He walked, he smoked, he thought. He cleared his head and paced away the effects of the bourbon, but nothing seemed to help him rid his mind of the image of Amanda sprawled across the bed, her face pale, her eyes full of fear.
And Verity. Christ Jesus, the child had stared at him as if he had turned into her worst nightmare. Amanda had said she had been frightened as a child by heavy-booted soldiers kicking in her door, searching her room for valuables. The thought that perhaps he was her nightmare made him physically ill, and he wanted to cut off more than just his hands.
He had a wife and a child now. They were his responsibility and would be for the rest of his life. The reality of what that meant obviously hadn’t sunk in yet, hadn’t progressed past the challenge of winning Amanda Courtland Jackson and wooing her into his bed.
What the hell was it about her that made him go against every rule he had ever made for himself? His whole life, it seemed, had been spent wandering restlessly, guarding his privacy, maintaining his independence with an almost feverish determination. He had always taken his pleasure where he found it, eluding with ease the countless traps and ploys a woman used to snare herself a husband. He had never wanted a woman badly enough to resort to deceit or entrapment himself. Not until he met Montana Rose.
The first moment he had laid eyes on her, he had known he wanted her. And he would have paid any price to have her; that was what men did with beautiful women they met on riverboats. It was expected and accepted; the only point of contention was how much and for how long. Their meeting had not been as accidental as it had seemed, for he had been hearing a great deal about the most beautiful and elusive lady gambler on the Mississippi. He had sailed the river a dozen times with the express purpose of seeing her in action, and when he had finally been able to orchestrate their meeting on board the Queen, Tarrington had known he would go to any lengths, any extremes, to possess her.
No one had complimented him on his own outstanding performance, or commented on his vast reserves of self-control when he had first seen Amanda and Alisha Courtland walking down the wedding aisle. Dianna had said they were twins, and so he had expected to see some similarities … but not perfect replicas. Not two perfect candidates for queen of the Mississippi riverboats. And when he had finally determined which of the two had been causing him so many sleepless nights, he had been astonished and confounded again to realize he wanted her even more. He wanted Amanda Jackson in a way he had never wanted a woman before, not just for her body or the pleasure he would find there, but for what he saw in her eyes, what he wanted to see in her eyes each and every time she looked at him. Not fear, certainly. Not disgust. Not contempt for a drunken brute.
Certainly not a man who set her and her child cringing in fear.
He never should have assumed he could just touch her, kiss her, whisper a few sweet nothings and have her falling into his arms. Some women, maybe. Not this one. She would need to trust the man she fell in love with. Wholly and implicitly. And she would have to know that he trusted her.
Having reached this pinnacle of knowledge and understanding, he couldn't help but wonder if he had sabotaged his chances with her through his own stupidity?
“Michael?”
He froze in his tracks and listened. It could have been the dull roll of the river distorting the sounds around him, or it could have been the breeze rifling through the cypress beards that caused them to whisper his name. If so, he was afraid to turn, afraid to look in case …
“Michael?”
He turned, slowly, and saw her standing on the crest of the embankment, her robe a ghostly blue-white against the night sky, her hair soft and loose and flowing like liquid silver over her shoulders.
Michael exhaled through the tightness in his chest and watched her drift down the slope toward him. She passed through the slivers of moonlight that cut through the branches, through blackness into moonlight again as she slowed to a tentative halt before him. The delicately flounced robe was open and blown back slightly from the haste that had brought her out into the night. The nightdress underneath clung to the shape of her breasts, molding to them like cream melting over warm flesh. Her gaze was unwavering but her hand trembled noticeably as she lifted it and curled her fingers around her locket.
“I saw you from the window,” she whispered, “and I didn’t want you to leave without knowing how I feel.”
“And how … do you feel?” he asked, the words straining to get past the lump in his throat.
She moved a step closer. Her lips were parted and moist, cool against the heat of his own as she reached up and offered a tentative kiss.
Michael tossed his half-smoked cigar into the river. He cradled her face between his hands and bent his mouth to hers, kissing her with all the tenderness, the gentle passion and longing that had been building inside him but had not known how to come out. When they broke apart, it was only to gasp each other’s name and come together again, their mouths open and searching, slanting hungrily over one another.
“Mandy … Mandy … dear God, I was afraid I’d lost you. I was afraid you would never come to me again. I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry. The things I said … what I did … it was inexcusable.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she cried, dragging his mouth down to hers again.
“No,” he said, and his muscles quaked with tremors as he forced himself to hold her at arm’s length. “I want to be honest with you. I want to tell you how I feel before this goes any further.”
“Kiss me and I will know. Touch me and I will know.”
The blood roared through his veins with the effort it took to refuse, but he did. “From the moment I saw you, the very first moment you walked into my life I knew I wasn’t going to have any peace until you were mine. Part of me. I would have said anything, done anything, gone to any lengths to have you.”
“Michael … you don’t have to explain.”
“Yes. I do. Because I could have just gone to Ryan and told him what you were planning to do with Wainright and together we could have stopped you. For that matter, I could have gone straight to Ryan in the first place and threatened to expose you as Montana Rose.”
He felt her stiffen in his arms, but she did not pull away and he continued quickly, “Mandy, I won’t lie to you. If I had it to do all over again, I would still meet you on that road at midnight and I would still buy the oranges—a whole wagonload if need be—and I would still do my damndest to convince you I was your only choice. There is something good between us, you must feel it. I don’t want to lose that feeling and I don’t want to lose you.”
“You haven’t lost me,” she murmured. “And you won’t … so long as you hold me … and never let me go.”
Michael swept her eagerly into his arms. His lips sought her temples, her cheeks, they traced the supple path he was coming to know so well to the sweetness of her mouth, and once there, his tongue lashed at hers with a fierce possessiveness neither one could have denied. He heard her shivered moan and he rans his hands down her back, circling her hips and bringing her hard against him. He groaned himself when her thighs parted of their own accord and she did not wait for his invitation, but began to rub herself sinuously over the straining bulge at his groin.
Michael pulled her down onto the cool thickness of the grass. His hands tore feverishly at the bodice of her nightdress, searching for the ribbon closure that was not there, and with a husky curse, he split the fragile cloth down the seam and filled his hands, filled his mouth, with the soft, exposed flesh.
She arched up off the grass, her hair spilling back in a lustrous wave, her fingers clawing at his shoulders, grabbing at fistfuls of his clothing and trying to rid him of these unwanted restraints. He obliged, without lifting his mouth from her flesh, and stripped off his jacket, his shirt, cursing each and every one of the fashionably small buttons on his trousers that refused to give way.
“Let me,” she gasped. “Let me …”
Michael conceded with a wry, half-disb
elieving laugh and rolled onto his back, content to find her breasts swinging an inch above his mouth. His gaze settled on the bright glint of the gold locket … on its border of etched roses …
His breath caught again, just as the last button gave way and his flesh surged upward into her greedily waiting mouth. His hands flew down to her hips and he clamped her fiercely between them, lifting her, flinging her aside to land in a tumble of torn white linen and thrashing limbs.
“Michael! Wh-what is it? What’s wrong?”
His curse echoed on the air like the crack of a whip.
“Nothing’s wrong … except that you should be doing this with your husband, not me.”
“Wh-what? I don’t—”
Michael wrapped his fingers around the locket and jerked it to the limit of the chain, angling it up to the moonlight to sear the boldly etched letter A with fire.
“I’m sure you know exactly what I mean, Mrs. von Helmstaad.”
Alisha stared at Michael Tarrington for a long moment, then slumped back onto the grass with a loud, expressive sigh. “And here I thought we were getting along so marvelously well together.”
Michael shot to his feet and glared down at his almost naked sister-in-law. He did not trust himself to keep from lifting her by the scruff of her neck and smashing her against the nearest tree.
“Just what the bloody hell kind of game did you think you were playing?” he snarled.
“The same one you were, I thought,” she purred, “or is that your idea of a Yankee bluff sticking out of your breeches?”
Michael swore again and pulled his trousers together, turning his back on her laughter as he fought with the buttons again.
“No need to be shy about it,” she murmured, licking her lips appreciatively. “I haven’t tasted anything half so good in months.”
“You haven’t answered my question. Why did you follow me out here?”
“I wanted to help you,” she said amiably.
“Help me?”
“Mmmm. As I said, I saw you from my bedroom window. It wasn’t difficult to guess, what with the walls being so thin and all, that my dear sister had sent you and your lusty thoughts out here to cool off. I merely wanted to help you relieve some of your tension.”
“By pretending to be Amanda?”
She shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time. Furthermore, it wasn't entirely my fault if you don't even know your own wife."
Michael clenched his fists by his sides. He hadn’t known. He had been so damned happy and relieved to see Amanda standing on the embankment, it had blinded him to everything else. Moreover, he would never have known, never have guessed Alisha hated her sister so much actually to attempt a stunt like this.
“I would have known eventually,” he said with barely suppressed savagery. “And then I would have killed you.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said silkily. “Not when you realized how much more I can do for you than Amanda. How much more I am willing to do.”
She rose up onto her knees and let the robe and torn nightdress fall away leaving her naked under the filtered moonlight.
“I’m still willing,” she murmured.
“I am a married man.”
“And you love your wife,” she sneered.
“There is a very good chance that I do.”
“So much so you almost made love to her sister? Or was it Montana Rose you were so eager to put yourself into?" She paused and laughed. "What a deliciously scandalous secret. My quiet, painfully self-righteous sister the darling slut of the Mississippi riverboats.”
Violence throbbed through every pore in his body. His jaw turned to granite and the steel of his eyes glittered dangerously. He should have turned and strode away from the river-bank without a further word, but something in the malicious smile on Alisha’s lips cautioned him against it.
“Yes, indeed,” she mused. “You did make a grave blunder, Michael, didn’t you? Amanda won’t be happy with you at all." She moved closer and walked her fingertips up the front of his bare chest. "You know, I wondered sometimes, when men on the riverboats smiled and acted as if they knew me. I thought it was just a case of them mistaking me for someone else, but this … this is just too rich. Mistaken for my own dear sister, the Queen of the Mississippi! Whoever would have guessed it.”
Michael curled his fingers around her wrist and moved her hand away. "I suggest you put your robe back on."
“But we’re not finished our … discussion.”
“I think we are.” He bent over to retrieve his shirt and gathered up her robe and nightdress at the same time. “Get dressed.”
He used a tone that would have had anyone else scrambling to obey him, but Alisha just laughed.
“She really has you wrapped around her little finger, doesn’t she? Caleb was like that too, so honorable and self-righteous, thinking his precious Amanda was the Virgin incarnate. He didn’t know her very well. Neither do you.”
He shoved his arms into the sleeves of his shirt and glared at Alisha. “I know all I need to know.”
“I’m sure you think you do. Just as I am sure I could surprise you with a few things your wife might not want you to know.”
“If there is something she doesn’t want me to know, she probably has a good reason.”
“Oh … my dear sister never does anything without a good reason. Marrying you, for instance. It surely wasn't because she was passionately in love with you. I dare say she can barely endure being touched by you.”
Michael finished tucking his shirt into his trousers, and, noting that Alisha still had not moved to cover herself, he took the robe out of her hands and draped it around her shoulders, forcibly sliding her arms into the sleeves and tying the belt at her waist.
“You do know she was practically engaged before you came along. Of course, Josh is penniless and couldn’t have helped out with mortgages and the like, but it didn’t stop them from becoming … very close friends, if you take my meaning.”
“What happened before our marriage does not concern me,” he repeated brusquely, impatient to be away before he gave way to the urge to push her backwards into the river. “What happens now does, however, so if you’ll excuse me”
He started back up the slope and Alisha started after him, her jealousy rising on a snarl.
“If she didn’t tell you about Josh, she likely didn’t tell you about Verity either, did she! She didn't tell you Caleb wasn't the one who fathered the brat!”
Despite his need to get away from Alisha's venom, Michael's footsteps slowed. Then stopped.
“I didn’t think so,” she sneered. “I didn’t think she’d want to tarnish her virginal image that much, not even for a Yankee.”
Michael drew two deep, measured breaths before he turned slowly back to face her.
“I would caution … no, I would warn you strongly not to make me any angrier than I already am."
“It's the truth. Ask your precious wife!” she hissed. "Caleb was such a pantywaist, he couldn’t have fathered a jackrabbit. Moreover, they were married when he came home on his last furlough—the first time he’d been home in over a year. Verity was born less than seven months later … fat, healthy and not a day too early. She was born in New Orleans, well away from the eyes and ears of any scandal or gossip. I know because I was with her. Two loving sisters sent away together to await the happy event, lingering there until it was respectable to come home.”
Michael stared unblinking at Alisha von Helmstaad. Amanda had said she had gone to New Orleans for the birth, but … the rest of it was difficult to believe. No … it was impossible to believe.
Alisha's eyes narrowed, seeing him waver between belief and disbelief. “Father was away fighting and Mother has never been one to ask too many questions if she didn’t think she wanted to know the answers. Ryan might know, although he has never said anything to me. But he is her champion and always has been."
“This … Joshua Brice? Is he the father?”
Michael’s voice was so low she almost didn't hear him. "I don't believe you."
“You don’t believe she would do just about anything to save her precious Rosalie?”
His lips curled back, baring his teeth. “I don’t believe she would do that.”
“Why? Because she played the grieving widow so well? Or was it the reluctant virgin? She is such a convincing liar, she could probably make you believe it was an immaculate conception. But then you know better, don’t you? You surely must have known she was not protecting any maidenhead when you took her to your bed. And if she’s been catting around the waterfront as Montana Rose, goodness only knows what other things she hasn’t been protecting.”
Michael stared out across the wide swath of the Mississippi River. Amanda … Montana was a damned good actress, but no one could have fooled him so completely or manipulated him so expertly. Their wedding night, she had been genuinely reluctant to consummate their union. Yet that night, and the next, she had come to accept his body and his attentions willingly enough, even eagerly. Too eagerly, perhaps?
No. Alisha was lying. She had to be. She was lying about something, that much was as obvious as the bitter jealousy she harbored for her twin. Michael had known too many women like her over the years to be fooled for one instant into believing a fraction of what came out of those lips.
And yet …
He had thought Amanda was different. And maybe she still was, just not in the way he had hoped. If that was the case, by Christ, then she truly had made a fool out of him. A magnificent, blundering fool who had been too blinded by his own lust to see the neatly spun web she had woven around him.
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