Natchez Flame (27 page)

Priscilla could barely speak. “You shouldn’t be here. What if someone sees you?”

“I doubt anyone is expecting me. I believe your … escort … thinks I’m dead. Obviously you did, too.”

Priscilla’s eyes swept him from head to foot. In his expensively tailored clothes, with his dark hair neatly trimmed and his black shoes shiny, Brendan looked every bit the gentleman. He waltzed like one, only better. With far more style and grace. He spoke like one, but recalling the men he had killed, the scandalous way he’d seduced her, she knew he was not.

Her eyes returned to his face, handsome to her still, though she knew him at last for the outlaw he truly was. Through the folds of her skirt, she could feel his muscular thigh pressing insistently between her legs, and again her steps faltered.

“You’re tiring,” he said with a hint of mockery and a note of false concern. “Why don’t we take some air?”

“But I can’t go out there with—” His hard look silenced her protest, and his grip on her waist did the rest. He had no right to be angry, she thought, reading the fury in his expression. She had been the vietim
—the one who’d been tricked and seduced. She was the one who should be angry!

Afraid to go with him, more afraid not to, she let him guide her out onto the terrace. He didn’t stop until they’d wound their way through the garden, into a shadowy, secluded spot beneath a moss-draped oak.

“How did you escape?” She forced a note of firmness into her voice and prayed the world would stop spinning.

Brendan laughed, but it sounded bitter and harsh. “I didn’t kill anyone to get out, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Dear God in heaven, that was exactly what she had thought.

“Did it ever occur to you that I might be innocent? Or were those words you spouted to Egan just that—a bunch of meaningless words?”

A man is innocent until proven guilty
, she had said.

Priscilla glanced away, unable to look at him a moment more. There was an icy chill in his light eyes unlike anything she had seen in him before. “I know the kind of man you are. I know killing a man means nothing to you.”

Brendan grabbed her chin and roughly turned her to face him. “You know only what Egan wants you to know. What kind of lies has he put into that pretty little head of yours?”

Priscilla jerked free of his grasp. “I saw you, remember? You killed Mr. Hennessey—”

“Hennessey drew down on me.”

“He wasn’t a gunman—you knew that!”

“No? According to whom? Egan?”

“What difference does it make?” “A helluva lot of difference. Are you sleeping with him?”

“T-that’s none of your concern.”

Brendan gripped her shoulders. “I asked if you’re sleeping with him.”

The heat rushed into her cheeks. “We haven’t reached that point in our relationship,” she said with a lift of her chin. “But he is my husband. Eventually—”

“Goddamn it, Priscilla—”

“Don’t you dare blaspheme!”

For the first time since his arrival, Brendan smiled. Some of the harshness left his face, and it was all she could do not to reach out and touch him.

“Damn, I’m glad to see you.” He caught her wrist and before she could stop him, he hauled her into his arms. When his mouth came down over hers, scorching heat rose in her body.

Dear God in heaven!
Flames roared through her, liquid fire raced through her veins and made her heart slam hard against her ribs. How had she forgotten the fiery blaze of his kisses, the feel of his long hard body? How had she forgotten the pleasure of his touch, the masculine strength of his growing arousal, the memory of his hands skimming over her flesh, heating her blood until her body begged for more?

For a moment, she gave in to it, kissing him back, longing for him, aching to press herself closer, to run her fingers down the muscles of his back, through the tight hair curling on his chest. His breath tasted warm and honeyed by the brandy he’d consumed. He
smelled musky and masculine, and she had never wanted him more.

Think of Stuart
, her mind screamed.
Remember the vows you have spoken.
Priscilla twisted away.

“I … I’m glad they didn’t hang you,” she said, pushing against his chest with both hands, keeping him at bay as she fought for control. “I wouldn’t have wanted that, no matter what you’ve done. But this isn’t Texas. You can’t just—”

“You’ve got to listen, Priscilla. There are things you don’t know. Things you don’t understand.”

“I don’t want to know! Not now—not ever! I’m Stuart Egan’s wife. There’s nothing you can do about that, even if I wanted you to—which I don’t!”

“In the eyes of God, you’re
my
wife,” he reminded her coldly, beginning to get angry again. “But then I didn’t dress you up like a pretty little doll and parade you around in front of my high-society friends.” He touched a cluster of tight, dark chestnut curls. “I wanted you for the woman you are inside, not for what you could do for an over-ambitious political career.”

“Get out of here.”

Brendan’s jaw clamped and a muscle bunched in his cheek. “I’ll get out, all right. Just as soon as I remind you the kind of woman you
really
are.”

With that he pressed her up against the tree, gripped her wrists and dragged them above her head. Priscilla struggled as his mouth came down over hers, but Brendan’s kiss was relentless.

He had traveled hundreds of miles, worried sick that something had happened to her, only to discover she had listened to Egan’s lies and condemned him.
He wanted to punish her for the bitter betrayal he felt, wanted to lash out and hurt her as she had hurt him.

Shifting his weight against her, he captured her chin, forced her soft pink lips apart, and thrust his tongue inside. Priscilla whimpered as his hand moved down her body, sliding the gown off her shoulders, sliding inside the bodice to capture the fullness of a breast. It felt silken and warm, and the upthrusting mound perfectly filled his palm.

His body tightened, his loins growing heavy and full, the ache there becoming even more painful. He shifted again, pressing his hardened shaft against her, forcing her to remember, demanding she never forget. Beneath his mouth, he felt her soft lips tremble, felt wisps of hair brush his cheek. She tasted of champagne and smelled like magnolias.

Brendan groaned.

The hand on her breast grew gentle, kneading, caressing. His hard kiss softened, tasting her lips, coaxing them apart, giving instead of taking. Priscilla made a small sound in her throat and he felt her response in the velvety touch of her tongue.

He let go of her wrists and her arms slid around his neck.

“God, how I’ve missed you,” he whispered against her mouth as she clung to him. Then he trailed warm kisses along her throat and down her shoulders.

“I’ve missed you, too,” Priscilla whispered when he lowered the gown even farther. But she didn’t make him stop, and he wasn’t sure he could.

His tongue circled her nipple, ringing it, sucking the fullness into his mouth while his other hand
worked her dress up her thighs. Long, slender legs then a softly rounded bottom filled his hands. He kneaded the fullness gently, pressing her against his hardened arousal, wondering how long he could wait before he plunged himself inside her.

Christ, how he wanted her.

“Brendan?” she whispered.

At the alarm he heard in the barely whispered word, he stilled. With his heart slamming hard inside his chest, it was difficult to catch the dim sound of voices growing nearer.

“It’s all right, baby,” he soothed, his breathing ragged as he forced himself under control. With a shaky hand and a skill earned from years of practice, he helped her straighten her clothes, then guided her out of the shadows and along a different pathway toward the house before the couple walking by could make out who it was.

Hurrying along beside him, Priscilla hadn’t looked at him once, but he knew what she was thinking. Regret showed in the slump of her delicate shoulders, the way she clutched her elegant emerald skirts. When they reached the porch, he turned her to face him, wishing they had more time.

“I’ll be back, Priscilla. Just stay away from Egan until I can get things worked out.”

“Please … won’t you just leave me alone?”

He smiled at that, hope rising at the uncertain note in her voice. “You’re mine, Silla. Surely what just happened ought to prove it.”

A slender hand crept to the base of her throat, and even in the torchlight of the gardens, he could see the rosy hue that tinged her cheeks.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” she said, her brown eyes dark with remorse. Then she lifted her chin. “I won’t let it happen again.”

Brendan arched a brow. “You’re sure about that, are you?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll see, Priscilla. We’ll just have to wait and see.” With others so near, he stifled the urge to kiss her. Instead he touched her cheek, turned, and faded silently into the shadows of the garden.

Priscilla watched him until he disappeared, her heart thudding painfully inside her chest.
God in heaven, Brendan had come!
He had been there with her in the garden. Just the memory of his handsome face made her throat close up and her body tremble with longing. Brendan had escaped from Texas, escaped the gallows!

She thanked the Lord for his infinite mercy, all the way up the back stairs. The tightness in her chest seemed to ease, and for the first time in weeks, she felt she could breathe.

But why had he come to Natchez? It was impossible—incredible—and yet he was here. Surely a woman’s seduction couldn’t mean that much to him. Did she dare to believe she meant something to him after all?

Priscilla reached the landing, passing only a matronly woman along the way. She closed the door to one of the chambers and rested her head against the smooth paneled wood.

Brendan had come for her in Natchez. Part of her wanted to sing with it—to revel in the knowledge that he really did care. The other, more practical part
asked,
What difference does it make?
Brendan was an outlaw and a gunman, not a man of conscience and reputation like Stuart. He was wanted by the law, might yet face the gallows, or would at least go to prison should he be captured. And even if he weren’t, even if he wanted to change, what were the chances he actually could succeed?

She thought of the promises she had made to herself, her vows to forget Brendan Trask, to be a wife to Stuart and get on with her life.

It had been hard enough when Brendan had been in Texas, hundreds of miles away. How could she possibly forget him knowing he was here in Natchez—knowing he wanted her just as much as she wanted him.

Stuart Egan is your husband
, she told herself firmly. He’s the man you have married, the man you’ve promised your life and loyalty—nothing else matters.

It was easy to say, and very hard to accept.

Still feeling shaky, Priscilla crossed the bedchamber to the gilded cheval glass mirror. As she adjusted the pins in her hair with an unsteady hand, smoothed and straightened her gown, she prayed Stuart hadn’t missed her. She prayed even more fervently that God would forgive her for what she had almost done.

Brendan watched the mansion from the darkness behind the carriage house. It was late in the evening when Priscilla and Egan finally left Melrose. He followed them from a distance, as he intended to do from now on.

When the carriage reached the house on North
Pearl, Egan and Priscilla went inside. Brendan’s chest tightened as he watched the second story from the darkness, waiting to see where Priscilla spent the night. A lamp began to glow, and he saw her silhouetted in the window beside a woman he guessed to be her maid.

He held his breath as a second lamp came on, outlining Egan’s sturdy frame in the room next door. Eventually both lamps went out, and Brendan breathed a sigh of relief. Priscilla appeared to have been telling the truth. At least for tonight Egan hadn’t gone to her room—to her bed.

He wasn’t sure what he would have done if he had.

Brendan spent most of the following day the same way he had spent the night before—watching Egan’s every move. Sooner or later, if his luck held out, Egan would provide some sort of lead, some connection to the smuggling that plagued the Mississippi as well as the Natchez Trace, the main route of travel inland.

Chris Bannerman had been more help than he could have dreamed. His friend had been able to fill him in on the problem and how it had mushroomed over the last few years. Chris had even spoken to the constable about current investigations. As a prominent citizen of the community, his concern didn’t seem out of place.

Though Brendan’s efforts were progressing—at least he hoped they were—he ached to see Priscilla. He wanted a chance to explain things, to make her understand. But every time Egan left the house, providing the opportunity he needed, he had no choice but to follow. Clearing his name came first. There
would be no chance for them to find happiness with the gallows still over his head.

“Damn it, Chris,” he said to his friend one afternoon, his frustrations growing every day. “I’ve got to see her. What the hell am I going to do?”

“That’s easy.” Chris clamped Brendan’s shoulder with his one good arm. The other had been lost above the elbow in a wagon accident on his plantation a few miles out of town. “You’ll need to go in after dark, so the next time Egan leaves the house by himself in the evening, you follow him till he settles somewhere, then come get me. I’ll take over while you go see Priscilla.”

An attractive blond man in his middle thirties, Chris and his wife, Sue Alice, along with their three towheaded children, had welcomed him into their home as if he were a member of the family.

“Too dangerous,” Brendan said. “Egan’s a ruthless bastard. If he caught you spying on him, he’d very likely kill you.”

“Natchez is my home,” Chris countered. “I can come up with a dozen good reasons to be anyplace I choose.”

Brendan shook his head. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“A man with one arm is still a man,” Chris said with conviction. “My daddy wasn’t always rich and pampered, and neither was I.” He grinned. “I’m a whole lot tougher than you think I am.” They were sitting in Chris’s walnut-paneled, book-lined study, his favorite part of the house.