her breasts.

  Was she an innocent or a seductress? It made no difference. He would not make love to her, and his decision had nothing to do with her health, her frailty, or her brother’s warnings. Responsibility was the sole thread that kept him tethered to a personal vow he’d made the night he asked her to marry him, but the thread was wearing thin and if it were to break, he feared his sanity would snap.

  *

  Ashton sat at the table while Mrs. Edwards heaped food onto Ashton’s plate. Kit had charged back to the house like a man with a dog nipping at his heels.

  They had both changed into proper clothes for the evening meal. He wore a jacket and cravat, and she wore all her undergarments beneath a light blue dress.

  He had spoken hardly a word since her question about the waves, and he seldom looked at her. Was this what marriage evolved into over time? Silence in place of understanding?

  Although he denied it, she knew she had done something to upset him. Perhaps he regretted bringing her here. They had stayed far longer than she had expected them to, but not nearly as long as she wanted.

  As soon as Mrs. Edwards left the room, Kit glanced at Ashton over his wineglass. “You need to eat.”

  She shoved her plate aside. “I’m not hungry.”

  Anger flared in his eyes as he set down his glass but continued to hold it. “If you do not eat, tomorrow when we take our walk along the shore, the wind will no doubt carry you out to the sea.”

  “I’ll eat when you’ve told me why you’re angry.”

  “I am not angry,” he said in a tightly controlled voice.

  “Liar.”

  He snapped the stem of his glass, and Ashton watched in horror as red wine spewed across Kit and the table, along with his blood. Grabbing her napkin, she jumped up, rushed to him, and took his hand. She recoiled at the sight of the turned-back flesh and the river of blood that flowed from the wound. She pressed her napkin against his palm. “Why are you upset with me? What did I do?”

  He cradled her cheek and tilted her face, his gaze capturing hers. “You’ve done nothing, sweetling, but be who you are.”

  “Perhaps I should go back to Dallas tomorrow.”

  “No.” Gently, he took her free hand. “I am not angry, Ashton. I am attempting to control a body that has no desire to be controlled and am having damned little luck at it.”

  Warmth suffused her face as joy rippled through her because he was attracted to her; guilt followed in its wake because to give in to temptation would make the parting that much harder. She wanted to change his mood back to what it had been all the days before this one. “You’re attracted to Mrs. Edwards, then.”

  His eyes widened. “Good God, no! She’s at least eighty if she’s a day.”

  “The maid—”

  “The cook’s daughter?” He smiled and brought her hand to his lips. “‘Tis you and you alone that makes me feel as though I have made a pact with the devil.”

  “Then I should leave.”

  With his uninjured hand, he cradled her cheek, sorrow and something she couldn’t quite understand woven within his eyes. Regret, perhaps. Would she ever understand this man she’d married?

  “My father sent me here because he feared I would bed my brother’s wife. It is ironic that I have vowed not to bed my own.”

  Ironic and incredibly disappointing. Lying with him night after night, she was discovering an intimacy growing between them that seemed to know no bounds. She loved the way her head fit within the crook of his shoulder, the constant beating of his heart, the rumble of his chest as he breathed. How often had she woken up before dawn simply so she could watch him without his knowing. She loved the beard that shadowed his face when he awoke and the smile that eased across his face when his gaze first fell on her as though he were glad that he’d discovered her in his bed.

  She looked at his hand, grateful to see that the bleeding had stopped. “I would rather you break a vow than have memories of your anger.”

  He kissed the top of her bowed head. “If you do not wish to incur my wrath, then eat your dinner.”

  She rose to her feet. “Someday, Christian Montgomery, I’ll find a way to stop you from always changing the subject just when it gets interesting.”

  He smiled at her. “Someday, sweetling, I shall make you glad that I honored my vow.”

  *

  Within the darkness of midnight , Kit awoke, his head warning him that he’d dru
nk too much wine. The breeze from the bay whispered over his flesh. What he found comforting his wife would no doubt find chilling.

  He sat up to draw the blankets over her and discovered that he had no one to cover. He was alone, not only in the bed, but also in the room. She had been extremely quiet as she’d prepared for bed. He had held her until he’d fallen asleep.

  In the dimness of the room, he couldn’t see her. The lamp was gone. Perhaps his earlier mood, which he deeply regretted, had prevented her from sleeping.

  He got out of bed and walked through the open doors onto the balcony. He saw the inlet and an ethereal white shadow sitting where the land, buttressed with rocks, jutted into the bay. On the other side lay the Gulf of Mexico , but it was the small crescent moon that seemed to hold her attention.

  He quickly donned his clothes before grabbing two blankets from the bed. Daft woman. She was probably shivering like a leaf in the wind, sitting out there. The ocean breeze coming off the water was always cooler than that which came from the land.

  He rushed through the house and into the night, wondering at his own reaction. The way his heart was pounding, he would have thought that she’d been attacked by villains. They were isolated, but still, anyone could happen by. He stalked across the small strip of land until she was clearly visible. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing out here?”

  Without turning her gaze from the ocean, she said, “I needed solitude. Will you please leave me?”

  “Leave—” His bare foot hit the lamp, its flame extinguished recently judging by the heat that scorched his toes. He uttered a curse as he stumbled and nearly fell over the edge into the thrashing waves below. He regained his balance and clutched the blankets. “Have you no sense?”

  His gaze fell upon her face, limned in the moonlight, her tears a beacon to his cynical heart. He knelt beside her and draped a blanket around her shoulders. “Why are you crying?”

  She released a harsh, almost hysterical laugh. “Because I can’t always pretend to be brave. I can’t always pretend that I am not bothered by the fact that Death holds out his hand to me and that his touch will be cold and dark and eternal.” She swiped the tears from her cheeks. “Thank you for the blanket, but you can leave. I prefer to spend these moments of weakness in solitude.”

  “Then you should have never taken me for a husband,” he said quietly as he eased behind her and nestled her between his thighs, bringing her back against his chest as he closed his arms around her.

  “Kit, please—”

  “Shh,” he whispered near her ear. “The advantage to marriage is not that we have someone beside us when we are strong, but that we have someone to lean against when we are weak.”

  She shook her head. “But I am so often weak, and I yearn for things that I can never have.”

  Knowing even as he did it that he courted danger, he pressed his mouth against the nape of her neck. “What do you yearn for most?”

  He heard the sudden hitch in her breath … then nothing but the washing of the waves upon the shore. The moon cast so little light as to be nearly useless. He closed his arms more securely around her. “Weren’t you the one claiming we needed to trust each other with our thoughts?”

  She dropped her head back until it rested against his throat, and he could place his chin on the top of her head.

  “Tell me what you want, Ashton, and if it is within my grasp, I will give it to you.”

  “That is the problem. Everyone has always given me everything.” She released brittle laughter. “I wanted a husband, and now I have one without earning his love. I wished to come to Galveston and here I am because you brought me when I should have just purchased a ticket and brought myself. I want normalcy and independence, and I don’t want to die with so many regrets.”

  He felt the shudder course through her body. “Ashton—”

  “Can you please leave so I can wallow in my self-pity without anyone bearing witness to it?”

  “Why do you object to my seeing that you are only human?”

  “I object to your discovering that I am selfish and weak.”

  He slipped his thumb beneath her chin and turned her head slightly until he held her gaze. “Have you no friends?”

  She shook her head. “David’s wife is the closest thing I have to a friend.” She lifted a shoulder. “And you.”

  His stomach clenched. Who would be with her at the end? He shoved the thought back into a darkened corner where he could hide it from his conscience. It did not matter who would be with her. It only mattered that it would not be him. She would have David and Madeline.

  “I am not your friend, Ashton,” he said kindly.

  She started to turn her head away, but he held her in place. “If I were, you would not be bothered by my seeing you here, revealing your weaknesses. Although I consider both Grayson and Harry friends, Harry is the truer of the two. He knows my every weakness, my every sin. When I needed a confessor for the worst of all sins, the one that has condemned me to hell, he accepted the task without judgment.”

  He watched her as she scrutinized him, knew curiosity gnawed at her. He didn’t know why he’d spoken as he had. He’d wanted to comfort her, and instead, he’d allowed his personal demons to surface.

  “I cannot believe that you committed so grave a sin that you’ll burn in hell after you die.”

  “Trust me, sweetling, when the situation warrants, hell arrives long before death.”

  She twisted within his arms until she could face him squarely. “What did you do?”

  “What I did has no bearing on the purpose of this story, which is that a true friend knows your faults and yet his regard for you does not lessen. If you consider me a friend, then you must be willing to bare your weaknesses to me.”

  “All my weaknesses would repulse you.”

  “If that is the case, then I am not a friend and you would do well to be rid of me.”

  With a small laugh, she snuggled against his shoulder. “If I got rid of you, who would keep me warm at night?”

  He slammed his eyes closed. Keeping her warm at night was only temporary. When he returned her to David … dear God, but he did not wish to travel that path. Not now, not tonight.

  “Do you think the waves ever cease?” she asked quietly.

  He opened his eyes and gazed past her to the blackness of the ocean, the white crests that seemed to have the power to hold the moonlight when nothing else did.

  “No,” he said in a low voice.

  “I find that a comforting thought,” she whispered, “to know there is something in this world that does not die.”

  He felt a tear fall onto his forearm as he held her and drew her more closely against him. He damned Harry for the wisdom of his words.

  As he fought back the tears burning his own eyes, he realized that he’d just dropped more deeply into hell.

  *

  CHAPTER 13

  « ^ »

  W ith the late afternoon sun easing into the house, Kit quietly ascended the stairs and walked into the room he shared with his wife. The balcony doors were open as were all the windows. The salty breeze toyed with the loose tendrils of Ashton’s hair as she slept on the bed, the pen in her hand creating a blackened stain of ink on the journal resting there.

  He had no idea she kept a journal. He knew she took a nap every afternoon. He supposed that this afternoon she’d succumbed before finishing her entry. She had not slept well last night, not even after they had spent considerable time staring at the blackened sea.

  He desperately regretted his behavior yesterday. He wanted her to find happiness during the time they were together. Yesterday, he’d brought her nothing but misery.

  He was not accustomed to simply holding women while they lay in his bed. Yet he found a certain unexpected comfort in knowing she was there, demanding nothing of him except his presence. But holding her brought its own hell because he knew he could never move beyond it.

  Thank God her in
nocence allowed her to find contentment with nothing more than his arms around her.

  He shook his head as the blot of ink grew larger. Ashton’s journal would be ruined by the time she awoke.

  Careful not to disturb her, he removed the pen from her limp fingers and set it on the table beside the bed. Leaning down, he placed a soft kiss on her forehead. His gaze drifted to the journal and he read his name. He turned away. He would not impose upon her privacy.

  He stopped and glanced back. He should move the journal from the bed. If she were to roll onto it she might smudge the pages or wrinkle them. He would simply place it on the table as well. He could do that easily enough without reading her words.

  He picked up the journal. She had lovely script, each letter a schoolmaster’s idea of perfection. Perhaps because she could not control her health, she had been determined to control her penmanship.

  He closed the book. He would not read what she’d just written about him in spite of the fact that a cursory glance had revealed his name at least three times.

  Curiosity gnawed at him. What harm could come of reading what she’d written before they were married, events and thoughts that did not deal with him? With a measure of guilt, he turned to the first page.

  April 12, 1866

  It seems significant that I should begin my latest journal following a night of awakening. I feel that until now I have slept my whole life.

  This evening, I met Christian Montgomery at a party that David hosted. When David returned from England where he first met Mr. Montgomery, he had painted a portrait of a man larger than life. Imagine my surprise to discover his words were true. Never have I known a man to hold himself with such regal grace or to command such attention by simply speaking or moving about the room.

  I could hardly take my gaze off him. Of course, he did not notice me. I was not witty, charming, or attractive.

  I believe he was sent to Texas because of some scandal. I would love to know the details although they would not lessen my regard for him.