He caught her close, her palms lifting to press against his chest, her lower body forming to his with only a few layers of fabric between them. Taking the weight of her easily, he held her, until the heat of his body reached her, permeating her very flesh.
It was an embrace she had not expected. But the warmth of him was tempting, and she leaned against him, her eyes closing.
She'd lied. Her fingers clutched his shirt as she admitted the truth to herself. There was no fear in her heart for this man. Only a yearning to know his touch, his warmth.
"I won't hurt you, Johanna." His words were solemn, a vow, breathed against her forehead.
And then, as if in a dream, Johanna heard those same words repeated, in another voice, guttural, almost forgotten.
Thus Joseph Brittles had pleaded with her that night ten years ago, begged and coaxed her with his promises, until she gave in to his soft entreaties.
"Johanna?" Tate's mouth was pressed against her flesh, moving to her cheek, his lips open, his breath warm and coffee-scented.
With a shuddering breath, she turned her face from his seeking, and his mouth touched her ear. A shiver she could not suppress traveled from her body to his, and Tate laughed, a low chuckle that vibrated against her breasts. One hand rose to clasp her chin, and he turned her to face him once more.
She caught only a glimpse of his face, the ragged scar no longer a forbidding sight, as she sensed his gentleness.
And then his mouth touched hers, covering and warming her with soft, murmuring kisses. He spoke words against her flesh-broken, breathless sounds she could not comprehend. Johanna knew only a sense of wondering pleasure at the careful tasting of her, the gentle pressure of his lips against hers, the bold edge of his tongue that teased one side of her mouth and swept carefully across the surface of her lower lip to seek the other corner.
"Are you still frightened of me?" Tate asked, his mouth brushing hers as he spoke.
"No." The whispering admission was uttered on a shuddering breath, and he smiled at her honesty. Once more his mouth sought her smooth flesh, his lips opening against her cheek. He inhaled her scent, his groan of pleasure a low, urgent sound against her skin. Murmuring her name, he tasted her, the tip of his tongue brushing her silken flesh.
"Tate?" The whispered entreaty reached his ears, and he nuzzled her throat. Her head turned to one side, her neck seemingly unable to hold it erect. He grunted his satisfaction, and his lips moved to the curve of her jaw, then to where her pulse beat beneath the soft flesh of her throat.
"Johanna? Now do I frighten you?" As though he knew better, his words were laced with satisfaction.
"Yesss … " Once more, she lied, and fought the tears that surged within her, struggling with the untruth she uttered.
It was not what he had expected to hear. His arms loosened from their hold about her body, his head lifting, his mouth releasing the faint suction he'd held.
Johanna forced strength into her neck muscles, mourning the loss of his warmth, the comforting touch of his arms and hands, the muscular length of his body pressed against her softer parts. And in the mourning admitted to herself that she could never have what Tate Montgomery was offering her.
That he would be kind, she did not doubt. That his hands would woo her tenderly, she was most assured. That he would be expecting a virgin in his bed, she was certain.
And Johanna was not a virgin. Not even close. The thought of Tate Montgomery's scorn was more than she could face, and she held her eyes tightly closed against the brimming tears.
She had sealed her own fate on that night ten years ago. Jezebel, her father had called her. Perhaps that was the least of what Tate would label her if he knew the truth.
"Go, Johanna. Go to bed." His arms fell from around her, and she stepped back, blinking furiously, unwilling to meet his gaze.
Silently she turned from him. Aware of what might have been, woefully admitting to herself that it could never be, she climbed the stairs to her lonely bed.
Chapter Seven
"Will you drive the wagon for me this morning?" Tate stood in the kitchen doorway, his booted feet bearing traces of mud. "That sprinkle last night was just a teaser. We've got a storm coming, and that hay has to be under cover or we're going to lose it."
Johanna turned, wiping her hands hastily on the front of her apron. "Just let me change my shoes and get my shawl."
"Better wear your heavy coat, Johanna. The wind's pretty chilly this morning. Once the sun's out full, it won't be so bad." He watched as she bent to retrieve her outdoor boots from near the door, his gaze lingering on the lush curve of her hips. She'd whack him a good one if she knew he was taking advantage of the view she presented.
It was the first moment of humor he'd enjoyed since the failure of their encounter last evening. He'd spent a miserable night, aware that he'd overstepped his self-imposed boundaries, knowing full well the havoc he'd wreaked.
The kiss had been an impulse on his part. And once his hands contained her warmth, he'd been on a landslide to discovery. Only the knowledge of her innocence had kept him from carrying her to his room. She deserved better than an impromptu bedding, this prickly virgin he'd married. And as wary as she was of him this morning, he'd probably best figure on months of solitude in that big bedroom.
He'd told her to start with that he wouldn't expect her to come to his bed, but that had been before he was exposed to her on a daily basis. Now he'd like to draw up a new bargain. Hell, he'd like to go back and redo the whole thing, from the word go.
Johanna Montgomery was a woman any man would desire, once he'd taken more than a cursory glance. Once he'd looked beyond the sharp tongue, to the quick wit that fed it. Once he'd grown to recognize the lonely woman, who was about as needy as any female he'd ever known. And needy didn't even begin describing his situation after last night. That Johanna hadn't brought it up this morning was a wonder.
She was ready. While he stood there gaping, she'd tied her boots and gathered up her heavy coat. Tate stepped back, holding the screen door open for her, then pulled the inside door shut behind them.
From her pockets, Johanna drew woolen mittens and tugged them on, tucking them inside her coat sleeves. She lifted her head, inhaling the morning air. "It's going to warm up before long," she predicted. "Where'd you get the mud, Tate? The yard's pretty well dried up."
He glanced down at his boots. "The wagon was in that low spot behind the barn. I had to hitch the horses up back there to haul it out. The field's pretty near dry, though. It shouldn't take us too long."
Rounding the corner of the barn, he turned to grin at her. "We'll put Pete on top to stomp down the pile as we go. He gets a big kick out of helping."
To Johanna's way of thinking, Pete hadn't gotten a big kick out of anything lately. He'd been subdued since yesterday afternoon, after the incident with the straw, and his smiles were few and far between anyway, as far as she could tell. Timmy, on the other hand, had behaved as usual, warming up to her without hesitation, even allowing her to help with tying his shoes and buttoning his coat.
"Where is Timmy?" Lifting her hand to shade her eyes, Johanna looked across the small meadow toward the orchard, then to the pasture behind the barn. "I haven't seen him since breakfast."
"He was playing in the haymow while I cleaned the stalls. I had him toss hay down to me for the cows a while ago. I suspect he's still up there."
"Will he ride on the wagon with me?" she asked. The thought of that small body pressed next to hers as they made the rounds of the hay field was an appealing one.
"Sure. It'll be a good place for him. Keep him out of the way."
Tate whistled a warbling three-note call and smiled once more at her. The second time he'd allowed that slow grin to slide into place in the past five minutes, she noted. The same grin he'd delivered last night, before he kissed her. She ducked her head at the remembrance.
"You callin' me, Pa?" From overhead, the small, shrill voice answered, and Johanna blinked, looking up quickly to where Timmy's head peeked over the edge of the window in the haymow.
"Hey, Miss Johanna, guess what?" he called, spying the woman below. "I found that old barn cat back in the corner, and he's got babies back there. Three of 'em."
"He has, has he?" Her laughter was spontaneous, Tate's own following as they digested the child's announcement. "They must be brand-new, Timmy," she said, tilting her head back to see him. "Tabby was still pretty round last night."