Firestorm (22 page)

What did he mean by doing this?

She strode to the door and began pounding on it. She pounded and pounded, yelling for Betsy, Peter, or Brett, until she was hoarse. She knew someone must have heard her, but clearly they had been ordered to ignore her. I'll kill him! she thought.

She paced the room. There wasn't much she could do, not unless she was to tie the sheets together and prance around the lawn naked. Because she might as well be naked for all the negligee hid—or revealed.

So she was to be punished.

Kept a prisoner.

Just who in hell did he think he was?

For lack of anything else to do, she tasted her breakfast, but she had no appetite. She was too angry. She threw aside her fork and began to pace the room. He could not keep her like this for long; it was so ridiculous it had to be a joke. She could not take it seriously. Or should she? She felt panic. What if Brett intended to lock her away indefinitely, without even coming to see her?

She calmed down. Someone would have to come to empty the chamber pot and bring her bathwater, her meals. Surely Peter and Betsy would defy their master in this!

The day seemed endless. No one came. She refused to eat, furious one moment, desperate the next. He was a monster, truly a monster, and she was married to him.
Her spirits sank lower and lower, and then she thought of the injustice of her confinement, and she grew furious again. Anger was a relief. Unlike despair, it was an emotion she understood.

She was pacing once again when she thought she heard footsteps. She froze, straining to hear. She hadn't been mistaken—someone was coming. Storm stared at the door, heard the key in the lock, almost held her breath as the door swung open. Betsy stepped inside, followed by Peter, both carrying buckets of hot water.

“Betsy!” Storm exclaimed, at the same time yanking a sheet off the bed and holding it in front of her. “Where are my clothes? You have to help me. That bastard's locked me in!”

Betsy gasped, Peter bit his lip, and Brett laughed from the doorway. She whirled on him. “How dare you!”

“What? You don't want a bath?” He wrinkled his nose.

“You know what I mean!”

Having filled the tub, Betsy and Peter picked up her tray and left. Brett shut the door behind them, leaning against it, crossing his arms negligently. He was no longer smiling, no longer amused, not in the slightest.

“Brett, I'm warning you…” Storm began.

“No,” he interrupted coldly, “I'm warning you. You'll stay locked up like some untamable wild animal until I can trust you, Storm.”

“What!” She was aghast.

“You heard me,” he said.

“You can't do this!” she cried. “You can't! How can you be so cruel?”

“Easily,” he said steadily. “You ran away. Not only did you run away, you also managed to make close to fifty miles, putting yourself at the risk of being raped or murdered. You are lucky I found you, which, I might add, I only did after riding hard for eleven hours, almost destroying two of my best horses in the process.”

Storm fell silent.

He continued. “Then you started to seduce me to get my gun. When that failed, you pulled a knife on me.” He raised a brow. “And you wonder why I'm doing this? Do you think I want to come after you again?”

“I can take care of myself,” she said defiantly. “I had my rifle and knife. You should have let me go.”

“Probably,” he muttered. “Your bath is hot. Peter is bringing us a meal. I thought I'd join you. You must be dying for company, any company, even mine.”

“Damn you, Brett D'Archand,” she sputtered.

He shrugged and slipped into a chair, sprawling casually, at once elegant and totally male. He was wearing black trousers and a fine lawn shirt with the slightest detailing of ruffling. Storm sat down hard on the bed, trying to assimilate that she was, indeed, the prisoner of this intractable man.

“If you promise me,” Brett said, “that you will accept being my wife and will not run away, I will release you.”

She stared, then bit her lip. Promise? Could she give him her word, then break it? Of course she could. This was no time for scruples. “I promise,” she said unevenly.

He growled. “You little liar. I saw every thought running through that deceivingly gorgeous head of yours. You have no intention of honoring your word.”

She held back tears of frustration. She couldn't refute him. It was true. “I wish I had slit your throat,” she said, standing and dropping the sheet.

She was expecting anger, not the sharp inhalation, not the flaring light in his eyes, not the way he devoured her body with his gaze. She crossed her arms over her breasts to shield herself from his prying eyes. He smiled but continued to stare. She reached for the sheet at her feet.

He sucked in his breath, and too late Storm realized her breasts had nearly swung free of the gown, revealing their hard nipples. She was pressing the sheet to her, flushing, too
aware of her body's pulsating response to his interest, when he yanked the linen easily out of her hands. She gasped.

He was standing in front of her. His face was masked, but nothing could hide the burning hunger of his eyes. “Damn,” he growled. A wonderful and terrible wanting assailed her.

He clenched his fists at his sides. With shock, Storm realized he was trying to control himself, that he didn't want to touch her. Her eyes widened, watching the play of ragged emotions on his face. Finally he let out a breath and stepped away from her. “Your bath is getting cold.”

Storm fought a feeling of vast disappointment. “I don't want a bath,” she lied, unable to keep from looking down—he did want her! Physically, at least, if not mentally. She didn't understand. Worse, she recognized the hurt she was feeling.

He had turned away, pulling out her chair. The table was laid out with their meal, the plates covered to keep the food warm. He seemed to be studying the table, his knuckles white on the back of her chair. Storm couldn't move.

“Then let's eat,” he finally said without looking at her.

She hadn't eaten all day, and nothing last night, and the wonderful aromas assailing her made her stomach turn over in anticipation. Brett uncovered their plates and Storm sat down, eager for the diversion as well as the food. She didn't look at him. She wouldn't. She began to eat.

She didn't look up once until she had finished everything on her plate and was more than comfortably full. Brett was watching her intently, the trace of a smile on his mouth. “What a little savage you are,” he said softly.

She heard the tender, teasing note but dismissed it. “I may be a savage, but at least I'm not a cold, greedy city-slicker fop! A gambler! A dandy!”

Brett looked startled, then chuckled.

“Blue blood,” she accused, shoving aside her plate.

Brett went completely still. She said the word as though
it were tainted. She couldn't know the significance it had for him, yet she was using it as an insult, and he felt fire flaming between his ears. He leaned across the table, closing his hand over her wrist. “What did you call me?”

“Citified fop dandy!”

“After that.”

She met his gaze with her own stormy one. “Blue blood! I should have said blue-blooded pig!”

“I believe you called me that once before,” he said, almost lightly. His grip tightened; she winced in protest. “Don't you ever call me that again.”

Her eyes widened. “Blue blood?”

He made a sound like a growl. He was a moment from turning her over his knee and walloping her. She obviously had found out he was a bastard. He stared.

“I'm sorry,” she said nervously.

He stood and pulled her to her feet, jerking her close. She didn't even look sorry, maybe a bit apprehensive, still as mutinous as ever. His grip lightened, and he slid his hand up her silk-clad arm, cupped her shoulder, moved to her neck. She went tense. His fingers splayed around the column of her neck, his thumb on the soft underside of her throat, moving caressingly. She was frozen, not breathing, like a bird trapped in the jaws of a cat. He felt the tension between them, stiff and unyielding. He could so easily break her neck. He could so easily move his hand down, stroking, urging her to passion. He found her gaze, wide and tremulous. With a barely human noise, he dropped his hand and spun for the door and wrenched it open. He slammed it behind him.

Brett was furious with himself. What was wrong with him? Around her he acted like a stallion around a mare in heat. He had been instants from losing control and forcing her. There must be no repetition of what had happened the other night, by God! He had hurt her so badly that she had run away, risking her own life to do so. If anything
had happened to her…The mere thought made him sick. If Storm had been hurt, or worse, it would have been his fault for making her life with him so unbearable that she had to run away.

Tomorrow morning he would return her clothes to her. He had no intention of keeping her locked up until he could trust her because he wasn't sure how long that would be. He merely wanted to teach her a lesson—and the punishment seemed appropriate, more so than anything else he could devise. After all, if the shoe fits…Let her think the imprisonment was indefinite. Let her panic and be filled with contrition and remorse. Hah! If only that were possible! Just what in hell was he going to do with this Texas hoyden of a wife who had come into his life and overturned it completely? How in hell was he going to tame her?

Of course, he would have her watched during the day. He would have the stables locked at night. He was certain she would try to escape again. He almost laughed. Was life with him so unbearable? Was he so despicable? Was it so awful being his wife? He had told her that a repetition of the other night would not happen. He meant it. What more did she want? Did she think him a liar?

He strode into his study, pouring himself a brandy and taking a long swig. The alcohol worked, its warmth stealing across him, soothing him. He reached for the pile of mail. A sense of foreboding took him when he saw a letter from Monterey. Another one. Was his uncle going to beg again for him to come home? Had his father died? Or had he finally swallowed his pride and written to his son? But why should he? Don Felipe had never given a damn about him, not when he was a boy, so why would he care whether he came to visit now? Or had being on his deathbed raised some familial affections? If that was the case, Brett wasn't interested. To hell with the old man.

He tossed the letter aside.

After he'd gone through all the rest of his mail, it was late, almost midnight. Brett poured himself his second brandy, lit another cigar, and found himself staring at the letter from Emmanuel.

Unable to resist, he tore it open, angry with himself for his curiosity. This time the letter was short, a mere paragraph:

Brett stared at the fireplace. Manuel, only ten, whom he had never known, newborn when he'd left the hacienda for the gold fields, dead. His sister, dead. A cousin, dead. His father worse. Why was he struck by the tragedy? He didn't care for any of them except his Uncle Emmanuel.

He abruptly decided they would leave on the afternoon stage tomorrow.

 

As soon as Brett awoke the next morning he went to tell Storm of their trip. He knocked. “Storm, it's me.” He unlocked the door between their adjoining rooms and stepped inside.

Instinct and fine-honed reflexes made him duck. The missile, which he realized was a silver-backed hairbrush, sailed inches from his head and bounced against the wall. He straightened, about to protest, then quickly ducked
again as another object came flying. This one hit the wall and shattered. “Storm!”

“You can't do this to me,” she shouted, now hurling everything she could get her hands on from the bureau where she had been brushing her hair. A hand mirror, bottles of perfume, a jar of cream, a delicate porcelain dish, a thick hardcover book. All her missiles found their mark. She was clad in her blue negligee, making an incredibly enticing picture. Brett growled and strode forward.

Finally she ran out of ammunition and glanced wildly around, then started to back away. Brett grabbed her. “Jesus! What's wrong with you?”

“What do you think?” she cried, then started to laugh—Brett smelled like roses, strongly, vividly. She couldn't imagine him going about his day smelling so sweet.

His gaze dropped from her face to her full, lush breasts, the hard peaks straining against the silk. Desire rose up in him, hot and fierce. His hold loosened. He pulled her closer until she was almost touching him. “That is not the way,” he said thickly, looking into her stormy blue eyes.

She stared indignantly at him. “I want my clothes, Brett. You can't keep me locked up.”

“Betsy will help you pack,” he told her, releasing her before he did something he might regret.

“Pack?”

“We're going to Monterey,” he told her. “To my father's hacienda.”

Storm stared, puzzled. “You want me to meet them?”

He glanced up from regarding her long legs, set defiantly, the soft silk molding them perfectly. “I have to go, and I don't want to leave you here,” he said. “There was a disease—my brother and sister and a cousin died. They were only children. And my father is not well.”

At first he didn't see her expression because he was tantalized by her seductive shape, imagining what he might
do to seduce her—forgetting his intention to leave her alone until she came to him.