Rogue in Texas

by Lorraine Heath

  He heard the clanging of pots and pans cease, and an unexpected hush fell over the house. The lights spilling from the windows dimmed as though she had lowered the flames in the lamps. He considered strolling to the barn, climbing the ladder to the loft, and lying on his pallet in the straw.

  But he feared she would not seek him out. A rusty rapier through the heart would not hurt more.

  Bloody hell, he not only wanted her, he needed her. He needed those three little words that she whispered during the height of lovemaking, those words he could not repeat. He had spoken them once—and he had meant them. He did love her. But the intensity of those feelings had deepened to such a magnitude as to be frightening. Dear God, if she ever stopped saying those words, he thought he might well and truly die.

  With one hand shoved into his trousers pocket, he stepped onto the porch and quietly opened the door. She had lowered the flame in the lamp. The doors to two bedrooms stood ajar, and he wondered if she’d looked into the rooms, missing her absent children.

  The third door had a barely discernable opening through which lamplight spilled into the larger room. Her bedroom. The room she had shared with another. The gentleman within him loathed the fact that she seemed to have few fond memories of her husband. The rogue rejoiced.

  Closing the door, he strode across the room. Very carefully, very quietly, he nudged the door open. Abbie sat in a straight-backed chair in front of a mirrored vanity, brushing her hair, her gaze focused on something beyond the mirror, something far away, a remembrance perhaps…

  The room surprised him. Other than her person, it seemed to include nothing that was notably her. The oak posts of the bed contained no delicate carvings. The chest was as sturdy and plain as the bureau. Even her vanity did not bespeak the delicateness of a woman.

  The room reflected a man’s tastes, completely and absolutely.

  Against his will, his gaze drifted to the bed. The bed where she now slept alone, where once she had not. His stomach clenched and it occurred to him that perhaps it would be best if he left, if he returned to the barn, returned to Galveston, returned to England.

  But then his gaze scanned the room and came to rest on Abbie’s reflection, watching him, waiting. He could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest. He crossed the room in slow strides that belied his own beating heart.

  “Grays—”

  He touched the tips of his fingers to her lips. “Don’t say anything, Abbie. Not until you’ve grown accustomed to me being in this room.” He took the brush from her hand and glided it through her silken strands, holding her gaze in the mirror.

  “You’re trembling. It can’t be the cold, since this state apparently doesn’t have any.”

  “It’s cold in the winter.”

  “You’re trembling,” he repeated. “Why?”

  Shaking her head, she lowered her eyes to her lap. “I just feel cheap.”

  He set the brush aside, knelt beside her, took her quaking hands in his, and pressed her fingers to his lips. “I won’t stay if you don’t want me to.”

  She lifted her gaze to his. “That’s why I feel cheap. Because I want you to.”

  She shifted her attention to the bed, and he saw the red creep up past the collar of her nightgown to settle in her cheeks. She released a self-conscious laugh and nestled her forehead against his shoulder. “I’m being silly, I know. I’ve thought of this a hundred times, inviting you to my bed…and I thought you wouldn’t come…after…earlier.”

  “You hoped I wouldn’t come.”

  With a deep sigh, she lifted her head away from his shoulder. “I don’t know why this is so hard.”

  He did. He could feel her dead husband’s presence as though he were sitting in the corner looking on. “What if I just held you?”

  She blinked as though he’d just snatched the moon from the sky and handed it to her. “Just held me?”

  “I’ve thought of doing that a hundred times, lying in a bed with you and simply holding you through the night.”

  “I’d like that.”

  He stood as she rose to her feet. He watched her walk to the bed and fold back the quilt. They wouldn’t need it tonight. He snuffed out the flame in the lamp, leaving only moonbeams to guide his steps across the room. Within the shadows, he saw her hands moving over her nightgown. He stilled, relishing the sight of her gown sliding along the length of her body. With practiced ease, he stripped off his own clothes and left them in a heap at his feet.

  He heard the bed moan as she clambered into it and scooted over, giving him room to join her. He groaned as he lay down and the mattress cradled him like a newborn babe. “Ah, I’ve missed the comfort of a bed.” He turned his head until he could see Abbie. “Come here, sweetheart.”

  She rolled toward him and he drew her within the circle of his arms.

  Abbie wanted to tell him that she’d never done this before, lain naked against a man in her own bed, but she thought he probably knew. It seemed everything they did was a first for her. Nothing was a first for him. Well, nothing except maybe having someone love him.

  She loved the feel of her body partially covering his. The warmth of the night should have made it unbearable, but the breeze whispered through the open window across their bodies.

  “What are you going to do in Galveston?” she finally dared to ask.

  She felt him stiffen beneath her before taking a deep breath and forcing his body to relax.

  “Find some sort of business venture.”

  “Like what?”

  “Haven’t a clue. Cattle perhaps. Whatever it is, it will be high risk, high gain. That’s the way Harry likes to play and it’s his money that will be funding us.”

  “Do you think you’ll ever return to England?”

  “Someday. When I am my father’s equal.”

  She heard the determination in his voice, and had no doubt he would find a way to succeed. His hand began a slow lazy caress of her arm, increasing the intimacy of the moment. “Do you…do you think you’ll ever return here?”

  He shifted his body until they were both lying on their sides. He cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheek. “Do you want me to?”

  She nodded, then realized that he probably couldn’t see her movements in the shadows. “Yes.” She pressed her face against his chest. “I wish you wouldn’t leave at all.”

  He stilled his thumb. “I can’t spend my life living in a barn, Abbie.”

  Of course he couldn’t. She nodded, knowing he could feel her movements even if he couldn’t see them.

  “You told me that you never wanted to get married again,” he reminded her.

  She nodded again, stupidly, not sure what she wanted or what she needed. He skimmed his fingers along the length of her spine, down, up, down. Then he flipped her onto her back and nestled himself between her thighs. Bracing his hands on either side of her face, he threaded his fingers through her hair and lowered his mouth to hers. The tenderness of his kiss brought tears to her eyes.

  This was how it should be, a coming together of hearts and souls before there was a coming together of bodies. She knew that now, understood the simplicity of love. It couldn’t be forced. It couldn’t be goaded. It grew out of caring, trust, and respect. Like seeds thrown into fertile soil that could take root and bloom.

  Before the war, the seeds had been blown onto a desert with little to nurture the blossoms. She didn’t want to lose what she had just gained. She tightened her arms around his shoulders, their breadth always surprising her. He felt much sturdier than he looked; he was a formidable man. It was his mannerisms that set him apart from the rugged men she’d known.

  He drew away from the kiss. She felt the intensity of his gaze even though she couldn’t see the blueness of his eyes. She heard his ragged breathing, felt the rise and fall of his chest against her breasts.

  “Marry me, Abbie.”

  Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her mouth went as dry as cotton. She nodded her head vigorously.
r />   “I have to hear the word, sweetheart, or I’ll never believe it.”

  “Yes,” she rasped. “Oh, yes, but what about Galveston?”

  “I never cared much for the salt air.”

  “What about your friends?”

  “Are you trying to talk me out of this?”

  “No, but I want you to be sure.”

  “I am sure. I love you more with each breath I take, each beat of my heart, each smile that you bestow upon me.” Grayson was astounded to realize that he meant the words. His heart thudded against his ribs and he felt certain that she could feel it.

  He dipped his head, kissing her deeply, almost desperately. Never had he expected to find a woman willing to marry him. Never had he thought to find a woman who would love him.

  They would live here—in this house. They would sleep in this room.

  He wanted to chase the ghosts from every corner, every nook and cranny—not only within this room, but within her heart.

  He trailed his mouth along the sleek column of her throat, listening to her throaty purr—a contented cat lapping at the cream. He wanted her as he’d never wanted anything.

  She writhed beneath him as he used his mouth and hands, alternately rough and gentle, to carry her to the edge of fulfillment. With one sure stroke, he thrust himself into her welcoming warmth. He stilled, fighting back his own release that was perilously close to betraying him.

  She pressed her hands to his shoulders. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered. “There’s no need if we’re to be married.”

  Raised above her, he felt his arms tremble. He lowered himself to her, pressing his cheek against hers. “Promise me that you will marry me.”

  “I promise…with all my heart.”

  He began to move against her, marveling at how well their bodies rocked against each other. He listened to her cries, her sighs. He held nothing back, had no need to keep tight rein on his own pleasure.

  When she cried out and arched against him, he followed the way she had come, her body wrapped so tightly around him that it was impossible to think of them as separate.

  He pressed his lips against the hollow at her throat, absorbing the impact of what he’d done, the splendor of it. Of feeling as though he belonged. He wanted to tell her, to share with her the exaltation that he felt, but to do so, he would have to speak of other women—something that was completely inappropriate under the circumstances.

  So he simply repeated what he had said to no other. “I love you.”

  When her arms tightened around him, he had never known such completeness, had never felt so wholly at home.

  13

  Guiding the rumbling wagon over the rough road, Grayson listened as it creaked beneath the weight of the heavy sacks of cotton. The intoxicating sound of money. Soon it would change from a creak into a jingle. He cast a longing glance at the woman sitting beside him, the woman who would be his wife. His only regret was that he could offer her little more than what she already had.

  Behind him, Kit, Harry, and James guided their wagons along the winding, torturous route. Abbie had explained that the trail carved by wagons since Stephen F. Austin’s colony had first begun planting cotton was designed to circle the hills, to avoid the steep slopes and muddy areas, and to cross creeks where the water was lowest.

  Little wonder that late afternoon arrived before Grayson drew the wagon to a halt a short distance away from the designated cotton gin near the Brazos river—O’Malley’s gin. At least a dozen wagons waited ahead of theirs. Men milled about beneath the shade of the trees, some talking, some sleeping, some spitting tobacco.

  “This doesn’t look good,” Grayson said.

  Abbie heaved a sigh. “No, but I expected it.” Her cheeks flamed red. “This is the reason James didn’t want me to come. We usually have to stay the night, and he doesn’t think it’s appropriate for a woman to sleep in the company of men.”

  “A little fact you neglected to mention.”

  She shrugged. “It’s not like I’m innocent.”

  He cradled her cheek. “You were before I came into your life.”

  She turned her face against his palm. “No, you returned some of the innocence to me.”

  “What the devil is all this?”

  Grayson jerked his hand away from Abbie’s face and glared at Harry who was staring at the wagons in front of them. “What the bloody hell does it look like?”

  Harry snapped his head around. “If I knew I wouldn’t be asking, now would I?”

  Grayson clambered down from the wagon before helping Abbie to the ground. Kit and James strolled over, their gazes fastened on the gin.

  “Based on what I saw coming home, I wasn’t expecting to see such an abundance of cotton,” James said.

  “Why aren’t any of the wagons moving?” Harry asked. “Why is everyone just standing around?”

  “It takes a while to weigh and process the cotton,” Abbie said.

  A bell sounded.

  “What does that mean?” Kit asked.

  “They’re closing down for the night,” James explained.

  “So we just leave the wagons?” Harry asked.

  James sighed. “No, we’ll sleep on the bales.”

  There was something to be said for lying on a bale of cotton atop the wagon and watching the sunset, a woman’s fingers threaded through his. Grayson had never known contentment this deep, this absolute.

  In a way, it was completely overwhelming and frightening, and he feared he might be unable to hold onto it.

  “What are you thinking?” Abbie asked quietly.

  “That I’ve never known such peace.”

  She sighed dreamily. “My favorite time is after the cotton picking is done. All the hard work is behind us for a while and I have such a sense of accomplishment.” She turned her head slightly and smiled. “You did a good job picking the cotton. You surprised me. I never expected you to stay.”

  Rolling to his side, he lifted his hand to touch her face but before he could, she wrapped her hands around his and brought it to her lips. “Your poor hands. You can always tell a picker by the scars.”

  “Then they match yours.”

  “They were so soft, so smooth the first time I held them.”

  “Why did you pick mine to hold?”

  In the fading light, he saw her blush and watched as she pressed her lips together. “Because you were so damned arrogant.”

  “Arrogant? I was hot, tired, and dirty—”

  “You leapt out of the wagon and looked down your nose at me—”

  “Because you’re short. If I’d looked up, I wouldn’t have seen you.”

  “You thought you were better than us—”

  “You thought I thought I was better than you. Believe me, Abbie, the one thing I have never thought in my life is that I was better than anyone.”

  She came up on her elbow and rolled over onto her stomach. “But you do give the impression you think that way. Maybe it’s the way you stand or hold your head…Maybe you do it without thinking so no one will see that you think you aren’t better.”

  He turned his gaze toward the stars and the moon that had slowly risen to fill the black void. “Perhaps.”

  “You aren’t better than anyone, Grayson. But you are at least an equal.”

  “Only in your eyes.”

  “They’re the only ones that matter.”

  Chuckling, he rolled toward her and laid his callused hand against her cheek. “They are that, sweetheart. What do you think the children will say when we tell them the news?”

  “They’ll be happy.”

  “Do you want to continue to live at the farm?” he asked.

  She nodded. “It’s all I know. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”

  “I’ve asked Abbie to marry me.”

  Grayson would have laughed at the comical expressions that crossed his friends’ faces—if he weren’t reeling from the reality of what he’d just announced and all it entailed.
They were words he’d never thought to speak.

  “By God, surely you’re joking,” Harry said.

  “I’m deadly serious. Marriage is a fine institution.”

  “Indeed it is, but who wants to live his life in an institution?”

  Grayson’s lips twitched at Harry’s old adage. Women seldom saw the humor in it. He shrugged. “I’ve decided it might not be the horrid picture we’ve painted.”

  “When will she give you her answer?” Kit asked.

  Grayson cleared his throat. “She already did.”

  Kit raised a brow. “And?”

  Grayson supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that his friend doubted a woman’s desire to accept his offer of marriage. In England, proposing marriage had never been a topic of discussion or hinted at—for any of them.

  He drew his shoulders back, trying—probably unsuccessfully—not to look offended by Kit’s lack of faith. “She accepted.”

  “So you’re going to haul her and the children to Galveston—” Harry began.

  “We have no need to go to Galveston. Abbie has the farm—”

  “So through marriage, you’ll acquire the land you’ve always coveted,” Kit said quietly, speculatively.

  Grayson knew he should explain that it was Abbie he wanted, not the land, but it was much easier not to bare his heart to these two. They knew the worst about him and accepted him. What difference did it make if they thought he was marrying Abbie for all the wrong reasons? With an air of indifference, he rocked back on his heels. “I’ve always fancied myself a landowner.”

  “Well then, I suppose congratulations are in order,” Kit said.

  “Not too loudly. Abbie wants the children to know first. I told you because it changes my plans for Galveston and might affect yours. I trust you to keep this announcement between us until Abbie has talked with the children.”

  “Does she expect the children to object?” Kit asked.

  “No, but it might be a bit of a surprise to them.”

  Harry shook his head. “So you’ll not only be a husband, but a father. Good God, Gray, who would have thought?”

  “Certainly not I,” Grayson admitted.

  “Are you going to write your father?” Kit asked.