Keegan's Lady (28 page)

Caitlin lifted her gaze to his dark face, which hovered just inches from her own. Even in slumber, he looked dangerous. Nonetheless, she felt oddly safe now that he'd gone to sleep. For tonight, at least, he clearly meant her no harm. He was touching her, yes, but not in an improper way. And as crazy as it was, the way he touched her made her feel sort of cherished. Silly, that. But it was how she felt, even so.

She shifted her gaze to his shoulder and upper arm, which were bathed in silvery moonlight, the thick pads of muscle clearly defined. Calling to mind how her father and brother had looked without their shirts, she was fascinated in spite of herself. Ace Keegan wasn't just a big man, he was also incredibly strong, putting her in mind of the Grecian sculptures she'd seen in picture books. A lump rose in her throat. With such physical power, he could have had his way with her without even working up a sweat. And what had he done instead? He'd given her his knife and touched her with tenderness.

Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes. The next instant she felt a ripping sensation in her chest as a sob worked free. She was so awfully, horribly tired. All evening long, from the very first moment he had mentioned the word "marriage," she'd been expecting him to conclude the evening by raping her. She felt as if she'd been shoved off a cliff and saved at the last second—by her most feared enemy. Why that made her need to cry, she didn't know. But it did. And despite her fear of waking him, the need seemed bigger than she was.

When her shoulders jerked with another sob, he stirred in his sleep, running his hand from her hip to her back. She held her breath, trying to be still and quiet. When her breath finally broke free, it did so in a loud, wet-sounding gush. She felt his body stiffen with sudden awareness.

"Caitlin?"

"I'm sorry."

He rubbed his hand up and down her spine. "Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

To Caitlin's absolute horror, he applied pressure between her shoulder blades with that huge hand of his, forcing her forward until she was flattened against his chest and firmly anchored there by his arm. The knife scabbard poked uncomfortably at her ribs. Her face found a nesting place in the hollow of his shoulder, and she knew he must feel her wet tears. He probably felt her breasts against him as well. And her thighs. She certainly felt every inch of him. The hard planes of his body seared through his denim trousers and her cotton garments, making her skin feel afire wherever they touched.

"Honey, it's all right. Shhh. It's going to be all right."

She didn't see how anything was going to be truly all right, ever again. Though it didn't seem possible, he drew her even closer and tightened his arm around her body. For an instant, she felt almost frantic to get away. But then the heat of him surrounded her, and his strength started to seem soothing rather than threatening. What little resistance remained in her body ebbed away in a rush, leaving her exhausted and limp.

"Don't cry." His voice was deep and wonderfully husky, the expulsion of his breath tickling her ear. "Please, don't cry. I'd rather you took that knife to me."

The sincerity in his voice meant more to Caitlin than the actual words. How long had it been since anyone had cared about her tears?

She sobbed again, trying to stifle the sound against his shoulder. No luck. Her trapped breath made a squeaking sound midway up her chest.

"Well, hell. . ." He jostled her closer, in what she perceived as a clumsy hug intended to comfort her, and oddly, it did. "Cry, then, sweetheart. Go ahead and get it out."

She needed no encouragement. It was embarrassing to have her emotions stripped so bare in front of him. Humiliating to have lost control. But she couldn't help herself. The suffocating ache was tearing at her chest, and she could no more hold it back than she could stop breathing. She cried until her throat felt raw, until her eyes felt as if the wind had blown sand into them, until she had no more tears left to shed. And then she simply lay there, too weary to move, safely enveloped by the hard heat of his body.

When silence fell over them, Caitlin expected him to say something, perhaps even to berate her. Instead he continued to hold her. After a while, she realized rather dimly that his every caress was cautious, that he was keeping his hands in unthreatening places, never once taking advantage of her vulnerability. She wanted to thank him for that, but she was too exhausted, too drained.

Tomorrow. I'll thank him tomorrow. It was the last conscious thought she had before sleep stole over her like a black blanket.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The next morning, Ace jerked awake to the sound of someone shouting out in the yard. Consciousness brought with it surprises, not the least of which was that Caitlin had wrapped herself around him like a baby opossum, her body warm and enticingly soft. Sometime in the night, her gown had ridden up—or, God forbid, he'd shoved it up—and in his sleep, he had placed a hand on her thigh.

He rubbed his fingers across the cotton bloomers that encased her shapely leg. They were more a tease than actual protection, open at the seam from knee to crotch.

Bless her heart. He supposed wearing them to bed had made her feel a little safer, so he would refrain from teasing her about it. But he smiled all the same, wondering if she'd worn her chemise to bed as well.

In response to the shout that had awakened him, he heard his brothers' voices chiming in, laced with anger. It sounded as if a hell of a fight was about to erupt.

None too pleased about having to leave his cuddly wife and the warm bed, Ace groaned and pushed up on one elbow. He was tempted to stay put. His brothers were perfectly capable of handling any kind of trouble that came calling.

And wasn't that just the problem? Joseph didn't take shit from anybody, especially not on his home turf, and the younger boys tended to take their cues from him. Ace groaned again. Would the day ever come when he ceased to feel responsible for his siblings? He guessed not.

His sudden movements startled Caitlin awake. She scrambled to pull her nightgown down, then froze mid-motion, her blue eyes going wide with alarm as her sleepy gaze fell on him.

"Good morning," he said in a voice still scratchy from sleep. "Fancy meeting you here."

She sat bolt upright. "What—? How did—?" She gave the rumpled quilt a couple of pats, as if she'd lost something in the folds. Ace remembered giving her his knife and bit back another smile. In her sleep, at least, she was a trusting little soul. She blinked and rubbed her eye sockets with her fists. "Holy mother and all the saints."

He grinned and tossed back the covers. "Good morning to you, too."

Another shout came from outside, followed by "Get out here, you yellow-bellied son of bitch! Face me like a man!"

Since his brothers were already outside, it didn't take a wagonload of brains for Ace to determine that he was the "yellow-bellied son of a bitch" being summoned. Of course, it also helped that he now recognized the voice.

Patrick O'Shannessy, in high dudgeon. Wonderful. Just, the way he wanted to start his first day of married life, having words with his new brother-in-law.

"Oh, God! That's Patrick!" Caitlin cried.

Ace rolled out of bed and started to get dressed. This marriage was already off to a rotten start. The last thing he needed was for Joseph to make matters worse by beating the snot out of Caitlin's only brother. After putting on one boot and partially shoving a foot into the other one, he hopped in the general direction of his shirt.

Behind him, Caitlin leaped from the bed and began flitting about, first in one direction, then another. As he shoved his arm down a sleeve, he glanced back at her. Clad in the white nightgown, with only part of her hair still caught up in the topknot of curls, she reminded him of a frantic little white hen with a floppy red comb, the roomy sleeves of her gown fluttering around her like wings.

"Caitlin, what are you doing?"

Her face creased and splotched with crimson where it had rested against the pillow, she came spinning to a stop and stared at him, eyes not quite focused. "That's Patrick out there," she said weakly.

Fortunately, Ace could come wide awake from a deep sleep almost instantly. That did not appear to be the case with Caitlin. She was clearly befuddled and struggling to orient herself. No small wonder, he supposed, given her sudden change in circumstance.

"Get out here, Keegan!" Patrick yelled again. "My quarrel isn't with your brothers, goddammit!"

Not bothering to button his shirt, Ace stepped around Caitlin to grab his gun belt from the bedstead.

"Oh, God, he must be drunk!" she cried.

Ace didn't think so. As outraged as Patrick sounded, he seemed to be enunciating his words with no difficulty. Last night, he hadn't been able to say shit without farting.

Caitlin fastened a horrified gaze on Ace as he quickly buckled his gun belt and bent to tie down the holster. "Wh-what are you doing? Why the gun? Don't hurt him. Please, Ace, don't hurt him."

It was the first time she'd called him by his first name. He glanced up at her. "I have no intention of hurting him, sweetheart. He's your brother." He flashed her a reassuring smile. "Don't look so worried. I can be quite the diplomat when I try to be. He'll calm down."

She clamped her hands over the lopsided lump of flyaway curls atop her head. "Oh, God! You don't know him. He's crazy when he gets like this."

Grasping her shoulders, he bent slightly to look directly into her eyes. "Caitlin, I promise you, I won't lift a hand to him." Releasing her, he chucked her lightly under the chin. "I realize you don't know your way around the kitchen, but do you think you could put on some coffee?"

She looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "Coffee?"

"He is my brother-in-law. Once I get him calmed down, I'll invite him in. It's going to be okay. Trust me."

Trying to project a good deal more self-confidence than he actually felt, Ace exited the bedroom. Once in the hall, he picked up his pace and said a quick prayer that Joseph, who hadn't yet been informed of Ace's marriage, wouldn't kick the shit out of Patrick before he could get out there. For Caitlin's sake, he and his brothers were going to have to get along with the little bastard.

Ace's worst fears were realized when he threw open the front door. Patrick stood in the yard, his legs spread, his shooting hand hovering over his gun. Even though his hat was sitting crooked on his head and his clothes were disheveled, he didn't appear to be all that drunk. A little, maybe. With the O'Shannessys, that seemed to be all it took, one or two belts of whiskey. Add a dash of temper, give it a stir, and you had crazy mad, all wrapped up in a dangerous package.