by Jill Gregory
He dragged her back up the aisle to where Latherby was gaping in open-mouthed dismay. The little man looked so distressed, Josie thought he might pop a blood vessel.
“My lord, you see what I mean,” he whispered.
“I see exactly what you mean.” Ethan pushed Josie backward and she landed with a thud in one of the deep plush crimson chairs. “Don’t say a word. Not one word.”
He turned his back on her and on Latherby, and stalked to the window.
Josie rubbed her wrist. She was furious—and totally humiliated. At that moment, staring at Ethan Savage’s powerful frame, she’d have liked to have dragged him by his dark curly hair out to the platform linking the train cars, and pushed him off, sending him rolling, rolling down a gully until he landed at the bottom—in a rattlesnake pit.
The image almost made her smile with satisfaction. Almost. Instead she gritted her teeth, and sealed her lips, and watched him scowl out the window, imagining all too well what he was thinking.
She could hardly blame him—or Latherby—for thinking so badly of her. But it hurt even so. No amount of explaining would ever convince Ethan Savage or his Mr. Latherby that she was not the cheap little thief they thought her to be. She’d only stolen to get away from Snake—and she would never, ever take a penny from anyone who looked as if they needed it themselves. But Ethan Savage wouldn’t believe that. Or give her a chance to explain it.
So what? Josie asked herself, shifting deeper into the plush chair. It shouldn’t matter. Why should you care what he thinks?
She shouldn’t.
But she did.
If Ethan felt her eyes burning into the back of his skull, he gave no sign of it. His thoughts were in turmoil, his jaw clenched as he fought to curb the fury inside him.
Above all else, he hated feeling trapped, enclosed, controlled. And that’s how he felt now, trapped by the terms of his father’s will—controlled by a cruel ghostly figure no doubt laughing from the grave, reveling in his discomfiture.
Marriage. He’d sworn ten years ago before all of London society that he would never marry. And he’d meant it, that long-ago night when he’d run away. But now here he was, tied to a cheap lying pickpocket with a mouth shaped as voluptuously as a courtesan’s, with uptilted, violet eyes that could hypnotize mortals and gods alike, and a heart no doubt as black as a coal mine.
She couldn’t be more wrong for his purposes. And she was clumsy, too, apparently, he reflected with a frown. He could imagine the picture she’d present tumbling down the steps of the Opera House.
Damn, he didn’t want to be married at all, and he sure as hell didn’t want to be married to this bit of fluff and trouble.
Feeling sweat break out on his brow, Ethan fastened his gaze on the open prairie rolling past—thinking of the Rockies, the Mogollons, the Sierra Nevada, of all the wild, untamed land of purple canyons and pine-crested peaks and cactus-studded desert he’d left behind. He couldn’t believe he was actually heading back to London, with its crowds, its snobs, its rigid conventions, with memories of a past he’d spent the past ten years escaping.
Maybe he should just fold right now. Throw in his chips and call it quits—call this whole thing off. Damn Stonecliff Park. And damn the money. He took a breath, feeling better already. He could let the little thief go—get off this train and head for where? Silver City? San Francisco? Denver? Wherever the hell he pleased.
As if reading his thoughts, Latherby crossed the aisle and coughed quietly. His voice was low, as if to keep the girl from hearing.
“I’m sure I can imagine what you’re thinking, my lord. Last night you made a mistake. But there is still time to rectify it. You could take care of this, er, situation—leave the girl at the next stop, and find yourself another... wife,” he whispered, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the pale, brown-haired girl sitting stiff and upright in her chair. “Someone more appropriate.”
“I could, could I?” A number of men had seen that deadly glint in Ethan Savage’s eyes, but none of them had lived to tell about it. Latherby took one look, swallowed hard, and continued forthrightly.
“You c-could, indeed, sir. And if you hesitate,” he rushed on, “I beg you to consider that your cousin, the esteemed Mr. Winthrop, is no doubt walking through Stonecliff Park at this very moment counting the rooms, all two hundred of them. And noting on a ledger each stick of furniture which will become his if you do not return and meet the terms of the will.”
“He’s welcome to it. And you know what, Latherby? You’re damned impertinent.”
Yet the solicitor’s words stirred something inside him. It wasn’t only that he didn’t want Oliver to get his hands on Stonecliff Park—though that was part of it. Oliver Winthrop was a sniveling weasel who’d had a hand in what had happened to Molly, and the last thing Ethan wanted was to see him prosper. But it was more than that.
Stonecliff Park meant more than land and money and gardens, more than ancestral paintings and crests, and tapestries dating from the days of the Conqueror.
There were scores of people on the property—housemaids, footmen, grooms, gardeners, cooks, scullery maids, coachmen, and tenants—all of whose lives and incomes would be affected by his father’s death. Of the old retainers he would remember from his childhood, some had been more like family to him than his own father and brother. And now they were depending on him.
Their lives, he knew, would be better entrusted to his own hands than to Oliver Winthrop’s pale, limp-fish, greedy ones.
He’d never thought to have the responsibility of rank and property and title—as a younger son it had never been a fixture of his future. Now circumstances had brought the unwanted responsibility to rest squarely upon his shoulders.
And as tempted as he was, Ethan was beginning to realize he couldn’t just forget about it and walk away.
He slammed his fist against the paneled wall of the parlor car, startling the girl and Latherby. They both stared at him as if expecting him to throw something next.
Ethan stalked to the girl and stood over her. She instinctively shrank back in her chair, then forced herself to lean forward again, her chin hitching up, up, up to meet his eyes.
She had spunk, at least. He’d grant her that.
He took his time studying her, ignoring the hot blush that stole into her cheeks. Because he’d acted rashly last night—unusual for him—a great deal now depended on this common thief. This slender violet-eyed hussy with her wayward brown curls and stubborn chin, who had picked his pocket twice in one day, and had danced at the Golden Pistol, displaying her dainty ankles for all of Abilene to admire, was far from being a lady.
Yet, it wasn’t all bad, he thought, his brain finally beginning to turn the matter over more coolly. The deal he’d struck could have been worse. Much worse.
With any other woman, he’d be stuck for life. Someone proper and honorable never would have agreed to a short-term marriage for the purposes of securing his inheritance. But this thief had. She knew the terms and had made the bargain. A short-term marriage, then goodbye. Forever.
That certainly suited his purposes. It would nicely circumvent his father’s machinations, and leave him the inheritance without the encumbrance of marriage.
So it was one point in the girl’s favor.
And studying his bride’s fine-textured skin, the delicate bones of her face, those luminous eyes beneath fairy-winged brows, he could actually see possibilities. With the right clothes, a few lessons in speech and deportment...
If she was a thief and a dancing girl, maybe she could be an actress too.
A good enough actress to fool Grismore, and the rest of London, for a few short months, and then it would all be over.
But it was essential he keep her in line.
“I want to speak to my wife,” he told Latherby, his gaze still riveted on the girl’s face. He saw her eyes widen, her mouth part in surprise, before she clamped her soft lips together again. But the tip of her tongue emerged to circle them nervously.
“Latherby, leave us alone.”
Seven
“Don’t look so terrified.” Ethan’s mouth curled upward in a scornful imitation of a smile as the parlor door clanked shut on Latherby and they were finally alone. “I’m not going to shoot you.”
The edge of mockery in his tone set Josie’s teeth on edge. She had too much pride to let anyone think she was a coward. “I know that. And I’m not afraid of you, so don’t convince yourself that I am.”
“If you had a lick of sense you would be.” He stepped back a pace, pushed the hat back on his head, and she could see his eyes. They gleamed so dangerously out from beneath his frowning black brows that Josie nearly froze in horror, but she forced herself to fold her hands together in her lap and to school her face into a calm expression.
“Hungry?” he asked, with a gesture indicating the silver platters set out on the table behind him.
She shook her head.
“Cup of coffee?”
“Why don’t you just say what you have to say, Mr. Savage, and get it over with.”
The black brows shot up. What might have been amusement leapt into his eyes for a moment, then was quickly extinguished, replaced by cool appraisal.
“You don’t resort much to feminine airs, do you, Miss—”
“It’s Mrs.” Her blue eyes flashed into his. “Mrs. Ethan Savage. Or did you forget.”
“I wish the hell I could.”
Misery descended on her. “This was all your idea, not mine.” She sprang up from the chair, her hands clenched into fists. “And I know you’re regretting marrying me, and I’m not so pleased with it myself, but if you think I’m just going to sit here and let you insult me and yell at me and try to bully me, well, you can think again.” She spun around and started desperately up the aisle, but before she’d taken two steps, Ethan gripped her by the arm and whirled her back.
“Not so fast.”
“Let me go!”
“I wasn’t trying to insult you. Don’t be so damned prickly. Though I must admit I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly when I married a thief.”
“I’m not a—” She broke off, and bit her lip. “All right, I admit I took your money.” Because she was ashamed, the words came out in a muffled choke, and she covered it by glaring at him.
He glowered back, his eyes looking darker now, almost black.
“Not only my money.”
“Fine, so I stole your pocket watch.”
“You’d have taken my pants if I’d have blinked.”
She opened her mouth to protest, and he went on roughly, cutting her off. “Don’t waste your breath. Just fork over what’s mine.”
Her blue gaze clashed with his ominously dark one. “I would,” she murmured tightly, “if you’d let go of my arm.”
He glanced down and realized how fiercely he was holding her. Quickly he dropped his hand.
Josie was aware of his gaze on her as she retrieved her valise with all the dignity she could muster and began rummaging through it. She felt the heat of that dark gaze through all the layers of her clothes. Digging beneath a clean chemise, the worn pouch containing her treasures, some other clothes, and a hairbrush, she at last came up with the handkerchief in which she’d wrapped Savage’s heavy gold pocket watch and wallet. She handed them over in silence.
All the while Ethan’s eyes nailed her. She sensed the tension rippling through him, sensed he wasn’t anywhere near finished with her yet.
“Anything else you have to say to me?” she asked at last, hoping the tartness of her voice hid how ashamed she was. She couldn’t blame the man for considering her a thief—that’s what she was, wasn’t it?
He folded the greenbacks away and slipped the pocket watch inside his vest pocket. His face was grim. This little hussy showed no remorse. There was something hidden beneath that edge in her voice, but he doubted it was shame—probably regret, regret that she’d been caught and forced to face her victim.
Victim? Right now she seemed more like his victim than the other way around. Clearly ill at ease, tense, and fatigued, his dainty little bride looked a bit the worse for wear. There were lavender shadows beneath her lovely uptilted eyes, and her skin was white as a lily. He guessed she probably hadn’t slept more than an hour or two, or eaten anything since sometime yesterday.
But that’s not my problem, he told himself. She’s nothing to me, nothing but someone to use for a while and then get rid of. She’ll be well rewarded, and that’s all that a woman like her cares about.
“I’ve got plenty to say to you, lady,” he answered her evenly, noting the way she lifted her chin as he spoke. “But let’s start with two things. First off, Latherby says you nursed this cut of mine last night, that you stanched the blood. He tells me you showed quick thinking.” His voice was flat. “For that, I owe you thanks.”
Astonished, Josie could do no more than nod. An embarrassed flush crept once more into her cheeks. She felt the warmth of it, and cursed herself for never having learned to control her blushes. “I didn’t do anything special. Just what anyone with half a brain would have done. Well, actually, I did learn something about nursing from the Beckers.” Because she was nervous around him and his intent way of studying her made her uneasy, she kept babbling, unable to stop. “I lived with them for a time, you see, and I learned some things. Mrs. Becker’s mother had nursed injured soldiers in the War Between the States, so even years later, whenever anyone in town couldn’t get hold of the doctor they called on her and—”
“I don’t give a damn about the Beckers,” he interrupted, taking a step closer. His hands shot out and gripped her shoulders. “I think you’re trying to change the subject.”
“No, I—” She broke off, too flustered to explain. She did have a custom of talking too much, especially when she was nervous. It had irritated everyone she’d ever lived with, except Pop Watson.
“Go on,” she said more quietly, fighting the urge to hang her head.”What was the other thing you had to say to me?”
Ethan scowled as her lashes swept down over her incredible eyes. Strange how innocent she looked, though he knew damned well she was far from innocent. But she looked guileless and sweet, pristine as a farmer’s daughter, or someone who’d teach school—not like a thief. And she had a sweet, melodious way of talking that did something strange to a man’s insides.
He whipped his mind back to the matter at hand with the expert self-control he’d developed over the years. You’re too experienced to fall for a con artist’s wiles, he told himself brutally. Stick to the point. Do what you have to do right now. Scare the hell out of her.
“Here’s the other thing.” He yanked her toward him swiftly, so swiftly, she gasped in fright. “Consider yourself warned that if you give me any trouble—a drop of trouble—when we get to England, I’ll make your life such a living hell you’ll wish you’d never been born. You’ll end up in Newgate prison, and it’s far worse, I promise you, than an Abilene jail cell.”
Staring up into the terrifying harshness of his features, Josie had no doubt he meant what he said. Suddenly the parlor car didn’t feel large enough for both of them. He towered over her, his arms snaked about her body, his chest hard as granite against her quivering breasts. She wanted to shrink back, to run from the coldness she saw in his eyes, and from the hot pleasure his nearness stirred inside her, a pleasure that frightened and baffled her. But instead, she did what she’d learned to do in the orphanage when she was cornered by a bully, what she did whenever she wanted to survive. She took a deep breath and thrust herself forward straight into the fight.
“And let me give you fair warning, Ethan Savage. If you give me any trouble, any trouble at all, I’ll tell everyone in London exactly what you’ve done, that you married a woman you didn’t even know just to get around the terms of some will. Just so you could get your paws on the money—”
He dragged her chin up, his long fingers clamped to her cheeks. “You know all the angles about money, do
n’t you. What’s your name again?”
“Josie,” she bit out. She fought back tears of pain as his fingers dug painfully into her face. “Josephine. I told you during the wedding ceremony. Don’t you remember, darling?”
He grinned. An unpleasant grin. “I only remember one thing about that ceremony—except for Latherby trying like hell to stop it. Know what that one thing is?”
She shook her head, as much as she could, when he was imprisoning her jaw.
“This.”
Without warning, his arms tightened around her waist and his face lowered swiftly toward hers. Josie’s heart leapt into her throat. He was going to kiss her again.
He smelled faintly of soap, and of whiskey and of man, and it was not unpleasant. But he was too strong, too near, holding her too tight. She felt overwhelmed, and suddenly she was reminded vividly and horrifyingly of Snake, of his crude strength and brutal hands and of how he had hurt her. She’d vowed that night she’d run away never to let any man hurt her like that again.
She heard him laugh as if from a long way away. “Drunk as I was, I couldn’t forget lips like yours, angel.”
“Let me go.”
His face dipped lower, his mouth only a breath away from her trembling lips. “No need to act shy with me. I happen to know you had a job dancing in front of a whole saloon full of men. Don’t tell me you didn’t sleep with the customers.”
“How dare—”
His fingers locked on her wrist as she tried to slap him. “And now you’re my sweet little wife, remember. You’re legally mine. I can kiss you if I want, Josie. Touch you. Bed you.”
Panic clawed through her. An image of Snake pushing her down on the floor, pinning her arms, yanking her skirt up, filled her mind. She kicked at Ethan’s shin, and pushed against him with all her might. Ethan continued to hold her, without any noticeable difficulty, but his soft mocking laughter had changed to a frown.
“What in damnation is wrong with you?”
“You might have married me, but you don’t own me! Nobody owns me! I never agreed to let you... to behave as if... our bargain never mentioned—”