“I wouldn’t want you exposed to any unpleasantness,” he said earnestly. “It would be my fondest wish to relieve you of each and every burden you’ve been forced to carry.”
His hand on the back of the settee wandered toward her shoulder. Marguerite shifted away from it. “You are very kind, Mr. Blackman. I can’t tell you how much it comforts me, knowing that I have so astute and clever a lawyer watching out for my business interests. Ah, here comes Mrs. Lowery to call me to dinner, so I must make my good-byes. She feels slighted if I let her good meal get cold on the table!”
The landlady bustled up, and Marguerite said a quick prayer that she would not invite the lawyer to share their meal. To her relief, Blackman said, “I’d beg an invitation to your fine supper, Mrs. Lowery, but my housekeeper undoubtedly has dinner waiting for me at home. Mrs. McMasters, I’ll leave you to yours.”
With that, he rose and inclined his head. “Ladies, I wish you both a good night. Do remember, Mrs. McMasters, I stand ready to assist at any time, so don’t hesitate to call on me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Blackman,” Marguerite said, standing as well. “I won’t forget.”
The two women walked with the guest until he bowed himself out the door, then continued to the dining parlor beyond. “Such a fine gentleman,” Mrs. Lowery said, “with his own thriving business—and single, you know,” she added with a significant look.
As if every resident in town, from the banker’s wife to the cat in the livery stable, weren’t aware of that fact, Marguerite thought. “He’s been extremely kind and helpful since I lost my husband. Whom I’m not hankering to replace anytime soon, I might add.”
“Well, you might start looking about. There aren’t that many single gentlemen of substance around Whiskey River. I’d think you’d want to settle with someone on that land of yours while you’re still young enough to start the ranch and have yourself some young’uns.”
A week ago, she might have denied absolutely that she could ever envision another man on the ranch with her. Now she was not so sure. But the image that flashed into her mind when she thought about having someone share her life—and her bed—wasn’t Richard Blackman, but Ronan Kelly.
She didn’t need Lydia McCleary’s warning to know how impossible that vision was.
Chapter Seven
After his searing interlude with Marguerite McMasters and that whet-his-appetite-for-more parting kiss, Ronan slept badly, his dreams muddled and his body too aroused for comfort. He rose earlier than normal, still disgruntled. Even a good hot breakfast in the hotel dining room, washed down by a quantity of cook Della Shane’s strong coffee, didn’t entirely repair his mood or soothe the restlessness that nipped at him like mosquitoes on a dusky porch.
There would be no more enchanting clandestine visits to the McMasters ranch. Very well, he’d endured disappointments before. So urgent and important were Marguerite’s reasons for ending the liaison before it had hardly begun, he could neither disagree with her reasoning, nor fault her for denying them both the pleasure that would certainly be theirs by continuing it. Equally disappointing, he must put that piece of property out of his mind and apply himself to looking for something else suitable.
But over the third cup of coffee, his spirits, ever optimistic, reasoned that just because he and Marguerite couldn’t be lovers, there was no reason they could not meet as friends. Perhaps not as often as he would like, but occasionally, as he met other members of the community.
She was one of the town’s schoolteachers, after all, and he a benefactor who had made significant contributions toward the building of the town’s schools. Though his frequent travels—and the notoriety of his amorous exploits—kept him from applying to join the school board, he’d always maintained an interest in the progress of the schools and the students. He liked to keep a lookout for promising young graduates who needed assistance to go to the new state colleges at Austin and College Station, or required a recommendation to secure an apprenticeship in a business or trade.
He should also listen more closely to the town chatter he normally ignored. It would allow him to keep a benevolent eye on her from a distance, so he’d know enough to intervene, should she find herself in any difficulties. He didn’t examine too closely why he felt so strongly about this. He just knew that if she did run into problems, he wanted to be the one at hand to assist her.
Not to put her under obligation to him, of course. If she ever did rethink her decision to deny the passion between them, he wanted it to be because she couldn’t make herself stay away. Not because she felt she owed him something, and the coin of her body was all she had to repay the debt.
He was wondering how soon it might seem proper to contact her again when it occurred to him that he’d not inquired about the welfare of the boy he’d plucked half-drowned from the river. As a concerned citizen, he ought to check on the lad’s progress, and also make sure his family didn’t need assistance paying any bills they might have incurred with the sawbones or the druggist for the boy’s care while he recovered.
Delighted with himself for having come up with a perfectly reasonable excuse to see Marguerite, Ronan finished his coffee and left the hotel, a decided spring in his step. He’d stop by the school before going to the mercantile.
It seemed Irish luck was with him. For once again, the students were outside playing when Ronan walked toward the school. Not near the river this time—he noted that Marguerite had corralled them all on the opposite side of the building, where the land sloped up toward hills crowned by stands of oak and cedar.
Which meant she was facing away from town, allowing him to approach her unseen, as he had yesterday at the ranch. He slowed his steps and moved as silently as he could, so he might drink in the loveliness of her for as long as possible before she became aware of him.
She’d wrapped her braided hair around her head in a coronet again, allowing the shifting beams of sunlight to bring out chestnut highlights in the ebony depths. She wore the stiff, black bombazine dress, doubtless over the many layers that had frustrated his efforts to reach naked skin yesterday. The only saving grace of the garment was how the tight bodice emphasized the narrowness of her waist—and would, when she turned, display an ample swell of bosom. He also blessed its simple style, minus a bustle, so he was able to appreciate the natural, soft roundness of her bottom.
His thoughts rocketed to the stockinged legs he’d traced with his fingers, the velvet softness of her thighs above the garters. His breath quickening, he regretted that he’d not had the chance to explore further, to tease open her moist folds and pleasure her, then kneel to finish her with his tongue. Ah, how he’d love to watch her writhe with passion, then clutch his shoulders and cry out his name as he took her to bliss!
But such thoughts didn’t ease the constant state of arousal he’d been in since leaving her. Nor did it spark ideas that would promote the proper conversation permissible between a teacher and a community member interested in the welfare of the school. Sighing, he lassoed his thoughts and dragged them back to less carnal channels.
Just in time, for at that moment, she turned toward him. Her eyes widened, a smile of welcome warmed her face, and she took a step toward him before caution made her halt. Composing her expression into one of polite interest, she waited for him to approach.
“Good morning, Mrs. McMasters. ’Tis a lovely spring day, is it not?”
“Indeed it is, Mr. Kelly. What brings you to the school this morning?”
“I wanted to check on the young lad who took a tumble into the creek earlier this week. He suffered no lasting ill effects, I hope?”
“How kind of you to inquire! Fortunately, he seems to have completely recovered. So you see, you needn’t worry.”
“Not over him, then. And you...” he added, lowering his voice.
She put on a bright smile, though she would not look him in the eye. “It was a scare, of course, but I’m recovered, too, as you can see.”
“I’d b
e after calling it a ‘delight,’ and I’m not sure I have recovered,” he murmured. But as her eyes widened and a frown marred her forehead, he held up a hand before she could rebuke him. “No more of that, I promise. I don’t know what’s getting my tongue! I’d promised myself I would be entirely proper.”
She looked up at him as if to speak, lips parted, her eyes fixed on his mouth...as if she were remembering what they had done with their tongues less than a day ago.
He remembered it so vividly, he could almost taste her again...sugared coffee and passion and woman.
She shook her head, as if breaking a spell. “We’ve nothing to discuss that isn’t entirely proper, Mr. Kelly. Now, I thank you for your concern about John, but it’s time to call the students in for the rest of this morning’s lessons.”
She gave him a little nod, and paced resolutely toward the children.
As she walked away, he was almost certain he heard her sigh softly...as if in regret.
Just before dusk that night, Ronan sat at the desk in his room at the hotel, looking over his journals and account books, making lists of the supplies he needed to restock the mercantile and imagining what new products he might introduce to catch the fancy of his patrons.
At a soft tap on the door, he looked up to see Kevin Shane, the cook’s son, standing on the threshold. “There’s a lady here to see you, Mr. Kelly. Mrs. McMasters, the schoolteacher. Should I tell her you’ll come down?”
Ronan controlled his immediate reaction of surprise and pleasure, not wanting to let the boy see how delighted he was. “I’ll just tell her myself. Thanks for bringing the message.” With a grin, Kelly took a nickel off his desk and tossed it to the boy, who caught it eagerly.
Nickel, hell. He’d have given the boy a silver dollar if he’d escorted the lovely Marguerite up to his room, and then shook his head at the direction his thoughts had immediately taken.
Couldn’t he get it into his head that further intimacy wasn’t going to happen? If he couldn’t stymie these randy thoughts, he’d not be able to see her even as a friend.
He did wonder what was so important she’d felt compelled to seek him out at the hotel. Concern speeding his step, he hurried to the hotel parlor.
Dinner having finished some time ago, only a young couple returning to their farm further upriver and a bank official from Galveston still lingered in the sitting room, the couple chatting over coffee and the official smoking a cigar as he read a newspaper. Something leapt in Ronan’s chest when he saw Marguerite, who was pacing near the entryway, as if she didn’t want to venture into the hotel any farther than necessary.
“Mrs. McMasters, what a pleasant surprise! Won’t you have a seat? How can I assist you this evening?”
She glanced around, as if wishing she could remain standing and then deciding such odd behavior might occasion too much notice. Nodding, she followed him to a pair of chairs farthest away from the other occupants of the room.
“Have you had dinner? Mrs. Shane serves a mighty fine stew.”
“No, thank you. This will be brief, and if it weren’t so urgent, I wouldn’t have come here.”
“What is it?” he asked, immediately concerned by the urgency of her tone. “And how can I help?”
“I’m afraid the only way you can help is by not helping.” She waved a hand, warning him to silence. “I know you hoped we might be friends, and I know that having you stop by the school is innocent...except when you refer to matters that should best be forgotten.”
“No matter how difficult it is to forget them?”
“It’s difficult for me, too!” she burst out. “More difficult than you can imagine. But I simply can’t meet you or see you again—not even at the school. Lydia McCleary was walking by Mrs. Lowery’s as you were leaving yesterday. I don’t know if she saw—the kiss,” she whispered, “but she certainly knew that you’d been to see me. She warned me most particularly that it wasn’t proper for a schoolteacher to keep company with a wo...—with a man known to enjoy the company of many women. Apparently someone saw you stop by the school today, too, for she came by again to repeat the warning, in even stronger terms. Mr. Kelly, teaching school is the only way I can remain here and earn enough cash to continue paying my loan. It will...pain me to break off all contact with you, but the consequences of losing my position are too dire to contemplate.”
Ronan waited, his anger building with every anxious word and every surreptitious glance toward the other occupants of the room. Selfish, officious interfering Lydia McCleary! He could cheerfully strangle the woman.
Doubtless noting the hardness of his expression and his continued silence, she said quietly, “You do understand, don’t you?”
“I understand that Lydia McCleary is a spoiled busy-body who can’t abide having any man within her sphere pay attention to any other woman.”
Marguerite gave him a little smile. “Mr. Blackman said the same. But unfortunately, this spoiled busy-body heads up the school board, and has never liked me. I’m no happier than you are to give in to a bully, but I absolutely must keep my job.”
She was right. Much as it infuriated him to have his relationships and his actions—and hers—dictated by a woman he so intensely disliked, he had no influence in a situation that was female against female. If he resisted on principle, it would be Marguerite who paid for his defiance.
“You’re right. I don’t like it at all. But I’d like even less to make trouble for a lady who certainly doesn’t deserve it, and has, by all accounts, been doing a superior job teaching her students.”
“Well, I might deserve it. But I’m going to walk the straight and narrow path of propriety, at least until my ranch is secure.”
“What will you do if someone reports you came here tonight?”
“Explain that I came to politely tell you I did not appreciate your interest and requested that you not speak with me again. These witnesses can attest to the fact that you came down to the parlor to meet me, and remained for some time after I left. Which I beg you will do.”
“So this is truly a goodbye?”
“I’m afraid so.” And no kiss this time, she left unspoken. “You are a fascinating, admirable and kind man, Mr. Kelly. I only wish circumstances permitted us to be friends...and more. But wishing won’t change things, so I must say good-bye.”
At that she stood, nodded to him, and walked quickly out the door.
He stood as well, watching her leave, then paced to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy. Later, he’d delve into the good Irish he kept in his room—after he’d cooled his heels in the parlor for a time, as she’d asked.
He wished he hadn’t made that promise. The anger heating his blood and the furious thoughts running through his head made sitting calmly in the stiff horsehair chair almost more than he could endure. He snatched up a newspaper, so if anyone did make inquiries later, what was doubtless a thundercloud scowl on his face would not be visible to the other occupants of the room.
As he stared unseeing at the paper, he silently cursed Lydia McCleary. He wouldn’t be surprised if the vain, self-absorbed beauty wasn’t targeting Marguerite McMasters out of spite because he’d shown an interest in the schoolmarm while remaining impervious to her charm. He had no doubt that, were he willing to cuckold his closest friend, it would take very little persuasion to induce the beauteous Lydia to drop her drawers for him.
Although she was now the last woman in the world he wanted to touch.
The one he still hungered for was effectively out of reach—even as a friend. At the thought of never again bantering with her, or standing close enough to breathe in that sweet lavender scent, or watching her lips as she licked the rim of her sugared coffee cup, a furious wave of denial washed through him, tinged with a hint of despair.
Another round of indignant anger followed. By all the saints, he sounded like some lovesick pup wallowing in a green melancholy because the sweetheart he was wooing didn’t return his regard. Yes, he was powerfully at
tracted to Marguerite McMasters, and liked her almost as much as he was drawn to her.
But she was hardly the only lovely woman in Texas. He should know, since he’d met, charmed, and bedded quite a few.
The best way to protect Marguerite, and himself from the allure of Marguerite, would be to get out of town and into the bed of another woman as quickly as possible.
Despite the usual restlessness that had kicked up several notches, he made himself stay another half hour, until the other occupants of the parlor nodded a good evening and went to seek their beds.
Only then did he stomp up the stairs to his own bedchamber.
He went to the dresser, pulled the whiskey bottle out of the bottom drawer, and poured himself a full glass. After knocking back a hard swallow, welcoming the burn in his throat, he scooped up the stack of ledgers and journals and dumped them into his saddlebags. He would have kicked the bag, too, but his anger and frustration were hardly the fault of that worn leather sack.
Standing at his window, arms crossed and whiskey glass in hand, he stared out at the starless night. He’d already lingered here longer than he usually did when he returned to Whiskey River. He’d feel better, once he was on the road again, reveling in the freedom of the trail and the thrill of being the only person for miles around to survey the pristine landscape and breathe in the pure, fresh air.
He’d leave Whiskey River first thing tomorrow morning.
Chapter Eight
On a misty Sunday afternoon three days later, Marguerite guided her job horse on the trail back to town. Telling herself she needed to prepare for the upcoming school week, she’d left the ranch earlier than normal, but in truth, the gray, weeping skies had made the place seem lonelier than ever. Somehow she sensed Ronan Kelly’s looming presence—as if his vitality and potent masculinity had filled her parlor only a few moments, rather than days, ago. How could he have left such a mark on her place after only two visits?
Scandal with the Rancher Page 7