Fit for a King Page 12

  Elissa burst out laughing. “Oh, Margaret, you’re a jewel,” she said, and meant it. “He doesn’t love me, you know. I’m just his friend, that’s all.”

  Margaret nodded as she sat down. “That’s right, and I’m a Halloween pumpkin,” she agreed. She helped herself to a cup of coffee and folded her hefty forearms on the table. She stared straight at Elissa. “Now, tell me about yourself. I hear you design clothes.”

  It was like the Spanish Inquisition. By the time Elissa was allowed to escape and go exploring around the house, Margaret knew her favorite perfume, her entire family history—she’d hooted with delight upon learning King had brought home a minister’s daughter—and as much as possible of her potential future.

  The ranch itself was a new experience. There were well-kept stables housing beautiful Appaloosas, cattle everywhere and a bull who seemed to have his own building and a fulltime caretaker. He was red and white, like most of the cattle, and as big as a house. When King came home at lunchtime, he found her at the barn, staring at the creature.

  “His name is King’s Pride 4120,” he informed her smugly, hands in his pockets. “He’s out of the foundation herd of Herefords Bobby’s grandfather began here, but I’ve improved the strain with selective breeding.”

  “Why does he have a number?” she asked. “Has he been arrested or something?”

  “That gets complicated.” He threw an affectionate arm around her shoulders and led her back to the house, explaining things like embryo transplants and daily weight-gain ratios and all the intricacies of breeding superior beef cattle. The technical information rattled around in Elissa’s head like marbles, but it was fascinating all the same.

  “Margaret’s making beef-salad sandwiches for lunch,” she told him on the front porch, where the big green swing and several rocking chairs faced the open plains.

  “How much has she dragged out of you so far?” he asked with a raised eyebrow and a dry smile.

  “Before or after she got to the color of my underwear?” She laughed.

  He just shook his head.

  Lunch was quiet. Margaret went off to listen to the news while she worked in the kitchen, and King didn’t seem inclined to talk. Afterward, he saddled a horse for her with the ease of long practice and helped her into the saddle. This, at least, was familiar; they’d gone riding together in Jamaica several times over the past two years. She glanced at him under the brim of her borrowed straw hat, thinking how everything about him was familiar to her and yet subtly different these days.

  He caught her glance and grinned. “Remember the day we rode down the beach hell-for-leather, and you fell off in the surf?”

  “I’m holding on tight this time,” she retorted, wrapping the reins around her hand. “Lead on, cowboy, you won’t lose me.”

  “Let’s see.”

  He took off, nudging his Appaloosa gelding to a quick lead. She followed on her mare, laughing delightedly at the open land and his company and the sunny afternoon.

  The calves were Herefords, and not newborn as she’d expected. The calves started coming in February and March, he told her, to coincide with his breeding program. They were fattened up and then sold when they reached the desired weight.

  “It’s so sad to think of eating them,” she mused while she scratched a white-topknotted head above soulful brown eyes. “Isn’t he cute?”

  He leaned against the fence post, his hat pushed back, his eyes watchful. “They tell stories about the cattle drives in the old days and how close the cattle got to their drovers. They say that sometimes the cowboys had to actually go with the cattle into the abbatoirs, to keep them from stampeding. They bawled when the drovers started to leave them.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. She was vaguely embarrassed at her sentimentality and tried to hide her reaction, but he saw her tears. He caught her gently by the shoulders, turning her. He bent, lifting her into his arms, and carried her back to the horses.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “You soft-hearted little greenhorn,” he whispered back, and he smiled as he brought his mouth with exquisite tenderness to hers.

  He’d meant it to be a sweet, comforting gesture, but her mouth opened beneath his, and his breath stopped in his throat. He hesitated, but only for a second. Then he carried her away from the horses and laid her down in the tall buffalo grass, his lean body settling completely over her.

  “King!” she gasped.

  “Elissa,” he breathed huskily. He kissed her hungrily, giving in to the aching need, the long nights of wanting her. He reached under her to catch her hips and drag them lazily against his, letting her feel the evidence of his need. And for long, exquisite moments, they enjoyed the touch and taste and feel for each other.

  Then, when it was almost too much, he groaned and rolled onto his back. Not since his teens had he felt so damned helpless to control himself. And she could see how much she aroused him.

  She sat up, her eyes like saucers, and he held her rapt gaze.

  “This never happens to me,” he whispered, his voice deep and husky and gruff. “Never this quick or this completely with any woman but you, damn it.”

  Her lips parted on a smile as she looked at him, not with triumph but with love. “Do you mind if that makes me proud?” she asked softly.

  He drew in an unsteady breath. “I guess not.” He sat up, bending over his upraised knees. “I can’t imagine how I’ve lasted this long.”

  She touched his hand where it rested on his knee. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, searching the dark, tormented eyes that met hers. “But it pleases me that even if you don’t love me, at least you want me.”

  He brought her hand to his mouth. “Do you want me to love you?” he asked quietly. “Because that may come in time. Marry me, Elissa.”

  She lowered her eyes to his hand. “I’ll have to think about it,” she said finally, biting her tongue to keep from screaming yes. She had to be reasonable. She couldn’t let her love for him influence her; she had to think of what was best for him, too, since obviously he wasn’t thinking at all.

  His fingers tightened. He started to speak and then seemed to decide against it. “All right.”

  She looked up. “Does Bobby know we’re here?”

  “Yes,” he said finally. “I called him a few hours ago. Bess is in Oklahoma City until tomorrow morning. He invited us to go riding with them.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon.” He tilted her face up. “Don’t decide now. You’ve got one hell of a big decision to work up to by bedtime.”

  Her lips trembled. “I … I care for you,” she whispered.

  His hand touched her cheek, and he wished he could read her mind. He felt guilty and uncertain, but he cared for her, too, in his way. “Then marry me,” he said, feeling oddly certain that it would be the right thing for them both. “Say yes.”

  She managed a quiet sigh. Logic went out the window. “Yes.”

  He stared into her eyes for a long time, feeling electricity arc between them. He wanted her. He was fond of her. She cared for him. It would be enough. And it would be a final, permanent barrier between him and Bess.

  He bent to her mouth and kissed her very gently before he helped her to her feet and back into the saddle. He didn’t say another word all the way home.

  Chapter Nine

  Elissa spent the afternoon helping Margaret in the kitchen. King had gone out again, presumably to finish his ranch work. Margaret kept throwing the younger woman speaking glances, and Elissa knew she must look troubled.

  “Out with it,” Margaret said finally. “What’s wrong?”

  “He wants to marry me,” Elissa replied, scouring a pan they’d used to fry steak for lunch.

  “Halleluja!”

  “It isn’t that simple,” she said with a rueful smile. She turned back to the pan. “He doesn’t love me.”

  “Men don’t know what love is until they’re in too deep to climb out,” Margaret observ
ed, chuckling. “I’ve seen how he looks at you. There’s enough there to build on—you mark my words.”

  Elissa tingled. Yes, he did look at her as if she were a sumptuous dessert. But there was still Bess to consider. She sighed.

  “Don’t worry about it,” the older woman coaxed. “Just say yes, and I’ll take care of everything. Let’s see, invitations and the reception, and champagne and hors d’oeuvres,” she murmured.

  Elissa didn’t say anything else. She was too worried.

  They sat down to supper alone, and after cleaning up, Margaret finally went home, bubbling with happiness. Elissa arranged a plate for King and covered it, and she was just wiping up a spill on the floor when King walked in the back door.

  He looked at little dusty and very tired. He studied her from under the wide brim of his Stetson, taking in the picture she made in a loose gold-and-white caftan, kneeling there against the spotless cream linoleum.

  “You’re a picture, do you know it?” he mused. “All that long, sexy hair and big blue eyes, and your tan looks pretty good with white and gold.”

  She stood up, smiling. “You look like a cowboy,” she replied.

  His eyebrows arched. “Is that a compliment or a criticism?”

  She lowered her eyes shyly. “I like cowboys.”

  “Where’s Margaret?”

  “Gone home. I’ve fixed you a plate, if you’re hungry.”

  He looked faintly sheepish for a minute, steadying his dusty boots. “Well, Jim was up at the cow camp with us,” he began. “Jim’s the cook when we’re working. He rustled up a pot of chili and some tortillas and a pudding that I expect to dream about for days.” He cocked his head at her. “Don’t tell Margaret, will you? I’ll get burned biscuits for a week if she finds out. Could you dispose of that plateful of stuff without her knowing?”

  She laughed delightfully. “Of course.”

  “I’ll be down directly, once I clean up, and I’ll thank you properly,” he murmured, lowering his voice an octave.

  She felt her heart skip at the look in his dark eyes as he went by her. He winked on his way into the hall, and she watched him go, feeling strangely quiet and contented yet delirious with anticipation.

  He paused on the middle step and looked down at her. “How about making some coffee?” he asked. “I’ll come back down and we’ll share a pot while we talk.”

  His eyes fell to her body and lingered. She felt weak in the knees. He wanted more than just talk, and she knew it. They were so much on the same wavelength that she could almost feel him breathing.

  “I’ll do that,” she said, her voice husky.

  He nodded. His eyes smiled. “And I could do with a piece of cake, if there’s any left,” he added.

  “There’s enough. I’ll slice it. Don’t drown in the shower,” she teased.

  “I can swim.” He grinned and continued up the stairs.

  Elissa made coffee and carried the silver service into the living room, curling up on the sofa to wait for him. Minutes later he joined her, dressed in clean denims and a half-unbuttoned blue-check shirt. His hair was damp, and he smelled of soap and spicy cologne. Elissa could hardly take her eyes off him as he eased his tall, powerful frame down on the sofa beside her.

  “I’ll pour,” she said. She sounded, and was, flustered. To disguise it, she moved to the floor in front of the coffee table so that she was just in front of him. It was all she could do to get the coffee out of the heavy silver pot into the white china cups.

  “You’re nervous. Why?” he asked quietly.

  She laughed. “I don’t know.”

  He reached down, turning her so that she was kneeling between his legs. His fingers traced her flushed cheeks, and his eyes were steady on hers. Everything she felt was in her face—it was like reading a book—and his reaction to that blatant adoration shocked him. He felt a surge of possession strong enough to knock the breath out of him, and his body was suddenly, achingly hungry for hers. Not for sex alone but for something more. He frowned. He’d never felt that need before, not with any woman. He wanted to … to join with Elissa. To know her in every way there was.

  He felt oddly young as he bent toward her, and the first touch of his mouth against her soft one was tentative. He drank in the floral scent of her, drowned in her shy, eager response. It was always like this with her, like flying, like bubbles in champagne. She was his from the moment he touched her. But now it felt as if he belonged to her, as well.

  With a long, aching sigh, he brought her up against him, easing her onto his lap as he deepened the slow, tender kiss. She felt his kiss with wonder, because it had never been like this before. She relaxed into him, looping her arms around his neck, her mouth parting, opening under the sweet ardor of his.

  She felt his hands at her waist, tracing her rib cage, then delicately touching the soft contours of her breasts. Under the caftan she wore only pale yellow briefs, and when he felt her skin so close, his breath caught.

  Her body began to tremble as he stroked it, his fingers deft and sure and faintly insistent. His mouth hardened on hers, and her ears were filled with the harsh quickness of his breathing and her own faint gasps when he touched her more intimately.

  Her soft blue eyes looked up into his when he lifted his head, and she saw a strange expression there. “What is it?” she whispered unsteadily.

  He watched his fingers tracing her breasts, watched the involuntarily movement of her body at the pleasure he gave her. “I want you,” he breathed. “But not … like I’ve ever wanted anyone else.” His dark eyes went back to hers. “I want to join your body to mine. I want oneness….”

  Her lips parted. “Yes.” Even as she thought the word, she said it, because this might be the only time. She might lose him, but this once she could belong to him. He knew she was a virgin. It would be special. It would be everything.

  She slid the zipper of the caftan down to her waist, and his chest rose sharply. He searched her eyes for a long moment before he eased the fabric out of the way and looked at her. After a moment, he bent, and his lips began to touch her in reverent adoration. Her breasts, her belly and her hips burned under his mouth. She moved helplessly as he touched her in ways he never had, and long before he eased her out of her caftan and briefs, she was lost.

  She moaned when he moved away long enough to strip off his own clothing, his eyes dark and sensual and full of desire. There was a faint tremor in his powerful body as he sat back down on the sofa and eased her gently over him, so that she was sitting facing him. She gasped at the first touch of skin against skin, light against dark, hard muscle against softness.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he whispered, brushing her body in agonizingly slow movements against his, her breasts just barely touching him, her hips trembling against his blatant masculinity.

  Her hands gripped his hard arms, and she leaned her forehead against his chest so that he wouldn’t see the fear. “Is it going to hurt?” she whispered.

  “It’s going to be beautiful,” he whispered back, his hands on her hips. “Give me your mouth.”

  She lifted her face and saw the soft affection in his eyes. Her heart was his. She loved him so. It was magic, the way it felt, to be this way with him, to be intimate with him. Her mind was beyond right and wrong, in thrall to the budding demands of her own womanhood.

  His hands explored her waist and hips, gently caressing, softly arousing. He moved her hips against his, and she bit back a moan. She clung to him, astounded by what was happening.

  “Oh, King,” she whispered achingly, lifting her eyes.

  He eased her upward then, holding her gaze while he positioned her hips against his. His face was that of a stranger, utterly sensual, slightly threatening, but there was something in his dark eyes that held her spellbound. He bent, his breath mingling with hers as he brushed his mouth over hers in lazy, comforting sweeps that eased her fear.

  While his lips toyed with hers, his hands were learning the silken c
ontours of her body. He teased her breasts, nudging their hardened tips, making her tremble with the sensations he aroused. He nipped her lower lip and trailed his mouth over her throat, her shoulders and, finally, the soft swell of her breasts.

  She could hardly breathe. She held his arms for support, her eyes closed, the air cool at her back. He moved then, and she felt the sudden contact with his thighs, the ripple of muscles as he probed her softly. She gasped, looking up, her breath stopped in her throat.

  He moved against her, very slowly, holding her eyes. His hands made their way to her hips, moving her against him in a slow, lazy, arousing rhythm. She didn’t understand what was happening to her. She felt her body begin to tremble, and she gasped when he increased the gentle rise and fall of his hips against her. She clutched at him, overwhelmed by the intimacy of the gesture.

  “King … sitting up?” she gasped, her voice scarcely recognizable to her own ears.

  “Shh,” he whispered, lowering his mouth over hers in delicious teasing motions. “Just relax, little one. I wouldn’t hurt a hair on your sweet head for all the cows in Texas.”

  “But … like this?”

  He laughed gently, even though his body was shuddering with his need of her. He looked down at her taut breasts and deliberately pressed his hard, hair-roughened chest against them. She moaned, and the sound fired his blood.

  “Are you going to get noisy?” he whispered into her mouth. “I won’t mind.” He bit her lower lip delicately while one hand teased her swollen breast and moved down slowly to her hips, her thighs, and into a sudden, wildly shocking intimacy that she instinctively protested. But after a minute, when her body demanded that she let him do it, she gave in and held on, crying out softly at the delicious pleasure he was giving her. She felt tears sting her eyes and run down into her mouth.

  He tasted them and lifted his head to watch her fevered eyes, her flushed face, while he savored her sweet body. “It won’t be hard for you,” he whispered, and he shifted, just a little, holding her hips. “It won’t be hard at all. Don’t tense up. I’m going to show you the mystery, Elissa. I’m going to make a woman of you now.”