Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 (13 page)

Chapter Thirteen

W
inifred tossed the sheet off her sticky body and sat upright. She couldn't sleep. It was too hot, and the July air outside her wide open window smelled so sweet and delicious it made her ache. Why,
why
did everyone in Smoke River have to grow roses or jasmine or honeysuckle or other things that smelled so evocative?

What was wrong with her?

All at once she heard Cissy's voice.
Nothing is wrong, you silly. You're just alive.

She felt as jumpy as Sam's cat. Restless and short-tempered. At supper she'd snapped at Zane about everything, the soup, the mint tea Sam had brewed for her, even the salt and pepper shakers they passed back and forth. Every time their fingers brushed she wanted to scream. Or cry. Or both.

After supper Zane had made fresh peach ice cream, refusing to let Sam or Yan Li take over turning the crank and refusing to believe her when she said she didn't want any. He simply chuckled in that maddening way of his, scooped up a big dish and plunked it in her lap. Then, when she'd absentmindedly eaten it all up, he laughed.

Oh, why did this man make her so mad?

She slipped out of bed and padded to the open window. The moon was up, spilling silvery light over the quiet street and the wide meadow beyond the house. It gilded the field of wild buckwheat stalks and the low-growing blue daisy-like flowers so they looked like miniature swords and tiny shields. It was beautiful out there, so serene and untroubled it looked like a Monet painting.

She should read something until she grew sleepy. But lately even Milton was making her cry.
Everything
made her cry.

She could write to Millicent in St. Louis... No, she'd be vacationing at her home in Rochester. Millicent had wanted her to come home with her for the summer, but Winifred could hardly wait to come west to see Rosemarie. And Zane.

She could steal silently downstairs and out onto the porch.

Maybe rocking in the swing would settle her nerves.

And maybe not. The sound of crickets made her jumpy, reminded her of creatures that made noise to attract mates—bullfrogs and nightingales and owls. Did owls mate at night? What about swans? And wolves and...and giraffes? How annoying. Why did all God's creatures have to mate?

She drew in an uneven breath. Because if they did not, the creatures of the earth would die off and life would cease. The cycle of birth and death would stop and Milton's paradise would be truly lost.

She didn't know how long she stood staring out at the moon-bathed grass and silver-leafed trees, but it didn't help her jangled nerves or her fluttery heart one bit. Instinctively she knew that nothing would help; she would have to unjangle her own nerves, as she did on performance nights. But, she wondered, how did one unflutter one's heart?

The next morning promised to be another scorching day, and by ten o'clock Winifred had exhausted a lemon meringue pie lesson, Milton and a frustrating practice session on her Mozart piano concerto.

Rosemarie was always quiet when she played the piano; the baby sat motionless in the makeshift playpen Sam had rigged up out of apple crates, apparently listening; the minute Winifred stopped to mark something on the score, Rosemarie set up a wail of protest.

Another year and her niece could reach the piano keys, and then the household would never be the same. Maybe when Rosemarie was older, Winifred could start teaching her the rudiments of beginning piano.

Maybe. Winifred wasn't sure she could stand another summer out here in Smoke River. She always returned to St. Louis and the conservatory so unsettled it took days to focus on the curriculum and her students.

This morning Zane had patients to see. Now he emerged from his office surgery looking hot and tired, tossed his flannel jacket onto a library chair and pulled off his tie. Winifred stopped playing and swiveled toward him; her hands were perspiring so much her fingers were slipping off the keys.

“Hot,” he said.

“Too hot,” she responded. Suddenly she scooted off the piano bench. “Zane, could we go swimming?”

He looked at her oddly and didn't answer.

“Please? Could we? It's so hot today.”

Zane glanced to the playpen where Rosemarie sat poking the remains of a soggy cookie into her mouth. It was time for her nap. True, today was much hotter than yesterday, but swimming with Winifred?

He frowned and shook his head. Not a good idea, no matter how hot it was.

Winifred came toward him, her eyes alight. “Please say yes, Zane.
Please
.”

Good God almighty, he couldn't refuse her anything. He nodded shortly. “I'll get Sam to make up a picnic bask—”

She didn't hear the rest; she'd flown up the staircase with more energy than he'd seen in a week.

“You're not to swim, Winifred,” he ordered when she returned. “You understand? You've had pneumonia, and you can't risk getting chilled. It'll still be cooler for you in the shade around the hole, though.”

She looked so disappointed that a dart of guilt laced into him, but as a physician he knew he was right to insist.

With a sigh she deposited a bundle he supposed was a bathing costume on the library chair.

* * *

She sat beside him on the buggy seat, shaded with that lacy-looking parasol, and sighed dramatically. “Swimming would cool me off,” she said.

“Don't whine. I'm your doctor, remember?”

Her shoulders drooped. “Oh, all right. I'll sit in the shade and...think. Or do something equally unathletic.”

He clicked his tongue at the horse and rolled off the dusty town road onto the narrow lane that led to the swimming hole. Good. He wouldn't have to look at her lush body in a swimming suit. Covered up from her ankles to her neck, as she was now in the yellow-striped skirt and shirtwaist, he should be perfectly safe.

But as soon as she climbed down and fluffed out her skirt, he glimpsed her ruffled petticoat and knew he was wrong. He would never feel safe around Winifred. He was always going to notice her, feel her eyes regarding him with interest or amusement or pique or with overflowing tears.

He knew now what he'd been denying for months; he was always going to notice Winifred Von Dannen.

And he was always going to want her.

It wasn't the same kind of wanting he'd known with Celeste, the heady, star-spangled rush of blind desire. He let out a groan. This wasn't the same at all.

Winifred stopped en route to the shady spot between two vine maples and turned toward him. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just tired, I guess.Too many patients this morning.”

“Darla Bledsoe?” Her eyes sparkled with one of those looks she got when something tickled her. “Another broken...toe, was it?”

“This time it was a sprained finger,” he said dryly. “Lifting a heavy washtub.”

Winifred laughed and sat down in the shade, settling her skirt around her. “You know, Zane, by the time Darla finally hog-ties you, she won't be able to—”

Her cheeks turned crimson.

Zane laughed and dropped down beside her with the picnic basket. “Oh, yes, she will. Darla is not easily deterred.”

She gave him a thoughtful look. “Do you want to deter Darla? Really?”

“Dammit, Winifred. How can you ask that?”

She blanched and he was instantly sorry. Oh, hell. He couldn't sit here beside her, smelling her hair, feeling the warmth of her body for one more minute.

“I'm going swimming,” he announced. He stood, stripped off his chambray shirt and shucked his denims down to his drawers while her eyes rounded in shock. Then he sprinted for the water.

He swam twenty laps in the cold water, then ten more for good measure. When he emerged with his wet drawers leaving nothing to the imagination, he threw himself facedown beside her. “Good thing I'm not naked, Winifred, because you look like you've seen a ghost.”

“Not a ghost,” she said in a shaky voice. “Just a man with...with...”

He sat up, spraying water droplets onto her yellow blouse. “All men have them,” he quipped. “I bet even Dr. Bassoon has—”

“Oh, no,” she interrupted. “I mean, he has never—”

“Never undressed in front of you?” He rolled away from her stricken face.

“He has never gone swimming with me.”

“
We
are not swimming,” he said, trying not to laugh. “
I
am the one swimming.
You
are supposed to be resting.”

Her breath hissed in. The long silence that followed made him uneasy. Then he heard a choked sound. “Just you wait and see,” she murmured.

He heard the soft plop of her shoes dropping onto the sand, then a swish and out of the corner of his eye he caught a blur of white petticoat. No. She wouldn't dare.

He bolted upright.

Too late. Her clothes lay in a heap beside him and when he looked up there she was, striding away toward the river in nothing but her lace-trimmed drawers and camisole. Oh, hell. He should chase her down and tackle her before she reached the water. On second thought he should ready a towel and wait until she came out of the river and rub her down before she took a chill. Damn, what a choice.

She thrashed about in the chest-high water, upended her body so her rump poked up above the surface, and splashed happily in a big circle. Her hair came unpinned and floated about her shoulders. When she grew tired, she dog-paddled toward him.

As she emerged, her wet camisole stuck to her breasts and Zane caught his breath. He shouldn't look at her. But he couldn't
not
look at her.

Her drawers clung to her hips, revealing her clearly defined waist, the curve of her buttocks and—oh, God—the triangle of dark hair at the apex of her thighs.

He snatched up the larger of the two bath towels and advanced toward her with long strides. “Here.” He wrapped her up tightly and immediately turned his back.

“Oh, that w-was just w-wonderful!” Her teeth were chattering and Zane swore again.

“Strip and dry off,” he ordered.

“Y-yes. I am r-rather cold. But it w-was worth it.”

“Was it?” he bit out. “You are the most foolhardy, most headstrong woman I've ever known.” He kept talking with his back to her until he was sure she had disappeared behind a huckleberry bush. When he turned, he noticed her wet garments still lay on the ground beside him.

He also noticed that his entire frame was shaking.

Her voice came from behind the shrubbery. “Hand me my skirt and shirtwaist, would you, Zane? And my petticoat.”

He balled them up and tossed them over the bush.

When she emerged, her smile sent an arrow of fire up his spine. Even clothed as she now was, he couldn't look at her. He knew damn well she had nothing on underneath.

He tried not to watch her as she settled beside him and grabbed her shoes and stockings. Then her hand stilled.

“You won't mind if I don't put my stockings back on, will you? I feel so...well, exposed.”

He laughed. She eyed him slantwise and that just made it worse.

“Well,” she huffed. “I'll just wring out my—”

“Don't,” he managed to choke out. “I'll spread them out on the bushes and they'll be dry in ten minutes.”

Another mistake. He picked up her soft lacy drawers and camisole and squeezed the water out, trying to keep himself from squashing them into his hands and burying his face in them to inhale her scent. With a cavalier gesture he flung each small piece of erotic temptation over the huckleberry bush. He found he was breathing much too hard.

When he returned to her side, she was digging in the wicker picnic basket. She looked up at him and smiled.

“Breast or thigh?”

“Winifred,” he said in a strangled voice. He'd had all he could take. He dropped to her side, lifted the basket away and pulled her into his arms.

Chapter Fourteen

Z
ane tipped her face up and covered her mouth with his. “Don't tease me like this, Winifred,” he said against her lips. “You're not Darla Bledsoe.”

She opened her eyes. “Does she tease you?”

He pressed his mouth to her forehead. “Not like this, dammit. Winifred, are you even aware of what you're doing?”

“No. Yes,” she amended. “I didn't know this was teasing,” she murmured.

“What the hell did you think it was?”

She didn't answer, just held on to him. He could feel her heart beating against his bare chest.

“What?” he repeated.

“I guess I just like getting under your skin, Zane,” she said with a soft laugh. “You can be so bossy sometimes.”

He resisted the urge to shake her until her teeth rattled. “You're under my skin, all right. You're under my skin day and night, especially at night. I've started putting in more time at the hospital to get through your visits.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice. “I didn't know.”

He groaned. “How can you
not
know?”

“Well, yes, I did know,” she admitted after a moment. “I just didn't want to think about it.”

He said nothing. The scent of her hair was driving him crazy. She didn't move for a long time, and then she pulled away, gave him a wobbly smile, and met his gaze. Her eyes looked a little dazed.

“Are you hungry?”

He jerked. “What?”

“I mean, should we eat our lunch now?”

“No,” he retorted sharply. “Yes. Don't ask any more suggestive questions like that.”

“Very well,” she breathed. “I promise.” She didn't sound the least bit chastened, but she offered the picnic basket as if nothing was the least bit out of the ordinary.

Exasperated, he lifted it out of her hand, set it on the ground and forced her chin up to look straight into her eyes. “Winifred, I can't go on like this.”

Her smile faded. “I am sorry, Zane. I don't know much...actually I don't know anything about...about...”

“About a man and a woman,” he supplied. That much was obvious. From what Celeste had told him, neither of the Von Dannen sisters had had any experience with the opposite sex.

Especially not Winifred.
She was so dedicated,
Celeste had said
. She worked so hard and she never let herself have any fun.

That explained why his wife had been stiff and frightened on their wedding night. And maybe it explained Winifred, too. While he knew Winifred liked him, it was clear she had no idea of his deepening feelings for her.

His breath stopped. If she did know, would she bolt?

He rocked her in his arms and tried to think.
Tell her.
No, he couldn't risk it.

Maybe she has already guessed?
He didn't think so, at least after he'd kissed her at the train station at the end of her second visit, her attitude toward him hadn't seemed to change.

“Winifred, you know that I like you. I like you quite a bit, in fact.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I know.”

“Does it...offend you?”

“You mean because you are my brother-in-law? To be truthful, I no longer think of you that way. You kissed me after the Christmas dance, remember? You said it was premature. Not wise. But not wrong.”

“And?” He held his breath waiting for her answer.

“And I believed you. It is not wrong for you to kiss me.”

Zane gritted his teeth. “What about ‘premature' and ‘not wise'?”

“Well, yes, I think perhaps it is still not wise.”

“Because of what people might say?” Again, he held his breath.

“Oh, heavens no. I've never paid any attention to what people think about what I do. Kissing me is not wise because you live here in Smoke River and I live in St. Louis.

“Your career as a physician is here. Mine is at the conservatory in the East.”

“Oh,” he said, his voice flat.

“I raise a lot of eyebrows in St. Louis because I have no wish to marry. Because I have dedicated my life to music, to my students and to performing as a pianist.”

“Dammit, Winifred, you make it sound so logical, and it isn't.”

She looked up and he saw tears shimmering on her lashes. “Zane, perhaps it is not logical, but that is the way it is. Still,” she added, her voice throaty, “that does not mean...that I do not care for you. That I do not want, well, more.”

He groaned. “What does that mean, ‘more'?”

“Well...more. I like it when you talk to me. And I, um, I like it when you kiss me.”

“Thank God,” he murmured.

“Zane, I think we should finish our picnic and return to town.”

That was the last thing he wanted to do, but he forced himself to drop his arms and get his breathing under control.

Later, when he had pulled on his trousers and shirt, Winifred set out the fried chicken and lemonade and napkins Sam had packed. Her fingers were shaking.

Zane found he couldn't take his eyes off her hands. And he couldn't stop smiling.

* * *

They drove back in the buggy to the road in a silence so complete Winifred fancied she could hear her heart beating. She did like Zane's kisses, more than Professor Beher's or even Pierre de Fulet's on the terrace after the reception following her Boston debut. Zane had kissed her before today; twice, in fact. Both times were startling, not because he had been Cissy's husband, but more because she liked him, liked feeling his lips touch hers. Last Christmas at the train station she had wanted to kiss him back, but the train was leaving and there was no time.

And now?
Her pulse skipped. Today when he kissed her she'd wanted it to go on and on. When his mouth found hers she felt as if her skin would split wide open and she would fly away.

She watched his hands on the reins. His skin was tanned, his fingers long and capable-looking, skilled at probing with surgical instruments or smoothing witch hazel over a sunburn. She was in awe of this man. And she liked sitting close to him and not talking.

She edged toward him a few inches and laid her head against his shoulder. No one would see them; they had not yet reached the road back to town.

Zane made a sound in his throat, pulled the horse to a stop and wound the reins around the brake handle. He turned to her, his gray eyes dark and smoky. He caught her mouth under his, moving his lips over hers slowly, purposefully. She wanted it to go on forever.

He deepened the kiss and she opened her lips. He tasted of lemons and something sweet, and all at once she wanted to weep.

She touched his arms, felt the muscles bunch and tremble. She ached for something more, something...closer.

“Zane,” she murmured against his mouth. “Touch me.”

His hands at her back stilled, then he slowly moved his fingers to the top mother-of-pearl button of her shirtwaist. He slipped it free, then moved to the next. Her skin felt as if it were spangled with stars.

He spread her bodice and kissed her collarbone, pressed his mouth along her neck, her throat. Her breasts began to swell. Dear God, this was heaven.

She arched toward him, desperate to feel his hands on her skin. He stroked one finger over her nipple and she gasped. A tingly, hungry sensation shot straight to a place below her belly.

His breathing grew rough, and the sound flooded her with a sense of power. This was like nothing she'd ever experienced, not even during a piano concerto when she felt the orchestra soaring with her and she knew she held the audience in the palm of her hand. This was so strong and beautiful she wanted to scream.

He slipped her shirtwaist off her shoulders, bent his head and drew his tongue over her breast. Heat danced along her veins and up her spine. Her nipples throbbed. She felt as if a slow fire were melting her bones.

Suddenly she wanted to be naked, wanted to feel his hard body pressed against hers. She moaned, and he lifted his head and looked into her eyes.

“I thank God we are sitting up,” he murmured.

Winifred laughed softly. “And on a hard buggy seat at that.”

This time he laughed, then his smile faded. “I hear someone coming.” He began to rebutton her shirtwaist, then freed the reins and flapped them at the horse. His hands shook.

When they reached the road back to town they met Teddy MacAllister and another boy on horseback, fishing rods clutched in their hands. Zane let them pass and turned to Winifred with a wistful smile. “They almost got a lesson in lovemaking,” he quipped.

“Aren't they too young?”

Zane gave her a long look. “They're male, aren't they? Boys notice girls early. By the time they're my age, they don't care anymore.”

“Zane, you cannot be serious.”

He sucked in a long breath. “Of course I'm not serious. Look at you and me and what is happening between us.”

Oh, my. Winifred knew her face was turning scarlet.

* * *

Sam met them at the door. “Boss needed at hospital, quick!”

Zane swung the picnic basket into Sam's arms and headed to his office for his medical bag. On his way back to the front door, he stopped Winifred in the hallway.

“Wait for me.”

And then he was gone.