Verity did not look convinced. The slightest noise sent her diving into her mother’s skirts, and when the entire family gathered together for dinner, she would not venture closer than the width of the room to Michael Tarrington, not even when he attempted to lure her out of hiding with magic tricks and sleight of hand.
Sarah declared herself exhausted beyond all endurance shortly after the meal ended and took to her bed early. Amanda was not far behind, settling Verity into bed, where it seemed to take forever before her eyes finally stayed closed. Amanda, worn to the bone herself, returned to the drawing room with the intentions only of saying good night. The sound of voices and laughter halted her on the threshold. Alisha, Michael, Karl von Helmstaad, and William Courtland were seated at a table beside the hearth. They were playing cards—poker by the look of it. A layer of smoke drifted over their heads from the three strong cigars Michael had passed around. Alisha’s hair glinted gold in the blaze of firelight and lamplight, and, as she leaned forward to pick up a card, Amanda experienced the strangely disconcerting sensation of seeing herself as Montana Rose.
“Ahh! Amanda!” William spied her standing in the doorway and tipped his cigar in her direction. “We had almost given you up for lost. We left a chair for you, over here by me. Come join us and help me welcome these upstarts to the family in style.”
“I have only come to say good night.” She crossed the room and kissed her father’s cheek. “I don’t want to leave Verity alone too long.”
“Bah! You coddle the child too much. Your mother and Mercy are within earshot if she starts wandering about.”
“No. I’d better not.”
“But we’ve just started.”
“I wasn’t suggesting you end the game. I only said I was tired."
"I do hope you're not thinking of taking your husband away,” Alisha murmured, winding a shiny strand of hair around her finger. "At least not until his cash runs out.”
Amanda came suddenly wide awake. “You’re playing for money?”
“I suggested it might add some piquancy to the game,” Alisha drawled. “Michael concurred.”
The familiar use of his name sent Amanda’s gaze to her husband’s face. She wondered, by the shuttered watchfulness in his eyes, if he was experiencing the same sense of déjà vu Amanda had felt at the door, for he was studying her sister with an intensity that raised goosebumps up and down her arms.
Making matters worse, Michael glanced up at her and smiled one of the same lazy smiles she had seen on the riverboat.
“You look tired,” he said. “Don’t wait up for me.”
“I won’t,” she said softly. “Good night.”
“Night, daughter,” William waved his hand absently.
“Good night, Amanda dearest,” Alisha murmured, smiling directly into Michael’s eyes. “I shall try not to take too much advantage of your husband’s eagerness to make a good impression.”
Amanda retraced her steps to the door and had the feeling she was forgotten the instant she left the room, and she had to fight the urge to go back and watch over the game. If she had learned anything at all about her new husband over the past two days, it was that he did not take well to losing. Now that he knew her father was Billy Fleet, she wondered if he would take it as a personal challenge to see if his skills were better than those of the riverboat legend.
Verity, as she had often done in the past, had crept from her room to Amanda’s and was firmly ensconced beneath the blankets. Amanda slid in beside her and cradled the warm little body in her arms, but as tired as she was, she could not sleep. An hour passed. Two. Three. Somewhere out on the river a passing boat-whistle blew the midnight watch and Amanda slipped out of bed and went to the window. She stared at the glistening half moon, at the stars, at the blackness of the night; and she wondered what Michael was doing, what he was thinking, how he was reacting to what would be, undoubtedly, one of Alisha’s finer performances.
Her twin had never let anything so trivial as politics or family loyalty stand in the way of a conquest. She hated Yankees, but it had never stopped her from flirting with every blue-coated officer who had passed through Rosalie when it was occupied by the Federal Army. Nor had Joshua Brice been the first man to have shown an interest in Amanda and ended up being wholly under Alisha’s spell. Each and every man, for that matter, who had ever looked at Amanda had done so only after Alisha had discarded him.
Caleb had been the only one to scorn Alisha’s attempts to seduce him, and Amanda had begun to wonder if that was why she had married him. Because he professed to love her and not just the mirror image of Alisha.
Josh, on the other hand, had been far too handsome and virile for Alisha to let slip through her fingers, Amanda could see that clearly now. And if Josh was too tempting to resist, what would her sister make of Michael Tarrington, quite simply the most dangerously handsome man to have walked into recent memory? He was also rich and powerful, two intoxicants that would whet Alisha’s appetites and lure her like a lioness to raw meat. Amanda had watched her sister in action before—watched and studied her well enough to carry off an imitation in the guise of Montana Rose. The slanted eyes, the moistened lips, the soft, breathy voice … were they not the same tools of seduction that had lured Michael Tarrington out onto the deck of the Mississippi Queen with his initial proposition?
Would he find it amusing? Or would he begin to regret he had married the wrong sister?
“I thought I told you not to wait up for me?”
Amanda was nearly startled off her seat on the window ledge. Michael was standing at the bedroom door, his jacket draped over his arm, his collar unfastened, the ends of his cravat hanging loosely around his neck. There was only one small lamp burning near the bed, the wick turned almost too low for the light to penetrate the shadows, and her reaction was as much due to his sudden appearance as it was to the way he looked—as breathtakingly handsome as she had just been thinking.
“I … couldn’t seem to fall asleep.”
He regarded her intently for a moment, then closed the door behind him and glanced at the bed.
Amanda followed his gaze to where Verity was nestled against the pillows, one hand clutched around the doll, the other fisted against her mouth with the thumb sucked securely inside.
“I didn’t want to leave her alone tonight,” Amanda said quickly. “I thought … with everything happening so fast …”
“You don’t have to explain. Or apologize,” he said, walking over to the side of the bed to peer down at the sleeping child. “I don’t think I made a very good impression on her today.”
“Perhaps you should have tried bribing her with more oranges. The bourbon seems to have worked with Father.”
The slate-gray eyes found her in the shadows and she had the grace to flush.
“I’m sorry, but what did you expect? Did you think everyone would welcome you with open arms?”
“No. But I didn’t exactly expect to find myself the main course in a pool of hungry sharks either.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean?” He tossed his jacket over the back of a chair and pulled off his cravat. “I mean, my pet, I would have hated to be on the river with Billy Fleet twenty years ago when his hands were steadier and his capacity for alcohol was not eroded. As it was, even chair-bound and half swacked on Kentucky’s finest, I had to keep looking down every few minutes to assure myself I was still in firm possession of some of the family jewels.”
She bit down on her lip. “There is not much in life that gives him pleasure anymore.”
“Then I’m glad I could please him—which I did, I might add, to the sum of about four hundred dollars. Enough to keep him in cigars and sugared hams for a while.”
“You lost to him? Deliberately?”
He turned to face her, his cambric shirt half open, half untucked from the waist of his trousers. “You say that as if you don’t think I’m capable of going against my own better judgment.”
"Now, if I was wrong doing any of that”—he lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug—“mea culpa, and God rot all the Philistines.”
Amanda leaned back slightly to avoid the wave of vapors that blew off his breath.
“You’re drunk,” she said, wrinkling up her nose.
“I have been drinking a great deal,” he admitted. “But as long as I can still walk and distinguish my wife from one of the naked cupids on the fireplace mantel, I am not drunk. Although I must say, I do prefer you naked.”
He grinned lopsidedly and she retreated another step into the shadows. She was a blur of creamy soft longcloth and misty blonde hair. The locket winked around her neck, drawing his gaze down into the seductively dark valley between her breasts. He had spent the better part of the evening seated across from his wife's mirror image, and it had been almost as unsettling and exhausting as watching for all the sleight of hands.
“Forewarned, they say, is forearmed,” he murmured. “Parlor games you called it, if I remember correctly. A pleasant way to pass a rainy afternoon? Christ, madam, between watching your father and trying not to watch your sister, I can understand why you’re as good as you are at the gaming tables. The marks you met on the riverboats must have been child’s play after an evening of family cut-throat. You say your brothers were better?”
Amanda bristled slightly. As casually as she could, she turned and looked out the window. “What do you mean, you were trying not to watch Alisha?”
“She can be very distracting,” he said. “Not as distracting as you, however. I kept thinking of you all alone up here and I wondered if you were still angry with me?”
Verity could not have asked the question in a more penitent manner. Amanda felt a warm, curling sensation in her belly as she saw his reflection take shape over her shoulder. “I wasn’t angry.”
“Yes, you were.”
“No. You simply caught me off guard. The ring was beautiful. It was the presentation that was ill-timed.”
He pushed aside the thick fall of her hair and bent his lips to the softest part of her nape. When there was no resistance, he curled his arm around her waist, drawing her back against his hard body.
“Does this mean I am forgiven?” he murmured.
His hand slid up and cupped her breast through the nightgown. Her nipple was as hard as a bead, straining against the cloth, straining into the teasing warmth of his fingers.
“Please,” she whispered. “Verity …”
His tongue traced a slow, wet line from her nape to her shoulder to the tender white lobe of her ear.
“If she is here,” he whispered, “there must be an empty room ... and an empty bed ... next door.”
Her eyes shivered closed and she tried to ignore the sensations pouring down her spine. “I … don’t want to leave Verity alone. She might waken and call out. And if I’m not here …”
He groaned and nuzzled the soft crush of her hair. His hand slid down from her breast and curved boldly into the cleft of her thighs. “If I am not there, madam, in a minute or two, I will be the one shouting.”
Amanda’s eyes fluttered closed, but she twisted out of his grasp and managed to gain a step or two of distance before he caught her and brought her back into his arms.
“Please, Michael,” she implored, glancing at the bed to see if Verity had moved. “Not tonight. Not here, of all places.”
Perhaps it was the way she said it, that touched on a nerve, for his eyes gleamed darkly and his mouth curled up the corner. “Why not? Are you afraid your family might find out you actually enjoy being bedded by a Yankee?”
Amanda pushed out of his arms. She stumbled back until she came up hard against the wall. “You are drunk. You’re also being vulgar and unreasonable.”
“And about at the limit of my patience,” he warned softly. “I have been walking on egg shells all evening, biting my tongue until blood flowed, and smiling so much my cheeks ache. Now, come over here.”
She drew a sharp breath. “I will not!”
“I said”—his eyes narrowed to slits and his tongue coiled around a velvety command—“get your little Rebel ass over here.”
“Go to hell, Yankee.”
For all of three seconds, there was no reaction. On the fourth, however, he stalked forward and crowded his body against her, trapping her against the wall. His hands raked into her hair and held her secure while his lips came crushing down over hers, kissing her with all the finesse of a barroom brawler. Amanda gagged on the strong taste of whiskey and tobacco, and she struggled in vain to free herself. She pushed against his broad chest with her fists, but it only made him more determined, his kiss more brutal in its intent. His hands ran down her body and came up again, dragging the hem of the nightdress with them. When she tried to bat him away, he caught her wrists and raised them up over her head, holding them there while his mouth and body crushed into hers. The cool air on her limbs made her renew her efforts to break free. She bit down sharply on his tongue and when he jerked back, she took advantage of the opening to shove hard against his chest, then made a frantic dash toward the door.
He was a curse behind, and, even as she was reaching for the latch, she felt the tug of his hand closing around the folds of her nightdress, spinning her around, and throwing her off balance so that she caromed into the side of the bed.
The mattress saved her from a fall, but the sudden jolt unsettled brought Verity instantly awake. The child sat up and saw her mother sprawled across the foot of the bed. And she saw the tall, shapeless outline of a man bending over her with his hand still fisted around the nightdress.
Her eyes filled instantly with terror. She launched herself over the covers and flung herself at Amanda, putting herself and her blue-eyed doll between her mother and the looming shadow.
“Don’t you hurt my mommy! Don’t you hurt her!”
The cry was shrill and thin, not loud enough to carry beyond the bedroom door, but jarring enough to pierce through the anger and alcohol fogging Michael’s senses. He was indeed far drunker than he cared to admit. His blood was pounding behind his eyes, his skin was clammy, and the floor suddenly felt like shifting mush beneath his feet.
He squeezed his eyes shut several times and raised a hand to wipe at the sweat that had beaded across his forehead, He saw Amanda cringing on the bed, gaping up at him in fear and disgust. And he saw Verity, her little face crumpled and set as if she were ready to fly up at him and beat him to death with her doll.
“Christ.” He raked his hands through his hair and staggered back a step. “What the hell am I doing?”
“You were hurting my mommy,” Verity sobbed.
“No, sweetheart,” Amanda said quickly. “Michael wasn’t hurting me. I … I just tripped and he was trying to catch me. We didn’t mean to wake you up. We certainly didn’t mean to frighten you … did we, Michael?”
He blinked the sweat out of his eyes again and met the two accusing stares. Verity had curled her arms around her mother’s neck and was burrowed against her shoulder, her chin trembling, her eyes silvered with tears and not blinking at all. Amanda just sat there, holding her daughter’s head protectively a
gainst her breast. Both of them were so beautiful, so vulnerable, so afraid to move, so afraid of him he wanted to cut off his hands.
“N-no,” he insisted hoarsely. “No, of course I didn’t mean to frighten you, honey. And I would never hurt your mother. Never. I’m … sorry if you thought I would.”
Verity turned her face into Amanda’s shoulder, shunning his apology.
He looked at Amanda. “Mandy, I'm so sorry. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“No.” Her voice was soft and taut. “You didn’t hurt me.”
Not this time, she might as well have screamed, and his shoulders sagged, his body swayed unsteadily in the weak light.
“You should have taken the money,” he muttered.
“What?”
“You should have just taken the damned money when I offered it to you the first time. And me …” He paused long enough to focus on the chair where he had thrown his jacket before he snatched it up and lurched toward the door. “I should never have thought I could buy my way into your life.”
“Where are you going?”
“Out. For a walk. A long walk, so you needn’t bar the door or worry that I’ll be coming back. I won’t bother you any more tonight—or ever, if that’s the way you want it. In fact, I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning, and whether you leave with me or not … is your decision. Your choice. Good night.”
“Michael … wait …please. Please stay, there is no need—”
But he was already gone.
There was nothing but the closed door to hear her plea.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Michael Tarrington had probably walked off a mile or two of monumental frustration, circling the ruined gardens, the summerhouse, the makeshift stables. He had called himself every kind of fool he could think of and some that were newly invented, and, after an hour, when the silent, towering silhouette of the house offered neither sympathy nor answers, he followed the rutted track that led down to the bank of the Mississippi River.
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