Cherish

  Race knelt before her on the bed and spread his hands on his thighs. For the life of him, he couldn’t think what he’d done. She’d been getting as hot as a fanned ember one second, then had started screaming and trying to get away from him the next.

  “Honey, please. We have to talk about it. Otherwise I won’t know what I did.”

  She crossed her upper chest with her arms, curling her fine-boned hands over her shoulders. “You lied! You gave me your word!”

  Race twisted to sit Indian fashion and braced his elbows on his knees, leaning forward to search her face through the gloom. He could see she was horribly upset, that she truly did believe that he’d lied to her about something.

  She jutted her small chin at him. “Why did you hide the truth?”

  “What truth?” Race asked, striving to be calm. One of them had to be. “Sweetheart, what in hell do you think I lied about?”

  “As if you don’t know! Telling me you go about it like the brethren. Hah! None of the brethren would ever do that. You lied, out-and-out lied! And stupid me, I believed you!”

  “I did not lie,” Race retorted.

  “You most certainly did! You said you had no ungodly inclinations!” Her voice rose to a shrill pitch on that last word.

  Race went back over all he’d done. The only explanation he could think of was that he’d hurt her, though he couldn’t think how. “Honey, is your nipples tender? Is that it? I never in the world meant to hurt you. Was I too rough?”

  She shrieked and covered her face. “Don’t speak to me of such! You’re a vulgar, crude man, and I’m not married to you! Do you hear me? I am not!”

  “Rebecca, you ain’t talkin’ good sense, here. People don’t get married and unmarried over a little misunderstandin’. They talk it out.”

  “I didn’t get married. I got took!”

  Race sighed and thrust his fingers through his hair. “Took, married. We’re gonna talk this out. Now you tell me, what did I do that upset you so bad?”

  She persisted in keeping her hands over her face. Meanwhile, the unfastened front of her gown gaped open, giving him a perfect view of her right nipple over the tops of her knees. The same nipple he’d so recently been loving. Still distended, it looked rosy in the fire shine, giving him reason to believe maybe it was tender. Females got all out of sorts at certain times, mood-wise and otherwise, and their breasts tended to be sensitive then, too.

  It wasn’t usually something a man could determine by looking. Rebecca’s, for instance. The tip thrust eagerly forward, as if begging for more attention, a request Race would have happily granted had the lady attached to it been a little more cooperative.

  “You know very well why I’m upset,” she accused in a muffled voice.

  “No, I don’t know.” He rocked forward onto all fours. Upon closer inspection of her nipple, he concluded that his eyes hadn’t deceived him. Pink as a little rosebud, it stood at attention and was pulsating with every beat of her heart. Tender, he decided. He’d been too rough, evidently. The ruffians in the arroyo had enjoyed inflicting pain, an inclination Race had promised her he didn’t have, and now, in her inexperience, she believed he’d lied to her about it because he had hurt her.

  Grasping her knees, he shoved downward to straighten her legs, then straddled them. Bracing a hand at each side of her thighs, he gazed at the backs of her hands. “Rebecca, take your hands down, darlin’, and look at me.”

  “No!”

  “Sweetheart, I won’t do it again. All right? I’m real sorry. After this, you got the reins. How’s that sound. However suits you is exactly how I’ll do things, I promise. All you gotta do is tell me what’s nice and what’s not.”

  “Well, that wasn’t! It was horrid!”

  “It’ll never be horrid again. You tell me how you want me to do it, and that’s how I’ll do it.”

  She jerked and sobbed. “How do I know you’re not lying again?”

  “I ain’t never lied to you. Have I?”

  “Yes.”

  He sighed. “Sweetheart, let me show you.” He remembered how he’d tugged at her with his teeth. Up until then, she’d been melting in his arms like honey on a hot biscuit. “Was it nice at first?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then? We’ll just do what’s nice for you. Nothing that isn’t, I promise.”

  She parted the fingers of one hand to peer at him through the crack. “Do you swear?”

  “I’ll not only swear. Can I show you?”

  “Well…”

  Race decided that at times like this, actions might reassure her more than words. He bent his head and very gently drew on her nipple. She shrieked, jerked, and clobbered his ear with a hard whack of her elbow. He reared back, holding the side of his head.

  “Ouch!” he roared. “Damn it, Rebecca Ann! I know I didn’t hurt you that time!”

  She was back to clutching the front of her nightgown. “You!”

  Clearly beside herself, she twisted away from him and tried to crawl off, only her gown was caught under his knees. Race caught her arm and drew her around to face him. “What in tarnation’s the matter with you?” he cried, still holding his ear.

  She doubled up her fists. “Don’t touch me! If you do, I won’t be responsible. I’ll fight the way you taught me and break your nose again! And this time, I’ll mean to do it!”

  Race reared back out of her reach. “Why?”

  “Why?” she repeated incredulously. “You try to do things like that, and you ask me why?”

  “Like what?” Race was beginning to get an inkling, though he couldn’t quite believe he had it right. “Kissin’ your breast, you mean?”

  She clamped her hands back over her face and shuddered. “Stop saying things like that!”

  “Like what? Breast?”

  She made a keening sound. Blue took up the lament, throwing back his head and making a little circle with his mouth, going, “How—oooo!”

  “Shut up!” Race yelled. Blue kept howling, but Rebecca jumped with a start and started holding her breath. “Not you, honey.” Race shot the howling hound a murderous glare. “Blue! I don’t need you stickin’ your nose in this! Shut up!”

  The hound broke off and whined.

  Race figured he had his answer about the breast business. He rubbed a hand over his face and blinked. “Rebecca, do you got it in your head that me kissin’ you there is ungodly?”

  She drew her hands from her face to gape at him in amazement. “Of course it is! You promised to just do it the regular way, and you lied!”

  “What’s the reg’lar way, Rebecca Ann? I guess maybe I ain’t real clear on that.”

  “You’re just supposed to do your business!”

  His business? “What, exactly, is that?”

  “Just doing that and nothing else!”

  He sat back on his heels, unable to believe his own ears. “Is that what your ma told you? Honey, I think you misunderstood.”

  “I did not. She was explicit and told me exactly!”

  Race recalled all the tales he’d heard about some of the stricter Christian sects, the gloves in August, the downcast eyes. His gaze shot to her pile of black outer clothing and gray undergarments that lurked like a shadowy specter where she’d set them against the wall. A sinking sensation entered his belly.

  “Rebecca Ann, are you sayin’ that the brothers in your church don’t touch a woman’s body? That they just”—he swung a hand—” do it and that’s it?”

  She averted her face, her chin trembling. “I never got through one line of Keats!”

  “Line of what?”

  “Ma said I could pray or meditate and ignore the goings-on. I was going to think about my”—she shuddered—“my favorite poems by Keats!”

  Race barked with laughter. She turned accusing blue eyes on him. He held up his hands. “Honey, I’m sorry! I ain’t laughin’, honest.”

  Pulling a straight face, he moved to sit with his back against the log footboard. Medit
ate and ignore the goings-on? He couldn’t help himself. He began to laugh again, this time so hard he had to hold his stomach. Tears started to stream down his cheeks. “I ain’t laughin’ at you,” he managed to gasp out. “I truly ain’t, darlin’.” He swiped at his cheeks, had nearly managed to get control of himself, and then pictured Henry with the horn-rimmed glasses making love in a three-piece suit and hat. He lost it all over again and laughed so hard, his spine went limp. He slid down the footboard and rolled over onto his side.

  When at last his mirth subsided, he sighed and said, “Shit,” wondering why he’d started laughing in the first place. All in all, it wasn’t funny. The girl he loved wanted to think about poems while he made love to her, and God forbid he should interrupt her train of thought. “Well, hell.”

  “Are you quite finished?” she asked primly.

  Race angled his head up to look at her. She was buttoned to the chin again. “I reckon.”

  “Then I shall take this opportunity to inform you that I don’t believe we suit. A marriage between us would be disastrous unless you can forgo your ungodly inclinations.”

  He sat up, swiped at his cheeks, and met her gaze dead-on. “That just ain’t gonna happen, darlin’. What you think of as ungodly, I call beautiful.”

  She hugged her waist and bent her head. Race could tell by the way she held herself that she’d hoped he would come to heel if she gave him an ultimatum. An ache entered his chest, for he truly did love her. Just not so much that he was willing to kow-tow to a set of marital rules dreamed up by sick-minded people. There wasn’t a spot on her that was ungodly, and there was nothing ungodly about his wanting to love every inch of her. If she believed that, she was as mixed up in her thinking as the rest of them, and she’d be a lot happier, not to mention a lot more satisfied, once he got her straightened out.

  “Remember when I told you I was worried that maybe we was comin’ at this from two different directions, and it might take us a spell to find a happy meetin’ ground?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I reckon I was more right about that than either of us thought. That don’t mean we don’t suit, darlin’. That means we don’t suit yet. You give some ground, I give some ground. We’ll get it worked out.”

  “I am not going to give ground on my principles.”

  “Honey, I ain’t the least bit inclined to go messin’ with your principles. It’s your body I got my sights set on.”

  She threw him a horrified look.

  He lifted his hands, doing his best to look harmless, which wasn’t one of his talents. “We’ll work this out. Trust me.”

  “How can we possibly? You have inclinations I find abhorrent!”

  “Well, tell me what you expect, and let’s work on it from there.” He propped his arms on his bent knees, trying his damnedest not to think of Henry in his three-piece suit. “How does the brethren do it?”

  She raised her small chin to look down her nose at him. “My mother said I was to lie still, on my back, and offer no protest. That my husband would come to me in the darkness, join me under the quilts, nudge my gown up to the area of my hips, and do his business, quickly and with every consideration for my refined sensibilities. That there was nothing much”—she gulped—“nothing much to it. And that if I so chose, I could ignore the goings-on, devoting my thoughts to prayer or meditation until he finished.”

  He would not laugh. If he did, she’d never forgive him. Race stroked his chin to hide his mouth. “Well, there, you see? We got it half-licked already. At least now I know what’s allowed and what ain’t.”

  Her blue eyes turned dark and bruised-looking as she searched his gaze. He truly had upset her apple cart, which was no laughing matter.

  “You mean you might be willing to abide by those practices?”

  “Well, now…” Race did some fast considering. “Is kissin’ like we done before all hell broke loose—is that allowed?”

  “Yes.”

  He kept stroking his chin. “Now do I got this right? From your buttoned-up collar to your hipbones—that’s all no-tresspassin’ territory.”

  “Correct.”

  “But everything from the hipbones on down is okay?”

  “Correct.”

  “And in the okay area, is there rules?”

  She looked bewildered. “Rules?”

  “You said your ma explained it all exactly. What do the brethren do while they’re goin’ about their manly business? Give me exact instructions so I don’t do it wrong.”

  She blinked and shook her head. “She didn’t describe that part.” She flapped her hand. “They just do it—however they do it.”

  Hallelujah. “So there ain’t no rules on how I do my manly business.”

  “Not that I’m aware of. That is your business. The wife doesn’t involve herself with that part.”

  Did she ever have a surprise coming. Race arched an eyebrow. “So I can go about my business however I want?”

  She took a moment to answer. No one could ever accuse this girl of being slow-witted. She sensed the trap, but in her innocence, she apparently couldn’t think what it might be. Race felt a little guilty about that, but in his experience, sometimes a conscience was a man’s worst enemy, and if this wasn’t one of those times, he’d eat his boots.

  “I suppose you may,” she finally replied. “It is your business, as I said.”

  “And no complaints from you, right? Barring me hurtin’ you, of course, which I’ll take care not to do. You’ll just meditate on your poetry and not involve yourself?”

  “That is my preference, yes.”

  Race nodded. “Do I got your word? No involvin’ yourself. You’ll do your poetry stuff and leave me to my business, however it suits me to do it?”

  “Do I have your word you won’t venture higher than my hips and subject me to vulgarities?”

  “Unless you ask me to, I give you my word I won’t.”

  “How can you even think I’d ever ask?”

  “I’m just leavin’ it open is all. Do I got your word on your part of the deal?”

  “Yes, you have my word.”

  Race bit back a grin. “One other thing,” he said, holding up a finger. “How much time do I get?”

  She fixed big, bewildered eyes on him. “Well, I don’t know. How long does it take?”

  “Well, that there’s just the thing. Sometimes longer than others. So do we agree I can have as much time as I feel like I need?”

  “I—guess so.”

  Race lifted his hands. “Well, now. See there? A happy meetin’ ground.”

  She glanced at the spot where she’d been lying, looking none too thrilled about returning to it. “And you promise me you’ll abide by those rules?”

  “I promise. How about you?”

  “I promise.” She looked dubious. “If you swear you’ll be content with the brethren way of doing it forever.”

  “Unless you ask for something more, you bet. That’ll suit me just fine.”

  “Swear it. On your honor.”

  He held up his right hand. “I swear on my honor I’ll never lay hand or lip on you from your hipbones to your collarbone—unless you ask me to.”

  “Shall I lie back down then?”

  “I reckon.”

  She scooted over to her spot and stretched out like a body ready for burial again, squeezing her eyes tightly closed. “Race?”

  He smiled slightly. “What, darlin’?”

  “Don’t forget the quilts.”

  He reached behind him, grabbed the quilts, and rose to his knees to draw them back over her. “Clear to the chin?”

  She snuggled all down, keeping her eyes closed as if her life depended on it. “Please.”

  Race tugged them clear to her chin, then slipped under with her. “I can lay my arm over you, can’t I? I’ve done that lots of times before.”

  “Yes. That should be fine.”

  He curled a hand over her waist and pulled her close. “Come here,
sweetheart. You’re still upset.” He reared up on an elbow to kiss her closed eyelids. “I’m sorry I went at it like that and shocked you. You gotta know I’d never do it on purpose.”

  She turned her cheek toward his lips. “I’m sorry I hurt your ear. Is it all right?”

  “It’s fine.” Race moved his hand from her waist to smooth her hair back from her face. “You are so beautiful, sweetheart. Just lookin’ at you fair breaks my heart. Have I ever told you that?”

  She lifted her lashes, her mouth curving in a smile. “Oh, Race.” She hugged his neck. “I’m sorry for all the mean things I said.”

  He gathered her close and pressed his face to her hair, feeling as if he held the riches of the world in his arms. “Don’t even think about it. I knew you was just beside yourself.”

  She pressed her body closer, fitting her curves to his hollows. He smiled to himself, remembering the time that she’d told him she had fallen from grace. His little angel was about to take a mighty long tumble.

  Chapter 19

  Kissing. Race’s lips made Rebecca feel as if as if she’d just died and gone to heaven. Floating. Filled with warmth. Eager to feel such bliss again, she willingly surrendered her mouth to him. He didn’t disappoint her, slowly, thoroughly teasing every sensitive place, making her breathless. And once again, his chest grazed hers, the accidental abrading of her protuberances making her ache inside. But that was all right, she told herself hastily, because she felt certain he wasn’t doing it on purpose.

  With each kiss, each touch, her thoughts fragmented more. Unable to help herself, she dug her nails into his shoulders, possessed by a need to hold on to him and get closer that was overwhelming and fierce. Seemingly impervious to his raked flesh, he nipped his way down the column of her neck, setting her skin afire.

  “Oh, Race…oh, Race…”

  “What, darlin’? Am I wanderin’ too close to your collar?”

  At the question, tears burned at the backs of her eyes. He would stop. All she needed to do was ask. She could feel that in the sudden tension of his body. Why that made her want to cry, she didn’t know. Only it did.

  She lightly ran her fingertips over the ridges of raw power in his shoulder, and she knew, deep inside where reason couldn’t reach, that every ounce of his strength was hers to command, that with a whispered plea, she could make him stop…or continue. She remembered last night—how he’d suddenly launched himself on top of her. The relentless vise of his grip, the weight of his hard body holding hers down. This man could do anything he chose to her. Anything. She would be helpless to stop him. Instead he touched her as if she were made of fragile glass.