Page 85 of Frankly, My Dear

“I’m from New York City, you dimwit. We don’t ride horses in the city; we ride subways.”

“What? Never mind.” James wiped a hand across his brow and set his rifle in its leather scabbard on the right side of the saddle. His patience wearing thin, he grabbed Selene by the waist. Since she was wearing men’s trousers, he set her astride the horse and, in one smooth leap, mounted behind her. Putting his arms around her, he took the reins and guided the horse in a slow canter.

The light scent of Blossom’s lavender soap wafted up from Selene’s hair, which was pulled back off her face with a green ribbon. He barely restrained himself from putting his lips to her sharp cheekbones to see if her skin smelled the same.

“Where are we going? The house is the other way.”

“You need to calm down before you go back.”

“Thank goodness I didn’t bring all the kids here for this field trip.” The thread of hysteria in her voice belied her calm words, and suddenly her body began to shake with violent tremors of delayed shock.

“Field trip?” he croaked out, wrapping his arms tightly about her slim frame, pulling her closer. A huge lump formed in his throat. The woman was a magnet to danger—first Victor, the sheriff, the snake, now alligators. He couldn’t imagine what disaster would befall her next.

All he knew was that he wanted to protect her from all her hurts—those from her past, present, and future. And that was an impossibility. All he had was the moment. “Shhh. It’s all right now. You’re safe.”

“I was so scared. For Etienne. And me,” she said tremulously. Her fingertips caressed his bare forearms distractedly, from wrist to elbow and back again, as she spoke.

He closed his eyelids briefly with a silent groan. Did she suspect how that mere touch turned his blood hot, his heart racing? No, she was innocent of her effect on men…on him. All those years with that jackass lover of hers…Devon…had blinded her to her sensual allure.

“You should be proud of Etienne, James. He’s a brave little boy, and I don’t think he would ever deliberately hurt someone. At least, not seriously,” she amended on further thought.

He grunted with amusement. “You’re like a lioness protecting her cub.” Then he thought about something alarming and spoke the words without thinking. “I don’t think Etienne’s ever had anyone stand up for him before, except me. Oh, my mother cares, as well as Blossom, but no one has ever defended him quite so fiercely as you just did. Why would you care?”

“He’s your son,” she murmured.

His heart slammed against his chest walls at that simply stated explanation. He had to stop this growing fascination for a woman who could not be a part of his life.

She snuggled back against his chest, her tremors finally subsiding, and in the process her bottom rubbed against his thighs and the hardening evidence of his “fascination.”

He groaned.

“Did I hurt you?” She shifted forward slightly.

He laughed, a low sound, more resembling a growl, and thought, To hell with it. Putting the reins in his left hand, he placed his right arm firmly around her waist and pulled her flush against his body.

She inhaled sharply, now aware of his desire for her. He thought she might pull away, but after a moment of indecision she relaxed and settled into his embrace.

“Tell me about yourself, Selene,” he said, letting the horse follow the pathway that paralleled the course of the bayou. “Tell me about your childhood, your family, your work…your lovers.”

“Then, will you reciprocate? Will you tell me about your childhood, about Santo Domingo, about the early days on the plantation here…about Giselle?”

For several long seconds he said nothing. Finally he spoke. “Perhaps.”

That seemed to satisfy her.

“I never knew my father,” she started, and went on to tell of a cold, highly structured childhood, a controlling, ambitious mother who spent her entire life telling Selene that her only worth was in her physical appearance. He tucked his chin over her head and ran one callused palm over her bare arm in comfort, never speaking.

When she told him of the death of her friend Tessa from an odd illness resulting from starvation…something called anorexia…he shared her dismay with soft words. She turned her head slightly to look back at him with surprise. “When Tessa died, Devon said she always was a dumb broad.”

“Devon was a…what do you call it?…jerk.”

She nodded with a faltering smile. “Yeah, Devon was a jerk. And a three-year mistake in my life.” An easy silence prevailed between them as the horse ambled along before she added, “Have there been any mistakes in your life, James?”

He couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “Ah, Selene, chérie, my life has been one long mistake. If I had been able to accept my situation as a bastard child, my early life with my mother in New Orleans would have been tolerable. My father didn’t treat us badly. Most times, he just ignored us.”

He shrugged at the memories, surprised that they no longer pained him so much. “But I was young and stubborn—”

“And still are.”