Three Times a Bride

by Catherine Anderson

  “Not in so many words, but I could tell she was hurting.” She poked a finger at his chest. “Rachel gave everything she had to that ungrateful family of yours, and what did she get back? Not so much as a ‘thank you, ma’am’ or a ‘don’t let the door hit you where the good Lord split you.’”

  “Where the good Lord what? Now wait just a minute—”

  She jabbed a finger at his nose this time. “So she can’t cook as good as a woman who’s been doing it for thirty years or more? She tried her best, didn’t she? And maybe she did singe a few underdrawers, but that don’t mean you boys didn’t have clean clothes when you needed ’em, along with a smile and a cheery word when you come home tired and hungry.”

  “I never said—”

  “That’s just it, you fool cowboy. You never said nothing she needed to hear, like how much you appreciated her tryin’ so hard. Or how nice it was that she was there when you come home, or how pretty she looked, or how sweet it was at night to pull her close.” She paused to haul in a breath. “Instead, you washed your hands of her the minute you didn’t need her any more. Even in the bedroom, behind closed doors, you worthless toad.”

  Recalling the nights after his aunt’s arrival when he’d felt too self-conscious to make proper love to his wife, Clint felt heat sear his cheeks. “What occurs between a man and his wife behind closed doors is no concern of yours,” he muttered, staring at the amber liquid in the bottom of his glass.

  “Pathetically little happened for you to keep secret, from what I heard! Crinkling corn husks, my hiney.”

  Clint stared at her in amazement. “Is that why she left? Because I was worried about makin’ noise and wasn’t very—well, you know?”

  “That and other things. Like maybe because you never told her you loved her. Don’t deny it. If you had, she never would of left, not in a million years.”

  Clint bristled at that. “I did so! Plain as can be! I told her several times.”

  “Not according to Rachel. She says you told her you thought maybe you did.”

  Clint had no answer for that. Thinking back on it, he recalled now that he had skirted the issue, telling Rachel he thought he loved her, but never saying he knew it for certain. “That still didn’t give her any call to leave,” he said under his breath.

  Dora Faye, who glared at him nearly nose to nose, caught the words. “Oh, really? And what would have convinced her to stay, you stubborn mule? You married her for her talents as a house keeper. As I understand it, you never made any bones about it, not from the very first, and Rachel feels like she failed you at every turn.” When Clint tried to protest, she waved him to silence. “Her words, not mine. After good old Aunt Hester showed up, she didn’t feel needed anymore. In fact, she felt like she’d done such a miserable job that you were all hoping she’d leave.”

  “That is not so.”

  A pulse throbbed in Dora Faye’s temple. “She thinks you wish you’d never married her in the first place.”

  “That’s silly.”

  “Is it? I don’t think so. And after you think about it, I don’t think you will, either.” She fixed him with those fiery green eyes of hers for a long moment. “She’s leavin’ on Monday, you know. Goin’ back east to stay with some relatives and go to some kind of school. And why wouldn’t she? Now that you’ve tossed her back, she has no hope for making a life here in Shady Corners.”

  Twelve

  The church seemed to be unusually crowded for early services. Rachel stood just outside the doors with her father and sister, held back by the press of people trying to move en masse into the church. Molly kept standing on tiptoe, craning her neck to see. “I wonder what’s happening?” she asked for at least the dozenth time.

  “I have no idea,” Rachel replied.

  “Well, I’m going to find out!” her father vowed.

  He began shoving his way through the crowd, cutting a path for Rachel and Molly in his wake. They fell in after him like farmers behind a plow. Just inside the church doors, Rachel realized the interior of the building seemed oddly quiet. Once people got inside, they usually visited right up until the preacher stepped to his pulpit. She strained to see over the shoulders of men, wondering why the crowd seemed to have gathered at the back of the church.

  When at last her father had worked his way through the throng, Rachel felt sure she would discover what was holding everyone back from finding their seats. But at first glance around the church, she saw nothing unusual.

  “Hells bells, there she is. Took you long enough, darlin’. We were about to give up on you.”

  Rachel’s heart leaped. She would have recognized Clint’s voice anywhere. She homed in on the sound and finally made out his blurry outline. He was sitting on the floor, almost precisely where the two of them had been discovered together that other ill-fated morning over two months ago. His back was supported by the rear church pew, one knee raised so he might rest his arm. Beside him sat a jug of liquor.

  “Folks, may I present to you my wife?”

  Her only thought to get out of there, Rachel pivoted to leave. But the crowd had closed ranks behind her, and there was no way out.

  “You can’t run from me, Rachel. Hightail it, and I swear I’ll come after you.”

  She turned back to find that he had pushed to his feet. “Why are you doing this?” she asked thinly.

  “The way I hear it, you’re planning to leave town. I thought maybe I should clear up a few things before you take off.”

  “What things?” she asked expressionlessly.

  “Like the fact that I love you.” He took a step toward her.” And that I think you’re beautiful and sweet and absolutely wonderful. And that’s not to mention that I can’t live without you.”

  Rachel felt her skin pinken, and she lowered her gaze to the floor. “Oh, Clint, don’t.”

  “Oh, Clint, don’t? Why not? Do you think I want to lose you? Dammit, Rachel, you had no business runnin’ off without talkin’ to me. Do you think I care that much if Aunt Hester makes good pies? Hell, no. I like pie as much as the next man, but I can live without it, and so can my brothers. What we can’t do without is the heart of our family. The love and the laughter. Havin’ someone around who’ll leave the laundry tub to boil dry if we need her. Someone to tell stories. Hell, even Useless misses you.”

  She squeezed her eyes closed. “You don’t need me. None of you do!”

  “Matt’s drinkin’ again!” he bit out. “And last night I joined him. Cody’s got the nightmares again, too. To top that all off, there’s beef and venison hangin’ in the smoke house again, and I gotta tell you that neither the buck or the steer died of old age. And there’s chickens gettin’ their heads chopped off right and left. You gotta come back, Rachel. That’s all there is to it. To save the poor animals, if for no other reason.”

  “You’ll just have to save them yourself.”

  “The place is goin’ to rack and ruin without you.”

  “Not with Aunt Hester there! I’m sure she has everything under control. She’s a paragon.”

  “She’s someone to help you with the work, and nothin’ more. Someone to make life a little easier so you can have more fun with your family. When the babies start comin’, she’ll be an even bigger help. But the bottom line is, she’s just a side dish, Rachel, not our main meal. We need you, honey.” He broke off and swallowed hard. “I need you.”

  Rachel gave a start when his scuffed boots suddenly came into view. The next instant, his large warm hand curled under her chin, and he forced her to look up at him. Rachel discovered that she was standing so close to him that she could see the sooty lashes that lined his eyes, the stormy gray-blue of his irises, the burnished tone of his skin. Her heart kicked hard against her ribs. He looked good enough to eat. He surely did.

  “You have to come home,” he said huskily. “There aren’t any flowers on the table, and I love you so much, I can’t live without you.”

  With no warning, he bent and began fis
hing in her skirt pocket. When he came up with nothing, he dived his hand into her other pocket as well. A satisfied gleam entered his eyes. The next thing Rachel knew, he was settling her spectacles on her nose. Bending slightly at the knees, he made a great show of looking her over. Then he flashed her a devastating grin.

  “I knew it. You look adorable in spectacles.” He glanced around, as if to draw comment from others present.

  Someone nearby said, “I didn’t know you wore spectacles, Rachel.”

  Clint replied, “She darn sure does. She just doesn’t wear them in public because she has the fool notion they don’t look good on her. I disagree. I think she looks beautiful in them.”

  Rachel cried, “Clint, stop it. You’re embarrassing me!”

  “Then come home with me,” he demanded in an oddly gruff voice, “so I can tell you in private how beautiful I think you are.”

  Tears filled Rachel’s eyes, and her spectacles began to fog over. Clint took hold of her hand.

  “Please, Rachel. Come back home where you belong. Every hour I spend apart from you, I die a little more inside. Please…” When she didn’t immediately speak, he hastened to add, “I’m sorry you felt cast aside after Aunt Hester came. Lookin’ back, I can see how it must have seemed to you, me all of a sudden backin’ off and usin’ the corn husks as an excuse. But I swear it wasn’t that way. I truly was worried about her hearin’ us.”

  Rachel shot a horrified look around. “Be quiet! Do you want everyone to hear!”

  “See?” he said with a devilish grin. “It’s a private affair, isn’t it?”

  She narrowed her eyes, but it was all she could do not to smile. “You’ve made your point.”

  “Then come home,” he said huskily. “Where we can talk in private.”

  “Oh, Clint. Are you certain you really want—”

  He cut her off with a kiss that answered her question far more eloquently than words. A sweet, wonderful kiss that sent tingles down her spine and made her toes curl. Exactly the kind of kiss Rachel had always dreamed of and had never received. Until she met Clint Rafferty, of course.

  “I love you,” he whispered against her cheek. “Please believe that, Rachel. I’ll love you forever.”

  The throbbing timber of his voice, so packed with emotion, would have convinced Rachel. The way his hands shook when he touched her was added proof that he was sincere. Joy welled in her chest, nearly cutting off her breath, and she threw herself into his arms.

  His arms…His wonderful strong arms. The instant they closed around her, Rachel knew she was where she belonged and where she would remain.

  For the rest of her life.

  CATHERINE ANDERSON, the award-winning author of both contemporary and historical fiction, lives with her husband and three canine friends—a mixed spaniel named Kibbles and two Rottweilers named Sam and Sassy, who seem to think they are teacup poodles and that obedience training is for people.

  The Mad Earl’s Bride

  Loretta Chase

  Prologue

  Devon, England

  June, 1820

  The Devil was partial to Dartmoor.

  In 1638, he rode a storm into Widdecombe, tore off the church roof with a lightning bolt, and carried off a boy who’d been dozing during the service.

  This was merely one of several personal appearances. More often, though, Satan appeared in disguise as an enormous black hound or a ghostly stallion galloping across the moors.

  His attachment to the area surprised no one, for Dartmoor could not have been better fashioned to suit satanic natures.

  Storms lashed the rocky uplands, which loomed stubbornly in the path of Atlantic gales. Heavy damps swirled into the valleys, blanketing villages in impenetrable mists, shutting off communication and travel for days.

  Then there were the bogs, filling the hollows and crevices of the highlands, shrinking and swelling with changing weather and season.

  Narrow tracks of firm ground coiled through this unwelcoming terrain, yet even the paths could be perilous. At night, or in a mist or storm, it was easy enough for the unwary traveler to lose his way and—if he were especially unlucky—slip into a pulsing morass from which he would never emerge.

  Some believed Dartmoor’s mires were the Devil’s own traps, devised to suck their victims straight down to Hell, Aminta Camoys told her son.

  It was twenty-year-old Dorian Camoys’s first visit to Dartmoor and the first time he’d seen his mother since Christmas.

  “Most considerate of the Archfiend,” he replied as he walked with her to the edge of the narrow track. “After slow suffocation by quicksand, the unfortunate sinner will find Hell’s torments less shocking to his sensibilities.”

  She pointed to a suspiciously verdant patch in the bleak wastes below. “Some are bright green like that. There’s a larger one half a mile ahead, but it’s gray—much better camouflage.”

  The afternoon had been bright and warm when they’d first ridden out, but a chill wind whirled about them now, and gray clouds swept in, driving out their wispy white predecessors and blanketing the moorland in shadows.

  “Thank you for the directions, Mother,” Dorian said. “But I do believe I can find my own route to Hell.”

  “I collect you’ve found it.” She glanced at him and laughed. “Like mother, like son.”

  He was like her, in more ways than many would suspect.

  Although at six feet tall he was by far the larger, the physical resemblance was inescapable. While fully masculine—and puffy and pale at present, thanks to months of dissipation pursued as diligently as his studies—his was the same exotically sculpted countenance.

  At the moment, one would never suspect that she, too, was addicted to sins of the flesh. He was the only one, apart from her lovers, who did know. Dorian was her sole confidante.

  My mother, the adultress, he thought, as he gazed at her.

  Like him, she detested hats, resenting even that small concession to propriety. She’d taken off her bonnet as soon as they’d ridden out of sight of the house. Thick raven hair like his, though much longer, whipped about her face and neck in the sharpening wind. And when she turned to him, the same unblinking yellow stare met his.

  Because of those odd-colored eyes and their disconcerting stare—and because he kept to himself and hissed at anyone who came too close—the boys at Eton had nicknamed him Cat. The nickname had followed him to Oxford.

  “You’d better take care,” she said. “If your grandfather finds out something besides studying is to blame for your pallor, you’ll see all your carefully laid plans swept into the maelstrom of his righteous wrath.”

  “I’ve exercised considerable ingenuity to make certain he doesn’t find out,” Dorian said. “You may be sure I shall make a deceptively healthy appearance at Christmas for the annual lecture intended to guide me through the new year. After which I shall watch him scrutinize—for doubtless the hundredth time—every penstroke of the academic reports, looking for an excuse to yank me out of university. But he won’t find his excuse, no matter how hard he looks. I’ll have my degree—with honors—at the end of next Easter term, and he’ll be obliged to reward me with a year’s trip abroad, as he’s done for the others.”

  “And you won’t return,” she said. She moved away, her gaze turning to the surrounding moors.

  “I’ll never be free of him if I do. If I don’t find work abroad, I’ll be tied to his purse strings until the day he dies.”

  That prospect was intolerable.

  His grandfather, the Earl of Rawnsley, was a despot.

  Dorian’s father, Edward, was the youngest of the earl’s four sons, all of whom, with their spouses and offspring, lived at Rawnsley Hall in Gloucestershire, where His Lordship could control their every waking moment. The adults might go away on short visits and spend time in London during the Season, and the boys eventually went away to school; but Rawnsley Hall was their home—or prison—and its master ruled them absolutely. Always, where
ver they were, they must behave and think as he told them to.

  They did it because they had no choice. Not only did he control all the Camoys money, but he was utterly ruthless. The smallest hint of rebellion was promptly crushed—and the earl had no scruples about how he did it.

  When, for instance, whippings, lectures, and threats of eternal damnation proved ineffective with Dorian, Lord Rawnsley turned his vexation upon the incorrigible boy’s parents. That had worked. Dorian could not stand by and watch his parents punished and humiliated for his faults.

  Consequently, though he’d been born quick-tempered and rebellious, Dorian had learned very young to keep his feelings and opinions to himself.

  His outward behavior strictly regulated, all he had to call his own was his mind—and it was an exceptionally good one. That, too, he’d inherited from his mother, the Camoys not being renowned for intellectual acuity.

  Since Dorian had performed brilliantly at Eton, his grandfather had been obliged to send him on to Oxford. In another year, Lord Rawnsley would be obliged, likewise, to finance the year abroad.

  Dorian would have one year on the Continent to look for work. He was sure he’d survive, and he wasn’t concerned about living in poverty at first. He would move up in the world eventually. All he had to do was concentrate as he did with his studies…and keep his sensual weaknesses under stricter control.

  The thought of his weaknesses drew his mind and his gaze back to his mother. She had taken off her gloves and was playing with her rings.

  Gad, but she loved trinkets—and fashionable gowns, and Society…and her romantic intrigues.

  He wondered why she’d come to Dartmoor. She’d been born and reared here, yet it hardly suited her nature. She was meant for the gaiety of Society, for parties and gossip and admiring men swarming about her.

  He’d expected to find her bored frantic. Instead, she seemed quieter than he could remember her ever being. He supposed her recent illness accounted for the apparent tranquillity. All the same, he couldn’t help wondering why, when the doctor proposed a change of air, she’d asked to come here, of all places. She’d been quite adamant about it, Father said.