Frail Blood (7 page)

Had his parents known of Joseph's liaison with Alma? And if
so, why hadn't the senior Machado dismissed the girl when the affair was
discovered?

Emma didn't hear the scuffling sound from the other room
until a quiet knock on the storage door startled her. "Mr. Rivers!"
she exclaimed, dropping the newspapers and clasping her hand to her breast. She
glared angrily at him. "You shouldn't pounce on a person like that!"

"I'm sorry, Miss Knight." He grinned, not looking
at all repentant, but rather like a small boy who enjoyed teasing a younger
sister.

His ocean-swept eyes raked over her from head to toe,
reminding her of the dusty smudges that no doubt creased her cheeks and the
cumbersome apron that belonged to Thomas. Damn, why did this man always seem to
encounter her at her worst?

Her irritation notched up a bit. And who gave a fig what
color his eyes were, ocean-swept or lake-deep?

She heaved the sigh of a martyr, as if greatly put upon by
his interruption. "What can I do for you, Mr. Rivers?"

He leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms. Today
he'd shed his jacket and waistcoat, as well as his hat. "Since we are to
work together, you should call me Malachi."

She arched a brow, stared him down, and stepped through the
door to her desk without answering. "If I am to be your employee, we
should maintain proprieties."

"Ah, you've decided then," he asked, trailing
behind her and sprawling in the chair before her desk.

Apparently, his rough manners precluded the notion of standing
until a lady seated herself. She plopped down rather ungracefully in her own
chair and leveled him a serious look even though his eyes sparked with an
emotion clearly not businesslike.

"Yes, I have," she answered, folding her hands on
the desktop and tilting her chin in a pugnacious gesture. "Why? Have you
regretted your offer?"

"I have many regrets relating to you, Emma, but the
offer of work is not one of them."

She wrinkled her nose in suspicion. Was the man flirting
with her? Or making fun of her? She considered the probability and prepared to
do battle, but he became diverted by the stack of newspapers.

"Are you working on the case? Is that why you've
muddied yourself with grimy papers?" He leaned forward, a glimmer of
interest on his face. "You are! What direction are you taking? What are
you looking for?"

Suddenly eager to share her ideas with him, she abandoned
her annoyance for the moment. Compelling questions raced through her mind – of
Joe and Alma and their tawdry affair, of the older Machados and their
relationship with both the defendant and their son, of the woman for whom Alma
had been tossed aside.

As she spoke, she detected a glint of respect in Malachi's
eyes and suppressed a tiny shiver. There, she'd given thought to his name.

Not Mr. Rivers, but simply
Malachi.

Chapter 7

"If a man were porter of Hell Gate, he should
have old turning the key." –
Macbeth

Emma Knight offered thought-provoking questions, many of
which Malachi had already asked himself. But he wondered at what price he'd
gotten himself embroiled with her. Wondered if he would be able to manipulate
her as he'd planned. She seemed intelligent enough to see through any ruse of
his.

He might very well have opened the floodgates of the mighty
Missouri River.

At that moment the ringing bell heralded a visitor from the
front office of
The Placer Gazette,
and interrupted the animated
discourse between them.

Emma wiped her hands on a cloth, shuffled her notes aside,
and glanced once his way. The stack of papers on her desk fell unheeded to the
floor. He stood and trailed behind her as she removed her apron and reached the
front counter just as a slender, immaculately-dressed woman swept unannounced
through the door.

"Mother!" Even from behind her, Malachi detected
the stiff tightening of Emma's shoulders, the unpleasant surprise in her voice.
"What are you doing here?"

The woman eyed her daughter's appearance and sniffed the air
as if something foul lurked in the corners of the room. Her sharp eyes darted
throughout the work area as though she expected to be set upon by thugs.

"Might I not visit my only daughter at her place of ...
business?"

The last word held all the denigration of a queen gazing at
her lowly slaves. So this was the indomitable Mrs. Franklin Knight, the former
Mary Elizabeth Winchester. Perhaps she pined for the society she'd left behind
in New York and Boston. Or perhaps she suffered an intestinal discomfort which
caused the unbecomingly pinched look on her face.

Malachi was willing to wager on both.

This much Malachi had learned from the local gossip. The
Knights had previously lived in Placer Hills – more than a decade ago, long
before Malachi's time here, and their reputation had preceded them. They ran in
the most elite circles.

They'd taken up residence again shortly before their
daughter was graduated from Wellesley College. As all of Knight's considerable
agricultural property lay south of them in the rich San Joaquin Valley, their
return to California made sense, but rumors held that Mrs. Knight was not
pleased with the move.

Malachi stepped from behind Emma and inclined his head in
greeting, rather relishing Mrs. Knight's reaction to his coatless frame. He'd
abandoned his morning coat and waist coat while working alone in his office and
failed to put them back on when he noticed
The Gazette
alley door open.

Catching Emma in such a disheveled state, he was glad he'd
neglected his attire. Too formal for his taste anyway, although he'd learned
well how to play with formal society in San Francisco years ago.

"Mother, may I introduce Mr. Malachi Rivers?" Ever
the gracious society lady, Emma swept a hand to her left. "You might
remember that his law office is on the next street over."

"Humph." The mother emitted a decidedly unladylike
sound.

That gas again? Silence for a few minutes while she squinted
and speared him unwaveringly with faded gray eyes. She'd clearly been a beauty
in her youth, was, in fact, a handsome woman now. But life's vagaries had
etched themselves on her remarkable complexion and she was but a pale
reflection of the vivid rose of her daughter.

Mrs. Knight's eyes widened as she finally realized who he
was. "You're that attorney," she exclaimed, "the one who's
defending that ... that woman."

Malachi felt his jaw hardened at the woman's tone, but he
forced his voice to remain civil. "Yes, I am, Madam. Alma Bentley is my
client. Are you acquainted with her?"

The mother fairly sputtered. "Of course not! How should
I know anything about a woman of her standing?"

"Oh, I thought perhaps she worked for you?"
Malachi answered, his voice all innocent mildness. "She cleans houses for
a living, takes in laundry, that sort of thing. A hard-working young woman."

Mrs. Knight's mouth went white around her already pale lips
right before she tossed her mane of thick curls, another washed-out version of
her daughter's auburn locks. "No, I do not know the woman. And I do not
believe I should
like
to know her."

Without waiting for a response, she turned to her daughter. "I've
come to invite you to Sunday dinner," she said. The words were less
invitation than command. "Your father wishes to speak with you."

Emma glanced around the room. "I'm very busy, Mother,
perhaps another Sunday?"

"No," Mrs. Knight insisted, "tomorrow. Your
father has invited Stephen and wishes the entire family to be present."

Emma's face brightened like a newly-lit candle in a dark
corner. "Uncle Stephen's to come?"

The mother glowered and set her lips in a thin line. "You
needn't be so thrilled about seeing him, when you've neglected your own parents
so shamefully," she reproached.

Emma darted a glance at Malachi who turned away from the two
of them. He had no wish to meddle in a family quarrel.

"You know I've been frantic with the opening of the
paper," Emma answered, her voice a soft whisper.

"An enterprise you'd never have entered if you had one
iota of respect for your father's and my wishes," the mother countered.

Emma lowered her voice further. "Mama, this is private
business best discussed in private."

Malachi covered his mouth and pretended to peer at the top
paper stacked on the counter. Perhaps he
did
wish to witness this family
quarrel. He rather enjoyed seeing the prim Miss Knight squirming under the
thumb of her dragon mother.

"I won't leave until you've promised to come to the
house tomorrow," Mrs. Knight threatened. Malachi could feel the dragon's
breath spewing toward his back and turned to face the two women.

Mrs. Knight glanced back and forth between Malachi and Emma
as if she were ascertaining their relationship. "Well?"

A change came over Emma, a stubborn set to her lower jaw
that Malachi had begun to recognize as sheer perversity. "All right,
Mother, you win. I shall come to Sunday dinner tomorrow." She paused
dramatically. "If you extend the invitation to Mr. Rivers."

The dragon looked as though she'd dart a fiery flame at
Malachi, but instead sent cold, hard daggers from her pale eyes. Finally, she
narrowed her eyes and responded with false sweetness and specious hospitality. "Of
course, your friend is invited."

Ah, Emma, he thought, foolish to bluff with a poor hand. He
grinned unabashedly at the two of them. This Saturday afternoon turned out to
be far more interesting than he'd expected when he began working this morning. He
was intrigued to observe Emma in her familial setting. Sunday dinner with the
correct and formal Knights should prove stimulating.

As she spun away, the dragon lady glared at him one final
time as if he'd cajoled a coveted seat at her dining room table.

Clearly her mother's agreement had not been Emma's plan. Her
face wilted like a fading flower.

The sight of Mrs. Knight's back retreating from the dismal
interior of the newspaper office had all the sweet relief of a prisoner's
pardon.

#

Sunday was a hell of Emma's own making.

At precisely three-thirty in the afternoon, Malachi Rivers
rapped on her front door, a buggy whip in one hand. As usual, his head was
unadorned.

She glared at him. "What are you doing here? It's not
yet four." Her voice squeaked like a skittish parlor maid, so she clamped down
hard on her lip, scowled at him again, and swung the door ajar ungraciously.

"And why do you never wear a hat?" she grumbled,
her lips set in a tight line.

Damn, she'd planned to arrive alone at her parents' home to
have a word with them before Mr. Rivers arrived. She wanted to avoid another
parental confrontation with him as audience. But now there'd be no chance to
speak with them.

And on top of all that, the incorrigible man looked like a
common workman from the streets!

He grinned and ruffled his palm across his head, apparently
unconcerned that he'd mussed up what little style it had. "Aren't we
having dinner with your parents?"

The look of feigned surprise on his face shoved her
irritation over the precipice. "Oh, stop this pretence!"

She reached for her own wide-brimmed, plumed hat and
arranged it on top of her curls, jamming it in place, then flounced out the
door. He trailed her to stand on the porch landing where his horse and carriage
waited in the turnabout.

"I invited you to dinner merely to annoy my mother."
She slanted him a sharp look through her lashes. "But you knew that
already."

In response he clasped a hand over his heart as if mortally
injured and groaned a sad, little sound, full of pretended wounding. He
maintained his jovial playacting all the way to the carriage where he lifted
her onto the high seat.

They were on their way immediately, the silence unbroken
between them for several miles. The well-sprung carriage jostled along, the
moveable hood of the bellows top folded back to allow a slight breeze in the
weather that was fast giving way to a brisk fall. The seats were plush leather
and the horses two fine steeds, much more lively than the horses that drew her
own vehicle.

Perhaps Mr. Rivers' pockets were deeper than she supposed.

Clearing his throat, he finally broke the quiet whirr of the
rumbling wheels on the dirt road. Surely he wasn't nervous about being alone
with her. Perhaps he anticipated the imminent conflict with her parents.

Finally when he spoke, the tone of his voice, deep and quiet
as the surrounding woods, soothed her. "Satisfy my curiosity, Emma Knight."

"What curiosity is that, Mr. Rivers?"

"Malachi," he corrected her."

A tiny smile played around the full lips that she had a
difficult time keeping her eyes from straying to. Gentlemen should not have
mouths that begged to be devoured. No, by the expression in those blue eyes and
the amused contour of those firm-looking lips, he was not nervous at all.

While he continued, her mind contemplated the tiny laugh
lines around his eyes. "What family business do you suppose your parents
have in mind that they're willing to invite me – a complete stranger – to
insure their daughter's attendance at dinner?"

Emma looked away, sighed deeply, and fingered the lace of
her high-necked gown. "I have no idea, but I imagine they'll engage in the
usual litany."

He turned toward her, his bright blue eyes unreadable. "What
is their 'usual litany'"?

"Their disappointment in me."

Rivers hesitated and then laughed, a rich sound that drew
her eyes to the strong, dark column of his throat. "I can hardly believe
that."

She examined him closely before gazing at the trees passing
by on either side of the buggy as the horses picked up speed. Was he funning
with her again?

"My parents consider me too headstrong, too stubborn,
and by far too independent, which is their greatest complaint about me." She
added with a nonchalant shrug, "I'm hardly the daughter they had in mind
when they engaged in their single act of procreation."

This time Malachi choked on a great belly laugh. Christ, what
unfiltered remarks she made! When he caught his breath at last, he grinned
broadly, very much liking this new Emma. He tightened his grip on the reins. "What
makes you so sure they've, uh, engaged in only that single act?"

"Surely you're joking," she mocked. "Neither
of them has a thread of passion running through their blood. Sometimes I'm
quite sure they aren't my true parents."

The slight curve of his lips remained, but he suppressed
blatant guffawing. "How did you come to learn so much about this 'true
passion?'"

Emma blinked several times, drew herself up, and squared her
shoulders as she eyed him suspiciously. Mr. Rivers had a way of layering an
innocuous conversation with underlying meaning. "I've been away from home
four years, to college at Wellesley, where I learned a great many things about
the world."

His blue eyes were deep with humor as he examined her from
the wildly colorful hat to her fine calf slippers. "Yes, I imagine so."

She lowered her voice and leaned closer to him. "You
might be surprised to know that I had quite a liberal education there."

"Hmmmm."

The tone of that monosyllable caused her to glance curiously
in his direction.

"Well, you are independent," he conceded in a
neutral voice. "That's true enough."

She angled her body to the side, suddenly eager to be rid of
this frivolous banter. Making him understand her seemed very important at the
moment.

"Yes, and while some of their concerns about me may be
true, their disgruntlement runs deeper than surface worries. They want me to be
... " She waved her hands helplessly in the air. "Dependent on them. And
after that, dependent upon a man they consider worthy of the privilege of
marrying me."

The words left an acrid taste on her tongue.

He lifted both dark brows, the surprise in his voice genuine.
"You don't wish to marry?"

"No – yes – perhaps." She shook her head, confused
by a yearning she couldn't define, an emotion that heightened whenever she
sparred with Malachi Rivers. A brief image of marriage to him flitted through
her mind. Disconcerted, she pushed it away.

Malachi stared at her as if she'd sprouted horns. "But
what about that 'true passion' you say your parents lack?  Don't you want that
for yourself?"

"Of course!" She jiggled her foot while seeking
the right words. "But there are other ... ways to explore that avenue
without marriage." She blew her breath out on an exasperated sigh. "The
point is I want to do something important with my life first. I want a
relationship with a man, of course, but – "