Bride of the High Country

by Kaki Warner

  Margaret wasn’t surprised. Cold, methodical Rylander, calmly slamming his fists into another man’s face. It was easy to imagine.

  “I am not your enemy, Miss Hamilton.”

  Startled, she looked up.

  He was staring straight ahead, his expression set in its usual austere lines.

  “Perhaps not,” she allowed. “But you’re not my friend, either, are you?”

  His gaze dropped to meet hers. She could almost see tiny chips of ice eddying around the dark pupils. “What have I done to make you think that?”

  She wondered what to say. You frown at me? I always feel like you’re watching me and waiting for me to do something wrong? It all sounded so silly. “It’s apparent you disapprove of me.”

  “What reason would I have to disapprove?” He actually looked puzzled.

  She knew it would be best to discontinue this conversation. But he had started it, and she was just tipsy enough to say what was on her mind. “I think perhaps you don’t want me to marry your friend, thinking I will somehow drive a wedge between you.”

  The lift of his dark brows signaled disbelief.

  Which goaded her into saying more. “Or perhaps you think me frivolous and grasping, just another empty-headed woman drawn to the wealth and power of an ambitious man.”

  He almost smiled. She saw it in his eyes. The same cold, pale gray-blue of a rainy winter’s sky. A fitting complement to his black hair and scowling face, and a stark contrast to Doyle’s golden appeal and laughing hazel eyes.

  Fire and ice.

  She wondered if he had all his teeth. She had never seen him smile.

  “I have never considered you empty-headed, Miss Hamilton. Far from it.”

  “Ah.” She acknowledged his omissions with a nod. “But all the rest fits.”

  He shrugged. “You’ve worked hard to present yourself as such. I have always wondered why.”

  “Have you? Then I shall happily enlighten you. Simply put, men distrust intelligence in women. They prefer them helpless and pretty and lacking in meaningful discourse. As do you, it appears, judging by the women with whom you surround yourself.” She looked pointedly in the direction of the redheaded woman she had noticed earlier who was watching them again. This time she wasn’t smiling.

  Impatience flashed across Rylander’s stern features, then was quickly masked. “It appears the meeting is over.” He nodded toward Doyle, who was coming back into the ballroom with several men Margaret remembered from an earlier gathering. Railroad investors or some such. Doyle looked as smug as a cat with feathers poking out of its mouth.

  But when Mr. Rylander took her arm to escort her over, she dug in her heels, suddenly needing to escape all the noise and posturing and inane conversation and find just a few quiet minutes to herself. “Tell him I have to check something with Cook.” And before he could argue with her, she pulled free from his grip and walked away.

  Once through the doors of the ballroom, she turned down the servant’s hall that led to the service entrance beside the kitchen at the back corner of the house. Ignoring the curious looks from the kitchen staff as she walked past, she pushed open the heavy back door and stepped out onto the rear stoop.

  Blessed fresh air wafted over her. She took deep breaths, wanting to clear her lungs and fuzzy mind. The chaos stilled. Music dimmed. The clatter of pots and crockery in the kitchen faded.

  Gradually, she became aware of other sounds—the call of a nightjar in the shrubbery that lined the back wall. The clop of hooves and jangle of wagon harness on the street around front. A woman crying.

  Then a loud male voice rose in the alley. “Go! You’re not welcome here!”

  Frowning, Margaret cocked her head toward the alley and listened. She caught Doyle’s name—something about a foundry—an accident. A baby’s cry cut through the night. Then the door in the alley wall burst open and a woman rushed in, carrying a bundle of rags.

  Not rags. A child.

  “Come back here!” the man shouted. “You’re not allowed in there!”

  Alarmed, Margaret stepped forward, then stopped when the door behind her opened.

  Doyle stepped out, followed by Mr. Rylander and a wide-eyed cook’s helper who must have sent for them. “What are you doing out here, Margaret?” Doyle asked.

  Before she could answer, the woman veered in their direction as Doyle stepped off the stoop. “Mr. Kerrigan!”

  “Stop!” The man from the alley lunged to grab her arm.

  “Let her go!” Margaret cried, starting forward again.

  A hand clamped on her shoulder.

  “Go inside, Miss Hamilton,” Rylander said, close to her ear.

  “But she—”

  “Now.” Without waiting to see if she obeyed, he followed Doyle to where the woman stood, clutching the crying baby to her chest. She wore no coat over her faded dress. Her face was so thin her cheekbones rose in stark relief.

  “What do you want?” Doyle demanded.

  “He’s dead,” the woman accused in a thick Irish brogue. “Sure, and because of you, Paddy O’Reilly is dead. He told you if the machines weren’t repaired, something dire would happen. Well, now it has, and my man is dead. You owe us something for that, so you do.”

  “I owe you nothing.” Doyle stepped closer, making the woman retreat. “Paddy O’Reilly was a lush. And I’ll not pay for an accident he caused in a drunken stupor. Carter.” He motioned to the man who had followed the woman in from the alley. “Show her off my property.”

  “Yes, sir.” He reached for the woman.

  But she dodged his grasp. “Faith, Mr. Kerrigan! Can you spare us nothing? How will I feed our babe and keep a roof over our heads?”

  Doyle’s fists tightened.

  Rylander moved smoothly in front of him. He was taller and broader than her fiancé and easily blocked the woman from Margaret’s view. With a pointed glance at Margaret, he said in a calm voice, “I’ll handle this, Doyle. Take her away from here.”

  “What?”

  “Miss Hamilton. Take her inside. She doesn’t need to see this.”

  Doyle swung around, saw Margaret watching from the stoop, and confusion gave way to a grimace of anger. “Faith, Margaret! What are you still doing out here? Go inside!”

  Margaret rocked back, shocked by the look on his face and the vehemence in his voice. She had heard of Doyle’s temper but had never seen it until now.

  “Doyle,” Rylander warned softly.

  Muttering something under his breath, Doyle brushed a hand over his face. When he took it away, his features had slipped back into their normal affable expression. “Love . . . ta bron orm . . . I’m sorry.”

  Without responding, she turned and walked stiffly into the house.

  Somehow, she made it through the next two hours. She even convinced herself that Doyle hadn’t meant his harsh words. He was probably tired, anxious about the success of the evening. Naturally he wouldn’t want a scene that would add fuel to the rumors that always followed in his wake.

  “I’m sorry,” he told her during one of the few lulls in the evening when they could share a word without eavesdroppers. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, love.”

  “Then why did you? And how did you even know where I was? Do all your servants report back to you on my every movement?”

  He looked surprised. “Sure, and you’re precious to me, a ghra, my love. I would do anything to keep you safe. Even surround you with armed guards every hour of the day if I could. My wealth makes me an easy target. Now you’ll be a target as well. I get nervous, so I do, when I don’t know where you are.”

  A sweet sentiment. Yet the thought of having to constantly account for her whereabouts made her vaguely uneasy. “I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “You needn’t hover. I’m more concerned a
bout the O’Reilly woman. You were very rude to her. You should make amends.”

  “To a beggar?” His expression didn’t change, but something cold shifted behind his hazel eyes. She sensed she had touched a nerve. “You’re teaching me manners now, are you? You’re ashamed of me, then, lass?”

  “Not at all. But I’m worried about Mrs. O’Reilly and her baby. Can you do nothing to help her?”

  “I can and have. Tait is tending to it now.” Then in that capricious way he had of abruptly shifting moods, he grinned and held out his arms. “Now stop frowning, leannan, and dance with me so I can show all these fine folks what a beautiful bride I have won.”

  Two

  It was early morning when the last guest departed. Margaret was exhausted but exhilarated. The ball had been a huge success. Because of Mrs. Throckmorton’s patronage, she had been easily accepted, even if the glances sent Doyle’s way had been less enthusiastic.

  Only two things marred an otherwise perfect evening. Three, if one included that rather brutal kiss Doyle had given her just before the guests arrived—which Margaret dismissed as pre-wedding jitters and stress over the evening. That scene with Mrs. O’Reilly behind the house had certainly been disturbing, but the worst was that terrifying moment in the ballroom when she had looked up into a face from her days at Mrs. Beale’s.

  In the years since she had last seen him, Franklin Horne had aged. But the cold black eyes were the same. And the pointed pink tongue that darted back and forth across his lower lip aroused the same numbing terror as it had when he’d smiled down at little Cathleen Donovan fifteen years earlier.

  Luckily, he didn’t seem to have as good a memory as she, and passed on by with no more than a lip-licking look at her bosom and a polite nod of disinterest. But it had been several minutes before Margaret’s heart had slowed enough that she could take a full breath.

  But now the guests had departed, and the servants were beginning the long process of cleaning up, and Margaret was weary to the bone. Yawning behind her hand, she went in search of Doyle so she could get back to her cozy bed at Mrs. Throckmorton’s.

  She found him in his study, poring over papers with Mr. Rylander and discussing the business transactions they had finalized between dances. “I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said from the doorway.

  Doyle looked up with a smile. “Not at all, lass. I was just telling Tait how well the evening went. I negotiated a right-of-way with Bingington, sold a foundry, and arranged financing with Gould for a branch line off the Erie.”

  “How lovely,” she said drily. The man was the consummate businessman. She wondered if he dreamed in deeds and deals.

  As the men resumed their discussion, she walked over to one of the armchairs flanking the lit fireplace and sat down with a sigh. Under cover of her skirts, she eased off her slippers, almost groaning with relief when she found her toes could still wiggle.

  “A toast is in order.” Moving to the array of bottles and glassware on the beverage cart, Doyle poured brandy into three glasses, then passed them around.

  “Saol fada—long life—to us all. Slainte.”

  The men drank. Margaret sipped, then hid a shudder and set her glass on the small table beside her chair. She would have to get better at this if Doyle continued to offer brandy toasts all the time. Repressing a yawn, she pulled off her gloves and draped them over the armrest, wondering when he would send for the carriage so she could go back to Mrs. Throckmorton’s.

  “I’m very proud of you, Margaret.”

  Proud? Had she passed a test of which she hadn’t even been aware? She looked up to find Doyle pouring himself another brandy while Mr. Rylander stared down into his barely touched glass, absently swirling the amber liquid in the crystal tumbler.

  “Sure, and you’re my greatest asset, lass. The men couldn’t take their eyes off of you and the women couldn’t stop talking about you.”

  Margaret wasn’t sure if that was a compliment, or not.

  Mr. Rylander set his glass down sharply on the mantle, then bent to toss two small logs onto the fire. In the sudden flare of light, his scowl seemed more pronounced than usual.

  “Tait, come look these over.” Doyle thumped a finger on a sheaf of papers on his desk. “Gould is a crafty bastard, so he is, and I’d not put anything past him.”

  While they went over the contract, Margaret tipped her head against the wing of the chair and stared into the fire, lulled by the drone of low voices and the dancing flames. Hiding a wide yawn behind her hand, she closed her eyes.

  When next she opened them, the fire was down to glowing coals and the room was quiet. Rubbing a hand over her bleary eyes, she sat up, then froze when she saw Rylander sitting in the chair opposite hers, watching her. He looked relaxed, his left ankle resting atop his bent right knee, both arms stretched along the armrests so that his scarred fingers draped over the edge. Yet there was an intensity in his gray eyes that seemed to cut through her befuddled mind.

  “Where’s Doyle?” she asked, looking around.

  “Having the carriage readied.”

  To hide her uneasiness at being alone with him, she leaned down to pull on her slippers. Her feet were so swollen it was a tight fit.

  “Need help?”

  Startled by the impropriety of the offer, she looked up.

  He hadn’t moved. But his gaze had shifted to the front of her low-cut gown and the fine view she was presenting with her bent posture. She jerked upright. “How long have I been asleep?” she babbled for something to say.

  “About an hour.”

  She sensed hidden amusement in his tone and that irritated her because she didn’t know the cause.

  “Did you enjoy the ball?” he asked.

  “Not particularly.” Even as the words left her mouth, she wondered why she would say such a thing to this virtual stranger when she would never admit that sentiment to Doyle for fear of hurting his feelings. Perhaps because she didn’t care about Rylander’s feelings. Or because she felt no need to lie. Or because if she did, she sensed Rylander would know it immediately. Those watchful eyes didn’t miss much.

  “You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

  “As we assets are wont to do.”

  His dark brows fell into that scowling line. “You’re more than that.”

  “I am what I need to be, Mr. Rylander, to achieve my aims. Much like yourself, I would guess.”

  “And what are your aims?”

  “Survival. Safety. Security. No matter what grand sentiments or lofty words one couches it in, that’s what we all seek. Especially women.”

  “Not baubles and fine homes and wardrobes filled with expensive gowns?”

  Irritated by his condescension, she answered more sharply than she should have. “Imagine if you can, Mr. Rylander, a world in which at least half of the inhabitants are larger and stronger than you and are thus able to force you to their will at any time or any place. That unchangeable fact colors everything in your life—from the route you choose when you walk down the street to what you look for when you enter a room, how you dress, how you smile, how you assess people on first meeting. Friend or foe? Is this person a threat? Will that one do me harm? It’s all about survival, Mr. Rylander. Mock a woman’s desire for jewels and fine clothes and grand houses if you must, but understand that they are simple manifestations of what she truly desires—survival, safety, security—because those baubles are the things that proclaim to the world that she is of value and, as such, will be protected.”

  With a flourish, she sat back, crossed her arms over her chest, and awaited his rebuttal. It was a long time in coming, and not at all what she expected.

  “You’re a frightening woman, Miss Hamilton.”

  * * *

  She awoke late the next morning to eight dozen roses and a string of pearls sent by D
oyle as an apology for his boorish behavior toward her and Mrs. O’Reilly. Accompanying them was a note saying Tait had arranged for the widow’s rent to be paid through the rest of the year, and a big box of groceries had already been delivered, with a standing order for another box to be sent each week until she got back on her feet.

  And that was that.

  Grateful to put that unpleasantness behind her, Margaret threw herself into frantic preparations for the wedding only days away, which was to be held in the luxurious Fifth Avenue Hotel. The ceremony would take place in the ballroom, which the hotel staff would soon be decorating with tulle and satin and flower garlands, two dozen footed candelabras, a forest of potted cherry trees in full bloom, and dozens of flower arrangements to create a bower around the altar.

  Insomuch as Margaret had no male relatives to walk her down the aisle, Doyle had insisted Mr. Rylander do that honor. Once they reached the altar, he would then leave her side and take his place beside Doyle as his best man. A sensible solution, but Margaret would have preferred to go down the aisle alone, rather than on Mr. Rylander’s arm. It just seemed wrong, somehow. But she went along, not wanting to cause a fuss.

  After the vows, the hundred guests would move into another room for appetizers and wine while the wedding party met with photographers and she and Doyle signed the marriage license, then they would all retire to the elegant dining room for a seated seven-course dinner. Once the meal was completed, they would return to the cleared ballroom for fountains of champagne and dancing well into the night to the strains of a twenty-piece orchestra.

  She grew weary just thinking about it. Luckily, Doyle’s housekeeper, Mrs. Bradshaw, a rather intense middle-aged woman, was a superb organizer. To Margaret’s relief, she took on the task of meeting with the hotel staff in addition to acting as liaison with the florists, musicians, photographers, wine stewards, and society editors representing the various newspapers.