Ashes in the Wind (60 page)

Vaguely Alaina was aware of the tremor in his arms, of his movement toward the massive four-poster in his room. They were in a world alone, apart from the whale oil lamps that were left burning, the scratch of the barren limbs against the windows, the crackling fire in the hearth. Even the realization of his wound was dimmed, for he moved with an easy strength that belied his lameness.

Beneath the edge of the heavy tapestry that bordered the high tester, Cole withdrew his arm, letting her legs slide down against him. Before her feet touched the floor, the corset fell upon it. The blue flame in his eyes flared brighter as the underbodice parted to the waist. His mouth lowered to savor the sweet, heady wine-nectar of her lips, and his tongue chased hers in a provocative play that traversed the warm cavities of their mouths. The straps of her chemise were brushed from her shoulders, and Alaina shivered in ectasy as his hands leisurely stroked downward over the heaving roundness of her breasts. They swept her hips, loosening the pantaloons, and aided their descent to the floor. His hand slipped between them and released his undergarment, and for Alaina the shock of his bold, manly
flesh was renewed and remembered, just as startling and awesome as that night long ago.

Like two feathers caught on an airy breeze, they drifted down to the soft comfort of his bed, their mouths clinging, their sighs mingling into one breath. His hand stroked her body in a long caress, then wandered along more intimate ground, stopping her breath with his boldness. Her thighs quivered and loosened beneath his questing search, and her eyelids fluttered as a rapturous bliss washed through her. Her breathing was shallow and rapid, while her heart thudded a wild, frantic rhythm.

“Oh, Cole,” she sighed in a soft, trembling breath. “What are you doing? Is this some torture you’ve brewed for me?”

“Eh, no torture this,” his ragged whisper came against her lips. “But love, as we make it together.”

“Then love me more,” she pleaded. “And let me love you.” Hesitantly she brushed her fingers along his scarred thigh. “Is it—permissible to touch you?”

Cole held his breath as he guided her hand to the hard, heated shaft where throbbed the pulsing hot blood of his desires. His whole being turned to liquid as her cool, gentle fingers explored his man’s body, igniting too many fires for his crumbling restraint. Shaking, he raised above her and lowered his hips between her thighs, pressing his entry home as his hard belly caressed the softness of hers.

It was a merging. A blending. A coming together. Man with woman. Husband with wife. Softness yielding to hardness. Wonder turning to rapture. Bodies straining and cleaving together. Two beings wrapped in the pure bliss of their union, proceeding
in eager, uncaring haste, giving all to the other and in return finding everything and more.

And it came, just as it had before, whatever it was that made their coupling unique. As waves of pure physical pleasure washed over her, Alaina could only sense that theirs was a special nectar of love. Cole knew it. It was what had held his mind in tow all these many months, and now he poured himself into her, groaning, shuddering, reaching into her very soul with his possession of her and binding their heaving bodies in total consummation.

A fine film of sweat glistened on their bodies as they lay entwined in the afterglow of love, their passions spent, their muscles drained of strength. Cole turned his face into the rumpled, fragrant hair that spilled across his shoulder and inhaled the delicious scent of her, remembering the many nights of torture when he had not been able to banish her from his mind. For some time he had known that she was the catalyst that stirred his blood until his passions seethed. He had been a man burning with desire—but always for her. Now sated, he could only marvel at the peace of contentment.

Freezing temperatures after a heavy fog had frosted the barren limbs of the trees, dressing the landscape in a bedazzling array of crystals that shimmered and danced beneath dawn’s rising sun, that same which tentatively thrust its rays into the room to awaken the sleeping woman. Alaina stretched languidly beneath the cozy luxury of the down-filled comforter before she realized she was alone in the oversized bed. Clutching the covers to her naked bosom, she sat upright and glanced about the empty room. A crackling fire danced
in the hearth, chasing the chill from the room, but it was a poor substitute for the warmth she felt in Cole’s presence. Then, from the open door of the bathing chamber, drifted reassuring sounds of his proximity. Wrapping the sheet about her, Alaina ran across the cold oak floor into the adjoining room where Cole sat relaxing in a steaming bath. Her mood was gay, almost flippant as she rushed forward to bestow a lingering good morning kiss upon his lips, sending his mind reeling
back to the memory of her shy but captivating boldness of the night before. He found himself much enamored with this lighthearted sprite who had come into his life with her unquenchable élan. There was more woman here than he had ever realized, and it was not the calculated femininity of Roberta, but an easy, natural thing that never failed to stir his ardor. He savored the warmth of her mouth eagerly conforming to his and sighed as her lips left his. Her eyes sparkled above a puckish smile as she gave him a long, deliciously lecherous perusal that took his breath away.

“Need any help, Yankee?”

“As a matter of fact,” he breathed, crooking an arm behind her neck and pulling her back for another kiss, “I am in dire need of a little feminine companionship.”

The sheet dropped as he tugged it free, and he pulled her down on top of him, spreading wanton kisses upon her mouth and bosom.

“Finally,” he murmured huskily against her throat, “my threat has been carried out. But little did I think when I issued it that bathing you would be so pleasurable.”

X
ANTHIA
Morgan descended from her modest carriage with the help of her driver and paused on the front steps of Latimer House to cast her eyes toward the dark, lead gray sky that hovered close above the rooftop. Her breath was an icy frost in the chill air, while the crisp sting of the north wind hit her full in the face. She would have to conclude her business here quickly if she intended to make it back to St. Cloud before the gathering storm descended.

Shown into the parlor by the butler, she seated herself on the settee to await the entrance of Alaina. Earlier in the morning she had seen Cole pass the shop in his buggy, and she had seized upon the opportunity to meet his young bride. At least she had the advantage of surprise. The girl would be totally unprepared.

Slipping off her gloves, Xanthia glanced about the room with a critical eye. Roberta’s tastes had always leaned toward the garish, and this crowded, overdecorated room suited the woman’s overbearing personality. Of course, there really hadn’t been time for the new mistress to change things, but Xanthia was most curious to see if Alaina was of the same type. Rumor had it that she was hardly more than a child, and from Rebel Cummings’s careless chatter,
a cloying little mouse of a girl. Though men could be unpredictable in their tastes, Rebel’s opinions could not be relied upon either.

Roberta’s haughty arrogance had displayed itself on her many visits to the millinery shop. In search of some trinket to appease a momentary whim, she had often ripped off a veil, flower, feather, or whatever ornament she had found displeasing on a hat, then, upon trying it on, she had many times decided she preferred something else entirely.

Quick footsteps sounded in the hall, almost running, and a breathless voice addressing the butler, “Oh, Miles, will you ask Annie to prepare some tea?”

The chimes of the clock brought a gasp from the unseen woman, and her distress was obvious in the barely subdued whisper that reached Xanthia’s ears. “Two! Half the day is gone! Why didn’t someone wake me sooner?”

Xanthia did not lay the cause of the girl’s tardy rising to a night and morning spent in amorous lovemaking. She could only think that the new mistress was as lazy as the old.

“Doctor Latimer left explicit instructions that you were not to be disturbed this morning, madam,” Miles quietly informed his mistress. “And he said to tell you that he had business to attend to in St. Cloud and would return as soon as possible.”

Xanthia’s eyes were fastened on the door when Alaina finally stepped into view, her cheeks slightly flushed from hurrying which made the gray eyes seem all the brighter and clearer. The sight of her momentarily scattered the older woman’s defenses, for Alaina was exactly what Xanthia feared most.
This was no graceless gosling of Rebel’s descriptions, but one with a young exuberance, a joie de vivre about her that was unmistakably intriguing. Though Xanthia had expected her to be wearing much richer garb, the plum muslin with its high neckband, long fitted sleeves, and narrow bodice was pert and pleasing. With this first glimpse of Alaina Latimer, Xanthia wholly understood Cole’s infatuation, and it frightened her more than she had imagined anything could.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Miss—ah—” Alaina smiled expectantly.

“Mrs., really.” It was best to set the matter straight right from the beginning. “Mrs. Xanthia Morgan.” She moved her handbag and the package she bore to the settee beside her for the present moment. “There have been so many rumors flying about town, Alaina, I had to come and meet you face to face.”

Not unaware of the woman’s exacting perusal, Alaina asked quietly, “And do I meet with your approval, Mrs. Morgan?”

Xanthia nodded concedingly. “You’re really quite beautiful.”

“Might I return the compliment, Mrs. Morgan?”

Xanthia was a bit at odds as to how best to proceed. “I suppose you are curious about me.”

Alaina nodded. “Are you a friend of my husband’s?”

Xanthia’s mind groped like some creature caught on a bed of quicksand. The question blunted the force of her intended attack, and her reply seemed somehow trite. “I own a shop in St. Cloud. Cole purchased it for me.”

Xanthia paused as the butler brought in the tea service, and if she had hoped to see a flicker of emotion pass across the girl’s face, she was disappointed.

“My husband is a man of many occupations, many of which I have yet to learn about, Mrs. Morgan,” Alaina answered softly. “You must forgive me for being unaware of your particular establishment. He speaks so rarely of his business affairs.”

Xanthia pointedly waited until Miles had taken his reluctant leave. Declining both sugar and cream, Xanthia accepted the cup of tea Alaina handed her. “I’ve been acquainted with Cole for some time now. Seven years at least.”

Alaina lowered her gaze from the woman’s curious stare and sipped her own tea. Of a sudden she wished she had worn one of the gowns Cole had purchased for her and paid more attention to her hair instead of quickly sweeping it from her face and leaving the mass to curl in carefree abandon around her shoulders. The auburn hair of the other was exquisitely coiffed, and she was gowned in costly good taste, a rich brown silk gown with hat and muff of plush sable. Desperately, Alaina tried to crush the apprehension that had stirred restlessly at her first sight of the woman.

“Mrs. Morgan—” she began in a questioning tone.

“Xanthia, please. I haven’t been called Mrs. Morgan since I left the graveside of my late husband. And I assure you, I have few worthwhile memories left of him.”

Alaina’s raised eyebrow betrayed some amazement, but out of good manners she didn’t dare question one of such brief acquaintance.

“Oh, it’s no secret,” Xanthia assured her, shrugging. Her voice bore a soft, husky quality within it as she continued. “Everyone in town knows about my marriage to Patrick Morgan. He was a drunk, a gambler, a no-good man about town.” She idly traced the rim of her cup handle with a long fingernail. “I was from a good family, you understand, and I had never met anyone else quite like Patrick Morgan. I fell hopelessly in love with him, married against my parents’ wishes, and followed him out here. Oh, I would have followed him anywhere the first month of our marriage.” She released a long sigh as she mentally recounted the times in their brief marriage that Patrick had beaten her and left her sobbing and heartbroken. “I conceived within the first few months of our marriage, but my husband didn’t want any responsibilities like that.” She waited until she could control the slight quaver in her voice. “When I began to show my condition, he started
running around with other women. After a particularly wild night in town, he became violent, and as a result I lost the baby. I would have died had it not been for a friend taking me to a fine, young doctor.” A long pause ensued before she murmured. “That was when I met Cole. Some hours later they dragged my husband from the river. Witnesses said he swam out with his horse to catch the ferry which had already started for the other side, but he had been drinking far too much and couldn’t save himself in the swift current.”

Alaina folded her hands sedately in her lap. “Why are you telling me this, Mrs. Morgan?”

Xanthia set her cup down on the saucer and let her words fall like a dead weight upon the girl. “I have known Cole about as well as any woman can.”

“Oh?” Placing her own cup and saucer on the table before her, Alaina asked in feigned surprise. “Were you married to him?”

Reluctantly Xanthia replied in the negative.

Alaina’s inquiry came shyly, hesitantly. “You knew him before Roberta?”

Xanthia braced herself. “Yes.”

Without meeting the woman’s eyes, Alaina examined the back of her hand and fidgeted with the large stoned ring on her finger. “He’s married two women since he’s known you?”

Xanthia could find no answer for the question. At least, not one she wished to entertain. “I’m in love with Cole.”

Alaina fought the conflict raging with her, and with a soft, wistful smile, she picked up her cup of tea again. After a moment her eyes raised until she met the other’s apprehensive gaze. “Then I think we are not so different, Mrs. Morgan, for I love him, too.”

“How can you? You barely know him!” Xanthia demanded in a desperate rush.

The younger woman shrugged indolently. “I have known him as well as you have, Mrs. Morgan. Perhaps not as long, but surely just as well.”

Xanthia felt her heart sink to the very depths of despair. She chided herself for not being more calm and deliberate in this matter, but she was fighting for something as vital to her happiness as anything she could imagine. Purposefully she opened her handbag and drew out a roll of bills. “If it’s a matter of money, I will meet your needs. Whatever your—arrangement is with Cole, I’ll make it worth your while if you will leave here and go someplace else.”

“Put away your money, Mrs. Morgan,” Alaina murmured softly. “I do not plan to give up my husband because of another woman’s infatuation. I’ve been through that before, and I shall fight with every ounce of my being to keep it from happening again.”

Xanthia thrust the roll back into her handbag with a vigor that seemed unwarranted. This was going to be more difficult than she had imagined. “Cole told me you saved his life. Obviously he feels indebted to you.”

“For saving his life?” Alaina sipped her tea, hardly tasting it. “I should hope it’s for something far more personal and intimate.”

Xanthia betrayed her exasperation. “You’d hold a man by playing upon his indebtedness to you?”

Alaina met the trembling rage of the other with well-feigned assurance. “He’s my husband to have and to hold, is he not?”

Xanthia felt her cheeks grow hot with the sting of defeat. She drew a breath, let it out slowly, and advanced to her next ploy. “You’re an intelligent girl, Alaina, and I sense that you have a great deal of pride. People around here resent Cole marrying a Southern girl. They won’t accept him, and they won’t accept you.”

“Then I guess I’ve met a lot of nobodies who like Cole despite his marriages,” Alaina answered softly. “And they seemed so gracious, too.”

Xanthia rose, her back rigid, and picked up the package. “Will you give this to Cole? I discovered it after he left yesterday.” She tore back the paper to display one of his white silk shirts. “I washed and ironed it just the way he likes.”

“My husband has always been so careless about his clothes.” Alaina managed with a gay laugh. “Why, he even lost a whole uniform once—and while he was wearing it, too! There he was in his skivvies, and I had to sneak him into my uncle’s house without being caught. But I will warn him to be more careful. A thing like that can compromise your reputation. It nearly did mine.”

White-lipped, Xanthia put on her gloves and walked stiffly toward the door.

“Will we be seeing you again, Mrs. Morgan?” Alaina questioned politely.

“I doubt it,” Xanthia replied in a muted voice. “Goodbye, Alaina.”

The clock struck three some moments after Xanthia Morgan left. Shortly after it struck four, Mindy looked into the parlor, but decided not to disturb Alaina, for she seemed deeply occupied in thought. Alaina had not stirred when the small chimes of the clock tinkled through the half-hour mark, nor even a few moments later when the buggy drew up in front of the house. Or when Cole’s voice called out to Peter as the latter took the buggy back to the barn. Or when Cole slammed the door and asked Miles of his wife’s whereabouts. It was only when he came limping into the parlor that she came out of her chair. In the same moment her hand swept the package from the table. She took a step toward him and, as he came near, flung the half-wrapped shirt into his face, smothering his smile and the greeting he had formed on his lips.

“Your mistress left this for you,” she snarled through the red glory of her rage. Another step forward,
and her small, doubled fist slammed into his hard belly just above the lowest button of his vest. Caught by surprise, Cole had his breath driven from him. “But that’s from me, Yankee!”

She was by him in a flash, snatching up a shawl and running past an astounded Miles. She flung open the door and ran onto the porch.

“Alaina!” Cole regained his voice with the realization she was leaving the house. “Alaina, come back!”

Blindly she stumbled down the stairs and hurried across the drive. As soon as she left the bulk of the structure, a cold north wind, mingled with icy sleet, struck her full force. She caught her breath against its numbing blow. Something at the bottom of her mind warned her that she was making a mistake, that she was not dressed for this weather. But rage overshadowed reason, and she would not go back. Anywhere, but not back!

She saw Peter’s head disappear beneath the brow of the hill. It was as good a direction as any to take. She raced after him as fast as her feet could fly across the frigid turf.

A dull pain grew in her side, and she slowed her headlong pace to a more sedate walk. Far ahead Peter turned into the lane to the barn and disappeared from sight. The slope of the hill had steepened, and Alaina hastened her step. From behind her came the urgent ringing of the bell. Once! Twice! Her feet flew faster. The double peal rang again, quicker and with a note of impatience about it. From ahead, she heard Peter’s whistle as he urged the horse into a gallop. A sense of fear seized her.
She must not be seen! Cole would be after her in a flash. She stepped from the lane and slipped into a clump of bushes, crouching low to hide her slightest shadow. The buggy careened back into sight and rushed past her with Peter leaning far forward and swinging the ends of the reins against the rump of the racing mare.

As soon as he was past, Alaina was on the road again. Then her gaze caught on a dark shadow in the trees. The cottage! It offered a haven from the cold, if not from eventual discovery. She was chilled through and shivering uncontrollably, and though she found a small bit of protection from the wind behind the shrubs, she longed now to find some meager warmth well away from the frigid air.

Trying the door and finding it unlocked, she slipped within and closed the heavy portal behind her. The hall was dark and eerily shadowed with doorways leading to other rooms. At the end of the corridor that ran the full depth of the house, a large window outlined the stark, barren balustrade of a stairway. The silence was tomblike, and only the mournful wail of the rising wind and her own harsh breathing intruded upon the stillness. She tried several doors, but in each room was presented with a forbidding sight of pale, ghostly shapes of furniture spread with dustcovers. They promised no hint of the warmth she sought. She returned to a wider passage of double folding panels just to the left of the entryway and, flipping open the latch with trembling cold fingers, pushed the doors wide. A brighter scene greeted her, one still wanly lit by the failing winter light, but her first impression was that
the room had been struck by some inhuman destructive force. Chairs were tumbled over, papers were scattered helter-skelter,
leather-bound volumes raked from their shelves. Through the maze of debris, a huge, stone fireplace beckoned to her sense of comfort. It was firm in her mind that she must find warmth soon or beat an ignominious retreat to the house on the hill. Her pride preferred the first choice.