Velvet Thunder (35 page)

“And equally strong feelings about the kind of women who are good enough for her sons?”

Acknowledging her insight, he nodded. “But it really doesn't matter what she thinks. It certainly didn't to Rad and Chap. All that mattered to them was that they loved Kinsey and Ginny.” His voice softened. “As I love you.”

She closed her eyes momentarily. How could she fight his mother and her own feelings of insecurity at the same time? And were there other Christinas she would have to deal with? She pushed the unpleasant thought aside. “What about the rest of your family? Will they hate me too?” The emotions she was trying so desperately to hide were evident in her husky tones.

“Absolutely not. And, honey, Mother won't hate you. Precisely.”

“Precisely?”

“I'm not explaining this very well. You've got to understand how mother was raised. Strictly. By an English nanny. You can't imagine some of the notions the woman instilled in her.”

Her open expression invited him to continue.

He searched his mind for pertinent examples. “Silly things really. Like one must not place books written by male authors and those by female authors on the same shelf in the library.”

Stevie appeared stunned, then burst out laughing. “You're just making that up.”

“I'm not. I swear. That's not even the strangest rule of propriety that Mother and her cronies cling to.” He had been living in the West so long, it was hard to remember the rules of society that had once been as natural to him as breathing. Before long it all came rushing back. “She won't let us back up to a fire and warm our . . . well, you get the picture.”

“Warming your cold butt's not proper?” Stevie asked irreverently.

“Heavens no. And a lady”—the way he emphasized “lady” made her squirm—“never says
butt.
In fact, a lady doesn't say many seemingly innocent words in mixed company. Such as
stomach.
And one would never utter such personal words as
shirt, trousers, breeches.
They're called
inexpressibles.”
Heath was warming to his subject. “And one never reports that they're going to bed.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Too sexual. One retires. That's proper.”

Speaking of bed, Stevie regarded him with a mixture of longing and incredulity. A slow smile spread across her face. “I can hardly believe that you're her son.”

Heath felt as if Stevie had just complimented his masculinity. He sat a bit straighter in his chair. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” A mischievous light brightened her eyes.

“Don't suppose I should request son-of-a-bitch stew for supper.”

“Not unless you want Mother to faint.”

“That might be worth remembering,” she mumbled to herself.

“Actually, there are any number of foods she considers improper. Apples, artichokes, chestnuts, chocolate, garlic, leeks, dates. The list goes on and on.”

Stevie was clearly thunderstruck. “What on earth is wrong with them?” She was strangely fascinated with this world of propriety of which she was sadly ignorant.

“They incite lust, make one virile.”

“How did you get so big?” she blurted out.

Heath almost choked on his coffee. “Excuse me?”

“I'm not talking about that!” She colored becomingly. “I mean, how did you grow so big if there were so many foods she wouldn't allow you to eat?”

“Oh, we ate them.” He winked at her. “The general insisted that his sons be given double portions.” His smile dimmed. “Mother abstained, of course. And she forbade my sisters to partake of such foods . . . as long as they were respectable, asexual females.”

“I shudder to ask. But what's a respectable, asexual female?”

“A fancy word for a virgin.”

She widened her eyes, looking as innocent as a downy-faced tot. Then for Heath's ears only, she whispered, “Thanks to you, that leaves me out.”

“Mmmm. It sure does.”

Sexual sparks shot between them, sufficient to ignite the white linen cloth covering the table. The fact that they were in a public place dawned on them at the same time.

Stevie cleared her throat. When she spoke, her voice was noticeably thick, however. “It might be educational meeting a person like your mother.”

“That's one way to put it.”

“As long as I refrain from warming my butt by the fire, swilling hot chocolate, and eating artichokes and chestnuts.”

They chuckled together. He lifted her hand to his lips and brushed it lightly with his kiss. His stomach growled loudly. Having the matter of his mother behind them, he attacked his breakfast. When the delicate china plates were empty and he was full, he noticed that Stevie had yet to touch her toast. “Honey, aren't you hungry?”

She was silent for a moment, pleating the tablecloth with her fingers. “How does your mother feel about Indians?”

There was no need for him to answer. His strained expression said it all. “Actually, I doubt she's ever seen one,” he hedged finally.

Mentally, she winced, then shrugged as if she were unaffected. “Well, she's about to come face-to-face with one.”

“And a very beautiful one at that.”

 

 

It was their last night alone in the rail car. The curtains had been lowered for privacy, the Tiffany lamps lit. The rosy glow of the compartment lent their close environment a romantic quality that was apparent to both Heath and Stevie.

Heath reclined on a tufted sofa, smiling at the picture she presented in her black leather breeches peeking from under one of his soft blue shirts. The shirt came to her knees, the shoulder seams rode her elbows, and she looked so damn sexy that he reconsidered asking Ann to provide her with a dress.

She turned to him abruptly and caught the unguarded desire in his eyes. Her smile was almost shy.

He patted the sofa upon which he sat. “Come sit with me.”

His invitation was unmistakable, but Stevie was not looking for romance. Yet. Today was the day for heart-to-heart talks. First Heath's disclosure of his difficult mother. Now Stevie had something of import to discuss with him.

Slowly, very slowly, she closed the distance between them. She halted in front of him, their knees almost touching. He took her hands and drew her between his legs.

He noticed her reticence. “What's wrong, sugar?”

She was silent for a moment. When she looked him full in the face, she exhaled. “Since that first day in Kansas City, you haven't asked me why I'm here.”

His expression never changed. His only movement was the circular caress of his thumbs against her knuckles. “I figured when you were ready, you would tell me.”

They both spoke quietly, almost reverently.

“You want me to be honest?”

He nodded.

“Revenge.” She could see that she surprised him with her frankness.

Though he suspected as much, her response was less than flattering. “Against whom? As if I didn't know.”

“Judge Jack.”

“So, you
did
overhear Jay and me talking about the judge going to New York.” He released her, rubbing his palms on his thighs.

She sat at his side. “I've made no secret of my plans regarding the judge since the first day we met. But—”

He cut her off. “That's true.” His bitter laugh skittered down her spine. He couldn't look at her. “You want to hear a joke? I actually convinced myself that you were coming along because you couldn't bear to be away from me.”

When he did turn his gaze on her, she wished desperately that he hadn't. Pain mixed with accusation dulled his sapphire orbs.

“You should have been honest with me from the first, Stevie.” He surged to his feet. Crossing over to the bar, he sloshed fine Kentucky bourbon into a crystal glass. “And not let me think you cared for me as I care for you.”

Stevie rushed to his side. She grabbed his arm. “You know I have feelings for you.”

He wanted to shake her off. But instead he turned and looked down at her. “Do you? Then why do you continue to refuse my proposal of marriage?” His words were harsh, almost a challenge.

Tears filled her eyes. “Don't you know how much I
want
to accept?”

“No, I can't say that I do.”

She breathed deeply, as if a band tightened around her chest. “Well, I do. But I can't. Not yet.”

He turned back to the bar.

“I wish I could make you understand.”

She watched with admiration as he forcibly regained a measure of his control. He placed his glass on the bar, then took her hand and led her back to the sofa. “Give it a shot,” he said softly.

She took a deep breath, gathering the scattered bits of her thoughts and feelings into a manageable whole. “I know it doesn't matter to you that I'm an Indian. And I”—she paused, clearing the emotion from her throat—“I love you for that.”

His hand tightened on hers.

“But you have to know that you're unusual. Your family probably won't accept me as you do. It's for sure that white society doesn't.”

“You've told me all this before. And again, all that matters to me is being with you.”

“I know I've told you.” She surged to her feet. Pacing before him, she shoved the shirtsleeves above her elbows with frustration. “But you haven't listened!” She wheeled around, knelt before him, and cradled his face with trembling hands. “My whole life I've held myself aloof from outsiders. I haven't allowed myself to love anyone, not any man, anyway. Certainly not a white man.” She grasped his hands in both of hers and held them to her breast. “But I love you, Heath! I do. With all my heart. And I couldn't live with myself if by marrying you I caused anyone to think less of you.”

“What others think doesn't matter to me, sweetheart.”

“How do you know? How can you possibly know it doesn't matter?” She stood. “Have you been shunned, laughed at, spat upon, considered less than human simply because of your ancestry?”

He joined her. “Of course not . . .”

“Well, if you marry me and take two Indian children to raise, you will.” She dared not pause and give him entry to disagree. “Have you given any thought to our children, the ones who will be born of our union?” She tapped his chest with her finger. “Your sons and daughters, Heath. Boys and girls who will be more white than Indian? How do you think they'll feel, always having to defend their Comanche mother and brother and sister?”

Her eyes burned with conviction; her heart ached from a lifetime of prejudice. “And there's no doubt in my mind that any children of yours will defend their family.” She smiled sadly at him, obviously proud of the man she loved. “How will you feel when those innocent children come home with black eyes and bloody noses? Will you love me and Winter and Summer as much then? Or will you regret marrying some little half-breed that you stumbled over on the edge of nowhere?”

He grabbed her, holding her against him fiercely. “Don't you dare talk about yourself that way.” He suspected that their conversation regarding his mother brought this on, at least in part. Having told her about India, how could he convince her that her fears were groundless? He had to try.

“Honey, you could never, ever be some little half-breed to me. You're the other half of my heart. And the notion that I would blame you, Winter, or Summer for the actions of bigots is ludicrous. You really hurt me, babe. That you don't have any more faith in me than that.”

Stevie clung to him with all her strength. Burying her face in her neck, she groaned, “It's not you I don't trust. It's me.”

He leaned back and stared down into her face.

She spoke before he could respond. “I can't explain it. Let's not talk anymore. Not now. Please. Just make love to me.”

Groaning, he swept her up in his arms and carried her over to their bed. Later, he would find the words to convince her that he could not bear a future without her. For now he would do as she asked. Love her physically. All night long. Fortifying them both for the uncertainty that tomorrow would bring.

The morning they arrived in New York, Stevie was having a good day, pregnancy speaking. After munching three crackers, she crawled off the end of the bed and pressed her cheek against the cool post. She stood perfectly still, expecting the morning sickness viper to rear its ugly head. When it didn't, she whispered a prayer of thanksgiving and crossed to Heath's side of the bed. Silently, she watched him as he slumbered.

She pulled a light sheet up over his naked torso. Her waist-length hair slipped over her shoulder, brushing his cheek like a lover's caress.

He smiled in his sleep, but didn't appear to awaken. She tucked her hair behind her shoulder, bent to kiss his parted lips lightly, and whispered against them, “I love you.”

She straightened and stood above him for a moment. Her heart swelled with love. He seemed so young lying there, so incredibly vulnerable in his sleep. How could she bring pain into his life? But how could she bear losing him?

As she stared at him, she massaged her naked abdomen absently. She hoped that the baby she carried would grow up to resemble his father . . . more important, that he would grow up to
be
like him, fine, honorable, strong, gentle, and above all, loving.

After last night there was no denying that she and Heath were desperately in love. So why couldn't she commit her life to him? She wanted to, oh, how she wanted to. But just when she teetered on the brink of final capitulation, paralysis struck. She just couldn't take the final step. Her throat thick with emotion, she eased away from the bed.

Lack of self-esteem. It had become her defense against the world. If one didn't think highly of oneself, nothing much could be required of them. It was high time she gathered her courage and shook off the bonds of the insecure. Otherwise, she would lose the most important person in her life.

On silent feet she walked to the window and brushed the drapes aside. Dawn rose in the sky like a glorious rebirth, painting her naked form a glowing pink. She was surrounded by all things new and exciting, yet terribly frightening. The most frightening, however, was the prospect of life without Heath. Dare she risk hurt, put her own desires above all else and yoke herself legally to the man she had already joined with physically and emotionally?

“Yes,” she whispered from the depths of her soul.

Committing to Heath would be the height of selfishness even if it demanded personal courage, her conscience warned again. Such a monumental decision would affect the innocent for generations. Heath's descendants from now till the end of time would have Indian blood flowing through their veins, and the stigma associated with it.

Her hands tightened on the draperies she held aside. Was her Indian ancestry so bad? No, she proclaimed vehemently. Unconsciously, she straightened her bare shoulders. Could they teach their children—and perhaps society along the way—about the Comanche's proud heritage?

She smiled wryly. As a matter of fact, the American Indians were the first inhabitants of this country. The cream of New York society were the interlopers. She bet that tidbit would shock Mrs. Turner smack dab out of her prim, proper inexpressibles.

Suddenly, the future didn't look so forbidding after all. She wanted Heath and she would fight the entire human race for him. Muffling a giggle, she reminded herself that the Comanche had been fighting the White Eyes for generations. Starting today, she would mount a campaign that made the efforts of the proud war chiefs of yesteryear look tame.

She needed to look her best. For the first time in almost eleven years, she wished she had a dress to wear. She considered wearing Swan's wedding gown, but decided against it. Arriving dressed like an Indian maiden might prejudice Heath's family against her. Not good strategy, she decided.

So she pulled on her black leather outfit. The one she had worn the first day she met Heath.

Instead of wearing the Stetson, she decided to do something special with her hair. Taking a seat at the vanity, she plaited her silken tresses, then wound the glistening braid in a coronet at the back of her head. She secured it with a few precious hairpins. With a fingernail she loosened wayward platinum curls at the nape and temples, softening the hairstyle fashionably.

A white lily had miraculously appeared on the vanity that morning. She attached it to the side of the coronet, lending the coiffure an overall effect of elegant simplicity. Pleased with her appearance, despite her manly attire, she tiptoed past Heath and headed for the dining car.

“Good morning, madam.” Jeevers bowed gallantly as he passed her in the hallway.

“Good morning.” She and Heath had seen little of the manservant on the trip. But they had seen evidence of his presence almost continuously.

Whenever they were hungry and didn't care to go to the dining car, trays overflowing with all manner of food would arrive magically, many of Heath's favorite aphrodisiacs included. When they wanted a bath, servants would appear with buckets of hot water without being summoned, day or night.

It was as if the man were their fairy godfather, on duty twenty-four hours a day, but invisible. This morning, however, he was making an appearance in the flesh.

“Mr. Turner's still asleep.” Stevie expected Jeevers to change course and leave Heath to his rest.

“Very good, madam.” He continued on, heading for the private car.

She stood arrested in the hallway, mouth agape.

“Is he going to dress him?” she asked the empty hallway. She had read sufficient romantic novels to know the goings-on between valets and their lords. And Heath and Jeevers qualified as such in her mind. They might have been servant and peer of the realm for all of their aristocratic splendor.

“I can't imagine anyone dressing Heath.” Undressing him, yes. Despite her bawdy thought, she affected a haughty, disdainful expression. “Surely he can find his way into his inexpressibles by himself.”

She chuckled all the way to the dining car. Nausea-free, she enjoyed a normal breakfast for the first time in days. When she consumed the last morsel, the train pulled into Grand Central Station.

Butterflies the size of steamships fluttered in her stomach, making her regret the hearty repast. Her confidence and determination wavered. Like a condemned horse thief marching to the gallows, she made her way back toward the rail car.

 

 

The tall, handsome man coming toward her stopped her dead in his tracks. Her first thought was that he was beautiful! Not just his clothes, but the man himself.

Though he
was
dressed exquisitely! His cutaway coat was single-breasted, mid-thigh in length. It was made of a deep sapphire-blue linen, hugging the contours of his muscular torso, matching his eyes to perfection. Underneath, he wore a double-breasted vest of linen pique, also sapphire in color, with pale yellow stripes for detail. His lemon silk ascot was fastened around his wide neck by no less than a diamond stickpin. A yellow handkerchief peeked out of his breast pocket flirtatiously. His trousers were of the same rich material as the cutaway. They fit his waist like a second skin. The buttoned fly bulged, unable to disguise his virility. The tubular pant legs had no cuffs or creases. On a lesser man they would have appeared loose, undoubtedly quite proper. But on Heath they skimmed thighs made enormous by hugging the sides of a galloping stallion.

Heath tried not to fidget under Stevie's unwavering perusal as she raked him from head to toe, missing nothing in between. He tucked his ebony walking stick beneath his arm and nervously withdrew a pair of yellow chamois gloves from his deep blue top hat. Characteristically, he ran his fingers through his hair, then set the impressive-looking headgear firmly in place. He forced a disarming smile. “What's wrong? Have I got shaving soap on my face? Tooth powder on my lips? Are my trousers . . . my inexpressibles on backward?”

“Who are you?” she croaked.

“I'm the same man you covered with a sheet this morning.” His eyes darkened with desire. “The same man you kissed.” He stepped closer. “The same man whose heart nearly burst at your confession of love.” His voice deepened. “The same man who made love to you most of the night.” He spread his arms to his sides. “This is just window dressing, sweetheart. Just fabric and thread. It doesn't change what's on the inside.”

She wasn't quite convinced.

“Master Heath.” Jeevers spoke from behind Heath.

“Master?” she mouthed. In her estimation, the title fit.

Heath responded to Jeevers, smiling down at Stevie. “Yes?”

“Dr. and Mrs. Turner are waiting on the platform beside the rail car.”

“Please tell them we'll be right along.”

“Very good, sir.”

Once they were alone, Heath donned his gloves and cradled Stevie's chin in his palm. The look in her eyes was quite like that of a rabbit he had found snared in a trap when he was just a boy. “You're really afraid, aren't you?”

“No.”

“Liar.” His soft accusation failed to elicit the smile he sought. “Where's the hellion who took shots at me from Mustang Mesa?”

“I think you left her west of the Pecos.” Her voice sounded very small.

He hugged her warmly, affectionately, not with the heated passion that they had shared in the night. He spoke into her hair. “Don't worry, hon. Everything'll be all right. You'll see.”

“Will it?” Silently, she cursed the quiver in her voice.

Chivalrously, he offered her his arm. “I swear. Just trust me, sugar.”

Renewing her earlier vow to fight for the man she loved, she placed her hand firmly in the crook of his arm.

Together, they exited the train.