Historical Romance

Kyra swallowed hard as Rafe flicked the delicate curl onto her white shoulder and slowly drew his finger across her damp skin. She tried desperately to control the volcanic rise and fall of her chest as he tugged gently on the black cord that lay buried between her breasts and slowly slid the small purple vial from her bodice.

“What have we here? Our second violation of the day? Hardly period now, is it?” Rafe smirked.

Before Kyra could think of a retort, Rafe flicked the small cork from the top of the vial with his thumb. Kyra’s eyes widened as he dripped the vial’s fragrant contents onto her chest, his finger deliberately spreading the oily mixture across her skin, moving slowly over the mounds of her generous, pearl-covered breasts.

Kyra’s muscles went lax, her head spinning from both Rafe’s touch and the sweet scent rising from the oil. Her eyes closed, and she could sense that his lips were only a whisper away from her own and, worse, that hers would soon rise up to meet them. No. She would not succumb to him as did every other woman on the fairground. She would not be a pawn to mere physical beauty and desire.

“Was Grania a good horsewoman?” Charlie asked me a bit absently.

“Perhaps. But sailing was her forte, and she captained galleys. She was said to be stout by both heart and nature, or words to that effect.” Just then, I was relatively indifferent to the various tales and legends surrounding Grania, but enough was known of her for me to reflect that she would not have stood for any man’s shilly-shallying.

Neither, I abruptly decided, was I.

I opened my mouth to ask him what his intentions were after having tied most of my summer up when he suddenly took both my hands and silenced me with his eyes.

“How soon can we be married?” he asked in the same tone he had just used when inquiring about Grania’s prowess with a horse.

“To hell, Mr. Kendall from Americy, I was wondering when you were going to ask me that,” I retorted rather tartly.

“I was ready to ask you in Newmarket, but I wanted you to be very, very sure about it,” he told me.

“Ach,” I murmured, sounding Irish because of the deep emotion I was experiencing, “you’ve read and studied me like a catechism all these weeks. You knew I was sure.”

“Just as you’ve known from the beginning that I love you. Now say it to me,” he urged, drawing me to him so tightly that I could scarcely breathe.

“Manim asthee hu,” was what came out. I had never had it said to me nor said it to another person, and I really hadn’t known I was going to say it to him. It came from the depths of my Celtic roots, and though he didn’t understand it intellectually, emotionally he did, for he trembled, and his voice shook when he asked me softly to translate it so that his mind would understand as well as his heart.

“My soul is within you,” I told him simply, and so it was and always would be.

We were as close in that magical moment on that legend-filled island as two people whose bodies had not yet melded could be, closer even, perhaps in a mystical sense, earth-shatteringly close.

A kiss would have been too commonplace, yet some intimacy must be exchanged, something tender, a sort of consecration, a prelude to the physical intimacies being hoarded for the marriage bed.

Yes, something was called for, so he unpinned the golden braid I had wound around my head and worked his fingers through its glossy thickness till it was released and transformed into a bright, waving mantel covering my narrow shoulders and back. Then he caressed it lovingly, making me thank God I had always resisted the impulse to cut it.

We were both trembling as he drew me to the blanket, and soon our hearts were out-beating the pounding surf.

He kissed my forehead and eyelids before our lips blended. My blouse buttoned down the back, but I pulled it up from the restraining waistband of my skirt and let him finagle with my light ruffled camisole. I had not worn a corset. I never wore them if I could avoid it, as I’ve said. Arousal had long since transformed my firm nipples into pink pearls, and when his exploring tongue made its sensuous discovery of them, I thought the heat of my passion would surely melt us both.

Trevon looked at the amulet he held in his palm, wondering about its true value if this man was so desperate to have it back. Trevon could not believe the beautiful stone held any magical power, but he was sure it was worth more than he had originally thought. He gazed into Violet's beautiful eyes and was taken aback by the raw emotion there. He had an unexpected and overwhelming urge to comfort her in some way.

Comfort was usually the last thing on his mind around a beautiful woman, but looking at Violet, he couldn't help himself. He wanted to make her smile. He could not stand seeing her so pained. His surprising new feelings made him quite uncomfortable. Trevon closed his large hand around the amulet.

He took the map so he could examine it closely with his well-trained eye. He had seen so many maps over the years and prided himself on being able to spot a fake better than any other man. This map looked authentic, but the only true way of knowing was to follow it. You never could tell what you would find at the end of a treasure map, nor its value, until it was followed. A treasure map was nothing more than a promise of adventure to those brave enough to chase the trail.

Trevon's blood began to race at the thought of a new treasure hunt. And having this beautiful woman around was not an unpleasant thought either. It was an interesting proposition for sure. It had been an impulse decision to ask for her in exchange of the amulet. Something about her riled his passions and he was used to pursuing anything that stirred him even half as much as she did. The thought of having her and the map made his blood boil with excitement.

John followed Val across the smoke-filled bar, up the creaky wooden stairs. Her floral scent lingered in the long dark hallway. She led him into the room just above the saloon.

He closed the door behind them.

“Well, sheriff, I must say I wasn’t expecting this tonight…especially not from you. What exactly can I do for you?” Val began to loosen the satin ribbon ties on her corset that held her voluptuous body in place.

John’s gaze traced the lines of her neck and came to rest on the exact spot she wanted him to notice. He swallowed hard, stepped forward and pulled her close so fast he heard her catch her breath. Their lips brushed when he pushed her back toward the bed. I can’t do this now. It’s not why I’m here. I have to get a hold of myself.

“Well, if that’s the way you want it, sheriff.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“How about this?” She walked toward him again, draped her long arms around his neck and kissed him before he could stop her.

John twisted her arms around, catching her wrists in his hands. He wanted nothing more than to do what she was tempting him to–throw her down on the bed and have his way with her as so many others had before him. “Not now, Val.” Maybe later…

“Oh come on, sheriff.”

He pushed her away again. “I said not now. Can’t you take no for an answer?”

She turned up her lip and pouted.

The ploy must have worked wonders for any number of men, but not him. Not now. Now he had to get some answers. He did his best to keep a strong, stern look on his face, not betray what he was thinking, or the urgency of it. “What do you know about a man named Steven Brown?”

Val visibly shifted when he mentioned the man’s name, although she looked like she was trying her best not to show any sign of emotion. For a split second, a strange and faraway look passed over her face.

“What’s wrong, Val?”

“Nothing.”

She stopped pursuing John and looked away toward the window.

“Val?” John repeated. “Tell me what you know.”

She stood silently, pulled the sheers away from the window and stared out.

John walked up behind her, stared down at the dusty street in front of the saloon where several men mounted their horses. He grabbed her shoulder, spun her around. “Do you hear me? Stop looking out that window and talk to me.”

“I hear you.” Val grabbed John by the vest and kissed him.

Her tongue ran over the stubble on his face, down his chin to his neck. John couldn’t control himself any longer. He held Val, nibbled his way down the tender part of her neck to the soft places where the salt on her skin mixed with her perfume. He stiffened.

Her hands ran all over his back, instinctively urging him to pull her closer. “Oh, sheriff,” she moaned. “I’ve wanted you to do that ever since I can remember.”

He responded by reaching eagerly into the available space between her corset and her bare skin. The fact she wanted him to take her made him know he couldn’t–at least not now. Not until he had some answers about the killer on the loose. Besides, she was almost young enough to be his daughter. Since he became Sheriff, he’d done his best to maintain proper manners when it came to his personal life. Val was about to make him forget every promise he ever made to himself. “Val,” he whispered, “I need you to talk to me.”

Val laughed and slid her hand down the front center of John’s pants and gave him a knowing squeeze. “I need you, too, sheriff.”

John sucked in his breath, filled with eager anticipation of her touch and scent. He knew better than to get involved with a witness, especially Val. She had a sexy way of batting her eyes to try and get him to change the subject, forget the fact of her lying. “Stop, Val. No more until you talk to me.” John released her and stepped away until the space between them was wide enough he could breathe freely again.

 “What are you talking about? I don’t know a thing about anyone named Steven.” The expression on her face said something entirely different.

John knew better than to push it. He needed her to trust him. “You sure about that?”

She winked and walked up to him again, tried to reach her arms around him. “You know I’d have no reason to keep anything from you now, don’t you, sheriff?”

John pressed against her, his hands wandered all over her body. He squeezed her bottom. “Is this what you want, Val?”

“Oh yes, sheriff.”

Peter had taken a late dinner date with Lady Hertford at her grand mansion on the outskirts of the city. Her husband was away on business and Peter had designs upon winning his latest bet. Both money and his reputation depended upon it and he had to amuse himself somehow before the ball.

“Do you like my husband’s brandy?” the older, attractive, brown haired lady asked him directly across the small luncheon table.

Peter swirled the warm liquid in his hot palm, “I do. Your husband’s possessions are fine indeed. Can I pour you another glass of wine?”

“I shouldn’t,” she replied demurely, “although it is very fine. His taste has always been for the finer things in life. Pour, do.”

“Is that a squirrel in the garden?” Peter asked, peering through the French doors towards the sweeping greenery.

“Oh, where!” Lady Hertford asked and did not notice the white powder nimbly slipped into her glass from Peter’s ring. When she turned around, any trace was already vanished.

He passed her the beverage, “My mistake.”

Over the pristine white linen tablecloth, their eyes met lustily and Peter began to wonder if he had needed to introduce the drug after all.

“My, my,” she swooned, “is it hot in here?”

“A little. Perhaps I should open a window?” Peter watched her reactions closely. Her eyes had begun to bat languidly.

“Not necessary,” she smiled weakly and took another sip of wine.

“A turn around the garden perhaps?”

“No, sir, suddenly I feel rather tired.”

Peter measured his words carefully and let them fall heavily and deliberately from his mouth, “Then perhaps you should lie down? May I be of assistance?”

Lady Hertford took his offered hand. “I thought you would never ask.”

“Yes.” Peter softly laughed. “Gentlemanly behaviour will be my downfall, everyone claims it so.”

Isabella could hardly think with him so close to her. She felt as if every nerve in her body was reaching out to him and she had to think, consciously, not to lean forward and touch him with the length of her body. His lean muscled physique called out to her, beckoning her to touch it. His words hadn't even registered in her mind and so she could not possibly think of a response that was appropriate. "I am sorry, what was it that you asked me?"

"I asked if you had thought to bring a bonnet. Your face has been kissed by the sun." Jackson emphasized his point by touching her face with his solid hand, caressing her cheek and down her neck to the conservative opening of her blouse. He fingered the small buttons at her neck.

"A bonnet?" Isabella closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on controlling the blood that was rushing through her veins, making it nearly impossible for her to function. His warm breath was tickling the hair at her temple and driving her to distraction.

"Yes, a bonnet. It would have kept the sun off your pretty face." Jackson smiled a knowing smile.

She wondered if he could tell what this closeness was doing to her. "A bonnet. No, I did not think to pack a bonnet." Isabella clenched her hands in front of her to keep them from reaching out to him and caressing the exposed skin of his chest where he had left a couple buttons open. All the skin she could see was golden and Isabella couldn't help but wonder how far down his tanned skin reached. Was it that dark everywhere? Isabella's gaze traveled down the length of him and rested on the noticeable bulge in his pants. Her face heated at her own boldness and she quickly brought her gaze back to his face. His expression held a knowing that further embarrassed Isabella. He couldn't have possibly known what she was thinking, could he?

"That is all right. I quite like the color the sun has added to your face. I think too pale a woman is not quite as attractive as one with a healthy natural glow." Jackson stroked her heated skin one last time then walked away to attend to the horses.

As Rafe stepped toward her, Kyra felt her resolve weaken, and she fought the maddening urge to go to him.

He looked at her purposefully, "I've waited for years, five long years, for you. Waited for you to look at me instead of through me, to look at me with something other than a sneer or disdain as you passed by. So if it takes another five years for me to win your trust, then so be it. I can wait."

Kyra shook her head, "I have learned my lesson when it comes to trust, learned it the hard way. In my discipline, we have an old adage about history repeating itself. I will not be used again, not for anyone's pleasure or gain. So let's concentrate on getting out of here alive, shall we?"

"No argument there," Rafe agreed gruffly. "But you aren't going out looking like that. You aren't even half-dressed. Come here."

Something, perhaps the command in his voice, caused Kyra to go to him dutifully, without hesitation. She stood obediently before him, watching his experienced fingers find the laces of her bodice and quickly cinch them, tying it off expertly so that she was snug, yet had room to breathe. She looked up at him with something akin to regret. But you can't regret what you never had, she told herself firmly. She only wished she knew what to say, that she knew what to do to bridge the gap between them. She couldn't trust him, and he wouldn't confide in her. It was an impossible impasse. "Thank you," she said as he finished, trying to disengage her eyes from his.

"You are most welcome, milady," Rafe said, watching himself reflected in her eyes. "But stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you expect me to perform some miracle or pass some secret test in order to prove something to you." He set his jaw. "And I do know you, Kyra. Don't think otherwise. If you didn't trust me, didn't want me as much as I do you, you would not have come to me just now."

Kyra drew back, her catlike eyes narrowed, as he continued.

"And if I asked you to come to me again, you would."

 Kyra opened her mouth to protest, but fell silent. Would she?

Rafe placed the tip of his finger under her chin, gently raising her face to his. "You would," he assured her.

She pulled free of him and he watched her take a deep breath. "What did you tell Mr. Ciardi?" She flung the words at him as if in a hurry to be rid of them.

Taken aback, he frowned. She was right, it was none of her business. "What brought that up?" he demanded.

"Your mention of a reward."

"I don't need dirty money," he snapped, irritated that she didn't realize he wouldn't be caught dead doing any kind of a job for bootleggers. He had, in fact, turned Louis Ciardi down flat. Politely, since it didn't do to insult someone with his connections. Louis worked for Capone, the man who owned Chicago.

"I'm glad." Her tone was subdued, but she gazed directly at him. "I didn't want to think you were that kind of person."

Her eyes, tawny today, banished his annoyance.

A fella could lose himself in those eyes, climb up and up until he lost control and came down in a tailspin. She was the niftiest little number he'd come across in a long time. "Now that you know I'm not that kind of person--"he paused and held out his hand--"friends?"

She took it, holding on with a damn strong grip for a woman, and he found he didn't want to let her go, wanted instead to pull her into his arms.

"Friends," she repeated softly.

He released her hand reluctantly to finish tying down his Jenny. To his surprise, she insisted on helping even after he told her she didn't need to.

"If I'm going to learn to fly, shouldn't I know everything about caring for the aeroplane, too?" she demanded.

He couldn't argue with that.

Charlie pulled up as they were finishing. "See you found yourself ground crew," he said to Bruce.

"Prettiest one I ever had," Bruce told him.

"Seeing as how Christie's with you," Charlie went on, "you won't mind if I make a stop at Navy Pier. The two of you can do a little sight-seeing while I take care of a small matter."

"Fine with me," Bruce said. Which it was. A perfect excuse to spend more time with her.

When Charlie left them at the entrance to the pier, Bruce's spirits were momentarily dampened when the first words out of Christie's mouth were, "He's going to meet Angie. He's done it here before. What are we going to do?"

Bruce shook his head. "Nothing. It's Charlie's affair, not ours."

"But it's dangerous for him. You said so yourself."

"And I told him the same. All he did was laugh. We can't do any more, short of hog-tying him. I can't see Charlie taking kindly to that, can you?"

She sighed. "There must be something."

"Remember when you were a kid? Maybe this didn't happen to you, but I recall that the more someone tried to make me stop doing something, the more I was determined to do it."

"I do remember being like that sometimes. But Charlie's not a kid."

"No, he's full-grown, a guy who thrives on danger. Angie's background may very well be part of her appeal where he's concerned."

"And what will happen to her if her brothers discover what's going on?"

"They could always shut her up in a convent."

"Be serious. We could try reason."

"Christie, those two are playing with fire and they know it. Reason doesn't put out that kind of flame." It belatedly occurred to him to wonder if she had more at stake than an altruistic interest in Charlie's welfare. Was she in love with him?

"I just hate to be part of something clandestine," she said.

"We're not helping them, so we're not taking part."

"Yes, but we know."

"We're not alone. Margaret seems to be aware something's going on."

“Hello, Nancy.” Samuel sat behind her desk, one arm folded over his stomach and his open Bible in the other.

Nancy’s pulse quickened and a sick acrid feeling churned inside. Why was he here and had the nerve to stalk her like this? Hadn’t yesterday been bad enough? She didn’t want to speak to him at all, so she didn’t. Instead, she kept her eyes forward and plopped her satchel down on the chair across from her desk and turned to go check the supply closet in the hall for lack of anything better to do. She wanted to put some space between them.

“Wait.” Samuel rose from the chair and walked around the desk, blocking her from leaving.

“I want to do my work so I can go.”

Samuel stepped closer. “Please.”

Nancy turned around and headed back toward her desk, her eyes gazing at the wooden floor. “Leave me alone.”

He leapt out in front of her, forcing her to stop walking. “I wanted to apologize about yesterday.”

Eyes diverted, she pushed his arm and continued past him to her desk. “Please leave.”

He held a small bouquet of wildflowers to her face, cleared his throat. “These are for you.”

Wasn’t he being a bit presumptuous? How did he know she overheard him talking to Mrs. Thurston? The moment she had the thought, she recalled the feeling of horror that must have crossed her face and the way she ran kicking and screaming from the school building with Mrs. Thurston trying, unsuccessfully, to chase her down. How dare he put her in a position to make such an utter fool of herself? And how dare he come here now demanding forgiveness? And with flowers too? She hadn’t had a bouquet of flowers since Thomas and never under such hostile circumstances. She propped herself against her desk and sighed.

Samuel pushed the flowers toward her. When she didn’t answer,  his hands began trembling. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

She glanced up at him, never taking the flowers from his hands. She tried to look through him, into his soul, see what made the mantic. Her first impression of him was all wrong. She thought he was kind and a caring teacher to young children, but in reality, behind those dark brown eyes was nothing but a heartless phony that was no more pious than a board in the wall.

His big eyes blinked. “Nancy?”

“What are you doing at my desk? I have work to do, so if you’ll excuse me…” She pushed past and walked behind the desk, taking a seat.

“I don’t want to bother you, Nancy. I wanted to say I’m sorry. I feel horrible. I never meant to hurt you.” He placed the bouquet on the one free spot on the corner of her desk. “Please say you’ll forgive me.”

Nancy drew a deep breath and clutched the bottom of the desk. She bit the inside of her mouth to keep her facial expression calm. “I forgive you, now go.”

 

The sound of snow falling off the eaves was familiar to Adele, but something seemed different this time. She threw back the goose down quilt and plunged her feet into icy shoes, grabbing her shawl from the foot of the bed. She glanced at the clock on the mantel as she headed to the front window to see what the ruckus was all about. It was midnight.

Moonlight painted the snow-covered world in a lustrous diamond blanket. The blue-black sky was clear now and only a gentle wind howled across the endless white prairie. Her small home was most certainly encased in a large snowdrift, invisible to anyone but those who knew where to look for it. She scanned the horizon and pulled her shawl closer across her boney frame.

“So beautiful, yet so cold and lonely.” Adele said to Tabitha as she jumped to the windowsill, purring loudly, demanding to be petted. Her owner happily obliged. “You silly thing. You keep me company, but you can’t hold a decent conversation, can you?”

Thump, thump! The sound of snow falling from the eaves startled Adele again. Surely is couldn’t be melting? What else could be on her roof?

“Heavens be!” she gasped. “Could it be ol’ Saint Nick himself?” She covered her mouth with one hand and hugged the shawl tighter against her with the other. “Lordy, no! If I wasn’t sure about losing my mind before, I am now. But, oh, Tabitha—wouldn’t be wonderful if the dear ol’ saint came down the chimney to treat me this one last time?”

Shivering from cold and anticipation, she lowered herself into her chair by the fire, bending to stoke its dying embers. A shower of snow rained upon the glowing coals, effectively quenching their warmth.

“Well, I never…”

A second later another trickle of snow dropped to the hearth from above.

Adele sprang to her feet and strained to look up the chimney flue. “Glory be! Is it really you?”

“Me?” came a deep male voice. “I guess it is. To whom do I have the pleasure of conversing with?”

“Adele. Adele Stougaard.” She stood up and scratched her head. “I thought you knew everyone, Saint Nicholas.”

A jolly laugh then. “My name is Nicholas, but I’m far from being the blessed saint himself. Can you guide me to the direction of your front door, my good lady?”

Adele relaxed. The disembodied voice coming from above was only a lost traveler. She sighed and shook her head, disappointed to think she hadn’t witnessed a miracle.

“Head toward the moon and watch your step,” she called up the flue. “I can see out my front window, so the door should be visible after you climb down from the roof.”

A knock at the door a moment later confirmed her suspicions.