Heartstrings

by Rebecca Paisley

  She knew by the way he spoke that his horse ranch was his passion, as going to Brazil was hers. “Do you plan to raise a family as well as horses?”

  “No,” came his swift and adamant reply. God, the very idea brought back the desperation and frustration he’d been dealing with for thirteen long years. There was no way in hell he’d go through it again.

  He’d been a fool to go through it the first time.

  “You don’t want a family,” Theodosia deliberated out loud. “Why?”

  “Weren’t we talking about Dr. Wallaby?” he flared.

  Evasion, she mused. A sure sign that something about family was highly disturbing to him. “I’m sorry if talking about your future upsets you.”

  “My future doesn’t upset me at all, Miss Worth. You do. Can we just have a normal conversation without you picking apart every damned word I say?”

  “Very well. Dr. Wallaby is not a wealthy man, and that is why he is unable to give you a higher salary. Indeed, his financial straits are the reason for his being in Texas. He is awaiting funds from his benefactors in New England. Once he receives them, he will return to Brazil. And if he finds me suitable to be his assistant, I shall be traveling there with him. Are you familiar with Coleoptera?”

  He found it hard to keep up with her and took a moment to ponder all the things she’d just told him. “Cleopatra? Some ancient queen, that one who killed herself by letting a snake bite her. Hell of a way to go.”

  Theodosia stared at him for a moment. “I didn’t say Cleopatra, Mr. Montana. I said Coleoptera. That is an order of insects having four wings, of which the outer pair are modified into stiff elytra that protect the inner pair when at rest.”

  He barely understood a word she said. “We don’t have those kinds of bugs in Texas,” he snapped.

  “Why, certainly you have beetles.”

  “Beetles? Why the hell didn’t you just say beetles?”

  “Do you know what a Pindamonhangaba beetle is?”

  “Pinda—I can’t even say it.”

  She clicked her tongue. “Pronounce is a better word choice than say. You cannot pronounce it. A Pindamonhangaba is a beetle that lives along the banks of the Pindamonhangaba River of Brazil. Dr. Wallaby’s extensive studies of the beetle indicate that its saliva may contain a chemical that will cure alopecia.”

  “Alopecia?” He wondered what sort of dreaded disease alopecia was.

  “Alopecia is baldness,” Theodosia explained, “and Dr. Wallaby has honored me with his willingness to interview me for the position as his research assistant.”

  Roman frowned. “You’re going all the way to Brazil with some old man just to study beetle spit?”

  Theodosia licked her finger, then rubbed it over the spot of dust she saw on the top of her hand. “Would you have the same attitude toward Dr. Wallaby’s research if you were bald? I think not. Most of the funding that Dr. Wallaby requires for his studies is given to him by bald sponsors.”

  Beetle spit, Roman mused. If he’d heard of anything stranger, he couldn’t remember what it was. Imagine spending good money on something so stupid.

  Shaking his head, he watched John the Baptist stick his beak into his water container.

  The parrot flung the water every which way. “Dr. Wallaby, it is imperative that I conceive a child,” he screeched. “It would please me enormously if you would consent to be his or her sire.”

  At the bird’s statements, Roman sat up straight and stared at Theodosia. “He said—”

  “I heard him.”

  “Who’s he imitating?”

  Patting her lips with the tips of her fingers, Theodosia yawned. “Me. I’ve been practicing those very words ever since I left the Boston depot.”

  Roman opened his mouth to speak again, but for a long moment words failed him. “You—are you marrying that skinny old scientist?”

  “Marrying him?” She adjusted her pillow and lay back down on her sleeping mat. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Montana. I won’t marry him or anyone else. I only want to bear Dr. Wallaby’s child.”

  Roman felt like smacking his ears; surely he hadn’t heard her correctly. “You don’t even know the man, and you’re going to sleep with him?”

  Her eyes watering with weariness, she yawned again. “I am not going to sleep with him. I only plan to have coitus with him.”

  “Coitus,” Roman muttered absently, completely astounded by Theodosia’s plans.

  Theodosia closed her eyes; exhaustion seeped through her limbs, and she felt herself drifting along the edges of slumber. “Coitus,” she murmured sleepily, “is the physical union of male and female genitalia accompanied by rhythmic movements usually leading to the ejaculation of semen from the penis into the female reproductive tract.”

  Roman had bedded quite a few women in his lifetime, but he’d never thought of lovemaking the way Theodosia did. God, the way she described it, she made it sound like something two well-oiled machines might do when no one was looking.

  He doubted seriously that Dr. Eugene Wallaby even had enough oil left in him to participate!

  Roman smiled broadly, then remembered the reasons for Theodosia’s plans. “Why do you want to have the professor’s kid? Miss Worth?”

  He saw she was fast asleep. Still grinning, he placed his Colts near his mat, lay back down, and tried to relax. But mental pictures of Theodosia, her scholarly soon-to-be-lover, and the night of scientific coupling the two of them would share held sleep at bay. He could no longer contain his mirth.

  Wild, silent laughter kept him awake nearly all night long.

  Chapter Four

  After four hours of traveling over rolling hills and brush-strewn fields, Roman stopped to water the horses at a small creek that rippled a curving path through a shallow valley. Black willow, swamp ash, and mistletoe-drenched hackberry trees grew nearby, providing shade—and a possible place to hide.

  He dismounted. Gone from his mind were all traces of the amusement that had kept him from sleeping last night. The feeling of impending danger had struck him as soon as the first shy rays of dawn had whispered through the woods, and it had nagged at him all day. “You’ve got fifteen minutes to rest, Miss Worth. Make the most of it, because we aren’t stopping again until we’ve crossed the Colorado.”

  She climbed out of the buckboard, her feet sinking into luxurious, emerald-green grass that rose nearly to her knees. “Must you be so caustic, Mr. Montana? You have been snapping at me ever since you awakened me at dawn.”

  Placing one hand on the wagon for support, she removed her shoes and stockings. “Also, I do not appreciate the fact that you have been riding everywhere except with me. You’ve ridden ahead. Behind. All around in circles. Why, several times I lost sight of you completely. I could have wandered off, and you never would have realized it.”

  Still trying to forestall the dreaded possibility of female tears, he refused to tell her he’d been searching for signs of the three outlaws. “You wouldn’t have gotten lost. All I would have had to do was follow the strains of ‘Dixie.’ Doesn’t that pesky parrot of yours know any other song? He’s been singing it nonstop for four damned hours. Why’s a Yankee bird singing the Confederate anthem, anyway?”

  Theodosia stooped to pick a bluebonnet, ruffled the soft petals over her fingers, then set the flower atop John the Baptist’s cage, which remained on the wagon seat. “‘Dixie’ may be associated with the states below the Mason-Dixon line, but the song was written by a northerner by the name of Daniel Decatur Emmett. Indeed, it was first sung in a minstrel show in New York.”

  “Well thank you very much for setting me straight, Miss Worth.” He glared at her, trying to decide how big her brain was. Surely if it were removed from her head, it would fill a barrel. Maybe even a horse trough.

  He wondered what it felt like to be as smart as she was, to know so many, many things. The extent of his own education had been four years in a country schoolhouse in north-central Texas, with a teacher whose qualifi
cations allowed her to teach elementary reading and writing and only the fundamental basics of arithmetic.

  He’d never had much time for formal learning.

  There were too many chores, too many demands to fulfill, too many…

  Too many whining women wanting too many things.

  Still, he was happy with his own amount of intelligence. His knowledge served him well, and he’d never found a need to learn anything more than what he already knew.

  “How delightful,” Theodosia murmured, holding her hand up to her face. “A small, hemispherical member of the Coccinellidae family has alighted upon my wrist!”

  He looked at the ladybug on her arm. Of course, it couldn’t be a plain old ladybug to her. It had to be something scientific. “Is there anything you don’t know, Miss Worth?”

  With a flick of her wrist she set the ladybug free. “I do not know the impetus behind your surly disposition.” She unfastened several buttons at the top of her gown, then waded into the shallow stream. Smooth stones massaged the bottoms of her feet, and cool water bubbled around her ankles. Bending, she cupped a handful of water and smoothed it onto her neck and throat. “The very least you can do is satisfy my curiosity and tell me what I have done to deserve your wrath.”

  Vaguely, he heard her talking to him. His concentration, however, was centered elsewhere. She’d hiked her lemon-yellow skirts and lacy petticoat up to her thighs. He had a tantalizing view of her lush cleavage, too.

  He watched mesmerized as she splashed water onto her face and licked off a few droplets from her bottom lip. She moved her tongue slowly, as if savoring the taste.

  It took more willpower than Roman realized he had to turn around and attend to the horses.

  Resigning herself to the fact that Roman was not going to discuss his sullenness, Theodosia emerged from the creek, retrieved a small, leather-bound book from her belongings, and settled down on a brilliant mass of orange-red butterfly weed beneath a slender willow. Within minutes, she was so engrossed in her reading that she failed to realize she was commenting on the text aloud.

  “Man must take measures to prevent woman from having to bear his weight,” she paraphrased as she scanned the page. “Must also summon patience to prepare woman for entry. Pain will be lessened for her if man begins with long session of foreplay.”

  Roman turned his head toward her so quickly, a sharp pain ripped through his neck. What in God’s name was she talking about?

  “Man positions himself between woman’s thighs and begins with gentle probing,” she continued. “Woman may choose to wrap her legs around man’s waist. Allows for deeper penetration.”

  Roman’s mouth dropped open to a wide O.

  Theodosia turned the page. “Hips may move in a circular or back and forth motion. Maximum contact made with woman’s body. If contact broken, woman deprived of stimulation required to induce orgasmic pleasure. Said pleasure heightened by… Well, I never even imagined!”

  “Imagined what?” Roman yelled, irritated that she’d stopped talking just short of the part about pleasure.

  “Why are you shouting at me?” She closed the book and stood, her yellow skirts swishing across the orange flowers. “I was merely sitting here reading, and you have no cause whatsoever to bellow—”

  “What the hell kind of book are you reading?”

  “A sexual treatise entitled The Sweet Art of Passion.”

  He stared at her. Hard, and without blinking. “Sex treats?”

  “A sexual treatise. A written exposition concerning the sexual activities of human beings. It was created centuries ago by a Tibetan scholar who, at the time, was considered a leading authority on the subject. Nine years ago, it was unearthed and translated into English. It has not been revealed to the general public but has been relatively contained within the academic world.”

  Roman moved his unblinking stare from her face to the cover of her book. There had been many times in his life when he wished he had the ability to see through solid objects, but never more so than now.

  “I have no experience with such matters,” Theodosia explained nonchalantly, watching the horses amble away from the creek and begin grazing. “Therefore, I thought it judicious to educate myself.”

  Roman began to feel warm, and not from the heat of the day. He glanced at the creamy flesh between her breasts, wishing she’d unfastened just one more button.

  “Passion is said to be an art, Mr. Montana. From what I’ve read in this book, some men master it and others do not. The instructions in this treatise encompass everything from the first kiss to the gentlest way to deflower a virgin to several highly unusual forms of attaining sexual gratification.”

  Roman wondered if dead Tibetan men knew something live American men didn’t. “Uh, about these highly unusual forms… What—”

  “Of course, I will proceed with my plans in an objective manner,” she added. “The pleasure that may result from sexual relations is unimportant to me. But even so, I should familiarize myself with proven, effective maneuvers. Don’t you agree?”

  “What? Uh…”

  Theodosia caressed the book, pondering the child she would soon bear. “I would like to conceive a male baby for Upton and Lillian,” she murmured.

  Roman felt as if his brains had been taken from his head, scrambled like an egg, then poured back inside. He held up his hand in an appeal for her to stop speaking. “Wait a minute. Upton—he’s your brother-in-law. And Lillian…she’s your sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the baby you make with Dr. Wallaby—you’re giving the kid to Upton and Lillian?”

  “Yes.” Thinking of how much she loved Lillian and Upton, Theodosia smiled a faraway smile. “They are unable to have a child of their own, and Lillian refuses to adopt. As her sister, I am the only person in the world able to give her a child close to her own flesh and blood. She and I are practically mirror images of each other, and Upton and Dr. Wallaby appear as if they were closely related as well. Therefore, the child I conceive with Dr. Wallaby will look very much like a child Upton and Lillian created. Not to mention the fact that Upton and Dr. Wallaby are both brilliant. The child will most likely inherit a profound thirst for higher knowledge. That, of course, is another reason why Dr. Wallaby is the perfect candidate to sire the child.”

  She hugged her book to her breast, excited over her own plans. “I am deeply indebted to Lillian and Upton, Mr. Montana. This is the sole opportunity I have ever had to repay their kindness and generosity in full measure. Of course, they know nothing whatsoever about my plans. If they did, they would never allow me to go through with them. Therefore, I shall give birth to their child here in Texas, deliver the infant to them in Boston, and then set forth for Brazil to join Dr. Wallaby. That is, if he accepts me as his assistant.”

  She glanced at her watch. “We should depart. The fifteen-minute rest has come to an end. Actually, we have been resting for exactly seventeen minutes and thirty-two seconds.”

  Roman didn’t speak for a very long while. He simply stared at her, trying to understand and accept her plans with the same casual attitude that she did.

  He failed. Maybe it was the vast differences in their cultures, hers northern, his southern. Perhaps it was because he was a man and she was a woman. Or maybe it was because she was a genius and he was of ordinary intelligence.

  Whatever it was, the thought of a woman deliberately sacrificing her virginity and nine months of her life to get a child she was going to give away was the damnedest thing he’d ever heard of.

  And the fact that she was going to do all those highly unusual lovemaking maneuvers with Dr. Wallaby to get the baby was—

  His lips quivered with the same wild laughter that had consumed him last night.

  “What do you find so amusing, Mr. Montana?” Theodosia asked coolly.

  He folded his arms across his chest. “I was picturing you and Dr. Wallaby making love. Or having coitus, as you so scientifically put it. You and the brilli
ant doctor will probably consult that sex-treat book before each and every move you make. ‘Page fifty-two says we aren’t doing this correctly,’ you’ll say. You’ll hold up the book, and Dr. Wallaby will read the page through the three-inch-thick lenses in his glasses. ‘How right you are,’ he’ll say. ‘We must follow the instructions precisely.’”

  Roman’s smile grew. “You’ll stop to analyze each sentence in the book, so a single kiss will take you six weeks to accomplish. Other stuff, like learning to touch each other, will require three or four years to get right, and by the time you understand lovemaking perfectly, Dr. Wallaby will be too shriveled to perform!”

  She sniffed in disdain. “And how long would you need to understand the contents of this book, Mr. Montana?”

  “I wouldn’t bother with the book, Miss Worth.”

  She refused to surrender to the warm flow of passion his announcement brought. For heaven’s sake, she was a highly educated woman! Surely with a bit more discipline, she could conquer the feelings Roman so effortlessly created. “Are you saying you know everything there is to know about coitus?”

  He was tempted to say yes, but the gleam in her eyes gave him the vague feeling that she was preparing to use every smidgen of her intelligence to back him into a corner out of which there was no escape. Her weapon was her brain, and in this particular instance it was far more deadly than any firearm he could think of.

  So he wouldn’t do battle with her mind. He’d attack her emotions instead.

  He joined her by the trees, and his eyes holding hers captive, he traced the curve of her cheekbone with his finger. “I’m saying I know how to make love to a woman, Miss Worth. I know when to touch a woman. Where. And how.”