Midnight Rider (27 page)

She'd been properly clothed, yet she wished she had been wearing something else, the saffron yellow that hung in the closet, or perhaps the woolen of forest green. For the first time in a long while, she was glad for the clothes her uncle had bought her.

Jerking open the drawer of the heavy oak bureau that had been brought for her use, she reached for a soft cotton nightgown. Not the sheer white silk. She couldn't wear the silk without remembering the way her skin had tingled when Ramon had looked at her in it. The way his dark eyes seemed to burn right through it, making her flesh grow damp and hot.

Instead she pulled the plain high-necked, long-sleeved white cotton night rail over her head and hurriedly fastened the tiny row of buttons up the front. She uncoiled her hair from the nape of her neck, brushed it out, quickly plaited it into a single thick braid, then rushed across the room to the bed. Turning back the colorful quilt, she climbed in between the sheets, careful to position herself beneath the elaborately embroidered hole.

Part of her felt silly. Ramon had already seen her naked. But the other part said she knew nothing of Spanish custom, and if this would please him, she was more than willing to oblige.

She reached for the lamp, turned it down as low as it would burn, then settled in to wait. It didn't take long. Heavy footfalls sounded in the corridor outside, the door swung open, and Ramon walked in. His shoulders were so broad they filled the opening. He was all lean muscle and supple strength, his long legs encased in snug black breeches, his hard male features beautifully chiseled in a face bronzed by the sun.

Once he closed the door, blocking out the moonlight, she could barely see his face, the lamplight was so dim, but she noticed his momentary pause. Perhaps he had thought she would be waiting as she had before, that she would embarrass him by acting like a wanton.

He said nothing as he stripped off his clothes, and she tried not to notice the ridges of muscle bunching across his chest, his firm flat belly, the narrow rounded buttocks that flexed when he moved. She tried not to feel the shafts of heat slicing through her, wished she could control the telltale dampness collecting between her legs.

The bed shifted beneath his weight. He reached for her, dragged her into his arms. “I have missed you, Cara. I was a fool to leave.” He kissed her before she could reply, a hot, searing, soul-drugging kiss that made her heart slide into her stomach. Dear God, this was going to be harder than she thought.

She kissed him back, allowed the sweep of his tongue, but didn't touch it with her own. Her hands rested lightly on his shoulders but she didn't cling to him as she had done before, as her wicked body urged her to do again.

His hand touched her hair and he paused once more. “I like it better down,” he growled, pulling the ribbon loose at the end. He sifted his long dark fingers through it, then spread the heavy mass around her shoulders.

Carly swallowed against the heat she felt where his hands brushed her skin. Instead she lay back against the pillow and stared up at the ceiling, counting the heavy oak beams to control her pounding heart. Ramon bent over her, cupped her breasts and began to stroke them through her nightgown, sending little tongues of fire shooting through her. He teased her nipple into a hard tight bud, bent forward and bit it gently, dampening the fabric with his lips.

Dear God. Carly blinked and focused hard on the ceiling, trying to force her mind to something else. But her body felt on fire and the blood roared in her ears.

“I want you out of that nightgown,” her husband said sternly, beginning to work the tiny buttons up the front. “I want to see you naked.”

“But…” This wasn't supposed to happen. He was treating her like a
gringa.
He wouldn't say that to a true Spanish woman. His words sent a sliver of hurt trickling through her, told her exactly the way he felt. He kissed her again, his tongue gliding over her lips, then plunging inside her mouth. Warm tremors skittered beneath the surface of her skin. She thought of the
cocida
they'd had for supper, about the complicated recipe Blue had shown her that afternoon—anything but him.

The gown ripped down the front, the harsh sound jerking her from her thoughts. “I said I want you naked.” There was a hard note in his voice. And not an ounce of the respect he would have shown a true Spanish woman. Another stab of hurt tore through her, along with a jolt of determination.

“I think it would be better if we left the gown on,” she said with quiet dignity. “I'll be happy to lift it up for you, if that is your wish.” She started to demand he use the hole in the sheet, but something warned her not to. Still, she was determined to behave the way a Spanish lady would. She wanted to please him—and she wanted his respect.

In the dim light of the lamp, she couldn't see much of his face. She caught a flicker of unease, one of uncertainty, then his features turned dark with rage.

He jerked her up by the shoulders. “I should have known. I thought you were different, but you are just like the rest.” He made a harsh sound in his throat. “I am a little surprised you have tired of me so soon—ah, but then you are a
gringa.
Some of them only pretend to enjoy it. Others need a dozen different men to find their pleasure.”

He let go of her shoulders, swung away to the edge of the bed. “Whichever you are, it matters little to me, for I will not be sharing your bed.”

Carly stared at him in horror. Dear God, what had she done? “Ramon, please … where are you going?”

But he didn't answer, just jerked on his breeches and boots and strode bare-chested out the door.

God in heaven! Tears burned her eyes and began to slide down her cheeks. Again she had failed. She had thought it was important she behave as a proper Spanish lady. But all she had accomplished was to once more drive him away.

Carly climbed out of bed on shaking limbs and drew on her quilted dark blue wrapper. Perhaps she could find him, try to explain. She thought of Miranda, waiting for him at the stronghold. Had he left already, set off again to see his mistress at Llano Mirada? How did Mirada behave in his bed? Like a vixen or a lady? Whatever she was doing, she seemed to be doing it right.

She hurried across the carpet that covered the earthen floor and opened the door. A full moon showered bright rays against the earth, lit the fields with a silvery glow. Across the yard, she saw Ramon standing beside the corral, his elbow resting on one of the fence posts. Staring out into the darkness, a thin cigar clamped between his teeth, he took a steady draw, then released a plume of smoke into the star-clustered sky.

Carly continued toward him, heedless of the cold damp ground beneath her bare feet. All she could think of was Ramon and how she continued to fail him. His back went stiff when he saw her approach. He tossed the cigar away, making an arc of red among the shadows. He stared at her but made no effort to speak.

Carly looked at him and her pounding heart thrummed in her ears. She was hurting so badly and yet her chin went up. “You left me once before … the morning after our wedding. Pedro said you went to Llano Mirada. Did you go to her?” She swallowed past the lump that had risen in her throat. “Did you go to Miranda?”

His eyes bored into her, hard, cold, implacable. “Why would you care?”

“Did you?”

He watched her a moment and then he shook his head, tumbling strands of black hair across his forehead. “No. I saw her in the stronghold, but I did not take her to my bed.”

Carly bit hard on her lip. “I'm sorry about tonight. I know you don't believe it, but I only wanted to please you.”

He scoffed, a bitter sound rolling up from his throat, but he did not speak.

“I-I thought if I behaved like a true Spanish lady it would make you happy. I thought you might think of me as a wife, instead of just another woman to warm your bed. The last time we were together, I behaved very badly and you went away. I hoped this time … you would stay.”

Ramon just stared, his dark eyes fixed on her face. “You thought that was the reason that I left? You thought that you had done something wrong?”

Her face flushed scarlet in the moonlight. “I begged you not to stop. I let you touch me … everywhere. Surely a lady wouldn't act like—”

He cut off her words by reaching for her, dragging her into his arms and crushing her against him. “
Santos de Christo.
How could you believe such a thing?”

“Tia Teresa said—”

“Tia Teresa has never been with a man.” He tilted her chin with his hand and she could feel it shaking. “Since the moment I left here, I have thought of nothing but making love to you. I remembered every touch, every kiss. I burned to touch you that way again.” He brushed her mouth with his lips. “I should have told you how much you pleased me. What I said to you that night … it was only that I was angry … and it wasn't the truth. I was confused, uncertain about my feelings. I didn't make love to you that night because I needed a woman. The truth was, I needed you.”

Tears stung her eyes. She blinked but they rolled down her cheeks. “Ramon…” Her arms slid around his neck and she clung to him.

“Forgive me,
querida.
I have had little experience with innocence such as yours.
Por Dios,
how can a man be such a fool?” He kissed her then, a bold, hot, ravaging kiss that sent a shower of heat through her body.

This time Carly didn't fight it. She wanted to please him.

She loved him.

She kissed him back, mated her tongue with his, and heard him groan. She didn't stop kissing him until he pulled away and lifted her into his arms.

“Ramon?” She clung to his powerful neck as he strode back toward the house.

“Si, querida?”

“What … what about the hole?”

“What hole?”

“You know, the one embroidered in the sheets.”

Ramon stopped on the path, a rumble of laughter erupting from his wide chest. “My tia has a good heart, but she knows little of men. I do not think there is a Spanish man born who has ever made use of the hole sewn into the sheets.”

Carly started laughing, too. She felt giddy with relief and once more was burning with hope. He hadn't gone to Miranda; he had come back to her. She wanted to tell him she loved him, but if she did, he might remember that she had forced the marriage. He might believe she had meant to trap him all along, and she didn't want to face any more of his anger. She only wanted him to make love to her.

Their laughter died away as they approached the house. Ramon nudged open the heavy oak door with the toe of his boot, strode in, and settled her on the bed.

“Whatever happens between us is no cause for shame,” he said, cupping her face in his hands. “Promise me you will remember.”

“I'll remember.”

He reached for her nightgown, pulled it over her head. “There is no need for this. We will sleep together as God made us.” She flushed, but the thought of his smooth dark skin, his hard male body wrapped around her each night, sounded so wonderful, a wave of pleasure rolled through her.

She watched him undress, enjoying the ripple of muscle beneath his skin. He came to her naked and Carly welcomed him with open arms—and with all the love she felt for him that she could no longer deny.

He kissed her fiercely, then gentled the kiss, teasing her senses into tingling awareness. He took her passionately, filling her and making her cry out his name. Then he took her gently, wooing her with soft Spanish words and tender caresses. This time when they finished making love, she knew that she had pleased him. Perhaps in time, he would even come to love her.

They slept for a while, then he took her again, and once more just before dawn. Her lips were slightly bruised from his kisses, her body gently battered and wonderfully sated. She felt content as she never had before.

Then she thought of the obstacles that still lay between them: his hatred of her uncle, his vow to regain Rancho del Robles, the danger he faced as the outlaw El Dragón. Perhaps most important, she recalled the fact she wasn't the woman he had wanted to marry.

Even nestled snugly in his arms, Carly found it difficult to sleep.

*   *   *

“I can't believe she's actually gone and married him. She doesn't even know him.” Vincent Bannister sat across from Fletcher Austin at the Stockman's Club in San Francisco.

Fletcher had come to the city for the annual fall meeting with his attorney, Mitchell Webster, and his friend and financial advisor, William Bannister, to discuss the distribution of profits at the end of the fall
matanza,
the slaughtering of cattle for hides and tallow, as well as the sale of several thousand head driven north to the gold fields.

The meeting had gone as planned. Webster had left, but William had accompanied him to the posh Stockman's Club, and young Bannister had joined them. From the moment of his arrival the younger man had talked of nothing but Caralee.

“How could she do it?” he continued, speaking more to himself than to Fletcher. “I thought she cared for me at least a little.”

“Yes, well, obviously we pushed her too hard.” A waiter arrived, carrying crystal tumblers filled with fine Irish whiskey and branch water. The man set them down on the polished rosewood table in front of them, then quietly slipped away.

Fletcher shook his head. “I should have known better. I should have known she would rebel … after all, she is her mother's daughter.” This last was said with an odd pang of pride. Lucy Austin was a woman unlike any he had known, beautiful, talented, intelligent. She had wasted herself on that no-account miner she had met in Philadelphia. True, the family had been poor then, and Lucy hadn't believed her older brother when he said one day he would be rich, wealthy enough to take care of them both.

Marrying Patrick McConnell had been a stupid thing to do, even if he was blue-eyed and handsome. Lucy had paid, of course, with a lifetime of drudgery. But in the dozens of letters he had received through the years, his sister had never complained.