A Wedding Story (13 page)

He had to give her credit. She didn’t flinch, simply stood there with one hand extended, the other on her hip, eyes level on him.

He didn’t expect to fumble with his buttons. He’d once danced stark naked in front of an entire tribe. But with Kate only a few feet away, watching him steadily, his fingers grew clumsy.

He yanked the shirt off his shoulders the instant the last button parted. “Here you are.”

“Thank you.” She crushed the fabric between her hands. “I’ll get this back to you tomorrow.”

“No rush. I do own another.”

“You do?” she asked lightly. “I never would have guessed.”

She turned as if to go and suddenly he didn’t want her to leave. Considering that he’d wished her gone a hundred times in the last two weeks, the urge might have caught him by surprise. But what man would not want to stand there with her, awash in firelight. And he knew, although he didn’t want to, that the reason he’d wanted to leave so badly was because, try as he might, he simply could not make himself immune to her.

It was impossible. A hundred men, a thousand men, had no doubt had the same problem before him. But now it was
his
blood that roared in his veins,
his
heart that threatened to beat right out of his chest in demand.

“I must give you credit,” he said. “Nary a blush. I didn’t think you could do it.”

“I am no longer a girl,” she reminded him.

Who wanted a girl? Only young boys yearned for innocence. Perhaps fools who were afraid they would not measure up. Only those who had not learned the allure of boldness, of passion that met your own and heightened it. Of the wicked temptation of a woman who could stand in the misty evening and watch with open admiration, without a whiff of demure offense.

A man couldn’t help but wonder if she were completely without inhibition.

“I wonder,” he said, before he could think better of it, “what it would take to shock you.”

Kate was very nearly shocked now. Not by him taking his shirt off—oh, not that, though his shoulders were very fine, the swell and planes of his chest clearly delineated beneath the tight, thin knit of his undershirt. But by the intensity of her reaction to him. It thrummed through her, strong and clear and demanding.

His shirt was still warm from his body. Her fingers caressed it of their own volition, as if he still wore it and it was the flesh beneath that she explored.

Oh, why did it have to be him? They had a past, of a sort, a painful and embarrassing one. A prickly and ever-shifting present. Certainly no future. It would be so much easier if it were someone else, someone with no complications. It was as if something in her had fixated on him—more honestly, on some shining image of him that had very little to do with the real man—all those years ago and refused to let go.

“You might be surprised.”

T
he third cot crowded Mrs. Latimore’s tent but not unduly so. A lantern swung from the ridgepole, casting soft and comforting light through the small space. On a trunk turned on its side as a night table, there were soft cloths, beside a pitcher of warm water brought by the silent, smiling, and ever-capable Ming Ho. The sheets were so fine Kate nearly sobbed when she touched them for the first time and she hurried through her evening routine in order to slide in between them as quickly as possible.

“Before you turn in—” Mrs. Latimore and Miss Dooley were ready for bed long before Kate finished, and were sitting upright on their cots, swathed in twin, voluminous cotton gowns, when Kate ducked beneath the tent flap and dropped it behind her. “We’d like to speak to you a moment, if we might.”

“Of course.” She lowered herself to the cot, sighing as it gave gently beneath her, and restrained herself from toppling right into it. “I really cannot thank you enough for allowing me to stay here tonight.”

Mrs. Latimore waved her hand. “It’s the least we can do. Women embarking on ventures such as this face challenges that males do not. It is therefore incumbent upon us to assist where we might,” she said meaningfully.

But whatever she was hinting at was too subtle for Kate to discern. “Of course,” she murmured.

Mrs. Latimore frowned. Her features were brutally sharp in the dim lamplight, the angles clean as a fresh-stropped razor. The years she’d spent in the sun had left their mark; lines scored deeply along the tight seam of her mouth, around her intense eyes. Yet she was a striking woman still. “If there is anything we might do to assist you…”

“I am most grateful for your offer, but it is too much to ask for you to assist us on your quest merely as a gesture to another female—”

“No!” Mrs. Latimore surged forward and clutched at Kate’s forearm, her grip strong. “You do not understand.”

“Apparently I don’t.” She twisted her arm away as subtly as she could.

“Let me try.” Miss Dooley joined Kate on the cot, a whiff of powder and violet soap accompanying her arrival. “We realize that Lord Bennett has some rather…obvious charms. We also understand sometimes women find themselves in…” she paused delicately before plunging on. “Situations from which it is difficult to extricate oneself. Believe me, I know.” Mrs. Latimore and Miss Dooley exchanged glances. “Only too well.”

Kate searched for an appropriately noncommittal answer and settled for “Hmm.”

“Would you like our assistance?” Miss Dooley asked gently.

“With what?”

“With getting away from that man!” Mrs. Latimore snapped.

“Jim?”

“Of course, Lord Bennett.”

“Oh.” Understanding dawned. “I do appreciate, so very much, your concern. But I am fine. Truly.”

“Come now, there is no need to lie for him. We’ve seen how he treats you.” Agitation simmered in Mrs. Latimore’s voice. “He did not want you to come over when I first invited you, did he? And I saw him grab your elbow to stop you.”

Kate bit back a most inappropriate smile. The women’s concern was admirable, but having Jim cast as the worst sort of cad was too entertaining. “I can only assure you that I am not mistreated.”

“After what we witnessed in such a brief period of time, we can only wonder what else goes on in more private moments,” Mrs. Latimore said.

“Mrs. Latimore, Miss Dooley, I am touched and grateful. But Jim…I grant you he is sometimes—often—ill-mannered, and is prone to issuing orders without due consideration. But he is not cruel.”

“Miss Riley.” Mrs. Latimore’s tone was pure steel. “The holds men can wield over women are many. I do not know what weapon he uses to control you, whether financial, sexual, or simple fear, but I can help free you. I promise.”

“I—” The suggestion that Jim held a sexual claim over her echoed persistently in her brain. Her cheeks heated. “I do not know what further I can say to convince you. Our arrangement is strictly business. A legal and moral one,” she added hastily.

“Miss Riley—” Mrs. Latimore began with real heat until Miss Dooley’s soft interjection stopped her.

“We cannot press her further, Anne, or we are no better than what we have accused him of.”

Mrs. Latimore considered briefly then nodded. “We will drop the subject for now. But know, Miss Riley, that should you change your mind we stand ready to offer our assistance at any time. You may depend upon our word in this matter.”

“I do.” A rush of warm gratitude caught her by surprise. “And I
am
truly grateful. There was a time in my life when I might have welcomed your rescue, but I can handle Lord Bennett.”

Handle Lord Bennett?
Her conscience jeered at her presumption. She doubted there was a woman alive who had ever handled Jim Bennett.

Miss Dooley turned down the lantern wick and the three women slid beneath their bedclothes a moment later. Like Jim, the other two women had apparently learned the skill of falling asleep at the closing of an eyelid, for it seemed only a few seconds later gentle snores rumbled from the other cots.

But try as she might, though she might have given half her wardrobe to keep the pillow, though the feel of crisp linen against her limbs had her shivering with long-denied pleasure, Kate could not seem to fall asleep.

They simply did not breathe like Jim. She’d become accustomed to the rhythm, like a child who needed to hear the same lullaby each night before she could drift off. And while half the time he frustrated her to no end, while his presence in her life was neither simple nor easy, she could not deny that, whenever he slumbered near her, she had always felt utterly safe.

Handle Lord Bennett? Perhaps she could. But her own response to him? Now that was something she clearly could not handle.

But then, she never could.

Jim stumbled out of his tent and slammed his eyes shut against the bright sun that felt like it was going to gouge them right out of his head. He pressed his fingers against his temples, trying to massage away the stabbing pain.

Damn,
he thought. That stuff Ming Ho had hauled out after the women had retreated into their tent—what had he called it, Maotai?—was potent. And who’d have thought the little fellow could drink him under the table?

It had brought back good memories. Slouching around a campfire with other men, passing around a bottle and outrageous stories of places most of the people on earth had never heard of much less slogged through.

That was his life. Straightforward, far away, wild. Resolutely male, except for an occasional night or two with exotic, dark-skinned women who considered an evening of passion a much less complicated transaction than a woman such as Kate viewed a waltz. There was no allowance in his future for any other kind of woman, and even less for a woman like Kate.

These few weeks were an aberration. He would do well to remember that. Then he’d get out of places with roads and houses ruining the landscape, away from women who wielded their beauty like a mercenary used his rifle, and back to somewhere he only had to worry about simple things like wild animals that considered him a snack and rivers that turned into rapids without warning.

Hell, he should have done it months ago. Stupid of him to think he’d need a little time to let Matt’s death settle; that brief break had somehow ballooned into reluctance to head back out again. He should have known he needed to get right back on the horse. In retribution, fate had handed him Kate Goodale.

And of course, because the thing you wanted least always showed up right when you were thinking how much you wished it wouldn’t, there she was now, hurrying up with her face flushed and her eyes bright.

Christ, it really wasn’t fair. Despite his best intentions she almost always rose before he did. By the time he crawled out of his bedroll she was already primped and polished, looking more like a dressmaker’s sample doll than a real woman. Like you might get your knuckles rapped if you dared to touch one glossy wave on her head.

She had on a fresh shirt, crisp and white as if some maid had handed it to her freshly ironed. He wondered how she kept coming up with them. This one was at least the third since they’d begun. Her skirt was perhaps worse for the wear, smudged along the hem, but it tugged smoothly over the lush curve of her hips before erupting in the back over the bustle she’d yet to surrender. The stiff geometry of civilized women’s clothes never ceased to amaze him. Though he had to admit there was a certain fascination in trying to discern the true curves beneath. Maybe that was the point.

She was still so beautiful, nearly to the point of unreality. Slickly cool, almost artificial. He hated that she still affected him, even knowing all she was. She’d cuckolded the doctor and nearly lured him into it, too, however unwittingly.

But it wasn’t that simple. It had been easier when he could label her the calculating bitch and nothing else. By now he had to admit that she was not nearly so basic as that. And those flashes of more beneath the surface, of humor and vulnerability, of shadows and intelligence, were far more devastating than her mere beauty had ever been. But maybe that was what had trapped the doctor so neatly.

It bothered him that, even now, he couldn’t tell for sure. Couldn’t neatly catalogue her, separating the truth from the lie. But reading people had never been one of his strong points. Currents, clouds, the plunge of a valley or the best line up a mountain, yes. But not people. It was why he’d always been much more comfortable in Brazil than in England.

Was it really so wrong of him to…enjoy her? As long as he kept in mind precisely who and what she was? And that, he thought, was where things got really tricky.

“Sleep well?” he asked.

“Oh.” She stopped abruptly, skirts fluttering around her ankles, hands flickering at her waist. “Yes. I guess I did. I—” She darted a quick look over her shoulder, in the direction of where the clearing faded into the trees.

“Kate?”

“Hmm?” She shot another quick glance toward the woods. “Fine. Just fine. I—” She took a quick breath, trying to calm herself, and failed.

“What is it?” When she didn’t answer he turned and headed for the stand of trees.

“No!” She grabbed his arm in both hands and hung on. “Don’t go in there!”

A man couldn’t be blamed for enjoying for a moment before he peeled her hands off his arm. “Tell me why I shouldn’t or I’m going.”

She bit down on her lip in indecision. When he took one more step she burst out: “Oh, all right! Really, though, it’s nothing. And I’d really rather respect her privacy. It’s nothing that’ll matter to you in any way.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

“I got up early—you know I like to do that—and there’s a stream, only a few yards in that direction. Ming Ho mentioned it last night, and I—”

“You shouldn’t be wandering around alone.”

The glance she shot him simmered with impatience. “Do you want to discuss that
now
?”

“Depends. Are you going to get to the point any time soon?”

Color flooded her cheeks.
“I saw them,”
she whispered.

He squinted into the thickening copse of trees.

“Who?”

“Mrs. Latimore and Ming Ho.”

“So? You saw them last night, too, and…oh. You
saw
them.”

“Yes.” She gestured at her waist. “He didn’t have a stitch on, and…” Her eyes fogged. “Who would have thought that’s what he looked like underneath? He’s not nearly as skinny as he looks. You know, I always imagined that—”

“Kate.” Now that, he thought, was asking too much of a man, expecting him to listen while she rhapsodized about another.

“What? Oh.” She grinned cheekily at him. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it. An artistic eye, you know.”

“Is that what you call it?” She’d just handed him evidence of her wandering eye. He should have been furious, offended. But she was so damn good-natured about it, her eyes dancing with laughter, and it was just so much work to stay angry with her. What difference did it make now, anyway? “Huh. Mrs. Latimore and Ming Ho? And here I always sort of assumed it was Mrs. Latimore and Miss Dooley that—”

“Jim!” she gasped, truly shocked.

“Come now, Kate.” He nudged her beneath the chin that had nearly dropped to her chest. “You really need to get out more often.”

She struggled to overlay her astonishment with a mask of worldly sophistication. Jim wondered if she had any idea just how badly she failed. “But I…I…” She lapsed into stunned silence.

“So that’s what it takes to make you speechless? Good to know.”

She recovered quickly. “I’m not speechless. I’m just…too much of a lady to speak about such things.”

“Oh, yes, too much of a lady to speak about such things, but not too much of a lady to ogle a naked man you just happened to stumble across, huh? Just how long did you watch?”

Now that got all her feathers ruffled. “I didn’t watch! How can you…” In the face of his knowing grin, she stopped, shrugged. “Can I help it if it took a few seconds to recover my wits?”

“Perfectly understandable.” He debated prodding her a bit more. But if her face got any redder, she might suffer a burn. “Did they know you were there?”

“No. They were…otherwise occupied. And, whatever you think, I really was there only a moment.”

“Good.”

“Can we go now?” He’d left his supplies beside the tent he’d shared with Ming Ho and now she bent down, snagged the strap of his pack, and heaved it at him. He caught it automatically, surprised at the momentum behind her throw. Three weeks ago she probably couldn’t even have lifted it. “I’m already packed.”

“Hoping to get out of here before they finish…”

“Simply anxious to be on our way,” she said. “I’ve already expressed my appreciation and taken my leave.”

“Kate.”

“Oh, all right. I’m not sure I can look either of them in the eye without turning red as a tomato, and it’s really not my color.”

“I’m not sure I could, either,” he admitted.