Banner O'Brien (25 page)

“Spread your legs, O’Brien,” he growled.

Banner glared at him, hating him, loving him. Worst of all, wanting him. Even now, with all she knew, forces inside her commanded her to receive him. “Go to hell!” she hissed.

“Hell is where you are, O’Brien,” Adam bit out. “And where you’re not, paradoxical as it sounds. But you’re my wife and this is one thing you will not refuse me!”

Banner began to struggle and writhe beneath him, weeping in her fury. He would have her in Lulani’s bed—she couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t!

“Go to her and l-leave me alone!”

One of Adam’s knees parted her legs; she could feel the warm, fierce strength of him at the portal of her womanhood, commanding, not to be denied. He held her wrists in place and slid down to take slow, deliberate suckle at her right breast.

Banner groaned and ceased her fighting.

The coupling was a savage one; Adam and Banner battered each other in their ferocious, reluctant passion, both fevered, both moaning. The peak was reached in a straining tumult that forced hoarse cries of intertwined victory and defeat from their throats.

*  *  *

Adam seemed determined to subdue Banner, and from the set of his face, she decided that he hated her.

“Are you warm enough?” he demanded as he climbed onto the frigid wagon seat beside her, settling the heavy bearskin lap rug over his legs as well as hers.

“Cozy,” she said in tones of sugared acid.

The snow had stopped, but the weather was brutally cold that morning. Almost as cold as the expression in Adam’s eyes. “If you’re planning to leave when we get back to Port Hastings,” he intoned, “one word of warning: Don’t.”

The buckboard, drawn by two sturdy horses, was moving away from Lulani’s cabin. It was hard traveling in the deep, crusted snow.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Banner answered, chin high, “leaving would only be a formality. You are not my husband anymore, you are simply a man who assaulted me.”

Adam laughed, low in his throat, and with a discouraging lack of amusement. “Assaulted you, is it? I can still feel your heels pressing into the small of my back, O’Brien. Who assaulted whom?”

“I hate you!”

He smiled coldly. “I know,” he said, and his hand came, brazen and strong, to her thigh, beneath the questionable shelter of the lap rug.

“Stop that!”

Adam was drawing up her skirts; they rose slowly but surely to her waist. “When will you learn?” he sighed.

Banner squirmed, helpless, as he reached inside the heavy flannel drawers she’d worn for warmth. “Stop—don’t—”

Adam laughed again, his fingers already working their wicked magic. “Stop? I wouldn’t dream of it, O’Brien. I want to watch you hate me.”

Banner trembled; a blush rose in her face. It was torture, that’s what it was—unconscionable, scandalous torture. So why did it feel so good?

“I d-do hate you—I
swear
I do!”

“I can see that,” Adam drawled.

Banner’s breath was coming in quick, fevered gasps now—her knees, with this man traitors to her good sense, were parting. “Oh, God—I beg of you—”

“Stop?” The word was breathed, not spoken.

“Damn you!”

Adam gave no quarter; his thumb plied her to passion skillfully, while his fingers conquered her. “I was damned the day you came into my life,” he answered.

Banner’s head fell backward, her eyes closed. Her heart was racing, and a brutal, despairing heat was building inside her. The jolting and shifting of the wagon, as it was pulled over the trail, intensified the wild sensations Adam was stirring inside her. “Oh,” she panted, in her desperation, “Oh . . .”

Adam laughed. “Say you belong to me.”

Banner gasped at the sweet power of his thrust and stubbornly, blindly shook her head.

“Say it, Banner.”

The world crumbled apart, in flaming pieces, as Banner finally obeyed.

*  *  *

They arrived in Port Hastings at sunset and were greeted joyfully by Maggie and Katherine. There had been no great disasters during their absence, but a number of people had left word that they required the services of a doctor.

“Go to bed, O’Brien,” Adam snapped, in the welcome warmth of Maggie’s kitchen. “I’ll make the rounds.”

Another time, Banner might have argued. Tonight, she was too tired and too bewildered, and she gave in without a fight.

But as she climbed the back stairs, much in need of a bath and a long rest, her cheeks flamed and her pride smarted. If Adam Corbin thought to enjoy her favors this night, after all he’d done to make her despise him, he could think again.

Summarily, without troubling Maggie for help, Banner moved the necessary belongings from Adam’s room to the guest chamber at the opposite end of the hall. That done, she bathed, draped herself in a heavy flannel wrapper, and marched past her husband’s door with resolve and flaming cheeks.

In her own room, self-appropriated but hers for at least this one night, Banner locked the door and stumbled to bed. She was asleep almost before she’d drawn the covers to her chin.

*  *  *

Adam fully intended to be unfaithful. O’Brien thought he was every kind of a rounder anyway, so by God, if he had to have the pain, he was going to have the pleasure.

“You look like hell,” commented Bessie, sitting back on the bed and crossing her shapely legs at the knees. “How about a drink?”

Adam leaned against a bureau and folded his arms.
She must be freezing to death in those net stockings and that skimpy satin thing with the laces up the front—what the devil was it called?

“Bourbon,” he said, at length.

Bessie stood up, poured the requested refreshment. “Isn’t Red giving you what you need?” she crooned.

Adam’s stomach turned within him. O’Brien was giving him what he needed, all right—and a lot that he sure as hell didn’t. But he’d be damned if he was going to discuss his wife with this whore.

Bessie came to him, held out the drink. If his silence bothered her, she didn’t let on.

“It’s been a long time, honey,” she said.

The bourbon curdled in the pit of Adam’s stomach. “Yeah,” he said, scowling into his glass.

Bessie’s hands came to his shoulders, familiar, skillful. “Don’t worry—Bessie remembers what you like.”

Adam shrugged free of her, turned away. There were business cards on a table nearby, and he took one up, reading the gilt script, not comprehending a word. Bessie might remember what he liked, but did he? All he could think of was Banner and the way she could fling him beyond death and then resurrect him again.

Idly, for something to do, Adam tucked the card into the inside pocket of his suitcoat.

Bessie stood behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist. “She’ll never know,” she assured him perceptively. “And I promise it will be good.”

“It might be good,” Adam rasped, in exasperation, as he freed himself again, “but it would be stupid as hell. I’ve got to go home.”

Bessie was pouting as he handed her money; it was the first time he’d ever paid her. “It was going to be a wedding present!” she protested.

The irony of that made Adam laugh gruffly as he strode toward the door. “Thanks anyway,” he called, over his shoulder, as he left the room.

*  *  *

Banner Corbin slept through the night, though not soundly. She half-expected Adam to come pounding at the door, at any time, or even break it down.

Her rest was a shallow and unsettled one, and toward morning she dreamed that Adam and Lulani were making love in the cabin’s solitary bed.

Neither of them even cared that Banner was outside, in the wind and snow, freezing to death.

Chapter Eleven

H
UMMING
, F
RANCELLE
M
AYHUGH SAT DOWN AT HER
desk, smoothed the skirts of her best dress, and uncovered her typewriting machine. Beside her was a stack of notes and letters, all scrawled in Adam’s nearly illegible hand.

He came into the office as she was struggling over a dry treatise on someone’s gall bladder. Francelle remembered all the delicious gossip Marshal Peters had recounted the night before, at her father’s dinner table, and felt a surge of wild and glorious hope.

“Good morning,” she sang.

Adam scowled at something on the wall behind her, as though she were transparent, and ran one hand through his hair. He clearly hadn’t had a restful night; for all his grooming, there were shadows under his eyes and his mouth was taut with strain.

“Have you seen my wife?” he snapped, for all the world as though he was accusing Francelle of hiding the hussy somewhere.

“No,” said his secretary, with dignity. “If you don’t know where she is, how would I?”

Adam looked ominous for a moment, then sighed. “How indeed?” he rumbled, and then he went to the little stove in the corner and helped himself to the coffee that was always ready but never appreciated.

Francelle stiffened in her chair. “Marshal Peters came to dinner last night,” she said, cautiously.

Adam lifted his coffee mug, offhandedly disdainful. “Hurray,” he said.

A flush blossomed in Francelle’s cheeks. For a man whose wife might have a spare husband, he was a cocky soul. “The marshal was telling Papa and me about that Irishman—Mr. Malloy?”

To her carefully hidden satisfaction, Adam stiffened. For once in his life, he was noticing Francelle Mayhugh and listening to her, too. “What about him?”

Francelle shrugged. “He’s a ne’er-do-well, according to Cam Peters. A drunkard and a brute.”

Adam looked dangerous now. “And?”

“And,” dared Francelle, rising from her chair in a burst of righteous wrath, “he claimed to be married to your wife!”

A muscle corded in Adam’s neck. “So I’ve heard,” he said, in a tone that was no less unnerving for its softness.

Francelle was stunned. So stunned that she lost her composure and forgot her carefully rehearsed speech. “You
know?”
she cried. “Doesn’t it bother you at all, Dr. Corbin, that you might be wedded to a—a bigamist?”

“Banner is divorced, Francelle. While it really isn’t any of your concern, I would appreciate it if you would pass that fact along to Cam Peters, your father, and all the other slobbering gossips in this town.”

Francelle sank back into her chair, wounded. She had expected Adam to denounce his marriage, rage for a while, and eventually come to her for solace. She had
not
expected this staunch defense of a woman who didn’t deserve him.

“Strange,” she said recklessly, “that Mr. Malloy disappeared right after he made the claim that he and Dr. O’Brien were married to each other. Isn’t it strange?”

Adam finished his coffee, and only the slight movement of a muscle in his freshly shaved jaw betrayed his annoyance. “Why are you boring me with all this, Francelle?”

The answer to that was complicated and painful to consider, so Francelle swallowed it. “I just thought you should know what is being said about your—your wife, that’s all.”

“Thank you,” Adam said, with an acid grin and a half-bow, and then he was setting aside his cup, taking up his bag, leaving on his endless, infernal rounds.

When the door closed behind him, Francelle laid her head down on her arms and wept because Adam didn’t know that she loved him and probably wouldn’t care if he did. What a good wife she would have been to him, if it hadn’t been for that shameless Banner O’Brien, who could not be content with one husband but had to have two.

*  *  *

Banner felt tired and very weak. “Good morning, Francelle,” she said with a sigh.

Francelle glared at her. “Good morning!”

“Is Adam gone already?”

The girl nodded, assessed Banner, and smiled mysteriously as she went back to her work.

Banner poured coffee and made her way back to the office. It was probably better that she hadn’t had to confront Adam today; she was in no mood for an explosion.

At his desk, she took up a text on the constitution of the human foot and began to read. If there were no patients for her to see, she could at least learn something new.

“Doctor?”

Banner looked up to see Francelle in the doorway. “Yes?”

The girl was fairly bursting with malicious amusement. “There is a woman here to see you.”

It was rare for a patient to ask specifically to see Banner; most of them preferred Adam. She stood and straightened her skirts before following Francelle into one of the two examining rooms.

“Hello, Mrs. Corbin,” smiled Bessie, the prostitute who had shown such interest in Adam that first day, on board the
Silver Shadow.

Banner sensed a challenge in the mundane greeting, but she returned the woman’s smile all the same. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve got a sore throat,” said Bessie, her eyes oddly veiled even though they were fixed on Banner’s face. “And my chest hurts, too.”

Banner went to the door—perhaps she’d just imagined that this woman had not come about an illness—and asked Francelle to please fetch her bag.

After an annoying delay, the girl brought the requested item and Banner drew out her stethoscope. “Have you been coughing?”

Bessie smiled as she underwent a brief examination. “No.”

The woman’s lungs sounded healthy to Banner, and when she inspected her throat, she found no cause for any sort of discomfort. Frowning, she stepped back from the table where Bessie sat and folded her arms.

“Why did you really come to see me?” she asked.

“I wanted to tell you something.”

“What?”

“Your husband came to me last night.”

Banner reeled, inwardly at least. Outwardly, she was composed. Disbelieving. Even magnanimous. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” replied Bessie firmly. “If you don’t want to take care of him, there’s plenty of us that will. But I like you, Red, and that’s why I’m here. I want to help.”

Banner said nothing; she was too busy remembering how she had moved out of Adam’s bedroom the night before.

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

“No,” lied Banner.

Bessie’s lush mouth formed a pout. “Then you just look in the inside pocket of the coat Adam was wearing last night, darlin’.”