When she glanced up again, it was to find Cutter’s hand fitted neatly over her own. Inexplicably that discovery sent a delightful quiver coursing through her. Even knowing she should, she couldn’t bring herself to remove it from beneath his grasp. Her body felt suddenly so blissfully heavy.
“I reckon you’ve had more’n enough,’ he murmured thickly. When she didn’t respond, only sat, staring at his hand with something akin to bafflement, he asked, “Don’t you? The idea was to calm you—your nerves were as taut as an Indian’s bow—not get you all boozed up.” His thumb lazily caressed the area between her first finger and thumb, sending a delicious chill down her spine.
Closing her eyes, Elizabeth savored the sweet lethargy that closed over her body. She considered telling him that it was much too late, that she suspected she might already be a bit boozed up, but was feeling too dozy to bother. Her hand slid from beneath his, down the cool, smooth bottle onto the table.
As Cutter watched her, the thought occurred to him that she was much too innocent for her own good. Whoever she hired to play husband for her would take advantage of that fact. Didn’t she understand the dangers she’d be facing? If not from the ruthless land itself, then from those who fought so fiercely to claim it. It wasn’t enough that the States had only just ended a bitter war between brothers, but the white and red man both continued to struggle fiercely for control of land. He was sure Elizabeth had no inkling how risky the trek would be without adding the likes of Dick Brady to her troubles.
The more he thought about it, the more certain he grew: Come hell or high water, he wasn’t about to let her put herself into any more danger than she was already courting. But he could see just how much it meant to her to claim her sister’s child. And it didn’t take a shaman to see that Jo felt something special for Elizabeth. As far as Cutter was concerned, that was reason enough for him to step in. Elizabeth had to be a helluva woman to befriend a half-breed barkeep. Most respectable ladies wouldn’t even have gotten past the barkeep bit.
“Lizbeth,” he whispered before he could stop himself. “Let me help you. Let me be that husband you’re aimin’ to hire—don’t want the money,” he told her. “Just let me do it for... Jo. I know she’d want me to.”
With some effort, she opened one eye to find Cutter’s face mere inches from her own. She might have jerked her head away, but obviously felt much too languid to even blink. “Why would you do such a thing?” she mumbled sleepily.
“Don’t rightly know,” he confessed, lifting his hat and raking his hand back across his dark waves. His eyes glinted, reflecting the lamplight. “Reckon I’d just like t’ help, is all.”
“I—I don’t think so,” Elizabeth told him, shaking her head ungracefully. She wanted to let him, she really did. But she’d had a reason to discount him in the first place.
Now, what was it?
Her eyes closed as she tried to recall—oh yes, because he was an arrogant half-breed. Not that she had anything against half-breeds, mind you, especially this particular one. She suspected she might even like him a bit too much. And Jo was her best friend.
It was just that if she showed up with Cutter McKenzie as her lawful husband, then it might be worse than showing up alone. Most folks didn’t cotton to Indians much. She couldn’t take the chance that Katherine’s father-in-law was one of ’em. He had mentioned Indians—not too favorably, either—in his letter. If he was prejudiced... then there would be no use in going at all, because Elias Bass would simply turn her away empty-handed. She couldn’t let that happen.
She yawned suddenly, instinctively sliding her hand down to cover her mouth, feeling remarkably tranquil. Vaguely she felt her spectacles being lifted from her face, but didn’t bother to open her eyes. Really, she didn’t know why she still wore the warped old things—should have ordered new ones long before now.
She’d started wearing them at the age of twelve. As proud of her father as she’d always been, she’d wanted nothing more than to be like him... and so she’d fished them out of the ash when he’d thrown them away. Course, she’d had to have new lenses cut, because the old ones were cracked, but in spite of the bent frames, they’d looked very authoritative to her, and so she’d worn them anyway. And later she’d found them useful in keeping the men away. It seemed most men just weren’t attracted to women in spectacles—it didn’t help matters much that the frames were ill formed—but that was just fine with her, because all she’d ever wanted was to be a physician and to be left alone to follow her dream.
Had Cutter really said he would have noticed her? Surely he hadn’t.
“Lizbeth, gal, wake up. Look at me,” he demanded softly. “I wanna see those brassy eyes of yours.”
Now, why would he want to do that? she pondered sleepily. She tried to appease him because he sounded so concerned, lifting her head to gaze at him blankly. She teetered slowly forward. Unable to hold herself up, she slumped against Cutter’s solid chest.
So hard. But he was warm, too, like the worn flannel blanket she’d cherished as a child, and so naturally she cuddled against him, rubbing her face cozily against his soft worn buckskin vest.
With a groan and a sigh, Cutter lifted Elizabeth’s limp body up into his arms. Sinking back into the chair she’d warmed, he cradled her in his lap with a gentleness that belied his size and strength.
“Chrissakes,” he muttered. The woman had only had a few puny swallows. It wouldn’t even have affected him, and here she was pie-eyed. Who would’ve figured? But he reckoned her small size accounted for some of the difference in side effects—that, and she had guzzled them down quick, aside from having been through quite an emotional strain besides.
He stared at her for the longest moment, studying her pale features in the dim light, thinking that he’d liked to be the one to put roses in those cheeks, to take the pins and ribbon out of her shiny gold hair... to run his hands through it. He wanted to show her what she was behind those misleading specs. There wasn’t a damned thing wrong with her looks, other than the fact that she seemed hell-bent on detracting from them.
She wiggled, making herself more comfortable in his lap, and his physical reaction was instantaneous. Groaning, he closed his eyes to command restraint. Damned if he wasn’t hotter’n a three-dollar pistol, while she, on the other hand, was feeling no pain a’tall.
He wished she would open her eyes so that he could see their color again. He’d never seen peepers quite like hers—at least not on a human being. They were like wolf eyes, yellow as fool’s gold. His brow furrowing, he shook her softly, to no avail. She didn’t even crack a lid. Hell, he thought irritably, she couldn’t go to sleep... not yet.
“Lizbeth?”
His hand closed about her soft shoulder, kneading it gently. Unable to help himself, he bent to kiss her sweet, pouty mouth and ended up suckling at her lower lip, enthralled with the taste of her. She sighed groggily but opened for him, and it sent a surge of white-hot desire running through him so fierce that he wanted to shake her awake and take her right there on Jo’s desk.
His tongue traced the velvety fullness of her mouth, then dipped between her lips to search out her tongue. He was pleasantly surprised when she met him halfway with the soft little tip.
His heart hammered like a chisel on stone, and his veins pulsed with a primeval heat as his mouth moved over hers, devouring its moist sweetness with an intensity that surprised him.
Chapter Three
Soft, so soft... too soft... too easy to lose himself.
It took Cutter a full moment to register the fact that Elizabeth was no longer responding. Groaning, he checked himself, raising his head to look into her face, his mind irrevocably made up.
