“You’re also Dianna’s cousin.”
“Ahh. Yes, that might tend to take some of the adoring glow out of her eyes. On the other hand, I don’t imagine it put any great shine in his each time he watched you pour yourself into that green velvet dress and sashay onto the deck of a riverboat.”
Amanda reached up and closed her fingers around the gold locket. Standing there in the darkness, cloaked in shadows and black bombazine, she herself could hardly believe she had done it. The fights with Ryan—and there had been some monumental confrontations—the appalling risks they had taken … it had all been for nothing. They were exactly where they had been a month ago, two months ago, six months ago before the notion had ever occurred to her. In the beginning, she had done it just to put food on the table—and an orange in Verity’s hand. In the end, she had been caught up by her own pride and greed, and, in truth, probably deserved nothing better than a fate sealed by E. Forrest Wainright.
Amanda was not aware of the softly filtered moonlight that was giving Tarrington a very good view indeed of the uncertainty and vulnerability that came into her face. Her eyes were wide and misty, her chin no longer firm and stubborn but struggling valiantly to keep the tremors confined to the already much abused lower lip. Wisps of fine golden hair had floated free of the chignon, curling at her temples and trailing along her throat, drawing his eyes and his less censurable thoughts down to where her hand twisted the chain of the gold locket.
“For what it’s worth,” he murmured, “if I were in your position, I don’t know if I would have had the guts to do what you did.”
“For how very little it is worth, Mr. Tarrington, I don’t want your praise,” she said softly. “Or anyone else’s, for that matter. I feel cheap and tawdry enough as it is.”
“It wasn’t intended as praise. It was a stupid, foolish, recklessly insane thing to do, and you were just plain lucky to have had me for a playing partner that night. Anyone else seeing those magic fingers at work would have put a bullet into you first and pondered the merits of your pluckiness later.”
“Regardless if he was cheating himself?” she pointed out wryly.
“As I told you on the Queen, I was merely protecting my interests.”
“And I was attempting to protect mine and those of my family.”
Tarrington wanted to shake her but, instead, became brusque and businesslike. “Very well, Mrs. Jackson, I have heard your explanation, and for whatever insane and reckless reasons of my own, I believe you.”
“Thank you very much,” she said her voice tight in her throat, “but I do not need to be patronized either.”
“I’m not patronizing you. I’m making you an offer.”
Her eyes narrowed instantly with suspicion. “An offer?”
“To forget everything I know about the elusive Montana Rose, and to forget this conversation ever took place. Furthermore”—he paused and seemed to have to give himself a little shake in order to comprehend what he was about to say —“I will loan you the money you need to pay off the debts on Rosalie—at a fair rate of interest, of course.”
Amanda clutched the locket so tightly the chain bit into the flesh at the nape of her neck. “And what would you expect in return for such generosity?”
“First—a promise. A solemn promise, backed by this rigid code of honor you Southerners hold so dear, that your days as a river pirate are over.”
“I have already made myself that promise."
“Nonetheless, I’ll want your word on it. I know how fickle a woman’s mind can be when it becomes inconvenient to recall what she has or has not promised. Five sisters, remember? None of whom ever told a man the straight truth whether it was necessary to lie or not.”
“You said first, implying there were more conditions?”
Tarrington felt his body tense, felt the hot, slow rush of desire flow into his extremities. It was there, on the tip of his tongue, needing only breath to give it substance. His mind and body had already given it enough consideration to have denied him a single moment’s peace since he had confronted her on the deck of the Mississippi Queen, since he had first envisioned her naked and welcoming him into her arms. Moreover, if the disdainful light in her eyes was anything to judge by, she knew exactly what he wanted. It would come as no surprise that he wanted her.
“It was merely a figure of speech,” he said, smiling tightly. “There are no other terms, no other conditions. Well? Do we have an agreement?”
Amanda’s frown was as slow to form as her words. “No. No, Mr. Tarrington, we do not. I cannot take your money.”
“Why not? You were willing to take it a week ago.”
“A week ago … the circumstances were different.”
“Why? Because we were sitting around a table deliberately trying to cheat each other?”
“No,” she said softly. “Because a week ago we needed the money. As of yesterday, we don’t.”
“The loan has been settled?”
“In … a manner of speaking, yes.”
“What manner?”
Amanda tensed perceptibly. “I fail to see how it could possibly be any of your business, or your concern, to know.”
“You haven’t followed your sister’s example, I hope, and found some rich, addled bastard to marry yourself to.”
She opened her mouth to respond but closed it again.
And for a man who had spent the long years of the war holding endless night watches, scanning blackened seas and starless nights for any sign of enemy patrols, the broken moonlight that filtered through the branches of the oak might well have been bright sunlight. He could see the blotches of color rouging her cheeks and he could see the movement in her throat as she worked to ease the dryness in her mouth. Prickling his suspicions further, for the first time all night her eyes refused to meet his, even though she knew he was staring at her—an affront she had never failed to challenge until now.
“What have you done?” he asked quietly. He tucked a finger under her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “You haven’t done something truly stupid, like try to renegotiate the terms with Wainright?”
She attempted to pull her chin free, but he would not allow it.
“It wasn’t stupid,” she declared. “It was the only option we had left.”
A tense few seconds passed before he found a way to phrase his next question, hissed as it were, in a voice so silky it sent a shiver down her spine. “And what kind of terms is he demanding?”
Amanda shook her head and this time, when she tried to break his hold, he curled an arm around her waist and brought her up hard against his body.
“Maybe I asked the wrong question,” he said on a growl, his eyes unrelenting as they searched her face. “Maybe I should be asking what kind of terms you offered him?”
“Please,” she gasped. “Let me go.”
“Not until you tell me what I want to know.”
“It isn’t any of your affair to know,” she insisted breathlessly.
“Wrong turn of phrase to use,” he said, drawing her so close against his body, she could feel the buttons of his shirt pressing through her basque. Her heart was pounding and her limbs seemed to have lost all respect for the commands she was giving them to push away, to break free of the wall of muscle that was threatening to overwhelm her.
“Mandy—” His mouth was only inches from hers, his eyes so wide and dark they filled her entire field of vision. “What have you done?”
“It isn’t your affair, Yankee,” she cried fiercely.
He swore softly and shifted his hand from her chin to the nape of her neck. His mouth covered hers without further preamble, his lips and hands holding her with enough force to prevent any possibility of escape. The kiss was nothing like the light feathering he had tried to seduce her with on the Mississippi Queen. There was nothing teasing or tentative about it, nothing that suggested he would stop or even let her gasp at a decent breath until he had had his fill. What small concessions he did a
llow, he took ruthless advantage of, thrusting the wet heat of his tongue between her lips, probing deeply, penetrating her defenses with an intimacy bolder than anything she had expected or, indeed, knew how to resist.
Caleb’s kisses had never flooded her limbs with such a fiery weakness. They had never sent her hands twisting into his lapels or her body curling inwardly with shock. He had surely never painted her mouth with such lush, erotic suggestions that she felt corresponding ribbons of motion begin to slither and slide between her thighs.
Tarrington sank his fingers into the knot of her hair and tore away the pins holding it prisoner. It tumbled loose, spilling over her shoulders like liquid moonlight, and he used a silky fistful of it to draw her head back, to expose the slender white arch of her throat to his roving lips.
“Stop,” she gasped. “Stop … please.”
“Is it my affair yet?” he demanded huskily.
Amanda’s lips throbbed and tingled. Her senses were reeling, her thoughts spinning out of control. His tongue was unleashing rivers of sensation along her neck, and with a gasp, she realized his hand was doing the same to her breast, stroking and kneading the flesh through its thin layers of bombazine and cotton, brazenly tracing the contours with a skill that shattered what few illusions she had remaining.
He was not a man to be trifled with. Not a man who liked to play games or a man accustomed to losing them. She had challenged him, defied him, and rebuked him, and now he was telling her, in no uncertain terms, he could take what he wanted, willingly or not.
“Well?” he growled. “Do I get an answer?”
“No,” she cried. “No, you can’t change anything now. You mustn’t interfere. It’s done. I have given my word—”
Tarrington swore again and reclaimed her mouth, smothering her words beneath the bold insistence of yet another kiss that threatened to reduce her to a shivering, shuddering puddle of raw sensation.
“Tell me,” he grated, his moustache chafing the moist and ravaged pout of her lips. “Tell me what you have promised to Wainright, or by God …”
“I have promised to marry him,” she gasped, the words so ragged and broken, Tarrington could not be certain his ears had heard her correctly.
“What? What did you say?”
“I—” She swallowed hard and her voice improved on the whisper, but barely enough to rise above the solid thrumming of her heartbeat. “I have agreed to marry him and he … in turn … has agreed to extend the loan on Rosalie.”
He released her like a red-hot rock and gaped down at her in disbelief. His own senses were none too reliable at the moment. His body was strung as tightly as a bow, the heat was ebbing and flowing through his flesh, causing a confused welter of emotions from anger to arousal, from intense desire to damning fury.
A bead of sweat crawled through his hair and slid down his neck. He backed off a pace, then another, then raked a hand through his hair, across the back of his neck, staring at her as if he were still having trouble comprehending what she was telling him.
“I’m offering you the money you need … without any terms or conditions or threats of foreclosure. Take it.”
“I can’t. I have given Wainright my word.”
“Break it,” he snarled. “The bloody world will not end if you do. Pay the bastard what you owe him in cash, not by … by …”
“By selling myself to him?” she finished on a choked cry. “Is that so much different from what you would have expected in exchange for your generosity?”
“I told you—”
“You told me there would be no conditions, no demands. But there would have been expectations, would there not?”
Tarrington glared at her, at the brittle contempt sparkling in her eyes. The taste of her was still on his lips, the feel of her impressed on his body, and he was shocked to have to admit to himself that she was probably right. There would have expectations, possibly even demands.
“Since I have already made my attraction to you quite clear," he said in a low voice, "I won’t deny the obvious, madam. But the choice of whether or not you reciprocated would have been yours, and at least you would have had a choice. With someone like Wainright, I would hazard to guess the only choice you’ll have is whether you show him your gratitude on your back or on your knees.”
Amanda’s face drained in a sickening rush. She reacted instinctively, swinging her hand up out of the darkness and slapping his face with all of the strength and outrage she could muster. It was considerable and Michael Tarrington staggered back a step, his cheek stinging as if it had been caught by the lash of a whip.
He kept his face turned to the side long enough to win the war against his own reflex to strike back. When he did look at her again, his eyes were tense and brilliant, gleaming with enough fury to stop the breath in her throat.
He moved suddenly and was maliciously pleased to see her flinch. But it was only to offer a formal, if not ingratiatingly polite, bow, saying nothing, sparing her neither another word nor a glance as he turned and walked back to the house.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Amanda was packed and ready. She stood in the shadows beside Verity’s bed and looked down at the sleeping child, resisting the urge to wake her and hug her to her bosom for dear life. She had already adjusted the blankets three times and lifted several golden curls off the little moppet face; she was running out of excuses to linger and knew the clock was ticking slowly, inexorably closer to midnight.
She had tucked everything she would need in a woefully small carpetbag. A book of prayers was carefully wrapped in the folds of her best nightdress. She had a change of under-things and the worn pair of satin slippers Caleb had given to her on their wedding night. The daguerreotype of her husband had been a last-minute addition along with Verity’s christening bonnet, both sentimental things. Foolish things her new husband would probably scorn, but sadly enough, the only articles of any value she held dear.
Amanda pressed her brow against the bedpost. Why? Why did it have to end this way? The specter of Wainright had loomed in the background all day and evening. She knew she had to go through with it, but it terrified her to think of what life would be like married to a man like E. Forrest Wainright. Her friends would shun and ridicule her for marrying a Yankee, regardless of the circumstances or necessity. Her family—Ryan in particular—would despise her for showing up his own inadequacy. He might not kill her, as he had threatened to do, but he might never speak to her again for as long as she lived.
But what other choice did they have? A picture of Michael Tarrington came unbidden to mind, and she tried to push it away before his voice could echo in her ears for the thousandth time.
“I am offering you the money you need. Take it.”
“I have given Wainright my word—”
“Break it! The bloody world will not end if you do!”
A dull rumble of thunder drew Amanda’s gaze to the window. It was fitting, somehow, that a storm should be brewing outside. Fitting that the trees should be bending and blowing like old women wailing in despair. Fitting that even God seemed to be frowning down on her with displeasure.
Squaring her shoulders, Amanda walked to the door and picked up her bag. Her hand trembled as she propped the note she had written on the washstand. It was addressed to Ryan, telling him not to worry, she would be back in a few days to explain everything. She had not been able to put her intentions into words even though the deed would be a fait accompli long before he had a chance to read the note or do anything to stop her. She asked only that he look after Verity until she returned.
Tears stung her eyelids as she cast a final glance at the bed. Quietly she let herself out into the hallway and stole down the stairs, knowing which planks to avoid and which were solid enough to bear her weight in silence. The cavernous front foyer was steeped in darkness, but she paused again and looked around one last time, her memory serving her better than any fully lit candelabra. The paintings that had decorated the walls for generat
ions were gone, but she imagined she could see them. The prim and austere d’Ibervilles had glowered down at her since she was a child, scowling at her pranks, passing silent judgment on her beaux, witnessing her marriage to Caleb Beauregard Jackson with solemn approval. She was glad they could not see her now, skulking out of the house in the dead of night, intent on a rendezvous with a common, low-bred Yankee they would have been appalled to see set foot in their family home.
Amanda eased open the massive front door and slipped through on legs that felt as shaky as those of a newborn foal. A gust of wind swirled across the porch and she turned her back to it, hastily drawing the hood of her cloak up and over her head. The clouds were boiling angrily across the sky, their underbellies tinted blue-white and flickering with every rumble and roll The wind smelled metallic with rain, and even as she gathered the wide wings of her cloak around her and ran for the trees, fat wet drops began to fall. They came lightly at first, then in hard, driving sheets that pelted the branches of the trees and tattooed the packed earth of the lane.
By the time she had run all the way down to the end of the avenue, her cloak was soaked and the cheap soles of her shoes were letting more mud and water through than they protected against. She was out of breath and hugging a stitch in her side. The trees had taken on sinister shapes in the sporadic flares of lightning, with shadows sliding back and forth between the trunks and conjuring memories of a very different kind—memories of soldiers creeping up on the house, hoping to catch the residents by surprise.
Amanda spun around in a full circle, the panic mushrooming in her chest. She had reached the end of the drive and there was no carriage in sight. For a moment she thought the road was deserted and she could not be sure if it was fear or joy that brought a sob forth from her lips. But with the next flash of lightning she saw it. A jagged fork revealed where Wainright’s carriage was halted by the side of the road, a shiny blot of black against the rim of blowing trees.
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