by Anne Herries
‘As long as you are well and happy. You do not need to be as slender as a reed for my sake, I liked you well enough exactly as you were.’
Amanda did not reply. Not because she had no answer, but because she had no time or inclination. His kisses were so sweet that they aroused her to feverish impatience, and she could hardly wait until both of them had shed their nightclothes and were lying pressed flesh to flesh in the vastness of the four-poster bed.
‘My sweet lovely angel,’ Phipps said as he began to stroke her, to kiss her in all the secret places that she would once have felt ashamed for any eye to see other than her own. ‘It is you, the person inside, that I love, Amanda, and I always shall.’
And, as she thrilled to his touch, a gasp of pleasure escaping her as he took her to the dizzy heights of desire that she had never known could be, she believed him.
Mama might say what she wished of men, others might try to spoil her happiness with spite, but the ugly brown sparrow that had once been Amanda had become a bird of Paradise. She shimmered in the haze of her own perfect happiness, and as she gave herself to her lover with all the passion that no one but he would ever see, she knew that whatever life brought in the future they would never lose this bond that held them now.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from THE GUNSLINGER AND THE HEIRESS by Kathryn Albright.
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Prologue
San Francisco Bay, 1883
“Look lively, Scrapper. We be dockin’ soon. Need you on deck.”
Caleb opened his eyes, letting in a sliver of light.
In response, Squid squared a hard boot to his side, rocking the rope hammock in a violent arc.
“Back off!” Awake now, Caleb stretched his back against the stiffness that had taken over his body, and then swung his feet to the plank flooring. He rubbed the remaining sleep from his face, wincing when he discovered his bruised and cut bottom lip.
“Gor. Look at you.”
“Trask and Corcoran deserved everything they got,” he muttered. He’d only protected what was his.
“Good thing you’re getting off. Corcoran is fair anxious to have you gone.”
“That makes two of us. I didn’t sign on to dance with him.” All he’d been lookin’ for when he’d boarded the clipper in Windham Bay was to work his way south. It had been the captain who had offered a bonus if he’d stay on. The permanent crew, namely Trask and Corcoran, had taken offense. Last night their petty jealousy had turned on a new tack, bypassed annoying and headed straight to ugly when they’d learned he’d had some luck in the gold fields. It wasn’t information he bandied about, so how they’d come across it was a mystery. Whatever the case, they’d come out of the scuffle in worse shape than he had. Gingerly, he touched his lip again. Scabbed over. He’d heal. He always did.
Squid gave him the once-over, apparently decided he was up and moving and left.
Caleb walked to the porthole and surveyed the shoreline. The ship maneuvered through the deepest channel of the harbor toward the docks. Shipyards and warehouses lined the waterfront in a familiar pattern like every other port he’d ever entered. But this was San Francisco, which made all the difference. It wasn’t home. Not once in his twenty-four years did he remember having a true home, even though his sister, Rachel, had tried her best. He let out a long breath. No, Frisco wasn’t home, but when her letter had finally tracked him down, he’d known he had to come back. He’d read it in the spaces between her words. With her first baby on the way, she was scared—scared things might be the same for her as it had been for their mother the night he was born. Heck, he was worried, too. Rachel had always been there for him. It was time he returned the favor.
* * *
A thick border of red and blue flowers bobbed in the summer breeze, issuing a light scent along the stone path to the front door. Rachel would know their name. She’d planted them on his last visit, talking on and on about how they’d look when he came back in a year.
That had been four years ago.
And that was why he stood before the cottage on Sand Pebble Road with his canvas duffel bag slung over his shoulder, bracing himself for the meeting ahead. A tongue-lashing was to be expected—and not the enjoyable kind with a willing woman. The scolding wouldn’t change a thing, but it would make Rachel feel better, make her feel as if she had done her duty as his stand-in mother.
Either way, a place like this—a place he could hang his hat—just hadn’t been in the cards for him. Too much gunpowder inside, one black-eyed Sitka woman had said. That had been true once, but now...now he might try staying put—for a while or possibly longer. Rachel would be plumb tickled at that prospect.
He pounded on the door, stepped back and listened for sounds from inside. Silence.
Briefly, he considered heading back to the bar he’d passed on the waterfront. He could come back later—when Rachel or Stuart was home. Trouble was, Trask and Corcoran were probably there by now. Better to sit that one out. He tried the door latch, sure it’d be locked tight, only to feel it give under his hand.
Striding inside, he dropped his duffel on the parlor floor. Sunlight through the window turned the sitting room and entryway into a yellow and rust-red kaleidoscope of color, but the house was eerily quiet. He’d expected Rachel to be home. After all, it was near time for the baby to come. Wasn’t she supposed to be sitting in a rocking chair knitting socks or blankets or something? Course, he hadn’t sent word ahead that he was coming. There hadn’t been time.
A scrap of paper, blown from the tea table by the breeze he’d created on entering, floated down to the dark plank flooring. He crouched and picked up the note, his gaze falling on a familiar name. He rose to his feet, smoothing out the crease as he read. Hannah’s birthday. He’d missed the date by a few days, but apparently a party was happening even as he stood waitin’ for company. No doubt he’d find Rachel there.
Hannah. If Rachel had had to take over being his mother, it was Hannah he thought of as his kid sister. She’d been a skinny mite the last time he’d seen her. Rachel had mentioned Hannah didn’t come by anymore, didn’t have much to do with Stuart either, no matter that the man had been a stand-in father and raised her those years at the lighthouse. When her grandfather finally found them, he’d insisted she live in the mansion as her birthright.
Guess he might as well head there and see what she looked like after all these years. It was as good a time as any to give her that trinket he’d been carrying around. Taking a small leather pouch from his duffel bag, he stuffed it into his vest pocket and set off for the Lansing estate.
* * *
The property encompassed the entire crown of a prominent hill. He stopped before entering the wrought iron gate and checked the view of the harbor below. A long, low whistle escaped. Several sailing vessels with their tall masts lined the wharves beside smaller fishing boats. Beyond them, a swath of deep blue water glistened under the setting sun. Hannah must have felt like a queen to see this every day.
He turned and strode up the long cobbled drive. Around a tree-lined bend, the mansion emerged—elegant white stucco surrounded by an expanse of green grass. The place hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d seen it. Five black carriages were parked in front of the estate, and more conveyances had pulled off under the trees. Gas lanterns spilled light alo
ng each side of the marble staircase leading to the front entrance. At the base of the stairs, a large fountain sprayed sparkling water into a shallow pool.
He swallowed, feeling wholly out of his element. At the door, the butler pursed his lips, but reluctantly allowed him in. He stood in the entryway under thick cherrywood beams that crisscrossed the white domed ceiling. Down the wide hallway came the sound of deep voices interspersed with high twittering and the smell of something sweet baking—cookies or maybe a cake. The flash of a dinner jacket at a doorway had him looking down at his leather coat and canvas pants. Guess he was a bit underdressed for the occasion. He wore his Stetson—the only new thing he owned.
When someone finally emerged to meet him, it wasn’t Hannah or even Rachel. It was Dorian Lansing. Leaning slightly on the cane that had always been a statement of his power, he strode down the hall decked out in a stiff new suit. The ruffles at his collar seemed out of place on such a man. His appraisal was quick, but Caleb felt as if he’d been turned inside out and inspected thoroughly for bugs.
Dorian nodded briefly. “Mr. Houston. It’s been a while.”
“I’ve just arrived in town. Thought I’d let my sister know I was here and say hello to Hannah. Don’t mean to interrupt anything.”
Dorian peered at him with those piercing blue eyes. The years might have watered them down some but hadn’t blunted their sharpness. “You’ll understand if I don’t invite you in. This is an exclusive gathering. I will inform my granddaughter you stopped by.” Without waiting for a response, he turned back toward the party.
Caleb hadn’t expected to be treated like royalty, but then he also hadn’t expected to be treated like dirt. He took two steps following Dorian. The butler blocked him from going farther, so he called over the man’s shoulder, “I’ll see Rachel. Just to let her know I’ve arrived safely.”
Dorian paused halfway down the hall. He didn’t look back. “Very well. I’ll send Mrs. Taylor out.”
Caleb tried to corral his retaliatory thoughts. He’d better not be waiting until Christmas.
Sudden movement from a nearby doorway caught his eye. A young woman stood there, frozen like a deer in the woods before it breaks and runs. Recognition hit him like the wallop of finding gold at the bottom of the Indian River. Hannah. Last time he’d seen her, she’d been in braids and wore a pinafore to her shins. Now her fancy white dress hugged curves of a waist he’d never seen before—and her shoulders were bare. Bare! Where had he been while all this came about? She wasn’t quite a woman yet—but she was close, mighty close.
He tipped the brim of his hat and then signed her name. Hannah?
A smile transformed her face, dimples forming on both cheeks. She ran toward him, her arms stretching wide to hug him the way she always had.
“Miss Lansing,” the butler said, and coughed discreetly.
Immediately Hannah slowed, and the smile disappeared into tightly pressed lips as she lowered her arms. The transformation cautioned him. Guess she was a young lady more than a girl now.
She stopped a full three feet from him. Hello, Caleb, she signed. How lovely to see you. She was suddenly so stiff and formal that he half expected her to curtsy. Before he could answer, she wrinkled her small nose. You smell like fish.
He raised a brow. So the imp was still inside her. Reading her sign language came back to him naturally, as if he’d never had a four-year hiatus—a surprise after all he’d lived through in the north country. He looked closer at her, noting the changes. Still the same heart-shaped face, the same big gray eyes, but the young waif was turning into a butterfly. She carried herself as if she was royalty coming to call. A comb sparkled in the upsweep of her pale blond hair. Diamonds? Most likely...
“Miss,” the butler cleared his throat again.
Her hands flew in beautiful rhythmic patterns. I’m fine, Edward. Really. You may go.
Caleb hadn’t expected the way she spoke with her hands to be so elegant, so...so graceful. It was like a dance—mesmerizing.
Edward frowned but did as he was instructed and disappeared into a side room.
“Well, aren’t you all grown up, Miss Hannah?” Caleb emphasized the miss to tease her. He’d never called her anything but Hannah or peanut. She might not be able to speak, but her hearing was just fine. “And looking mighty pretty for your birthday celebration.”
Her cheeks colored. That was new. She’d never blushed before when he teased, and he always teased her. Mostly she’d tease right back or stomp off in a huff.
Laughter filtered in from down the hall, drawing her attention. She turned back to him. Won’t you come join us?
He’d rather drink a gallon of seawater. “I don’t fancy meetin’ a bunch of strangers just now. I’m fresh off the boat and could use a shave and a haircut.” He ran his palm over the four days’ growth of bristles on his face in emphasis. “Just let Rachel know I’ll be at the house.”
But you just got here! I want to hear all about what you’ve been doing.
The warmth of her greeting relieved him. He hadn’t known how she would be—growing up in this huge mansion and after all these years. He’d halfway wondered if she’d forget about him.
She glanced down the hall, pressed her finger to her lips and then grabbed his hand and pulled him the other way—outside. She led him down the front steps and onto a path through a flowering trellis that led to a large rose garden. Their floral scent filled the warm evening air along with something he hadn’t smelled in years—night-blooming jasmine. In the center of the garden, a bronze sundial stood next to a wrought iron swing. She sat down, a conspiratorial smile on her face, and patted the bench seat beside her.
He took care not to crush her fancy party dress as he joined her. “Just what are you up to, Hannah-girl?”
Her eyes shone, drinking him in and making him feel all of ten feet tall. You were gone a very long time. Where have you been?
“Alaska mostly.”
Her eyes widened into saucers. Looking for gold? Did you find any?
He chuckled, enjoying her exuberance. He gave a push with his feet to set the swing in gentle motion. “Some. Bears, too. Big black ones.”
You are lucky to have so many adventures—see so many new places.
“You’re pretty lucky yourself.” He tilted his chin toward the mansion behind her. “This looks like a big adventure in its own way.”
Instead of agreeing, like he thought she would, her shoulders sank, the movement nearly imperceptible.
He hadn’t intended to put a damper on the day. After all, it was her birthday party. “So how have you been, Miss Hannah?”
She blinked and seemed to shake off the mood. Next week I’m going to see a man about my voice.
Apprehension tasted sour in his stomach. “Thought you’d been down that road before.”
She frowned. I thought, of all people, you’d understand best.
Great. He hadn’t been here five minutes and they were arguing. “Understand what? Understand how many times you’ve had your hopes trampled? This isn’t some endurance contest, Hannah. You were all broke up the last time when it didn’t work like you hoped.”
But this is different.
“How so?”
It’s called hypnosis.
Coldness spread through his gut. “Like at a carnival? Some mind reader playing tricks with your brain?”
It won’t be like that. He’d be doing it to help me, not to make fun.
“Sounds crazy to me. Crazy and dangerous.”
She wilted at his words. Must have thought he’d be as enthusiastic as she was. He felt bad—selfish even—for throwin’ cold water on her hope. “I’m sorry I can’t be more excited for you. I just don’t want to see you hurt again. To my way of thinkin’ you’re fine just the way you are.”
That’s because you can read my hands. Not everyone can and... Her hands dropped to her lap.
“And what?” he prodded, knowing his voice was harsh and not caring. The gal would
keep at this like a dog worrying a sore paw.
I...I... She squeezed shut her eyes. Never mind. I’m sorry I spoke of it.
Now he really felt like an ass. He just didn’t want to see her hurt. “Go on. I won’t laugh or give you any more grief.”
She took a deep breath. I want to sing.
It was a dream any young girl might have—rich or poor. Taken by surprise, he grinned. “Guess I’d like to hear that myself.”
You’re just scared I’ll talk too much once I learn how.
He smirked. That sounded more like the Hannah he knew—a bit on the sassy side. “Could be. But whatever happens—whether this hypnosis thing works or not—you’re still Hannah to me. Nothing can change that.” He said the words to convince himself. She was changing—right before his eyes, she was growing up.
A coyote howled in the distance, and the sound pulled him from his thoughts. The stars were popping out, too. Guess he best say what he’d come to say so she could get back to her party. He fished in his pocket and pulled out the leather pouch. “I...ah...have a little something for you—for luck.”
Her eyes took on a sparkle. A birthday present?
“Call it that if you want. Been carryin’ it for a while. It’s not much.” He handed her the pouch.
She loosened the drawstring cord and upended the bag. The necklace he’d had made slid into her waiting palm—a swirl of silver and abalone in the warm twilight. He watched for her reaction.
Her eyes opened wide in recognition.
She remembered. Unaccountably pleased, he said, “I’ve had that piece of shell with me ever since we found it on the beach. Been my good-luck piece. Figured it was your turn to have it.”
