My Darling Melissa

by Linda Lael Miller

  “It should be obvious to you,” Quinn proceeded to say when she remained silent, “that I’m a man of honor.”

  She met his gaze squarely. “I’ll grant you that,” she said.

  “And it’s true that I won’t be able to accomplish anything at all if my brothers find out where I am—even though they’d be outside the law if they forced me to go back home, no one would think of stopping them. Marriage would be my only real protection. But what do you stand to gain from this union, Mr. Rafferty? Money?”

  Quinn sighed. “Not exactly. I’m a wealthy man in my own right. What I need is—collateral.”

  “Collateral?”

  “I’m planning to—er—expand my holdings. Frankly, a connection with your family would give me unlimited borrowing power. I could accomplish my purposes without ever touching a cent of your money.”

  She was tapping her chin thoughtfully with one finger. “Unless, of course, your ventures were to fail.”

  Quinn set his jaw. “That is out of the question,” he said. It was damned fortunate, in his view, that he wasn’t some unscrupulous rounder. Melissa Corbin would be all too easy to dupe.

  In the next moment she searched his face in a way that made Quinn wonder if he’d made a mistake in adding her up. Although Melissa was naïve, she was also formidably intelligent. “I will never love anyone but Ajax as long as I live,” she announced, “but we both know that I can’t have him for a husband. Therefore, it doesn’t make much difference whom I marry, does it?”

  Quinn was unaccountably wounded by this reasoning. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” he began, but Melissa immediately cut him off.

  “Provided you’re willing to agree to a few basic terms, Mr. Rafferty, I see no reason why you and I shouldn’t make an—arrangement.”

  Rafferty’s sense of injury had turned to pure, patent irritation. “What terms?” he practically snarled, snatching the check from the waitress’s hand when she dared approach the table.

  Melissa waited primly until they were alone again. “I will not share your bed until such time as I’m ready to have a child,” she said, “and I certainly won’t be the conventional wife, waiting by your chair to stuff a pipe in your teeth at night and all that rubbish. I still want to make my own way in the world.”

  Quinn arched an eyebrow. “If it’s not too much to ask,” he said dryly, “will you at least live under my roof?”

  “Of course I will,” she replied. “If I didn’t, my brothers would never believe that we were really married.”

  Quinn swallowed, thinking of how Gillian was going to react to this news. Worse, he’d be the laughingstock of Port Riley if his wife was out trying to make something of herself every damned day of the week. Suppose, for example, she wrote another one of those outlandish books?

  “H-How long do you think it will be before you decide you’d like to be a mother?” he dared to inquire.

  Melissa shrugged. “Who knows?”

  Quinn glared at her as he tossed a bill down on top of the check the waitress had brought and pushed back his chair. Melissa waited, primly ladylike, until he drew hers back. “Thank you, Mr. Rafferty,” she said sweetly.

  Quinn rolled his eyes.

  *

  Evidently Quinn Rafferty was a man of no small influence. Before the train pulled out of Seattle, bound for the peninsula, he’d not only secured a special license, he’d followed through and married Melissa.

  The whole thing had happened with dizzying swiftness, and Melissa Corbin Rafferty sat in that fancy train caboose when it was all over, staring down at the shiny golden band on her finger and wondering what had possessed her to sell herself into veritable slavery. Tears of awe and fear brimmed in her eyes when she realized the full scope of what she’d done.

  She was alone, blessedly, since Quinn had gone to the club car the second they’d returned. No doubt he was drinking, gambling, and carousing at that very moment.

  Melissa paced the car, still wearing her oversized shoes and ugly calico dress, a wail of desperation gathering in her throat. If things had gone as they were supposed to, she would have been safely married to Ajax by now, happily honeymooning.

  She dashed away her tears with the back of one hand and sniffled. There was no point in pining away for Ajax, for nothing could ever come of her love for him. The only thing to do now was make the best of the situation.

  She would go ahead with her plans, just as though there had been no hasty wedding in a judge’s chambers, and make a life for herself. Even being a wife in name only would be better than having the whole family fussing over her for the rest of her days.

  Having decided all this, Melissa flung herself down on the chinchilla-covered bed and sobbed with despair.

  Quinn sat in the club car, enshrouded in the smoke of cigars and cheroots, and threw back a double shot of rye whiskey. He was married, by God, and he had no rights. No rights at all.

  What the hell had gotten into him?

  He snapped his fingers, and a fresh glass of whiskey appeared in them almost magically. He was seated beside one of the windows, having no desire to join in the rousing poker game going on a few feet away. He’d lost his limit the night before.

  Someone dropped heavily into the seat facing his. “You look like a man with a problem,” a familiar voice observed.

  Quinn looked up to see Mitch Williams, his lawyer and best friend. Blond and blue-eyed, Mitch was a favorite with the women and a fair hand in a fight. Quinn was so surprised to see him that he nearly choked on his whiskey. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “Got on in Seattle, like you.”

  Quinn let out a long breath. “So you saw her?”

  Mitch grinned and held out one hand, palm down. “Little smidgin of a thing, about this big, with blue eyes the size of saucers?”

  Quinn nodded.

  “Haven’t seen her,” Mitch said, and then he laughed at the expression on his friend’s face. After several moments had passed he asked patiently, “Who is she?”

  Quinn swallowed. “My wife.”

  “Your what?!” Mitch choked out the words.

  Gazing miserably at his friend, Quinn answered, “You heard me, damn it. Don’t make me say it again.”

  “You actually married that woman?”

  Again Quinn nodded.

  “Why?” Mitch snapped, rapid-fire.

  “I don’t rightly know.”

  Mitch let out a long, low whistle. “Gillian will have your teeth made into piano keys,” he said.

  Quinn gave him an acid look and held up his empty shot glass. It was replaced in a moment, and he swallowed the contents in a desolate gulp.

  The lawyer was leaning forward in his seat, squinting, his voice low. “What happened, Rafferty? Did you have a few too many and marry a dance hall girl, or what?”

  For the first time since he’d known him, which was some twenty years, Quinn wanted to knock Mitch Williams on his ass. “She isn’t a dance hall girl,” he hissed, too loudly. All over the car heads were turning.

  “Have you consummated this marriage?” Mitch demanded in an undertone.

  “Don’t you think that’s kind of a personal question?” Quinn shot back. He could feel his neck heating up and swelling to make his collar too tight.

  Mitch shrugged. “It all depends on your answer, my friend,” he said coolly. “If you’re having regrets, and if you haven’t taken any real liberties, the marriage can be annulled.”

  “Annulled?” Quinn echoed stupidly. For all his second thoughts, that avenue hadn’t occurred to him.

  Mitch nodded.

  Quinn spat out an abrupt “No!”

  A smug grin crossed Mitch’s face. “This has all the earmarks of a real yarn. What the Sam Hill’s going on here?”

  Quinn drew in a deep breath and sighed it out again. “It all started in Port Hastings,” he began. Mitch’s eyes got wider as the story went on, and when it was over he swore in exclamation.

  “So y
ou carried the Corbins’ baby sister off on a train and married her for her money, did you?” Mitch paused, shook his head in awe, and then chuckled. “You’re either bone-stupid or the bravest man I ever knew.”

  A drunk in the next booth voted for stupid.

  Glaring, Quinn leaned forward in his seat and demanded of his friend, “Do you know her brothers?”

  “I do for a fact,” Mitch confessed. “I grew up in Port Hastings, remember?”

  Quinn rubbed his stubbled jaw. He needed a shave, a hot bath, and a good meal.

  And Melissa.

  Before he could respond to Mitch’s remark, however, there was a stir at the back of the club car, followed by a spate of delicate coughing. Quinn whirled, full of dread, and sure enough, there was Melissa in that infernal calico dress of hers, waving away the smoke with one hand.

  Quinn cursed roundly while Mitch laughed.

  “Oh, Mr. Rafferty!” Melissa called out sweetly, standing on tiptoe to peer over the heads of half a dozen shocked poker players. “Mr. Rafferty!”

  Quinn shot out of his seat, muttering, and stormed over to Melissa, maneuvering her along the windy little walkway leading into the next car, where a few diners were lingering over lunch.

  She stared up at him with wide eyes. “Did I do something wrong?”

  Quinn realized that he’d taken a hard grasp on her arm and relaxed his fingers. Annoyed as he was, the last thing he wanted was to hurt Melissa. Ever. “Women aren’t allowed in the club car,” he informed her in a tight whisper.

  “Oh,” she replied lamely. “I forgot.” Her whole countenance brightened like a Christmas tree with all the candles lit. The scent of Quinn’s brandy indicated that she’d been fortifying her courage during their brief separation. “And there was no harm done, after all, was there?”

  Quinn wasn’t so sure about that. “Melissa,” he began in a low, impatient voice. “What do you want?”

  She beamed up at him, and he saw rainbows in her eyes. “I’ve decided that I’m ready to have that child we talked about,” she announced.

  Several forks clattered against plates around the dining car, and Quinn would have been willing to bet that more than one wine glass had been overturned. “What?” he asked, feeling and sounding as though she’d just clasped both her hands around his neck and squeezed with all her strength.

  When he saw she was about to repeat herself, he hastened to cover her mouth with one hand and pleaded, “Don’t!”

  The azure eyes looked baffled, but when Quinn lowered his hand Melissa was quiet and obedient.

  “Go back and wait for me, Melissa,” he said, feeling bold in the face of her docile acquiescence. “We’ll be in Port Riley in an hour or two, and then we can talk about this notion of yours—”

  “We’ll talk about it now,” Melissa broke in, and even though she was smiling, she was talking through her small, white teeth. She grasped Quinn’s hand and all but dragged him through the dining car.

  In the privacy of their quarters Melissa stood beside the bed, flung her arms out wide, and toppled over backward onto the mattress. “Let’s get started,” she said cheerfully.

  Quinn stared at her in absolute wonder for a few moments, and then he began to laugh. It started as a chuckle and quickly advanced to a roar that stole his wind and made his sides ache.

  And still Quinn could not stop laughing.

  Melissa was stunned, filled with shame. She’d offered herself to her husband, and he was laughing at her.

  She raised herself up on her elbows, too proud to cry, though she was sure she’d burst if she didn’t find a way to give vent to all the confusing emotions clamoring inside her.

  Quinn finally recovered himself, collapsing into the chair where he’d sat reading to her only the night before. “I’m—sorry,” he gasped out, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger.

  Melissa knew full well that he was not sorry, that he’d had a good laugh at her expense, and she sighed. “Don’t you want me?” she asked.

  Quinn’s expression was instantly and completely serious. “Very much,” he said gruffly.

  “Well?”

  He brought one booted foot to rest on his knee, took a cheroot and a match from the pocket of his jacket, and commenced to smoke. After an excruciatingly long time had passed he said in a pensive tone, “You’re simply not ready.”

  “Don’t you think I should be the judge of that?”

  “Not after the way you fell spread-eagle on that bed, I don’t.”

  Melissa was mortified. It wasn’t as if she didn’t understand what went on between a man and a woman, because she did. And she’d certainly sensed the strange electricity that arced between her brothers and their wives.

  Quinn reached out and collected Melissa’s novel from a nearby table. “Tell me,” he began wryly. “Do you write from experience?”

  Melissa wanted to slap him. “I told you that I was a virgin,” she hissed.

  “I didn’t believe you,” he immediately answered. “Not until a few minutes ago, anyway.”

  Embarrassed anew, Melissa sat up very straight and smoothed her skirts. She could not have spoken for anything.

  “What made you decide to give yourself to me, Melissa?” Quinn asked gently, after a long time.

  She sniffled, unable to look at him. “I was remembering when we—when we kissed this morning. I developed all these strange feelings.”

  Quinn chuckled. “Then there is hope,” he said, so quietly that Melissa almost missed the words. Then, more loudly, he added, “Why don’t you lie down and rest until we arrive? You’re still not completely well, you know.”

  Melissa looked at him imploringly. “Will you lie down with me?”

  He was silent for a moment, and very, very still. But then, without a word, he came to the bed, and he and Melissa stretched out on it together.

  His body was long and hard, but his muscular shoulder pillowed Melissa’s head comfortably. She snuggled against him and wondered at the low groan this elicited. It came from the depths of his chest, like some subterranean rumble.

  “Melissa,” he muttered, and the word rang with despair and hope and reprimand.

  Melissa had hoped to be ravished; instead she awakened, sometime later, feeling rested and strong. Quinn had long since left the bed, apparently, for he was standing in front of the bureau mirror, wearing clean clothes and freshly shaven.

  He turned and grinned at Melissa as the train whistle shrilled. “Well, Mrs. Rafferty,” he said when the ear-piercing sound had died away, “we’re home.”

  Melissa felt a strange mingling of panic and brash eagerness. “So to speak,” she said primly. Now that she’d napped and gathered her forces she was glad that her husband hadn’t taken her up on her brazen offer.

  She sat up and began wriggling back into her shoes, and when she’d finished lacing the first one she raised her eyes to Quinn’s face. He was watching her with a frown.

  “The first thing you’ll have to do is get yourself some decent clothes,” he said.

  Melissa was taken aback. “I will,” she answered patiently, “as soon as I’ve gotten myself a job or started some sort of business.”

  Quinn turned and grasped the brass bed railing in his hands for balance as the train began its long, shuddering stop. The whistle was blowing again, punctuating his words. “No wife—of mine—will be seen—dressed like that!”

  “May I remind you of our agreement?” Melissa shouted, trying to be heard over the whistle. “I’m going to take care of myself!”

  The train came to a final and jarring halt, and Melissa and Quinn were still glaring at each other, speechless with vexation, when the door of the car opened and a sunny female voice sang out, “Quinn, darling, I’ve missed you terribly!”

  The woman was tall and blond, and she swept into the car, her violet eyes dancing with mischief and merriment. She was older than Melissa, and clearly more sophisticated, and the two women disliked each other within the instant. />
  Melissa had already deduced that this was Gillian; she enjoyed the advantage that knowledge gave her, however briefly.

  “Who is this?” Gillian trilled, giving her closed parasol a pretty little spin with her fingers. It was pink and ruffled, to match her pink and ruffled gown. To Melissa’s mind, all the woman needed was a lamb and a hoop and she’d look exactly like Little Bo-Peep.

  Quinn cleared his throat, looking patently miserable. “This is—”

  Melissa bounded off the bed, hand extended. “I’m Quinn’s wife, Melissa,” she said happily. “So glad to make your acquaintance.”

  The parasol fell to the carpeted floor of the railroad car with a discreet little thump. “Wife?” Gillian echoed.

  “I can explain,” Quinn said quickly.

  Melissa’s high spirits were fading. It was obvious that Bo-Peep’s opinion was important to Quinn, and that was not a good sign. If he thought he was going to keep a mistress while she was his wife, he was sadly mistaken.

  “No, he can’t,” she argued. “He can’t explain. There isn’t a single thing he could say—”

  “Shut up,” Quinn warned.

  Gillian turned in a swirl of pink skirts and swept toward the back of the car. “I don’t have to stand here and endure this!” she cried with pathos.

  “Gillian!” Quinn yelled.

  “My, but she hates you now,” Melissa said sweetly, her hands folded in her lap.

  Quinn gave her a look that would have set a less sturdy soul to quaking and then hauled her roughly to her feet. “Go home and stay there!” he shouted.

  “I can’t,” Melissa responded with equal spirit. “I don’t know where we live!”

  For a moment Quinn looked as though he might do her bodily harm. His nostrils flared, and his eyes narrowed, and his breathing was quick and shallow. In the end, however, he only marched Melissa to the door and outside.

  The weather was springlike and sunny, though recent rains had turned the ground to mud. Port Riley was a busy, bustling place, and from the depot platform Melissa could see the dancing blue waters of the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

  There were stores and neat white houses set close together, and in the far distance, on a rocky point, the white column of a lighthouse towered against the blue sky.