Chapter Twenty-eight

Remington held up three fingers. “Three shots.” He folded two fingers so only his index finger was standing. “One woman.”

“If that is your defense, I believe I understand why you do contracts and not trial law. Who was the woman?”

“Mrs. Tyler.”

“Now you have disappointed me with your very poor lie. That is not her perfume. The scent is too cloying.”

“Molly Tyler,” said Remington. “The daughter-in-law. After we returned from our walk and you went to your room, I went to the gaming parlor and bar for a drink. I told you I wanted to make Jacob Junior’s acquaintance before tomorrow and the arrival of Miss Carolina on Blue’s arm. In the event that he recognizes a—what did his mother call her?”

“Several things,” Phoebe said dryly, “but a ‘bride of the multitude’ stands out in my memory.”

“Yes, there was that. In the event he recognizes a bride of the multitude when he sees one, I did not want him barring her from the hotel before she got as far as the front desk.”

“I recall that was your intention. I also recall that was two hours ago.”

“Yes, well, Junior is as loquacious as his mother, and his wife provided a steady echo of everything he had to say. Neither of them shares Amanda Tyler’s ticklish sense of humor.”

“The moral high ground, I suppose,” she said. “That explains the three whiskeys. What explains the perfume?”

“Molly Tyler might have stumbled into me when I excused myself.”

“Might have?”

“Hmm. I don’t want to think that she tried to hug me, so let’s leave it at that. She has a taste for good whiskey and no head to hold it.”

“I wish I had gone with you.” She closed her eyes. “More hot water, please.”

Remington obliged her, pulling the plug first to let some of the water drain before he added more. When he shut off the tap, he asked, “Are you stubborn enough to sleep there?”

“I might be.”

“All right.” He stood and began to undress.

Phoebe opened one eye the narrowest of fractions. “Are you entertaining the notion of joining me?”

“I am.”

“Hmm.”

Because a murmur was hardly an objection, Remington continued to unbutton his jacket. He hung it on a peg by the door, added his vest, his shirt, and then turned his attention to the belt and fly of his trousers. He was lowering himself to the stool to remove his boots when Phoebe rose abruptly from the tub. She whipped the turban towel off her head and wrapped it around her in a single, fluid motion. Remington stared at her as she tightly secured the towel just above her breasts and carefully stepped out of the tub.

“It’s all yours,” she said.

“But—”

Phoebe pointed to the tub. “Yours,” she repeated. Her comb was lying on the granite-topped sink basin and she walked past Remington to retrieve it. She turned to him as she began working it through her hair. “I don’t care if the woman was Mrs. Tyler Junior or Mrs. Tyler Senior, I am not sharing a bath or a bed with any man who stinks of another woman’s perfume.”

“Oh.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Remington dropped like a stone to the stool and yanked off his boots, his socks, and then pulled his light cotton undershirt over his head. He tossed the shirt at another wall peg, grinning when it hit its mark and hung there. Phoebe, he noticed, was not as impressed with the feat as he was. Her mouth had flattened and she was shaking her head in a mildly reproving fashion. For some reason her withering look deepened his grin.

“Did your father teach you how to do that?” she asked. “I don’t see how. Fiona says he leaves his clothes where he drops them.”

“That was never an option for Ben and me. We had to get them off the floor. Ellie insisted. So we made a game of it.”

Phoebe leaned against the basin as a tangle in her hair thwarted her comb. She held the knot against one palm and carefully used the comb’s teeth to tug at it. “You and Ben are close.”

“Is that a question?”

“No. An observation.” When Remington said nothing, she asked, “Why do you suppose Ellie and Thaddeus never married?”

Remington was standing again, this time on one leg, as he shucked his trousers. He gave them a toss toward the peg, but they missed and slid down the wall. “I used to think they were married,” he said, retrieving the trousers and hanging them up. He dropped his drawers, hooked them on a peg, and walked to the tub with no concern for modesty. He tested the water with his hand before he stepped in it. “She was the housekeeper before my mother died, and she helped us, my father and me, just by being there. I don’t recall that she ever said much.” He shrugged a little, helpless to explain it better, and lowered himself into the water.

“She did all the things my mother did, at least as I understood it then. She cooked and cleaned and washed and mended. She tended the garden. She ate with us, went to church with us, and attended social functions with us. Ben came along. We were family. We still are.” He rested his spine against the back slope of the tub and closed his eyes. “Mostly,” he said quietly. “Differently.”

Phoebe ran the comb through her hair twice more and then plaited it. When she was done, she sat on the stool he had occupied. “How did you come to realize that they weren’t married?”

Remington gave a small start when Phoebe spoke. He hadn’t heard her approach or known she was sitting next to him. He settled back when she touched his shoulder with her fingertips. She said nothing to encourage him to speak; it was in the caress, in the finger sweep that was both casual and deliberate.

“It was the lack of affection, I suppose.” He thought about that, tried to recall what he had seen as a young boy, and shook his head. “That’s not quite right. There was affection, but they did not touch the way my parents did. I never witnessed a hug or a kiss. No fanny pats when one of them slipped past the other. They didn’t share a bedroom, but back then I didn’t fully appreciate why that would have been important. I guess I eventually figured it out because I don’t remember ever asking my father or anyone else. I don’t know what Ben thought when he was growing up; he never said a word, so I imagine he came around to understanding it, too.”

“Did you ever wish Ellie was your mother?”

“She was. Is. It seems an unimportant detail that she is not my father’s wife.”

Phoebe nodded. “Of course.”

“But I think you want to know something else. I think you want to know if I ever wished they had married.”

“And?”

Remington watched her out of the corner of his eye. “Do you really want me to answer the question you couldn’t bring yourself to ask?”

Phoebe’s smiled thinly, regretfully. “You just have. It must have crossed your mind after Thaddeus returned to Twin Star with Fiona.”

Remington reached for Phoebe’s hand resting on his shoulder. He took it, folded it in his palm, and raised it to his lips. He kissed her knuckles. “It crossed my mind,” he told her. “I didn’t dwell on it. There’s a difference.” He gave her back her hand, put the floating bar of soap in it, and gave her a hopeful look.

“You are shameless,” she said. “Lean forward.”

He did. He almost sighed when she began to soap his back. He did close his eyes again. “Is there some reason you’re thinking about this now?”

“I’m only asking about it now. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.”

“You have?”

“Mm. Sometimes I put myself in Ellie’s shoes. Sometimes in Fiona’s.” She cupped a handful of water and sluiced his back. “I can tell you, I prefer my own. I have some sense of place, of belonging. I’m not so certain that either of them does any longer.” She laughed a bit unsteadily, tapped him on the shoulder with the bar of soap. “This is what happens when you leave me soaking in a tub. My waterlogged mind wanders. I can hardly be held responsible.”

Remington recognized Phoebe’s retreat. He let her go. It was easy to do when she manipulated the soap with a magician’s sleight of hand, touching him unexpectedly on the knee, running it up the inside of his upper thigh. She drained some of the water when it cooled and added hot from the tap as he had done for her. He could have slept there, but she had other ideas, and she made them clear when she abandoned the soap and cupped his balls in her slippery palm.

She laughed, low and wicked. “I have your full attention, I think.”

“Maybe,” he said. “And maybe it’s that I have yours.”

She released him, but only after she scored the length of his penis with her thumbnail. “It’s very bold, isn’t it?” she said when it practically jumped out of her hand.

His wry smile mocked her. “I know I’ve referenced the one about the pot and the kettle before, but I’m not certain you understand the gist of it.”

Phoebe’s arm dipped deep into the water near his knee and came up with a washcloth. She tossed it at him, and when he was distracted by the pitch, she planted a bold kiss on his perfect mouth and danced out of his reach before he could pull her in to join him.

She paused at the door, gave him a come-hither glance over one bare shoulder, and simultaneously warned him, “Not a hint of that perfume.” And then she was gone.

Amused, entranced, Remington stared at the door she closed behind her for all of three seconds before he got busy. He scoured with a purpose, dunking his head and lathering his hair, taking the precaution to wash behind his ears in the event there was an inspection, and scrubbing his chest where he thought the generous fragrance of Junior’s tipsy wife might have leaked through his clothes.

When he was finished, he pulled the plug, hoisted himself out of the tub, and searched for a towel. He found two, one he used mostly to dry and then slung around his neck; the other he hitched around his hips. His erection was no longer at a full stand, but neither was he hiding what was behind the curtain. He finger-combed his damp hair without glancing at the mirror and rinsed his mouth with warm water and baking soda paste that Phoebe had left on the basin top. It had to be good enough, he thought, because he could not wait any longer.

• • •

Phoebe was sitting up at the head of the bed when Remington stepped past the threshold. She looked over; saw the damp gleam of water at his throat, on his arms, and across his chest. Beads of water dripped on the floor near his bare feet. Wide runnels separated his thick hair where he had plowed it with his fingers. The towel around his waist was riding low. She could make out the intriguing arrow of dark hair and followed it to where it disappeared under the towel’s edge.

He had not taken much time to dry. That made her smile. He made her smile. It was one of the moments she held close to her heart.

Phoebe patted the space beside her and threw back the covers to make the invitation clear. She watched him approach, watched his easy walk, the way his hips moved and how the towel shifted, threatened to fall but somehow never did. When he sat on the edge of the bed, she stole the towel from around his neck and dried his back and shoulders. She didn’t touch his hair. She liked the furrows and the curls that lay against his nape like thick black commas.

Remington turned his head, found Phoebe’s mouth waiting for him. She kissed him, parting her lips, touching him with the tip of her tongue. He followed where she led him, which was flat on his back with her hovering above him.

She looked down, searched his face, and imagined she could see her reflection in his unfathomable eyes. Her voice was a husky whisper. “What do you think of this mattress?”

“Very fine.”

“I miss our old place.”

That made him laugh. “Uh-huh.”

She nudged the tip of his nose then his lips. She spoke against his mouth. “I am going to be very bold now.”

“Mm. I hope so.”

She was. He made it easy for her. Nothing she did or wanted to do seemed out of the ordinary because he was so comfortable in his own skin. She called on the memory of lying with him at McCauley’s cabin to guide her when she felt herself faltering. She remembered all the ways he had touched her, all the sensations his touch had provoked, and began there, setting her mouth in the curve of his neck and sipping his skin. The branding was still fresh in her mind, and what she did to him there did not seem so very different.

Phoebe told him that when she lifted her head to examine the mark she’d left on his flesh. Between applications of hot branding kisses, he begged her not to castrate him. She showered him with her laughter instead and left him the weaker for it.

Phoebe set her mouth at the corner of his, teased him with the tip of her tongue, and when he responded, she moved on, tracing the line of his jaw and using her teeth to tug on his earlobe. She whispered against his skin, sometimes telling him what he could expect, sometimes giving him direction.

She led the exploration of his chest with her fingertips and followed it with her lips. She laid her palm against his heart, felt the strong steady beat, and the change of that rhythm when her free hand slipped under his towel. Watching him, she delicately walked her fingers up his inner thigh and brushed his thickening erection with her knuckles. She saw it in his face, his need for something more substantial than the fleeting touch of her flesh against his. Lifting her eyebrows, she posed the silent question, and when he nodded, she used her teeth to pluck open his towel and found him with her mouth.