Darby_Bride of Oregon

by Bella Bowen

  Though Darby was tempted to make her excuses and leave the room, she realized how pivotal that moment was. Jezebel might have the loyalty of the Phantom, but when he was Rand Beauregard, he belonged to his wife.

  However, after the previous night, she had a clearer idea of what it meant to share a man’s attentions. And she decided that somehow, she would figure out a way to win Rand’s heart so completely that he would never go to the other woman’s bed again.

  As the conversation turned to people and places she didn’t know, she wondered if the first and smartest thing to do would be to help Jezebel believe she didn’t want Rand in her bed to start with.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The four of them agreed that, before Rand could return to his office and get back to his work as Commissioner, he and Darby needed to sneak out of town in order to return to a bit of fanfare. When he hopped off a train, there would be no question—he could not be the same man Harrigan sliced open that night at The Port Queen.

  Jezebel suggested they split up to get them out of town.

  Rand ignored her.

  They decided they would go north on horseback for a while, hire a coach after a day or two, then go on to Seattle. After spending the night there, they would take the train back to Portland. A telegram would be sent to Jez so she could arrange a little welcoming party of the city’s more prominent citizens.

  Rand could feel the tension building between the women, now that Jez knew he’d finally taken his wife to bed. But he wasn’t going to make it easier for them. Darby needed to accept what kind of life he’d led before she arrived. And Jez needed to accept the fact that he was gone from her bed for good.

  Shadow wasn’t happy with him either, for some reason. So he invited him to step outside for a word. Jez jumped to her feet.

  “We haven’t got time for this. I need sleep or I’ll be no good to anyone tonight.” She gave Shadow a warning look, and Rand hoped it had nothing to do with him.

  ~ ~ ~

  With four of his men as an escort, Rand and his bride set out on horseback in the middle of the night. She’d insisted she could keep her seat in a saddle and even wore britches to help with the charade. Anyone watching would never believe a woman was in their company, let alone the refined Lady Beauregard.

  It was lucky for him she wasn’t precisely what he’d asked for. But where his needs were concerned, it was more important that the wife on his sleeve was a worthy woman of class. The fact that she was also willing to ride through the countryside on horseback was convenient, but after the charade was over, and Harrigan was proven wrong, Rand didn’t intend to ever have his wife involved with Phantom business again.

  Since Darby wasn’t used to riding long in the saddle, and his leg wasn’t completely healed, they made camp early that first afternoon. The men laid two fires. One for the newlyweds and one for themselves further up the hill. Rand had no difficulty relaxing, knowing they’d be watched over all night. Two men on guard at all times. But Darby had a harder time settling down.

  He remembered, not long ago, he’d also needed someone to soothe him. And he was sure it had been his wife who’d done the soothing.

  “Do you remember,” he said, once the sunset faded from the tops of the pines, “when I was out of my mind in pain?”

  “Yes.” She swallowed with difficulty as if the memory was hard for her, too.

  “And you sang to me?”

  She swallowed again. She looked so prim and proper sitting on a felled tree trunk with her knees to the side and her hands folded in her lap. And he wondered what had happened to the girl who had laughed in the wind as they’d raced across a meadow earlier.

  “Darby?”

  She nearly jumped out of her skin. “Yes?”

  “Would you sing for me now?”

  “Sing?” Considering the panic in her eyes, he wondered if maybe he had imagined the whole thing. But he didn’t quite believe it. He couldn’t have come up with the tune on his own, and it had been haunting him for weeks.

  But besides his own need to hear the song again, he hoped a little singing would calm her down. At the moment, she looked like a startled rabbit getting ready to run.

  “Darby,” he said more firmly. “I want you to sing that song—I don’t know the name. I can barely remember the tune. But I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.”

  She dropped her chin and he couldn’t see her face for her hair hanging down. “Yes. I remember.”

  “Good. If it makes you self-conscious, I won’t watch you. I’ll just keep my eyes on the fire.”

  She nodded, reluctantly, and he turned his shoulder to her and poked the fire with a long stick.

  Darby began humming and he did his best to hide his surprise. First of all, her voice was lovely and clear, even though she said nothing at all. Secondly, the tune was even more haunting than he’d remembered. And it brought with it the very distinct memory of pain—and something else.

  She’d hummed while she hurt him, cleaning his wound, piercing his skin with her needle. But her voice hadn’t been so clear then. It had broken, again and again, while she’d cried. And as touched as he was by that memory, he grew angrier by the second.

  Though she hummed the tune, he now remembered the words. He couldn’t understand them, however…

  Because they’d been in Gaelic.

  “Stop!”

  The humming ceased immediately, as if she’d expected him to cut her off. He didn’t want to look at her. He just wanted… He didn’t know what.

  The silence stretched out and he knew she wouldn’t speak, so he did, albeit through clenched teeth.

  “You sang me a Scottish song while I writhed in pain?”

  “I…” Her sigh was heavy. “I had a Scottish nanny.”

  Reasonable. She’d grown up in England. Scottish servants were probably as common as not.

  “Even so,” he said. “I would appreciate it if you would never sing it again.” He gathered up his bedroll and his saddle bags and headed away from prying eyes. “I’ll leave the fire to you.”

  “Wait.”

  He stopped but still couldn’t look at her.

  “Will you tell me why you hate all things Scottish?”

  He took a deep breath and tried to clear out the anger gathering in his chest. But he owed her some explanation.

  “Those Scottish bastards are the reason there are cages below Portland,” he said. “To satisfy their demand for slaves.”

  “Scottish bastards?”

  By his tone, she should have known better than to press him, but she had. So he faced her and allowed her to see the hatred on his face. It was better she understood him anyway. After she’d seen it all, maybe she would be more careful not to mention Scotland again.

  “The sea captains. Red-headed monsters who created the Phantom with their depravity. They are why I haunt the tunnels. They are why I cannot sleep at night…because I am tormented by the men I must feed to that monster to keep the rest of us safe.”

  She recoiled from him then. She’d heard enough to know what kind of a man he truly was. And he wanted her to know—he should have revealed it all to her before she could get too close. Maybe then she would have been satisfied to be the pretty porcelain figurine on the shelf of his honorable mantle, lovely but silent. Keeping those damned emotions to herself.

  Run, he wanted to tell her. Run away and never look back. Run and take your lovely, sadistic voice with you.

  And, as if she’d heard his thoughts so clearly, she got to her feet and ran.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Darby had no idea what she was doing, running down the slope away from the dark forest and the frightening creature standing in the shadows, hating her so passionately, he couldn’t stand to lie beside her again.

  Only he didn’t know it.

  Her boots pounded the ground as she tried to keep from descending too fast down the hill. The worst thing she could do now was to fall and break her neck.

  Or w
as it?

  He would be so much better off without her. After all, another wife was just a letter and a train ride away.

  She finally released a sob, but it threw her forward and she tumbled, arse over teakettle. The momentum took her to the bottom of the hill in no time, and when she finally stopped rolling, she jumped to her feet and ran again.

  “Darby!”

  No! She ran on. The poor bastard didn’t want her, but she had no intention of explaining it to him. She never wanted to face him again. Ever.

  “Darby, stop!”

  “Ma’am!” One of the guards emerged from the trees to her right and held out his hands as if trying to catch a spooked horse. She was mortified. She couldn’t possibly face any of them again.

  “Don’t touch her,” Rand hissed. He sounded far too close. So she turned toward the trees. “Darby!”

  He was still angry. Angry was good. Then he would be less hurt in the end. After all, she was just another red-headed monster to him. The message in his eyes had been clear.

  She’d soothed him with a song once. He’d seen it as torture. Well, she wouldn’t torture him ever again.

  She heard his breath only a second before he grabbed her around the waist. He spun her around. When they came to a stop, she put both hands on him and pushed him down. Then she ran again.

  She came upon a stream, and though it caught her by surprise, she scurried across it with quick, close steps. Rand took it in one jump. He gasped, then cursed. He’d hurt his leg. She refused to care. It only meant she could get away that much easier.

  She heard the horse long before the animal and rider came around the edge of a clearing. She quickly changed course and dove into the trees. Rand cursed again. The pines were far too close together now for a horse and rider to maneuver through them with any speed. And a man with a lame leg wouldn’t do any better.

  Unfortunately, the trees slowed her down as well, and only then did she realize the pain in her gut wasn’t going to go away.

  “Stop, damn you!” Rand was closing fast, but her legs betrayed her. She had to put her hands on her knees to stay on her feet.

  Three guards on horseback moved to block her way out of the grove. She was caught.

  “I’m sorry,” Rand said. She was pleased he sounded just as breathless as she was. “I shouldn’t have tried to frighten you like that. It’s just that… It’s like you said. I do hate all things Scottish, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you—”

  Still refusing to face him, she turned her head to speak over her shoulder. “Kiss me arse!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  He walked around to face her, his brow twisted in horror and confusion. Either he didn’t accept what she was trying to say, or he didn’t understand it. So she made it nice and clear.

  “Are ye daft man? I’m Scottish as the day is long, aye? So heigh back to yer Jezebel and tell the world we never consummated that marriage. And when I say Jezebel, I wasn’t referring to the woman’s name—”

  The world tilted and went dark for a second while she recovered from a slap across the face. She forced her arms to her sides, though, and with a smile, dared him to do it again.

  The guards stilled. She glanced at them over her shoulder. “What? Have ye swallowed yer teeth?” She chuckled. “Dinna worry, lads. He doesna strike women. Just Scotswomen. And those dinna count.”

  There. That should do it.

  She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head. “Go on wi’ ye now. We Scots are scrappers. I’ll make out just fine. Dinna bother leaving a horse.”

  His jaw jumped and she wondered if the movement was caused more by the pain in his leg or the hate in his heart. She’d just embarrassed him in front of his own men. She was guessing it was the hate.

  Finally, he walked away. He waved one man off his horse, took his place in the saddle, and looked at her again with absolutely no expression. “Take her to Seattle. Make sure she’s on that train in three days.”

  “And where do we take her in Seattle?” a guard asked.

  “Rosemary’s,” Beauregard said. Then he rode out of her life.

  She hoped.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Rand caught the train at Longview Junction the next morning. Dressed as he was, he didn’t worry about anyone recognizing him. He paid extra for the sleeper car and slept the whole way.

  It was surprising how well one could sleep without his conscience bothering him. And it had been a long time since that had happened without a bottle of brandy. His final, comforting thought was that the world was crazier than he’d believed possible. And if it chose to chew itself up and spit itself out, the blame couldn’t be laid at his feet.

  Later that day, he watched out the window as Seattle came into view.

  Ah, Seattle. It had been a long time. In fact, it had been a long time since he’d left Portland at all. But with the new routine, and his men taking turns at playing Phantom, it was the perfect time for him to take a little break. His men could handle any trouble. And it wouldn’t hurt to let someone else play God for a while.

  He was tired of deciding who lived, who died, and who was sacrificed to the monster.

  Alone again, for the first time in weeks, he was even able to forget he’d been married. What he would do about that marriage was a worry for another day, though. For now, he was on vacation.

  On holiday, the Brits would say. But he didn’t care about the Brits. The one he had cared for, temporarily, hadn’t really existed in the first place. So she didn’t count. And the one on paper would be annulled shortly.

  He supposed he had decided what to do about her after all.

  But what did it matter? He was a reasonably wealthy, reasonably young man. He could find another wife to put on his mantle. Maybe that Bride School in Wyoming was still in business. If so, he could send a letter and find a woman who fit the bill perfectly. And at that place, he’d be able to meet the candidates before picking one.

  Maybe British hadn’t been the wise request after all. England shared a border with Scotland. Maybe all Brits had some Scottish blood in them.

  But that Mrs. Carnegie, who ran the Bride School, had once been the upper crust of New York Society. Surely she could find him the kind of woman he was looking for. Someone he could take to bed on his wedding night and never have to worry about it again. She would mind her own business and he’d mind his. Just like his original plan.

  No more mail-order brides for him. No matter how carefully he’d worded his needs, he’d still attracted the wrong sort.

  Trust a Scot to go where she was specifically uninvited.

  A dull pain throbbed in his stomach at the thought of her. So he took pity on himself and stopped thinking about her at all.

  ~ ~ ~

  The streets of Seattle were a welcome change. Rand found a new gambling hall well away from the waterfront so he wouldn’t have to worry about some customer disappearing through the floor, specifically himself. All along the coastline, there was a booming slave industry. But that didn’t mean he had to get involved.

  After he became governor, he’d worry about it. If he stuck his nose where it didn’t belong, in a strange city, he might end up in China instead of the Governor’s office. And what good could he do there?

  The second evening of his vacation, he had just lost his twentieth dollar of the day when he decided to try his luck elsewhere. After walking the streets for a good half hour, though, he found himself on the steps of Rosemary’s. And the only gambling he’d find inside that establishment was with his health if he wasn’t lucky.

  The Scot was inside, he warned himself.

  His stomach hurt again, and his leg throbbed a few times to remind him what had happened the last time he’d seen her. But a little train ride and a lot of sleep had fixed him up fine. Why his leg throbbed now was a mystery.

  He marched up the steps a little harder than necessary, to remind his leg who was boss. Once inside, he was greeted by Rosemary herself who assure
d him his guest was safely secluded in a room upstairs with his guards taking turns at her door.

  Just being in the same building with her brought out the worst in him, but he asked Rosemary for a favor anyway.

  ~ ~ ~

  Darby jumped when the door opened, but it was just Rosemary again. Instead of fussing over her and asking what she could do for her, this time, the woman was nervous.

  “I need you to come downstairs,” she said. “I wasn’t supposed to keep you all locked up after all.”

  “You mean I can leave?” Darby had no idea where she would go. She didn’t have much in her pocket. And it was dark out. But if there was a chance she could leave and never have to face Rand Beauregard again, she’d take it.

  Rosemary shook her head. Her straight white hair shivered around her. “No. You can’t leave. But…but you can come downstairs for a little while, just for a change.”

  Darby sighed. She would have liked nothing better than to hide from the world, but after a whole day in the little bedroom, she welcomed a different wall to stare at.

  “All right. Thank you.”

  Elton, the tall one guarding the door, followed along behind them. He looked confused but kept silent.

  Rosemary’s parlor was much cheerier than Jezebel’s. The same red velvet covered the furniture, but instead of dark walls, they were painted with colorful murals depicting life on the sea shore. Of course the women who peopled those paintings were scantily dressed, but considering they were in a brothel, Darby was surprised they were as modest as they were.

  Four young women with dramatic make up and equally scant clothing gathered at the far end of the long room and giggled and chatted like school girls.

  Rosemary pointed to a chair by a potted tree and Darby sat. She’d changed out of her britches, washed the horse hair from her body, and donned a clean dress that had once belonged to Rand’s sister. But Darby had worn it so much in the past few weeks, it seemed like her own now. And she was certain Rand wouldn’t want it back, not with her Scottish fleas infesting it.