by Kaki Warner
She tried to ignore what his hand was doing. But every caress, every stroke left shimmering heat in its wake and a trembling anticipation of where he would touch next. She moved restlessly, needing…wishing…
“Open to me, love.”
She did and then he was there, right where she wanted him to be, touching her as only he had ever done. “Ash…”
“Are your blisters healed?” he asked, kissing her brow.
“W-What?” Awash in sensation, she could hardly form a thought. “Blisters? Yes. Mostly.” There. Yes…there…
“Then touch me, lass,” he whispered against her lips. “Now.”
It was madness.
Not at all what she wanted.
The absolutely wrong thing to do.
But almost of its own accord, one hand slid up to pull him closer while the other reached down.
Yet even as his touch set her skin on fire, and his scent filled her senses, and her body sank into shivering sensation, some small fragment of her mind still clung to reason. “If we do this,” she murmured against his throat where the pulse beat fast and hard, “it won’t change anything.”
“But ’tis a grand way to open discussion to the possibility, is it no’?” His big body jerked when she found him. “Och…sweet Mary…”
“Mary has naught to do with this, lad.” She squeezed.
He groaned.
Then there were no more words, only the rush of their bodies coming together—as if the years apart had never been and the pain they had dealt each other had never happened. It was a frantic, breathless, dizzying dance of hands and mouths and straining bodies that gave and took until finally they were spiraling into bliss.
Over. Too soon. Too fast.
He rolled away, panting. “Jesus…lass…”
She lay as he had left her, gasping up at the ceiling, her heart beating so hard and fast she felt battered by the force of it. “Well.” She blew hair out of her eyes. Well, indeed.
When he didn’t respond, she looked over to where he lay sprawled beside her amid the tangled bedding, the sound of his breathing filling the room. She tingled all over, her nerves still quivering beneath her skin. Watching the muscles of his broad chest flex and contract with every breath made her tingle anew.
“That was…” She paused, searching her befuddled mind for the right word.
“Magnificent?” he supplied. “Astounding?”
“Short and sweet, I was going to say. But definitely—”
“Short?” He lifted his tousled head off the pillow to stare at her. “Too short?”
She heard the worry in his voice and tried not to laugh. “But definitely,” she continued, “well worth the wait.”
“Bawdy lass.”
She smiled over at him.
The first glow of dawn highlighted the window on the other side of the bed and bathed his strong body in soft morning light, sculpting tendon and rounded muscle and tipping his dark chest hair with gold. He was so beautiful, so perfect—the warrior replete. She framed it in her mind, each shadow and hollow and sweat-slicked curve sharply defined in the lens of her artist’s eye—frozen in this moment for all time—hers forever.
I love you.
Rolling onto her side, she rested her hand over his thundering heart, wishing she could hold him there beside her forever.
“Mole where?”
She frowned, caught off guard by the change in subject, then smiled, remembering. “On your—what do you call it? Arse.”
“I dinna ken that.”
“I should hope not.”
Laughter showed in his eyes. “I’ve missed you, Maddie, so I have.” His smile faded into something raw and unfamiliar to her. “Dinna run from me again, lass. I couldna bear it.”
Tears pressed behind her eyes. Biding time until they passed, she traced a fingertip over his lips. “I didn’t run. I drifted away. And you let me.”
“I ken I was wrong. But I’ll not be doing that again. I swear it.”
In that unguarded moment, she glimpsed the brash, handsome, young man who had captured her heart six years ago. Who held it captive still.
Yet, nothing had changed.
No matter the fine words, he would leave her again. He couldn’t help it. Duty would call, and honor would not allow him to disobey, and she would be left bleeding in his wake, just as had happened before. The thought of it was an unseen weight that pressed against her heart until the pain of it stole her breath away.
Oh, Maddie. You foolish, foolish woman.
She pulled her hand away.
Oblivious, he sighed and closed his eyes. “You make me daft, lass, so you do. But I’m no’ complaining.”
Tears burned in her throat, behind her eyes. Why had she opened herself up to the same heartache that had nearly destroyed her once already? Had she learned nothing?
“Ash, what have we done?” To ourselves. To each other.
He opened his eyes and looked at her. They were the cool green of tarnished copper, or the earliest spring grass, or a high mountain lake fed by icy peaks. Changeable. Mysterious. Compelling.
“Forgotten already, love? Must I show you again?” He said it lightly, but she heard the tension in his voice, felt it in his arms when he pulled her on top of him. Skin to skin, heart over heart, they stared into each other’s eyes—separated by only that unbridgeable gap between duty and desire.
“Puir lass.” Reaching up, he cupped her head in his big hands, his fingers so long his thumbs reached to her temples. “I ken ye’re confused, love. As am I. But this I know, Maddie Wallace. We belong together. Apart, we’re less than we were meant to be. But together, we can be more than either of us dreamed.”
“In Scotland?” She tried to keep her voice from wobbling but failed. “I don’t need a title, Ash. I need my work.”
“You need me.” He said it with fierce certainty, his eyes hiding nothing from her. “You need me.” He kissed her lips, then her closed lids, blotting away the tears she could no longer hold back. “And I need you.” Brushing his lips across her cheekbone, he whispered into her ear. “Ride me and I’ll prove it.”
He took her to the heights again, his hands hot on her body, his mouth marking her like a brand. Where the first time had been a tumultuous rush of need, this was a slow, sweet reacquainting that spoke of deeper emotion. She abandoned herself to it, trembling with the joy of it, and resolving for this moment, at least, to forget the past and the pain awaiting her.
Instead, she looked down as she moved above him—watched his lips pull tight against his clenched teeth, felt the tremble in the powerful muscles beneath her thighs, and knew somewhere within his armored warrior’s heart he loved her still.
As she loved him.
But when it was over, and she lay in his arms, her body trembling and her heart drumming against his, the unspoken words hung in the air around then.
And still, nothing had changed.
The sun was barely above the jagged peaks when Maddie pushed back the covers and rose. Moving quietly so she didn’t wake Ash, she dressed and pinned up her hair, then wrote a short note and left it on the bureau by his shaving mug where she knew he would find it. Then calling the dogs waiting restlessly in the sitting room, she left her husband sprawled asleep on the rumpled bed and left the suite.
Luckily at this early hour only Yancey was in the lobby, so Maddie didn’t have to suffer any of Lucinda’s probing looks. They would come, she knew, but at this moment what she wanted—what she desperately needed—was to focus all the turmoil in her mind through the lens of her camera.
Blocking from her mind the memory of Ash as she had last seen him, she walked briskly under the dawning sky, following the dogs down the muddy track toward the livery, her imagination churning as she mentally framed images, calculated angles and perspectives.
Unlike her life now that Ash was back in it, a photograph was sharp and clearly defined. Precise. Predictable. A one-dimensional
view with no surprises. If it didn’t turn out, she could throw it away and try again. There was comfort in that. A sense of control.
Life was so much messier.
She stopped, captivated by a puddle in the road where the first streaks of sunlight shining through the treetops cast bright reflections in the water and highlighted every rut in the road.
Tucking her skirts around her legs so they wouldn’t drag in the mud, she squatted to view the ruts from a ground-level viewpoint as they stretched away from her. Motion. Energy. The track leading the viewer’s eye toward the bigger, more distant vista of mountain and sky. She nodded to herself, deciding to come back and photograph this before the light changed. Rising, she let her skirts fall and continued toward the livery, anxious to get started.
Morning was a photographer’s golden time. And with the sun’s arc slipping a little lower as the seasons changed, each day presented a different study of shadow and light. And today was perfect. Clear and still. No clouds to muddy contrast. No wind to blur images and shake off the tiny dewdrops sparkling on the tips of drooping leaves. The air was so crisp and clean, every curve and line and plane was sharply defined with that crystal clarity that came only in the fall after a wet night had settled the dust. She couldn’t wait to capture the images already framed in her mind.
Perhaps Mr. Satterwhite had been right when he had accused her of hiding behind her camera. But right now she needed that. She needed to narrow the world to a more manageable size and reestablish control. She needed to find in her lens a reality that made sense to her and brought order and balance to her reeling mind.
She needed to distance herself…from herself.
And from Ash.
And the chaos he brought.
Just thinking about him sent a shiver up her legs.
Mr. Driscoll graciously loaned her his pushcart and helped her load it with photography supplies from the wagon. Then calling the dogs from the manure pile, she went back down the street, pushing the cart before her. If she hurried, she would have ample time for several photographs before heading to church and Mr. Satterwhite’s service.
Clutching the note in his hand, Ash stood at his bedroom window and watched his wife push a canvas-draped wheelbarrow down the street toward the hotel. She looked brisk and efficient and seemed completely oblivious to the antics of Tricks and Agnes as they darted in and out of the trees in some dog game of chase. Early-morning sunlight glinted in her hair and he smiled, remembering the silky feel of it running through his fingers.
His wife at last.
But for how long?
Disturbed by that thought, he frowned down at the note, trying again to decipher the letters. There were only a few words. Church 11. Dinner 2 at the Brodies’. He was fairly certain of the numbers, and that the first word was church and not chicken, but he had no idea what the last word was. Disgusted with his own ineptitude, he tossed the note back onto his bureau and resumed dressing. The day wasna starting well.
He’d been surprised to find her gone when he awoke.
More than surprised. Panicked. What woman willingly left her bed at dawn?
He remembered that clench of fear that she had escaped him again. That none of it was real. That the images in his mind of her sleek, flushed body, and the echo of her soft cries, and the sweet, salty taste of her on his tongue had all been conjured out of pain and his whiskey-soaked imagination.
Then he had seen her gown on the floor and smelled her scent on the pillow next to his, and he’d known it was real.
And he had finally been able to breathe again.
No battlefield, no whine of bullets or booming cannons, no advancing line of shrieking, sword-waving sepoys had ever put such fear into him. And he dinna like it.
After he finished dressing, he went back to the window. She had stopped behind the building next door and was pulling the canvas cover off the wagon to reveal her camera and several items of photography equipment. After carefully spreading the canvas on the ground, she set her boxy camera on one end of it, then sank to her knees and stretched out on the canvas behind it.
Bluidy hell. He leaned close to the window and scanned the street, fearing some horseman would trample her or a wagon would roll over her. But the track was deserted except for the dogs, who came charging toward her prone body, obviously thinking this was some new game. Ash laughed aloud at her desperate attempts to avoid licks and muddy feet while shielding her camera, until Tricks spotted a wee ground squirrel and took off into the woods again, Agnes yipping at his heels.
His delicate viscountess yelled something after them that made Ash grin, shoved away a lock of hair that had fallen loose, then rolled back into position behind her camera. Flipping the drape over her head, she reached around to remove the covering and focus the lens.
What was she photographing? A beetle? Horse dung? A butterfly?
He wanted to go down to her and demand the good-morning kiss she’d denied him. He wanted to reassure himself that last night was real and make her promise she would never leave him again.
Instead, he pulled a chair close to the window, settled back, and watched his wife work.
After setting up her tripod, she photographed trees, buildings, a mule dozing in its traces behind the mercantile, two children watching from the open back door. And as he sat in the shadows, watching her, a slow and troubling thought crept into Ash’s mind. Something he dinna want to consider. Or even acknowledge.
Photography was more than work to Maddie. It breathed life into her step and brought a wondering, childlike delight to her face. It was passion. A passion as strong as the one she had shown him in the wee hours of the night. Satterwhite’s words drifted through his mind.
You take away her photography, you take away her joy.
No.
Is that what you want?
“Bugger off.”
But the words wouldn’t go away, and with a curse, Ash rose from the chair and left the room.
Other than a few pleasantries when she delivered his schedule for the day—church at eleven o’clock, then Satterwhite’s service, then dinner at the Brodies’ at two o’clock—Ash scarcely shared a word with his wife as she bustled about taking her photographs. It wasn’t that she avoided him but that she was busy with tasks that dinna involve him or require his help or presence.
Or so he told himself.
To combat the restlessness that always plagued him when he hadn’t enough to do, he took Tricks and Lurch out for exercise.
It was beautiful country, Maddie’s Colorado Territory. Bold and majestic and inspiring but lacking the subtle nuances of his Highlands, where cloud and mist and ancient voices drifted through the dells.
When they reached the flats beyond the mouth of the canyon, he let the animals run. As always, the feel of a good horse beneath his knees—powerful muscles bunching and stretching in long reaching strides, the wind whistling past his ears, and the sun harsh in his face—set Ash’s spirit soaring. For that moment, at least, he was unfettered by the past or duty or burdensome responsibility. It was just the horse beneath him and the roar of blood in his veins and the unknown future rushing toward them.
And the joy of it made him laugh out loud.
When he entered the lobby just after ten o’clock, he found Maddie sitting in one of the upholstered chairs, talking with the blond Hathaway woman. She had washed away the mud and put ribbons in her auburn hair and changed into a floaty yellowish dress that clung to her body in a way that made his palms sweat. A pretty picture, the ladies were, had one not looked at him as if she expected him to pounce, and the other one hoping he would so she could gut him.
Stopping before them, he bowed stiffly, hands clasped behind his back. “Morning, ladies.”
Lucinda Hathaway looked at his muddy dog then up at him. Her smile was as warm as a Welsh winter. “We thought you’d run off.” “Again” was implied, rather than spoken aloud.
“And miss a chance to be paraded b
efore my wife’s friends? Never.”
“It’s church, Mr. Ashby. Not an inspection.”
“I’m delighted to hear it, so I am. And it’s Lord Ashby,” he corrected, his smile matching hers in sincerity. Had she been a man, the lass would have flourished in the military. She was certainly no coward.
Turning to his wife, he said, “And you look especially fetching, my lady. I feel a bit worn in comparison.”
“The washroom is available,” Miss Hathaway cut in before Maddie could speak. “I took the liberty of instructing Billy to put your laundered clothing in the wardrobe with the clean toweling. Please don’t use the drying cloths on your dog.” She made a shooing motion. “We’ll wait.”
Bollocks. “We? So you’ll be joining us? What a delight.”
“Only to services. Maddie and I will be taking my buggy. I’m sorry there won’t be enough room for three,” she added, not sounding sorry at all. “She said you would probably prefer to ride alongside anyway. And of course, you’re welcome to use it later, since I won’t be joining you for dinner at the Brodies’.”
“No?” Ash hid his relief behind a look of feigned sympathy. “Cholera, perhaps? An overactive spleen? Bloat? I hear chamomilla works wonders.”
This time it was his wife who broke in. “I hate to interrupt such a delightful Punch and Judy show,” she said, laughing. “But if we delay much longer, we’ll miss opening hymns.”
“A blessing,” Miss Hathaway murmured. “Biddy’s last rendition of ‘Come to Jesus’ left me deaf for a week.”
Twenty minutes later, Ash stepped out of the washroom to find his wife and Miss Hathaway chatting on the back stoop with Driscoll, who had brought Lurch and Miss Hathaway’s conveyance from the livery.
It was a four-wheeled, open, one-horse buggy with a fold-down top, similar to the type doctors used. The long-legged pacer harnessed to it looked calm and capable. After helping the ladies board, Ash swung up on Lurch and they were off.
Five minutes later they arrived at the Come All You Sinners Church of Heartbreak Creek, situated at the edge of town where the canyon opened into a wide plain of grassy, rolling hills; Ash must have ridden past it earlier without noticing it tucked in beside the creek. It was so close to the hotel, he wondered why they hadn’t simply walked.
