And then Shane was setting down his brandy glass. "Perhaps you'd like to prepare for your bath, Mrs. MacAuliffe."
She nodded stiffly.
He swept her a courtly bow, his arm outstretched to indicate one of the doors. "Madame, to your left." He grinned sardonically. "Our room."
Her knees were buckling. She was going to fall.
No. He wanted her to fail in some way. He had married her, but he seemed to despise her.
Well, she wouldn't falter, and she wouldn't fail. She'd never fail in her duty.
But she wouldn't give him a thing more. Ever. She swore it silently to herself.
She had just been married.
She had just gone to war, she thought woefully.
Somewhere a clock chimed.
Shane started to laugh. Startled, she looked at him.
"Merry Christmas, my love," he told her. His gaze held her and he swallowed more brandy. "Oh, yes, Merry Christmas! What wonderful gifts we have given one another!"
Chapter 2
She was, Shane decided, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
He had thought so long before the strange twist in the poker game. From the moment he had first seen her in the hallway, standing against the wall, looking so bewildered, he had felt the most curious fascination.
Any man would find her beautiful. She had hair blacker than ebony, almost blue in its richness. Small tendrils curled about the oval frame of her face and large, gem-green eyes while the long bulk of it was drawn from her face with pins to cascade freely down the length of her back. Her mouth was generous, the lips full, promising a wealth of sensuality. Her cheekbones were classical—they might have graced a statue of Venus in a museum. Her nose was fine and straight, her ink-black brows were beautifully arched and slim. She was of medium height, but even in her worn and mended and somewhat voluminous garments, her form was anything but average. She was small, and she was slim, but there seemed to be the most extraordinary curves to her body.
But she had been with Jack Leroux. His experience with women hadn't left a trusting taste in his mouth, and he was still wondering if he hadn't been taken for the biggest fool in the Western world.
She had thought that she was getting Daniel.
The laugh was on them both, perhaps.
"Well then, Merry Christmas, Mr. MacAuliffe!" he toasted himself. He sat alone at the bar, but he had suddenly decided—just minutes after the ceremony—that he had had enough of his brand-new wife for the moment. He'd needed to escape the suite for a while. To sit by himself.
To brood?
Well, hell, yes, it was Christmas. He drummed his fingers on the fine oak paneling of the hotel's bar. He should have been at home with Francesca. She shouldn't have been left alone. She was so fragile these days. Her father, Shane's brother, had died in the first days of the war when she had been nothing but a babe in arms. Her mother had succumbed to the smallpox a year later. Francesca had gone on to spend the next few years with her mother's sister, but then Deidre, too, had died of a frightening fever.
Shane himself had been with General Kirby-Smith. They hadn't surrendered with Lee, they had fought right on into May, and it had been near November of '65 when Shane had made it home at last.
Well, to what was left of his home.
Jeannie was gone. She hadn't been killed by any accidental fire in the war, and she hadn't succumbed to any disease, unless the disease had been greed.
New Orleans had fallen quickly. And a number of the big homes outside the city had simply been taken over.
Well, from what Shane heard, Jeannie had figured that if the Yanks were taking over the place, she was going to take over the Yanks.
When he first heard about it, he had wanted to kill her. Her, and the infantry colonel she had chosen to spend her time with. He was far away fighting, though, and all that his anger managed to do was make him careless. Somewhere, in the midst of some battle, he had decided that he just wasn't angry anymore. He had some of the right connections, and he sued for a divorce.
It seemed to take the rest of the war to get his divorce, but he did. He never had to see Jeannie again. He was glad. He was afraid that he would have been tempted to strangle her and the colonel, and since the war was over, they probably would have hanged him for it, and that wouldn't have "been fair."
He'd ridden on home, a sharpshooter, or ex-sharpshooter now, who had been raised to take on the working of a major plantation. Only it seemed that there just weren't any plantations left, major or minor.
One look at what had once been his family home just north of the bayou country in southern Louisiana had convinced him that it was time to move onward. In that aspect, he'd been lucky. At Shiloh he'd managed to save the life of a man in his company, and that man had just happened to have one damned smart father—a fellow who didn't turn against the South to invest in Yankee dollars, but who had managed to hold tight to his gold and holdings by dealing in Europe. He'd been determined to reward Shane, and he'd done so, gifting him with a large parcel of land out in the Black Hills of South Dakota. It was still rather raw country, and not too long ago there had been really violent Indian activity. But the Indians were being constantly forced in a westwardly direction, and there had been very little trouble in a long time now.
The nearest town was a place called Three Mills, and an amazing quantity and range of goods could be found there, along with a fair amount of society. At least, that was what Shane had been told. And as he walked among the ruins of what had once been his home, it was something he was determined to believe. The war was over. He was going north.
He'd been there a little more than a year when Francesca had arrived. She'd been sent on a steamer up the Mississippi, then she'd been shuffled onto whatever railroads were available, and brought by stage the rest of the way. He'd never seen a more forlorn creature than his little niece when he'd arrived in town to pick her up that frigidly cold afternoon in February. Her little face had been pinched, there had been tears near-frozen on her cheeks, but her chin had been high and her eyes...
Her eyes had nearly broken his heart. They were old eyes in such a young face. They were a beautiful velvety brown, but they mirrored an awful loneliness, and a worse fear of rejection. For years, people died on her. And then those who remained shunted her from place to place. The death of her grandmother on her mother's side had brought her here now. Looking at that little woebegone face, Shane had sworn that if he managed nothing else in life, he would make up to Francesca all that she had lost in her younger years. He was quick to discover that he loved the little girl very much. And though she was slow to come around, he knew that she loved him. Trusting was difficult for her, and Shane could easily understand why. Each time he thought of his niece's eyes...
Eyes.
Francesca's were a deep, rich, haunting brown. While his new wife's were that shimmering green. But like Francesca's, they seemed haunted. They drew him in. There was something so stark in them, so anguished, so... well, haunting. More than her beauty, that look in her eyes had led him to his decision to make her his wife.
Wife. What a strange word. He hadn't thought to use it again in relation to himself.
He drank down a tumbler of whisky, rolling the word around in his mind. Jeannie had been wife enough for several lifetimes. Shane had decided that anything he wanted from a woman could be obtained at Nelly Grier's. After all, Three Mills was no fly-by-night town. Nelly ran one classy establishment with lovely, talented, and vivacious little creatures who made few demands upon a man.
And he in return, expected nothing from them. Nothing but the laughter and entertainment of the moment.
What the hell had happened? Now he had a wife again. Just when things were starting to go really well. He had nearly a thousand head of cattle. Chancey, who had been with him in the war, acted as foreman to the hired hands. Francesca kept house. Well, more or less; but he'd been a soldier, and soldiers became accustomed to looking after themselves. It was a
good life. He worried a bit about Francesca, and he was heartily sorry that he wasn't with her now, for Christmas, but he'd had to come to New Orleans to settle some old family disputes. Property that had been stolen was being returned, and Shane had decided that it was necessary to have his land back. He might never give a damn if he saw the East or the Old South again, but one day, Francesca would want to know where her father had come from.
He drummed his fingers on the bar. Well, at least he could tell Francesca, when he returned to Three Mills, that he had done something for her for Christmas. His fingers wound around his glass. He'd have to have a long talk with the hostile beauty upstairs. He didn't care if she regretted her bargain from this night until the day she died, but she was going to make life pleasant for Francesca. She had said that she could cook. Dinners were going to become far better. She could keep house. Well, his clothes had best be kept clean and neat, his parlor in shape.
But none of those things really mattered. There was only one thing his new acquisition needed to do, and that was to care for Francesca in a manner that Shane could not himself.
He glanced toward the stairway. Had he just been taken in by one of Jack Leroux's best whores?
And did it even matter? As long as she had a heart, heart enough for Francesca?
He tossed a coin on the bar and stood, looking toward the stairs. It was Christmas, and he now had a wife. A woman who was exceptionally beautiful, and one who had married him agreeing to his terms.
Maybe it was time he found out just a little more about her.
He took the stairs two at a time, suddenly feeling a hot surge of both anger and desire shoot through him like volcanic lava. He burst through the doorway to the suite and found the parlor empty.
Where the hell was Daniel? Were he and the new Mrs. MacAuliffe together somewhere?
He ground his teeth, wondering why he was allowing his thoughts of her to make him mistrust a good friend. Still, the question remained with him. He strode silently across the parlor to the door on the left side of the room and quietly opened it.
She was there. Alone. Stretched out in a big tin bathtub. Her eyes were closed, her head was tilted back, the luxurious length of her hair lay over the rim of the tub where her head rested, the ends just dusting the floor.
Bubbles surrounded her. Lots of them. Even though they hid her body, they merely enhanced that feeling of fire that grew within him. Fire that burned, and fire that brought...
Warmth. A warmth he didn't want to feel. She looked very tired, and defenseless. The porcelain beauty of her face had never been so evident. Then her eyes opened and she started violently. She had heard him.
For a moment—so brief a moment—he thought that he saw fear within her eyes. But then they were flashing, emerald and glittering, and very hostile.
He walked into the room, casting off his coat and his gun belt. She watched him all the while, her lashes fluttering as her gaze fell on his gun belt.
"I'm not going to shoot you," he told her. Then he paused for a moment in reflection. "Not yet, anyway."
She glared at him. He smiled and shrugged innocently.
"You're awfully good with them," she said.
"Yes, I am."
"And you're humble."
"It isn't a matter of being humble. I spent four years of my life using them almost daily. Yes, I'm good with them," he said wearily. He sat down on the bed, and took off his boots. She seemed to jump a mile when they thudded on the floor. Her eyes met his. They stayed captive there as he unbuttoned his shirt, button by button. Then he pulled the tails from his jeans and let the shirt fall casually to the floor. He stood. Once again, there was that look of panic about her. A pulse that beat like wildfire at the very beautiful base of her throat.
He walked closer to the tub. Then he knelt down beside it. Maybe that had been his mistake. The smell there was soft, a mingling of roses and clean femininity. Something twisted inside him. He itched to touch her, to wrench her from the tub, to have her then and there and look to the subtleties later. He ground his teeth again, determined that it wasn't going to be that way. Maybe she was one of Jack Leroux's sluts. Maybe, hell. Probably. But she was his wife.
He dangled his fingers in the water, just above her breasts. She hadn't moved. Just that pulse at her throat, and then the rampant rise and fall of her chest.
"Having second thoughts?" he inquired.
Her eyes met his. She shook her head. He smiled. She was plainly longing to hit him. Longing to really hit him.
"Think you've been in that bathtub long enough?"
She shook her head again. "If you'll just go away for a few minutes—"
He laughed out loud. "No, I won't just go away. We made a bargain. You're not trying to squirm out of it, are you?"
"No! I am not trying to squirm out of anything. Yes, I made a bargain! And I intend to keep every painful promise that I made!"
"Painful promise?" Shane said indignantly. "I beg to differ. I haven't ever had any complaints."
"The lamps are burning, I've no decent gown—"
"You certainly don't need a gown—"
"But the light! No decent folk would think of doing—what you're thinking of doing—with so much light—"
"I'm not so sure that we are decent folk, Mrs. MacAuliffe. And I just acquired a bride under very unusual circumstances. I intend to inspect every single inch of my new acquisition."
Her eyes went very wide, and suddenly he could take it no longer. Heedless of the denim breeches he still wore, he reached into the tub, plucking her from it, bubbles and all. He lowered her onto the bed, sprawling halfway over her. A startled scream began to escape her lips and he covered them with the palm of his hand.
"You mustn't start shrieking with pleasure yet," he warned her sarcastically. "We've company. Daniel. He's probably sleeping by now. Alas, my love! And you thought that you'd be sleeping with him. Sorry, it's me!"
Fury flared in her eyes again, hot and green. Shane felt as if those flames ripped into his loins, and tore through the length of him. He had recognized her beauty so quickly. He had known that he was falling into some prison in the haunting emerald of her eyes.
He hadn't realized that he could want her this way. So damn desperately. That the flames inside him could burn and soar more brightly than the wicked tempest of a forest fire.
She bit his hand. He gave a muffled curse and pulled it back.
"I'm not about to shriek with pleasure," she assured him.
"Perhaps you will," he taunted. Her hands were pressing against his chest. "Then again, maybe you do want to renege."
"No! Get on with this wretched business!"
For a moment he paused, staring down into her face. It was Christmas. Let her be. Seek some peace.
No. It was Christmas, and they had formed a strange bargain. And it would probably be best if she knew from the very start that he had not taken a wife for her ornamental value, that she would fulfill every aspect of her bargain.
"I shall try to make it the very least wretched that I may," he told her softly.
There might have been a hint of tears in her eyes. The softest hint. Then she closed them.
And then he could truly wait no longer.
He kissed her eyelids. Lightly. The tip of her nose. Then he found her lips. Found the resistance within them. But he kissed her anyway. Her mouth was closed against him. Prim. He let his tongue tease and caress the softness of her lips until they began to part. He caressed the more tender, inner flesh. And when she began to give, he allowed passion and desire their free rein, freely, fully, forcefully knowing the secrets of her lips and teeth and tongue, and feeling the ever-expanding thunder of desire within his own loins.
Her fingers no longer pressed against him. He rose quickly, baring the whole of her body to his eyes as he stripped off his breeches. She was instantly on the defensive again, eyes growing very wide as she looked at him, her fingers groping for the covers.
"No!" he told her ho
arsely, catching her hand and pausing for a minute.
There were no flaws on her anywhere. She was shaped like a goddess, with firm, full breasts, peaked with dusky rose nipples. She had a miniscule waist, softly rounded hips, and long shapely limbs. She was so stunning that he stared at her. Stared at her so long that her temper and defiance flared and her distress disappeared.
"Shall I stand, shall I walk around?" she demanded furiously.
Shane laughed. "Madame, I wouldn't mind one bit!"
"Oh!" she gasped, but he allowed her protest to go no further, sweeping down upon her, and covering her nakedness again with the bulk of his body. He caught her lips again, and kissed her until she surrendered to the kiss.
Then his lips left hers, and traced a slow steady pattern over the length of her body. His mouth paused at the soaring pulse at her throat. It played where the dusky rose nipples rose so hard and tempting before him. He listened to the catch of her breath, felt the twist of her body beneath him, and went on, burying his face against the sweet flat plane of her belly.
Her fingers tugged at his hair. She murmured some protests. He ignored them, twisting her body suddenly, stroking the length of her spine with his touch, and following that touch with the hot moisture of his tongue. He flipped her again and found her eyes on his. Her breasts rose and fell quickly. Perhaps she wasn't shrieking with pleasure, but she was trembling fiercely. So fiercely.
He smiled, and feathered his fingers over the length of her again, softly stroking over her breasts, her belly, and below. He pressed his lips against her flesh once again. Lower and lower. She cried out in protest, but he gave her no quarter, touching, stroking, caressing. When he rose high above her, her head was tossing against the pillow. He caught it, held it still, and met her eyes.
Dear Lord, but there was passion within them! If only he could draw out the warmth and the fire. She was trying so desperately to hold against him.
She was his wife.
He parted her thighs, his desire at a fierce and hungry peak.
Yet he held tempered that desire swiftly when he felt the barrier, heard the sharp intake of her breath. He met her eyes again and they were shimmering with moisture. "You weren't one of Leroux's whores."
Heather Graham's Christmas Treasures Page 12
