Branded (22 page)

She should have yanked her hand away immediately, but she didn't. She couldn't. She curled her fingers around as much of him as the heavy denim allowed and dragged her hand slowly and thoroughly up the impressive length of him. She let her thumb complete the examination by rubbing along the top of his shaft.

She heard his deep, shuddering breath and pulled her hand away. Heavy-lidded, the pale sliver of his eyes shone down on her with intense anger.

"Damn, if I didn't deserve that," he growled.

He'd thought her bold action was meant as retaliation for his insolent behavior. But she hadn't been taunting him. Her undeniable need for him had prompted her.

"What a teasing, little witch you can be."

Furious, she shoved at his chest. "Move!"

He didn't budge. "Poor Lacey, bored of life on the ranch already. I knew you didn't have the makings to last here."

She swallowed back a lump of tears. "You're so right. I am bored. But lucky for you, I'm not your problem."

There was a flicker of something akin to pain in his eyes. And then he moved aside, his hands held up as if in surrender.

# # #

Lacey nearly tumbled out of the surrey in her eagerness to be back. The gray light of dawn accused her. It was a completely improper time to be arriving home. Knowing the sounds of the harnesses would start Oliver barking, she’d had Jasper drop her far from the house.

Although she hadn't partaken of a single glass of wine, she felt as if she'd had too much to drink. She was bruised and battered from the wretched ride, and her head felt near to hollow from Jasper and Cassia's insipid conversation. Had she once been like that--shallower than a miner's pan? Of course, she'd been very much like that. Always looking for the next pleasure, the next thrill.

And Slade had been right, she'd had to ward off Jasper's advances all night until he, too, wearied of the game. She'd been relieved that the Cantwells had decided to cut their trip short and return to the east coast.

Feeling like a sneak, she lifted her skirts and hurried her step only to be brought up short by the sound of discordant hammering. There they all were, every last ranch hand, working on the new cook's shack.

Dix was the first to see her. He gave a shake of his head and pursed his lips in a low whistle of disapproval.

"Mornin’, Lace." Tait mumbled, looking embarrassed for her.

She was suddenly reminded of the calf and hastened to the barn. She tried her best to ignore Slade who was shaving down a wood plank propped atop sawhorses. She couldn’t help noticing how his shoulders stiffened as she hurried past.

"There’s no need," he said as she reached out for the barn door.

She turned to face him.

His eyes were hard, accusing. "Tait tried his best, but the calf didn’t make it."

She felt as though she'd been punched in the stomach. If he'd meant to hurt her, he'd done a grand job. She had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of seeing her weep. "A shame," she answered in the most blasé tone she could muster.

# # #

Cold. That was the word slicing through Slade's thoughts as he tried to concentrate on work. The woman was cold, unfeeling. He couldn't help but recall how she'd fondled him the night before. The memory made the blood thunder through his veins. But it had been a cold, calculated move on her part to bring him down, and Lord, hadn't it. Sleep hadn't even been an option.

The wolfhound and he were like lost souls haunting the dark house together. When he tired of pacing, he sprawled atop his bed and stared at the ceiling, imagining the sound of wheels on the drive. And now this morning, she hadn't even flinched when he spoke about the calf dying. Obviously, the calf had been a project for her, something to occupy herself with. She had no more feeling for the poor creature than she did for him.

Slade propped his back against a tree. He worked the tip of his knife blade beneath the stubborn splinter. The damn thing had been lodged under his thumbnail for the better part of the afternoon.

His eyes strayed to the house. He could make out a weak lantern light. He'd stayed away all day. He’d kept himself busy planing the floor planks for the shed, chopping firewood, and hunting down stragglers. But he'd suffered for it. Even with all he'd discovered about her, his need to be near her had not diminished. Wearily, he climbed into the saddle. He gave his thigh a rough rub. His leg had healed nicely, thanks to Lacey’s fine work, but there were times it stiffened up on him.

A few of his men were loitering around the paddock fence. Light from the burning rush torches glinted off the whiskey bottle and glasses perched atop the railing. He couldn't help thinking, the men looked a little dejected.

"Thorpe, I'd appreciate it, if you could see to my horse," he said as he dismounted.

"No problem, Boss."

Slade tossed the reins to him.

He noticed Irish, Lacey's horse, strutting around the corral like a filly.

"Why's she out?" Slade asked, inclining his head toward the mare.

"Thought she could use a little exercise. Lacey didn't take her out today," Dix said.

"And where's Lacey been?" Slade asked, knowing full well, by the look in Dix's eyes, there was more to the story.

"She's been holed up in her room all day," Beck answered for Dix. "It ain't like her. Not like her at all." Beck gave a dramatic shake of his head. "Sure hope she hasn't taken ill."

Probably sick from too much drink, Slade figured, but didn't check his swift stride as he headed to the house. After two loud knocks on her door garnered no response, his heart in his throat, he burst into the room, only to find her safely curled up in bed.

She clamped a pillow over her face. "Leave me alone," she said, emphasizing her demand with a little kick of her bare foot.

"What's going on here? You've got everybody worried."

He grabbed the pillow from her. She scooted herself to the head of the bed and glared at him. Her face was splotchy, her eyes puffy, and her hair hung in tangles around her face. She had on his old flannel shirt over a long, silky nightrail edged in lace.

"You been crying all day?"

"N--Not all day. I f--fell asleep for a couple of hours," she stuttered out between hiccups.

"Because of the calf?"

Her bottom lip began quivering. Scooping her into his arms, he sat down on the bed.

He'd been cruelly blunt when he'd delivered the news about the calf. He deserved to be slapped or worse, instead, she curled herself into him. And didn't she fit him perfectly.

He rubbed his chin over the top of her head. "Lace, I told you at the beginning not to get your hopes up. In ranching, you lose some calves every year. They aren't all strong enough to survive."

He wouldn't have thought she had any tears left, but the shoulder of his shirt was getting soaked.

"Weaklings like me. You were right. I haven't got what it takes to live this sort of life."

Jealous fool that he was, spouting things about her not having the fortitude for ranch life. It'd all been a ploy to keep her at home ... with him. He felt like a man that had shot himself in the foot. No, to be more precise, the heart.

"Lacey, don't say that." He heard the pleading note in his voice. His hand trembled as it rubbed her back. Priding himself on the steadiness of his hand, this was not a welcome development.

"Jasper wanted me to come back with him to England. As if my father would have taken me back. He wanted rid of me as badly as you do."

"Lacey--"

"It's a good thing your brother's not a rancher," she interrupted. "I'd make him a terrible wife."

Somehow, it always came as a shock to him when she mentioned his brother, or her impending marriage. Every time, he experienced the same sensation, as though his insides had been hollowed out.

Certainly, it was a sin to covet his brother's fiancée, yet Slade didn't feel a pang of guilt. As Dix was fond of spouting; the Dalton creed was every brother for himself.

Grady had made a fool decision not to marry her in England. Hell, if he’d been in Grady’s place, he’d have married her the instant her mouth had formed the word yes.

Clearly, she was alone in the world and needed a home. And for that she was willing to marry Grady who was little more than a stranger to her. If Slade weren’t barely keeping his head above water, he’d offer for her himself. Even with all he had to contend with, he still had the urge to propose every time he looked at her.

She shifted, her mouth and nose were now pressed against his throat. Her warm breath sent a desperate need coursing through him. He would have to leave, or he would make an idiot of himself as he'd done yesterday pressing her hand to his erection. When he made a move to lift her from his lap, she clutched him tighter. She was so torturously close, he had to take a steadying breath. He inhaled the faint perfume of jasmine, mingled with her own irresistible scent. He was done for.

It was easier this way, Lacey decided, when she took to her room soon after completing her chores. The death of the calf had made it clear to her that this was no life for her. How could a woman survive on a ranch, if she found herself distraught over the death of a calf? And there was no reason to become accustomed to this life. Once Grady's business was completed in England, he'd whisk her away to Boston. Boston was a real city.

As long as she did what was expected of her, Slade Dalton couldn't complain. She was sure Tait would be relieved if he no longer had to give her riding lessons. There would be no need in Boston for those skills. She would travel by carriage.

If she spent all of her free time in her room, she'd have minimum contact with Slade. After making a dolt of herself, cuddling into his chest and drenching his shirt with her tears, she didn't think she'd be able to look him in the eye again.

After slipping out of her dress and bathing, she pulled on one of her satin chemises. She opened the window a crack and let the refreshing air seep into the room. She combed her fingers through her hair to dry it. The air felt wonderfully cooling against her still damp skin.

She could hear Oliver snuffling at the window from outside. She put her fingers through the crack and managed to stroke both his cold wet nose and wiry fur. The big dog sneezed at having his nose tickled and then shuffled off.

It was really quite annoying, Oliver had become more Slade Dalton's dog than her own. The wolfhound had taken such a liking to him that he followed him everywhere. Well, not exactly everywhere. Oliver, being the phlegmatic dog that he was, followed Slade as long as he was within yards of the house.

She sat atop the bed and ran a brush through her hair, contemplating whether she should send her father another missive or not. She had written him quite a few. Each one more falsely optimistic than the last. It truly didn't matter what she wrote because he never replied to any of them. She could imagine an untouched stack of letters on his desk, or more likely in the waste basket.

Jasper's strange notion that her father would welcome her back was sadly laughable. Thankfully, she no longer had a wish to return to England. Even on her worst days, she was grateful for Grady. Grateful to be out of the clutches of the depraved Arthur Widstaff.

She was stretching herself luxuriously atop the lilac-colored spread when someone knocked at her door.

"Duchess?"

She would ignore him. Maybe, he'd go away. He probably missed having the opportunity to reprimand her, to count all the ways she was lacking for farm life.

She envisioned him standing outside the door. Tall and imposing, with that dangerous scar of his. She doubted, he would take silence as an answer. Yet, she sat perfectly still, hoping to hear his receding footsteps.

In the deep of night, he seemed a totally different man. With his frenetic pacing and nightmares that made him shout aloud, he was vulnerable. Some nights he found solace in her room. He'd stretch out on her settee, his legs dangling off the side, and fall fast asleep. And every time she fought the urge to tuck herself in beside him.

It had occurred to her that the settee was somehow more comfortable for him to sleep on than his own bed. She should have suggested he move it into his room. But she didn't. She hated to admit it to herself, but she liked him there for her own selfish reasons. Knowing he was close, gave her a feeling of security she could not remember ever having experienced before.

He knocked again, hard. The man outside her door was not the gentle soul, the man seeking comfort from his insomnia. This was the hardened rancher.

"Lacey, open the damned door."

She slipped off the bed and moved toward the chair that normally held her robe. Only remembering too late that she'd washed it today, and it was sitting nicely folded in the laundry basket.

The door flew open, and he stepped inside. Having to knock a mere two times had obviously tried his patience.

"There's another calf that needs looking af--" he started to say and then quickly shut the door.

Unfortunately, he didn't exit before he shut the door, as a gentleman would have.

There was nothing left to do. She stood facing him, clad only in her sheer shift. One of her underthings, he'd found so objectionable. He smiled.

"Mr. Dalton," she acknowledged him with an aplomb she did not feel.

The look in his eyes was hungry--wolfish. This was definitely not the look of a man who found what she was wearing objectionable. Her insides turned to jelly.

"Turn around," Slade ordered, "I need to talk to you, and I can't possibly concentrate with you dressed like that."

Lacey, swivelling on her heels, put her back to him. She was so close to the wall, the coolness it emitted made her nipples pucker.

She heard him heave a sigh. "That didn't do me a damn bit of good." She could hear him rummaging around in the wardrobe. "Why, in God's name, don't you wear a proper shimmy? You'd be less a distraction naked."

It was too much. She couldn't resist. Swivelling her head to take a quick peek, she made certain his back was to her and then pushed her silk chemise off her shoulders so that it fell in a puddle at her feet. She turned back around to face him, quaking a bit now at her boldness.