"They should've broken the lying bastard's neck!" Garret's voice shook with fury. "I would have—son of a bitch!" He wheeled away, jamming his fingers through his hair.
"I don't know what happened to him. Only that he disappeared from Moira's life a year after Meggie was born. No one... no one ever heard from him again."
Garret turned back to face her, his eyes overly bright, his hands unsteady as he reached out to thread his fingers through her hair, cradling her face in his hard palms. "I'm sorry, Ashleen. So damn sorry. About him. About... about what happened."
"But don't you see? I'm not. Not anymore." She leaned against him, reveling in the warmth in him, the compassion. "If it hadn't been for Timothy, I wouldn't be here now. With you. You say I expect miracles, and maybe... maybe I do. While you look for emptiness. Would it be so wrong, such a heinous sin for us both—just this once—to reach out and take something that is precious, real, and maybe ours for only the briefest of moments?"
"You're a forever kind of woman, Ash. You deserve a gold ring and promises in front of a preacher and a wedding dress all stitched in satin. I'm no better than Kearny was, Ashleen. I'll leave you, lady. I'll break your damn heart."
"You're nothing like Timothy Kearny, Garret MacQuade. You're honest, and sensitive, and tender. I want you. I want this more than I've ever wanted anything in my life."
Desperate to drive the resolve from those beloved gray eyes, Ashleen succumbed to impulse, loosing her hold on the folds of wool clasped beneath her chin, shrugging the fabric free.
It was reckless, more wanton than anything she'd ever done before, yet as the wool glided down her slender form it seemed as inevitable as the sea reaching for the shore.
She heard Garret's sharp intake of breath, saw the raging hunger explode in those silvery eyes. "Lady," he gritted between clenched teeth, "have you heard anything I said? What are you trying to do to me?"
"Love you, Garret. Just love you. You don't even have to love me back. Just let me..." She ran her fingertips over his chest, seeing the hunger in his eyes spark with hauntings of fear. She knew he wanted to run from the emotions inside him, knew that some small part of her wanted to flee as well.
But it was too late.
Too late for Garret.
Too late for her.
She had always believed in fate, but never more strongly than she did at that moment.
His gaze fell away from hers but flicked in an excruciating path downward to where the curves of her breasts were glossed with the dainty fabric, the rosy crests of her nipples just visible in the faint light. Pain flitted across Garret's face, mingled with the most hopeless of longing. "Please, Ashleen, don't do this."
Catching her lip between her teeth, she moved to the small buttons beneath the V of bronzed flesh at his throat. Slowly she slid one little disk through its hole. "It's too late, Garret," she said, pressing a kiss against his racing heart. "I already have."
Chapter Fourteen
Heaven. Hell. Garret stood rigid, hands clenched at his sides as he was swept away into both. Ashleen's fingertips were tiny flames licking at his skin. The cool night air wafted over the flesh that she bared, her rapid breath stirring the dusting of dark hair spanning his chest, her tumbled curls taunting him with silken whispers where they brushed against him.
He wanted her. He'd known it since the moment she'd walked into that damned saloon. Yet he'd never known a man could need a woman so much until now, never known a man could need to bury himself inside her body, yet deeper still inside her very soul.
It was dangerous.
He knew it was.
He knew drinking of her sweetness would only leave him more barren than before. Yet he thirsted like a man lost in an endless desert—and he knew that God Himself couldn't turn him away from the magic Ashleen O'Shea offered in her soft angel hands.
He couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, reveling in the kisses she trailed along his ribs, her hands tugging his shirt from the waistband of his denims. Her palms slid beneath the fabric, easing it from the rippling muscles of his shoulders, letting the garment float to the lean-to's floor.
She made a tiny sound as she glimpsed the scars marring his flesh. The slash marks from a cougar that had objected to having its portrait done, a knife cut from a saloon brawl, the indentation of an old bullet wound gained in a fight with the jealous lover of one of Kennisaw's women.
"So much pain," she whispered, and there were tears in her voice.
Her finger traced the scar where the Kiowa lance had wounded him, and it was as if Garret could feel the force of her loving pierce him far deeper.
Then she was kissing him again, brushing her lips across each old wound as if her mouth alone could heal him, loving him in a way that stirred him beyond all imaginings.
Garret gritted his teeth against a groan as her mouth skimmed upward, grazing the tingling point of one dark nipple. Desire speared through him. White hot. Raw. Leaving him gasping.
"Ashleen." He moaned her name, grasping her arms and dragging her upward. "Sweet Ash..." He crushed her breasts against his chest as his mouth crashed down on hers. She opened for him, whimpering as his tongue plunged deep into her mouth, greedy with the need for her.
His hands roved up and down her back, over the delectable curve of her buttocks, his touch restless, devouring, hating even the wisp of lawn nightgown that separated them. He planted hot, openmouthed kisses down her throat, allowed just enough space between their bodies to fumble with the prim white ribbon at her breasts. He untied it with fingers that trembled, the backs of his knuckles brushing against supple skin soft as springtime, smelling of milk and cinnamon and honey. He was starving for the taste of her, terrified that he would frighten her with the depth of his passion.
