Amelia (2 page)

His whole name was Jeremiah Pearson Culhane, but no one ever called him that. He was King Culhane, and all he lacked were the regal clothes and crown. He had the authority, the bearing, the menace of absolute power, and he used it. He didn't need the prop of his impeccable European background, although it included several cousins from half the royal houses in Europe. He was simply King.

Seeing him dressed as he was now, it was difficult to think of him as a wealthy man. He was wearing the same working clothes that his cowhands wore: faded, stained jeans with flaring batwing chaparreros—the leather chaps that cowboys wore to deflect the vicious chaparral and cacti. His hat was a Stetson, black, wide-brimmed, with a simple leather hatband. His boots were misshapen from use and thick with mud. He wore a crumpled blue bandana around his neck, over a faded and worn chambray shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons on the cuffs and down the front. He carried a Winchester repeating rifle in a scabbard on his saddle. Most of the men did. There were some savage creatures in the wild, some with two legs instead of four.

King didn't speak as he rode past Amelia. He didn't even look at her. The silent treatment had gone on for a week—the entire length of time Amelia and her father had been visiting. He contrived to ignore her completely, even when the family was all together in the evenings. No one else noticed, but Amelia did.

From the very first time she'd seen him, when Quinn had brought him home from college to visit with the Howard family in Atlanta six years ago, she'd adored him. She'd only been fourteen, and her big, dark eyes had followed him lovingly. After that one time Quinn mostly went to Texas with King for visits, because King was oddly reluctant to visit the Howard household.

Alan had come to Atlanta for the twins' funeral, but he'd gone on the train back that very day. King never came back again, because Quinn went to fight in Cuba and then moved to Texas.

Now of course by that time Amelia was the creature her father's mercurial rages had made her. When she and her father had arrived at Latigo for the hunting trip, King quickly made his utter distaste for Amelia known. She'd overheard a scathing inventory of herself from him the day before. It had wounded her. He was a sophisticated, worldly man around whom beautiful women revolved like planets. For a rural man, he had something of a reputation with city women of a certain sort. Amelia had been disturbed by Quinn's sometimes blatant stories about him after they left college. But one long look at him six years ago had been enough to change her life.

It hadn't changed his. He never looked at her. He never spoke to her. He simply pretended not to see her.

Amelia wasn't a violent woman, but she sometimes thought she would enjoy throwing a rock at him. Her own adopted persona had probably been her downfall where King was concerned. He took her at face value, as a nondescript woman with no brain, no personality, and no spirit, and he treated her that way. Nothing had ever hurt quite as much. Her soft eyes watched him ride away, tall and straight, almost a part of the horse. If only he could see past the mask she was forced to wear to keep peace with her father to the woman underneath. But there was no hope of that now. With a long, pained sigh, she turned back toward the house.

 

"You're so quiet, my dear," Enid Culhane prompted after dinner that evening. They were all sitting around the parlor, sipping coffee while they worked at new embroidery patterns together. The men had retired to Brant's study to clean their weapons and get ready for the next day's hunt.

Enid's dark eyes narrowed as she studied the demure Amelia. She often thought that there was much more to Amelia than anyone realized. There was a mischief in her dark eyes from time to time that was at odds with her quiet demeanor. And Enid also had her own opinion of the girl's father. Not a favorable one.

"Brant mentioned that we might go to a concert one night at Chopin Hall. Would you like that?"

"I love music," Amelia replied. "Yes, thank you."

"Have you a gown?"

"Oh, yes. I have two."

Enid finished the delicate embroidery of a flower, her eyes curious. "King is sometimes difficult," she said without preamble. "He has too much success with women. So much that I sometimes think he is in danger of becoming a cruel rake."

"But he is not!" Amelia flushed furious at her own impetuous outburst and dragged her embarrassed eyes down to her own handwork. Not before her hostess had seen, and understood, the little flash of defense, however.

"You think highly of him, do you not?"

"He is… a striking man, in many ways."

"Striking, and thoughtless." She started on another flower. "Marie is getting the girls to bed. Would you ask if they need anything before I let Rosa close up the kitchen and go to bed?"

"Certainly."

Amelia walked down the long hall to Marie Bonet's room and knocked gently before she opened the door. The girls, aged six and eight, had Marie's dark hair and dark eyes. They were propped up in the spare bed across the room from Marie's, dressed in ruffled and laced cotton gowns. They looked like angels.

"How pretty!" Amelia laughed. "
Tres belles
!" she added in French.

"
Tres bien. Tu parles plus bon, chérie
," Marie praised.

"Due, I am certain, to your fine tutoring," she replied. "Mrs. Culhane asks if the girls need anything else from the kitchen before the cook leaves."

"No, they are fine. I was going to tell them a story, but they like yours so much better. Do you mind? I impose?"

"Not at all!" Amelia protested. "Go on, do. I'll get them settled for you."

Marie smiled. She was petite and dark, very kind and gentle. Her husband had died of a fever only a few months before, leaving a distraught widow to cope with two little girls. Fortunately, there was money in the family, so Marie wasn't left destitute. Enid Culhane was a cousin of Marie. The women had become close, and Enid had invited Marie and the children to stay at the ranch.

Once Marie had gone back to the living room, Amelia curled up on the bed with the little girls and opened the French reader of fairy tales. She struggled with some words, but the girls were eager to teach her. It was a learning experience for all of them, and she did love children.

She covered the little girls up to their necks when they were sleeping and kissed their rosy cheeks. She stood looking down at them with tender eyes, wondering if she would ever have a child of her own. The thought of being forced to marry Alan and bear his children made her ill.

She turned and tiptoed to the door, opening it very quietly. But as she closed it and slipped away down the dark hall, she collided suddenly with a tall, powerful figure and gasped as lean hands gripped her shoulders.

She knew before she looked up who had steadied her. When King was within a yard of her, she could feel the hair standing on end behind her nape. She had a peculiar kind of intuition that always recognized him, even before he spoke.

Her eyes lifted, curious and quiet, to the dark, lean contours of his face. He had silver eyes, deeply set under thick brows in a lean, square face notorious for its expressiveness. King could say more with a look than his brother could with a dictionary. His temper, like his courage, were legendary in this part of Texas.

He was wearing a dark suit, and against it his white shirt emphasized the olive of his complexion. He was a striking man. He didn't have Alan's good looks or the craggy ones of his father. But there was something in that face that made women want to crawl to him. Amelia had seen them simper around him for years and hated his arrogance and sensuality. She hated knowing that he could have any woman he wanted; especially since he made it so apparent that he didn't want Amelia.

"Watch where you're going, can't you?" he asked curtly.

"Sorry," she said demurely and went to move away.

Surprisingly, his hands tightened on her soft upper arms. "What were you doing in there?" he asked suspiciously, jerking his head toward Marie's bedroom.

She lifted both eyebrows. "Pilfering jewels?" she suggested with a smile.

He scowled.

"I was reading the girls to sleep," she said quickly. She hadn't meant to give voice to her sense of humor.

"They speak very little English."

He thought her a liar as well as a thief. What else could she expect? "
Mais, je parle français, monsieur
," she told him. Mischievously she added, "
Je ne vous aime pas. Je pense que vous êtes un animal
."

His head moved. Just a little. Just a fraction. Something changed in his silver eyes. "
C'est vrai
?" he replied softly.

Blushing furiously, she jumped away from him. He let her go without protest, and she took to her heels, running pell-mell down the hall to her own room. She darted in it and closed the door, locking it as an afterthought. Her face was scarlet. Why hadn't she realized that such an educated man might have a knowledge of languages past the requisite Greek and Latin? Certainly King Culhane spoke enough French to understand that she'd said she didn't like him and that he was an animal. She didn't know how she was going to face him!

Of course she had to eventually. She couldn't hide in her room during after-dinner coffee. And while she might have betrayed a little knowledge of French, at least she hadn't disgraced herself by addressing him in the familiar tense.. She adjusted her white lace blouse in the waistband of her long black skirt and tucked wisps of hair back into her high coiffure. She winced at her own pale reflection in the mirror and wished she hadn't been quite so forthcoming.

Enid and Marie and Hartwell Howard were nibbling on the delicate Napoleon pastries that had been served with their coffee when Amelia joined them in the parlor.

Her dark-faced, mustachioed father gave her a cursory appraisal. He had a glass of whiskey in his hand, and his cheeks were red—a dangerous sign. Amelia gave thanks that she wasn't alone with him. "Where have you been, miss?" he asked angrily. "Is this any way to behave in company?"

"I do beg your pardon," Amelia said softly, placating him as usual, keeping her eyes lowered as she sat beside Marie and Enid, almost trembling with nerves. "I was detained."

"Mind your manners," her father repeated.

"Yes, Papa."

Alan came into the room with King and their father. All three men were wearing dark suits, but King looked impeccably elegant in his, while Alan looked uncomfortable. Brant, as usual, was the picture of the country gentleman.

"Your father mentioned that you play the piano, Miss Howard," Brant addressed her, smiling. He was very like Alan, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with an olive complexion. He and Alan were tall, but King towered over them both. King's eyes were a light, silvery gray, deep set with thick lashes. His face was more angular and lean than those of the other men in his family, square-jawed with a straight nose and high cheekbones. He had a lithe, predatory way of walking that made Amelia's heart race.

"Of course she plays," Hartwell answered for his daughter. He gestured toward the spinet. "Play some Beethoven, Amelia."

Amelia got up obediently and went to the piano. She couldn't look at King as she passed him, but she felt his eyes on her every step of the way. Disconcerted by the unblinking scrutiny, her slender hands trembled on the keyboard as she began to play, and she made one mistake after another.

The sudden slam of Hartwell Howard's fist on the flawless finish of the cherry side table made Amelia jump. "For God's sake, girl, stop banging away at the wrong keys!" Hartwell roared, disconcerting his host and hostess, not to mention Amelia. "Play it properly!"

She took a steadying breath. Her father's temper had a visible effect on her. But behind it, she knew, there was something much worse than temper. She shot a quick glance at him. Yes, his eyes were glazed, and he was holding his head. Not tonight, she prayed. Please don't let him die here… !

"Well, what are you waiting for?" her father raged.

"Possibly for you to stop, so that she can concentrate on her music," King remarked. His voice was pleasant enough, but the look that accompanied it made Hartwell stiffen.

As if he realized that he'd overstepped himself, Hartwell sat back on the sofa. He touched his temple and frowned as if he were trying to think. He glanced at Amelia. "Go ahead, daughter, play for us," he said, and for an instant he was the kind, sweet father she'd adored.

She smiled and let her hands rest on the keys. Then she began to play. The soft, building strains of the "Moonlight Sonata" filled the room, swelled like the tide, ebbed and flowed as she let the music become an expression of the turmoil and pain and longing in her own heart.

When she finished, even her father was silent.

She looked up into turbulent silver eyes that were far too close. She hadn't heard him move.

"You have a gift, Miss Howard," he said quietly and with faint surprise. "It was a privilege to hear you."

"Yes, indeed," Enid enthused. "I had no idea you were so talented, my dear!"

Other praise fell on deaf ears. Amelia had heard nothing past the soft words King had spoken. But beyond that was the darkness growing again in her father's eyes as he finished his drink and his host rose to refill his glass. Her heart raced with fear.

"May I be excused, do you think?" Amelia asked Enid quickly.

"Nonsense," Hartwell said coldly. "You'll stay and be sociable, my girl."

"Papa, if you please," she tried again, her dark eyes wide with apprehension.

"I do not please," he replied. His eyes were growing glassier. "Remember your promise to obey me, Amelia," he added with a soft warning, and his face tautened.

She could hardly forget when the promise had been made and the fierce blow which had prompted it. But now, Quinn was nearby. She had to remember that. If she were careful, and smart, she could circumvent her father's violent outburst. She'd done it before, many times. She knew of only one way.

"Alan, you promised to show me the roses, did you not?" she improvised with a shy smile in the younger man's direction. No one could see, in her position, the desperation in her eyes.