Short Straw Bride (18 page)

When she started to step back, he caught her hand, holding her in front of him. “Is that all I get?” He saw Eleanor’s eyes widen at the husky question and forced his mouth to curve in a teasing smile. “I seem to recall getting more than a peck on the cheek when I brought home that kitten. You’re not going to tell me that you like that mangy cat more than you like the fabric, are you?” he asked lightly.

“I’m very fond of Rascal,” Eleanor said, glancing at the kitten, who was still asleep on her cushion. When her eyes met Luke’s he could read her uncertainty and knew she was remembering the last
kiss they’d shared, a kiss that might have gone considerably further than it had if it hadn’t been for the kitten sinking her claws into his chest. He did his best to look as if he wasn’t remembering the same thing, as if he wasn’t hoping for a repeat—minus the cat, of course. Perhaps he succeeded, because Eleanor’s mouth curved in a smile that held more than a hint of coquetry. “But it really is very nice fabric,” she admitted.

“Nice enough to deserve a proper kiss?” Luke asked even as he used his grip on her hand to draw her subtly closer.

“I suppose so.” Their eyes met and held for a long, silent moment, and it seemed to Luke as if a message passed between them—an acknowledgment that this night would see an end to the distance between them, an end to this foolish game they’d been playing out.

H
er mouth touched his, soft as a butterfly’s wing. Luke’s mouth softened in response, returning her kiss but letting her control the moment. She seemed to gain confidence from his passivity and she edged closer, her lips pressing more firmly to his. Moving slowly, Luke brought her hand up to his chest, pressing her fingers over his heart. His free hand came up to touch her shoulder, the delicate ridge of her collarbone, the nape of her neck, and then his fingers cupped her head, tilting her head back farther as his mouth opened over hers.

He traced his tongue over the fullness of her lower lip and felt her shiver in reaction. She started to ease back, started to speak—to offer a protest? But Luke’s patience abruptly ran out. He told himself he had all night, that there was no need to hurry. But all it took was one taste of her mouth and his patience disappeared in a rush of hunger.

His mouth hardened over hers, swallowing whatever she might have said, drinking in her murmur of surprise as he pulled her against him. There had been too many nights spent alone, too many days spent wanting.

It was like being caught up in a tornado, Eleanor thought dazedly. One minute she’d been kissing Luke, a safe, gentle kiss that made her feel warm inside. The next, Luke was kissing her and there was nothing safe or gentle about it. She whimpered as his tongue plunged into her mouth, and the warmth became a conflagration that seared all the way to her soul. Her fingers curled into his shirtfront, clinging to him as the world spun around her.

Without giving her a chance to regain her balance, Luke slid one hand down the length of her back. Eleanor gasped in shock as he boldly spread his palm across her bottom, urging her forward until she stood between his thighs. Even through the layers of skirt and petticoats she could feel the rigid length of his arousal pressed against the most feminine heart of her. Her knees threatened to give out beneath her and she lifted her hands to his shoulders, holding on to him as the only solid thing in her universe.

The feel of her yielding softness in his arms shattered the last remnants of Luke’s control. He opened his mouth again over hers, sliding his tongue between her teeth, tasting the sweet warmth
of her surrender. He’d waited forever for this—for the feel of her mouth opening to his, her slender body curving against the harder planes and angles of his. It hadn’t been the discomfort of making his bed in the barn that had kept him awake at night. It bad been this need, this hunger he felt for his wife. She was everything warm and womanly, everything he’d ever wanted. And she was his.

Pins showered to the floor as his fingers burrowed into the twisted knot that held her hair. Eleanor murmured something—whether protest or approval, Luke was beyond hearing the difference. His pulse drumming in his ears, he felt an almost feverish urgency to confirm his possession in the most basic of ways, to feel her body welcome his. He fumbled with the buttons at the throat of her gown, urgency making his hands less than steady.

“Luke.” She wrenched her mouth from his, turning her face aside. “Stop,” she begged breathlessly.

“You don’t want me to stop,” he whispered against her throat.

“It’s too fast.” Her hands flattened against his chest, trying to wedge some distance between them. “Let me go.”

Later—much later—Luke would be willing to concede that perhaps he had rushed things a bit. Maybe he’d shown less finesse than he might have. The moment he’d felt her in his arms, all his plans
for seduction had been burned away by the simple need to have her—now. But the perspective a little distance might have given him was not yet available. In the here and now, all he knew was that she was pushing him away—again.

There was a brief moment when he considered ignoring her breathless demand to be released. He could change her mind. She wanted him. He was sure of that. Hard on the heels of that thought came another—did it really matter what she wanted? She was his. His wife, his property in the eyes of God and the law. What right did she have to deny him something that was rightfully his? Shocked by his own thoughts, Luke released Eleanor so suddenly that she had to brace one hand against the piano to regain her balance.

They stared at each other. The only sound was their breathing, lending a less than steady rhythm to the silence.

“Luke, I…” Eleanor’s voice trailed off as if she couldn’t find the words she wanted.

Looking at her, Luke felt all the frustration of the past weeks well up inside him. He wished Daniel had drawn the short straw that night. He wished they’d burned the damned broom before the idea of drawing straws occurred to either one of them. He wished his horse had stepped in a prairie dog hole on the way to church the day he’d first seen Eleanor. A broken neck wouldn’t have been nearly
the trouble getting married had been. Most of all, he wished he’d never heard of the institution of marriage.

It had taken marriage to teach him the true joys of being a bachelor. Since saying “I do,” he’d had things thrown at him, been bitten for the first time since one of his cousins sank her brand-new teeth into his arm when she was a toddler, spent more time sleeping with his horse than he had with his wife and experienced more sexual frustration than he’d ever endured when he was single. He’d crawled around on the prairie picking flowers like a lovesick lunatic, paid two bits for a kitten who had dug permanent holes in his chest with her claws and showed more patience than anyone had a right to expect a man to show.

“What the hell do you want from me?”

“Luke!” It was the first time she’d heard him use profanity.

“I don’t know what more you expect,” he continued, oblivious to her protest. “Haven’t I given you the time you asked for?”

“Yes, and I—”

“There aren’t many men who would have done that.”

“I know. I—”

“I’ve been patient.”

“Yes. You’ve—”

“I’ve waited for you to come to your senses instead of trying to shake some into you, haven’t I?”

Eleanor stiffened. The phrase “come to your senses” did not sit well. But She swallowed her annoyance. She didn’t want to argue with him. She wanted an end to the distance between them. These past weeks had shown her that, while he might not love her with the passion she dreamed of, he cared enough to try to make her happy. That was more than many women had. She’d already decided that it was time to put their marriage on a normal footing. When he’d given her the grenadine, it had simply confirmed that decision. The thoughtfulness of the gift touched her deeply.

She wanted to be his wife again, in every sense of the word, but she’d felt as if she were drowning in the elemental force of his hunger. She’d called a halt to their embrace to give herself a chance to breathe, not because she was unwilling to be his wife in fact, as well as in name. And she’d tell him as much as soon as he gave her a chance.

“I know you’ve—”

“No one in their right mind would have put up with what I’ve put up with,” Luke continued, unaware of her thoughts. “Sleeping in the barn, letting my brother make my life a living hell. It’s a wonder the hands haven’t quit. If I can’t manage my own wife, why should I be able to manage a ranch?”

“Manage your wife?” Luke was too wrapped up in his soliloquy to heed the warning in her tone.

“I’ve given you flowers and that mangy cat.” He threw out one hand to indicate the kitten, who continued to sleep, unconcerned with the storm brewing a few feet from her. “And now I’ve given you that blasted piece of cloth and you’re still acting like a virgin on her wedding night.” He paused to glare at her. “What the hell do you want from me?”

This time Eleanor barely noticed his language. Considering the way her pulse was drumming in her ears, it was a wonder she could hear him at all.
The fabric had been a bribe?
He actually thought he could buy his way back into her bed? That she’d sell herself like a…like a saloon girl, her price a few yards of cloth?

She turned and snatched the package up off the piano stool. Spinning back toward Luke, she shoved it into his arms, the paper wrapping crackling a protest at her roughness. His hands came up automatically to catch it.

“I’m not for sale!”

“For sale?” Luke gaped at her, caught off guard by her quick flare of temper. “What are you talking about?”

“You came in here thinking you could buy your way back into my bed with that.” She gestured sharply to the crumpled length of fabric.

“I did not.” Guilt added a sharp edge to his denial. Maybe he
had
thought that the gift would soften her mood but he certainly hadn’t planned to
buy
her. Besides, he damn well shouldn’t have to
buy
anything. The thought added new fuel to the already blazing fire of his anger. The fabric hit the floor in a sharp rustle of paper. He kicked it out of the way with a quick sideways motion of his booted foot and stepped toward her.

Finding herself trapped between the piano and her husband’s tall body, Eleanor tilted her chin and glared up at him. She would die before she’d let him see that he’d succeeded in intimidating her.

“I don’t have to buy my way into your bed.” The soft menace of his voice was more effective than a shout. “You’re my wife. It’s my bed.”

His hand snapped out, fingers closing around her left wrist. Eleanor gasped and instinctively tried to jerk away. But her back was against the side of the piano and she refused to sidle away from him like a frightened crab. Not that he looked much in the mood to let her go anyway, she noted uneasily.

“Let go of me.” If the command was a little less forceful than she might have liked, that was hardly surprising considering the look in her husband’s eyes.

Luke ignored the command, dragging her arm upward until her hand was between them. Her wedding ring gleamed dull gold in the lamplight.

“When I put that ring on your finger, I bought the rights to your bed. And to you.”

Eleanor stared up at him, speechless with anger and—though she didn’t want to admit it—a touch of fear. She’d never seen anyone look as coldly threatening as Luke did at this moment. She was suddenly vividly aware of the differences between them. Male and female. He was stronger than she was. There could be no physical contest between them. And, alone as they were, there was no one to whom she could turn for help. Not that anyone was likely to interfere in what happened between man and wife. Luke was right—the wedding ring on her finger made her his property, to do with as he pleased. She swallowed hard but tilted her chin up another notch, determined not to let him see her fear.

“You’ll have to force me,” she promised quietly.

Luke stared at her, seeing the flicker of fear in her eyes—a fear he’d put there. He’d
wanted
to frighten her, had deliberately used his superior strength to intimidate.
That’s impressive, McLain. Frightening women. That would certainly make your father proud.
Shame left an acid taste on his tongue. His fingers dropped away from Eleanor’s wrist as if she’d suddenly caught fire.

“I’m tired of the whole blasted mess.” He spun on one heel and walked away. Eleanor swayed at
the abrupt release of tension. She put out one hand to catch herself, drawing a sharp clatter of notes from the piano keyboard.

“Where are you going?” The involuntary question stopped Luke in the parlor doorway. He turned to look at her, his eyes a cool, emotionless gray.

“Enjoy your solitary bed, but don’t kid yourself into thinking that I’m going to spend the rest of my life living like a monk.”

He was gone before Eleanor could speak—not that she had any idea of what she might have said. The front door shut behind him with a quiet click that sounded more final than a slam.

She stood there—alone, the tangled mass of fabric and wrapping paper at her feet, and wondered if she’d just made a terrible mistake.

Two hours later Eleanor started awake. She’d dozed off curled in the rocking chair in the bedroom. Though her quilting lay in her lap, she’d barely set two stitches in place. Within minutes after their quarrel, she’d heard Luke ride out of the ranch yard. She tried to tell herself that she didn’t care where he’d gone, as long as he was out of her sight. But she kept hearing his final words that he wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life living like a monk. What if Luke had ridden into town to seek out more obliging companionship than his wife had been providing of late?

She kept thinking about the impure women who worked in the Golden Lady Saloon. Her aunt had refused to acknowledge the existence of such women but in a town the size of Black Dog it was impossible to avoid seeing them, at least on occasion. Though she didn’t like to think about it now, Eleanor remembered that several of the women had been quite attractive, their demeanor not unladylike when their paths had crossed hers on the street or in the aisles of Andrew Webb’s store.

Aside from his wife, who would blame Luke if he sought out one of those women?

Her first thought was that she’d never forgive him. But then, a small voice suggested that part of the blame might be hers. She’d refused to perform her wifely duties. And perhaps she’d overreacted a bit this evening when Luke had given her the fabric. He’d seemed genuinely shocked when she’d accused him of trying to buy her favors. As he’d pointed out, he didn’t
have
to buy anything. She was his for the taking. It really was a beautiful piece of cloth. Surely, the fact that he’d bought it before he asked her to marry him absolved him of any ulterior motives. Didn’t it?

Eleanor fell asleep again before she could come up with an answer, her head tilting awkwardly back against the oak rocker. She woke suddenly, her heart pounding from the remnants of a half-remembered dream. Untangling her feet from the
hem of her nightgown, she rose, grimacing at the stiffness in her neck and shoulders. She bent to pick up her quilting, which had fallen to the floor, only to straighten abruptly as she heard a repeat of the sound that had awakened her—the squeal of the hinges on the barn door.

Luke! It could have been Daniel or any one of the hands but she knew it wasn’t. She rushed to the window. A full moon flooded the prairie with light of palest silver. A man stepped away from the barn and started toward the house, his shadow stretching over the ground ahead of him. His features were concealed by the brim of his hat but Eleanor didn’t need to see his face. His long, easy stride and the pounding of her own heart told her who it was.