The Lady and the Outlaw

by Joyce Brandon

  Sandra peered into his face, saw the stubborn light in his blue eyes, and lashed out at him furiously. Her hand struck him across the cheek once, but before she could repeat the blow, he grabbed her arm and held it.

  “Let me go! You bastard! Don’t hold me! I hate you! I hate you!” But he didn’t relent, and she couldn’t. She glared at him with hatred until tears blurred her vision and she collapsed against him, sobbing. She cried bitterly.

  Strangely, he could have made love to her then; she had become real. His mind would have found the energy for him to cope with her needs afterward…He pulled her close and let her sob out her frustration on his shoulder. When the storm had passed he wrapped her in one of Kincaid’s long coats and led her outside. In the buggy she would not speak to him—she huddled as far away from him as possible—hating him.

  “Take me back to the dance,” she said grimly, blotting Ward Cantrell out of her mind. When the buggy stopped, she flung off the coat, leaped down, and ran across the lawn, her cheeks burning with the shame and desperation she felt.

  A man stepped off the front porch and headed across the lawn toward her. In the dancing light and shadow from the play of the electric porch light against the trees she recognized Tim Summers. He stopped. “Sandra?”

  “What?” she asked sullenly.

  “Are you all right?”

  He was glancing at the buggy that still waited at the curb, wondering if the dark shape was Cantrell and what had transpired between them that she was fleeing from him so, and if he could somehow use that knowledge to his advantage. He watched her in the shifting light, noting the simmering anger in her eyes, and decided he could.

  “Would you care if I wasn’t?” she demanded, her voice strangely taut, choked with pain.

  He hesitated the way he did when someone asked an unexpected question of him. “Of course I would.”

  Of course I would, she mimicked bitterly to herself. Like hell he would. She wanted to hit him the way she had Cantrell, but she didn’t know Tim Summers. There was something intimidating about him. Something about the way he watched her that told her he might not send her away…She dragged in a ragged breath, letting some of her anger subside.

  “Are you leaving?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. Leslie Powers would not miss him. She had begged to be excused and gone upstairs. She did not seem to crave society the way most young women her age did. She had been polite, proper, but not impressed. Her lack of concern over his attentions had irritated him to the point of fury, but he had managed to contain it. Now he saw Sandra, who looked as if she had been rejected by Cantrell, as a possible means to an end. “Would you like to go back inside, or would you rather go for a ride?” he asked, watching her closely.

  “A ride,” she said without hesitation.

  They rode out to the river, which flowed about half full this time of year. The moon streaked the quietly flowing water with a wide silver band that twinkled and shimmered. Sandra moved close to him, and he put his arm around her and lifted her face to kiss her.

  Normally he would not have considered Sandra McCormick a woman to spend time with. He had a natural contempt for her type. They reminded him too much of his mother, who had been the bane of his life until her death four years ago. He had lived in fear that she would track him down and visit, showing the world that he was not what he appeared, that he was only the son of a woman who couldn’t seem to keep her gown down around her ankles, where it belonged. His father had abandoned them when he was six; the reasons were not clear in his mind, but he believed it was because of her. She’d had the same look of vague self-interest bordering on madness that reminded him of Sandra and most young girls. He had hated his mother, but Sandra excited him in some strange way. The excitement was a heady overwhelming experience, but when he was not under the influence of the moment he preferred the sort of class that was apparent in Leslie Powers. He had been irresistibly drawn to her level gaze and her well-developed sense of self. She was not impetuous and experimental. Sandra, if not for her father’s wealth and position, would be a common strumpet like his mother, like most women. But he had Leslie now. If he were going to woo and win Leslie, it would take patience and the ability to weather a long sexual dry spell. Leslie had made it clear to him, however demurely, that she was not interested in a casual romantic liaison. Sandra could give him the edge he needed, the ability to endure a prolonged courtship.

  To Sandra, his kiss was nothing in itself, but the contact of a man she considered powerful had the ability to draw out the dark poison that had welled up in her at Cantrell’s rejection. Now she shuddered and relaxed, allowing the warmth and nearness of this man to cleanse her. She didn’t care about the consequences of her actions. She was numb to everything except the compulsion that was driving her blindly forward, toward the satisfaction that she needed.

  Sandra touched Tim intimately as if she knew him well, and felt him shudder. His kisses grew wetter and more hurtful, but it didn’t matter; the only thing that mattered was that he not abandon her, and she knew how to assure that…

  Without warning his hand tangled in her hair, hurting her. “Oww!” she cried out, arching backward.

  “Promise me something,” he growled.

  “What?” she whimpered, squirming awkwardly.

  “Promise me that you will not tell anyone that you have been with me, ever.” His voice was taut, angry, as if she had already betrayed him. Shame flushed through her. His hand was still tight in her hair, but she forgot the physical pain in light of this new demand. She should leave him, refuse to let him touch her, but strangely, her body was responding to the pain. An ache started in her loins, and she groaned in dismay. Mistaking the pitiful sound for protest, he tightened his hand in her silky blond tresses.

  “I promise,” she whispered, shamed to the core.

  “I mean never, never tell anyone. Do you understand?”

  “I understand…”

  “You’d better. If you know what is good for you…” His voice was hard, frighteningly hard and cutting. In spite of everything, the secret place between her legs throbbed insistently. Tears of shame, fueled by a dark pool of ugliness swelling inside her, spilled down her cheeks.

  She made one pitiful move to get out of the buggy, to prove to herself, if no one else, that she still had pride. His hand dropped to her breast and clamped around it like a vise, causing her to cry out in anguish.

  “Shut your mouth, slut. Unless I tell you to open it.” There was no further opportunity to assert herself.

  Chapter Thirty

  Ward Cantrell was at every party Leslie went to for the next week, but he didn’t ask her to dance again. She watched him with Sandra, Elizabeth Cartright, Marybelle Lewis, and her anger seemed to grow each time she saw him. After almost a week of his presence in Phoenix society, the women were talking of nothing else. He had become an item.

  “My father said he made an extremely large deposit at the bank.”

  “Heavens! All that and money too? I can’t believe it!”

  “Where did he come from? I mean, I would like to know where they cultivate such devilishly attractive young men.”

  “Don’t laugh! Elizabeth is still in shock. I don’t think the poor girl knows what hit her, and he’s already moved on to the next girl.”

  “Where do you go to queue up? I don’t care if it is for a short engagement.”

  They were being deliberately blasé, but Leslie felt her temper rising. Damn him! He had seduced Sandra that first night. They left the dance early, and anyone who saw her could tell just by looking at her now that she wasn’t the same girl. Shy Sandra had been replaced by a girl who was very much aware of her body, as a source of pleasure and as a weapon. Ward had taken her out twice and then showed up with Elizabeth Cartright while Sandra was becoming a Venus’s fly-trap. Men were buzzing around her like flies around a honeypot. She was a woman now—you could see it in the swing of her hips and the look in her eyes.

 
Elizabeth and Marybelle, and then Ward had flitted back to Sandra like a stallion with a herd of mares to service.

  Leslie was furious. He would go his merry way, but those girls were ruined! He had destroyed their reputations, and he obviously didn’t even care for them.

  Sandra was at the refreshment table with Phoenix’s most exciting young bachelor. She was clinging, laughing, and teasing—almost as engrossed in him as he was in his drink!

  The dance tonight was at the Lewis house. Amboy Carlton Lewis was the manager of Kincaid’s Bricewood West. Lewis had been in hotel management for twenty-five years—an assistant manager of the Bricewood in New York City. He probably would have remained an assistant manager the rest of his life—good jobs did not open up very often—if Kincaid hadn’t offered him this job.

  The Lewis house was typical for the period if not for the location. The formal parlor, reading room, and dining room were laid out in tandem along the back edge of the house. The rooms did not have walls separating them from one another. As was the custom the year before when the house had been built, the rooms were separated by decorative doric columns, and the furniture was arranged as if the walls were there. Now the furnishings had been pushed back along the walls opposite the veranda. It was chilly outside, so the several sets of double French doors that opened to let in cooling night breezes were closed. Only one set of doors at each end of the long row of rooms was open to provide ventilation for dancers.

  Thank goodness Charles Frederick Worth had dethroned the hooped cage and the crinoline. Leslie Powers’s gown was a vision of restraint. She had no desire to look like a walking version of someone’s overdecorated drawing room. She was wearing a peacock-blue silk faille gown by Worth. It had been forced on her by Jennie who had never worn it, claiming it did terrible things to her complexion. Leslie did not believe it for a minute, but who would refuse Jennie when she wanted to do something? And it was perfect for Leslie. The peacock blue brought out a smoky blue-green look in her eyes that she liked. The décolletage was a little extreme, the waist wonderfully tiny and belted with a wide velvet ribbon, but the bustle was smaller than most and had a saucy pert look to it that was marvelously flattering. The skirt was pulled tight over her slender hips, hugging her figure and then bursting forth in back into a waterfall of flounces and ruffles, falling into a short train. She loved it!

  Leslie and Tim made their way to the punch bowl, and Leslie heard Sandra’s irritating voice.

  “Ward, darling, please say you’ll come tomorrow night. It’s so important to me,” she pleaded prettily.

  “Don’t push so hard, Trinket. I’ll make it if I can,” he said absently, his cool blue eyes scanning the crowd.

  Marybelle Lewis and Winslow Breakenridge joined Ward and Sandra, and Winslow dutifully asked Sandra to dance. Marybelle had him well trained apparently. As soon as Sandra was gone, Marybelle moved in on Ward, wanting him to dance with her, and Leslie heard herself almost with shock.

  “Well, well, Ward Cantrell. Fancy seeing you here.” She smiled sweetly and insincerely as she practically dragged Tim toward them.

  “Leslie. Summers.” Cantrell nodded curtly at Tim, then dismissed him and let his eyes go back to Leslie.

  What female could resist warm blue eyes that so openly told her how beautiful she looked? She might hate him but…he did look handsome—even in a somber black frockcoat that looked like all the others around them, counterpoint to the brilliant colors of the females.

  Since mass production had begun with such a passion in the 1860s, fashion was accessible to all. The frockcoat Ward wore was of the finest, softest wool, and the fit across his broad shoulders and around his narrow waist was impeccable. The cut of the lapel was slightly different, though, suggesting that perhaps his suit was a French cut. But where would a lout like Cantrell get a French-cut frockcoat? Unless it belonged to Mr. Kincaid’s brother. But if it did, would it fit so perfectly? The trousers were custom fitted too, from the same soft wool. Even the shoes looked like the softest, shiniest leather. If she hadn’t seen him the other way, dressed in rough clothes, with guns around his waist, she would almost believe he was a gentleman.

  The music started again, a waltz, and Tim, always the gentleman, held out his hand to Marybelle, who had no choice but to take it. Leslie suddenly felt too nervous and keyed up to stand there inventing small talk. She looked at Ward almost angrily, and he held out his hand, his azure blue eyes narrowed speculatively. Leslie lifted an eyebrow at his damned arrogance, and his lips almost lifted in a real smile as he swung her out onto the dance floor.

  “You dance exceptionally well, Mr. Cantrell. I thought you were only a train robber…”

  “Liar. Everyone in Phoenix knows I am an old friend of the Kincaids…”

  “Was that bitterness? But why should you be? The Kincaids are exceptionally well received everywhere.”

  Ward’s eyes flicked over her, taking in the elegant blue gown she wore. He rarely looked at women in detail. He saw that they were attractive or not. His eye did not notice geegaws and ribbons—only whether or not they enhanced or detracted from the vision. And it was apparent to him that Leslie, with her eye for color and detail, did not fall into the trap that caught so many women.

  She looked fresh, small, and delicately made, but with a curious richness and spirit in the way she held herself that caused a tiny spark to leap instantly alive in him. In contrast, he was remembering the way she looked that last morning. There’d been something completely defenseless about her then.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  “How I sleep is no concern of yours, Mr. Cantrell.”

  “Sorry,” he said, retreating with a grimace.

  She was instantly contrite. If they had to engage in this charade to convince Phoenix society that they were both respectable, upstanding citizens, it would be better if they could at least enjoy the conversation, wouldn’t it? In repose, Cantrell seemed calm and formidable—as calm as a ray of cold sunshine and as formidable as a typical military officer—manly and up to his duty.

  “So you made quite a splash in Phoenix society,” she said. “You charmed poor Sandra quite out of her head. The town is teeming with gossip about your being a friend of the Kincaids…You haven’t tripped over your spurs once. That is quite an accomplishment. You must be proud,” she said, not mentioning he had also seduced the willing Sandra. “I thought you were only a simple train robber.”

  “A good train robber is a jack of all trades,” he said. “Besides, I only worked at that a few hours every few months. The rest of the time…” He shrugged, letting it drop.

  “You were in pursuit of ladies fair and pastures green,” she said, finishing his sentence.

  “No more than you are,” he replied, leaning his head back and looking at her through eyes that were mere slits.

  She ignored his remark. “Now that you are no longer devoting all your energies to seducing the lucky señoritas, word gets around. It is very fashionable to be pursued by you.”

  A smile tugged at those perfectly etched, insolently sensuous lips. “I thought young executives were all the rage now,” he drawled.

  Leslie blushed, and Cantrell lifted an eyebrow, while tiny glints of amusement danced and flickered in his eyes like starbursts of summer lightning. Something wild and hungry, like an invisible current, passed between them. A pang of hopelessness stabbed into Leslie, and she articulated what had enraged her.

  “Young executives have a future. No woman in her right mind would deliberately get involved with a man who could be hanged by the neck at any moment.”

  His eyes stabbed at her, and she quailed before their intensity, before the power and maleness of him. He did not believe himself vulnerable to man or beast, but she could not forget that he had been within minutes of being hanged when Governor Stanton finally commuted his sentence.

  His arm relaxed its hold around her waist, and that careless, handsome smile came over his face, transforming it again. “You’re right
,” he conceded.

  Leslie didn’t know what had passed between them, but she felt dazed by it. They seemed to lose the ability to enjoy jabbing at each other after that exchange. She danced in silence.

  “I’m glad to see you didn’t suffer any permanent damage,” he said softly.

  Why did Cantrell always remind her they had been intimate? Didn’t he ever forget? “No thanks to you,” she said sourly. She was tempted to tell him that Tim Summers had called on her every evening since she met him. Would Ward Cantrell care that they sat in the music room after dinner and carried on pleasant, civilized conversations? She with the still life she was painting, Jennie at the piano, and Mr. Kincaid chatting desultorily with Tim, who kept stealing unobtrusive glances at her.

  “You’re the most beautiful woman in the room,” he whispered, his hand tightening around her waist.

  “I’m surprised you had time to notice,” she said, hating herself the moment the words were uttered. Stop admitting you watch, dammit!

  “I don’t usually waste time admiring women who are out of my league,” he admitted. “Train robbers don’t work as steady as young executives.”

  “By design, I’m sure.”

  “So,” Cantrell said, changing the subject again, “you’re walking out with Mr. Dull.”

  “He is not dull,” she defended.

  “Sorry,” he said, his eyes filled with that sharp light that jolted through her like the electric current she had felt at the state fair in Boston. “You’re walking out with your dashing young executive,” he corrected.

  “He is not dull!” Leslie repeated, instantly angry at him for being so damned observant.

  Ward quirked his eyebrows and grinned. “God forbid anyone should even suggest such a thing,” he said, his eyes filled with superior knowledge.

  He had known the moment he had seen her tonight that any contact with her would be a mistake. The sight of her, cool and lovely in a peacock-blue gown, with her hair pulled back off her ears, but otherwise loose on her shoulders, had caused a hungry ache to race through the entire length of his body. He had hoped he could be as impervious to her as she was to him, but seeing her in her proper setting, armored with all the artillery a lady of impeccable upbringing has, he realized the insanity of his position. Leslie Powers, indignant, with her face set in that imperious, untouchable mien, like some snow goddess cloaked in lacy, crisp fabrics, reminding him of all the untouchable females he had ever known, completely overwhelmed him. In the light of a thousand candles, with her skin so incredibly soft and dewy, she glowed with the purity of an arctic thing. Her gleaming beauty, her extreme femininity, like a young, virginal school girl except for the décollété gown, her very imperviousness, made him ache to remind her how flawlessly her body could respond to his.