When Clarisse had died, he’d felt a loneliness so deep that he thought the well of despair would forever hold him captive. Now, he was taking his very much alive wife back to her brother, and he feared he would have neither the courage nor the kindness to leave her.
God knew he didn’t have the desire.
Loneliness already gnawed at his soul. Ashton was still with him in flesh, if not in heart, and he wondered how he would survive when he no longer had the ability at least to gaze upon her, to watch the wind whip stray strands of hair around her lovely face, to inhale her sweet scent of oleander, the flower of Galveston.
He had purchased her some more scented soaps and perfume before they’d left. Although she’d obliged him by dabbing a bit of the perfume against her throat, her eyes had held no joy, only resignation.
Death was her destiny.
Clarisse had belonged to Christopher. Although Kit had accepted that fact, only now did he truly understand the ramifications of that truth. He had loved Clarisse, but it was a love born of youth, a love deepened by denial.
His feelings for Ashton were those of a man staring down a long, desolate road that would never again know the touch of the sun or the light of the moon. He would live only because his heart continued to beat and his lungs to take in air, but his soul was already withering.
He would insist that David not notify him when the flame of her life had been snuffed out. He knew he would be unable to bear the sorrow. In his mind, she would live forever. When his hair turned gray, he would imagine hers silver. When his wrinkles deepened, he might add one or two to the memory of her face. Only when Death came for him would he accept that she’d gone before, and he could only hope that she would be standing at Heaven’s Gate awaiting his arrival.
He closed his eyes. He’d doomed himself to hell when he’d poured the extra powder into the glass for Clarisse. Once he left Dallas, he would never again see Ashton. Not in this life, nor in any that lay beyond.
Opening his eyes, he again felt the stab of regret—for the personal vow he’d taken the night he proposed and for his lack in judgment that had allowed it to harm her. Still, the memories of her moans, sighs, and cries were a balm to the mental flaying he’d given himself. He would carry the song with him for the remainder of his life.
He hoped that in the passing months, she would forgive him and remember him with a measure of caring, perhaps a bit of love, although he feared it unlikely. He had wounded her greatly by not giving everything to her.
If only she knew how much he’d wounded himself. Never in his life had he become so lost in a woman when he joined his body to hers. Never had he reveled in the pleasure he could provide or felt such a belonging. Until Ashton, he’d never realized that he had been as a voyeur…involved but distant.
Strange for a man of thirty-three to discover that he’d never truly made love. Created passion, yes. Elicited pleasure, certainly, but his heart had watched from afar, a safe distance away.
Now, it was no longer safe. It hurt unbearably. God help him, he’d never known such pain, and he’d always thought he’d experienced the worst. He was beginning to realize he’d experienced nothing at all.
With longing, he watched Ashton, resisting the urge to reach across the expanse separating them and take her hand in his, cherish her touch, just one more memory to tuck away and carry with him into his dotage.
With her head bent, she stared at her clasped hands in her lap as though they were the only things that existed in her life. She had shut him out completely, absolutely. He might have thought the past month had never occurred if it weren’t for his heart. It refused to forget a solitary moment that he’d spent with her since he’d first seen her on the porch at Mrs. Gurney’s.
Memories of Clarisse were like ancient portraits, faded over time until they were little more than shadowy veils. He hadn’t a clue how he could keep memories of Ashton vibrant. He only knew that she was all that mattered.
“You’re missing the countryside,” he said quietly, remembering how she’d enjoyed it on the trip to Galveston, how much she had wanted to see everything.
She lifted her gaze to his and the sadness within her eyes was like a dagger to his heart. “I’ve seen it before,” she said softly.
“It’s a bit different. We’re taking another route. There are more trees, more greenery.”
She lowered her gaze, and he could see her knuckles turning white. Reaching out, he wrapped his hand over hers, surprised to find her cold. “Come over here,” he ordered.
She shook her head slightly.
“Ashton, I will make a scene if I must.”
She nodded. One corner of her mouth lifted into a smile that quickly disappeared. He placed his hands on either side of her waist, helping her keep her balance as she crossed over to sit beside him. He slipped his arm around her and drew her against his side, cradled her face, and nestled it within the crook of his shoulder. He bent his head and whispered, “I never meant to harm you.”
“I know, but I brought such misery to you.”
“Not you, sweetling. Fate conspires against me. You have no control over fate or my heart.”
He heard the obese man snort. He glanced up to see that the man was asleep. An amazing feat, considering the rumbling contraption. He looked down at Ashton. “Perhaps you should try to sleep as well.”
“I’m not tired.”
He nodded, grateful to have her near. How in God’s name would he find the strength to leave her in Dallas? He could and he would, somehow. He had yet to turn his back on an obligation, and to keep her near would only add to her suffering at the end.
Guilt was an unforgiving and cruel master.
A gunshot rang out, and Kit heard the echo of pounding hooves. He cursed soundly, using profanity that he’d never spoken in front of a lady. His horse was tethered to the back of the stagecoach, and his rifle was housed in his saddle on the roof. The stagecoach increased its speed. He drew Ashton more tightly against him.
The obese man awoke with a start and fumbled with his clothing, removing a money pouch from around his waist and shoving it beneath the seat.
“What’s going on?” Ashton asked.
“Robbers, no doubt,” Kit said quietly, his voice calm, while his mind reeled with unfavorable scenarios.
“The whip don’t seem to be stopping,” their companion pointed out as the stagecoach swayed unmercifully.
“No, he doesn’t,” Kit replied as more gunshots sounded.
“The last stagecoach I rode in overturned three times, and it wasn’t going this fast. Why the hell doesn’t he stop?” The man reached up and pounded on the ceiling.
Kit heard scraping on the roof. No doubt the man who rode shotgun was trying to position himself better. The retort of a gun exploded overhead, followed shortly by a yell. An object passed quickly beside the window.
Ashton screeched and turned her face into Kit’s shoulder. “That was a man,” she whispered.
He felt her shivering uncontrollably. He stared at the man sitting across from him. “Have you a gun?”
The man nodded and withdrew a derringer from inside his coat. Kit swore beneath his breath. A lot of bloody good that tiny thing would do him. He needed his rifle.
Gently, he urged Ashton away from him. He heard the ping of a ricochet. The wood in the window of the door splintered. “I want you to lie on the floor.”
Her wide eyes were filled with fear.
“It sounds as though they’re gaining on us. You’ll be safer in a lower position,” he explained.
Their companion began to slide off his seat. Kit shoved him back into place. “There’s not room for two.”
“You can’t expect me to remain a target.”
“I expect you to keep an eye out and use that gun if any of the outlaws ride close enough to the coach for your weapon to be of any assistance.”
He thrust the weapon toward Kit. “You can have it.”
“I won’t be here.”
“The driver had only one man riding on top with him. I need to determine if it’s best to stop or continue at this breakneck speed.” He drew her close. “I need you on the floor so I won’t have to worry.”
“Kit—”
“We’ll argue about it later,” he said firmly as he urged her to the floor. She looked up at him with such incredibly blue eyes. He had so much he wanted to tell her. “Keep your head down.”
Taking a deep breath, he put his hand on the latch. Dear God, he was inviting disaster, but he didn’t see that he had a choice. He opened the door. The wind caught it and slammed it against the side of the coach. He glanced out. Eight riders. Bloody hell.
Reaching up, he grabbed the top of the opening to the door with one hand, the opening to the window closest to the front of the coach with the other. He swung his leg out and wedged his foot against the corner of the window. He heard a bullet whiz past his ear and drew up his shoulders as though that insignificant action could protect him. The wood near his hand split.
If he thought the men in pursuit would leave his wife in peace, he’d yell for the driver to stop the blasted vehicle, and he’d stay inside.
His muscles straining, he pulled himself up, clutching the roof as he moved his other foot to the window. The driver jerked his head around.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Coming to your assistance. I’m a marshal,” Kit yelled over the din of stampeding hooves and rumbling wheels. He threw himself on top of the coach and, lying low, worked his way to his saddle that he’d tied down in a corner before they’d begun the journey. He slid his rifle out of its scabbard.
He knew his horse would be an enticing target. He was surprised the men hadn’t already shot it. Dragging dead weight would slow the vehicle.
Lying low, he pulled himself forward on his elbows. Cursing his precarious position, he reached over the edge, aimed his rifle at the rope tethering Lancelot to the stagecoach and fired three bullets in rapid succession. The beast broke free and galloped clear of the coach, heading between the thick trees that lined the road.
Inching back, Kit leveled his rifle and fired at the riders who were in rapid pursuit of the coach. One man toppled from his mount. Kit quickly fired again, downing another man before ducking behind baggage to avoid the flying bullets. He heard the driver cry out. He looked back. The man clutched his shoulder briefly before urging the six tiring horses on.
Kit sighted his next target, the man he deemed to be the leader. The jostling vehicle made it difficult to keep his rifle steady. He slowly squeezed the trigger. His victim bellowed and grabbed his arm. Unfortunately, he also kicked his horse, spurring it to increase its speed.
“We got a damn fallen tree in the road!” the driver yelled.
Kit glanced over his shoulder to see the driver leaning back, pulling hard on the reins. Kit heard an explosion, felt a sharp pain slam against his temple, and was powerless to stop the darkness from consuming him.
Chapter 17
As he walked along Fortune’s dusty street, Christopher Montgomery thought he’d known what to expect in Texas. After all, when Kit put his mind to it, he could paint a detailed portrait with words and his brother had often written to him about life in his new home. Kit had told him a great deal in his letters. He had also omitted quite a lot.
Christopher had stopped by the jail, surprised to find it locked. A peek through the windows had assured him that no one was inside. He hoped Kit wasn’t in pursuit of some dastardly outlaw. Now was not the time for his brother to get himself killed.
He stepped onto the planked boardwalk. It echoed with other men’s heavy treading, but Christopher had learned at an early age to walk quietly and with dignity. Aware of the wide-eyed stares, he resisted the urge to let anyone know that he noticed them. With his handkerchief, he dabbed the sweat from his brow. A man could expire from the heat alone in this state, a little fact Kit had failed to mention along with the dust, the mosquitoes, and the air that hung heavy with a suffocating dampness.
Christopher walked into the saloon. Despite it being the middle of the afternoon, the establishment was filled with men who sat at tables while drinking and playing cards.
“Wyndhaven?”
He turned, relief sweeping through him at the sight of a familiar face. “Bainbridge.”
Leaning heavily on a cane, Harrison Bainbridge walked toward him. Christopher had hated hearing about Bainbridge’s unfortunate incident with the jayhawkers.
Bainbridge firmly took his hand and shook it vigorously. “Good God, what brings Viscount Wyndhaven to my door?”
“I’m attempting to locate Kit. He wasn’t at his office so I thought he might be here.”
Surprise flitted across Bainbridge’s face. “Actually, he’s in Galveston.”
“Galveston?” Christopher scoffed at life’s ironies. “But our ship docked there.”
“Our?” Bainbridge inquired.
Christopher cursed his stupid tongue. He must remember to take care so he could avoid lies in the future. “I brought my valet, of course.”
Bainbridge nodded politely, but his eyes held skepticism. “Of course. Would you care for something to drink?”
“That invitation sounds marvelous. Port, if you have it.”
Bainbridge laughed heartily. “I don’t.” He snapped his fingers, and a young woman stopped walking across the saloon. “Lorna, bring me a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.” Bainbridge waved his hand toward a vacant table in a corner. “Let’s sit over here.”
Christopher took a chair and averted his gaze out of respect for his brother’s friend. He had no desire to make Bainbridge uncomfortable with his presence, and he remembered him as a proud man. He did not wish to embarrass him by witnessing his clumsy attempt to sit.
Christopher watched the woman saunter over, her eyes brightening and her smile widening as she saw him. She set the whiskey and glasses on the table before sidling up next to him. Her perfume was overpowering, almost eliminating the odor of tobacco and liquor.
“I didn’t think you’d come see me now that you was married,” she said as she tiptoed her fingers across his shoulders.
“Lorna, this man is not the marshal. He’s his brother,” Bainbridge explained.
Her features crumpled into disappointment. “Oh. But he looks just like the marshal.”
“Not if you look closely enough,” Bainbridge assured her.
She narrowed her eyes, and Christopher resisted the urge to squirm under her scrutiny.
“Reckon you’re right,” the woman said. “He looks kinda dandified, don’t he?”
Christopher cleared his throat. “I am not accustomed to being spoken about as though I were not present.”
Bainbridge chuckled. “You’ll have to show him a bit more respect, Lorna. He’s a viscount, one day to become an earl.”
“How come you keep changing your name?” she asked, her brow furrowing.
Shaking his head, Bainbridge said gently, “Never mind, Lorna. See to my other customers. I need to speak with him privately.”
As soon as she was out of hearing, Christopher mumbled, “Kit got married.” The words came out as a fact. He’d suspected as much, but he hadn’t dared trust his instincts.
“You knew,” Bainbridge said as he began filling the glasses. “Kit told me you two often know each other’s thoughts.”
“I sensed that he was in love.”
Bainbridge jerked his gaze to Christopher’s. “In love? Are you certain?”
“Relatively so.” Christopher pointed to the glass, filled to the rim with whiskey that was now cascading over the sides, creating a waterfall. “You’ve over-poured.”
“Damnation.” Bainbridge slammed the bottle on the table. “When did you get this impression?”
“Some time back. I can’t remember exactly, a few days, a couple of weeks. But I also know he’s unhappy.”
“Of course he’s not happy. I warned him against treading into this marriage.” Bainbridge picked up the glass and downed the amber liquid in one long swallow. “His wife is dying.”
Christopher sighed deeply. “Then why did he marry her?” He held up a hand. “No need to answer that. My brother has a habit of playing Good Samaritan. A shame he never reveals that side of his nature to our father.”
“It’s more of a shame that he bound himself to vows that could cause such misery,” Bainbridge said.
Christopher listened to the tale of his brother’s marriage with a mixture of grief for all the suffering his brother would endure and relief because in the end, the outcome would be for the best.
“So he took Ashton to Galveston for a wedding trip as though accepting her as his bride wasn’t sacrifice enough,” Bainbridge finished.
“I didn’t feel his presence when I was in Galveston, but that’s not unusual. We seem unable to control what we pick up from each other.”
“Still, I hate hearing that he may have fallen for Ashton. After Clarisse—” Bainbridge stopped abruptly, looking decidedly uncomfortable.
“I know how my brother felt about Clarisse. Dear Lord, he has fresh flowers placed upon her grave daily.”
“So that’s where his money goes,” Bainbridge murmured speculatively. “He never would say.”
“He also had a marble statue of a guardian angel made for her. It’s exquisite, a true work of art. I’m certain he paid handsomely for it.”
“Kit never cuckolded you, Wyndhaven.”
Christopher had always envied his brother the friendships he’d developed that allowed those he cared about to defend him unconditionally as well as to call him by his first name. “I never thought he had or would. My brother is a man of honor, regardless of what Father perceived him to be.”
Bainbridge narrowed his eyes. “What brings you here?”
“I have some news to impart, and I thought it best done in person.”
“Not bad news, I hope.”
“To be honest, I’m not sure how Kit will take it.” Unease settled around him. “Have you any notion as to when Kit planned to return?”
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