Bound For Eden (3 page)

‘Tell him to get me a bath ready.'

‘Yes, sir. You heard him.' The boy gave Alex a shove towards the corridor. ‘Go heat some water.'

Alex cleared her throat and tried to lower her voice. ‘I ain't Mr Taylor's boy.' Her voice came out husky and uncertain and, to Alex's ear at least, not at all boyish.

‘You ain't?' The boy looked suspicious.

Alex shook her head. ‘I'm a guest.' This time she thought she sounded more convincing.

The boy looked Alex up and down in disbelief, taking in the rumpled clothes and dirty face. Alex couldn't help tugging nervously at the overalls.

The man silhouetted by the open door sighed and reached into his pocket. ‘I don't care whose boy you are. I'm tired and I want a bath.' He took a coin from his pocket and flipped it at Alex. She fumbled to catch it and it fell to the floor, where it circled lazily before dropping with a clatter by the scuffed toe of her brown boot.

She gaped down at Seated Liberty, glinting in the lamplight. A whole dollar? For drawing him a bath? The man must be a fool. Either that, or a very rich man indeed. Despite the bag of gold hidden in her luggage, Alex couldn't resist picking up the coin. She was done with being penniless. She tucked the coin into her pocket.

‘Where's the washroom?' she asked.

The boy gave her a disgusted look and pointed. Alex headed off without looking back to see if either of them followed her.

‘I'll go back and take care of your horse, Mr Slater,' she heard the boy say.

The washroom was outside, across the dirt courtyard. There was a stove burning in a corner of the room, but otherwise it was dark. Alex hurried to light the lamps and then she busied herself stoking the fire. There was a barrel of almond shells and pine cones and a stack of kindling, so it didn't take her long to have the stove glowing red.

As she worked the man came in and dropped his saddle and baggage on the dirt floor. He groaned as he sat down on the rough-hewn wooden bench. When she heard him take his boots off her stomach clenched. Good Lord, he wasn't going to undress
now,
was he? Her eyes widened in panic. She'd thought to fill the tub and leave before he disrobed.

‘I'll just get the water,' she mumbled, leaving without looking at him. She didn't want him to see her flaming face. She busied herself pumping water and setting it on the stove and never once looked his way.

‘You're a wagoner?' he asked her as she watched the stove anxiously, waiting for signs of a bubble.

‘A what?' She couldn't help it: she looked at him. And gaped.

There in front of her, half-naked, was the most incredible man she'd ever seen. She'd thought Silas Grady was big. But this man . . . he seemed immense in the small washroom. His shoulders stretched beyond the width of the doorframe and she couldn't look away from the expanse of his chest. Which wasn't surprising, she thought dumbly, as he wasn't wearing a shirt and she'd never seen so much naked flesh in her life.

His skin shone like oiled rosewood, a burnished warm brown, stretched taut over hard lengths of muscle. A faint black line of hair ran between his nipples and down his flat, firm stomach.

He cleared his throat and she was suddenly aware that she was staring. She tore her gaze from his body and made herself look at his face.

And, oh glory, that didn't help at all.

The man was simply perfect. His forehead was broad, his jaw square, his nose straight, and he had the most beautiful lips she'd ever seen. The blue-black shadow of stubble only served to emphasise the masculine strength of his beauty. He looked the way Lucifer must have looked, she thought witlessly: a dark angel. His hair was the rich, deep shade of damp Mississippi earth, and his eyes were black and liquid – not still, but turbulent, like a flooding river. She felt as though she might drown in them.

‘I know you're not mute,' he said, his voice low and rough.

Alex swallowed hard and tried to find her tongue, although she still couldn't look away from those intense black eyes.

‘Sorry, what was your question?' Her voice came out at its natural pitch and she saw his eyebrows rise. Startled from her stupor she blushed and tore her gaze away from him, using all her willpower to keep her eyes trained on the tips of her boots.

‘I asked whether you were a wagoner.'

‘A wagoner?' This time her voice cracked.

He sighed impatiently. ‘Are you heading west? With a wagon train?'

‘Oh! Yes, sir . . . I mean, that is, we aim to . . .'

‘The water's boiling,' he said, nodding towards the vigorously bubbling pot and cutting off her babble.

Relieved, she took it from the stove and filled the tin tub. She was only too aware of his black gaze and almost tripped over her own feet in the process. Catching herself against the doorframe, she blushed furiously. In order to give herself a chance to regain her composure, she hurried out to the pump for a bucket of cold water to balance the temperature in the tub.

She was alarmed to find him unbuckling his belt when she returned. She dumped the bucket of water in the tub as quickly as she could, sending splashes onto the dirt, and backed towards the door.

‘Where do you think you're going?' he asked. ‘I didn't pay you a dollar so I could clean up after myself.'

‘You want me to wait?' Alex squeaked.

‘I want you to heat some water for me to wash my hair, and strop my razor for me so I can shave. Then you can rustle me up a towel and clean up the bath when I'm done.'

Alex was sorely tempted to throw the dollar back at him and run for her room. But his breeches fell to the floor and she couldn't breathe, let alone move. She'd had no idea . . .

‘That water won't heat itself,' he drawled as he lowered himself into the steaming tub.

Her hands trembling, Alex fetched more water. The cool night air hit her like a slap. She should keep walking, she thought numbly. Just leave the bucket by the pump and walk back upstairs to Adam and Victoria, bury herself under the covers and try to block out the image of him standing there naked in the washroom. All glowing brown skin and hard muscle.

Her limbs seemed to have grown loose and a strange pulsating heat was uncurling in her belly.

She could hear little splashes of water as he shifted in the tub. Her heart felt like it was fluttering up her chest and into her throat. She imagined what it would be like to touch him . . . would he feel as warm and velvety as he looked? Would he feel hard?

‘Hurry up,' he called from the steaming heat of the bathhouse, ‘I need my back soaped.'

Oh glory.

By the time she returned to the sultry confines of the small room, Alex's knees were practically knocking together. When she set the water on the stove her trembling sent droplets of water cascading to the burning iron hotplate, where they sizzled and spat.

‘I must have brought half the prairie with me,' the man behind her sighed. ‘Get that brush and scrub my back, would you?'

How she managed to cross the room and lift the brush from the shelf, Alex didn't know. She was painfully aware of her own body – she tried to walk more like a man, but only succeeded in feeling even more self-conscious.

She knelt behind him, safely out of his line of vision, and contemplated the wall of slick muscle before her. Tentatively she rubbed the brush over his shoulders.

‘That's not going to shift anything,' he told her, with no small measure of exasperation. ‘Put your back into it and use the soap.'

Obediently, Alex scrubbed harder and the water darkened to a muddy brown. She could see the great fists of muscle in his back begin to loosen under her strokes.

‘What's your name?'

Alex didn't have the wit to give her carefully chosen pseudonym. Distracted by that expanse of glowing wet skin, she slipped and almost told him her real name. ‘Al– Alexander.'

‘Al Alexander?'

‘Uh . . . my first name's William,' she invented swiftly, using her foster father's name, ‘William Alexander. But everyone calls me Al . . . or Alex.'

‘Alex.' The sound of her name issuing from those sensual lips, in that deep voice, made her quiver.

She was surprised when he twisted around and offered her his hand. She stared at it dumbly for a minute before she realised that he meant for her to shake it. She clasped it and almost gasped at the white-hot bolt of sensation that ran up her arm. When he let go, her hand smarted, as though it had been burned.

‘So you and your folks are taking the Oregon Trail?' he asked as he scrubbed his face.

She nodded and then blushed when she realised he couldn't see her. ‘Yes, sir.'

‘It's Luke.'

‘Luke.' The name came from her breathlessly, like a sigh.

‘I'm captaining a party headed for the Willamette Valley,' he told her conversationally. ‘You mind getting me that razor now?'

Alex did mind. She was just beginning to relax enough to enjoy rubbing the brush in lazy circles over that strong back. But, remembering the coin in her pocket, she set the brush aside and went to his saddlebags.

‘It's in the one on the left.'

The leather was supple with age and wear. Alex couldn't believe everything he managed to fit inside the one saddlebag. She eventually found the razor inside a soft leather case. There was a strop hanging by the door, and she made fast work of sharpening the blade.

‘You joined a party yet?'

Alex shook her head. ‘We only got into town today.'

‘Where are you from?'

That was one question Alex had no intention of answering. ‘You sure are nosey,' she observed tartly, handing him the razor.

He laughed and, if it was even possible, the flash of his white teeth and the dent of a dimple in his cheek made him seem even more beautiful. She'd had no idea men like this existed. There certainly hadn't been any like him back home in Mississippi.

For a moment she wondered how it would have been if he'd met her as Alexandra, in her best pink flower-patterned Sunday dress, instead of as this scruffy boy. Would he have found her pretty? Would he have smiled at her, showing that heavenly dimple? The thought made her feel fluttery and light-headed.

What on earth was wrong with her? She'd never reacted like this to a man before.

‘And you sure are close-mouthed,' he observed. ‘Hold the mirror for me so I can shave, attaboy.' Alex took the small square of mirror from his shaving kit and held it before him. ‘Kneel down,' he ordered, and Alex obeyed, kneeling beside him.

She was acutely aware of his proximity, of his wet flesh, and of what lay beneath the shivering surface of the murky bathwater.

‘Have you outfitted yourselves with a wagon yet?' he asked as the razor rasped over his rough stubble.

‘No, sir . . . I mean, Luke.'

‘I know an honest wagon maker who won't overcharge you.'

‘Maker?' Alex echoed, unable to disguise her dismay. She'd assumed they'd be able to buy one ready-made. ‘How long will it take to make one?'

Luke eyed her, the wicked blade pausing mid-stroke. ‘Why? I thought you weren't signed up with a party yet.'

‘I just . . . we thought . . . we're in a bit of a hurry,' she admitted.

‘You do realise it's a six-month trip?' he drawled, and once again the razor slid in a long, rasping arc over his lean cheek.

‘I know,' Alex said defensively, ‘we just want to leave as soon as we can.'

‘In a spot of trouble, are we?'

‘No.' But she knew he could tell by her face that they were.

‘And when would you like to leave?'

She didn't care how beautiful he was, he was beginning to irritate her with his questions. ‘None of your business,' she snapped.

One dense black eyebrow lifted and she thought she saw his lips twitch. ‘I'm only asking because we have room in our party. But you'd need a wagon.'

Alex chewed her lip.

Luke finished shaving, without asking another question.

In silence, she fetched the warm water and waited as he soaped his thick, dark hair. When he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, she poured, watching the fall of water shimmer pale gold in the lamplight as it rinsed the soap free and left him clean and shining, like a newly-carved marble statue.

She spun on her heel when he began to rise from the tub, and scrabbled for a towel. She thrust it at him and busied herself dampening the stove.

‘You know, you ought to have a bath too,' he said speculatively, and she was conscious of his bulk blocking her exit. ‘You're filthier than I was.'

Alex felt a wave of horror splash over her like a bucket of icy water. She shrank inside the baggy overalls and shook her head vehemently.

‘I can't see your skin for the muck,' he continued.

Oh heavens, what had she got herself into?

Four

Fortunately for Alex, they were interrupted by an outraged gasp.