Straight For The Heart

by Marsha Canham

“I was wrong this afternoon,” he murmured. “When I said I’d never seen you look lovelier … I’d forgotten how you looked beneath me, all flushed and naked. By God, I’ve missed having you in my bed,” he said quietly.

  “I’ve missed being here,” she whispered.

  He drew a swift breath and tried to contain the eagerness her words brought with them. “It would be … an easy enough situation to rectify.”

  His mouth was poised above her, outlined in every sensuous detail by the flickering candlelight. His eyes were so close they filled her entire field of vision.

  “I’m sure Verity wouldn’t mind having her room to herself again.”

  "Just as I'm sure Foley can handle the next buying trip upriver."

  He bowed his head and covered her mouth with a tender kiss. His arms began to tighten around her again when a small ripping sound made them both aware that he was still partly clothed. He ended the kiss on a soft chuckle and rolled onto his back, more than half aroused as he started to rid himself of his trousers.

  A second sound interrupted just as he tossed a boot over the side of the bed.

  The knock came again, accompanied by an anxious query. “Sir? Are you in there, sir? I’m sorry to disturb you, but I must speak with you. It’s urgent.”

  “Foley,” Michael grumbled, tugging his trousers up to his waist again. “It better be urgent or I’ll skin him alive. Coming, dammit,” he barked at the door. Turning to Amanda, he kissed her hard and fast then touched a finger to her lips. "Save my place. I'll be right back.”

  He bolted off the bed and strode to the door, combing his hands through his hair as he went. Amanda listed dreamily onto her side and saw him open the door just enough to slip through and close it behind him. He heard their voices, but nothing of what they were saying, and so she concentrated instead on the wondrous, throbbing fullness that saturated her senses.

  He wanted her back in his bed. And she wanted to be here. Right now, with her body dewy and flushed, she could not even pinpoint the exact reason why she had left it in the first place, or why he had made no effort, in all these long weeks, to bring her back. He had said he didn't care about her past, but when he came back, she would tell him about Verity, tell him everything. She wanted no more secrets between them. He loved her. He had to. Because she loved him, with all her heart, and she knew—she just knew she would safe offering to share the deepest, darkest part of her soul with him and he would not cast it—or her—away.

  The door opened, admitting a crack of light from the hallway. Michael’s hand was on the knob—it was all she could see for a few moments—and she heard him say “Five minutes” before he came back into the room and leaned against the closed door.

  “Have they found Ned Sims?” she asked, pushing herself upright.

  “Not yet,” he answered from the shadows. “Someone matching his description stole a horse from a nearby farm and rode off in the direction of Natchez. Best guess is he’ll board the first packet out and head downriver. If he makes it to New Orleans, he could be in Galveston, Houston, Corpus Christie, even Mexico within a week, and no one would be able to find him.”

  “Do you think that’s what he’ll do?”

  “According to Flora, he’s talked about heading West. And it’s what I’d do if I had someone like me on my heels.”

  Amanda remembered the “five minutes” and shivered slightly as she drew the edges of the coverlet up and around her bare shoulders. “Are you going after him?”

  “You don’t think I should?”

  “On the contrary. I think you should do exactly what Flora suggested.”

  “Castrate and kill him?” She could sense his wry smile through the darkness. “I wasn’t aware you had such a vindictive streak in you, Mrs. Tarrington.”

  “He hurt his wife and terrified my child. I would wield the knife myself if I had the opportunity.”

  He came forward from the niche of the doorway, cutting across the light from the candle by the hearth. He put a knee to the edge of the mattress and leaned down, cupping her chin in his hand, tipping her face up to his. The kiss was long and wet and deep enough to make her forget her tentative hold on the satin coverlet. It slipped down from her shoulders and lay rippled around her hips, making her look like a sea nymph rising from a gleaming pool of water. The image drew a husky groan from Michael’s throat as he pressed another kiss on the naked curve of her shoulder.

  “You’re not making this any easier.”

  “Can’t you just send Foley?” she gasped. “He seems capable enough.”

  “A minute ago you were all in favor of me hunting Sims to the ends of the earth.”

  “That was a minute ago,” she said softly, her body straining upward into his warmth.

  “Mandy—” He forced himself to hold her at arm’s length. “You know what Flora and Sally mean to me. Yes, I could send Foley—but he’s a valet, for Christ’s sake. He’s never hunted anything more dangerous than English tea. And the sheriff will only spend as much time and effort on Sims as he thinks it warrants, and that likely isn’t much. After all, he didn’t kill Sally, he isn’t wanted for murder. They’ll ask a few token questions, maybe find out in a month or so that he was in New Orleans, but that’s about all they’ll do.”

  He was right and she knew it and it made her lower her lashes in shame for thinking only of herself.

  “Mandy—?”

  She looked up and saw how intently he was looking at her. It was the same shuttered wariness she had come to dread seeing over the past weeks.

  “When I get back, there are some things we have to talk about.”

  “Things?”

  “Things,” he said, seeming to be at a loss to come up with a better word. “Things we shouldn’t be trying to keep secret from one another. Things that might come back to haunt us if they came out somewhere down the road, which most secrets —or lies—tend to do.”

  He knows, Amanda thought with a sudden shock. He already knows about Verity.

  “Yes,” she agreed, biting on her lip. “You’re right, of course. We must talk.”

  He gave her a queer half smile and his gaze dropped to the luscious fullness of her breasts. The taste and scent of her was still too fresh in his mind to let him think clearly, and he did not trust himself to say any more or do anything more other than to lean over and press a kiss to her temple.

  “If I’m going to be delayed for any length of time, I’ll send word,” he promised.

  She nodded and bit her lip to keep from saying anything that might sound fearful or desperate. Which was exactly how she was feeling, suddenly, though she could not have said why.

  His hand stroked through the tousled silk of her hair one last time before he went to the dressing room and changed into clean, warm riding clothes.

  When he was gone, Amanda remained where she was, snuggled deep in the blankets, her arms hugging a pillow as a poor substitution for the comfort of Michael’s body.

  His note, telling her he had boarded a sloop for New Orleans and would be gone a week, perhaps more, came some time after breakfast.

  The note from E. Forrest Wainright came less than three hours later.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Amanda was still in Michael’s bedroom when the second note arrived, She was wrapped in one of his thick robes, her hair still damp from a bath. The drapes were down, trapping the warmth inside. Verity was outside, playing just below the window, pausing now and then to wave up at her mother.

  “Miz Tarrington? Are ye in there, dearie?”

  “Yes, Flora, I’m here.”

  Amanda uncurled her legs and turned a worried face toward the curtain just as Mrs. Reeves poked her head through. “Is it Sally? Is something wrong?”

  “Ach, no, dearie. Sal’s fine. She’s a strong wee lass— stronger than she looks. She’s got a head on her wider than a door this mornin’, but the doctor says it’s good and hard; she’ll be fine in no time. Best thing for her’ll be to hear they’ve c
aught that slimy-eyed weasel and strung him from the nearest tree.”

  She set down the tray she was carrying and started arranging the cup and saucer, small plate, knife, spoon.

  “Flora … you shouldn’t be chasing around after me. You should be with Sally.”

  “Bah. I sat with her all night, wakin’ her when she didn't want to be woke, an’ if I sit with her all day, we’ll start scratchin’ on each other’s nerves sure enough. I told her not to marry that bastard. I told her. But did she listen?” She straightened and puffed out her cheeks. “Christ, but it’s warm in here. Ye’ll fry yer brain out with all this stuffy heat, ye will. Won’t do, ye know,” she warned, pushing back the heavy panels of curtain. “Ye blister up like a lobster and swoon wi’ a sick head—won’t do a lick o’ good for the babe yer carryin’ either.”

  Amanda’s expression betrayed only shock as Flora bustled around the alcove, but the wily old Scot’s eye had her staked out like an offering on an altar.

  "I'm never wrong, ye know. I knew every time ma Sal was with child long before any stuff-nosed doctor knew. Me mam had the sicht too. She could tell ye on a Monday what would happen on the Tuesday."

  "But I haven't ... I mean, we haven't—"

  Flora propped her hands on her hips. "Don't be tellin' me, young miss, that ye've not taken that great handsome man to yer bed, on account I wouldn't believe it. First night ye were here I could hear the pair o' ye clear through the ceilin'"

  Amanda blushed red to the ears. "That doesn't mean—"

  "Ye've been sick three times the past four mornings. An' the smell o' bacon fat turns ye as green as the grass outside. Were ye sick again this mornin’?”

  Amanda nodded stupidly.

  “Aye, well, ye’ll have to eat to keep up yer strength, dearie. Best thing fer the morning heaves is to eat a sweetie right after and wash it down with a good dose o’ rose hip tea.”

  Amanda shook her head, still mute, still unable to grasp what Flora was telling her.

  "Woman gets a glow in her eyes when she’s breedin’, all soft and shiny like. I knew straight off when ma’ Sally had the glow. Knew straight off when she’d lost it too. Glow was gone. Everythin’ was gone.” She pursed her lips and scowled at her own thoughts for a minute before glaring down at her mistress again. “Ye're a small wee thing in the hips, but ye'll do alright. If ye can hold Himself, ye can hold a babe."

  The pink darkened to a dusky rose and spread downward to make Amanda’s toes curl inside her slippers. She had spent most of the morning pondering Michael’s feelings toward Verity, and she knew that, given time, he would love her as deeply as he would love one of his own—if he didn’t already. The only question was whether or not the child's parentage would become a problem in the years ahead.

  As to who had told him—there could be only one answer. Alisha. Despite her promises, despite the blood oath she had sworn, Alisha had obviously told the whole sordid story to Michael. When, or for what possible reason, Amanda could not even begin to guess. She had not seen or spoken to her sister since the night they had all spent together at Rosalie. The same night, coincidentally, Michael had seemed to throw up an invisible wall between them.

  Now, at least, she knew why.

  Flora was watching Amanda’s face. “He’s a good man, dearie. When ye tell him, he’ll be happy as a lark. Mark ma words, he will. He'll not go runnin' off an' leavin' ye alone again, I vow he won't."

  Amanda was mildly surprised by the prickle in Flora’s voice, especially since the business he was tending to was Ned Sims. “He didn’t seem to think Mr. Foley could handle things on his own.”

  “Eh? He said that did he? Hmphf! More to the truth, he was probably worried about defendin’ Brian Foley against a charge o’ murder.”

  "Murder?" Amanda frowned. She barely knew Mr. Foley. He was always in evidence, but never obtrusively so. If he had said one complete sentence to Amanda in all the time she had been here, she couldn’t think what it might have been, and the idea of the polite, reserved manservant calling up sufficient emotion to kill a man in cold blood was a curious one to say the least.

  Flora, apparently not satisfied with the speed of Amanda’s thought process, sighed. “He loves her. Slow as ice meltin’ in a blizzard to let on, but he loves her.”

  “Sally?”

  “Ach, ye cannot always chose who ye love, an’ ye cannot simply shut the love off, even when ye think it’s wrong. Foley come back from the war with Mr. Michael an’ ye’d’ve thought a bolt o’ lightning struck him full in the chest when he seen Sal. She were just a wee bit o’ a mouse when he’d gone away, more a nuisance than aught else. Five years makes a big change. Near six, if ye count the time he spent lookin’ after Mr. Michael while he drank an’ gambled his way up an’ down the river tryin’ to get the taste o’ gunpowder an’ cannon fodder out o’ his mouth. Saw his men trapped in a fire, he did. Turrible things, them ironclads. He never talks about it. Never. But Foley whispered a word or two in his mam’s ear when she worried he’d lost his mind, and, well, I were just on the other side o’ the door, wasn’t I, an’ couldn't help but overhear. Ach, but we were talkin’ about ma Sally, were we not? So by the time Foley came back to Boston, Sims was already in her bed, married proper, spinnin’ her head full o’ yarns an’ promises. She’s a good girl, mind, but a wee bit … mmmm … naive. She didn't think she could do any better than the likes o’ Sims.” Flora puffed up her bosom again and shook her head. “Maybe next time she’ll listen to her mam.”

  “I’m sure she will,” Amanda allowed softly, her own mind spinning with the new revelations concerning her husband, Foley, Sally …

  “Ach, an’ where’s ma own head this mornin'?” Flora patted down the huge pocket in her apron and produced a sealed envelope. “This come for ye a wee while ago. The lad what delivered it had the cheek to tell me I’d have to hold it to the light an’ I wanted to know who it was from.”

  She passed an envelope across and stood waiting with her hands folded over her apron.

  Amanda’s eyebrows arched.

  “Paper’s too thick. Couldn't see through.”

  Amanda smiled, thinking it was probably another note from Michael. If it was, it was likely sent an hour or so after the first and might mean he had changed his mind about trailing Sims downriver.

  She was still smiling as she read the opening salutation.

  Dear Mrs. Tarrington:

  A business matter of some importance has arisen pertaining to a mutual acquaintance of ours from Montana. I strongly recommend a meeting at your earliest convenience in order to discuss ways of preventing any of these past indiscretions from becoming general knowledge. I shall expect the pleasure of your company alone at my State Street residence at 2 P.M. this afternoon.

  Your humble servant,

  E.F. Wainright

  Amanda reread the neat script several times before the actual meaning overrode the shock of seeing Wainright’s signature.

  A mutual friend from Montana? Past indiscretions?

  Amanda let the note sink down onto her lap and stared at the signature again, seeing the bold flourish but not believing her eyes.

  It seemed like another lifetime, another Amanda who had worked the riverboats as Montana Rose. How on earth had Wainright uncovered her secret? And what was he threatening to do—expose her?

  “It’s no’ bad news, I hope?” Flora asked.

  Amanda passed a cool, trembling hand across her brow. Wainright knew about Montana Rose. Wainright—a man who had sworn he would go to any lengths to see Michael Tarrington destroyed. Letting it become general knowledge that she, Amanda Tarrington, had masqueraded as Montana Rose would not only bring scorn and scandal down on Michael’s good name, but could very possibly dredge up the old ghosts as well, the stories about Billy Fleet and his chicanery on those same riverboats almost three decades ago.

  The gossips had not yet stopped talking about Amanda Courtland Jackson’s elopement with a Yankee speculator. Fueling tho
se stories with more about Montana Rose and Billy Fleet would not only make her a complete laughingstock, it could spill over to affect Ryan and Dianna’s upcoming marriage.

  “What time is it, please?”

  Flora consulted the small oval timepiece she wore pinned to her bodice. “Just gone twelve.”

  Amanda bit her lip. It would take an hour, at least, to drive into Natchez by buggy, and she wasn’t even dressed yet.

  She reread the note once more and crumpled it into a small ball. “I need to go into town this afternoon. Will you please have a carriage brought around?”

  “It’s no bad news, is it?” Flora asked again. “I can spare the time to come with ye, if ye need me.”

  “No,” Amanda said quickly. “No, it isn’t bad news. It’s just … a family matter I must tend to. I won’t be long, I promise, and Sally needs you here.”

  Flora twisted her mouth stubbornly. “Ye shouldn't go rattlin' off in a buggy all on yer own. Now with Ned Sims still on the loose.”

  “I’ll be fine. And Ned Sims is probably a hundred miles away by now. Please, just send for the carriage.”

  Flora gave a parting snort of disapproval but did not press her mistress any further. And, an hour later, after she had seen Amanda into a well-cushioned buggy and threatened the driver to within an inch of his life if he let his mistress out of his sight, she returned to the master bedroom and searched until she found the crumpled ball of notepaper.

  Amanda had the driver stop the carriage two blocks from Wainright’s State Street residence. Her stomach felt as if it were pressing against her backbone. She wished with all her heart that Michael was beside her, for he was afraid of nothing and no one. He would have known how to handle Wainright with ease.

  Making her stomach do even more acrobatics was the uncomfortable memory of her last visit to State Street. The idea of having actually agreed to marry the man—of having sought him out deliberately to accept his proposal—brought a hot, sour taste of bile to the back of her throat.