She felt his hand move beneath her. He found the hard, pulsing scrap of flesh he’d just mastered with his tongue and plied it between his fingers.
Emma moaned. “Steven—oh, please—just a few minutes—”
He kissed her bare shoulder and intensified his efforts, and soon Emma’s knees were spread wide to receive him. She clutched at the headboard again, keeping her head turned away from Steven.
“Look at me,” he ordered as several of his fingers went inside her.
Emma could no more disobey him than she could stem the searing passion that was about to set her to pitching wildly on the mattress. She turned her head toward him and he watched, rapt, as her face mirrored the breathtaking sensations he created in her.
Finally, with a little cry, she gave up the struggle. Color suffused her face and her eyes glazed with ecstasy as she convulsed, her moisture dampening his hand.
She turned onto her back when it was over, in a daze of need. No matter how many times Steven brought her to the pinnacle, her satisfaction would never be complete until he took her beneath him and made her unquestionably his own.
His control was monumental, and he was far from the point of taking her. That knowledge gave Emma the strength to shift to her knees, facing him, the boldness to meet his eyes even as she clasped his shaft in her hand.
He gave a strangled moan as her thumb caressed the tip, and he plunged his fingers into her hair when she lowered her mouth to him. During the next minute or so she repaid him in spades for all the times he’d made her dance at the end of a string.
At last, with a rasp of desperation, he caught her shoulders in his hands, forced her backwards onto the mattress and came into her with the grace of a diver plunging into a glistening lake.
His hands clasping her bottom, lifting her for his driving strokes, he covered her face with fevered kisses then her neck and her breasts. He let loose a moaning shout of triumph when his seed was wrung from him, and Emma joined him only a split second later.
They fell asleep, their arms and legs still entwined, with the cool spring air swirling in from the open window to surround and soothe them.
The judge was a nervous, florid-faced little man with a snow-white mustache and no hair at all on top of his head. He wore a striped s, and his watchchain seemed stretched to the breaking point across his belly.
“You’re sure you want to do this now?” he had asked, chewing on a cigar as he perused the marriage license Emma and Steven had purchased only minutes before. “A weddin’ is serious business. I don’t want one or the other of you back in here in a week’s time, wanting out of the contract.”
“We’re sure,” Steven said, as Emma lowered her eyes and blushed. She and Steven had been tossing on that hotel room bed on and off for twenty-four hours. If they didn’t get married—and soon—God was probably going to strike them both with lightning.
“What about you, young lady?” the judge demanded.
“I’m sure, too,” she said timidly.
At that, the old man fetched a book from his desk drawer, wet a fingertip on his tongue, and began flipping through the thin pages. Finally, he came to the place he wanted and cleared his throat ceremoniously.
Frank Deva and the judge’s old-maid sister stood by as witnesses and, when it came time for the exchange of rings, Steven surprised Emma by producing a wide gold band and slipping it onto her finger.
The marriage took less than five minutes, by Emma’s reckoning. She signed the license with a trembling hand and took a moment to admire her new name.
Steven looked as happy as she felt when he scrawled his signature with a flourish.
Frank and the judge’s sister congratulated them both, then they left. Steven was to drive the supply wagon back to Big John’s ranch, his horse and Emma’s tethered to the rear of it, while Sing Cho drove the chuckwagon.
Macon rode up beside them just when Steven was releasing the brake lever, the reins clasped in his hands. “I hear congratulations are in order, little brother,” he said, and his tone and smile gave the words a tinge of acid. His eyes roved brazenly over Emma. “It’ll be a pleasure to console your widow.”
Steven’s fingers flexed, and Emma knew he longed to close them over the butt of his pistol. “I can still kill you, here and now,” he said evenly. “We could be in Canada before you were cold.”
Macon’s face tightened with hatred, but he said no more. He simply wheeled his horse around and spurred it hard.
Throughout the day Emma was horribly aware of the little band of men traveling just a few hundred yards behind them.
That night, and for the five nights following, when she and Steven and Sing Cho camped, they could see Macon’s fire almost as clearly as their own. The specter of Steven’s trial hovered over them constantly, even when they were alone in their makeshift bed in the supply wagon, locked in the sweet combat that is passion.
Six days had passed when they reached Whitneyville
Chloe and Daisy both came running down the walk, Chloe smiling and chattering, Daisy scolding. They both embraced Emma when Steven lifted her down from the wagon.
“I’ll be back as soon as I’ve talked to Big John,” Steven told hr, planting a light kiss on her forehead.
Emma nodded and watched as he drove away.
“There’s a letter for you,” Chloe said, her arm around Emma’s waist as she hurried her toward the house. “Did I tell you how much we missed you around here, and how mad we were that you just took off without a word?”
“I’m sorry,” Emma said, but she didn’t explain because the situation was too complicated. She showed Chloe and Daisy the wide gold band on her finger and told them she was Emma Fairfax now, and that she’d be off to New Orleans within the week.
Chloe hugged her, her eyes brimming with happy tears, and produced the letter she’d spoken of.
Emma’s heart all but stopped beating when she opened it. It was a brief note, written in a vaguely familiar hand, and it was signed Kathleen Harrington. Emma had to read the whole thing over twice before she comprehended that her mother had found her, after all these years, and written a letter begging her to come to her in Chicago. She’d included a seven-hundred-and-fifty-dollar bank draft, specifying that Emma was to use it for any purpose she chose.
Sitting there in the parlor rocking chair, her eyes closed against years of pain, confusion, and anger, Emma tried to make sense of a tangle of conflicting emotions.
Emma watched as Steven read the letter from Kathleen and set it aside on the table in Chloe’s parlor. “You realize, of course,” he said gently, “that if she’s found you, she might have located Caroline and Lily too.”
“Yes,” Emma said softly, stubbornly. She’d had the same thought, but had been almost afraid to hope, due to the many disappointments she’d suffered in the past.
“Your mother deserves a chance to explain herself,” he said. His tone was eminently reasonable and insistent. “She might be very different now from the woman you remember.”
Emma shook her head. “A person like that doesn’t change, and kindly don’t refer to her as my mother. That was a role Chloe filled. I want nothing from Kathleen Harrington.”
“Not even to know the whereabouts of your sisters? After all these years, when you’re on the brink of finding Lily and Caroline, you’re just going to give up?”
“Of course not!” Emma pushed herself out of her chair because she couldn’t let it contain her any longer. She stood with her back to Steven, staring sightlessly at the fireplace, her hands clasped together with such force that the knuckles showed white. “I’m going to write to her and ask her about them.”
“You could go back to Chicago now,” Steven reasoned, standing just behind her. His hands gripped her shoulders lightly, and she drew a certain strength from his nearness. “It would give you something to think about while I’m—while I’m settling things in New Orleans.”
Emma turned in his embrace, her color high with the he
at of her convictiwas a role#8220;I love my sisters, and I want desperately to find them.” She paused and sighed, her blue eyes searching his face. “I never thought anything or anybody could be more important to me than they are,” she went on. “But that was before I met you. We’ll go to Chicago together, Steven, when the trial is over.”
He drew her into his arms and held her in silence, knowing she’d made her decision and nothing would sway her from it.
Chloe’s yard was decorated with streamers and colorful paper lanterns, and a little band of musicians played pleasant tunes on a platform at one end of the lawn. Tables laden with food drew women in gauzy organdy dresses and men in Sunday suits, and little children zigzagged throughout, chasing each other and laughing with glee.
Dressed in an ivory silk dress with a low, ruffled bodice, fitted waist, and full skirt, Emma watched the townspeople enjoying Chloe’s picnic. The phenomenon was nothing new, really. “None of them would speak to her on the street,” she said to Steven, who stood beside her, wearing a suit and holding a cup of punch in one hand. “But when Chloe gives a party, they trip over themselves to show up.”
She felt Steven’s finger curve under her chin and turned to look into his face. “You’re going to miss Chloe a lot, aren’t you?” he asked softly.
Emma swallowed, even though she had yet to lift her cup to her mouth, and nodded. “I don’t know that I could have survived without her. She was always there when I needed her.”
Steven set her punch and his own back on the refreshment table, took her hand, and led her toward the quickly assembled wooden platform that served as a dance floor. As the music started up again he pulled Emma into his arms, and they were both oblivious to the couples spinning around them.
For a few moments Emma was able to put her worries out of her mind. This was something she could manage only when Steven was making love to her, or when she was gazing directly into his face, as she was now. She was a creature of sunshine, living only in the moment, and Steven whirled her around and around the floor until she was breathless.
When the music stopped, she was laughing, but the sound died in her throat when Fulton walked boldly up to them and said to Emma, “May I have this dance?”
After a glance at Steven, Emma nodded, and Fulton waltzed her away.
“Surprised that Chloe invited me?” he asked.
Emma executed a slight shrug. “Not really. It looks to me like she’s invited everybody in the county.”
Fulton favored her with an awkward, halfhearted grin. “I was quite stunned when I heard you’d actually married,” he ventured to say. “And now you’re planning to travel all the way to New Orleans with him.”
She was annoyed, but only mildly. After all, it was understandable that Fulton would be surprised, and besides, once the train left on Monday morning, she’d probably never see him again. “Mr. Fairfax is my husband,” she answered.
Fulton looked exasperated. “There is talk, Emma. People are saying Fairfax is going to hang. Where will that leave you?”
Emma stiffened, then told herself she shouldn’t have been shocked. Macon had probably regaled everyone who was willing to listen with stories of Steven’s sins. “I believe he’s innocent.”
Her dance partner gave an indulgent little smile. “Let’s hope the jury agrees with you.”
The party was, for all practical purposes, Emma’s wedding reception, and she resented having it spoiled with cruel reminders of what might lie ahead. She and Steven were trying hard to live in the moment, but it seemed that no one else wanted to let them.
She deliberately changed the subject. “There’s Joellen Lenahan,” she said, as the now-subdued girl arrived with her father. According to Chloe, Joellen would be leaving for boarding school in Boston within the week, with Big John’s spinster sister Martha escorting her on the train ride.
Fulton took no notice of the Lenahans. His face was slightly red and he cleared his throat. “About the other night—when I—when I was not a gentleman. I’m sorry for that, Emma.”
Emma was not one to bear grudges, excepting the one she had against Kathleen, of course. “It’s forgotten,” she said.
When the dance ended and Fulton had walked away, she sensed someone standing directly behind her and made an eager turn, expecting to see Steven. Instead, Emma found herself looking straight into the eyes of Macon Fairfax. Before she could flee, or even speak, he pulled her into a dance.
“What are you doing here?” she sputtered angrily. She tried to push away, but he was strong and her efforts were ineffectual.
Macon arched one eyebrow. He resembled Steven in the way a caricature might, and while he was handsome, there was a rough-edged coldness in his manner that made him unappealing. “I can’t believe you’re startled, Miss Emma,” he said. “My men and I have never been more than a stone’s throw away since the day I caught up to Steven on the trail drive.”
Emma blushed furiously, wondering what private things he might have heard or seen, if any. Then anger took over, as she remembered how he’d kidnapped her and held a gun to her neck. “Steven didn’t kill your son,” she said quietly. “Or that poor Mary McCall.”
“My half-brother is a persuasive man,” Macon answered smoothly, but his brown eyes snapped with controlled hatred. “I see he’s used his considerable charms to convince you that his heart is pure as the driven snow.”
Again Emma tried to pull away, but her hand was grasped tightly in his and his fingers were digging into the small of her back. Her eyes swept over the other dancers and the picnickers, searching for some sign of Steven. He was talking with Frank Deva when she spotted him, and he seemed to feel her gaze, for he immediately looked in her direction.
He’d obviously thought she was still dancing with Fulton, and when he recognized Macon, he strode toward them.
Macon pulled Emma very close, so that her forehead touched his and her breasts were crushed against his chest, and his words washed over her face, warm and foul with abhorrence. “When you get to New Orleans, and my dear brother is out of the way, I’ll have to teach you not to spread your legs for killers,” he said. And then he turned and hurried away.
When Steven passed her, Emma reached out and caught his arm. “Let him go,” she whispered brokenly. “Just let him go.”
Steven hesitated for a long moment, then turned his back on Macon’s retreating figure and took Emma gently by the hand. “Let’s go and have some of that cake Daisy baked for us,” he said quietly.
After the cake, photographs were taken. Emma wondered, as she posed in Chloe’s parlor, standing solemnly behind Steven’s chair with one hand resting on his shoulder, whether she would look at the pictures in later years and see signs of the strain she was feeling now.
She was grateful when the photographer had finished, and so blinded by the exploding flash powder that Steven had to lead her out of the room.
“What did he say to you?” he demanded, when they were alone in Chloe’s study, with the doors closed.
Emma rubbed her eyes. “Who?” she replied, stalling.
Steven only looked at her, his expression wry, his jawline tight.
A headache pounded at the base of her skull and she sighed, wishing she could go to her room and lie down with a cold cloth on her head. They both knew Steven was talking about Macon, but Emma didn’t dare admit the man had threatened her again. Steven would get furious, maybe violent, and he might insist on leaving her in Whitneyville until the trial was over, or sending her to Chicago.
“He only wanted to dance,” she said, avoiding her husband’s eyes.
Steven caught her chin in a rough but painless grasp. “Once and for all, Emma,” he breathed, “don’t lie to me. I won’t tolerate it, not even from you.”
Tears gathered in Emma’s lashes. “He said—he said he’d have to teach me n-not to spread my l-legs for killers, once you were gone.”
Steven’s face contorted with rage, and he whirled away from Emma and stormed towar
d the door. She ran after him and caught hold of his arm. “One murder trial is enough,” she cried. “Please, Steven—let it pass!”
She watched as a variety of ferocious emotions moved across his face. Finally, Steven shoved the splayed fingers of his right hand through his hair and said, “I want to kill him.” He folded that same hand into a fist and slammed it against the wall. “I want to kill him.”
“I know,” Emma said gently. “But it wouldn’t be worth sacrificing all the years ahead, Steven.”
He drew her close and held her, and his lips moved in her hair. “When I’m acquitted of killing Mary, the first thing I’m going to do is make love to you. The second thing is beat the hell out of Macon.”
Emma smiled up at him. “When I get through with you,” she promised, full of bravado and hope, “you won’t have the strength to beat the hell out of anybody.”
Steven chuckled hoarsely. “Ishim.”?” he retorted. “Well, maybe I’d better take you upstairs right now, Mrs. Fairfax, and find out if you’re bluffing.”
“You’ll just have to wait until evening, Mr. Fairfax,” Emma responded airily. “I intend to enjoy our wedding party.”
“That was exactly what I had in mind.” Steven grinned.
Emma laughed and shook her head, her fears lost again, at least temporarily, in the boundless love she bore this man.
Joellen Lenahan glanced distastefully around Marshal Woodridge’s dirty, cluttered little office. She was afraid she’d spoil her new organdy dress and was anxious to get back to the party. God knew, once she got to Boston, good times would be few and far between.
“I don’t know why that silly old man had to pick today to retire,” she fussed, as her father systematically went through the wanted posters pinned to the wall, throwing most of them away.
“Be quiet, Joellen,” Big John said impatiently. “Clean out the desk or something.”
Joellen gave a longsuffering sigh. “The party isn’t even over,” she complained, as she pulled open the middle drawer in the marshal’s desk and glared down at the mess of papers and letters inside. “You could have let me stay at Chloe’s while you did this.”
Emma and the Outlaw Page 25