“Listen to her!” Dooley cried out. “Listen to her! I didn’t want to kill anyone. Lane sent us out. He said we had to clear your place, that too many men were listening to old man McKenna. And sometimes, we were threatened, too. If we didn’t follow orders, we’d be killed ourselves. McKenna, please! The others are dead!” he said in a sudden rush. “Jake Morgan died out here in that Confederate break that killed Dylan. Quantrill killed Yancy Thomas not a year after your—after your place was raided. It’s over, McKenna, it’s over! Please, lady, don’t let him scalp me alive, do something, please—”
“You shot down a pregnant woman!” Blade raged.
Jessica realized that she hadn’t gotten through to him. He was standing so rigidly, so tensely. He didn’t even seem to feel her touch upon him. Tears stung her eyes. She didn’t mean anything to him, not at this moment. He had waited all these years to find and kill the men who had slain his family. Jessica was certain that Dooley was telling the truth. The others were dead.
Dooley was broken. And it was almost damned certain that the Union army would deal with him. He’d hang. They had to leave it the way it was! Dooley, grateful to die by the rope rather than inch by inch at Blade’s hands. And Blade, for his own sake, had to let him go.
And Jessy … had to have Blade. She had to gamble. It was her only chance. “Blade!”
He couldn’t feel her touch, so she dropped her hand from his arm, standing, stepping back. “Blade, I love you, I want you to marry me, I want to stay out here and build a life with you, I want us both to let go of our pasts. Can you hear me, Blade? Please, give him over to Lieutenant Gray. I beg you. There’s so much out here that’s lawless, let us be part of the law. Worse will come, there will be more injustices. There will be battles ahead, but Blade, let us have peace together. I beg you, give him over to Gray. I—I can’t stop you from anything, I understand your hatred and your heartbreak, I just pray that the love we can have in the future can be stronger than all the hatreds of the past. I’ll—I’ll be outside.”
“Lady!” Dooley screamed. “Don’t leave me!”
She had to leave him. She was almost blinded by her tears. She was so afraid. If Blade killed Dooley now, Gray would have to bring Blade in.
She opened the door and stumbled outside. It was cool, clean and crisp.
They were standing before her. Gray and all his men, with their prisoners—and the dead—thrown like cargo over their horses.
She could see Harding. He’d killed Charles. And she had thought that she’d wanted him dead, but now it didn’t matter. He was going to face trial. The name of Charles Dylan had been cleared.
Yet that didn’t matter so much to her now. What really mattered was Blade. She had fallen in love with him. She had lived blindly for a long time, getting the deed to her property, managing to ride out to claim it. Wanting only to prove Charles innocent. Then Blade had somehow forced her to see that there was so much more to life.
“Mrs. Dylan?” Lieutenant Gray was coming to her, his eyes anxious. “What—?”
She shook her head. “I—I don’t—”
“Here’s another one for you, Lieutenant!”
Jessica heard Blade’s voice and spun around. He was standing there, holding Dooley before him like a rag doll. He lifted the man and threw him down at Gray’s feet. “Lieutenant, take him, please! Get him away from me. Far, far away.”
Gray nodded and two of his men rushed forward. Dooley was taken quickly away and mounted on a horse. He stared at Jessy and she shivered. She felt Blade’s hands on her shoulders.
Lieutenant Gray saluted them both. He lifted his hat to Jessica. “It’s fine land, Mrs. Dylan. Mighty fine land.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dylan. And McKenna, thank you. You’ve our most sincere appreciation. And—” He hesitated. “And I think you might find this a peaceful place in the future. A place where you might raise a herd of cattle, do a little farming … settle down for a spell.”
Jessy felt Blade’s smile. “Maybe,” he told Lieutenant Gray.
Gray’s troops moved then, their horses riding out of the yard, slowly disappearing into the setting sun. A cool breeze brushed Jessy’s hair about her face. She felt Blade’s chin on her head. “When’s the wedding?” he asked softly.
“Tomorrow? At Mrs. Peabody’s! She and Mr. Delaney can be there that way. That is, assuming we can get our hands on a minister.”
“I’ll find one,” he promised her. “I’ll get my hands on one. Even if I have to ride back to the Union army to do so!”
Jessy laughed. “Seems to me like you never really were any kind of an outlaw. And if you were, you’ve been fully pardoned.”
“That’s how it seems,” he agreed.
Then, shaking, he swept her into his arms. “If the wedding’s at Mrs. Peabody’s tomorrow …”
“Yes?” she whispered huskily.
“Think we could start the honeymoon at home tonight?”
Laughing, she ran her fingers through his ink black hair and fell in love with his ruggedly handsome features all over again. “I think so!” she whispered, and he carried her into the house. “I love you,” she whispered.
“I love you. I never knew just how much until I nearly lost you.”
She didn’t know what to say, and so she kissed him.
“And to think!” he said softly. “I won you in a poker game. On a gamble.”
Jessy smiled, stroking her fingers through his ink dark hair. “And to think! I kept you on a gamble!” she replied. She arched a brow and smiled again. “I love the West,” she murmured. “I love the wild, wild West—and the wild, wild things you can find in it!”
“Oh?” Blade asked.
“Mmm. And I love you.”
“Oh?”
“Want me to prove it?”
“Mmm.”
They walked through the house. They both knew that they’d made it. Out of the fire, into life. And their future loomed there before them, wondrously in their Western frontier. They had slept together in the wilderness.
And then love had made it a home.
Wilde Imaginings
Chapter One
“Allyssa!”
The husky sound of her name, more a statement than a question, caused her to catch her breath. It was not that she was afraid of the darkness or the mist, or even of the man.
It was just that he had appeared so suddenly before her in that misty darkness.
She stopped, trying to see through the field of swirling fog. At first all that she could fathom was that he was tall and carried himself with a certain arrogance, his hands planted firmly on his hips, and he was watching her from a distance, coming no closer.
He was the kind of man who waited for people to come to him.
Then a breeze came shifting softly by her, touching her cheeks, cooling them and seeming to roll away some of the mist.
He wore his hair slightly long. It curled at his nape, while one lock fell rakishly over his forehead. It was dark hair, nearly black, gleaming in the dampness of the night. His face was handsome, with masculine, ruggedly sculpted planes and angles, a broad, sensual mouth, and large, wide-set eyes that seemed to glitter. They were hazel, she realized, and in the curious light they seemed to have a touch of gold about them. He was clean-shaven, broad-shouldered and tightly muscled. Even with the distance that still lay between them, Allyssa sensed that he was a man accustomed to constant physical action. He seemed to be in excellent shape. His clothes emphasized the taut-muscled, athletic quality of his build. He was wearing black pants that hugged the leanness of his hips, high black riding boots, and a loose white cotton shirt that made a deep V at his throat and had sleeves that flowed until they were cuffed at the wrists.
Had he ridden here? she wondered. Perhaps it had been the only way to come, the storm had been so bad.
Yet she hadn’t been expecting him.
“Allyssa?” This time his voice was softer, huskier. Perhaps more of
a question now, and then again, maybe the sound was just reflective and even a little amused.
He had been studying her in turn, and she was just a little bit the worse for wear. She had rather plummeted into this trip to the moors. Actually, she had decided less than forty-eight hours ago to leave the safe harbor of her home in Maryland and come to England.
And she had certainly never planned for this kind of rain or mist, or the fact that she would arrive and find no transportation, none at all, at the minuscule train station in the ancient town of Fairhaven.
And there had indeed been nothing at first. Nothing.
When she had first arrived she had stood in the cold and the wet and the near darkness, shivering, watching as a thick mist slowly rolled down from the hills just beyond the station. She hadn’t expected the town to be big, and she certainly hadn’t expected to be greeted by any of her very distant relatives.
But she hadn’t expected it to be so very silent and dark, either, when her train had chugged into the tiny station. Surely there should have been someone around, but there wasn’t. The train had stopped, depositing her with her baggage, then chugged on into the night. Within seconds it was gone, swallowed up in the darkness, and the great rolling mass of steel might never have been. Like the indistinguishable shapes looming at her in the fog and darkness, it might have been a phantom vehicle, a trick of the imagination. All that was real here were the darkness, the cold, the swirl of the fog around her, the phantoms of the night.…
She was letting her imagination run away with her, she’d told herself. The platform beneath her feet was very real. The station itself was real; there had just been that note on the door to the small office stating that office hours were from nine to six seven days a week, with time off for tea from two to three. There was nothing in the least ghostly or frightening about the night. The only difficulty had been her own foolishness. She hadn’t come from the largest city in the world, but Baltimore was certainly cosmopolitan enough.
And it had never, never occurred to her that she might come here and find nothing.
Nothing …
Until now.
He was here now. The tall, dark stranger with the powerful build who seemed to know her.
Was he a trick of the light? Or the lack of it?
Full darkness had come quickly once she had arrived. When the train had been slowing for the station, it had still been light. Oh, not very light, but light enough. She had seen the beautiful, rolling hillsides. The grass had been beautifully, deeply green, truly creating an emerald splendor. The sheep on the hillsides had appeared very white against that deep green background. The scenery had been incredibly lovely. Lonely and even haunting, perhaps …
“Allyssa! Are you frozen there, girl?”
This time the tone was impatient. Aggravated. She had grown accustomed to the sound of English accents, as diverse as those in America, since she had boarded her flight at Washington International Airport for her trip into Heathrow. This man’s was different still. Light, yet his tones were deep and resonant. He spoke with a sure sense of command, as if he were a man accustomed to handing out orders and to having them obeyed. Who was he? She tried to remember the habitants of Fairhaven the solicitor had described to her. Was this her very distant cousin? She hadn’t asked to be picked up—she hadn’t had the good sense to do so, she reminded herself curtly—so how had he known when to come for her?
How had he known that she was coming at all? She had never written or phoned, never even agreed that she would definitely come.
What difference did it make? He was here. The night was as wet as a river, and surely he intended to take her to the castle, a far more pleasant prospect than trying to find a way to stay dry and warm beneath the eaves of the tiny train station.
“Yes, yes! I’m Allyssa Evigan,” she said quickly, hurrying along the concrete path toward him. For a moment she was afraid that she had imagined him, created him from the wealth of mist and darkness, but as she hurried he remained right where he was without disappearing. He continued to stare at her, certainly real enough.
When she reached him, she paused again, waiting. He was studying her more intently. Those sharp hazel and gold eyes quickly ran the length of her, judging, assessing.
What did he see? Under normal circumstances, she thought that she might have put forward a decent enough appearance. She was a medium five feet six inches in height, a bit thin, maybe, but her curves did exist. She had her mother’s features, fine and small, and her father’s eyes, large and green. Her hair was a soft natural blond that she wore layered far past her shoulders. Brandon had always told her that she had great eyes and magnificent hair, that he would have wanted to marry her for the color of either her hair or her eyes alone.…
But that was a long time ago now. And her magnificent hair was sodden and damp and clinging to her cheeks. She had worn jeans, anticipating the long, hard hours of travel, but she had also worn a silk blouse, and beneath the crush of her trench coat, she was certain that it was wilted and the worse for wear, too.
She should have spent a night in London, she chastised herself. She could have caught up on her sense of jet lag. She could have arrived here looking if not dignified, at least a bit more human!
But it was too late for that. And, really, she didn’t owe this man anything. Since he didn’t mind being rude, she could respond in kind.
She arched a brow. “Are you frozen there, sir?”
He smiled. A handsome smile, meeting the challenge. Then he laughed out loud, and it was a pleasant, provocative sound. She felt somehow warmed. Angry still, but warmed. He was blunt, he was bold, but he had a definite charm about him. Very masculine and seductive, she thought, somewhat amazed.
“Well, now, you’re the newcomer, you know. You’re going to be looked over often and well,” he told her.
Well, that was true enough. And blunt, too. She wondered if she should have come at all—whatever was happening in Fairhaven couldn’t really concern her. She’d never even heard of the place until the strange little solicitor had appeared on her doorstep three weeks ago, informing her that her great-grandfather—she hadn’t even known she’d had a great-grandfather—had died, and that it was imperative that she come to the reading of his last will and testament in Fairhaven.
She might have simply offered the man coffee or tea and then forgotten all about him, except that she could never, never forget the way things had been when her mother died. She could never forget holding her and listening to her cry softly, nor could she forget the things her mother had said.…
Well, she was here now. She had told herself that she wasn’t coming, but she was here. The reading of the will wasn’t for another week, but Mr. Sheillan, the solicitor, had assured her that all the heirs of Padraic Evigan were assured a place in the castle, so there would be time for her to see the fine estate and the countryside—and to get to know her kin.
Well, if this man was kin …
Distant kin, she reminded herself. Her great-grandfather, Paddy, had been one of three cousins and had inherited the estate from his grandfather. But his cousins had heirs now, too, one, at least, who lived at the estate. Darryl Evigan.
This must be him.
The man before her suddenly pointed to the dark sky. “Can you see them? Just the ghost of them. Storm clouds are coming back in. The rain will start up again soon. We had best get going.”
She nodded. “That’s fine, thank you. I’m so grateful that you’re here. I hadn’t expected anyone to meet me. I hadn’t written or called. I didn’t realize that it would be quite so small a place. No taxis or—”
He reached over and with a strong grasp took her small overnight bag from her fingers. The rest of her luggage had been set against the wall of the station by the porter.
“Too small for you, is it?” he asked her. The words were polite enough, but the tone held just an edge of contempt.
“I never said that.”
“Ah, but were
you thinking it?”
“I was merely thinking,” she said evenly, “that I was glad you came along. There are no taxis here. A cold station is not a nice place to spend the night.”
The hazel-gold of his eyes flicked over her again. “No, it’s not, is it?” he said softly. Then he reached out and touched her chin, causing it to rise. She longed to wrench it away from him, but for some reason she remained still while he searched her eyes and studied her once again.
“But you know,” he said softly, “perhaps you won’t be welcomed here.”
She did pull away then. “I don’t know why I should be welcomed. I’ve never been here before. I never even knew the place existed.”
“Until you heard about the will.”
“Until I heard about the will.”
“Mmm, a gold digger,” he said. He was smiling. She didn’t know if he was serious or teasing, for there did seem to be laughter behind the words. Yet they might well be very serious.…
He was blunt. She would have to be equally blunt. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind insulting me and assessing my motives once we’ve reached the castle? It really is wet out here, and I’m freezing.”
“Of course, of course! How remiss of me. It’s just that I really don’t feel the cold. You’ve more luggage?”
“Yes, down there. I’ll just run—”
“No, we can’t manage it tonight. Someone will come in the morning.”
“But—”
“It will be perfectly all right. This is a very, very small place, as you’ve commented. Come on now. I can’t take your luggage, the way that I’ve come. Especially if you can manage with this?” He lifted her small leather case.
“Yes, I—”
“Good, let’s go.”
He took hold of her elbow with a definite authority. He wasn’t accustomed to anyone refusing him, she thought resentfully. But since it was very cold, not to mention so miserably wet, she would wait until tomorrow to start firmly setting him in his place, she determined.
Lonesome Rider and Wilde Imaginings Page 10