My Darling Melissa

by Linda Lael Miller

  “Where did you get this?” Melissa cried, delighted, having to raise her voice to be heard over the engine.

  “Ordered it!” Ajax shouted back. “Bought the thing purely to impress you, if you must know!”

  The machine jostled them over the rutted road that led to Quinn’s fancy hotel, and another crowd had gathered on the lawn by the time they rounded the last bend. Foremost in the gathering, with Gillian at his side, stood Quinn Rafferty.

  Melissa lifted her chin and was all elegant curves and angles when Ajax helped her down from the conveyance. She smiled at the snapping outrage in Quinn’s dark eyes as they passed him, pretending utter fascination as Ajax prattled on about owning the first motorcar ever to grace the roads of Port Riley.

  Twilight gave way to night as Ajax and Melissa ate in the huge, beautifully appointed dining room, their meal interrupted intermittently by eager townspeople offering congratulations on the acquisition of Ajax’s modern wonder. Quinn was conspicuously absent from their number; in fact, Melissa didn’t see him again until dinner was over and the dancing was about to begin in the ballroom.

  She knew she was probably the subject of much speculation and gossip. For that reason she entered that brightly lit room with all the regal dignity of a visiting princess.

  All through that first waltz in Ajax’s practiced arms Melissa could feel Quinn’s gaze upon her. It wasn’t until they whirled past the massive French doors leading out into the hotel garden that she spotted him standing in the opening, one foot resting on the rim of a fancy marble planter. He held a cheroot between his strong white teeth, and the smoke was like a wispy fog trailing off into the night air.

  The next time they passed Quinn was gone, and Melissa felt something twist deep down in her heart. At the end of the dance she excused herself to visit the powder room, and she was there a long time, fighting memories of the hotel. And of Quinn.

  He was waiting for her when she reentered the lobby, looking rakishly handsome in his formal suit, and he favored her with a wicked little half smile before offering his arm.

  Melissa stubbornly refused to take it, and he chuckled at this, his eyes dancing.

  “Here I am,” he lamented, mocking her, “trying to help you through a touchy situation. And what do you do?”

  “What touchy situation is that?” Melissa asked archly, keeping her distance. She knew what the man could do to her senses and her principles if he was allowed to get too close.

  One powerful masculine shoulder moved in a shrug. Another smug grin creased his face. “I hate to be the one to tell you this,” he said, “but your—er—friend has left you to take a lady riding in his motorcar. Gillian, as it happens.”

  Melissa was incensed, but not because she wanted Ajax for herself—far from it. No, it was the humiliation of being abandoned. Again. “I hope they have a very nice time,” she said stiffly.

  One rusty guffaw of laughter escaped Quinn. “Sure you do, Calico,” he said. And then he put his hand on the small of Melissa’s back and steered her toward the glittering ballroom.

  They danced, and it was a sweet torment for Melissa to be held so near to Quinn when she knew she must never allow him to make love to her again, no matter what.

  “Does your friend Ajax have money to lend?” Quinn inquired as they swept through the other dancers.

  Melissa smiled up at him. “Why? Do you intend to ask him for a loan?”

  Quinn was as furious as Melissa had hoped he would be. Seeing her satisfaction, though, he took obvious care to recover rapidly. “Gillian’s the one in dire financial straits. She’s been hinting that she might be willing to sell her share of the hotel.”

  The thought of Ajax buying half of that grand structure and staying in Port Riley forever—and he was just obstinate enough to do it—made Melissa’s heart sink. “Why don’t you buy it?” she asked, looking up into Quinn’s handsome face.

  He grinned. “I’m overextended as it is.”

  Melissa flushed, remembering why he’d pretended to marry her—for money. “Too bad I found out we weren’t really husband and wife, isn’t it? Heaven knows what you might have accomplished if you’d just had a little more time.”

  Quinn’s grin faded. “Melissa, that isn’t funny,” he said.

  “I wasn’t making a joke,” Melissa replied.

  The music stopped, and she would have walked away, but Quinn caught her hand in his and held on. When the orchestra began to play he drew her smoothly into another dance. For a time Melissa allowed herself to pretend that that was where she rightly belonged—in Quinn Rafferty’s arms.

  Twenty

  When Gillian returned from her automobile ride over dark roads she was covered with dust and glory. As she entered the ballroom Quinn chuckled at the sight of her, but Melissa was not amused.

  Ajax, for his part, looked exhilarated. It had clearly not occurred to him to feel guilty for deserting Melissa. He was beaming as he approached, pulling Gillian along with him.

  There was a befuddled look about the woman, and Melissa knew a brief, soaring hope that Gillian had fallen in love with Ajax and he with her.

  “Here you are, little one!” he cried, as though it had been Melissa who had slipped away without a word, and not himself. “You must be very tired, and eager to get back to the hotel.”

  Melissa felt Quinn stiffen beside her and knew a gentle twinge of pleasure at that. She yawned. “As a matter of fact, I am. And I have to be up early tomorrow to work.” She turned to Quinn, who had been her escort during Ajax’s brief defection, and smiled distantly. “Good night, Mr. Rafferty,” she said.

  He said nothing, but the dark fire in his eyes threatened to consume Melissa before she could make herself look away.

  The April night was chilly, and a fog had rolled in from the water. Even though Ajax’s automobile had headlamps, it was nearly impossible to see. Despite this, he insisted on speeding over the twisting road.

  “Slow down!” Melissa cried, grasping the seat, frightened for her baby.

  Ajax turned to her, laughing at her fear. The look on his face changed swiftly to terror as the machine, making a sound like corn popping in a kettle, careened around the first bend and slammed into a tree with a tremendous, jarring crash.

  The impact simultaneously opened the door on Melissa’s side and sent her flying through the chasm. She landed, rolling on the grassy ground, a scream of terror trapped in her throat.

  When at long last she stopped tumbling, she was lying on her stomach. She grasped handfuls of grass tightly in her hands to anchor herself to the earth and struggled to breathe.

  After a little while she was aware of lanterns and voices nearby, and Quinn came to kneel beside her on the ground. “Melissa?” His voice was raspy with fear. “Are you hurt?”

  She tightened her hold on the grass. “I-I don’t know,” she whispered. And she began to cry.

  Very gently, very carefully, Quinn forced her to let go of the clumps of quack grass she was crushing into her palms. “See if you can turn over, Melissa,” he said.

  She was badly bruised and scraped from head to foot, but there didn’t seem to be any real damage to muscle and bone. She sat up, pushing her hair back from her face, and mourned, “My gown is ruined!”

  Quinn chuckled at this. She would have risen to her feet then, but he stopped her by sweeping her up into his arms. “You’re going home with me tonight,” he said bluntly. “You can’t lie around in a hotel with nobody to look after you.”

  The truth was that Melissa was still shaken and scared, though not really hurt, and she didn’t want to be alone. She let her head rest against Quinn’s shoulder. “Is—is Ajax—?”

  Quinn was quick to reassure her. “Just a bloody nose and a few loose teeth,” he answered.

  There were people and horses and buggies all around, but Melissa was only dimly aware of them. When Quinn set her in the seat of a rig and muttered a word of thanks to someone, she yawned and settled against his shoulder, her eyes
closed.

  It was ironic that immediately after a near miss she felt safer than she ever had before.

  Quinn brought her to his house and carried her inside. A slender blond woman met them in the entryway, and Melissa wondered sleepily who she was.

  “There’s been an accident,” Quinn said by way of explanation, and he started up the stairs. “I’ve sent for Doc Webster. When he gets here, bring him to my room.”

  Melissa was strangely groggy, as though she’d been drugged, and she felt cold. She whimpered as Quinn undressed her quickly beside the fire in the master suite, then bundled her into a blanket and tucked her into bed beneath the fur spread and silken top sheet.

  When the doctor arrived—he was the same man who had given her laudanum the day she learned of Quinn’s deception—he examined her carefully and then stepped away from the bed. Although it was a strain, Melissa could hear the two men talking softly over by the fireplace.

  “My wife is pregnant,” Quinn said.

  The doctor sighed in a way that brought both Melissa’s hands protectively to her abdomen. She didn’t stop to wonder why Quinn had referred to her as his wife when she wasn’t, for she was concentrating with her whole being on hearing the physician’s reply. “It’s important that she rest. If there’s going to be a miscarriage, it will happen in the next few days.”

  Melissa closed her eyes tightly against tears, but they seeped through her lashes anyway. Please, God, she prayed silently, let me keep my baby.

  When the doctor was gone Quinn came to the side of the bed and bent to kiss Melissa’s forehead. “Go to sleep, Calico,” he commanded, his gentle voice tinged with sadness. “And no worrying. Before you know it you’ll be settled in the Rip Snortin’ Saloon, publishing recipes, classified advertisements, and advice to the lovelorn.”

  Melissa sniffled. She would be a fine one to tell other people what to do where affairs of the heart were concerned. There probably wasn’t another woman on the face of the earth who felt as lovelorn as she did. “I want this baby,” she confided in a broken whisper. “I want it more than anything.” Except possibly you, Quinn Rafferty, added a voice in her heart.

  Quinn drew up a chair and sank into it, and the expression in his eyes was solemn. “I know, Calico,” he answered. “But sometimes things go wrong—”

  Melissa shook her head with such purpose that she became dizzy. She closed her eyes. “No. Nothing can happen to this child—I won’t let it.”

  “Sleep,” Quinn ordered, offering no argument, no reminders that life can be unmercifully treacherous.

  Even though her exhaustion was fathomless, Melissa was afraid to lapse into sleep. She might awaken to find that her baby was gone, and she couldn’t take that chance. “Hold me,” she said.

  After only a few moments of hesitation Quinn removed his boots and his fancy suit coat, now rumpled and dirty, and got into bed beside her in his shirt and trousers. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close, and she drew strength from the scent and substance of him.

  When she awakened light was pouring into the room, and Quinn was still beside her. The blanket he had put around her like a cocoon had fallen aside, and one of his hands rested on her belly as if to guard the tiny life within.

  Melissa’s throat constricted with a jumble of emotions—joy because she knew her baby was safe, despair because she loved its father so desperately and so hopelessly, anger because she’d been so cruelly used that she’d never be able to forgive.

  As she cast aside the last remnants of sleep, Melissa became aware of the deep, throbbing ache in her muscles. She hurt from head to foot, body and soul.

  Quinn lifted his head from the pillow and looked at her as though surprised to see her there. After a moment he recovered, yawned expansively, and asked, “How do you feel?”

  “Terrible,” she answered.

  His hand rose from her stomach as though it were hot as a stovelid, then fell back to caress her in a gentle way. She was soothed, and the tears that had been welling to the surface subsided without disgracing her. She wanted Quinn, knowing that being possessed by him would be a fierce comfort, and she caught his hand in hers and brought it from her stomach to her breast.

  Quinn drew in a sharp breath as he felt a nipple harden against his palm. “No, Melissa,” he said firmly. “Absolutely not.”

  She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed the rough, callused palm and then the underside of his wrist.

  He groaned. “Damn it, you’re in no condition. .. .”

  Melissa opened his shirt and slid down to take mischievous nips at a masculine nipple with her lips. She felt him rise to straining magnificence against her thigh.

  “Oh, God,” he gasped, and then, in a violent effort at chivalry, he hurled himself out of bed and stood there gasping.

  Melissa’s disappointment was cruel, even though she understood his fear. Still, something deep within her said that loving was safe, that no harm would come to the baby because of it. “Please,” she said, and her desire was an ache inside her, an ache of the spirit as well as the body.

  Quinn glared at her for a few moments, then went into the bathroom. Melissa was afraid that she’d been abandoned, but when he returned he was naked. He came and knelt beside the bed, gently peeling away the blankets that concealed her until she lay bare and bruised and vulnerable before him.

  With a strangled cry, he bent and kissed her collarbone where her flesh had been scraped raw, but his hand caressed her breast. Soon his mouth was there, too, tasting the nipple, giving it a tender teasing.

  Melissa moaned and arched her back, offering up another part of herself, and Quinn’s touch was like rain in a dry garden. She blossomed between his fingers as he pleased her, bringing her nearer and nearer to the treacherous solace she sought.

  Writhing, her injuries forgotten for the moment, Melissa whimpered as Quinn propped her bottom up on two soft pillows and then rendered her completely vulnerable with a spreading motion of his fingers. When he came to slake her thirst by drinking of her she gave a lusty cry in welcome and entangled her hands in his hair.

  He was gentle and yet ravenous, and he feasted upon Melissa until she’d given all she could give. Then he stroked her with his hand until her breathing was normal and she’d settled into a half trance of contentment.

  She saw his desire when he stood and was sleepily amazed when he turned and crossed the room to the armoire. He was getting dressed, preparing to leave!

  With tremendous effort Melissa roused herself out of sweet languor long enough to rise up on her elbows and ask, “Aren’t you getting into bed?”

  Quinn shook his head, ramming his shirttails into his trousers. He had a little trouble buttoning them over his need for Melissa. “Not today,” he answered in a clipped tone.

  Melissa wondered if he would go to some other woman—Gillian, for instance—for relief and found the idea unbearable. Wide awake now, she sat up, patted the mattress with one hand, and ordered quietly, “Come here, Quinn. Right now.”

  He came to her as though she drew him by an invisible rope—reluctantly. Even angrily. But he could not defy her, and that knowledge gave Melissa a dizzying sense of triumph.

  Kneeling on the bed, she opened Quinn’s trousers. He gave a growl of furious submission as she taught him the futility of resisting her commands. The lessons were slow and thorough and completely brazen, and when Quinn had learned them Melissa restored his clothes to their proper order and sent him on his way.

  An hour after he’d gone Helga arrived with Melissa’s notebooks and a lap desk. “Mr. Rafferty said you might want these,” she announced, watching the patient curiously, “so he had them fetched.”

  Despite her bruises and scrapes and achy muscles Melissa felt strong, and she’d been frightfully bored. She reached out for the writing supplies eagerly.

  The first thing she penned was a note to Charlotte explaining her absence. Helga promised to send one of the stable hands to deliver it and was just le
aving the bedroom when Melissa stopped her with a question.

  “Who was the fair-haired woman I saw in the entry hall last night?”

  Helga smiled happily. “Oh, that was Becky Sever, missus. Mrs. Wright’s going traveling with her sister, and Becky will take her place.”

  Melissa shrugged off the uneasy feeling that had gathered around her heart and returned Helga’s smile. “How nice for Mrs. Wright. I hope she won’t leave without saying goodbye to me.”

  “Oh, she’d never do that, Mrs. Rafferty,” Helga protested, looking appalled.

  Melissa didn’t bother to correct the maid; just for this day, this safe, cozy, tucked-away-by-the-fire day, she wanted to pretend that everything was proper and perfect.

  She wrote industriously until midday, when Becky Sever brought her a tray. The woman was pretty and shy, and she said almost nothing. Melissa, disappointed that Quinn had not returned, was ready for a little conversation.

  “What’s the weather like today?” she asked as the new housekeeper fluffed the pillows and tucked them back into place behind Melissa.

  “Cloudy” was the soft response.

  “Are you to be addressed as ‘Miss Sever’ or ‘Mrs.’?” Melissa persisted, undaunted.

  “If it’s all the same to you, Mrs. Rafferty, I like to be called Becky.”

  Melissa considered that. “If I’m to call you by your given name, then you’ll have to reciprocate. I’m not really Mr. Rafferty’s wife, you see.”

  Becky blushed at this, and her gaze searched Melissa’s face briefly and then dodged away again. “Oh,” she said, clearly shocked. Her cheeks were bright with color, and she escaped the room as quickly as she could.

  Since it was evident that she wasn’t going to be able to strike up a conversation with anyone, Melissa threw herself wholeheartedly into the story she was writing. She worked so hard that by the end of the day she felt as though she’d been cleaning out the Rip Snortin’ Saloon instead of just wielding a pen.

  All the same, she grinned when Quinn came in because he looked so sheepish and gave the bed such a wide berth.