Caress of Fire (7 page)

All the bridegroom wanted was to dispense with his bride's virginity, and
now
. Yet Gil had promised himself to cultivate and celebrate their loving, and he wouldn't pounce upon her. He'd done enough pouncing in his life. He didn't want sexual release; he wanted everything. The everything he'd never had, but would . . . with Lisette.

An hour had passed since his men had finally called it quits on the nuptial celebration. Out of respect, they had spread their bedrolls well away from this chuck wagon, where Gil and his bride were spending their first night as man and wife.

Sitting on his upright trunk, his back to the spring seat, he watched her. She stood at the rear and brushed her long, flowing locks in the dim light, and he knew her hand wasn't shaking in anticipation of marital pleasure.

Since the moment they had climbed into the wagon, she'd been trying to ignore him. He hadn't let her. Okay, they had conversed about trivialities, about the cattle drive, about the weather–all the things that were least on his mind–but he hadn't allowed her silence.

They ought to be making love. This was their wedding night, damn it. But theirs wasn't a real marriage, not as far as she was concerned. Not a garment had she discarded, despite the wagon's warmth. He, too, remained buttoned up in wedding attire, such as it was.

He wanted her to notice him as a man rather than as an employer who shared the same last name.

“Wouldn't you be more comfortable if you shucked a few of those clothes?”

She continued to brush her hair.

“At least loosen the top buttons of your shirt,” he said. “It's hot as Hades in here.”

The brush stilled. “I am
kalt
... I mean, cold.”

Never would he believe that. Already she'd shown her passionate nature. Each time they had kissed, he'd got the impression that fire burned within his innocent Lisette. He damned sure hoped so.

“You looked beautiful tonight, standing there in front of the preacher.”

He yearned to stand, to close the distance between them. He wanted to acquaint himself with the womanly lines of her body . . . and acquaint her with the manly lines of his. Cultivate, celebrate.

“You look even more beautiful right now. I wish the lantern were lit. I'd love to look at you, really look at you.”

She set the brush aside. “Gil, do you mind if I ask a question?”

“Shoot.”

“Where did you get this wedding ring?” She held her left hand aloft, looking at the gold band.

“It belonged to my grandmother.”

“Has she . . . Is she deceased?”

“Maisie? Not by a long shot.”

“Why isn't she wearing this ring?”

“Because she gave it to me. With a stipulation or two. I was in pretty bad shape when I left Illinois, what with the divorce and all,” he explained. “For the first time in her life, Maisie took off her ring. She told me, ‘Lad, by the ghost o' Bonny Prince Charlie, I have faith in you. I know you'll pull yourself together and find happiness again. Put this ring on the lass you're sure you'll spend the rest o' your days with.' ”

“Gott in Himmel
. You shouldn't have given it to
me.”

“Darlin', the next time I see the Four Aces Ranch, you're going to be at my side.”

“Gil,” she said quietly, “can't we talk some more about my duties? Now, as I understand it, I'm the first person awake in the mornings, and when I have breakfast ready, I call the men. While they're eating, I start the midday meal. Then you guide the chuck wagon to the noon rest stop, and I finish lunch. As soon as the dishes are washed, you lead me to our evening camp. And–”

“Mind if I loosen a few of my shirt buttons?” he asked, watching her profile from the length of the wagonbed. He unfastened his shirt to the midway point. He was still hot, and not necessarily from the warm night. “Mind if I take off my boots?”

“I fix enough bread at breakfast to do for the midday meal, I believe you told me.”

“Lisette . . . I could use your help. And I don't mean as cookie.” When she turned to face him, he explained, “I have a helluva time getting my boots off.”

“Then you should buy larger boots.”

“You're right. But how's that going help now?” She trembled; he felt it all the way over here. “Will you help me, Lisette?”

“Gil, you've had
dreissig–
I ... I m-mean, th-th-thirty years to learn to take off your boots.”

Her accent was thicker than pea soup. Again she attacked her hair with the brush. Nervously she braided the waist-length mass. Again. This was a night for agains. Probably it wasn't a night for lovemaking, but he had to keeping trying.

“Nobody ever told me to buy my boots bigger. See how much you've helped me already? And we haven't been married three hours.”

“Ich
–I ... I think it would be better if you didn't refer to our agreement as m-marriage. I must think of my duties as cook, and you should . . . should preserve your energies for your cattle drive.”

“Honey, I've got plenty of energy.” He levered himself to stand, then angled his trunk down to sit again. “Come on. I'm making boot removal one of your responsibilities.”

Without a word she walked to him. Yet her demure regard wouldn't meet the open need of his. When she started to kneel at his feet, he stopped her.

“I know a better method.” He took her hand. “Straddle me. Backward. Then pull up. It's much easier that way.”

It took a while–probably five or six minutes–to convince her, and he doubted the convincing was necessarily over the best way to remove boots.

At last, though, she was sitting on his knees, her back to him. His fingers clamped around her waist to “keep you steady.” Damn, she felt good to him. And he was getting harder and harder.

She yanked on a boot; it flew from his foot. Quickly, much too quickly, she had the other off and was standing again.

“Don't you think it's time for you to take your bedroll outside?” she asked, her face averted.

“That's not how I want to spend my wedding night, and I don't think that's how you want to spend yours.”

“Are you not a man of your word? You promised to move outdoors, once your men were safely asleep. I'm sure they're safely asleep.”

If he rushed his reluctant bride, he'd have trouble in his hands rather than a fistful of willing flesh.
Cultivate, celebrate.
He collected his bedroll.

For hours he tossed and rolled on the ground, gazing at the north star. Giving up any notion of sleep, he folded his bedding and ambled around the campsite, Sadie Lou at his side.

“Think I'll write some letters,” he said to the dog. “Busy work'll keep my mind off my lusts . . . I hope.”

He got paper and pen from the chuck box, stuck the lot of it in his pocket, then collected firewood from the chuck wagon's underbelly store–the cooney. Deciding on a location far from his men and even farther from the temptations of Lisette McLoughlin, he made a fire and sat down in front of the blaze, his cowdog beside him.

He addressed the first letter to his grandmother. In glowing terms he told her about the new Mrs. McLoughlin. Since he'd never been one for subterfuge, especially with the silver-haired, Junoesque matriarch of the family, he admitted the marriage was for show. For now. He intended to make her a great-grandmother, and he told her so.

“Maisie will love that part,” he told his canine confidante, who settled her chin on one of his crossed legs. “My old granny may be a stickler for manners, but she's a lusty wench, seventy years young. She speaks her mind about the birds and the bees, expects the same from others. And no one loves babes, especially McLoughlin bairns, more than the indomitable Maisie.”

Limpid, understanding brown eyes looked up at him. Would that Lisette gazed at him with that same adoration...

“You know, Sade, in a way, Lisette reminds me of Maisie. Neither one of them would ever say die.” He remembered his scare tactics in getting Lisette to agree to the marriage. It had taken a lot of scaring. He chuckled. “Yep, it was underhanded of me, scaring her like that, but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.”

Sadie Lou had her own gotta-do. She craned away to scratch her ear. Appeased, she settled her chin on Gil's knee again, and a long tongue snaked out to rake the heel of his hand. He gave her a pat of reassurance.

He folded and addressed Maisie's letter. “Better write that gimp Adolf Keller, too.”

Sadie Lou yawned.

In brief terms he informed the German, “I've taken your sister to wife.”

Signing his name, he said to the dog, “I'd best send some money with this. Gotta pay for the stuff Lisette brought here.” He considered sending funds to pay for Willensstark but decided against it. “He's going back to his owner. This drive doesn't need any obstinate mules along, that's for certain.”

The animal, money, and letter could be shipped from Lampasas.

Gil wrote two more letters. One was for Ernst Dietert's wife, the other for Willie Gaines' sister. He didn't know how to get in touch with José's family. The
vaquero
had never given information about himself beyond his name.

He rubbed Sadie Lou's scruff. “If a person doesn't offer details, one doesn't pry. This is the way it is in the West.”

Gil folded the notes. He thought about those three graves, and it haunted him to think José's family would never know the good-natured Mexican's resting place.

He had the urge to talk about it. Would Lisette listen? Definitely; she was that kind of woman–at least when conversation didn't concern making more of their marriage than she was ready to accept.

He tucked the letters into his pocket, gave Sadie Lou another pat, and got to his feet. Needing a safe place for his letters, he stuck them in his saddlebag.

And then he eased into the chuck wagon, stepping over the seat and leaving the flap up to allow moonlight in. His gaze slid down to the floorboard, to Lisette's sleeping form. She hadn't undressed. She still wore those britches and shirt. His eyes welding to the thrust of her breasts, he sucked in his breath.
If you don't stop gawking
,
there won't be any talking.

He forced his eyes to her recumbent face. Her braids were in disarray, and he ached to loosen them completely and twine his fingers around those locks.

Her lashes, dark brown despite her fair coloring, fanned her creamy cheeks. He loved the way those lashes could drop demurely or frame her big eyes when they widened in surprise.

Her nose was neither too big nor too little. It had a faint rise at the bridge and was halfway between thin and wide. Pert it wasn't, which wouldn't have fit her anyhow. Pert was for women who lazed about the manor when not attending lavish balls and glittering cotillions. Lisette's nose showed the heritage of her forebears–good, strong Teutonic stock. Her nose was a superb one to pass down to descendants.

Leaning against his upright trunk, he smiled. His mind's eye concocted a passel of wee McLoughlins, all of them looking like their mother.

Aw, hell, what was the matter with him? He didn't even know if she liked children. She had all those ideas about hatmaking, but surely stitchery wouldn't hold a candle to motherhood.

He hadn't an inkling of her preferences, save for a love of the dance–plus her millinery intentions and her quest to see the city of Chicago. Would she like listening to rain beat down on the ranchhouse's tin roof?

Would she be as passionate as he suspected her of being?

He had a lot to learn about the new Mrs. McLoughlin... and he intended to be a devoted student. And he would be a tireless
teacher
in the art of lovemaking.

He knew how to get a woman warmed up, he'd had a lot of experience along that line, but never had he known satisfaction of the soul. He had damned sure known hell.

Betty–damn her–had played him for a patsy, had come to the marriage bed broken to a man's saddle. And the bitch had laughed in his face, recounting her sexual escapades.

It wouldn't be that way with Lisette. Lisette McLoughlin was a paragon.

He pushed away from the trunk and gazed down at his bride. Her alluring mouth parted slightly; she took short breaths as she slept. Should he awaken her? If he did, it wouldn't be to converse about the subject that had prompted him back to the chuck wagon: leaving three men in their graves.

And she needed time to celebrate and be cultivated. Gil wouldn't push the issue, unless he just couldn't take the heat anymore.

Tonight, he could take the heat.

He crept out of the chuck wagon to make himself yet another rotten bed in the woods. He didn't get a wink of sleep, for his mind was crowded with Lisette and his groin was in critical need of a cold-water dousing. Way before daybreak, he snuck back to his wife.

Her hair was braided anew and wound around her head in a coronet, and she was dressed in clean shirt and trousers, eager to make breakfast. There would be no reveling today. He did work on the cultivating part, though, to no success.

The second day of their married life proceeded the same as the first. Gil was approaching the end of his patience.

On the third day, just after the midday rest and food stop, Big Red threw a shoe. Collecting it, Gil fastened his eyes on the approaching chuck wagon, and most particularly on its driver.

He made a survey of the situation. At the time of the sorrel's bad luck, the herd was lumbering along without protest, the cowboys half asleep in their saddles, no doubt hankering for an hour's siesta to settle the latest delicious meal prepared by Miz Good Biscuits–the nickname his men had given her the day after the wedding.