Page 26 of For the Roses (Claybornes' Brides (Rose Hill) 1)

  She took off her boots, moved them away from the fire, then pulled out the gun he hadn’t noticed until now tucked into the waistband of her skirt, and put it under the fold in her bedding.

  Harrison went to the other side of the fire and stood there, trying to warm himself.

  “Have you camped outside much?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “You act like you have.”

  She knelt down and added a few more twigs to the fire. “I prefer my own bed, but one does what one has to do to stay warm out here. Isn’t that right?”

  “You aren’t at all squeamish.”

  “Heavens, I hope I’m not squeamish. Did you think I would be?”

  He shook his head. She didn’t understand the world he had come from, where gently bred women fainted over the slightest suggestion of impropriety. So fragile was society, reputations could be ruined by inconsequential whispers. Queen Victoria set the standards for the day, of course, and she rigidly emphasized prudence in every undertaking, sobriety, and caution. Yet while she also showed the world what an independent thinker she was, the women in England Harrison associated with still didn’t educate themselves to emulate her.

  He and his best friend, Nicholas, were running with the wrong crowd. The women they associated with depended on others for their every need, including amusement. If any of them became bored, it was someone else’s fault.

  God, what a miserable, restrictive life he had known. It was too damned bleak to think about.

  Mary Rose Clayborne. What a breath of fresh air she was. He hadn’t believed she could take care of herself. Now that he had time to think about it, he realized he had made several erroneous conclusions about her, based on his own narrow-minded knowledge of the women from his past.

  She certainly proved him wrong. He was impressed with her no-nonsense approach to their situation. He was beginning to think she had more common sense than he had believed.

  Then she took her clothes off. His knees almost buckled under him when he realized what she was doing. His opinion changed in the blink of an eye. The naive woman didn’t have any sense at all.

  “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” His roar of outrage echoed around the stone walls.

  “Undressing. Why?”

  “Put your blouse back on.”

  She ignored his command. She finished removing the garment and then bent down to take off her socks. She stood on her blankets so she wouldn’t get her feet dirty.

  She straightened up again, her wet socks in her hands, and smiled at him.

  He was staring at her. She thought he might be looking at her locket.

  “It’s a pretty locket, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “My locket. I thought you were looking at it.”

  “I was,” he lied. “Where’d you get it?”

  “My mother sent it to me. It was a gift for my sixteenth birthday. The locket doesn’t open, but I don’t mind. Can you see the engraved rose on the front?”

  She started to walk to him so he could get a closer look. He put his hand up.

  “I can see it.”

  “She said she chose the heart-shaped locket because our hearts are entwined. Isn’t that sweet? One day I shall pass it down to my daughter.”

  “It’s very nice,” he remarked.

  She nodded. “When I wear it, I feel closer to her, so of course I wear it all the time,” she explained.

  She patted the locket, let out a little sigh, and returned to the business of getting warm.

  She handed her socks to Harrison across the fire. “Hold these for me please. They’re just a little bit damp. Don’t let them hang too close to the flames.”

  He was happy to help her because he thought she wanted her hands free so she could put her blouse back on.

  “Don’t stand too close, Harrison. Travis will be furious if I ruin them.”

  “You wear your brother’s socks?”

  He didn’t know whether to laugh or shake his head. She smiled at him while she worked on undoing the ribbon at the back of her neck. He tried to stare at the ledge behind her right ear and not think about the white lacy underthing that was plastered against her skin. Every single time she moved, the swell of her breasts caught his attention. He could feel himself breaking into a cold sweat.

  “Only when I can sneak them off the line before he notices.”

  What in thunder was she talking about? “Sneak what off the line?”

  “His socks.”

  “Why don’t you wear your own? Don’t you have any?”

  “Of course I have socks. I prefer wearing my brothers’ though. They’re thicker. I don’t care what they look like. I only wear them with my boots, so no one ever sees them. Besides, they keep my feet warm. Isn’t that all that should matter?”

  She was only being practical, but he still didn’t want her wearing any man’s socks, not even her brothers’. That thought immediately led to another one. He wouldn’t mind if she wanted to wear his socks. Fact was, he’d like it.

  God help him, his mind had snapped. Happy now? he wanted to ask her. It was all her doing, driving him to distraction with every little movement she made.

  “Put your blouse back on,” he snapped.

  She ignored him again. She spread her hair out behind her shoulders so the curls wouldn’t clump together and take forever to dry, dropped the pink ribbon on the blanket, and only then gave him her full attention.

  “Why would I want to put my blouse back on? I only just took it off. It’s wet,” she reminded him. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Quit looking like you want to strangle me. I’m only being practical. Do you want me to catch my death? You’d better get over your embarrassment and take your clothes off too. You’ll get consumption, and then I’ll have to take care of you. Do you think I want that duty? No, I don’t, thank you. You would do nothing but complain the entire time.”

  Her hands had settled on the tilt of her hips while she argued her case, but once she’d made her position clear, she started fiddling with the back of her waistband.

  His mind was simply too befuddled to realize what she was doing. He was occupied trying not to look at the front of her and turned his gaze to the fire a scant second after her skirt dropped to the ground. He should have kept staring at the wall, because the path his gaze took gave him an ample view of her legs. They were incredible. Long, shapely, perfect.

  Exactly how much was he supposed to endure before this god-awful night was over? Harrison didn’t know, but he was certain his situation couldn’t get any worse. This hope was all he had, he decided, and so he grasped it with the desperate determination of a drowning man clinging to a rope.

  He stomped over to his saddlebag to see if he could find something for her to put on. He muttered obscenities about his lack of discipline all the while he searched.

  He tried to get angry so he wouldn’t think about anything else. Like her legs . . . her tiny waist . . . her creamy skin . . .

  “Embarrassment has nothing to do with the problem of your undressing,” he gritted out, just to set the record straight.

  He tossed her a dark flannel shirt and barked out the order for her to put it on.

  “Won’t you need this to keep warm?”

  “Put it on.”

  His tone of voice didn’t suggest she argue with him. She put the shirt on. She had to roll the cuffs back twice, and after she’d secured all the buttons, she felt warm again. The shirt was gigantic on her, of course, and covered most of her thighs.

  “Thank you.”

  He ignored her gratitude. He sat down across from her with the fire between them and stared into her eyes. She sat down, folded her legs just the way he had, covered them with her blanket, and then picked up her blouse to hold it close to the fire so it would dry.

  “I cannot help but notice you’re glaring at me. Your voice was downright surly too. Have I done something to offend you?”

  The look he gave her made

her toes curl. Scorching didn’t adequately describe it.

  “I am not one of your brothers.”

  “I didn’t think you were.” She thought she sounded reasonable.

  He thought she was as dense as a rock. “I’m not going to be able to take much more.”

  “Much more what? For heaven’s sake, haven’t you ever had to sleep outside? Haven’t you ever been caught in a storm before? I can’t help it if you’re feeling uncomfortable.”

  He unbuttoned his shirt, took it off, and then held it up by the fire.

  “I’m extremely comfortable.”

  “Are you going to take your pants off?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “You don’t have to get angry. Aren’t they wet?”

  “Not wet enough.”

  “I don’t believe it’s necessary for me to put up with your bad mood.”

  “You really don’t understand, do you? No, I don’t believe that, not for one second. You know damned well I want you, and you’re deliberately tempting me. Stop it immediately, and I’ll get over my bad mood.”

  The light was slow to dawn, but once it had, she found she wasn’t embarrassed about her stupidity.

  He wanted her. And she’d been wearing her brother’s socks. Her face turned pink with mortification. Oh, God, she was dressed like a lumber lug. She just bet Catherine Morrison never wore her father’s socks. No respectable, eligible woman with marriage on her mind would.

  “Are we agreed?” he demanded.

  “Yes, we are agreed.”

  Silence followed the truce. Mary Rose waited several minutes so he would have time to get over his anger.

  “I usually wear silk stockings with lace around the tops,” she blurted out.

  He couldn’t imagine why she wanted him to know that. She wasn’t quite finished discussing her clothes, however.

  “I rarely wear my brother’s socks. I certainly wouldn’t want you to get the idea I like wearing men’s clothing. I don’t.”

  “The thought never crossed my mind.”

  “Good, because I don’t.”

  “This shirt is never going to dry.”

  Harrison turned the shirt over and only then looked at her face. Her complexion was as red as the flames.

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Move away from the fire. Your face looks like it’s getting burned.”

  The man was an idiot. And thank God for that, she thought to herself. She scooted back from the fire, hoped her blush would eventually fade, and tried to think about something inane to talk about. She wanted him to forget all about socks.

  “I’m going to have to do dishes for a week.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I didn’t use the word of the day.”

  “What word?”

  “The word printed on the chalkboard. I don’t even know what it is.”

  Harrison closed his eyes and pictured the kitchen. Then he smiled.

  “Infelicity.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “How did you . . .”

  “Adam took me into the kitchen. I noticed the word then. I still haven’t seen the cook, by the way. I don’t think he exists.”

  “I don’t know what it means.”

  “It means I think you made him up.”

  “The word, Harrison. What does infelicity mean?”

  “Unhappiness.”

  She smiled with pleasure. “I used it.”

  “But not in front of any of your brothers,” he pointed out.

  “Of course we have a cook. When he’s ready to meet you, he’ll show himself. Until then I suggest you give him a wide path. He’s somewhat prickly. It’s because he’s led a life of infelicity.”

  Harrison laughed. “He’s infelicitous, is he?”

  “Most assuredly. You will be my witness. Testify on my behalf tomorrow night during supper.”

  “Your brothers will have tried to kill me by then.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re spending the night together.”

  He couldn’t believe he had to remind her of their circumstances. “If I were your brother, I’d become angry enough to kill someone.”

  “My brothers trust us,” she argued. “Adam would never have let you come with me if he believed you were a lecher.”

  “Wasn’t lecher the word last week?”

  “Tuesday,” she said. “You aren’t at all lecherous.”

  He shook his head. “You have been properly educated.” He caught himself before he added the thought that her father was going to be very pleased with the effort her brothers had shown.

  He put his shirt flat on his saddle with the hope the air would dry it during the night and sat down on his bedroll. He leaned back against the stone wall and closed his eyes. The stone wasn’t comfortable against his shoulders, but he didn’t mind enough to move.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No, are you?”

  “No.”

  She turned to look at him. “Don’t worry about my brothers getting the wrong idea. Cole’s the only one who will try to make an issue out of our situation, but he’ll have to work at it. He’ll probably hit you. That’s all.”

  “No, he won’t hit me.”

  “He won’t?”

  “I won’t let him. Once was enough.”

  “He might not see it that way.”

  “It won’t matter. I won’t let him hit me.”

  She let out a sigh. “I’m pleased to see you haven’t lost any of your confidence,” she remarked. “Spending the last week on your backside didn’t affect your spirits at all.”

  “I did not spend the last week on my backside.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Let’s talk about something else, shall we?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I just want you to know that Cole is actually the easiest of my brothers to roll over for me. He’s really a very nice person.”

  “I didn’t say he wasn’t nice,” he countered. “You’ve got him wrapped around your little finger, don’t you?”

  “No. He just doesn’t like to see me unhappy. If he can take my side, he will.”

  He thought his interpretation was more accurate. “Was it difficult for you growing up without a father and mother?”

  “I have a mother,” she replied. “Mama Rose.”

  “Why doesn’t she live with you and your brothers?”

  “She can’t . . . not yet. She’ll join us as soon as possible.”

  “Do all of your brothers call her Mama?”

  “Yes, they do. Why do you ask?”

  “I just wondered. What about your father?”

  “I don’t have one of those.”

  “Don’t you miss having one?”

  “How could I miss what I’ve never had?”

  Mary Rose decided her blouse was dry enough. She folded it and put it behind her, then went to work on her skirt.

  Harrison watched her every movement. He thought she was an extremely graceful woman, wonderfully feminine and yet very practical. It was a fascinating combination.

  “You’re as unspoiled as your paradise.”

  “I am?”

  “Mama Rose is Adam’s mother, isn’t she?”

  “And mine as well.”

  “But she gave birth to Adam.”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Simple deduction. She lives in, the South. You’ve never seen her, have you?”

  “Not deduction, you guessed,” she countered. “You don’t know where my other brothers came from. They could have lived down South too. No, I haven’t ever seen Mama, but I know her very well. She writes to me at least once a week, sometimes more. She never misses, not once since I started writing to her. During the war, when I was too young to read or write, she did miss sending letters a couple of times. I don’t remember the time, but my brothers were very worried. She survived, of course, just

like we did. When the time is right, she’ll join us.”

  “But the time isn’t right yet.”

  “No.”

  The quickness in her reply told him not to press the issue. He let it go.

  Several minutes passed in companionable silence. He kept thinking about how pretty she looked wearing his shirt.

  She kept thinking about how awful she’d looked wearing her brother’s socks.

  “What are you thinking about, Harrison?”

  “How pretty you look.”

  She laughed. “You’ve been away from the city too long if you think I look pretty tonight. My hair’s a mess and I’m wearing a man’s shirt, for heaven’s sake.”

  You’re wearing my shirt, he silently corrected. And that made all the difference in the world to him. Seeing her in his favorite, worn-out shirt made him feel extremely possessive toward her. Everything about her aroused him. He wanted to protect her from harm, comfort her, hold her, love her. And in his heart, he wanted the same from her.

  Harrison tried to think about his life back in England. Nothing about his daily routine appealed to him now, however. How cold and empty his life had been. Until he had come to Montana, he hadn’t known what it was like to feel alive. He had always felt as though he were standing on the outside of life, looking in. He observed. Hadn’t Mary Rose used just that word to describe him? He wondered if she had any idea how accurate her evaluation was.

  “Now what are you thinking about? You look worried. Are you?”

  “No.”

  “I was bemoaning the fact that I wore such a heavy skirt. It’s taking forever to dry. Now it’s your turn to tell me what you were thinking about. I shall only hope your thoughts weren’t nearly as boring.”

  “You were thinking about practical matters. I wasn’t. I was thinking about my life back in England.”

  “Don’t you mean to say Scotland?”

  “All my work is in England. I have a town house in London. I rarely have enough time to go back to the Highlands.”

  “Because of all of your work?”

  “Yes.”

  “You miss the Highlands though, don’t you?”

  “I miss what it represents.”

  “What is that?”