Amelia

by Diana Palmer

  He scowled.

  "I was reading the girls to sleep," she said quickly. She hadn't meant to give voice to her sense of humor.

  "They speak very little English."

  He thought her a liar as well as a thief. What else could she expect? " Mais, je parle français, monsieur ," she told him. Mischievously she added, " Je ne vous aime pas. Je pense que vous êtes un animal ."

  His head moved. Just a little. Just a fraction. Something changed in his silver eyes. " C'est vrai ?" he replied softly.

  Blushing furiously, she jumped away from him. He let her go without protest, and she took to her heels, running pell-mell down the hall to her own room. She darted in it and closed the door, locking it as an afterthought. Her face was scarlet. Why hadn't she realized that such an educated man might have a knowledge of languages past the requisite Greek and Latin? Certainly King Culhane spoke enough French to understand that she'd said she didn't like him and that he was an animal. She didn't know how she was going to face him!

  Of course she had to eventually. She couldn't hide in her room during after-dinner coffee. And while she might have betrayed a little knowledge of French, at least she hadn't disgraced herself by addressing him in the familiar tense.. She adjusted her white lace blouse in the waistband of her long black skirt and tucked wisps of hair back into her high coiffure. She winced at her own pale reflection in the mirror and wished she hadn't been quite so forthcoming.

  Enid and Marie and Hartwell Howard were nibbling on the delicate Napoleon pastries that had been served with their coffee when Amelia joined them in the parlor.

  Her dark-faced, mustachioed father gave her a cursory appraisal. He had a glass of whiskey in his hand, and his cheeks were reda dangerous sign. Amelia gave thanks that she wasn't alone with him. "Where have you been, miss?" he asked angrily. "Is this any way to behave in company?"

  "I do beg your pardon," Amelia said softly, placating him as usual, keeping her eyes lowered as she sat beside Marie and Enid, almost trembling with nerves. "I was detained."

  "Mind your manners," her father repeated.

  "Yes, Papa."

  Alan came into the room with King and their father. All three men were wearing dark suits, but King looked impeccably elegant in his, while Alan looked uncomfortable. Brant, as usual, was the picture of the country gentleman.

  "Your father mentioned that you play the piano, Miss Howard," Brant addressed her, smiling. He was very like Alan, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with an olive complexion. He and Alan were tall, but King towered over them both. King's eyes were a light, silvery gray, deep set with thick lashes. His face was more angular and lean than those of the other men in his family, square-jawed with a straight nose and high cheekbones. He had a lithe, predatory way of walking that made Amelia's heart race.

  "Of course she plays," Hartwell answered for his daughter. He gestured toward the spinet. "Play some Beethoven, Amelia."

  Amelia got up obediently and went to the piano. She couldn't look at King as she passed him, but she felt his eyes on her every step of the way. Disconcerted by the unblinking scrutiny, her slender hands trembled on the keyboard as she began to play, and she made one mistake after another.

  The sudden slam of Hartwell Howard's fist on the flawless finish of the cherry side table made Amelia jump. "For God's sake, girl, stop banging away at the wrong keys!" Hartwell roared, disconcerting his host and hostess, not to mention Amelia. "Play it properly!"

  She took a steadying breath. Her father's temper had a visible effect on her. But behind it, she knew, there was something much worse than temper. She shot a quick glance at him. Yes, his eyes were glazed, and he was holding his head. Not tonight, she prayed. Please don't let him die here !

  "Well, what are you waiting for?" her father raged.

  "Possibly for you to stop, so that she can concentrate on her music," King remarked. His voice was pleasant enough, but the look that accompanied it made Hartwell stiffen.

  As if he realized that he'd overstepped himself, Hartwell sat back on the sofa. He touched his temple and frowned as if he were trying to think. He glanced at Amelia. "Go ahead, daughter, play for us," he said, and for an instant he was the kind, sweet father she'd adored.

  She smiled and let her hands rest on the keys. Then she began to play. The soft, building strains of the "Moonlight Sonata" filled the room, swelled like the tide, ebbed and flowed as she let the music become an expression of the turmoil and pain and longing in her own heart.

  When she finished, even her father was silent.

  She looked up into turbulent silver eyes that were far too close. She hadn't heard him move.

  "You have a gift, Miss Howard," he said quietly and with faint surprise. "It was a privilege to hear you."

  "Yes, indeed," Enid enthused. "I had no idea you were so talented, my dear!"

  Other praise fell on deaf ears. Amelia had heard nothing past the soft words King had spoken. But beyond that was the darkness growing again in her father's eyes as he finished his drink and his host rose to refill his glass. Her heart raced with fear.

  "May I be excused, do you think?" Amelia asked Enid quickly.

  "Nonsense," Hartwell said coldly. "You'll stay and be sociable, my girl."

  "Papa, if you please," she tried again, her dark eyes wide with apprehension.

  "I do not please," he replied. His eyes were growing glassier. "Remember your promise to obey me, Amelia," he added with a soft warning, and his face tautened.

  She could hardly forget when the promise had been made and the fierce blow which had prompted it. But now, Quinn was nearby. She had to remember that. If she were careful, and smart, she could circumvent her father's violent outburst. She'd done it before, many times. She knew of only one way.

  "Alan, you promised to show me the roses, did you not?" she improvised with a shy smile in the younger man's direction. No one could see, in her position, the desperation in her eyes.

  "Indeed," Alan replied. "Shall we, my dear?" And he proffered his arm.

  She took it with cold, numb fingers, smiling as she followed him blindly from the room, dreading the impact of her father's voice if he objected. But she was betting that he would not. This was what he wanted.

  And miraculously, he did not object. He turned and began discussing the weather with his host. He wanted Amelia to become involved with Alan. He had in mind a merger of families. Naturally he didn't protest.

  "I'll join you, if you don't mind," King said lazily, and fell into step beside them.

  He pulled an imported cigar from his pocket and struck a match to light it. In the glow, his face had a hardness that Amelia had never encountered in any other man. But patently, he didn't approve of her friendship with Alan. Perhaps he sensed her father's plan and intended to put a quick end to it. Certainly, his opinion of her was made evident at every turn.

  "Where did you learn to play like that, Amelia?" Alan asked gently, glaring at his brother.

  "I had a private tutor," she replied. "Papa feels that young women should be artistic."

  "And mindlessly obedient, obviously," King added carelessly.

  "King!" Alan snapped. "Pray keep your opinions to yourself."

  "Since Miss Howard is so obviously the obedient slave of her parent, suitors must be in short supply." He took a draw from the cigar and in the semi-darkness of the patio with its surrounding rose gardens, there was a cold glint in his silver eyes. "Not so, Miss Howard?"

  Amelia despised him. The two small confrontations with him this evening had softened her toward him, and now when he sensed she was vulnerable, he decided to attack. How could she have forgotten his opinion of her?

  "You must think what you like, Mr. Culhane," she said with quiet dignity.

  "Really, King, hasn't she endured enough tonight?" Alan asked impatiently.

  "If she hasn't, then I certainly have," King replied with faint contempt. He made her a brief bow. "Good evening, Miss Howard."

  She stared after him with bloo
dless lips, so tightly compressed that she thought she might never again be able to open them.

  "He is impossible at times," Alan said gently. "Don't let him upset you, Amelia. He likes to bully people. It appeals to his sense of humor," he added coldly.

  Amelia glanced at him covertly, reading the resentment and dislike in his expression. Alan was the youngest son and the last to be considered. King was the eldest, and the middle brother, Callaway, was off prospecting in east Texas. Alan stood in King's shadow and knew that he always would. Amelia felt a kind of kinship with him, because certainly she would always stand in her father's. She would never have a moment's peace or independence or freedom while her father drew breath. Not, she thought, that she would wish him dead. She only wished that things were as they had been when her little brothers were alive. Had her father been in a better condition, or absent, she was certain that she'd have lobbed a big rock right at King's arrogant head.

  She forced her busy mind back to Alan and listened with every appearance of interest to his stories about the ranch. But inside she was dreading the end of this visit when she would have to return to town. Right now they were living in a boardinghouse where the presence of other people protected her. But her father had been talking of buying a house for himself and Amelia. If he did that Amelia would have no protection. Quinn lived in the Ranger barracks. There must, she thought frantically, be something that she could do to prevent such a move. She had to keep calm and think!

  A desperate solution to her predicament came creeping into her mind. If she married, she thought, her father's hold on her would be broken. She would be free, and surely Alan would be kind to her. But then her father would be alone, and he might hurt himself or someone else. Could she live with her conscience if tragedy resulted from her urge to get away? He had been the best father in the whole world. Had their situations been reversed, he would certainly not have deserted her in her time of need.

  She looked up at Alan with soft brown eyes and smiled sadly. No. She could not run from her responsibility. And even if she did, it would not be fair to use Alan in such a way. He was much too nice.

  Alan forgot what he'd been saying and smiled back. Odd, he thought as they continued along the path between the fragrant roses, that he hadn't noticed how pretty Amelia was in the moonlight!

  Chapter Two

  » ^ «

  Amelia had managed to get to bed the night before without having to confront her father. He hadn't appeared when she came to the breakfast table.

  Surprisingly King was there, dressed for work, and so was his father, Brant, and his mother, Enid. Alan wasn't. Neither were Marie and the children.

  "Am I too early?" she asked, halting in the doorway. Her hair was in an upswept hairdo, pulled into a loose topknot on her head, and she was wearing a neat blue-striped pinafore over her gray dress. Her button-up gray shoes were just barely visible below her skirt as she hung there, uneasy. For all her shyness and lack of sophistication, she was the very picture of innocence and beauty in glorious bud.

  King looked at her with cool disdain. He was used to women fawning over him. His wealth and family name made him desirable to women, a fact he had long accepted. He was cultured and well bred and had all the right connections. But this woman got under his skin. Perhaps it was because he knew that she disliked him. Or perhaps it was because her cowardice made her contemptible in his eyes. Nevertheless, she was delightful to look at. If only there was more to her than beauty. She played the piano well, and she spoke a few simple words of French, but she had no real intellect and no backbone.

  King was not a genteel city man. He was rough and he could be cruel, and this child-woman would need a very gentle man. No, she was not for him. Besides that, she thought he was an animal. That thought amused him and his lips curved. It had been a long time since he'd wanted anyone with the fervor he felt for Amelia. How ironic that he had to pretend distaste for her to hide it.

  "Of course you're not early," Enid was telling Amelia with a laugh. "Sit down, child. The others are sleeping in."

  "Including your poor father." Brant chuckled. "We had a rather late evening. I've insisted that he not be awakened, because I'm taking him out on the hunt today, he and Alan. We may be gone for several days. I have my eye on a nasty customer who's been bringing down cattle hereaboutsa rogue mountain lion."

  Amelia sat down at the table without looking at King. He didn't return the compliment. His silver eyes cut at her with pure cold mockery. He looked at her as if the sight of her offended him even as it amused him in some cruel way.

  "What will you have, my dear?" Enid asked as she put a platter of biscuits on the table, fresh from the warming tray in the gas oven.

  "Just eggs and bacon, please," she replied. "I never eat a large breakfast."

  "Pass the eggs, dear," Enid asked her husband. "Coffee, Amelia?"

  "Oh, may I?" Amelia asked with a guilty glance at the doorway. "Papa does not approve"

  "Papa is asleep," King replied with faint sarcasm.

  "You have a full day, do you not?" Brant asked his son curtly.

  King shrugged. "When do I not? Enjoy your trip. Mother and I will see that Miss Howard does not become bored," he added with an enigmatic look.

  His parents stared after him curiously when he left and exchanged equally enigmatic glances with each other. His hostility toward Amelia had puzzled both of them. Like Alan, they sympathized with her because of her father's callous treatment. King acted as though he felt she deserved it.

  "Roundup is often difficult for King," Brant said slowly, smiling at Amelia. "Perhaps he will mellow when it is over."

  "Of course he will," Enid added.

  Amelia only smiled. She knew that King's attitude had nothing to do with his duties around the ranch. They stemmed from a peculiar dislike of herself. She had looked forward to her father's absence, even while she worried about what might happen to him on the hunt if he were overtaxed. Now she dreaded the certainty of King's presence over the next week or two.

  At least, she told herself, Marie and the children were here, along with Enid, to provide a buffer. Her heart lightened. It would not be so difficult after all.

  The hunting party was provisioned and outfitted and ready to ride by late afternoon.

  "We'll camp in the hills tonight and set out for the Guadalupe Mountains tomorrow. We'll be near a telegraph office, so I can cable you of our progress," Brant told his wife, and bent to kiss her cheek and embrace her tenderly. "Take care. King is here, and he can contact the Ranger post in Alpine if there are any dirty dealings on the border while we're away."

  Enid nodded solemnly. There had been a few isolated incidents, and a murder on a nearby ranch in recent years. Border gangs operated. So did Mexican rustlers. Civilization might abound in El Paso, but this far out of town it was sidearms and careful watch that kept the peace. Not to mention the Frontier Division of the Texas Rangers; although there was much talk of disbanding that, since the Rangers had very nearly worked themselves out of a job here.

  "Have you enough ammunition?" Enid asked worriedly.

  "Enough, and still more," her husband said, smiling. His head lifted at the sound of a horse's hooves, and his eyes beamed with pride as King bore down on them astride his coal black Arabian. The horse was a stud sire and a champion in his own right. Only King could, or would, ride him. Nor was he a working horse. King exercised him twice a day. He did, too, usually ride him to the neighboring Valverde estate when he paid court to Miss Darcy.

  For the week that Amanda and her father had been in residence, Miss Darcy had come one evening for dinner. It had been a cold occasion, during which Miss Darcy had been condescending almost to the point of rudeness, while clinging limpetlike to King. She seemed to sense Amelia's helpless attraction to King, because she deliberately played up to him, making Amelia feel more inadequate than ever. Lovely she might be to an outsider, but Amelia's surviving parent had convinced her that she had nothing to offer a man s
ave her domestic skills. Not that they were ever quite adequate to suit him these days

  "Are you off, then?" King asked, leaning over the saddle horn.

  "Off and running, my boy," Brant said with a smile. "Wish us luck."

  "I'll wish that you corner that vicious calf-killer and score a deer or two as well," King agreed.

  "In the higher altitudes, game may be more plentiful, since the weather there is still quite wintery this early in spring," Alan put in. "Will you be all right, truly, Amelia?" he asked softly.

  She was touched by his concern. "Certainly I will, Alan. I'll think of you while you're away."

  "See that you stay in the house," Hartwell Howard told her sharply. "No dillydallying!"

  "Yes, Papa," she agreed readily.

  "Practice your piano, while you're about it," he added indifferently. "You play clumsily."

  "Yes, Papa," she said again. She went close to fix his collar with gentle hands and worried eyes. "You will be very careful?" she asked uncertainly.

  He glared at her. "I shall be fine! Stop fussing over me!" He jerked on his gloves and mounted his horse with little concern for the bit in the poor animal's mouth. It reared, and he brought the quirt down on its flank viciously.

  King swung out of the saddle with blood in his eyes, before his brother or his father could say a word. He jerked the quirt out of Hartwell's hand and slammed it to the ground.

  His silver eyes met the other man's with honest dislike. "Our mounts don't feel the spur or the quirt," he told the man in soft, dangerous tones. "You can walk to the mountains if that doesn't suit you."

  Hartwell eyed the younger man warily, his cheeks red. He wiped at his temple under the hat he was wearing. "Of course, dear boy," he said with a hollow laugh. "The animal is rather unruly, you must have noticed."

  "Only when the bit tears at his mouth in clumsy hands," came the blunt reply.

  Hartwell looked down at the quirt and seemed to be debating his next .move. King made it for him. He put his booted foot squarely over the quirt and calmly began to light a cigar.