She craned her neck, seeking his gaze. “Those folks in the castle… They ain’t gonna shoot us, are they? Sneakin’ up on ’em in the dark like this and all?”
“No.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Well, maybe me. They’d be foolish to shoot at you.” He dropped a wink into warm-cognac eyes. “You’d shoot back.”
After catching a deep draught of the spring morning wrapping him like a shield, he nudged Saber from the shelter of the oaks. “It’s late. Let’s see if we can sneak into the barn for the night. I’ll face my family in the morning.”
As they wound through the field to the back of the barn, out of sight of Dumont’s westward windows, apprehension coiled in Ben’s gut. Hounds bayed on the far side of the house, but not even a cricket chirped anywhere else. No horses in the paddocks. No hogs in the pen. The bunkhouse sat dark and silent. The hair on the back of his neck prickled.
He lowered his head and murmured in Maggie’s ear. “Stay close.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Maybe nothing. It’s too quiet.” He stepped from the saddle and lifted her down.
No sooner had her feet touched the earth than a command struck Ben’s back dead-center. “Hold it right there.”
Maggie matched his jump. He flung a hand above his shoulder, fingers spread. “Don’t shoot, Amon. It’s me.”
Chapter Seven
“Ben?”
The breathless shock in his brother’s voice sent Ben’s raised hand in a measured, deliberate slide to his hat. He pulled off the slouch. Maggie inched toward the shotgun in a saddle scabbard. Locking her gaze, he mouthed a firm “no” before executing a slow about-face.
Amon stood frozen, pallid beneath his tan. Expression carefully blank, he trained a Walker Colt on Ben’s midsection.
Ben licked dry lips and returned his brother’s noncommittal stare.
Two halting steps brought Amon nearer, blinking in skeptical disbelief. A narrowed gaze passed from Ben’s boots up his cavalry trousers, across the frayed shell jacket, and finally back to his face.
Amon’s lips twitched as though afraid to smile, but a light kindled in his eyes. The Colt slid into a holster.
Ben realized he’d been holding his breath only when his brother collided with him and knocked the wind from his lungs in a rush. Amon latched him in a hug tight enough to crack ribs.
“You’re alive.”
The strangled whisper cut straight to Ben’s heart. Jaws tight, eyes jammed shut, he clutched his brother’s back. “So are you.”
****
Maggie gathered her hair over one shoulder. Imagine such a thing: a bath in a porcelain tub inside the house. She was so clean her skin squeaked. So did her hair, which might remain forever tangled. Grasping the locks in one hand and a brush in the other, she tore at the snarled ends.
Everything here was so grand, so pretty, so…big. This bedroom could swallow the whole cabin. How did folks live in a place this size without getting lost? At least here on the window seat with the draperies pulled close, she felt a touch cozy—if small.
And out of place.
She fingered the tiny flowers embroidered along the neckline of the silk nightdress. Amon’s wife had been kind to lend her the garment. Never had she worn anything so soft or so fancy. The gown didn’t quite fit…but then, neither did she.
A quiet knock popped her to her feet.
“Maggie, may I come in?”
Ben. The one familiar thing in the castle. She hurried to the door, leaned into the panel, and whispered. “I ain’t decent.”
“Good.”
Eyes sparkling with silent laughter, he slipped through a crack between the door and the frame. Lord, the man was a sight in real clothes. The dark woolen trousers and the crisp linen shirt open halfway down his chest hung a mite loose on his tall, lanky frame, but he wore them well. The clothing and he suited one another, as comfortable together as old friends.
Strong arms drew her into a vague fragrance of cloves—spicy, clean, but not Ben. The heartbeat was his, though. Powerful yet soothing. A river of peace beneath her ear.
She raised her face, beckoning a kiss. Ben’s lips teased with a promise. His taste, his intensity…those were Ben’s, too. The brush dropped from the hand she wound up and around his neck.
When his fingers snagged in her hair, he pulled back. He stooped to retrieve the brush. Then he turned her to face a three-panel mirror.
Short, gentle strokes worked their way upward from the small of her back, raising gooseflesh along their path. Her untamed hair gentled under his touch. In the mirror, three women trembled so hard, Maggie feared the glass would shatter. The three men, dark-eyed and hungry, set aside the brush and wrapped the women in possessive embraces.
When Ben lowered his head and nibbled the junction of her shoulder and neck, she closed her eyes. One of him scrambled her senses. She’d never survive three.
Between nips, his whisper caressed the skin below her ear. “You didn’t tell me there were ten.”