A Stranger's Wife

by Maggie Osborne

  Tossing back his head, he drained his glass in a single long swallow, then lowered his hand. It had all begun with Miriam. Just thinking her name gave him a punishing headache.

  A sharp sting followed by a warm gush made him look down, and he discovered he had crushed the whiskey glass. Broken glass reflected slivers of moonlight.

  Swearing, he pulled a shard of glass from his thumb, then shook out his handkerchief and wiped blood from his fingers.

  He had come too far to quit. He would produce a wife for the voters, and he would win the election. He would deal with Lily’s threats if and when it became necessary.

  Leaving the porch, he walked out onto the desert floor, listening to the scurry of night creatures moving in the chaparral and low brush. All he could do was go forward.

  An hour later he paused in the still darkness outside Lily’s door, listened for a minute, then clenched his fists and continued down the corridor.

  * * *

  High, thin haze filtered the sunlight, and it was cooler today, but still hot enough inside the closed coach that Lily’s shirtwaist stuck to her skin. She had two jackets and two skirts, but only one shirtwaist, which she washed out every night along with her smallclothes and thick cotton stockings. When she received the new traveling wardrobe that Paul had mentioned, she intended to burn every garment she owned, every shabby reminder of prison. Thinking about it improved her spirits.

  Leaning her head back on the coach cushions, hovering at the edge of dozing in the heat, she half listened as the men argued various points Quinn wanted to make in his speeches.

  Watching Quinn through half-closed eyes, Lily enjoyed the play of light and shadow through his wavy dark hair, and noticed a few strands of grey at his temples. He was one of those men who would become more handsome and ruggedly distinguished as the years went by.

  She’d been awake half the night, reviewing their conversation on the porch, thinking about everything he had said.

  If Quinn’s ambitions hadn’t kept her from Rose, she wouldn’t have thought twice about his plan to replace Miriam with a ringer. If she was honest with herself, she had to admit she understood doing what a person had to do. Life didn’t hand out prizes simply because someone wanted one. You had to fight for what you wanted, and Quinn was fighting.

  She also understood that her uncanny resemblance to Miriam was an anomaly unlikely to be repeated. There weren’t an abundance of women who looked enough like Quinn’s wife to be her twin. If there had to be an impersonator, it had to be Lily.

  While deciding that Quinn would be surprised if he knew how well she grasped his situation, she fell asleep and didn’t wake until he tapped her on the knee to call her for lunch.

  She awakened at once, her knee tingling, and frowned at his fingers withdrawing from her skirt. Then she lifted her hands to smooth her hair, embarrassed that he’d observed her sleeping. “Did you get your speeches fixed?” she asked, watching Paul search for napkins and plates in the lunch basket.

  “My speeches didn’t need to be fixed, as you put it,” Quinn snapped, his mouth tight.

  Paul spoke to her, but his reply was directed to Quinn. “It’s better to focus tightly on one or two issues than to propose sweeping changes.”

  Lily decided it might be smart to come down on Quinn’s side. She was uncomfortable about the way they had parted last night. She lifted an eyebrow at Paul, “No sweeping changes according to who?”

  “Whom,” he corrected automatically.

  “Whom. Is there some kind of political gospel that says a Kingmaker’s ideas are better than the candidate’s?” She was hot, and tired of the endless days rattling around in a bouncing coach, in no mood to attempt tact even when she noticed Quinn’s frown.

  “This isn’t your area,” Paul said, glancing up as he handed her a fried chicken leg. “We may ask you to attend some rallies or speeches, but we don’t expect you to take an active interest in politics.”

  “I’m definitely not interested in politics,” she stated firmly. “I’m just asking why the candidate”—she nodded at Quinn, who was staring at her—“can’t say what he wants to in his own speeches.”

  Paul nodded approval as she started to tuck her napkin into her collar, then draped it across her lap instead. “It takes money to get a candidate elected. Quinn’s backers have the right to expect him to support their views.”

  She tilted her head and considered the candidate in question. “You’re rich. Why don’t you use your own money to finance your campaign? Then you can say whatever you want to.”

  Quinn smiled in an attempt at patience, but his gaze informed her that she was trespassing in territory where she wasn’t wanted. “That isn’t how it’s done. Don’t concern yourself with this, Lily.”

  Perspiration pasted tendrils of rumpled hair to his temples, and he had removed his jacket and opened his collar, with her permission, of course. He held his long legs carefully away from her skirts, and looked as cramped and uncomfortable as she was.

  “I’m trying to take your side,” she pointed out, “as a way of saying I regret some of the things I said last night.”

  “Any unpleasantness is already forgotten,” he said with a polite shrug.

  “What’s this about?” Paul looked back and forth between them.

  “I got my dander up,” Lily said slowly, watching Quinn. “Maybe it doesn’t seem like it, but I got some pride left.”

  “Have some pride left,” Paul corrected.

  “Damn it, Paul, I’m trying to say something,” she snapped. This was one of those moments when the constant barrage of criticism and correction made her feel crazy inside.

  “Then say it correctly.”

  She regretted trying to say anything at all. Why should she care about getting along with Quinn Westin? She didn’t have to like him to pretend to be his wife, and he didn’t have to like her. A year from now, he would be just another name on the list of men who had forced her to do something she didn’t want to do. Even, she thought sourly, if that something ultimately benefits me and Rose.

  If he resented her threat, well, she didn’t like being threatened either. Tit for tat. After finishing her noon meal, she folded her arms across her chest, glared, and didn’t speak another word.

  In midafternoon they drove into Santa Fe, a boomtown with a strong Spanish flavor. Mexican music drifted from open-fronted cantinas, and there were as many sombreros as cowboy hats and gentlemen’s felts. Freight wagons and immigrant trains jammed the narrow dirt streets, and dust capped the town like a lid, holding in the noise and heat.

  Avoiding the crowded main street, the coach driver took them directly to a house a few blocks off the plaza. As Lily now expected, the tile-and-stucco house was secluded by thick adobe walls. Inside, the rooms were refreshingly cool and fragrant with the scent of roasting chilis.

  Unpinning her hat, she stretched her neck against her fingertips and sighed. Riding in a coach all day was nothing like the hard labor she’d been accustomed to, but it was tiring nonetheless. The constant jostling was gradually pounding her bones to powder. She was glad they would spend a few days here before continuing the journey.

  “Take the luggage to our quarters,” she timidly instructed Carlos, the servant who had welcomed them inside. “And please send a bath to my room.”

  Wherever they stopped, an initial confusion arose among the servants as to her position, and this time was no exception. Carlos stole a sidelong glance at her scuffed boots, her mismatched and travel-worn clothing, and his eyebrows lifted.

  Cheeks burning, she turned away and watched in the hall mirror while Paul took Carlos aside. The servant’s expression altered to one of surprise that was so comical Lily would have laughed if his hasty apology hadn’t also made her feel the sting of pretending to be something she wasn’t.

  Paul knocked his hat against his thigh to shake loose the day’s accumulation of dust. “A seamstress is waiting in your room. She’ll make final adjustments to the wardro
be you’ll find there. Tonight we’ll dress for dinner so you can begin managing a train.”

  The promise of a bath and fresh, clean clothing drove the weariness from her mind, and she felt a burst of renewed energy. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a new dress or clothing that wasn’t prison issue.

  When she saw the array of finery draped across every available surface in her room, her knees gave out, and Lily collapsed into the nearest chair, overwhelmed. In her wildest dreams she had never expected so many beautiful new things. There were gowns and dresses, petticoats and stockings and boots and slippers. Hats and gloves and brooches and hair ornaments. Day dresses and walking suits and traveling ensembles.

  “You’re so thin!” the seamstress groaned, wringing her hands in dismay. “The corsets won’t fit.” She threw up her hands and spoke in a rattling burst of Spanish. “Well,” she said, holding up a jacket and eyeing it critically. “Have your bath, and we’ll begin.”

  With trembling fingers, Lily stroked a nightgown folded on the table beside her. The material was so soft that touching it raised tears of wonder to her eyes. Her world had been filled with hard people, hard objects, and hard choices. She had never known such softness existed.

  * * *

  When she entered the parlor, Quinn rose to his feet, and knots ran up his jaw. Her resemblance to Miriam jolted him each time he saw her, but tonight his shock was deepened by her complete transformation. It was impossible to believe that this was the same bedraggled woman he had met outside the women’s prison.

  Tonight her hair was piled high in a crown of ashy blond curls; wispy tendrils had escaped jet-trimmed combs and floated around her long throat. Puffed sleeves ran to her wrists, flowed into a beaded bodice that molded her breasts like a second skin. Purple satin draped her hips and hugged a narrow line to the floor.

  High color burned on her cheekbones. “I’ve never owned a dress like this. I never dreamed that I would.” Her fingertips brushed against her thighs, nervously stroking the smooth satin.

  Walking around her, Paul judged the fit and drape of the gown. “You wear both gloves, not just one,” he said absently. “The bodice is too revealing. It’s almost scandalous.” Pulling a pad from inside his jacket, he jotted some notes.

  The fitted gown revealed her body as the shapeless prison clothing had not. She was small, still too slender, but her figure was perfectly proportioned. Quinn had been married long enough to know the coveted hourglass shape could be achieved through the use of a tightly laced corset, but he was also experienced enough to notice that Lily wasn’t wearing a corset.

  She seemed to be waiting for him to say something, but he couldn’t speak. Turning his back, he swallowed hard, then walked to the drink cart beside a fireplace that smelled of chaparral even when not in use. “Miriam preferred sherry before dinner,” he said in a thick voice.

  Lily took the stemmed glass he handed her, careful not to touch his fingers. Crimson still burned on her cheeks, and she was clearly nervous. Quinn glanced at the fading arrow of tanned skin that pointed toward her cleavage and felt his thighs tense and his stomach harden.

  “We need to discuss precedence,” Paul announced, straightening his dinner jacket. “When there is an extra man, the hostess enters the dining room with a gentleman on each arm.”

  Lily nodded, but her eyes remained on Quinn. He didn’t know what the hell she wanted from him. Did she want him to tell her that she was beautiful? Yes, damn it, she was beautiful. Did she want him to say that she looked so much like Miriam that he had to fight to remember that she wasn’t?

  Staring at her, he saw Miriam as she had been when he first met her. Slender, unsure, shyly seeking his approval.

  But there the similarity ended. The trickster who had fashioned Lily in Miriam’s image had subtly altered the original creation. He had thinned Lily’s nose and widened her lips. Had lengthened her throat and filled out her bosom. He had nipped in her waist and flared her hips into a smooth, erotic curve. Considered alone, the differences were slight, but the overall effect was not. She was sensually provocative, arousing in a way that Miriam had never been.

  “For God’s sake, will you stop running your hands over your thighs?” he said harshly.

  Paul frowned, and Lily’s color deepened. “I was just touching the satin,” she explained in a low voice, jerking her hands to her waist. “Why are you so pissy tonight?”

  “Cross, not pissy,” Paul said, looking at Quinn.

  “You’re behaving like a doxy in a brothel.”

  Paul’s frown deepened. “I wouldn’t state it that strongly.” He turned to Lily. “It’s true that a lady does not touch her body except at the waist when she folds her hands.” He studied her a moment. “Walk to the door, turn and walk back.”

  For an instant Quinn believed she would refuse. Her chin lifted, and anger flared in her eyes. Then she sighed and did as Paul had requested, her train jerking along behind her. At the turn, she almost stumbled, glared down at the train twisted around her ankles, and swore.

  “No, no,” Paul said, setting down his sherry glass. “Like this. Float forward. Glide.” He moved across the room. “And turn like this, to the right. If you pause after the turn, the train is gracefully displayed beside you. If you continue walking, it straightens out behind. Watch, I’ll show you again.”

  A sparkle sprang into her eyes. Her lips twitched, and she sucked in her cheeks. Then she collapsed against the wall in gales of tension-releasing laughter. “You look so . . . the way you’re holding your hands and mincing along, like . . .”

  Paul glared, then grinned. And he, too, gave a shout of laughter. “I’ll admit, train management isn’t my long suit.”

  That set them off again, and they laughed until they were holding their sides. When they caught their breath, they smiled at each other.

  Angry without knowing the reason, Quinn set his sherry glass down hard. “We’ve had our half hour of polite chat and unbridled hysteria. The first course should be on the table.”

  Lily looked up at him, the smile disappearing from her lips. When he stiffly extended his arm, she accepted it with a show of reluctance, then waited for Paul to step to her other side.

  Moving gingerly rather than gracefully, her stride constrained by the narrow skirt, she let them escort her into the dining room. The tremble in her fingertips signaled that she wasn’t comfortable in formal attire and probably wouldn’t be for a while yet.

  In the early years of marriage, when he and Miriam had still talked of trivial things, Miriam would have smiled and said the dress wore Lily.

  Tugging at the stiff collar strangling his throat, Quinn silently swore. He looked at Lily and saw an echo of Miriam. He tried to remember Miriam’s voice, but heard Lily’s husky laugh. He felt as if he were losing his mind.

  Chapter 4

  Lily climbed out of bed, eager to hold the satin gown and reassure herself that she hadn’t dreamed her fairy princess evening. In the past there had been times when she’d felt pretty, but until last night she had never felt beautiful. The experience had been exhilarating and nerve-wracking, and ultimately crushing.

  Reverently, she stroked her palm over the gown spread across her lap and winced at the memory of Quinn saying that she reminded him of a brothel doxy.

  Although she doubted he would ever approve of her, she had looked to him for validation last night. But Quinn was a man who respected society’s rules, and she was an unconventional woman who had borne a child out of wedlock and had assisted in a robbery. She reminded him of a brothel doxy.

  She was a fool to hope that he might find something to admire about her or that he might learn to like her a little. Frowning, she tried to figure out why his acceptance mattered so much. Maybe it was because she’d never known a man like Quinn Westin, wealthy, powerful, educated, and handsome enough to stir her even when she didn’t want to be stirred. A man so confident and sure of himself that he believed he was the best man to govern a whole st
ate.

  When he narrowed those stormy pewter eyes and looked at her, really looked at her, her mouth dried and her skin felt as if flames raced along the surface.

  Jumping up and forcing herself to think of other things, Lily folded away her soft new nightgown, then rolled on dark silk stockings, careful not to snag them, and donned undergarments trimmed with lace as filmy as cobwebs.

  What Paul referred to as a make-do traveling wardrobe represented more clothing than Lily had owned in her life, and of finer quality than she had known existed. She also hadn’t suspected that ladies changed clothes several times a day, but the seamstress had indicated an at-home dress was different from a receiving dress which would not be worn to dinner.

  Standing in front of a cheval glass, she taped herself into a black-cashmere walking suit with black-silk pleats beneath the overskirt, then peered over her shoulder to admire the drape of a stylish silk puff and bow that curved over a light bustle. Both the jacket and overskirt were richly embroidered in a black-and-maroon design, the maroon repeating in the plumes on her hat, and again on the buttons that ran down a crisp white shirtwaist.

  Resisting an urge to stroke the amazing softness of the cashmere, she turned and blinked at her reflection in disbelief.

  Fine clothing had worked wonders, transforming her into a woman who looked as if she had a dozen servants at her command. She could not believe her eyes.

  Quinn was right. Stepping into Miriam’s life would change her forever. Already she had learned most of the mannerly behaviors that set genteel society apart from people like her. Before this was over, she would know how to dress, how to speak, how to pass herself off as a real lady.

  With a tiny shock she realized it was indeed time to stop resenting the threat that had brought her here, and time to apply herself and learn everything she could for her future advantage.