Man of Her Dreams (3 page)

She'd probably only gone out with him because she thought he was rich. Most people did think that. On paper he
was
rich, but everything he had was tied up in the farm, in the horses. He worked from sunup to sundown to keep the place in the black.

It had been a long, hard struggle to get Quaid Farm to the point it was now. When his father died, Ry had been going to the university in Charlottesville on a football scholarship. His dream had been to become a veterinarian. Instead, he'd inherited a huge debt and a load of responsibility.

A lot of dreams had died and been buried along with Tom Quaid. One had surfaced—to build the farm up into one of the finest in the country. He had done that. Many of the best horses in the national and international show rings had been bred and raised at Quaid Farm. At the top of the list was his own stallion, Rough Cut, who would soon be retired from competition and syndicated to stand at stud.

With a sardonic smile twisting his lips, Ry wondered if Maggie would find him acceptable as a husband once she heard the amount of money Rough Cut had been syndicated for. He would be rich then. No doubt women would be lining up to marry him.

Oddly that idea didn't appeal to him. He wanted Maggie McSwain. He'd spent too many years as a horse breeder not to know a good cross when he saw one. Maggie might have her irrational female moments, but she was his match in every way. She wasn't afraid of hard work. She wasn't afraid to stand toe to toe with him in a shouting match. She had a body that tempted him until he didn't trust himself to get within three feet of her. She had a nurturing quality that would make her a wonderful mother.

All he had to do was close his eyes and he could see her nursing his baby son at her beautiful, ripe breast. The scene brought a surge of warmth to his heart and his loins. Opening his eyes, he denied both feelings and set his mind to the task at hand.

He wanted Maggie McSwain for his bride, and he was going to do whatever he needed to get her.

Everything short of falling in love.

TWO

T
HE LONG, TREE-LINED
drive of Poplar Grove Plantation was a welcome sight, until Maggie pulled her car into the parking area and realized that the last of the day's tourists had yet to go home. Half a dozen cars were parked there. Now, not only was she going to have to get past her landladies in her torn dress and tearstained face, she was also going to have to negotiate her way through a crowd of strangers. Lovely.

She gazed at the brick Georgian mansion with its twin chimneys and two-story pillared portico. It had been a case of love at first sight between her and the old house that was situated only a mile outside of Briarwood. The elderly sisters whose family had owned Poplar Grove for eight generations had been in need of a boarder. Maintaining a two-hundred-year-old showplace was an expensive business. The ladies were living on meager retirement funds and the money garnered from giving guided tours of the house, but that had left little extra for the work that was necessary to maintain it.

It had been an ideal situation for Maggie, who specialized in historical preservation and restoration in her decorating work. Poplar Grove and the Darlington sisters—Miss Emma Darlington and Mrs. Betsy Darlington-Claiborne—had offered pleasant companionship, the home of her dreams, and an opportunity to work at preserving a piece of history.

Of course, the arrangement wasn't without its pitfalls. Privacy was sometimes hard to come by. She and the ladies lived on the second floor. The first floor was often crawling with tourists, being open to the public daily, year-round. And Miss Emma and Mrs. Claiborne, while darling ladies that Maggie had grown to love, seldom minded their own business. Miss Emma said they were at an age when they didn't have to worry about propriety, that old ladies were entitled to be snoopy and say whatever they wanted.

If she were very lucky, Maggie thought, pulling her square black sunglasses out of her purse and slipping them on to cover her puffy, red-rimmed eyes, both ladies would be in the dining room with the tour group, telling them the story of how their grandmother saved the family silver during The War by dumping it in a gunny sack and sinking it in the well. She really wasn't in the mood to give a play-by-play account of what had happened between herself and Rylan at the reception.

She wanted to get to her room so she could start planning her strategy. If Rylan Quaid thought he could propose to her like that and get away with it, he was sadly mistaken. Even now she was envisioning the successful resolution of her upcoming campaign, the way a general envisions his opponent surrendering on the field of battle. Yes, she could see it now: Rylan Quaid on his knees, pouring his heart out, proclaiming his love for her, begging her to marry him and put him out of his misery.

Just as she started up the wide front steps, the double doors swung open wide, and a dozen tourists filed out onto the porch. They were followed by a pair of diminutive gray-haired ladies, their hostesses, Miss Emma and Mrs. Claiborne, who wore cotton print dresses with the snug bodices and long, full skirts that had been popular in colonial times.

Miss Emma took one look at Maggie and pressed a hand to her mouth as if to keep from blurting out something imprudent in front of their guests. Mrs. Claiborne didn't bat an eyelash. Twitching her long skirt aside, she descended one step, took Maggie's limp hand in hers, and led her up to the center of the group.

“This is Ms. McSwain,” she said in a perfectly modulated voice of a true Southern lady, “our resident expert on historical preservation.”

If she hadn't been so miserable, Maggie would have smiled at the title that made her sound like a paid consultant instead of a boarder. She hiccupped and nodded a greeting to the people who were stealing glances at the frayed bottom of her dress.

As Mrs. Claiborne ushered her into the house, she heard Miss Emma comment in her sweet way, “Darlin' girl, and simply amazin'. She's blind as a bat, you know.”

When they reached the parlor on the second floor, Mrs. Claiborne released Maggie's arm and broke the silence with a harmless-sounding question. “How was the reception?”

Maggie searched for an appropriate word as she watched her landlady go to the mahogany Queen Anne serving table and pour a shot of bourbon from a crystal decanter that dated back to the War of 1812. “Oh…memorable. If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Claiborne, I believe I'll
hic
go change.”

As she turned to go, Miss Emma charged to the top of the steps, across the hall, and into the room, her long dress hiked up to her knees, revealing a pair of high-top Reeboks on her tiny feet. “What have I missed?” she asked breathlessly, tucking back a strand of hair that had escaped her bun. Her bright blue eyes focused on Maggie, taking in the mussed hair, sunglasses, and ruined dress. “That must have been one hell of a party, sugar.”

“It was certainly eventful,” Maggie said dryly.

Miss Emma looked accusingly at her twin sister. “See there. I told you we should have stayed for the reception.” She turned back to Maggie. “Did anyone steal the bride? How about the groom? I'd'a paid money to be in on that. That Nick Leone is enough to give me a hot flash.”

Mrs. Claiborne snorted as she crossed the Aubusson carpet with the tumbler of bourbon. “You get a hot flash over anything in pants. I think you ought to get your hormones checked.”

Miss Emma dismissed the notion with a wave of her dainty hand. “Sister, at seventy-four we ought to thank the Almighty that we still have hormones.”

“Speak for yourself. I wore mine out twenty years ago.”

Deciding to take advantage of their friendly bickering, Maggie started backing toward the door. “I'm bushed, ladies. I believe I'll go to my
hic
room.”

Immediately the hormone debate subsided. Working as a team, the ladies piloted Maggie to a blue damask wing chair and commanded her to sit. Mrs. Claiborne pressed the whiskey glass into her hand as Miss Emma pulled her sunglasses off.

“Lord have mercy, you look like a hung-over raccoon.”

Maggie scowled at Miss Emma's choice of analogies.

“This undoubtedly has something to do with Rylan Quaid,” Mrs. Claiborne pronounced, crossing her arms over her meager bosom.

Squirming in her chair, Maggie contemplated lying to them, but one look at Mrs. Claiborne's expression told her she'd never pull it off. She took a sip of the bourbon. Her throat burned, her eyes watered. Hoarsely she said, “He asked me to marry him.”

“Yahoo!” Miss Emma whooped, clapping her hands. “Snatch him up, sugar. He ain't Tom Cruise, but he's some big hunk of man. I'd take him in a minute.”

“You'd take the mailman if he lingered at the box long enough,” Mrs. Claiborne said disgustedly. “Emma, can't you see this isn't good news?”

Miss Emma made a face. She went to the narrow table along the paneled wall, poured herself a bourbon, and tossed it back. “She's been moonin' over Rylan Quaid for years. He finally asks her to marry him. How can that
not
be good news?”

“He doesn't love me,” Maggie said, trying to ignore the sting of those words. “We've only been dating for eight weeks. We haven't even—er—um—
hic
—” Her cheeks flushed hotly to a shade of pink that clashed with her dress. She hadn't meant to bring
that
up. “That is to say…”

“Oh, dear,” Miss Emma said, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. “That is bad. A big strappin' man like him. You don't suppose he's gay, do you?”

“I don't suppose he'd be asking Mary Margaret to marry him if he was gay, Emma. He'd be asking that handsome rake of a horse trainer that works for him.”

“True.” Miss Emma plopped down on the needlepoint footstool at Maggie's feet, her voluminous skirt spreading out around her. With a sympathetic look, she took Maggie's free hand in hers. “Spill your guts, McSwain.”

Maggie resigned herself. Sooner or later the Darlington sisters were going to weasel the truth out of her. “Rylan thinks getting married would be the practical thing to do.”

“And he picked you to do it with.” Miss Emma winced. “Pardon the expression.”

Maggie shook her head, fresh anger lighting up her dark eyes as she recalled Ry's offhand attitude. “He settled for me. It was one of those right-place-at-the-right-time things. I won't marry a man who doesn't love me.”

“So, that's the end of it,” Mrs. Claiborne said sadly.

Maggie handed Miss Emma her half-empty whiskey tumbler and stood up. She tossed the sisters a look burning with challenge. “The hell it is.”

         

When she caught sight of her reflection in the large mirror above her dresser, she grimaced and groaned aloud. “Sugar, you
do
look like a hung-over raccoon.”

Her bridesmaid's dress hit the floor and stayed there in a crumpled heap. Clad only in her slip, she flopped down on the double-wedding-ring quilt that covered her four-poster bed and stared at the enormous stuffed brown bear that sat on a wicker stool beside her nightstand.

She had found the fuzzy toy in a shop in Williamsburg the week after she had first met her best friend's brother. Big and burly with a comically disgruntled expression, it had reminded her of Rylan to such an extent that she'd blown a whole month's spending money on it. In those days she had gone to sleep every night dreaming of the day she could have the real Ry in her room instead of Randy the bear, his furry facsimile.

“Be careful what you wish for, Mary Margaret, you just might get it,” she mumbled to herself.

She had wished for Rylan Quaid. The trouble was, over the years her romantic imagination had created a secret persona for Ry, one he revealed only to her. In her dreams he was a man of great tenderness, a man who adored her, who composed love ballads for her and read poetry to her. She had spent plenty of time with her imaginary Ry until the real article had finally gotten around to asking her out. And when he had, she had promptly discovered he wasn't precisely the man of her dreams.

In most ways Ry was exactly what he appeared to be—a big, gruff farmer. He was rough around the edges, wouldn't have known charm if it spit in his face. In other ways he was full of surprises. He was a wine connoisseur. He read classic literature. He had a dry, acerbic wit that could carve stone.

Maggie was still convinced there was a deeper, secret side to Rylan, but he hadn't revealed it to her. He didn't write poetry that she knew of, and he didn't adore her. But she was in love with him. As hurt and angry as she was, she loved him.

She was too tired to fight the feeling off, too tired to keep from fantasizing that he was lying next to her on the bed, his big, calloused hands running over her fevered skin as he whispered promises of ecstasy to her. She closed her eyes and smiled as she imagined the wonderful, hot words he would murmur in her ear as their legs tangled and their bodies arched together.

A sigh ribboned out of her, mingled with the softest of moans as a knock sounded on her door. It probably was Mrs. Claiborne with supper and a lecture to eat it, Maggie thought.

Not even bothering to sit up, she called out, “Come in.”

Ry hesitated. Even though Miss Emma had practically come right out and said Maggie was waiting for him to put it an appearance, he felt uncomfortable going into her bedroom. He'd demonstrated the patience of a saint over the past weeks, but seeing Maggie in her own bedroom could push him over the edge. That was all he needed—another strike against him in her book.

Want of her was a living ache in his gut. He'd never wanted a woman so badly in his life. He had hoped to hold off until she was married to him, thinking that once she was his, all legal and proper, maybe he would have enough control to keep from jumping on her like a raving madman.

Every time she came near him, he felt his control slip. Every time he kissed her, it went up in smoke as quickly as burning cellophane. Every time he touched her, images flashed through his head of burying himself in her, taking her hard and fast to relieve the ache in his gut and cool the fire in his blood.

That scenario didn't appeal to the civilized part of him, and he was convinced it wouldn't appeal to Maggie either. She would want soft words, silk sheets, and a suave lover, a man with the patience and tact to be gentle, to go slowly. To complicate matters further, Ry was well aware of his own size and strength. If he took Maggie the way his libido demanded every time he caught a whiff of her perfume, he would hurt her and she'd hate him and he'd never get her to the altar.

When he pushed her door open, his breath hardened like cement in his lungs. Maggie was stretched out across the bed in a white silk slip. Her eyes were closed. She stretched like a cat, the slip gliding over her lush curves with a whisper. One strap dropped over her shoulder as she turned onto her side, allowing the cup to gape away from the ripe fullness of her breast.

Ry groaned inwardly, muttering a string of words under his breath that were a combination of cursing and prayer for deliverance. Trying unsuccessfully to tear his gaze from the erotic picture she presented and focus on the painting above her, he checked his desire ruthlessly.

“I take it you're not still mad at me.”

Maggie's eyes snapped open at the dryly drawled words. She gasped, sitting bolt upright on the bed, unaware that her slip climbed up her thighs as she did so. She grabbed a pillow and held it across her breasts. “Rylan! What are you doing here?”

“You invited me in,” he pointed out, unable to tear his gaze away from the top of her stocking and the tab of her frilly white garter belt that peeked out from where the hem of her slip had ridden up. His fingers itched to unsnap that tab and roll the nylon down her shapely leg.

“I wan't expecting it to be you!” she said.

Though he refused to recognize it for what it was, a surge of jealousy burned through his desire. His look was ferocious. “Just who were you expecting?”