The Scout's Bride. Kate Kingsley
If he had forgotten their kiss, she was not going to remind him.
Dousing the swab with whiskey, she threw a sidewise glance at him. Jack stared out into the night, seemingly deep in thought. The lamplight burnished his bronzed skin and glinted on the ivory necklace around his neck. The rising wind caused the lantern to flicker, casting shadows across his impassive face.
“I’ve never been much for apologies,” he said at last. “I don’t even like the word sorry, but I apologize if I offended you.”
She dropped her hand, tucking the alcohol-soaked gauze among the folds of her skirt. “I’m willing to make allowances. Besides losing a good deal of blood, you had had too much whiskey and too little sleep. I understand if you were not yourself, as you say.”
“No, ma’am, I don’t usually kiss strange women.” His face was solemn, but his eyes danced with mischief.
“Mr. Bellamy,” she sputtered.
“And if I do kiss them,” he continued with an unrepentant grin, “it’s not like me to forget.”
She stared at him in shock, but an answering glint of humor shone in her eyes. “And I suppose you don’t yank every hapless female you meet off her feet, either?”
“Just you, I’m afraid.” He chuckled.
Attempting to hold onto decorum, she scolded, “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“I should, but it was worth every sore muscle I had the next day.”
“Save your flattery for your red-haired friend from Chamberlain,” she advised tartly.
“You mean Elvira? She’s just a friend.” He smiled charmingly. “Why don’t you call me Jack, if you’re going to be jealous?”
“I’m not jealous.” She was astounded by his presumption.
“I don’t mind jealousy,” he went on as if he had not heard her. “It’s indifference that pains me.”
“You’re about to feel some real pain,” she warned ominously.
He yelped when she applied the alcohol to his arm. Kneeling beside him again, she placed a pad on the wound to cushion the bandage. Her fingertips felt soft and cool against his skin as she wound a length of gauze around his arm, tying it expertly. But she never met his eyes.
“I don’t know what to make of you, Rebecca Emerson,” he murmured, reaching out to cup her chin in his big hand.
“Nor I, of you.” She looked at him at last.
“Then we’re starting even,” he whispered, tracing the line of her lips with his thumb before he bent to kiss her.
Tenderly, his mouth moved over hers, the tip of his tongue exploring the crease between her lips, teasing them to open. When they parted under the merest pressure, he entered, reveling in the warmth and the sweetness of her response.
Rebecca was transfixed by sensation, every aspect of the moment stamped in her mind: the hard floor beneath her; the music carried on the breeze; the moth that batted itself against the lamp chimney; but most of all, Jack’s kiss, setting her afire, with feelings she had never felt before.
Pulling away, she stared up at him with a troubled expression. “I don’t think you should have done that.”
“I know I shouldn’t have,” he answered soberly. Rising, he put on his shirt. What possessed him? He hadn’t intended to kiss her again.
What had she done? Rebecca asked herself, watching him fasten his gun belt. Mama had always said, “If you conduct yourself as a lady, others will treat you as one.” If she were truly a proper lady, she would be outraged by his kiss. If she were truly proper, she would not have kissed him back. If she were proper, she would order him to leave.
Squatting beside her, the man seemed to search for the right words. When he spoke, his apology came as a surprise to both of them. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to go?”
Biting her bottom lip, Rebecca wavered. She knew what she should do, but she blurted, “No, don’t go! I mean…if you promise not to kiss me again, Mr. Bellamy, we’ll say no more about it.”
“I’ll behave myself for the rest of the evening, I promise.” As if to demonstrate his good intentions, he stood and extended a hand to her. “Shall we move back to the front porch?”
Rebecca led the way. Halting on the top step, she stared up at the star-studded sky. “Isn’t it glorious?”
“Even more beautiful than the fireworks will be.” Jack stood close behind her.
Sitting down on the step, she increased the distance between them. “Colonel Quiller is so concerned about fire,” she remarked, “it seems odd he would allow fireworks tonight.”
“Quiller knows what he’s doing.” The man moved down to stand in front of her. “By having one big display, there won’t be so many small ones, so there’s less risk of fire. He also ordered a special fire detail to stand by. I wouldn’t worry, though.” Lifting his head, he sniffed the wind. “I smell rain.”
“I don’t see any thunderheads.” Rebecca smiled when a small gray form materialized out of the darkness and trotted toward them. “I do see my cat, however. At least I think he’s my cat. Messmate only shows up around suppertime.”
“The name fits,” Jack chuckled. “He ate quite well at the barbecue.” His amusement faded when Messmate wound around his ankles. Never overly fond of cats, he sought a graceful escape.
“Listen.” He cocked an ear toward the unseen orchestra. “Strauss. It seems a pity to waste it. Do you waltz?”
“I…I shouldn’t. Thank you,” Rebecca answered after a long silence. She loved to dance, but she did not dare… not only because of what others might say if they saw them, but because she did not know what would happen if he took her in his arms.
Out on the parade ground, dark forms milled around the flagstaff, catching the couple’s attention. Suddenly a skyrocket shot upward and exploded overhead, a splendid, multicolored flare against the velvety black sky. Stepping down beside Jack, Rebecca gazed up at the sight.
He stirred restively as the faint fragrance of roses from her hair wafted to him on the rising breeze. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay with her, alone in the moonlight, without kissing her again. “Why don’t we join the party?” he suggested. “It’s dark. No one will even know we’re there.”
“All right,” she agreed, grateful for a distraction from his nearness.
At the back of the crowd, George Davis glanced toward the new arrivals. His brows lifted in surprise, he greeted them quietly, “Mrs. Emerson, Injun Jack, what a surprise.”
Standing beside the lieutenant, Rebecca spied Flora, seated with the other officers’ wives. Brian hovered behind her, bending frequently to comment in her ear. Colonel Quiller paced at the flagstaff with one eye on the sergeant who lit the fireworks, the other alert for fire in the dry grass. Francis stood nearby, his upturned face illuminated by the pyrotechnics.
“Oooh!” A cry rose from the audience when a brilliant rocket burst overhead. Caught by a sudden gust of wind, the fiery array broke apart, sending ash and cinders to earth in a dozen different places. In an instant, five grass fires had ignited on the ground.
As Jack and George raced to stamp out the fires near them, the crowd scattered in all directions and the bucket brigade sprang to action. Out on the quadrangle, a boy who had lolled in the grass watching the display tossed his quilt to Jack.
Bunching it in his hand, the man beat at the fire, rapidly containing the flames. But, while Rebecca watched, the blaze leapt over itself and set another small patch afire. Hauling her skirt up around her knees, she ran to stamp it out before it spread.
“What are you doing?” Jack roared,