Married to Claim the Rancher's Heir

by Lauri Robinson

  “I have special memories of that day,” Gabe whispered while Kent told a highly embellished version of her shooting Bollinger’s gun out of his hand. “Especially that night.”

  His hand roamed over the top of her stomach, and his knuckles brushing the underside of her breasts increased her heartbeat. “I do, too.” She’d never forget the night they became man and wife and would never tire of repeating it.

  “I have apple dumplings fresh out of the oven,” Rosalie said, carrying a tray into the parlor.

  “And I have hot chocolate,” Thelma said, following Rosalie into the room. As a quiet settled over the room, she added, “Oh, stop, Rosalie made it. I just poured it in the cups.”

  Janette covered her mouth to quiet her laughter. Others didn’t. Not even Thelma.

  Although Kent’s investigation had proved Lewis had been involved with the crimes, even Thelma welcomed his visits. He was the first one she handed hot chocolate to while saying, “Don’t forget to mention how I drove the wagon that day.”

  “That’s right,” Kent said. “And that was some mighty fine driving. Did you children know that your aunt Thelma can drive teams of two, four and six horses?”

  The storytelling and laughter started in earnest then and lasted for several hours. At one point, Gabe whispered in her ear, “Life just can’t get any better than this, can it?”

  Janette laid her hand over the top of his still resting on her stomach. “Yes,” she answered. “In about three months.”

  And it did. The day Jonathan Parker Callaway was born.

  * * * * *

  If you enjoyed this story

  you won’t want to miss these other great

  Western stories from Lauri Robinson:

  WINNING THE MAIL-ORDER BRIDE

  THE COWBOY’S ORPHAN BRIDE

  UNWRAPPING THE RANCHER’S SECRET

  HER CHEYENNE WARRIOR

  Keep reading for an excerpt from INNOCENT IN THE PRINCE’S BED by Bronwyn Scott.

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  Innocent in the Prince’s Bed

  by Bronwyn Scott

  Chapter One

  London—May 1823

  So this was how dreams died—ignobly. Expeditiously dispatched to the hereafter in a mere two hours after eighteen years in the making, bludgeoned to death in Lady Burton’s ballroom by what passed for Strom Percivale’s, the very eligible future Duke of Ormond, wit. Lady Dove Sanford-Wallis watched her court of gentlemen nod sagely as Percivale expounded on fire-building techniques he’d seen demonstrated on his latest diplomatic excursion: ‘It takes two sticks and a beastly amount of rubbing to get a spark.’ The group laughed, a poignant reminder that it was unfair to place all the blame on Percivale. Like Brutus stabbing Caesar, he had help.

  Dove leaned forward, one white-gloved hand gently resting on Percivale’s dark sleeve to forestall any further comment. She smiled at the circle of gentlemen. ‘It’s probably easier when one of the sticks is a match.’

  On her right, young Lord Fredericks’s fair brow knit in confusion, not grasping her remark, and her long-nurtured dream of a London debut breathed its last.

  ‘A match would allow you to light the other one,’ she explained patiently.

  ‘Oh, I do see! A match.’ He chortled, overloud and over-exuberant. ‘Quite so, quite so.’ Lord Fredericks’s brow relaxed. ‘You’re a wit, you are, Lady Dove.’

  She was also quite disgusted and it was only her first formal outing of the Season. Disgusted. Disappointed. Devastated even. Her dream had betrayed her. Neither her debut nor London were remotely like she thought they would be and yet the source of that betrayal was hard to pinpoint.

  Dove surveyed her godmother’s famed ballroom, searching for the cause of her antipathy amid the surreal swirl of pale silks and dark evening clothes, finding it everywhere and nowhere. She was surrounded by bland perfection on all sides, which made it that much harder to fault the evening, and to explain her sense of dissatisfaction.

  The ballroom itself was architectural excellence with its twin colonnades parading down the left and right sides of the dance floor, columns draped in expensive but simple swathes of oyster satin bunting and ivory roses bred in her godmother’s private Richmond hothouses, brought to town especially for the ball. Pairs of imported chandeliers crafted from Austrian crystal glittered overhead, a gift from Metternich himself to her godfather. Every inch of the room was decorated to emphasise the three essential ‘E’s’ of tonnish entertainment: elegance, excellence and expense.

  There was no doubting the elegance of the decoration, just the creativity of it. Beneath it there was a strong note of uniformity—or was that conformity? Minus the Metternich chandeliers, Dove suspected other ballrooms in London looked exactly the same as this one—virginal and uninspired, a setting worthy, unfortunately, of the guest list. Where was the colour she’d dreamed of? Where was the life? How could the ‘happy ever after’ she’d spent her girlhood imagining occur in such a sterile environment?

  Several girls had made their official curtsy at the royal drawing room today, but only the crème de la crème was present with her at her debut, and none of them was as highly anticipated as she. It was not arrogance that drove her to that conclusion. Lady Dove Sanford-Wallis knew her own worth. She was the pampered, well-loved only child of the Duke of Redruth. She came with a dowry valued at fifteen thousand pounds annually, plus an initial bridal portion of twenty thousand and three coal-producing properties in the West Country. She would have been the most anticipated debutante of the Season even if she’d had the face of a horse. That she didn’t was a pleasant bonus for this year’s crop of marrying gentlemen.

  And yet, knowing this had not made her a cynic; not before tonight anyway. She’d approached the year leading up to her Season with excitement. Excitement over leaving the isolated West—she’d never left the environs of Cornwall in eighteen years—excitement over the prospect of planning her wardrobe in London with the finest drapers in the business—up until now she had worn only proper muslins and gabardines in the spring, dark wools in the winter, as befitted a young girl—and excitement over visiting London with its entertainments.

  She could hardly wait to ride in the park, to see Astley’s, to tour the Tower, to eat Gunter’s sweet ices, to receive flowers and chocolates from well-heeled gentlemen, to shop and to dance late into the night and drive home sleepy in her father’s carriage. All of which would lead to the discovery of her very own Prince Charming. He would sweep her off
her feet and happy ever after would begin, if not this Season, then most certainly the next. Not even her mother’s endless admonitions during the journey from Cornwall about the expectations for a good match had dimmed her enthusiasm for fabled London.

  It was the fairy tale she’d been raised on. Her mother, her maid, her aunts, all had exclaimed over the magic of a Season in London. Not once had they mentioned that somewhere between the journey from Cornwall to the altar of happy ever after there was this: listening to men like Strom Percivale prose on about primitive fire-making techniques, spending her evenings explaining simple jokes to the handsome, empty-headed Lord Fredericks of the ton and dancing with men who were trying to peek down her bodice while calculating the prospect of what they could do with her fifteen thousand a year. This was definitely not the dream, not her idea of happy ever after. Was this the best London could do? She’d been raised to expect better. Therein lay her disgust. What did one do when a dream died? Find another one, she supposed. But at this late date, what would that be? A most disquieting thought indeed, one that left her feeling empty, hollow.

  A loud burst of energy at the ballroom’s entrance snared her attention and her gaze went past Percivale’s shoulder to where people gathered about the doors in excitement. Perhaps it might be someone interesting? Hope surged as a broad pair of shoulders parted the crowd. She caught sight of champagne-blond hair, a square-jawed face sporting a broad smile and penetrating blue eyes. Excited whispers ran through the ballroom, announcing that this wonder of a man was the royal poet laureate of Kuban, Illarion Kutejnikov, not just a real-life prince, but a larger-than-life one who was nothing like the fairy-tale charmer of her childhood stories.

  Unlike every other man in the room, this Prince made no attempt to fit in. From head to toe, he was different. His champagne-blond hair was worn long and thick, caught back with a black silk bow. Instead of dark evening attire, he wore a thigh-length tunic of brilliant royal-blue silk with a heavily embroidered placket of dark blues and teals at the collar, sashed at the waist with a swathe of black silk, emphasising the trimness of his physique and the long legs that supported it. Long legs that were no more traditionally clothed than the rest of him. He wore tight dark trousers that left no room for discreet padding or doubt that his legs were all muscle.

  He was without question the most attractive man she’d ever seen, the most exotic, the most sensual, the most vibrant. He was simply more than any man in the room, a peacock in a ballroom full of black wools and white silks. His presence excited her and discomfited her. She wanted him to look in her direction and yet there was a flutter of panic, too, at such a notion. What would she do if he did glance her way? A Russian Byron, the women called him, only much more hale, the audacious would titter behind their fans; a man with a poet’s soul and a warrior’s body. The gossips had got the warrior’s body part right. Already, within moments of him entering the ballroom, women flocked to him, forming an entourage of fawning females as if he were the pied piper. He stopped his progression to bow over Lady Burton’s hand, who was all smiles. Even her redoubtable godmother, it seemed, wasn’t immune to the man’s notorious charm.

  Her godmother lifted a hand and gestured towards her, directing the Prince’s gaze. Dove froze, a hasty litany forming in her mind. No, no, do not bring him over here. She knew instinctively she should not want his attention. She was not meant for a man like the poet-Prince. She was meant for a man like Percivale, perhaps even Percivale himself. The realisation blossomed heavy and dark in her chest. That was the source of her dissatisfaction. She didn’t want the Strom Percivales of the ton. She wanted more and more was looking right at her.

  The Prince’s champagne head followed her godmother’s gesture, his eyes locking on her, his smile acknowledging her. To the great regret of every other woman in the ballroom, he and her godmother began to move towards her, his intentions clear to her and to everyone else present. Good manners required there could be no escape now, not with her godmother doing the introductions. ‘My darling, here’s someone I want you to meet,’ her godmother began. At her words, part of Dove wanted to run. There was nothing but trouble here if she tempted herself with a sweet she couldn’t have. She should settle for Strom Percivale’s dukedom and be done with it. But the girl from Cornwall who wanted more stood her ground and let more bend over her hand with a kiss. Heaven help her, she would need all her wits now.

  * * *

  London in Season did not disappoint. This was heaven on earth: twelve weeks of exquisite entertainments, a never-ending flow of champagne, of dancing, of beautiful women, Lady Burton’s goddaughter included. Twelve weeks of drinking from life’s cup, a most heady elixir, heady enough to forget what he’d left behind in Kuban, heady enough to bring him to life once more, if only for a short while. Illarion Kutejnikov took a deep breath and bowed confidently towards the pretty chit in an exquisitely made white creation with her hair done up in seed pearls. Not a bad way to start the night—his favourite time of day.

  The night meant freedom, each glittering ballroom offering release from the restlessness that plagued his mornings. He did his best work at night these days, when the scent of a woman still hovered on his skin, lingered in his sheets, the feel of her touch still fresh on his body, the champagne still thrilling through his blood, freeing his mind to wander the paths where emotion and philosophy conjoined into words and phrases.

  Illarion let his eyes rest meaningfully on the girl as if she was the only woman in the ballroom. In truth, he didn’t have to try too hard to convey that sense. It was difficult to look away from the silver-grey depths of her eyes. A man could lose himself there. If the eyes didn’t do a man in, there was the perfection of her skin, all pearly translucence, the heart-shaped face with its pert, snub nose and delicately pointed chin resting atop the slim column of her neck in sculpted perfection. And that hair; that glorious hair! A crown to her beauty. He would write an ode to it; it was the colour of snow, a veritable avalanche of platinum silver waiting to be set free from its pins. To be the man to do so would be a pleasure indeed, and, he was quite sure, a privilege that came only through marriage. She had all the hallmarks of a girl who’d been raised swaddled in the cotton wool of her parents’ protection. He took her hand and bent over it with a kiss at her knuckles. ‘Prince Illarion Kutejnikov, at your service.’

  Those quicksilver eyes looked him over with a hint of challenge, an air of arrogance as if his adoration was her due. Perhaps it was. She was a duke’s daughter, after all. She was not the sort just any man could entertain thoughts of loosening hair about, yet Illarion could not look away. The orchestra struck up a waltz and he slipped her hand through his arm. ‘Shall we?’ He meant the question rhetorically. Women didn’t protest the opportunity to waltz with Prince Illarion Kutejnikov, dance cards be damned.

  For a moment, he thought she might break with that precedent. He wasn’t used to being refused. That would be theoretically interesting up to a point, a point he had no intention of testing tonight. Illarion showed her no quarter. He swept her out on to the floor, his hand at her waist, matching his body to hers as he moved them into the waltz.

  She danced exquisitely, her body never closer than the proper distance required between them, her eyes never lingering too long on his to imply undue interest, but remaining correctly fixed on a spot just over his shoulder. Her smile never wavered. Her conversation was neutrally polite; Yes, the weather was fine for May, was it not? Yes, she was enjoying the evening. He’d wager that was a lie. She didn’t act like someone enjoying the ball. There was no spark in her eyes as they turned at the top of the floor. By the time he asked her if she’d been to London before, he was heartily tired of the bland neutrality that came with her unwavering smile—a pasted-on smile, a doll’s smile, not a real one. So when she said, no, she’d never been to town, this was her first time, Illarion could not resist.

  He seized her attention on one of the rare moments she was
n’t looking over his shoulder, his gaze becoming a smoulder as he drawled, ‘It’s my first time, too. We’re no longer virgins, you and I.’ He’d meant to shock her out of her neutrality. Women were never ambivalent about him and yet she was. He was ready for one of two reactions: a laugh because he’d finally melted her cold resistance with an audacious remark, or a stunned silence because she was far too innocent to marshal an adequate response. He got neither.

  Dove Sanford-Wallis gave him a steady gaze. ‘I am neither shocked nor impressed by what passes as your attempt at wit. I am sure there are some women who find your bon mots appealing, but I am not one of them.’ She nodded her head to the corner of the ballroom where his coterie of pretty women sat eyeing them and waiting for his return. ‘I am sure they’ll forgive your momentary desertion,’ she hinted broadly. Good lord, Lady Dove Sanford-Wallis was pure as the driven snow and as frigid, too. Or was it something more? For a horrible moment, an idea flickered. Was it possible she didn’t like him?

  Illarion bent close to her ear. ‘Do you know why you can’t tell a joke while standing on ice?’ he murmured. ‘Because it might crack. But I see there’s no risk of that here.’

  ‘Am I supposed to be the ice in your juvenile metaphor?’ The music was winding down. This had turned out to be a most intriguing waltz. He’d not anticipated such an outcome. He had anticipated something very different; taking his hostess’s goddaughter out to the garden, for politeness’s sake, spending a little time with her, giving her a few moments of his attentions and then politely disengaging her. But not this.

  ‘If the shoe fits, Princess.’ He bowed as the dance ended.

  ‘Thank you for the dance, Prince Kutejnikov.’ She dipped a small curtsy, turned her back on him and did the unthinkable. She fled the floor. It took him a moment to realise what had happened. He’d been glass-slippered. It was not only intriguing, but inspiring. Word pictures rose in his mind, his hand itched to write and a spark of hope sputtered to life; perhaps she was the one to break the curse that had plagued him since he’d left Kuban. She had only disappeared a moment ago and he already wanted her back.