Natchez Flame (19 page)

Priscilla smiled down at the olive-skinned boy, no more than five years old. “Thank you, Ferdy. They’re beautiful.”

“I helped to pick them,
con mi madre.”
He held up
his thumb and Priscilla noted an ugly red dot. “The roses bite,” he told her very seriously, and Priscilla’s soft smile broadened.

“Yes, they do,” she agreed, holding up her hand and showing him a rose bite of her own. “But they’re worth it. Maybe your mother would let me help sometime.”

“Sí, señorita.
I will show you how to pick them without getting bit.”

Priscilla’s hand touched his cheek. Such a sweet little boy. Maybe living here wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“We’d better be going.” Noble took her arm once more and urged her toward the door. “My father will be waiting.”

Priscilla just nodded and let him guide her through the house toward the rear. Outside the mansion, dusk had settled in, turning the sky brilliant hues of pink and purple. Cactus and mesquite in stark designs thrust up from the flatland, forming small dark sculptures. In its own harsh way, the land was beautiful, just as Brendan had said.

Brendan.
The thought of him brought a rush of emotion Priscilla had to fight down. Tonight was not the time for it. The farther his memory drifted from her mind, the better her chance to find happiness.

“They’re waiting over there,” Noble said, and she realized Stuart stood beneath a wooden archway laced with flowers. Wearing a perfectly tailored black frock coat and breeches, with his sandy hair and fair complexion, he looked exceedingly handsome, and his hazel eyes warmed with approval at the sight of her.

Priscilla’s hand tightened on the sleeve of Noble’s black broadcloth coat as he led her toward the flowered awning. Rows of people dressed in their simple but finest garments lined each side of the path that had been cleared and scattered with rose petals. The effort Stuart had taken pleased her, and gave her fresh hope.

To the strum of a single guitar, Noble led her to Stuart, and placed her cold hand in his warmer one. “You look lovely, my dear. I couldn’t be more pleased.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, barely able to form the words. Why did everything hinge on pleasing Stuart? Why did no one worry that she should be pleased? Then she thought of the huge celebration, of the trouble he had gone to for their wedding—was it just to impress the people around him?

He turned his attention to the man dressed in black who stood facing them. “You may begin, Judge Dodd.”

Dear Lord, let me get through this.
Priscilla felt Stuart’s hand gripping hers, heard the judge’s voice, but could barely make out the words for the buzzing in her ears.

She swayed on her feet, and Stuart’s grip tightened in warning.

The judge said something to Stuart and she heard him respond. More words were spoken, but Priscilla heard only the drone of Dodd’s raspy voice, saw only the backdrop of blackness behind his thin shoulders.

“Say ‘I do,’ Priscilla,” Stuart urged with controlled irritation, his hold growing tighter on her hand.

“I do,” she whispered with a rush of embarrassment. How could she not have heard? More words were spoken, she tried to listen this time. Then something cold slid onto her finger, a heavy jeweled ring, she saw, as its rubies and diamonds sparkled in the light of the torches.

“Since you, Priscilla, and you, Stuart, have spoken your vows in the sight of God and the presence of these witnesses, by the power vested in me by the sovereign state of Texas, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

Stuart turned her into his arms and his mouth came down hard over hers. It felt cold and unyielding, and a little bit angry. When she started to pull away, he drew her back against him, kissing her even harder. It was a show of mastery none could have missed, and all her misgivings rushed back with a vengeance.

“Drinks all around!” he ordered, and a cheer went up from the crowd. Someone struck up a guitar, a fiddle started playing, and several men joined in on homemade instruments—everything from a washboard to a mouth organ.

“It’s time you met our guests,” Stuart said, taking her arm and guiding her into the crowd. “You’re Mrs. Stuart Egan now.”

And so the round of introductions began. Stuart missed no one, from the youngest child to the oldest
vaquero.
Even the slaves were included, though they kept to themselves and declined to shake hands. All wished her well on the day of her wedding.

As the evening wore on, fresh platters of food were brought out, and dozens of casks of wine were
opened and eventually emptied. When the strains of guitar settled down, the tunes much less vigorous, Stuart led her onto the dance floor.

“You do like to dance?” he asked with a smile, drawing her into his arms.

“All women like to dance.” She returned the smile, but in truth she felt nearly too weary to move her feet. Only Stuart’s skill and the firm way he held her kept her from stumbling. Still, he didn’t relent.

“I know you’re beginning to tire, but the others expect us to enjoy ourselves at least for a little while longer.” He drew her indecently close. “Soon enough we’ll retire to our suite, and you can allow your new husband the pleasures of the marriage bed.”

Priscilla couldn’t answer. Why did the thought of Stuart’s hands on her body make her feel almost sick? Even now, his blunt fingers bit into her waist and she could feel their cloying warmth. His palm felt damp against hers and his breath, a mixture of tobacco and whiskey, smelled stale and slightly repugnant.

“Might I have a little more punch?” she asked him when the dance had ended. The mixture of fruit juices and sugar was heavily laced with wine, yet Priscilla’s nervousness kept her from feeling the effects.

“I believe you’ve had enough,” he said. “I don’t want you drunk when I take you. I want you to know what is happening—and exactly which man has claimed you.”

Dear God in heaven
, there wasn’t enough liquor in Texas to keep her from knowing that.

“Excuse me, boss.” Hat in hand, Jaimie Walker tapped Stuart on the shoulder. “Sorry, Miss Wills—er—I mean, Mrs. Egan.” His eyes, warm with approval as they had been from the first time they’d met, swept over her. He was a shy sort of man, genuine, she would call him, with a hint of gentleness that seemed somehow familiar.

“What is it, Jaimie?” Stuart asked with a trace of annoyance.

“Mace Harding just rode in. Says he’s got news that won’t wait.”

“Who’s Mace Harding?” Priscilla asked, and Stuart scowled.

“Now that Barker’s gone, Mace will be foreman. I sent him to Natchez on business. Apparently he just got back.” He turned his attention to Jaimie. “Tell Harding I’ll speak to him now. I’ve got a number of things to go over.” He started to leave, then turned back.

“It’s getting late, darling. Why don’t you go on upstairs and get ready. That’ll give you some time to refresh yourself before I join you. I’ll send Consuela in to help you change.”

Suddenly she didn’t feel tired at all. “Maybe I’ll stay a little bit longer.”

Stuart smiled indulgently. “Come, my dear.” Taking a firm grip on her arm, he led her back toward the house.

At the foot of the stairs, Stuart turned her into his arms and kissed her. It was a kiss like the one before, with little warmth and a great deal of possession. It moved her not at all.

“I’ll join you as soon as I can,” he said with a
knowing glance. He squeezed her hand and then turned to leave.

Priscilla hurriedly climbed the stairs, seeking the protection of her bedroom. Once inside, she noticed the candles had been lit and the windows thrown wide to admit the evening breeze. The door adjoining the master suite had never been opened—tonight it would be. She felt as if the last barrier to the person she was inside would be broken when Stuart walked in. The last vestige of herself would be smashed when he breached her maidenhead.

And Priscilla knew she was powerless to stop him.

“The nightgown is a present from your husband.” Consuela lifted the edge of lace on the sheer white gown draped carefully across the pink satin counterpane. “It has come all the way from New Orleans.”

“It’s lovely,” Priscilla said softly. And it was.

What there was of it.

“Let me help you put it on.” With Consuela’s help, they had already dispensed with everything but her chemise and pantalets.

With a feeling of unreality, Priscilla removed those last two garments and let Consuela pull the sheer white lace on over her head. The gown slid softly down her body and settled over the curve of her hips. The neckline opened nearly to her navel, leaving all but her nipples exposed. The dark thatch of hair at the apex of her thighs shadowed the gown a little lower, and Priscilla pinkened with embarrassment.

How could she face him in this?

“Do not forget the robe.” Consuela held up the beautiful white peignoir and Priscilla slid her arms into the lacy sleeves. Though it barely covered her breasts and the curves of her body, she felt a little bit better.

The wide-girthed woman patted her cheek. “It is always hard the first time.” As if sensing her need for privacy, Consuela headed toward the door. “
El patrón
is still busy with his men. You will have time to prepare yourself.” Walking out in the hall, she closed the door behind her.

Priscilla sank down on the low wooden stool in front of the gilded mirror on the marble-topped dressing table. Consuela had removed the pins from her hair and brushed it until it gleamed. It fell in heavy dark waves around her shoulders. Her face felt bloodless and numb, and her hand trembled on the handle of the silver-backed brush she pulled absent-mindedly through her hair.

Still, she knew she looked pretty. Her days in the sun with Brendan had pinkened her cheeks and forehead, and the negligee enhanced the smoothness of her skin and the upward tilt of her breasts. Stuart would indeed be pleased.

She wondered what Brendan would have thought.

Brendan.
The sound of his name in the hollows of her mind made her throat close up and tears burn the back of her eyes. How could just a few short weeks with someone change her life so completely?

She thought of Stuart, of his beautiful mansion, of the security he could offer. Everything she had ever wanted. Now it all seemed unimportant.

All her dreams of husband and family she would gladly abandon just for the sight of the man she had come to love. Where was he now? What was he doing? Had he safely ridden on toward San Antonio, or met up again with the Indians? She wondered at the haunted look she had sometimes seen in his eyes, wondered why he was running. She wondered if he would ever settle down.

She prayed he was well and safe, and that he would someday find happiness.

Against her will, his face rose up before her, chiseled, rugged features scowling with worry, or laughing at something she had said. In the eye of her mind, light blue eyes assessed her boldly. Long brown fingers curved over her breast, teasing her nipple, sending waves of pleasure through her body. She could almost taste his warm breath, feel the silky texture of his tongue.

“Brendan,” she whispered, unable to stop the tears from slipping down her cheeks. “How could you do this to me?”

Leaning over the bureau, she rested her head on her arms and quietly started to weep. It was dangerous to let herself go like this, to let down her guard and remember. Yet somehow it seemed that she must, that remembering him now, before Stuart took what was left of her, was more important than the risk. That if she didn’t do it now, it would all slip away as if it had never occurred.

Stuart’s touch would erase it, wipe it from her thoughts and leave only hazy memories in its place. She would never recall the passion and the tenderness, never recall the giving they had shared. Stuart’s possession would destroy it. Priscilla knew it beyond a doubt.

In the silence of the room, her shoulders heaved with the force of her sobs. He would know she’d been crying and he would be angry. She wanted to stop, she had to. These final few moments of mourning were the last she would allow. A last fleeting memory of what it had felt like to love.

“Any chance some of those tears are for me?”

Priscilla whirled at the sound of the voice, afraid at first it was just another trick of the mind. Brendan stood in front of the open window, holding his broad-brimmed hat against a hard-muscled thigh, looking more handsome than her fondest remembrance.

“Brendan!” Jumping up from the stool, she raced across the room and into his arms. She cried in earnest then—sad, happy tears—she wasn’t sure which. “You’re here. You’re really and truly here.”

His hard arms tightened around her and he buried his face in her hair. “God, I’ve missed you. Every hour, every minute. I can’t believe I was fool enough to leave you in the first place.”

As the warmth in his words rushed over her, Priscilla drew back to look at him. He had recently shaved, she noticed, and his hair felt damp beneath her fingers. “How did you find me? How did you know which room I was in?”