Magic and the Texan (13 page)

He uttered a sweet nothing into that flesh-hued shell. The devil made him nip her earlobe; she didn't complain. In fact Beth grasped the hair of his head, keeping him at his task.

“You might claim not to want any of those book frolics, but I think you lie,” he murmured and traced the tip of his tongue down the column of her throat.

“I lie.”

“Well, ma'am, I'm glad about that.”

“Then do it—have your way with me,” Bethany whispered, her entreaty defying the silent voice that begged for reason.

“Do you think I play tiddlywinks?” Jon Marc, growling a chuckle, blew a stream of breath across her collarbone that sent her to more shivers of expectation.

Her laugh sounded near to a giggle. “Don't stop.”

Yet he listened to his own silent voice. He stilled, here on the parlor floor. His mouth stretched taut, his eyes closing, his grip lessening on her hips. “I must . . . I promised—”

“Hush,” she whispered, not wanting to think what might happen after this was over. “Don't deny what we want.”

“Crazed foolishness, woman. But . . .”

His fingers set her shirt buttons free, his lips trailing to the rise of her breast. Drunk with need, she pulled material away, baring one mound to his gaze. A strong browned hand circled the fullness as his lips descended.

Goose bumps rose on her flesh when his stubbled face tickled tender skin. She bowed toward the juncture of his groin, as he gave full attention to the aching need in that breast. She yearned to give everything to the man she loved.

Her hand pressed his head to his task. “Yes,” she hissed through clinched teeth. “Feels so good.”

And he wanted her. She knew it, even before he guided her leg over his hip. Full and ready for her, Mighty Duke pressed her inner thigh, nudging in the rhythm of lovemaking. A smile wide with desirous contemplation hovered on her lips.

Yet honor got the best of him. He rolled to his back and rubbed a palm down lips white with control. “Promised to treat you with the utmost respect. Gotta get you to the padre.”

What he said had reason to it.
I don't want reason!
But it had to prevail. That didn't make it any easier for Bethany, stopping short of fulfillment, but she, too, must collect her wits. “We . . . ? Shall we discuss wedding plans?”

“I've got a brick between my legs.” He was breathing hard. “Can't think, much less talk.”

“What do you suggest we do?”

“Don't know about you, but I'd best get myself to the river for a quick cooling off.”

He jackknifed to his feet, but bent over to press a kiss to her forehead. “Thank you, honey.”

He loped outside the cabin.

“I love you,
querido,
”she whispered to his shadow. “You peculiar mixture of rascal and gentleman, I do love you.”

She rolled into a ball, hoping to retain his lingering warmth. Dear Jon Marc. Her darling. Her beloved. A man much maligned by life. He deserved better than a woman of experience. But a woman of experience was his destiny.

“I'm tired of lying,” she bemoaned to parlor walls. “But if I don't lie, I'll hurt him.”

How much could she tell, without wounding him?

Bethany took care of her toilette, then went to the kitchen, where Isabel was preparing a breakfast of
huevos rancheros,
fried eggs with a slathering of tomato-and-jalapeño relish. A sample proved to hold enough hot peppers to turn a mouth inside out, even Bethany's.

As she set the worktable with cutlery, Jon Marc strode indoors. In dry clothes, his hair damp.

He ordered the quiet servant to leave, which she did.

Pouring coffee, Bethany swept her free hand to indicate he should sit down. She stole a peek at his expression, wondering if he, too, were thinking about their moments in the parlor.

“There's more,” he clipped out.

“Excuse me?”

Their past intimacy, and breakfast, got ignored.

“Before I get down on my knee and ask you properly to become my wife, you need to know everything,” he said.

Sitting down, she studied his strained expression. “Are you guilty of a crime?” She tried to prepare for the worst, yet had too much faith in him to expect an affirmative reply.

“I'm no criminal. You just need to know what needs to be known about me.”

“Maybe you ought to keep some things to yourself,” she suggested. “I've heard it said that marriage is better, if you keep a part of yourself a mystery.”

“Secrets lead to trouble.”

This wasn't what she needed to hear. But she'd decided to be as honest as possible. “I have something to confess.”

He shoved his plate to the middle of the table. “What would it be?”

“I don't like poetry.”

His coffee-brown eyes grew puzzled, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “How so? How can you write poetry, yet dislike it?”

Bethany was tired of lying, but what else could she do but pose a scenario that she would have employed, had she been a talentless Miss Buchanan? “I knew you had an appreciation for rhymes. So I paid a schoolteacher to write them. They were pretty awful, I thought. But anything was better than nothing.”

The laugh that heaved his chest brought with it a shake of head. “Those poems won't be remembered as classic.”

“Are you . . .” She swallowed. “Are you disappointed?”

“A mite. But if that's all you need to confess, you can breathe easier. I can, too.”

If she'd believed in prayer, she'd have given one in thanks for his temperament, but how far would good humor stretch?

He reached for his coffee cup, asking over the rim of it, “What about the day I overheard you speaking with Sabrina? You had a rhyme on your lips.”

“Verses with odd twists appeal to me,” she replied, never more honestly.

“Does this mean you don't enjoy
hearing
great poetry?”

She laced fingers on her lap, aligned her shoulders with forthrightness, and eyed him with as much dignity as she could muster. “I have no rapport with pastoral prose.”

His features showed a myriad of emotions. “I'll be doggone.”

“Jon Marc, I am not the woman who wrote all those nice things in letters. I have defrauded you. And I have lied to you. I am not the Beth Buchanan you sent for.”

There. It was out. Bethany felt better. Arguably, she'd told the truth. Vagueries didn't express the whole truth, of course, but he could never say she hadn't warned him.

He reached across the table to caress her cheek with the back of his knuckles. “Honey, you've overlooked my sins. I'm willing to overlook a few white lies.”

That was the best she could hope for. Now, if he'd only overlook the rest . . .

 

 

He gazed across the table at the lady he would marry. Luck and planning brought her here. He, a man too often ill blessed, counted himself lucky for her forgiving heart.

Beth isn't a poetess.
Jon Marc found it odd, trying to reconcile to that news, but, as he'd said, he'd look past it. After all, her aversion to poetry, and her prevarications along that line, didn't compare to his wild romps with Persia Glennie.

His eyes went to the swell of Beth's bosom, a surge of desire hitting his sensitive places. How good she'd tasted. How good she'd looked to him. How superb she'd made him feel, once he got a sample of her passion. Yes, he was one lucky fellow.

His head spinning with anticipation of the rest of their lives, he quit the chair, walked around the table, then went down on a knee to take her hand. Looking up into long-lashed eyes, he asked, “Beth, will you be my bride?”

“Yes. Oh, yes!” She smiled, with worry? “When?”

“As soon as Padre Miguel will marry us. ”Jon Marc folded her into his arms.

They kissed deeply, lustfully. His veins afire for more, he didn't want to stop, but smarts—and a sense of honor—had a word with desire. Wouldn't it be better if they consummated their union in a fitting manner?

Later.

Jon Marc and Beth were headed for the church.

 

 

Bethany and her bridegroom set out on León and Arlene for Santa Maria Church. Neither figured vows could be read without banns, unless the old ones would do. Thus, they were dressed in riding attire. Halfway to Fort Ewell, they crossed paths with a rider on a broad-beamed mount, the codger Liam Short.

His odd-looking dog—Bethany seemed to recall it answered to Stumpy—stumped between Liam's lap and the saddle horn. The dog wagged a tail and, head up, barked.

Reins in one hand, waving an envelope in the other, Liam brought the chestnut to a halt in front of Jon Marc and Bethany. “This here letter be for you, son. Fitz O'Brien done wrote you.”

Bethany glanced at Jon Marc. He blanched. Turned white as writing paper.

If she'd had her if's, she would have snatched that document out of the old man's hands and torn it to bits before Jon Marc could be hurt by the contents. Not that he'd open it. But its presence caused pain, and his pain was hers.

Recovered from the shock, Jon Marc said, “Funny, your delivering mail, Liam. Got a case of nosiness?”

“Got business with ya.” The oldster tipped his hat at Bethany, while the snaggletoothed mutt lolled his tongue, panting over the warm day, no doubt. “How doin', ma'am? When's the weddun?”

Bethany didn't trust him, and felt the feeling mutual.

“We're on our way to talk with Padre Miguel,” Jon Marc answered.

He and Liam were friends; she wanted amity with the postmaster. “We won't send written invitations, Mr. Short, but please know we want you in attendance.”

Jon Marc added: “Will you be my best man, Liam?”

“Nice of ya to ask, but I ain't never set foot in that Meskin church, and don't intend to. Thank ya, anyways.”

Bethany fretted over the look of disappointment on her man's face.
He's too easily hurt.

Three-legged dog listing to starboard, Liam righted the mutt, patted Stumpy's head with reassurance, then said to Jon Marc, “Coupla vaqueros come into the post office, 'round noon. Said old Hoot is roarin' to get ya, 'cause you landed him a good one. He's back. Vowing to make you suffer this time.”

“Let him try. He's got one more eye to lose.”

The postmaster scraped a fingernail into his beard. “Your boys is gone for the most part, don't forget.”

“They'll be back soon. Even if Catfish and the vaqueros are delayed, I'm not worried about the likes of Hoot Todd.”

Easy for him that might be, but Bethany didn't feel quite as confident. Hoot Todd might leave something to be desired as a brother and neighbor—or as a human being!—but she disliked the idea of his tangling with Jon Marc.

She didn't want anyone or anything causing trouble.
That's not all, girl. You know there's more.
Jon Marc's streak of violence disturbed her. He had killed for his brother. For some odd reason she didn't want him to kill hers.

“Thanks for bringing the letter,” Jon Marc said facetiously, took it out of Liam's hand, and shoved it past his vest and into a shirt pocket. “You're a real pal.”

He kneed León and motioned for Bethany to follow in their charted course. They rode in silence toward Fort Ewell. Before reaching the town, Bethany could hold her tongue no longer. “Are you going to ignore Fitz O'Brien's letter?”

“Yes.”

She brought Arlene to a halt, calling to Jon Marc's back, “I am not going another foot until you can walk into church with a smile on your face.”

 

 

Jon Marc found a good spot on the ground, on the riverbank. How could he smile, what with that letter in his pocket? Nonetheless, he sat down, next to Beth.

“Read the letter,” she ordered, softly yet insistently.

“No.”

“There could be important news. Someone could be sick. Could have died.”

“I doubt it.”

“You don't know for sure.”

“I know what's in it. Nosiness. Nosiness about our marriage, and probably another plea for me to return to Memphis.” Turning his face toward hers, Jon Marc scowled. “You see, a few months ago, I wrote Fitz as well as the aunties. I told them to stay back while I got myself a bride.”

“Jon Marc O'Brien, you confound me. You claim to ignore your family, yet you told them about me? Wait. Did you write to the boy, Pippin? Is that how they knew to begin with?”

“They've known about you for years.”

She appeared confused. “You need to help me here, sir.”

He should. And got worried. What if something had happened to Tessa or Phoebe, or one of the others? He plucked the letter from his pocket, wanting to tear it in half and toss the pieces to the sky. He handed it to Beth instead. “Read it.”