"Just sit where I tell you, all right?"
He harrumphed and settled on the rock.
Ardith made her way down the bank, feeling as if his gaze was burning holes in her. When she reached the edge of the stream she began to disrobe, removing her boots, her skirt and vest, unbuttoning her shirt and rolling down her stockings, loosening her demi-corset, and finally dropping her drawers. She paused before she stripped off her chemise.
Knowing Baird was at the top of the rise made her feel particularly exposed. If he'd lied and he was able to see her, she was about to expose her relentlessly imperfect self to him. The pillowy breasts she did her best to hide, her rounded hips and more-than-ample backside, the legs that seemed to go on forever. Thinking of her sister, Ardith accepted that she was hardly the kind of woman Baird Northcross was used to seeing unclad.
Still, if she meant to bathe she supposed she was safer with someone close at hand—even if he chose to peek at her.
With an exasperated sniff, she jerked the chemise over her head and stepped into the creek. The frigid water sluiced over her body. Her thighs rippled with goose-flesh. She moaned as she submerged herself.
"I told you it was cold," Baird called out.
Ardith jumped. It was damned disconcerting for him to address her when she had nothing on. "It's f-f-fine once you g-g-get used to it," she called back.
He laughed, and a few moments later she saw a light flare beyond the foliage. The sharp, pungent tang of tobacco tickled her nostrils. He was having one of the slim, dark cheroots Buck had sent up with the last batch of supplies, rewarding himself after a particularly harrowing day.
Well, at least it wasn't whiskey he'd rewarded himself with this time, she reflected and started to wash.
The day had been hard on both of them. Though he'd turned Khy's nursing over to Jubal and her, having Baird there had made things easier. As much as he had been beside himself with worry, his presence had steadied her. He'd kept her focused on helping Khy and somehow kept her calm. She wasn't sure how he'd done that, but she was grateful. She hadn't felt nearly as frightened and alone as she had when Durban was sick on the train.
Just as she wasn't alone now. Baird was at the top of the rise, a dark presence standing guard. Or defiling her privacy.
The thought made her hurry through her bath. The stunning cold seemed to make her more aware of the texture of her own flesh—smooth and sleek across her shoulders and down her arms, goose-bumpy at her ribs, almost velvety over the curve of her belly and between her thighs. Her nipples pearled and tingled as she rubbed the washcloth over them.
The night breeze chased more fresh gooseflesh up her back as she emerged from the water. She dried haphazardly and shivered into her clothes. She stalked up the bank with her stockings and boots in hand. Baird was settled on the rock just where she'd left him.
"Did you look?" she demanded.
He laid his hand across his heart. "I give you my word as a gentleman—I didn't."
Ardith tried to ignore both the amusement in his tone and something that felt suspiciously like disappointment. She hated that he could turn her emotions from black to white without so much as a mitigating shade between them. Yet for all that he'd unsettled her, there was nothing for her to do but plop down beside him and put on her boots.
"What I have been doing," he went on, oblivious to her discomfort, "is trying to figure out what to do about Durban."
She looked up from where she was tying the second lace. His shoulders were hunched, and his fingers had plowed furrows in that thick, damp hair.
She wondered if she should share her insight about Ariel and decided Baird wasn't ready to hear anyone malign his wife. That perhaps he would never be ready to hear it.
"What Durban said this afternoon—" she began. "He was upset is all. He didn't mean it."
"Every bit of what he accused me of is true."
"Khy's getting hurt wasn't your fault," she tried again. "You were looking after him."
"Not carefully enough. I never seem to be careful enough."
The regrets were stalking him tonight. He was thinking about Ariel, thinking about Bram. Thinking about all the things he could have done differently.
"Well, what is it you want for these children, Baird?" Ardith asked him, determined to chase the specters away. "How careful do you mean to be with them? Are you going to wrap them up in cotton wool? Pull them in so close they won't have room to grow?"
Baird shook his head. "I can't help thinking that if I hadn't insisted the four of them share exile with me, Ariel would be alive, and the children would be safe."
He drew on his cheroot then tossed it away in a trail of sparks. "Do you know why I insisted Ariel and the children come to Wyoming?"
Ardith shook her head. She had never been able to imagine her sister, who had professed feeling bored and isolated at Heatherleigh, agreeing to come to Wyoming. But then, of all his far-flung adventures, this was the only one he'd probably ever invited her to share.
"I asked them," he continued, his voice thick with disgust, "because I resented being dispatched to America. I was certain your father could prevail on my uncle to relent. I was willing to uproot my wife and children on to manipulate Northam into letting me stay in England."
Ardith should have expected as much. Baird had always been willing to sacrifice anyone or anything to serve his needs. He'd sacrificed her so he could marry Ariel, hadn't he?
Yet Ardith wasn't nearly as outraged by the admission as she should have been. Perhaps it was because Baird understood what he'd done and seemed contrite, that he'd showed such concern when Khy was hurt, that Durban's accusations had wounded him.
"Well, I suppose Ariel might have miscarried the baby even if she'd stayed at Heatherleigh," she heard herself say.
Baird turned to look at her. "You blamed me for Ariel's death when you came out here."
Ardith shifted uncomfortably. "You were as responsible as she was, I suppose," she conceded. "And you do care about the children."
"Of course I care about them."
"I wasn't sure of that when we came here."
"Neither was I," he said so softly she wasn't sure he meant for her to hear. Still, his admission pleased her. It also moved her in a way Ardith wasn't sure she wanted to be moved.
She had always protected herself by believing the worst of Baird, and surely his past made him easy prey to such assumptions. But now she wondered if he might deserve better from her, deserve a second chance.
Or perhaps she'd already given him that second chance.
"You know, Ardith," he said, his tone a good deal lighter than before, "you're not at all the same girl I knew in England. Not at all the woman I thought you were when you came west."
"I'm not?" she asked, more than a little surprised that the trend of his thoughts so closely echoed hers.
"It was seeing your book that made me realize how much you've changed."
"My book?"
"I liked your book. I liked the story, and the illustrations were wonderful." Even in the half-light of the waning moon she could see the amazement in his eyes. "But what I didn't expect was to find such whimsy in you, Ardith, such gaiety and humor."
She could scarcely believe what she was hearing.
"I couldn't help being proud of you—seeing how clever you are, and what you'd accomplished all by yourself."
It seemed as if Baird might be giving her a second chance, as well. Drawn by the delight in his words, Ardith curled her hand around his wrist and leaned closer. It was a simple enough gesture, grounded in a growing acceptance that edged on friendship. She never meant it to be more than that.
Yet at her touch, some strange awareness fired up between them. Ardith became unaccountably conscious of the flex of his bones and sinews beneath her fingertips and the warmth of his skin melting into her palm. She sensed his strength and bulk mere inches away, a proximity that hadn't seemed so overwhelming a moment before.
He turned to her,
his eyes gone wide, his breath stuttering in his throat. "Ardith?" he whispered in a way that made her realize he knew what she was feeling because he felt it, too.
Every instinct clamored for her to pull her hand away and put as much distance as she could between them.
"Ardith?" he whispered, less tentative now.
She stared at him, frozen and suddenly terrified.
He moved incrementally nearer, as if he saw how susceptible she was and didn't want to scare her off. His clean, soapy scent rolled over her. In his intensity and warmth, the very essence of his masculinity.
He lowered his head. Her heart fluttered in fear and anticipation.
She didn't want this, did she?
His breath feathered against her face.
Her lips parted, needing to be touched.
His lips brushed over them, and she shuddered in response. He nibbled at the bow of her upper lip—slow, soft nips that left her gasping.
How sensitive mere flesh could be, she thought dizzily. How vulnerable, how responsive and defenseless.
He laved her lower lip, stroking the breadth of it with the tip of his tongue.
She whimpered against him, not wanting to feel what she was feeling, to want what she was wanting. Not knowing how to deny either him or herself.
He slid his hand around her waist and gathered her against him. He was broad and sinewy. He smelled of tobacco and wood smoke, of wind and night, of masculinity and peril.
His mouth sealed over hers, and his tongue brushed deeper—seeking hers, finding it, stroking fluid and soft.
He was all temptation and seduction. All conscience-blurring enticement. All slow, sweet ease.
A flush rose from the core of her, heating her skin, setting her cheeks and chest aflame. She knew she should resist the sensations Baird was evoking, but she couldn't help being coerced. She couldn't help wanting a few moments of helpless pleasure, a taste of longing, a hint of what reckless desire must be like.
His tongue probed deeper, courting hers, probing the sweet, silky cavern of her mouth. Her head fell back against his arm. She was quaking inside, going pliable and soft, yearning for every pleasure Baird Northcross could give her.
A wave of fierce, unexpected longing rose in her.
No one had ever kissed her like this. No one had made her feel so open and willing. So much like a woman. But then, no one but Baird had ever kissed her.
The thought shocked her, sobered her. It gave her the impetus she needed to wrench out of his arms.
Ardith stumbled to her feet and stood there, panting with lust and humiliation. Tears sprang to her eyes. "How could you do that?"
She thought for an instant that Baird was more than a little unsettled by the intensity that had fired up between them. And then he spoke.
"It was only a kiss, Ardith."
Only a kiss. The way he said it made her want to spit, to swipe at her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Something quite inconsequential," she prodded him.
"Well, yes. Unless it meant more to you than that."
She didn't want to think what that kiss had meant to either of them, or the disparity that would come clear if she did.
She gathered up the soggy towel and chemise, and tried to exert some kind of control over her face and breathing. Her lips felt smudged from his kisses. Her body was thrumming, as if blood was coursing through her veins like a river in flood.
She stiffened, taking refuge in excruciating propriety. "Very well, then," she said. "I appreciate you staying to see that no harm befell me as I bathed, but it was hardly necessary. Now, I bid you goodnight."
She turned on her heel and stalked in the direction of the campfire, relieved when Baird made no move to follow her. He stayed seated on the rock, and just before she passed out of earshot, she thought she heard him cursing.
* * *
Khy was better in the morning. It was Ardith who was sick at heart. When she thought about what had passed between Baird and her the night before, her face flushed and her breath seemed cinched up tight inside her ribs.
Even after the children were up and out of the tent, Ardith puttered around inside, loath to face their father. What could she say to him this morning? What could he say to her that wouldn't make things worse?
She sank down on her crisply made cot and buried her face in her hands. How could she have let Baird kiss her like that? How could she have kissed him back? No matter how much either of them had changed, no matter how things had altered between them, what they'd done was pure folly.
She should know better. She did know better.
But last night she'd touched him, he'd touched her, and nothing else had mattered. With his mouth whispering against hers, with her body bound to his, it hadn't seemed so wrong and mad and dangerous.
But, oh! In the light of day!
"Ardith?" She jumped at the sound of Baird's voice from just outside the tent. "Ardith, are you in there?"
She stared at the half-open tent flaps, sick, hot dread flooding her chest.
"Ardith, are you all right?" Baird shoved his way inside and stood looking down at her. He seemed irritated with her, or worried. Or both.
"I—I was just s-sitting here trying to th-think—" She was appalled that she was stammering and couldn't seem to help herself. "I was trying to think how I was going to tell—tell the children I thought we—we should head back to the ranch."
She hadn't known she was going to say that until the words came out. Still, leaving seemed an inspired idea. Surely the children had had adequate time with their father these last three weeks.
Baird's face went perfectly still. "Is that what you want to do, go back to the ranch?"
Ardith scrambled to justify her decision. "I—I would feel a good deal better if we had a doctor look at Khy. He seems fine this morning, but since neither you nor I know much about treating children's ills—"
"I thought we did pretty well—with Jubal's guidance."
When she didn't seem to know what else to say, he came to his knees beside the cot. For a moment she thought he was going to take her hand. Instead he looked into her face, long and intently. "If this has anything to do with what happened down by the stream last night, let me assure you—"
Ardith stared at him, and even now the intensity in those lapis-dark eyes elicited ripples of excitement inside her. Even here, where anyone could walk in on them, if Baird had bent toward her and brushed her mouth with his, she would have sighed with regret and kissed him back.
That flash of self-knowledge sent Ardith shooting to her feet, all but knocking Baird backwards.
"My decision to go back to the ranch has nothing at all to do with that!" she denied hotly. "I'm worried about Khy."
"If you're concerned about Khy, of course you should have a doctor look at him," he told her, though his voice seemed tinged with regret. "But I've liked having you—having all of you—here. So don't rush off on my account."
Ardith couldn't help being pleased that he'd enjoyed the children, especially after everything they'd put him through.
"Do you think you'll be bringing them back?"
She saw the hopefulness in his face and smiled at him in spite of herself. "Perhaps."
Perhaps after she put some time and distance between Baird and herself. Perhaps once she felt less vulnerable. Perhaps when she'd had enough of the children's complaining and cajoling.
"Then we'll leave the tent set up. We need a wagon to transport most of these things, anyway. But if you mean to go, you'd better be about it. There's a storm coming, and I don't want you getting caught in it halfway down the mountain."
Still, she couldn't leave without a final, private word to him. She caught his wrist and was unsettled all over again by the frisson of awareness that leaped between them.
"I just wanted you to know how much the children have liked being here with you," she said. She wished she could tell him how much she'd liked being in the mountains, how wondrous these weeks ha
d been for her. They had been the most special time of her life, but it would never do to admit that.
Somehow Baird seemed to understand the words she would not allow herself to say. "I'm glad, Ardith," he told her softly. "I'm so glad."
With real regret Ardith relinquished her hold on him and led the way outside. She immediately saw that the sun was hanging like a burnished silver disk in a heavy sky, and the shadows it cast were gray and flat. The breeze had died, and for all the expanse of grassy meadow, the air wrapped close around them.
Ardith went to where the children were eating their breakfast. "I've decided we need to get back to the ranch. I want to have Khy looked at by a doctor—"
"But I feel fine this morning!" the boy protested.
He still looked a little pale to her, and Ardith decided she really would feel better once a doctor saw him.
"Will we be coming back?" China asked, looking wistfully across at Matt.
"Your aunt said she'd consider it," Baird answered. "But I'll feel better, too, once I know a doctor has looked Khy over."
Ardith sent him a grateful glance for siding with her in front of the children.
"I'd be glad to lead them down," Jubal offered. "I already got stew on for supper, and if someone stops by to stir it now and then, I'll be back in time to make biscuits. 'Sides, if that storm rolls in, we won't be dry enough to eat much."
After a flurry of packing, they mounted up. All but China. She lingered in Matt's embrace, looking up at him with her face alight. Matt smoothed her hair and brushed her cheek with one big hand. He bent and kissed her, there in front of her father and everyone.
As Matt helped China mount, Baird said his good-byes. His words to Durban were too quiet for Ardith to hear, but when he came to her and Khy, his son all but fell out of the saddle hugging his father. "We'll be back," she heard him promise.
"I hope you will," Baird told him.
He only smiled at Ardith by way of farewell, curled his hand around her booted ankle and gave it an intimate little squeeze. Awareness spiraled through her again, the memory of his kiss tingling on her mouth and the strength of his arms sheltering her. She could barely see for the vividness of the memory as she turned to follow Jubal.
Color of the Wind Page 21
