Amelia

by Diana Palmer

  "My dear, you look very strange," Enid said, suddenly interrupting her thoughts. "Come along. We can wait for King on the porch. Perhaps the cool air will refresh you. Come with us, won't you, Ted?"

  "I'd be delighted, Mrs. Culhane. As I told Miss Howard, I should like very much to call on her when her father returns from his hunting trip."

  Enid stared at him warily. She knew of King's antagonism for the man and her own husband's distaste for him. On the other hand, she had no right to forbid Amelia to see anyone.

  "I have told Mr. Simpson that it will have to wait until my father returns," Amelia said quickly, sensing Enid's discomfort. "My father is extremely strict about my callers."

  "I see. Then we must both adhere to her father's wishes, Mr. Simpson," Enid said with a pleasant smile. "I'm sure you understand that I am responsible for her welfare while her father is away."

  "I do understand," Ted said with a slow smile.

  Enid laughed. "Well, then."

  He escorted them onto the porch, where they talked idly until a disgruntled King returned with the surrey. Ted helped the women into the back of the conveyance after they had said their good-byes. King spoke not one word until they were back at the ranch house, having left Enid and Amelia to converse.

  When he pulled the surrey up in front of the house, he shouted for one of his men. Amelia escaped out of the other side while he was assisting his mother to the ground. She was on the porch before he knew it.

  "Go ahead, Amelia," Enid told her. "I'll be right along to unlock the door."

  "I'll unlock it," King said curtly.

  He was beside Amelia in two long strides, but she abruptly moved back to where Enid was standing, avoiding any attempt at conversation with a panic that was almost tangible. She wouldn't look at him, not even when he opened the door and stood holding it for the women.

  Disregarding convention in her surge of fear, she dashed ahead of Enid into the house and, calling a muffled good night behind her, ran down the hall to her bedroom.

  "My dear," Enid said, turning to King, who was oddly pale and out of sorts. "Have you said something unpleasant to her?"

  "Good night, mother," he said curtly.

  He turned and went out, closing the door loudly behind him. He wandered out to the barn and supervised the cowboy who was unhitching the horse and bedding it down for the night. His presence was unnecessary, but he couldn't face any more questions from his mother. He didn't want to think about what he'd said to Amelia or remember the look on her face. Hurting her was indefensible. He hardly understood himself. He only knew that he'd never felt quite so low in his life.

  Amelia was deliberately late getting up the next morning, so that she wouldn't have to see King. She didn't escape Enid that easily, however. The older woman watched her with renewed interest, even while she carried on a casual conversation about the beautiful morning.

  "What did King say to you last night, Amelia?" she asked abruptly.

  The younger woman's face flushed. She dropped her biscuit and had to scramble to get it back in her fingers. "He only emphasized his dislike of me," she lied. It was impossible to tell his mother what had really been said. "I regret his hostility, but it isn't unexpected, you know. Some people simply can't get along."

  Enid's sharp eyes saw the telltale signs of sleeplessness. There had been more to it than that. She knew there had! Her gaze went to the slender arms in the long-sleeved blouse and held, shocked.

  "Amelia, what has happened to your poor wrist?" she exclaimed at the bruise there.

  The shocked gasp and attempt to hide the abrasion told her all she needed to know. "I saw the argument you had with my son and the way you moved away from him so suddenly. King did that, did he not?" Enid demanded hotly.

  "I did what?" came a slow, rough voice from the doorway.

  King lounged there in his working clothes, his chaps rustling as his long legs moved, bringing him into the room.

  "Look at Amelia's wrist," Enid said shortly.

  His expression changed. Amelia tried to hide it, but he went down on one knee beside her chair and captured her hand, gently but firmly turning her arm so that the deep purple of the bruise was visible.

  His intake of breath was audible.

  "I have very delicate skin," Amelia muttered, pulling it away from him. This time he let go at once, rather than risk marking her again.

  "How could you?" Enid asked with sadness in her eyes as she looked at her son.

  "Indeed," he said, his voice quiet and subdued. He looked at Amelia from his close vantage point, his silver eyes turbulent on her distressed face. "Forgive me, Miss Howard," he said, without his usual self-possession. "My loss of temper was regrettable."

  She moved her chair back, away from him. He was like her father. He was brutal. She didn't want to be near him, to have to look at him, to talk to him. She wanted him to go away.

  Her withdrawal pricked his temper and made him inflexible. He got to his feet smoothly and glared down at her.

  "Was there something you needed?" Enid asked pointedly.

  "I came to ask Miss Howard if she'd like to see the flowers I mentioned to her the other day," he replied tightly. "Obviously, she does not, if it means suffering my company."

  Amelia closed her eyes. Please go, she thought. Please go away. You remind me of him

  Enid got to her feet and took her son's arm, almost dragging him out of the room.

  "What the hell is the matter with her?" he demanded hotly, glaring at his mother. "Did you see? She acts as if I have leprosy!"

  "You treat her as if she does," she replied unflinchingly. "I wish Alan were here. He is gentle with her. Which is probably why the two of them are so compatible."

  He glowered down at her. "And I know nothing of tenderness."

  "That is so," she agreed curtly. "You have hardened your heart since Alice died. The sort of woman you seek these days has no need of tenderness. Why do you not take your precious Miss Valverde to see the flowers, King?"

  "She has no interest in such things."

  "Only in the money that pays for the land on which they grow," his mother said with faint venom. "Go and tend to your business. Amelia wants no part of you. Nor can I blame her. Surely her father is enough of a trial. It is no surprise to me that her life has been singularly lacking in male suitors. Probably she will live and die a maid for want of a little kindness from anyone!"

  She turned and left her son standing there.

  He didn't move for a long moment. That bruise on Amelia's arm made him feel like the lowest sort of desperado. Only a coward used brute force against a woman. He hadn't meant to hurt her. His emotions, always under impeccable control, had loosed the chain last night in the grip of the most insane desire he'd ever known. His hunger for Amelia had made him cruel. Now he felt guilty, but he had no idea what he was going to do about it.

  Damn women, he muttered under his breath. Damn it all! He stomped down the hall and out the front door, banging the screen door behind him. Disguising his pain in bad temper, he went out to supervise the branding of the new calves. By the end of the day, more than one cowboy had evinced the opinion that who was getting their hides burned today was the men!

  Chapter Five

  » ^ «

  Amelia heated water and poured it in the sink adding cold water from the hand pump to regulate the temperature. Then she washed the few dishes, while Enid did the sweeping. Dust came in through the doors and screens despite all Enid's precautions. Here in west Texas, she told Amelia, it was something that couldn't be changed, so it might as well be tolerated. Amelia couldn't help but think the same sentiment might be applied to King. But he was barely tolerable even on good days.

  Roundup went on. King worked his men until late Saturday night, after which most of them got roaring drunk and began shooting up the desert behind the bunkhouse. The gunshots made Amelia nervous.

  "I'll have King speak to them," Enid said. Both women had gotten out of bed at the
clatter and were standing in the hall in their gowns and long, warm robes.

  A door opened, and King came out into the hall. His dark hair was disheveled, and his jeans and boots had obviously been thrown on rather hastily, because his shirt was only half-tucked-in. As he moved closer, Amelia got an all too vivid look at a broad, bronzed chest covered with thick black hair.

  "You aren't going out there without a gun?" Enid asked when he reached them.

  "Why do I need a gun?" he asked with a glare. "They're only drunk."

  "But they might shoot you," Amelia spoke up, her dark eyes wide and worried.

  He stopped, surprised at the obvious concern. When he looked at her, his eyes lingered on her face in its frame of long, beautifully unruly blond hair. Her complexion was rosy from sleep, and in the lacy, ruffled layers of her nightclothes, she looked like a flower in bloom. He had to struggle to get his mind back where it belonged.

  "I won't be long. Stay in the house," he told them.

  He moved to the front door with long, angry strides. Amelia's dark eyes followed him, lingering on the powerful lines of his tall body in the close-fitting jeans. He was elegant, she thought wonderingly, and he made her feel so safe when anything threatened. If he only didn't remind her so forcefully of her father at his very worst

  The night swallowed him up. The women went to the curtained windows and stared down toward the bunkhouse. It was brightly lit, and loud noises echoed from it. A minute later, King moved onto the porch, throwing a drunken man roughly to one side when he was accosted. He went into the bunkhouse, and the women heard his voice, unfamiliar in its loudness, because Amelia had never before known him to raise it.

  The results were immediate. The noise stopped. Then there was a challenge, and a minute later there were several thuds and a crash. Amelia looked at Enid worriedly.

  "I have to tell you, my dear, that this is, sadly, a familiar occurrence," the older woman said softly. "Men will be men. Of course, King can handle them. They respect him, you see."

  Amelia shivered. "Because he's good with his fists," she said dully.

  "In these parts, a man must be. And not only with fists but with guns when the occasion calls for it. There is a lawless element here on the border and all too few peace officers. In order to hold a property, one must still be prepared to defend it when the occasion warrants."

  "So violent," Amelia murmured, shaken.

  "Life often is, even in the most civilized city."

  "I suppose so." Amelia strained her eyes, because there was no sign of King. "Is he all right, do you suppose?" she asked nervously.

  "My son is quite capable of handling his men. Don't worry so." Enid's dark eyes narrowed. "You are concerned for him."

  "Of course," she faltered. "I mean, one is bound to be concerned for anyone whom violence threatens."

  "I see."

  Amelia hoped not. She didn't want her feelings to be quite that evident, as confusing as they were.

  She pushed back her wealth of long, blond hair and watched with quiet desperation until finally, King came out of the bunkhouse and stood speaking to the man he'd motioned outside with him. The cowboy nodded, made some conciliatory gesture with his hands, and King turned and walked back to the house.

  "I'll pour him a brandy," Enid murmured. "I think he may need it. "

  She left Amelia standing there and went toward the parlor with her kerosene lamp, leaving Amelia the one she'd lit beside the door.

  King came in, brooding and unsmiling. There was a cut on his lower jaw.

  "You're hurt!" Amelia exclaimed softly.

  He turned toward her. The compassion in those dark eyes made him feel warm inside, touched him in ways he'd never been touched.

  "I'm all right," he said slowly.

  But she came closer to peer up at him through the softly lit darkness with concern. Involuntarily, her fingers lifted to touch his lean jaw. "Does it hurt very much?" she asked.

  His breath felt trapped in his chest. "No." His voice was curt, because her unexpected tenderness unsettled him. She was lovely, he thought, with her hair loosened like that and her body gently outlined by layers of frilly lace. Faint perfume drifted up from her warmth into his nostrils and made his head spin.

  He caught her slender hand in his fingers and held it gently while his narrow silver eyes studied her uplifted face. His jaw clenched, and suddenly he turned his head and, pulling her hand up, pressed his mouth to the bruise he'd made on her soft white wrist the night of the fiesta.

  The feel of his mouth disconcerted her. Her lips parted breathlessly as she met his eyes, and the touch of his mouth on her skin made her knees go weak.

  Her heart was throbbing. He could see it at the side of her throat, see the lace jumping as she breathed. Incredible, that a woman so lovely could find him disturbing. It was no act, either. She was all but trembling from just this light touch. His eyes fell to her soft mouth, and he had to fight to keep from dragging her body against him and taking those pretty lips roughly under his own.

  The look in his eyes made Amelia nervous. Her gaze dropped to his chest, and that made it all worse, because in all her life she'd never seen a man with his shirt open like that. It was terribly exciting to see the play of muscles under so much thick hair. It must feel faintly rough against soft skin, she speculated, and her cheeks went red at her renegade thoughts.

  He saw that reaction, and it made his body go taut. He imagined how it might be, to have her bare breasts pressed to his skin, and his pulse began to throb at his temples.

  "Amelia," he said huskily, and pressed his mouth to her soft palm.

  His eyes closed as he savored the faint scent of her cologne that clung to it, and he knew that she was as helpless as he was. His own vulnerability made him angry even as it stirred his senses to their limit. His teeth nipped at the skin on the heel of her palm, and he opened his eyes and looked down into hers to watch her reaction.

  She was stunned by the sensation the rough caress produced in her body. She knew that her eyes betrayed her by mirroring everything she felt, and she made a soft sound of protest deep in her throat.

  The rattle of a bottle brought them both back to reality. King abruptly dropped her hand, but he was breathing heavily, and Amelia gave silent thanks for Enid's presence when she came back into the room.

  Keenly aware of the atmosphere in the room, Enid quickly softened it by handing King the brandy snifter and asking about the crew in the bunkhouse. The question gave a shaken Amelia the opportunity to compose herself. But she couldn't help noticing that the big, lean hand holding the brandy snifter was faintly unsteady.

  King saw her eyes on it, and his own flashed dangerously.

  "Shouldn't you go back to bed, Miss Howard?" he asked icily.

  Amelia shivered under the whip of his voice. "Yes, I believe so. Good night."

  She beat a hasty retreat into her room and closed the door behind her. She wasn't surprised to find herself shaking.

  "You are very unpleasant to her," Enid remarked quietly.

  King finished his brandy and set the glass down with slow deliberation. "She has no nerve."

  "Perhaps there is a reason."

  "Even if that were the case, she is not my concern. I have no wish to saddle myself with a pretty little piece of fluff with no backbone."

  With that curt remark, he went back to his own room.

  Amelia, unfortunately, had heard every word. She bit back tears of pure rage as she made her way in the darkness to her bed. The dreadful man, she thought furiously. He knew nothing about her, nothing at all! He simply took her at face value and believed her worthless. She wasn't spineless! She wasn't a piece of fluff, either!

  She wondered what King would say if he knew the real reason she gave in to her father so easily.

  She remembered the night she'd run from her father. He had been drinking until he was almost senseless. Amelia had made some gentle remark about taking the liquor bottle. He had whipped off his belt an
d started bringing it down on her arms and back. She had escaped from the house. But the elderly policeman at the nearby station had laughed at her when she sobbed out her complaint, adding that it did a woman good to have the meanness beaten out of her from time to time. And he'd sent for her father. That had been the worst night of her life. Hartwell, having been drinking heavily again, had taken her home and put more welts on her lovely white skin for the embarrassment she'd caused him.

  She had spent several days in bed, and a friend's daughter had come to look after the housework and cooking. Quinn, by that time, was fighting in Cuba, and there was only Amelia and her father in the small clapboard house on Peachtree Street. No one knew what had happened. She had no hope of rescue.

  That was still the case. Quinn, even if she dared tell him the true scope of their father's incredible cruelty, could offer her no help. He lived in barracks. And if she told him, what then? How could she show to any man, even her own brother, the proof of her accusations? Her own modesty protected her father as much as her fear for his health and well-being.

  Men were such brutes sometimes, her mother had said once when Hartwell had been in a fight over a political race. She had smiled, though, and Hartwell had chuckled at her comment. They had been so happy

  She looked at the bruise on her wrist and remembered trying to snatch it from King's ruthless, steely grip. But it was his mouth that she felt when she touched her wrist. What an odd thing for him to have done, to kiss the hurt he'd inflicted. Her skin tingled, her heart leaped, with the memory of his shocking tenderness. It had angered him, that lapse. Perhaps it was why he had said such terrible things about her.

  She had to remember that her father had been kind and pleasant until the death of her brothers. How could she ever trust her life to a man, knowing what she did about their dark side? And in marriage there would be much worse than a male hand wielding a riding crop.

  A distant cousin and her husband had come to visit only once, at Christmas while her mother was still alive. Amelia had awakened one night to pitiful, wrenching sobs and pleas, followed by a muffled scream coming from the bedroom her cousin was using. The violent sounds had shocked and then frightened Amelia. The scream had terrified her. It had been followed by more sobbing, but by then Amelia had the pillow over her head, shivering. It had convinced her that a man's brutality was not limited to a lifted hand, and she was terrified of what would happen in marriage, in the darkness behind a closed door.