Gerrity'S Bride (14 page)

“What happened?” Maria wanted to know. “Who would shoot at Miss Emmaline?”

“Well, apparently our Miss Emmaline didn’t think it was worth talking about,” Matt said scornfully. “But after she set off for town by herself yesterday, somebody came close to killing her.”

“That’s not true,” Emmaline protested. “And I didn’t mean not to tell you. I just had other things on my mind,” she mumbled as he leaned closer.

“Well, if Tucker hadn’t run into Oswald Hooper in town yesterday afternoon, I still wouldn’t know about it, would I?” he asked harshly.

Emmaline’s hands clenched at her waist, and her chin tilted defensively. “I don’t think he meant to fire at me. He probably didn’t even see me.”

Matthew Gerrity looked down at his bride in disbelief. “You are the most confounded aggravatin’ woman I’ve seen in a month of Sundays. Don’t you ever go out riding alone again. Do you hear me, Emmaline?”

“I could hardly help but hear you, Mr. Gerrity,” she answered with flaring fury. One slender finger emerged from the fists she had formed, and poked at his chest. “You are shouting at me, and you have no call to tell me what I can do. I’ve been riding all my life, and I’m not about to need a nursemaid along at this stage.”

His hand swooped down and grasped the prodding finger, enclosing her whole fist in his and holding it immobile. “Don’t poke at me, Emmaline,” he ordered her firmly. “I’m your husband now, and you’ll do well to remember it. I give the orders hereabouts, and I expect them to be obeyed. Can you get that straight?”

Small hands pushed against her skirt, and Emmaline looked down distractedly. Teary eyes met hers, and Theresa shook her head as she spoke.

“Don’t fight, Emmie.” Tessie’s lashes blinked at the evidence of her distress as the child held firmly to the soft leather of Emmaline’s riding skirt.

Understanding filled Emmaline’s countenance as she took in the child’s distress. Then, bending, she pulled her hand from Matt’s grasp and lowered it to Theresa’s shoulder. She shook her head, forcing a smile to curve her lips for the little girl’s benefit.

“We’re not fighting,” she said quietly, denying the child’s words. “Your brother and I are just discussing a situation.”

From above her, Matt growled several words beneath his breath, then stooped to hold his small sister within the circle of his arm.

“You shouldn’t say those bad words,” Theresa said primly, gazing into his eyes with reproof. “Mama used to scold Papa when he said bad things.”

His grin was forced but his tone was cajoling as he agreed with her. “I apologize, Tessie. You’re right.” He glanced to Emmaline, and his mouth tightened. “Your sister and I will discuss this later,” he said, his look filled with a promise that needed no words of explanation.

Rising, he smoothed the dark hair from the child’s forehead and patted her reassuringly. But his eyes were on Emmaline, and the look of anger he cast in her direction was barely suppressed.

“We’ll talk tonight,” he promised her, his words quiet, his mouth thinned into a line of disapproval.

They watched in silence as he stalked from the house back to the barn, and then Emmaline heaved a deep sigh and turned to face Maria.

“I suppose you’ll tell me again about obeying my husband,” she said with resignation.

“No, I think you know yourself what you have to do, Miss Emmaline. I’m just surprised that you said nothing to him about someone shooting at you.”

Emmaline’s hands waved distractedly, as if she were pooh-poohing the importance of the whole thing. “I wondered for a moment about it, but certainly it was just an accident, Maria. No one would have any reason to shoot at me.” Her look scorned the idea as she brushed aside the issue. “Now, what was it Matt said that I didn’t catch? It sounded like another language.”

“Oh, he always says stuff in Spanish when he gets mad,” Theresa said hastily. “I can understand it sometimes, but I don’t know what the words mean.”

“And you don’t need to, either,” Olivia put in firmly.

A grin teased at the corners of Emmaline’s mouth. “I agree with you, Olivia,” she said. “In fact, I’ll have a little talk with him about it.”

* * *

The door closed firmly behind Matt, and he leaned against it, his eyes intent on the woman who sat before the mirrored dressing table across the room.

“Don’t start yelling at me again,” she warned him, eyeing him warily in the reflecting glass. “I would have told you about what happened if I’d thought it was important. Besides, I didn’t even think about it again till today.”

He was silent, unmoving but for his eyes. Dark and assessing, they traveled over her seated form, taking note of the robe she wore cinched at the waist, flowing to the floor, where bare toes peeked from beneath the hem. His gaze bored into her, as if he saw beneath the cotton fabric to her flesh, and she felt a pink flush rising to her cheeks as she watched his intent appraisal in the mirror.

Swinging about on the seat, she faced him, her breath taken by the piercing scrutiny he offered her.

“Matt?” It was a whisper of sound, but it brought his eyes to her face, and he read aright the look of uncertainty she wore.

“Are you done with speaking your mind, Emmaline?” His tone was quiet, almost frightening in its intensity. Unmoving, he watched her, and she felt a flutter of apprehension.

“I don’t think I know what you mean,” she said, her voice a tentative murmur as she placed her hairbrush on the dressing table. Her curls were alive with color in the lamplight, glowing against the white robe she wore, and she brushed distractedly at the locks that fell forward over her shoulder. They curled about her fingers with a life of their own.

His eyes followed the movement of her hand. “You know what I mean,” he said, still with the same quiet nuance underlining his words. “If you’re finished telling me how unimportant the shooting incident was, I’d like you to listen to me for a minute.”

She folded her hands in her lap, her lips pressed together, her eyes rebellious.

He stepped toward her, and his hands lifted for a moment and then fisted and settled on his hips. His feet were spread, and his stance was so like that of a gunfighter ready for a showdown that she felt a chill lift the hair on her arms.

“We have a problem, Emmaline. It was no accident when you got thrown from your horse the other day. Someone stuck a piece of sharp metal under your saddle.”

Her face was pale in the glow of the lamplight and her expression was stunned as she absorbed his words. “Are you sure?” she asked in a hushed voice, disbelief obvious on her expressive face.

He nodded and slid his fingers into the pockets of his denim pants. “Yeah, I’m sure,” he admitted reluctantly. “Just about as sure as I am that you almost got yourself killed yesterday morning.”

She swallowed hard against the lump that formed in her throat. “I was sure it was just someone out hunting...or something,” she finished weakly as she considered his words. “Why would anyone want to...” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word.
Kill.
“I didn’t think...” Her mind rejected the thought, and she shook her head against the idea.

“Did you see him, Emmaline?”

She shook her head again. “No...not really.” She closed her eyes, envisioning the moment when she’d heard the sound of gunfire. That single shot, startling her, striking a tree off to her left. Her eyes opened and she studied Matt for a moment.

“Matt, surely if whoever it was wanted to hurt me, he wouldn’t have...” She hesitated, thinking again.

“Wouldn’t have what, Emmaline?”

“Wouldn’t have missed me by so far,” she said firmly. “The bullet hit a tree. It didn’t come anywhere near me, you know. It had to have been an accident.”

“Did you see him?” he asked again.

“No, just a glimpse of a red shirt.”

“Was he on a horse?” At her quick nod, he stepped closer. “What color was it?”

“Dark...I think.” She shook her head. “I don’t know, Matt. I told you, I just caught a glimpse of him. It happened so fast.” Her fingers trembled as she brushed at the fine fabric of her robe. She clenched her fist as she recognized the betraying tremor.

His eyes narrowed as he watched the gesture, and the anger he had fought to set aside surged within him once more as he considered how fragile she was. That anyone had lain in wait for her, that anyone could even now be planning to hurt the woman who watched him with such innocent eyes, was beyond comprehension. Why? Who would want to cause her harm? The thought gnawed at him, tightening the muscles of his arms, filling his mind with a helpless fury.

Jerking his hands free from the confines of his pockets, he busied himself with the task of unbuttoning his shirt, his gaze never leaving her face. Impatiently he watched, forcing a slow, precise cadence into his movements.

She stiffened, catching a quick breath as she turned her head away. His mouth twisted wryly. “What’s wrong?” he asked, sliding the shirt down his arms and then tossing it to land on a chair beside the bed.

“You’re undressing. The lamp is still lit, Matt,” she reminded him needlessly.

“I’m getting ready for bed, Emmaline.” Loosening his belt, he moved to sit on the edge of the bed. He bent to tug at his boots, pulling them off with a muffled grunt and making short work of his stockings before he rose to his feet again.

“Wait, I’ll turn out the lamp,” she said quickly, hurrying to the square table that stood next to the bed. Carefully she kept her head averted from him, reaching for the small metal handle to turn down the wick. She concentrated on the flame, narrowing her eyes against its brilliance as she lowered the oil-soaked cotton wick, breathing a sigh as the light flared briefly and then died.

She heard the rustle of his clothing on the other side of the bed, then the whisper of the bedclothes as he lowered himself to the soft comfort of the feather tick. Her hands loosened the tie of her robe, and she slid it from her shoulders, allowing it to fall to the floor, where it lay in a pale half circle about her feet.

“Get in bed, Emmaline.” His voice was low and harsh against her ears, and she shivered.

“Are you angry with me?”

He sat up abruptly. “Hell, no, I’m not mad.”

She backed away, just a step, until the reflection of the moonlight, falling in a path from the open window, illuminated his face. It was drawn into harsh lines, his eyes hidden in the darkness beneath lowered brows, his mouth unsmiling and grim. But the hand reaching toward her was open and inviting.

“Come to bed, Emmie. Now.”

“Yes.” It was a drawn-out syllable—a breath of relief—and she accepted his hand, clasping his fingers with her own. She took the short step to where he waited. He lifted the sheet and she slid beneath the white muslin, her head cushioned in the depths of the goosedown pillow.

“It’s all right, Emmaline,” he said carefully. “I’m not angry with you. I was upset for a while, but I’m over it.”

He raised on one elbow to rise over her, and she turned her head to seek his gaze...that penetrating, narrowed gaze that shattered her composure so easily. Trembling at the fierce tension that flared to life between them, she breathed through parted lips, her senses filled to overflowing with the power of his presence...the musky, male scent that teased her nostrils, the familiar appraisal of his eyes as he watched her with barely concealed hunger.

She breathed deeply once more, freeing herself from the captivity of his gaze. Her eyes scanned the harsh planes of his countenance. Dark hair fell across his wide forehead, coaxing her fingers to explore, and she clenched them tightly, lest she yield to yet another temptation. His jaw was rigid, his mouth tight and unsmiling, as he allowed her this surveillance of his features. Intently she measured him, as if she sought reassurance from the familiarity of his face.

Her sigh whispered between them as she yielded to the temptation he offered, and her hand lifted in an involuntary movement to press gentle fingers against his furrowed brow.

“Are you going to kiss me good-night?”

He shook his head slowly and carefully. “No, not yet, Emmaline.”

Her eyes widened as he lowered his head, and then her lashes fell to blot from her vision the hunger that painted his harsh features.

“I’ll kiss you good-night later,” he promised, in a rasping whisper, which brushed against her ear.

But, untamed as his ragged breathing was, his mouth was gentle, his need restrained, and the touch of his hands careful against her flesh. He drew her tenderly into the realm of pleasure they had explored in the hours at the hotel. Now, with desire that had been fed throughout the day while he waited impatiently for the sun to set, he coaxed her with gentle, tender caresses.

She followed where he led, her body supple beneath him, her movements untutored and so even more of a delight than she could know as he drew her into new depths of passion. He whispered dark, delicious promises against her flesh, and she shuddered as he fulfilled each vow, bringing her to a shattering awareness of his power over her slender body.

Yet still she clung to him, even after the tremors had subsided to faint shivers that caused him to press damp kisses against her throat and across the narrow width of her shoulders. His face was shadowed, hidden against her breasts, and she threaded her fingers through his hair, thankful for the darkness that cloaked her.

For surely he would know...if he was to see her face, he would recognize the emotion she struggled with. The sure and certain knowledge that the man who had claimed her body had taken possession of more than the flesh and bone that was Emmaline Carruthers. For she had given more than her body in this act of marriage. As surely as he had received her virginity the night before, tonight he had been gifted with her love.

In the darkness, the soft, triumphant sound of his laughter vibrated with sensual pleasure against her throat.

“Now I’ll kiss you good-night, Emmie.” The words were whispered against her skin. He shifted against her until she felt the heat of his breathing against the rise of her breast.

“There?” she managed to gasp as his tongue feathered across the tender flesh.