by Gini Rifkin
He studied the Englishman in a new light—clean, dressed fit-to-be-tied, well-educated, fancy manners. What more could a female want? “I might even know a gal who could be arm-twisted into being your partner.”
Molly would be over the moon, escorted about by the talk of the town. Hard telling what Wentworth would think of Molly.
Chapter Five
Heart racing, Mariah twirled around in front of the freestanding mirror. Tonight was the big night.
It had surprised her to no end when Dad had near badgered the marshal into taking her to the dance. Did he know how she felt about Virgil? He was a smart old dog, probably thought it was better to be the mastermind of the situation and have some control rather than letting her ride the range on her own.
She fluffed out the skirt on the dress and lovingly touched the fabric. The frock had belonged to her mother, but was now tailored into a more modern style. Folks said she looked a lot like Miranda McAllister. From the few pictures Dad treasured, she had to agree. Poor Father, he still mourned her loss, never remarried, and blamed himself for not saving her from the cholera.
Would things have been different with a mother to teach and guide her? Someone with whom to share secrets? Not that she was faulting Dad in any way, shape, or form. He was the best parent a girl could want. But there were just some things needing a woman’s touch and experience—like figuring out what in blue blazes she should do with her hair this evening. The day had taken a rare turn to humid, sending her curly mass of dark tresses into a real tangle. Nothing for it but to pile it atop her head.
She slid the last pin into place and tugged a few ringlets loose to soften the edges around her face. Would Virgil find her as fetching as he found Molly Malloy? He must. Tonight he needed to see her as a grown woman, a desirable female capable of being a lover as well as a friend. In the last few days, they had spent more time together than the last few years. She had always watched him from afar, dreaming of what it would be like to make love to him. Tonight she wanted to be in his arms, as close as two bodies could be with their clothes on. Maybe even closer.
Her face flamed and her thighs ached. When her dad wasn’t around, she’d read about the sex act in his medical books. It sounded so clinical and not much fun, but thinking about doing it with Virgil was different. Then parts of her body she hadn’t known existed came to life and begged for attention. Struck by a daring whim, she unbuttoned the collar of her dress and splayed the edges to reveal a hint of cleavage.
“Mariah. Come on down daughter. The marshal’s here.”
She gasped and spun around to face the door of her room. Tonight held a special quality. Once she walked through that portal, there was no turning back.
****
Finding it hard to breathe, Virgil ran a finger around the inside of his shirt collar. He was outfitted as if heading for a wedding or a funeral—neither of which appealed to him overly much. Being dressed fanciful made him feel vulnerable. It took the edge off his “don’t mess with me” attitude. He supposed for Mariah it was worth the effort. Or maybe because of Mariah, he should especially keep up his defenses.
Spending time with her was doing strange things to him. She was filing off his rough edges—weakening the wall he’d constructed brick by brick around his heart. Would she run the other way if she knew about his past?
He heard her descending the steps and turned to watch. For safety’s sake, she hiked up her skirts, revealing her dress shoes and a good bit of ankle. What a difference from the drab serviceable clothes she normally wore to help her father around the clinic. Clad in the hue of a dusty rose, she was a vision of softness that made him hard. A vision of innocence that made him want to be wicked and anything but a gentleman.
Standing tall, he gave a little cough, trying to dislodge the thought of her naked in his bed. Then as she reached the last step, he ambled forward and offered her his arm. She smiled up at him, and all those wanton visions rushed back to flood his mind and harangue his body.
“Here,” he said and like a schoolboy, held out a small bouquet of wild flowers. He’d picked them this afternoon as he’d wandered around the foothills, all the while wondering what in the world he was thinking of falling for Doc’s daughter, or for that matter any woman.
“Oh Virgil, they’re lovely.”
Well he guessed they were on a first name basis, at least for the night. He’d never liked his name, but it sounded good on her lips. Lips he wanted to taste fully. She was like a fever in him, and it seemed it might be a spell before it broke. Or maybe it would be fatal and put him out of his misery.
“We’d best be going,” she suggested. “As it is, we’ll be fashionably late. I can hardly wait to meet Mr. Wentworth.”
Something akin to jealousy pricked at him. Why was she so anxious to meet the English dandy? Maybe idle curiosity. The man’s arrival and the murder were the most noteworthy things to hit town in half a century.
As they crossed the room toward the door, he retrieved his new hat from the side table and settled it onto his head. It was the first time he’d worn it. Previously, he’d begrudged the purchase price, knowing the topper would sit idle in the closet. Now he was glad he’d spent the money.
“Have a good time,” Doc said, as he followed after them. Then a coughing spell hit him, near turning his face purple.
“Dad, you’re relapsing. You’ve been doing too much again.”
“I’m fine,” he insisted. “Now go. I promise to rest all evening and go to bed early.”
“You’d better,” she warned, and gave him a peck on the cheek. “And you’ll do the same tomorrow. I can handle things around here. The special delivery is the only real case demanding our attention so everything should be fine for a few more weeks.”
Her words took Virgil by surprise, but he remained silent until they were out of the house and heading down the boardwalk toward the Town Hall.
“You told your dad about the letter?”
“What do you mean?”
“The special delivery.”
“Oh goodness no. Mrs. Newsome’s delivery is going to be special because she’s having twins. I can hardly wait. Won’t it be a miracle? Dad promised I could help. It will be a grand experience toward my plan to becoming the best mid-wife in the county.”
He stopped and turned to face her. “What else is in your plans?” he asked, suddenly hungry to know everything about her—what she wanted, what she needed, what she dreamed of for her future.
Wide-eyed, as if no one had ever asked before, she stared up at him in wonder. “I want to help people,” she began, “ease their pain, make their lives better. But mostly, I want to make sure expectant mothers are healthy and their babies have the best possible start in the world. It’s hard growing up without a mother. I can help make sure other little children don’t know that sorrow.”
Her words brought him up short, and he hoped he didn’t look as guilty as he felt. Here she was going on and on about high ideals and noble causes, and all he could think about was getting into her bloomers.
“But most of all,” she added, taking a step closer. “I want to fall madly in love.”
Now there was a bit of information he could run with. A woman doesn’t mention that to a man without some intentions. Maybe she had designs on his pants too.
He smiled, took her arm, and escorted her down the street.
****
Oh, Lord. Why had she said that? He must think her brazen or childish, either one not the image she was hoping to portray.
Tightening her grip on the little bouquet, she tried not to stare up at him. He looked magnificent tonight. The midnight blue shirt fit him as if it’d been stitched to his skin. And he’d worn black wool trousers, not denim, with a matching frock coat. She’d never seen that hat before either. He’d pulled out all the stops, appearing dark and dangerous even in his finery.
She was in the mood for danger.
Heart in her throat, she tried to think of something wit
ty to say as they walked along, but words failed her. He remained silent as well. Maybe he was nervous too.
They reached the town hall, and the music and laughter spilling from the open doorway eased her tension and lightened the mood. The interior, lit softly by kerosene lamps, was romantic and inviting. It was crowded, the best turnout she’d ever seen for an ice cream social. And then she saw the reason why.
In the middle of all the excitement, dressed as if he were leaving shortly to attend a royal ball, stood Mr. Wentworth in black tie and tails. Women of all ages were gathered around him, the excitement evident on their enamored faces. Who could blame them? But the woman on his arm was Molly Malloy. She noticed their entrance, arrowed a snooty glare in their direction, then cuddled closer to Wentworth. No doubt an attempt to make the marshal jealous. Although, in truth, Molly seemed quite at home playing the paramour to the handsome new stranger in town.
Virgil escorted her forward, and the crowd parted at their approach.
“Evening Wentworth, glad you could make it. Howdy, Molly.” Virgil gave her a wink as if they shared a secret.
This puzzled Mariah. Then it occurred to her Virgil had arranged for Molly to be Wentworth’s companion for the evening. A well-planned move. What better way to take the fangs out of Molly’s bite regarding Virgil asking Mariah to the social instead. The woman truly did seem pleased as punch to be hanging all over the good looking Englishman.
Molly’d gone through several suitors since coming to town five years ago. Most recently, when she’d ended her relationship with Morgan Blackwell, she’d started up with the marshal.
Where was Morgan anyway?
Mariah gazed about the room. There he was, hanging back in the shadows. Not the usual demeanor of the biggest braggart in town. Funny he wasn’t front and center trying to rub elbows with the British gent, regaling him and anyone who would listen with endless information about his many acquisitions and those weird black and white English cattle.
“And this, Mr. Wentworth, is Mariah, daughter of the town doctor,” Virgil introduced her.
At the sound of her own name, her thoughts jumped back to the conversation at hand.
“Mariah’s the remarkable woman who found and worked to save Underhill,” he continued.
Glowing under Virgil’s praise, she extended her hand. “I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Wentworth.” With great effort, she squelched the obvious questions regarding the letter. This wasn’t the place to discuss information of such a sensitive nature. “You’re looking lovely, Molly,” she added, trying to mend any broken fences that might exist with the other woman. She had nothing against Molly, felt a little sorry for her circumstances, and couldn’t abide an atmosphere of jealousy or hate between herself and another person.
“I was just about to ask Arthur the latest news from London,” Molly preened. Referring to Wentworth by his Christian name, she ignored Mariah’s compliment.
“I haven’t been there in years,” she added.
Both men started and stared at Molly as if she’d just coughed up a hummingbird.
“Was that the holiday you took with Morgan Blackwell,” Mariah tossed in, “when he was considering the purchase of those cattle?”
Now the men eyed her as if she’d just managed to liberate the bird’s mate.
“Why, yes,” Molly confirmed. “It was ever so exciting traveling abroad.”
Wentworth blinked a couple of times then found his tongue. “That sounds quite fascinating. You must give me all the details, Molly. And thank you, Miss McAllister, for assisting Mortimer. I appreciate your efforts, and I’m sure Scotland Yard will not let your heroism go unnoticed.”
These new accolades really set Molly off. Her mouth contorted into a pout meant to seduce Wentworth, but the fire in her eyes matched the color of her hair, and was reserved strictly for Mariah.
“Come, Miss Malloy,” Wentworth suggested, seeming to realize trouble was brewing. “Let’s sample the refreshments.” He threw Virgil one last look, and led Molly out of range.
“Wonder what Mr. Blackwell’s been up to,” Virgil mused, heading toward the man. “Didn’t know he’d ever been to England. Thought he’d ordered those damn cows by mail.”
“He did,” Mariah corrected. “But he and Molly went to England before you or those cows came to town.”
She hung back, tugging on Virgil’s coat. Something had transpired right before her eyes, and she wasn’t moving from the spot until she found out what it was.
“There’s something peculiar going on,” she declared. “Does it have to do with the letter? Did you find out what was in it?”
“Can’t fool you for long,” he said, avoiding the question. “I’m surprised it took you so long to ask.”
“Well I’m asking now, so come clean.”
A few moments later, after hearing the details, she understood the men’s curiosity regarding England and anyone who’d traveled there.
“Let’s go chat with Morgan,” he suggested. Taking her by the hand, they moseyed across the room.
“Good evening, Blackwell,” the marshal began. “Nice to see you out supporting the cause.”
“Don’t give a damn whether or not the bible thumping society gets a new church organ,” he gritched, “but I do like ice cream.”
“How are those lovely black and whites of yours doing?” Mariah asked, trying to turn the conversation to a more useful vein. “They’re from England are they not?”
“You know they are. Brought over by ship. Took a heap of doing and a bucket load of cash.”
“I heard you traveled there yourself a while back with Sweet Molly.” Virgil slipped in.
“So what?”
“So you got kin back there?”
“Hell no. There ain’t no limey blood in my family. I’m German and proud of it.”
“But you must have friends or acquaintances there.”
“Say, what’s this all about?” Blackwell hedged.
“Just making polite conversation,” Virgil reassured. “No need to get your back up.”
Morgan shot a fleeting look in Mr. Wentworth’s direction then turned his gaze back to Virgil. “I didn’t have nothing to do with that Englishman being shot. And you can’t prove otherwise.”
“How’d you know he was English?”
“Word gets around, that’s how. By now the whole town knows. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna have more ice cream before it’s all gone.”
Morgan pushed by so purposefully, his wake set her skirts in motion.
“Well that was odd,” she whispered. “He seems nervous as a mare about to foal.”
“You know what’s really odd?” Virgil asked, taking her hand and capturing her full attention.
“What?” she breathed, forgetting all about Morgan Blackwell.
“There’s music playing and we’re not dancing.”
Chapter Six
Virgil settled his hand at the small of her back, sending a tingle of delight straight up her spine all the way to the roots of her hair. He guided them onto the designated dance area, and as he took her in his arms, her world turned to magic and stardust.
Trying to remember to breathe, she followed his lead as the romantic strains of a waltz filled the room and a jumble of romantic notions filled her head. She could feel the heat of his body, smell the bayberry soap with which he’d washed, which led to visualizing him naked in a tub of hot water. She nearly stumbled. He tightened his embrace and bent his head closer. His breath grazed across the top of her head. Oh to feel such warmth on her naked flesh. Her knees felt weak, and she had to make a conscious effort to stay upright and move in counterpoint to his direction.
Mariah wanted to gaze up into his face, but was afraid for him to see her so close. Surely he would detect every imperfection, the scar on her chin when she fell at age six, the “beauty mark” on her cheek awkwardly placed and really just a big freckle. If nothing else, he would recognize the blatant desire in her ey
es.
The song ended. Virgil stopped moving, but didn’t release her. Then the music resumed, this time the tune was a fast jig. She wished it was another waltz.
He twirled her around and around, and in a blur she noticed they were no longer on the dance floor but in a nearby passage. A short distance away the backdoor stood open, beckoning to them. Hand in hand they ran out into the night.
Gasping and laughing, they careened to a halt beneath a sprawling oak. She turned and hugged the rough bark, seeking its sturdy reassurance and support. Leaning against the tree trunk, Virgil lounged at her side, one arm arched over her head. There was no moon tonight, no light to reveal how close they stood to one another, no light to give away the secrets in their hearts.
He eased his hat from his head and tossed it to the ground, his gaze never leaving her face. She wanted him, was consumed by need, and the expression smoldering in his eyes matched the heat smoldering in her belly. Was it love, was it lust, did it matter? It was wonderful, and she couldn’t help but desire more of what she knew awaited.
Straightening to his full height, he skimmed one finger up along her right arm to her shoulder. Then he touched her neck and toyed with her hair, sliding the pins free. As the wealth of black curls came undone, he gripped a handful at the nape of her neck, dipped his head, and kissed her. Not a gentle “get to know you” first kiss, but a serious “got to have you” meeting of his mouth on hers. She kissed him back, a soft moan escaping as his tongue teased past her lips.
He shifted his stance. She turned and pressed back against the tree, his body shadowing hers. With feather light touches, he caressed her, exploring the bodice of her dress. When he found the buttons, he opened them—all the way down to her waist. The rush of cool air whispered across her undergarment, but nothing damped down the heat racing through her midsection.
Breeching her camisole, he slid one hand across her breasts, turning her nipples to taut peaks. She arched against him, and he groaned and pressed his hips closer. Even through his trousers, she could feel him big and hard, and without thinking, she reached to touch the part of him that so fascinated her. Gliding her hand up and down the rough fabric, she imagined what it would be like to truly stroke him.
