The Texan. Carolyn Davidson

it was the beating of her heart and the quickening within her body that made her aware of his presence. She stepped back from the glass and bent to peer through the lower half of the window, where the screen kept night bugs from her room yet allowed soft breezes to enter.

      The man watching lifted his hand in a salute of greeting, or perhaps a gesture willing her to come to him, then tucked it neatly in his trouser’s pocket. And waited.

      She turned to the bed, snatching her wrapper and sliding her arms into the sleeves. He’d seen her, beckoned her with his uplifted palm, and her head swam with the knowledge that he’d come to her. No matter his reason. Whatever the cost, she ached for his presence, for the sound of his voice, for the touch of his hand. Her feet were silent on the steps as she flew down the curving staircase to the front door.

      It closed without a sound behind her, and she stood at the edge of the porch as he approached. She leaned heavily against the upright post beside her, and his name was a whisper on her lips. “Cleary?”

      He stood below her, as if to approach nearer would be a blemish on her reputation. One hand lifted his hat and held it against his thigh, and still he watched her, silent and sober in the shadows. And then he spoke, the words quiet in the night, touching her heart like the song of a nightingale.

      “I needed to see you.” Music to her ears, the message he sent vibrated through her mind. I needed to see you.

      Her reply seemed prosaic, witless and drab, yet she could not speak above a whisper, in a breathless, timid voice. “Whatever for, Mr. Cleary?” She should have called him Jonathan, she thought, ruing her formality. He’d have lifted a brow and smiled at her with delight and…

      “I missed you,” he said after a moment. His hat moved as he touched it against his leg and then shifted it in his hand. “I wasn’t sure you’d see me out there. Or that you’d come down to speak with me.”

      She yearned to ask where he’d been. Wanted desperately to wonder aloud at the occupation that sent him hither and yon without notice, needed to hear an explanation for his absence. But mostly she ached to greet him warmly, and only the essential dignity she possessed forbade her to extend a hand and allow him the steps to where she stood, perhaps sit beside her on the swing that hung in the shadows at the end of the porch.

      “We’ve missed you, too.” It was a pale imitation of what her heart yearned to speak. But it would suffice, she decided, deliberately including the other occupants of this house in her words.

      “We?” he asked. “And you, Miss Augusta. Did you miss me most of all?”

      She saw a smile touch his lips, noted the lowering of his eyelids until only a faint gleam revealed his attention focused on her. The moon touched his hair with silver and the stars attended his smile, bringing to light the white, straight edges of his teeth. He was all male, powerful in his masculine beauty, and she sensed the disintegration of her defenses, if, indeed, she’d ever possessed any where this man was concerned.

      “Yes.” It was a single word, spoken quietly, accompanied by a small nod that reminded her of her dishabille, her hair falling past her shoulders to wave against her back. She’d taken the pins out, then shaken her head to loosen the locks. Now they tumbled where they would and she was stricken with embarrassment.

      A lady did not allow her hair to be seen by a gentleman in such a manner. A fact her mother had dutifully listed, along with several other such rules, all of them written in stone. There were some things a lady definitely did not do.

      Augusta feared that one of them surely included standing in the dark with only her nightwear on while a gentleman watched with knowing eyes. Especially when that gentleman had the ability to stir the lady’s emotions with only a look or touch.

      Cleary’s smile held a hint of satisfaction as he heard her soft admission. Yes. The single word hung between them and he inhaled swiftly.

      “I’ll be here tomorrow,” he said. “Do you have a number of things for me to do?”

      She shook her head. “None that I can think of right now.” Her mind was blank, all but his image before her having faded to oblivion.

      “I’ll come anyway,” he promised. “There’s nothing in my cupboard for breakfast. Perhaps Bertha will allow me to join you.”

      “I’m sure,” she whispered.

      He stretched out his hand, his palm open to the moonlight, and her gaze flew to rest there, where she knew calluses hardened the skin. “Step down here with me, Gussie,” he said quietly. Her hand twitched at her side and she doubled her fingers into a fist. Yet it would not obey her command, not even when she forced it into her pocket and clutched at the fabric there.

      It trembled in her pocket, her fingertips tingling as she considered resting them on that open palm. “Why don’t you step up here?” she countered, her head tilting to one side.

      As if he had been waiting for the words of invitation, he lifted a foot to the porch, touching the upright post for balance, and, eschewing the stairs, stood before her. She backed from him with haste, but he was immobile, only the rise and fall of his shirt with each breath he drew marring the statue he became.

      “You really missed me?” he asked, his voice taking on a husky note that stirred her heart into a more rapid pace.

      “Yes.”

      “Then show me.”