A Stranger's Wife

by Maggie Osborne

  Most likely the note was not a reminder. Then what was it? Frowning, she ran her fingertip over the wrinkled creases. A note Miriam had intended for someone else? Who?

  She wouldn’t have needed to give Quinn a note, since she saw him several times a day. And the message didn’t appear to apply to a servant. It was not written on a full page of stationery, so Miriam had not intended to mail it. If she had planned to hand the note to someone, why not deliver the message verbally?

  The puzzle intrigued her.

  Watching snow melting down the windowpanes, she considered the message and wondered if perhaps the note could have been an instruction to the driver of Miriam’s carriage, telling him when and where to find her. Same time. Same place.

  But no, she realized, a message to an employee would have been signed Mrs. Westin. Sighing, she decided the note was not going to give up its secrets.

  Instinct suggested the message was private. Instinct also warned her not to mention the note to Quinn or Paul until she figured out the meaning. Which she wondered if she could do.

  Although Lily was tempted to keep this tiny sample of Miriam’s handwriting, she dropped the note on the fire and watched it burn before she yawned. The warmth in the room and the cozy hiss of snow against the panes made her feel drowsy.

  The remainder of the afternoon opened before her with nothing to do, a luxury she had dreamed of when she was in prison. Wishing her friends could see her now, she decided to take a nap, an almost sinful indulgence she hadn’t enjoyed since childhood.

  Before she drifted into a doze, a half smile played around her lips. There were restrictions attached to being a lady, and she doubted she would ever achieve true refinement, but she loved this life. Wanted it for herself and Rose.

  In her dream Quinn came to her. This time he didn’t stop but took the next step and the next. He loomed over her, tall, hard, and rampantly naked, his grey eyes burning in the darkness before he threw back the coverlet and slid into bed beside her. His skin was hot and his hands wild on her writhing body.

  When Lily awoke, she was damp with perspiration and breathing hard.

  * * *

  Paul dined with them in the formal dining room, watching Lily from the corners of his eyes as Cranston glided around the table serving and removing dishes.

  “Did you enjoy your first day at home?” he asked politely.

  “Very much,” she answered from her seat at the foot of the long table. From now on, conversations would be layered with tiers of meaning. She understood that Paul was inquiring about her meeting with the servants. Smiling, she signaled Cranston to remove the entree. “I spent most of the day resting.” By omitting any reference to the servants, she informed both men that the meetings had gone well.

  Quinn blotted his lips and looked down the table, his gaze lingering on the dark lace bodice of her dinner gown. “The doctors said you would gradually regain your strength. You mustn’t overdo.” Briefly his glance flicked to Cranston, then he added, “darling.”

  “The announcement of your return mentioned that you intend to resume your at-homes on Friday,” Paul commented as if he’d had nothing to do with placing the release. “Are you certain your health is up to entertaining?” His dark eyes told her that he was asking if she was prepared.

  “I’ve missed my friends,” she murmured, informing him that she was as ready as she would ever be.

  Quinn leaned back in his chair as Cranston removed his plate. “It was good to come home and find you here.” He was relieved to discover she hadn’t bolted.

  “I’m finished with long journeys for now,” Lily said, lifting her chin. How many times must she assure him that she wouldn’t run home to Missouri? When, if ever, would he trust that she intended to wrest every drop of knowledge out of this experience? Maybe when she began to trust him, which she doubted would ever happen. There were too many secrets. After a small hesitation, she, too, added the word darling and curved her lips into a smile for Cranston’s benefit. Quinn raised one dark eyebrow and held her gaze until she felt the heat rise in her throat and looked away, wondering guiltily if he knew that she’d been in his bedroom.

  An awkward silence descended. And why shouldn’t it, Lily thought wildly. What did they have to say to one another, three people pretending to be something they were not? Suddenly, she felt a crazy urge to announce to Cranston that she was not Miriam Westin and Quinn was not her devoted husband and Paul was not a concerned friend but her creator. They were playing a high-stakes game, and Cranston was part of an audience that would grow as the days and weeks passed.

  Inhaling deeply, she fought to collect herself. There was nothing intimidating about the long table or the candles and flowers and silver serving lids. Trying to think like Miriam, she reminded herself that she had grown up with heavy silver and gold-rimmed china. She had dined in rooms as opulent as this during her grand tour of Europe. She had hosted hundreds of dinner parties, and she was prepared for this small one.

  Concentrating, she recalled a topic from a list she had compiled earlier. “I read that President Grant vetoed a bill that would have protected the buffalo from extinction. Do you gentlemen have an opinion about buffalo?”

  Paul gazed at her. “Why, Miriam, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you express interest in a political issue.”

  It was a mild reprimand and a reminder that Miriam vehemently disliked anything political.

  “Oh my,” Lily said, blinking innocently and raising a hand to the lace at her throat. “Was that a political question? I was only thinking of the poor buffalo, that’s all.”

  A gleam of approval shone in Paul’s dark eyes. She’d made a successful recovery. “I agree with the president’s decision. There’s no quicker or surer way to solve the Indian problem than by destroying their food supply.”

  Lily arched an incredulous eyebrow. “Is that your solution to the Indian problem as you put it? Starve them all to death?” A tiny cold knot formed inside her chest. Tonight Paul looked relaxed and benign. It was easy to forget that the Kingmaker’s job was to solve problems quickly, absolutely, and ruthlessly if necessary.

  Candlelight flashed along the blade of his knife when he spread his hands in a shrug. “A dead Indian is a problem solved.”

  Quinn stared. “Killing doesn’t always solve a problem,” he said quietly. “Sometimes death is merely the beginning of an entirely new set of problems.”

  “A new set of problems,” Paul agreed pleasantly. “But the old problem is solved, isn’t it?”

  Another short silence opened, then Quinn said, “Exterminating the buffalo is a short-term solution with far-ranging consequences for the Indians and the buffalo.”

  Lily’s thoughts drifted as they argued national policy through the pie and cheese. She didn’t actively detest politics as Miriam apparently had, but neither did she find the discussion particularly interesting.

  She was free to gaze down the table and realize that Quinn was slowly overtaking her every thought, waking and sleeping. When she remembered this afternoon’s passionate dream, her fingers trembled, and she licked her lips, blinking hard. In her dream, he had been as intense as he was now, but focused on her. She told herself to look away from him, but she couldn’t.

  Helplessly, she watched him punctuate his statements with emphatic gestures and liquid expressions, his face mobile in the candlelight. Early in their relationship she had thought Quinn closed and difficult to read, and certainly he could be. But when he forgot himself in conversation or deep thought, his expressions were as eloquent as his words.

  Irritation and anger deepened the craggy lines mapping his forehead and fanning from the corner of his eyes. His lips widened when he smiled or made a point. Knots forming along his jaw signaled impatience or frustration. His eyes narrowed and turned a charcoal color when strong emotion accompanied his words. His hands, slender, strong, and confident, moved aggressively, pointing, gesturing, raking through his dark hair.

  She was beginni
ng to know this man who had crawled inside her mind.

  “I’m sorry, did you . . . ?” Rousing herself, she realized that Quinn and Paul were looking at her expectantly.

  Cranston had cleared the table. At this point it had been Miriam’s habit to withdraw to the family parlor and wait for the gentlemen to finish their cigars and join her for coffee. But Cranston did not know Miriam’s habits.

  Impulsively, Lily decided to create a habit of her own by remaining with the men. Lifting her chin and daring them to object, she smiled, aware that Cranston hovered nearby in the butler’s pantry.

  “By all means enjoy your cigars, gentlemen. As you know—darling—I don’t object to the scent of smoke.” In fact, she hoped they would blow a little smoke in her direction. She touched the small silver bell in front of her. “Cranston, please serve the gentlemen’s brandy, and I’ll have a tiny taste myself. You may serve coffee in the parlor in twenty minutes.”

  Even to her own ears, she sounded firmly confident. The day had indeed been successful. She couldn’t resist grinning at Paul’s scowl and feeling pleased when Quinn laughed. She wished she could celebrate by joining them when they lit their cigars.

  “Well,” Quinn said in a lazy voice, his silvery eyes settling on her lips, “did either of us convince you one way or another regarding the buffalo?” Despite his attention to her mouth, a challenge flickered in his gaze, as if he were asking her to choose sides between himself and Paul.

  The old Lily would have used his question as a springboard to put forth her own opinions. But a lady’s obligation was to support her husband. “You made some good points,” she said to Paul, summoning a tact that did not come naturally. “But I believe my husband’s argument was most convincing.”

  A rush of color stained her cheeks when she said “my husband.” But her tongue didn’t stumble.

  She glanced at Quinn, and their eyes locked and held. And she felt as if she were drowning in a swirling grey pool. Holding her gaze, his speculative eyes narrowed on her face, he tilted his head back and exhaled toward the ceiling. Heat flamed through Lily’s body, and she was aware of her pulse beating hard at the hollow of her throat.

  Why was it that one man could look at a woman and it was just a look, nothing more, whereas another man could narrow his concentration to a woman’s mouth and the hard hot flame in his eyes unleashed an earthquake deep inside her?

  Wetting her lips, aware that her nerves raced along the surface of her skin, Lily placed her napkin on the table. “I’ve changed my mind. I believe I’ll wait in the parlor.”

  Paul rose to assist her, and she thanked him, her eyes on Quinn. He rocked back in his chair, studying her with a slow gaze that traveled from the mass of blond curls Elizabeth had dressed high on her crown to the pulse between her collarbones to her breast and then to her waist. “We’ll join you shortly,” he said in a thick voice that flowed through her mind like dark honey.

  Crushing his cigar between his fingers, Quinn watched the provocative sway of her bustle as she exited the dining room. Before she glided out of sight, she glanced over her shoulder and met his eyes for the span of a heartbeat.

  “Christ,” Paul muttered as he strode toward the butler’s pantry. After firmly closing the heavy door against eavesdroppers, he returned to the table, inhaled deeply, then blew out a stream of cigar smoke in a short angry burst. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he snapped. “I swear, if you don’t find a mistress soon, I’ll find one for you.”

  “You’re in charge of the campaign, not my personal life.” Leaning forward, Quinn tipped the ash off his cigar.

  “Everything in Lily’s background tells you that she’s an opportunist,” Paul said, his voice low and sharp. “She’s seen the ranch, she’s taken a good look at this house, and she sees money and a life she wants.” His eyes hardened to brown stones. “Right now she’s thinking this arrangement doesn’t have to end at the inauguration. She’s thinking she can continue playing Miriam indefinitely. And the road to that goal leads to your bed. Seducing you is how she hopes to get what she wants.”

  “Lily’s thoughts are as impossible to guess as Miriam’s were. Neither of us knows what she’s thinking.” He took offense at Paul’s implication that Lily was attempting to seduce him. The sexual tension between them had ignited long before Lily had seen evidence of his wealth, and before she knew what kind of life Miriam had led.

  “Getting defensive doesn’t alter the fact that you’ll create an enormous problem if you take Lily as a mistress rather than choosing a more suitable woman.” Tilting back in his chair, Paul stared at the ceiling for a long moment before he looked at Quinn. “The lines are already blurred, don’t make it worse. Pull back. She’s not what you think she is, Quinn. She’s not Miriam as you wish Miriam had been.”

  Anger flashed in his eyes. “Don’t presume to tell me what I think.”

  “We’ve been friends for fifteen years. If I don’t know what you’re thinking, no one does.”

  “What I’m thinking is this conversation has gone too far,” he said coldly, stubbing out his cigar. Standing, he shot his cuffs and touched the studs running down his shirtfront. “Shall we join my wife? We’ve kept the lady waiting long enough.”

  Paul stared at him. “She’s not your wife, Quinn.”

  “It was you who insisted we play the game in private as well as publicly.” Quinn let his gaze go flat. “Don’t overstep, Paul. You manage the campaign, and I’ll manage my wife.”

  * * *

  After Paul said his good-byes, Lily set down her coffee cup and watched Quinn pace before the parlor fireplace. Something had changed between the time she left the dining room and the men’s arrival for coffee. They’d both been angry, but too aware of the people in the house to discuss their differences and carry their disagreement to a resolution.

  “Quinn?” He glanced at her, then turned to lean against the mantel, glaring into the fireplace. “I’d like to go for a walk. Would you accompany me?”

  “Now?” Frowning, he withdrew his pocket watch and flipped open the gold lid. “It’s late.”

  “All the time I was in the desert, I dreamed of snow.”

  “Shall I fetch madam’s cloak and muff?” Cranston inquired, gliding past her to collect the silver coffee service.

  Lily jumped. She hadn’t heard him enter the parlor, hadn’t guessed he was nearby. Paul was correct. It was crucial to maintain the deception even when she believed she and Quinn were alone and having a private conversation.

  “Please do,” she said, looking at Quinn but speaking to Cranston. No gentleman would permit his wife to walk alone at this time of night. She knew she pressed the issue and was forcing him to agree.

  “Bring my jacket, hat, and walking stick,” he said to Cranston.

  On the porch, Lily raised the hood of her cloak to cover her hair and inhaled deeply. The snow had stopped, leaving the air moist and sharply cold. It was the kind of white night she had dreamed of when she lay on her thin cot longing for home.

  Quinn helped her down the steps, holding her arm close to his body, and she felt the contrast between his warmth and the cold air on her cheeks, was aware of his long legs brushing her cloak and skirts. “Can you tell me what you and Paul are arguing about? Is it politics?” Or did their disagreement have something to do with her?

  “Paul believes I should take a mistress.”

  She gasped softly and stumbled over her hem. Jealousy, sudden and acid, surged into her throat. She couldn’t bear to think of him making love to another woman. “Will you take his advice?” she asked finally, ducking her head.

  “I’m considering it.” His arm tensed beneath her gloved fingertips.

  A wave of dizziness blurred the walkway. She imagined him bending a shadowy woman into a kiss, saw his hands hot on the woman’s body, his mouth on her breasts. She couldn’t bear it.

  Worse, if he was considering a mistress, then he was rejecting her. Keeping her head down, she tugged the edge
s of the hood forward to hide her flaming face.

  Halting beneath the snow-laden branches of a young elm, Quinn turned her to face him and raised her chin, forcing her to look at him. His hand burned like a brand on her skin.

  “I think about you all the time,” he said in a low, hoarse voice. “It’s like you’ve possessed me.” They stood close enough that the vapor from their lips mingled, and she could see his eyes were so dark they looked almost black in the snowy light. “If something doesn’t change, you know where this will end, Lily. I won’t be able to help myself.”

  They stared at each other. “Would that be so terrible?” she whispered, hungering for him, aching for him.

  His fingers tightened painfully on her arms. “Our time together will be short. I don’t want this to end with you feeling more used than you already do. I don’t want that on my conscience, too.”

  Would she feel that she had been used and then discarded? She had found a way to view the impersonation where she no longer felt forced, but saw her circumstance as an opportunity for herself and Rose. If she and Quinn surrendered to the magnetic tides pulling at them, would she feel that he had callously used her to satisfy a selfish hunger? Or would she remember that she had wanted him so intensely that her blood bubbled when he touched her? That he looked at her, and her knees crumpled? Would she remember a snowy night when she had trembled on the brink of offering herself to him?

  “Is that the only reason?” she asked in a low, husky voice, searching his eyes. “You fear that I’ll feel used?”

  When he didn’t answer immediately, her heart sank, and she understood he was waging a familiar interior war. To lie or tell her the truth.

  “Paul believes you’re an opportunist looking for a way to extend your term of employment indefinitely.”

  “He thinks I’m trying to use you?” Lily asked incredulously. Stung, she sucked in a breath and her chin lifted. “Is that what you believe?”