Gerrity'S Bride

by Carolyn Davidson

  “Oh, Delilah,” she whispered against her palms. “You didn’t tell me about this. You didn’t tell me!”

  Chapter Five

  Olivia Champion could be an attractive woman, Emmaline decided. If only she weren’t so grimly determined to look like a typical teacher. Her primly clad body and her smoothly scraped-back hair advertised her calling, as did the subservient air she wore like a garment.

  Like a chameleon against the sand, she blended into the atmosphere of the house, and only here at the breakfast table had Emmaline heard more than one-syllable replies from the woman. Apparently this was a daily routine. Matthew questioned and Olivia answered, reciting Theresa’s schedule for his approval.

  Her dark eyes focused on Matt’s face as Olivia placed her napkin carefully across her lap. Emmaline watched as a faint softening of the other woman’s features was quickly concealed by the lowering of her head.

  So that’s how the land lies, Emmaline thought with awakening interest. The words spoken described lessons and books, but the subdued glances and carefully orchestrated movements told a different story.

  “Today we’ll be working mostly on letters and numbers,” Olivia said quietly, her eyes limpid as she lifted her lashes in Matt’s direction. “I’ve planned a geography lesson for this afternoon, but that will depend on Theresa.” She glanced at Emmaline, her expression tolerant, as she elaborated. “Sometimes she gets a bit cranky after noontime and needs a short rest.”

  Emmaline nodded, striving to hide the smile that begged to curl her mouth. “I seem to suffer from the same problem some days,” she agreed. Glancing at Matt as if she were seeking his reinforcement, she continued. “She’s only five years old, Miss Champion. You’re not pushing her too rapidly, are you?”

  Olivia shook her head. “Certainly not. Mr. Gerrity wants his sister to be more than literate. His plan is to send her back east, to a university, when the time comes. But for now she is only beginning the basics, learning her letters and numbers as I read to her from the classics. We look at pictures of other countries and read about them, learning history and geography at a primary level.” Her gaze swept across the table to rest with tender concern on Theresa, whose own eyes had moved from one adult to another.

  Well said, Emmaline thought with a trickle of humor. The woman was a teacher to the bone, with hardly a shred of impetuosity within that dignified frame. Except for the sidelong glances that Matt seemed so oblivious of.

  “I’m sure you have the situation well in hand,” Emmaline murmured, her attention on the butter knife she was using with a lavish hand.

  Across the table, Matt’s dark eyes focused on the two women. Even as he listened to the words they spoke, he measured them in his mind. It was unfair, he decided. The contrast between them put Olivia at a distinct disadvantage. Next to the bright curls that surrounded Emmaline’s head and cascaded down her back in an early-morning frenzy, the tutor’s dark hair was commonplace, slicked back into a tightly wound knob at the nape of her neck. Only the somber clothing each wore placed them on common ground; Olivia’s dark gray morning dress just shades lighter than the black silk that adorned Emmaline’s curves.

  He frowned as he considered the covered buttons that divided Emmaline’s fitted bodice, ending at the small stand-up collar circling her throat. Covering all the soft flesh there, except for an inch or so in front, where he caught sight of the vulnerable hollow his lips had touched only yesterday.

  “I want you to put away the mourning, Emmaline,” he announced as he cut the beefsteak that lay on his plate.

  “Really.” She managed to put subtle emphasis on each syllable as she softly defied his edict.

  His fork waved in her direction. “Yes, really. You’re not likely to meet any members of high society out here, and the rules of behavior you followed in Kentucky don’t apply.”

  She glanced at him with barely concealed disdain. “Rules of behavior never vary when it comes to civilized people,” she said politely.

  Olivia Champion swallowed the last bite of her breakfast with almost indecent haste and snatched the white napkin from her lap to cover her mouth. “May I be excused?” she asked softly, and her eyes were shuttered as she rose from her chair. “I must prepare for Theresa’s lessons.”

  Matt’s nod was curt, but Emmaline found her tongue. “Certainly, Miss Champion. We’ll look forward to dinner.”

  His gaze was morose as Matt watched the young woman leave the room. “You’ve had a week to look her over. Is she any good?” he asked in an undertone. “I mean, do you think she’ll do for Tessie?”

  Emmaline’s left eyebrow lifted as she considered him. “Why on earth are you asking me? Didn’t you check into her credentials before you hired her? How long has she been here?”

  He shrugged diffidently. “For three months, just since Tessie’s birthday. My mother hired the woman, sight unseen, from a newspaper ad, when she decided that it was time for Tessie to begin schooling.”

  “Well, I suppose she’s doing well. She seems to like Tessie, and she certainly admires you.”

  “Me?” Matt shook his head as he swallowed the last bite on his fork. “What do I have to do with anything? You’re just trying to ignore the issue.”

  Blankly Emmaline looked at him. “What issue?”

  His hand waved in her direction, encompassing the darkness of her attire. “That black thing you insist on wearing,” he muttered with disgust.

  Emmaline’s chin lifted, and her eyes glittered. The man was totally blind to the attachment Tessie’s teacher was forming for him, and yet managed to notice every detail of her own appearance. How dare he criticize her dress?

  Matt chewed calmly, surveying the arrogant picture she presented, his own eyes lowering to his plate as he fought to hide the gleam of amusement he could not suppress.

  “This black thing,” she announced with genteel anger, “is made of the finest silk, imported from France and sewn by Lexington’s most accomplished dressmaker.” Her head nodded once when she’d completed her announcement.

  His drawl became more pronounced as he inspected her carefully. “Well, it sure won’t do for summertime in the Arizona Territory.”

  “I beg to differ with you,” she said smartly. “We’ve had this conversation once before, if I remember correctly, and my position has not changed. I intend to remain in mourning for at least six months. Given the circumstances of our marriage, I consider that sufficient.”

  His chair pushed back, silent against the thick rug that covered the dining room floor, and Matt rose to his feet. He spread his palms flat on the heavy pine table and leaned to confront her, parroting her words precisely.

  “Given the circumstances of our marriage, I insist you send for some more appropriate clothing from Kentucky. Either that, or I’ll take you into Forbes Junction to sort through the ladies’ things at the dry goods.”

  A flush rose from her throat to cover her cheeks, and Emmaline swallowed the angry words that formed in her mind. Just who did he think he was? This misbegotten...

  “Well?” He leaned closer, and she fought the urge to scoot her chair back, fought the inclination to put more than a few inches between his hard-bitten features and her own.

  Her fingers clenched into fists as she pounded them on the table, her elegant manners flying to the four winds. She met his arrogance in equal measure.

  “Well, what?” she said between gritted teeth. “Who gave you the right to judge my wardrobe, Mr. Gerrity? Until I stand before a preacher and say all the right words, you have no right to dictate to me! About anything!”

  His eyes flashed with smothered amusement as he assessed the haughty demeanor of the woman who faced him. He’d ruffled her feathers, that was for sure. He decided he might as well finish the job, as long as he was at it.

  One hand lifted from the table and snaked out to cradle the curls that covered the back of her head. Fingers gripping securely, he pulled her forward, balancing himself with the other hand that press
ed firmly against the table between them. Tiny flecks of amber glowed within her blue eyes as she tilted her head against the pressure of his wide palm. Not fear, he noted with satisfaction, but defiance, lit those gently slanted eyes. Her lips were firmly closed, her jaw clenched, and her nostrils flared with the force of her indrawn breath as he lowered his mouth to stake his claim.

  As kisses went, it wasn’t much, he thought ruefully. She had clamped down hard, her teeth held tightly together, like a bulldog with a bone. He molded her lips with his own, amused by the pursing and pushing at him, and then, with a growl, he bit at the lower lip that protruded, nipping it gently until she protested.

  “Um...bffft...” The words were captive within her mouth, and he quickly followed his attack with a gentle bathing of his tongue against the fullness of the flesh he had grasped between his teeth.

  Then, as quickly as he had leaned forward to take hold of her, he released her and stood erect, his damp mouth slanted into a grin that bespoke his victory.

  “I have the right, Emmaline,” he told her quietly. “I’m in charge here, over everything and everyone on this ranch. Most especially, my dear bride-to-be, I’m in charge of you. That gives me the right to be concerned for your welfare.”

  He waited for the explosion that was sure to follow, but she only watched him warily, her tongue exploring the cushion of her bottom lip.

  The worrying of her mouth had not hurt, she realized, only caught her attention, which was no doubt what he’d had in mind. He’d caught her attention, all right. Twice before, he’d kissed her, first with a harshness that branded her as his prey. The second time had been an awakening, a tender, careful perusal of her lips that had beguiled and tempted her into hazy desire.

  Now, in a demanding fashion, he had arrogantly taken her mouth, riding roughshod over her muffled protest. As hard as his hand had been, holding her in place, as determined as his mouth had been, tasting of her own, she could not be afraid of his dominance. Only of the strange emotions his touch had forced into being within her.

  “And what if I decline your generous offer, Mr. Gerrity? What if I choose not to shop at the dry goods?” She rose from her chair and waited, her eyes speaking her defiance.

  His grin became a smile of anticipation as he allowed his own gaze to slide downward over the bodice of her dress, admiring the slender curves beneath the black silk.

  “Why then, Miss Carruthers, I’ll have to find something appropriate of Maria’s for you to wear,” he said with mocking assurance.

  “Maria’s?” Her glance was skeptical, questioning his intelligence without words.

  Arrogantly he ignored her insinuation, viewing her dark garb measuringly. “You’ll need a different outfit, if you expect to go riding with me. We’ll just have to make Maria’s fit.”

  “I hardly think so,” she said, denying his suggestion. “We just aren’t built the same.”

  His grin caught her unawares, and she bit at her lip. His threat to stuff her into Maria’s clothing had been mere foolishness. No two women could be more different. Once more he’d managed to rile her with his teasing.

  And then he relented, his smile shamefaced now. “Peace? A truce of sorts?” He lifted his hand in a placating gesture, waiting for her nod of agreement. “I have just the thing for you to wear,” he said softly.

  Matt Gerrity in the role of a supplicant was not to be believed, and Emmaline privately gloated at the sight. She could afford to be generous, she decided, then smiled and shrugged eloquently.

  “You’re going to have a chance to make good on your claims,” he told her, reaching for her hand as he reminded her of her boast. “I’ll get you outfitted, and then we’ll see just how well you can ride some good Arizona horseflesh.”

  * * *

  “Whose is it?” she asked as she smoothed the soft leather garment with the palm of her hand. Dark against the pristine white of the coverlet on her bed, the riding skirt was spread for her approval. Made of tanned leather, sewn with careful stitches, it was certainly not Maria’s. Slim at the waistline and flaring into a full, separated skirt, it was obviously some woman’s prized possession. Her hand brushed once more at the creamy texture of the leather as Emmaline admired the garment.

  Matthew Gerrity’s jaw clenched, tightening for a moment as he watched her slender fingers. “It belonged to my mother,” he said finally, his voice clipped, as if he found the words difficult to speak.

  Emmaline’s eyes widened as she stood erect, clutching the skirt to her breast. “Oh...well, maybe I shouldn’t...”

  He shrugged, lifting one shoulder, as if it were but a minor detail, this protest on her part. “It’s too fine a garment to go to waste,” he said soberly. “I don’t think she’d care if you wore it.”

  As if a veil had lifted, his mouth twisted into a smile when Emmaline nodded, accepting the gift he offered.

  “Thank you,” she said gently. “I’ll be very careful with it.”

  His smile widened into a grin, quick and unexpected, taking her by surprise. Another side of this man, she realized, one she hadn’t expected. A warmer, softer element that had caught her unprepared.

  Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the grin vanished and the taciturn rancher once more stood before her. “Get ready,” he said gruffly. “I’ll get someone to saddle up a couple of horses.”

  She nodded, lifting the soft leather to brush it against the curve of her cheek, watching Matt as he turned away to leave her room. Deep within her body, a coiling heat radiated, bringing about a tingling awareness of him. Of high cheekbones and dark hair, a strong jaw with deep slashes defining his cheeks, wide shoulders and hard, heavy muscles beneath the cotton shirt he wore.

  The door shut behind him quietly, and she closed her eyes, intent on recapturing the purely masculine look of him to ponder for a moment. The width of his shoulders, the strength of those wide-palmed hands that had lifted her so casually, taking her weight as if it were nothing. Her heart pounded more rapidly while she remembered the moments on the porch, when he’d held her and kissed her with harsh intent. Yet his kiss had not repulsed her or caused her to fight his embrace.

  It was a puzzle, she decided, her eyes blinking open. And nothing in her sheltered past had prepared her to interpret the feelings that ran rampant within her. To give her his mother’s riding skirt... She shook her head unbelievingly, inhaling the fine scent of the leather.

  And this was the same man who was intent on riding roughshod over any objections she might have to offer against his manipulating her life. Biting her lip against the thought, she shook her head. “I don’t begin to understand you, Matthew Gerrity,” she murmured.

  Even as she uttered his name, she heard the telltale sound of his boots in the corridor outside her door.

  “Ten minutes, Emmaline,” he called impatiently through the closed panel.

  “Bossy,” she grumbled as the footsteps moved on, and then she sighed as she crossed to the heavy wardrobe to find a shirtwaist that would be suitable for her ride.

  * * *

  The mount he placed her on was small, a compact cow pony with muscular haunches and leashed power that surged between her knees. The saddle was strange, high in back and equipped with a knob in front, cradling her in its depths. She held the reins as Matt directed, both across her palm, guiding the horse with the pressure of the narrow leather strips across his neck.

  “Not exactly what you’re used to, is it?” Matt’s wide palms were lodged against his hips, and his eyes glittered with unconcealed glee. Watching her and assisting her in mounting the gelding had been an experience he’d thoroughly enjoyed. Holding her left foot in his palm, he’d hoisted her easily, one hand at the waistband of the skirt she wore. Regrettably, he hadn’t been able to fit her as neatly with boots. The ones he’d found in his mother’s room were a size too large, but he’d stuffed the toes with batting that secured her feet for safety.

  “I’ve ridden astride before,” she told him. “But we box our
reins and hold them with both hands.” Her palms rested on the horn of the saddle, and she scooted about in the cradle, seeking a spot where she would feel comfortable and yet in control of her mount. Her legs clung to the pony’s sides, and she spent a moment sending a prayer heavenward that she’d not disgrace herself on this first day. A vision of falling headlong in front of Matt or losing control of the horse she rode caused her to tighten her grip on the reins. Her horse pranced sideways, sensing her unease.

  “Let up on the reins!” Matt said sharply.

  “I am!” she retorted, attempting to soothe the animal. Ears back, the gelding was skittering toward the corral fence, and Emmaline realized she was facing her first test.

  With soft words and a gentle, even pressure on the reins, she turned the horse and then allowed him to move out at a quicker pace. Automatically, she rose to meet his quick trot, and behind her Matt howled his dismay.

  “No...not like that! You can’t post on a western pony. Just ride the trot...keep your rear end in the saddle and get used to the motion.” He shook his head in scorn at her eastern ways. “You’ll be laid up with liniment on your bottom at this rate,” he said, catching up with her as she rode beyond the confines of the corral.

  She glanced at him with as much dignity as she could muster, given the bouncing ride she was coping with. “I’d like to see you on a saddle with one of our big hunters between your legs and watch how you handle it!” she snapped.

  “You’ll never find me perched on one of those pancakes you call a saddle. We don’t ride for pure fun, lady. Out here, our horses are just equipment that allow us to do our work.”

  “Well, I certainly don’t call this ride pure fun.” But, gradually, she caught the rhythm of the animal she rode and settled deeper into the saddle, rolling more easily with his gait. One hand slid from the leather of the saddle to smooth the mane, which flowed against the dark neck of her mount.

  “Does this animal have a name?” she asked.