The Inconvenient Bride Series 1-3

by Sharon Ihle

  Staring right back at him, she asked, "Aren't you going to tell your son who beat you up?" Feeling bold, Libby indulged the silly urge to grin. "If you'd rather, I suppose that I could—"

  "Why don't you be a good girl," said R. T., cutting her off, "and go pour me a nice glass of scotch. Two pieces of ice."

  "I'd be delighted." Under both men's watchful gazes—and this time, Donovan's was the more malignant—Libby strolled away from the fireplace and headed for the beverage cart. As she fixed the man's drink, R. T. groaned and addressed Donovan. "I was under the impression that Francis told you what happened to me."

  Donovan took the chair across from his father. "He only mentioned that you'd been robbed and beaten. Have the police found the men who did this to you yet?"

  "Robbed?" Libby interrupted, unable to keep the surprise out of her tone. "You told everyone you were beaten and robbed?"

  R. T. turned in his chair, the intensity of his gaze leaving no doubt that he'd drawn both dueling pistols and now had them pointed between her eyes. There was no fear of discovery in his expression, or even concern over what she might know of the truth. Just hatred. Pure, unstrained, unadulterated hatred. Oh, how Libby wanted to blurt out the truth, to burn him here and now and send him to hell in flames. But that gift was not hers to give. She fought the impulse a few moments, her own gaze holding steady under the intensity of R. T.'s glare, until she was quite sure she would not break the promise she'd made to Donovan's mother. At least not while he was in the room. Resigned to the idea that she would have to keep her silence about what she knew—at least for now—Libby dropped three ice cubes into the man's drink and carried it to him.

  "Thank you, my dear," he said, brushing her fingers with his as he took the drink, singeing them with malice. "Now why don't you have a seat and make yourself comfortable." Libby could almost hear the unspoken words, "and shut up."

  Turning away from her, R. T. faced Donovan and spoke as if he were the only other person in the room. "As I was saying, while I was out shopping last evening for a gift for Olivina, I was set upon by young hoodlums, beaten, then robbed of my cash, which I might add, was not an inconsiderable amount."

  After flashing a warning glance at Libby, reminding her exactly how he expected her to conduct herself, Donovan said, "Francis told me that much, but not whether the men responsible were caught by the police."

  "Not yet, I'm afraid." R. T. looked into his glass just before he took the first sip and frowned upon finding three pieces of ice, not two as he'd ordered. Libby was ready, waiting for him to turn to her with those accusing blue eyes, but he surprised her by taking a long pull of the drink, then going on with his fabricated story. He complained roundly about the wild youths of San Francisco and how decent folks hid in fear from them, going on and on until Libby thought she would scream from sheer frustration.

  She was saved from the fate moments later as Susan joined them in the study. After that, R. T., magnanimous as ever, bade Donovan and Libby to join him and his daughter for supper. The very idea of breaking bread with the man appalled Libby to no end, but left with no choice in the matter, she consoled herself with Susan's company and allowed herself to at least enjoy the meal, which consisted of a perfect little medallion of beef and huge lobster tails. Miracle of all miracles, she even managed to keep a civil tongue in her head the rest of the evening.

  * * *

  By the time they arrived back at Donovan's house later that night, Libby had convinced herself that he'd either forgotten the brashness of her tongue earlier in the evening, or forgiven her for being what he'd surely considered insolent to his father. But he'd sent her upstairs alone, while he remained on the first floor. It hadn't occurred to Libby until later that he'd probably been checking his mousetraps. When he finally joined her, long after she'd tucked herself in for the night, the traps had slipped her mind again.

  As he'd done the evening before, Donovan disrobed at the foot of the bed, used a post as his closet, then climbed beneath the covers and took her into his arms. It was then she sensed that something intangible had entered the room with him, something heavy with foreboding.

  And then he spoke, whispering in the darkness, and in his voice, that ominous visitor finally manifested itself. "I suppose you thought you were being polite to my father this evening, but you didn't do a very good job of hiding your true feelings. Is there nothing I can do to keep you from hating him so? Nothing?"

  He hadn't forgotten, and from his tone, Libby knew he hadn't forgiven her rash tongue, either. His question surprised her, but she responded with the same bluntness and honesty. "No, I'm afraid not. I wish I could learn to think of him in a more friendly way, but whenever I look at R. T. Savage, all I can see is evil."

  Donovan didn't comment on her answer. He didn't have to. His thoughts were all around her, invading her. She could reach out and touch them, taste the poison. He was disappointed, to be sure, but also accusing, as if convinced she had it within her to change her opinion of his father, but refused to do him the honor. There was no way for her to respond to his unspoken charges without breaking her vow to his mother, or painting his father as the kind of beast children lived in terror of finding under their beds.

  So Libby remained silent as Donovan pulled her deeper into his arms and made unhurried love to her. His touch was sure and gentle, more sensual than ever, yet their lovemaking was bittersweet, where before it had been sinfully delicious. His mouth, his hands, all the pleasures he could bestow belonged to Libby for these few minutes. He gave everything to her, holding back only two things—his heart and soul. The words "I love you" ran circles in her mind, but never dared to cross her lips. Instead, she gave herself the freedom to love him with her body—and loved him as she'd never loved him before.

  Determined to commit to memory the way his skin, so smooth and slick with perspiration, felt beneath her palms, to forever carry with her the subtle change in his scent as he became more and more aroused, she became the aggressor for a few short moments, and unleashed in him a savage of a different kind. Donovan's lips both bruised and soothed her everywhere they touched, and then he began to moan from deep in his throat, a feral kind of sound akin to a growl.

  Libby savored it all, the sounds, his scent, his touch, until at last they reached the highest peak together. It wasn't until they tumbled down the other side of the mountain, miles and miles apart, that she understood nothing had changed.

  Everything went quiet then, as if sound didn't exist at all. In that vacuous moment, Libby realized that what they'd shared here tonight had been their last time together. That thought, as the others, went unspoken between them. But even as they lay holding one another in the dim afterglow of their lovemaking, she suspected it was a thought Donovan shared.

  * * *

  As a child, Libby had frequently dreamed of becoming a horse when she grew up. It hadn't occurred to her at the time, but she supposed the fantasy was her way of escaping in this male dominated society, a way of finding freedom. To gallop, wild and free, across the prairie, the wind rippling through her mane, kicking up her heels and tossing her head, answering to no one. She awoke just this side of dawn, that time of night when the morning sun is finally beginning to shove the midnight sky into the oceans of the west, and realized she'd had that same dream again during the night. An unspoken wish to be free.

  Beside her, Donovan stirred and began inching his way toward the edge of the mattress. After he quietly slid out of bed, she heard the rustle of his clothing as he removed it from the bed post, but Libby didn't make a sound or move a muscle. If he wanted her to believe that he'd been in his own room for most of the night, so be it. She would go back to sleep and dream again of being a horse. And of being free.

  Chapter 19

  The next morning, Donovan leaned over the drafting table in his father's office and studied the sketch R. T. had commissioned of the hoodlums who'd attacked him. "There were three of them?" he asked.

  "Around that, I think,
the little sons of bitches." R. T. wiped a drop of spittle off his chin. "You know, it's just as likely those boys were the sons of millionaires, as beggars. I think we ought to get the police to round up a special detail to go after all these thieving little bastards. The city's overrun with them."

  Donovan didn't disagree on the point. San Francisco's growing hoodlum population didn't stop at robbery, as they had with R. T„ but also set buildings on fire, paraded the streets at night singing obscene songs, and most repulsive of all, took grand sport in stoning Chinese men. But Donovan hadn't come to see his father about ridding San Francisco's streets of its bored youth. He wanted to know a little more about the distillery business and how it tied in with government officials. Turning his back to the table, he propped his hips against it, shoved his hands in his pockets and said, "I just found out that Eldorado Distilleries is yours. Are you aware that I've been doing my whiskey business with you for years?"

  R. T. laughed. "No, it never occurred to me. I suppose it should have, since you're partners in a saloon." There was a slight narrowing of his eyes before he went on. "Why are you asking now, Son? Everything all right at the saloon? My men haven't been cheating you out of your profits or anything, have they?"

  "Not that I know of." He smiled at his father, enjoying the easy banter they shared. "Maybe I ought to pay a little closer attention next time they deliver."

  "Maybe you should." Again R. T. laughed, but it sounded a little strained. "I thought you pretty much stayed away from the saloon since coming to work for me. Don't tell me you're trying to work both jobs."

  "No, nothing like that. In fact, I haven't been back to the theatre for a few days. I was asking about the distillery for another reason. I was wondering if it's true that you're a big contributor toward the campaign against the equal rights movement, you know, where lobbyists are concerned."

  R. T. sighed and rolled his eyes as if disgusted, but oddly enough, Donovan thought he saw a fair amount of relief in the man's expression, too. "Libby again, right?"

  Hedging slightly, Donovan replied, "A friend of hers, actually, but yes, she told me that through the distillery, you're one of the biggest contributors in those efforts."

  "And so?" Smiling, R. T. strolled across his expansive office toward the desk. "I'm not sure I understand what it is you want to know, Son. I've never kept my objections to this women's suffrage thing secret. Are you asking me how much money I spend lobbying against women's rights? If so, I can't imagine why that should concern you."

  Now Donovan wasn't even sure why he'd brought the subject up. It was as if the feeling of warmth he thought he'd just shared with his father had been blown away by an icy wind. "I don't care what you spend your money on, or how much it costs you. I was just wondering, on Libby's behalf, if you could find another cause to back. The women's movement is very, very important to her."

  R. T. had reached his chair, but instead of taking it, he gripped the back, his fingers digging deep furrows in the soft leather. "Do you think for one minute that I'd spend even a penny of my money on something that wasn't terribly important to me?"

  Donovan had never been the object of his father's wrath, and while he couldn't exactly say he occupied that position now, he felt uncomfortably close to the target. "Of course not, but as I said before—I'm asking on behalf of Libby and her—"

  "Libby." Coming from between R. T.'s lips, her name sounded like evil incarnate. "I thought she meant nothing to you, and that by now she'd have run back to Wyoming, where she belongs. Why is she still here?"

  Silence swelled between them like a great stinking cloud, growing ever larger as the minutes ticked, while Donovan tried to come up with an answer. To extract himself from the awkward position, especially since he couldn't think of a logical answer—logical to him, anyway. He shrugged and said, "I'm sorry I even brought the subject up. Consider it closed."

  "No. I don't think I can close it that easily, Son. I didn't get where I am by dodging disagreeable tasks. I faced them head on. I think I see a distinctly unpleasant task in this Libby woman, and in fact, saw it the first time I met her." His usually composed features, though badly bruised, began to mottle and change shape. "Those suffragists are all alike, picking and hounding a man until they break either his back or his spirit."

  "I'm not going to get into a discussion about Libby or suffragists." And if he had to walk out the door to do it, Donovan knew he would. "Maybe it'd be best if I go."

  "No, wait." R. T.'s voice left little doubt that he'd issued a command. "We won't talk about Libby or her blind devotion to the 'cause.' We'll talk about my distillery and another woman, the former Olivina Blair. Come, sit down."

  But suddenly, all Donovan wanted was out of the conversation. And out of the room. "I think it would be much better if I leave."

  "Perhaps, but before you go, at least let me tell you why I protect my interests so heartily."

  "All right." He agreed, but Donovan stayed right where he was at the drafting table.

  Apparently unperturbed that his son hadn't done everything he'd been told, R. T. went on. "Are you aware that Eldorado Distilleries is how I made my fortune—and how I still collect my fortune?"

  Donovan shrugged. "Just from the bills I've run up with the company, I can imagine that it's a real moneymaker, but I thought you struck it rich in the gold fields."

  "Oh, I did, son, but not as rich as the distillery made me." He spoke of the company with reverence. "The other businesses compromising S and S are largely toys to keep Thomas and Francis busy. They even kept Andrew out of trouble for a while."

  Donovan did not want to talk or think about Andrew. "But Savage Publishing must surely make a profit."

  "A little," R. T. conceded, "but nothing of the magnitude I make at the distillery. If not for Olivina, I wouldn't have bought a damn newspaper business in the first place."

  Curious now, Donovan crossed the room and stood facing his father from the other side of his desk. "What does she have to do with the Tribune?"

  Offering his son a smug grin, R. T. evaded the direct question. "I've always considered myself to be a damn fine-looking man, as you are, and by the time I built the distillery into what it is today, I was a damn rich man, too. In all honesty, those attributes weren't nearly enough to capture a woman like Olivina, at least not as my wife."

  "She's a very beautiful woman," Donovan said, able to offer the compliment sincerely.

  "Oh, Olivina is much more than simply the most beautiful creature in all of California. Along with the Blair family, she's also a leader of society and representative of all things fine and regal. I wanted that for myself. I wanted her Donovan—wanted her on any terms. Surely you can understand that."

  Donovan understood better than he thought R. T. could know. Nowhere had there been any mention of love. "I'm with you so far."

  "Then you'll certainly understand what I did when I discovered she would never marry me as the owner of a distillery, no matter how well I could feed her expensive tastes. Producing whiskey is not exactly the proper kind of business which would allow her to keep her social standing. Ah, but as a newspaper magnate, I was quite acceptable as husband material." The smug grin wider, he elaborated. "Olivina engineered the Savage family's move into San Francisco's elite, not I. If the women of this country ever get to take part in elections, they'll vote in temperance. Given my circumstances now, I'd practically be out on the street, should that day ever come, so I'm not about to let it happen." His expression darkened. "I think you can guess how long Olivina would stay by my side should my fortunes slide. The women's vote would cost me far, far more than mere money. Now do you see my point?"

  Whether he liked it or not, Donovan had to admit that R. T. definitely had one. "Sure, and I can't say that I blame you for taking such a hard stand against equal rights. I just wish there were some other way."

  "You let me know if you think of one. In the meantime, I rather like being a respectable businessman of major prominence." He cir
cled the desk, still limping slightly, and patted Donovan's shoulder. "I've noticed that you've become used to your elevated status since joining the family business. It looks good on you, Son. Don't throw it all away over a woman, especially an unfinished hellion like Liberty Justice."

  Now R. T. was treading on Donovan's toes. Donovan shook hands with his father and said, "I appreciate your taking the time to explain all this to me. Now, I really have to go. Advertising accounts are waiting, you know."

  "That's my boy. And you wait until tomorrow night at the Young Gentlemen's Ball. You'll meet so many beautiful women of quality, not to mention, wealth, you'll wonder why you ever turned your head to take a second look at that rowdy little female reporter. Mark my words."

  * * *

  Back at Donovan's house, Libby had washed, dressed, and just finished tidying up her room, when she heard someone banging on the door downstairs. She hurried to answer it, and was surprised to find Lil standing there. An unusually bright sun had broken through the thick fog early that morning, burning off all but a few misty tendrils of haze. Yet most of Lil's face and her entire body were wrapped in a cloak. Practically knocking Libby to the ground, she didn't wait for an invitation, but pushed her way inside the house and quickly slammed the door behind her.

  "Is Donovan here?" Lil asked, her blue eyes round in panic.

  "No, he's not. What's wrong?"

  "Nothing or everything. I don't know for sure." Unwrapping her body like a butterfly sheds its cocoon, Lil draped the cloak on the credenza, then staggered breathlessly into the living room. "I've got to sit a minute."

  Libby followed Donovan's mother, but didn't join her on the couch. "You're making me very nervous. What happened?"