Rogue in Texas

by Lorraine Heath

  She found it strange that once she accepted he was going to stay, her body began to feel like the melting wax beneath a lighted candle. She was certain he wouldn’t harm her. He would have done so long ago if that were his intent. Despite what he’d told her about his past, he was a gentleman.

  Against her better judgment, she liked having him around. She liked to see him first thing in the morning, all rumpled and cross-looking as though he wanted to beat the sun back beyond the horizon. She enjoyed the easy laughter he showered on the children, the way he listened to them, and talked with them as though he valued their opinions. His patience seemed unlimited.

  His hair had grown in the time that he’d been here so now it curled over the collar of his shirt and swirled around his ears. The color reminded her of corn silk, and she wondered briefly if it felt as soft.

  A part of her felt guilty because she found most of her thoughts of late revolving around Grayson. She had thought of John as well when he was alive, but the images were different. With John, she had wondered when he would be in from the fields, what he wanted to eat for supper, if he would nudge up her nightgown…

  Slamming her eyes closed, she clenched her fists beneath the water and bowed her head, her breath coming in tiny gasps. Concentrate on the story, she told herself, on Ivanhoe and Rebecca…and Grayson’s voice bringing the story to life as she never could—

  “Abbie?”

  Her eyes flew open. He was studying her, the closed book clasped in his hands.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded her head quickly. “I was just listening.”

  “The water must be cold by now.”

  “Not very,” she lied, wondering when it had grown cold. How long had she listened to him, how long had her thoughts wandered?

  He lowered the flame in the lantern until it sputtered and died.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, hating the edge of panic in her voice.

  “I want to enjoy the stars for a moment. They look no different in England. You know, sometimes when I wake up in the middle of the night and look at the stars, I forget that I’m not in England.”

  Her heart ached at the longing reflected in his voice. She had never strayed far from Fortune. “Do you miss England?”

  She could only see his silhouette, his head tilted back as he looked at the heavens.

  “Oddly enough, I do, though only God knows why. I was miserable there.”

  “And here?”

  She felt more than saw him shift his gaze to her.

  “I can see the potential for happiness here.”

  He stood and her heart pounded so hard that she was surprised it didn’t create waves within the water.

  “I’m not going to touch you, Abbie, but I want you to tell me when your heart slows.”

  “What makes you think it’s beating fast?”

  “You start breathing in audible, tiny gasps.”

  She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. It was disconcerting to know he could easily tell when she became nervous. “You can leave now,” she told him, pleased with the even tone of her voice.

  “Good,” he said briskly before he walked to the bathtub and came to an abrupt halt.

  Her heart bounced against her ribs, and the short little pants echoed loudly through the night.

  “Have I ever hurt you?” he asked.

  “No,” she answered on a short gasp.

  “Then why are you afraid now?”

  “You could hurt me.”

  “But I won’t. I give you my word, as a gentleman, that my hands will not touch you.”

  He planted his hands on either side of the tub and leaned over slightly. The water splashed over the sides as Abbie jerked back, realizing too late that she could not escape without shoving him aside. Why had she let her defenses down? Why had she indulged in a bath when she knew he was nearby?

  He moved no nearer. His voice, when he spoke, was low. “Tell me when your heart stops pounding.”

  “It won’t stop pounding until you move away.”

  “Then we’re at an impasse because I won’t move away until your heart stops pounding.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because…” He leaned closer. She pressed her head against the back of the tub. “I am a man with absolutely no willpower.”

  He touched his lips to hers. So incredibly soft. And warm. Gently, his mouth moved against hers, easing and increasing the pressure, reminding her of water lazily lapping against the banks of the river. Then with a surety, he slid his tongue into her mouth. She would have jerked back if she hadn’t already almost embedded her skull into the tub. The unexpected pressure of his tongue, the full taste of him, surprised her. If he felt her alarm, he paid it no heed. He simply enticed her with a slow waltz, deepening the kiss. When his tongue retreated, hers followed and drew his back. She heard the rumbling groan deep within his chest. His breathing became as loud and as quickened as hers. She would have thought they’d been running instead of doing nothing but moving their tongues, their mouths.

  He withdrew slightly. Abbie followed the direction of his gaze. His clenched fist was close enough to her cheek that he would only have to unfurl his fingers to touch her.

  He shifted his gaze to her, and she watched his throat work as he swallowed.

  “Hell of a time for me to decide to become reputable,” he rasped roughly.

  Slowly, stiffly, he straightened. “Good night, Abbie.”

  Jerking her head around, she watched him disappear into the darkness. She sank her quivering body into the cool water until it lapped at her chin. She pressed her trembling fingers to her swollen lips while scalding tears stung her eyes.

  For one devastating moment, she wished he hadn’t been noble.

  8

  Kissing Abbie had been a mistake. Indulgences always came at a heavy cost. Last night’s price had been to go the remainder of the night without sleep.

  The heat had intensified, and his body had ached with desires left unfulfilled. The woman was not an innocent virgin. She was a widow with three children. She had been without a husband in her bed for at least four years. Common sense dictated that he should offer, and she would readily agree, to a mutually gratifying romp in the hay as it were.

  God knew his own carnal needs had always taken precedence over honor. Why did he suddenly feel that possessing her body would leave him empty? Why an irrational need to possess what he could never hold—her heart?

  Leaning against the side of the barn, he watched Abbie stroll through the fields in the predawn light. He didn’t think Ivanhoe’s Rowena could have looked more lovely. She had gathered her blonde hair into one long braid that dipped into the small curve of her back. She wore a simple dress that he knew she had mended and patched. He thought of the allowance his father had generously bestowed upon him all the years he’d been in England, the money he had spent upon nothing that would last more than a heartbeat. He would give anything to have a portion of it back, to have enough to purchase Abbie one gown of the finest cloth. Her feet stirred up the dirt, creating a billowing cloud around her bare ankles. He thought of all the shoes he’d thrown away because of a single scratch.

  He bowed his head, wondering how he had become such a shallow man who valued nothing beyond a moment’s pleasure.

  He lifted his gaze and slowly ambled toward the field, toward a woman he feared may have never known a moment’s pleasure. Or perhaps she knew more than he did. He thought of the lovely smiles that graced her face when her fingers touched her children’s hair or the rapture in her eyes when he read to her. What in God’s name would he see in her eyes if he made love to her?

  As he neared, she bent over, her fingers cradling a delicate blossom the color of cream. Similar blossoms were abundantly scattered over the fields.

  “Where did the flowers come from?” he asked.

  “They unfolded during the night.” She looked at it in wonder as though she’d never seen one w
hen he knew she had probably seen thousands. “It’s so delicate,” she said softly. “Tomorrow, they’ll turn a deep red like the blood that coats your hands when you’re picking. By tomorrow evening, the petals will die and fall away, leaving behind a boll.” With a sigh, she straightened. “Reckon it’s laid-by time.”

  “What does that mean?” he asked.

  Avoiding his gaze, she said, “We stay out of the fields until the cotton bolls burst open and invite us back in.”

  “Dare I hope that during this time, we simply sit in the shade?”

  He felt an unfamiliar tightening in his chest when a corner of her mouth curled upward.

  “We’ll slaughter hogs, preserve vegetables, pickle—”

  “Look at me, Abbie.”

  Ever so slowly, she turned her face toward him. The faintest hint of a blush adorned her cheeks, and the slight curve of her smile disappeared. He suddenly felt like a bully instead of a man accustomed to charming women into his bed. When he teased, she felt threatened. What meant nothing to him meant everything to her. As much as he loathed leaving her, some minute aspect of being a gentleman embedded in his character insisted that he no longer stay. “Abbie, about last night—”

  “He never kissed me,” she blurted out.

  Grayson felt as though someone had just delivered a stunning blow to his midsection. “What?”

  She shook her head slightly as tears welled within her eyes, creating violet pools of anguish. She pressed one trembling hand to her lips and wrapped an arm around her stomach. She looked toward the fields, and he watched helplessly as a solitary tear slid along her cheek.

  “He gave me three children,” she rasped, “but he never gave me a kiss.”

  “I know it’s rude to speak unkindly of the dead, but your husband was a bloody fool.”

  “He didn’t love me. I was a possession, like the land. Something to be looked upon with pride, something to yield a harvest, but he gave more to his land than he ever gave to me. If the land had needed a kiss…he would have dropped to his knees and pressed his mouth…”

  Slowly, carefully, he drew her into his embrace. He felt the tremors traveling through her, heard the wretched sob that broke free, felt her body stiffen as she fought to stifle another one. Dear Lord, but she felt wonderful within his arms, tiny, but sturdy from years of battling the land. What sort of man was he to be grateful for anything that made her drop her reserve and brought her this close to him?

  A far better man than her husband. He could not help but wonder with bitterness what else the man might not have given the woman within the circle of his arms. He pressed his cheek against the top of her head. “Abbie,” he cooed in a low voice. “Abbie, it’s all right.”

  She shook her head without moving away from him. “I wasn’t glad when he died. I wasn’t.”

  “Of course you weren’t glad—”

  “But I was…” He felt a spasm rock her body. “Relieved.”

  The word was spoken agonizingly low, as though she’d forced it past the burden of guilt. He brought his arms more tightly around her. “There’s no sin in that, Abbie.”

  He felt the slightest yielding of her body against his, as though his simple statement had lifted a heavy weight from her heart.

  “It was wrong of me to marry him—”

  He cradled her face between hands that had become coarse over the weeks and tilted her head until he could gaze into her eyes. So slowly, his thumbs gathered the tears that adorned her cheeks. “You were sixteen, Abbie. What did you know of marriage or love?”

  He refrained from telling her that the fault rested with her husband. He had spoken ill of the dead once, and he had little doubt he would do so again, but not where she could hear.

  The doubts plaguing her tore at him as nothing had in his entire life: not the cruel taunts that he’d received as a child or the snubs he’d received as an adult, not the absence of love or the shattered dreams.

  “There are a thousand marriages which contain not the tiniest seed from which love can grow. You must have cared for him some or it would not haunt you now that you think you did not.”

  “But it wasn’t enough.”

  “Why?”

  Her gaze flitted to his mouth, her blush deepening before she again met his gaze. Something deep within him burst forth as he’d heard others describe the ripening of cotton—like a tiny explosion that resulted in a glorious unfolding. Guilt gnawed at her this morning because last night it hadn’t. Her tongue darted out to lick lips that he longed to taste again.

  Having no desire to abrade her soft skin, he touched his knuckles to her cheek, knowing a moment’s regret that his palms were no longer smooth and unmarred. She neither flinched nor moved, but simply watched him as he had once seen a cornered fox await the arrival of the bloodthirsty hounds.

  He felt completely inadequate to the task of giving to her what he feared she may have never experienced, never known—and he’d never wanted anything more in his life than he wanted to share with her all his worldly knowledge.

  He moved his thumbs to the corners of her mouth, felt her stiffen, and knew if he moved too fast, he’d lose the tentative trust he’d gained.

  “Let’s play today,” he said, and saw the trust retreat like the sun before a storm. “You, me, and the children,” he hastily added.

  Confusion swam within her eyes. “You do know how to play, don’t you?” he asked.

  Her chin came up. “Of course I do, but we have chores—”

  “That will keep until tomorrow.” Reaching down, he took her hands and brought them to his lips, placing a kiss on fingers that were as rough as leather. “What’s the point in working so hard if you never enjoy the fruits of your labors?”

  He heard the rumble of a wagon, and she pulled away from him, wiping her hands over her skirt as though to remove the evidence of his touch. There was a time when he would have taken her actions personally—but no longer. He didn’t think it was his touch she wanted to erase, but that of her husband.

  She waved and he saw a forced smile spread across her face. “James! It’s laid-by time.”

  Her brother brought the wagon to a halt and leapt down before helping Amy. He walked toward the fields, his gaze flickering between Grayson and Abbie. “Rhodes,” he acknowledged curtly.

  “Mr. Rhodes was saying that maybe we’ve worked hard enough to spend the day playing,” Abbie said.

  James gave him a suspicious glance. “Well, I don’t suppose it would hurt to relax a little today.”

  It didn’t take Grayson long to realize that “relaxing a little” meant not relaxing at all. Every neighbor who arrived greeted the idea of not chopping in the fields with unbridled enthusiasm—and then set about working elsewhere. The men argued about when the first boll of cotton would erupt, then set off to slaughter a hog. Children scrambled through the household garden, gathering tomatoes and onions and assorted other vegetables. Men dug a pit and built a fire within it. The unfortunate swine was spitted and draped over the low-burning fire to roast.

  Grayson stood beneath a tree, feeling like an intruder. Everyone seemed to know their place, seemed to know what needed to be done without a single order being issued, while he and his friends seemed to be the only ones relaxing.

  Harry stood beside him, his arms crossed over his chest. “I thought I heard someone say we were going to play today.”

  Grayson nodded. “I think all this activity is their idea of playing. I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t suggested it. Abbie is working harder today than she usually does.”

  “She seems to be enjoying it,” Kit observed.

  “That’s not the point,” Grayson said. “I wanted her to spend the day doing absolutely nothing.”

  “What you want and what she wants may not be the same thing,” Kit said.

  “We want the same thing—she just doesn’t know it yet,” Grayson said.

  Kit raised a brow. “Oh?”

  “Don’t go getting sweet on her, G
ray,” Harry ordered. “As soon as the cotton is plucked, we are on our way to Galveston.”

  “I’m not sweet on her, but I’ve been a long time without a woman—”

  “And might as well go with one who knows the ropes,” Kit said. “A woman with three children certainly shouldn’t be offended by a brief affair.”

  Grayson shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Have either of you ever made love to a woman and not kissed her?”

  “Careful, Gray,” Kit warned. “You’re beginning to sound completely unlike yourself.”

  He wondered what his friends would think to learn that he wasn’t exactly acting like himself either. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t touched Abbie’s cheek last night—or better yet, dove into the bath with her.

  “I’ll be back shortly,” he mumbled before shoving away from the tree and heading to the house.

  He stood within the doorway watching Abbie flutter around the kitchen like a schoolgirl who had been given a holiday. She softly hummed a tune with which he was unfamiliar, but he could well envision a mother cradling a babe within her arms and rocking the child to sleep.

  An assortment of pies adorned the table, the aroma of apples and cinnamon wafting through the room. She turned a tin pan upside down, placed it on a plate, and tapped gently. When she lifted the pan, a dark chocolate cake remained on the plate. Then she went about whipping up some icing within a bowl, her humming growing louder as her hand quickly circled the bowl with her movements.

  “When I suggested that you play today, I was thinking more along the lines of you not working at all,” Grayson said.

  She snapped her head around, the humming continuing until she spoke. “I haven’t baked any pies or cakes in a good while.”

  “But it’s work, Abbie.”

  She smiled softly. “I enjoy it.” She began to slather a thick chocolate concoction over the cake. He watched her quick efficient movements. She placed the cake so near the edge of the table that he was surprised it didn’t topple off. He reached out to shove it back. She grabbed his hand, her warm fingers wrapping tightly around his. Her cheeks pinkened as she gave her head a quick shake. Humming loudly, she walked to the hearth. He followed. “Abbie—”