by Scott, Tarah
"I told you the truth, love," he said. Except for the fact Steven had turned at just the wrong moment and the knife Marcus had thrown pierced the breastbone above the heart instead of his arm, as intended. Marcus shuddered inwardly as he always did when remembering how close he came to killing his wife's brother—and how close the brother came to killing his own son.
"The wound wasn't life threatening." Or so the doctors said two days later, when Steven began to show signs of recovering from the loss of blood. Marcus would have arrived back in Scotland a week earlier had he not tarried in Boston to assure himself the boy would recover.
Kiernan stuck his head out the stall. Elise jumped, bumping into the small table against the wall. The brush and trimming scissors lying on the table skittered across its surface. She quickly righted the table before they fell to the floor and looked at Kiernan. He flushed and Marcus knew his son was remembering his part in nearly getting killed, and nearly getting Steven killed. Marcus had also feared Elise wouldn't forgive Kiernan's part in her brother's brush with death. But she had, or so her warmth toward the boy seemed to indicate.
Would her warmth eventually extend to him? Would she forgive him? He wouldn't forget the sight of her pale face when he told her how Kiernan had saved him and Steven from Price's assassins, and how Steven had mistaken Kiernan for those assassins. When Marcus gave her the short letter Steven had written for her, she noted the shaky hand the letter had been written in and wouldn't be completely consoled—until today.
She blushed in response to Kiernan's embarrassment, and Marcus's body pulsed. He suddenly wished his son far away. Perhaps, if he and Elise were alone, she might allow him to make love to her. Marcus turned to Kiernan.
"Mayhap you should go on without me." He looked at Elise. "Will you walk with me?"
She looked as though he had asked her to puzzle out the secret of the universe, and Marcus repressed a laugh. He extended his hand. She slipped her hand into his. He glimpsed a figure entering the door at the far end of the stables as they turned to leave.
"Silas," he called after the new stable hand, "see to Alexis. I won't be taking him out as planned." Marcus turned back to Elise and urged her toward the door at the far end of the stables. "Did Steven have much to say?" he asked.
"He will return to duty in the Army." She hesitated. "He mentioned Price is missing."
"He cannot harm us, Elise."
Her gaze swung to his face. Her brow furrowed, then she nodded. They exited the door and took a few steps down the path before she exclaimed, "The letter!" and broke free of his hold on her hand. "I must have dropped it."
"Elise," he called, but she had already disappeared back into the stables. Bloody hell, at this rate it would be another six weeks before he got his wife back to the house, much less into his bed. He strode back inside the stables.
His heart jumped into his throat. In the instant before he broke into a run toward Elise, he took in the sight of Kiernan riding through the stable doors, Silas stepping from the stall next to the door, knife poised for throwing, and Elise grabbing the trimming scissors from the table. She hurled them toward Silas as she had thrown the sgian dubh that day at Brahan Seer.
The scissors hit their intended victim with deadly accuracy between the shoulder blades. Blood darkened the dirty shirt he wore. Silas faltered and turned, eyes wide with surprise. His expression contorted into rage. He roared and lunged toward her. Kiernan whirled his mount around to face the sudden commotion. His gaze met Marcus's, then Kiernan shouted and dug his heels into his horse's ribs. The beast's nostrils flared as he dipped his head and charged. Marcus forced his legs to pump harder. Silas would still reach Elise before either of them did.
She pivoted and grabbed the hoof pick hanging on the wall. The hair on Marcus's neck rose when Silas clutched at her. She swung the hoof pick. Kiernan reached them as she slashed Silas's arm. The horse slammed into Silas and he was knocked forward and into Elise. He grabbed her, but Marcus leapt between them, shoving her behind him. The table crashed onto its side and Elise cried out. Marcus seized Silas's collar and pounded his fist into the man's jaw.
"Father," Kiernan shouted as he leapt from his horse.
Marcus swung Silas around and sent him flying through the door of the stall. Silas banged into the wall and crumbled to the ground. Marcus whirled to face Elise. His breath came in quick, deep gasps—much like hers. She met his gaze, eyes blazing. He looked at Silas. The scissors had fallen from his back onto the straw-laden ground beside him. Marcus looked back at Elise.
"You never told me where you learned to throw a knife like that!" he shouted.
She blinked as if yanked from a dream. "Steven—" her voice caught, but Marcus realized it was the last vestiges of fear—and rage. "Steven learned as a young boy. I-I always feared he would hurt himself, so I attended his practices."
Elise yanked her skirt above her ankles and strode to the stall opening. She stared at Silas, her hands clenched on the fistful of skirt she held. She pivoted as Marcus stepped up behind her and collided with him. He grasped her shoulders.
She grabbed his arms as though to steady herself. "Will we ever be free of him?"
In her eyes, Marcus saw the fear he had felt when he saw Silas poised to murder his son. Marcus glanced around and spotted the bucket of water he was looking for several stalls down. He fetched it, then pushed past Elise and Kiernan and threw the water on the unconscious man. Silas awoke with a sputter. Marcus seized him by his collar and yanked him to his feet.
"Who sent you?" Marcus shouted.
Silas cowed.
"Tell me or I'll kill you here and now."
"That woman." Silas cringed.
"Woman?" Marcus gave him a hard shake.
Silas went silent.
"Kiernan! Give me your pistol."
"No," Silas cried.
Marcus lifted his fist for another blow.
"Ross!" Silas shouted. "Lady Ross."
Chapter Twenty-Three
Elise stilled at the sound of Marcus's bedchamber door opening. She rose and stole through the closet which separated their two rooms, then knocked lightly on his door, and entered. He looked up from where he stood near the nightstand on the far side of the bed. Her heart lurched. She had suspected he kept a mistress, but seeing him now, hair tousled, cravat missing, the top button of his shirt undone, there was no mistaking the fact he had just risen from another woman's bed. The mental picture of Marcus kissing the rise of her breasts, then taking her nipple into his mouth filled her vision.
"Elise?"
She snapped back to the present. "I—" Her gaze caught on his hands—hands that had once touched her, had once—the urge to cry sprang up. No, she wouldn't cry. She had made her bed. She would live with the consequences.
"I wondered how things went with Lady Ross's trial," she said. "Is it over?"
Marcus reached around his back and pulled out the revolver stuffed into his waistband.
Where had the revolver lain when he made love to his mistress?
"It is over," he replied. "She claims to know nothing of a plot to kill Kiernan." Marcus glanced at her. "I suspect she wanted you dead. Though she denies that as well. I don't know how, but it is clear she was in league with Ardsley. Margaret had no reason to kill Kiernan."
Elise started to ask how he could be so sure when he said, "She won't face prison." He gave a mirthless laugh. "England is not about to put one of her noblewomen in prison, even if she is Scottish. She is to go to America." Marcus's expression abruptly darkened. "Do you intend on standing in doorways the remainder of our marriage?"
She blinked.
"Or is it that you simply find it too abhorrent to be in a room with me?"
"I… no. I only thought—"
"Thought what?" he demanded.
"I didn't want to intrude. It is late—"
"So it is." Marcus began unbuttoning his shirt.
"Good Lord," she muttered. "It's not as if you have invited me into your
bed—chambers." She added "chambers" in a rush, seeing his fingers halt on the third button and the sudden gleam in his eyes.
His eyes narrowed. "Am I to understand it is I who have stayed out of your bed?"
"You say that as if you're surprised," she snapped.
"By God," he thundered. "I will settle this now." He started around the bed.
Elise rolled her eyes. "You have no energy to settle anything."
He stopped short. "What the blazes does that mean?"
"It means, I have made my bed and I'll lie in it." Alone.
Marcus charged across the room. Elise backed up. He grabbed her and tossed her on his bed before she could blink. His lips crashed down on hers in a bruising kiss. Shock ripped through her. Energy pooled in the pit of her stomach, then between her legs. His hand covered a breast. Elise arched into him. She wanted him, but could she live with the fact he had another woman? He yanked up her night rail and reached between her legs. Yes. She could live with anything if she had him. His fingers probed. Marcus abruptly pulled away from her.
He touched her cheek. "Steven is well," he said. "There is no need to cry."
"Cry?" She lifted a finger to her cheek, but even as she did, she realized she was crying.
"Unless…" Marcus said.
Elise looked at him.
"You can't forgive me for Steven. I am sorry. I understood the consequences. I could not change—"
"Forgive you," she interrupted. "You have done nothing to forgive. It's my fault, even your taking a mistress. I can't blame you for wanting—"
"A what?" He looked startled.
"What?" she repeated.
His brows puckered in a fierce frown. "We have been in Ashlund two weeks and already you have me consorting with other women?"
"There's no better explanation for the late nights, your state of dishevelment."
"My state of dishevelment?" His gaze swept across her body. "You seem to have forgotten what my state of dishevelment is like when I make love to a woman." He kissed her mouth, her cheek, her ear. "When I make love to you," he whispered.
Elise drew a sharp breath as he rocked against her. She wrapped her arms around his neck.
"There is no more Margaret," he whispered. "No more Ardsley, and"—Marcus slid a hand beneath her and lifted her hips to meet each thrust of his hips—"there is no mistress."
He pulled his arm from around her, then reached between them and unfastened his trousers. His erection sprang free of its constraints and Marcus drove himself into her.
"There is only you," he said, and began the rhythm that bound them together as one.
####
To Bed A Montana Man
KyAnn Waters
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
To Bed A Montana Man
COPYRIGHT 2012 by KyAnn Waters
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Visit www.KyAnnWaters.com
Publishing History
First Edition, June 2012
Published in the United States of America
Boston, 1879
Rain stung her cheeks as she lifted her head to get her bearings. Shielding her eyes from the downpour, she still couldn’t read the street signs. Allison Lake’s hands trembled as numbing cold sank into her bones. A noise from the alley momentarily made her forget her discomfort. She started to run. Her wool cape, now soaked, clung to her slender body. The fabric of her evening dress dripped water, making it even more difficult to move.
Lightning forked across the sky. The crack of thunder echoed through the streets. She startled, but she continued to run. She was almost home, her house only a half block down the street. Footfalls sounded close behind her. Or maybe it was the rain pelting the cobblestones.
“Allison, wait.”
She turned to see Henry Oakdale quickly closing in on her.
“Stay away from me,” she cried, her tears mingling with the rain. “I went looking for you…in the study. I saw you.”
Bending over, Henry braced his hands against his thighs and struggled to catch his breath. “You’re mistaken.” Straightening, his gaze raked up her body. “My father forbids anyone from entering his sanctuary when he is away.”
“I saw you!” She pulled her wrap more tightly around her, protecting herself from his open assessment of her clinging, wet dress. “Leave me alone, or I swear I’ll tell. Your little secret will become grist for the gossip mill.”
“Go home, Allison, I believe you will remember differently after a night of reflection.” Gripping her wrist, he brought his thin lips to her frigid fingers. He held tightly as she tried to pull away.
“You’re hurting me,” she whimpered.
“I’m capable of a great many things.” His eyes narrowed. “As you have discovered. On the morrow, I will confirm our engagement. I was with you tonight. And do not pretend to not understand my meaning. Our parents will insist on a quick marriage. Imagine our wedding night.” His lips pulled into a sneer. “Or perhaps now, no imagination is needed.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I most certainly will. Our future is set.”
Allison couldn’t take that chance. She wouldn’t.
So a few hours before sunrise, she quietly left her bedroom. She tiptoed down the stairs and carefully opened the door to her father’s study. With a silver letter opener, she plied the lock loose from the second drawer. Beneath papers and a box of expensive cigars was a small pocket of cloth sewn into the liner of the drawer. Tearing the cloth in haste, her fingers trembled as she took the key and crossed the room.
A small end table with a beautifully carved wood façade hid her father’s house money. When she was little, he had often let her play with the gold and silver coins while he worked at his desk. She knew there was a lot more than coins. She placed the key in the hidden lock and opened the safe. She took enough money to get far away from Henry, and left a note to both her mother and father in its place. There would be no society wedding, no merging of two prominent families. She wrote them the truth. Whether they ever believed her, mattered not.
Slipping out of the house, into the sleeping city, she made her way through the dark streets of Boston to the train station. “One way, please.”
“To where, Miss?” the attendant asked.
Gray smoke curled around the engines of trains waiting to depart. Men in top hats and women dressed in fine traveling clothes walked the platform. They seemed so casual, knowing where they were going. She didn’t know where she was going. She only knew she couldn’t stay.
“A ticket west on the first train out.”
Chapter One
Montana Territory, 1879
Allison’s stomach turned over twice a minute, anxiety raced along her nerves. Ten long, lonely days finally ended as the train whistled and screeched its way into Copper City. She had finally arrived. Only…where in the world was she?
She stepped from the platform. An uneven board caused her to lose her footing. Her ankle twisted. She gave a squeal as someone’s fingers pressed into the soft flesh under her arms. Her first thought was of the money she had hidden beneath the tightness of her corset. However, she quickly quelled those thoughts as the same strong fingers lay perilously close to her breast.
“Release me,” she said regaining her balance and spinning around. Any further comment stuck in her mouth. Standing before her was a man as large as the Montana Territory.
“Excuse me, Ma’am. Meant no harm, just wanted to keep you from a tumble.” Full lips tilted into a beguiling smile.
“Th
ank you.”
He tipped his cowboy hat and moved off down the platform.
Allison couldn’t help but watch him walk away. His shirt stretched across the distinct muscles of his back, drawing her attention to his narrow waist and slim hips. Feeling an unfamiliar heat climbing up her neck, she turned and hurried from the platform.
Throughout the bustling town, heavy smoke from the mines drifted through the air in visible layers. Coal stoves spewed black dust from roofs of clapboard structures. Saloons lined the streets. And the whores who worked in the rooms above stood in front of their business establishments wearing corsets and lace, advertising sins of the flesh for a price.
This was going to be home. While on the train, she’d considered all she’d left behind, but also the adventure that awaited her. The fantasy had been much different from her reality. This wasn’t Boston by any measure. Country women were dressed in serviceable clothing; drab, heavy wool skirts without adornment and blouses buttoned to the neck. Clothing suited for work in their homes, not socializing in lady’s clubs as her mother did. And unlike home, there wasn’t going to be anyone to help her dress, mend her stockings, or launder her gowns.
And no one to cook her favorite treats. She was hungry and tired, and the money tucked in the folds of her dress and the few pieces of jewelry in her clutch weren’t going to last long. Never having been responsible for herself, she had plenty to learn about life in the West.
First—a place to stay. Permanent living arrangements could wait a few days, but she needed to clean up, rest, and get a job.
The town was much bigger than she had anticipated. A general mercantile butted up next to the bank. She had some experience with a needle and thread. Surely, there was a need for a seamstress. With a town full of men working in the mines, she was bound to find a job.
