Nora. Diana Palmer
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even when he was challenged. His voice became softer in anger, in fact, and his eyes took on a glitter like sharp-edged steel in sunlight. But whenever he saw Nora, his firm mouth tugged into a smile, and he looked oblivious to everything except her.
“Nice day, Miss Marlowe,” he commented as he passed her on his way to the stable, his lean fingers holding a pair of stained work gloves. He glanced at her neat lacy little gloves. She was just pulling them off, because she and Melly had only returned from town. “How dainty you are,” he mused. “And always so fastidious.” His silver eyes wandered down her body in the high-necked middy blouse and flaring dark skirt that reached to her high button-topped shoes. The intensity of his interest was disturbing. It made her knees weak. “You make my breath catch,” he added softly.
She was drowning in his deep, soft voice, in the eyes that held hers so hungrily.
“Please, sir, this is not proper,” she faltered.
He moved closer step by step, aware that they were in a very public place in the middle of the yard. He stopped just in front of her and smiled slowly, slapping the gloves absently into the palm of one hand. “What is not proper?” he asked gently. “Is a man not allowed to tell a woman how sweet she looks in her lacy finery?”
She swallowed. She had to look up a long way to see his face. It was hard to remember that she was supposed to be a sophisticated, traveled intellectual when her heart was trying to crawl up into her throat.
“Your attentions could be…misconstrued,” she said.
He lifted an eyebrow. “By someone else? Or by you?” He reached out and traced a loose strand of her hair, making incredible sensations along her nerves. His voice dropped in pitch, softened. “I find you fascinating, Miss Marlowe. An orchid barely in bloom.”
Her lips parted. No one had ever said such things to her before. She was enthralled by his deep voice, by the look in his eyes, his presence. The odors of horse and leather and cigar smoke that clung to him were not even noticeable in her state of excitement. Helplessly her blue eyes went from his deep-set eyes to his straight nose and high cheekbones and down to the wide, thin lines of his firm mouth. The lower lip was a little thicker, almost square, as if it had been chiseled out of stone. She felt her pulse quicken as she wondered shamefully how it would feel to kiss him.
He saw that speculative look, and he smiled. “You are very quiet, Miss Marlowe. Have you no scathing comment to make about the condition of my clothes?”
“What?” She sounded, looked, dazed, as her eyes were forced back up to his by the question.
He bent toward her, so that his eyes filled the world, so that under the wide brim of his hat, she could feel his warm breath right on her lips.
“I said,” he said softly, “do you not find me offensive at such close range?”
She shook her head in a helpless little gesture. She could feel his strength, like a rock, in front of her. She wanted to lean forward and press her breasts into his chest. She wanted to drag his hard mouth down over her lips and kiss him until her knees gave way. Other, shocking, images flashed through her mind, and she gasped.
His lean hand came to her cheek and his thumb pressed suddenly, hard over her mouth, bruising the soft tissues. His glittery eyes looked straight into hers. “I know what you’re thinking,” he whispered roughly. “Shall I put it into words, or is it enough that I know?”
She was too far gone to register the words at all. His thumb played with her mouth and she let it, standing hypnotized by his gaze, his closeness. He pushed her lips against her teeth in his fervor, and she looked up into his eyes with desire plain in her own. For an instant, time ceased to exist….
She realized quite suddenly what was happening to her, and it was frightening. With a tiny sound, she jerked away from him and ran into the house without a backward glance, her lips still stinging from the tender abrasion of his thumb.
She swept into the house red-faced, met by her amused aunt.
“Mr. Barton is in pursuit again, I presume?” the older woman murmured dryly.
Nora’s eyes were very eloquent, even without her hectic flush. “He is…disturbing.”
“He is the soul of courtesy with women, but never have I seen him so attentive,” her aunt replied softly. “He is a personable young man, and very intelligent, especially about ranch management. Chester could not operate so large a property without his help. He was very somber and businesslike before, but I have to admit that he has changed since you came.” She hesitated then, as if it disturbed her to have to speak when she added, “Of course, there is no question of him becoming a serious suitor, you understand.”
Nora didn’t, at first. She frowned, slightly.
“He is a fine young man, but so far beneath you socially, Nora,” her aunt continued gently. “You must not become involved with a man in such a low social station. Your mother would never forgive me if I did not advise you thus. It is amusing that Mr. Barton finds you irresistible, but he is not suitable in any way as a contender for your hand.”
Nora was shocked. She should have realized how her aunt, as much a descendant of European royalty as her own mother, would feel about Cal Barton paying her so much attention. And they were right. A dirty cowboy was hardly a match for a socialite with a wealthy background.
“Oh, I have no interest in Mr. Barton in that respect,” she said quickly, laughing to cover her shock. “But I have noticed that the cowboys respect him. Mr. Barton has had to calm his men down every night.”
“They are high-strung,” her aunt said with a smile. “And surely you’ve become used to noise in your travels.”
“Not really,” Nora recalled as she stood by the window and gazed out over the flat horizon. “I was protected from anything really upsetting, even from the smells and sounds of camp life. And I was always among relatives of one sort or another.”
“Relatives?” her aunt asked pointedly. “And not suitors?”
Nora sighed, and a slight frown marred her lovely face. “I fear that I am…unusual in that respect. I do not encourage the advances of men, although I like them very well as friends.”
“But, my dear, you are lovely,” she said. “Surely you will want to marry one day, and have children….”
Nora’s face closed up. She turned jerkily. “Melly and I have planned to picnic by the river tomorrow.” She glanced at her aunt. “I have a…fear of rivers, but Melly says that this one is shallow and not very fearful.”
“And she is right,” Aunt Helen said, curious about the wording of Nora’s remark. “It will be pleasant for you both, and as it is near the house, it is quite safe to go there unescorted. The heat and dust are terrible this time of year, but it is cool beside the river. Except for the mosquitoes,” she added with a grimace.
Mosquitoes. Nora felt queasy.
“There, now, the mosquitoes are worst in late afternoon,” her aunt said soothingly. “Do not worry.”
Nora turned and then she knew that her mother had told Aunt Helen everything. It was almost a relief to have someone know the truth. She bit her lower lip. “It frightens me.”
Helen touched her shoulder gently. “You had a bad time of it. But you will be fine here. Do go with Melly and enjoy yourself. It will be all right, my dear, truly it will. Why, doctors are often wrong. You must always keep hope. It is God who decides our fate, not the medical profession. Not always, at least.”
“I should have remembered that. Very well,” she said after a minute, and smiled. “I suppose there are worse things than insects,” she added solemnly as she walked out of the room.
Chapter Three
MELLY HADN’T MENTIONED that the picnic was going to involve other people. It was a church picnic. And it wasn’t going