Page 14 of West Wind

CHAPTER FIVE

It had been a long time since Shelley had awakened with the sun in his face. He didn’t remember it being so painful. Shafts of light as sharp as shards of glass penetrated his reluctant eyelids, eliciting a low groan and a fruitless attempt to roll onto his stomach to hide his face from the intrusive sunlight.

Fruitless because someone was using his stomach as a pillow.

He cracked one eye open, slowly and narrowly. All he saw was a mass of dark hair as Annie buried her face against his midsection.

The empty tequila bottle lay on its side close to his right hand. He realized with slowly unfolding wonder that his left hand was buried in Annie’s hair. He didn’t know how she’d come to be there. The last thing he remembered was sitting across from the Widow Brown and making up tasteless limericks while she laughed and lifted the bottle to her lips.

He brushed her tangled hair away from her face; she wrinkled her nose as the sun intruded on her sleep.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s much too early, Pierre.”

She turned her face into his belly and snuggled as if he were a feather pillow, tossing her arms across his body so that her upper arm shielded her face and her fingers brushed the ground. Her hot breath penetrated the thin cotton of his shirt, warming his skin.

He came instantly awake. Pierre? Was that her husband’s name? Pierre Brown? It didn’t seem likely, but anything was possible.

Annie purred like a cat; he lifted her arm so sunlight brushed her face. She chastised him, first in English and then in French.

Complete nonsense came from the mouth that was buried against his stomach. She didn’t want to be forced awake, but he refused to drop her arm.

He watched, his head resting with little comfort on the hard saddle, as Annie twisted her head languidly and drew her knees up, finally lifting her head and realizing, slowly at first and then with a start, where she was.

“Good mornin’, darlin’,” he drawled, determined not to let her realize that he felt horrible.

She pushed herself away from him and sat at his side, both hands covering her face. He raised his eyebrows and for a moment forgot his pain, thanks to the sight of her slender throat and her creamy white breasts threatening to break free from the restraining chemise. Her skirt was unbuttoned to her knees, and while her petticoat covered her, there were a couple inches of finely shaped ankle peeking out enticingly as she sat with her legs to one side. Well-worn emerald green slippers covered her tiny feet.

He suddenly wished he hadn’t gotten quite so drunk, because he couldn’t remember how she’d gotten into such a disheveled condition. Even the dark hair she always kept restrained fell wildly around her shoulders.

With great effort she stood, slowly and uncertainly, brushing her hair away from her face so that it fell straight down her back.

“Look what you’ve done to me,” she admonished, glaring down at him.

He gave her a smile, which was more of an effort than he let on. “Whatever I did, I should do it more often. You look remarkable this morning.”

With a becoming blush the Widow Brown realized her dress was unbuttoned. She turned away from him to repair her appearance. “You know exactly what you did,” she muttered under her breath. “I can’t believe you would take advantage of me like that.”

He frowned. Had he? He looked down the length of his fully clothed body. She was still fully dressed, if a little untidy. Surely he hadn’t… and not remembered…

With great effort, he pulled himself into a seated position. “Perhaps you could refresh my memory.”

Annie spun around, an accusing look on her face. Her eyes were slightly swollen and sleepy-looking and her cheeks were pink, a combination of her anger and a sleepy warmth. Her accusing expression faded, and she smiled.

“You don’t recall what happened at all, do you?”

He shook his head ever so slightly. Even that was painful. It distressed him to see his companion’s smile grow even wider.

“That’s too bad,” she said insincerely.

“I can see you’re heartbroken.”

She turned away from him and started gathering her hairpins. They were scattered all around the campsite. He watched with mounting dismay that he couldn’t remember how they’d become so widely dispersed. She was working on securing her hair in place, trying to gather all her glorious hair in a tight knot at her nape, when he questioned her.

“What was your husband’s first name, Mrs. Brown?”

She twisted her head to look over her shoulder at him. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugged. “Just curious. Do you want breakfast?” he added, to make his inquiry seem trivial.