Maggie stared after him for a moment, then jumped a second time when another voice—this one hoarse and slightly unsteady—reached her.
“I want to talk to you!”
Guardedly she watched Rafe approach. Working on the theory that it was best to spike guns whenever possible, she didn’t give him a chance to start in on her. “I’m sorry,” she said somewhat breathlessly as he reached her.
Hands on hips, he stared down at her. “For what?” It wasn’t an incredulous question, but rather one strongly implying there was an entire list of sins, and which one was she apologizing for?
Linking her fingers together in front of her, Maggie was barely able to meet his dangerous eyes. “Well, for everything. Sorry the barn burned. Sorry I was rude and—and hysterical with your brothers. Sorry you had to go into the barn after me….”
“That all?” he asked curtly.
Well, Maggie was sincerely sorry for all those things. But she’d be hanged, she thought rebelliously, if she’d apologize for anything else! “That’s all.”
Rafe drew in a deep breath, and his voice emerged in its modified lion’s roar. “You could have been killed, you little idiot! Just what in hell did you mean by running back into that barn?”
Maggie’s hands found her own hips and her shoulders stiffened. Her temper was definitely rising, and she forgot the danger in his eyes. “You know damned well I went in after Warlock!” she answered in a roar of her own. “What’s more, I’d do it again! And don’t you criticize me for that, you arrogant—”
Surprisingly Rafe began to laugh. His black eyes were gleaming down at her, and the crooked, endearing smile curved his lips. “Had me worried for a minute there, lass,” he said cheerfully. “The way you were apologizing and wringing your hands. I thought I’d broken your spirit!”
She stared at him, bemused.
He caught her suddenly in his arms, holding her tightly. “You scared the hell out of me with that stunt,” he said thickly. “Don’t you know I’d lose every horse in creation before I’d give you up?”
“Even one worth his weight in gold?” she whispered.
“Even that one.” He drew back slightly, looking down at her with eyes brimming with tears. “If we’d lost Warlock, it would have broken my heart, lass. If I’d lost you, there wouldn’t have been a heart to break. Or a life worth living. I love you, Maggie.”
She felt her own heart turn as she realized something she had not allowed herself to see before now. This man, this kingly man with the pride of a prideful family at his back, this strong and charming man with the devil in his eyes—was also a vulnerable man. Because he loved and admitted to loving, with no assurance that his love was returned.
“I…don’t want my ranch anymore,” she told him unsteadily. “And I don’t want your ranch. I just want you.”
He went very still. “Why?” he breathed.
“Because…I love you. Oh, Rafe, I love you so much!”
His shaking hands lifted to frame her face. “I hope you mean that, lass,” he whispered. “I’ll not let you take it back now.”
“I mean it. Rafe…”
He kissed her tenderly, fiercely, lifting her up into his arms to hold her in a strong and loving embrace. “It’s about time!” he told her hoarsely.
And Maggie wasn’t even embarrassed to hear a cheer as he carried her up the lane toward the house, or to see the people of Shamrock watching with smiling faces.
She was just glad the kingdom approved their king’s choice.
Chapter 9
“Just leave dinner in the oven, would you please, Mrs. Taylor?”
Maggie didn’t lift her head from Rafe’s shoulder until the kitchen door swung shut behind them, and then her only comment was a mild “You don’t care how much you embarrass me, do you?”
Rafe was carrying her steadily toward his bedroom. “My love,” he said huskily, “the entire ranch knows by now that I finally won my lady. Why not Mrs. Taylor as well?”
“It’s your insufferable Delaney pride, that’s what it is,” she told him glumly. “You just have to advertise my downfall.”
“I thought I was advertising mine,” he murmured.
Maggie made a rude noise, but she was smiling, and her gaze was fixed lovingly on his face. Curiously she felt no nervousness or shyness, no uncertainty or fear. Her inner certainty was, she realized, an affirmation of the love she felt for Rafe, and her last doubt had faded to nothing.
Blinking suddenly, she saw that they’d reached the doorway to his bedroom. And he had stopped. Meeting the black eyes gazing at her quizzically, she smiled. “Second thoughts?”
“Never. Are you going to marry me?”
She felt a laugh forming somewhere deep inside her, in that warm part of her he had brought to life. Gravely she asked, “Is my answer a prerequisite to crossing that threshold?”
“Yes.”
“If I said no, you’d put me down?”
His jaw tightened and black fire flashed in his eyes, but he replied steadily. “I’d put you down.”
“You mean”—she began toying with a lock of his hair and absently nudged her shoes off—“that even though I love you, even though I’m very much afraid I couldn’t live without you and wouldn’t say a word in protest if you wanted no strings at all, even now, when I’d do just about anything you asked, you still want a ring and a promise?”
“Even now,” he said huskily. “Especially now. I love you, Maggie. Will you marry me?”
“Just as soon as you can find a preacher,” she said.
His entire face seemed to light up at her words, and the breath caught in her throat at the fierce tenderness in his eyes. He kissed her swiftly, carrying her into his bedroom and kicking the door shut behind them. Maggie saw little of his room; she had eyes only for Rafe. But she did notice the king-size bed.
He set her on her feet beside it, and a shaft of late-afternoon sunlight slanted through the window to turn her golden hair into a halo. He cupped her face in warm hands, looking down at her as if he were looking into heaven.
His head bent, and his lips feathered kisses along her jaw and down her neck. One hand tangled in her hair while the other slowly unfastened the buttons of her blouse one by one. Maggie found her own arms around his waist, her hands tugging his shirt from the waistband of his pants.
She had to drop her arms to allow her blouse to fall free, but her hands returned instantly to the buttons of his shirt. While he shrugged free of the garment, she explored the muscled strength of his chest, her fingers threading among the springy dark hairs to find the firm flesh beneath. An unfamiliar liquid heat swirled to life somewhere within her body, and her heart seemed to be shaking her with its pounding.
She gasped softly, her hands finding his shoulders and gripping fiercely, as he trailed kisses past the shadowed valley between her breasts, over the lacy bra, and down the quivering flesh of her stomach. He unfastened her jeans, and the heavy material slid roughly against her skin as it fell to the floor. She kicked the jeans aside as he rose, her arms lifting to circle his neck, pressing her body against his with a sudden fierce need composed of too many sleepless nights and a love too long denied.
Rafe groaned, his lips finding hers hotly in a kiss that left her trembling. If his arms hadn’t been locked around her she wouldn’t have been able to stand upright. She clung to him, unable to breathe and not worried about it, giving him her heart and soul in a single blinding instant.
In feverish haste he rid her of what little clothing remained, then his garments fell to lie on the floor with hers. He bent to strip the covers back, then lifted her and placed her on the wide bed. He joined her immediately and every caress slowed to a tender and savoring touch, as if he had mastered time and bent it to his will. He gave them all the time in the world, and filled every second with loving her. He touched her as if she were something infinitely precious—and something he was starving for.
The slight abrasiveness of his work-roughene
d hands brought her flesh to shivering awareness, and Maggie barely heard the kittenlike sound of pleasure emerge from her throat when eager lips captured the hardened tip of one breast. She wove her fingers through his hair, her body moving of its own volition to press even nearer to him. She was on fire, burning with a spiraling tension winding tighter and tighter, urging her toward something she could only sense without understanding.
The hungry pull of his mouth and the gentle, erotic probing of his fingers fed the fire until it was a living, molten thing in her veins. She couldn’t be still, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hold back the soft moans rising in her throat. Her hands roamed over his strong back, kneading muscles, tracing the length of his spine. And her body moved instinctively to cradle his when he rose above her, the breath rasping harshly in his throat.
Maggie heard throaty, shaken pleas coming from some lost and frantic place inside her, heard his husky murmurs in response, and she cried out wildly when he joined her completely, the sudden shock a curiously primitive, compelling expansion of her desire. Fiercely she held him with muscles unknown until then, her body rocking with his in a sensuous dance.
Tension, aching and restless, built steadily, coiling like a live wire until it had to snap, shattering her every nerve with a pleasure that was very nearly unbearable….
—
Rafe couldn’t seem to stop touching her, his hands gliding over her flesh gently, compulsively. Maggie found no fault with that. She cuddled even closer to him, dimly aware of the day’s last sunlight making a valiant effort to brighten the room. She wanted only to remain near him, touching him, feeling his arms around her and his heart beating steadily beneath her cheek.
She felt secure as never before, at peace and at home in his arms, and when she drifted off to sleep, it was with the trusting suddenness of a child.
She woke once in the night, the moonlit room showing her an urgent, rekindled fire in black eyes, and went into his arms eagerly, naturally, proving that she could tame a devil-man as thoroughly as she could tame a devil-horse.
—
Maggie felt the sunlight first, hot across her eyes, and turned her head fretfully to escape it. The action wakened her even though she didn’t open her eyes, and she tried to figure out what was bothering her. Sunlight, she thought muzzily. Morning sunlight. But there had been afternoon sunlight as well, hadn’t there? Her room didn’t boast two exposures.
Rafe’s did.
Her eyes snapped open, and she found herself staring up into his. He was raised on an elbow beside her, a morning beard darkening his jaw and his thick black hair tousled, smiling very tenderly.
“Uh…hello,” she said a bit uncertainly.
His smile deepened. “Hello,” he responded politely.
“What time is it?” She didn’t really care, but felt honor-bound to ask. Besides, she had to say something, and since she had absolutely no experience in carrying on a conversation in a man’s bed…
“It’s around eight, I think.” He smoothed a strand of golden hair away from her face, his hand lingering to trace the line of her jaw.
For some reason Maggie didn’t bother to probe, the touch of his hand robbed her of shyness. She smiled at him and lifted her own hand to push back the lock of hair falling over his forehead—something she’d wanted to do more than once these last weeks. Then his words sank in. “Around eight? Lord, I haven’t slept past six o’clock in years.”
“Yesterday,” he reminded her, “was a very busy day, love. Which is one reason we’re both going to take today off.” He reflected for a moment while she stared at him. “As a matter of fact, we may take a week off.”
“But the horses. The work…” It was a weak protest, and Maggie was astonished at herself. She hadn’t taken—or wanted to take—a vacation since she was sixteen.
He leaned over to kiss her, gently at first. “I think,” he said huskily, “that there are enough people on Shamrock to take care of the horses for a few days.” His lips toyed with hers while flaming black eyes gazed into hers. “And I think you and I…have earned some time alone together, love.”
She felt the strength flowing out of her, replaced by quivering awareness and surging need. Her arms slipped around his neck as she felt his weight pressing her back into the bed, and for the first time in years she happily pushed work out of her mind….
—
Even though Maggie had known Rafe to be a demonstrative man, she was nonetheless unprepared for just how loving he could be with all restraints gone. Feeling in love and loved, Rafe was tender, passionate, affectionate, cheerful, humorous. He touched her and watched her almost constantly. And he glowed. His eyes, his smile, his entire face glowed with happiness.
That might have been too much for some women, might have been a burden, because it was scary to see oneself as so vitally important to another human being’s happiness. Maggie felt humbled by that realization, but it was no burden. For the first time in her life she knew herself to be loved and trusted to a degree she’d never dared hope for, and that certainty gave her the freedom to love equally in return.
As the days passed Rafe and Maggie were inseparable. They didn’t go down to the compound until after the weekend, and might not have gone then had Maggie not insisted that everyone on Shamrock probably thought them dead by now. Rafe had protested having to put his boots on, but Maggie had dragged him outside to observe the work on the new barn. And both had been touched by the fact that every employee of the ranch found time to congratulate them wholeheartedly on their obvious love.
In the house they spent time as lovers do, just being together. They slept late, shared meals and showers, opinions and lifetimes. And secrets.
Maggie discovered one secret quite by accident one day as she was searching through Rafe’s closet for a blouse. (Mrs. Taylor had her own way of showing approval of the relationship: She had begun putting away all their clothing in his bedroom.) Rafe was shaving in the bathroom, singing cheerfully, and Maggie smiled to herself as she listened. He was quite definitely addicted, she thought, to that song about Irish eyes.
As she reached for her blouse, one of her feet dislodged a large box lying on the floor of the closet. She shrugged into the blouse before kneeling to straighten the box. But a very familiar scent wafted up to her from the box, and she hesitated. She buttoned her blouse, then gave in to curiosity and lifted the lid of the box.
When Rafe came into the bedroom a few minutes later, he found Maggie standing, hands on hips, staring at him.
“What’ve I done?” he asked, instantly assuming the mien of a beaten spaniel.
“You,” she said lovingly, “should be locked up. It’s not safe for you to run around loose. I imagine your brothers have paid a bundle to keep you out of an asylum—which is where you belong.”
Rafe was innocently hurt. “Really, love, that’s not a very nice thing to say. What, by the way, makes you think I’m crazy?”
She stepped to one side and gestured. On the bed behind her lay an outfit. A rather curious outfit. It was buckskin, with lots of fringe, and a very colorful Indian headdress lay beside it.
“You had me fooled,” she told the miscreant dispassionately. “I thought it was you from the first, but that cinnamon scent made me doubt my other senses.” She picked up a small pouch, tied with a drawstring, and waved it at Rafe like an indictment. “But this is how you fooled me. Cinnamon in a pouch! The scent was so strong that I associated it with a stranger.” Staring at him, she tried to keep her mind off the raw virility of his strong body clothed only in a towel.
“Can I defend myself?” he asked.
“I don’t see how,” she said, letting her temper show. “Not only did you play a sneaky trick on me, but you got the whole ranch in on it! That perfectly lovely story about the Shamrock kissing bandit showing up here every spring! Rafe, you—”
He stepped forward and caught her in his arms.
Minutes later she said a bit weakly, “That’s not fair, dammit.”
He was kissing her neck. “Mmm…but I had to hold you, lass, and you’d hardly let me near you then.”
Maggie made a gallant attempt to gather her scattered wits. “I wouldn’t let you near me? I couldn’t stop you, you conniving—” Long moments later she added a defeated “Oh, hell,” and abandoned the world.
The cinnamon pouch was somewhat crushed, and the whole room smelled of it, but neither of them minded.
—
They spent one day in what Rafe called the Journal Room—that room Maggie had found in the old part of the house containing his collection of steins and the maps and journals of the Delaney family. He showed her several particular journals, including Old Shamus’s—which proved to be a frank and cheerful account of a strong man in rough times, a man with an incredibly deep sense of family and a powerful will.
“He really did say it!” Maggie said. She was reclining on the pillows they’d stolen from the den, and looked up from the yellowed pages to grin at Rafe. “He said he’d build a dynasty!”
Rafe chuckled softly. “He didn’t lack for conceit, did he?”
“I don’t think you could call it conceit. He did it, after all.” She glanced at the journal Rafe was thumbing through. “Whose was that?”
“Falcon Delaney.” He shook his head. “He was—no pun intended—a strange bird. Very well educated for his time, and a bit mysterious. Spent some years as a Texas Ranger.”
Intrigued, she asked, “Mysterious how?”
Rafe held the leather book up and gestured with it. “Well, it’s obvious he left out more than he recorded in this journal. There are some cryptic references to important men of that time, and some of the entries are in code.”
“You’ve never tried to have it deciphered?”
He smiled disarmingly. “No one else bothered and I could never bring myself to have it done. I suppose I was always afraid the decoded entries would be very commonplace and unexciting. As long as the code isn’t cracked, I can let my imagination roam.”
Maggie looked at his strong, unconventional face, the wonderfully expressive black eyes, and felt her heart turn over with love for him. “Do you know how much I love you?” she asked solemnly.