The Ballad of Emma O'Toole (8 page)

“Hiring the right miners can make all the difference,” she advised him. “The Cornish are the best—Cousin Jacks, they’re called, because so many of them bring their relatives over from Britain. They grew up working the Cornwall
tin mines, and they know all there is to know about hard rock mining. A Cornishman is worth every extra dollar you have to pay him. But if you mix Cousin Jacks with Irish miners, they’ll be at each other’s throats. The Norwegians get along with everyone else all right, but the Scots will look down on any other group, and nobody will work with the Chinese.”

“What about Americans? There seem to be plenty of those around.”

“A mixed bag, as you might expect. Some of them have experience with placer mining, but not many with hard rock. They usually do best as assistants or muckers.”

“Muckers?”

Emma smiled at his puzzled expression. “Muckers shovel and load the ore into the cars.”

He shook his head. “Lord, I’ve so much to learn. Where do I start?”

“Find yourself an honest supervisor who knows what he’s doing. Frank Helquist, the man who was running your mine before it shut down, had a decent reputation. With luck, he’ll still be looking for work.”

“Well, before I start hiring workers, I’ll need money to pay them—which brings me to something else. You have a mining claim of your own.”

Emma went cold. Was this what he’d been leading up to, with the gown, the dinner, the flattery? Did he want to use Billy John’s claim to finance his mine?

As if he’d read her thoughts, Logan reached across the table and caught her hand. “It’s not what you’re thinking, Emma. I’m not looking to take your claim from you. In fact, I’m hoping to borrow on my stock, and on the Constellation itself to get start-up capital. It’s a risky proposition. If it doesn’t work out, I could lose everything. For that reason, and others, I want that claim to remain in your name alone, as a fallback for you and the baby. That’s what Billy John would want.”

What Billy John would want
. Emma blinked back a surge of emotion. Billy John certainly wouldn’t have wanted her to marry the man who killed him. But here she was, dressed in a silken gown and eating off fine china as she faced her husband across the table.

“You’re aware, I’m sure, that my claim is nothing but a worthless piece of rock,” she said icily. “But I appreciate the sentiment. Thank you.”

“Truth be told, I didn’t look into what your claim was worth. I’d never have—”

The words died in Logan’s throat as his eyes
fixed on the far side of the dining room. “Damnation,” he muttered.

Following the line of his gaze, Emma spotted a familiar figure in a checkered coat. Hector Armitage was weaving among the tables, making his way toward them.

“Let’s go, please.” Emma made a motion to rise.

His black eyes flashed dangerously. His hand darted out, pinning her arm to the table. “Stay right where you are, my dear. Running away won’t rid us of him, and I refuse to let him ruin our evening. We haven’t finished our dinner. And we can’t leave without a taste of rum raisin pie and ice cream for dessert.”

His hand moved away, but his look held Emma captive, forcing her to remain seated as Armitage neared their table. Logan was right. Running away would only encourage the rascal. Still, she could feel her skin shrinking as the reporter’s gaze crawled over her.

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. and Mrs. Devereaux. Judging from what I see, I’d say marriage agrees with both of you.”

Logan took a sip of wine, paying no attention. Emma sat frozen, watching the interplay between the two men.

“Given the circumstances, you must’ve
had one humdinger of a wedding night. Care to give me a quote for the reading public? Or how about you, Mrs. Devereaux? You look as if you’d come up a few notches in the world—or should we say
down?”

Logan’s gaze shifted. The glare he fixed on Armitage was cold steel. “Go away, little man,” he growled. “Tonight I’ll let you off with a warning. But if you ever come near my wife or me again, you’ll be hurting like you’ve never hurt before. Understand?”

Armitage took a step backward, out of easy reach, before venting his indignation. “I have the right to do my job,” he said. “There are laws—”

“And there are ways around those laws. Stay clear of us, Armitage, or you’ll wish you had.”

“Are you threatening me, Devereaux?”

“Yes.” Logan broke a fresh roll in two and buttered one of the pieces.

Ignored, Armitage stood fuming by the table. At last he drew himself up and cleared his throat. “I’m not finished with you, Devereaux. The press is a powerful weapon. By the time I’m done, you’ll be crawling out of town like a dog with its tail between its legs.”

When Logan didn’t reply or even glance up, Armitage made a huffing sound, turned on his heel and stalked out of the dining room.

Emma began to breathe again. Logan’s gaze warmed as his eyes met hers. “Finish your dinner, Emma,” he said. “The little bottom-feeder won’t be back.”

“Maybe not tonight. But he
will
be back. Don’t underestimate Hector Armitage. He can do a lot of damage.”

“Only if we let him.” Logan’s smile quirked The corner of his mouth. “What more can he write about us? In a day or two we’ll be old news. The reading public, as he calls them, will have moved on to some other scandal.”

“I wish I could believe you.” Emma nibbled a bite of her braised duck, which seemed to have lost its flavor. “At the very least, he’ll write more verses to that wretched song.”

“Then let him. Prove you’re not the woman he’s writing about. Be above it all.”

“Wise words.” Emma forced herself to return his smile. Her husband had a gambler’s confidence. But gamblers didn’t always make the right bet. Hector Armitage was cunning, vindictive and ruthlessly ambitious. Logan had made a dangerous enemy.

Emma stood between the open doors of the wardrobe, struggling to undo the back of her gown. The task was taking far too long. As she
fumbled blindly to free each tiny, silk-covered button from its loop, the skin of her callused fingers snagged the delicate fabric.

Her work-worn hands were a reminder of the person she really was under her fine new clothes. Dressing up and going to dinner tonight had been like acting in a stage play. But the curtain had fallen and now she was plain Emma, shy and uncertain, with an eighth-grade education, a fatherless babe in her belly and a husband who’d married her to stay out of jail.

What had possessed her to keep the gown? Might as well put peacock feathers on a goose as a silk dress on someone like her. Since it couldn’t be returned now, maybe she could use the fabric to make a soft quilt for her baby.

From beyond the closed bathroom door came the sound of Logan bathing. Emma had hoped to be into her nightclothes by the time he emerged. But the cursed buttons were taking her forever. Miss Enright had helped her into the gown and fastened it up the back before leaving. It hadn’t occurred to Emma that she’d need help getting it off. No wonder so many wealthy women had maids to assist them.

White and soft, her new nightgown lay on the bed, which had been turned down while they were at dinner. Thinking of the night
ahead sent a quiver through Emma’s body. True, Logan had promised to leave her alone. But he’d been the soul of generosity today, and a man didn’t shower a woman with favors unless he expected something in return. What would she do if he demanded payment for the clothes and the meals? How long could she deny him what he must feel he’d earned?

How could she live with herself if she gave in?

The sound of draining water told her his bath was finished. Emma yanked at the buttons, her pulse surging to a gallop. She was still struggling when the door opened and Logan stepped out into the room.

A white towel was securely tucked around his waist. His hair was slick with water, his torso glistening like flame in the lamplight. Emma knew she shouldn’t stare, but she couldn’t resist a few lingering glances. His body was like sculpted bronze, except where crisp black hair dusted his chest and formed a line down the center of his flat-muscled belly. No statue could look so masculine.

Her eyes traced the line to where it disappeared beneath the towel. Color flooded her face as she caught herself imagining where that trail led. Oh, why couldn’t she just walk out and
end this farce of a marriage? Logan didn’t love her, and she certainly didn’t love him. Given time, their relationship would sour and ferment until it became unbearable.

But wasn’t that what she’d planned—to torment him until he struck out or left her? To send him back to prison?

“Let me do that.” He stepped behind her, lifting her hands away from the back of the gown. “I’m a fair hand with buttons.”

“I can imagine. You’ve probably had lots of practice.”

“No comment.” His chuckle was devilish, his gambler’s fingers deft and sure. The brush of his knuckle against her skin triggered a tingling current that raced like burning gunpowder through her body. The room seemed to be growing warmer.

“You looked like a queen tonight,” he said. “I was proud to have you on my arm.”

“Two disgraced souls.” Emma shook her head. “Whatever those people were saying about us, I’ll wager it wasn’t pretty.”

“But we showed them all that they can’t scare us away. After a while it won’t matter. You’ll see.” He finished undoing the last button and stepped away as the gown fell open down the back.

“Please turn around,” she said.

His laugh was raw-edged. “I’m your husband, Emma.”

“And you promised to treat me like a sixty-year-old nun.”

“So I did. But it’s getting harder and harder to pretend.” He strode toward the bed, picked up her nightgown and tossed it in her direction. “Let me know when I can look.”

Emma stepped out of the dress and hung it in the wardrobe. Then she unfastened the busk of her corset, stripped off her camisole and pulled the nightgown over her head. Only then did she slide her petticoat and drawers down her legs.

By the time she turned around, Logan had removed the towel and was clad in long drawers like the ones he’d worn the night before. The contours of his sculpted chest gleamed in the lamplight. Emma stood rooted to the floor as he walked toward her. He moved like a panther, a mysterious half smile on his face.

Reaching her, he laid his hands lightly on her shoulders. Emma felt herself drowning in the midnight depths of his eyes. “We’re two of a kind, Emma,” he said. “Proud, a little lost, a little scared, scrapping our way out of the dirt any way we can. One of these days you’ll come to see that.”

His thumb skimmed the edge of her jaw, lifting her face to his. His mouth came down on hers as gently as the fall of a snowflake, lips nibbling and searching with exquisite restraint.

Despite the softness of the kiss, Emma’s pulse slammed. She’d been half expecting him to kiss her, but not like this, with a tenderness that spiraled downward, triggering whorls of aching heat in the depths of her body. Driven by instinct, she strained upward. But even then, Logan didn’t deepen the kiss. His tongue brushed ever so lightly along her lower lip. Then, releasing her, he stepped away. His eyes twinkled with mischief as he spoke.

“Good night, my little nun.”

Walking away from her, he snuffed out the lamp and climbed into bed.

E
mma stood quivering in the dark. When she’d thought of what would happen if he touched her, she’d imagined herself nobly fighting off Logan’s advances. Instead the man had made a fool of her, gently lighting her aflame, then dousing her with cold water.

He had played her like a card sharp would play a greenhorn sucker.

In the dark silence of the room, she could hear the droning tick of the clock and the slow cadence of Logan’s breathing. The wretch was probably laughing through his teeth as he pretended to sleep.

What now? Should she yank the covers off and give him the hiding he deserved? Spend another miserable night in the chair? Sneak into bed like the coward she was?

A chilly draft, creeping under the door from the hallway, reminded her that the fire was going out and the room would soon be frigid. Given that, the third choice made the most sense.

Tiptoeing around the bed to the far side, she lifted a corner of the eiderdown and slid beneath it. The sheets were clammy. She lay rigid, teeth chattering as she waited for her body to take off the chill.

“It’s warmer over here.” Logan’s voice was like dark honey flowing over warm buttered flapjacks.

“I don’t trust you.”

“Now, that stings, Mrs. Devereaux. Have I been anything less than a perfect gentleman?”

“Will you stop that ‘Mrs. Devereaux’ talk? I know why you married me, and you know why I married you. Let’s just call this what it is and try not to get on each other’s nerves.”

“Suits me.” He punctuated the last word with a yawn. “But it’s still warmer on my side of the bed.” He shifted toward his edge to clear a place for her. “Come here, little nun. I won’t bite you.”

The bed
was
awfully cold. Still shivering, she edged closer, until he reached out and pulled her gently into the curve of his body.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “We’re as innocent as two lambs. Now go to sleep, Emma.”

His arms tightened comfortably around her. Little by little Emma felt herself sinking into his protective heat. As a very small girl, she’d loved to sneak into her parents’ bed before dawn, snuggling into the furrow between their bodies, wrapping herself in their familiar, earthy odors and the sounds of their sleep. The memory flickered as she curled against Logan. But something was different, and she knew at once what it was.

A man could say anything with his mouth. But one part of his body always told the truth.

With a gasp, she scrambled away from him and jerked bolt upright. Last night when the same thing had happened he’d been asleep. But not now.

“What is it?” Logan rolled onto his back and gazed up at her in the darkness.

She cast a glare toward his crotch. “Two lambs indeed! You lied.”

“No.” He sat up, facing her. The nipples on his broad chest caught glints of light through the lace curtain. “I made it clear at the outset that I wanted you, Emma. You’re looking at proof of that. But I also promised I wouldn’t force you. Have I broken that promise?”

She shook her head.

“Then what’s wrong? Don’t you trust me?”

“Why should I? The room, the clothes, the meals—it’s as if I’ve been bought and paid for. It’s as if I owe you and you’re scheming to collect.”

“The judge ordered me to provide for you. Would you have been happier in a shanty, wearing rags and living on beans and mutton?”

His unspoken meaning was clear. If Billy John had lived to marry her, that shanty, and the life that went with it, would have been her lot. Emma’s temper boiled over.

“How dare you? I
loved
Billy John, and he loved me. I’d have been happy living anywhere with him!”

“You can’t eat love or wear it, Emma. And it won’t keep out the wind and rain. I understand that you loved the boy, but he’s gone for good. You need to move on and make the best of things as they are.”

“I need to move on? With
you?
You killed him, you heartless bastard!” Emma’s frayed control snapped. She flew at him, fists flailing in a storm of helpless fury.

“Emma, don’t—” He seized her shoulders but she continued to fight.

“You killed him!” Thawed by fury, the tears she’d held back for so long broke free. She was sobbing now. “You pulled that trigger and shot him…dead!”

“Stop it, Emma.” Logan jerked her hard against his bare chest. His arms clasped her so tightly that she could barely breathe, let alone move. “It’s all right, girl,” he murmured against her hair. “You’ve been through hell. I know you’re hurting. I know you’re angry, and I know you blame me. So go ahead and hate me if that’s what will help you mend. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Her fists clenched on his chest. She wanted to claw him, to leave bloody streaks in his flesh, but years of scrubbing pans and floors had worn her fingernails to nubs. She could only huddle against him, trembling like a sapling in a gale as emotions beat her down.

As the seconds crawled past, her sobs subsided to hiccups and her fury to a deep, aching sadness. She missed Billy John so much it hurt. And without him in her life, she was terribly lonely. A desire to feel close to someone built inside her, melting into a hunger so deep that she had to bite back a moan. It began as a stirring in her loins, rising in intensity to a pulsing,
frantic need. It was a need that drowned everything else—her pain, her anger, even the vow she’d made.

At this moment, nothing else mattered.

Kneeling in the bed, she arched against the hard ridge of his erection. A growl of surprise rumbled in his throat. His hands slid down her torso to cup her hips, molding her to the intimate contours of his sex. For the space of a breath they clung quivering in the darkness. Then his lips found hers.

There was no gentleness this time. He kissed her with savage urgency, his mouth devouring her face, her eyelids, and searing a path down her throat. Her nightgown had slipped off one shoulder exposing her breast. When his lips captured her nipple, liquid lightning forked through her body. Nothing she had done with Billy John had prepared her for this. How could she have known that a man could suckle her like a babe, or that the sensation could be so exquisite? She moaned, gasping with a pleasure that she never wanted to end, as his tongue teased her sensitive nipple to a jutting nub.
More…
Did she speak the word or only think it?

Drawn by a compelling urge, her free hand
ventured down the line of black hair that streaked his flat-muscled belly. Her fingers discovered the string that held his drawers in place. The knot was loose. It released at a simple tug; but at that point her boldness began to fade. What kind of woman would want to touch a man down there, in that most intimate place? A Jezebel? A strumpet? Was that what she was? It must be so because she
wanted
to touch him—as desperately as she wanted him to touch her.

Sensing her hesitation, he took her hand and moved it downward. She gasped. He was overwhelmingly male, as hard as hickory and, so it seemed, as big as a stallion. But the skin that covered his shaft was as soft as a baby’s, inviting her caress.

He groaned, swearing under his breath as her fingers circled his straining arousal, stroking and gently squeezing. “Damn it, Emma, you’ll be the ruin of me.”

Lifting her hand away, he rolled her onto her back.

There were no tender words between them. This wasn’t love, she reminded herself. It was plain, raw need. It was two seeking bodies, meeting in a wild, sensual conflagration.
He found his way beneath her nightgown, his hands plundering all the places where she’d yearned to be touched—her breasts, her belly, the sensitive folds between her thighs. Moisture slicked, her legs opened to his probing fingers.
“Yes…”
she whispered as his knowing fingertips set off fireworks inside her. “Oh, yes.”

“Yes, what?” His voice held a note of mischief.

“Take me,” she breathed.

“What did you say?”

“I’m your wife, Logan. And I need…
Please!”

“Whatever you say, Mrs. Devereaux.”

With a rough laugh, he mounted between her legs and entered with a single, gliding shove. Emma arched to meet him, transfixed by the fullness inside her and the shimmering sensations that flowed through her with every thrust of his sex.

“Oh…” Her frantic fingers gripped his back as she pushed upward to match his strokes. Surely she’d gone a little mad. Nothing within the realm of sanity could feel this exquisite.

She gave in to a world of swirling sensations as he swept her higher, to a place she’d never been, or even imagined but had yearned to find. It was as if every nerve in her body was vibrating
like the strings of a violin, playing the most sensual music she’d ever heard. All she could think of was wanting more. And more.

She was going to burn in hell for this.

She didn’t care.

Logan was panting now, in great heaving breaths. Beneath him, Emma felt herself explode into spirals of starlight. Her head fell back on the pillow as he burst inside her. His body jerked. His breath whooshed out in a long exhalation as he sagged over her. For a moment he remained still. Then, kissing her lips lightly, he rolled off to stretch beside her on the bed.

Damp and blissfully spent, Emma lay sprawled on her back. She’d behaved like a wanton. But the release Logan had given her was the closest thing to peace she’d known in a long time.

“Logan?” She’d turned onto her side to face him.

He groaned. “What is it, woman? Haven’t I just given you my all?”

She wanted to say something sharp and clever, but her throat choked on the words. A tear welled in her eye and trickled onto the pillowcase.

“What is it, Emma?”

“Nothing,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Nothing at all.”

She lay awake as the blissful aura faded. Shame, guilt and self-recrimination crept out of the shadows to weave around her.

When she’d married Logan, she’d been certain that sex would be part of the bargain. But she hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. And she’d never expected to crave it, even beg for it. Tonight she’d played right into his masterful hands.

Now she was his wife in every sense of the word. Yet she was married to a man she scarcely knew.

So far Logan had been on his best behavior. But she’d glimpsed his dark side the day she’d visited him in jail and he’d jerked her against the bars. The man was certainly capable of violence—she knew that much firsthand. Was there violence lingering in his past? Was that why there were so many things he refused to discuss? The secrets that lurked in the depths of those anthracite eyes remained a mystery. What was he hiding? How could she rely on a man she didn’t know?

She couldn’t—it was as simple as that.

For the sake of her baby, she would be a wife
to Logan. But she would never forget what he’d done to Billy John. And she would never be foolish enough to give him her trust—let alone her love.