"A real marriage, but only temporary?" She shook her head. "A marriage is supposed to be forever. It wouldn't be fair to you. What if you met someone else..."
"There is nobody for me but you."
"In time..."
"I know my mind, Becca. You want forever? Forever can be a long time or short," he declared. "What if we married, and I drowned in the river the next day?"
Her stomach lurched. "Don't say such a thing."
"You'd be a widow, wouldn't you?"
She nodded. "But I still don't—"
"It's the only way, darlin'. If I can't have you, I'm not likely to fall for another woman." He put his arms around her and kissed her hard enough to make her giddy. "I promise you this, Becca," he said harshly. "I've waited a long time for you. I want you in my bed tonight. And I'll do anything to get you there. It's up to you whether you have a ring on your finger or not. Either way, my conscience will be clear."
Chapter 16
Rebecca's pulse quickened. This man holding her so fiercely, making such relentless demands, was not her childhood playmate. He was vastly different from the Shaw she'd teased and treated like a brother. He bore a resemblance to her beloved Shaw, but he seemed bigger, more powerful. His chiseled features were more sharply defined, and his eyes glowed with menacing fire. He both enticed and frightened her, filling her with a hot, explosive excitement.
"You... you're saying that we should marry to satisfy our lust?" she asked. Shaw's hands were on her, moving, stroking, and caressing. It was hard to think when he played her body as a fiddler does his violin.
He chuckled wickedly. "There is much to be said for a little honest lust." Lifting her hair away from her face, he nibbled her ear and the curve of her throat. She shivered as she felt the brush of his warm tongue and the teasing scrape of his teeth. She marveled at it, wondering how such simple things could cause her heart to race and warm moistness to form between her legs.
With a small moan, she sought his lips with hers. Still chuckling, he obliged her, and Shaw's plundering kiss left her wide-eyed and clinging to him.
"Marry me, Becca." He cupped her breast in his hand until she felt her nipples swell and strain against the bodice of her stays. "Or I will..." He whispered such a delightfully wanton suggestion in her ear that she flushed scarlet from head to toe.
"Shaw MacCade!" she stammered. "Have you no shame to—"
"None at all." He stroked her back with strong, lean fingers, then clasped her bottom lecherously. "Last chance, woman," he warned. "Take my offer of making an honest woman of you. If you don't, I'll lead you into such carnal pleasures that a hundred circuit riders couldn't pray you free from temptation."
She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. He couldn't be serious. Surely, no decent man would do such a thing with a lady. Would he? And would she let him?
She knew the answer to that question. The flame igniting her blood would not be denied. She wanted him as much as he wanted her, and her conscience wouldn't allow her to give herself to him without marriage. "What choice have I?" she murmured breathlessly. "I'll be your wife... but only here and only for a little while. Then, you must swear to let me go."
He nuzzled the hollow between her breasts. "I don't give up what's mine easily, Bec. I want you for my wife. I want you so long as we both draw breath and maybe after. But I'll not hold you to our vows if you want to be free of me."
"I will," she whispered. "I must."
She pushed down the rising ache. "Yes," she said, after a too-long silence. "It will make things simpler."
"Good." He kissed her gently on the mouth. "Now that that's settled, maybe we could just—"
"We could not!" She wiggled out of his arms. "No more of that until I have my marriage lines."
"You're willing to go out in the rain again?"
"It's hardly raining anymore, and the thunder and lightning have passed over."
"We could stay here until morning," he suggested.
"Absolutely not. We marry today or not at all." The reality of what she had agreed to do settled over her like a shroud, and warnings went off in the shadowy corners of her mind. Recklessly, she pushed them away. She'd given her word, and she'd keep it if she were damned to an everlasting hell.
"Tonight, darling. One way or another. I've waited too long for you."
And me for you, she thought. But she couldn't say the words. She knew if she gave him the slightest encouragement, her claim to maidenhood would be soon lost. And the thought that she had some morals left was an anchor that she clung to fiercely.
"Miles City's not more than five or ten miles from here," Shaw said, studying the sky. "Best we head for it if we mean to find a preacher before sunset."
Rebecca made no reply. But keeping silent didn't stop her from thinking that soon she would be Shaw's wife. Shaw's wife, but not a MacCade, she corrected. Never a MacCade, this side of glory.
* * *
They followed the dirt road to a fork, then took the lane to the left, keeping parallel to the river. A few miles later, they met a farmer who assured them that they were on the road to Miles City. "It's a growin' town," he said. "Good harbor, three general stores, hotel, and eatin' houses."
When Shaw and Rebecca reached the settlement, they left the horses at a livery stable before checking into the Philadelphia Hotel as Mr. and Mrs. MacCade. The clerk's disapproving look vanished when Shaw produced gold coin to pay for their food and lodging. After seeing Rebecca safely upstairs to their room, Shaw said, "I need some decent clothes, and I'll leave money to get you a dress and whatever else—"
"I have money," she replied. "I can't take yours." She wondered where he'd come by so much wealth. Many farmers went for years without seeing a ten-dollar gold piece, let alone possessing one.
"You're going to be my wife, Becca," Shaw said firmly. "While you are, I'll see to your needs. And I don't mean to have you wed in a trail-worn dress."
She nodded, somewhat relieved. She did have a little money, but hardly enough to buy a new wardrobe. Shaw had said nothing more about a wedding until now, and she'd been hesitant to bring up the subject. But if he did mean to find a minister to marry them, she had to have something decent to wear. "The problem is, I can't go into a dry goods looking like this."
He grinned wryly. "You've had a day of it, haven't you, Bee? Tell you what, I'll have someone bring up hot water, soap, and whatever you need. Wash up and take a nap until I get back. I saw one of those women's stores across the street. I'll have them send up some things. You make yourself look bridey, and I'll meet you here when I'm finished."
She made a face. Having Shaw pick out a dress was risky. But she wasn't fit to be seen in public, and a hot bath sounded like Eden.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, a blond serving girl in a black dress and white apron knocked on her door with an armful of bundles wrapped in brown, waxy paper. "Ladies bathing room's downstairs, ma'am," she said. "You kin take the back stairs. Ladies only uses that. I'll draw you clean water. Lady guests don't have to reuse water. There's real French soap and towels. Mr. Mitchell keeps a first-rate hotel."
The maid, who was pleasingly plump and looked about fourteen to Rebecca, bustled in, dumped the packages on the bed, and bobbed a cheerful curtsy. "I'm to help you dress and fix whatever don't fit quite right. I'm good with a needle and doin' hair. Just call me Mattie. Your mister paid for my time, but you kin give me somethin' extra, do you think I'm worth it." Mattie beamed, revealing crooked front teeth and a dimple on her chin. "I'm savin' up fer my weddin'."
Rebecca smiled back. Hotels and towns were as foreign to her as London or Boston. She needed a guide and an interpreter. And she was sure that Mattie, for all her shortcomings in manners, would be a great help.
* * *
Nearly two hours later, Rebecca glanced out the window at the dark street for the third time. She'd been bathed from head to toe, had her hair arranged, and was decked out in a pale, azure-blue frock of fine wool ador
ned with tiny pink rosebuds. The skirt was wide, long, and flounced, and the self-piped V-necked bodice boasted a tiny collar of cream-colored Irish lace. The fringed sleeves, covering a tighter white muslin inner sleeve, widened at the elbow to end in cream fringe. Soft, black, kidskin boots peeped from under her hem, and she found herself admiring them over and over again.
On the bed lay a pair of dainty kid gloves, a fine straw bonnet trimmed with silk rosebuds, a fringed woolen day shawl, and a new leather valise packed with ladies' personal toiletries and undergarments. Shaw had outdone himself. Rebecca was both delighted and puzzled by his choices. How had Shaw chosen such lovely garments, and how had he managed to pay for them?
And most of all—why wasn't he back? Was it possible that Shaw had had second thoughts about the wedding? Could he have sent the lovely garments as an apology and fled before a man of God could make them man and wife?
Avoiding the bed, Rebecca opened the door and glanced into the hallway. There was nothing to see but a large gilded mirror and a heavy rosewood table topped by a vase of flowers that stood near the staircase. The floor was spotlessly clean, and every door opening off the corridor was closed.
The faint strains of "Home, Sweet Home" and the clatter of china drifted up from the dining room below. Someone was playing the piano during the evening meal. She could smell roast turkey and yeast bread, and her stomach rumbled in a most unladylike manner.
With a sigh, Rebecca returned to her window vigil. She was hungry, dressed like a banker's daughter, standing in a fancy hotel room on a Turkey red carpet, and starving to death. Angel Crossing looked like heaven from here. At least on the Little Smoke, she knew who she was and what she was doing.
She turned toward the sound of footfalls outside her door. There was a knock, and then Shaw's voice, "Rebecca? Are you decent?"
Decent? How could she be decent when she was sharing a hotel room with a man not her husband? "Yes," she answered nervously. "It's not locked."
Shaw stepped into the chamber. "I've found someone to perform the ceremony," he said. "But before we go through with it, I want you to tell me if you trust me. Is there any doubt in your mind about me being Jamie's father? I've bullied you into this wedding. But I won't—"
"No," she said, overwhelmed with relief that he had returned. "I believe you."
"We have to trust each other, Bee. If there's no trust, there's nothing."
She nodded. "I do love you. And I do believe you. We don't have to go to Saint Louis if you don't want to. We can go somewhere—"
He shook his head. "We have to find your sister and get at the truth. I believe there may be a link between Jamie's father and Laird's shooting. If we can straighten it all out, maybe we can work out a truce between the MacCades and the Raeburns." He pulled her close and kissed her. "I mean to prove my innocence with you, Bec. But I wanted to hear you say that you had faith in me."
"I do," she murmured. She felt giddy, numb inside. But Shaw was real and solid. If she believed in anything, she believed in Shaw.
"All right." He stepped back and opened the door, and Rebecca caught a strong whiff of hair tonic.
A wizened elf of a man all in black—old-fashioned waistcoat, coat, and top hat—stood stiffly in the passageway. The older gentleman's tightly curled hair and beard were a mass of white ringlets; his eyes were the color of ripe blueberries; and his long, pointed nose was a florid red.
Trying not to stare at the man, Rebecca glanced back at Shaw. She'd been so glad to see him, she hadn't really paid attention to what he was wearing.
Shaw was dressed like a gentleman of fashion in a white shirt, snowy cravat, gray coat and trousers, and new boots. If she hadn't known him, she would have taken him for some well-to-do businessman. Still flustered and at a loss for words, she waited, not saying anything.
"Judge Clayton, may I present my intended, Miss Rebecca Raeburn," Shaw said. "Rebecca, Judge Clayton is going to perform the marriage."
"A judge? Not a minister? But I thought—"
The older man cleared his throat importantly. "It will be legal, Miss Raeburn. I'm duly sworn by the great state of Missouri. If you have any doubts of my credentials, I—"
"No." She shook her head. "I just thought—"
"The hotel manager and his wife are waiting in the grand parlor below." Shaw took her arm. "If you're ready, Becca. We'll get this over with and let the judge get back to his dinner."
"Excellent. Excellent," Judge Clayton replied. "I ordered turkey and all the trimmings. Wouldn't do to let it get cold. Mrs. Jacobs is a fine cook, grows the birds herself, you know."
Half in a trance, Rebecca allowed Shaw to lead her downstairs, where the simple wedding vows were exchanged in front of two strangers and the ever-curious maid Mattie. It seemed only brief minutes before she and Shaw returned to their room. The only difference was that now she wore a gold ring on her finger.
In their absence, someone had brought in a table laden with food, lovely china, and silver. Shaw pulled out a chair for her and seated her in front of a heaping plate of turkey, mashed potatoes, peas, and applesauce.
"I hope this is all right," he said, taking the place across from her. "I wanted you all to myself tonight. Do you like turkey?"
"I'm hungry enough to eat mule," she replied, then laughed as she realized how inelegant that sounded at her wedding dinner. "Not that I have," she stammered, "but I don't doubt I could, if I had to."
He smiled back at her and patted her hand. "I can't really recommend horse, but it is better than starving to death."
His mention of the horse reminded her of Chinook and the mare. "Your horses?"
"I've arranged for Thomas—Abe Thomas, he's the livery owner—to board them until we get back from Saint Louis."
"You're sure it's safe to leave them in a strange town? What if the stable man's dishonest?"
"I checked up on him. Lived here eight years, wife, four kids, pillar of Saint Mary's Church. Chinook and Sasha will be better off here than in Saint Louis. We'll go the rest of the way by water."
Rebecca nodded, closed her eyes, and murmured a quick, silent blessing over the meal. With a sigh of satisfaction she savored the first forkful. "Wonderful," she said. "Watch out I don't eat mine and yours as well."
"I tried to find some wedding cake, but the best I could do was apple pie." He poured pale red wine into a delicate glass and offered it to her.
She shook her head. "No, thank you. I don't drink spirits."
"Not even on your wedding night?"
"Especially not then." The room was suddenly warmer. She tried to concentrate on her meal. When Shaw spoke to her, she answered, but all she could think of was what would come later in the oversized rosewood bed heaped with embroidered pillows and covered in a maroon satin spread. And the more she tried not to imagine them together in that bed, the less hungry she became.
Shaw continued to do justice to the excellent meal, but he didn't drink any of the wine either. She wondered if it was because he didn't like wine, or if he was abstaining to please her.
"You quit drinking?" she asked lightly.
"Yep." He buttered a slice of crusty bread. "Gave it up."
"When?"
He laid down the knife, wiped his fingers on a napkin, and looked full into her eyes. "The day after I made such a fool out of myself, riding that buffalo bull into your church doin'. I said I was sorry, Bec. I meant it."
"And you've really quit? No more alcohol?"
"Figure I've drank my share. Been inhaling as much as I could since I was twelve. Guess it's time I left some for the other rowdies."
"Does it have anything to do with me?" she asked.
"You might say that," he agreed. "Not the church part. I'm not convinced a little white lightning will send a man straight to hell. But when it clouds a man's reason, maybe it's time to stop."
"I'm glad," she said. "But you were going to drink the wine."
"Nope. I was offering it to you."
She didn't
know what to say, so she said nothing. She couldn't eat another bite. She didn't even want a taste of the pie, and it looked delicious. But she was afraid to push back from the table—afraid of what would naturally come next. "Thank you for the dress," she said softly. "It's the prettiest thing I've ever owned. And the other things. But you shouldn't have spent so much money on me. I won't be able to wear them at home and—"
"Shh," he said, rising and coming around the table to her. She began to tremble as he slipped an arm around her waist. "You're beautiful, Mrs. MacCade. Prettier than a—"
"Oh!" Her eyes widened. "My marriage lines. We didn't get... Shouldn't I have a copy of the—"
"In the morning," Shaw assured her. "The courthouse was closed for the night. Thomas' clerk keeps all official papers under lock and key. The judge promised that he'd have our certificate signed and ready for us after breakfast in the morning. He said he'd send his clerk to the hotel, have the manager and his wife sign, and deliver them by nine o'clock."
Something in her demeanor must have shown her suspicion, because Shaw's eyes crinkled in amusement. "Do you doubt me, Becca? If you think I've brought in a false judge just to have my way with you, then—"
"No." She shook her head. "I know you wouldn't be dishonest with me." The tiniest doubt remained to plague her, but she pushed it firmly away. The ring gleamed solidly on her left hand. For now, she was a respectable newly married lady taking supper in a hotel room with her husband—and she was a woman who soon would be abed. She tucked her clenched fists into her lap and tried to smile at him.
He'd shaved since they arrived in Miles City, or he'd had a barber shave him. There was a small nick just below his jaw on the right side that hadn't been there when he'd left her earlier.
"Penny for your thoughts," he teased. The wine bottle stood between them. The table was small. If he reached across, he could touch her. Heat flashed under her skin, and she squirmed in her chair, wishing they were anywhere but in this room with the big bed. She felt like a rabbit with the hound about to pounce.
"I'm thinking..." What was she thinking that she could say aloud? "You... you look more like a river pirate than a bridegroom."
The Taming of Shaw MacCade Page 18
