My Darling Melissa (17 page)

Melissa felt as though she’d had too much to drink.

“You’ve never done this before?” Quinn asked softly. His breath was cool against her temple.

She shook her head. “Never,” she managed to say.

He nudged her legs apart ever so gently with one of his knees. “It hurts a little the first time,” he warned.

Melissa didn’t care. Everything within her craved union with this man. She ran her hands up and down his broad back in desperate caresses, urging him closer, and then she felt him pressing at her, tremendously hard. “I love you,” she whispered into his left ear, but he made no response.

He eased into her, and every bit of progress he made increased the strange mingling of pain and pleasure Melissa felt. She finally arched her hips in a powerful thrust, and there was a stinging hurt as the barrier was irrevocably crossed.

Quinn cried out at this, muttering her name like a man tossing in a fever, moving at an ever-increasing pace as he
linked himself with her and then withdrew. Over and over again he repeated this process until Melissa was as fevered as he was, until she was flinging herself at him. Her body was demanding something from his; she didn’t know what it wanted, and she didn’t care.

Their bodies were moving frantically, damp with exertion, before that shattering moment of reward came. Melissa knew then what the French meant when they spoke of the “little death.”

Quinn’s climax was evidently just as cataclysmic in force, for he made some senseless plea of heaven and delved so deeply into Melissa that another series of sweet ripplings were set off inside her. She was weeping softly when her husband gathered enough breath to ask, “Did I hurt you?”

The concern in his voice touched Melissa almost as profoundly as his lovemaking had. She entangled both her hands in Quinn’s hair and tried to say again that she loved him, but she could not. She simply didn’t have the strength to speak.

Finally she shook her head from side to side to assure him that she was all right.

He slid down over her presently, kissing her collarbone, the rounded upper parts of her breasts, teasing and tasting her nipples. Melissa was conscious not only of his tender attendance, but of the softness of the fur bedspread beneath them. A sense of sweet wickedness swept over her, and again she whispered to Quinn that she loved him.

He made no verbal response, but Melissa determined to think about that later, when the fog was cleared from her mind.

Their joining was easier the second time; there was almost no pain, and Melissa gave herself up to her husband as a willing sacrifice.

When it was over Quinn carried her back to the bathroom. He filled the tub with hot, clean water, and they bathed each other. That enterprise sent them back to the bed, although this time they took refuge under the covers because darkness had fallen and the room had turned cold.

The night was long and sweet, and when Melissa awakened in the morning she mourned it.

It might have been a dream, what had taken place between her and Quinn, for the bed and the room were empty.

In the distance the solemn
thom-thom-thom
of church bells rang out.

Ten

Melissa could not face the prospect of wearing either of her charity dresses again. Although her determination to succeed on her own terms was still with her, she was not the same person she had been even the day before. She had some new concerns now, and pleasing Quinn was one of them.

With a sigh Melissa got out of bed and attended to her morning ablutions. When the ritual was complete she went across the hall, wearing the pink wrapper, to Mary’s room. There, after gently riffling through the armoire, she appropriated a crisp black sateen skirt and a royal blue blouse. It bothered her that she couldn’t ask permission, but there was no helping that.

When she got downstairs Melissa learned that Quinn had already eaten and left the house, and she was a little injured by this, although she’d never have said so outright.

“You look real pretty today, Mrs. Rafferty,” Mrs. Wright ventured to say as she served Melissa her breakfast at the kitchen table. Eating alone in the imposing dining room had held no appeal.

“Thank you,” Melissa responded, beaming. There had been a marked deficiency of compliments since she’d taken to wearing calico, and it felt very good to be admired again. “Do you know where my husband has gotten himself off to?”

There was an expression of discreet wisdom in Mrs. Wright’s eyes indicating that she was aware of the turning point Quinn and Melissa had reached.

Melissa dropped her gaze, embarrassed, while Mrs. Wright poured coffee for her and answered graciously, “Mr. Rafferty normally goes to the mill on Sunday mornings, not being a churchgoing man.”

Melissa smiled to herself. She’d just pay Quinn a call; it was time she had a firsthand look at the enterprise anyway. “What does he do while he’s there? Saw boards?”

Mrs. Wright chuckled and shook her head. “I believe he goes over the books. The millhands get paid on Monday, you see.”

In Port Hastings the millhands and shipyard workers got their wages on Saturday, at the end of their shift, and Melissa said as much.

Mrs. Wright was at the sink, washing dishes. “Mr. Rafferty doesn’t believe in doing that,” she responded firmly. “Too many of the men would spend all their money on whiskey and women. Their families would suffer.”

The point was a sensible one, and Melissa conceded it. After finishing her breakfast she carried her plate and silverware to the sink and then hurried out. The day was sunny, though still a little cold, and Melissa wore a pretty woolen cloak of blue plaid that she’d found in the closet off the entryway.

When Melissa had located the mill, which was at the opposite end of town from the hotel, she sought out the small building that probably housed the office.

Sure enough, Quinn was there, and the smile in his eyes when he looked up at her from his work belied his solemn expression. “Good morning, Mrs. Rafferty,” he said in a low voice that stirred echoes of last night’s responses within Melissa.

She executed a mocking little curtsy. “Mr. Rafferty,” she responded with teasing formality.

Quinn rose from his desk and rounded it to approach her. He slid his hands under her cloak to rest on the curves of her waist and took in her clothes with a look of puzzled amusement. “Is this what you looked like before the calico crusade began?” he teased.

Melissa made a face, albeit a pretty one, and stood closer to him. “I’m willing to make a few concessions.” she admitted somewhat grudgingly.

Quinn laughed and tightened his embrace, and Melissa felt like a fool because her cheeks were hot and all the starch had gone out of her knees. Despite her education and all the traveling she’d done, she was, where this man was concerned, as witless as a bumpkin. When he bent his head and kissed her without a word of warning, Melissa was left feeling as though she’d had the wind knocked out of her.

Quinn was breathing rather heavily himself when he set Melissa away from him and stepped back. He shoved one hand through his hair and avoided her eyes as he said raggedly, “You’d better go home.”

Melissa delighted in having the smallest power over him, and she smiled as she came close to straighten his collar. “Why?”

He sounded almost as though he had something caught in his throat. “Because I’m about to take you right here, that’s why.”

The mill office was small, and three of its four walls had windows. Melissa retreated a step. She blushed a little as she asked, “You’re not going to spend the whole day working, are you?”

Quinn smiled wickedly. “Have patience, Mrs. Rafferty. I’ll take very good care of you when I get home.”

Even though a warm tremor moved through her at the prospect, Melissa was outraged at his assumption that she would be willing to toddle home and twiddle her thumbs until he was ready to favor her with his affections. “Of all the—”

“Now, now,” Quinn warned, grinning. “We’ve made some advances. Let’s not spoil everything by bickering.”

Melissa was calmer, but no less determined. She looked around until she spotted a single high-backed chair beside a glass-fronted bookcase. “If you’re staying here,” she said, sitting, “so am I.”

Quinn sighed in apparent defeat and snatched his suit coat from a peg on the wall. “You win, Calico. I’ll come back and do the payroll tonight.”

Melissa had second thoughts. She’d made plans for Quinn’s evening, and they didn’t include writing out pay vouchers. She stood slowly, forced to make yet another concession. “I’ll go for a walk or something,” she said. “I’d like another look at the hotel.”

Quinn shook his head. “Don’t,” he said. “The place is isolated, and there won’t be anyone around, since it’s Sunday.”

Melissa had opened the door, and she stood looking back at him. The sunlight pouring in through the windows gave his brown hair a glistening richness that made her long to plunge her fingers into it. “All right, dear,” she said sweetly.

He was already seated at his desk again, bent over the paperwork before him. “Umm-hmm,” he replied.

Melissa ignored the hotel, although it pulled at her like the proverbial magnet, and concentrated on exploring Port Riley to its boundaries. It was a small but industrious place, very friendly, and boasted a library, among other amenities. Melissa made plans to return the next day and establish herself as a patron.

She was walking along one of the rutted roads behind Quinn’s sawmill when Rowina Brown came out of a house with a sagging stoop, wiping her hands on a checked gingham apron, and called out a greeting.

Melissa stopped at the gate, pleased to see her friend from the cannery again and hopeful that she’d been forgiven for working at a job when she was in no danger of starvation. She was beaming as Rowina came down the walk.

“Come in, come in,” Rowina said, gesturing wildly, and
Melissa laughed as she worked the latch on the gate and stepped through.

The yard was neat and small, and though Rowina’s house was weathered there was an air of pride about the place, and of dignity.

Inside two other women, Indians like Rowina, were seated at a table. They both looked up when Melissa was brought in and introduced, but only the older woman smiled. The younger one gave the caller a defiant look and dropped her gaze back to her beadwork.

Rowina introduced Starflower as her mother. The beautiful young girl, with her flowing, raven-black hair, was Charlotte, Rowina’s daughter.

Melissa had been walking for several hours, and she was tired. She gratefully accepted Rowina’s offer of a chair and a cup of tea. “What’s that you’re making?” she asked of Charlotte. Although her interest was genuine, Melissa was also trying to reach some kind of pleasant accord with Rowina’s daughter.

Enormous brown eyes met Melissa’s, snapping with challenge. “We’re making belts,” she answered, speaking slowly and carefully, as though to an idiot.

“Charlotte!” Rowina protested.

There was no remorse in Charlotte—that was perfectly apparent, even though she smiled. Melissa wondered what she could possibly have done to make a total stranger hate her with such immediacy and force.

She took a steadying sip of her tea and turned to Rowina, who was seated again, her brown, scarred fingers moving nimbly as she plied her beadwork. “Are you still shucking oysters at the cannery?” she asked, because she could think of absolutely no other beginning to a conversation.

Rowina nodded. “I’ll be doing that as long as I’m able,” she answered. She paused to assess what she could see of Melissa’s borrowed clothes. “Looks like you’ve come up in the world.”

“She was never down,” Charlotte put in without raising her eyes from her beadwork.

Melissa was hungry, as it was early afternoon and she’d had nothing to eat since breakfast. “It’s time I was getting home,” she said by way of excusing herself, and she stood.

“Thank you for the tea.”

Rowina looked completely satisfied by their brief exchange. She nodded placidly and went right on with her beadwork.

Melissa was just opening the gate when Charlotte caught up to her and, with a malicious glint in her eyes, announced, “Mr. Rafferty won’t turn his back on Miss Gillian just because you’re here. The need of her, it’s in his blood.”

The words made Melissa feel as though a crosscut saw were tearing at her middle, but she hid that reaction behind a saucy smile. She’d had enough of Charlotte’s unfounded hostility. “Are you jealous of his affections?” she asked.

Charlotte had apparently expected her ploy to reduce Melissa to fits of tears and handkerchief fluttering. Now that it had failed, she was at a loss.

Melissa turned and walked away, leaving Charlotte to stand in the yard looking after her.

Passing the mill on her way back to the main part of town, Melissa heard shouts and laughter, and for an instant she was very homesick. She rounded the office and the mill itself to investigate, and there, in an open lot beyond, a baseball game was going on.

Melissa looked on enviously as the batter stepped up to home plate and got ready to swing. Her own family played baseball, since there was such a horde of them, and she’d hit many a home run in her time.