Magic and the Texan (15 page)

Not a half second later, they both heard hooves in the distance. By the time they got to their feet and straightened their clothes, each saw riders on the horizon.

“Catfish Abbott and the rest of my men,” Jon Marc explained. “You know, he's my strawboss.”

“Yes, your
segundo.
”

“He's nephew to India O'Brien.”

Jon Marc had basically a family member in his employ?

Eleven riders rode up, headed by a brown-eyed young man wearing a ten-gallon hat that he, as well as the other men, doffed. Catfish Abbott was dust-coated, his eyes tired, and the bracket at his mouth befitted an older man. Bethany would bet anything he brought news other than the successful completion of his drive to Rockport.

Jon Marc made introductions. Bethany noted from his expression that he wanted to ask what the devil had delayed them.

The brush poppers, an equally dusty lot of vaqueros still astride their horses, bade the new mistress of the Caliente a warm welcome, and best wishes to both on their marriage.

Jon Marc promised a hoedown with a proper
barbacoa
. “Soon as the wife and I settle in to married life, I'll call for guitars, we'll barbecue a steer, and drink plenty of tequila.”

Several gazes moved downward, to the half-full bottle that lay on the blanket.

“Right now,” Jon Marc tacked on, “I want y'all to go to your homes. Let your
señoras
and children welcome you there.”

The vaqueros left, but not India's nephew.

Catfish Abbott, his lips grim, crossed gloved hands on the pommel. “Jones,” he said, using the family nickname, “we ran into trouble. Got ambushed in Duval County. Hoot Todd and his cronies stole a sack of the Rockport money. Thank God I divided the money up, or he would've gotten it all.”

Bethany had a sinking spell.

Fury, deep and hot, marked Jon Marc's face. His clenched fists went white at the knuckles. “Anybody get hurt?”

“Nothing we didn't get over. Except for pride. We took a licking. Did you know someone broke Todd's nose?”

“I know. I did it. He'll wish he'd left well-enough alone, once I catch him.” Jon Marc gritted his teeth. “I'll kill the son-of-a-bitch. I am going to get my rifle, saddle León, and find Todd. And kill him.”

This was no idle threat, Bethany knew. A cold chill shook her despite the warmth of twilight. Marshaling nerve, she stepped over to her husband. “No,
querido.
No.”

Catfish wiped a forearm across his brow. “I, uh, I'll be moseying on over to the stables to rub Arrow down. You decide what you want to do, Jones, you can find me at my place.”

The strawboss reined his horse away from the pecan tree. The stallion descended Harmony Hill, his tail swishing, his rider hurrying him onward.

Jon Marc stood, eager to exact revenge.

She curled fingers on his forearm. “You have two choices, husband. Saddle up and ride out. Or you can stay. I want you to stay with me. In the morning, if you'd like, we can discuss how to get your money back.”

“If I let Todd get away with it, he'll cause more trouble.”

“Whatever means you employed in the past didn't work. What's wrong with taking a night to form a new plan?” She cozied up to what she expected to become a very hot iron. Matter of fact, Mighty Duke seemed to grow hotter from their close contact. “I can't stand the thought of anything happening to you.”

Squinting, Jon Marc scratched his jaw. “That has the ring of ultimatum to it.”

“I'm simply pointing out your choices.” Bethany slid her palms up the solid bastion of his chest. “Earlier, you mentioned naked. I'm not opposed to that, if you give me enough time to get used to it.”

Her husband's hands splayed over her behind, pressing her to that heating iron. His voice a husky whisper, he said, “Wife, you don't give a man much of a choice.”

The bride began with a pale green nightgown that brought out the verdant hues in her eyes. Her bridegroom, having changed in the parlor for the sake of her modesty, chose his only nightshirt; it sported black-and-white stripes, much like a convict's pajamas. Truth was, Jon Marc didn't care about clothes, except how to get green cotton tossed aside.

Less than an hour had passed since Catfish brought bad news; thus, Jon Marc couldn't get shut of plans for vengeance against Hoot Todd, but as Beth had advised, tomorrow would be best for that. Why let Todd ruin a wedding night?

“I'll just, um, slip between the sheets,” Beth said, her long-lashed eyes now shuttered as she pulled aside the coverlet.

He watched her climb into their marriage bed, his attention centered on the curve of her hip. He asked, “Shall I put out the lantern?”

“Only if it pleases you.”

“It wouldn't please me.”

“Of course it wouldn't.” Beth brought the covers under her chin. “You're wanting nudity.”

He winked, hoping to set her at ease. “It's a heckuva place to start, everything tucked in and shrouded.”

“You don't mind giving me a little time to get used to this, do you?”

“I don't mind.” What a lie! But he had to think of his wife's sensibilities. “Would it be rushing you”—he picked at one stripe—“if I took off this nightshirt?”

“Do I need to watch?”

“Only if you have a mind to.”

She blushed, her lashes falling to half staff. “I've been admiring the looks of your legs and knees.”

He glanced downward. This nightshirt didn't amount to much; it didn't cover knobby knees or the sprouts of red hair that grew on his shins and calves. “You makin' fun of me?”

“Not in the least.” She grinned. “I've never seen a man's knees, save for yours. I like the looks of them.”

He decided not to give her too much to gawk at, not yet, so he turned his back to shed stripes, then spread fingers across his tools to spare her reaction and slid between the sheets. The warmth of her side radiated to him, which he liked. A lot. A hint of vanilla wafted to him, yet he wouldn't tell her not to wear it again, that it was favored by the whores of Laredo.

He vowed to buy Beth a big bottle of French perfume, next time he went to town. If he crossed one, on his way to finding Todd—
Forget him. For now.

Jon Marc thought about the gift he'd bought in Laredo. Should he give it to her right away? No. He'd wait until later, when they were in the afterglow of bonding their marriage.

Just before he started to cant to his side and kiss her, she said, “I lied. I've never seen your knees before.”

His hand caressed her hip. “You do lie. Wicked woman, you climbed a tree to get a look at my legs.”

“I wasn't looking at your legs.”

“What were you gawking at, hm?” he teased, knowing full well she hadn't climbed that pecan to stare at the kitchen.

She gave a breathy little sigh as her fingers walked under the sheet and over to his most-male member. She stroked it gently. “This.”

Immediately, it swelled. Damn shooting, Jon Marc had a wildcat for a wife. And she had a tiger by the ...

Concerning male equipment, he had nothing to be ashamed of. He was as well-equipped as his brothers, if not better.

“So . . . what did you think?” he goaded, enjoying their intimate conversation.

“ 'Tis a Mighty Duke, ain't no fluke.”

“That rhymes.”

Her eyes closed momentarily, then opened wide to gaze at him. “As I told you, I enjoy a twisted word or two.”

“Let's hear another.”

“I can't think of another.”

He nudged his expanding rod against her palm. “Then... what are you thinking about?”

“How much I want you to kiss me.”

“Think no more.”

Jon Marc, tangling arms and legs with hers, pressed his lips to the heart-red mouth that had long intrigued him. Citrus from limes lingered on her tongue. Needing to feel her, yearning for more, he explored her spine. She didn't cry modesty when he inched her nightgown up the back of her legs.

Nor did she complain when he freed the ribbons attached to the nightgown's bodice. His teeth drew material aside. Her skin was translucent, beautifully clear with a faint network of blue veins that showed the delicacy of her flesh. No man's eyes had ever before feasted on these breasts, and the mere thought of that gave Jon Marc an even more urgent desire to mate with her.

His mouth sought the tan circle at the peak of one sizable breast. The circle, along with its pebbled heart, puckered against his tongue as he suckled deeply, as a babe would. What did she feel? Did her blood race, like his? Did she have a need to merge together in the primitive yet eternal act of joining?

Passionate she might be—her breath issued in short spurts of exultation; her fingers curled into his hair urging him onward—but he knew not to rush her.

With the greatest regret, he pulled his lips from her breast. Her eyes widened as if to ask why.

Because the pump must be primed, honey love.
Thus, he set out to do that. “Gracious,” he uttered and swept fingers to her flesh, “you have soft skin.”

And she did. It was like cruising his hands on satin, as he canvassed a plump hip, a smooth thigh, and an even smoother inner thigh. His hand advanced to the thatch of hair at the crown of these legs. A middle finger delved deeper . . . caressed the nub, his massage bringing her hips off the mattress.

“What . . . what are you doing to me?” she cried.

“You don't like it? I'll stop. If you tell me to.”

“Won't . . . tell you that.”

“Didn't think you would.” A grin pulled his mouth wide and flared his nostrils. His fingers slipped deeper into her moist femininity. Oh, Lord. Oh, saints above! She felt tight, wet, and hot. His—what had she called it? Mighty Duke?—was stiff enough to come apart at the seams, if it had seams. The urgency in his lower back demanded release.

Proud he might have been at the size of Old Duke, he wasn't proud, not at all, at his critical straits. Could he last through slow lovemaking?

No. He couldn't. Just couldn't.

Not like this.

“I need you, Beth. Now.” He rocked her back to the mattress, swung atop her, fitting himself between her legs. His manhood nudged at its goal. “Open to me.”

He felt her yield, a subtle lessening of tension. He thrust forward. She sheathed him. The muscles of her womanhood clasped him, squeezed him tightly.

His palms slid beneath her back, his fingertips meeting at her spine. He ached to surge forward, to press in to the hilt. Yet something stopped him. It wasn't a maidenhead. He wasn't a master at taking a woman's virginity, but he'd heard plenty of men talk about being the first with a woman. This was not a virgin.

“Goddammit to hell, you've been with another man.”

 

 

“Pardon me if I don't say thank you.”

Bethany ought to let his hurtful statement go. Couldn't. “If that's the way you feel, why did you spill your seed in me?”

Jon Marc didn't answer, not that she expected he would. His had been angry lovemaking, fired by accusations she couldn't deny, but didn't explain, even as he'd reached an explosive climax that his new wife had met with her own carnal release.

It had been her first.

At least he'd been first on that score. She now knew that what happened with Oscar—even though she'd thought it moderately satisfying—hadn't approached the intensity of making love with Jon Marc, even angry love, charged with hurt and disappointment on his part.

Not that he would appreciate hearing that.

While she made no attempt to straighten her nightgown, she did pull the covers up under her armpits. The musk of their mating clung to the sheets, the sting of sex still burning her insides, both reminders of his furious yet rousing assault.

She ached all over, but not from the act that had made them one forever. Every joint wrenched. Even her toenails hurt from destroying her husband. The biggest pain converged in her heart, where a solid block of smoldering coal burned.

Jon Marc, his face glum, continued to yank on clothes. Plopping down on the bed, as far from her as possible, he tugged on first one boot, then the other.

“Where are you going?” She feared for the future.

He eyed her in that disconcerting way of his. But for the first time, she saw a cold stare, not unlike the marbles he'd claimed to have seen in his supposed grandfather's eyes.

“I've slept under the stars every night.” His voice was as cold as his eyes. “Why should tonight be different?”

“Because we're husband and wife.”

He shook his head. “You are not the wife I expected.”

“You've known that for a while.”

“Not all of it.”

“Do you want me to tell all?”

“Hell, no.”

His language marked disrespect; perhaps she had it coming, but she would not be cowed by the past. “You're going to hear it. I was blackmailed into another man's bed. I had no choice, no money, nowhere to turn. I had to try to save my father. But he was beyond saving. Just as you had to kill that man who threatened Burke and Susan, I had to sacrifice for family.”

“Bullshit.” A tic beneath his right eye went along with a bearing of teeth. “Those red shoes should have warned me. A lot of things should have. You've whored yourself.”

Bethany threw back the covers, pulled her nightgown down, anu sat up. Afraid of losing him, she couldn't delight in his naked form. All she saw was a face filled with fury and disgust. “ ‘Thou who art without sin,' ” she said, “ ‘cast the first stone.' ”

He raked fingers through his hair, saying not a word.

“Jon Marc, I love you. I always will.”
Don't bawl, girl!
“I'll do anything to make it up to you.”

His upper lip curled. “Seems to me you do what needs to be done, hang the consequences. No telling what you might do, left to your own devices.”

“That's unfair.”

“Don't talk to me about fair.” Once more on his feet, he glared down at her. “Not in the same breath you speak of prostituting away what was rightfully mine.”

She could argue, could say she'd made a mistake to get involved with Oscar. If she had her Liberal days to live again, would she have done differently? Hindsight might be clear, but she'd loved Cletus Todd enough to sacrifice for him. With love came the willingness to sacrifice.

She had but one argument: “I wasn't yours at the time.”

“I don't wanna know whose you were, but your training speaks for itself.” Leaning over, he braced palms on the mattress. “Repeat it. That French phrase you used once.”

Taken aback, ashamed to the pith of her being, Bethany uttered, “I don't remember.”

“Liar. Repeat it.”

“Mange moi, mon chou.
”

“That's exactly as I recall it,” he said bitterly.

“I don't know what it means.”

“Likely story.” His back to her, Jon Marc went over to a pair of britches that hung in the wardrobe. Pulling something from a pocket, he closed his fist around it. Swung around. Tossed the object. It landed on her lap.

A bracelet, it was.

“I believe it's customary for a man to leave a token after he's scr—That should be sufficient.” On the crest of his words he stomped out of the bedroom.

Bethany glanced down at the burnt offering, tears stinging her eyes. Tri-colored gold, the bracelet had been fashioned into a braid of leaves and hearts. It matched her wedding band. He'd bought it with intent to honor his bride.

“Jon Marc,” she moaned twice. “I have done you so wrong.”

Tucking the bracelet away, she never wanted to see it again. But she must find her husband, must know his intentions. Rushing barefoot into the night, she stepped on one sticker after another; nothing kept her from his path.

She found her disenchanted husband at the river, throwing blanket and picnic leavings into the rushing water.

“Will you throw me away, too?” Bethany's voice carrying through the night air, like the mournful cry of a wounded animal.