The Southern Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  Jessamyn flushed but squared her shoulders. “What does that matter? I’m a widow now and responsible for myself.”

  His voice deepened. A darker note crept into it, full of carnal remembrances. “Do you deny that I taught you the power of the darkness to focus your senses on pleasure? The delights of chains?”

  Memories that she’d hoped to forget, that she’d fought to wipe out, flooded back in. Her lungs tightened as shards of lust raced through her veins. She flushed scarlet.

  Saunders didn’t, quite, whistle.

  Morgan growled and tossed the big knife between his hands, before gripping it more firmly. He could gut the other in an instant, given that hold.

  Saunders stiffened at the primal, wordless warning and bowed deeply, lowering his eyes. “Please forgive me, sir, I had no idea of your relationship. You must believe I wouldn’t have agreed to meet her without your permission, if I’d known.”

  Morgan relaxed subtly, although he continued to watch the other. “Understood. Given the circumstances, you will understand if I ask you to leave immediately.”

  Jessamyn bristled, furious at being treated like a piece of property. She’d arranged this meeting, not Morgan—the scapegrace who called himself head of the family! “Now wait a minute, gentlemen…”

  They both ignored her.

  “Of course.” Saunders bowed again and turned for the door.

  Morgan sheathed his knife. “Saunders,” he murmured and shook hands with the other. Jessamyn could have sworn money exchanged hands.

  But where did that leave her? She still needed a man to accompany her to the lawyer’s office.

  Morgan ceremonially closed the door’s remains behind Saunders, blocking the gaping hotel management and guests. He turned back to her. “Now, cousin…”

  Too furious to think straight, she slapped him. “How dare you throw him out! What am I to do now for a man?”

  His eyes flared and he grabbed her by the shoulders, his fingers biting into her. “If you want a man, then by God, I’ll be that man! Nine years I’ve waited, Jessamyn, and no two-bit gigolo can handle you.”

  She tried to hit him again but all she could do was pummel his arms. Trying to kick his shins only ruffled her skirts, without affecting him in the slightest. “Damn you, Morgan, let me go!”

  His grip was remorseless but his voice held all of whiskey’s secret fires. “Like hell. Remember what I said nine years ago? The next time we were alone together, I’d be the one handling you. This is the first time we’ve been alone together since then, Jessamyn.”

  Her jaw dropped. “What? You can’t mean to hold that over my head now.”

  “Why not?” He watched her narrowly, iron determination in his gray eyes. He was immovable, both his intent and his form.

  She stared at him, appalled to think he still carried a grudge that old when both of them had changed so much.

  Morgan was stronger, broader of shoulder, deeper of chest, his arms and legs more heavily roped with muscle. The gray eyes were sharper now, not those of a wary young man. His nose had been broken more than once in the intervening years, giving him a piratical cast. He’d shaved off his mustache since she’d glimpsed him a week ago in Omaha, which allowed the hard lines of experience bracketing his mouth to be clearly seen.

  He wore a subtle hint of menace, well hidden under finely tailored broadcloth and immaculate linens. He’d looked and acted the perfect gentleman at the very few family gatherings she and Cyrus had encountered him at, since the War.

  But the man who held her so implacably was no gentleman. The guerrilla of nine years ago hadn’t been, either, but he’d lacked the power to carry out his threats. This man would, and could, carry out those threats. Or were they promises?

  Held this close to him, she knew the strength in his arms and shoulders. Knew that he would brook no nonsense from any woman he chose. His legs were solid against hers, even through the layers of her skirt, as if he needed to take only one step to press her against the wall and have his way with her…

  She’d always known he was a shady character, who performed deeds no decent fellow would know of.

  Her breasts tightened, as fireflies darted over her from his hands. Dammit, the old fire was starting to burn, as it had the last afternoon in the attic.

  The mantel clock began to chime.

  Her head flashed around to stare at it before she looked back at Morgan.

  She fought back her body’s awareness of him. “I needed him as my husband, you fool! For two hours, starting now.”

  “Husband?” Jealousy swept over his face.

  “In a lawyer’s office,” she snarled back. “I have to be there with a husband, or all is lost. Damn you, let me go!”

  The clock chimed again.

  His eyes narrowed before he pulled her up to him. His grip was less painful but just as inescapable as before. “A bargain then, Jessamyn. I’ll play your husband for a few hours—if you’ll join me in a private parlor for the same span of time afterward.”

  She gasped. A devil’s bargain, indeed.

  “Nine years ago, I promised you revenge for what you did. Two hours won’t see that accomplished but it’s a start,” he purred, his drawl knife-edged and laced with carnal promise.

  She wanted to accept the bargain, lose herself in his arms—but then she’d be a loose woman like her mother, consorting with a dishonorable man. He was the only man she’d ever wanted to be disgraceful with and he could destroy her.

  Her fears stirred, honed by seven years as an Army wife on the bloody Kansas prairies. She reined them in sternly: No matter how angry he’d been, surely Morgan would never harm a woman, no matter what preposterous demands he’d hurled nine years ago when she’d held him captive.

  Her fingers bit into his arms as she desperately tried to think of another option, something respectable.

  If she took him with her, he could steal the map and she’d lose everything she’d come here to gain.

  But if she didn’t appear with a husband, she’d lose her only chance of regaining Somerset Hall…

  She was an adult woman now. Surely her nerves would not be overset by two hours in his arms. Surely…

  The mantel clock sounded the third, and last, note.

  She agreed to his bargain, the words like ashes in her throat. “Very well, Morgan. Now will you take me to the lawyer’s?”

  Morgan escorted Jessamyn across the street with all the haughtiness his father would have displayed escorting his mother aboard a riverboat. It was a bit of manners ingrained in him so early that he didn’t need to think about it, something he’d first practiced with Jessamyn when she was five and their parents first openly spoke of a wedding between them. Such an inbred habit was very useful when his brain seemed to have dived somewhere south of his belt buckle as soon as she’d agreed to slake his lust for revenge.

  What would he do first once he had her alone? There were so many activities he’d learned in Consortium houses, of how to drive a woman insane with desire. How to leave her sated and panting, willing to do anything to repeat the experience. More than anything else, he needed to see Jessamyn aching to be touched by him again and again.

  A black curl stroked her cheek in just the way he intended to later. He smiled, planning his first move, and reached for the office door.

  Ebenezer Abercrombie & Sons, Attys. At Law, announced the sturdy letters on its surface.

  Jessamyn leaned closer to Morgan and squeezed his arm, with all the assurance of a long-married woman. God knows he’d seen her do it with Cyrus before. Morgan shifted himself so she could fit comfortably, as he’d seen his cousin do. She settled easily within a hand’s breadth of him and tilted her head at Abercrombie expectantly. The entire byplay took only a few seconds.

  Morgan smiled with all the smooth charm he’d polished as one of Bedford Forrest’s spies. “Good afternoon, Abercrombie, is it? I’m Morgan Evans and this is my wife, Jessamyn Tyler Evans, who has business here.”

&nb
sp; An all too well-tailored man, Abercrombie bowed over her hand with an almost visible air of relief. “My dear lady, I’m so glad you were able to bring your husband. Your cousin Charles and his wife are seated in my office, waiting for the reading of the will to begin.”

  Charlie Jones here? Hell, if he’d known that, he’d have escorted Jessamyn just to infuriate Jones.

  Abercrombie offered his arm to Jessamyn and escorted her into that inner sanctum. Morgan followed them across the clerk’s office, his eyes caught by the sway of Jessamyn’s hips and the ripple of her black skirts along the floor. Her dress was faded, almost tattered, as if only long custom kept it in one piece. Still, the form underneath was so magnificent as to make distinctions of dress unimportant: slim and lithe, long-necked, tiny waist, with a gently curving bosom and hips. She’d been an enchanting girl but she was an eye-catching woman. His gut tightened at all the carnal possibilities implicit in her body.

  He wondered idly what kind of devil’s brew he’d gotten himself into. Whatever it was, he’d likely jump into it again, if it meant finally slaking his lust for her.

  Angry voices could be heard coming from within Abercrombie’s office.

  Jessamyn steadied herself for the coming confrontation as they passed through the clerk’s office. For now, she was glad she had Morgan at her side: His manners, in public at least, were unexceptionable—unlike the people they were about to meet.

  Abercrombie cleared his throat hesitantly and opened his office door.

  Jessamyn quickly glanced over the room as they entered, looking for any potential weapons Charlie might grab. It was a typical lawyer’s throne room, full of heavy wood, leather, and thick carpeting. Books and ornate certificates competed for space with velvet drapes, while a very modern chandelier shed bright gaslight over the scene. An enormous desk, big enough to shelter two women from an Indian attack, held pride of place, with an equally massive leather chair rising behind it. Faint sounds of conversation could be heard from another room, through a closed door flanked by two heavy bookcases. Four chairs faced the big desk, arranged in two groups of two.

  Abercrombie cleared his throat and offered an introduction, effectively defusing any previous argument. “Mr. and Mrs. Jones, may I present Mr. and Mrs. Morgan Evans. Mr. Evans is the husband of your cousin Jessamyn, the late Mr. Jones’s niece.”

  Morgan came to attention beside her. “Good afternoon, Jones. Mrs. Jones.” He was formal, his normally slurred Mississippi vowels now clear and precise.

  Her cousin Charlie and his wife, Maggie, spun to face them. She slowly relaxed her hands from feline claws and pasted an insincere, seductive smirk on her face.

  “Evans.” More open hostility echoed in Charlie Jones’s voice than Jessamyn could remember hearing aimed at Morgan before. He hadn’t changed much since that December afternoon in 1863, except for fancier clothes and jewelry. Now she could see the grips of two fine Colt revolvers nudging his fancy waistcoat and the thickness of a Bowie knife along his hip, backed up by cold eyes and a humorless mouth.

  “Mrs. Evans.”

  He flashed a hard look at Morgan. “Your husband?”

  She raised her head coolly, unwilling to let him see she was bluffing. “We were married last week in Kansas.”

  “Finally fulfilling our parents’ fondest wish,” Morgan drawled. He dropped his hand to his Bowie knife’s hilt and caressed it, silently challenging Charlie to a knife fight.

  Sometimes there were advantages to being escorted by a man who knew how to test society’s limits. Jessamyn preened and stood straighter, a pose she’d once seen a dance hall girl adopt to display confidence in her gambler escort.

  Charlie’s eyes narrowed and he started to rise.

  Abercrombie squeaked and clutched a massive law tome to his chest.

  Maggie Jones crooned, “Ooh, Mr. Evans, you’re so heroic.”

  Her husband slammed a hand down onto her shoulder and she subsided with a sniff. The move cost him any chance of a timely grab for a knife, taking him out of the potential fight. His glare promised retribution to her as he muttered, “Congratulations on your marriage.”

  Morgan smoothed his lapel and moved forward. Jessamyn looked down her nose at the others, an attitude both her governess and the dance hall girl would have understood, and went with him, her brain rapidly sorting through her observations.

  Great-Aunt Eulalia had warned her that Charlie had made a fortune in Colorado but she’d hoped she’d been wrong. To reach the treasure before he did, she would need more than a little cash, some luck, and her old Army friends. Where could she find the wherewithal to defeat Charlie and his new wife?

  Then that female made advances to Morgan as they passed.

  “What a pleasure to be with you again, Morgan,” Mrs. Jones cooed and rose to greet him, her perfume as predatory as her voice, utterly ignoring her husband’s presence. Her bronze day dress clung to her magnificently curved figure and her hair was dressed in rich curls, spilling down her back. Her perfect features could have served as a model for Cleopatra, while her enormous dark eyes devoured Morgan as if she wished to drag him off into another room.

  Morgan drew himself up to his full height and tucked Jessamyn’s arm closer to his side. Icy disgust shone briefly in his eyes before he veiled them.

  How fitting that Charlie, whose appetite for other men’s gold was unlimited, should be married to a woman with strong appetites for other women’s men.

  “Congratulations, Charlie,” Jessamyn cooed, “on marrying a woman who’s truly worthy of you.”

  He flushed angrily. “Maggie.” His command was harsh and laden with undercurrents of anger and jealousy.

  His wife stopped in her tracks. A wild mélange of expressions raced across her face—lust, frustration, anger—before her features settled into deceptively meek obedience. “Mrs. Evans.”

  “Mrs. Jones.” Jessamyn gave the barest nod consonant with polite society and twitched her skirts aside, ensuring they wouldn’t touch the other female’s. She’d ask Morgan about Mrs. Jones later, assuming the two of them were still talking.

  Abercrombie ostentatiously rustled papers from behind the desk. “Please sit down, ladies and gentlemen, so we can begin.”

  They silently took their seats and settled in. Morgan’s eyes flickered around the room one last time when he sat down, the warmth of his body seeping into Jessamyn through her threadbare dress. He clearly hadn’t missed a single detail of Charlie, Abercrombie, or their surroundings. That kind of skill probably came in handy during all his shady doings.

  For the first time in years, Jessamyn clearly remembered how he’d lain sprawled across that iron bed in the attic, sated after her hands and mouth had brought him to completion…

  Her mouth went dry as heat lanced through her.

  Maggie Jones gave a long, languishing look at Morgan before Charlie’s hand clamped down hard on her wrist. She choked and sat erect, facing Abercrombie and tapping her toe.

  Abercrombie settled into his chair, opened a leather portfolio, and became all business. “As I have mentioned before, Mr. Jones left strict instructions about the disposition of his estate.” He unfolded a long piece of paper and began to read. “I, Edgar George Charles Jones, being of sound mind and body—”

  “Get on with it, Abercrombie!” Charlie snapped. “Just tell us where to find the gold.”

  Morgan studied his fingernails. Very well-kept hands, too, despite the calluses and scars. What would they feel like on her skin in an hour or two? What would he want to do? Dear God, how could she be so aware of him?

  Abercrombie looked at them over the top of the paper, one eyebrow raised, every inch the first-rank lawyer. “Mr. Jones predicted his family would say that. Do you feel the same way, Mrs. Evans?”

  Jessamyn shrugged. “I would prefer to listen to the heart of the matter, rather than the legal words it’s wrapped in,” she agreed cautiously, keeping a wary eye on Morgan’s all too well-controlled reactions.

 
; “Very well. Mr. Jones wrote much of his will in an informal, almost epistolary style. Here we are.” He began to read, tracing the words with his finger.

  “Forty years ago, I had an itch to go west and see the shining mountains and the great desert. I saw those marvels and more, and I had great adventures among the Indians and the Mexicans.”

  Jessamyn nodded, remembering the stories told so often among the Jones family about those adventures. She’d heard the tales very young, before her mother ran off, while they still visited Uncle Edgar and his family. Charlie had probably heard more stories since his father was Uncle Edgar’s brother and they visited more regularly.

  “One day, I came upon a Mexican beset by Indians amidst the mountains northwest of Santa Fe. I aided him, for no civilized man deserves to be injured by those savages, and at length we drove them off. Alas, it was too late for the gallant fellow, for he had taken his death wound. Before he breathed his last, he insisted on giving me a map, saying it would lead me to great fortune. He was the last descendant of the one who had drawn it—Teniente Diego Ortiz.”

  Beside Jessamyn, Morgan gave a very soft snort of disbelief. She glanced sharply at him but his expression remained politely interested in Abercrombie’s reading.

  Why wouldn’t he accept Uncle Edgar’s account? Were such tales so common in Santa Fe as to be discounted? Of course, he’d always laughed at them when they were children.

  “I followed the map deep into the mountains and found Ortiz’s gold, a great hoard that had been hidden there for centuries.”

  “Oooooh,” breathed Maggie and pressed her hand to her throat, the ruffles at her bosom quivering. Charlie’s eyes blazed with greed, his mouth white and set. Surely they both had gold fever, the same obsession Jessamyn had seen drive men frantic—or kill them—while prospecting in the Rockies.

  Morgan appeared merely attentive to Uncle Edgar’s account, no more or less than if he’d been listening to a retelling of a Shakespearean story. Not the reaction of someone bitten by the gold bug.