Maverick Heart (19 page)

Abruptly he released her and stood panting, eyes heavy-lidded, nostrils flared, body hard. Aching. He would be aching, she knew, because she ached herself.

He scooped her up, grunting when her weight put strain on his wounded arm, and carried her into the bedroom. It was a man’s room, with a huge wardrobe and a dry sink and a ladderback chair. The immense four-poster bed was constructed of pine logs. But the exquisite patchwork quilt and lace-trimmed white pillowcases would only have been put there to please a woman.

He laid her on the coverlet and sat down beside her. She stared up at him as he gently spread her hair out on the pillow around her.

“I’ve dreamed about this moment,” he said, his eyes searching hers. “Somehow it’s hard to believe this is real.”

“It’s real.” She smiled. “I have the aches and pains to prove it.”

He brushed his thumb gently across her skin below the scab on her cheek. “I never considered what this place, this life, might do to you. The wildness of it. The hardness of it.”

“It isn’t what I would have chosen,” she conceded. “But I’m not sorry to be here. I’ve been waiting as long as you have for this moment.”

“You have?”

She caressed the scar where it slashed through his lip. “I used to dream of waking in your arms, of having you look at me with …” She cut herself off.

There was nothing remotely resembling love in his eyes as he looked down at her. Lust, yes. Love, no.

Could a love that had been smoldering, buried by ashes of misunderstanding for so many years, still be fanned into flame?

For a moment she thought he was going to act on the desire she saw flaring in his gray eyes. But he stood abruptly and said, “I’ve got some chores to do before supper.”

“You’re not going to …?” She felt the heat all the way to her hairline as an amused grin flashed on his face.

“I’m tempted. But you can hardly keep your eyes open. Rest for a while. I’ll see you at supper.”

Then he was gone.

After supper, what then?
she wanted to ask. But she knew the answer. He would join her in bed. And somehow they would have to pick up where they had left off twenty-two years ago.

Verity wasn’t sure what had woken her, but as she listened, wind-driven dust and small bits of gravel
pinged
against the windowpane. An ominous
sky, dark and brooding, filled the small, curtainless bedroom window. A jagged flash of lightning streaked down through the sky, followed instantly by a crash of thunder that made her curl into a protective ball.

It was hard to tell from the sky what time of day it was, but it felt too hot to be nightfall. Or morning, either. She felt disoriented because she had gone to bed in the afternoon. Was it possible she had slept the night through? Where was Miles?

She heard no human sounds in the house, only the eerie whistle of the wind through the eaves and the occasional rattle of the windowpanes.

A trickle of perspiration wormed its way down between her breasts. She brushed at a wisp of sweat-damp hair that was stuck to her cheek and kicked away the warm covers. As soon as she did, the cool draft seeping in through chinks in the log walls and up through the empty knotholes in the floor chilled her skin.

Which was when she realized she was wearing no more than her chemise and pantalets.

“Did you sleep well?”

She nearly came out of her skin. “Miles! You scared me half to death!”

He was sitting fully dressed in a ladderback chair in the shadowed corner near the head of the bed. As he rose and stalked toward her, she scrambled for the covers she had kicked away and clutched them against her.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Watching you sleep.”

She felt flustered, at a disadvantage because he was dressed and she wasn’t. A quick look revealed her corset, stockings, basque-waist, riding skirt, and jacket lying over the bedstead. She didn’t remember disrobing. Her gaze shot to Miles’s face. He answered the question before she asked.

“I undressed you.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You obviously needed the rest,” he said.

“How long did I sleep?”

“All of yesterday. Most of today.”

Her eyes narrowed as another thought occurred to her.

“Where did you sleep?”

“Beside you,” he answered baldly.

She stared at the pillow beside hers that bore the clear indentation of someone’s head.

Her gaze shot back to him. “I … You didn’t …”

“I didn’t,” he said with a quirk of his lips. “But I wanted to very much.”

“I’d like to get dressed.”

He sat at the foot of the bed and crossed an ankle over his knee. “Go ahead.”

She grimaced. This Miles was still too much a stranger for her to feel comfortable sharing such intimacies. “I’d like to be alone.”

“I’d like to watch.”

“You have no right—”

“You’re my wife,” he said quietly. “I have every right.”

Verity realized he wasn’t going to budge. But
she refused to let him make her feel embarrassed. For her age, she was very well preserved. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen her—much more of her—undressed.

“Fine. Look all you want,” she said, shoving the covers away and shivering as she set her bare foot on the rough floorboards.

He took her at her word, and she was aware of his gray eyes watching her intently as she slipped the corset over her head and tightened the strings behind her back. It wasn’t an easy task without a maid, but she refused to ask him for help.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

He stepped behind her, and she could feel his warm, moist breath at her temple. Her heartbeat skittered, and her breath shortened.

“I don’t need—”

“I’ll do it.”

She gasped as he tightened the corset another half inch and knotted the strings. His hands stayed at her narrowed waist a moment.

“Your waist is still small enough for my hands to nearly span it.”

“Chester demanded that I keep my figure.”

Miles tensed. “Is that why you never had another child?”

“No.” She hesitated before admitting, “I desperately wanted more children.”

“So why didn’t you have more?”

She debated whether to tell him the truth. But it would serve no purpose to lie. “Chester never came to my bed after Rand was born.”

His grasp tightened. “I’m sorry for you, Verity.”

“I don’t need or want your pity. I was glad he stayed away.”

She let that admission hang between them, grateful when he didn’t ask for further explanation.

“It isn’t pity I’m feeling for you right now,” he said, his lips pressed softly against her ear. “Far from it.”

Miles was exercising every bit of self-control he had to keep himself from reaching for the two perfect mounds formed by her breasts when he had tightened the corset. He felt Verity quiver, heard her breathing falter. He let his hands slide upward until he was cupping soft flesh beneath a thin layer of muslin. His thumbs flicked across her nipples, which instantly pebbled.

“Don’t.”

“Why not? Why should we deny ourselves?”

“It’s broad daylight.”

“That never stopped us before.”

The only time they had made love in the daylight was the very first time they had made love. It was hard to believe how long ago that had been. “You loved me then. And I loved you.”

“I haven’t forgotten, Verity. I haven’t forgotten anything. But if you feel more comfortable waiting till dark …”

She nodded jerkily. “I would.”

He released her and took a step back. It was a reprieve, not a pardon.

Verity edged away from Miles, grabbed her basque-waist, slipped it on and buttoned it to the
throat, then stepped into the riding skirt and fastened it at her waist.

“Miles, is there any way I can get a message to Colonel Peters at the fort?”

“What sort of message?”

“About Rand and Freddy.” She stopped dressing to focus her eyes on his. “I know you don’t believe they’re still alive, but if there’s even the slightest chance …”

“There’s paper and pen on the desk. Write your message. I’ll have Frog deliver it this afternoon.”

“Frog is back already?”

“He and Red turned up this morning.”

“Did they see any sign of … of …”

“They didn’t see any sign of the Sioux, or of Rand and Freddy. I’m sorry, Verity.”

Her shoulders slumped. It was getting harder to hang on to hope. But Tom wasn’t back yet. Maybe he would bring word of them.

When she sat down on the bed to slip on her stockings, Miles leaned back against the log wall, his arms and legs crossed in a nonchalant pose that she was distressed to see was only a pose. His jaw was rigid, his eyes heavy-lidded. She recognized the signs of arousal and hurried to finish and escape the room before he changed his mind about waiting.

The fire had already been started in the stove and, unless her nose deceived her, coffee was brewing. She hadn’t a notion what to do to prepare a late afternoon breakfast. Where did one find the
eggs, the kidneys, the bread with which to make toast?

Her stomach growled. She glanced over her shoulder at Miles, who was stretched out with his arms extended from the lintel above the bedroom doorway. Even at forty-three, he was an impressive-looking man. He had donned a new buckskin shirt that stretched across his broad chest. The fringed leggings showed off his flat stomach and muscular thighs. Their eyes met, and she felt the slow curl of desire in the pit of her belly.

“Are you hungry?” Miles asked.

It was plain from the way he said it that he didn’t mean for food. “I’m starving,” she said. Her answer was equally loaded with innuendo. “For breakfast,” she added, in an attempt to curtail the growing aura of sensuality between them.

“Cookie came in early and fixed something for me. I think there’s enough left for you.”

“That was thoughtful of him.” She lifted the lid on several pots. Beef and beans. Again. And in the dutch oven, a sort of scone. “Is this all there is?”

“That’s it. Unless you want to cook something else for yourself.”

Since she had no idea how to cook and no intention of reminding Miles of that fact, Verity said, “I’ll eat this.”

He sat down across from her at the table and watched every bite into her mouth until her stomach was so upset she had to stop eating. She looked for a napkin but didn’t see one, so she daintily
licked her lips clean. When she looked up, Miles was staring at her.

She thought she must still have a spot of food somewhere because he reached across the table and brushed his thumb across her lower lip.

“Is there something …?”

She looked up into his face and found his eyes focused on her mouth. Slowly, lazily, his thumb grazed the length of her dampened lower lip.

A frisson of awareness sizzled through her. “Please don’t, Miles.”

“Why not?”

“I want something more from you, with you, than physical satisfaction,” she said.

His gaze hardened, his jaw tightened. “I can’t ever feel for you again what I felt for you in the past,” he said. “That love died, Verity. You killed it.”

She winced in pain at his accusation. “Without love, what’s left for us?” she asked.

“You’ll have a home, a husband, children.”

All she had ever wished for, all she had ever dreamed. Except her dream had included love
.

“That’s not enough, Miles. Not nearly enough.”

He stood, his whole body vibrating with tension. “It’s all I have to offer.”

“I want more,” she insisted.

But he didn’t offer more.

She thought he would reach for her anyway, but some unseen tether held him back. Abruptly he turned on his heel, stalked out the front door, and slammed it hard enough behind him that one of
the hinges broke. The door creaked back open and hung there lopsided.

The war was on. It was a battle for their future. And Verity didn’t intend to lose.

She crossed to the makeshift desk and sat down to write her note to Colonel Peters, but her thoughts were on the battle soon to be waged.

Miles had made no effort to hide the fact he
wanted
her, but he was equally honest about the fact he didn’t
love
her. Should she give herself to him and hope that sex would grow into love? If Chester’s long string of mistresses was any guide, that way lay sorrow. But sex could also be a powerful expression of love. Should she deny herself and Miles that closeness?

A knock on the broken door distracted her. “Who is it?”

A bared head of gray hair appeared in the open doorway. “Frog, ma’am. Boss said you had a letter goin’ to the fort.”

“Come in, Frog.”

The door scraped open across the floor, and he stepped inside, clutching a battered hat to his chest. He stayed near the door, obviously uncomfortable alone with her.

She finished her letter, sealed it, and handed it to him. “Please deliver this to Colonel Peters.”

Frog nodded his head. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll do that.” He backed out of the room, dragging the door closed behind him.

She crossed to the trestle table and began gathering up the dishes. She might as well get started
with the simple things first. Eventually she would learn how to do it all.

There was a pump and a sink near the stove, and she carried the dishes there to rinse them off. The pump screeched, but no water came out.

“You have to prime it first.”

She whirled and saw Miles silhouetted in the doorway.

She wrinkled her nose. “I know that.” She had seen Mrs. Peters do it. She found the can of water near the pump and dumped it in, then pushed the handle a couple more times. Water came gushing out, splattering her clothing, the sink and the dirty plates.

“I need some soap and a cloth, or something to wash the dishes with.” She began looking for both in the sideboard and found neither.

“I’m out of soap, and you can wipe off the dishes with your hands.”

She turned to him, frowning. “With my hands?”

He shrugged. “It’s good enough for me.”

“Well, I need soap. And I refuse to wipe off food with my fingers.”

He tried to open the door to leave, swore when it tilted crazily toward him, caught it and said, “I’ll have Frog get another hinge for this door, too.” He stuck his head out the door and yelled, “Frog!”