more... masculine. He had a certain roughness about his features that appealed to a woman. He was... How do I describe it?
"...appalling decision. Under other circumstances you would..."
Chrissy tapped a finger against her lips and considered. What was the word she searched for? Manly? Virile? Strong? Courageous? Yes, Cole was all those things, but so were many of the men here visiting at Hartsworth. Those traits had all been on her list.
What made Cole different from these men? What made him more?
When she heard him mutter, "Doesn't have the sense to spit downwind," she made the connection.
Texan. That's it. Cole Morgan was a blend of valor and swagger that was all Texan.
She thought of the old frontiersmen boasts he and Jake used to repeat when they were little more than boys. Jake would hook his thumbs around his suspenders and say, I'm the daddy of everything bad that ever crawled out of Buzzard Gap. I was nursed on rotgut and cut my teeth on a saw. Rattlesnakes asked me to come play. Me and those reptiles, we'd sink our teeth into one another to see who was more poisonous. I always won.
Then it would be Cole's turn to swagger and spout. He, of course, always recited a more long-winded speech than her brother. In a booming voice old for his age, Cole would say, I was born in an erupting volcano and I was cradled on cholla spines. Wolves and grizzlies and cougars were playmates of mine, and I'm so hard I can kick fire out of flint with my bare toes. I was weaned on rattlesnake milk and even now I put tarantulas and vinegaroons in my whiskey to give it a kick. I'm the death-dealin' demon from San Antone, so hide away, everyone. I'm comin' out to play.
A man fully grown, Cole still had the attitude, she concluded. Tempered and more subtle, but undeniably there.
"...need for discipline. You're not fifteen anymore. After the mirror incident, I thought you would learn. But no, you..."
Chrissy shifted in her seat, uncrossing her legs when one of her feet started to fall asleep. He was really worked up now. Cole always reacted that way when the subject of her trip to the whorehouse came up. That's because it embarrassed him. He didn't like it that she knew, that her mother knew that he'd paid a soiled dove to bed him.
Bet he doesn't have to pay women now. The British ladies who'd stopped them for an introduction on the way to this room weren't unusual. Women threw themselves at Cole all the time. Their behavior made Chrissy sick. So the man was tanned and toned and oozed masculinity. So he had eyes that a woman could drown in and shoulders a woman could cling to. So what if he had a mouth that a woman craved to taste?
Craved to taste? Chrissy snapped to attention at that. Her eyes rounded in horror. Not The Kiss again. She refused to think about it, swore she'd banish it from her mind. Desperate for a distraction from her thoughts, she interrupted, "I've been searching for the Declaration of Independence."
Cole halted midsentence. "You what?"
"I've begun the search. I'd hoped to get lucky and locate the document before you arrived, but I'm learning that everything takes longer here in England. They've a lot more rules to follow."
His mouth opened and closed repeatedly, and watching him, despite herself, she envisioned those lips moving against hers. My stars. Chrissy blinked hard, trying to dispel whatever sickness had come over her. England's mists must be fogging her brain.
"What is the matter with you?" he demanded.
"I don't know," she replied, worriedly. Maybe simple homesickness? An overdose of British men?
"The Historical Society sent me to do that job."
She blinked again. Thank God, now they were back on familiar territory—boys are better than girls. Hah. "You yourself said I'd be good at it, Cole Morgan. Don't you remember? You called me a professional sneak."
"Maybe I did. But your mother said it wouldn't do for you to be involved in the search. She said you needed structure and guidance, and she was
"...appalling decision. Under other circumstances you would..."
Chrissy tapped a finger against her lips and considered. What was the word she searched for? Manly? Virile? Strong? Courageous? Yes, Cole was all those things, but so were many of the men here visiting at Hartsworth. Those traits had all been on her list.
What made Cole different from these men? What made him more?
When she heard him mutter, "Doesn't have the sense to spit downwind," she made the connection.
Texan. That's it. Cole Morgan was a blend of valor and swagger that was all Texan.
She thought of the old frontiersmen boasts he and Jake used to repeat when they were little more than boys. Jake would hook his thumbs around his suspenders and say, I'm the daddy of everything bad that ever crawled out of Buzzard Gap. I was nursed on rotgut and cut my teeth on a saw. Rattlesnakes asked me to come play. Me and those reptiles, we'd sink our teeth into one another to see who was more poisonous. I always won.
Then it would be Cole's turn to swagger and spout. He, of course, always recited a more long-winded speech than her brother. In a booming voice old for his age, Cole would say, I was born in an erupting volcano and I was cradled on cholla spines. Wolves and grizzlies and cougars were playmates of mine, and I'm so hard I can kick fire out of flint with my bare toes. I was weaned on rattlesnake milk and even now I put tarantulas and vinegaroons in my whiskey to give it a kick. I'm the death-dealin' demon from San Antone, so hide away, everyone. I'm comin' out to play.
A man fully grown, Cole still had the attitude, she concluded. Tempered and more subtle, but undeniably there.
"...need for discipline. You're not fifteen anymore. After the mirror incident, I thought you would learn. But no, you..."
Chrissy shifted in her seat, uncrossing her legs when one of her feet started to fall asleep. He was really worked up now. Cole always reacted that way when the subject of her trip to the whorehouse came up. That's because it embarrassed him. He didn't like it that she knew, that her mother knew that he'd paid a soiled dove to bed him.
Bet he doesn't have to pay women now. The British ladies who'd stopped them for an introduction on the way to this room weren't unusual. Women threw themselves at Cole all the time. Their behavior made Chrissy sick. So the man was tanned and toned and oozed masculinity. So he had eyes that a woman could drown in and shoulders a woman could cling to. So what if he had a mouth that a woman craved to taste?
Craved to taste? Chrissy snapped to attention at that. Her eyes rounded in horror. Not The Kiss again. She refused to think about it, swore she'd banish it from her mind. Desperate for a distraction from her thoughts, she interrupted, "I've been searching for the Declaration of Independence."
Cole halted midsentence. "You what?"
"I've begun the search. I'd hoped to get lucky and locate the document before you arrived, but I'm learning that everything takes longer here in England. They've a lot more rules to follow."
His mouth opened and closed repeatedly, and watching him, despite herself, she envisioned those lips moving against hers. My stars. Chrissy blinked hard, trying to dispel whatever sickness had come over her. England's mists must be fogging her brain.
"What is the matter with you?" he demanded.
"I don't know," she replied, worriedly. Maybe simple homesickness? An overdose of British men?
"The Historical Society sent me to do that job."
She blinked again. Thank God, now they were back on familiar territory—boys are better than girls. Hah. "You yourself said I'd be good at it, Cole Morgan. Don't you remember? You called me a professional sneak."
"Maybe I did. But your mother said it wouldn't do for you to be involved in the search. She said you needed structure and guidance, and she was
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