Gerrity's Bride

“You didn’t answer me, Emmaline.” His lips twisted into another half smile that taunted her, even as it eased the harsh lines of his face, and her eyes were drawn to the movement.

Was his mouth hard, she wondered, or would it soften when it touched the flesh of a woman’s lips? Would he be gentle with his caresses, or would those hard hands be rough against tender skin? Thoughts of those forbidden secrets, things that happened between men and women, flooded her mind, and she blinked in confusion.

“Yes...yes, it matters,” she whispered.

“Even cowhands have honor,” he said roughly. “I won’t be lollygaggin’ around in town after we tie the knot, Emmaline.”

“But you don’t really want to, do you?” she asked.

“I told you, lady, the offer’s still open. I’ll cart you to Forbes Junction to visit the preacher whenever you say. But, to tell the truth, I’d be just as well off putting you on the train. I can make it without you. I make a good living at my job, and I keep a close eye on my sister. I’m satisfied with what I’ve got right now. Theresa’s all that matters to me.”

Her heart thumped against the wall of her chest, and she knew a moment of dreadful sorrow. What she had dreamed of in her childhood years was never to be. Matt Gerrity had no warmth to spend on her, only derision and a calm acceptance of his fate. Could she be satisfied with that? Did she have a choice?

“Can you marry me, without feeling anything for me?” she asked boldly.

His grin was quick. “Oh, don’t worry, honey. I’ll feel something, all right.”

With a graceless movement, she stood, color riding her cheeks as she smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt. “This is a big game for you, isn’t it?”

His eyes were guarded as he rose to tower over her. “I don’t play games, Emmaline. I play for keeps. But let me tell you one thing. If you marry me, you’ll have nothing to complain about. I’ll give you all the attention you want.”

So quickly she was barely able to catch her breath, Matt loomed over her, his big hands grasping her shoulders. He lifted her against his hard body. With a smothered growl, he drew her to him. And then their lips met, hers opening to protest, his open to consume the lush softness of her mouth. With measured restraint, he covered her, taking no notice of the murmurs she uttered within the depths of his mouth.

Emmaline’s hands were helpless against his broad chest, and her toes barely touched the wide boards of the porch. She hung in his grasp and closed her eyes, her face and throat flushed and warm, her mouth tamed to his liking.

A tingle of warmth simmered low in her stomach, but she fought the urge to soften against him. He’d taken hold of her as if she were a hussy in a saloon, and he’d brutally invaded the virgin territory of her mouth as if it were his due. A flush of anger at his treatment covered her cheeks, and Emmaline was overwhelmed suddenly by a sense of despair at the treacherous response of her own body. A sob rose to vibrate within her chest, bringing tears to her eyes. And even her tightly closed lids could not stop them from sliding down her cheeks.

Perhaps it was the dampness against his face that cooled the force of Matt’s ardor. Perhaps he’d begun to regret his irate, impetuous behavior. Whatever the cause, he loosened his grip on her, lowering her feet to the floor, lifting his head to rub his cheek against hers. Her face was rosy, her eyes were tightly closed, yet still the tears flowed, and he felt a pang of regret.

It had been an impulse, and he was too old to be impulsive. Silently he cursed the urges she managed to arouse in him. Emmaline wasn’t used to such rough handling, he reminded himself. He’d have done better to keep his hands off. Here she was, a lady from tip to toe, and he’d just treated her like a woman upstairs at Katy Klein’s Golden Garter.

Putting put her away from his aroused body, he held her in place, waiting until she caught another shuddering breath. Her tongue came out slowly, moving across her lips, testing the tender surfaces and tasting the residue of his mouth. She shivered once more, then shrugged out of his hold, her eyes opening slowly, focusing on the front of his shirt.

“Is this what I have to look forward to?” she asked stiffly.

“Are you gonna cry every time I kiss you?” Matt countered in a harsh growl.

She gritted her teeth and watched as his chest rose and fell with each breath he took. “Was that the way you kiss all your women?”

“Only the ones I plan on taking to bed,” he answered roughly.

She stiffened, and her head lifted until her eyes met the darkness of his. “You are not a gentleman, Matthew Gerrity,” she managed to whisper.

“I never said I was, Emmaline Carruthers.” His index finger touched her mouth before she could move away. “Hold still,” he said quickly, his other hand gripping her shoulder. That single finger slipped easily, slowly, over the fullness of her mouth, and was eased by the moisture he had left there. He watched intently as he traced the path her tongue had taken only seconds ago.

His words were raspy, contrasting with the gentle touch of his callused finger as he completed his inspection and cupped her chin easily in his palm. “Maybe I’ll be nicer next time, honey,” he said roughly.

“Maybe there won’t be a next time,” she snapped, pulling from his touch and hurrying to the door that led into the house.

He watched her go, and his mouth set into a grim line. “Don’t bet the ranch on that one, lady,” he said deliberately, then considered the final twitch of her skirts and the arrogant tilt of her head.

Chapter Four

The box was glossy, with an allover design of flowers, blue forget-me-nots and pale pink roses entwined in heart-shaped bouquets. It lay in solitary splendor on the bed, a splash of delicate color against the white coverlet.

Theresa appeared in the doorway and imitated her brother’s stance, her hands stuffed into her pinafore pockets, her feet apart and her head tilted to one side. Carefully she kept her eyes averted from the temptation that lured her. The package had been in the same place every day for three days, the same three days the door to Emmaline’s room had been left ajar, allowing for easy inspection of the interior.

The box, beguiling her with its mystery, had brought the child this far, the faraway land of its origin provoking her curiosity.

Miss Olivia had shown her a map of Europe and pointed out the orange area that represented France. Theresa had been disappointed. Certainly that blob of color was not what she had expected, and the map had not satisfied her yearning to know more about the source of the enticing box that lay just beyond her reach.

Prodded by the child’s questioning, Miss Olivia had dug deep in her satchel of books to find a slender volume that contained reproduced pictures of the French countryside. Grainy photographs of elegantly dressed Parisian ladies strolling down shop-lined boulevards had awed the child. She’d gazed with wonder at the Arc de Triomphe—Napoleon’s concept brought to life, offering welcome to the city. Certainly such a marvelous place could only offer indescribable treasures.

And such a treasure resided in the box that lay on Emmaline’s bed. Only Theresa’s inherent dignity kept her from it. Only her reluctance to accept the presence of Emmaline denied the eager curiosity that glistened in her dark eyes.

From the dressing table near the window, Emmaline watched the child’s reflection in the mirror she faced. Patience had never been listed in her personal catalog of virtues, but the past few days had found her seeking that quality with a persistence that would have given her grandmother immense gratification, had she known. Now she watched as the child in the doorway struggled with temptation.

“Would you like to come in?” Feigning ignorance of Theresa’s dilemma, Emmaline turned on the padded seat and smiled a careful welcome.

A lifted shoulder was her answer, together with a shuttered glance that denied interest.

“I’ve been hoping you’d come to see me.” This time the child met her gaze fully.

“Miss Olivia said I could leave off writing my letters till later if I wanted to,” she offered diffidently. One hand crept from her pocket and rubbed against the muslin of her skirt. “I just thought I’d see what your jackstraws looked like.”

Emmaline released her breath, relief and delight mingling to create a gentle smile. “I’d love to show you all the things I brought with me,” she said, rising slowly, as if she feared to startle a small wild creature.

Another step brought Theresa within the room, and she halted there, her eyes moving over the small evidence of Emmaline’s presence. A silver-handled brush and mirror lay on the dressing table, next to a crystal bottle of toilet water and a delicately painted china hair receiver. The open wardrobe displayed the meager contents of her luggage, and a paisley reticule hung from the wooden knob of the open door.

But the treasures she had planned to lure the child with lay within the depths of her carpetbag, and she turned to lift it from the floor behind the bed. Carefully she ignored the beribboned package that lay precisely in the center of the feather bed she had slept in for three nights. As if it were a worm on a hook, she had displayed it there with casual unconcern, hoping for just such a visit as Theresa had finally chosen to make this morning.

Reaching into the bag, Emmaline drew forth a jump rope with finely carved handles. “Have you ever tried to skip rope?” she asked.

Theresa’s head shook from side to side as she took another step forward, lessening the distance between them. “No, ma’am,” she said quietly, remembering her manners. “I’ve never played jackstraws, either. Miss Olivia said she played them when she was a little girl, though.”

Emmaline allowed a small grin of triumph to escape. Apparently Theresa had discussed this venture with her tutor. Certainly she’d been impressed enough to make her way here without further coaxing.

“Would you like to see my books?”

The child cast one yearning glance at the bed and then harnessed her curiosity with obvious effort. Her sigh was deep. “I do like books, ma’am.”

“Maybe you could call me Emmaline,” her sister suggested quietly. “What would you like me to call you?”

“I’m Theresa. Only Maffew says I’m his Tessie.” She stepped closer, her soft slippers silent against the wide planks of the bedroom floor. One small hand lifted to brush against the quilted coverlet, its fingers careful to stray no farther than inches from the edge of the bed. For a moment, her eyes darted once more to the flowered box, and then she tamed the errant glance.

“Oh!” Emmaline feigned dismay with a soft cry and a pursing of her lips. “I almost forgot about the present I brought you from France.”

“You did? You almost forgot?” Theresa’s eyes widened in wonder at such a lapse.