This Calder Range (24 page)

It was rude to stare, and she tried very hard not to as she followed the porter past them. Her curiosity got the better of her when she heard the woman's voice. It had a foreign accent that quite intrigued Lorna. She slowed her steps to listen, not paying attention to the porter striding ahead of her.

“Your invitation is most gracious, sir, but I was given to understand by the earl that he has accepted the mayor's offer to sit in his private box,” the woman was saying.

Earl. The mayor. A private box. The lady was obviously someone very important as well as wealthy. Lorna cast a backward glance for another look at the
elegant woman. There was something oddly familiar about her.

“Mrs. Calder?” the porter called to her.

When the woman glanced sharply down the hallway, Lorna quickly averted her head. She didn't want to disgrace herself by being caught rudely staring. She hurried to the door where the porter was waiting.

“Is something wrong, ma'am?” he inquired politely.

“No.” She thought about asking him who the lady was, but that would be too forward.

After setting her valise inside the room, he handed her the key. Reluctantly she took it, hoping the porter didn't notice the roughness of her hands. Before she entered the room, she darted another glance at the stairs. The well-dressed man was bowing over the woman's hand, taking his leave of her.

When the fawning fortune-hunter had finally gone, the Lady Elaine, wife to the Earl of Crawford, turned to glance down the hallway. The smile left her lightly rouged mouth as her dark eyes became sharp with curiosity. She knew she had concealed her shock well when she'd heard that name. It wasn't a common one.

The porter walked toward her, smiling like a silly schoolboy. “Good day to you …” He faltered, not knowing the proper way to address her. “… your Highness.”

“Good day.” God, how she loved the way these yokels bowed and scraped to win their way into her good graces. “Excuse me a moment, young man.”

“Yes, ma'am … your Highness,” he corrected, turning a little red but no less eager to serve.

“The young woman. I believe I heard you refer to her as Mrs. Calder. My husband was acquainted with a family named Calder during an earlier visit to America. I was wondering if they might possibly be related to them.”

“I doubt it.” He turned his head to the side in
skepticism. “Her husband has been coming here regularly, bringing trail herds up a couple times a year from Texas.”

Lady Elaine stiffened just a little. “Would you know his name?” she inquired.

“I believe … his name is Benteen Calder,” the porter replied.

“As you said”—she made a small moue of regret—“it is unlikely my husband would know him. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, ma'am … your Royalty.” His bobbing attempt at a bow was awkward.

After the porter had started down the stairs, she remained a moment longer and sent a considering glance down the hallway. A cool intelligence showed as she wondered what problems this might present, if any. Perhaps she and Con should leave immediately for San Francisco. But they had already accepted too many invitations. Besides, there was a part of her that was curious. She almost laughed aloud when she realized that. After all these years, who would have thought that she'd care a damn.

“Laine, my pet, are you coming down?”

With a graceful turn, she looked down the stairs, where her husband stood with one foot on the steps. She looked at him with eyes of long ago and saw the changes—the added weight that had broadened his middle and the receding hairline that had raised his already high forehead. The mustache and muttonchop whiskers emphasized his jowls and weak chin. He had never made her heart beat fast, but he'd given her everything she'd ever wanted—after she'd put the idea in his head.

“Yes, I'm coming, Con.”

It was more than two hours since Lorna had entered the hotel room. In that time, she had taken a long bath and washed her hair. She wished for a wrap to wear over her undergarments and chemise. That lady she'd
seen in the hall probably had dozens of silk or satin ones. She didn't want to put on her only clean dress until her hair had dried.

Benteen still hadn't come to the room. Lorna wondered what was keeping him as she ran a comb through her damp hair. Her mind kept turning back to the lady she'd seen, her image staying sharp. Lorna was intensely curious about her, wondering who she was and where she came from. The accent had sounded foreign.

There was a light rap on the door. Lorna sat a little straighter on the bed, bringing the comb down to clutch it in front of her. “Who is it?”

“It's me. Benteen.”

Crossing the room, she turned the key in the lock to open it, then hid behind it as it swung inward. She caught the scent of bay rum as Benteen walked past her into the room. Closing the door, she turned the key to lock it.

When she pivoted away from the door, she saw that Benteen was studying her, his gaze running over her bare shoulders, down her length to her slender ankles. Her body reacted to the sensation of being touched. Lorna breathed in, not conscious that the movement pushed her breasts against the cotton bodice, accenting their roundness. She was suddenly uneasy, wondering if he was going to force himself on her again.

A muscle tightened in his jaw a second before he swung away. “I thought you'd be ready by now.”

It was suddenly clear that he had deliberately delayed his return to give her time to finish her bath and dress. He hadn't wanted to be here during that time. Lorna had no difficulty guessing why. Benteen had told her on past occasions when they made love that looking at her body aroused him. He had wanted to avoid that happening.

“My hair isn't dry,” Lorna explained, and glanced at the comb in her hand.

Walking to the mirror, she began running the comb through the dark mass again to separate the damp
strands and hurry the drying process. In the mirror she could see his reflection. She studied the rough cut of his features and the shaggy hair growing almost down to his collar. There were strength and power etched there, a clearness of purpose and solid will.

Lorna suddenly noticed the clean shirt he was wearing, and the pants. The sunlight streaming through the room's window set fire to the ends of his hair.

“You've bathed,” she realized.

“Yes. One of the saloons has bath facilities in back,” he stated. “I thought it would save time if I went ahead and cleaned up, instead of waiting until you were through.”

Unconsciously she tested the air, catching again the drifting scent of bay rum that indicated he had shaved, too. It was slightly stimulating to her senses. She was becoming too aware of him.

“When the porter showed me to the room, I passed this lady on the stairs.” She began talking about the first thing that came to her mind. “She was wearing the most beautiful dress. I'm sure she's someone very important. I heard her say something about using the mayor's private box. And she had a foreign accent, too.”

“There are a lot of immigrants here in Kansas,” Benteen replied.

He couldn't keep his gaze from straying to her; the curved shape of her was a magnet. The straps of her chemise drew his attention to her shoulder blades. As she combed her hair, he watched the rippling movement down her spine to a waist so slender his hands could easily span it. Her rounded buttocks and hips tantalized him, fully outlined by the chemise.

“This lady wasn't an ordinary immigrant.” Lorna stayed with the topic, although another woman was the farthest thing from Benteen's mind. “I know she's special. She referred to ‘the earl.'” She combed the ends of her hair around a finger. “That's a title, isn't it? Like a duke?”

“I believe so.” Benteen had an aversion to titled nobility. His mother had run away with a remittance man, a member of that class. “Fancy titles mean nothing. Don't be impressed by them, Lorna.”

His abruptness with her brought renewed concentration to combing her hair. Lorna resented the way he'd made her feel wrong for being fascinated by the woman she'd seen. She didn't see the harm in it. The teeth of the comb became snagged by a tangle in the back. Her attempt to tug it free pulled at the roots.

“Ouch!” It was an involuntary exclamation. The snarl was in the back. Lorna tried to twist around so she could see to comb it out, but it wasn't possible.

“I'll get it for you,” Benteen volunteered.

Lorna hesitated an instant at the thought of having him so close to her. It hardly made sense when she'd slept with him last night. She handed him the comb and continued to face the mirror, resting her hands on the edge of the dresser with its pitcher of water and basin.

There was something about the touch of his fingers on her hair as they tunneled under its damp weight to hold the snarl that started her heart pattering. After he gently worked loose the tangle, he began slowly running the comb through her long hair. Lorna half-closed her eyes in involuntary enjoyment of his hand following the comb to smooth her hair. When he bent his head closer to hers, she took little notice of it.

“Your hair smells good,” Benteen murmured as the comb ceased its movement. His hand settled onto the bare point of a shoulder, his callused skin pleasantly abrasive on sensitive flesh. “You smell good.”

When his hand began a caressing movement, Lorna stiffened. Her fingers tightened their grip on the edge of the dresser. Benteen felt her silent protest and immediately took his hand away. The comb was thrust in front of her. The instant she took it, Benteen moved briskly away. She held the comb, looking at it, her breath running shallow.

“Thank you.” It was an awkwardly polite expression of gratitude for his help with the snarl.

“It's no good, Lorna.” His reflection in the mirror showed a nerve twitching near his mouth. “I'm a man, not a priest. We're going to have to reach some kind of understanding, because I don't know how long I can keep from touching you.”

She turned very slowly to face him, aware of the harsh reality of his statement and the choice she had made to stay with him. It was going to be very difficult to say these next words, because she knew it was too soon.

“I told you on our wedding night, Benteen, that I had no right to deny you the privileges of the marriage bed. That's still true.” She tried to brace herself to endure what was to come.

Benteen stared at her, his eyes narrowing. “My God, Lorna,” he muttered thickly. “Why don't you just call me an animal for expecting you to submit to me, instead of being so meekly dutiful?”

“Because I know what you said is true.” She had the intelligence to understand that, even if she wasn't sure she was emotionally ready to become intimate with him again. “I recognize it's a man's need. It's something you enjoy.” She couldn't look at him while she explained the reasons behind her acquiescence.

“And you?” Benteen challenged quietly.

“I'm not sure I will without …” Lorna had intended to say, “… without remembering when you took me in violence.” But she left it unsaid, knowing Benteen would read in the rest.

He walked to within a foot of her and stopped. All expression was kept from his face as he hooked a finger under her chin and raised it. There was a panicked acceleration of her heartbeat, but Lorna quelled it and tried to return his steady gaze.

“We'd better find out if you can,” Benteen said.

With calculated deliberation, he slowly bent his head toward her, watching closely for any adverse reaction
from her. Inside, she was recoiling, but she was able to keep it from showing. When his mouth made its first tentative brush against her lips, Lorna didn't resist. His mouth came back to move gently over them, mindful of their chapped soreness. The kiss was warmly reassuring. Lorna could accept its gentle pressure and find a small degree of corresponding warmth.

His body did not touch hers, but she could feel its heat radiating from him. If it could stay like this, she could handle it. His hand moved onto her neck, lightly tracing its long curve to the hollow of her throat. She started to feel the tension threading through her nerves. When his mouth tried to coax her lips apart, her mind flashed back to the last time when no such persuasion had been used. She tried very hard to block out the degrading memory, but she felt herself growing rigid under his touch. She didn't want it to be like this. She wanted to feel that raw passion of all the other times before the last.

Although she let her lips part in an attempt to force the feelings, Benteen sensed the difference. The kiss was stopped cold as he slowly drew away to look at her. Her gaze wavered under the deliberately aloof inspection of his.

“You aren't any good at faking it, Lorna.” He knew if he let her go through with this charade of desire and made love to her, as he desperately wanted to do, she would ultimately resent this exercising of the privileges she said he had. She would despise him more than she already did.

“Benteen, I'm trying—”

“If it can't come naturally, I don't want it,” he broke in roughly. “Be honest about what you're feeling, even if it's hatred.”

“I don't hate you,” Lorna said, but didn't enlighten him about what she did feel.

“I'll stay away from you for a while. You tell me when you want me to be your husband.” And he hoped to God he'd have the strength to wait for that day—and
that it wouldn't be too far into the future. He turned from her and walked to the window to look onto the street below. Without looking, Benteen was conscious that Lorna was still standing in the same spot. “Your hair is dry enough now. You'd better put your dress on.”

“Yes.” Her head was bent. She realized she had been foolish to think she could pretend to feel pleasure. But accepting his advances had appeared to be a way to assuage her guilt for goading him with her threat to run away, which had brought about the rape. She couldn't plead ignorance, because she'd known how violently angry Benteen had become over his mother's picture. She should have guessed he would be overly sensitive to any hint that she might repeat what his mother had done.