The Negotiated Marriage

by Christina Rich

  “I have it on good authority that it is.” Duncan stretched his jaw, testing the damage left by Hamish, and then rubbed the back of his head where he’d landed on a rock.

  “I don’t know what sort of sham you’re trying to pull, Mr. Murray. This land is not for sale.” The light sprinkling of rain turned to fat drops. She lifted her face to the rain. The droplets of mud washed away, leaving a soft glow bathing her cheeks. The corners of her mouth curved into a slight smile, as if she enjoyed the feel of nature’s kiss on her skin. For a small space of time he traveled back to his beloved Highlands, and if he allowed himself the pleasure of lingering she’d soon be twirling about like a wee child, wrapping strands of her hair around his finger, crumbling the hardened brick and mortar encasing his heart.

  No wonder she was hidden out here in the woods—she was a danger to society. Most ladies of his acquaintance ran indoors at the first sight of a rain cloud, not to mention suffering from the vapors at a dunking in the river. She seemed to delight in it.

  She dropped her gaze back to his. A deep scowl appeared before she resumed her efforts to get out of the river. “Hamish will never sell this land. I’d guarantee a month’s worth of cooking and cleaning on that.”

  Too bad he couldn’t take her up on the cooking. It’d been a long time since he’d eaten anything other than beans. He had the funds to eat at Calhoun’s whenever he chose, but no sooner had he settled his napkin on his lap than a gaggle of females congregated at his table full of giggles, batting eyelashes and dinner invitations. Once the matchmaking mamas discovered he had no intention of courting their daughters, they rescinded their offers of dinner. Hot stew, fresh biscuits and homemade apple pie sure set his mouth to watering.

  No matter, it had been a small price to pay to retain his bachelorhood and save the world from the likes of him. He’d seen what happened to women who became slaves to marriage and their husband’s fists, to the children born of such unions. He’d been one of them, and he wasn’t about to make the same mistakes as his father, which meant he had to convince Hamish that any marriage he considered could be nothing more than words spoken before a minister. A marriage in name only.

  She finally pulled herself out of the water and onto the bank. She held her skirt up as if to examine the damage. The curve of her calf clad in wool stockings waved at him. He caught his jaw slacking and he snapped it shut as he shifted his gaze to the sun-kissed freckles gracing the curve of her cheeks. He grunted, disgusted with himself. He focused on a dark freckle above her nondescript wire-rimmed spectacles. He couldn’t afford the distraction of her natural beauty.

  Duncan shook his head. He needed to focus on his current task, and it wasn’t her.

  Although Hamish had it in him to knock Duncan in the head when he wasn’t looking, he more than likely hadn’t the heart to rid this place of squatters, not when they looked like her, doe-eyed and hapless. He was no old man with a soft heart; his heart had hardened years ago. He wouldn’t fall for her womanly charm, not that she meant to exude it. Obviously she didn’t, else she’d hold his gaze and bat her lashes like so many of the ladies in town.

  Nope. He wasn’t going to give her the chance. Once he hunted down Hamish, paid the measly amount of cash, signed the deed and hired the minister, he’d boot her right off his land. She shivered, as if she heard his thoughts, her arms tightening around her waist to ward off the tepid spring breeze.

  “You’re going to catch a cold standing there all day in wet clothes.” He started toward her with the intention of moving her away from the edge of the bank, but stopped himself. No doubt, if he touched her he’d catch the illness that had plagued his father.

  “I don’t sicken so easily.”

  He imagined not. Just as well. She was none of his concern, even though he wished she would move farther away from the edge. One slip and she’d be back in the water. He hadn’t had the urge to rescue a damsel in a long time, and he’d do well to pay heed to the dinner bells clanging in his head. He couldn’t allow the urge to take root. Wouldn’t. The rain quickened its pace. Turning from her, he headed up the path, away from the strings drawing him back toward her, away from the gleam in her milk-laden, coffee-colored eyes that he couldn’t quite comprehend.

  “Why are you looking for Cameron Sims?”

  He didn’t need to turn around and see the glare in her eyes, not when fire singed the back of his neck.

  “Mr. Murray, I demand you stop, right this minute.”

  Demand? Thankful she was definitely not the woman Hamish intended him to marry, he felt the knot of uncertainty that had been balled up in his gut release. She was neither biddable nor undemanding.

  “Mr. Murray, I’m warning you.”

  He had never been partial to brown eyes, but hers stirred emotions buried deep beneath a thick layer of mistrust, and if he wasn’t careful he’d find himself leg-shackled at the altar with a beautiful lady and a gun pressed against his spine. He flinched at the memory. “To marry her,” he muttered beneath his breath.

  “Mr. Murray!”

  Before he could shake off the memory, he found his foot lassoed and his body jerked upside down. The bucket and the rifle flew from his hands, hitting the ground. A loud crack split the air.

  Chapter Two

  Her scream punched Duncan in the gut as the smell of gunpowder wafted around him. He twisted his upper body around to search for her. A plethora of green and brown clouded his vision as he fought against his spinning and throbbing head. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them, hoping to gain his bearings, but no one object came into focus. “Miss? Miss!”

  Nothing. Inhaling a deep breath, he wrapped his free leg around the one caught in the trap and spread his arms out wide until his swinging, upside-down body slowed. Careful not to start the movement all over again, he craned his neck until he spied the spot where she’d been standing.

  She was gone.

  He muttered beneath his breath as the mound of yellow fabric bobbed downstream and around the bend. The report must have startled her, causing her to lose her footing and fall back into the river. He should have insisted she move away from the edge. He should have pulled her out of the water and held on to her until her feet were on firmer ground.

  Why wasn’t she hollering for help?

  Unless she couldn’t.

  He jammed his hand into his pocket and pulled out his penknife. Swinging his body upward, he tried to grab hold of the rope above his foot and ended up renewing the back-and-forth motion. He tried again, and again. The sky, declaring war on his situation, began pouring buckets of rain, stinging his eyes. The rope bit into his ankle. If he were a praying man, he’d ask for a bit of mercy, but he’d discovered long ago that God, mercy and Duncan Murray had nothing to do with each other.

  Perhaps the good Lord would listen for the lady. “God, if you’re willing to bend your ear to a black-hearted Murray like me, not for me, for her.” The line attached to his leg jerked him upward, and then dropping, he started swinging again. “That woman needs some h—”

  The trap released from its mooring without him even making a jab at the rope. Like a wounded bird falling from the sky, Duncan fell, hitting the ground with a hard thud. His breath rushed out of him and he laid there stunned.

  A toothless, gray-bearded Hamish, in an oversize patched coat, hunched over him. Had the old man come to bash him in the head again?

  “Ye messed that one up, ye did.” Hamish squinted as he glanced toward the river. “Best go get her, as I ain’t none too good at swimmin’.”

  “You have some answering to do, my friend,” Duncan said as he rolled to his feet and ran down the path. He dove into the river, icy water engulfing him. He pushed through the water several paces until the current began to quicken and swirl around his legs, seeking to drag him under the surface. Unless she knew how to swim, it would be impos
sible for her to navigate the waters with her small stature, especially with yards of sodden fabric weighing her down. He dove beneath the murky water and swam toward the last place he’d seen her yellow dress.

  The current thrust him around the bend where the banks of the creek widened near the place he’d crossed with Hamish on his ferry only the day before. Spying a heap of yellow lying on the wooden raft, Duncan cut through the water. He grabbed hold of a corner post to keep from being sent farther downriver. Resting his forehead against the hewn wood, he drew in a few calming breaths, and then he glanced at the lady.

  She lay on her back, her hand across her midsection. If it weren’t for the rapid rise and fall of her chest, he’d assume she enjoyed resting on her perch much like the water turtles who gathered on rocks to sunbathe. However, the sun remained hidden far behind the clouds and the heavy rain.

  Duncan swiped the water from his eyes and pushed himself onto the anchored ferry. The back of his head pounded with the fierce clang of a hammer hitting a rail tie. Leaning on his elbows, he circled his neck, stretching the tense muscles, trying to relieve the thundering in his skull. However, if he was to be honest with himself, which he made a point to do—after all, if a man couldn’t tell himself the truth, he wasn’t worth a fleck of dust—he hoped to settle the fright right out of his bones. He’d known the woman less than a quarter of an hour, and already she’d torn more emotion out of him than any lady of his acquaintance since he’d left Scotland, ten years ago at the young age of seventeen. She’d made him care about her well-being and play the knight.

  He could hear her laughter in his mind before he’d even completed the thought. If it hadn’t been for him, she’d still be standing on the bank, hands on hips, commanding him to halt. Her ability to navigate the creek, in a gown no less, and pull herself to safety, impressed him. He should have listened to her. Then he wouldn’t have dropped the rifle.

  “I suppose I owe you an apology.”

  The sound of the creek rushing around the bend roared in her silence. The tap of each raindrop smacking the surfaces around him increased in intensity. Her lack of sarcasm unnerved him. An uneasiness pricked the base of his neck.

  “Miss?” He glanced over his shoulder and noticed her spectacles no longer rested on the bridge of her nose. He turned more toward her and took note of how her hair had come completely loose from its knot. His thoughts jumbled into a knotted ball of yarn. Before he could halt himself, he reached out to tap her shoulder and found his fingers brushing against her hair. Not one, but all of his fingers became captivated by the drenched ringlets. He could almost imagine spending his days like this, with her lounging on a crude, rickety raft in a muddy creek instead of spending his days being wooed by men with ideas bigger than their bank accounts, stiff collars and musky cigars.

  A stone settled in the pit of his stomach and he jerked his hand back, his fingers snagging in her hair. He was surprised that she didn’t cry out like he’d expect ladies to do when having their hair pulled.

  He turned onto his knees and grabbed hold of her shoulders and began to shake her. Warm, sticky residue seeped through her gown, oozing against his hand. He eased his hand back, knowing what he’d find. That stone in his stomach began to mull around like boulders tumbling from a mountaintop. Blood spread from her shoulder and down the sleeve of her gown.

  “Duncan Murray, you’re as black-hearted as they come and you’ve done a lot of rotten things, but ye never shot a lassie afore,” he told himself. He’d never shot anyone outside of the war.

  He glanced around the small cove to see if Hamish had followed by land, but only drab gray trees waiting for their spring coats to sprout lined the river banks. The old man was nowhere to be seen. Rusa Valley lay east half an hour’s ride by horseback. A well-worn path to the west would take him back toward Hamish and the hopes of shelter.

  Duncan stood to his feet, the ferry rocking beneath them. Scooping her into his arms, he settled her against his chest, her head resting in the crook of his arm. The warmth of her breath filtered through the cotton strands of his soaked shirt, singeing his skin.

  He stepped over the ledge, onto the bank and then readjusted her. Her arms snaked around his neck, causing his pulse to thunder. The clanging of bells, much like the ones alerting a town to a fire, roared in his ears, warning him he trod dangerous territory. He should just lay her right down on the muddy bank, forget about Hamish’s offer and hightail it back to Topeka. Perhaps leave Kansas altogether, especially given the certainty the feel of her in his arms would never leave his memory.

  This woman had managed to steal his wits. One touch of her left him rattled, ready to jump in his father’s wastrel footsteps. In his father’s case, married to one woman, his mind on another. Several others.

  He ducked beneath the limb of a tree and came face-to-face with the end of a revolver and the barrel of a rifle. The revolver clicked as the mechanism slid back. He eyed the two women pulling a bead on him, and he nearly dropped the woman in his arms. The piercing dark eyes and matching scowls told him all he needed to know. These women were all sisters.

  “How many more of you are there?” he asked.

  The shorter one narrowed her eyes. “You railroad men have tried all sorts of things to get our land, mister.”

  “Kidnapping isn’t one of them,” the taller one added.

  “Railroad man? Kidnapping?”

  What did the railroad have to do with these women? Weston had briefed him on the latest plans to build the iron road through the county only days ago through the middle of Rusa Valley, and this bit of land was far from it. Before asking what they meant, the shorter one let out a high-pitched scream as she removed her finger from the trigger. “You shot Camy!” She whipped her head around and faced the taller sister. “He shot Camy.”

  He glanced down at the woman in his arms. Almond-shaped eyes rested in a sun-kissed, heart-shaped face. Her bow-shaped lips were slightly parted. Her dark curls formed a pillow for her head against his arm, and he couldn’t help imagining gazing upon her beauty every day for the rest of his life and calling the name that suited her.

  “Cam—Cameron Sims?” Dread curled in his stomach, pounding like wild horses in his head, and he nearly dropped her. So much for her not being Hamish’s relation. So much for her not being the woman Hamish wanted him to marry. Everything in him told him to get away from her as fast as he could.

  Her lashes fluttered and then opened. A pool of warm cocoa with flecks of gold blinked up at him, laced with pain. She blinked again. “You rescued me.”

  “Not exactly,” he snapped, ashamed of his actions causing her need to be rescued.

  Her eyes grew wide at his terse response, and at the moment he wasn’t apologetic. He’d been a fool to follow Hamish out here with the promise of a home worthy of Scotland only to be swindled into marriage by a conniving old man. The woman in his arms was far from homely.

  Her mouth opened and closed as if she wanted to say something. Instead she raised her head and looked from one sister to the other and back to him. She started to push against his shoulders and groaned in pain. Eyelids falling, her head fell and dangled over his arm. His protective instinct had him rolling her closer into him. The curve of her cheek resting against his chest.

  The sisters lowered their weapons and rushed toward them.

  The taller of the two sisters probed Camy’s wound. “Is this her only injury?”

  Duncan shrugged. “It’s the only one I see. However, she was washed down the river.”

  “You shot her. And you tried to drown her just like the last prospector promised to do,” the younger sister accused as she jammed a fist on her hip.

  Duncan’s pulse skipped a beat. Someone had threatened her? A man claiming to work for the railroad? A man Duncan’s money helped pay wages to? No wonder she’d been adamant about him leaving. Now wasn’t the
time to be interrogated by this younger sister, nor was it the time for him to ask questions. Camy needed medical attention, and quickly. “If I meant to drown her I wouldn’t be carrying her, now, would I?”

  The sister inspecting Camy for injuries glanced at the shorter one. “You best get Dr. Northrop.”

  “I don’t like it, Ellie.” The shorter one looked over Duncan from head to toe and back again, before resting on her injured sister. “If any further harm happens to either one of my sisters, you’ll regret it, mister.”

  “Ye need not worry, Mara Jean.” Hamish stepped from the shadows and over a log. “He’ll not be causing harm to his future bride.”

  Obviously Hamish sought Duncan’s protection for his family, but that didn’t mean hot anger didn’t boil in Duncan’s blood at being manipulated. If Hamish had been truthful about his intention of Duncan marrying Camy from the start, Duncan never would have left Topeka, and she wouldn’t now be suffering from a wound in her shoulder.

  The sisters spun around, their faces white as snow.

  “What have you done, Hamish?” Ellie held up her hand. “Never mind. We’ll hear the tale soon enough. Come along, let’s get Camy home.”

  “Northrop won’t be too happy when he finds out about this.” The younger sister giggled.