by Sara Orwig
“I have a needle and thread, and I’ll mend it the first chance I get.”
“Don’t give me trouble,” he commanded in a cold voice.
He frightened her badly, more than any of the others who had tried to get Michael. This man looked as if he were fighting the temptation to close his fingers around her throat. “You filthy ruffian!” she snapped back in a low voice. “Taking a child and his mother.”
Giving her another hard look that sent a chill down her spine, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the bedroom. The door was left ajar, but the tub was out of her vision. She could hear his deep voice as he talked to Michael, but she couldn’t distinguish what he was saying.
When she heard splashing, she struggled to get free. Frightened that she wouldn’t get away from this man, she yanked on her bonds. Her wrists were tied tightly, and she couldn’t reach the knot with her fingers. She glanced down at her tightly knotted dress. She had always dressed plainly, trying to avoid attracting attention from men, except when she was on stage dancing. Most of the time she was ignored, and the lack of attention had always suited her. This one looked as if the only emotion he felt toward her was rage.
She waited, hearing them splash and talk, wondering if he was winning over Michael. After a quarter of an hour had passed, she realized the man must be bathing also.
It was another quarter of an hour before she heard Michael make a peculiar noise. The man appeared in the doorway with the boy perched on his shoulders.
As the stranger came into the room, he was bare-chested, barefoot, wearing only his tight denim pants. His shoulders were broad, and his chest and arms bulged with hard muscles. Michael wore only his pants as well. His fingers were locked in the man’s hair, his eyes round while he looked halfway uncertain, half enjoying himself.
As she eyed the two of them, her heart missed a beat and her breath caught. She felt as if all the blood drained from her body. If she hadn’t been sitting, she would have fallen.
Before her were two heads of wet, curly black hair, two straight noses, and prominent cheekbones. Michael was tiny, but his jawline was a miniature copy of the man’s firm jaw.
“Who are you?” she whispered, understanding his rage now and knowing what his answer would be.
Chapter 6
“My name is Fortune O’Brien,” he said, looking at her white face. Something had shaken her badly at the sight of them. From the looks of her, he wondered if she had guessed the truth about his identity. “I told Michael to call me by my given name—Fortune.”
He glanced up at the boy. “Now, my little friend, you go to bed in here on the settee. Let’s get that hair dry before you bed down and soak the silk.” He swung Michael down carefully. The child was too solemn, too scared. Claire Dryden had mothered him to the point of smothering him. “Run and get the towel, Michael, and dry your hair more.”
Michael walked back to the bedroom, and Fortune crossed the room to stand in front of her, his long, slender fingers splayed on his hips. “I’ll untie you. He won’t be alarmed if you don’t make a fuss.” He knelt behind her to unfasten the knots, and in seconds she was free. He stood to see Michael rubbing his head with the towel.
“There are covers. Make Michael a bed on the sofa while he dries his hair,” he ordered. Watch her all the time, he warned himself. She’ll try to get away again, but as long as she can’t get the revolver or the boy, she’s no problem. If she had the revolver, I’d be dead. She must be the one who killed Pinkerton’s agent, because she looks as if she could do so without a qualm. She was attractive enough—why had she taken Michael in the first place? Why hadn’t she given him up and married and had her own sons?
Out of nowhere came the vision of her tied to the rocker, the neck of her dress gaping to her waist, her breasts revealed, lush, pink-tipped. He felt a stir in his groin, and he glanced at her as she worked. She shook out the quilts and smoothed them on the sofa. As she leaned down, the skirt was tight around her tiny waist, falling over her rounded bottom.
She would fight him. He was exhausted and he had to have a decent night’s sleep. So what was he going to do with her?
“Michael,” he said, catching a frown from her. She made it obvious she didn’t want him to talk to Michael or touch him or have anything to do with him. “This is your bed.”
She studied the windows. “He’ll be safe,” Fortune said. “We’re on the second floor with no balconies. The door is locked, and I’ll put furniture in front of it. I’m a light sleeper. You can have the tub of water now, or you can sit here while I tell Michael good night.”
He met her defiant gaze. He didn’t want to use force, but he would if he had to and he hoped she realized it. Hatred, anger, defiance, clearly smoldered in her eyes. He drew a breath. If she started something, he hoped he could maintain control, because each time he had fought with her, he had checked his rage only with great difficulty.
They stared at each other, tension and anger swirling between them. She blinked and turned to walk to the bedroom and close the door.
He knelt beside the settee and brushed Michael’s curls from his face. As he looked into the boy’s wide brown eyes, Marilee’s eyes, a knot formed in his chest and he wanted to crush Michael in his arms and tell the child that he was his father. But it was too soon and would be too startling. And he didn’t know what Claire Dryden had told Michael about his father. Michael’s dark eyes focused on him with trust.
“You sleep, Michael,” he said gently, his heart beating wildly with joy at finding his son and finally being with him. For this moment everything was almost right in the world—the only thing lacking was that he couldn’t tell Michael he was his father. But the time would come.
“No one will bother us tonight. I promise you,” Fortune said. “I’ll protect you.”
“Will you protect Mama?” Michael asked softly, his wide, dark eyes studying Fortune.
Fortune felt another lurch of his heart. When he gazed into Michael’s dark eyes, he could see Marilee so clearly. “Yes, I’ll protect her too,” he said gently.
“I love Mama.”
“I know you do,” he said, pained that Marilee couldn’t have known her child and Michael hadn’t known his real mother.
“You’re not going to hurt us?”
“Never. I promised you that before. You can always trust me,” he said gruffly, tears burning his eyes as he stroked Michael’s soft cheek. He wanted to tell Michael how much he loved him, how long he had searched for him. He took Michael’s hand in his and ran his thumb across the small knuckles. “I’ll protect both of you.”
Michael studied him and blinked. “You’re crying!”
“Something in my eye,” Fortune said, wiping his eyes, aching so badly to hold Michael close. This beautiful child was his and Marilee’s. “You’re a good boy, Michael,” he whispered.
“Yes, sir.”
Fortune leaned forward and brushed Michael’s forehead with a light kiss and stood up, tucking covers around him and trying to get his emotions under control. Michael turned his head to look up at him. “You’re staying with us?”
“Yes, I am.”
“So that bad man won’t get us again?”
“Yes. He probably won’t find us here, but if he does, I won’t let him get near you.”
With a smile Michael rolled over, and Fortune tucked the covers around him.
He glanced at the door. She could be bathing—or she could be fashioning some kind of weapon to use against him. He crossed the room and opened the door slightly, bracing for her to lunge at him.
She was in the tub, her head bent over, washing her hair. Her skin was ivory and sleek with water, her brown hair dark and wet. She moved her head and he could see her bare breasts. His breath caught and his pulse thudded as he stared again at her full, upthrusting breasts tipped with pink nipples. He backed out and closed the door without a sound.
He extinguished the last lamp and moved to the window, shifting the curtain to watch
the street. Moonlight splashed over the center of the street, but doorways were dark shadows. Even though no one was in sight, Fortune rested his shoulder against the wall and stared down, waiting, watching.
Remembering their awe when they had first entered the suite, he wondered where Claire Dryden and Michael had lived all these years. Had it been a constant change of cheap rented rooms?
He heard a slight sound and turned, watching a sliver of light show as the bedroom door opened. Claire appeared, her hair spilling over her shoulders. She wore a wrinkled blue calico dress, and her hair was still damp.
“Michael’s asleep?”
“Yes, he is,” Fortune said, moving toward her. He took her arm to guide her back into the bedroom and closed the door. A brass bed was across the large room. Marble-topped tables flanked it. A china washbowl and pitcher were set on a commode with a gilt mirror above it. Mirrors decorated the walls and potted palms were in the corners while a hanging lamp glowed softly. Fortune crossed to the saddlebags to remove a bottle of brandy and uncork it. Standing with his back to her, he poured the brandy into two glasses. His muscular back was laced with horrible scars. When he turned to bring a glass of brandy to her, she stood frowning at him.
“Your back—?”
“The scars are from a recent beating,” he said. He held out a glass of brandy.
“No!” she said, shaking her head and backing up. “I don’t touch spirits.”
“One glass isn’t going to hurt you. I’m exhausted and I want a few hours sleep. I don’t want any trouble out of you. Drink it or I’ll hold you and pour it down your throat.”
Fortune stared at her, feeling the clash of wills. Anger radiated from her gaze, and he could see her refusal.
“If you cause a disturbance you’ll frighten Michael. Think about him,” he said grimly.
“I do think about him!” she snapped, taking the brandy so swiftly, a little sloshed out. She gulped it down and coughed, and he wondered if she was accustomed to drinking. He drank his.
She lowered the glass to study him. “You’re his father, aren’t you?”
“Yes. And you’re not his mother.”
A stricken look crossed her features, and she bit her lip, all her anger vanished. “Are you going to tell him tomorrow?”
“No,” he answered, hurting, wishing suddenly that this was Marilee with him, wishing that he had them both back, something that would never be.
“Why haven’t you told Michael?” Claire asked in surprise.
“Because I love him,” Fortune said hoarsely, his anger at her returning. He gained control of himself. “Michael needs to get accustomed to me before he learns I’m his father. I don’t know what you’ve told him.”
“I told him his father died very early in the war, that his father was very brave and fought for the Confederacy.”
“That’s going to make it damned hard. I’m a colonel in the United States Army. Or was. I was discharged last week.”
“When are you going to tell him I’m not his mother?”
“I don’t know. I won’t rush.”
“But you will tell him,” Claire said bitterly. “Why did you have to find him now after all this time? I love him and he’s like my child. I’ve protected him and taken care of him.” Knowing she was losing Michael, she fought back tears. She had never expected to have the father confront her. Now he would tell Michael the truth, and Michael would know that she had lied to him all these years about being his mother.
It hurt and terrified her. This dark, powerful man wanted to take Michael from her. And when he did, he might as well put a knife in her heart.
She remembered that night in the stable when she had found Marilee O’Brien, who had taken shelter from the storm. Marilee had begged Claire to take care of her tiny baby. She could barely murmur the words, gasping a plea to Claire to protect him. And when Claire asked whom to protect him from, all she heard was one syllable, a whispered part of a name that sounded like the first syllable of father. Claire had guessed father, and one of the men pursuing her had talked to her employer, telling that Trevor Wenger, the father of the dead mother, was after the child, so she had assumed that Marilee had said father. Yet with her mumbling, it could have been the first syllable of Fortune.
Colonel O’Brien reached out to turn her face toward his, staring at her as tears brimmed over and ran down her cheeks. She jerked her chin away from his fingers. As she glared at him, she felt a chill down her spine. He could be the man Marilee had been fleeing from. He was a formidable man and overpowering. She was acutely conscious of his bare chest and arms. A chain of gold hung on one wrist, and she wondered why he wore it. She had never been alone with a man in an intimate situation like this and never with one who was enraged with her.
“Will you let me stay with him for a while longer?”
“Yes, for now. I’m a stranger to him. I want him to like me and trust me before I change his world. But I want my son back. I’ve waited six long years.”
“I didn’t take him from you! And I love him! And he loves me! He doesn’t even know you,” she cried, trying to keep control of her emotions, hating to let him see how badly she hurt.
“One more glass of brandy,” Fortune said, pouring another glass. “You won’t be intoxicated on two glasses,” he said as amber liquid splashed in the goblet.
“Where are you taking us?”
“Back to Atlanta and unfinished business.”
“Atlanta, Georgia?”
“Yes. Drink the brandy.”
She wanted to throw the brandy in his face, but it was important to avoid frightening Michael unnecessarily, to wait and cooperate until she had the right opportunity to escape. And she knew it was not going to be easy with this man.
She gulped down the second glass and set it on a table with a loud clink. “Now, I’ve done what you asked. I’ll sleep in a chair by Michael.”
She started to flounce past him, but he caught her arm and spun her around. She pushed against him, beating on his chest. He yanked her up, holding her upper arms tightly, almost lifting her off her toes.
Claire’s heart thudded as she was pressed against his bare chest. His blue eyes blazed with anger, but she lifted her chin and gazed back at him defiantly.
“No, you’re not sleeping in there, where you can take him and go.” His strong arms picked her up with ease, and he tossed her down on the bed.
Claire tried to lunge at him, to get off the bed, but he caught her wrists, yanking them high. He wrapped his handkerchief around one wrist and tied her to a brass rail at the head of the bed. Her heart pounded. He was going to rape her. If she screamed, it would only bring Michael.
“You bastard,” she whispered.
He tied her other wrist with a piece of rope from his pocket, and then he stood over her. Her heart thudded as he reached out. He caught the covers and lifted her slightly to turn them down and then pulled the sheet up over her to cover her.
Shocked, she stared up at him.
“I told you, I intend to sleep,” he said flatly. “And I’m sleeping in the bed with you. I’ve been traveling for days to find you. I don’t want your body. I want my son.”
She blinked and drew a breath, and his gaze ran down over her breasts as if contradicting his words. “What will Michael think if we’re here together?”
“He’s too young and innocent to give it a thought,” he answered dryly.
“And what if Michael comes in and finds me tied?”
“I can’t trust you. Does he often roam at night?”
Michael slept like a hibernating bear, but she didn’t want to tell Fortune O’Brien. “Sometimes.”
“You’re a damned poor liar,” he said, moving away from the bed. He extinguished the lamps and opened the door, going to look at Michael. She heard a steady scrape and guessed he was pushing a chest in front of the door to the suite in case Harwood tracked them down.
When Colonel O’Brien returned to the bedroom he hung his gun be
lt over the head of the bed, letting it slip down where he could get it instantly. Silver moonlight played over the ripples of his muscles, and she lay still, her heart beating wildly in uncertainty about what he would do next.
She was aware of the shift of the mattress as his weight came down upon it. Every nerve felt raw. She was tied to the bed, only inches from a man who despised her. She knew nothing about men, and she was acutely aware of him. She turned her head. Fortune O’Brien’s chest was rising and falling, covered in a mat of black curls that made her pulse jump in a strange way. She had never known a man, never become friends with one, never been kissed by one.
Her gaze went back over him slowly. Hard muscles bulged in his chest and shoulders and arms. The mat of thick black hair again arrested her, making a warmth start in her body, creating strange feelings she hadn’t experienced before. His stomach was flat, his long legs stretched out. She felt perspiration dot her brow; the room was hot, the bed a small space. Only inches separated her from him. He shifted, his face turning toward her, and she looked at thick black lashes over his cheeks, a mouth that was well defined with a full lower lip. What would it be like to be kissed by him?
Blushing furiously, she turned her head to stare at a window, seeing stars twinkling in the dark sky. In moments, though, she looked at him again. Had Marilee O’Brien been warning her against a father or had she been trying to say Fortune? After watching him tonight with Michael, she thought it had to be the father, not this man.
Colonel Fortune O’Brien, Michael’s father! She would lose Michael unless she could get him away from the man beside her. But would it be right to take Michael from his father?
He shifted and she turned, feeling a stab of fear. He moved restlessly on his side, his arm sliding over her, and she drew a deep breath, her skin prickling. Frightened, she looked at him to see his chest rising and falling evenly and realized he was still asleep and unaware he was holding her. His skin was smooth and copper-colored except his jaw, which had a dark stubble. Thick black hair curled in a tangle over his forehead, and she was aware of his arm across her, his leg over hers. Her body was growing hot, her skin tingly, conscious of every point of contact with him. What kind of man was this Colonel Fortune O’Brien? How soon would he take Michael from her?
