Authors: Kate Rothwell
Somebody To Love (17 page)
He waited until he heard her breath grow long and steady to turn onto his uninjured side and gaze at her, stroke her delicately with light fingertips. He drew his hand over every inch of the skin he couldreach, and unable to resist it, pressed a kiss to her lips, too. She made a soft sound but did not wake, thank goodness.
She finally woke, with a start, as the silver of the setting moon touched her cheek. He’d lain awake and had grown almost mad with needing her by then.
“Araminta,” he whispered his demand when he saw the thick veil of lashes lifting and her gaze met his. “Kiss me.”
“No.” Her heavy-lidded eyes grew wide with horror. “I am sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“I do. You were lonely; you ache for someone to touch. Remember how we felt together. You want to taste me just as I am longing to taste you. Mouth, skin, breast. Araminta. God. Let me.” He slid closer.
“No,” she said more loudly. And slipped out of the bed so quickly she landed with a thump. She gathered her simple cotton nightgown close around her throat. “Good, ah, good night, Mr. Calverson, Griffin. I believe I—oh, dear, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you mean good morning, Araminta? The sun will soon rise. We have spent much of the night together, it seems. Finish it out here, with me,” he coaxed.
“No,” she whispered, horrified, as if he’d suggested she parade naked along Broadway.
She was at the door when he spoke, quietly but using his most authoritative tone. “No, do not leave yet. Araminta, if you could hand me the robe?”
She stopped and turned around. “All right.”
In the darkened room, she made her cautious way to the chair where the robe lay. She picked up the heavy robe and tossed it to him as if she were tossing meat to a dangerous animal.
He started to pull it on, then, carefully observing her through mostly closed eyes, he groaned and stopped, his arm halfway into the robe’s sleeve.
“Oh, it hurts?” She was at the bedside at once, as he’d expected and hoped.
He nodded. His side didn’t actually hurt a great deal, but other parts of his body ached from long, unfulfilled hours of lying in bed with her.
She held the robe, and once he’d pulled it shut, he reached over and gently brushed her cheek with the edge of his thumb. So soft. She only gazed at him; she did not pull away. Or lean forward.
He wet his dry lips and said, “It might kill me, but I promise not to touch you. Come back into the bed.”
She’d regained her prickly manner, unfortunately. “Why should I?”
He could not think of an answer. “Please?” was all he could say.
Instead of speaking, she reached for the quilt folded at the bottom of the mattress. Once she’d wrapped herself up in this armor to protect herself from him, she gingerly sat back down, as if afraid something might explode. Not so far off, he mused as he caught a whiff of her fragrance.
He stifled a groan of pain and impatience. “Thank you. It was a great delight to me to find you beside me.”
She began to protest, but he cut her short. “I should say a great comfort.” He realized that despite the discomfort of his arousal, he didn’t lie. Araminta next to him was entirely perfect. “I should also say thank you for letting me stay in your bedchamber.”
She sniffed, but spoke with the hint of a smile in her words. “Recall that Hobnail put you in here. I would have asked him to move you if I’d known you’d go through my personal belongings.”
“Ah. I ught to apologize, but I learned so much about you that I am not sorry.” She made a small stifled sound, but he went on. “I learned that you are courageous and that you follow your dreams.”
Her whisper was so quiet, he wasn’t sure if he only imagined hearing the words. “Thank you.”
They lay in the dark, until her quiet, tense voice broke the silence. “What did you want to be when you were a small child?”
Had he ever been a small child? “An adult.”
She chuckled. “No, what profession?”
“I don’t recall considering the matter. I didn’t have to. In fact, running the Calverson Company is considered gauche by most of my family.”
She turned onto her side to face him. Good, she was relaxing again, slipping toward him.
“No dreams of the future when you were a child?”
At her words, he suddenly recalled one of his early dreams: he’d buy a huge house. And then he’d write to his mother about the wonderful things in it—peacocks and elephants were on the list, he recalled—and she’d come back to him. Later on the dream changed: when she wrote back saying she wanted more than anything to come live with him, he’d tell her no, sorry, there was no room.
When did the bitterness leave his dreams? And when did he turn into such a—what was the word Timona liked? Chump. Such a chump to lie in bed with a beautiful woman and think of such useless matters.
“No. No dreams,” he said lightly.
She shifted closer. “I do not believe you.” Her voice was growing fainter.
He whispered, “Come here. I won’t do more than hold you. I promise.”
She gave a disbelieving grumble, yet she moved to him. The simple, charming cotton gown slipped from her throat, revealing her slender neck and sweet honey skin. For a moment her breath fanned his face, but when he leaned forward to at last taste her mouth, she twisted her face away. With a strangled sigh, she turned onto her other side, so that her back was to him.
When he kissed the nape of her neck, rubbed his mouth over the curls there, she gave a small squeak and hauled up the quilt to cover her skin. She’d grow too warm soon. He smiled at the idea.
In the meantime, he looped his arm around her, pressed close to her and buried his face in her curls.
“Thank you for staying,” he murmured in her ear.
“Thank you for . . . for not trying to indulge your pleasure.”
“Or trying to pleasure you,” he couldn’t resist adding.
“Oh.” The word was a sigh that told him she fought off her own desire as well as his, as she tried to squirm away.
He tightened his arms. “No, stay here. Sleep again.”
It was wonderful to hold her, feel the tension slowly ebb from her body, each breath coming more slowly. Very pleasant, despite the fact that he had to grit his teeth to restrain his urges to touch her or to move against her, to feel her sweet shape and seek relief for his body.
At last he fell asleep too, curled tight around her. But when he woke up, every muscle in his body complaining, he clutched a pillow and her quilt. She’d disappeared.
“She’s gone to work,” the guard who brought him breakfast reported.
This was proving more difficult than he’d imagined. Not the campaign for her, which was gog better than he’d hoped. Hell, she’d practically thrown herself into his bed. No, the hard part was waiting for her to admit that she belonged there. He could barely wait until she came to her senses.
Keeping her safe from Kane seemed almost easier, though he wished she would gain some sense about that situation, too. He gave a rueful grin at the food on the tray, delicious, and made by her, of course. Did he really want her to be sensible in all matters? Not likely. Not if it would turn her into something less like the Araminta who plagued and delighted him.
CHAPTER 16
After breakfast, Galvin showed up. He trudged through the bedroom door and, with a loud clunk, dropped a burlap sack on the bedside table. It contained the gun Kane’s henchman had dropped and Griffin’s knife, both of which had been picked up at the scene.
“Cost me a few dollars to grease the sergeant,” Galvin said. “’Specially since Hobnail was such a dunderhead about putting in a report. But I knew you wanted the knife back since Miss Timona gave it to you.”
“It is a handy item,” Griffin admitted. He sat up in bed, reached for the knife, and flicked the blade open.
“Here.” Galvin fished through his shapeless jacket’s pockets and tossed a hunk of wood onto the bed. “Figured you’d want that, too.”
“A man of set habits, am I?” Griffin muttered as he turned the wood in his hands. “Cherry. Thank you.”
Galvin grinned. “Going around the bend yet, being trapped here?”
“I am fine.” Griffin did not mention that he ached all over, a sad combination of the knife wounds and frustrated lust.
Galvin dropped a case of papers and reports onto the table. “Williams sent along a few pounds of reading material. He’ll be scurrying along in a few hours. He’s got some meeting with a bunch of Chicago Calverson men who just arrived.”
“I was to attend that meeting.”
Under his big gray mustache, Galvin grinned. “I suppose he figured you didn’t want them all crowding in here.” He stretched and rolled his shoulders. “Long night working for Kane. I don’t trust my instinct about the boys anymore since that piece of garbage Buckler. So’s I’m leaving three at a time. Watch out for you and for each other.”
Griffin sniffed with amusement. “I think you overestimate Kane.”
“You underestimate him, boss.”
Griffin flashed a rare smile. “Not my usual style, is it?”
“Ah, you’re worse’n soft,” Galvin said with disgust. “I’ve thought so for a coupla years.”
“Sit down,” invited Griffin.
“Naw. Got work, but I’ll see you—unless you manage to get yourself killed.” Galvin slouched through the door and stumped down the stairs.
Through the heating register, Griffin could hear the murmur of conversation as Galvin issued orders and the thud of the front door when he left.
He resigned himself to another day in bed. But unless the situation with Araminta changed dramatically and she crawled into bed with him again—naked this time, he hoped—he would leave the next day. No matter what the doctor ordered.
He flipped through the reports. Nothing of major import. It all could wait. He opened one report and used the folded pas to catch the chips as he began to carve. If he took large strokes it hurt his side, so he used only his hands. It had been far too long since he’d felt wood, worked with something other than paper and ink.
He scraped at the wood and listened to the desultory conversation downstairs.
“The man’ll cut the heart out of you soon as look at you.”
“Sure. The smooth devil ain’t got a heart of his own.”
“I hear he had Two-Punch Jack killed just for looking at his sister.”
Amused, Griffin understood they were talking about him. They talked nonsense, of course. Two-Punch had kidnapped Timona and attempted to rape her. And actually Griffin hadn’t ordered the man’s death. He supposed Galvin, who was fond of Timona, had gotten overenthusiastic.
Tired of eavesdropping, he reached for the papers again, when he realized they were speaking of Araminta.
“She puts on airs, talking with that accent.”
“Maybe. But there’s a filly I’d like to ride.”
Griffin rolled his eyes.Why did men always compare women to horses? Hardly an apt comparison in the case of Araminta. She was not skittish or stupid, nor did she attract flies or smell of manure.
One of them gave a rough chuckle. “That one’s got some fine curves, but she’ll break your balls.”
“Yah, maybe, but not if you broke her to saddle first.”
“I say it would be worth a fight to get under those skirts and get hands on them tits.”
“Mm. Maybe once he’s tired of her we can come over for a visit.” A low chuckle finished the thought.
Griffin pictured Araminta’s eyes wide with fear and anger as men reached for her. He became aware that his hand hurt. When he glanced down, he saw he was gripping the knife handle so tightly his knuckles were white.
Good God, he was on the verge of losing his temper. Always a thorough waste of time. Still, he would not let it go. These men, Galvin’s rough boys, might cause mischief.
He eased his hold on the knife and took a few deep breaths.
“Wurth!” He shouted for the one in charge.
The man must have thought he was calling for lunch. A minute or so later, Wurth pushed into the room, holding a tray of food. Griffin eyed the insipid soup and bread and butter. Invalid fare, and he guessed that Araminta hadn’t made it.
Wurth deposited the tray next to him. “Here you go, then, sir.” He turned to head for the door.
Griffin took a steadying breath and, hoping his aim wasn’t off, flipped his handy little knife so it slammed into the jamb several inches from Wurth’s head. Not too dreadful, he supposed, although it had hit inches closer to Wurth’s face than he’d aimed. His side hurt from the effort of flinging the knife so hard.
Wurth spun around, pale and wide-eyed. “Sir,” he gasped.
Griffin held the gun pointed south of Wurth’s belly. In a mild voice he said, “You will not touch Miss Woodhall without her permission. Ever. Understand?”
Wurth swallowed. He stared at Griffin, and then glanced around the room, perhaps trying to work out how he’d overheard.
Griffin put down the gun and picked up a piece of bread. “Go on. And tell the others.”
Wurth hesitated, gaping, so Griffin waved at the door with the hand holding the bread. “Go.”
After Wurth hurried off, Griffin ate the soup and reflected that he’d broken one of his own rules: don’t make threats you will never carry out.
It was well and good that Wurth and the others considered him as just this side of insane. It kept them on their toes. The fact was he’d happily break the neck of anyone who hurt Araminta. Yet she was not his worry, for she refused to allow it. The wave of protectiveness he felt for her was as useless as any other strong emotion.
He put down the spoon and glared around the room. Hell, the sooner he could get away from the surroundings that breathed Araminta, the better.
What was it she’d written to her grandfather from France? “I find I cope better with loneliness in strange territories with nothing familiar to remind me of my dear lost past.”
Every breath he drew tasted of her already familiar scent and made him ache with lust. Not exactly the same as mourning a dear lost past, but uncomfortable enough to make him wish to be gone.
Work.
Once upon a time, work had absorbed him.
He reached for his pile of papers. The article about new rail lines between New York and Ohio failed to fascinate him, and even the plans he’d jotted to capitalize on the railroad’s burgeoning demand for steel seemed less interesting.
He enjoyed business. The tightrope balance between the need for raw materials and new rail cars and equipment could be interesting, and the danger that the process might fall apart appealed to his sense of danger. Making fistfuls of money was fairly pleasant, too. Just now business seemed dull. Even helping to bring down the nuisance Kane failed to fascinate him.
Instead he conducted a silent argument with the absent Araminta. Loneliness would not plague you if you stood firm. Strength could head off any soggy, useless emotions that made a man—or woman—weak.
His hand twitched, and the paper he held crackled, reminding him it would be pleasant to be able to think of subjects other than Araminta.
When exactly had his life begun to center around Araminta? Which moment? It occurred to him that his life had on occasion centered on far worse objects.
When she came to visit him that evening, she was a refreshing sight in a mint-green dress with matching ribbons twisted through her hair. She brought more interesting fare as well, a tray with salad and a crab casserole that she placed on the table. With a swish of skirts, and not a word of conversation, she turned to leave.
“Wait,” he called.
She paused, one hand clutching the doorknob, as if she longed to flee. Instead of meeting his eyes, she stared at the foot of the bed. Perhaps she was embarrassed about having spent the night in his bed.
“I have work to do,” she told the footboard.
He didn’t want her to leave, but had no excuse to keep her in the room. Making mention of the night before would be a mistake, and he thought that a simple request for her company would not ease her awkwardness. A pile of correspondence lay next to him on the bed, and he had an idea.
“Here. You were so dismayed that I read your letters. Read some of my personal correspondence.”
With his knife, he slit open the envelopes, and then handed her the stack.
She walked hesitantly back to the bed and took them. Herootows raised, her large eyes gazed at him, filled with curiosity. “Don’t you want to read them first?”
He shrugged. “Mostly invitations, I suspect. Oh, my aunt has written again. You should get some enjoyment from her letter.”
The battle between interest and dignity showed on Araminta’s face as she glanced down at the letters in her hands. “You are the most absurd man, Griffin. Why would you think I want to meddle in your business?”
“I don’t think I’ll even answer that question,” he said with a chuckle.
The queenly dignity melted away; she gave him a lopsided grin. She picked up the letters and sorted through them.
“Your aunt’s letter is particularly heavy,” she remarked as she peered into the thick envelope.
He groaned. “Another debutante.”
“Excuse me?”
“She will have enclosed a tintype of a candidate. Go on. Let’s see which girl she wishes to throw at me this month.”
Araminta slid out several sheets of his aunt’s crested hot-press stationery and a small photograph.
“Oh dear,” she said and read aloud, “ ‘The Honorable Miss Edyth Gwladys Buttersmyth-Jergen.’ Poor girl. What were her parents thinking? Edyth Gwladys.”
“Aunt Winifred’s last candidate had a reasonable name. She resembled a horse.”
Araminta considered the photograph. “This one is more of a hedgehog, I’d say.”
He took the picture and stared down at a girl with bleary eyes and a belligerent expression and posture. “You are too polite. I think of hedgehogs as pleasant creatures.”
“A rather ill-tempered hedgehog, then.”
“I’d say a plucked chicken, or rooster, rather. See the way she stands, chest and chin out as if inviting a fight?”
Araminta laughed. “Poor girl. She is probably a good-natured creature who despised the photographer and that far-too-frilly gown someone forced her to wear.” She opened the thick letter from Aunt Winifred and began to read.
Griffin studied the picture, and realized that for the first time in memory, he was enjoying his aunt’s correspondence. “That turned-down mouth and those squinting eyes do not belong to a friendly animal.”
Araminta turned over the sheet. “Miss Buttersmyth-Jergen has a wonderful pedigree. Related to dukes and ambassadors and bishops. Her sister’s husband is apparently not up to the family’s standards, being merely a commoner who was knighted, says your aunt, but he already has a GCVO and various other orders. Gracious. And Edyth Gwladys’s father is a KT. Your aunt points out that this is the Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Thistle. Their motto is
Nemo me impune lacessit
. ‘No one provokes me with impunity.’ ”
Nemo me impune lacessit
. ‘No one provokes me with impunity.’ ”
Araminta laughed again, and he found he had to smile at the contagious sound. “She does know you, Griffin, for she says that this could be your motto.” She read a few more pages. “My heavens, the Buttersmyth-Jergens can trace their lineage back to William the Conqueror. What a family.”
Griffin studied the curve of her mouth and the pensive, dreamy expression in her eyes. Could his fiery Araminta sound wistful?
Before he had a chance to probe the question, Araminta gasped. “Your aunt says the most appalling things about Timona’s husband.”
Griffin adjusted the pillows behind him. “Yes, e feels that by marrying an Irishman, Timona has put herself beyond the pale. My aunt will never receive the McCanns, I imagine. Lucky them,” he added thoughtfully.
“ ‘A blot on the family escutcheon.’ You’d think that Timona had done something truly horrible.”
“Such as?”
Araminta’s smile did not reach her eyes. “Such as committing a murder or bearing a child outside of wedlock?”
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