Intimate Strangers (Eclipse Heat Book 2) (20 page)

Brody appeared behind her and edged protectively to her side, ready to lend moral support. “Pa likes the way my mother looks, Miss Roberta. You should have seen how proud he was of Mama when we dined in Wichita.”

As pleased as Lucy was at her daughter’s defense, she couldn’t help but notice Brody’s quick look at the shapeless dress she now wore.

Lucy tried to avoid the direction of the conversation but as usual, Roberta forged on. “Lucy Quince, I’ve been here more than a week, and I’ve yet to hear you engage in talk with Ambrose.”

“That would be between me and
my
husband, now wouldn’t it, Roberta?”

Roberta was not one to back down from a tussle and said peevishly, “You certainly wouldn’t know you’re his wife by the way you act. Why, you don’t even look at the poor man. It’s just like in the Robin’s Nest. You stay in the kitchen and hide from everyone.”

Lucy wanted to deny the charge but since it was true, there wasn’t much she could say. She uttered a feeble, “It’s complicated. You don’t understand.”

But Roberta took that as agreement and continued. “You might as well pack those sorry dresses of yours and head back to Buffalo Creek with me if you’re not going to make use of the family God gave back to you. Me, I think it’s a waste, but if that’s the way you feel, let’s be on our way.”

Brody froze at the suggestion but Lucy reassured her quickly. “Don’t you worry, I’m not leaving here, Brody.”

Satisfied that she’d made her point, Roberta added smugly, “Then if you’re staying, I’ll visit here for a while, and you can study on how a lady engages in frivolous conversation that entertains a gentleman.”

She looked pointedly at Brody and then nodded at Lucy. “Your mama’s forgotten how to flirt, and I see it as my duty to reintroduce her to that skill.”

When Brody looked interested, Roberta fanned herself daintily with a scrap of lace before she continued, patting Brody’s arm reassuringly. “After all, I have to convey my appreciation for the fine care the Quince men showered on me.”

Both Lucy and Brody snorted at that remark because after the initial fluttering and flirting with the males, Brody and Lucy had been left to fetch and carry for Roberta.

Alex had made it half of the first morning and then he’d disappeared into the great outdoors. And as for Ambrose and Hamilton—Roberta had had to get out of her sickbed and come to the supper table to see the Quince brothers again.

Lucy swallowed the defensive words she started to say because the truth was that Roberta had once saved her life and in a strange way, it gave her a right to observe what Lucy was doing with it. And Roberta was right—Lucy was hiding again.

Lucy walked to the closet and looked in. “I’ll make you a deal, Roberta. You can have your pick of the whole kit and caboodle after Brody chooses the material she likes and you sew it up into dresses for her.”

It didn’t evade Lucy’s notice that Brody perked right up at that suggestion. It didn’t seem like the eight-year-old and the Buffalo Creek siren would have much in common besides Lucy, although it appeared that Roberta wanted to change that happenstance, and Brody clearly deserved the attention.

Since Roberta really was an excellent seamstress but too idle here on the Double-Q, it seemed a reasonable solution to set Roberta to work doing something she enjoyed.

Lucy was flooded with relief, having finally figured out what to do with her friend. Roberta beamed her acceptance and before Lucy knew Roberta’s intention, she crossed the floor. Hugging Lucy and shedding real tears, she gasped, “Thank you, Qui—no…Lucy.”

And suddenly they were two isolated females standing in a sea of males. They both looked at Brody and of one mind, pulled her into the circle of sisterhood.

Standing with arms entwined, the three of them giggled over Roberta’s hiccupped sobs. At last Lucy understood her younger self’s loneliness. She’d been a child bride trapped in a land with nothing but grim-faced men.

Not one to let an opportunity slide by, Roberta resumed being Roberta, adding judiciously, “You really need to let me alter some dresses for you. That yellow in Wichita was absolutely divine. But, Lucy, those things you’re wearing right now are ugly.”

She turned to Brody. “Aren’t your mama’s clothes just about the most awful, ill-fitted, ugly things you’ve ever seen?” she dared her to disagree.

She didn’t let her answer but continued, “And, Brody, it’s a real shame, because your mama is pretty when she tries—she just won’t try.” Roberta was off and running and Lucy couldn’t help smiling just a little at the other woman’s nonsense.

When Roberta’s face smoothed into one of her simpering puckers, Brody and Lucy knew without looking that Ambrose stood in the doorway. How long he’d been there they couldn’t say, but Brody gave her mother a sideways grin and rolled her eyes. Lucy almost burst out laughing because suddenly the day was good.

Roberta made for him like a bee after honey. She said, “Ambrose, those shirts you and Hamilton are wearing are not fit to wipe the furniture that your wife shines for you.

Before he could mumble “Howdy-do,” or “What the hell,” she whipped him around and ordered him, “Stay put while I take your measure, Ambrose Quince.” Pulling off her fancy shawl, she held it up, sizing him from shoulder to shoulder.

Lucy couldn’t hold back her laughter.  She giggled as she hadn’t in too long. Brody had already been snickering and that was it. The women convulsed in mirth at Ambrose’s expense.

Hamilton followed the sound of laughter to the upstairs and stood in the hall, peering into the room. “What in tarnation is the racket about?”

Ambrose backed out of the room, his ears bright red as he jammed his hat on his head. “Run, for God’s sake.” He grabbed Hamilton and steered him away, muttering as he retreated, “Bunch of hens…”

His words drifted back to Lucy and she laughed harder. Ambrose and Hamilton disappeared for the rest of the day and by the time they returned, the sitting room had become undisputed female territory. It was now a sewing room, piled high with Lucy’s old clothes ready for Roberta to redesign.

Lucy watched Quincy pensively when he came to the house for supper. Their coupling in Wichita had restored a part of her she hadn’t known was missing. She’d been assuring herself he was a stranger for whom she had no feelings, but it wasn’t true.

Some nights, Lucy thought about rolling over and telling him how much she wanted him. But she didn’t have the gumption to seduce her husband, so she lay awake and thought about what she’d like to say instead. Quincy had reclaimed her heart and she didn’t quite know what to do with the love she felt for him.

Roberta was right. She’d become a drudge—cooking, cleaning and canning as she waited for Ambrose to make the first move. She pondered Roberta’s description of her wardrobe and wondered if she was using the wrong weapons to get Quincy’s attention. That night when Quincy followed her to bed, Lucy sat before the vanity brushing her hair ’til it crackled with life.

Quincy was exhausted and surly. Earlier in the day Hamilton had drawn the right conclusion. “You and Luce fightin’ again?”

Ambrose was damn sick of his brother sneering at his marriage, so he’d smiled and lied. “Hell no, I’m as good as newly married. A man can spend his nights doin’ other than sleeping, Hamilton. You need to find yourself a bride.”

Then he’d stomped into the house ready to find Lucy and pick a fight if it gave him an excuse to talk to her. He’d been laughed out of their female meeting and stayed away from the house the rest of the day.

After supper he steered clear of the sitting room. It had been taken over by Roberta where she appeared happy, fiddling with the pile of Lucy’s old clothes she’d dragged downstairs.

As soon as Lucy finished up in the kitchen and went to bed, Ambrose followed, unwilling to miss a moment alone with her, even if it was spent in uncomfortable silence. His cock unfurled as soon as he walked into the bedroom.

Lucy sat at her rosewood vanity torturing him with a brush and a mirror instead of crawling into bed so he could turn off the light and get on with not sleeping.

He rolled on his side, facing her with the sheet pulled across his groin, hiding its aroused condition.

She caught him staring and he tried to wipe the lust from his expression as he watched the pull of her nightgown across her plump breasts.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Lucy.” His voice was a guttural semblance of normal. He swallowed, trying to wet his dry mouth.

“You’re not repulsed by my scars?” She held his gaze in the mirror, laying down the brush to pick up a bottle of lotion.

Mesmerized, he watched as she smoothed white cream across her neck and then lower, tracing the rough line marring her flesh to where it disappeared beneath her night dress.

“No,” he answered her. “I’ve got plenty of my own. Scars are just evidence of living.”

She pressed her hands nervously against the muslin material, unknowingly tantalizing him more with the shadow of her body beneath. “I have a stitch for every memory I lost.”

“Is that what’s wrong? You think I don’t want you?” It seemed absurd as he lay there, his cock throbbing, ready to prove her wrong.

“In Wichita, you said we needed a bed and six weeks in it.” Her voice was husky, her words accusing.

“Come here,” he growled, rolling to his back so his heavily aroused shaft tented the sheet he’d been hiding under. “We’ll start catching up.”

She laid down the hairbrush and stood, crossing to the bed where she studied him.

Impatient to sink into her heat and taste her again, he said gruffly, “You going to gawk all night? I’ve got other things in mind.”

“Maybe I want to look at you for a change.” She folded her arms defensively and he could feel the moment slipping away.

Quincy threw back the sheet and shoved down his long johns. His cock waving in the air was ready to shoot just by the touch of her gaze. “Have at it,” he challenged her, feeling like a damn fool as her gaze centered on his groin.

But her arms came down and she sat on the edge of the bed, leaning closer as she inspected him ’til he felt the puff of her breath on his rigid flesh. He groaned out loud and she shushed him with a look and went back to studying his member. “If it’s torture you have in mind, you’re getting’ the knack of it just fine.”

Her lips curved in a smile and she leaned closer, paused and then licked him. Jesus God, when her pink tongue came out and touched his cock, lightning sizzled up his spine and along every nerve ending.

She stood, saying primly, “It’s time for bed.” Lucy doused the light with him lying there, his cock raring to go, and wondering if she knew what was in store for her when she slid between the sheets.

He didn’t wonder long. He could hear her rustling before the mattress dipped and, minus her nightgown, she came over him, straddling his thighs and fitting his cock to her tight entrance. When she leaned close, kissing his neck and then his jaw, her hair brushed against his shoulders and he ran his hands through it, then down her back to her swaying hips and naked rump.

Her pussy was wet, ready for him to slide to the hilt, but she rotated her soft flesh, brushing against his cock head, teasing both of them. He was ready to beg for it by the time she inched lower, swallowing the knob, pausing to clench her cunny and squeezing him with promise. “God damn,” he groaned, wanting to plunge to her core before he lost total control.

Lucy slid down his cock, holding nothing back, giving him all of her pulsing heat at the same time she laughed softly, loving it and him the way she had in the past. When she flexed her hips and pushed his cock head deeper, the bed swayed and creaked. She froze.

“Hell no,” he growled softly and rolled them over, seating himself deeper and lifting her with him off the bed. He grabbed the sheet and threw it to the floor, then sank down on it, lying flat with her straddling him, full of his cock. “Ride me quiet, but ride me hard,” he ordered her.

And she did. Lucy grabbed hold of his shoulders, rocking against his groin before squeezing his cock with her pussy and lifting upward ’til only the head remained inside. Her soft laughter changed to pants of desire as she lost herself in pleasuring both of them, plunging up and down as he held on to her hips, reveling in her passion as he tried to control his own raging lust.

When she came, he pulled her mouth to his, drinking her cries of ecstasy. She slumped against him and he growled softly, “Don’t go to sleep, we’re not done yet.”

She giggled softly when he pulled out of her, rolled her over on her stomach and pulled her hips up high, her rump positioned before him. Opening the lips of her sex, he rubbed his cock in her wet heat and said, “Brace yourself.”

“Quiet,” she warned.

Silence was fine with him, but neither God nor the devil could have stopped him from plunging into her heat. Lucy held steady while he thrust in and out, sometimes leaning over her to whisper, “I dreamed about this, about you.” He breathed the words into her ear and she shivered, moaned and pushed back and up, seating him deeper.

He cupped her, finding her swollen pearl and toying with it while he plunged in and out. She muffled her cry against his arm and came so hard her internal muscles milked and stroked his release from him too.