Broken Vows (42 page)

      
But fate and Amos Wells had intervened. Now, she and Rory were wary strangers, reunited because of Michael and perhaps because of revenge. She continued brushing her hair methodically, too emotionally drained by the past twenty-four hours to think straight. There were a great many things she did not want to deal with at all. Rebekah let her eyes wander around the room—her bridal suite. It was large and elegant, darkly masculine, rather like its owner.

      
Rory's private quarters were in the Virginia City headquarters of Madigan Enterprises, and his offices were on the floor below. The bedroom had been decorated with meticulous taste. In an era of gaudy clutter, the clean lines of the heavy oak furniture and wall coverings of blue silk were subdued and soothing. Yet the very massiveness of the chairs, table, and bed made her acutely aware that this was a man's domain.

      
The bed. Her eyes were drawn to it. Of all the times they had made love, not once had it been in a real bed. And this was a grand one, custom made to accommodate his long body. The coverlet was deep royal blue, and the soft plump surface was piled high with feather pillows. A bed made for pleasure.

      
Rebekah looked away from it quickly. After the hasty ceremony, Rory had taken her for a lavish meal in the dining room of the International Hotel; but she was too nervous to do more than push the exquisite roasted lamb around in its juices on her plate. After that, he had escorted her to this big brick building and shown her to their night's accommodations. Then, he had excused himself, saying he had to send some business wires and would have hot bathwater brought up for her. He had been cool and polite throughout the day, remote and unreadable, not the mocking and embittered man he had been earlier. But he was certainly not the laughing, loving Rory of her youth either.

      
Rebekah set down her hairbrush and wandered over to the big oak armoire standing against the far wall. One door was partially ajar. Some inner craving to know more about her enigmatic husband made her open both doors and peer inside. Expensive custom-tailored suits, all in conservative dark colors, hung in a row, flanked by several pair of those tight denims that molded so scandalously to his long legs.

      
One massive drawer just below the suits yielded a dozen silk shirts, mostly white with a bright smattering of blues and reds thrown in. Expensive clothes but nothing personal.
I'm snooping
. Well, why shouldn't she? After all, she was his wife now. She pulled open a narrow drawer beneath the shirts and found it filled with beautiful men's jewelry, a sapphire ring, a ruby stickpin, diamond shirt studs, several pairs of gold cufflinks set with various precious gems. A fortune left lying about, casually unlocked.

      
She was just about to close the drawer when the dull gleam of an old locket caught her eye. It was a woman's piece and stood out amid the costly glitter, for it was cheaply made of base metal. Rebekah pulled the chain out from beneath one velvet-lined jewel box and found a tattered picture caught in it. When she held the old daguerreotype up to the light, her breath caught. One of the figures was Michael!

      
No, it could not be, of course. It was Rory at Michael's age, staring solemnly into the camera, surrounded by three older boys and a dark, handsome man with a mustache and neatly trimmed beard. A soft yet strong-looking woman with lighter hair stood proudly behind her brood. His family, who had died all those years ago. The locket was engraved “to Maureen with my heart's devotion, Michael.”

      
He had lost so much—his homeland, his parents, his brothers, and then even his only son. Tears stung her eyes as she quietly replaced his worn treasure in the drawer and closed it. What love there must have been in that close-knit Irish family, which was so unlike her own. Her parents had not been in love as Maureen and Michael had been. In many ways, she and Leah had paid a price for their sad alliance. Rebekah had always felt that if Dorcas had not been so bitter over Ephraim's lost love, she might have been able to love her own children better.

      
“But Papa loved me,” she repeated aloud like a litany. Her good and gentle papa had tried all his life to atone for his mistake of falling in love with the wrong woman. “And I've spent these years atoning for loving Rory just as surely.”

      
A sharp rapping on the bedroom door interrupted her disturbing reverie. She opened it to admit a burly black man with a ready smile. “Your hot water, Mrs. Madigan.” With a polite nod, he headed straight to the bathing room adjacent to the master suite as if long accustomed to the chore. Rebekah supposed he was on the payroll of Madigan Enterprises. She still found it difficult to believe that the impoverished young man who had dreamed only of a modest ranch had become one of the wealthiest tycoons in the western United States.

      
She thanked the man and let him out after he had filled a claw-footed tub of dazzling white porcelain that sat in the center of the bathing room. It was the most enormous bathtub Rebekah had ever seen. A rack stacked high with fluffy white towels sat on one side of the tub, and a low marble-topped table filled with a variety of scented soaps and bath oils was positioned at the opposite side.

      
Opening one of the vials of oil, she recognized an expensive French fragrance. All of the exclusive bath products were imported. As she selected a delicate lemon-scented bubble bath and poured it liberally into the tub, she reflected on her husband's rise to such luxury and power. If he had not lost her, would he have achieved all of this? Would he have preferred to live as a simple stockman in the Truckee Valley with her as his wife for all those years?

      
Don 't torture yourself by asking questions you'll never have answers for,
she chided herself. As she laid out a plain batiste nightgown and matching velvet robe of pale green, both wrinkled and in need of pressing, Rebekah realized how dependent she had become on Patsy and the other servants over the past years. Within minutes, her travel-stained clothes lay in a heap behind the tub, and she slid into the heavenly warmth of the fragrant water.

      
But you 'd give up every luxury if things could be as they were when you first loved Rory Madigan
. She tried to ignore the voice in her mind and lay back, exhausted, in the tub.

      
Rory quickly wrote out the instructions for his timber mill and waterfront warehouse foremen and dispatched the wires; but as the telegrapher sent the simple business messages, the new groom stood at the counter and agonized over how to tell his brother that he had married Rebekah, not to mention the circumstances under which he had forced her to comply. Always a cautious man, Patrick would be upset with his precipitous actions. Sighing, Rory set a simple declaration of facts to paper, addressed it to his brother in Carson City, and shoved it at the operator along with payment. Then, he stepped out into the brisk evening air. The chill of autumn came early in Nevada's high elevations.

      
Virginia City's crowded streets and raucous noise did little to distract the preoccupied man as he walked slowly back to his office building, where his bride awaited him in their private quarters.
My wife, Mrs. Rory Madigan.
He should have been the happiest man alive. Eight years ago, he would have been, but now he was not at all certain what he felt. Certainly none of the triumph of revenge in forcing her to do his bidding. He had fulfilled his vow after a fashion, although the idea of marrying her had been furthest from his mind when he had watched her dancing in Amos Wells' arms. But she had come to him against her will and now lay waiting for him in his bed.

      
Against her will.
“What did you want, boyo?” he scoffed beneath his breath. “For her to fall into your arms in gratitude the minute Wells was dead?” She had suffered, but so had Michael and so had he, dammit! Even if she refused to face any other fact, the reality of the sizzling passion that flared out of control between them was one she could not deny, one he would not let her deny. Sweet Blessed Virgin, he ached with wanting her. She had felt guilty the last time after their angry, explosive coupling. !It was a betrayal of her personal sense of honor, her marriage vows to a man utterly devoid of honor or the smallest shred of decency.

      
Now, she could claim no refuge in that guilt. She was his wife and he would have her passion. B
ut will you ever again have her love?
The thought haunted him as he walked up the steep flight of stairs to the second floor.

      
He let himself in, then walked quietly across the sitting room to the bedroom door. When he opened it and scanned the dimly lit room, he saw only the empty bed. Panic seized him for an instant. She could not have fled into the wild streets below that were filled with riffraff from around the world! Then, he heard the soft sound of water lapping against the tub and saw her nightclothes spread across a chair.

      
Feeling like a fool, Rory slipped off his jacket and used the bootjack beside his armoire. Quickly and quietly, he undressed and then donned a wine-velvet robe and tied the sash casually. He did not plan on wearing it long. How thoughtful of her to remain naked in her bath for him. Smiling, he opened the unlocked door and looked at the woman in the tub.

      
His breath escaped in an agonized whoosh and he was too dazed to draw another as he looked down at his wife. Rebekah was asleep in the tub with her head leaning back on the rim, exposing her slender throat. Thick golden lashes lay against the translucence of her cheeks, shielding those wide green-gold eyes. Her lips were slightly parted, soft pale pink. She looked vulnerable, delicate, and so lovely it made his heart ache just to gaze at her.

      
Heavy masses of dark gold hair pinned carelessly atop her head glowed like polished amber. She had used the bath salts; and the tub was filled with a white froth of bubbles giving off a tangy lemon essence, her signature when it mixed with her own unique scent. He would recognize it and her in pitch blackness. His woman. His wife. Her body was partially covered by the white bubbles. Even her pale, slender arms and hands, draped elegantly along the edges of the tub, bore traces of the lacy froth. One pink nipple and the top of a knee peeked out from beneath the cover. Her beautiful body was all the more tantalizing and alluring because it was partially concealed.

      
Just looking at her made him rock hard. He fought the urge to rip off his robe, pluck her from the water and take her right there on the bathing room rug. Quietly, he walked over to the tub and knelt beside it, taking one soft, glistening hand and raising it to his mouth. Her eyes flew open as he blew away a series of small bubbles, then softly kissed her fingertips while the tiny spheres drifted on the air and popped one by one.

      
“Rory.” Her voice was hoarse, startled.

      
“Shh,” he urged as he continued his path over her wrist and up her arm, his breath warm on her wet skin as he blew away bubbles and kissed a trail up to her shoulder. She watched him in silent surprise, unresisting.

      
When his dark head bent lower, and those piercing blue eyes could no longer mesmerize her, Rebekah gave in to the heat and languor, lowering her lashes, letting his touch soothe her. His other hand reached out and flicked over the nipple that protruded from its cover of bubbles. Again her eyes flew open. A surge of pure fire streaked through her body, and her breast swelled and began to throb in his hand as he cupped it. He brushed aside the foamy blanket and uncovered her other breast. When he blew away the froth, it pebbled into a hard crest before his fingers even touched it.

      
“A lush pair of treasures hiding beneath the surface,” he whispered hoarsely, as he stroked and cupped both breasts. She moaned softly and arched involuntarily against his caress. He filled his hands with the slick globes, splaying his fingers around them, sliding below them, over her ribs, then lower to the delicate curves of her waist, lifting her forward in the tub.

      
“Put your arms around my neck,” he commanded hoarsely.

      
“I'll get you wet,” she whispered inanely, but her arms, dripping and shedding bubbles, encircled the soft velvet of his collar, pulling him closer until their lips were scant inches apart. She could feel his breath and smell the male essence of him, a faint touch of expensive tobacco mixed with a hint of Irish whiskey. Honest masculine smells, no sweet colognes to mask the heady musk of his excitement. How long ago, yet how well she had learned to recognize it.

      
His lips brushed hers teasingly. After a few exploratory passes, he felt her fingers pulling away his robe and her nails digging into the muscles of his back. He slanted his mouth fiercely across hers, and his tongue rimmed the seam of her lips. She opened for him and he plunged inside, tasting her, feeling the answering quest as her tongue darted against his, then twined with it.

      
He growled low in his throat as he pulled her up against him, cupping her silky little buttocks in his hands while he continued kissing her feverishly. Rebekah felt his hands gliding all over her wet, slick body. In spite of her leaving the warmth of the water, the heat was building beneath her skin. His heavy robe was sopping wet in front and the wine-red velvet covered with a fine froth of bubbles.

      
She suddenly felt the urge to see those tiny glistening spheres in the dark pelt of his chest hair. Her hands slid down to the belt at his waist and tugged it free. He obliged her instantly by shedding it with one swift shrug.

      
She reached down into the pile of bubbles surrounding her hips and brought a handful up to his chest, blowing them onto it.