She gave a little sniff, and Clay wiped the line of the tear away with the curve of his finger, offering her a small smile. “Silly girl,” he said softly. “What's not to love?"

  Her lower lip trembled and then she buried her head in the crook of his neck. She didn't seem to be crying, merely leaning on him for support. And he was more than happy to hold her as long as she needed.

  He wrapped his arms around her slim waist, settling her more securely in the dip of his lap.

  It occurred to him suddenly that maybe Regan's real fear, her real bewilderment over James's feelings for her weren't about how a fifty-year-old man could love a young girl he met in an upscale bordello, but about her own feelings of inadequacy. That thought jarred him right out of his boots.

  "Regan. Sweetheart.” He pushed her shoulders back until she'd straightened a bit, then cupped her face in both of his broad hands. “You're not sitting here thinking you weren't worthy of James's love, are you?"

  Before the words were even out of his mouth, her eyes brimmed again and damp trails streaked down her flushed cheeks.

  "Oh, darlin'. You poor thing.” He wiped the tears away, but a second later new ones formed, so he settled for kissing her nose instead. “All this time, you've felt bad for the fact that James loved you and you didn't love him back in the same way, haven't you? And that you didn't really deserve his time or money or affections."

  She nodded and he could see the guilt tearing her apart.

  "Well, I want you to stop it. Right now."

  She blinked in surprise, but his order had the immediate effect of halting her tears, which had been half his intent, anyway.

  "Let me tell you something about men, sweetheart. And you may want to write this down because I am one, and that makes me pretty much an authority on the subject. Got it?"

  She inclined her head slightly, waiting for the rest of his disclosure.

  "Most men have no intention of ever chaining themselves to only one woman. They're just not the marrying kind. Those men who do end up tying the knot usually do it for one of three reasons.” He flashed her a secretive grin. “Would you like to know what they are?"

  "Please.” Her voice was rusty from her crying jag, but he had all of her attention.

  "Necessity, sex, or love."

  Her chin dipped and she cast her eyes downward at his candid pronouncement.

  "Now, that first one can cover a lot of things. A man will marry a woman—maybe a wealthy widow like yourself,” he suggested with a playful wink as she peered back up at him, “for her money. Either to pay off his debts, or to live a fancier lifestyle. It doesn't much matter. He could also want children. Or he might just want someone to fix his meals and darn his socks. That's the necessity part.

  "The sex part is pretty self-explanatory.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and gave her waist a squeeze. “But since you can walk into any saloon in just about any town in Texas and get as much of that as you want, for only a few silver coins, most men don't go so far as to marry just to have a piece of feminine flesh in their beds."

  The blush in Regan's cheeks deepened, but she didn't interrupt him.

  "Which brings me to love.” Her eyes were wide, waiting for the rest. “When a man is in love with a woman ... well, there's really no hope for him. He'll be all cow-eyed, with his tongue lolling out, tripping over his own feet to bring her flowers and baubles and doing anything to see her smile. It's a disgrace, if you ask me,” he added with a comic expression and earned a watery chuckle from the fairy-like goddess in his lap.

  "James loved you, Regan, and you shouldn't doubt his motives for that. It's obvious he didn't marry you for money because he was plenty rich on his own. And I don't think he married you to cook or keep house for him, or to care for his mother when she started to go downhill because he could easily afford to hire someone to do all those things.

  "Now, I would be more than willing to believe he'd married you for your body—there are any number of things I'd do to get you out of your frills and lace—except that he met you in a brothel. So we can assume he knew where to go to scratch that sort of itch. That leaves one last possibility,” he trailed off, hoping by now that she'd gotten his point loud and clear.

  And she had. “Love."

  "Love,” he agreed. “And something tells me that if James chose to love you, then you were completely worthy of those feelings. James was, after all, his mother's son. Can you imagine Aunt Martha raising a boy into manhood who didn't know his own mind?"

  The muscles of Regan's diaphragm constricted at Clay's words and the sudden realization that he spoke the truth. For so many years, she'd felt like an imposter, playing at being a distinguished gentleman's wife. But now she saw that Clay was right. Whatever his reasons, James had chosen her as his bride, and he'd loved her enough to give her a good life, a fine home, and a large enough inheritance to keep her and his mother comfortable for the rest of their lives.

  For the first time, she was able to accept without reservation all that had been between her and her late husband.

  The only problem now was that she felt a small twinge of guilt over having doubted James's affections all these years. But it was a pinprick compared to the boulder that had rolled around in her belly before.

  "I take it back,” she said, stroking a hand down Clay's strong-boned, stubbled cheek, relishing the bristly feel of his tanned skin against her palm. “You're not a jackass at all. You're a wonderful, caring man."

  "I made the right decision, then?” he wanted to know. “I picked ‘sweetness and flattery.’”

  With a laugh, she pressed her lips against the inviting velvet swells of his own. “A fine choice, indeed.” She followed the trail of her mouth with her thumb, taking the time to study every nuance of his handsome, superbly masculine features.

  Opening his mouth, he nipped the pad of her thumb between his straight white teeth. “I'd still like to manhandle you once in a while ... you know, if you were agreeable to the idea."

  Using only the very tips of her fingers, she explored his shadowed jaw, the corded muscles of his neck, the adorable curves of his ears. She was like a lover of fine art, studying the lines and angles of a magnificent marble statue. A sculptor contemplating an unmolded block of clay.

  "I think that could be arranged,” she murmured.

  His hands were at her breasts now, his wide palms cupping the heavy mounds, his thumbs drifting over the region of her nipples, making her tingle and shift restlessly on his lap.

  "Clay?"

  "Hmmm?” He was already kissing the dip of her chin, dragging his lips all around her mouth before narrowing in at the corners.

  "How about now?"

  His head snapped back so fast, she expected to see it wobble like a top.

  "What did you say?"

  She smiled at the shock in his stormy gray eyes. “I thought you might like to try that manhandling thing on me now."

  His lashes narrowed. “Do you mean what I think you mean?"

  "Would you like me to say it more plainly?” she asked sweetly.

  "I think that might be a smart idea,” he said, nostrils flaring like a stallion on the scent of a mare.

  She tangled her fingers into his hair and leveled her gaze on his. “Clay?"

  "Hmmm?"

  "Will you make love to me?"

  Chapter Twenty-two

  "Every day of the week and twice on Sunday,” he replied staunchly. But inside, he was shouting, Thank you, God!

  He'd been patient, he thought. Pretty damn patient. But he wanted Regan more than he wanted his next breath. And knowing she wanted him, too ... It was like a kick to the gut, hobbling him and making him too weak to speak.

  So instead, he wrapped one hand around the nape of her neck, placed the other at the small of her back, and leaned forward with her in his arms until she was lying on the leafy ground and he hovered above her.

  Her fingers played with the ends of his hair as he settled half on, half off her, trailing light kisses over her cheeks, along her jaw, on her eyelids. He wanted to touch every inch of her all at once.

  Moving to the tiny, pearl-like black buttons at the front of her gown, he began to loosen them one by one. As the ebony folds of her dress fell open, the pale white of her skin became visible. Alabaster perfection, with freckles sprinkled like cinnamon across her chest and the upper swells of her breasts.

  He continued to free buttons all the way down to her stomach, and lifted his head at the sight of fancy lace running in a line across her chest. She wore a sinfully red corset with hand-stitched embroidery on the satin fabric and black lace bordering. Bones, also accented in black, pulled her waist into an hourglass shape.

  She didn't need the figure-changer and Clay was confident she knew it. Chances were, she was wearing the thing for fashion only. Or because she liked the sexy feel of the sheer material against her bare skin. His Regan, he was coming to realize, liked fancy underthings. She might look like a proper young widow on the outside, but beneath all that black taffeta and tulle beat the heart of a wanton woman.

  Which was more than fine with him. Just seeing the scarlet satin and lace spread over her porcelain flesh made him want to say a year's worth of Hail Marys.

  A row of tiny hook-and-eye clasps fastened up the front of the contraption and her breasts rested in tightly sewn cups of unboned material topped with narrow, frilly strips of black lace.

  "This could pose a problem, sweetheart."

  Regan lowered her gaze to where he fingered the edges of the upper lacing and ran his thumbs over the prominent corset stays.

  "I don't think I can wait long enough to undo all these hooks. But I sure would like to see these lovely baubles of yours."

  "Baubles?” She tossed him a shy grin. “I'm sure we'll think of something,” she told him with feminine promise. “In the meantime, do you think you could take off your gunbelt? It's digging into my thigh."

  He shifted over the layers of her skirts and reached between them to open the buckle of his gunbelt and set the Colts aside as Regan worked the clasps down her front. When Clay raised his head, it was to see the ripe globes of her breasts spilling over the top of her loosened corset.

  He groaned low in his throat and started to tug at his vest and shirt and trousers. “Keep it up, green eyes, and this will be over before it's begun."

  She batted her lashes beguilingly. “I don't mind."

  "Well, I sure as hell do,” he returned with a strained chuckle. But he had his doubts, he had to admit. “We already have to make allowances for using the forest floor as a bed. I can't strip you naked and look at you for about an hour and a half the way I'd like."

  She averted her gaze and flushed to the tips of her exposed areolas.

  "Oh, no, you don't.” He turned her head back until she faced him. “This was your idea. Not that I'm complaining, mind you,” he added hastily, “but there's no room for shyness or embarrassment. All right?"

  He suspected she still felt a bit timid, but she met his eyes and nodded.

  "Since this is bound to be awkward—not being able to take our clothes off and all—I have a suggestion."

  She eyed him cautiously. “Yes?"

  "Remember what we were doing behind the Up-dikes’ barn?"

  One brow arched disdainfully over an emerald orb.

  "All right,” he modified. “Remember what I tricked you into doing behind the Updikes’ barn?"

  Her lips curved in an impudent smile. “I seem to have some recollection of the incident."

  He snorted. “Then maybe you recall that I had your skirt up around your waist.” With his hands under the low hem of her long gown, he started to slowly slide the layered material up the line of her black-stockinged legs. Revealing the high, worn leather of her walking shoes, the tapered column of her muscled calves, her delicate knees. And just above those knees ... ?

  He let out a guttural moan. “Lord have mercy, woman. You're going to be the death of me."

  Just above the curve of her knees were two crimson, lace-covered, completely erotic garters tied about the tops of her silken stockings.

  "I can't tell you how grateful I am that you wear these first-class dainties for me."

  "What makes you think they're for you?"

  One brow cocked upwards while the other narrowed. “Have you been meeting someone else inside or behind barns that I don't know about?"

  "Perhaps,” she answered, and he could see the teasing glint in her eyes.

  "Well, you just let me know the next time you have one of these assignations set up, all right?"

  "Why?"

  He kissed the tip of her chin, sucking the soft skin into his mouth before saying, “'Cause I'm pretty handy with a revolver and rifle a like, and I'd like to put a bullet smack in the middle of the bastard's forehead."

  "My, aren't we the territorial type."

  "Damn straight. I'm not sharing these with anyone.” He gave her garter a little snap and she yelped in surprise.

  Arching her spine, she pressed her naked breasts into his equally bare chest and nipped at his chin. “What are you going to do now that you have my skirt hiked up to my bottom?"

  "How about this?” he asked, and flipped her from her back to her knees, crouching above him. Just like they'd been behind the barn not an hour before.

  Only this time, she wasn't going to put a stop to their lovemaking, Clay was sure. If she tried, he'd kiss her mindless and convince her this was exactly where she wanted to be.

  But he didn't think he'd have to do any convincing at all, given the way Regan squirmed on his lap while she moved her voluminous skirts aside. Her motions bared his torso to her questing hands and she quickly began to undo the front of his trousers.

  Clay sucked in a lungful of pine-tinged air as her nimble fingers dipped beneath his waistband to touch bare flesh, then popped the buttons all the way down the crotch of his pants. He bit his tongue to keep from groaning her name, afraid that if he made a sound, she might be startled into stopping. He liked this new, forward-acting Regan, he just wasn't sure he could survive the onslaught of her strokes and touches.

  She tugged at the top fit his pants and he lifted off the ground a bit to aid her in getting the bulky material past his hips. Then she tucked back the edges of the fly, exposing his aroused member. It stood at full attention, awaiting her tender ministrations, but instead she ignored his throbbing need and raised her head to meet his eyes.

  She licked her lips and her nails dug nervously into the nude flesh of his waist, which was breaking out in goosebumps. “You may have to help me with this next part,” she admitted in a wavering voice. “I've never done this sort of thing before."

  "You've never been on top?” he asked, finding it hard to believe that her late husband had never taken advantage of her innate sensuality in even this most basic of manners.

  She shook her head and looked bashfully away.

  "Hey.” He brought her face back to his. “There's nothing to be sheepish about. We'll go slow.” He fixed her with a knowing grin. “And when we're finished, you'll wonder how you survived all these years without making love this way."

  She didn't look completely convinced, but she let him lift her skirts even higher about her waist.

  "First, you have to take off your drawers,” he told her, holding her skirts out of the way as she wiggled and swayed to remove the slinky crimson garment. “Now, scootch forward. You're going to lower yourself onto me, okay?"

  Her eyes widened at his command, and he chuckled. “It's no different from what we did in the barn the other night, sweetheart, except that you're in control this time. Put your hands on my chest, if you want, or lift yourself with your knees and wrap a hand around me to guide me inside."

  The cords of her throat convulsed at his frank statement, but he could see her becoming more sure of herself, more at ease with the notion of retaining a dominant position.

  "It's all right, sweetheart. Anyone who wears purple drawers and scarlet garters surely has the guts to take an active role in lovemaking. Don't you?"

  She swallowed again and then gave a determined nod. Rising up on her knees, she took hold of his manhood—a little too tightly, but he tried not to wince for fear of scaring her off—and aimed it at the very center of her femininity.

  He watched that dark, iron-hard part of himself disappear into the moist, copper-curled nest between her legs and let out a strangled sigh.

  "Are you all right?” she asked, biting down on her own lower lip.

  "Any better and I'd be greeting Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates,” he gritted out.

  Her own breath snagged as she tried to inhale. “What now?” she asked.

  As though he had a thought in his head at this point. His fingers bit into her hips as he fought to keep from ramming himself upwards to completion. “That's up to you, darlin'. Do you want to just sit there, or do you want to move?” Move! Move! his body screamed.

  She leaned forward a bit, flattening her palms on his bare chest, then curling and uncurling her nails like gentle talons. “I think ... I want to..."

  She shifted slightly and his eyes rolled like musket balls in their sockets.

  "Move,” she finished.

  Clay locked his knees, clenched his teeth, and tried not to squeeze her hips too tightly. “Okay. Whenever you're ready,” he grated, praying for endurance like he'd never prayed before. “Go at your own pace. You're in charge here."

  "I'm in charge, huh?” The breath hissed from her lungs, the only sign she was in nearly the same agitated state as he was.

  "God, yes. I'm at your mercy.” Lord, was he ever.

  One side of her mouth quirked up in a grin, but her breath came in short little puffs. “I think I like that."

  "Then you might want to, um...” He didn't want to rush her, but if his easy-spoken hint didn't spur her on, he thought he might explode in the next second or two and be worthless to her for the rest of the afternoon.