Megan Chance (8 page)

It felt so good to finally be alone. Really alone, without the worry of what he would say or do next. Alone, with the night free and the morning still far away.

She caught sight of one of the
Godey's Lady's Books
that Miriam had lent her and pulled it across the table. The magazine was nearly a year old, but she'd practically memorized her own scant collection.

She opened the magazine and thumbed through the pages, staring longingly at women clad in delicately flowered silks and taffetas, jewel-toned velvets and exquisite laces. In Tamaqua she'd never seen anything so fine, though some of the ladies in Philadelphia had been dressed in such fashions. She and Evan had gone into the city for their honeymoon, and she remembered how he had laughed at her wide-eyed astonishment. He'd promised her dresses of equal beauty then, gowns with fine pleated bodices and stiff silk bows, bustles and godets, ruched skirts and long trains of Brussels lace.

Sari fingered the thick pages absently, hearing Evan's vows of riches and fine things reverberate in her ears.
"Feathers, Sari—big ostrich feathers on a hat even Mrs. Townshend would envy. Nothing's too good for the mother of my son."

She swallowed hard. They'd been happy then, in the first year of their marriage, before she'd miscarried the baby and failed at conceiving another—

"I like that one." Conor's voice, deep and raspy, startled her. Sari jumped. Cold air from the open door brushed her back. She slammed the magazine shut.

"I—you scared me."

Conor shut the door and moved over to her, seemingly oblivious of her discomfort. He pulled the magazine gently from her fingers and studied the cover. "
Godey's Lady's Book
? Thinking of making a new dress?"

"No," she answered curtly.

He strode casually to the stove and grabbed a piece of leftover corn bread, the fashion magazine still clutched between his fingers. "Charles tells me there's a Christmas dance coming up. You should have something pretty to wear to it. Something that isn't brown."

"I like brown."

"I don't." He bit into the bread. Crumbs scattered over the floor, but he ignored the mess as he set the magazine on the table and flipped open to a well-marked page. "Ah, that," he nodded. "That's pretty."

His casual friendliness confused her even as it drew her. "Why should I care what you think? I'm not dressing for—"

"No, look," he insisted. "This one."

She followed his finger to an evening gown with small puffed sleeves and a square collar edged in lace. "Yes, it is pretty. But—"

He pulled out a chair, sitting down beside her. Sari felt the warmth of his body, the slight press of his trouser-covered thigh before he settled. He was so close, she heard him swallow. She smelled his scent, of outdoors and muskiness edged with the pungent sharpness of bay. Sari's fingers tightened. This mood, this light teasing, made her uncomfortable. It was too much like before.

Her throat tightened. "What are you doing?"

"Helping you choose. I've been told I have excellent taste in women's gowns."

Sari snorted. "That doesn't surprise me."

"And I like imagining you in something besides homespun."

"You can keep on imagining. It's all you'll ever see me in. There's no room for fripperies here."

"Fripperies," he mocked gently. "Such a funny word. Perhaps there should be more fripperies here."

Her discomfort grew. It was the one thing she couldn't fight, this sudden, intimate side of him that had been so much a part of Jamie. She squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to block out the memories. "Where's
Onkle
?"

"In his soddy." Conor pulled the magazine toward him and began lifting the pages. "Now, come on, Sari, concentrate. Find something completely frivolous, meant for Christmas parties and dances and picnics." His mouth curved in a grin. "Of course, I'm not sure you're capable of picking something so useless, but this is your chance to show me I'm wrong."

His smile was seductive, but the glint in his eyes was too familiar. Too painful. She swallowed and grabbed the magazine back. "I'm not in the mood for tests."

"A game then." He suggested. "It's early yet, don't send me out to the cows."

She paused. For a moment Sari saw another time, another place, when Evan had gone into Girardville for the day and Jamie—the man she knew, not this man, this Conor—sat on the porch swing on her uncle's farm, one hand outstretched across the back, the other reaching for her.
"Come here, love. Come and sit with me awhile. 'Tis early yet."
And she'd gone, tumbling into his lap while he wrapped his arms around her.

In the grip of memory she relented. "Oh, very well. It is still early."

"Good." He smiled broadly. "We'll find a dress I like, and you can tell me whether it's simple enough for a Colorado seamstress."

"There won't be a dress like that." She thought for a moment. "Well, maybe for a seamstress in Denver." She flipped the pages nervously. "Or maybe—"

"Wait! Stop there. That one." His square hand stopped her ceaseless turning of the pages.

Sari glanced at the illustration. "Velvet trim? A bustle?" She shook her head firmly. "No."

"Then this one." Conor said. "I like those silk rosettes."

She smiled. "Do you like them enough to spend hours making them? Because you might have to."

The laughter in his blue eyes was hard to resist. "Ah, I'm a farmer now, Sari. I haven't got time for foolish pursuits. Or so your uncle tells me."

"Then no rosettes."

He reached over her and flipped the page. His voice lowered, vibrated with seductive tension as he pointed to the illustration. "No arguing with me on this one, I mean it. This dress. There must be someone who can make this dress."

Sari caught her breath. The gown was beautiful, with tiny off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves that were edged with lace and silk flowers. Ruched trim followed the lines of the bodice to a polonaise caught at the side with wide bows. Yes, the gown was beautiful. It would look perfect on her, there was no doubt in her mind. She knew it because she'd been wearing one almost exactly like it the first night she met Jamie O'Brien.

"No." Her voice was strangled. "Not that dress."

The laughter was gone from his eyes, but they burned bright and intense as he turned to look at her. "I'll never forget how you looked that night. You lit up the room."

"I was with Evan."

"I remember thinking how lucky he was. There wasn't a woman in Tamaqua who could hold a candle to you that night."

"Are those just words? Or did you really think that?" She forced the question from a throat that felt too tight to breathe. The lamplight played on his hair, sending golden highlights where before it had been just brown.

"I really thought that." He smiled softly. The truth of it was in his voice. "Don't you remember? I asked you to dance, and you refused me."

"You were a murderer. Evan said you'd killed someone in Buffalo." It had been hard to believe. He'd seemed too gentle, too quick to smile and laugh to be a killer. She remembered how he'd looked, polished and clean, standing across the room with his dark hair waving over his forehead. He'd been telling stories in a broad Irish brogue to a group of laughing men, and the evidence of his easy charm compelled her even as it made her instantly wary. Almost as if she'd known, somehow sensed, that he was dangerous to her. She swallowed. "I've been wondering about your brother. Is he still in jail?"

"My brother?" He looked confused for a moment, his blue eyes clouded.

A strange distress started in her heart. "Your brother. The one you killed that man for."

"Oh." He paused—a long time. Then he said gently, "Sari, I have no brother."

"No brother."

"No."

"But—" she struggled against her own sudden understanding. "But you said—you said you killed that man because he hurt your brother—what was his name?—Aaron, wasn't it? Wasn't it Aaron?"

He said nothing.

Sari rushed on. "You said you left Buffalo to keep your parents from suffering."

His gaze was inscrutable. "That wasn't me. It was Jamie."

The words lodged against her heart like a stone. For a moment Sari couldn't breathe. She'd known Jamie O'Brien was only a role he'd played, but for some reason she hadn't thought that everything had been a lie. Not everything. All those secrets they'd shared while twined in each other's arms. All the stories about his poverty-stricken family, his suffering mother, and the brother who'd gone to jail for a crime he didn't commit.

How easily he'd told those stories. She remembered listening with tears in her eyes, remembered aching with the poignancy of his pain. She had fallen in love with that man. With that man's life.

But that life was only a sham, a script written and performed for her benefit. Even though Jamie O'Brien hadn't turned out to be the man she thought he was, she hadn't expected this depth of deceit. Now, suddenly, she realized she didn't know Conor Roarke at all.

"Was any of it real?" Her voice was thin and whispery. She saw the quick tightening of his lips, but he didn't turn away.

"No," he said softly.

"Not even—"

"What do you want me to say, Sari?" he asked, and she heard a strange urgency in his voice, as though he'd justified these things to himself many times. "I was what I needed to be, I've told you that."

"It was all a lie."

He looked away then, taking a deep breath. "Is anything real? Anyone? Things are never what they seem, you should know that. Yes, I lied to you. I had to." He hesitated, and when he spoke again, his voice was so low, she had to struggle to hear it. "But I wish to God you'd trust me now."

"Trust you?" She laughed bitterly. "Why? How?"

His gaze was so intense Sari felt burned. "I'm just Conor Roarke now, Sari. Just myself. No lies. I'm here to protect you. I'm here because I want you again."

Sari rose, nearly falling over the chair in her haste. She was trembling as she went to the stove, unable to look at him. The words wrapped around her, curled in her stomach.
"I want you again. I want you...."

The memories crashed over her so strongly, she felt heated: She saw his face bent over hers, heard the sweetness of his laughter, felt the soft, wiry feel of the hair on his chest.

She caught her breath, closed her eyes, but the memories wouldn't fade. She remembered the way his touch rendered her helpless, the way his smile weakened her. It was an attraction that hadn't gone away. Even his betrayal couldn't kill it, and she hated that about him, hated that he was still so hard to resist. She wanted to forget what they'd been to each other, but even if he wasn't Jamie O'Brien any longer, that charm was still there, the memory of passion was still there—

His hands touched her hips. Sari jumped, cracking her elbow against the coffeepot so that it splashed coffee down her bodice and onto the packed dirt floor. She spun away from him, batting his hands away, backing against the sideboard. "Damn you," she swore softly, wiping at her dress. "Look what you've done!"

"What I've done?" A slow smile slid over his face. "Why are you so afraid of me, love?"

Sari's heart was pounding; it was hard to catch her breath. "I'm not afraid of you."

"No? Then why did you jump?" He took a step toward her.

Sari tried to back away, but she was trapped against the sideboard. "You—you surprised me."

"Surprised you?" He moved until he was nearly touching her. "I see. Then you won't be surprised this time."

He reached out, cupping her chin. The touch was electric. Desperately, Sari jerked away. It was too close, too much like before. She dodged around Conor, so frantic to avoid him that she backed against the stove. The handle of the door jabbed her leg, and Sari flailed for balance, slamming her hand down on the stove, then yanking it away again as the hot metal seared her skin.

She jerked back against the sideboard. "Damn!"

"Hell." Conor pulled her to her feet. "What did you do? Let me see." He reached for her hand.

Sari grabbed it back again. "You've done quite enough."

"Dammit, Sari, let me see." He wrenched her hand from her side, turning it over to see the reddened swell of a burn rising on her palm. "Where's the grease?"

Sari nodded toward the can sitting on a shelf. She blinked rapidly, trying to dispel tears. Conor held her wrist as he reached for the can, scooping up a handful of the soft, gray-white mess and spreading it over the burn until her palm shone in the lamplight.

"There," he said with satisfaction. "Where's a rag?"

"You don't need to wrap it."

"Don't tell me what I need to do. Where's a rag?"

"In the bucket there," she said quietly, pointing to her makeshift sewing basket in the corner of the soddy.

He left her for a moment to grab the bucket, and Sari's hand felt suddenly cold where his fingers released her. She grasped her wrist, watching him fumble through the pile of old clothing until he came up with a shirt stained yellow from use, with a ragged tear across the back.

Conor ripped off a strip of fabric. "Come here. Sit down."

Sari's palm was beginning to burn in earnest, and she did as he instructed without protest. He pulled up a chair beside her, resting her hand on his thigh as he expertly wound the bandage around her palm.

There it was again, that tenderness. Her stomach cramped suddenly; the warm room was stifling. Sari took a deep breath, feeling a curious languor come over her as Conor wrapped the linen strip once, twice, three times over her palm and wrist. She glanced up, away from the sight of her hand nestled in his, hoping a view of the ceiling would help her control her unsteady breathing. But her gaze caught, locking onto the buttons of his collarless shirt. They'd come loose as he moved, revealing the jutting of his collarbone, the fine, dark hair that started at the base of his throat.

She tried to pull her hand away, but he held it firmly, finally looking up as he knotted the ends of the bandage. His eyes were caressing, serious now as he studied her expression.

"There," he said gently. Was it her imagination, or did his voice seem deeper? Hoarser? "You should be fine now."