A Wedding Story

by Susan Kay Law

  “Apparently I don’t.” She twisted her arm away as subtly as she could.

  “Let me try.” Miss Dooley joined Kate on the cot, a whiff of powder and violet soap accompanying her arrival. “We realize that Lord Bennett has some rather…obvious charms. We also understand sometimes women find themselves in…” she paused delicately before plunging on. “Situations from which it is difficult to extricate oneself. Believe me, I know.” Mrs. Latimore and Miss Dooley exchanged glances. “Only too well.”

  Kate searched for an appropriately noncommittal answer and settled for “Hmm.”

  “Would you like our assistance?” Miss Dooley asked gently.

  “With what?”

  “With getting away from that man!” Mrs. Latimore snapped.

  “Jim?”

  “Of course, Lord Bennett.”

  “Oh.” Understanding dawned. “I do appreciate, so very much, your concern. But I am fine. Truly.”

  “Come now, there is no need to lie for him. We’ve seen how he treats you.” Agitation simmered in Mrs. Latimore’s voice. “He did not want you to come over when I first invited you, did he? And I saw him grab your elbow to stop you.”

  Kate bit back a most inappropriate smile. The women’s concern was admirable, but having Jim cast as the worst sort of cad was too entertaining. “I can only assure you that I am not mistreated.”

  “After what we witnessed in such a brief period of time, we can only wonder what else goes on in more private moments,” Mrs. Latimore said.

  “Mrs. Latimore, Miss Dooley, I am touched and grateful. But Jim…I grant you he is sometimes—often—ill-mannered, and is prone to issuing orders without due consideration. But he is not cruel.”

  “Miss Riley.” Mrs. Latimore’s tone was pure steel. “The holds men can wield over women are many. I do not know what weapon he uses to control you, whether financial, sexual, or simple fear, but I can help free you. I promise.”

  “I—” The suggestion that Jim held a sexual claim over her echoed persistently in her brain. Her cheeks heated. “I do not know what further I can say to convince you. Our arrangement is strictly business. A legal and moral one,” she added hastily.

  “Miss Riley—” Mrs. Latimore began with real heat until Miss Dooley’s soft interjection stopped her.

  “We cannot press her further, Anne, or we are no better than what we have accused him of.”

  Mrs. Latimore considered briefly then nodded. “We will drop the subject for now. But know, Miss Riley, that should you change your mind we stand ready to offer our assistance at any time. You may depend upon our word in this matter.”

  “I do.” A rush of warm gratitude caught her by surprise. “And I am truly grateful. There was a time in my life when I might have welcomed your rescue, but I can handle Lord Bennett.”

  Handle Lord Bennett? Her conscience jeered at her presumption. She doubted there was a woman alive who had ever handled Jim Bennett.

  Miss Dooley turned down the lantern wick and the three women slid beneath their bedclothes a moment later. Like Jim, the other two women had apparently learned the skill of falling asleep at the closing of an eyelid, for it seemed only a few seconds later gentle snores rumbled from the other cots.

  But try as she might, though she might have given half her wardrobe to keep the pillow, though the feel of crisp linen against her limbs had her shivering with long-denied pleasure, Kate could not seem to fall asleep.

  They simply did not breathe like Jim. She’d become accustomed to the rhythm, like a child who needed to hear the same lullaby each night before she could drift off. And while half the time he frustrated her to no end, while his presence in her life was neither simple nor easy, she could not deny that, whenever he slumbered near her, she had always felt utterly safe.

  Handle Lord Bennett? Perhaps she could. But her own response to him? Now that was something she clearly could not handle.

  But then, she never could.

  Jim stumbled out of his tent and slammed his eyes shut against the bright sun that felt like it was going to gouge them right out of his head. He pressed his fingers against his temples, trying to massage away the stabbing pain.

  Damn, he thought. That stuff Ming Ho had hauled out after the women had retreated into their tent—what had he called it, Maotai?—was potent. And who’d have thought the little fellow could drink him under the table?

  It had brought back good memories. Slouching around a campfire with other men, passing around a bottle and outrageous stories of places most of the people on earth had never heard of much less slogged through.

  That was his life. Straightforward, far away, wild. Resolutely male, except for an occasional night or two with exotic, dark-skinned women who considered an evening of passion a much less complicated transaction than a woman such as Kate viewed a waltz. There was no allowance in his future for any other kind of woman, and even less for a woman like Kate.

  These few weeks were an aberration. He would do well to remember that. Then he’d get out of places with roads and houses ruining the landscape, away from women who wielded their beauty like a mercenary used his rifle, and back to somewhere he only had to worry about simple things like wild animals that considered him a snack and rivers that turned into rapids without warning.

  Hell, he should have done it months ago. Stupid of him to think he’d need a little time to let Matt’s death settle; that brief break had somehow ballooned into reluctance to head back out again. He should have known he needed to get right back on the horse. In retribution, fate had handed him Kate Goodale.

  And of course, because the thing you wanted least always showed up right when you were thinking how much you wished it wouldn’t, there she was now, hurrying up with her face flushed and her eyes bright.

  Christ, it really wasn’t fair. Despite his best intentions she almost always rose before he did. By the time he crawled out of his bedroll she was already primped and polished, looking more like a dressmaker’s sample doll than a real woman. Like you might get your knuckles rapped if you dared to touch one glossy wave on her head.

  She had on a fresh shirt, crisp and white as if some maid had handed it to her freshly ironed. He wondered how she kept coming up with them. This one was at least the third since they’d begun. Her skirt was perhaps worse for the wear, smudged along the hem, but it tugged smoothly over the lush curve of her hips before erupting in the back over the bustle she’d yet to surrender. The stiff geometry of civilized women’s clothes never ceased to amaze him. Though he had to admit there was a certain fascination in trying to discern the true curves beneath. Maybe that was the point.

  She was still so beautiful, nearly to the point of unreality. Slickly cool, almost artificial. He hated that she still affected him, even knowing all she was. She’d cuckolded the doctor and nearly lured him into it, too, however unwittingly.

  But it wasn’t that simple. It had been easier when he could label her the calculating bitch and nothing else. By now he had to admit that she was not nearly so basic as that. And those flashes of more beneath the surface, of humor and vulnerability, of shadows and intelligence, were far more devastating than her mere beauty had ever been. But maybe that was what had trapped the doctor so neatly.

  It bothered him that, even now, he couldn’t tell for sure. Couldn’t neatly catalogue her, separating the truth from the lie. But reading people had never been one of his strong points. Currents, clouds, the plunge of a valley or the best line up a mountain, yes. But not people. It was why he’d always been much more comfortable in Brazil than in England.

  Was it really so wrong of him to…enjoy her? As long as he kept in mind precisely who and what she was? And that, he thought, was where things got really tricky.

  “Sleep well?” he asked.

  “Oh.” She stopped abruptly, skirts fluttering around her ankles, hands flickering at her waist. “Yes. I guess I did. I—” She darted a quick look over her shoulder, in the direction of where the clearing faded into the t
rees.

  “Kate?”

  “Hmm?” She shot another quick glance toward the woods. “Fine. Just fine. I—” She took a quick breath, trying to calm herself, and failed.

  “What is it?” When she didn’t answer he turned and headed for the stand of trees.

  “No!” She grabbed his arm in both hands and hung on. “Don’t go in there!”

  A man couldn’t be blamed for enjoying for a moment before he peeled her hands off his arm. “Tell me why I shouldn’t or I’m going.”

  She bit down on her lip in indecision. When he took one more step she burst out: “Oh, all right! Really, though, it’s nothing. And I’d really rather respect her privacy. It’s nothing that’ll matter to you in any way.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

  “I got up early—you know I like to do that—and there’s a stream, only a few yards in that direction. Ming Ho mentioned it last night, and I—”

  “You shouldn’t be wandering around alone.”

  The glance she shot him simmered with impatience. “Do you want to discuss that now?”

  “Depends. Are you going to get to the point any time soon?”

  Color flooded her cheeks. “I saw them,” she whispered.

  He squinted into the thickening copse of trees.

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Latimore and Ming Ho.”

  “So? You saw them last night, too, and…oh. You saw them.”

  “Yes.” She gestured at her waist. “He didn’t have a stitch on, and…” Her eyes fogged. “Who would have thought that’s what he looked like underneath? He’s not nearly as skinny as he looks. You know, I always imagined that—”

  “Kate.” Now that, he thought, was asking too much of a man, expecting him to listen while she rhapsodized about another.

  “What? Oh.” She grinned cheekily at him. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it. An artistic eye, you know.”

  “Is that what you call it?” She’d just handed him evidence of her wandering eye. He should have been furious, offended. But she was so damn good-natured about it, her eyes dancing with laughter, and it was just so much work to stay angry with her. What difference did it make now, anyway? “Huh. Mrs. Latimore and Ming Ho? And here I always sort of assumed it was Mrs. Latimore and Miss Dooley that—”

  “Jim!” she gasped, truly shocked.

  “Come now, Kate.” He nudged her beneath the chin that had nearly dropped to her chest. “You really need to get out more often.”

  She struggled to overlay her astonishment with a mask of worldly sophistication. Jim wondered if she had any idea just how badly she failed. “But I…I…” She lapsed into stunned silence.

  “So that’s what it takes to make you speechless? Good to know.”

  She recovered quickly. “I’m not speechless. I’m just…too much of a lady to speak about such things.”

  “Oh, yes, too much of a lady to speak about such things, but not too much of a lady to ogle a naked man you just happened to stumble across, huh? Just how long did you watch?”

  Now that got all her feathers ruffled. “I didn’t watch! How can you…” In the face of his knowing grin, she stopped, shrugged. “Can I help it if it took a few seconds to recover my wits?”

  “Perfectly understandable.” He debated prodding her a bit more. But if her face got any redder, she might suffer a burn. “Did they know you were there?”

  “No. They were…otherwise occupied. And, whatever you think, I really was there only a moment.”

  “Good.”

  “Can we go now?” He’d left his supplies beside the tent he’d shared with Ming Ho and now she bent down, snagged the strap of his pack, and heaved it at him. He caught it automatically, surprised at the momentum behind her throw. Three weeks ago she probably couldn’t even have lifted it. “I’m already packed.”

  “Hoping to get out of here before they finish…”

  “Simply anxious to be on our way,” she said. “I’ve already expressed my appreciation and taken my leave.”

  “Kate.”

  “Oh, all right. I’m not sure I can look either of them in the eye without turning red as a tomato, and it’s really not my color.”

  “I’m not sure I could, either,” he admitted.

  Her smile was warm, hinting at the intimacy of shared amusement, and he thumped his chest with his fist, just to remind his heart to keep beating.

  “Shall we go, then?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Gather your things. I’ll fetch the horses and meet you by your tent.” As she turned to do as he asked—not one single protest, he thought, would miracles never cease—he said, “And actually, I thought you looked very nice all blushing-red.”

  The color bloomed again, softer this time, along with the shy, uncertain smile of a young girl who’d just received her first compliment from a stammering suitor. For that moment, as she stood in the strong morning light, even with the few lines that had etched themselves in her skin, even with the deeper curves of her body and the more sophisticated style to her hair, she reminded him so strongly of the girl he’d kissed that night long ago that he nearly reached for her now without thinking, because he had so many times in his dreams.

  He abruptly bent to sort through his pack, and so he missed how her smile faded when he brusquely turned his back to her.

  “Get going,” he ordered her roughly.

  It took Kate only a few moments to ready her things. She’d done most of it in advance, as she’d told Jim, but she was also impressed at just how efficient she’d become at packing. The last time she visited Emily, she thought, it had taken her nearly two weeks of dithering to decide what to pack in her trunks.

  She tried, and nearly managed, to shrug off Jim’s rudeness. It wasn’t as if she shouldn’t be used to it by now. If he wanted to keep her on her toes by being alternately friendly and downright hostile, well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of showing that it bothered her.

  Though she wouldn’t bet that it wasn’t calculated and the man was merely horribly moody. No wonder he spent so much time stumbling around in the wild. No civilized human would put up with him for long.

  She waited impatiently for him to bring the horses around. Why was it that the morning she was anxious to be gone, he was taking absolutely forever?

  Finally she gave up. Perhaps he was having trouble with the horses. God knows he’d never ask for her help, even if he needed it, and she was becoming quite proficient at dealing with her mare if she did say so herself.

  If they didn’t hurry up, Mrs. Latimore and Ming Ho were going to be…finished. She sped around the corner, prepared to do whatever was necessary to get the man moving, and pulled up short when she saw him.

  He wasn’t ready, wasn’t even near ready. Was further from ready than he’d been when she left him. He was kneeling on the ground beside the tent and he must have dumped nearly every single thing in his pack and his bag on the ground. Now he was pawing through them. As she watched, he tore through a pile of clothes, throwing each one over his shoulder after he examined it, punctuating each toss with words the likes of which would get him thrown out of every parlor in Philadelphia.

  “What in heaven’s name are you doing?”

  He sat back on his heels and the potent snarl on his face had her taking an involuntary step backward. “Our map’s gone.”

  “What?” She flew to his side and tore through a pile of blankets. “I’ll help you look.”

  “There’s no point in it. I’ve checked everywhere. It’s gone.”

  “Where’d you keep it?”

  “Pack. Side pocket.”

  She dragged his limp canvas pack near and burrowed into the pocket that tied with a thin leather strap. “It’s empty.”

  “I told you that.”

  “Where’d you leave it last night?”

  “Right there with the rest of my stuff.”

  “Outside?” She couldn’t believe it.

  “Yeah, well
.” He would not shift guiltily, damn it. “That’s where it was this morning, so it figures that was where it was last night, doesn’t it?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Of course I remember.” Barely. Foggily. “I left it right there.”

  “You left it?”

  The woman sounded as if he’d abandoned a baby in the middle of a busy street. “Well, it would have been rude of me to insist on bringing all my stuff into Ming Ho’s tent, wouldn’t it? It was tight as it was. It’s a little tent, and I’m a big guy.”

  “Oh, yes, I know that not being rude always takes complete precedence for you,” she said dryly.

  He tossed aside the small leather pouch he was pawing through, stood, and wheeled for the woods.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Going to find out who stole our map.”

  “Just a minute.” She pressed her fingers to her temples. “I have to think.”

  “Thinking takes time.”

  “And how are you going to explain that you knew where they were? If you go in there, they’ll guess that I saw them.”

  “So?”

  “Jim, if they’ve stolen the map, they’re hardly going to tell you just because you accuse them. They’re not that weak.”

  He flexed his fingers, balled them up into a fist. “Oh, I think I can convince them.”

  “You are not going to beat it out of them, Jim,” she ordered him.

  “Why not?”

  She stared at him, incredulous. “Even if you could—”

  “Oh, I could.”

  “It’d likely get us disqualified.”

  He couldn’t admit that she had a point.

  “Besides which, I really don’t believe Mrs. Latimore’s the one who took the map.”

  “Know her so well, do you?” He kicked at a ball of rope in his way, sending it wheeling across the clearing, unraveling all the way. “I should have known there was something odd about their inviting us here last night. Mrs. Latimore was never known for her hospitality.”

  Despite everything, a smile flitted at the corners of her mouth. “Jim, they invited us to rescue me.”