Connie Brockway

by Anything For Love

  “What do you mean?”

  He just shook his head and, tucking her hand back into the crook of his arm, led her back to the camp.

  She had been lying flat on her back, staring up at the black roof of her tent for an hour. Milton and Carter were still sitting about the campfire with Noble. Tomorrow she’d be in Salvage. Tomorrow she would say goodbye to Noble. Maybe, this time, forever.

  She rolled onto her stomach and punched the pillow. Milton’s words had confused her. And she was already confused enough.

  Obviously Milton believed there was a future for her and Noble. But Carter had reminded her that history repeats itself.

  She and Noble were echoes of her parents. They came from different backgrounds, with different expectations, and against all reason, they had fallen in love. Just like her parents.

  Love? Her mother may have loved her father, but love hadn’t stopped her from leaving him. Love hadn’t stopped Cayuse Katie’s husband from running away from her, and love certainly hadn’t kept their spouses from abandoning the hundreds of women who crowded the Leiland Foundation’s bread lines.

  She was doing the right thing, she told herself. She was saving them both from making a disastrous mistake.

  She pulled her legs into a tight ball, protecting herself against the coming cold, protecting herself against the darkness.

  Chapter 26

  “Venice.”

  She rolled over and pushed herself up on her forearms, blinking. “Noble?”

  “Shh. You’ll wake everyone up. Come on out.”

  “Just a minute!” she whispered back. She didn’t stop to consider what she was doing; she simply wanted to be alone with Noble. Maybe for the last time.

  She kicked off the blankets and scrambled upright, pushing her shirttails into her skirt. Her nose wrinkled. She smelled awful. But what could she expect? She’d been wearing the same clothes for more than a week. From what Noble told her, Cassius Thornton Reed’s mule had scattered every bit of her clothing across the continental divide.

  She thrust her fingers through her hair, wincing as she tried to untangle the worst of the snarls. Lord, an animal could nest in her hair!

  “Come on, Venice!” Noble called softly. She crawled under the tent flap. Her eyes widened. It was snowing.

  Small white flakes drifted and twirled, dancing across the green grass and melting on larkspur and columbine in the soft pre-dawn light. She lifted her face to the dove-gray sky above. Snow fell from above, catching on her lips and eyelashes and melting on her sleep-warmed cheeks. It was entrancing, whimsical, and breathtakingly beautiful.

  “But it’s June!” she whispered in delight.

  “I know. I’ve seen it a dozen times and it never ceases to enchant me.”

  She shivered and Noble placed a blanket over her shoulders.

  “Fool woman,” he muttered, wrapping her close. “Spends days warm enough to melt butter all wrapped up and comes gallivanting out here in the middle of a snowstorm without a coat!”

  She giggled at his severe tone. He grabbed her hat from the tree branch she’d hung it on last night and plunked it on her head.

  “Do you want a bath?” he asked.

  “A bath?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure,” she said, joining in his nonsense. “But only if I can have lavender soap. And I’d like some clean clothes and a set of tortoiseshell combs and, well, what the heck, throw in a masseuse.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Someone who manipulates the various muscles of your neck and back and arms and, er, nether regions to relieve strain and aches associated with athleticism.”

  “ ‘Someone’?” Noble scowled.

  Venice laughed. “A woman.”

  “Oh. And where did you hear of this masseuse?”

  “In France. I had just gotten back from a rather strenuous exploration of the Alps when my friend introduced me to this delightful woman!” She sighed in fond memory. “It was wonderful!”

  “Sorta like rubbing down a horse.”

  She loved it when he teased her. He tried so hard to look serious and his eyes, flashing with those wicked coppery lights, gave him away so easily.

  She nodded solemnly. “A thoroughbred.”

  He broke into a full, rich laugh and she hushed him, looking guiltily around at the other tents. It was still early, very early, and it would be their last day together. She wanted every moment alone with him that she could get.

  “Well, I don’t know what I can do about tortoiseshell combs, but I think I might accommodate your other demands.”

  “Demands? You are the one who woke me from a sound and blameless slumber—”

  “Shh! You want a bath or not?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Sure.”

  He took her hand. His fingers felt warm and strong and sure as he wrapped them around hers and guided her over to where a mule and his pony stood, saddled and waiting.

  “Are we abandoning them?” Venice asked, looking back at the tents.

  Noble snorted. “They’ll probably still be sleeping when we get back. We aren’t going in to Salvage, Venice.”

  Without asking her permission, he lifted her into the saddle and mounted his pony.

  As they traveled south, angling away from the Grundys’ “Reel Old Man,” the snow showed no sign of letting up. Indeed, the flakes grew bigger and drifted more lazily, as though winter was starting all over again.

  They had gone about five miles when Noble stopped. He dropped to the ground and came round to her side, holding his hands out. She put her hands on his broad shoulders and slid into his embrace, standing for a second, her eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of him, so big and strong and loving.

  “Come on, Stinky,” he said, turning her around and giving her a little push.

  “Stinky!”

  “You wouldn’t like my other nicknames for you.”

  She felt her cheeks heat. He laughed and grabbed her hand and pulled her as she vehemently protested that she didn’t want to inflict her “odorous person on his fragrant self.” They came around a stand of pines and he stopped and pushed her in front of him.

  She gasped. Ten feet beyond her was the promised bathtub, one nature had created. An irregular-shaped pool, twenty feet long and roughly eight feet wide, sent delicate tendrils of steam into the cold air.

  A hot spring.

  She sighed with pleasure. Tossing off the blanket and kicking at her boots, she clawed at her belt, finally freeing it and pushing her pants to her knees.

  “Hey!” Noble protested, laughing. “What happened to modesty?”

  “Modesty be damned. I’m going to have a bath!” She said the last word on an ecstatic sigh.

  Frantically, she worked the buttons of her shirt, finally giving up and pulling the stiff, filthy fabric over her head. She hopped on one foot and then the other, pulling off the gray socks as she closed the ten-foot span between her and the spring, naked now except for the red union suit.

  She didn’t bother to peel that off. She simply jumped in, feet first.

  The water closed over her head and she sank deep before spreading her arms and pushing back to the top. She broke the surface and laughed with pure pleasure.

  The water was hot. Not just warm, hot. Wonderfully, bone-seeping, body-draining hot.

  She looked at Noble, who stood smiling at the water’s edge. He was as happy for her pleasure as he would be for his own. Lord, she loved him.

  “This,” she called to him, “is heaven.”

  “Looks mighty inviting.”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Come on in.”

  His brows rose. “Really?”

  “I couldn’t be so selfish as to keep all this wonderful hot water to myself!” she answered, noting that he was already sitting on the ground and pulling off his boots.

  It took him about a minute to strip down to his union suit. When he didn’t take that off, too, she realized how disappointed she was. She had seen his bare
chest a half dozen times, but she had never seen his entire body naked. Suddenly that seemed like a grave, grave oversight.

  She didn’t have time to say anything. He jumped in, making a huge splash and, surfacing immediately, shook his long hair out of his face, spraying her with water. He leaned the back of his head into the water and paddled closer, shaking his head again. The third time, she realized he was doing it on purpose.

  She dove under the water and caught him about the waist, dragging him beneath the surface. She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him down as deep as she could, laughing as she burst to the top.

  She didn’t laugh too long. From under the water he grabbed hold of her ankle. She shrieked, kicking at him. His hand closed around her calf.

  The more she fought, the higher up her legs he grabbed. She couldn’t believe he could hold his breath so long. She wiggled and twisted. He had her knee. She squirmed frantically. Finally catching her about her waist, he pulled her down to meet him beneath the surface of the hot, dark water.

  His mouth closed over hers.

  He was weightless and sinewy, long and hard, pressed to her chest, his thighs riding between her own.

  They burst to the surface, mouths still open hungrily on each other, arms holding each other tightly, fiercely.

  “Venice?” Her name was a question.

  Her only answer was that she wanted this, wanted to make love to him, wanted to stay in this fantasy world of snow and heat and spring flowers and winter storms.

  She pushed the sodden union suit from his broad shoulders, peeling it from his upper torso. As soon as she was done, he swam her to the edge of the pool. Bracing his arms on either side of her, he clutched the hard, lichen-studded rock in a white knuckled grip while she clung to his neck.

  He stared at her, motionless, forcing himself to wait. She had to want this as much as he did.

  Her gaze locked with his; she reached up and fumbled with the buttons of her union suit. A drop of water clung to her lower lip. He couldn’t resist. He leaned forward and licked the drop away. She made a sound like a whimper deep in her throat, shrugging the suit off and kicking her legs free.

  His breath caught. The upper swells of her breasts rose above the water. Her hair, drifting languidly in a dark sheath about the pale crests, was no less provocative than a silken veil coyly revealing a seductress’s charms. He threaded the fingers of one hand through the dark, streaming tresses. Soft and heavy and lush.

  His fingertips, hidden in her floating hair, brushed against her nipple. She arched into his unintentional touch, tipping her chin up, baring her throat. Boldly, he traced the coral-colored tip, delicately fingering the swollen bud until it puckered, even here, in this heated pool, with excitement.

  He dipped his head, his mouth opening under the water on her nipple. Languidly he stroked it with his tongue. She shuddered, her hands closing on his shoulders.

  “Make love to me,” she said. There was something in her tone that made him wary.

  He raised his head and grasped her legs behind her knees, lifting them and settling them around his waist.

  “This isn’t a goodbye,” he swore. “This isn’t once more, for the memory. No matter what you think.” He moved his lower body, pressing his swollen shaft intimately against the soft juncture of her thighs. It was a deliberately sexual contact and she answered its primitive demand.

  He rocked against her and she leaned back, arching into the feel of him between her legs, squirming down, wanting to feel his hard length inside her. He felt so good, so solid, so male.

  She could never love another man as she loved Noble.

  “This isn’t goodbye,” he said again, bringing one hand down under her buttocks and lifting her, settling her on him. He pushed, his belly muscles rippling, and she inhaled sharply, her eyes widening as he thrust deeply into her.

  She panted. A sudden gust of wind blew across the hot spring, and thick white billows of steam rose in answer. He was a merman come to woo a foolish maid, Venice thought, gleaming and mist-wreathed and passionate. She touched his smooth cheek with near reverence.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he growled, thrusting hard into her, pushing her against the moss slick side of the pool. The fragile banners of steam were torn by his movement.

  “Like what?” she gasped, clutching tightly to him.

  “As if you’re memorizing my face,” he rasped.

  He would make her stop, make her live this moment and this moment alone. Make her forget about leaving him and last times and final goodbyes.

  Abruptly, he withdrew from her and she clutched at him, a sound of distress rang from her lips. Her eyes, lustrous gray jewels, shone with reproach. He turned her around and, settling his back against the rim of the pool, hooked his elbows up on the pool’s rocky rim.

  She treaded water in front of him. “What are you doing?” she asked uncertainly.

  His feet must have found some purchase beneath the water, because his chest, water streaming down the tanned contours, rose partially above the surface. The soft, silent snow dissolved against his heated skin. “Waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “For you to make love to me,” he said flatly.

  “I . . . I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t want to make love knowing that you’re saying goodbye, knowing you’re committing to memory each little detail, each flick of my tongue, each thrust of my hip, just so you can relegate it to some musty little corner of your memory”

  “It’s not like that!”

  “It’s just like that. And I won’t be used that way. If you want to make love, make love. No spectators allowed at this sport. Not even those with the best intentions,” he ground out.

  She stared at him for a moment and then, almost shyly, she swam forward. She draped her arms around his neck and her eyelids drifted shut. She rubbed her body against his, a sinuous gliding movement. He rested the back of his head against the rock.

  “All right,” she whispered against his throat, nibbling her way to his lower lip. “Just now. Just here. Just us. But you promise, too. No past. No future. Just now.”

  Once before he’d said his body was at her disposal. She wasn’t at all shy about his gift. She wanted to give him back some of the intense pleasure he had introduced her to.

  She lifted herself higher, her breasts dragging across the water-slick surface of his chest, heavy and warm. Slowly, deliberately, she wrapped her legs around his hips, her hands stroking his chest, her breath warm in his ear, her teeth nipping at the rough angle of his jaw.

  “Do you love me?” she whispered.

  “God, yes.”

  “I love you, too.” Her hands traveled low on his body and his stomach clenched tightly as her fingernails gently raked his belly, moving lower until her hand found and closed around his thick, rigid staff.

  He groaned. His lips jerked forward in response to her hand’s movement. Experimentally, Venice moved her hand again. He clenched his teeth. She grasped the velvet hardness more firmly and stroked its satiny length, trying to mimic the rhythm of their lovemaking.

  He arched his throat, the air hissing in a sharp in-drawn breath. His eyes flew open and he grabbed her wrist beneath the water.

  “I’d rather your body sheathe me than your hand, lass,” he said and, in one motion, pulled her up and pushed himself deep inside her.

  She found the elusive rhythm, using the broad span of his shoulders to brace herself as she moved up and down on his tensile length. His hands stroked her buttocks. His voice, harsh and urgent, rasped appeals for his sanity. His tongue stroked and tasted her shivering breasts, her straining arms, her lips, her mouth.

  Still she moved, meeting each powerful thrust with the tilt of her hips and driving back against his force, seeking a deeper union.

  She heard his hoarse cry and felt the deepest and most elemental of shudders move through his big frame just as she felt her own pleasure crest and swell and spin liquid pleasu
re throughout her own body.

  She collapsed, panting in his embrace, feeling his own harsh breath on her shoulder as he bent forward. For a long time they stayed like that. She felt limp and exhausted and wonderful.

  “Venice?” There was a question in his voice and she didn’t have an answer.

  “You promised.”

  “Aye. I promised. And you already have scant reason to believe my promises, right?” he whispered sadly in her ear.

  “Noble,” she said, moving out of his embrace. She touched his lips with a fingertip. “I don’t blame you for the past. Truly.”

  “Then let me say this to you. I won’t badger you or threaten to leave you here or do anything more than talk. But please, listen to me.”

  She nodded.

  “I know you’ve been taught to think that you should get married to provide a proper little heir for an empire. Don’t believe it. The Leiland Foundation isn’t the last chance you’ll have to do something worthwhile with your life, Venice. It’s not the only chance. It’s a chance.”

  “I know,” she said quietly.

  “Good.” He swallowed. “The first step’s taken, then. Now, take the second. I know you don’t trust promises of forever. Why should you? Your mother abandoned you, your father neglected you. The maids, the nannies, me . . . we all left you. But Venice, I was seventeen years old! I was young and furious and mortified by your father’s suggestion of something unnatural between you and me.”

  He gripped her shoulders, squeezing tightly. “But I’m not seventeen anymore and there is nothing, nothing that is going to send me away from you this time. The only one with that power is you. This” —he lifted her hand and pressed her palm over his heart— “love, Venice, it’s your responsibility.”

  She blinked and spread her hand over the steady beat of his heart. Warm, vital . . . real.

  “I can’t promise you tomorrow, Venice. No one can. There are lightning bolts and runaway trains.” He smiled teasingly. “Even flash floods.”

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “But I can promise that I’ll never willingly leave you. Ever.”