The Rustler's Bride (11 page)

“Can you let me all the way in?” he asked.

She gave a small, jerky nod, more of determination than certainty.

In the night sky outside, the three-quarter moon had climbed high. A wedge pale light fell across the bed, casting a silvery halo on Declan’s fair hair. The wind had stilled, the night air grown soft. Scents from the flowering verbena and red mint beneath the window drifted into the room. Somewhere far away, a lonely coyote was calling out in search of a mate.

Victoria closed her eyes, tried to store sounds and scents and sensations in her mind as new and exciting tendrils of passion flowed through her. Declan was moving inside her now, slow and cautious at first, but soon he picked up his speed, sending their bodies rocking on the bed, the cotton sheets tangling beneath them.

She opened her eyes, and quickly shut them again as she saw the grim expression on his face. Love was not all silver and moonlight, she realized. There was a violent, untamed element to a coupling, one that stripped away the veneer of civilization and reduced humans to the basic instincts of a wild animal.

And soon, that wildness soared within her. It was a hot spiral of pleasure that rose and rose, until she tumbled into its dark embrace. Victoria arched up on the bed and cried out. If Declan hadn’t clamped his mouth over hers to capture the frantic sounds, her screams would have echoed around the house.

Above her, she felt his body tighten. He thrust deep inside her one more time and held still. She could feel him pulsing where they were joined, and then he collapsed on top of her, his breath rasping by her ear, the sheen of perspiration on their skin cooling as they lay tangled together, too exhausted to move.

Finally, with a muffled grunt of pain, Declan rolled onto his back. He hauled her into his arms and cradled her close. For long minutes, they lay entwined, not talking, enjoying the closeness, the sense of that he rest of the word was far away and of little importance.

Then a rooster crowed outside, shattering the peace. The shadows in the room started lifting as the first glimmer of dawn broke in the sky. Tears sprang to Victoria’s eyes. The night had been like a dream. Now reality would intrude. She would have to face the consequences of her actions, most of all her father’s wrath when he found out.

****

Victoria crouched on her haunches by the edge of the stable yard and wielded a hammer.
Thump-thump-thump,
the sounds echoed in the air as she nailed a cage, made of steel rods covered in padded fabric, to the corral gatepost. Inside the corral her palomino, Buttercup, was making friends with Declan’s blue roan, Vali. In the next corral her father’s black stallion pranced about, alone and aloof, as if aware of his superiority.

“What the devil are you doing?” The clatter of her father’s approaching footsteps didn’t interrupt her steady rhythm of hammering, and neither did the sharp tone of his voice, for she had been waiting for him to appear. The view from his office window gave in this direction.

“I’m making a game for the ranch hands,” she replied without glancing up. Tension rippled along her body. They had missed each other at breakfast. This was their first meeting since last night...since she and Declan had...color washed up to her face.

Did her father suspect? She knew he’d been keeping an eye on her. Had he heard something last night? Might he be able to tell merely by looking at her? Would something in her eyes, in her face, in her manner reveal that she was no longer a virgin? Raising her arm, Victoria pushed back the brim of her hat and wiped a trickle of sweat from her brow, and muttered a few words to blame the sun for her discomfort.

Confused emotions crowded her mind. She felt guilty, and yet she didn’t regret what she had done. For years, she had dreamed about her blue eyed outlaw, rejecting all other suitors. She had worried it was a mirage, the immature dream of a teenage girl. Last night had removed all doubt. Her love for Declan was real. The love of a grown woman. He had stirred her passions as no man ever had. One way or another, she would find a way of holding on to him, a way of making her hasty marriage into a success.

“What game?” her father asked.

Victoria delivered the last blow with the hammer, stood up and faced him. He was dressed in a gray vested suit that matched his pewter eyes. Hatless, he appeared to have rushed out of the house on an impulse, although the formal clothing revealed he was about to ride into town on business.

“Can you go to the bank?” Victoria asked. Yesterday, she’d looked for money, planning to ride into the post office to mail the letters she’d written to school friends, but she’d noticed that the cash box in her father’s office was empty.

“What game?” he prompted her again.

“A game of skill.” She shoved the hammer into a loop on the side of her denim overalls and slapped the dust from her knees. “I’m fed up with the men shooting at tin cans when they want to compete about their skill. Instead, they’ll have to practice throwing alphabet blocks.”

She pointed ten yards away, to the cement well in the middle of the yard. Next to it stood another cage made of steel rods encased in padded fabric. This one was filled with wooden cubes about two inches in diameter. “They’re alphabet blocks,” she explained to her father. “Toys, from when I was a child. I found them in the attic when I went up there looking for my old clothes.”

Her father gestured at her outfit. “Have expensive dresses gone out of fashion?”

“They are impractical for ranch work.”

“Where did you get this from?” He gripped the rim of the wire cage and rattled it to check how solidly she had fastened it to the gatepost.

“From the Ladies Fashion Emporium in Boston.”

Her father stood back, eyed the contraption, cast a look at the other similar one in the distance. “It’s a corset.” He voice was flat and yet, beneath the cool indignation, Victoria detected laughter attempting to break free.

“Bravo,” she replied. “Didn’t know you had it in you to recognize one.”

“I still get around some, Ria.” His face colored with a rare sign of fluster. “Sorry,” he added in a low voice. “Didn’t mean to embarrass you, or sully your mother’s memory.”

Love for her father surged in her heart. Always, always he considered what was best for her. Most people only saw his stern manner, the dark, brooding looks and the intensity of his indomitable will. They failed to see the kindness, the keen sense of humor, and the way he took the side of the weak, insisting on fair play and justice for all.

And that is why it hurt so much to deceive him about Declan.

“It’s all right, Pa,” she said, using the casual form or address she had replaced with the more formal ‘father’ since she returned from boarding school. “Ma has been dead for nearly two decades. I don’t begrudge you a little pleasure in the arms of a woman every now and then.”

She poked at the metal cage with the toe of her boot. “I hate wearing a corset, and I can’t get into my gowns without one, so you’ll have to get used to seeing me in pants.” She paused, and then she added, “Anyway, I’m getting the impression that my fine gowns might have to last a long time. You’ve not hired a new maid, and you let some of the permanent hands go with the seasonal ones, and we are low on supplies, this morning I found the cash box empty.” She leveled her eyes at him. “Father, are we short of money?”

Hesitation flickered over her father’s lean face. He was about to reply when five riders, one of them Declan, streamed into the yard. They dismounted and jostled by the well, cranking the hand pump to splash water on their faces.

Hank and Stan, the two older cowboys Victoria had known all her life, homed in on the padded cage filled with alphabet blocks. Hank picked up a wooden square and turned to Declan for explanation. Frowning, Declan took it from his hand. He pushed back his black Stetson as he studied the object. Then he gave a shrug and strode up to her. He nodded a greeting to her father before facing her and asking, “What’s this for?”

“It’s a game.” She explained the purpose. The other cowboys drifted closer.

“Hell,” Stan said with a toothless grin. “I might learn me to read.” Retreating to the pile of tiny cubes with a different letter on each of the six facets, he started studying them. Lenny, in his usual swagger, was the first to try tossing the blocks into the empty cage nailed to the corral post.

“I dislike the noise when they shoot up the place for fun.” Victoria spoke in a low voice to keep her words between herself and her father as they moved out of the way and watched. “But I also thought it might be a good idea to stop wasting ammunition.”

Her father, standing half a step behind her, curled his hands over her shoulders and squeezed—a steady, reassuring pressure, the way he liked to do when he attempted to steer her through the turbulent events of life. From the familiar gesture, meant to deliver comfort and courage, Victoria understood that she had guessed right—that their financial situation was indeed precarious.

Her father left one hand on her shoulder, as if to indicate a prior claim, and turned his attention to Declan, who stood observing them both beneath the brim of his hat.

“Will you join us for dinner tonight?” Andrew Sinclair asked.

“Perhaps.” Declan looked up from the alphabet block in his hand. “If Victoria wishes my company.”

Her father’s fingers tensed on her shoulder, biting into her flesh. She could feel his chest swell as he inhaled an angry breath. “Let’s get this right,” he said. “You are my daughter’s husband, but only as a temporary arrangement to save your worthless life. It’s not so that you can enjoy the company of a lady. My daughter is not for the likes of you.”

“I’ll let Victoria be the judge of that.” Declan turned toward her. He inclined his head and touched the brim of his hat before walking off to join the other ranch hands in the game.

“The insolent whelp,” Victoria heard her father mutter.

Her hands fisted at her sides. It couldn’t have been clearer. They had been like two dogs growling and snapping at each other. For whatever reason, Declan wanted to deliberately antagonize her father. She did not understand it, and she hated being caught in the middle of it. With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach she realized that in some aspects her husband might not be the man she had conjured up in her dreams. Unlike her father, who always gave up to her requests in the end, her husband might not.

Chapter Seven

Declan raked his fingers through his damp hair, pushing unruly strands from his face as he studied his reflection in the mirror of the washstand. His features were almost healed, the remaining yellowing bruises hidden by the deep tan on his skin.

He had not taken up the invitation to join Victoria and Andrew Sinclair for dinner tonight. He had eaten in the cookhouse, and then he’d loitered outside in the evening cool with the other ranch hands. The older ones gave him good natured teasing about being the biggest of the injured animals Miss Victoria had rescued and brought home. The younger ones stole covert glances at him, most likely wondering if he would try to seduce the girl and make the marriage stick—some perhaps speculating that he might have already done.

Restlessly, he paced the small room, torn between his need for Victoria and the problems that would arise if her father found out.

He waited until he heard the clock strike midnight. Then he slipped out, through the kitchen corridor, up the stairs. The sky was overcast, with no moon tonight to ease his passage in the darkness. He found her door by feel, running his hand along the wood paneling along the wall. As his fingers curled over the brass knob, he heard the click of a hammer and felt the cool steel of a gun barrel pressed against the back of his neck.

“Is this how you reward my daughter for saving your life?”

He froze. Would his marriage end here and now, with a gunshot reverberating around the house, his blood soaking the hallway, and Victoria in her white nightgown kneeling beside him, tears streaming down her beautiful face?

“Yes,” Declan said in reply to his father-in-laws question.

He knew he was baiting Andrew Sinclair. Goading him to pull the trigger. Deep in his mind, a suspicion flickered that perhaps he had intended to be caught, had been looking for a way out of a situation that had become impossible to resolve without hurting Victoria.

“I’ve seen how you look at her.” The gun barrel poked into his neck in an angry jab. “You salivate after her like a dog in heat. Do you think I want a man like you for her? An uneducated thief who makes no effort to be civil to me?”

Sinclair’s voice had risen in anger. Declan suspected the older man had not paid attention to the faint creaking of bedsprings on the other side of the door, or the rasp of a match, or the click of a glass bowl on a lamp as it was shoved forcefully into place.

He waited. A soft trail of footsteps. The door inched open.

“Declan?” The hesitant whisper filled the silence.

“Victoria.” Shock and pain roughened Andrew Sinclair’s voice. He lowered the gun, but not fast enough. The steel barrel glinted in the light as Victoria held up the lamp.

“Dear God, father, put the gun away.” She pulled the door wider. The yellow light from the lamp threw dancing shadows across her face, evidence of how hard her hands were shaking. Her blue eyes were huge and round, her smooth skin ashen with fright.

Sinclair spoke like a man in pain. “Ria, please tell me you did not invite this man into your bedroom.”

Declan saw Victoria’s stiff posture ease, now that her father had lowered the gun. She studied the floor boards beneath her bare toes and spoke in a low voice. “I didn’t invite him into my bedroom, father. He came of his own accord, but once he was inside, I didn’t ask him to leave.”

Frantic now, Sinclair stepped forward, pushing Declan aside. “Ria, if you lie with him, you can kiss goodbye to all thoughts of a good marriage. The railroad man, the earl, the senator. You’ll lose them all. A dalliance with an outlaw might be a romantic adventure to a young girl, but is it worth throwing your future away?”

Victoria’s lips moved without a sound. Her voice seemed caught in her throat, but both Declan and Sinclair could follow the silent motion of her lips and knew she had said ‘yes’. She lifted one hand to touch the lace ruffle at her collar and the other hand brought the lamp higher, closer to their faces. Swallowing hard, she found her voice again. “I want this man, father. I always have, since I was fifteen years old and saw him for the first time.”

Andrew Sinclair stood in silence, his narrow, fierce gaze shuttling between them. He snarled out a curse as understanding rippled through him. His voice gained the harsh, guttural cadence of a highland burr. “Ye said, you didna ask him to leave.
Didna.
Are ye talking about the past, girl? Are ye saying it’s too late? Are ye telling me this is no’ the first time he’s come scratching like a tomcat on yer bedroom door?”

At first, Victoria seemed to shrink back. Then she lifted her chin. Defiance flashed in her eyes, defiance and feminine pride. “I don’t regret what I did,” she said bluntly. “And I don’t care about those other men. I could never settle in the East. I’m a rancher’s daughter. I want to be a rancher’s wife. I would like to make this marriage a success. I know it’s a lot to ask, father, but will you give him a chance?”

Sinclair groaned, a low, wounded sound. “Ria, you don’t know what you’re asking. I promised you mother on her deathbed to bring you up to be a lady, to do all I can to safeguard your happiness.”

“You have,” she hurried to reassure him. “You have never failed me in any way. And I am asking you not to fail me now. I’m asking you to accept Declan Beaulieu as my husband. As the man who will inherit Red Rock Ranch after you die, and whose children will inherit it after him.”

Sinclair stiffened. He fell silent. Declan could guess his thoughts.

There’ll be no ranch to inherit. In another month it will belong to the bank.

When Sinclair finally spoke again, his voice was tired, as if he’d suddenly aged in years. “All right, Ria, this is what I’ll do. I’ll accept this man as your husband. I won’t promise to like him, but I’ll tolerate him. However, if I ever learn that he has betrayed you, or used his position as your husband to hurt you, I won’t hesitate to put a bullet through his brain. Do you accept that?”

He waited for Victoria to nod, and then he turned to Declan. The lamplight was now behind him, and the deep shadows gave his face a sinister look. “Have I made myself clear?” he asked harshly.

“Yes, sir.”

Declan said nothing more, merely waited in silence. After a moment, Sinclair moved aside. It was a short step but it had the gravity of a king giving up his crown. Declan stepped across the threshold to his daughter’s bedroom and pulled the door shut behind him, sealing his father-in-law into the corridor. His body vibrated with tension. Three people had participated in that scene, and only one of them had hidden the truth.

Declan Beaulieu.

The weight of his lack of honesty sat heavy on his shoulders. Victoria ought to have rejected him, instead of making the gallant declaration that had caused his chest to swell with pride. He would not feel so torn up if she had denied him. If she had put fear of consequences and loyalty to her father first. Or, if she had at least blamed him for what had happened between them, had made him take the sole responsibility for her indiscretion.

But she had done none of it.

A surge of bitter anger rose inside Declan, at himself, at Andrew Sinclair, even at Victoria. He hated the world that had spun his fate, like a gambling wheel, and placed him in such an impossible position. The helpless rage collided with desire, to create a burst of raw, volatile passion that demanded an instant release.

“Take off your nightgown.” He spoke in a low voice, already busy removing his boots—another sign that he had courted disaster on purpose, failing to muffle his footsteps by walking barefoot as he traversed the silent house.

Victoria obeyed without protest or question. It came back to him in a flash, the taunting comment he had made after the hasty wedding ceremony beneath the hanging oak
. If you obey, I might be willing to cherish.
There would be no time for cherishing now. Only fierce lust, taking what she gave willingly, seizing a moment of pleasure in an effort to chase away the demons that clamored inside him.

Already naked, Victoria stretched out on the white coverlet and leaned over to the bedside table to blow out the lamp.

“Leave it on,” he told her. “Tonight, I want to see you in lamplight.” He climbed up on the bed and lowered his body on top of hers. Beneath him, she felt soft and yielding, but he could tell she was quivering with anticipation, like a mare about to be covered by a stallion. Her breathing was quick and shallow, her face flushed, her skin hot to touch.

The outward signs of her arousal called out to him, urging him on. Not pausing to kiss her, he braced up on one elbow and reached down to test her readiness. The slick heat that met his fingers sent another surge of desire coursing through him.

“You’re mine,” he said as he shifted his body to line up with hers and seated himself to the hilt in a single forceful stroke. “You’ve always been mine, and you always will be.”

She said nothing, merely rocked her hips to meet his. Rising up on his arms, he lifted his body above hers. He wanted to drive her up to the pinnacle of pleasure so fast she’d be lost without him to hold on to her, and then he wanted to ease her down and take her back up again. And again and again and again, until she no longer knew where her body ended and his began.

He caught her gaze and held it, his eyes not leaving hers even for a second. He saw her lashes flutter down as she sought refuge from the onslaught of sensations. “No,” he said. “Look at me, Ria.” She obeyed, and Declan felt a fierce wave of possessiveness.

“Mine,” he said, and thrust deep. “See how well we fit?”

Instead of replying, she made a harsh, impatient sound, asking for more. And he gave it to her. He felt her shudder, felt the rhythmic contractions of her body, but he didn’t cease, didn’t even slow down. He kept up his fierce pace, until she shattered in his arms a second time. Then he left her, but only to roll her over onto her stomach.

He settled his body on top of hers once more and placed his mouth by her ear. Giving in to the sting of jealousy, he ran his tongue along the delicate shape of her ear and asked, “Did you kiss any of those men in Philadelphia?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“All of them.”

“And did you like it?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Not like you.”

“The English earl. What was his name?”

“I don’t remember.”

“What was his given name?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember. Please.”

“What about the others?”

“I don’t remember their names. Please. Don’t stop.”

And he fulfilled her wish. She turned her head on the pillow, seeking to be kissed. He caught the corner of her mouth, and she thrust her tongue between his lips. He met her fierce kiss with a deep, hungry passion of his own.

The heat of their bodies made her skin moist with perspiration. He broke the kiss and licked at her neck, tasting the tangy flavor of salt on it. “Say it,” he demanded as he took them both to the edge once more. “Say my name.”

“Declan,” she said, “Declan.”

And as he spurted his seed into her, he recalled her solemn words to her father.
The man who will inherit Red Rock Ranch after you die, and whose children will inherit it after him.
He sank down over her, gathered her close, and rolled over to his side so he would not crush her with his weight.

Perhaps there would a child.

One more person to suffer as the situation unfolded.

For, as Declan held Victoria Sinclair in his arms, he accepted that he loved he, and only now did the inevitability with which the three of them were hurtling toward their destruction fully dawn on him. They would all be broken in their own way. The wounds on each of them would be deep and painful, the scars they left permanent.

Andrew Sinclair would lose his ranch and see his daughter’s fate tied to the man responsible for his downfall. There would be nothing he could do to restore Victoria’s prospects, nothing he could do to safeguard her future.

Victoria would lose the home she loved and be forced to choose between her father and her husband. She had put so much faith in him, and he would pay her back with betrayal. She would have to learn either to forgive him, or learn to hate him.

And he, Declan Beaulieu. He might lose Victoria, if she chose to stay with her father. And even if she didn’t, she would respond to his betrayal with hate and rejection that would poison their marriage, perhaps for the rest of their days.