“Is this how you reward my daughter for saving your life?”
He froze. Would his marriage end here and now, with a gunshot reverberating around the house, his blood soaking the hallway, and Victoria in her white nightgown kneeling beside him, tears streaming down her beautiful face?
“Yes,” Declan said in reply to his father-in-laws question.
He knew he was baiting Andrew Sinclair. Goading him to pull the trigger. Deep in his mind, a suspicion flickered that perhaps he had intended to be caught, had been looking for a way out of a situation that had become impossible to resolve without hurting Victoria.
“I’ve seen how you look at her.” The gun barrel poked into his neck in an angry jab. “You salivate after her like a dog in heat. Do you think I want a man like you for her? An uneducated thief who makes no effort to be civil to me?”
Sinclair’s voice had risen in anger. Declan suspected the older man had not paid attention to the faint creaking of bedsprings on the other side of the door, or the rasp of a match, or the click of a glass bowl on a lamp as it was shoved forcefully into place.
He waited. A soft trail of footsteps. The door inched open.
“Declan?” The hesitant whisper filled the silence.
“Victoria.” Shock and pain roughened Andrew Sinclair’s voice. He lowered the gun, but not fast enough. The steel barrel glinted in the light as Victoria held up the lamp.
“Dear God, father, put the gun away.” She pulled the door wider. The yellow light from the lamp threw dancing shadows across her face, evidence of how hard her hands were shaking. Her blue eyes were huge and round, her smooth skin ashen with fright.
Sinclair spoke like a man in pain. “Ria, please tell me you did not invite this man into your bedroom.”
Declan saw Victoria’s stiff posture ease, now that her father had lowered the gun. She studied the floor boards beneath her bare toes and spoke in a low voice. “I didn’t invite him into my bedroom, father. He came of his own accord, but once he was inside, I didn’t ask him to leave.”
Frantic now, Sinclair stepped forward, pushing Declan aside. “Ria, if you lie with him, you can kiss goodbye to all thoughts of a good marriage. The railroad man, the earl, the senator. You’ll lose them all. A dalliance with an outlaw might be a romantic adventure to a young girl, but is it worth throwing your future away?”
Victoria’s lips moved without a sound. Her voice seemed caught in her throat, but both Declan and Sinclair could follow the silent motion of her lips and knew she had said ‘yes’. She lifted one hand to touch the lace ruffle at her collar and the other hand brought the lamp higher, closer to their faces. Swallowing hard, she found her voice again. “I want this man, father. I always have, since I was fifteen years old and saw him for the first time.”
Andrew Sinclair stood in silence, his narrow, fierce gaze shuttling between them. He snarled out a curse as understanding rippled through him. His voice gained the harsh, guttural cadence of a highland burr. “Ye said, you didna ask him to leave. Didna. Are ye talking about the past, girl? Are ye saying it’s too late? Are ye telling me this is no’ the first time he’s come scratching like a tomcat on yer bedroom door?”
At first, Victoria seemed to shrink back. Then she lifted her chin. Defiance flashed in her eyes, defiance and feminine pride. “I don’t regret what I did,” she said bluntly. “And I don’t care about those other men. I could never settle in the East. I’m a rancher’s daughter. I want to be a rancher’s wife. I would like to make this marriage a success. I know it’s a lot to ask, father, but will you give him a chance?”
Sinclair groaned, a low, wounded sound. “Ria, you don’t know what you’re asking. I promised you mother on her deathbed to bring you up to be a lady, to do all I can to safeguard your happiness.”
“You have,” she hurried to reassure him. “You have never failed me in any way. And I am asking you not to fail me now. I’m asking you to accept Declan Beaulieu as my husband. As the man who will inherit Red Rock Ranch after you die, and whose children will inherit it after him.”
Sinclair stiffened. He fell silent. Declan could guess his thoughts.
There’ll be no ranch to inherit. In another month it will belong to the bank.
When Sinclair finally spoke again, his voice was tired, as if he’d suddenly aged in years. “All right, Ria, this is what I’ll do. I’ll accept this man as your husband. I won’t promise to like him, but I’ll tolerate him. However, if I ever learn that he has betrayed you, or used his position as your husband to hurt you, I won’t hesitate to put a bullet through his brain. Do you accept that?”
He waited for Victoria to nod, and then he turned to Declan. The lamplight was now behind him, and the deep shadows gave his face a sinister look. “Have I made myself clear?” he asked harshly.
“Yes, sir.”
Declan said nothing more, merely waited in silence. After a moment, Sinclair moved aside. It was a short step but it had the gravity of a king giving up his crown. Declan stepped across the threshold to his daughter’s bedroom and pulled the door shut behind him, sealing his father-in-law into the corridor. His body vibrated with tension. Three people had participated in that scene, and only one of them had hidden the truth.
Declan Beaulieu.
The weight of his lack of honesty sat heavy on his shoulders. Victoria ought to have rejected him, instead of making the gallant declaration that had caused his chest to swell with pride. He would not feel so torn up if she had denied him. If she had put fear of consequences and loyalty to her father first. Or, if she had at least blamed him for what had happened between them, had made him take the sole responsibility for her indiscretion.
But she had done none of it.
A surge of bitter anger rose inside Declan, at himself, at Andrew Sinclair, even at Victoria. He hated the world that had spun his fate, like a gambling wheel, and placed him in such an impossible position. The helpless rage collided with desire, to create a burst of raw, volatile passion that demanded an instant release.
“Take off your nightgown.” He spoke in a low voice, already busy removing his boots—another sign that he had courted disaster on purpose, failing to muffle his footsteps by walking barefoot as he traversed the silent house.
Victoria obeyed without protest or question. It came back to him in a flash, the taunting comment he had made after the hasty wedding ceremony beneath the hanging oak. If you obey, I might be willing to cherish. There would be no time for cherishing now. Only fierce lust, taking what she gave willingly, seizing a moment of pleasure in an effort to chase away the demons that clamored inside him.
Already naked, Victoria stretched out on the white coverlet and leaned over to the bedside table to blow out the lamp.
“Leave it on,” he told her. “Tonight, I want to see you in lamplight.” He climbed up on the bed and lowered his body on top of hers. Beneath him, she felt soft and yielding, but he could tell she was quivering with anticipation, like a mare about to be covered by a stallion. Her breathing was quick and shallow, her face flushed, her skin hot to touch.
The outward signs of her arousal called out to him, urging him on. Not pausing to kiss her, he braced up on one elbow and reached down to test her readiness. The slick heat that met his fingers sent another surge of desire coursing through him.
“You’re mine,” he said as he shifted his body to line up with hers and seated himself to the hilt in a single forceful stroke. “You’ve always been mine, and you always will be.”
She said nothing, merely rocked her hips to meet his. Rising up on his arms, he lifted his body above hers. He wanted to drive her up to the pinnacle of pleasure so fast she’d be lost without him to hold on to her, and then he wanted to ease her down and take her back up again. And again and again and again, until she no longer knew where her body ended and his began.
He caught her gaze and held it, his eyes not leaving hers even for a second. He saw her lashes flutter down as she sought refuge from the onslaught of se
nsations. “No,” he said. “Look at me, Ria.” She obeyed, and Declan felt a fierce wave of possessiveness.
“Mine,” he said, and thrust deep. “See how well we fit?”
Instead of replying, she made a harsh, impatient sound, asking for more. And he gave it to her. He felt her shudder, felt the rhythmic contractions of her body, but he didn’t cease, didn’t even slow down. He kept up his fierce pace, until she shattered in his arms a second time. Then he left her, but only to roll her over onto her stomach.
He settled his body on top of hers once more and placed his mouth by her ear. Giving in to the sting of jealousy, he ran his tongue along the delicate shape of her ear and asked, “Did you kiss any of those men in Philadelphia?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“All of them.”
“And did you like it?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Not like you.”
“The English earl. What was his name?”
“I don’t remember.”
“What was his given name?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember. Please.”
“What about the others?”
“I don’t remember their names. Please. Don’t stop.”
And he fulfilled her wish. She turned her head on the pillow, seeking to be kissed. He caught the corner of her mouth, and she thrust her tongue between his lips. He met her fierce kiss with a deep, hungry passion of his own.
The heat of their bodies made her skin moist with perspiration. He broke the kiss and licked at her neck, tasting the tangy flavor of salt on it. “Say it,” he demanded as he took them both to the edge once more. “Say my name.”
“Declan,” she said, “Declan.”
And as he spurted his seed into her, he recalled her solemn words to her father. The man who will inherit Red Rock Ranch after you die, and whose children will inherit it after him. He sank down over her, gathered her close, and rolled over to his side so he would not crush her with his weight.
Perhaps there would a child.
One more person to suffer as the situation unfolded.
For, as Declan held Victoria Sinclair in his arms, he accepted that he loved he, and only now did the inevitability with which the three of them were hurtling toward their destruction fully dawn on him. They would all be broken in their own way. The wounds on each of them would be deep and painful, the scars they left permanent.
Andrew Sinclair would lose his ranch and see his daughter’s fate tied to the man responsible for his downfall. There would be nothing he could do to restore Victoria’s prospects, nothing he could do to safeguard her future.
Victoria would lose the home she loved and be forced to choose between her father and her husband. She had put so much faith in him, and he would pay her back with betrayal. She would have to learn either to forgive him, or learn to hate him.
And he, Declan Beaulieu. He might lose Victoria, if she chose to stay with her father. And even if she didn’t, she would respond to his betrayal with hate and rejection that would poison their marriage, perhaps for the rest of their days.
They would all suffer. But it was becoming clear to Declan that he might suffer the deepest wounds of all. Because his pain would be sharpened by shame and guilt. And yet, his conscience, his sense of honor, his sense of duty to those who had gone before him prevented him from abandoning the revenge which had taken a decade of his life to bring to fruition.
****
Victoria surveyed the sliced carrots and juicy tomatoes heaped on the kitchen counter and wondered if arranging a dinner party was a mistake. As they no longer employed a maid, she had to rely on her own skills, with help from Mrs. Flynn.
“And then the there was a blood curling scream, and the lanterns went out, even though there was not a breath of wind, and Genevieve crept past the crypt the darkness—her candle had already guttered out, you see—and a cold hand settled at the nape of her neck…”
Victoria only listened with half an ear. How could a person who looked so matronly be so enthralled by stories full of blood and gore?
“Do you think the roast might be getting overdone?” she asked.
Mrs. Flynn stopped relaying the plot of her latest penny dreadful. She leaned over with a swing of black skirts and the wobble of heavy hips, opened the hatch to the big cast iron oven and poked a fork in the side of beef. “It needs a bit longer.” She glanced up over her shoulder. “You go and have your bath. I’ll manage the rest.”
Victoria untied her apron, hung it on a peg on the wall and hurried through the house, her nerves thrumming. She’d been married a month now, and tension had become a permanent state of affairs in the household. What was wrong with her father and husband? Sometimes, they seemed to get along fine. Declan would laugh at her father’s flashes of humor. Her father would praise Declan on his hard work and the way had gained the respect of the ranch hands.
And then one of them would say something sharp, something cold, and the lingering hostility and suspicion between them would flare up again. The dinner party was her attempt to repair the rift once and for all. It would introduce her husband to her friends, and it would demonstrate to her father the hostess skills the expensive education in Boston had drummed into her.
In the hall, Victoria saw her father emerge from his office. She slowed her steps, concern niggling in her mind. Her father had changed in the past few weeks. His face had become gaunt, and an air of defeat clung to him. Never even in the difficult years when the draught had depleted the herd, or cattle prices had fallen, had she seen him appear quite so downcast.
“Father, is something wrong?”
“Hmm?” He glanced over, as if he’d failed to notice her standing there.
“The guests will be here in an hour,” she told him. “Will you be ready?”
“Or course.” He squared his shoulders. “My hospitality remains intact.”
Baffled by the comment, Victoria went out to the stable yard. She found Declan playing the throwing game with Stan and Hank. Stan was throwing, a toothless grin brightening his shrunken features. The small square of wood landed in the padded cage, now covered in mud and dust. Stan whooped, threw again, and hurried out to collect the half a dozen blocks he had thrown.
“What does it spell?” he asked, with the eagerness of a child as he crouched down and let the alphabet squares tumble to the ground by his feet.
Declan squatted beside him and turned the blocks over to study the letters.
“The boss is learning me read,” Stan informed Victoria, beaming up at her over his shoulder. He turned back to the blocks, pointed with a grimy forefinger. “That’s an S. Can you make my name?”
“No.” With a quick shuffle, using both hands, Declan selected three squares and lined them up in the dust. “What’s above you in the sky?”
Stan looked up overheard, then down again. “The first letter is S. And then...” His mouth moved in silent concentration, sunken lips puckered.
“What letter is like a bucket without a lid?” Declan asked.
“A bucket without a lid?” Stan’s face furrowed, and then lit up as if he had just won a barrel of whisky in a raffle. “That’s a U. And the last one is an N. It’s the goddamn sun in the sky, ain’t it?”
Without speaking, Declan pointed at Victoria.
Stan’s grin eased, but only a little, and his faded brown eyes didn’t lose their shine. “Sorry for me language, Miss Ria. Forgot you was standing there.”
She smiled at him. “That’s all right, Stan. Looks like you’re well on your way to picking up a newspaper and reading all about what’s going on in the world.”
Stan let out a cackling laughter. He was still shaking with it when Victoria turned to Declan. “The guests will be here in an hour. Do you plan to have a bath and shave?” She never dared to give him orders, or use the gentle bullying tactics that worked so well with her father.
“I’ll take a bath.” He rubbed a hand over
his jaw. “Shave, too.”
“Good,” she replied, and turned to go. It tied her up in knots, the way her life seemed to be divided between the hours of the night, when Declan couldn’t get enough of her, and the hours of the day, when a barrier remained between them—a small, invisible barrier, but a barrier nonetheless, one that she was never able to forget existed.
It was a wall of uncertainty, of unspoken words, of declarations never made, of feelings never acknowledged. Never once had Declan told her that he loved her. And because he kept his silence, she suppressed her own longing to talk about her feelings.
His voice rang out behind her. “Stay and watch. It’s my turn to throw.”
A frisson ran over her at the serious undertone in his casual words. Slowly, Victoria spun on her heels and faced the group of men again. Stan was studying the letters on an alphabet block. Hank, who had remained silent as usual, was cranking the well pump to soak his purple kerchief. Declan was facing her, standing at ease, once hip cocked, the black Stetson pulled low over his brow. Beneath the brim, she could feel his blue eyes on her.
It hit her again, the way it had when she saw him for the first time. Masculine appeal, the kind that could send a young girl into a dizzying swoon, or turn a sensible woman into a wanton for a night. It was not the kind of aggressive masculinity she recognized in some men, but an easy male confidence that tempted instead of demanded, all the more devastating because if forced her to acknowledge the power of her own desire.
“What are you waiting for?” she asked on an indrawn breath, her heart suddenly thudding in her chest. Would it always be like this? Would a mere look from him always make her ache with yearning?
Without a word, Declan turned around. He removed his hat, balanced it upside down in his left palm, bent to reach down to the corset cage and took his time picking up blocks, studying the letters, discarding one, selecting another, storing a half dozen of the small wooden squares in the crown of his hat. Satisfied with his choice, he settled to stand behind the line someone had scraped into the ground and began throwing.
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