Only My Love Page 9

  "Wake up," he said roughly. "Your dinner's here." When Michael didn't respond with so much as a twitch, Ethan went to the bed and touched her forehead with the back of his hand. She wasn't hot or flushed. There was some relief in knowing that. He was of no mind to take on the role of nursemaid to anyone, let alone this stubborn, willful, and ultimately ungrateful patient.

  His hand slid lower, lightly cupping her jaw and turning her face so he could see the extent of the bruise he had given her. Some faint swelling still remained but the bruise itself was fading nicely. Tomorrow it would be invisible except to those who knew to look for it. Kitty would. It was the first thing she had asked him about when she came downstairs. She made it sound as if half of Michael's face was discolored. Ethan made up a credible story on the spur of the moment that satisfied Kitty. It further annoyed him now that he had to share it with Michael so their telling of events would have some consistency. Resentment made him impatient. His hand went to her shoulder and he gave her a hard shake.

  "Wake up. Your dinner's getting cold."

  Michael blinked widely as she was roused from a deep sleep. Instinctively she jerked away from the pressure on her shoulder.

  Ethan removed his hand. "I wasn't trying to hurt you," he snapped. "Your dinner's on the tray over there. Half of it's mine so don't eat it all. Go on. I'm not serving it to you in bed. You're going to have to learn to fend for yourself."

  "I'm used to fending for myself," she said coolly. Michael sat up and pushed the covers down. The borrowed nightshirt was an adequate and modest cover—the hem fell to the middle of her calves—but Michael had her own thoughts about what was proper and asked for a robe.

  "Oh, for God's sake." He turned away from the bed in disgust. He wasn't going to let his own meal grow cold. Sitting down in the large wing chair beside the table, he lifted one of the plates of stew from the tray and set it on his lap. "No, I don't have a robe."

  "I merely asked."

  Ethan's response was a derisive snort. He applied his attention to his plate and began eating. Only a few moments passed before he caught a flash of bare feet and trim ankles as Michael hastily approached the table, took her food, and scurried back to the bed. Once he heard her settle in he looked up. "Were you expecting me to attack you?" he asked.

  "Why, no. Of course not."

  He thought she seemed genuinely surprised by his question. "Then why was the robe so important?"

  "Mr. Stone,-"

  "Ethan," he interrupted. "Don't call me anything but Ethan. We're supposed to be married, remember?"

  She hadn't forgotten, but she saw no purpose in doing things his way when they were alone. On the other hand, he didn't look as if he were willing to give her any slack on the tether. The deep whiskey roughness of his voice was strained, the faint drawl more noticeable. The creases at the corners of his eyes were more pronounced, the line of his jaw was defined by the growth of dark beard.

  The vague sense of familiarity returned. Michael stared hard at Ethan's face and tried to imagine him with a beard. Was that the key, she wondered. Had he altered his appearance in some fashion?

  "What are you staring at?" he demanded, knowing the answer all too well.

  "What?" Michael came out of her reverie. "Oh. Nothing. I was just thinking."

  "Well, before your thoughts put you in a trance, you were explaining to me about the robe." He bent his head, avoiding her steady gaze, and speared a potato and a carrot.

  "Yes," she said slowly. "The robe." Shaking her head to clear it, Michael continued, "It's just that I'm not used to parading around in my nightshirt."

  "My nightshirt." He watched, fascinated by the light pink flush that blossomed in her cheeks. He recalled thinking when he first saw her that she wasn't the sort of woman who would blush easily, yet he had witnessed the reaction several times.

  "My point exactly," she said, struggling for composure. "I grew up with four sisters and my mother. I hope you can appreciate that I'm not entirely comfortable."

  Ethan nearly choked on the bread he was swallowing. "You've mastered understatement," he said, pouring himself some tea. He washed down the bread. "When I brought you here this afternoon you were nearly frozen with fear."

  "With cold," she corrected.

  Ethan's hooded gaze rested on her intently. "With fear."

  Michael rearranged the food on her plate. "All right," she said finally. "With fear. But I have reason to be afraid, don't I?"

  He would have liked to reassure her, but even if she knew the truth, the answer to her question was still the same. "Yes. You have reason to be afraid."

  She nodded, expecting as much, resigned to it for the moment. In spite of her hunger she had no appetite. She slid her plate onto the table at her bedside then drew the comforter close about her and leaned against the headboard.

  "How are your fingers and toes?" he asked. "No frostbite?"

  "No frostbite."

  "Your jaw?"

  "Tender."

  "Kitty asked me about it. I told her you got a little hysterical during the trek and I shut you up."

  "Close enough to the truth."

  He nodded. "There are some other things we have to talk about if there's to be any chance of protecting you."

  "I don't know why you want to."

  Ethan needed to keep Michael off balance and fearful. "I'm not certain I do," he told her. "But there's my promise to your friend to consider. It's not a good reason, but it's kept you alive so far. I wouldn't examine it too closely if I were you." He watched her mouth flatten, a gesture of self-defense to keep him from hearing her gasp or see her lips tremble. He poured a mug of tea for her and took it to the bed. "You look as if you could use some warming from the inside out."

  He didn't know why he did it. Perhaps because she looked so pathetic huddled under the comforter and pressed against the headboard. Her widely spaced, dark green eyes were grave, the set of her mouth, solemn. The light, feathery brows that arched delicately above her eyes were drawn closely together the more deeply she thought. It was her hair, however, that drew Ethan's eyes again and again. The shadings of auburn and copper were no longer confined to a neat crown near the back of her head. The bright highlights did not have to compete with pencils. Her magnificent hair was not merely thick and silky, but liberated from its confining pins, it was fairly wild with curls. Her features seemed more fragile somehow, her complexion a shade more translucent when framed by the wonderfully burnished colors of her hair.

  He watched Michael warm her hands with the mug, then sip gingerly of its contents. Ethan returned to his chair and exchanged what was left of his stew for the thick wedge of cherry pie. "We've told everyone that I ran out on you four years ago."

  "Why did you leave?"

  "Because you're a shrew and I didn't like being corralled."

  A tiny smile flickered across her lips. "I see we're keeping very close to the truth as you see it."

  He felt a certain tightening in his chest as he glimpsed the dimples on either side of her mouth. No wonder she set her mouth so seriously while she thought. She could make men stupid with that smile. "You told Happy you were engaged to Drew. It makes sense that you would have been acquainted with his colleagues, if not a close friend." The brief reminder of her dead friends was enough to make the smile vanish. "I think we should say that we were together only a few months, from March to July, let's say, in '71."

  "Where did we meet?"

  "In New York. I was there during that time. Were you?"

  She nodded. "I've always lived there."

  They traded more information. Michael considered lying because she didn't like the idea of Ethan knowing things about her, even insignificant things. She decided against it because safety lay in the truth. She could not be caught out easily later if she kept her information factual. They exchanged birthdays. She was twenty-three. He was thirty-one. He had no family. She had a large one. She had a university education. He told her what he had told Houston and others
: he had completed the eighth grade and was self-taught beyond that. Ethan didn't have the luxury of sharing only the truth. He had to keep his story consistent with every one that had come before. For the most part it wasn't a difficult task. Sharing with Michael was a good mental exercise.

  "How long was our courtship?" she asked.

  "One week. You would have been taking university classes then. It was impulsive on both our parts."

  "I don't act on impulse."

  Ethan looked at her steadily, his eyes shaded by thick lashes. "Neither do I."

  "Then why did we—" Michael stopped, hardly aware she was holding her breath as Ethan set his empty plate aside and came to his feet. He crossed the room with the lithe, rolling stride that announced confidence and purpose. His approach was unhesitating, his determination clear. When he reached the bed he braced one knee on the mattress near Michael's hip and leaned toward her, supporting himself by placing a hand on the headboard on either side of her shoulders. He bent his head. His mouth slanted across her. The pressure was immediately hard; the search was hungry.

  His mouth was sweet. There was the faint taste of cherries, the warmth of tea. Her lips parted with very little urging on his part. His tongue teased the soft underside of her upper lip and ran across the even ridge of her teeth. He pressed harder and her mouth opened under his. She was responsive, matching his touch, meeting his demands. Her mouth was sweetly ripe. She pushed against him with her tongue, joining the heady battle. Her low hum of pleasure vibrated between them.

  Ethan pushed himself away, breaking the kiss. He straightened and took a step back from the bed. The centers of his eyes were dark as he locked his gaze on Michael. "That's why," he said soberly. "We couldn't help ourselves."

  Color drained from Michael's face. "Oh."

  "Since we're sticking closely to the truth..." His voice trailed off as he watched the evidence of her warring thoughts on her face. She was staring at her hands folded tightly around the mug. Her brow was furrowed, her mouth severe. Would she deny her own response to his kiss? Would she deny that against all reason there was some attraction between them?

  "I don't think you should touch me any more," she said finally. "I don't like you. You can't expect that I should. I don't like myself much right now. I feel as if I've betrayed everyone important to me, including myself."

  "Those sentiments are mutual." He returned to his chair but didn't sit down. He finished off his tea, grimacing at the cool bitterness of it after drinking from the honeyed warmth of Michael's mouth. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Dee's got a tub around here some place."

  "A tub," Michael said a shade wistfully. "I'd love a bath."

  "I was thinking of me," he said. "But you can use the water after I'm done."

  Michael stared blankly at the door long after Ethan had vacated the room. It seemed prudent to remember that her protector was no white knight. She touched her lips with the tip of her finger, tracing the line that Ethan had provoked to swollen, sensitive tenderness. Her mouth still tingled. She could still feel the pressure of his lips on hers.

  No, she thought, Ethan Stone was neither gallant nor chivalrous. He was a predator, possessed of a predator's keen hunting senses and motivated by self-interest. Michael wondered how long she could survive once she was targeted as prey.

  Ethan was as good as his word, returning in a few minutes with large copper tub. He placed it near the stove on the part of the hardwood floor not covered by the carpet. Kitty fluttered in and out, talking all the while she helped him fill it with steaming water from the kitchen.

  "Here," he said, starting to unbutton his shirt. "How about taking these clothes and getting Lottie to wash them? She knows I'll pay her."

  Kitty winked at Michael. "Lottie thinks it's a prime pleasure to do his laundry."

  "How nice for her," Michael said weakly. She was fighting the urge to dive under the covers as Ethan began to take off his clothes. With a naturalness that did not take her feelings into account, he stripped down to a gray flannel union suit, a one piece undergarment with woolen knitted cuffs. When he started to unbutton the upper shirt Michael pretended great interest in her tea. She was forced to maintain the pretense only a few moments. Whether by luck or design, Kitty, who was standing with her back to Ethan while he disrobed, saw something on the floor which captured her attention. She bent to investigate, saw it was merely a water stain, and when she rose again her body provided an effective shield for Ethan's activities.

  Ethan didn't miss the look of relief in Michael's eyes. Over Kitty's head he grinned wickedly as he stepped out of his flannels and tossed them. He was under the water by the time Kitty made a grab for them and stepped away from the tub.

  "You're lookin' more the thing," she said to Michael. "No sense lockin' this door, is there?"

  "I'll take care of it," Ethan said. "Thanks, Kitty."

  "Anytime." On her way out the door she caught Michael's attention and smiled, gesturing quickly to Ethan. "He's beautiful," she mouthed.

  Michael smiled wanly.

  "You don't think I'm beautiful?" Ethan asked when they were alone.

  "You saw her."

  "Kitty's sweet," he said. "She's also rather obvious. Look, I've got to lock the door. Why don't you dive under those covers now while I do it?"

  Both of Michael's feathered brows rose in question. "Not so eager to show yourself without Kitty here, are you?"

  He shrugged. "Suit yourself. I was thinking of you."

  Michael squeezed her eyes shut as he braced his arms on either side of the tub and began to rise. "No, wait! The key was in the pocket of your trousers and your pockets left with Kitty!" Her rapid fire speech was met with silence. A few seconds passed then there was the sound of water lapping against the sides of the tub as Ethan lowered himself again. Michael opened her eyes cautiously. She was struck by the fact that his face had taken on the ruddy hue of embarrassment. "I'm sorry," she said, raising her cup to her mouth to hide her unrepentant smile. "I thought I should save you the trouble of interrupting your bath. You would have realized it after a moment but by then you would have dripped water everywhere."

  He gave her a sour look. "You could have said something about the key before Kitty left."

  "I could have," she said. "The truth is, I have no intention of running from here wearing your nightshirt. If I wasn't eager to walk across the room in it, you can be certain I'm not stepping foot in the hallway."

  Ethan wasn't entirely sure he believed her but it appeared that for the time being she was staying put. He searched the water for the soap and upon finding it, lathered up. "You need to know that only a few people think we're married. Houston, Jake, Obie, Ben, and Happy all believe our story. Your safety depends on them continuing to believe it. Dee knows as well. She's been Houston's mistress going on three years now and she's part of everything that happens. Keep that in mind."

  "What about Kitty?"

  "I don't know what Obie tells her. I know what we told her. She, like every other person who works for Dee and every other person you'll come in contact with, thinks Dee hired you for entertaining in her saloon. You play the piano, don't you?"

  "My father insisted."

  "You sing?"

  "My mother insisted."

  There was something she wasn't telling him. "But..."

  "All the lessons were wasted. I'm tone deaf."

  "Wonderful. Don't you do any normal female things?"

  "You can't possibly know how offensive your question is. I take it to mean that you think only men can or should be reporters."

  Ethan wanted to avoid an argument. "Forget I said anything. It doesn't really matter if you can't play, sing, or dance—"

  "I didn't say I couldn't dance," she said quietly.

  Ethan shot her a quelling glance. "Can you?"

  "You said it doesn't really matter."

  "Can you dance?" he asked again, grinding out the question between clenched teeth.

  "Yes. Very well in fa
ct."

  "All right then. That's why Dee hired you. I hope to God you're good."

  "You'll never know. I'm not dancing in this saloon."

  Ethan ignored her objection. He wasn't all that sure he wanted her dancing for the others, but she would if she had to. It was as simple as that. "You were hired by Detra to entertain her patrons. You answered an advertisement in the Chronicle."

  "The Chronicle. How clever you must think you are. The irony's not lost on me."

  He cut her off with an impatient slash of his hand. The soap slipped out of his palm and he had to search under water for it again. "Dee paid your fare from New York. The snow storm stranded you at the depot in Stillwater. We came across you during our search for Happy."

  "If I'm the entertainment, then what am I doing with you?"

  He was tempted to say, "Because you're the entertainment," but good sense prevailed. "Do I need to kiss you again?"

  "Oh," she said, the memory making her flush. "That reason."

  "As long as everyone believes you're well and truly mine, you won't be bothered much."

  "Much."

  "This isn't New York," he reminded her. "First and foremost it's a mining camp. There are only about seventy women in Madison and the unmarried ones are younger than sixteen or work in one of the saloons. The men will respect that you're my mistress but that won't stop them from hoping they can change it. You'll have to put up with a little teasing and pinching. An occasional pat on the bottom."

  Michael grimaced. "I'd be safer married to you."

  Ethan had thought of it. He would have never asked her if she hadn't broached the subject. "Is that what you want?"

  "No!" She set down her mug and hugged her knees close to her chest. "Absolutely not. As long as Houston and the others think I'm married to you they'll leave me alone. I know they're the ones I have to fear. I'll try to tolerate the pinching."

  "You'll have to tolerate it. I'm not going to draw my gun on someone for nuzzlin' you." Before she could reply to that, he held up the soap. "Do my back, will you?"

  "Go to hell."