Never Marry a Cowboy (8 page)

“Do you remember the kiss I gave you in the church?” he asked as he slipped the gown from her shoulders and trailed his mouth along her collarbone. He dipped his tongue into the hollow at the base of her throat.

A shiver shimmied along her spine, and she had an incredible urge to lean into him. She swallowed hard. “I remember.”

The room grew hot. Had August arrived without her knowledge?

“It was not the kiss I wished to bestow upon you, but the one I promised David I would give you.” He cupped her face between his palms as one would hold a precious crystal sculpture. A smile teased his lips. “I have not given a chaste kiss such as that since I was twelve.”

Her breath caught while her heart pounded painfully within her chest. “Indeed. What sort of kiss had you wished to bestow upon me?”

“It lies beyond the description of words.”

Her eyes fluttered closed as he lowered his mouth to hers. She had always imagined a man's lips to be hard, his mouth demanding—perhaps because she had spent her life listening to her father and brother issue orders. Kit's lips were incredibly soft, but not in the same manner as hers, because beyond the softness she detected the strength, the power to wield without force in order to gain victory. His lips parted, and his tongue traced the outline of her mouth as though to memorize each dip and curve. With a sigh, she pressed her hands to his chest and felt the hard, rhythmic pounding of his heart while his tongue deepened his exploration until she no longer knew where his mouth began and hers ended—until she no longer cared.

He bestowed upon her a gentle patience that put her own forbearance to the test. She wanted more.
Her hands crept up his chest, and she looped her arms around his neck. With a feral groan, he pressed her body flush against his and the kiss deepened, intensified until it drew the very breath from her chest, the strength from her legs. With one arm, he held her steady, while his mouth tortured her with ecstasy.

Slowly, tenderly, he pulled back, brushing his tongue across her tingling, swollen lips in a bittersweet farewell. His breathing was as shallow as hers was, and she saw sweat glistening along his throat.

“Perhaps you'd best finish dressing for bed,” he rasped.

She nodded mutely and stepped away from him.

“Ashton?”

She glanced over her shoulder.

“I would appreciate the honor of brushing your hair before you braid it.”

“Tell me, Mr. Montgomery, do you brush hair with the same exuberance that you kiss?”

He offered her a devilish smile that was matched by the wickedness reflected in his eyes. “I think we are beyond such formalities, Ashton. You may call me Kit.”

It was not until she was hidden safely behind the screen and changing into her nightgown that she realized he had avoided answering her question.

K
it loosened his cravat and wondered what in God's name he thought he was doing. He should have clambered out the window long before he ever bestowed a true kiss upon his false wife. Ashton was like a shadow that could only appear in the presence of light and was doomed to non-existence with the arrival of darkness. And for her, the darkness would arrive far too soon.

Thank God, he would not have to bear witness to it.

She stepped from behind the screen. In her nightgown, with a solitary lamp providing a pale glow, she appeared incredibly thin. Narrowing his eyes, he scrutinized her delicate frame. Blushing, she crossed her arms over her chest before scurrying to the mirrored dresser. She sat, grabbed her brush, parted her hair down the middle, and draped it over each shoulder.

“You pad your clothing,” he stated, both dumbfounded and amused by the discovery. “It was too dark to notice the other night when we were on the roof.”

“It's not an uncommon practice among women,”
she announced, tilting her chin with her gaze riveted on her reflection.

“But it gives a man a false impression.”

“Then he deserves what he gets on his wedding night if he never looks beyond the physical aspects of his betrothed.”

Kit laughed as he crossed the room. “You play a dangerous game, sweetling. Why pad yourself if you never had any hope of capturing a man's attention?”

She stilled and dropped her gaze to the brush in her hand. “Because I have some pride.”

Kneeling, he placed his hand over hers, his fingers circling the brush. “You promised me the honor of brushing your hair.”

“You should leave before you discover all my faults.”

“What makes you think I consider small breasts a fault?”

“Mine are more than small,” she said in a tiny voice. “They are practically non-existent.”

“I ask again. Why is that a fault?”

Her cheeks flamed red. “I often overheard David and his friends talking. They seemed to notice women with large bosoms more often than others.”

He took the brush from her and glided the soft bristles through her silken blonde strands. “Never make the mistake of judging my preferences by others' standards.”

He slipped his hand beneath the cascade of her hair and followed the trail of the brush along her neck, past her collarbone, halting when he reached her chest. Slowly, ever so slowly, he grazed his knuckles
over the soft cloth that separated his coarse flesh from her tender nipple. He heard her sharp intake of breath and felt the tiny bud harden. “My tastes have never been those of the majority,” he said quietly.

She licked her lips. “Did Clarisse have small breasts?”

He silently cursed the memories that slammed into him, memories best left unremembered. “No.”

He moved his hand away from her breast and continued to brush her hair as she studied her clasped hands.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I had no right to ask about her.”

“It doesn't matter. She has been gone a long time.”

“But she still lives within your heart.” She lifted her gaze and met his reflected in the mirror. “I hurt you with my insensitive question.”

“I would prefer that you not compare yourself to her.”

“I would always find myself lacking.” She took the brush from him. “You should make your escape through the window now. The night has ended, and I thank you for making me a bride out of friendship for David.”

Damn his already condemned soul. He had hurt her, not she him. He would have preferred that she had not mentioned Clarisse, but he was astonished to discover that the memories no longer held any bitterness. What cut into his heart was the knowledge that he had not given Ashton the full extent of her dream.

He cradled her cheek. “You think I took you as my bride out of friendship for David?”

“Why else would you do it? He asked—”

“I told him no. He could have asked a thousand times, and I would have answered the same.”

She furrowed her delicate brow. “Then why?”

He stroked his thumb along the curve of her cheek, just below her eye. “Because yesterday afternoon, your eyes reflected delight, and it has been a long time since I have given a woman joy. I married you for selfish reasons. Simply to see the rapture in your eyes again.” He slipped the brush from her hand. “Now the joy has retreated. I shall not leave until it returns.”

She smiled warmly. “You have a gift with words. You should consider writing.”

“I do write. Occasionally I send articles about my adventures here to a publication in London. I have even considered penning a complete history of my experiences in this wretched state—”

“You don't like Texas?”

“I miss England.”

“Then you should return.”

“I have little waiting for me there as I have here.”

“That is too shallow an answer, Mr. Montgomery.”

“Mrs. Montgomery, you are to call me Kit.”

Her eyes brightened. “Say that again.”

“Mrs. Montgomery.”

She laughed lightly. “I love the way that sounds.” She trailed her fingers along the curve of his jaw, the brightness in her eyes dimming. “Until this moment, though, I hadn't considered that you'll become a widower.”

“I have told you before not to concern yourself with that aspect of this arrangement. Give me your smiles
and your laughter, but never your tears, and I shall have no regrets.”

He slid the brush through her hair. “Now on to important matters. Do you brush a hundred strokes?”

A sly twinkle came into her eyes. “Two hundred.”

He slowly moved the brush through her silken tresses, relishing the softness against his flesh. If she could stay awake long enough, he would gift her with three hundred. “So I have a greedy wife,” he mused.

“Only where brushing my hair and chocolate are concerned.”

“You have a fancy for chocolates?” he asked, wishing he'd known sooner. He would have given her chocolates before bed.

“They are my weakness, although my physician has ordered me not to eat chocolate.”

“Why?”

“He feels they will speed my decline.”

“Is this physician of yours well educated?”

She nodded, the sadness flickering in her eyes. “He is self taught, as many physicians are in the West. But still, David would only take me to the best.”

“Of course. My question was unfounded.”

“But you're bothered by my answer. I've accepted my destiny. Please don't pity me or I'll be forced to give you the tears that you don't desire.”

He gave a brusque nod. It seemed the longer he stayed, the less grand her dream remained. He was to make her a bride. Nothing more. He'd done his part. Why was leaving such a torment? He should be glad to be rid of her.

He contented himself with one hundred and twenty-
five strokes before turning away so she could plait her hair. Once Christopher had taken Clarisse for his wife, Kit had given no thought to marriage. His responsibilities did not include providing an heir to Ravenleigh.

He wondered if his brother had ever brushed Clarisse's hair. He squeezed his eyes shut, banishing the thought and all the other wild imaginings that intruded on his peace—all the things his brother had held that had been denied Kit. He refused to resent what was not his by right. A small hand came to rest on his arm.

“Are you all right?”

He opened his eyes and smiled warmly at his wife. “I was contemplating my exit through your window.”

She tilted her head slightly. “It's a good thing ours isn't to be a true marriage, because no trust resides between us. You don't need to lie. Just tell me your thoughts are none of my business.”

Dear Lord, he found it disturbing that she somehow managed to read his moods so well. He strode across the room and jerked back the blankets on the bed. “Come on. Let's get you into bed so I can keep my promise to David.”

She padded over and slipped between the sheets. Kit reached for the lamp.

“Not complete darkness,” she said quickly. He glanced at her. “I'll have that soon enough.”

He turned down the flame until its muted glow allowed the shadows to creep into the room. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Sleep well, sweetling. I shall see you in the morning.”

He walked to the window, moved the curtain aside, sat on the ledge, and swung one leg over onto the roof.

“Christian?”

He glanced over his shoulder. She lay in the bed alone, such a frail creature, the blankets drawn up to her chin. Alone. She would sleep in solitude for the remainder of her nights.

She offered him a hint of a smile. “Now you can't argue that the dream isn't over, so thank you for all that you've given me.”

“It was my pleasure.” He leaned out the window, into the darkness. He would return to his room at the jail where a narrow cot and a full bottle of whiskey awaited him.

Tomorrow, he would escort her to the stagecoach and, amidst wagging tongues, give her a final farewell. As the months passed, he'd wait for the letter from David that announced he was truly free of her.

Truly free of her and her blasted dream.

Ashton clutched the blankets as she studied the part of Kit that still remained in her room. What was keeping him there? If he didn't leave soon, she'd lose the control she fought so desperately to keep and call him back, ask him at least to hold her for a while as she had so often imagined her husband holding her.

Oh, she had wanted to be a bride, but it had all been false. Not a true dream, only pretense. It wasn't truly what she'd wanted, but she refused to hurt the two men who had tried to give her what they thought she desired.

Kit slipped back into her room. She bolted upright, her fingers tightening around the blankets as he
shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto a nearby chair. His previously loosened cravat joined it. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“A bride should not spend her wedding night sleeping alone,” he said quietly as he unfastened the buttons on his shirt.

Her heart bounced against her ribs. “But I thought…I mean, David indicated—”

“Sleep, Ashton. We will do no more than sleep.”

His words stilled her escalating hopes that perhaps she would know the full measure of a man's love. That longing was her true dream. One she knew would never be realized.

He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it onto the chair. The muted light from the lamp revealed his broad chest and shoulders in glorious splendor. Had he arrived from England with such hardened muscles and firmness of physique? She thought not. She imagined he'd arrived thinner, but just as elegant. His ancestry more than nature had shaped him.

The bed dipped as he dropped onto its edge and began to remove his shoes. With one hand, she grabbed the edge of the mattress to prevent herself from rolling toward him. Whatever would he think if he found her thin frame next to his powerful one?

The room contained more shadow than light, but still she could make out each of his movements. He stood, and with a single fluid motion, shucked his trousers and slipped beneath the sheets, sheets that bunched at his hips, leaving his taut stomach and chest visible. She gripped the blankets more tightly be
cause to do otherwise might give her fingers the freedom to touch him as she desperately wanted to do.

“Come here, Ashton,” he said, in a low seductive voice.

She jerked her gaze to his face. Even in the shadows, she felt the intensity of his stare. “I'm not certain this is a wise idea.”

“Nervous?” he asked.

“Aren't brides supposed to be?”

“Not necessarily. I doubt either Abbie or Jessye was nervous on her wedding night.”

“Yes, well, perhaps they knew more of what to expect.”

“I've told you what to expect. Sleep.”

“Then why do I need to come to you?”

“So I can hold you.”

She took a deep shuddering breath. “You're not wearing a shirt.”

“That fact did not seem to bother you yesterday when you rode on the horse with your back pressed to my chest.”

He spoke the truth. She had enjoyed it, but far more articles of clothing separated them yesterday. She swallowed hard. “I guess no harm could come from one moment.”

He raised his arm, and she slowly eased to his side, his warm side, his bare side where his flesh met the thin material of her nightgown. He lowered his arm and drew her into the circle of his embrace. He took her hand and pressed it flat against his chest, just below his heart.

“I've never done this before,” she whispered, “lain so close to a man, especially one partially dressed.”

“If you find it unpleasant, I'll leave.”

“No!” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I mean, there's no need now that we're here, and since you're my husband nothing is wrong with our sleeping in each other's arms.”

“Then relax. You are as stiff as a poker used to bring the dying embers of a fire to life.”

She turned her head slightly, released a long, slow breath, and relaxed against him. She remembered as a child playing for hours with wooden puzzle pieces, putting them together until they created pictures. At this moment, she felt as though she had just fitted one odd-shaped piece into its proper place.

She breathed in and caught the scent of bay rum and the faintest aroma of sweat. He hadn't looked it earlier, but she wondered if he'd been as nervous this evening as she had been. She averted her head again and released her breath.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

She lifted her gaze to his. “I thought my breath going across your chest might tickle.”

His chest rumbled beneath her cheek as he laughed. “Dear God, Ashton, what am I going to do with you? I forget how innocent you are. Have you never had a man court you?”

“Never. Nor a boy.”