California Caress

“But he may not spend the night alone,” she reminded him coldly. Charles’s gaze darkened, but it was the only evidence her words had struck close to his heart—if, indeed, he had one.

His lips drew into a fine, tight line. “My wife is many things, but she is no fool. Even Angelique would not be so stupid as to visit another man’s bed while under my roof. Especially my brother’s.”

Hope kept her opinion about Angelique’s intelligence to herself. Seeds of doubt—doubt that this man had insidiously planted—tickled the back of her mind.

Charles’s reasons were, as he admitted, selfish. But was he right? Would a night alone cause Drake to appreciate her more, or would it serve only to make him suspect her “marital” fidelity?

She didn’t know, but her feminine pride screamed for her to find out. Slowly, she nodded. “All right,” she said finally. Her brows knit in a frown as she tapped an index finger against her pursed lips. Was she making a mistake? Would Drake truly miss her? Time would tell. “I accept; fix one of your rooms. I don’t care which.”

Charles, seemingly unable to believe his good fortune, smiled happily and beat a hasty retreat. He returned quickly, two servants in tow. Hope leaned wearily against the door, keeping a sharp eye on the hall in case Drake should unexpectedly appear. The servants, a mousy woman and a gaunt, haggard man, disappeared into a room across the hall.

Charles’s gravelly voice boomed orders for what seemed like an eternity before the three emerged. The servants scurried down the hall, the woman’s arms laden with bed linen, as they disappeared down the stairwell.

“M’lady, your bedchamber awaits.”

Hope tossed restlessly atop the big, cold, empty bed. Sleep, that ever elusive state, avoided her, as it had done the better part of the night. She wanted to believe that her restlessness was caused by fear of the nightmares that had renewed themselves after her last encounter with Tyrone Tubbs, but she was honest enough to recognize that as a lie. There were other reasons for her insomnia, reasons she avoided contemplating.

The music below had stopped hours ago and the silence was deafening. Her ears missed the soft snores Drake usually made in the bedroll beside her, and her body missed the warmth she was so used to curling into. Instead of the spicy scent of sweat, her nostrils were greeted with the smell of freshly laundered sheets. And, while her cheek might be cushioned by a soft, feather tick pillow, it was a muscular chest she wished to feel.

Drake! her mind screamed against her throbbing temples. Was he in his own room, she wondered painfully, or was he with Angelique? And did she really want to know the answer?

Angelique’s name, not yours, her mind rudely reminded her. Her heart tightened with the bitter memory.

“Fresh air,” she murmured in frustration, eying the closed windows on the far wall.

Yes, that’s it. I just need a little air and then I’ll be able to sleep, she thought, as she threw off the heavy covers and crept to the window nearest the bed. She was used to sleeping beneath the stars, with the cool, sweet breeze wafting over her cheek. This room, although twice the size of the cabin in Thirsty Gulch, was too small, too stuffy. She felt trapped.

Kneeling on the window seat, she unlatched the shutters and threw them wide. Her relief was immediate. She took a long, deep breath of the cool breeze that, heavy with the scent of coming rain, made the lace curtains by her side dance. In the distance was the playful chirp of birds and the faint rustling of tree leaves. The sound was like sweet music to her ears.

The knots of frustration tightening her stomach slowly began to ease. She lowered herself onto the window seat and sat cross-legged, her back cushioned against the windowsill. She closed her eyes against the first fragile fingers of dawn streaking the sky, and could almost imagine the wide open prairie stretching endlessly around her, and Lazy’s slow, steady gait rocking between her thighs.

Yes, I just needed some fresh air, she thought again, relieved. She scooted down on the seat until her head was cushioned against the hard wood.

Stifling a yawn, she savored the feel of the cool breeze against her bare calves and thighs. The white cotton chemise had bunched up to her hips, but she didn’t right it. She enjoyed the feel too much, and unconsciously imagined it to be a pair of calloused palms stroking over her flesh.

Sighing, she closed her eyes and surrounded herself in darkness—only to have her eyelids snap back up in shock.

Imagined calloused palms? God lord, those were calloused palms! They were on her calves, tenderly stroking the back of her knee, slipping briefly between her thighs before drifting up to linger on the quivering expanse of her stomach.

Hope sat bolt upright. Her head missed colliding with Drake’s by mere inches.

“How long have you been here? And what the hell are you doing?” she gasped as his hand boldly ascended. She glared angrily into his decidedly lecherous grin and, with trembling fingers, tried to push the chemise into place. He swatted her hand away, refusing to allow it.

“Surprised? Didn’t you think I’d find you?” he queried lazily. Again, his fingers slipped beneath the skirt’s hem, this time to tease her navel while his warm breath teased her upper chest and neck. His eyes were dark with a mixture of passion and victory. “You can’t hide from me, sunshine. You can try, but I’ll find you.” His lips lowered to taste the creamy hollow of her throat and he whispered against her tingling flesh, “I’ll always find you.”

“I—I don’t want you to find me,” she countered weakly. Her hands pushed desperately against his shoulders even as her body arched into his chest and hips. “And—my God, the window’s open, Drake. Someone will see.”

“That’s the least of your worries, but it is a damn good reason for you not to struggle.” His lips nuzzled and nibbled at her neck. A white-hot spark of desire rushed through her. “I’d hate to see you tumble to your death at such an inopportune moment.”

Hope went limp at the thought of falling through the window. At least, that was the reason she gave herself. She refused to believe her sudden stillness had anything to do with the shivers of desire his expert hand was eliciting.

“Let me go,” she whispered huskily, even as her hands crept around his neck and her fingers buried themselves in the silky softness of his hair. She was leaning against the windowsill now, and the hard wood was as firm and inflexible against her back as the male chest pressing intimately against her breasts. “I—I don’t want this to happen.”

He lifted his head, his gaze dark and penetrating as it searched her face. “Do you have a choice? Do you have the strength to stop it, even if you want to? God knows, I don’t.”

The sensual timbre of his voice rippled through her and she clung to him desperately. It was growing more and more difficult to deny the passion building between them, and she wasn’t entirely sure that denial was what she wanted anymore.

So what did she want? Her body answered that question with a will all its own.