Rogue in Texas

by Lorraine Heath

  Grayson stared at his friend. “He told me it was to protect his face from the sun.”

  “No, he was attempting to cover the bruise she gave him when she said no the second time.”

  “She hardly seemed your type,” Grayson commented.

  “I’m desperate. There are no houses of ill repute in this whole area. That’s the business we need to go into—a bloody brothel.”

  Grayson began plucking the cotton from the vines. “It’s hardly a reputable undertaking.”

  “When have we ever worried about our reputations?” Harry asked.

  “Perhaps it’s time we did.”

  “Why?”

  Kit studied him. “Has your interest in Abbie grown?”

  Grayson looked down the row. He saw Abbie kneeling in the dirt, Micah beside her, as they snatched the cotton and stuffed it into their sack. Grayson had never before considered that laws should exist to prevent children from working in the fields—or the factories at home. But if it was work or go hungry, he supposed there was little choice. And here, all the children worked. Even if that work often entailed nothing more than carting water to the workers.

  Abbie had no concerns about his bastardy, and he wanted none of his actions to bring her shame. He remembered a time when he would have bragged to Harry and Kit about his conquests. But Abbie was not a conquest. He couldn’t explain his relationship with her to himself, much less to his friends.

  “Grayson only has affections for married women,” Harry said.

  “A widow is not that far from being married,” Kit pointed out.

  “But she is not safe; she could easily decide that she wants marriage,” Harry replied.

  “She’s watching,” Kit said.

  Gray jerked his head around to find Abbie’s gaze fastened on him. He gave her a brief nod before returning to his task. “I imagine she’s wondering why we aren’t working, since our efforts will determine how well her children eat this winter.”

  “And while her children are eating, we’ll be in Galveston,” Kit said.

  Grayson’s fingers faltered and he stabbed his finger with the sharp tine that cradled the cotton. With a harsh curse, he stuck his finger into his mouth, biting down on the wound to staunch the flow of blood.

  Galveston’s appeal dwindled with each passing day.

  “Dear God, I want desperately to make love to you,” Grayson said. “But I’m too damned tired.”

  Closing her eyes, Abbie leaned her back against his chest, nestled her head within the crook of his shoulder, and enjoyed the warmth of the water lapping around them. The bath had always been her private sanctuary, a place in which she could escape the demands of being a mother and a wife. How strange that the sanctuary seemed as private when shared with a lover. “Tomorrow will be worse,” she whispered.

  “I don’t see how it can possibly be worse.”

  “You will.”

  He groaned and she felt the rumble of his chest against her back. She swallowed her laughter.

  “You’re laughing.”

  She shook her head. “I’m trying not to.”

  He pressed a kiss to the curve of her shoulder. “I don’t know how you’ve managed all these years, Abbie.”

  He slipped his hands beneath the water as though to hold her, moaned low, and placed his hands back on the edge of the tub. She wrapped her hands around one of his and brought it to her lips, placing a kiss on his swollen fingers. “You got cut up bad today. We need to be sure we put some iodine on the scratches so you don’t get an infection.”

  “Wonderful. I suppose an infection out here could be ghastly.”

  “A few years back a man got gangrene. He wouldn’t let the doctor cut off his hands and he died.”

  “Lovely. That’s just what I want to hear.”

  She turned slightly, pressing her hand just above his pounding heart. “I’ll watch your hands closely. I won’t let that happen to you.”

  Leaning forward, he kissed her tenderly. “You know, it’s fortunate for you that I don’t pick cotton with my tongue.”

  Her eyes widened as a realization suddenly hit her. “The apple!”

  “What?”

  “That day you tied the knot in the apple stem—” The laughter bubbled out of her. “—I didn’t understand why you thought it was such an accomplishment.”

  “The ability to do so gives me a very nimble tongue. You, sweetheart, benefit from that exercise.”

  “You are so terribly wicked!”

  The moonlight reflected off his smile. “Terribly.”

  Snuggling against him, she felt his body’s reaction to her nearness. “I thought you were too tired.”

  “If we go slow and lazily, I should be able to manage.”

  The water splashed around them as he stood and climbed out of the tub. She watched the play of moonlight over his body as he rubbed a towel over his arms and legs, completely at ease with his nudity. She had only ever caught a glimpse of John’s chest, never his entire body. She had never gazed upon him with appreciation as she did with Grayson now.

  Grayson’s hands stilled. “See something you like?”

  She lifted her gaze to his. “Everything.”

  He tossed his towel aside and reached for the one that was still folded on the porch railing. As he approached, she rose from the water, surprised by her boldness, her lack of self-consciousness in his presence. She could not recall ever looking at her naked body in a mirror. Yet here she stood with the water rolling over her flesh, her nipples puckering as the night air whispered across them, with no desire whatsoever to shield herself from his gaze, a gaze that warmed her like the sun. He draped the towel around her shoulders, placed one arm around her back, the other beneath her knees, then lifted her and cradled her against his chest.

  As he strode away from the house, toward the barn, with her nestled within his arms, she had never felt more treasured.

  The days melted one into another, and the nights passed by much too quickly. Abbie often joined Grayson in the loft, but usually he did little more than wrap his arms around her and drift off to sleep.

  When he awoke, she was gone.

  He had never known such bone-deep weariness or such exaltation as his hands grew more accustomed to the chore and his deftness increased. The first day that he picked over a hundred pounds of cotton, he was tempted to write his father, and if his fingers hadn’t ached so badly, he would have.

  But he had no idea how he could explain to a man born into wealth the riches that were earned by a man’s own sweat and blood. Here he was not judged by his lack of parentage or his background. The nods of acceptance he received from the other men came about because of his accomplishments, because of his labors, his increasing skills.

  There were times when he actually felt that he stood above the highest man of rank in all of England, and when he thought his labors in the field could earn him the right to stand at Abbie’s side.

  Every moment of every day, in spite of the weariness and the pain, she filled his mind, made all that he endured worth every second of discomfort. When she glanced at him and smiled, his joy was unfettered and he worked even harder to please her, to give her another reason to smile.

  But at night when he awoke alone in the loft, surrounded by nothing but the stench of farm animals, he knew an emptiness that stretched toward eternity, and he wondered how he would survive when the last of the cotton was picked and his services were no longer needed. And he knew that time was at hand for the white fluffs were disappearing like a wave retreating from the shore.

  Hefting the bulging sack onto his back, he strode to the barn and hoisted the bag onto a fourth wagon. Three wagons were already filled to capacity, sheltered within the barn. He’d never seen anyone worry about rain as much as Abbie did. He saw her at the far end of the barn, standing near the first wagon, her arms folded beneath her breasts.

  Even though he knew she’d scold him for wasting a moment of picking time, he sauntered toward her, i
ntent on stealing a kiss.

  “Abbie, you can’t,” a deep voice rumbled and he recognized her brother’s voice. Grayson slowed his step as she thrust up her chin.

  “I most certainly can.”

  He heard James snort. “It’s not a woman’s place.”

  “And who do you think did it last year? A woman. And the year before that—”

  “Because you had no choice. Well, now the men are back—”

  “It’s my land. My cotton. I’m driving it to O’Malley’s gin.”

  “Abbie, it’s simply not done.”

  “Before the war, it wasn’t done. But it’s done now, James.”

  Grayson leaned a shoulder against the side of the wagon. Where anger brought out the ugliness in most women, it simply enhanced Abbie’s features. Her indignation arose because of a need to hold onto a place in the world that she had earned through toil and labor.

  Grayson peered around the corner of stacked sacks. James was glaring at Abbie as though he thought that action would turn the stalemate. “She’s quite right, you know,” Grayson said.

  James snapped his gaze to Grayson. “Stay out of this, Rhodes. It doesn’t concern you.”

  Grayson studied his scratched and bleeding hands before meeting James’ gaze. “Funny, I thought it did.”

  “Not when I overheard your friends say that you would be leaving as soon as the cotton is picked. Well, the fields are almost stripped clean. You can take your leave at any time.”

  Abbie jerked her head around, her gaze searching his. “You’re leaving?”

  “Not until we’ve taken the cotton to wherever it is you want it to go.”

  “Like hell,” James roared. “Based upon what Winslow told me before he left, I wouldn’t trust you with Confederate money, much less the cash we’ll get for these crops.”

  Abbie spared her brother not a glance. “I trust you. Will you travel in the first wagon with me?”

  “It will be my pleasure.”

  “Be a good boy and do everything Aunt Elizabeth tells you.”

  Leaning against the front porch railing, Grayson watched Abbie kneel before Micah and draw him into her arms, tears shimmering at the corners of her eyes as though she were sending him off to war instead of to his aunt’s for a few days.

  Micah nodded before Abbie moved on to perform the same ritual with her other two children. She had explained that they would be leaving well before the sun came up in order to get the cotton to one of the gins that rested along the Brazos River. The heavy wagons would make the journey slow and cumbersome so she’d decided to let the children go home with her sister.

  The children scrambled into Elizabeth’s wagon and waved their arms frantically. Abbie backed away, her hand imitating theirs with less enthusiasm.

  “They’ll be fine, Abbie,” Grayson said quietly.

  “I know, but this is the part of cotton farming that I hate. Being without them for a few days.”

  “We could take them with us if you like.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, the gratitude in her eyes almost bringing him to his knees.

  “They’d be miserable.”

  He held his tongue, not commenting that being miserable seemed to be a common state around here.

  “’Bye, Gray!” Johnny shouted.

  “Take care, lads,” Grayson called out as the wagon began to roll away from the house. “You, too, Lydia.”

  She beamed as though he’d given her a bouquet of flowers.

  “We’ll see you in a couple of days!” Abbie cried.

  Elizabeth waved while the young man on the wagon beside her guided the horses. Grayson didn’t think all the men who had come over with him were as discontented as he and his friends. Some had plans to stay. Hell, he thought one or two might have plans to marry.

  Abbie stared after the retreating wagon until it was no longer visible and the wispy clouds of dust had settled. With her arms firmly folded beneath her breasts, she spun around, her cheeks carrying the hue of the sunset. “I’ll see to getting supper on the table for you.”

  She scurried into the house, leaving Grayson to wonder what had just transpired.

  Abbie sat at the table, the steak she’d eaten lying like a ton of rocks on her stomach. She hadn’t been this nervous, this excited since her wedding day.

  They were alone. She and Grayson were well and truly alone.

  She visited him almost every night in the barn. She had no reason to feel jittery.

  They hadn’t spoken a single word since he’d walked into the house, but Lord, she’d felt his gaze on her throughout the meal. She wondered what he was thinking. If it had crossed his mind that he had no reason to sleep in the barn tonight. This house had plenty of beds…They’d all be empty save one.

  Her mouth went dry. A ridiculous thing for it to do—but the thought of actually inviting him into her bed, into the bed she’d shared with John—

  “Abbie?”

  She jumped, knocking her hand against her glass of water, catching it before it tumbled over completely and caused a mess. She glanced at the man sitting across from her. “What?”

  He’d placed his elbows on the table, intertwined his fingers—all except his index fingers. They were pressed against his pursed lips.

  His hands reminded her of a game she’d played with the children: Here is the church, here is the steeple…

  Did they play that game in England? Maybe she should share it with Grayson.

  “Why are you nervous?” he asked, his voice low, steady.

  How could he be so calm?

  “I’m not.” She lowered her gaze to her plate. “I am.”

  “Why?”

  She lifted her eyes to his. “Because we’re alone. It reminds me…of being married.”

  “And that was awful, was it?”

  “Not awful. I just never seemed to be able to relax. I wanted to please John so badly, to be a good wife. And I couldn’t.”

  “I’m not him.”

  “I know. I know I’m being silly—”

  He shoved his chair back, and her body jerked. He held out his hand. “Take a walk with me.”

  “Outside?”

  He smiled warmly. “Outside.”

  She rose from her chair, walked stiffly toward him, and slipped her hand into his. When his fingers closed securely around hers, she felt the haunting doubts of her past fade away. She followed him onto the porch. He dropped to the top step and guided her to the step below, bringing her within the circle of his thighs. She leaned back, nestling her head against his shoulder.

  The retreating sun was skimming its final rays across the tops of the dark green cotton stalks. The fields were not stripped as clean as John would have wanted them, but she didn’t think what remained was worth the effort.

  Varying shades of pink, lavender, and orange unfurled across the sky, enticing the blue to give way to the night.

  “How can you be so wise?” she asked quietly.

  He chuckled low. “Whenever the duke’s wife or his son would enter the manor, my heart would pound like a soldier beating the drum to announce the start of battle. Later I went off to school, but when I returned for a holiday, even though they weren’t in attendance yet, my heart knew no different. Besides, you looked as though you were eating the last meal you’d ever have before I led you to the chopping block.”

  “You seem to know me much better than I know you.”

  He skimmed his knuckles along the sensitive flesh below her ear, along her throat, sending delightful shivers down to her toes.

  “Because you built no fortification around your heart, and so you have nothing behind which to hide.”

  She angled her head until she could meet his gaze. “And you do hide.”

  “As much as I am able.”

  “Why, when you know I love you?”

  She had told him several times that she loved him since that first night in the barn. He had never repeated his sentiments. He would say that he loved her ha
ir, her smile, her touch. But he had never again said that he loved her.

  He cradled her cheek, tipping her head back slightly. She saw his nostrils flare in the twilight shadows, then his mouth swooped down to cover hers. She wondered if he found love as disconcerting as she found marriage. She placed her hand on his chest, and felt the thundering beat of his heart.

  His lips left hers, trailing deliciously across her cheek, until he was able to nibble on her ear. “Come to the barn with me,” he rasped.

  “No.”

  He drew back slightly, capturing and holding her gaze. Swallowing her uncertainty, she said quietly, “Come to my bed.”

  His eyes darkened to the blue of a Texas sky at dawn, while the day is still only a promise. He tucked stray strands of hair behind her ears. “Are you sure?”

  She smiled mischievously. “What sort of rogue are you to always give me the opportunity to back away?”

  “One who fears you care for me far more than you should.”

  She pressed her face against his neck, placing her head in the nook of his shoulder. “I want to put the ghosts to rest.”

  His arms came around her, helping her to stand as he came to his feet. “Let’s bathe first,” he suggested.

  She merely nodded as he took her hand.

  Grayson stood within the shadows, listening to the night.

  Their bath had ended as it often did: with them making love. Although he normally carried her to the barn, this evening desperation had hung around Abbie as she’d clung to him and they had made love outside, tangled in the towels and their clothes.

  She had seemed relieved afterward as though her obligations for the night had been fulfilled, and he was left to wonder if that was all marriages of convenience entailed: obligations.

  Did his father ever look on his marriage with regret? Did he often think of the young actress who had captured his heart?

  Grayson’s nightly routine included checking on the animals, making certain all was secure, and he had gone about his chores without conscious thought while Abbie cleaned the kitchen. Dear Lord, it was almost as though they were married.

  He thought about what it would be like to have nights like this one for the remainder of his life—to know Abbie was inside waiting and would be there when he walked through the door.