Wicked Temptations

by Patricia Watters

  WICKED TEMPTATIONS

  Patricia Watters

  ARMOUR PRESS

  WICKED TEMPTATIONS

  Copyright 2011 by Patricia Watters

  Printed in the United States of America

  Second Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or were used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights reserved. The republication or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic or mechanical or other means, not known of hereafter invented, including xerograpghy, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrightable materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  When I chose the name Priscilla Phipps for my heroine I envisioned a spinster with carrot-red hair and pale skin dotted with freckles, a woman with a striking resemblance to Queen Elizabeth I. As the story unfolded, Priscilla's likeness to the queen became a driving force in the developing plot. The hero's mother, certain that Priscilla must be descended from the Tudors, checked Burke's Peerage for the Phipps family (as did I). You can imagine my surprise when not only did I find a Phipps family descended from Henry VII, but there was a Priscilla Phipps in the lineage. Born in 1783, she was a likely candidate for my heroine's great-grandmother, which would make my heroine a distant cousin of Elizabeth I. My heroine never knows for certain if she descended from the Tudors because the family Bible was lost in a fire, but it explains her likeness to the queen, something that all her life had been a curse and a blessing. Priscilla also greatly admired the queen, and in her journal she kept quotes by which she tried to live.

  CHAPTER ONE

  'Though the sex to which I belong is

  considered weak, you will nevertheless

  find me a rock that bends to no wind.'

  — Queen Elizabeth I

  Wagon train camp east of Cheyenne, Wyoming - 1889

  Priscilla Phipps balanced her journal on a downturned pot, tipped the small bottle of ink in her hand so she could dip her pen into the last remaining drops of ink, and continued in her journal, the final entry she'd be making on the trip...

  Tomorrow we will travel the last twelve miles to Cheyenne. I am certain there will be a sizeable crowd to greet our thirteen bedraggled wagons when we arrive, but among them will also be three very angry men, whom I do not look forward to facing...

  "Miss Priscilla?" A deep male voice called from outside the wagon.

  Priscilla set aside her journal and poked her head through the canvas flap in the rear of the wagon and found her Negro pressman looking anxiously at her. "Yes, Jim?"

  "It's Miss Mary Kate. You'd best come quick. She's havin' one o' her cryin' spells again and she's callin' for you."

  Priscilla climbed out of the wagon and rushed across the dusty clearing to where the brides' wagon was parked, hearing anxious voices as she approached. Crawling through the canvas flap, she stepped into the wagon and found Libby Johnson, Abigail Chandler, and Edith Hogan hovering over a very distraught Mary Kate Burns.

  On seeing Priscilla, Mary Kate lamented, "I just can't do it, Miss Priscilla. I can't marry that man. It seemed alright when we first started out, but... well, you saw his photograph. He looks ornerier than a mule with burrs. And he's so old!"

  "Well yes, he did look a bit intolerant," Priscilla said. "But he's not all that old."

  "He's forty-one!" Mary Kate cried. "He's old enough to be my Pa. His eldest daughter's only four years younger than me. I don't care if he is some high up British cattle baron," she wailed, "I'd rather die an old maid like you than get stuck with the likes of him. I just want to find a nice young farmer and settle down." She raised tear-drenched eyes to Priscilla, and said, "Can I still come work for your newspaper?"

  Priscilla patted Mary Kate's hand. "Yes, of course." After assuring Mary Kate that she would take care of reimbursing Lord Whittington for travel expenses, Priscilla returned to her wagon and picked up her journal, making a small adjustment....

  ....among them will also be three four very angry men, whom I do not look forward to facing. Mary Kate decided to join the other women who will be working for me, and I don't blame her one bit. Lord Whittington might own half the cattle in Wyoming, but he did look mean. Actually, a kind of handsome mean. And not so old really, I being only two years his junior....

  At sun up the following morning, Priscilla went about her chores, preparing to move on. She loved mornings when the air was still fresh from night, and the heat of day had not begun to take over. But unlike most mornings when she felt eager and energetic for the day ahead, she was beginning to feel the first twinges of doubt. Not doubt about the success of The Town Tattler—she thoroughly knew the ends and outs of running a newspaper—but because she'd be all alone when informing four men that their mail-order brides were backing out of their contracts. From the photographs, though, there wasn't an appealing man among them. And on reading the letters the women received from the men, it was clear they wanted housekeepers and mistresses, not wives to love and cherish. But Mary Kate was escaping an arranged marriage to a fat, balding butcher twice her age, Edith fancied herself an old maid at twenty-four, Libby was fleeing a dreadful scandal, and Abigail's step-father told her he was going to take care of her needs, now that she was a woman. Offering the women jobs gave them a way out of marriages none of them wanted, and a chance to find men who truly wanted wives and life partners.

  But of all the men she'd be facing at the end of today's long dusty journey, Lord Adam Whittington would unquestionably cause her the most grief. With wealth and property comes power, and giving Lord Whittington's bride-to-be a way out of their marriage contract would put the man on the opposite side of whatever business venture she, and the women she'd taken under her wing, were to engage in. But face Lord Whittington she would. And the encounter was only twelve miles ahead.

  ***

  Adam Whittington poked his son in the back. "Stand straight so your new mother will look with favor on you," he said, "and hold up the flowers so she'll see them."

  Weldon Whittington straightened his eleven-year-old frame and tightened his fist around the flower stems. "Which one is she?" he asked.

  Adam scanned the dusty, weary-looking travelers who had arrived with the wagon train while he was at the stock grower's meeting at the Cheyenne Club. He saw single women who looked well past child bearing age, and middle-aged couples unloading gear, and families with children running about, but there appeared to be no wagon with four single women of marriageable age. Catching sight of Clayton Rathborn, owner of the Grey Wolf Haberdashery, who was also expecting a bride, he headed toward him.

  "Rathborn!" he called out. "Did the women come in with this wagon train?"

  Clayton shook his head. "Shortly after the train pulled in, a couple of wagons left, one with a big Negro driving and a white woman walking, and the other with a woman driving and what sounded like women inside. But I figured they were folks passing through."

  Weldon tugged on his father's coat sleeve. "Can we go home then, Pa?"

  "Not until we find your new mother," Adam replied. "She has to be with this group since there are no other wagon trains expected for some time. Where are your sisters?"

  Weldon shrugged. "Last I saw, they
were across the street reading something posted on the mercantile. Then Alice went inside and Trudy left with Tom Rafferty."

  "You sure it was Tom Rafferty?" Adam asked, the heat of anger creeping up his face as he imagined the young bloke's hands on Trudy. Rafferty was one of his cowboys, and he had his sights on bedding the cattle baron's daughter. If he did, Tom would find his balls returned to him on a platter. But short of locking up Trudy, he didn't know how to handle the headstrong girl. He could get rid of Tom, but Trudy would just set her sights on the next young cowpoke. She needed a mother to manage her. And he needed a woman in his bed on a permanent basis so he could keep his mind on running the ranch instead of finding the next willing female. As his wife, Mary Kate Burns would fill both needs.

  "It was Tom Rafferty all right," Weldon said. "He grabbed Trudy's hand and pulled her around behind the mercantile. She was laughing too."

  "Well, she won't be laughing when I catch up with her." Adam rushed across the street, catching a glimpse of the posting on the mercantile as he passed, but not stopping to inspect it as he headed around the building. He found Tom's lips about a breath away from Trudy's. Grabbing Tom by the arm and the belt, he hurled him to the ground, and shouted, "Keep your bloody hands off my daughter!" He took Trudy by the elbow and tugged her back around the building. "Go wait in the buckboard," he barked. "We'll take this up when we get home!" Trudy said nothing, just headed for the buckboard. And Adam stopped to inspect the posting, which read: Any man awaiting a bride please contact Miss Priscilla Phipps at the old Sentinel building at seven o'clock this evening.

  Adam stared at the notice, wondering why the Phipps women would have the brides at the old Sentinel building. He'd heard that the building had been sold to someone back east, but the place was so rundown he couldn't imagine why anyone would want it.

  Stepping inside the mercantile, he fetched fourteen-year-old Alice, who was eyeing a red silk corset with black ties. Snatching her away from the risqué thing, he herded her and Weldon onto the buckboard. Weldon sat on the box, and Alice sat beside Trudy on the seat behind. Adam climbed up beside Weldon and took the reins. "After I pick up your new mother, she and I will go to the courthouse and get married," he announced to his offspring. "I'll expect the three of you to stay in the buckboard. And no fighting. I've waited three months for this woman and I don't want her leaving before we even get married."

  "What are we supposed to call her?" Alice asked. "Mary Kate or Mother?"

  "You will call her Mother," Adam replied, anxious to make that distinction clear. The children needed a mother, not a friend and confident who would cater to their whims. And he was ready to turn over that thorny task to the Burns women, who would be Lady Adam Whittington before the day was done. It could not come soon enough for him.

  "Is she going to stay in your bedroom with you tonight, Father?" Weldon asked.

  Adam heard giggles from the girls in the seat behind him. He also wasn't sure how to answer Weldon's question. The boy was on the cusp of learning about a man's need, if he hadn't had his first awakening already, and he'd be naturally curious about what went on behind the closed door to his father and new step-mother's bedroom.

  As for him... He hadn't had a woman since he entered into the marriage contract with Mary Kate Burns three months before, and he was badly in need of her services. But she was still a virgin, and he wasn't sure he could hold back once he stripped her naked. If he lost control and took her roughly, she could let out some questionable cries, which he did not want to have to explain to his children. But if he messed things up at the start, and Miss Burns' first experience was a bad one, she'd be one cold woman in bed from then on.

  "Miss Burns will have her own room until we are better acquainted," he said, having made that hasty decision. "I have not had a chance to court her properly, so she'll need time to get to know me. You'll understand better when you're grown."

  Alice placed her hand on the back of his seat and said, "I don't understand why any woman in her right mind would want to share a room with a man at all. They snore, most of them smell bad, and they look at women funny."

  Weldon glanced over his shoulder at his sister and said, with an officious air, "They have to share a room to make babies. Everyone knows that."

  Alice pursed her lips. "What do you know about making babies?"

  "I know everything," Weldon said. He looked up at his father. "Are you and Miss Burns going to make a baby, Pa?"

  Adam clenched his jaws. The conversation had drifted into shaky territory. Not only was Weldon becoming aware of changes taking place in his body, but Alice was quickly approaching womanhood, and Trudy was involved with a young buck who was primed for procreation and she wasn't fighting him off. "Miss Burns and I will make that decision together," he said, "after we are man and wife." Until now, Adam hadn't given much thought to extending the family, but the woman was young, so she would naturally want children of her own.

  As for getting to know each other... Miss Burns would probably want some time. For him, a warm female body in his bed every night would take care of his problem just fine. All he'd expect of her, beyond that basic need, would be to monitor the children. If she turned out to be more, that would be all right too. In any event, she'd have no cause to complain. He had enough staff at the ranch to keep her comfortable while she managed the children's needs and monitored who they were with. At least, with a mother keeping a close watch, Trudy wouldn't be able to slip off with Tom again.

  "Where are we going now, Father?" Alice asked.

  "To the old Sentinel building to pick up your new mother," Adam replied, then clucked his tongue and set the horse heading down the street at a fast clip.

  ***

  In the dim light filtering through several murky windows, Priscilla scanned the interior of the building, taking in floors strewn with mouse droppings, a door hanging askew, and time-worn walls where patches of plaster cracked and fell away. The type cases were busted, with ems scattered everywhere, tables and stools were broken or in need of repair, and although the old Albion printing press stood in the middle of the room, its wood frame and platens were split and rotting from dampness, and the iron screw and other iron parts were so rusty, the press was sure to be inoperable. Although she'd brought her father's press and printing equipment with her from Missouri, when she'd offered to hire the women she'd intended on selling the Albion and other equipment to cover the added expenses involving the women. Although she had a moderate inheritance from her parents, and had already factored in money for hiring two typesetters, a compositor, and a printer's devil, she had not expected them to be women in need of a place to stay, which meant housing them until they could afford to move into a boarding house.

  She looked at the stairway leading to what would be their living quarters. If downstairs was any indication, she did not look forward to what was up there. Jim was good with plaster, and he could paint the walls and fix the door, and just about anything else that needed fixing, but first, the place would have to be cleared of the old press and broken equipment, and the type cases would have to be repaired...

  The sound of heavy footfalls on the porch outside caught her attention. Before she could react, the door swept open and a man's large frame filled the doorway. "I am Adam Whittington," the man announced in a voice smacking of well-established British aristocracy, "and I've come for my bride."

  Priscilla stared at the man. Tall and powerfully built, with a crop of untrimmed brown hair, intense brown eyes, and a double-breasted waistcoat that stretched across his broad shoulders and thick chest, the man looked more like a frontiersman in fancy dress than landed gentry. "The brides are not here," she said, finding herself trapped in the man's dark gaze. Danger lurked in those eyes, not the kind of danger she'd felt when she'd looked into the eyes of a rattlesnake on the trail, but the kind of danger capable of piercing her heart and finding its way into her soul.

  The glint of impatience flashed in the man's eyes. "Then if you'll dire
ct me to wherever she is, I'd like to collect her and be on my way."

  Priscilla's heart thumped in dismay. She had never met a man who exuded so much command and confidence, the combination evident in the firm set to his jaw and the almost brutal line of his mouth. But she would not cower beneath his uncompromising demeanor. Hardening herself for his reaction to her forthcoming announcement, she said, "Well, the fact is, Lord Whittington, Miss Burns has decided not to marry you. She is working for me now. When the bank opens in the morning, I'll give you a bank draft, reimbursing you for the cost of expenses for her journey, and that will terminate her contract with you."

  The man stood looking at her, hands clenched at his sides. "Where is she?"

  "I'm not at liberty to say," Priscilla replied. "But the termination agreement in her contract with you was quite clear. Upon reimbursement of expenses, she would be released from the contract. Now, if you'll excuse me, Lord Whittington, I have work to do."

  "Bloody hell you do! I contracted for a wife, and that's what I intend to have. Now I will ask you one more time. Where is Mary Kate Burns?"

  The apprehension Priscilla felt moments before was replaced by anger. She would not be intimidated by the man, even if he did own half the territory. "Miss Burns is secure from the likes of you," she said. "Furthermore, if she were here to observe your rude and truculent behavior, and she had not yet changed her mind about marrying you, she would certainly do so now. Besides, you are far too old for the young woman."

  "That is for me to decide."

  "No, that is for Miss Burns to decide," Priscilla clipped. "Which she already has."

  Before Priscilla could press her demand for Lord Whittington to leave, the second of the four men she was expecting stepped up to the open doorway. He removed his hat, revealing a balding head ringed by mouse-gray hair. "I'm Clayton Rathborn," he said, "and I've come to fetch Miss Johnson. I've got the wagon outside for her things."