Justin's Bride (14 page)

“It's bigger,” he said, leaning back in his chair. The meal had been excellent. The company better. Megan still had the ability to make him laugh. “There are more people, more businesses. I heard there's going to be a newspaper soon.”

Megan sighed as she scraped the plates. “I know. Colleen wants Gene to write a column on morality. His sermons are long enough to sit through, as it is. It would be awful to have to read them, as well. What else?”

“The livery stable. It's new.”

She carried over the coffeepot and poured, then sat next to him and rested her elbows on the table. “The old one burned down a while ago.”

“There's a new saloon.”

Megan raised her eyebrows and blinked several times. “I'm sure I haven't noticed,” she said, the haughty tone of her voice a close imitation of Colleen's.

He smiled. “The old one is still here, though.” His smile faded.

She reached out her hand and covered his. “I'm sorry.”

“About what?” She started to pull back. He grabbed her fingers. “I didn't mean that in a bad way. I'm curious what you're sorry about. It wasn't your fault my mother had to work in the saloon.”

“I know, but I always felt, oh, not responsible, but guilty, maybe. Everyone was so cruel. I hated that.”

He studied her hand. Her slender fingers were pale, the nails neatly trimmed. He turned it over. More smooth skin. “She served drinks,” he said, without looking up. “Cleaned the place when it closed. Helped keep inventory. She never went upstairs with a man.” He felt Megan stiffen, but he didn't release her hand. He swept his thumb across her palm, back and forth until she relaxed.

“They offered her money,” he continued. “I heard them. No matter how little we had, my mother wasn't a whore.”

Megan jerked her fingers free and quickly stood up. Her chair went skidding across the wooden floor. “I'm sure she wasn't. Would you like some cobbler? Bonnie and I made it this afternoon. I had to use dried apples, but I soaked them and I'm sure it's delicious.” She hurried to the cupboard and pulled out the dessert. “There's fresh cream, too.”

He rose from his chair and walked over to her. She blindly reached for a knife and continued to babble on about her cooking. Before she could plunge the blade into the dish, he grabbed her wrist and pulled the knife away from her. Then he placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her toward him.

“I didn't mean to embarrass you,” he said.

“I wasn't embarrassed.” She addressed the center of his chest.

“No? Then why are your cheeks red?”

“Because I'm flushed from the warmth of the stove.”

“You're still a poor liar.” He liked how she felt where he touched her. He liked her scent and the heat of her body. He liked how she was fidgeting, twisting her fingers together nervously, but not pushing him away.

“I'm a little embarrassed. But it's all right. We can talk about your mother if it helps you.”

“It's not just her. I didn't know the memories would be so ugly.”

She raised her gaze to his. “Are they? Why?”

“Nothing good ever happened to me in this town.”

She bit her lower lip. It wasn't hard to figure out what she was thinking. She wanted to know if his opinion of the town included his time with her. Thank God she didn't have the courage to ask that question, because he didn't have an answer.

“What happened when you left? Was it better?”

“Yeah, a hell of a lot better than this place.”

“Where did you go?”

“It doesn't matter.”

She stepped to the side, away from him. “Why won't you tell me?”

“It's not important. I left here, swearing never to come back. I should have stuck with that decision instead of being a fool and changing my mind.”

“Yes, you should have.”

She picked up the knife and attacked the dessert. He'd hurt her feelings. He could see that. Justin leaned against the counter and folded his arms over his chest. He didn't have a choice. If he started talking about where he'd been, he would remember why he'd gone in the first place. Next thing he knew, he would be remembering how much he'd loved her. If he thought on that too long, all the feelings from the past might rise again and drown him. He had to keep them dammed and avoid the river of memories, no matter what it cost.

“I'm sure your year here will pass very quickly and then you won't have to come back again,” she said. “Just take everything that belongs to you and—” She put the knife down and clamped her hand over her mouth.

“What is it?” he asked.

She stared at him, then slowly lowered her hand to her side. “I just remembered something. Excuse me.”

Before he could ask what was wrong, she hurried out of the room. He heard her footsteps on the stairs.

He couldn't call out to her without waking Bonnie, so he went after her. At the top of the stairs he followed the sound of drawers being opened and closed, then the
thunk
of something heavy being moved.

The long narrow hallway had several doors, but only one of them was open. As he approached it, he told himself to go back to the kitchen and wait. Megan had gone to her bedroom. Obviously, the only emergency was in her mind.

He was about to turn around, when he heard a muffled “Darn it, anyway, where
did
I put that key?”

Curiosity got the better of him. He walked silently to the open door and looked inside.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Megan bent over an open drawer in a dresser. A large locked box sat on the floor, obviously the source of the loud thump he'd heard. But that wasn't what caught his attention. Instead, he stared at her bed.

He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't think of anything to say. If someone had told him Megan Bartlett had secrets, he would have laughed out loud. If someone had told him Megan could shock him, he would have assumed the person was drunk. He would have been wrong on both counts.

He took one step into the bedroom, then another. At the foot of the bed he stopped. The coverlet was hidden under piles of women's undergarments. That wasn't the shocking part. Of course Megan wore them. But sensible, respectable Megan would wear cotton, or delicate lawn. Perhaps a pink ribbon on her camisole, a touch of lace on her petticoat. But the shimmering fabrics in front of him were satin. He fingered some exquisite lace. And silk.

A slow smile pulled at his mouth. One of the many advantages of growing up around women who entertained men for a living was that he knew the difference between silk and cotton. He knew about expensive, imported French lace and fancy corset covers. He knew what a store owner in Kansas was likely to wear under a conservative calico dress and it wasn't this.

He picked up a sheer nightgown worked with intricate beading. The pale pink garment slipped through his fingers like cool water.

“Got it,” Megan said triumphantly. She held up a key, then dropped to her knees and opened the box. After digging around for several seconds, she pulled out something small, then started to stand up.

Their eyes met. If he'd thought she'd blushed before when he'd said his mother wasn't a whore, he'd been mistaken. The color that flooded her face, climbing from her collar to the roots of her hair in less than a heartbeat, was vivid tomato red. Her almond-shaped eyes widened.

“W-what are you doing here?” she asked. She sounded on the verge of choking.

“What are you doing with this?” He held up the nightgown.

“I—I...I—I...” She cleared her throat. “I don't have to explain that to you. This is my bedroom and I'll ask you to leave. Right now.”

He didn't budge. “Megan, I admit I'm stunned. French lace and silk? No one knows, do they?”

She rose to her feet. “My undergarments are not your concern, Mr. Kincaid. Now, leave my room immediately.”

His gaze dipped to her bodice, then lower. “You're wearing something like this right now, aren't you?” He smiled. “I'm impressed.”

“Justin!” He slowly released the nightgown, letting it slide sensuously through his fingers. She stepped around the bed and grabbed his arm. “I can't believe you are this rude. How dare you come into my private room and fondle my personal things? Have you no manners? No decency?”

“No,” he admitted happily. “None. Apparently, neither do you. I would take a guess that the ever-moral Colleen knows nothing about your wicked indulgence.”

She hustled him out of the bedroom and closed the door. “It's not wicked. I bought a few things for the general store on my last trip to St. Louis. They didn't sell so I brought them home. I don't want them going to waste, not that it's any business of yours.”

Most of her blush had faded, leaving only a red splotch on each cheek. She was shaking. He could feel it where her hand held his arm.

“Lying is useless,” he said. “I've already told you, you're not good at it. Besides,” he added, stepping closer and touching her chin. “I like knowing you're hiding silk and lace under that very respectable dress.”

Her skin was silk, he thought as his fingers traced a line from her chin to the sensitive spot under her ear. She shivered delicately. And her mouth...

He swallowed. “Damn you, Megan. Were you always this much temptation?”

Her lips parted as her breathing increased. Her hazel eyes darkened to the deep gray of an approaching storm.

“I think so,” she whispered.

He lowered his mouth to hers. “I think you're right.”

M
egan braced herself for his tender touch. A fleeting thought warned her she should push him away while she still had a scrap of common sense. She knew it was foolish to kiss Justin. It would get her into trouble somehow. It always had.

If she lived to be a hundred, she would never forget the sight of him as a young man. Or the memory of him standing in her bedroom holding her unmentionables. She was humiliated and ashamed and incredibly...

His lips pressed against her. It was as if a strong gust blew through her mind, scattering her thoughts to the four winds. Her fingers curled into her palms. In her left hand she felt the object she'd come upstairs to find. She slipped it into her skirt pocket, then reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck.

She was a lady. She should be retiring and coy, holding back in fear of a man's animal nature. She should play the reluctant virgin. But this was Justin and she'd never been able to do what she should around him.

As he pressed harder against her mouth, she raised herself on her toes, molding her body to his. She needed him to hold her this night. Perhaps it was her argument with Colleen that made her weak. Or the past. Or maybe it was because she was starting to think she might be more like Justin than she'd been willing to admit.

She slipped her hands down the length of his arms, then up again, savoring the heat of him and the smoothness of his woolen shirt. She squeezed his shoulders, then moved lower, down his chest. She rubbed small circles across his broadness and wrapped her arms around his waist.

He groaned low in his throat. Contentment filled her. She still affected him. Whatever had happened in the seven years he'd been gone, she still had the power to move him to passion.

Her self-congratulations were lost to mindlessness when he probed at her mouth. She parted her lips in anticipation. But instead of plunging inside as she expected, he drew her lower lip into his mouth and tenderly sucked on the sensitive skin. He nibbled the curve, then licked it thoroughly. He swirled his tongue around her mouth, dampening her, making her breathing more difficult. She clung to him as her legs trembled.

He moved his hands from her face to her shoulders, then down her back to her derriere. Through the layers of her petticoat, she felt him cup her curves. When he pulled her closer to him, she arched against him. Once, years before, when they'd been kissing on the bank of the stream, her hand had strayed between them. As his tongue had danced in her mouth leaving her hot and breathless, he'd pressed her palm against a hardness. She'd known only the most rudimentary facts about men and women. The strangeness of it all had both frightened and excited her. Before she could explore him or ask questions, he'd drawn her fingers away to the safety of his chest.

Now, as he moved his narrow hips against her, she cursed the layers of clothing that prevented her from feeling that mysterious part of him.

His hands slipped up to her waist. Her breathing increased. She liked the feel of his body so close, the touch of his fingers. But she wanted more. He continued to tease her, circling her mouth, nibbling at the corners, but not really kissing her. Not the way she wanted him to.

She sensed he was holding back, but didn't know why. Frustration made her bold. She drew away from his assault.

“Justin.” Her voice was low and shaky, as if passion robbed her of the ability to speak.

Dark brown eyes met her own. She saw the fire and understood the source of those flames. She felt them, as well. They flickered along her body igniting fires in her breasts and, embarrassingly enough, between her legs. They left her hot and hungry for something she didn't understand.

“Kiss me,” she whispered.

“I am.” He smiled slightly, exposing that surprising dimple in his left cheek.

“No, you're not. You're playing.”

The smile faded and his face took on a knowing expression. “You've grown impatient in my absence.”

She couldn't admit to that, but she could taunt him as he taunted her. Her arms were wrapped around his waist. She lowered them slightly until her hands rested above
his
derriere. Slowly, all the while telling herself she was wicked and would probably burn in hell, she slipped her hands down his dark trousers until her fingers encountered the first hint of his male curves.