Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose(25)

Chapter Twelve

Inside the darkness, nothing moved. Trace could hear the heavy thud of his heart and wondered if those hidden in the darkness could do the same. He moved with caution, keeping low, through the archway, into the parlor. With his back toward the wall, he made his way to the kitchen doorway. He wiped the perspiration from his upper lip and looked back across the area he’d covered.

And blinked.

His jaw dropped.

What the devil? Can’t that woman follow a simple direction?

It was bad enough that she stayed, but standing there in the moonlight, making herself an easy target… His anger spilled over. He lifted his free hand and motioned her away. She stood still, refusing to go.

“Go to the sheriff,” he hissed.

“Why?”

An awkward feeling rolled over his shoulders. He knew he had been had. “There was no one.” His words were matter of fact.

“Not in the house,” she told him.

The bile of betrayal filled his mouth. He slid away his pistol and narrowed his gaze. “I do not enjoy being played for a fool, Mary Rose.” His words were stiff and sharp. “Shut the door and we will talk.”

Trace turned to the kitchen and, spying a kerosene lamp, pulled a match from his pocket. Within moments, the room was flooded with light. He heard the door click shut. Afraid he would grab her to shake some sense into her, he moved toward the sink and stared out the window, trying to remain calm. Her soft steps came to a halt at the table.

“Explain yourself.” His words snapped like the crack of a whip. In the silence that followed, her inhale sounded loud.

“I didn’t know it was you.”

“You usually fire at strangers? Through your door?”

“No,” she whispered.

“I knocked.”

“It made me jerk. I think that’s why the gun went off.”

His ears detected the anguish in her voice. She moved closer, and laid her hand lightly on his arm.

“I thought you were the man at the window. The gun… It was a means of defense.”

He turned with a jerk. His brow wrinkled. “The man at the window?” he repeated, as she gasped.

“You’re hurt.” She raised her hand toward his cheek.

Ignoring her concern, he grabbed her forearm. “What man at the window?”

Her eyes locked with his blue ones.

“I, I came home,” she began, “and went into Daniel’s study. When I turned out the lamp, I saw him.”

He watched the pain fill her eyes, and his anger softened. “Stay in the house,” he ordered. Picking up the lamp, he paused. “I will knock. Should you hear me shoot, run for the sheriff, screaming at the top of your lungs.”

She nodded.

He could hear her following him to the door. “Lock it after I leave.”

“Go to the left. That’s the side where Daniel’s room is. I saw him at the second window.”

Trace nodded and moved out. He waited until the lock clicked. Holding the lamp high, he made his way around the left side of the house. A cottonwood shaded the southern side of the wood-framed dwelling. Moving to the second window, he crouched down and stared at the ground. There was just enough grass to cover someone’s tracks. Rising, he backed away to the edge of the dirt and turned slowly. He stopped, in front of him the faint outline of a pair of boot prints, definitely smaller than his own. She’d been telling the truth.

With a sigh, he made his way back to the porch. Lifting his hand, he knocked twice. This time the door opened and she welcomed him inside.

“Let’s go into the kitchen to talk.”

She nodded and took a step, then stopped. Turning, she held out her hand. Lying in her palm was the derringer.

“Querida,” he whispered. Extending his right hand, he rescued the gun from her grasp. His hand upon the small of her back, they moved to the rear of the house.

“Sit down,” he told her. “I will make us some coffee.”

“I haven’t any kindling for the stove.” She pushed a strand of hair from her face. “I was tired when I came home.”

“I will get it. Is it right outside?”

She nodded.

Opening the back door, he stepped onto the small porch, picked up an armful of wood, and brought it inside. Minutes later, he had the oven heating and the pot waiting to perk. Crossing to the table, he took a seat and, leaning over, touched her hand. “Tell me what happened.”

“I told you. I came home and went to Daniel’s study. I wanted to look at his things. I wanted to try and figure this all out.”

Trace nodded. It made sense. She was still reeling from the events of the other day. “What did you do when you saw the man?”

“I hid,” she whispered. “I hid in the shadows, until I was sure. Then, I went for the gun.”

“Where did Daniel keep the gun?”

“In the desk drawer.” And she explained how she’d crept forward to retrieve it and check that it was loaded.

“That was a very brave thing to do,” he said.

“I’ve never been so scared.”

“Querida,” he whispered again, this time with growing reverence, and rose to extend his hand and pull her into his embrace. “You have every right to be scared.”

His left arm surrounded her, holding her tight. The tremor of her voice filled him with remorse for his sharp words. He closed his eyes as her head found his shoulder. When he felt the shudders rolling through her body, he slid his right hand down her left arm and brought her hand to his lips. The acrid smell of gunpowder stained her flawless skin. “It is all right, my sweet,” he murmured once more and pressed his lips to the tips of her fingers. Then, turning her hand over, he kissed the velvet of her palm.

Beyond the gunpowder, she tasted of honey, the sweet intoxicating nectar of the gods. His tongue pressed past his lips and traced a line beyond the heel of her palm to the juncture of her wrist. He swirled against the sensitive skin and brought a moan from her lips.

“My sweet Irish rose,” he whispered, gazing into her heavy-lidded eyes. The slightest pressure of his left hand turned her face closer. He looked down, watching her moisten her lips. The urge to brand her as his own brought a fire raging nearly out of control through his veins. “Mary Rose, you are a temptress. You torment my dreams. I believe you have bewitched me,” he whispered, and their lips met.

This time, she anticipated his move and met his kisses with abandonment. Her hand on his chest crept around to his back to hold him to her. His trousers grew uncomfortably tight. He traced the line of her mouth and, with his left hand, he slipped his fingers between hers, extending their arms to the sides.

Sliding his middle finger beneath their closed palms, Trace boldly stroked the warm flesh. Up and down, he performed the heated dance while their tongues brushed and stroked. Her back arched, and Mary Rose pressed against him. There was no doubt she could feel the depth of his want through her clothing.

His hand let go of hers and moved to her waist. Beneath his fingers, he could feel the flutter of her breathing and knew their kisses affected her. Her fingers pressed against the muscles of his back and dragged down toward his waist. A deep growl rose from his chest as his hands moved up. One thumb brushed the swell of her breast, and she whimpered for more.

Her cry spurred him on. His fingers moved against her breasts, feeling the heat as he kneaded them. The pads of his thumbs grazed her nipples and, through her layer of clothing, he felt them bead. She gasped and stilled.

Releasing her lips, Trace pulled her face away to enjoy the look of rapture that encompassed her features. He wanted nothing more than to bend her over the table and make love until neither of them could stand. It would be easy. She was so willing, but it would be so wrong.

Mary Rose must have sensed his change. She opened her eyes and looked questioningly at him, her lips swollen from their ardent kisses, her skin stained with the blush of passion. Never before had he seen any woman so beautiful. The words of the priest echoed. Listen to your heart. Could he trust it?

“You’re still bleeding,” she whispered.

“It’s only a scratch.” He felt her tender fingers on his cheek. Her right hand again found his chest.

“Sit down and let me take care of this,” she said.

Somehow he managed to make himself comfortable on the chair despite the tightness of his trousers, which threatened to cut off circulation to an important part of his body. Listen to your heart. Her arm swept by him and picked up the sling before she moved to the pump.

“Your arm?”

“It’s sore, but much better, thank you.”

The metal handle groaned as she primed it with two tugs before water spilled into the cast iron sink. Watching her, he thought about her hand and those strokes. He squirmed. Oh, his imagination was evil. It would do him no good to dream about the feel of her strokes on a certain part of his anatomy. He must gain control of the lust he felt around this delectable creature.