Lady X's Cowboy Read Free

But it didn’t feel much like nonsense to her right then. 
    The American suddenly narrowed the space between them by reaching down and picking up her discarded novel.  She took an involuntary step backwards.  “This yours?”
    She looked down at the book in his large, calloused hand.  Its yellow paper cover looked faintly ridiculous contrasted with the foggy industrial streets of Wandsworth, and infinitely fragile and transitory compared with the weathered strength of his hand.  Across the front of the novel was the title, as well as an illustration of a maiden tied to a post with a cowboy riding to her rescue, guns drawn and ready for action.  The cowboy on the cover wore a long duster coat, a Stetson, and sported a giant, untamed mustache.  Olivia looked back and forth between the cover and the man now holding the book and felt herself grow hot and shivery at the same time. 
    He’s a cowboy.
    “I...I...” she heard herself stutter.
    He peered closer, and for the first time, she saw his eyes.  They were a bright azure blue, the blue of Montana skies, the Rio Grande reflecting the Texas sun, and any number of places she had only read about but never seen.  Until now.  Slowly, she took in the details of him.  His hat was a battered tan Stetson, stained from exposure to the elements, with a braided leather hatband, its brim wide enough to shield him from the sun and rain.  His long brown canvas coat looked equally worn, its bright blanket lining patched in places.  At his neck, he had knotted a red kerchief, and he wore a shirt of soft blue cotton flannel with horn buttons, and a plain black vest with pockets.  She sensed rather than saw that he filled his clothes with lean, hard muscle, the kind gained from honest work under hard conditions rather than an expensive gymnasium or useless sport.
    She could not help it...her gaze trailed lower. 
    “Where’s your gun?” she managed to ask.
    “My what?”  He looked down.  “It’s in my room.  Didn’t think I’d be needin’ my rig.  I thought England was supposed to be civilized.”
    He had a gun.  A gunbelt.  Oh, my . 
    “You sure you’re all right?”  A crease appeared between his eyebrows.  She saw his other hand come up, as if he meant to touch her face, but he stopped himself and let his hand drop to his side.  She wanted to tell him it was all right, even though it wasn’t, but she was pierced with a powerful longing to feel the rough hitch of his skin against hers, sliding down the smooth curve of her cheek.
    “Yes,” she managed.  “A little shaken up, is all.”
    The American straightened to his full height, and Olivia took stock of the width of his shoulders and the natural grace with which he carried himself.  “It ain’t smart for a woman like you to be alone in a place like this,” he said gruffly.  “Where’s your husband?”
    “Gone, I mean, dead, I mean…”  She could not understand where her poise had gone.  Though she was a bit rattled from her encounter with the toughs, it still couldn’t explain her muddled thoughts and complete inability to speak coherently.  She was thirty-two years old, for goodness sake.  Far too old to stutter like a girl fresh from the schoolroom. 
    The American removed his hat and looked solemn.  “My condolences, ma’am.”
    “It’s all right.”  She sounded terribly breathless.  In the twilight she saw that the American had sandy hair, a bit unkempt but clean.  There was no way to tell how old he was.  His jaw was square, and she followed its line into the strong column of his neck.  She clenched her hands into fists to keep from pressing her palms against the skin of his throat.  She wanted to feel the energy of him.  He had the strength and power of someone quite young, not to mention the enthusiasm for violence, but in his gaze she could see more than a lifetime’s experience.  She wondered what he had experienced.  “It was years ago.”
    “Glad to hear