Renegade Bride

by Barbara Ankrum

  Creed swallowed, fighting the tightening in his groin and an erratic pounding in his chest. "Mariah, what are you—?"

  She didn't answer. Instead, she stopped in front of him, her eyes locked with his, and slipped the gown first off one shoulder, then the other until it pooled in an ivory puddle at her feet. Heat soared through him like a Chinook wind. Hands still at his sides, his eyes widened, taking in the perfection of her body backlit by the morning light coming through the window.

  He shuddered as she reached up and trailed her fingers down his bare chest and across his sensitive nipple.

  His eyes slid shut on a moan. "Dieu, don't..."

  "Does this feel like a mistake to you, Creed?" she whispered, touching the moist tip of her tongue where her fingers had been.

  "This doesn't change anything," he warned, breathing deeply, inhaling her touch.

  "No," Mariah whispered against his skin. "It doesn't change a thing." But everything is changed. "Make love to me, Creed. Make love to me one last time in the daylight. Don't talk. Don't even think."

  With a groan, he scooped her in his arms. Dropping his mouth heatedly against hers, he gave up his good intentions and gave in to the inevitable force that bound them together as surely as a magnet to steel.

  "Just love me, Creed," she whispered against his ear. "Just for a little while. Soon enough, we'll have to say goodbye."

  And one last time, he did.

  Chapter 16

  "Gentlemen, take your positions!" shouted the tall, bewhiskered man on the wooden stoop of one of Virginia City's newest hotels, The Missouri House. The man's distinguished black frock coat—minus tie—and tall gray hat set him apart from the begrimed collection of miners who shoved and jostled for prime positions in the circle near the brim-full watering trough.

  The dozen or so men did not seem bothered by either the ankle-deep mud—which carried the distinct odor of horse dung—nor the fading daylight, but were furiously stuffing chaw inside their cheeks and tossing last minute wagers of antelope bags filled with gold dust at the tally man. This fellow scribbled rapid notes in a leatherbound notebook atop a metal scale in his lap.

  Wide-eyed, Mariah steered Petunia around the crowd of rowdies, dodging the spectators who had gathered for the event and who gawked from every stoop and balcony close at hand. Whores in skimpy, shock-bright costumes dangled out the windows of a half-painted brothel in a lascivious display of skin and cleavage, shouting ribald encouragement at the miners.

  "Git that little bugger fer me, Harry, you sweet thang," one counterfeit blonde drawled, "and ah'll give ya one fer half-price t'night." She winked and shook her ample bosom at a handsome, tow-headed miner who whooped and tossed both his purse and his hat into the melee.

  Shock suffused Mariah's cheeks with heat, but before she knew it, a drunken man collided at full stagger with Petunia's considerable-flank. Knocked senseless—if, indeed, he'd any in the first place—the sot sent her a silly grin and pitched face-first into the muck at the horse's feet. It was a comically artful fall which the mare took with stoic good grace as she sidestepped the fallen man.

  Mariah gasped, certain the man would drown, but his equally inebriated companions lifted him by the arms and dragged him across the street, as they roared with laughter. Together, they staggered toward one of the dozens of saloons firmly entrenched in the town's business section. The sound of hammers striking nails and the screech of saws echoed through the evening air in a discordant cacophony.

  Words failed her as she evaded another swerving pedestrian. A feeling of despair took hold and she gathered the edges of Creed's blanket capote tighter around her.

  This was Virginia City?

  This—this... Gomorrah was what she'd traveled halfway across the country for? It was beyond reckoning, much worse than anything she could have imagined. She'd heard, of course, that mining camps were, well, rowdy. But this...

  She sent a dismayed look at Creed who, for the first time since they'd left the cabin, was half-smiling beneath the brim of his hat. He'd pulled his horse to a stop and settled back to watch.

  "Are you certain we're in the right place?" she shouted over the din. "There isn't, by any slim chance, some mistake?"

  He actually laughed. "No, ange. This is it. Home sweet home. What do you think?"

  Her vocabulary wasn't up to providing an answer. "Whatever are they doing over there?" she asked, pointing to the group of men near the trough.

  "It has to do with an unlucky, eh,...cafard, mon chou. A cockroach."

  Cockroach? Before she could reply, the man in the frock coat raised a revolver high over his head and cocked the weapon as the last of the bets were recorded.

  "Gentlemen—" he called with a grandiose sweep of the gun, "take aim!"

  The pistol exploded and a collective roar rose from the crowd around the circled men. From within that circle came not cheers but the revolting sound of spitting as each miner took his luck hawking brown juice at a madly scrambling cockroach who'd been unceremoniously dumped from a jar.

  With all due seriousness of purpose, the contestants chomped on their wads of tobacco, oblivious to the streams of brown dribbling down their chins. They laughed raucously, elbowing each other with good-natured shoves.

  "Hey, you little scum picker!" shouted one of them at the beleaguered insect. "C'mere! I got a little sumpin' for ya!" He let loose with a stream of brown juice that landed squarely across the toe of a second man's mining boot.

  The thick-waisted man jumped back and yelled, "Proctor, your aim's so poor ya couldn't hit the ground with yer hat in three tries!" He let loose with a wad of his own aimed dead at the other's boot. It found its mark with a satisfying splat.

  Several bystanders slipped in the mud, adding to the bedlam before a cheer went up for the miner who had christened the cockroach with a well-placed gob of tobacco juice.

  The winner, a scruffy-looking fellow, thin as a bed slat, was hoisted in victory onto the shoulders of several others and hauled over to the tally man to collect his share of the winnings. Others, who'd had the foresight to wager on him, surged in that direction as well. The rest of the crowd began to disperse, heading into various saloons and newly built bawdy houses that lined the street. Mariah drew her gaze from the sight, appalled to admit she'd found the whole affair somewhat fascinating but she couldn't help but wonder what had become of the poor cockroach.

  Beside her, Creed lounged on Buck with one knee thrown over the saddle horn and his chin cupped in his hand. He was grinning. "Enjoy that, did you?"

  "Enjoy it?" she said huffily, casting a condescending glance at the crowd. "Hardly! That was the most... disgusting sight I've ever—why, how grown men could be so easily entertained at the suffering of some poor dumb creature is—"

  The rest caught in her throat. Her eyes widened at the sight of the thin, blond-haired fellow not fifteen feet from her, holding a fat bag of dust. He, too, had stopped in the middle of slapping the winner on the shoulder to turn and stare open-mouthed at her.

  Mariah's heart rose to her throat. The well-trimmed mustache was new, the face more gaunt than she remembered and a shade paler than looked entirely healthy, but those gray eyes—she knew them as well as her own.

  "Seth?"

  He took a step toward her. His mustache twitched in a smile—the charming one that had always sent her heart to her toes.

  "Good Lord. Mari, is it really you?" A cough rattled through his frame, but he didn't take his eyes off her.

  A strange mixture of joy, guilt, and relief knotted her throat. Seth was alive and standing right there betting on a cockroach! Oh, thank God, thank God. "Of course it's me," she cried, sliding off Petunia into the mucky street. Her boots sank deeply. "Who in the world else would ride halfway around the country to see you?"

  Seth met her before she'd taken two steps and gathered her in his strong arms. "Good Lord, I was about to send the cavalry out after you two." He pressed a hand to the back of her head and tenderly drew her to
his shoulder.

  From his horse, Creed watched Mariah go to him and felt his insides tear apart. He gritted his teeth and told himself he had no rights to her. None at all. But it didn't help. Damn, how was he going to get through it?

  His thoughts were not far from Mariah's own. She tightened her arms around Seth and hugged him tight, wishing their reunion could have been the simple one he'd planned.

  "When I didn't hear..." Seth pulled back to see her face. "Thank God you're all right. You are the stubbornest darn woman—"

  His head dropped toward her and for a moment Mariah was certain he was going to kiss her full on the mouth, but his lips slid across her cheek disappointingly in a chaste buss.

  She blushed profusely and so, to her surprise, did he, as the men gathered curiously around him. Her eyes were drawn inevitably to Creed. He was watching her, his mouth set in a grim line with no hint of pleasure at seeing his old friend again. Don't look at me that way, Creed, she begged him with her eyes. Please.

  Turning back to Seth, she forced herself to speak. "I—I heard you were very ill. Are you... I mean, you look well. A little pale, maybe..." Emotion tightened her throat. Her gaze swept over the smile lines around his eyes and the upturned corners of his mouth she remembered so well.

  "I'm nearly as good as new," Seth reassured her, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. "Let me look at you, Mari," he said, holding her at arm's length.

  She brushed a hand self-consciously over her loose auburn curls and cast a forlorn glance at her travel-stained denims, rolled up at the ankles, and oversized shirt she'd knotted at the waist. "I can explain about the clothes—"

  His gaze roamed over her face. "You've turned into a real beauty, Mari. Just like I knew you would."

  She let out a teary laugh. "Oh, Seth, it's so good to see you." She threw her arms around his neck again and buried her face against his shoulder.

  Seth's gaze focused on Creed and he pulled Mariah along with him as he extended a hand and a smile to his old friend.

  "Creed—" Seth said, loosening his hold on Mariah.

  Creed forced a smile and slid off his horse. "Seth."

  Seth wrapped both hands around Creed's. "By God, you're a sight for sore eyes. I expected you days ago, but no stages came through and then we got word about the trouble up there at the station—"

  "About the robbery? Ah, oui. It was a hell of a trip," Creed confirmed.

  "I want to hear all about it." Seth glanced at Mariah and shifted the conversation to Petunia. "Don't tell me you rode all the way here on horseback, Mariah?"

  "Nearly," Creed answered for her, "but it's a long story." Her dark eyes held his for the briefest of seconds, then went to Seth. "Time enough to tell you later. You look halfway human again, partner."

  Mariah shot Creed a confused look which he ignored.

  "A darn sight better than when you left, I imagine," Seth answered, wincing at the memory. "But I'm nearly as good as new. Listen, I—how can I ever thank you?" He slapped Creed across the back. "A fellow couldn't have a truer friend. I could never repay you for what you've done for me." He hugged Mariah and she managed a tremulous smile. "For us."

  Heat crept up Creed's neck and he cleared his throat. He was losing her. God, she was just going to slip away from him and he was letting her go. He shrugged and smiled at Seth. "I'm just glad to see you back on your feet again, mon ami. Look's like Sadie took good care of you."

  "That woman's a national treasure," Seth admitted with a grin, "and she makes a mean chicken soup. Her husband, Wade, looked after the store for me."

  The burly man Seth had been standing with moments ago came forward, swiped his hat from his head, and wrung the brim in his hands. "This yer Miss Parsons, Travers?" His gaze roamed with awed politeness over Mariah as he solemnly declared, "It were worth the wait, friend." That elicited a roar of laughter from the group surrounding them and slaps on the back for Seth.

  A redheaded Scot with a flaming beard leaned toward her, grinning happily. "Ach, an' Seth here has been pinin' after ye for days now since he got his feet under him." He punched Seth in the shoulder good naturedly. "Aye, an' we had to put the twist to his arm to get him outta tha' shop o' his this even'. Just to get his mind off his worries, ye ken? Didn't we, lads?"

  A murmur of agreement rumbled around them, but most of the men stood apparently tongue-tied by the sight of a single white woman who wasn't a fallen dove.

  Belatedly, the Scot lifted his scruffy, flat-billed cap. "Rory McPheerson, lassie, at yer service. Finest blacksmith this side of the Divide."

  "Pleased to meet you, Mr. McPheerson. Should I need the services of a blacksmith, I shall certainly know where to come." McPheerson grinned delightedly and backed away. He was replaced with several others who sheepishly came up and paid their respects.

  "All right, all right, boys," Seth told them, "Miss Parsons has had a trying trip. She's too much a lady to tell you she's too tired for this now. There'll be plenty of time for all of you to meet her later. Right now, I'm sure what she wants is a quiet room all to herself."

  He took her by the elbow. "Come on, Mari, let's get you settled down at The Virginia. It's the newest hotel in town—safe and clean for single ladies. You'll be comfortable there. Do you have any baggage?"

  Her head was spinning and she looked helplessly up at Creed. "Baggage? I, uh, well, no. Actually, I sort of lost a bag on the way here and—my other things were... um, ruined. Hattie was supposed to ship my trunk on when the stages started running again." Her gaze flicked briefly to Creed, who was toying with the reins in his hands and avoiding her eyes.

  "Anyway, these were more practical to ride in," she rushed on, babbling with an attack of nerves. "I mean, what with all those rivers and brush and all, well, Creed thought—"

  "No worry," Seth cut in, looking a bit bemused by the whole explanation. "I run a mercantile, remember? Though readymade dresses, I'm afraid, are in short supply in a mining camp. There is a seamstress in town—the wife of one of the miners—the hurdy-gurdies have been keeping her employed of late."

  "Bon, you two go on then," Creed said, mounting Buck. "I'll catch up after I stable the horses down at Denton's Livery."

  Mariah felt a twinge of panic at the sight of Creed on his horse. What if he just rode away and she never saw him again? Lord, why had she thought she could do this?

  "You're not coming with us?" she asked in her calmest voice as he gathered up her mare's reins. "Don't you need a room as well?"

  Seth shook his head. "You'll stay with me as always, of course. I've got plenty of room."

  Creed's shrug was noncommittal. "We'll talk about that later."

  Her heart sank. He was going to leave. She could see it in his eyes.

  "Listen, the Benders invited me to supper tonight. I'm sure she won't mind two more," he told Creed. "You know Sadie—she always cooks enough for a regiment."

  Creed's expression eased a bit. "I know. I'll try to make it. I have some, uh, things to take care of tonight." His eyes studiously avoided Mariah's.

  She shook her head. "Oh, and I couldn't go anywhere looking the way I do. I—"

  "You look beautiful, Mari, and Sadie can't wait to meet you," Seth said. "She doesn't give a tinker's damn about things like that. You'll see. Besides, you'll have time to rest up at The Virginia. Even a hot bath if you want one."

  Mariah's eyes flicked to Creed to find him staring uncomfortably at his feet. "A bath..." she repeated. "Yes, that would be nice."

  "Seven o'clock at Sadie's, Creed." Seth slapped him on the shoulder. "Try and make it. I want to hear all about your trip."

  "Pretty boring stuff, oui, Mariah?" Creed said, meeting her gaze at last. "She can tell you everything you need to know. You two go on. Tell Sadie not to hold dinner for me."

  Mariah tried to smile, but her face seemed to crack. Instead, she just watched him ride down the street without her.

  * * *

  Creed followed Wallace Street past the rows of shops a
nd houses toward Van Buren. The sound of a concertina playing, "Sweet Betsy from Pike" poured out the door of The Bale of Hay, a lively house of gambling and drink already crowded with customers.

  The streets were alive with miners and the even scruffier pilgrims who worked for a daily wage headed home after working since dawn on their claims, lugging pickaxes and gold pans. The fragrant scents of a bakery drifted on the evening breeze, mingling incongruously with the pungent dried fish and raw meats hanging in the open air stall of a Chinese grocer.

  There, amidst all that humanity, Creed had never felt more miserably alone. Walking the horses slowly, he allowed the noise of the crowded street to cushion his raw emotions. He was in no particular hurry to be anywhere, he mused glumly, except maybe to cozy up to some bar and get roaring drunk.

  But Seth expected him to come to Sadie's tonight, and it wouldn't help Mariah's cause any to show up soused, looking as wretched as he felt. But he could hardly stomach the thought of trying to swallow dinner while watching Seth and Mariah together.

  Hell.

  He'd seen it in her eyes. She was scared. She wasn't any more ready to meet Seth there on the street than he was. It was all Creed could do to look Seth straight in the eye.

  How could he have let it happen?

  How?

  Dammit, he hadn't meant for things to go that far with Mariah, but it had all seemed to slip out of his control. He had never felt for a woman what he did for her. She was the most beautiful, independent, argumentative woman he'd ever—

  You love her.

  He slammed his eyes shut at the unbidden thought. "No," he said aloud.

  Admit it, Devereaux. You're in deeper than you ever wanted to be. Just because you're not good enough for her doesn't change the facts. You want her. And not just in your bed. In your life.

  "No!" he nearly shouted, causing a miner ahead of him to leap out of Creed's path with an alarmed look. Hell.

  He gave Petunia's reins a yank and scowled. They'd had this discussion in the cabin. He'd never mentioned the word love, but then neither had she. They were bound together by the simple fact that they'd survived the harrowing trip down from Fort Benton. He suspected it was gratitude, not love, that Mariah felt for him. It was a natural thing that they should become closer for it. She was young, impressionable, and he'd taken advantage of that. Stolen her most precious gift. For that, he'd never forgive himself.