Rachel Donnelly (39 page)

“Of course not.” She drew a shaky breath, attempting to rein in her emotions.

“Come on,” he said, taking her by the hand. “We’d better get out of here. I have a feeling your father’s the kind of man who shoots first and asks questions later.”

A quick glance over her shoulder explained what he meant.

The murderous look on Ian Wallace’s face across the dance floor, hurried her along behind Nat.

He led her straight out the French doors, down the stone steps, and around the house to the gate.

The fresh air shocked Christie back to her senses. “You’re supposed to be rescuing me, not kidnapping me. What are you doing? Where are you taking me?”

“To my carriage where we can talk in private, without a gun pointed at my back.”

“This isn’t Nevada.” Christie laughed as she raced along beside him. “My father isn’t packing a gun. Even if he were, he wouldn’t shoot you. Though I’ve heard Aunt Madeline say he can hold his own in a round of fisticuffs.”

“I’ll bet he can,” Nat said, handing her up into the carriage. “I’ll have to put an addition on the house, if our sons decide to grow that big.”

“Sons?” she inquired, after he’d returned from speaking to the driver, to settle on the seat beside her. “Just how long have you been planning this? Don’t tell me you’ve known about this all along, because if you have, I don’t know what I shall say!”

“I hope you’re not thinking of slapping me again,” he said, gathering her into his arms. “Not after all the trouble I went to, to make an honest woman out of you.”

Her gasp was lost in the loud rattle of carriage wheels as they rolled off down the lane. “I was an honest woman long before I met you, Nat Randall — Nathan Cavanaugh, whatever your name is.” She struggled to pull away. “How long have you known about this? Tell me?”

“Very well,” he conceded with a chuckle. “I started to put it together not long after I saw you with Burke.”

“The Pinkerton man? He accosted me on the boat, inquiring about your whereabouts. Of course at the time, I didn’t know you were there.”

“Burke has a habit of showing up at the wrong time.” Nat’s tone turned to annoyance. “I wouldn’t have missed that damn train if it hadn’t been for him.”

“You came to the station?” A lump formed in her throat. “You were there?”

“Of course I came.” He ran one long finger along the edge of her cheek. I said I would, didn’t I?”

Delicious rivers of heat rushed over her skin. “I waited as long as I could.” She groaned with remorse. “But … ”

He drew her into his arms and kissed her tenderly.

The feel and the taste of him made her go weak. To think that he was hers for the rest of her days, rushed joy straight through her to the tips of her toes, and something else — something untamed and fierce, like a great hunger after a hard day’s work.

“I know. The stationmaster told me,” he rasped against her ear. “If Burke hadn’t delayed me, I’d have been there.”

“What did he want?” Her voice rose, thinking of all the agonizing hours she’d spent, thinking Nat didn’t care.

“My father sent him to look for me.” He proceeded to place tiny kisses all over her neck. “But let’s talk about it later,” he said thickly, unhooking her gown, “When I can think.”

So that was the reason he’d come home — to make peace with his father. Uncertainty and disappointment pricked at the back of her mind. Did he actually love her, or was his proposal just a result of their fathers’ plot? Was this just another promise Nat had been forced into?

But when he pushed her back on the leather seat quivering and naked, she found she no longer cared. The hard heat of him pressed tight against her spoke of another promise — too urgent — too wild to compare.

“Christie,” he breathed. “Do you know what you do to me?”

“The same thing you do to me.”

His mouth crushed against hers and she could no longer think. The carriage filled with warmth as their bodies joined.

She went careening down that slippery slope of desire only to be lifted up and up and up, higher, and higher, until she flew and crashed in a splintering climax. Pulses of delicious pleasure squeezed her inside and out, making her cry out Nat’s name.

He plunged one more deep earth-shattering thrust then collapsed with his face in her hair. And still, she couldn’t get enough of touching him, running her hands down his back, feeling his heart beat fast and hard against hers. They lay entwined for the longest time, breathing hard.

“Good God, woman!” Nat rose up with his hands braced behind her head, panting for breath. “Never leave me again.”

She couldn’t stop smiling. “Are you saying that you missed me?”

He chuckled. “I’m saying if I have to wait that long again, it will take more than a trip around The Horn to satisfy my lust.”

“Oh! I see!” She attempted to push him off, giving a look of mock horror. “Is that all you’re marrying me for?”

“Of course not.” He placed both hands on her shoulders to hold her still. “You’re uncommonly beautiful besides being the lustiest woman I’ve ever met.” He chuckled. “But the main reason is, I love you and I can’t live without you.”

She swallowed hard, blinking back the tears brimming in her eyes. “You love me?”

“I wouldn’t marry you if I didn’t.” He smiled down at her. “I may be as loyal as an old hound, but I’m not stupid enough to ever do that again.”

“I thought cowboys were tougher than that.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him slowly and thoroughly. “But don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

Rachel Donnelly lives in Canada with her husband, two children, and one crazy cat. She fell in love with historical romance as a teenager and, after reading everyone she could get her hands on, decided to write some of her own.

Lily Bachman squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and drew a deep breath. Behind the study door was another dragon to slay — or perhaps this one would be more like a pesky dog to shoo off. Whatever the case, one thing was certain; in that room, she’d find a man after her money. He was the fourth this Season, and it was only the end of March.

She smoothed the front of her muslin dress with a quick gesture, and then opened the door.

The Leech, as she dubbed all of them, halted whatever nonsense he was blathering on about and turned at the sound of the door opening, his jaw hanging slack, paused in the action of speaking. Her father sat on the sofa, situated at a right angle to the chair inhabited by the would-be suitor.

“Darling.” Mr. Bachman rose. “You’re just in time. This is Mr. Faircloth.”

Lily pressed her cheek to his. “Good morning, Father.”

Mr. Bachman and Lily were close in height. He was of a bit more than average height for a man, while Lily was practically a giantess amongst the dainty aristocratic ladies. She stuck out like a sore thumb at parties, towering over every other female in the room — just another reason she detested such functions.

The man, Mr. Faircloth, also stood. He was shorter than Lily and lacked a chin. The smooth slope marking the transition from jaw to neck was unsettling to look upon. He wore mutton-chop sideburns, presumably an attempt to emphasize his jawline. They failed miserably in that regard, serving rather to point out the vacant place between them where a facial feature should have been.

“My … ” Mr. Faircloth wrung his hands together and cleared his throat. “My dear Miss Bachman,” he started again. “How lovely you look this morning.”

Lily inclined her head coolly. She settled onto the sofa and folded her hands in her lap. Mr. Bachman sat beside her and gestured Mr. Faircloth to his chair.

Mr. Faircloth cast an apprehensive look between Lily and her father. “I’d thought, sir, that you and I would speak first. Then, if all was agreeable, I would speak to Miss … ” He lowered his eyes and cleared his throat again.

Good
, Lily thought viciously. He was already thrown off balance. She knew from experience that when dealing with fortune hunters and younger sons, one had to establish and maintain the upper hand.

“When it comes to my daughter’s future,” Mr. Bachman said in a rich baritone, “there is no such thing as a private interview. Miss Bachman is a grown woman; she’s entitled to have a say in her own future. Would you not agree?”

Mr. Faircloth squirmed beneath the intense gazes of father and daughter. “Well, it’s not how these things are usually handled, sir, but I suppose there’s no real harm in bucking convention just this — ”

“Mr. Faircloth,” Lily interrupted.

The man swallowed. “Yes?”

“I don’t recognize you at all.” She raised her brows and narrowed her eyes, as though examining a distasteful insect. “Have we met?”

“I, well, that is … yes, we’ve met.” Mr. Faircloth’s head bobbed up and down. “We were introduced at the Shervington’s ball last week. I asked you to dance.”

As he spoke, Lily stood and crossed the room to her father’s desk. She retrieved a sheaf of paper and a pen, and then returned to her seat. She allowed the silence to stretch while she jotted down notes: name, physical description, and first impression.
Younger son
, she decided,
a novice to fortune hunting
. She glanced up with the pen poised above the paper. “And did I accept your invitation?”

Mr. Faircloth gave a nervous smile. “Ah, no, actually. You were already spoken for the next set, and every one thereafter.” He pointed weakly toward her notes. “What are you writing there?”

She leveled her most withering gaze on him. “Are you or are you not applying for my hand in matrimony?”

His jaw worked without sound, and then his face flushed a deep pink. “I, yes. That is why I’ve come, I suppose you could say.”

“You suppose?” Lily scoffed. “You’re not sure?”

“Yes.” Mr. Faircloth drew himself up, rallying. “Yes, I’m sure. That’s why I’ve come.”

So there is a bit of spine in this one, after all
, Lily thought. “That being the case,” she replied, giving no quarter in her attack, “it is reasonable for me to keep a record of these proceedings, is it not? You are not the first gentleman to present himself.”

Mr. Faircloth sank back into himself. “I see.”

“Tell me, what prompted your call today?” Lily tilted her head at an inquisitive angle, as though she were actually interested in the man’s answer.

Mr. Faircloth cast a desperate look at Mr. Bachman.

“That’s a fair question,” her father said. Lily loved many things about her father, but the one she appreciated more than anything was the way he treated her like a competent adult. Most females were bartered off to the man who made the highest offer, either through wealth or connections. When he spoke up for her, supporting her line of questioning, Lily wanted to throw her arms around his neck and hug him. Later, she would. Right now, they had to eject the newest swain from their home.

Mr. Faircloth grew more and more agitated with every passing second. He fidgeted in his seat and finally blurted, “I love you!”

Lily drew back, surprised by the tactic her opponent employed. She waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s true,” Mr. Faircloth insisted. “From the moment I saw you, I thought you were the most beautiful woman at the ball. Your gown was the most flattering blue — ”

“I wore red,” Lily corrected.

Mr. Faircloth blinked. “Oh.” He rested his elbows on his knees, his head drooped between his shoulders.

He was crumbling. Time to finish him off.

“Let’s talk about why you’ve really come, shall we?” Lily’s tone was pleasant, like a governess explaining something to a young child with limited comprehension. “You’re here because of my dowry, just like the other men who have suddenly found themselves stricken with love for me.”

“A gentleman does not discuss such matters with a lady,” Mr. Faircloth informed his toes.

“A
gentleman
,” Lily said archly, “does not concoct fantastical tales of undying affection in the hopes of duping an unwitting female into marriage. Tell me, sir, which son are you?”

“I have two older brothers,” he said in a defeated tone.

Lily duly made note of this fact on her paper. “And sisters?”

“Two.”

“Ah.” Lily raised a finger. “Already an heir and a spare, and two dowries besides. That doesn’t leave much for you, does it?” She tutted and allowed a sympathetic smile.

Mr. Faircloth shook his head once and resumed his glum inspection of his footwear.

“I understand your predicament,” Lily said. “And how attractive the idea of marrying money must be to a man in your situation.” She tilted her head and took on a thoughtful expression. “Have you considered a different approach?”

The gentleman raised his face, his features guarded. “What do you mean?”

She furrowed her brows together. “What I mean is this: Have you considered, perhaps, a profession?”

Mr. Faircloth’s mouth hung agape. He looked from Lily to Mr. Bachman, who sat back, passively observing the interview.

“It must rankle,” Lily pressed, “to see your eldest brother’s future secured by accident of birth, to see your sisters provided for by virtue of their sex. But do consider, my dear Mr. Faircloth, that younger sons the Empire ’round have bought commissions and taken orders, studied law or medicine, accepted government appointments. The time has come,” she said, pinning him beneath her fierce gaze, “for you to accept the fact that yours is not to be a life of dissipated leisure. Instead of hoping for a fortune to fall into your lap, your days would be better spent pursuing a profession.”

Mr. Faircloth wiped his palms down his thighs. “Miss Bachman, you’ve quite convinced me.”

She blinked. “Have I?”

“Yes,” he said. “I am well and truly convinced that marriage to you would be a nightmare from which I should never awake until I die. Sir,” he turned his attention to Mr. Bachman, “I see now why you offer such a large dowry for your daughter.” He stood. “It would take an astronomical sum to make the proposition of marriage to such a controlling, unpleasant female the slightest bit appealing.”