Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose (17 page)

“You’re still bleeding,” she whispered.

“It’s only a scratch.” He felt her tender fingers on his cheek. Her right hand again found his chest.

“Sit down and let me take care of this,” she said.

Somehow he managed to make himself comfortable on the chair despite the tightness of his trousers, which threatened to cut off circulation to an important part of his body.
Listen to your heart
. Her arm swept by him and picked up the sling before she moved to the pump.

“Your arm?”

“It’s sore, but much better, thank you.”

The metal handle groaned as she primed it with two tugs before water spilled into the cast iron sink. Watching her, he thought about her hand and those strokes. He squirmed. Oh, his imagination was evil. It would do him no good to dream about the feel of her strokes on a certain part of his anatomy. He must gain control of the lust he felt around this delectable creature.

She turned and offered him a beguiling smile. The room seemed to light up with her presence. Bringing the damp cloth to the table, she folded it over and stood in the V made by his legs. “This may hurt,” she said.

Her words were prophetic.

He closed his eyes, wondering if she knew how her nearness strained his control. Her scent filled his nostrils. A flower? Perhaps a rose? He breathed deeply once more. No, something a bit more exotic. It stirred a memory, but he could not grasp it. He opened his eyes just as she leaned forward. Those ripe breasts were mere inches from his face. Even though concealed, he could hear them call out, begging him to take them into his mouth and make love to them until she called out his name. His body throbbed.

Reaching his hand up, Trace slid his fingers under hers and took control of the cloth.

“It’s fine.” He clenched his teeth together.

She gave him a questioning look. Could she not see the tent in his trousers? He squirmed against the chair.

“Do you hurt? Is there something I can do?”

Yes, he hurt. He hurt for the mere want of her. The yearning to slide his throbbing member into her lush velvet folds grew with each second. Trace groaned again. “Do not tempt me, woman.”

Something in the strain of his voice tipped her off.

In a voice that turned soft and inviting, she spoke. “What if I want more?”

His heart stilled.
God, is it possible she would be willing to throw it all away for a primal need?
He struggled. His chest heaved as the cotton plastered to the perspiration that dotted his skin. Around them, the air hung heavy with heat, begging them to remove their clothing and allow the breeze to cool their fevered skin. Then,
her
image arose. From the depths of his own hell, the woman he considered the devil incarnate rose, mocking him with her smile and reminding him of her actions. Like a bucket of cold water, his lust and the siren song of Hell chilled his heart.

“No, I will not shame you, my
Querida
. For when we come together—” He paused, his eyes bearing down on hers—“and we will, nothing will stand between us.”

Under his dark gaze, her face blanched. “Why, Marshal, I almost consider that a threat.”

He pulled the cloth away. Reaching his hand up, he brushed her cheek. “No, my sweet, I assure you that is a promise.”

They stared into each other’s eyes and, for a few precious moments, time stood still.

The pot on the stove began to boil and hiss.

“The bleeding has nearly stopped.”

He nodded. “I believe our coffee is nearly done. Let us drink a cup, then you will go up to bed—alone. I will sleep on your couch.”

“My couch,” she repeated.

“I believe whoever did this to your brother now knows you are alive, and you, my lovely, are the witness who can send them to the gallows. As of this moment, my little spitfire, you are under my protection.”

****

Mary Rose pulled a sheet and a pillow from the linen closet in the hallway upstairs. She’d offered Trace the use of Daniel’s room. However, once he found out it lay directly across from hers he respectfully declined. She didn’t know whether to be angry or relieved that her virtue remained intact. Closing the door, she leaned against it, her mind wrapped around the kiss.

She wasn’t a novice. Mary Rose knew what it was to be kissed. Yet his lips turned her insides to jelly. She shifted her bundle against her hip and rubbed her hand across her middle, hoping to calm her jittery nerves. Kissing that man was like playing with fire. At any time, the flames of desire could consume her.

Pushing away from the door, she moved down the hall. At the end of the stairs, she glanced to the bottom of the steps. He stood with his back to her. Something pulled at her gut; Mary Rose gazed with affection upon his dark head. She couldn’t deny it. This man, this U. S. Marshal, excited her. She wanted to be in those arms, her lips pressed to his. A shiver of delight raced down her backbone.

The stair step creaked at the touch of her foot on the wood. He turned. A beam of moonlight caught his face, bathing it in silver light. The need in her sapped the strength from her legs, and she put a hand to the rail to steady herself. Unable to help herself, Mary Rose stared, unabashed, at his face until his brow furrowed.

“Your blanket and pillow,” she said, remembering what she was supposed to be doing. Her feet moved onward until she paused at the last step. “There’s still Daniel’s room,” she whispered. The corners of his mouth twitched. She held her breath, praying he would say yes.

“Your sofa will serve me well,” he answered.

Stepping up, he reached out and took the linens from her. Their hands touched, and the warmth traveled up her arm, straight to her heart. She wanted to walk into his embrace. To kiss each slanted corner of his lips and in between. Then pray to the saints to forgive her as she guided him upstairs where she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Why?” she heard her voice ask.

“Go up the stairs, my Irish rose. Should someone break in, it will be my wrath they encounter before they reach Hell’s front door.”

Her stomach pitched as he gathered the blanket and pillow from her and turned away.

“Now, go,” he ordered.

She opened her mouth to protest and stopped. He sensed her worry and glanced back. His face softened.

“I look forward to seeing if you are as beautiful in the morning as you are in the moonlight.”

Mary Rose felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “Goodnight, Marshal.”

She turned and moved back up the stairway. At the last step, his voice stopped her.

“The name is Trace, Mary Rose. Now and forever more, Trace.”

She could feel her lips widen into a smile. She didn’t turn, instead continued on, rounding the landing to the hallway. When she knew she was out of sight, she pressed her back against the wall and called back, “Goodnight, Trace.”

She knew he still stood below. She could feel him in the tingle of her skin. She waited. A soft chuckle floated up. Her ears picked up his voice. “Until tomorrow.”

Her hand found her door. She didn’t remember moving. “Until tomorrow,” she repeated, loving the sound of the words and their promise. Entering, she couldn’t stop the happiness that poured through her. She pulled her coverlet back and reached for the gown hung on the back of her door. Placing it on the bed, her fingers brushed the buttons across her waist front.

Did he know how easily the buttons slipped through their holes? If he had, would his conquest of her body have stopped so easily? She glanced across the patchwork coverlet on her single bed. Pulling the cloth from her shoulders, she contemplated the feel of his hands upon her flesh. Would they be warm, or could his fingers scald her tender flesh? Dropping her skirts and petticoats into a puddle at her feet, she drew her belongings together and laid them across the chair near the open window. Kicking off her shoes, she padded back to the bed and lay down. Mary Rose extended her good hand and touched the side of her bed. Would there be enough room for two?

Perhaps, if they snuggled close together—the thought filled her with renewed longing. Maybe one day she’d know. With a sigh, she pulled the extra pillow close. Confessions with Father Tomas were going to be hard.

Chapter Thirteen

The smell of coffee woke her from her slumber and the sweetest dream she knew, an enchanting dream, one in which a dark-haired man with bright blue eyes made love to her with his lips. The thought of it brought a smile to her face. She didn’t need to see his face, for she already knew he was just below. Mary Rose rolled over and lay quietly, listening as he stirred around downstairs. Tossing the covers back, she rose carefully so as not to strain the tender skin around her wound. She paused and rotated her shoulder to relieve the stiffness.

Then she moved to her wardrobe and opened the doors. She studied her choice of practical options. The words Trace had spoken the night before replayed in her mind. Would the morning show she was just as lovely? She reached for the simple figured blouse and gray skirt, both pieces easy for her to manage with one good hand. She slipped them over her chemise and petticoat, then moved to her dresser.

Sitting down, she stared at the woman in the mirror. Her gaze focused on her lips. With her fingertips, she traced the length of her bottom lip and recalled the urgent feel of his lips there. Even in the light of day she shivered with delight. A soft blush filled her cheeks, and she watched the outline of her nipples press against the print of the fabric. Lord, all she had to do was envision the events and her body seemed ready.

“Mary Rose, you are becoming a wanton woman.”

She gave her head a shake, then picked up her brush and ran it through her curls, sweeping them away from her face. Unbound, they fell loose about her shoulders. “This will have to do.” With a sigh, she rose and hurried out the door.

Coming down the steps, she heard a knock at the door. “I’ll get it,” she called out and slid the bolt back to open the door. Sheriff Weston greeted her with a smile.

“Morning, Mary Rose.”

“Sheriff.” She held the door open. “Won’t you come in?”

He pushed the door wide and entered. “Is the marshal here?”

She watched his gaze move about the room and rest on the pillows and blanket Trace had folded and left at the end of the sofa. The sheriff turned a penetrating glance back to her.

Her mind racing to come up with some reasonable explanation, her lips parted, but Trace’s voice spoke. “I’m here. Been here all night.”

A knot formed in the pit of her stomach as the two lawmen stared one another down.

“Ask it, Rand. Let’s get this out in the open.”

Neither looked too pleased. She looked at Trace, then back to Sheriff Weston, wondering if they’d come to blows. She tried to smile but her lips trembled.

“Perhaps this can be settled over a cup of coffee. Sheriff, won’t you join us?” She slipped her arm into his.

“Lead the way.”

Giving Trace a silent stare that dared him to say a word, she led the sheriff into the kitchen. The golden glow of the morning faded. She felt like a child who’d had her Christmas toy stolen. Stepping into the kitchen, she was surprised to see a plate of biscuits and bacon already on the table. She turned and looked at the marshal. “You were up early.”

He moved forward and drew out her chair. “I had things on my mind.”

The statement brought a gruff grunt from Sheriff Weston, and Mary Rose felt her cheeks heat. Ignoring the impulse to snap back, she took the seat. “Gentlemen, won’t you sit down?” She waited. Trace moved to her right and the sheriff took the seat on the left. She noticed only two plates. “Let me get you a plate.”

“I’ve got it,” the marshal grumbled as he retrieved one from the cabinet.

“Coffee?” she asked brightly.

The sheriff reached for the pot. “Allow me to pour.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “My arm is still a bit sore.”

As Trace sat down, she asked, “So, what brings you here, Sheriff?”

“I went to the office this morning and found Trace’s room empty.”

“I can explain that. He spent the night here.”

At her words, both men sputtered, choking on their coffee. Seeing their startled and angry looks, she continued, “Last night, when I turned out the light, I saw a man outside, watching me.”

Sheriff Weston put down his cup and listened as they explained the events leading up to Trace’s decision to stay.

“So you think whoever is responsible for the attack on the wagon has figured out that Mary Rose is alive?”

Trace nodded. “That’s my take on it.” He pushed his empty plate away. “So for that reason I’ve decided, as our only witness, she is under protection.”

Mary Rose thought about the papers locked up in the other room. She took a deep breath and felt the eyes of the lawmen turn on her. She studied her cup.

“Mary Rose, is there something you need to tell us?”

Her head jerked up. She dampened her lips with the edge of her tongue. “I’ve told you all I know,” she replied. Her words sounded void of emotion.

“You’re sure?”

She looked over to Trace, then quickly glanced away. Her heart beat heavy against her chest, and she wondered if he could hear it. “Positive,” she answered.

The silence between them seemed long. To break the scrutiny of his glare, she picked up her cup and sipped. Staring straight ahead, she hoped to calm her nerves, which seemed to be near to snapping. She didn’t like lying, especially to a man like Trace.

“From this point on,” he growled, “someone will have to be with you at all times.”

Her eyes darted to his. “What about the investigation into my brother’s death? Who will conduct that?”

“It will be conducted,” the sheriff said. “I’ll pick a few men who are discreet to walk you to and from the freight office.”

“I will walk her home and spend the night on her couch,” Trace added.

Feeling caged, Mary Rose stood. “Well, I’m so glad you all have everything under control.” She knew the marshal could feel the sarcasm laced in each word. “I can take care of myself.”