by Jane Toombs
"I thought you wouldn't make it in time," he cried. "I thought I'd have to go through this alone."
"You shouldn't have worried," Manuelo told him, "I said I'd be here and I keep my word."
“I haven't changed my mind, it's not that." Diarmid shook his head. "But suddenly--" he paused, uncertain of exactly what he did feel. Myron was a part of it. Though he hadn't killed him, he couldn't help thinking Myron had died so he could marry Concepcion. Not that he'd ever tell Manuelo or anyone else what happened.
"All men about to marry have doubts." Manuelo, an arm about his shoulders, led Diarmid toward the casa entrance. "Perhaps we're not truly meant to be shackled to just one woman and we sense it at the last moment of freedom."
Diarmid glanced at Manuelo in surprise. Ordinarily his friend was the least philosophical of men.
Manuelo grinned. "That's what my father told Tio Tomas on the day my uncle wed. Never have I seen a man so unnerved. Before the ceremony we half-expected Tomas to run for his horse and gallop away, never to return. Yet he stayed and he and my aunt have been happy together for many years--so take heart."
He didn't really expect to be happy with Concepcion, Diarmid thought, but Manuelo's words calmed him nonetheless. He had no reason to be uneasy when, as a result of this marriage, he'd fulfill his greatest desire.
Fortified by this realization and by Manuelo's presence, Diarmid managed the ceremony with aplomb and, with the aid of the wine, smiled his way through the celebration afterwards. Though he wasn't drunk when he and Concepcion left the others, he wasn't entirely sober, either.
They walked to the unused bedroom they were to share, one that had been her mother's and father's. For days he'd been aware of servants sweeping and scrubbing and polishing. The large room smelled of beeswax and lemons, as well as of the white roses in a cut glass vase on the chest of drawers.
"You were the one who put the rose in my room the first night I came," he said to his new wife.
"Yes. To welcome you. I hoped you would never leave."
How was he supposed to reply? Uncomfortable, he glanced about the bedroom. The walls were painted white, as they were all through the casa, the many-paned windows were small and deep-set into the adobe. The massive mahogany wardrobe and the matching chest of drawers now held his clothes. Two fat white candles burned within glass chimney holders on a table between the windows. A wooden and silver crucifix hung over the bed with its intricately carved mahogany headboard and footboard.
No doubt Concepcion had been conceived in that very bed. With luck, his own son would be conceived there as well. Tonight.
He looked at the clothes he had on, finely made Californio wear--black trousers, vest and embroidered jacket with a ruffled white shirt--the bride's gift to him. Because he had nothing else, he'd given her his mother's small gold heart-shaped locket, bearing his mother's initials on the front. Apparently the gift pleased Concepcion for she’d immediately placed it on the gold chain that held her own mother's locket, also gold, but oval and larger with three small but brilliant rubies set into the cover.
Concepcion had disappeared into the small curtained chamber off the room, apparently too modest to undress in front of her new husband. Diarmid pulled out the leather-bottomed chair by the table and sat down to remove his boots. He'd stripped to his trousers by the time she reappeared, garbed in a sheer white gown that floated behind her as she hurried toward the bed, her eyes averted from him.
Again she reminded him of a white moth, a gauzy-winged one, the kind that sometimes deserted the night, lured into a lamplit room, only to die in the flame of a candle. The image recalled his fire dreams and he shook his head. The wine's mazing you, lad, he told himself.
Pulling off the rest of his clothes, Diarmid, naked, walked to the table and snuffed the candles, then climbed into the high, soft bed and reached for his wife.
Concepcion tried to still her trembling as Diarmid's warm hands pulled open her nightgown and his fingers touched her small breasts. She wasn't afraid, she wanted his caresses but fear of the unknown plagued her. She wished now she'd tasted more of the wine but she'd been too caught up in half-fearful anticipation to drink more than a sip.
He slid off her gown entirely, then ran his hands along her body, making her tingle all over. His lips lay hot and moist against her throat, sending their warmth deep within her. She felt his naked body press against hers, felt the hairiness of his chest and the strange hardness lower down and her breath caught in her throat.
"I'll try not to hurt you," he murmured.
The way he touched her was glorious, she hoped he'd never stop. If a bit of pain came with such new and wondrous sensations, she didn't care. Tiny moans of pleasure escaped her; she couldn't stop them.
When he spread her legs and eased himself over her, she trembled again--in eagerness this time. A gentle probing began, his hardness seeking entrance and she opened herself to him, wanting, wanting...
Suddenly he pushed himself inside her and she gasped with the shock. He groaned, thrusting in and out. At first it did hurt but as he moved faster and faster warmth spread within her, the pain disappeared and, without her willing it, her hips began to wriggle. Panting cries escaped her as she clung to him.
He grunted, his body jerked in a spasm and, a moment later, he rolled away, turning his back to her. For long minutes Concepcion didn't move as she stared into the darkness, savoring the experience.
When his deep and steady breathing told her he slept, she sat up and pulled the bedcovers over them both. She didn't bother to find her nightgown--if he preferred her naked, that's the way she'd stay.
I hope he gave me a baby, she thought, but she didn't dwell on it, she was too caught up in the wonder of how men and women mated. Not like animals as she'd feared, not at all, she marveled, still feeling the tingling inside her.
She curled onto her side, facing him, waiting for him to wake so they could begin all over again.
She had what she wanted, she was the wife of Diarmid Burwash, the most wonderful man in the world, a man she'd do anything for. Marriage to him had fulfilled her greatest desire.
No one will ever part us, she vowed.
Chapter Four
Diarmid, with no real desire for his wife, did his best to transmute his passion for the land to the bedroom, knowing that, without a child, the land would never be his. He hadn't had a woman since Miriam, so for the first few weeks of the marriage Concepcion's eagerness in bed, though it took him aback at first, didn't dismay him. He was anxious for her to conceive as soon as possible.
One morning in June, after they'd been married for two months, Concepcion, blushing and stammering, admitted she was encinte. Diarmid hugged her in delight, threw on his clothes, rushed out of the casa, and, on Bruce, galloped over the land that was now to become his. When he felt the buckskin balk, he realized he'd been riding toward the sea--ever since the day Myron had been killed, Bruce tried his best to avoid the cove.
Diarmid swung him north. He wanted no unpleasant reminder today, either, for it was a day to celebrate.
He wasn't altogether surprised to find himself taking the road to El Doblez. More than once, in bed with his wife, he’d found himself wishing that her unarousing, almost child-like body had Stella's voluptuous curves. Stella White lingered in his mind like an interrupted dream. They weren't finished with one another and he knew it. He thought she must, too.
In a way, his continuing thoughts of her were an annoyance, one he wanted to rid himself of so he could concentrate on what was most important--improving the rancho.
Stella lived at the summit of a hill above the cantina, the rear of her small adobe house overlooking the ocean. This morning she'd arisen earlier than usual to sit on the back veranda, sipping black coffee and trying to decide if she had anything important enough to write in the journal she kept erratically. Not a hell of a lot was worth an entry.
Was she to put down, "Enjoying the view from my veranda, soon I'll join Lucita in the can
tina to prepare the day's food?"
Two years ago in Mexico City, when she'd told Fernando's family, gathered around his coffin like vultures, that all she wanted was the house and the cantina in El Doblez, they hadn't believed her.
What they did believe was that Fernando was dead because of her, that she was a harlot and deserved nothing. The first was true, the second arguable. As for the third--she damn well meant to get something tangible for putting up with her husband for as long as she had. Fernando had been a beast, not a man, and she bore scars to this day from his beatings.
Stella's lover, the army officer who'd dueled with Fernando and killed him, had immediately deserted her by arranging a transfer to Vera Cruz. Her lover's decampment meant she needed some means of support; she couldn't afford to walk away with nothing.
She chose the place in El Doblez because it was the only property Fernando had owned that was outside Mexico City and it was also the least valuable of his holdings. She wanted no long legal wrangle with his relatives, she could hardly wait to get away from them. She gambled that they'd decide the El Doblez house and cantina weren't worth enough to bother about and she'd been right.
Fernando had won the place gambling and had never bothered to visit El Doblez. Stella hadn't known what a miserable little outpost the town was nor how hard she'd have to work to scrounge a living from the cantina. Still, with Lucita and Pablo Gomez's help, she managed.
If she was able to manage her life as well as the cantina, everything would be fine. Because she'd vowed never to marry again didn't mean she hated everything about men--there was at least one thing about them she liked too well to give up. And that brought trouble. Go to bed with a man once or twice and he thought he owned you. Like Juan Bastanado, who glowered at every man who so much as glanced at her. Sooner or later he'd knife one of them and then there'd be a mess.
As if she didn't have enough problems, this damn kid had been dumped on her. What on earth was she to do with Angelica in this hole?
She heard someone climbing the hill and set down her mug of coffee. It better not be Juan--she'd threatened to shoot him with an old pistol of Fernando's if he bothered her again. Over was over. Didn't he realize she meant what she said? Stepping off the veranda, she eased around the corner of the house to take a look and her breath caught. Diarmid.
She'd thought he wouldn't be back after his wedding. At least not so soon. What nerve he had! Yet the sight of him warmed her in all the right places, urging her not to turn him away, even though she didn't allow men to come here, only to the cantina.
She walked around the house and intercepted him before he reached the entrance. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.
"Good day to you, too," he said, smiling. "I came to see you--and a pleasant sight you are."
Stella wore loose fitting, brightly colored cotton gowns--the dress of poor Mexican women. The clothes were comfortable for working and their style suited her, as she well knew. In El Doblez, who cared what was fashionable?
"Nicely said," she told him. "But now that you've seen me--"
She had no warning of what he meant to do. One stride brought him close enough to pull her into his arms. He cut off her words by kissing her, his hands cupping her buttocks to hold her firmly against him.
Oh yes! Stella thought as she gave herself up to enjoyment of the embrace. Not now and not here, but definitely yes.
Pulling reluctantly away from him she said, "I don't care to provide gossip for all of El Doblez."
"No one will see us inside your house," he said softly.
The heat in his eyes made her legs weak but she didn't mean to make it easy for him. "I've heard you're a married man," she said.
He brushed away her comment with a sweep of his hand. "That has nothing to do with us and you know it."
Obviously he wouldn't be easy to manage. Was it possible to risk honesty with any man? Perhaps, to a point, with this one.
"I don't allow men in my house." She spoke levelly.
His smile was devastating. "Up until now, you mean. Stella, I need you, I can tell you want me, don't deny us."
Somehow she'd let herself get within his reach, his hands were on her shoulders, drawing her to him. He was right, her desire for him increased with each passing second. What harm could another kiss do?
Suddenly he froze, his fingers digging into her flesh painfully for an instant before he released her. She saw he was staring over her shoulder toward the house.
"Who's that?" he demanded.
Stella turned her head. Angelica, in a pale blue dressing gown, stood in the open front door looking at them. She'd forgotten all about the girl.
"Angelica Davison." Stella's voice was a bit tart as she gauged Diarmid's reaction to the girl. "She's a relative of mine--second or third cousin, something like that."
"My God, she's beautiful."
Stella frowned at him. The girl might be pretty enough in a languid sort of way but she sure as hell wasn't beautiful. Before she could think what to say, Diarmid stepped around her and strode toward the front door.
Diarmid felt as though he'd been struck by a thunderbolt from the sky. No, from heaven. Angelica was well named, she looked like an angel. Her eyes, blue as a wind-washed sky, widened as he approached and her pale, delicate fingers rose to twist a strand of her dark hair. It wasn't black like his but a deep rich brown, the color and the sheen of polished walnut.
Her lips, pink and soft, opened in surprise as he stopped in front of her and, with his forefinger under her chin, tipped her face up.
"Yes, it's true!" he exclaimed. "You're the very image of my mother."
Angelica began to laugh, a charming sound, like bells chiming. Realizing she'd misinterpreted his words, he tried to amend them. "I mean when she was young. My mother, that is. She was the most beautiful girl in Ross-shire. She posed for a portrait when she was sixteen and you never saw--" He broke off, remembering how the portrait had burned with the house.
Angelica stepped back from him and called to Stella. "Imagine--I remind him of his mother!"
"I heard." Stella's voice, from behind him, was cool. "Angelica, this is Diarmid Burwash. He runs a large rancho south of El Doblez."
Angelica smiled. "I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Burwash."
I own the rancho, he wanted to tell her. It's as good as mine. Somehow he felt it was important to impress Angelica.
"It's nice to meet someone around here who isn't Spanish or Mexican," Angelica went on. "I had no idea El Doblez would be like--well, like it is. You must excuse me now, I didn't expect callers so early or I'd have been dressed more suitably."
He watched her glide away from him, her blue gown brushing the tiled floor. How gracefully she moved.
"If ever I saw a stricken man, it's you," Stella commented dryly.
He blinked, focusing on her. For some reason she now seemed overblown to him, like a rose past its bloom--her hair too blonde, her amber eyes too bright, the color of her dress too garish. His desire for her had totally disappeared.
"What's Angelica doing in El Doblez?" he asked, ignoring what Stella had said.
Stella spread her hands. "I've inherited her. She has no money and nowhere else to go."
"What do you mean?"
"Her uncle, who was also her guardian, hoped to recoup his financial losses in the east by sailing to San Francisco and investing in land there, bringing Angelica with him. He died of a fever as the ship rounded the Cape. In his belongings, Angelica found a letter I'd written to his wife, a cousin of mine, when I first arrived in El Doblez. Cousin Abigail was dead even then, but I hadn't heard. Anyway, no matter how distant our relationship, I was the closest relative, so Angelica spent her remaining money to come here. So it seems I'll have to find some way for her to earn her keep."
"You can't put a young lass like her to work in the cantina!"
Stella shrugged. "She's eighteen, a year older than Trina, my serving girl. If I must support her, she'll have to help out in the c
antina."
"But Angelica is--she's a delicate lass. She needs to be protected from men like those I've seen in the cantina."
"She'll learn."
"I won't have her working there!"
Stella smiled one-sidedly. "And just how do you plan to prevent it? I doubt if your wife would agree to you adopting Angelica. Of course, you might talk one of your unattached friends into marrying her."
"No!"
"Do you mean you have no unmarried friends?"
"Angelica--she's--" He broke off when he realized what he'd been going to say. That Angelica was his. That if any man married her, he'd be the one. Fine words from a man who already had a wife. A wife who was with child. What was he to do? Somehow, he had to find a way to make Angelica his. Not just in bed, no, she was too fine a lass for that. He meant to possess her, but when he did it would be as his wife.