She heard his voice but had no idea what he was saying to her. Longing desperately for more of the pleasure he had brought to life, she shoved her fingers through his hair, locked them behind his neck, and pulled him even nearer to her chest.
Her action nestled his face between her breasts. A man could suffocate within such succulent flesh, he thought.
But what a pleasant way to go.
His intuition telling him she wouldn’t stop him if he dared to proceed further, he lowered his hand to her leg again, then slipped it slowly beneath her gown. He found no undergarments to hinder him. Moaning quietly into the valley between her breasts, he glided his fingers over the warm, soft mound nestled between her thighs.
Gasping for breath and fulfillment, Theodosia raised her hips, pressing herself against his palm. Tension, hot and irresistible, built steadily within her, and she knew instinctively that if Roman would only move his hand upon her, the tension would peak.
He knew her every thought by listening to the pelting of her heart. Wanting to see her fulfillment happen to her, he raised his head and watched her face as he began to rotate his palm against the wet silk of her femininity. “Easy,” he murmured. “Slow and—”
A sudden movement to his left broke his concentration. In the next moment, he felt cold water splash against his cheek. And when he felt Theodosia stiffen, he knew water had sprinkled her as well.
His eyes narrowing, he stared at the culprit, John the Baptist.
The parrot flung a sunflower seed next. “The olfactory nerves become fatigued,” he announced, blinking his round black eyes. “Every male in the world, even a feathered one, craves a little wenching now and then. I must concentrate all my efforts toward finding the perfect man to sire the child, Mr. Montana.”
The words were barely out of the bird’s beak when Theodosia, with one powerful movement, rolled out of Roman’s arms. Infuriated with herself and the rogue whose sensual expertise had robbed her of her wits, she rose from the ground and tugged down her nightgown. “Sir, you possess a facinorous nature!”
Mad as she was, Roman decided he didn’t want to know the definition of facinorous.
“Which means,” Theodosia continued, “that you are exceedingly wicked. If not for John the Baptist, you—I—Mr. Montana, you might have succeeded in—”
“But I didn’t because your damned parrot had to go and open his big fat beak, and—”
“How much longer will it be before we arrive at Kidder Pass? My attraction to you and my obvious inability to resist it makes finding the child’s sire an extremely urgent matter. With each day—no, with eachmomentthat passes, I am at further risk of—”
“Kidder Pass is a fifteen-minute ride down the road.”
“What? Fifteen minutes? We were that near the town, and you had me sleep on a bed of rocks? Mr. Montana, how could you!”
He rolled to his back and stared at the sky. “How could I? I’m facinorous. That’s how could I, how would I, and how did I.”
Too angry to speak, Theodosia flounced to the wagon, retrieved her clothes from her bags, and tramped out of sight to dress.
When she was gone, Roman turned to his side and glared at her parrot. “Did you know that the real John the Baptist got his head cut off?” he asked the bird. “Then it was brought to some lady on a silver platter. I’m warning you now, you mimicking, maddening, meddlesome, molting moron, that if you ever stick your beak into my business again, I will cheerfully see to it that you meet the same messy end your namesake did!”
Chapter Eight
His stomach growling with hunger,Roman paced in front of the sheet Theodosia had had him string from wall to wall to partition their hotel room in Kidder Pass. Splashing sounds came from behind the sheet as well as the delicate scent of wild flowers.
In the tub, Theodosia listened to his boot heels hammer the wooden floor. “Is something the matter, Mr. Montana?”
“I’m starving! Look, I was going to take you to that fair we passed right outside town. Some of the best cooks in the world are the women who live in little towns like this one, and they cook for days before a fair. But if you don’t hurry up, Miss Worth, all the food’s going to be gone. You’ve been in there for three hours already. How long does it take to wash off a little grime, for God’s sake? Just rub on some soap, rinse it off, then get out!”
She cupped some warm water in her hand and let it slide down her arm. “I have been in here for no more than half an hour, Mr. Montana. And I will have you know that I do not accumulategrimeupon my person. I merely become a bit dusty.”
He shoved his fingers through his hair. “You’re taking your own sweet time in that bathtub just to get back at me for what happened this morning! But what you’re forgetting is that youlikedit!”
His reminder caused her to stiffen with frustration. Although she’d refused to dwell on the morning interlude, her body could not forget and continued to ache for the bliss she’d only begun to understand. “I, however, did not initiate the morning’s encounter,” she said shakily. “You did, and you should not have. And that is the last time we shall speak of it. Now, why do you suppose the newspaper office is closed today? It is a business day, and I thought to have my circulars printed—”
“The newspaper man is, at this very minute, doing exactly what I wish I was doing.”
“And what is that, Mr. Montana?”
“Eating food at the fair!”
His extreme ire made her smile. “Well, at least the telegraph office was open. While you saw to the horses, Mr. Montana, I wired a message to Lillian and Upton. I assured them of my well-being, allowed you all the credit for keeping me from harm, and informed them also that I was in the scintillating depths of researching the oral meandering common to many of the people I have met during my travels through Texas. Such digressive discourse is—”
