This Fierce Splendor (3 page)

Elspeth stared in surprise. Why, he was only a boy. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen in spite of the hardened muscular body that made him appear older. The afternoon sunlight danced over his chestnut-colored hair, revealing its red highlights, and his dark-brown eyes were still sparkling with remembered laughter. No, not remembered, but present once again as he smiled easily at her. He was so
alive
. She was used to being around boys his age, but she had never seen a young man quite like this one. “How do you do?” she asked faintly, thinking that if his chin had been less firm, the slight depression in its center might have been termed a dimple.

“Not so well. My horse threw a shoe on the way back to my ranch.” He climbed into the coach and settled his long slim body in the seat across from her and beside the portly man in the biscuit-colored coat. He stretched his denim-clad legs out in front of him. “Which means I’ll have to take him to the blacksmith in Hell’s Bluff and not get back to Killara until tomorrow.” He made a face. “My grandfather is going to skin me alive.”

She found herself smiling sympathetically at him. She had an idea most people found themselves smiling when confronting this young man. “I’m sure he’ll understand that it’s not your fault.”

“Permit me to introduce myself.” The plump man sitting next to him was gazing in fascination at the auburn-haired cowboy. “I am Count Andre Marzonoff, heir to estates in Vlados and recently arrived from St. Petersburg. I am delighted to meet you.”

The cowboy gazed at him blankly for a moment. “Well, howdy,” he said, and Elspeth was sure his eyes were twinkling. “I’m Patrick Delaney, heir apparent of Killara, but since I share that honor with a sister, a cousin, and five uncles you may think it tends to lessen my importance a trifle.”

Elspeth stiffened. Delaney. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Now here, so near to Hell’s Bluff.

Andre Marzonoff nodded. “I, too, have an older cousin who holds the purse strings. Perhaps we have other things in common.”

“Perhaps.” Patrick Delaney’s glance drifted from Marzonoff to Elspeth. “And what kingdom do you rule, Princess—?”

“I am Miss Elspeth MacGregor.”

Patrick Delaney tilted his head as if listening to pleasant music. “You’re Scottish, aren’t you? I ran into a fellow in a saloon in Tucson who sounded like you.” He grinned. “Well, not exactly like you. Your soft little burr is like harp chords and he sounded like a stomped-on bagpipe.”

She smiled. “I’m from Edinburgh, Mr. Delaney, and I’m afraid I’m heiress to very little. My father was a professor of antiquities at the university and scholars rarely acquire more than the wealth of knowledge.” She hesitated. “I wonder if you could be related—” She stopped speaking as the coach lurched into motion, pressing her back against the leather seat. She heard another round of curses from the driver that were mild in comparison to the ones previously heaped on Patrick Delaney’s head. Evidently the man
couldn’t open his mouth without an obscenity issuing from it.

“He doesn’t mean any disrespect,” Patrick said quietly, his gaze on her face. “He’s just not accustomed to having to watch his language. I’m afraid you’re going to find we’re all guilty in that respect. We don’t get many ladies in Hell’s Bluff.”

“I’m not offended, just a bit surprised.” She looked searchingly at Patrick Delaney’s face. “I wonder if you know a man I’m going to Hell’s Bluff to see, Dominic Delaney.”

The boy’s indolent position didn’t change, but Elspeth had the impression that he had suddenly become alert. He crossed his legs at the ankles, his gaze on the dusty toe of his boot. “Everyone in Hell’s Bluff knows Dominic.”

“You have the same surname. Are you perhaps related?”

“Dominic Delaney.” Andre Marzonoff’s eyes were wide with surprise and excitement. “The gunslinger? He’s in Hell’s Bluff right now?”

“Dominic is no gunslinger.” Patrick enunciated each word carefully. “However, on occasion he’s been known to have permanently removed a few gentlemen, who have displeased him. I happen to know one of the things that displeases him most is to be called a gunslinger.”

The underlying menace in Patrick’s voice seemed to make little impression on the Russian. “I will be discreet. Will you be so kind as to give me an introduction?” he asked with enthusiasm.

Elspeth stared at him in amazement. How very curious. The count had just been told Dominic Delaney had actually killed a number of unfortunates and yet he was behaving as if the man were a god from Olympus. She shifted her gaze back to Patrick Delaney.

He was studying her with the same, cold analytical keenness she had seen on her father’s face a thousand times when he was studying a hieroglyphic—or lecturing her on one of her faults. Patrick Delaney no
longer looked like a boy but seemed suddenly fully mature and vaguely threatening. “And do you need an introduction, too, Miss MacGregor?” he asked softly.

She moistened her lower lip with her tongue. For a fleeting moment she was swept back to the past. She was a child standing before her father’s desk, crushed and bewildered, flooded with that familiar unreasoning miserable sense of guilt. “Yes,” she stammered. “I mean no. I mean …”

Patrick felt as guilty as if he had kicked a puppy. The woman had appeared so cool and assured, but now he saw she wasn’t a woman at all. She was little more than a girl, just a few years older than he and his twin sister Brianne, and a hell of a lot less confident. She was peering at him from behind the thick lenses of her spectacles as if he were a wild animal suddenly let loose in the coach.

She must have taken him off guard with the question about his uncle or he wouldn’t have been so damn suspicious. He, as well as the rest of the family, had become accustomed to protecting Dominic over the years, but he realized that Elspeth MacGregor could pose no possible threat to him. No one in his wildest imaginings could mistake her for a Delilah hired by one of Dominic’s enemies.

She wasn’t even pretty, though the flush now coloring her cheeks made her look more attractive than he had first thought possible. Her features were regular enough, her nose small and straight, her lips pink and well-shaped. It was the lack of expression and vitality that robbed her face of real interest. She was as pale and controlled as the statue of the Madonna in Manuela’s chapel at the ranch. He thought her eyes must be a shade of brown, but it was difficult to be sure, as they were masked by the round thick lenses of those damned spectacles. Her hair was light brown also and pulled severely away from her face and bundled into a bun on top of her head. That silky black high-collared gown she was wearing was too loose to reveal much of her tiny, fine-boned figure, but he had an idea it was as uninspiring and lackluster
as her face. No, definitely, no Delilah. And certainly not one of Dominic’s women. Dominic had no taste for respectable women these days, much to Gran-da’s despair. It was clear Elspeth MacGregor was not only respectable, she was vulnerable.

He forced himself to relax and smiled gently. “Dominic is my uncle and I’ll be very glad to introduce you, if you’re not acquainted with him. May I ask your business with him?”

He was being kind to her. Patronizing and indulgent and very kind. Elspeth could feel the tears of frustration and self-disgust sting her eyes. She had meant to be so adult and coolly businesslike, but at the first hint of intimidation she had reacted with a regrettable lack of composure. Patrick Delaney was only a boy and nothing in the least like her father. What could have triggered the memory that had caused her assurance to melt like ice in the sunshine?

She would
not
behave like the helpless nonentity her father had thought her. This was a new life, a new Elspeth MacGregor. She drew a deep, steadying breath and lifted her chin. “I would appreciate your help, Mr. Delaney. I have a business proposal to make to your uncle and he’s a stranger to me. I’m sure he’ll remember my father, however.”

“Hell’s Bluff isn’t the kind of town that can offer a lady any of the amenities. Your father would have done better to come himself.”

Elspeth lowered her eyes to the reticule on her lap. “My father died four months ago.”

So that was the reason for all that overpowering black. “My sympathy. There was no one else who could make the trip?”

She shook her head. “I’m alone now.” She lifted her eyes and met his gaze. “And even if I weren’t alone, I would have come anyway. In case you hadn’t noticed, women are becoming very capable of handling their own affairs. In fact, I understand in your territory of Wyoming they have already won the vote. I don’t need anyone to shelter and protect me, Mr. Delaney.”

No more than a newborn calf in a snowstorm,
Patrick thought while he carefully kept his expression from revealing that judgment. “I can see you’re very capable, but perhaps you’ll let me escort you to the hotel and get you settled, if that wouldn’t compromise your principles too drastically.” His lips twitched in spite of his attempt at solemnity. “I promise I won’t tell the ladies in Wyoming.”

He was laughing at her. She should have been annoyed but somehow she found that impossible. There was something in his manner that was so genuinely sunny and caring, she found herself smiling again. “I believe I’d be willing to risk their disapproval, but I’d prefer to see your uncle immediately. I may be able to conclude my business with him this afternoon. Is he staying at the hotel?”

“Well, not exactly.” Patrick had a sudden vision of the last glimpse he’d had of Dominic when he’d stuck his head in Rina’s room this morning to say good-bye. Rina had evidently decided to be generous; there had been a golden-haired beauty on one side of Dom in the big double bed, Rina herself on the other side. The thought of this little owl named Elspeth invading that scene of bacchanalian debauchery might be amusing, but he doubted Dom would think so. “It would be better if I brought Dom to you. He moves around a lot and has an interest in one or two claims out of town.”

Elspeth frowned. “If that’s the only way I can see him. Claims? You mean gold mines?” She had known Hell’s Bluff was a boom town, one of those fabulous places that had sprung into being when gold had been discovered. It was rather like Athena springing full grown from Zeus’s head, she thought. She should have guessed that Dominic Delaney was still here because of the gold being found in these parts. She experienced a swift rush of dismay. She had nothing to offer him but the potential for great wealth. What if he were already a wealthy man? “He owns gold mines?”

Patrick shook his head. “He grubstaked a couple of miners for a percentage of their claims, but they haven’t brought in more than a few sacks of dust yet.”
He shrugged. “There’s plenty of gold here in the Santa Catalinas all right. It’s probably only a question of time until Dom’s miners make a strike.”

Elspeth released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She still had something with which to bargain, then. “We’ve heard of your famous gold rushes at home. Hell’s Bluff must be a very interesting town. Do you have one of these claims, too, Mr. Delaney?”

He made a face. “I have all I can do on Killara. My gran-da keeps us all too busy to go prospecting.”

“Except your uncle Dominic?”

“I heard he shot two men in Carson City,” Andre Marzonoff broke in. “He faced them in the street and they both emptied their guns while he walked toward them. He didn’t fire a shot until he was within range and then gunned them both down. Is it true he’s being hunted by the Texas Rangers?”

Elspeth had almost forgotten the Russian was in the coach. Now she saw he had been drinking in Patrick Delaney’s words with an avid thirst that was faintly repulsive.

It was clearly repulsive to Patrick Delaney as well. “No, Dom’s not wanted by the law any longer. He was given a full pardon by the governor five months ago.” He lowered his voice to a dangerous softness. “And questions regarding a man’s past aren’t encouraged out here, Marzonoff. If you want to stay healthy, you’d better observe our primitive customs.”

For a moment Marzonoff actually appeared indignant. Then he smiled ingratiatingly. “I meant no offence. I admire you westerners very much. You bear a resemblance to the Cossacks of my own country. My cousin, Nicholas, is related on his mother’s side to Igor Dabol, the most powerful tribal leader in the steppes.”

“How interesting,” Delaney said politely. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of him.” He looked down and Elspeth noted a gleam of pure mischief in his hastily averted eyes. “We Delaneys have a few well-known relatives ourselves. Have you ever heard of the James brothers? Jesse and Frank?”

Marzonoff’s eyes widened. “Jesse James?”

“Cousins,” Delaney said. “On my mother’s side, of course.” He was scrupulously keeping his gaze from Marzonoff’s rapt face. “And then there’s old Joaquin Murrietta. You might say he’s the patriarch of the California branch of the Delaney clan. Of course, I guess Uncle Bill is probably more famous.”

“Bill?” Marzonoff was almost stammering with excitement.

“Bill Hickok. However, there are those who say he’s more infamous than famous. But not to his face. Uncle Bill is very careful of his good name.”

“Wild Bill Hickok,” the Russian repeated dazedly.

“And the Daltons and the Youngers are second cousins on my …” Delaney trailed off and Elspeth saw his shoulders begin to shake, though his expression was still bland. She was forced to smother a laugh herself.

Patrick Delaney’s voice was a little choked as he continued. “I think I’ll take a little snooze. All that walking has made me plumb weary.” He put on his stetson and tipped it over his eyes, ignoring Marzonoff’s obvious disappointment. “I’m afraid I’m not as rough and tough as my kinfolk.”

Elspeth didn’t know about his toughness but she was sure the young rascal could far outpace his “relatives” in sheer deviltry.

She settled back on the seat, shifting her gaze between the two young men opposite her. They were a strange blend of contrasts and similarities. The plump Russian was the older, she judged, close to her own age of twenty-two years. His fine city clothing should have given him the advantage of inner confidence over the auburn-haired cowboy, but such was not the case. Patrick’s tight denim trousers were shabby, his brown shirt and tan suede vest dusty, and his black stetson was sun-faded in spots. Yet his wide shoulders and narrow hips, the careless grace of his strong body, gave his attire an elegance Andre Marzonoff could never hope to bring to his clothing. Patrick’s speech was puzzling. His words sounded as
educated and cultured as any of her father’s students, and yet they were flavored by a lazy and quite unusual drawl. This young Delaney was something of an enigma, she thought.