Ward laughed and it was the sound of pain overflowing into mirth. “Maybe I could make a living hiring myself out to fall in love with people’s enemies. I could get rid of women, children…”
He could joke about it now, but she knew he was protective of women and children. As a child he was willing to give his most treasured toy to comfort a friend, then stoically take a tongue-lashing from their nanny or their mother for “losing” it. His generosity knew no boundaries. A beggar’s pain was as real to him as his own. Others could look through such unpleasantness. Ward could not. Wherever he went he usually arrived home with empty pockets. Now if she was interpreting his morose mood correctly, he was determined to spare Leslie Powers. Jennie decided to appeal to his generosity. “Are you saying that you don’t care for Leslie?”
“What? How the hell did she come up?”
“I just want to know. Would you break her heart? What if she loves you?”
“She doesn’t, and she won’t if left to her own resources.” Ward sighed. “I have nothing to offer Leslie Powers. She’s a lady, accustomed to a different life. She is horrified by me and my past—and rightly so. I’m horrified by it, but I have to live with it; she doesn’t.”
“Could you be wrong about that?”
“No.”
“How wonderfully omniscient you’ve become,” she said dryly, lifting her eyebrows. She leaned back against the circle of his arms, unwilling to let him go just yet. “Will you have lunch with me?”
Ward chuckled. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you? Tears in your eyes and you’re still hungry. How much ballet practice do you put in, anyway?”
“Three hours”—Jennie shrugged—“more or less.”
“You are incorrigible.”
Her laughter was a golden tinkle of notes that warmed him, putting all his devils at rest. Jennie came up on tiptoe to kiss him, and that is the way Leslie found them: Jennifer so soft and lovely, a perfect cameo in profile; Ward so lithe, sturdy, and handsome—and both of them so engrossed in each other that they didn’t notice her, frozen and mute in the doorway. She turned to leave, and Jennie saw a movement out of the corner of her eye.
“Leslie, dear, were you looking for me or Ward?” she asked, pleased with herself for remembering not to call him Peter.
Leslie didn’t look at them directly; she pretended to be gazing toward the kitchen, looking for something, but Jennie didn’t move out of Ward’s embrace. They seemed unaware of the picture they presented. Thank goodness Chane hadn’t caught them this way, she thought, turning. Aloud she said, “No, I was going out. I just wanted to let you know.”
The laughter had gone out of his eyes. Now they were impassive, watchful, cool, where before they had been filled with warmth and probably love. He was wearing a blue linen shirt, open at the throat, and tight-fitting black corduroy pants with a gun strapped to his right thigh. His thick wheat-colored hair was windblown, but the medallion-sharp features were disgustingly pleasing to look at.
“Won’t you have lunch with us?” Jennie asked.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Kincaid.” She gave them her brightest smile, tossing her heavy black mane of curling tresses, and demurred. She didn’t consider the polite invitation. She knew instinctively she did not want to come between him and one of his women. “I’m going riding with Debbie. She’s probably waiting for me now.”
“Have fun. Be careful, dear.”
Leslie threw them an insouciant wave. She did not expect to have fun. Her hope was that she was not thoroughly miserable. If she hadn’t agreed days ago to go riding with Debbie, she certainly wouldn’t consider it today. She had tossed and turned half the night, only to have her sleep, when it finally came, tortured by dreams of Cantrell making love to her. After what she had just seen, she was grateful she hadn’t confided in Jennifer about Cantrell.
Debra was in a good mood, lighthearted and gay. They rode to the foothills on the east.
“Are there Indians around here?” Leslie asked.
“Probably a few strays, but they’re harmless. The majority of them are on reservations. I suppose there could be danger if a band of renegades left the reservation and decided to make trouble. My father says that doesn’t happen anymore.”
The air was crisp, clean, and redolent with the odor of sage. It was a particularly pungent smell that Leslie was slowly learning to love. At first it had been unpleasant.
On top of a hill, with gentle breezes blowing and the warm sun on their shoulders, they ate the lunch Debbie’s mother had prepared for them. White clouds sailed overhead like Spanish galleons. The panoramic view Leslie sketched from the mountaintop was breathtaking. The desert sparseness was rugged and wild, stretched out endlessly under a stormy sky without being intimidating, because she could not believe it was real. It was as dreamlike as her response to the knowledge that Cantrell was in love with Jennifer.
“I hate to mention this, Leslie, but I think we’d better start back. I need to be home by three.”
Leslie sighed. “As I do.”
Back in town, they stopped at the corner of Main and Front streets to say good-bye. Buggies rattled past; horses snorted and stamped along the streets in front of the stores, which were doing a brisk business. Children let out of school loitered in front of shops and played in the dusty road.
“Will you be at the McCormicks’ dinner party and dance tonight?” Debbie asked, stroking her horse’s damp neck with a gloved hand.
Leslie nodded, fighting the urge to say she was sick of parties. It was disloyal and ungrateful of her. Jennie had gone to a great deal of trouble to arrange for her friends to give these parties in her honor.
A small surrey, white-fringed and sparkling in the sun, pulled up next to them and stopped. Elizabeth Cartright was cool and lovely in white organdy.
“Hi! You two plotting what you’re going to wear?”
“Not exactly,” Debbie said, squinting into the sun.
“Everybody will be there. Personally, I wouldn’t miss it for the world! I’m dying, absolutely dying, to see who Ward Cantrell brings. I heard the most delicious rumor, and, darlings, if it is true, if it is true—” She stressed “if” significantly, leaning forward and looking both ways as if she feared being overheard. “And mind you,” she continued, “I’m not saying it is, because frankly, it would be insanity for a certain young matron we all know, absolute insanity!” She ended breathlessly.
Debbie looked at Leslie, her brown eyes exaggeratedly wide and amused. “Heavens!” she said innocently. “Who could he possibly bring?…”
“It will rock this little desert dump back on its heels,” Elizabeth said knowingly.
Leslie stifled a sarcastic remark. Elizabeth smiled archly and condescendingly, savoring her scandalous secret, her brown eyes fairly dancing with mischief. “You don’t know?” she asked. “You really haven’t guessed?”
“We haven’t the foggiest, for heaven’s sake—not the foggiest! So why don’t you just tell us. Because I have to go. I promised to be home by three,” Debbie said irritably.
“You’re both blind! I mean really, actually, totally blind. He’s going to bring Jennifer Kincaid.”
“I don’t believe it!” Debbie said vehemently. “Jennifer Kincaid is a lady, and she is in love with her husband! She would never…”
“My, are you naive! Married women cheat all the time. I could give you names and dates,” Elizabeth said smugly.
“Some do. She wouldn’t,” Debbie insisted. She turned to Leslie. “You live with them. Have you seen anything that would make you think she would do that?”
“Absolutely not,” Leslie lied with matching vehemence.
Elizabeth shrugged and giddahupped her horse. Leslie said good-bye to Debbie and watched her leave. She waited several seconds before she turned her horse toward Barton Street. She knew which house, because Jennifer had pointed it out to her. Bathed in sunlight, with a cluster of soaring, showy aspens dropping their fiery autumn leaves, the two-story whi
te frame house was homey and charming. A shiny-leafed vine crept and twined its way along the roof line of the porch that ran across the front and around the side of the house.
This house was immaculately maintained, though not of recent origin. It had an air of permanence about it. There was real grass beneath the leaves that scattered in the wind. The vine had grown the length of the long, deep porch.
Seeing this house, so charmingly New England, with its clapboard siding and its steep roof and neatly framed casement windows, she could imagine a crystal epergne with sweets nestling in its dangling cups, a pair of dumbwaiters hoisting vintage wines from a well-stocked cellar, a tearoom awash with sunlight, or sparkling china set ablaze with candleglow. Its solidity bespoke gracious living.
A hundred yards away, a house, framed but not roofed, was surrounded by chaos—the lot strewn with mounds of dirt, stacks of bricks, and racks of lumber.
It was apparent that this was not one of Mr. Kincaid’s instant houses. From here the mountains on the east rose with high craggy peaks and wooded slopes.
Maybe Ward wouldn’t be there. Her heart was making a terrible racket in her chest. She tied the horse at the hitching post, determined to brazen it out. She owed the Kincaids too much to let her own revulsion stand in her way. But even so, the walk up to the door was a heart-stopping experience.
Her knock was answered by a wiry little Oriental with black-rimmed, tortoiseshell spectacles and sleek black hair parted in the middle.
“Yes, prease?”
“Is…Mr. Cantrell in?”
“Yes, miss. Come in, prease.” He stepped back, bowing from the waist, then led her into another room to wait.
She was in a library with an enormous seascape on one wall, so realistic she could almost smell the ocean. It drew her irresistibly. It was surprisingly good! The plasticity and atmospheric color were the creation of a supremely gifted artist. It had radiance of light, resonance of tone, dramatic mood, and tremendous imaginative meaning.
She was transfixed, gazing in rapture. She could almost feel the spray on her cheeks. She prayed she really could—maybe the burning would stop. It was foolish to feel flushed and scared just because of a man she despised.
“Good afternoon.”
Where had he come from so silently and quickly? She turned abruptly, swallowing, trying to arm herself.
“Hello.”
A small pulse started in his temple. She was wearing the black and white riding habit she’d had on when she stopped at the door to bid Jenn good-bye before her ride. The smooth velvet was almost as black as the wind-blown tresses that fell to her waist. She was lovelier than ever. Her cheeks were flushed with warm color, and her hair was a fog of wispy curls framing her forehead and ears. Her skin glowed with the exertion of her ride.
“Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Anything?”
“No, thank you,” she said, stalling. “Do you know the title or the painter of this?”
“That’s very good, isn’t it? It’s by Washington Allston. According to Yoshio, he painted it for the Kincaids when Chantry the First was a sea captain. The story is that dear departed Chantry saved Allston’s life. It’s called The Rising of a Thunderstorm at Sea. You paint, don’t you?”
“My mother acquired a rather formidable reputation. I hope to follow in her footsteps.”
“What genre?” He didn’t realize he had said something very untrain-robberish until he saw her eyebrows quirk up.
“What genre!” she repeated, realizing she had not adjusted to all the information she had about him. Yesterday Jennie had mentioned that before he left New York he had been a stockbroker. Somehow, thinking of him as growing up in New York, going to school with Jennie’s brother, and working on Wall Street was unsettling, but she answered him. “She taught naturalism, a little luminism, but I’m starting to lean toward impressionism. It’s all the rage in Europe. Unfortunately, America is still so colonial. It will be ages before the schools here teach it.”
An awkward silence ensued. Since she didn’t know how to begin, she glanced around nervously, saw they were alone, and blurted it out.
“I came here to ask you to…because I…I want you to give up your relationship with Mrs. Kincaid.”
Ward frowned, not sure he had heard her correctly. “What?”
“Because it’s hurting her. People are talking about her and you. This is a small town. It could ruin her. She has a good marriage. She loves her husband. You don’t need her. You have more girls than you can keep track of now.” She stopped. Blood was staining her cheeks. She was breathing hard, completely unstrung, and he just stood there, looking at her with his blue eyes strangely impassive.
“Why do you care?” he asked, hiding his surprise.
“Because they’ve been good to me. They’re good people. They don’t deserve to be gossiped about.”
Ward flinched at the earnestness in her green eyes, the vibrant emerald color of sea foam on a sunny day. He ran his hands through his rumpled hair, smoothing the tawny thatch into some kind of order. He had been sleeping—to make up for working at the T & P office most of the night.
“Your trust is a wonderful thing to have, your ladyship. It makes me yearn to deserve it.”
“Oh! Don’t try to act as if you only do despicable things because I suspect you of them. You were doing despicable things long before I met you.”
Anger kindled in his eyes, crackling like tiny white flames in the depths, but Leslie didn’t care. “If you care about her, you’ll give her up.”
Everything was forgotten now—his desire to spare her, his guilt at the way he had wronged her, everything except the implied insult in her earnest request. He stepped toward her, and part of him knew better than to give in to the sudden fierce urge to hurt her the way she had hurt him, waving her saucy good-bye as she clung to her lover’s arm, but another part of him didn’t care.
“Why should I give her up? She’s a beautiful woman. You saw us together. Did she look like she was trying to escape my clutches?”
Leslie’s cheeks paled, and her breath caught in her throat.
“How can you be so callous? She’s married…with a family. How can another conquest be as important as that? Besides, she’s older than you. Don’t you care about anything?”
“She’s only three years older, in the prime of life actually…Jenn is a very beautiful woman,” he growled, enjoying the tension in every line of Leslie Powers’s flushed face and slender body. “And in answer to your question, no, I don’t care billy hell about anything.”
Trembling, she started past him.
His arm shot out and stopped her in mid-stride. “What’s your rush? I thought you wanted to help your friends.”
Her green eyes looked him up and down, flaring with scorn and fury. “No one can talk to you. You are an animal. All you ever think about are your own needs.”
That strange light flared in his eyes, darkening then lightening the blue, from violet to sky-frost, turning them as cold and flat as his husky voice. “Then let’s talk about something that interests me,” he said grimly. On one level he knew he was about to send his life spiraling out of control again, but he didn’t care. He would have continued even if he knew that in the next second he would be killed for it.
“Like what?” she demanded, glaring at the hand around her wrist, impeding her escape and increasing the rapidity of her heartbeat. A small, tingling current moving from his warm flesh to her own made it impossible for her to think or move away.
“Like a trade.”
“What kind of…trade?” she asked, her voice breaking.
“How much of a sacrifice are you willing to make to save your friends from disgrace?” he asked, his eyes darting from her furious eyes to her heaving breasts. The riding gown was demure and ladylike, but he remembered only too well the provocative tilt and swell of her small, firm white breasts. The memory caused an ache he could not control. He wanted to hurt her, to see the same sort of pain in her
wide green eyes he had felt last night. Nothing short of that would satisfy him. She tried to pull away from him, and his fingers tightened around the soft flesh of her upper arm. “Or am I the only one who is supposed to suffer?” he asked softly, hatefully.
“What do you want?”
“I want you.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Is this some sort of joke?” she asked, her lips stiff, her heart pounding like a rail setter in her breast.
His lips quirked up at one corner, his tawny eyebrows lifted, and she knew even without the look in his eyes that it was no joke. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She felt flushed with heat and fever.
“You want to save your friends, don’t you? You already know what a bastard I am. I do whatever is easy, remember?” She thought she saw a flash of bitterness in the cool blue depths before he smiled hatefully, mockingly. “You’re as beautiful as Jenn is, in your own way. I’ll accept a substitute, if you cooperate”—he paused, watching her intently—“fully.”
Leslie swallowed, moistened her dry lips, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for an avenue of escape.
Ward Cantrell watched her intently, coolly, hiding the bitterness he felt.
“What…?” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the question. She was too agitated: struck mute by his presence, his incredible demand, and her own surprising response.
“What do I want?” he asked tauntingly, finishing her question for her.
She nodded, unable to do more.
“I want you to be my mistress,” he said softly. “My willing mistress.”
Oh, God! She was collapsing inside, and it took all the courage, pride, and stubbornness she had to keep him from seeing it. She never should have come here! Ever! Let Jennifer make her own mistakes! Maybe Chane didn’t care if she took lovers! Chane had seen Jennifer and Ward dancing together, too. Maybe the Kincaids had a modern marriage. Leslie wanted to flee, to run as far and as fast as she could, but she felt rooted to the spot.
The Lady and the Outlaw Page 29
