Harper's Bride (26 page)

Melissa backed away first, pushing a hand
through her straggling hair. "Um, Jenny must be hungry, and I don't
want to tire her out. I should feed her and put her to sleep."

Once again, the brief glance they exchanged
was charged with unspoken purpose and need. He thought he might be
wrong, that what he saw in her eyes was fatigue, or joy, or
friendship.

But no. There was no mistaking it—each
understood the other.

A better man might have walked away right
then without taking the moment one step further, he supposed. But a
better man would have lost out on the chance to mend his heart in
the arms of this woman, and miss the privilege of honoring her with
his own body. If Dylan was less noble, so be it, he thought.

He had slept next to her for weeks, fighting
his desire for her, and he'd dreamed of her smooth, slender form
more nights that he wanted to count. He'd promised her that he
would never try to claim husbandly rights, but they weren't the
same people they'd been that day outside the Yukon Girl Saloon.

Now, whether he liked it or not, Dylan had
come to care for the woman whose freedom he'd bought for twelve
hundred dollars.

He glanced at his bed, and then at the
log-walled room. "Well, I guess I should go down and see about the
store. I haven't looked in on it in a while."

Melissa touched his arm and let a timid,
meaningful gaze slide up to his face before she looked away.
"That's fine."

Feeling nearly as shy and self-conscious as
he thought she did, Dylan turned and went to the door. His heart
hammered in his chest. Then he looked back over his shoulder at her
and Jenny. Melissa smiled at him, a sweet, beautiful smile.

He knew he was lost to her.

*~*~*

Do you know what you're doing? Melissa asked
herself as she watched the door close. She believed she did, but
even if she was wrong, she knew it would not be the worst choice
she'd made in her life. Dylan Harper was a good man, a decent man,
and the fires he stirred in her could no longer be ignored.

After she fed Jenny, the child fell into the
exhausted slumber of a convalescent. Cuddling her in one arm,
Melissa lit the lamp on the table and lowered the flame to a soft
glow. Then she carried the baby to the cradle that Dylan had bought
for her.

"Good night, sweet little button," she
whispered, then kissed the tiny hand that curled around her finger.
Gazing down on the little girl with love, she tucked her blanket
around her and said a silent, earnest prayer of thanks that her
child had been restored to her.

Melissa went to the washstand and looked at
her reflection. Her fatigue had left her as soon as Dylan had
kissed her. Now anticipation and fear were at war within her,
making her hands cold and her insides shaky. He hadn't swayed her
with a lot of smooth talk or empty pledges. She knew there were no
promises between them beyond what he'd told her the day she met
him.

But Melissa was in love with him, an emotion
that sent her to the heights of joy when she looked at him and the
depths of despair when she thought of leaving him. Whatever might
happen, she determined that she would know the touch of the man she
loved. Taking off her clothes, she stood before the little mirror
wearing only her untidy braid.

Her hair had come loose from its weaving, so
she brushed it out and let it fall in soft waves over her
shoulders. Expecting to hear Dylan's footsteps on the stairs at any
moment, she soaped and rinsed as quickly as she could. What did a
person wear in this situation? she wondered with a touch of
giggling hysteria. On her wedding night the pretty white muslin
nightgown she'd made for the occasion had gone unnoticed by Coy.
He'd come to her room long after their quick courthouse wedding,
stinking drunk. After a slobbering attempt to consummate their
marriage, he'd passed out on the bed next to her.

She shuddered at the memory.

Tonight would not be like that.

She heard the door slam downstairs. Dylan
would be up here any moment. Looking around, she spied a clean
nightgown slung over the end of the bed. Normally, modesty would
never have allowed her to leave her personal clothing in full view,
but the last few days had made such details unimportant. Grabbing
the gown, she threaded her arms into the sleeves and pulled it down
over her head just as she heard Dylan's first footfall outside.

Melissa walked to the bed and climbed between
the cool sheets. She'd followed this routine almost every night
since she came to live with Dylan, but tonight she sat against the
headboard in the semi-darkness, waiting expectantly for the man she
had come to regard as her husband.

Then she eyed the barrier that took up the
center of the mattress. Melissa remembered the night she'd dragged
the sack up here. In a state of panic and certain doom, she'd hoped
it would protect her from Dylan. But it had been his integrity that
protected her, and the time for walls between them had long
passed.

Considering the sack, she scrambled to her
knees and pushed on it to roll it off the bed. It wouldn't budge.
Slipping her hands beneath it, she put all her effort and will into
lifting it, straining and grunting. Still she had no luck. Finally
winded, she sat back on her heels, and flipped her long hair behind
her shoulders. Mercy, her abject terror must have given her more
strength that night than she normally possessed. Well, if she got
it up here— She rose to her knees again with her determination and
pushed.

The door opened, and Dylan stepped inside
where he stood hesitantly, as if waiting for permission to come
closer. Though only a low flame lit the room, Melissa could see
that he'd shaved, and his long hair looked damp, as if just washed.
His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his torso, and his sleeves
were rolled up, revealing muscle and sinew. The snug black pants he
wore showed off his long legs and backside to shameless advantage,
although she felt certain that he was unaware of his good looks. A
flutter rippled through her—she swore he was the handsomest man
she'd ever seen.

"Is she asleep?" he asked, nodding at Jenny's
cradle.

"Yes, she's still weak and tired. I-I imagine
she'll sleep for hours."

He approached the bed, and his gaze dropped
to the rice. Melissa felt a searing tension between them, a
powerful charge of desire and primitive need. The feelings were new
to her, but they rose from ancient instincts and she recognized
them.

"Melissa," he said, and his eyes, as dark as
a forest in the shadows, locked with hers, "shall I move this?" He
gestured at the rice.

"Yes," she replied in a small voice. "I think
it's time."

He lifted the heavy sack with easy grace and
propped it in the corner, the muscles in his arms and shoulders
flexing with the effort.

He turned and sat on the edge of the
mattress. "God, I'm glad to be rid of that. I hated having it in
bed with us." He gave her a crooked smile. "You know, that sack
wouldn't have stopped me if I'd decided to give in to
temptation."

She glanced down at the hem of the sheet. "I
suppose not. Why did you let it stay there, then?"

"Because I knew it made you feel better." His
smile broadened a bit, and his gaze trailed down the front of her
nightgown. He reached for her hand. "And because some nights it
worked."

An exciting flash of danger quivered through
her. His touch was warm and vital as it trailed along her hand and
wrist.

"Oh?" she said, feeling a little
breathless.

He moved closer so that he sat cross-legged
on the mattress, occupying the place of the newly discarded rice.
His knee bumped her hip, and his hair brushed his shoulders with
the movement. Taking her hand, he pressed a kiss to the backs of
her fingers. His mouth, soft and hot against her hand, was
tantalizing.

"Oh, yeah," he said, and his voice grew
richer, huskier. He looked up at her with eyes that burned like
green coals. "There were nights when I wanted so badly to jump over
that damned fence you put up and hold you in my arms."

Melissa knew she'd had nights when she wished
for the same thing. "I never knew."

"Well, it's true," he said, and suddenly rose
to his knees on the mattress to take her face between her hands.
"Melissa—" He shook his head. "I've tried everything I know to keep
from thinking about you, about us together, but nothing works."

What he really meant she didn't know—was he
talking about a future with her, or just this one night? She had no
time to ponder it further, though, because he lowered his face to
hers and kissed her passionately, devouring her lips with his own.
His breath came fast as he held her. His hands moved away from her
face and down her back, then he pulled her to her knees too, so
they faced each other, body pressed to body. He rained soft,
whispery kisses on her cheeks, her eyelids, her brow, her
throat.

"Oh, Dylan," she whispered. Dare she reveal
her heart to him? she wondered. It had seemed it would be an easy
thing to do when she planned it, but
now . . . 

Dylan heard her voice, and the sweet sound of
it was like kerosene on the fire she'd ignited in him. His pants
grew painfully tight over his arousal, and he could think of
nothing but how right it felt to hold this woman in his arms. He
wanted to stroke every inch of her bare skin and follow with a
trail of kisses. Realizing that, he pulled back and looked at her.
Her hair fell around her like a rippling curtain of pale yellow
satin, rich and shiny. Her simple white nightgown was, strangely
enough, more alluring and exciting than the expensive silks and
laces that Elizabeth had worn. He saw trust in her gray eyes, and
maybe even something more.

"Tell me," he murmured against her ear, his
breath short. "Are you sure you want to do this? If you don't,
you'd better say it now."

She nodded solemnly, like a child. "Yes, I'm
sure. It's what I want," she whispered again. Then she added, "And
Dylan, I'm sorry for getting mad at you about the whiskey that day
Rafe died. I was wrong to make such a fuss—"

"Hush now, Melissa. It doesn't matter at all.
It's behind us." He enfolded her in his embrace and felt her
breasts press against him. He wanted to do right by her, to conquer
her with her own desire, as he'd once planned. To make up for some
of what she'd probably suffered at the hands of Coy Logan.

Elizabeth . . . Logan . . . neither of their
memories or their names had any place in this bed. There were just
the two of them now, Dylan and Melissa.

He dipped his head to her mouth to kiss her
again, and this time she surprised him by meeting his tongue with
hers. He groaned and pulled her down on the bed so they lay facing
side by side, their arms wrapped around each other.

Dragging his mouth from hers, he pushed her
over on her back and fumbled impatiently with the buttons on the
front of her gown. He wanted to touch her, but not scare her. It
took all of his dwindling self-control to keep from yanking the
garment off over her head so that he could finally gaze upon her
body.

Melissa reached up and gently pushed his hand
away. At first he thought she would deny him access, and then he
realized that she had unbuttoned the gown herself. Dylan had one
glimpse of the creamy skin inside and placed a kiss on her
breastbone, right over her heart. She arched against his mouth, and
he felt her heart beating as swiftly as a bird's.

Covering her mouth with his again, he kissed
her with all the desolate, urgent longing he'd kept inside for the
past three years. Melissa lifted sheltering arms to embrace him and
hold him close. He hadn't admitted to himself how lonely he'd been
until now. This was where he belonged, he realized, with this
sweet-voiced woman and the child he'd come to think of as
theirs.

Dylan was no awkward kid—his experience
reached far back to his early teens. But tonight he felt as if this
were his first time. Maybe because he'd been months without a
woman. Or maybe because this one meant more to him than any other
ever had.

With a light, wondering touch he slipped his
hand inside Melissa's gown and grazed the swell of one breast with
his fingertips. Burying his face against her neck, he began a line
of kisses that he strung down her throat and over her chest. Her
skin smelled of soap and some other warm scent that was all her
own. No perfume he knew of had a more enticing fragrance.

She threaded her hands in his hair to guide
him toward her breast. His lips followed the path his fingertips
had taken until he encountered her tight nipple. He closed his
mouth over it and tugged, then was startled by a stream of warm
milk that flowed into his mouth. Instantly, Dylan's raw need burned
higher and hotter, and he rocked his hips against her thigh.

Melissa caught her breath and squirmed under
the unexpected pleasure of Dylan's hot, moist mouth at her breast.
Every nerve on her skin seemed alive and sensitive to the lightest
touch. With each light pull of her nipple, she felt spears of fire
shoot through her belly to the place that even now prepared the way
for their joining. Everything female within her responded to him,
and her desire sizzled like an electric current.

She breathed in the scent of his clean hair,
and the smell of his skin that she had come to know so well in
washing his clothes. Abandoning demureness, she wanted to touch him
too, to feel his skin against hers. Reaching down, she struggled
with his shirttail, but it was tucked in too tightly and she
couldn't pull it out. She yanked harder. The sound of ripping
fabric interrupted them.

"Oh, no," she cried, feeling the tear along
the front of his shirt.

Grinning at her, Dylan bounced off the bed
and looked down at the three-inch hole, then back up at her.
"Hooee, woman, I'd better take charge of the undressing. You're one
hell of a fiery she-lion, Melissa. Don't know your own strength,
huh?" He cast off the shirt and his boots.