To Love a Scoundrel
Page 33
Brent took a backward step as he stared at the large, unsightly mole blocking the man's left nostril, then turned and opened the door to his office. "Please, do come in sir."
Harry reached for Jewel's hand and pulled her to her feet. "Please call me Duke Alfonso," he said, his nose cocked at a lofty angle as he escorted Jewel through the doorway and into the room.
When the regal pair swept by him, Brent's sensitive nose caught the scent of violets. His heart constricted, and he had to bite his lip to keep from calling Jewel's name. The woman, her head bowed in submission, glided over to the farthest chair and eased down onto the cushion. God help me, Brent's heart cried out. Would he ever be able to bear the scent of violets without thinking of Jewel, without wanting her?
"Sir?" Harry rapped the long black umbrella he carried against the glass-topped desk. "We come on a mission of the utmost importance. Our meeting must be concluded before this ship leaves the dock. Please join us."
Brent shook his head in a vain effort to rid his mind of Jewel, then walked over to his desk. His dislike of the grandiloquent man growing, he said, "This ship and her passengers are my most immediate concerns, sir. I have already checked, and your name is not on our passenger list. Please state your business. The Delta Dawn will be heading down river soon, whether your mission is concluded or not."
"That, sir, remains to be seen."
Brent inflated his chest and stiffened his spine, stretching to his full six feet two inches. "Just what is it you want, Duke?"
"That's Duke Alfonso, to you," Harry said, sniffing the air with disdain. "And what I want is justice."
Again he rapped the cane against the desk, and when he stared up at Brent, the distorted eye appeared to be wobbling in its socket.
Trying not to stare at the stranger's bizarre features, Brent warned, "I'll give you exactly five minutes to explain yourself."
Harry grinned. "I'll give you two minutes to do the same."
Some of the air seeped out of Brent's lungs as he tried to make sense of the strange conversation. "You'll have to make your business clearer than that. I have no idea what you're talking about."
"I'm talking about honor, sir. You southern gentlemen are supposed to know all about that. I've come to avenge my daughter's honor, to extract my pound of flesh from your silver-tongued hide."
Brent leaned forward and gripped the edge of his desk. "Excuse me?"
"I doubt that I shall ever be able to do that, but I'm willing to try if you'll accept your responsibility and restore my daughter's good name."
"Your daughter?"
"Yes," Harry hissed. "You have stripped her of her good name and compromised her exemplary reputation. For that, sir, you shall pay one way or another."
"But—"
"To that end," Harry went on, stepping on Brent's words, "I've taken the liberty of procuring the services of a preacher and the sheriff. Both are waiting in the carriage below. At my signal, one of them will board this ship and perform his duty. Which gentleman shall I summon, sir?"
Again Brent's mouth dropped open. Then all he could manage to say was "What the hell is going on here? I've never even seen your daughter, much less compromised her."
Barely able to hide his delight, Harry turned to Jewel.
"Daughter? Is this or is this not the man who used you in such a vile manner?"
Slowly, dramatically, Jewel rose from the chair. She took dainty, halting steps over to where her father stood, then straightened her shoulders and looked across the desk at the man she loved. Unable to contain her grin or the pulse that seemed to be leaping from her throat, she tore off her headpiece and the mounds of veil connected to it.
"That's him, Daddy," she cried, pointing to Brent's chest. "I swear on my word as a fine young lady, that's the man who robbed me of my honor."
"Jewel?" Brent's throat, his entire system, seemed to shut down.
"Did you say Jewel?" Harry chuckled, dropping the Spanish accent. "Are you prepared to admit that you are acquainted with my daughter and, therefore, guilty?"
Before Brent could compose himself enough to answer, Jewel repeated her claim. "Don't listen to his lies, Daddy. That's him all right. In fact, right here in this office—"
"Jewel," Brent warned, finding his tongue.
She shrugged and turned to Harry. "Would it be indelicate of me to mention that right here in this office is where Mr. Connors gave me my first kiss?"
"Quite." Keeping his tiring eye trained on Brent, Harry issued his ultimatum. "Well? Which is it? Do you wish to speak to the sheriff, or would you prefer to restore my daughter's good name?"
His initial shock wearing off, Brent stared through the monacle at the smoky green eye and said, ''Harry? Is that you under all that hair?"
Harry flipped the patch up to his forehead, then popped the monacle out of his eye socket. "I believe," he said, tipping his hat and the gobs of silver hair attached to the inside band, "you'll find me inside of here somewhere."
Steadying himself, Brent straightened his spine and hooked his fingers through the spindles of his chair back. Slowly shaking his head, he said, "I just don't know what to say. This is the last thing I expected." He glanced from Harry to Jewel, lingering there as he saw the contentment, the happiness, shining in her eyes. Then he looked back to Harry and adjusted his vest. "Yes, I do know what to say. You can rest assured that I will do the right thing by your daughter, whatever that may be."
Harry nodded, then turned to Jewel. "I don't believe we can ask more from the man at this juncture. I think it would be in your best interests if I were to allow you to spend a few minutes alone with Mr. Connors so you can explain the type of commitment we expect from him. I shall be downstairs visiting a special lady at the bar if you need my further assistance."
Harry leaned over and kissed her cheek. Then he tipped his hat and his hair, spun on his polished bootheel, and strode over to the door. Just before he crossed the threshold, he turned back, a thoughtful finger pressed into his cheek. "One more thing, old chap. You wouldn't happen to know how Reba feels about poetry, do you? To be more precise, rhyme?"
Utterly confused, Brent could only shrug and turn his palms upward.
"That's all right. I suppose it is something one should find out for oneself. Let's see," Harry muttered as he resumed his retreat. "I wonder how she'd respond to 'Hickory dickory dock, the mouse ran up the..."
The door closed behind him, muting his voice, leaving Jewel to face Brent alone. He stood there slowly shaking his head, muttering, "What the hell is going on?"
Jewel shrugged. "I'm afraid I can't explain Harry's sudden interest in poetry. He recently suffered a severe blow to the head."
"That's not what I'm talking about," Brent said, finding his voice, finally understanding that the woman standing before him was no mirage. He circled the desk and drew her into his hungry arms.
"You," he growled, unable to find his normal timbre, "Harry. Me. Tell me what's happening here. Can all this be true?"
Jewel grinned up at him and slid her arms across his shoulders. Indulging herself, she wound the dark curls at the back of his neck around her fingers as she said, "I guess you might say I finally had a spring thaw." She withdrew one hand and placed it on her breast. "In here, Brent."
He found he couldn't speak. He closed his eyes, drew in a huge breath, and hoped he understood what she was trying to say.
Jewel sensed his apprehension. She brought her hand back to his neck, then plunged it into the thick waves of sable hair just behind his ear as she explained. "I find I'm suddenly full to overflowing with love for both you and my dad. I've found enough runoff in me to keep the Mississippi high for the next twenty years. Please tell me," she whispered, the words low and dark, "that I'm not too late."
"Oh, my Jewel," he breathed, his own heart full to the point of bursting. "My beautiful gypsy Jewel. You could never be too late to become part of my life."
Her grin huge, wicked, she asked, "So what are we going to do
about it?"
Brent shrugged, then slid his fingers up to where she'd pinned her hair into a knot at the top of her head. Slowly removing the hairpins, he suggested, "How about a game of billiards?"
Jewel's eyes brightened as her hair fell in waves across her shoulder. "Straight eight, call your pockets?"
"If I win," he whispered, lowering his mouth to hers, "we get married. Sumner Hall, bridesmaids stretching the length of the oak grove, and everyone we know witnessing the event."
Jewel gave him a crooked grin and warned, "My daddy isn't the kind of man to make idle threats. That carriage outside isn't empty."
Brent's eyebrows drew together. "You mean there really is a sheriff gunning for me?''
Jewel waited a long moment before she let him off the hook, and said, "No, but we did bring a preacher along, you know, just in case. If I win, I say we bring him in now. Otherwise, Mr. Connors, it's going to be a very long time before we can start our honeymoon."
She saw the unspoken questions in his eyes. "Having a dad, a real dad to call my own, has rewards I never dreamed of," she explained, "but it also presents a few problems. I'm afraid Harry isn't going to let me out of his sight again until I'm properly wed."
Brent thought about that for only a second before he whispered against her lips, "In that case, my love, I do."
The End
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"Cain? You decent?"
He looked up to see Mariah framed in the doorway, her long black hair bathed in sunshine, and he felt a jolt of desire. Decent? Not by a long shot.
She stumbled through the doorway and dumped the packages in her arms on the foot of the bed. "Zack bought a few things for your debut. Get up and try them on."
"I don't know, Mariah." Cain stood and began to unbutton his shirt. "I have a feeling the medicine show will do a lot better if 'Brother Law' stays in this wagon."
"You've probably got a little stage fright."
Mariah rolled the sleeves of his flannel shirt down his arms and stripped it off. She tore open the smallest package and withdrew a white dress shirt. As she held the garment up to him, she couldn't help but notice the way the silk fabric whispered against his naked skin.
This man had to believe that he was her cousin, a blood relative. He absolutely had to believe the lie.
Mariah turned away in order to catch her breath and her wits.
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"My goodness," Rayna whispered huskily. "How long have you been thinking that I had nothing on under my skirt?"
Gant sucked in his breath. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. With a muttered oath, he tore Rayna's hand away from his body. Then, keeping her wrist in his iron grip, he jerked her up hard against his hips.
Rayna laughed, a dark, velvety purr. "Apparently you have been thinking those thoughts for a very long time, too long, I think. Maybe we should go back to the ship now, to the dressing room, or maybe your cabin."
"No."
"No?
"Here." His expression darkened. "Now."
She glanced around. "Now? Wouldn't we be better off on the ship?"
"No. You are not going to have everything your way."
Then, before she could even blink, much less object, Gant lifted Rayna off of her feet and scooped her into his arms. Without another word, he stormed off toward the dense stand of oaks and beyond to the shadows.
Then they were lost to the forest, the heavy mist, and their own unquenchable passions.
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Matt shut Maggie up then, not with words, but with his mouth, all but smothering her with a kiss that seared right through to Maggie's soul. Until that moment, she assumed he felt much the way she did; that any female who had to hire a tracker to bring her man back, and then had to keep him chained up to make sure he stayed around, couldn't have been much of a woman, in any sense of the word. Now she wasn't so sure.
She understood somehow that Matt's passion came from within himself. Then again, maybe she just wanted to believe that his kiss and the flames that it touched off were ignited by their desire, not by sheer physical need that could have been sated anywhere, by anyone. Not that allowing herself to believe Matt actually desired her made a lot of sense to Maggie—he could just as easily have been driven by a sense of guilt or pity, and not the genuine lust she herself felt.
She knew one thing for sure at the moment—the awakening of her desire had a single source; the man himself The fever of being near Matt had threatened to consume her, and had done so, she realized, since the moment she'd first looked at him as a man, and not simply the means to an end. The thought shocked, terrified and confused her so, she pushed away from him, robbing herself of what she desperately needed while she still could.
The moment her lips left his, Matt came after her again, this time assaulting her senses with his words.
"Just in case you're wondering, Maggie," he said, a strange rage deepening his lust-choked voice. "Make no mistake about what just happened here. That was no accident, my kissing you. I've wanted to do that since before you sent me after Rafe Hollister."
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Hawke sighed heavily, but froze in place. "What's the problem now, Lacey?"
"'Tisn't a problem as much as I'm wonderin'. What are you doing?"
He cocked his head and smiled at her. "Removing your drawers and boots to make you more comfortable, is all. May I go on?"
"Er, ah—no. I would like to take care of, of my clothing myself. As for the boots..." She pushed her heels deeper into the straw, making sure he couldn't see the spurs. "I would like to keep them on, if you don't mind."
Hawke stared at her incredulously. He'd heard of cowboys and gunmen who insisted on dying with their boots on, but this was a first. He shrugged. "If that's what you want, Irish, that's what you'll have."
"Aye, and I thank you kindly." She sat there waiting a moment, but when he didn't move, Lacey waved her fingers at him. "If you would be so kind as to look away, I'll be getting to it."
She thought she saw the corners of Hawke's mouth wobbling again as he turned his back, but she didn't care. This was embarrassing enough as it was without him looking at every little private detail of her life. And besides, if he watched, she'd never get her drawers over her boots without him spotting the spurs. Lacey quickly removed her underpinnings, buried them in the straw at her feet, then lay back down.
"You can turn around now. I am ready."
"Are you?" he asked, moving alongside her until his lips were a warm breath away from hers. "Are you sure this time, Lacey?"
She gazed into his eyes, not quite as dark with passion as they'd been, but mesmerizing just the same, then glanced down to his mouth. His lips were parted, moist and ready to claim hers again. Suddenly, Lacey wasn't just ready, but eager.