McCrory's Lady (16 page)

      
“That worthless—and now doubtlessly deceased—Judd Lazlo and his gang were hired to kill him. Hell, McCrory was outnumbered six to one and they couldn't even do it.” Barker chomped and swore again.

      
“If that breed ridin' beside McCrory was with him in Sonora, it'd even up the odds real quick,” Lamp said, his eyes narrowing with worry.

      
“You know him?”

      
“Name's Wolf Blake. His ma's band of Apach was almost wiped out when old Gideon Blake come fer him. Musta been fifteen years ago er more. He grew up on the Texas border. Got a big reputation as a pistolero.”

      
Barker stroked his double chin speculatively. “Hmm, I wonder if he might do the job for us that Lazlo botched.”

      
Lamp scoffed. “No chance. Once he hires on, he rides fer the brand. Besides, once he hears about your connection to the ring here, cheating his ma's people, he'll be as like to shoot you as not.” He couldn't resist a smirk when Barker's face betrayed a fleeting expression of shocked fear.

      
“We'll have to find some other way to deal with McCrory then. You might give it a bit of thought yourself—considering it's your very lucrative job that he wants, Lamp.” Once he was rewarded by seeing the agent's ugly face redden, Barker turned back to the window and said, “I see he retrieved his daughter, no doubt a bit the worse for wear. I wonder who the handsome redhead is riding with them.”

      
Caleb let out a low whistle. “Sure is some fancy-looking female. Will ya look at them teats. You reckon she's McCrory's woman?”

      
Win laughed mirthlessly. “If she is, Mariah Whittaker will make her as welcome in Prescott as a polecat at a prayer meeting.”

* * * *

      
As they rode past Barker's office Colin had a premonition that the leader of the territorial merchants' ring was watching him, but he was in no mood to think about corrupt businessmen or beleaguered Apaches. They were approaching the Palace Hotel, where his daughter fully expected him and Maggie to consummate their marriage. Eden would have her own room and expect the two of them to share another. For that matter, so would Blake and Rosa. There had been no chance on the trail to discuss sleeping arrangements with Maggie.

      
They pulled up in front of the big two-story frame building, which stood out almost as conspicuously on this street of low flat adobes as the Silver Eagle had in San Luís. When the men dismounted, Wolf was beside Eden and helped her down from her mare. If he had not been so preoccupied, Colin might not have liked the notion of the gunman's attentiveness to his daughter.

      
He reached up to assist Maggie and felt that same magnetic attraction spark between them as their eyes met, even before his hands felt the lush curves of her slim waist. How in hell was he going to endure a night sleeping in the same room with her?

      
Maggie hated what his touch did to her. The feeling was a betrayal, as if her own body had turned against her. During all the lonely, self-sufficient years when men had thrown themselves at her, she had felt nothing. Now, this one despised her, and for him she felt everything. She knew his hands lingered at her waist for a fleeting moment longer than necessary, and considered it a small, grim victory of sorts when he self-consciously pulled away from her, as if ashamed of his transgression.
At least he's as miserable as I am.

      
They made arrangements for the rooms, and then the men all headed down the street to Tunstile's Bath House to clean up while the women waited in their rooms for warmed bathwater to be fetched. Wolf and Fulhensio headed to a local cantina for an evening's diversion. Colin was to escort his wife and daughter to dinner.

      
When he arrived at the hotel, Maggie was waiting in the lobby, perched nervously on the edge of a leather-covered mission armchair. Eden was nowhere in sight. He doffed his hat and nodded to Maggie, noting her flushed, bath-freshened beauty. She had coiled that magnificent auburn hair into a thick twisted bun at her nape and dressed in a soft peach silk gown that hugged every lush curve. For a woman in her profession, Colin was forced to admit she showed remarkably good taste in clothing. The neckline of the dress buttoned up to her throat with a demure froth of white lace around the collar.

      
Suppressing the compliment that rose to his lips, he asked, “Where's Eden?”

      
Maggie's eyes were troubled as she took his arm and they headed into the hotel's modest dining room. “She asked to have a tray delivered to her room. I'm afraid it's already begun. Colin—she's hiding, afraid some woman in the dining room or on the street will recognize her and ask what she's doing here.”

      
“We already agreed to our story—she and I went to Yuma to meet your stage from California. She was there for our wedding.”

      
“You and I can carry it off, but your daughter's not a very practiced actress, I'm afraid.”

      
“She was good enough to fool me when Lazlo was around,” he snapped.

      
“How much attention were you paying to her—with all your problems at the lumber mills, the spring roundups and foaling time for your new racers?” From the stricken look in his eyes, she knew she had hit a nerve.

      
A smiling young Mexican serving boy showed them to a table and took their orders, then bustled toward the kitchen, leaving them alone to resume their conversation.

      
“With you around, I'll never have to worry about sugar in my medicine, will I?”

      
“That's why you agreed to marry me, isn't it.” It was not a question. “We'll have to be patient with her and pray once we get back to Prescott that the gossip about our long-distance courtship will overshadow the whispers about her infatuation with Lazlo and her broken engagement.”

      
“If only there was some chance Edward would still marry her,” Colin mused.

      
Maggie's fork dropped with a clatter against her plate. “Another marriage of convenience, Colin?” His face darkened, but before he could retort she continued, “It would only compound her problems. Even if he were willing to forgive her indiscretion—and we both know how likely any man is to do that—Eden never really loved him in the first place.”

      
“She seemed happy enough to accept his proposal six months ago.”

      
“She was a starry-eyed young girl being courted by an older, prominent man, a successful lawyer her father approved of.”

      
His manner grew deadly quiet as he asked, “Are you saying she agreed to the betrothal just to please me?”

      
Maggie noted his defensiveness and tried to defuse his rotten Scot’s temper before she lost the chance to straighten things out so they could both work together to help Eden. “No, it wasn't a conscious decision on her part or your fault in any way. It's just the sort of thing that often happens to wealthy young women who've been raised in a sheltered environment.”

      
“Were you like that?” The minute he asked the question, Colin could have bitten his tongue. But he wanted to know in spite of himself.
Sisters under the skin.

      
Her expression became at once both wary and thoughtful. “My father was a wealthy Boston merchant who gave his daughters every advantage and expected us to make conventional marriages. My sisters did. I was foolishly romantic and hoped for more.”
For what you and Elizabeth had
. She looked down and realized she was twisting the antique wedding ring on her finger.

      
Colin realized it, too. His eyes fastened on the ring as he said, “It's been in my mother's family for generations—the only thing I brought with me from Scotland as a lad.”

      
Relief rushed over her that he had at least not bought it expressly for his first wife. She had been afraid to take it off to see if there was an inscription on the inside. Quickly, raising her napkin to her lips, she dabbed daintily and said, “I think I'll check on Eden before turning in for the night.”

      
“About tonight...” She sat back in her chair, regal as Queen Victoria, waiting for him to speak his piece. But what the devil was he going to say:
You take the bed and I'll sleep on the floor? Or let's flip a coin to see who gets the bed?
After her years in gambling houses, she'd win, no doubt. “Once we get to Crown Verde, you'll have your own room. For now, I'll give you privacy to prepare for bed before I come upstairs. There's a settee in the room I can spend the night on.”

      
Maggie thought of Colin McCrory's long legs crumpled up on the small, rickety piece of furniture, and the picture almost brought a smile to her face. “Don't be ridiculous. The bed's big enough to share—for sleeping,” she emphasized. Then, she did let a faint smile curve her lips. “There's an old New England custom called bundling. You may have heard of it.”

      
“Aye. They had it in Scotland, too.” He raised one eyebrow sardonically, as if daring her. “Do you think I need to search for a board to place between us, Sassenach?”

      
Maggie had not played poker for seventeen years for nothing. “No, Scotty. I don't think we'll need one,” she replied deadpan.
Taunt me, will you?

* * * *

      
By the time she had slipped on her night rail and brushed out her hair, Maggie's coolness had disintegrated into a first-rate case of nerves. What insanity had possessed her to offer him half the bed? She stared at it, and the double mattress seemed to shrink before her eyes. If only he had not been so cold and arrogant, announcing his sacrifice that way—to sleep on an impossible piece of furniture. “He only did it to emphasize we don't really have a marriage. He's punishing himself for lusting after my body,” she muttered savagely as she yanked back the covers on the bed. “Hypocritical, puritanical, Scottish...Presbyterian!”

      
She blew out the lamp and threw herself on the farthest side of the bed, away from the door. The air felt still and heavy as if a summer deluge was imminent. The night rail she had chosen was high-necked and long-sleeved, deliberately the most discreet one she owned. She felt hot and miserable in it.

      
After nearly an hour of restless tossing, Maggie sat up with an oath and yanked away the sheet. “Why the hell doesn't he come up here and have done with it so we can both get some sleep?”
As if you 'll be able to sleep with him lying next to you
, an inner voice taunted. She threw her legs over the side of the bed, rucking up the sheer nigh trail around her hips.

      
That was the precise moment Colin chose to unlock the door and step inside the darkened room. Darkened except for the bright patch of moonlight that splashed through the window and bathed the bed, revealing a long, elegantly curved pair of legs, every bit as beautiful as he had imagined they would be.

      
Maggie leaped from the bed to face him, pulling down her night rail. He stood silhouetted in the doorway. The dim hall light accentuated the silver flecks in his dark hair and outlined his broad shoulders, lean hips and long legs. His hair, which had needed barbering since she met him, hung over his forehead, as if he had been rumpling it with his hand. His face was in shadow; but those fierce whiskey eyes glowed, raking over her until she shivered.

      
God in heaven! The moonlight streaming in the window outlined every curve of her body through that voluminous, gauzy thing she was wearing. His throat went dry when he tried to swallow. He could see the darker tips on those ripe, luscious breasts that were so full, yet firm and high. Her hair fell in a fat plait to caress the curve of her well-rounded derriere. At the juncture of her legs, a darker shadow enticed him. He closed the door behind him and stepped inside.

      
Maggie could smell the whiskey from across the room. “You're drunk.” She kept the alarm out of her voice with Herculean effort.

      
“Not nearly drunk enough,” he replied, his voice raw and hoarse. “You're supposed to be asleep like a good little wife instead of sitting up with your bare legs showing in the moonlight. But then I forget. You're used to keeping late hours, aren't you, Maggie?”

      
“Go to hell, Colin.” She wrapped her arms around herself protectively but did not back down, waiting to see what he would do next.

      
He walked in a surprisingly straight line to the bootjack in the corner and pulled off his boots, then began to methodically strip, beginning with his shirt. She watched the muscles rippling darkly across his shoulders in the faint sinister light. When he unhitched his belt and began to pull down his breeches, she knew she should look away, but she could not. His lean buttocks were pale compared to the sun-darkened upper half of his body. As soon as he began to turn around, she averted her gaze and stared unseeing out the window.

      
“Are you going to sleep mother naked?” What an idiotic thing to ask!

      
“I neglected to pack my nightshirt before riding to Sonora. Please forgive the oversight,” he said with a sarcastic bow.

      
“You boorish, drunken sot!” she hissed, too angry to be afraid.

      
He laughed crudely. “Don't try to make me believe I offend your sensibilities. It isn't as if you haven't seen a naked man before.” He walked a bit less steadily to the bed and stood with it between them. “Tell me. How do I compare?”

      
She did not turn around but itched to jump across the bed and claw that drunken smirk off his face. Somehow, the idea of climbing into the bed with a naked, drunken man as dangerous as Colin McCrory did not sound like a very sensible idea. Quashing the impulse, she stood rigidly with her back still to him, alert for any sound of footsteps drawing nearer to her.