Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 (18 page)

Chapter Twenty

Z
ane drove the buggy out to the Jensen place on Saturday evening. The balmy evening air smelled of some kind of spicy roses and Winifred looked so enticing in the low-necked pale blue gown it made his heart hurt.

His body was strong enough for anything tonight; the question that nagged him was whether he was strong enough to let her go back to St. Louis afterward.

He'd been careful not to ask about her leaving, not to press her on the matter for fear he would hear something he wasn't ready to hear. But he couldn't stand not knowing much longer. He had to have an answer soon.

Tin can lanterns lit the path to the barn door. Inside it was a jumble of noise and potluck supper aromas and the raucous sound of the musicians—two fiddles, a guitar and a banjo, and the familiar washtub bass plucked by a shiny-faced Whitey Poletti. Children raced around the perimeter of the polished plank floor and young mothers sat on the sidelines nursing babies and gossiping.

A very pregnant Nellie Bruhn, Ike's wife, clung to the plaster cast protecting her husband's broken arm. Zane said a silent prayer that she would not go into labor tonight. He had other things to do besides help a new life into the world.

“Cider, Doc?” Rooney Cloudman stood behind the plank bar.

“Sure.”

“Hard or soft?”

Zane glanced across the room where Winifred stood surrounded by Leah MacAllister, Sarah Cloudman and Ellie Johnson. Winifred outshone every woman in the room.

“Hard, Rooney. Make it a double.” Suddenly he remembered that first Christmas dance, when he'd first begun to realize he had feelings for Winifred. Feelings, hell. He'd wanted her so much his groin had ached.

As it did now.

Rooney's salt-and-pepper eyebrows rose, but he poured four fingers of dark amber liquor into a glass and handed it over. Zane sipped and circled the room. Sooner or later Winifred would look at him, and then he'd pull her away from her circle of admirers and hold her in his arms.

Sheriff Jericho Silver sat on the sidelines with his wife and their handsome twin boys. Zane saluted her with his glass. Lucky man, Jericho. Or Johnny, as the townspeople called him. Running for judge in next summer's election. Life moved on.

By next summer Sam and Yan Li would have a new baby and...

And what? Where would Winifred be? Here, with him? Or back East at the conservatory with a dozen piano students and a concert series?

He found himself gravitating toward her, and all at once she looked up and saw him. She'd done her hair differently tonight, longer, with more waves at her neck. He wanted to lace his fingers through it.

He cut through the gaggle of people around her and drew her away. “Come with me.” Halfway across the room he swung her into his arms.

“Thank you,” she breathed. “I was drowning.” She reached for the glass of cider he still held in one hand, tipped it up and drained it. Tears came to her eyes.

Zane chuckled.

“I always do that,” she gasped. “I forget it isn't lemonade.”

“I can get some lemonade for you if you like.”

“No. I would rather dance with you.”

His breath stopped. “Thank God,” he murmured near her ear.

Suddenly the air between them was charged. And just as suddenly Zane found himself terrified that this—tonight—would not go as he hoped.

He lifted the cider glass out of her hand, set it on a bench at the edge of the dance floor and folded Winifred into his arms. Doubtless she could feel his heart thumping under his white linen shirt, but she said nothing, just glanced up at him with a mysterious smile in her eyes.

He wanted to stop right there and kiss her senseless. And then take her straight home to his bed.

She must have heard his groan because she halted abruptly and looked up again. “Zane? What is wrong?”

Everything was wrong. He loved her. Wanted her. And he knew that as soon as he could dance a whole evening of reels and waltzes, as soon as he was strong enough after getting smacked in the head by a log twice the thickness of any man in this room, as soon as he was fully recovered, she would get on the train back to St. Louis. When she thought he didn't need her any longer, she would leave him.

“What is it?” she repeated.

He couldn't answer. “Nothing is wrong,” he lied. “Just dance with me.”

She lifted her arms. He caught both her hands and pressed them to his chest, curling the fingers of one hand over them to hold them against his thudding heart. He curved his left arm around her back and breathed in the scent of her hair. Lilacs and something sweet, honeysuckle? He moved his hand to press her face into his neck, then slid his fingers up her spine.

“Zane,” she whispered. “People are watching us.”

“Let them watch.”

He didn't speak again until the fiddles struck up a reel and couples lined up opposite each other. He hated to let her go, but he enjoyed watching her from across the expanse of plank floor separating the line of dancers. Her cheeks were flushed and she was smiling across into his eyes. If he lived to be a hundred, he would remember this moment and the look on her face.

The lines advanced toward each other, bowed to their partners and then retreated. He and Winifred were the head couple. They met again in the center of the floor and he grasped her tight and swung her around and around, then released her. It was the last thing he wanted to do.

And when she danced again into the center and Thad MacAllister swung her, Zane shut his eyes. He wanted no man to lay his hands on her, not even his very married friend Thad. Primal male jealousy, he guessed. He might laugh at himself if he didn't feel so possessive of the treasure that Winifred was. If he could be sure she was truly his and not the coveted darling of some music professor back East.

He wondered why he'd never been like this about Celeste. He knew he had loved her, but it had been a young love, one born of enchantment and losing his head. What he felt for Winifred was different. More gradual. More real.

And deeper.

That was why it was so important.

He lasted through the reel, four or five two-steps and another reel before he had to call it quits. It wasn't his strength that was giving out, it was his capacity for torturing himself. She was so close, held in his arms, smiling up at him, her eyes soft, but still it wasn't close enough.

One more slow waltz, he decided. Just one.

He very nearly didn't make it to the end. His pulse wouldn't calm down to a manageable rate; his groin ached so much he fought against dancing her outside and pressing her hard against his swollen member.

She rested her forehead against his shoulder, humming along with the fiddles as they sobbed their way through “Red River Valley.”

He jerked them to a stop. “Let's go. I'm taking you home.”

Without a word, she nodded and went to gather up her lacy blue shawl. She stopped to speak to Sarah Cloudman and Leah MacAllister, then to admire Jericho and Maddie Silver's one-year-old twins. Finally,
finally
, she returned to where Zane waited by the barn entrance. With a final smile and a wave, she took his arm and then they were outside in the soft autumn night.

The moon rose high, washing the road with silvery light and illuminating Winifred's face. After a mile or so she scooted closer and laid her head on his shoulder.

He reined the horse to a halt and pulled her into his arms.

“Kiss me,” she whispered. She lifted her face.

They shared two of the most shattering kisses he'd ever experienced. He couldn't tell who was trembling harder, Winifred or himself.

He lowered his mouth to the bare skin above the neckline of her dress and breathed in her scent. She moaned softly and he tore himself away and lifted the reins. It was time for everything he'd planned all these long weeks.

He drove the buggy around to the back of the house, unhitched the horse and fed it a handful of oats while Winifred lingered on the back stoop. Praying that Rosemarie was asleep in Sam and Yan Li's room, he tiptoed in the back kitchen door, holding Winifred's hand tight in his. He said nothing until they reached the top of the stairs, then he gently turned her to face him.

“I want you to stay with me tonight.”

She reached both arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “Oh, Zane, I thought you would never ask.”

She slipped his top shirt button free, and with a stifled sound he scooped her up and kneed open his bedroom door. Setting her on her feet he reached behind her to turn the lock.

“Were we as scandalous at the dance tonight as I felt?” she murmured.

“Probably, yes. Do you care?”

“No. I felt idiotically happy all evening, dancing with you.”

He began undoing the buttons of her dress. They ran all down the front to her hemline, but when he reached those below her waist she skimmed the gown over her hips and let it drop to the floor.

“Scandalous,” she whispered. “Such a wonderful feeling.”

He pressed his lips to her temple, behind her ear, to the soft, fine skin of her neck, and her breathing stuttered. “Scanda—”

Zane laughed gently and caught Winifred's mouth under his. Oh, mercy, she thought. He had never kissed her like this before. He urged her lips open and she suddenly felt hot all over, as if thousands of stars were dancing on her skin.

He untied the ribbon of her camisole without lifting his head and she heard his murmur of approval that she wore no corset. Surely he'd known that all evening, as close as he had held her.

He shrugged off his shirt, then brought her hands to rest on the belt at his waist. “Scandalous?” he suggested.

She unhooked the metal buckle and tugged down his trousers, waited while he shed shoes and socks and then skimmed his drawers off over his hips. She stepped out of her petticoat and bent to remove her stockings but he stopped her.

He lifted her, set her down on his bed and knelt before her. Slowly he rolled the thin lisle stockings over her knees and down her calves. Her flesh prickled when his fingers grazed her skin. His touch made her feel more than scandalous; it made her dizzy with wanting.

He swung her bare legs onto the quilt and began removing her hairpins, one by one, until her hair fell in waves around her bare shoulders. He wove his fingers into the curly mass, then stretched out full length beside her and began smoothing his hands over every inch of her body—her rib cage, her breasts, her thighs, moving in slow circles and following the path of his fingers with his mouth. He licked a slow path over her throbbing nipples and she sucked in her breath.

“Do you like that?”

“Yes.” Her voice was unsteady. On impulse she ran her tongue over his bare chest, across his flat brown nipples.

“Do you?”

“God, yes,” he whispered. “Oh, God, yes.”

He slid down, rested his palm over her mound and waited. “And this?”

More dancing stars. Millions more. She had never felt anything as glorious as Zane's hands touching her. He slipped one finger inside her and she cried out. She heard his low, satisfied chuckle and that made her bold.

She brushed her fingers over his member and he hissed in a sudden breath and lifted her hand away.

“Do you not like me to touch you?” she asked.

“I do. Right now I like it too much.” He bent forward and slid his hot tongue back and forth across her entrance. Again she cried out.

“Winifred,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I want you more than I've ever wanted anything. I'm so in love with you I can't see straight.”

He rose over her, positioned himself and filled her with one swift thrust.

“I am yours, Zane. You know that.” She sought his mouth and rose to meet his thrusts.

“I don't know how to survive without you,” he said against her lips. His movements were slow and deep but she could tell by his breathing he was at the edge of losing control. Instinctively she tightened her muscles around him and suddenly he stopped moving.

He panted for a few seconds and then thrust hard.

She was climbing, reaching for that exquisite pleasure she had felt before with him, and then she was floating, soaring on the crest of something shattering.

Zane caught her cry under his mouth and then he thrust deep and called her name. She clung to him, sobs racking her body. He brushed her hair off her forehead, kissed her eyelids, her face.

“Why are you crying? Did I hurt you?”

“Oh, no. I felt... I don't know, something just welled up inside.” She reached up and pulled him down to her. “Don't move,” she whispered. “Stay inside me.”

“Scandalous,” he breathed.

“Yes. It was not like this before, Zane.”

He moved to roll off her but she wrapped both arms around him and held on tight. “Don't stop.”

“Winifred, I need to rest.”

She smiled up at him. “For how long?”

He laughed, and then sobered. “Ten minutes?”

“Too long,” she sighed.

He moved off her anyway. “Winifred, there's something I need to say to you.”

“Yes?”

“I—I don't think I can stand it when you go back to St. Louis.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

His entire body jerked. “Yes, of course I want you to stay. I didn't want to press you, but—”

“Press me,” she murmured.

Zane wrapped her in his arms and lay still, trying to digest her words.

“You know that I love you,” he said at last.

She nodded.

“And I think...at least I thought, that you loved me.”

She nodded again.

“Winifred, look at me. This is serious. You know that, don't you? I'm about to propose marriage to you.”

“Yes,” she acknowledged.

He stuffed down his frustration. “Shall I proceed?”

Her smile flickered. “Oh, yes, Zane. Please do.”

He drew in a deep breath and steeled himself to get his heart broken.