Carole Howey - Sheik's Glory

by Carole Howey

  He paused. Staring at her, he realized he did, indeed, need to hold her. But he wanted it even more. He swallowed the profusion of alien emotions that suddenly rose in him and decided to give them all one name: love. He was amazed by how easily it went down.

  She was pretty and fresh before him, and he did not even want to touch the starched white lawn of her shirtwaist lest he soil it. He rubbed the flat of his hands against the hip pockets of his jeans, then tentatively felt the indentation of her waist with his fingertips. She came to him gently, as if she feared to hurt him. She smelled like a fresh nosegay. She fit perfectly with him, her head beneath his chin, her face pressed lightly to his neck and collarbone. The fullness of her figure was a reminder, if he needed one, that she was a woman.

  "Are you still mad at me?" He realized that one thing mattered to him more than anything else.

  "I was never mad at you," she murmured against his shirt. "Are you . . . do you still want to marry me?"

  He deliberately shut out the specters of Seamus and Madeleine. "I was afraid you'd changed your mind," he replied, allowing himself a small sigh. "Of course I want to marry you. Although I guess I won't be making it down any aisles today. I doubt I could even climb into a buggy. I'm sorry."

  The sweet softness of her shining dark hair beneath his nose made him sorrier still.

  "Flynn."

  Did she tense in his arms, or did he just imagine it?

  "Mmm?"

  It didn't matter to him, as long as she didn't move just yet.

  "Um, the reason I missed supper last night with you and Seamus is because I had to go into town."

  "Oh?"

  "Then on my way back, I stopped by the church to talk to Rev. Whitmire. You won't have to walk down the aisle, or even climb into any buggy, because he's coming out here to marry us this afternoon. Sheriff Garlock will bring the license. Lucy and Micah can be wit

  nesses. That is, if you're sure you still want to . . .?"

  She held fast to his lapels as she put the half-question to his shirt buttons. He wanted to answer her right away, but he stopped himself. When they were children, Seamus had once dared him to throw a rock through a neighbor's window, a persnickety old maiden lady who kept cats. He'd done it sure enough, but he remembered running straight home afterward, where he'd about hugged their foster mother to death. He hadn't thought about it at the time, but he recalled the incident as an adult and realized he'd needed to make sure he was still loved before the angry neighbor came to call with the disturbing news.

  "Whose window did you throw a rock through?"

  She pushed away from him and met his gaze with confusion.

  "What?"

  He wanted to laugh but he dared only a small chuckle, for the good of his ribs and for the sake of his relationship with Missy.

  "Never mind. It just means I don't know whether to be flattered or frightened by this impetuosity. I think, for the sake of my health, I'll choose the former. But I need a shave and a bath for sure, and it's going to take me extra long to do both, in my condition."

  In my condition. Lord, it was going to be his wedding night! And he was scarcely able to move without hurting himself!

  "What is it, Flynn?" she murmured, tugging his shirt with urgency. "Are you in pain?"

  He did not know what spirit had moved Missy to expedite their vows, but he was not about to suggest a delay, or to give her any reason to do so.

  "Not just yet." He rubbed his stubbled jaw, attempting to hide a wry grimace. But I'm planning to be, he added to himself. "Would you would you like your brother to be here as a witness? We could send Rich to town to fetch him." Her tone made it clear that she was only offering out of respect for his wishes, whatever they might be.

  I think you've just given me an idea of how to make everybody happy.

  Flynn restrained a shudder at the memory of Seamus's cryptic remark.

  "No," he replied, holding her closer despite the twinge in his ribs. "In fact, I think I'd prefer it if he weren't here."

  He didn't ask. If he did, you would have told him.

  "'Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not love, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.'"

  Missy scarcely heard Rev. Whitmire's solemn, resonant assertion for the guilty clamor in her conscience. Flynn stood beside her in the archway of the parlor, his crooked elbow making a sheltering nest for her hand, which was cold and trembling despite the July heat. Flynn smelled of the cedar closet where his suit had been stored, of soap, and of the clean, civilized, masculine scent of bay rum. He glanced down at her; she noticed it from the corner of her eye, but she could not bring herself to return his favor.

  "' . . . and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not love, I am nothing.'" The Rev. Whitmire had a deep, lovely voice like the pealing of distant, sonorous, Southern church bells. The sound of it never failed to move Missy. She tried to concentrate on First Corinthians.

  "'And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not love, it profiteth me nothing.'"

  Give up my body to be burned . . . Missy burned whenever she thought of being with Flynn, of having his skin next to hers. And the devil take whatever profit there was in the C-Bar-C or, for that matter, in a life for her that did not include Flynn Muldaur. She blushed, doubting that the apostle Paul had any such corporeal meanings in mind when penning his epistle in prison.

  "'Love suffereth long and is kind. . . .'" That was true. Flynn was never anything but kind. And as far as suffering, weren't his bruises from his fight with Bill Boland proof enough of that? "'Love envieth not; love vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up. . . .'"

  Vanity had never been one of her sins, Missy knew. Allyn had often told her she could do with a little more of it. And as far as envy went, well, she'd conquered her envy of Madeleine Deauville and her daughter, an accomplishment of which she would be proud, if it didn't lead to the very vanity St. Paul cautioned against. . . .

  "'Love doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil. . . .'"

  Well, as far as that went, she had some explaining to do to the Almighty, for Seamus Muldaur and the women had provoked her past endurance. Besides, she was certainly guilty of evil thoughts in Seamus's direction, as well as in Madeleine's and Antoinette's. But she was only human, not a saint like Paul. God might overlook it.

  "'Love rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in truth. . . .'"

  Her throat stopped up and her breast ached at that assertion. She had not been wholly truthful with Flynn, and St. Paul seemed to know it. Paul was not an apostle who let one off easily. He must have been a brutal taskmaster in his time, she thought miserably. If she were a Corinthian, she would have loved nothing better than to see him martyred. To make matters worse, Flynn patted her hand, the one tucked into the crook of his arm. The tender, protective gesture made her want to cry.

  "'Love beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. . . .'"

  She had been too willing, overhearing Flynn and his brother two days before, to believe the worst of her betrothed, the man she was supposed to love. Even yesterday at the hotel, with Madeleine and her daughter, she had doubted and questioned, the result of which was her hastening of these very nuptials. . . .

  "'Love never faileth. . . .'"

  But her love had failed. Or she had failed it; she could not be sure which. She doubted it mattered. What mattered was that she was taking a man, Flynn Muldaur, in a matrimony founded on deception and distrust. It was an action which shamed her before God. She should have run from the room, but the knowledge that to do so was to shame herself instead before Rev. Whitmire, Sheriff Garlock, Lucy, Micah, Gideon, and Flynn himself proved too great a wage for her. And the wages of sin, as everyone knew, were death. Would God ever forgive such a sacrilege as she was about to commit? Could she ever forgive herself, on Flynn's
behalf as well as God's?

  "Who gives this woman in holy matrimony?"

  The room was a silent condemnation: she had forgotten to prepare for that feature of the ceremony. Her mouth would not move. Flynn started to speak but, seeming to realize that he could hardly give and receive her in the same ritual, fell awkwardly silent again. Micah Watts shuffled his feet. Eldon Garlock cleared his throat with a self-conscious rumble.

  "I do."

  It was young Gideon who spoke, with more than a little defiance. Missy could not bring herself to face the small assembly to watch his approach, but she did not have to wait long to see him. He stepped in front of her, right up to Rev. Whitmire, solemn and dignified, his arms by his sides and his shoulders straight. Despite overalls that scarcely reached his ankles, he looked more like a man than a child, but enough of both to make Missy's heart ache with love and pride.

  Rev. Whitmire's bushy gray eyebrows met. He moved his mouth once as if he meant to speak, possibly to deny Gideon his right, but he paused, glancing first at Missy, then Flynn. His brows parted again like the Red Sea. His gray-streaked beard parted, too, in a grin.

  "Well, I think that's fitting, as it was you as got these people together," the minister said slowly.

  Gideon's shoulders relaxed, and when he looked up at her truth to tell, he didn't need to look very far his grin was irritating. Proprietary. And utterly endearing. She slipped her hand from the supporting crook of Flynn's elbow and, before she could inventory a host of reasons why she shouldn't, she hugged Gideon and kissed him beside his ear.

  He did not stiffen or try to break away from her, she realized in amazement. On the contrary: she felt his hands on her elbows in a tentative return of her affection that brought a renewed swelling to the back of her throat. It was a small thing, unremarkable to those present, except perhaps for Flynn. But it comforted Missy in a way she had not expected. It was as clear a sign as she needed that God understood why she'd acted as she had with regard to Flynn, even forgave her for it. A tear of relief threatened her poise and the corner of her eye, but she blinked it away.

  And if she'd had any doubt about God's hand in the proceedings, Flynn's subsequent sniffle removed it.

  Gideon stayed by her side as Rev. Whitmire went on with his part. Missy intermingled her own prayerful thoughts with his words. Marriages had been founded on weaker premises even Allyn's had begun as a union of convenience, intended as temporary but, feeling the warmth of Flynn's arm cradling her hand, Missy knew she would not be content giving anything less than her whole heart to the endeavor.

  ''I, Daniel Flynn Muldaur, take thee, Melissa Judith Cannon. . . ."

  Daniel? Missy stole a look at Flynn, but he was looking at Rev. Whitmire with a most pale and serious countenance. Daniel. A nice name, to be sure, but why had he never told her about it before? The thought piqued her. Another of his secrets, she mused, grinding her teeth. The foundation of the marriage began to look weaker again.

  "I, Melissa Judith Cannon, take thee, Daniel Flynn Muldaur. . . ."

  She could not resist placing a caustic emphasis on his real first name. She felt his gaze on her. She purposely ignored it. Gideon snickered but fell silent as she nudged him with her elbow.

  "If there be any man present who knows any reason why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, let him speak now or forever hold his peace."

  No man spoke, but the sound of a door closing caused Missy to turn her head. Flynn turned too, and Gideon.

  There at the back of the parlor stood Seamus Muldaur, leaning against the doorjamb like Old Scratch himself.

  "Don't let me hold up the proceedings." His eyebrow was raised. His tone was amused. "Apparently I've missed most of the ceremony, but at least I've come in time to see my brother kiss the bride. Please go on."

  Missy was rattled. She guessed Flynn was, too, for his sandy brow creased and remained so. When Rev. Whitmire finished his office, Flynn's kiss missed her lips in favor of another glance to the rear of the room.

  "Let me be the first to congratulate the bride."

  Seamus sauntered through the small assembly to the fore wearing, along with his usual fine suit, a congenial smile that harbored no trace of ill will or irony and was all the more dangerous for it. Either he was genuinely pleased, or he was an accomplished actor. Frowning, Missy suspected the latter. Her instinct was to pull away from his touch.

  He's your brother-in-law, she reminded herself.

  That made his kiss on the cheek easier to bear, but only a little. She still felt violated afterward.

  "And Flynn," Seamus pronounced, extending his hand to his brother. "Congratulations. I wish you both every happiness, although I must admit I'm hurt that you obviously intended to exclude me from this momentous family occasion. It was only by purest luck that I happened to visit this afternoon. Why, I haven't even a gift for you."

  His gaze strayed to Missy in a way that made her most uncomfortable. She had no doubt that Seamus knew of her mission to town yesterday, thanks to Madeleine and her daughter. Her cheeks warmed as she wondered if he would mention it to Flynn, and what Flynn might make of it if he did. She suspected Seamus knew her thorough embarrassment, and that he relished it. She wanted to escape.

  "I'll help Mrs. Fedderman," she murmured to Flynn her husband without looking at him. "I think she has some refreshments prepared. Excuse me." She started to pull away from him.

  "Stay here. She and Lucy can manage," Flynn scolded tenderly, holding her hand prisoner with his own. "It's your wedding day."

  "I believe, dear brother, your bride was trying with as much grace as possible to allow you and me a moment to speak alone. You are not usually so insensitive to such things. It must be due to that beating you took the other day. Indeed, I'm surprised to find the sheriff here, unless it's because he means to cart you off to jail now for having brawled in a public place?"

  Rev. Whitmire, Micah, Lucy, and even Eldon Garlock seemed to take Congressman Muldaur's words as a jest, for they laughed. Flynn, however, did not laugh. Nor did Missy. She guessed Seamus knew that she found his remarks neither amusing nor tactful. She further supposed that he had not intended for them to be. She tried to smile and wished she could form a breezy, cutting retort that would not seem too rude, but she could not.

  "There's nothing you have to say to me that can't be said before my wife," Flynn replied evenly. His tone was pleasant, but his words were a warning. Missy wondered whether Seamus had enough sense to heed it.

  Seamus's grin curled downward but did not diminish.

  "Marriage has emboldened you already," he remarked to Flynn with a slow nod. "But you make me out to be a monster. You'll frighten your young bride with such words. Or is that your intention?"

  The muscle beneath Flynn's sleeve tensed. Missy tightened her fingers around it, all too aware of the spectators in the room whose smiles had faded to stares of undisguised curiosity at Seamus's odd and faintly sinister address. The already tenuous happiness she'd felt was evaporating further with every passing moment spent in Seamus's company.

  "A toast to the newlyweds!" Rev. Whitmire's gentle, booming exclamation drew Missy's attention to the fact that Mrs. Fedderman had returned with a tray of punch glasses that were eagerly taken up by those in attendance. Missy blessed the man for dispelling the ominous mood that had clouded the room since Seamus's arrival.

  "The Muldaurs would prefer whiskey," Flynn's brother commented with a wink at the groom. "But in deference to you, Reverend, we'll make do with punch for now, won't we, Flynn? To the bride and groom." Missy thought he was going to say something else she feared he was but instead he hoisted his glass high, then drained it with an expansive gulp. The others followed suit.

  Not taking her stare from her new brother-in-law, Missy took a cautious sip of the beverage herself. It tasted bitter.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Seamus was drunk. Or else he was feigning drunkenness; Flynn could not be sure which. Certainly it was not out of
the question to believe that Seamus was playing a crowd for his own obscure purposes; he'd been known to do it before. But Seamus had always been quietly cruel and articulate when drunk, whereas his exhibition before the wedding guests was of the more gregarious and slurred variety. The only advantage Flynn could see to Seamus's pretending to be intoxicated hereon three brandies! was that his brother would then be able to say or do anything without fear of offending anyone beyond the moment, then quickly earning forgiveness. People tended to excuse drunks with an indulgence they would never extend to a responsible man.

  And Seamus was a responsible man.

  Hell, he's been responsible for ruining your life, up

  until now, Flynn allowed, fighting a wry grin as he regarded his brother. That was not entirely true, Flynn knew. Still it would have been nice, just once, to hear Seamus thank him for his many sacrifices on Seamus's behalf. Seamus, though, being Seamus, had merely taken it all as if it were his due.