Kissing Abbie had been a mistake. Indulgences always came at a heavy cost. Last night’s price had been to go the remainder of the night without sleep.
The heat had intensified, and his body had ached with desires left unfulfilled. The woman was not an innocent virgin. She was a widow with three children. She had been without a husband in her bed for at least four years. Common sense dictated that he should offer, and she would readily agree, to a mutually gratifying romp in the hay as it were.
God knew his own carnal needs had always taken precedence over honor. Why did he suddenly feel that possessing her body would leave him empty? Why an irrational need to possess what he could never hold—her heart?
Leaning against the side of the barn, he watched Abbie stroll through the fields in the predawn light. He didn’t think Ivanhoe’s Rowena could have looked more lovely. She had gathered her blonde hair into one long braid that dipped into the small curve of her back. She wore a simple dress that he knew she had mended and patched. He thought of the allowance his father had generously bestowed upon him all the years he’d been in England, the money he had spent upon nothing that would last more than a heartbeat. He would give anything to have a portion of it back, to have enough to purchase Abbie one gown of the finest cloth. Her feet stirred up the dirt, creating a billowing cloud around her bare ankles. He thought of all the shoes he’d thrown away because of a single scratch.
He bowed his head, wondering how he had become such a shallow man who valued nothing beyond a moment’s pleasure.
He lifted his gaze and slowly ambled toward the field, toward a woman he feared may have never known a moment’s pleasure. Or perhaps she knew more than he did. He thought of the lovely smiles that graced her face when her fingers touched her children’s hair or the rapture in her eyes when he read to her. What in God’s name would he see in her eyes if he made love to her?
As he neared, she bent over, her fingers cradling a delicate blossom the color of cream. Similar blossoms were abundantly scattered over the fields.
“Where did the flowers come from?” he asked.
“They unfolded during the night.” She looked at it in wonder as though she’d never seen one when he knew she had probably seen thousands. “It’s so delicate,” she said softly. “Tomorrow, they’ll turn a deep red like the blood that coats your hands when you’re picking. By tomorrow evening, the petals will die and fall away, leaving behind a boll.” With a sigh, she straightened. “Reckon it’s laid-by time.”
“What does that mean?” he asked.
Avoiding his gaze, she said, “We stay out of the fields until the cotton bolls burst open and invite us back in.”
“Dare I hope that during this time, we simply sit in the shade?”
He felt an unfamiliar tightening in his chest when a corner of her mouth curled upward.
“We’ll slaughter hogs, preserve vegetables, pickle—”
“Look at me, Abbie.”
Ever so slowly, she turned her face toward him. The faintest hint of a blush adorned her cheeks, and the slight curve of her smile disappeared. He suddenly felt like a bully instead of a man accustomed to charming women into his bed. When he teased, she felt threatened. What meant nothing to him meant everything to her. As much as he loathed leaving her, some minute aspect of being a gentleman embedded in his character insisted that he no longer stay. “Abbie, about last night—”
“He never kissed me,” she blurted out.
Grayson felt as though someone had just delivered a stunning blow to his midsection. “What?”
She shook her head slightly as tears welled within her eyes, creating violet pools of anguish. She pressed one trembling hand to her lips and wrapped an arm around her stomach. She looked toward the fields, and he watched helplessly as a solitary tear slid along her cheek.
“He gave me three children,” she rasped, “but he never gave me a kiss.”
“I know it’s rude to speak unkindly of the dead, but your husband was a bloody fool.”
“He didn’t love me. I was a possession, like the land. Something to be looked upon with pride, something to yield a harvest, but he gave more to his land than he ever gave to me. If the land had needed a kiss…he would have dropped to his knees and pressed his mouth…”
Slowly, carefully, he drew her into his embrace. He felt the tremors traveling through her, heard the wretched sob that broke free, felt her body stiffen as she fought to stifle another one. Dear Lord, but she felt wonderful within his arms, tiny, but sturdy from years of battling the land. What sort of man was he to be grateful for anything that made her drop her reserve and brought her this close to him?
A far better man than her husband. He could not help but wonder with bitterness what else the man might not have given the woman within the circle of his arms. He pressed his cheek against the top of her head. “Abbie,” he cooed in a low voice. “Abbie, it’s all right.”
She shook her head without moving away from him. “I wasn’t glad when he died. I wasn’t.”
“Of course you weren’t glad—”
“But I was…” He felt a spasm rock her body. “Relieved.”
The word was spoken agonizingly low, as though she’d forced it past the burden of guilt. He brought his arms more tightly around her. “There’s no sin in that, Abbie.”
He felt the slightest yielding of her body against his, as though his simple statement had lifted a heavy weight from her heart.
“It was wrong of me to marry him—”
He cradled her face between hands that had become coarse over the weeks and tilted her head until he could gaze into her eyes. So slowly, his thumbs gathered the tears that adorned her cheeks. “You were sixteen, Abbie. What did you know of marriage or love?”
He refrained from telling her that the fault rested with her husband. He had spoken ill of the dead once, and he had little doubt he would do so again, but not where she could hear.
The doubts plaguing her tore at him as nothing had in his entire life: not the cruel taunts that he’d received as a child or the snubs he’d received as an adult, not the absence of love or the shattered dreams.
“There are a thousand marriages which contain not the tiniest seed from which love can grow. You must have cared for him some or it would not haunt you now that you think you did not.”
“But it wasn’t enough.”
“Why?”
Her gaze flitted to his mouth, her blush deepening before she again met his gaze. Something deep within him burst forth as he’d heard others describe the ripening of cotton—like a tiny explosion that resulted in a glorious unfolding. Guilt gnawed at her this morning because last night it hadn’t. Her tongue darted out to lick lips that he longed to taste again.
Having no desire to abrade her soft skin, he touched his knuckles to her cheek, knowing a moment’s regret that his palms were no longer smooth and unmarred. She neither flinched nor moved, but simply watched him as he had once seen a cornered fox await the arrival of the bloodthirsty hounds.
He felt completely inadequate to the task of giving to her what he feared she may have never experienced, never known—and he’d never wanted anything more in his life than he wanted to share with her all his worldly knowledge.
He moved his thumbs to the corners of her mouth, felt her stiffen, and knew if he moved too fast, he’d lose the tentative trust he’d gained.
“Let’s play today,” he said, and saw the trust retreat like the sun before a storm. “You, me, and the children,” he hastily added.
Confusion swam within her eyes. “You do know how to play, don’t you?” he asked.
Her chin came up. “Of course I do, but we have chores—”
“That will keep until tomorrow.” Reaching down, he took her hands and brought them to his lips, placing a kiss on fingers that were as rough as leather. “What’s the point in working so hard if you never enjoy the fruits of your labors?”
He heard the rumble of a wagon, and she pulled away from him, wiping her hands over her skirt as though to remove the evidence of his touch. There was a time when he would have taken her actions personally—but no longer. He didn’t think it was his touch she wanted to erase, but that of her husband.
She waved and he saw a forced smile spread across her face. “James! It’s laid-by time.”
Her brother brought the wagon to a halt and leapt down before helping Amy. He walked toward the fields, his gaze flickering between Grayson and Abbie. “Rhodes,” he acknowledged curtly.
“Mr. Rhodes was saying that maybe we’ve worked hard enough to spend the day playing,” Abbie said.
James gave him a suspicious glance. “Well, I don’t suppose it would hurt to relax a little today.”
It didn’t take Grayson long to realize that “relaxing a little” meant not relaxing at all. Every neighbor who arrived greeted the idea of not chopping in the fields with unbridled enthusiasm—and then set about working elsewhere. The men argued about when the first boll of cotton would erupt, then set off to slaughter a hog. Children scrambled through the household garden, gathering tomatoes and onions and assorted other vegetables. Men dug a pit and built a fire within it. The unfortunate swine was spitted and draped over the low-burning fire to roast.
Grayson stood beneath a tree, feeling like an intruder. Everyone seemed to know their place, seemed to know what needed to be done without a single order being issued, while he and his friends seemed to be the only ones relaxing.
Harry stood beside him, his arms crossed over his chest. “I thought I heard someone say we were going to play today.”
Grayson nodded. “I think all this activity is their idea of playing. I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t suggested it. Abbie is working harder today than she usually does.”
“She seems to be enjoying it,” Kit observed.
“That’s not the point,” Grayson said. “I wanted her to spend the day doing absolutely nothing.”
“What you want and what she wants may not be the same thing,” Kit said.
“We want the same thing—she just doesn’t know it yet,” Grayson said.
Kit raised a brow. “Oh?”
“Don’t go getting sweet on her, Gray,” Harry ordered. “As soon as the cotton is plucked, we are on our way to Galveston.”
“I’m not sweet on her, but I’ve been a long time without a woman—”
“And might as well go with one who knows the ropes,” Kit said. “A woman with three children certainly shouldn’t be offended by a brief affair.”
Grayson shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Have either of you ever made love to a woman and not kissed her?”
“Careful, Gray,” Kit warned. “You’re beginning to sound completely unlike yourself.”
He wondered what his friends would think to learn that he wasn’t exactly acting like himself either. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t touched Abbie’s cheek last night—or better yet, dove into the bath with her.
“I’ll be back shortly,” he mumbled before shoving away from the tree and heading to the house.
He stood within the doorway watching Abbie flutter around the kitchen like a schoolgirl who had been given a holiday. She softly hummed a tune with which he was unfamiliar, but he could well envision a mother cradling a babe within her arms and rocking the child to sleep.
An assortment of pies adorned the table, the aroma of apples and cinnamon wafting through the room. She turned a tin pan upside down, placed it on a plate, and tapped gently. When she lifted the pan, a dark chocolate cake remained on the plate. Then she went about whipping up some icing within a bowl, her humming growing louder as her hand quickly circled the bowl with her movements.
“When I suggested that you play today, I was thinking more along the lines of you not working at all,” Grayson said.
She snapped her head around, the humming continuing until she spoke. “I haven’t baked any pies or cakes in a good while.”
“But it’s work, Abbie.”
She smiled softly. “I enjoy it.” She began to slather a thick chocolate concoction over the cake. He watched her quick efficient movements. She placed the cake so near the edge of the table that he was surprised it didn’t topple off. He reached out to shove it back. She grabbed his hand, her warm fingers wrapping tightly around his. Her cheeks pinkened as she gave her head a quick shake. Humming loudly, she walked to the hearth. He followed. “Abbie—”
She quickly placed a finger to her lips. Over her shoulder, she pointed to the table with her other hand. Grayson shifted his gaze, noticing for the first time the little urchin crouched beneath the table. Micah scooted forward, came out from beneath the table like a turtle from its shell, swiped a finger across the cake, and ducked back beneath the table, the icing tucked into his mouth before he’d fully disappeared.
“He thinks I don’t notice him sneaking in,” she whispered low, a conspiratorial smile gracing her features.
Humming again, she strolled back to the table. She stomped her foot. “I thought I’d already put icing on this cake.”
Grayson heard Micah release a throaty chortle and saw him wrap his arms around his drawn-up knees as though he could make himself smaller and increase the effectiveness of his hiding place. But as soon as Abbie walked back to the hearth, Micah uncoiled his body and headed for another taste of the forbidden. Grayson found himself wondering what forbidden pleasures Abbie might be willing to sample.
The game went on for several minutes before Micah’s laughter grew too loud to ignore. Abbie looked beneath the table. Had Grayson pulled Micah’s prank within the duke’s kitchen, he would have had his ears boxed. After his discovery beneath the table, Micah received a sound tickling and the bowl of remaining icing.
As Micah loped out of the house with his reward, Grayson thought Abbie had never looked happier. He imagined the glow he would see upon her face if she really knew how to relax and play. He was determined to find a way to bring that radiance forth.
Floating on her back, the waters of the river lapping around her, Abbie studied the billowing clouds in the blue sky. Grayson had seemed incredibly pleased when someone had suggested everyone go for a swim.
The afternoon sun warmed her as she remembered the disbelief that had washed over his face when he’d discovered that the men were to take a different path to another swimming hole. Surely he didn’t expect the men and women to swim together. A smile touched her lips. Yes, she imagined he did, rogue that he claimed to be.
But how many rogues would have willingly taken on the responsibility of watching over two active boys? She had planned to keep Micah with her because his swimming skills were limited to splashing, kicking, and screaming. But Grayson had interceded on her son’s behalf, and smiling brightly, Micah had tromped off alongside the men and older boys.
Joy had shot through her at the sight of her son’s happiness—along with a measure of hurt. She didn’t resent that he wanted to be with the men, but it was hard knowing that her baby was growing up.
She sighed deeply, closed her eyes, and thought of Grayson’s kiss. She wondered how many women he had enticed into his bed with little more than the persuasion of his lips.
Not that she was tempted to illicitly clamber into the loft one night. But she did find herself wondering what he looked like, farther down the river, with drops of water rolling over his bare body. She imagined he was a powerful swimmer, cutting a path through the river toward her—
She halted her errant thoughts, swam to the bank, and trudged up to the shore. Snatching her towel from a low-hanging tree branch, she briskly dried herself. She was surprised Grayson had stayed at the farm as long as he had.
But picking time would be the real test. Regretfully, she didn’t think he’d last more than a day.
Lying on his stomach in the loft, Grayson concentrated on the sound of the milk hitting the galvanized pail—anything to take his mind off the excruciating blaze of fire dancing over his back. He had felt the pricks of pain yesterday evening after they’d returned from the river. He had not realized the agony that would follow.
The Texas sun was unmerciful and it had wreaked its wrath with a vengeance. He heard the creak and moan of someone climbing the ladder. A halo of light crept over the edge of the loft.
“Gray, you comin’ down to breakfast?” Johnny asked.
“No, lad. I’m hoping Fate will be kind and I shall die before the meal is served.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw the light increase and felt the slight trembling as Johnny scrambled into the loft.
“Gawd Almighty!” Johnny cried.
“That bad, eh?”
“I’ll get Ma.”
He closed his eyes. He could think of nothing sweeter than holding a woman’s hand as he died. Especially if that hand belonged to Abbie. She had actually been smiling broadly when they’d all met up after their swim in the river. He decided he could take credit for that smile. Even though the day had not been spent doing nothing, she had looked relaxed and much younger as evening drew near. He had nearly given in to the temptation to draw her into his embrace and kiss her soundly.
He felt the slight vibration as someone climbed the ladder, and then he smelled the sweet fragrance of roses.
“Oh my Lord,” Abbie whispered, the anguish in her voice easing the pain throbbing through his shoulders. In all his life, he couldn’t recall anyone caring that he might be experiencing some discomfort. When he was ten, he’d broken his arm and received a tongue-lashing for inconveniencing everyone.
He forced his eyes open. Kneeling beside him, she furrowed her brow so deeply that he could have planted seeds within the folds. She combed her fingers through his hair, lifting it away from his face with a gentleness he’d never known.
“Your back is burned and your shoulders are blistering. What were you thinking yesterday?”
“Obviously, I wasn’t.” She began to gnaw on her bottom lip. “Don’t fret so, Abbie. I’m certain it looks worse than it is.”
He watched as she reached into her pocket and brought forth something green. “What’s that?”
She leaned forward slightly, rolling one across her palm. “It’s a stem from a plant.”
He thought the thick object looked more like a branch. She squeezed it and a small bit of juice eased onto her finger. She shoved it toward his face.
“I don’t know what it is, but my ma taught me to use it on burns. It’ll ease the hurt.” Her gaze shifted to his back. “But I don’t know if I’ve got near enough.”
He considered telling her not to bother, but he could only think of one way for her to apply whatever the hell it was to his back and shoulders. He wasn’t certain he could endure the pain that her touching him might cause, but neither did he want her not touching him. He closed his eyes. “Just do the best you can.”
Abbie stared at his back. He’d spread out his arms, bent his elbows, and tucked his hands beneath his cheek so his back was fanned out, revealing its breadth. He seemed completely comfortable with his partial nudity. No doubt countless women had rubbed their hands over his back. She had just never expected that she might be one of them.
Swallowing hard, she wiped the sweat from her palms using her apron. Then she took one of the stems she’d torn from the plant and squeezed out the juice, drawing a small squiggly line across his back. A back much broader than she’d realized. She wondered if working in the fields had added bulk to his frame. Lightly, she touched her fingers to nature’s balm, gently spreading the salve over his back, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. She was surprised he didn’t cry out from the agony she knew he had to be experiencing. She had burned her hands too many times while cooking not to know how painful a blister could be.
“How does that feel?” she asked.
“Heavenly,” he murmured.
She squeezed the juice from another stem and continued the procedure. “Did you sleep at all last night?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you come and get me?”
“I didn’t imagine there was anything you could have done for me. Tell me about this laid-by time. Will your neighbors come over again today?”
“No. They won’t come back until I send word the cotton is ready to be picked. They’ll all be getting ready for the winter.”
“What is winter like here?”
She squeezed out more balm. “Cold some days. Warm mostly.”
“Snow?”
“Not usually, although I’ve seen it a time or two. But it doesn’t stay long.”
“I know you were born in Texas. Were…you born here?”
His voice sounded sleepy, causing her to smile. “Nearby. James lives in the house where we were all born.”
“He said there were eleven of you—where are they all now?”
“Dead. Diphtheria came through here the year after I married John. Took them all. Reckon it would have taken me, too, if I hadn’t been with John.”
“So something good came from your marriage.”
“That and my three young ’uns. I don’t want you thinking badly of John. He wasn’t a bad husband.”
He opened his eyes, piercing her with his gaze. “But neither was he a good one.”
“He had his moments.”
“Tell me one, just one.”
She angled her chin defiantly. “When Johnny was born, he brought me a whole passel of wildflowers.”
Groaning, Grayson struggled to sit up. He cradled her cheek. “If you were mine, I’d bring you a bouquet of flowers every day.”
Jerking back, she snorted. “That’s easy enough to say—probably easy enough to do—when you don’t have to worry about putting food on a table or clothes on a body’s back. You’re just here playing at being reputable. Working the fields is a game to you and your friends, but to us it’s life. You don’t work the fields, your crops don’t come in, and you go hungry. You ever been hungry, Mr. Rhodes?”
“No.” He had the grace to look slightly embarrassed which should have lessened her anger, but only served to increase it.
“Well, I have. I’ve been so hungry that my stomach was gnawing at my backbone. Until I married John, I had one dress and it changed when Elizabeth outgrew the one she was wearing and handed it down to me.” She shoved the remaining stems into his hands. “So don’t go plying me with your fancy words and your quick promises. You’re not here for the long haul, Mr. Rhodes, so don’t pretend you are.”
She scrambled across the loft and clambered down the ladder before he saw the tears welling within her eyes—before he realized that a part of her wished he might stay forever.