Fortune's Prince

by ALLISON LEIGH,

  She twisted her wrist free. “I have a personal account that I control,” she said after a moment. “It allows me a comfortable existence.”

  “Comfortable’s a subjective term.”

  “Comfortable,” she repeated evenly. “Not extravagant. Then there are family trusts as well from both my mother’s and my father’s sides that my brothers and sister and I all come into at various ages. It’s all managed and very secure, and frankly I haven’t ever much thought about it.” She speared a green bean with her fork and smiled tightly. “Does that answer your question?”

  Enough to underline the differences between their worlds.

  Even if he sold every acre of Rocking-U land, and every hoof that ran on it, he wouldn’t be able to match the resources she had at her disposal.

  Amelia suddenly grabbed his hand beneath the table and pressed it against her belly. “I am not taking him away,” she murmured, sliding him a look. “Now, quit looking shocked and eat your supper.”

  Chapter Eleven

  By the time they returned to the Rocking-U it was late.

  Quinn parked where he usually did halfway between the house and the barn and turned off the engine. “Your aunt’s a good cook,” he said after a moment and felt the look Amelia gave him.

  “Maybe she’ll give me lessons,” she said. “It’d be more useful than most of the other lessons I’ve had.” She pushed open the door herself and got out, heading around the truck toward the house.

  His neck prickled, though he didn’t really know why and his eyes searched out the shadows of the barn and the windmill.

  But there was nothing to see.

  That’s what came from studying every unfamiliar car he spotted. Every unfamiliar face. He was letting paranoia get the best of him.

  He left the keys hanging in the ignition like always and caught up to her. “Let me turn on a light first.” He went up the front steps and inside. Turned on the porch light and held the door open for her. His gaze roved over the porch. The two rocking chairs his mom had given him a few Christmases ago were in their usual spot. Nothing out of place.

  Amelia slipped past him. “What’s wrong?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck and closed the door. “Nothing.” He hit the wall switch again, turning on the light that hung over the small foyer.

  “You should take the bed tonight.” She folded her arms around herself. “It’s your bed. And the sofa is too short for you.”

  The simple answer squatted like a fat elephant in the middle of the room.

  Share the bed.

  “I’ll live.” Once she was gone—and he was convinced she would be sooner or later—he’d need to get rid of the couch, too. Like the bed, it would be riddled with memories. “I’m gonna take a look around outside.”

  * * *

  Amelia studied him for a moment. He was still rubbing the back of his neck. “Seriously, Quinn. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he said again and went into the kitchen to retrieve the shotgun from the rack over the door. “Just want to check if that possum’s rooting around again.” He went outside before she could comment.

  Sighing, Amelia wrapped her hand around the banister and dragged herself upstairs.

  She’d never felt so tired in her life and wanted to blame it entirely on being pregnant. But feeling like she was on one side of a war with Quinn on the other was not helping.

  She washed her face and cleaned her teeth—blessing her aunt who’d had the forethought to include some basic toiletries among the clothes—and pulled on the pinstriped shirt of Quinn’s again for something to sleep in. She bundled up the quilt—it was warm enough that a person didn’t need any covering but a sheet anyway—and carried it downstairs, along with one of the bed pillows.

  She didn’t care what Quinn said. He was over six feet tall and couldn’t possibly stretch out comfortably on the sofa. He needed his own sleep, too.

  She spread the quilt out on the brown cushions, then flopped down on it, bunching the pillow under the back of her neck. She yawned hugely and pressed her hands to her belly.

  How long would it be before it was no longer flat?

  Before her secret—their secret—was visible for anyone and everyone to see?

  How long would it be before Quinn would trust her?

  She flexed her toes against the arm at the end of the sofa, and yawned again before turning on her side, cradling the pillow to her cheek, and slept.

  She didn’t even wake when Quinn came in a while later and spotted her sleeping on the couch.

  He hadn’t found the possum, though the evidence it had been there was obvious thanks to the trash can it had upended and strewn across the ground in back of the barn.

  He’d cleaned up the mess, slammed the lid back on the can and weighted it down again with a concrete block. He should’ve remembered to warn Tanya to do the same when she was cleaning.

  Now, looking at Amelia’s defiant possession of the couch, he debated the wisdom of carrying her upstairs and putting her in bed where she belonged.

  Some remaining cells of common sense inside his brain laughed at that. There was no wisdom in carrying Amelia anywhere. He’d already proven that.

  Sleeping in his own bed without her—now that she’d occupied it twice—held zero appeal but it was safer than the alternative.

  He returned the shotgun to its rack, turned on the light over the stove so it wouldn’t be completely dark if she woke, then turned off the foyer light and went upstairs.

  Evidence of her was everywhere.

  In the damp hand towel she’d folded neatly over the rack next to the sink

  In the inexpensive clothes she’d folded and stacked on the top of his dresser in the bedroom.

  For someone who’d grown up with servants at her beck and call, she was a whole lot neater than he was.

  He flipped off the light and peeled out of his clothes, pitching them in the general direction of the hamper. It was stupid to be avoiding his own bed, but there was no denying that’s what he was doing when he went to the window and fiddled with the blinds. Pulling them up. Letting them down. Tilting them until they were just so and then repeating the whole damn process again.

  Finally, he gave up. He pulled on a pair of ancient sweatpants and went back downstairs and scooped Amelia off the couch.

  She mumbled unintelligibly, turned her nose into his neck as trusting as a babe and slept on.

  He carefully carried her upstairs and settled her on the center of his bed. It let out its faint, familiar squeak. He started to back away, but she made a protesting sound and caught his arm.

  Not asleep after all.

  “I wish we could start over,” she whispered.

  So did he.

  But he was afraid he wouldn’t know how to do anything differently the second time around.

  She pulled slightly on his arm. “Quinn.”

  He exhaled roughly and nudged her. “Move over.”

  She quickly wriggled over a few inches.

  He lowered himself onto the mattress. “Come here.” His voice was gruff.

  She scooted back, until she was tucked against his side, her arm sneaking across his chest.

  He stared into the dark. “We’re getting a marriage license tomorrow.” He wasn’t sure if he said it to piss her off or to remind himself how adamantly opposed to marrying him she was.

  She shifted slightly, but surprised him by not moving away. “Did your parents love each other?”

  “What?”

  “I always knew my parents loved each other,” she whispered. “It was obvious in everything they did. He’d walk in a room and she’d light up. She’d smile at him when he was upset about something and place her hand on his chest, and everything would be all right.” Her palm sli
d over his skin, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

  He steeled himself against it. “Get to the point, Amelia.”

  “That’s what I want,” she finished huskily. “The whole package. Can you give me that?”

  His jaw was tight. “My father was illegitimate. I know that stuff doesn’t matter these days, not like it used to. But it mattered to his mother. It mattered to my old man. And it matters to me. You’re having my kid. He’s going to come into this world with my name. Nobody’s going to steal that right from me. Not even you.”

  Pressing her hand against his chest, she levered herself up until she was half sitting. He could feel the weight of her gaze just as clearly as he could feel the long ends of her silky hair drifting over his ribs. “I’m not trying to steal anything, Quinn.”

  “Then prove it. Minister or justice of the peace?”

  Her fingertips flexed against him with frustration, but only succeeded in sending heat through his veins.

  “That’s all marriage is to you? A means of legitimizing our baby? It has nothing to do with love?”

  “Love’s never been a friend of mine.”

  She was silent for so long he hoped she’d drop it.

  But she didn’t.

  “If I said yes, what happens after the baby is born? What then? We live our separate lives? Passing the baby back and forth on what? Alternate weekends and holidays?”

  His jaw went so tight it ached. “If that’s the way you want it,” he said stiffly. “You’re used to a life that I won’t ever be able to give you. Things I’ll never be able to provide.”

  She was silent again for a long, long while before speaking, and when she did, her voice was husky. Careful. “I told you before that none of those...trappings...mattered to me. Did you...never believe me?”

  “It’s one thing to talk about it. It’s another to actually live it.”

  Her fingers curled against him, then pulled away. “Be glad I’m too exhausted to fight.” She lay back down on the bed, her back to him.

  Fighting was safer than making love.

  He threw his arm over his eyes, grimly aware that there was no point in doing either.

  And equally aware that it would only take a nudge, and he’d be ready for both.

  * * *

  He didn’t expect to sleep, but eventually he did and when he woke it was only because his arm was going to sleep where it was tucked beneath Amelia’s cheek and the rest of him was wide-awake thanks to her warm thigh tucked between his.

  For a while, he stared at the sunlight streaking through the slats in the window blind. It had been years since he’d slept past dawn.

  Then he carefully extricated himself, arms and legs, grabbed a pair of jeans and a shirt and left the room, quietly pulling the door closed after him.

  He showered, letting the cold water pour over him, then pulled on his jeans and went downstairs. His mind consumed with the woman upstairs, he went through his usual routine by rote. Started water running through the coffeemaker. Dumped cereal into a bowl and ate it, standing in the back doorway, looking out over his land while it brewed. He had stock to check, horses to feed. Same things as every other day. Day in. Day out.

  It was a life he loved. A life he knew he couldn’t exchange for anything else, not unless he wanted his soul to shrivel up and die.

  He heard a faint noise and looked back to see Amelia shuffling into the room, her eyes soft with sleep, her hair tangled and the shirt Jess had given him for his last birthday wrinkling around her bare thighs.

  “Coffee smells so lovely.” Her bare feet crossed the kitchen floor and she leaned over the coffeemaker, inhaling deeply.

  The shirttails had climbed a few inches as she’d leaned against the counter and he dragged his eyes away from the smooth thighs and the tender spot behind her knees that he knew from experience was ticklish.

  He knew his sister didn’t drink any caffeine when she was pregnant. She also always gave up the margaritas she loved, and she’d complained often and long about that fact. Particularly since her husband, Mac, hadn’t had to give up either.

  “Sorry.” He crossed the room and yanked the plug out of the outlet. The gurgling continued for only a moment before sputtering to a stop. “I’ll quit making it.”

  She pushed her hair out of her face. Her gaze roved over his face. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Because you don’t plan to be around?”

  She tucked her hands behind her, leaning back against the counter. Unplugged and half-brewed or not, the scent of coffee filled the room. Same as her beauty shined through whether she was clothed in designer dresses or a man’s wrinkled shirt.

  “Because there’s no reason for you to give up something you enjoy just because of me.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. She wore no earrings. Didn’t even have pierced ears at all. He knew, because he’d spent enough time kissing his way around her perfect earlobes to know there were no holes marring them. “There’s no—” She broke off when there was a loud knocking on the front door.

  He didn’t want to answer it. Didn’t much care who was out there, because he wasn’t expecting anyone.

  But she’d pressed her soft lips together and her lashes had swept down and whatever she’d been about to say was obviously going to go unsaid.

  Particularly when the knocking continued, intrusively annoying and noisy as hell.

  He left the kitchen and strode to the front door. “Cool your jets,” he said, yanking it open.

  He barely realized there were at least a half dozen people crammed onto his porch because of the cameras suddenly flashing and the microphone that was shoved close to his face.

  “Do you have anything to say about your involvement with Amelia Chesterfield when her fiancé is reportedly sitting by his father’s deathbed?”

  Amelia suddenly raced up behind him and slammed the door shut on the words that just continued shouting through the wood.

  Her eyes were huge in her face and she was visibly shaking. “How do they keep finding me?”

  “I don’t—” He broke off, because they were pounding on his door again and one of ’em—a guy with spiky hair and wide-lensed camera—was even peering through the unadorned front window.

  Quinn grabbed Amelia’s arm and steered her toward the staircase which was out of view from the window. “Stay.”

  “Don’t aggravate them,” she insisted, though she backed up several steps before sinking down onto one and hugging her arms around her knees. “It only makes them behave more outrageously.” Her teeth were chattering and she’d gone white. “Did you tell anyone I was pregnant? Your sister? Anyone? If that gets out—”

  “I haven’t told anyone,” he said flatly.

  The pounding and questions hadn’t ceased and he stomped into the kitchen. He grabbed his shotgun off the rack above the doorway and loaded it with birdshot.

  “What are you doing?”

  She bolted to her feet and her huge eyes engulfed her entire face. They were the haunted eyes she’d had when she’d fainted in his barn.

  And they made him want to string somebody up from the nearest tree.

  “Getting rid of the vermin.”

  She shook her head rapidly. “Don’t, Quinn. You have to ignore—”

  “They’re trespassing. Maybe they should’ve concerned themselves with aggravating me,” he finished harshly.

  Then he yanked open the door, greeting the intruders with the business end of the shotgun. “Get off my land.”

  Like cockroaches hit with the light, they scrambled off his porch, but only so far as to shield themselves.

  He stepped out onto the wood porch and cocked the gun. It sounded satisfyingly loud and threatening. “Get.”

  “How long have you been sleeping with her?”
some fool called out and Quinn swung the barrel toward the voice, finding the gel-haired guy who’d had the nerve to aim a camera through his front window.

  “You’re trespassing,” he said coldly. “And I’m a real good shot.” He met the man’s eyes. At least he had the good sense to take a nervous step backward. “You want to test it out?”

  “Lord Banning’s a powerful man,” someone else yelled in a shrill voice. “You’re not afraid of retribution for trying to steal his bride?”

  He aimed beyond them where the vehicles they’d arrived in were parked every which way all over his gravel, and planted a load of shot exactly six inches from the front tire of the closest car. The noise was shockingly loud and gravel spewed, pinging against the car.

  The roaches scattered even faster.

  “Next one goes in the car!”

  He had no intention of shooting anyone, but they didn’t need to know that. There were seven of them, three men and four women, and he wondered which one, if any, was the Ophelia who’d plagued Amelia.

  He eyed them each before cocking the gun again. “Get off my land.”

  They scrambled for the cars, nearly colliding among themselves as they poured into doors, gunned engines and spun tires.

  Only when the last of them was nearly out of sight and the clouds of dust were starting to die did his grip on the gun relax.

  And it was several minutes after that before the rest of him relaxed enough that he could go back inside the house.

  He closed and locked the door, unloaded the rest of the birdshot and left the gun propped against the door.

  Amelia was no longer huddled and hiding on the staircase.

  She was pacing around the living room, looking agitated. “You couldn’t have just ignored them? You had to go all...all Texas Ranger on them?” She sank down on the couch and clawed her fingers through her hair. “You may know ranching, Quinn, but I know the paparazzi. There will be pictures of you on every network by the evening news.” Just as fast as she’d sat, she shoved off the couch. “I have to phone my mother. Warn her.” She laughed, sounding on the verge of hysteria, and her face was white. “If she hasn’t already been treated to the same sorts of questions.”