The Rustler's Bride (8 page)

His gaze lingered on her. From the moment Victoria came out to join the shooting, she had felt Declan watching her. It made her skin tingle and her body tremble. Recollections of the kiss they had shared flooded her, and she was grateful for the encroaching darkness that hid her reaction.

“No,” Declan said. “Tell him I’ll eat with the men tonight.”

I’ll eat with the men.
Victoria swallowed. Afterward, Declan would be alone in his room. It was the prompt she had been waiting for. It was the sign to proceed. She buried the last trace of doubt, the last ounce of hesitation. Her plan was unfolding, step by step by step.

****

Late into the night, Declan lay awake on his straw mattress, clad in nothing but his long underwear. A single candle flickered on the nightstand. Arms crossed beneath his head, he stared at the whitewashed ceiling where he could just about make out the shape of a tiny spider slowly crawling its way across.

The storm that had been brewing for days had finally arrived. Rain pelted against the window glass. Wind howled across the plateau in fierce gusts that slammed into the side of the building. There was no lightning or thunder, just the solid blackness beyond the unshuttered window.

The wild weather suited his restless mood.

Just like the day before, he had seen little of Victoria during working hours. There’d been none of her earlier skulking about. She was planning something. He knew it in his gut. She wanted to toy with temptation, as a child might toy with fire. He’d seen it in her eyes when she came to watch the shooting, had felt it in the air between them.

If he lacked the will to resist there would be trouble.

A rhythmic banging at the door interrupted his thoughts.

Someone knocking, and not caring if the sound echoed around the house. He got up, went to the door, pulled it open. It was Victoria. He had underestimated her audacity. She stood in the hall, a lamp in one hand, a bundle of lemon yellow fabric in the other. Her hair cascaded in a glossy dark curtain past her shoulders. She wore nothing but a nightgown and a thin wrapper. When she lifted the lamp higher, the light fell on her clothing. Declan gritted his teeth. If he wasn’t mistaken, the white garments were damn near transparent.

“What do you want?” he said gruffly.

“May I come in?”

Declan leaned past her to peer out. The corridor was empty—for now. Her knocking had been louder than Cookie’s dinner gong.

“No,” he replied. “You can’t come in.”

She ignored him and sailed in anyway, the flimsy fabric fluttering about her bare feet. He stepped aside. Anything not to touch her. He recalled the maelstrom of want and need that had seized him when they kissed at the barn, and he didn’t want to be pulled into it again. He ducked down to get one of his boots from the floor and jammed it under the door to keep it open. If her father came, an open door might not seem so bad.

“What do you want?” he asked once more as he straightened.

She turned to set the lamp down on the small chest of drawers near the door. His mouth went dry. Now, with the light behind her, he could see her body silhouetted against the thin garments. High breasts. The curve of a hip. The length of a thigh. He crossed his arms over his chest. As if that would lock his hands in place and curb the desire to touch.

She turned to him and held out the bundle of cloth. “I made you a shirt.”

“Thank you.” He uncrossed his hands, took the shirt from her and tossed it on the bed behind him. “Good night,” he said as he faced her again.

“Aren’t you going to try it on?”

He exhaled a sigh, eyed the open doorway. No footsteps—yet. Perhaps Andrew Sinclair slept soundly. Declan shifted his gaze to the bundle of lemon yellow cotton. He leaned down to snatch it up. Covering his naked chest might be a step in the right direction. He poked his arms into the sleeves, lifted the garment over his head and pulled it down over his torso, biting back an oath when the abrupt motion jolted his ribs.

Puzzled, he tried to settle into the shirt. A seam cut into his armpit. One sleeve was crooked at the elbow. He tugged at the fabric to adjust the fit, but every time he got one seam comfortable, another seam chafed against his skin.

“I made it for you,” Victoria said, with the solemn air of a great sacrifice. She lifted her right hand and pushed it up to his nose, palm up, fingers splayed. Curious, he took hold of her hand and inspected the skin. The fingertips were red, full of tiny pinprick holes.

“See,” she said. “I’ll be a good wife to you, even if it kills me.”

An odd, warm sensation swirled in his chest. He caressed the pads of her fingers. So, that’s why she’d been gnawing at her skin at dinner yesterday. Then, mindful of the danger of getting too cozy with her, especially with the temptation of a bed only a step away, he released her hand and asked, “Is this what you’ve been doing the last three days?”

She gave a wordless nod. Declan could sense a jittery unease about her, and he tried to diffuse it with humor. “Are you equally accomplished with other domestic skills?” He rotated his shoulders, trying to stop a cramp where the wretched shirt bit into his arm.

She replied with a rueful smile. “My father says the best way to reduce food bills is to have me do the cooking. Nobody will eat.”

“I see. “ He plucked at the shirt some more, but it didn’t improve the fit. “I have nothing against store bought clothes,” he muttered. “Even if they are second hand. At least you can try them on for size.”

One slim dark brow lifted. “Don’t you want me to make you a pair of pants?”

Declan almost choked at the thought of ill fitting seams and too tight measurements cutting into more critical parts of his anatomy. “God forbid,” he said on an indrawn breath.

For a few seconds, silence settled over the small room. Victoria tilted her head to one side. When she spoke, Declan could hear the tremor in her voice. Her words came out in a rush—a rehearsed speech, he suspected. “I think it’s time for you to do some cherishing,” she said with a lighthearted arching of her brows.

“Victoria…”

Ignoring him, she forged right ahead. “The way I see it, of all the men I could marry, you are the most suitable. It simplifies things a great deal, considering we’re already husband and wife. I’m sure my father will eventually—”

He held up a hand to silence her. “Victoria…I…”

Out in the night darkness, the first crack of thunder tore the air, although there had been no flash of lightning. A low, long rumble rolled across the land. He waited for the sound to fade away. As they stood bathed in the dull lamplight, he could see Victoria watching him, with a look on her face that held in it an equal measure of vulnerability and stubbornness.

“It would never work,” he told her, as gently as he could. “You’ll only cause trouble if you do this…” He jerked his head toward the door he’d propped open. “…if you contrive for your father to catch us in a compromising situation.”

“I disagree,” she said, not gently at all.

Declan rubbed his face with his hands. The damn shirt stretched tight across his shoulders. He could hear a seam rip open. They both ignored the sound. “There are things about me you don’t know,” he said finally, not meeting her eyes. “Things that if you knew them you’d turn away in disgust. There’ll come a time when you’ll find out. And then you’ll hate me.”

A notch formed between her brows. “What is it? Tell me.”

“I can’t.”

She surprised him then. Instead of launching into an argument, or begging to be told, she spoke in a flat, pragmatic tone. “Well. I can’t base my judgment on what I don’t know. You’re my husband. I am your wife. I want it to stay that way. End of discussion.”

“That was not a discussion. That was a monologue.”

Declan knew the only sane thing would be to bundle her out of the room and bolt the door after her. Instead, he gave in to the longing inside him. Maybe it was the flimsy nightgown. Maybe it was her bleeding fingertips. Maybe it was the miserable excuse for a shirt and the effort she’d put into it. Maybe it was her innocent trust.

He didn’t know. All he knew was that he had to hold her in his arms. He reached out and pulled her close to him. Strangely passive now, she made no effort to either resist his hold or deepen the embrace. She simply leaned into him and laid her head on his shoulder. He could feel the rigid tension in her body, and it told him she didn’t really know what she wanted, had not fully considered the consequences of her actions.

“Victoria,” he said softly. “Why did you bring the shirt to me in the middle of the night?”

She lifted her head from his shoulder. Something flickered in her eyes as she looked up at him, her face close to his—a flash of nerves, he guessed, and then her expression grew artificially bright as she covered up her uncertainty with silly feminine prattle.

“Why, of course, because I wanted to give it to you as soon as I had finished it.” She looked around the room, pretending to be baffled. “Heavens. I had no idea how late it was. You must think I’m terribly disorganized. I do apologize.”

“Victoria,” he said. “Shut up.”

She tipped her head back. Heat entered her eyes. “Make me,” she said.

And he did.

Chapter Five

Declan intended it to be only a brief kiss. One more bittersweet taste of her before he laid down the rules and put this marriage back to what it needed to be—a formality, a means of keeping him walking the earth instead of being buried six feet deep in it.

But his body refused to obey. Too stirred by her presence his bedroom, too stirred by the sight of her clad in nothing more than the thin nightgown and wrapper that revealed more than they kept hidden, he lost all restraint.

His hands rose to cup her face, to hold her steady for the onslaught of his mouth. He slid his thumb across her chin, urging her lips to part. And when they did, he thrust his tongue inside. She gave a shocked little gasp, a sound of alarm that he muffled against his mouth. Even though their bodies were barely touching, he could feel her stiffen with alarm.

His hands dropped down to her waist, to lock her in place, in case she tried to break free.
Not yet
, he prayed in his mind.
Not yet.
This madness had to end, but not yet. Never had he kissed a woman like this. Kisses that seemed to sear him, body and soul. All his life, his one single-minded goal had been to avenge the death of his parents, and nothing had been allowed to distract him from that aim. Women least of all.

But now his blood pulsed like liquid fire in his veins. Declan closed his eyes, tried to resist the swell of need, but it was too strong. It swept him along, and he was as powerless against it as a piece of bark floating in a flash flood. His hands gained a mind of their own. They slid up from Victoria’s supple waist and came to rest at the sides of her breasts.

He lifted his lips a fraction from hers while he waited for her to react—to resist, to protest—anything to stop him from going down the path that would only lead to unhappiness. He could hear her ragged breathing, could feel her chest rise and fall against him, but otherwise she remained still and silent in his arms. The fearful tension that had seized her a moment ago seemed to be easing.

Slowly, he inched one hand behind her back, fingers spayed, and applied a steady pressure that urged her closer to him. His other hand crept along her chest to settle over a breast. Beneath his palm, he could feel the tightly pebbled crest of a nipple through the thin barrier of those barely-there garments.

Now she would let out an indignant cry and order him to stop.

Now she would block the path that led to unhappiness and disaster.

But she did not.

She made a tiny sound, half moan, half sigh, and arched her back, so that the full weight of her breast pressed into his palm. Her eyes fluttered shut. Her slender hands rose to clutch his shoulders. Clinging to him. Not pushing him away. Fierce masculine pride swelled inside Declan at the sign of her yielding. Tentatively, he brushed his thumb across the peaked nipple. She made that sound again. He could feel a tremor ripple down her entire length.

“Victoria,” he said in a low murmur.

“Hmm…?” It came on a dreamy sigh.

He intended to tell her that she had to leave, but he couldn’t. Not yet. But soon. For her innocent submission had brought the sense of responsibility crashing back into his mind. He could not take what she was offering. Could not. Would not.

“Do it again,” she told him.

“This?” He brushed the pad of his thumb over her nipple, more firmly now.

“Oh.” She gave a little sharp cry. Her head fell back. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders. Her lashes lifted. In the faint lamplight her eyes looked dark and mysterious, full of feminine allure. Her mouth was open in invitation, her lips red and moist.

“One more time,” he said roughly. “One more kiss. Nothing more.”

He lowered his head. There was nothing soft or gentle about his embrace now, only hunger and desperation and need. For one agonizing moment, he realized that he had to make a choice between cupping her breast and feeling every inch of her body against his. Instinct told him the latter, and he wrapped both arms around her and pulled her tight against him, fitting her soft curves against his hard contours.

Only dimly was he aware that out in the midnight darkness beyond his window the storm had unleashed its full force. There was lighting now, eerie blue flashes that illuminated the small room for an instant, before abandoning it back to the faint glimmer of lamplight. Thunder came in sharp explosions, like the crack of a whip, followed by a low rumble that seemed to roll endlessly over the rain-soaked plateau.

Time stopped.

Declan could feel Victoria’s hands lift to twine around his neck. Her fingers tangled in his hair, sending prickles of need down his spine. Her body was warm and pliant against his, all the stiffness and hesitation gone, her lips eager and responsive beneath his.

When Declan had had enough of her mouth, he scattered kisses on her face—the crest of a cheek, the slim arch of eyebrows, the expanse of a smooth forehead. He trailed his mouth down to the pale column of her throat. She smelled of lavender and sunlight. He let himself imagine that she was his by rights. That he could strip away her nightgown and wrapper, and lower her on the bed behind them, and have her wake up beside him in the morning to a world where nothing stood between them.

In his arms, Victoria wriggled closer to him, fitting her body more snugly against his, and he groaned out loud—a harsh, desperate sound. The pleasure was almost too potent to bear. Then she started rocking her hips, and each tiny jolt against his erection sent a new spark of need ricocheting along his nerve endings.

Declan knew he had to stop it. If he didn’t stop it now, he never would. He lifted his head. Or tried to, for Victoria’s hands were fisted in his hair. Dazed with passion, she was clinging to him with a fierce grip, and she possessed a greater strength than he’d imagined. He curled his hands around her upper arms and eased her back a step, with a silent curse at the tug in his scalp when she failed to release her hold on his hair.

“Victoria…”

She uncurled her fists, slid her hands down to his shoulders and buried her face in the crook of his neck. “Hmmm…” Her voice was breathless and languid. “I like it when you say my name.”

With a supreme effort, Declan forced a brusque tone. It might sound like a rejection, but perhaps it needed to be one. He was too wrought up to think of some pretty—or even just rational—words to convince her that they had to stop.

“You need to go,” he said curtly. “Now. I’m tired. I need to get some sleep before morning. And so do you.”

Her eyes widened in hurt surprise. “I thought...I thought we would…”

He hardened himself. It had to be done. “You thought wrong.”

“Did I?” She made a sweeping gesture with one hand. It took in his body and hers, and the bed behind them, and that single gesture seemed to encompass everything they had shared in that shadowed room.

His only response was a shrug.

“Did I?” she pressed, her voice rising.

God save him from a stubborn woman. Declan rammed the heels of his palms against his eyes. It would be so easy. In the back of his mind, an ugly idea lurked
. What better way to complete your revenge? Take everything. Not just his land, but the only family he has. Leave Andrew Sinclair with nothing. For surely, the ultimate blow for the proud rancher would be to see his daughter give her love to the man responsible for destroying him.

“Ria, please.” Declan dropped his hands to his sides. He could see hurt flicker across her face, hurt and bewilderment, and a fleeting shadow of shame. “Go,” he told her. “Go before I do something we’ll both regret.”

“I see.” Her voice was small and tight. “I misunderstood. My apologies.” Something flashed in her eyes, something Declan a moment later realized was the fury of a woman who thought herself scorned. For she dipped down, gracefully bending at the waist, and she plucked his fraying cotton shirt from the floor and said, “You won’t need this anymore. From now on you can wear the new one.”

And she headed for the door he’d propped open with his boot.

“Ria…,” he called after her, and then hesitated, doubting the wisdom of doing it. Perhaps he should abandon any effort to smooth things over. Maybe parting in anger was for the best, but he hated the thought of spoiling the memory of night. Anyway, he needed to call her back and remind her to take with her the lamp she’d carried in.

She turned around. “It’s Miss Sinclair to the likes of you.”

Declan pointed at the lamp. Despite everything, he couldn’t stop the grin that spread on his face. Oh, the sweet pleasure of having the last word. He waited until she was on her way out again.

“Actually,” he drawled. “It’s Mrs. Beaulieu now.”

For a moment, he thought Victoria was going to solve all his problems by hurling the lamp at him and burning them both to death. Then she gathered herself, gave a jerky nod and went off on her way. Declan stripped off the straightjacket of a shirt and went to bed. He tried to get to sleep. He started counting the lighting flashes. By the time the storm lost its vigor at dawn, he had counted one hundred and twenty-six flashes.

****

Victoria’s eyes were gritty from lack of sleep. However, the hours spent tossing and turning had not been wasted. She had thought it through. Considered all angles. Rebalanced her ideas. Reviewed alternative strategies.

And she concluded Declan was right.

Of course he was right to toss her out.

She had tried to make the marriage real, and yet she knew nothing about him. He was a criminal. An outlaw. A cattle rustler. Not even a bank robber, or a card sharp, but the lowest class of villain in the territory, apart from a horse thief.

Just because he had once been kind to her, and just because her heart beat a little faster every time she caught a glimpse of him, she had convinced herself that he was a good man who had strayed on the wrong side of the law through no fault of his own.

And yet she knew nothing about him. Nothing at all. Except that last night he had rejected her, thus protecting her from herself. An action which in itself proved that he possessed the sterling qualities she had credited him with in the five years she had spent dreaming about him.

He was an honorable man. He had refused to betray her father’s trust, ruin her future, and drive a wedge between her and her father. She needed to revise her plan. Reverse the order of steps. Not bring about a
fait accompli
to ram the marriage down her father’s reluctant throat. The better approach was to win her father over first, and that required her to find out a bit more about Declan. Prove that he possessed all those sterling qualities she was convinced that he did.

She bounced out of bed.

First, she’d release him from the burden of having to wear that terrible shirt.

She found Mrs. Flynn in the kitchen when she went to get a cup of coffee.

“Might you have a spare shirt?” Victoria asked.

Mrs. Flynn did repairs for the men in the evenings. Everyone pretended she did it out of the goodness of her heart, when in truth she accepted payment in form of jugs of whiskey and penny novelettes full of ghosts and clanking chains.

Most men had little spare clothing, so when they tore something they wanted it repaired at once. Mrs. Flynn had developed an inventory system. A man handed in a torn garment and she exchanged it for a mended one. That allowed her to do the sewing at her leisure and have a mended item in readiness to replace the next casualty.

“Might have one or two.” The housekeep slammed the meat cleaver down on a slab of mutton with a crunch of bone. She glanced up from her blood smeared hands. “What size?”

“My husband’s size.”

Another thud of the meat cleaver. “You’ve got yourself a good un’ there. Grandparents, on his mother’s side, came from County Kerry. Only a few miles from where my Seamus was born.”

Victoria nearly spilled her coffee. “He told you?”

“We had a wee talk one evening when I took him his dinner tray.”

“Did he say anything else?”

Mrs. Flynn tossed the bones into a big cast iron pot and started chopping the meat into even-sized chunks. “Can you put the stock on the stove?” she asked, with a jerk of her head toward the big enamel range.

Victoria picked up the heavy pot, carried it to the stove and set it on top. She bent to open the hatch. Heat flared out. Dying embers glowed orange at the bottom. “Do you want me to add more wood?”