Linda Castle (16 page)

W
hen the big clock chimed four times, Brooks gathered Marisa’s clothing along with his own. He tied them into a bundle, deposited them in her lap, then picked her up in his arms. He strode buck naked from the study into the hall and toward the stairs.

“What if somebody comes in?” she whispered against the warmth of his chest.

“I’d have a heap of explaining to do.” He paused halfway up the stairs and looked at her with one brow raised. “We’d probably have to get married right away—no discussion, just a quick trip to the preacher.”

Marisa smiled in spite of herself. “Do you want to marry me?”

“How can you even ask after what we just did?” He started climbing the stairs again, shaking his head in astonishment with each step. “I
love
you and I loved you to prove it.”

What they had shared was wonderful and frightening and almost more than Marisa could comprehend. Earlier, when his breathing had been coming in harsh rasps, he had paused on stiff, powerful arms above her, to stare into
her eyes with such longing that she had felt like she really did
belong
to him.

“Missy?” He used her old nickname with intimate ease. “Don’t you know yet how much I care?” He nudged open the door of her room and stepped inside.

“I have an idea.” The feeling was so new she wasn’t comfortable speaking of it. Even thinking about it gave her butterflies.

He put her on the edge of the bed and took the bundle of clothes from her arms. “Then I guess I’ll have to demonstrate again.” He tossed the clothes onto a chair by the window.

“What?” she asked as he gently forced her to lie back on the bed.

He slid one hand up her leg toward the juncture of her thighs. “I still have a couple of hours before dawn to thoroughly convince you.”

Brooks kissed, caressed and tasted every inch of her body, and still he was not satisfied. It came to him, as the first fingers of light traced uneven lines across the horizon, that he would never get enough of loving Marisa.

Not in a million years of pleasuring her.

She had dozed off, curled into the crook of his arm after their last shattering coupling had exploded between them. He held her still, snuggled up against his body like a precious treasure. He knew he should rise and return to his own room, but he was loath to leave her for even a moment. He kissed her forehead and she smiled in her sleep.

He wondered if she dreamed, and if she did, was it of him? Or did she dream of her life in the Territory, of wild rides across the unfettered expanse during fresh spring mornings and glorious sunsets?

She murmured and her eyes fluttered open. Sleep and
the softening effects of being well and truly loved turned her eyes a smoky gray.

“I fell asleep,” she said through a yawn.

He marveled at how lovely she was. The thin shaft of light played on the strands of dark hair splayed across the white pillow cover.

“I was dreaming,” she added with a shy smile.

“Of me?”

Her expression altered and he knew in his gut she was debating about whether to tell him a lie or the truth. He saw in that flicker of time that Marisa would lie to spare his pride. It was a realization that warmed him from the inside out. She did have a gentle concern for his feelings, even if she did not love him as he wished for her to.

“Well, I…”

“Marisa.” He raised himself on one elbow and studied her face. “I never want you to lie to me. No matter what, even if you think you are sparing my feelings, always tell me the truth. And I swear I will do the same for you. There will be no lies between us.”

“All right.”

“Swear it.”

“I swear it, Brooks.” She levered herself up on her elbow in turn so she was face-to-face with him. “I wasn’t dreaming of you.”

He chuckled at her serious expression. “What were you dreaming of? Not another man? My pride couldn’t take it…”

“You are so consarned silly.” She giggled. “I was dreaming of riding. I miss it so much, Brooks.” Her voice was wistful. She flopped down on her back and stared at the ceiling.

He reached out and cupped her firm breast, then laved his tongue across her nipple. She leaned into his caress in
a way that made his loins tighten. “Would you like to go riding?” He nuzzled her neck as he spoke.

“Here? In New York?” She giggled. “You are silly.”

“Yes, we could rent some horses and ride in Central Park. It’s not the Territory, but I think you would like it.”

She scampered up on her knees, her dark hair hanging over her breasts and trailing down on the rumpled covers. “Could we?”

“Of course. There is only one thing.”

She frowned and sat up straighter, the wild O’Bannion blood making her wary, cautious to agree to any terms unless she knew what they were.

“What?”

“You will have to ride sidesaddle.” He chuckled as her brows shot upward.

“Well, if that isn’t the damnedest thing I ever heard of. Sidesaddle?”

He made himself a promise right then and there. If it took the rest of the day, pulling her into his arms for clandestine couplings along the bridal paths, he was going to get her to accept his proposal of marriage.

The morning sun was bright and warm when Brooks returned to the brownstone. He had left Marisa bathing, a task he would’ve been happy to help with, except that he had to attend to something while she was occupied.

He smiled and drew the small, velvet-covered jeweler’s box from his vest pocket. He snapped it open and looked at the ring. Sunlight reflected off the gold and diamonds, but the dark sapphire seemed to absorb the light, bend and splinter the rays until they turned to twilight mist.

“Like Marisa’s eyes,” he mumbled to himself. He returned the box to his vest and opened the front door.

He was so happy, it was hard to keep from singing or
whistling with joy. He had it all planned out. They would ride to a secluded spot near the lake, and after a picnic and some ardent kissing he would propose—again. “And I swear, Marisa, you will say yes to me today.”

The rented dapple gray mare tossed her head and nickered. The sunlight filtering through the thick alder boughs turned her pale mane to liquid silver as Marisa levered the reins and kept her mount under tight control.

“Marisa, I don’t like the way she is acting. Let’s go back and get you a gentler mount.” Brooks frowned at her from beneath his fashionable bowler. The shadow from the brim created a dark slash above his blue eyes.

“Don’t be silly, I can manage this little mare.” A shaft of light shimmered on a carefully sculpted ebony curl and turned it inky blue. The jaunty, iridescent feather in her riding hat swayed saucily when she shook her head.

Brooks could not help but admire how well turned out she was, and how beautiful she remained whether in boots and chaps or satin and velvet.

“I’ve been riding since I was a baby.”

“You have been riding
astraddle
since you were a child, not sidesaddle,” Brooks corrected, reminding her of how awkward she had found mounting with one stirrup. “There is a big difference between a Western saddle on the open prairie and that thing you are perched on. Here in Central Park, you’ll be meeting riders at every corner. Your mare may spook. She has a wild eye.”

Marisa ducked her head slightly, watching him from under the narrow brim of her hat. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

He smiled. How could he refuse her anything when she looked at him like that? “All right, we’ll go easy. But at the first sign of a problem she goes back to the livery and
we find you a gentle old plug with a sway back and Roman nose.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” She smiled broadly.

His gut flip-flopped. He urged his brown gelding alongside the spirited gray and leaned over his saddle until he could deposit a kiss on Missy’s lips.

“Uh-huh, just as I thought,” he said.

“What?” she asked, knitting her brows together.

“You still taste like sugar cookies.” He kissed her again. It was the merest grazing of flesh, but it left him burning for more.

A blush stole up her face. “You say the goll-dangedest things, Brooks.” His love flowed over her in a hot wave each time she looked at him. It stunned her to admit it, but she loved him, too. She made herself a silent vow that today she would tell him how she felt.

“Am I forgiven for being foolishly in love and moved to saying silly things?” he teased.

“This time.” Marisa moved slightly in the sidesaddle. “But you better not make a habit of it, or when we get home Clell will josh the hide right off you.”

When we get home.
Her words rang in Brooks’s ear and gave him a tingling sensation. He would’ve questioned her about it, but the nimble-footed mare danced impatiently. Marisa gave her a loose rein and the animal exploded, taking off over the verdant turf in a blur. Brooks found himself staring at Marisa’s straight slim back as her horse galloped away.

He kicked his horse, and within moments he was matching his mount’s pace to the dapple gray mare’s. The lumpy gunnysack he had tied behind his saddle bumped rhythmically against the animal’s flank—not very fashionable, but the kernel of his battle plan was within that sack.

Brooks touched his finger to the brim of his hat when they cantered by another couple sedately walking their horses along the path. As soon as they rounded a bend, out of sight, Marisa veered off the pebbled path and took the mare over a small hillock. She cut through a dense stand of trees far away from the level meadow. When she had ridden a short distance she pulled up the mare and turned to smile at Brooks. A soft glow seemed to fill her dark eyes. He worshipped this wild, free-spirited woman.

“Ah, Miss O’Bannion, I think my family and I have done the world a great disservice.”

“How so?”

“You were a natural heartbreaker in boots and chaps.” He allowed his eyes to travel over her form, so artfully clothed in the riding habit of plum velvet. “But with the addition of all the feminine wiles my cousin and mother have taught you, there is not a man alive who could withstand your charms.”

“Not a man?”

“Well, not this man,” he admitted gruffly.

Marisa flashed him a flirty grin. “You might just be sweet-talking me to get me back into bed.”

Brooks tipped his head back and laughed heartily. “I might be, but I’m not. Besides, would I have to sweettalk you?”

She smiled and cast her eyes downward. “Maybe not.”

The gray snorted and pranced nervously, but Marisa controlled her easily with a small movement of her tiny gloved hand.

“I am glad to hear it because I have brought something to ply you with. For dessert I was planning on having your sugar-cookie kisses.” His lips curled into a smile.

“Lead the way.” She tossed her head and grinned at him.

He loved her spirit, her beauty, and most of all he loved the way she was comfortable with her own sexuality. Marisa had been untutored and innocent, but now the mystery and delight of making love was as natural to her as breathing. He smiled at the thought of spending his life with her, and all of his nights.

“Follow me.” He guided his horse through a dense growth of brush. After a few minutes the foliage thinned and they entered a small meadow, surrounded on three sides by the cover of trees and trailing vines.

“It is pretty as a picture.” Marisa slipped to the ground. She tied the restive mare on a long lead where she could graze. Then Marisa turned to watch Brooks.

He took the gunnysack and opened it. Then he drew out an old woolen blanket, a tall green bottle and a round of cheese wrapped in gauze. When he looked up, Marisa was still staring at him. Some smoldering emotion lay deep in her eyes.

“What is it?” He stood up and walked to her.

“I have to tell you something.”

His heart contracted. She was so serious a lancet of fear sliced through him. “Smile when you say that or I will begin to worry.” He slipped his hands behind her nape and drew her to him. He kissed her, hard and long, willing her to say she was his—praying she was not going to reject him. When he released her, she drew in a shaky breath.

“I love you, Brooks,” she said simply.

I love you.
The words hung in the air like perfume. They wound around his head and heart.

He pulled her into a passionate kiss, hoping he could show her what those words meant to him.

An hour later the wine bottle was barely touched, the fruit whole and the cheese still wrapped in its gauzy covering.
Marisa, however, had been peeled, bared, sampled and devoured. Brooks had undone her habit and lathed hot kisses across her breasts to the tune of buzzing honeybees going from blossom to blossom. Now the two of them lay curled together, satisfied and disheveled. Her skirt was shoved up around her smooth thighs as the sun traced an arc low in the westerning sky.

“I guess we’ll have to get married now.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t Ellen tell you?” His brow furrowed in mock despair. “It is an old New York City tradition. Once a maiden is deflowered among the flowers there is nothing else that can be done.” He clicked his tongue and shook his head from side to side. “What a pity…”

“Oh, you!” She collapsed into giggles until he parted the front of her habit again and kissed the swell of her bare breast.

They both turned serious as their passion flared.

Marisa was drunk on happiness. Brooks had proposed no less than a dozen times in Donovan’s study and at least that many more times today, each proposition of marriage more outlandish than the last.

“Marry me,” he murmured into her mouth as he kissed her now.

“How many times are you going to ask me?” She sat up and pulled her habit closed. He was disappointed to see her luscious flesh disappear beneath the plum velvet.

“I’ll ask until you say yes.” Brooks sighed and grabbed his coat from the bush where he had flung it. “But perhaps I have been going about this the wrong way.” He fished something out of the pocket and turned to Marisa. “Maybe you are the traditional type of female. Perhaps you prefer the old-fashioned way.” His expression
was serious as he positioned himself on one knee beside her.