Chapter 11 #2
She shifted beside him. He felt just the movement of the bed. Then the soft brash of her golden hair against the flesh of his arm. He smoothed it away.
He felt his heartbeat once again, its pace growing faster. Louder. Pounding throughout him.
If he’d meant to leave her alone, he should have retired to his own room.
He could smell her. The scent of her flesh, clean, carrying the subtle, evocative scent of Mayfair’s rosewood soap.
She’d washed her hair recently as well. It, too, carried a soft, titillating scent.
He moved a hand, running it over the golden tendrils curled over the sheets by his side.
They were unbelievably soft, silky…he buried his face in them. Closed his eyes again. Leaned back.
His heartbeat shuddered, skipped. Pulsed into his limbs, his loins, his blood, body, sex…
He rolled next to her, lifted her hair, nuzzled his lips against the lobe of her ear, her throat.
She didn’t awaken, but twisted, her body coming flush against his.
He pulled down the sheets, slipped his hand beneath the hem of the chaste flannel gown, drawing it up.
He stroked her thigh, drawing incredibly soft, lazy circles against it.
She moved against him, a long expulsion of breath escaping through her lips, some slight, sensual sound mingling with it.
He brought the movement upward, caressing her hips, belly, ribs.
Lower, higher. A feathery touch against her breasts.
Between her thighs. She roused but didn’t waken.
Undulated, pressed against him. Her neck arched.
He placed his lips against it, felt her pulse, then…
Fierce impatience seized him. He caught her hips and drew her buttocks hard against his loin. One swift movement and he was within her, satiation of the pulsing hunger within him his one driving goal.
At the invasion of his first thrust, she woke fully.
Had she wished to protest, it would have been far too late.
But she wouldn’t protest. Nor would she allow herself in a fully conscious state the subtle but sensuous movements that had served to so fully rouse him.
She buried her face against the bedding.
Her fingers fell upon his hands where they steadied her hips, holding her to his will.
She didn’t try to stop him, she simply dug in, as if she braced herself, and waited.
Not even her stubborn determination to remain unmoved could dampen his fire.
Within minutes he rose to a swift, violent climax, ejaculating into her with a shudder that ripped through the length of him.
First, the sweet simple warmth of basic satiation filled him.
Then the ragged edge of disappointment. He rolled to his back.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. But then, I guess I actually didn’t. ”
She spoke without turning to him. “I told you—”
“I know. You’ll give me nothing. Whatever I get, I must take. Perhaps you should be careful. When I set my mind to it, I can take a lot.”
“You can’t take everything.”
He turned on his side, away from her. He felt her shifting in the bed, pulling her nightgown back down.
He wondered then what it was about her that could make him behave so irrationally because her simple movement suddenly sent his temper soaring. He spun on her, drawing a startled gasp. “What in God’s name…”
With the same fluid movement, he caught hold of the flannel garment he found so offensive and ripped it with the strength of a madman, not ceasing then, but tearing and pulling despite her ground-out curses and flailing protest. At last the remnants of the gown lay on the floor beside the bed.
“Damn you!” she gasped. “Just what is it that you seem to have against my clothing?”
“It doesn’t belong in bed,” he told her blandly.
“It was a nightgown!”
“For a schoolmarm. It doesn’t belong in bed.”
“Lots of women, lots of wives, wear nightgowns!”
“Not my wife.”
He fell away from her, turning his back on her, feeling the shame creep over him again. In some things, perhaps, he was justified. Because she was full of secrets. And lies. And because she had made her own choices.
But still…
Why get so worked up about a nightgown? Because it came between them.
Along with what else?
Trouble. Have you legal title? Can manage no more than a few weeks. Help fast. Pray you’re well.
If he confronted her now, she’d lie. Close more tightly against him. He’d have to find her out. Take what he wanted to know because she’d give him nothing.
He closed his eyes. He needed to sleep.
His eyes flew open again when her fist slammed against his back with surprising strength.
“You son of a bitch!” she hissed, turning away from him once again.
He stiffened, then eased. A smile slowly crept onto his lips. Fine. He’d had no right to rip up her nightgown. She could have the last word. Tonight.
The days that followed his father’s burial were busy for Hawk.
He would have to spend at least five to ten days away from the ranch if he was going to ride north and find Crazy Horse.
The ride was a beautiful one, but he and Sloan meant to take cattle and presents, which meant pack mules and a slow-going route.
The idea of leaving his mysterious wife behind did not appeal to him, but the current hostile Indian situation was so severe that it had to take precedence over her personal problems. And she would never actually be alone.
Willow, Rabbit, and Jack Logan would be around to keep wary eyes on the new mistress, right along with Megan and Henry Pierpont as well, should she threaten the estate in any way.
So far, she didn’t seem to be intent upon doing any such thing, even though the telegram she had received continued to haunt his mind.
She gave no sign of having any interest in anything beyond Mayfair.
By day, she was truly the model wife, lending a hand to whatever household tasks were on the calendar, be it candle making, washing, or bread baking.
She managed to avoid him throughout most of the day or, perhaps, he managed to avoid her.
By night…
The first night he had come into her room after that of his father’s funeral, he had found her cocooned in the covers. But when the lights had been snuffed out, and he’d crawled in beside her, he’d been both pleased and amused to discover that she wore nothing beneath those covers.
“At least you learn quickly and have taken the vow of obedience to heart.”
“I’ll never be obedient.”
“But you’ve obeyed.”
“I’m merely trying to preserve my wardrobe. Though I should insist that you replace what you’ve destroyed.”
“Buy you new outfits?”
“Pay me for them. I can replace them on my own.”
“Ah. But then, you don’t need a nightgown replaced, do you?”
He waited. When was she going to ask him for the money she apparently needed? Send help. He was certain the words were a plea for financial assistance.
“You are exasperating.”
“At this moment, I am distracted. Come here.”
“If you want me—”
“Yes, I know. Take what I want. I shall.”
“Are you always so wretchedly persistent?”
“Always.”
But she was equally as stubborn. Every night, he made love to her.
Every night, she held herself aloof. And the dissatisfaction within him grew along with his unease.
She filled his thoughts when he was in the midst of payroll checks, haunted him when he rode with Willow, choosing cattle to be taken on his ride to see Crazy Horse.
Determined to shake her hold on him, he spent a night in his own room.
Being away from her didn’t help. He was not just disappointed or vaguely dissatisfied.
He was in pain. It had been a fool’s determination. He was about to leave her. The longing would intensify a hundred-fold.
He’d be damned, of course, if he let her know.
The night before the morning he had planned to leave, he sat in his office, ostensibly going over accounts, in actuality asking himself if he felt safe leaving her. He heard a tap on his door. Sandra stuck her head in, smiling her exotic, catlike smile. “May I come in?”
“Please.”
She came to his desk. Her smile faded. “I think that I must tell you about your wife.”
“Oh?”
“She found her way to Gold Town today.”
“What?” he demanded, startled.
Sandra nodded. “She has studied the maps in your library. She had no problem saddling a horse and slipping away. But I saw her, and I followed her.”
He leaned back. Under normal circumstances, he shouldn’t have said or done anything that might encourage Sandra to spy on her mistress.
But these weren’t normal circumstances. “What did she do?”
“She went to see Mr. Pierpont.”
“Ah.” He wondered if Skylar had discovered that she would have inherited the house and most of the surrounding property if he had sought an annulment.
“What then?”
“She went to the telegraph office. Then she rode home.”
He nodded, tapping his pen against the blotter on his desk. “Thank you,” he murmured absently.
Sandra nodded. “Do you want to know what she said?”
He frowned. “In the telegram?”
“No, to Mr. Pierpont.”
“You know what she said to him?”
Sandra smiled broadly. “I stood outside his window. She said she had come to find out if she could have some kind of allowance of her own. Mr. Pierpont told her that she had to speak to you. She said that she didn’t really need very much.
He said that he was truly sorry, but that she still had to speak to you. ”
“Well, good for old Henry!” Hawk mused. Henry had drawn up the papers for his father to arrange a proxy marriage for him. But at least now Henry seemed to have discovered a new loyalty.
Not that there was actually anything wrong with Skylar’s receiving an allowance for her personal expenditures.
He just wanted to know what she so obsessively needed the money for.
It had something to do with someone back east. A lover?
No intimate affair had been consummated, but that didn’t mean that she hadn’t been involved with someone else.
He looked up at Sandra, smiling. “Thank you again.”
“It’s important, the information I’ve given you.”
“It may be.”
She smiled again. “Then I’m pleased. I won’t let her hurt you.”
“Sandra—” He hesitated. He was aware that she cared about him.
He had found her, orphaned as a girl, on the plain.
She’d literally been alone, seated in the middle of a small Sioux camp after a Crow raid that had taken the lives of all the others in the band.
His father had gladly taken her in, giving her small jobs at first and seeing that she was tutored in English and history.
She had white blood, possibly Oriental as well, and David felt she should learn about a variety of cultures and make her own choice as to which she would like to live in.
She had liked Mayfair, and as she grew up, she had taken on housekeeping chores and became a part of the family.
She’d loved his father and was equally fond of him, and he returned her affection.
He was just uneasy about the way her affection for him seemed to be shifting.
“Sandra, she is my wife. She isn’t going to—”
“You didn’t want her. Your father found her because she’s white. You can’t trust her.”
He hesitated in midbreath.
It was true that he couldn’t trust Skylar. It was equally true that…
She was his wife. The wife he hadn’t wanted. The wife who obsessed him. And somehow, he’d break down the barriers between them. Find out what had happened in the past. And just what the hell she was up to now.
Find the woman he had touched that first night he’d made love to her…
“Sandra, Skylar is my wife.”
Sandra smiled. “But you keep your own bed.”
“Many white couples keep separate rooms.”
Sandra smiled. “Because most white men tire of their wives.”
“Sandra, you’re mistaken.”
She shook her head, as if she knew a secret truth. “I’ll still keep her from hurting you. And I’m glad you keep your own room.”
She left before he could say more. He leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head.
It was growing late.
Sandra might be mistaken about many things, but he did seem to have a serious problem with Skylar regarding the activities she chose to keep hidden from him.
He didn’t know how to solve that problem, but he couldn’t spend much more time now pondering it.
He needed to gather a few personal belongings if he was going to ride out tomorrow.
He left the office behind for his own bedroom. He pulled a bedroll from beneath his bed and gathered his razor, strap, and brush from the dresser. He mulled over the information regarding his wife’s day, trying to determine just how to handle her. How to approach her.
How to leave her.
He realized he’d been fooling himself. He couldn’t leave her.
Just as he reached that conclusion, he was startled by a soft tapping at his door.
He threw it open, amazed.
He wasn’t going to have to approach his wife.
She had come to him.
Skylar stood there. She was wearing some kind of a night garment, but one quite different from what she had worn before.
This was all silk. Deep blue, very low-cut in front and in back.
Where it didn’t blatantly hug her body, enhancing every perfect curve, it seemed to shimmer around her.
Her hair was down, brushed to a flowing, golden sheen.
She appeared elegant and soft. Dignified…
and sensual. The gown had been chosen with care.
As had her perfume. It was musky and…seductive.
Her smile was charming and hesitant.
The rapid rise and fall of her breasts and her labored breath belied the very lightness of her smile.
He could tell that she was appalled to be here.
But she wanted something. Yes.
He wondered just how far she’d go to get it.