Gerrity'S Bride (4 page)

She eyed him from beneath lowered lids, her glance making a guarded survey. His pants were snug, wrapped about his thighs and calves as if custom-made to fit the muscular shape they covered. Dusty and worn at the seams, they were standard-quality denim, but on Matthew Gerrity they became something else.

She thought of the men she’d known who wouldn’t be caught wearing common pants from a store shelf, men who had their riding clothes made by tailors who measured and sewed each seam with precision. None of them could hold a candle to this man, she decided.

There was about him a sureness, a quality of masculine perfection that defied description. He wore a cotton shirt that tucked neatly into his pants, a bandanna tied casually about his throat, his belt snug about his waist—below his waist, really, she amended with a silent chuckle. The pants rode the top of his hips as he walked, she remembered, and her face flushed as she recalled that walk.

That slim-hipped, flat-bottomed stroll that had caught her openmouthed as she watched. The masculine body that began with broad shoulders and long arms, arms that were thick beneath the shirtsleeves he rolled to within inches of his elbows. Hands that were wide, and fingers that were long and tapered and strong.

“Emmaline?” The voice was close to her ear, and she jerked as it brought her from her thoughts.

“Have you made up your mind? Are you planning the wedding?”

She shook her head. “Not yet.”

His look was cynical. “Begging off already?”

“I told you I’d do anything I had to, didn’t I?”

“Is it so bad? Marrying the ranch foreman?” His tone was clipped and cold.

“You won’t be the foreman if I marry you. You’ll own the place.”

“Half of it. Your name will be on the title, too. That ought to make your folks happy, you bein’ a landowner.”

She shrugged and eyed the darkened horizon, loath to look in his direction. “It’s still not what my grandparents planned for me. Certainly not what my mother had in mind for her only child.”

“In other words, you could do better back in Lexington,” he said tonelessly.

“Could you? Could you do better?” she asked, and then dared the question she’d been mulling over. “Was there someone else in the picture before I arrived?”

He was silent, and she ventured to cast a quick look at him. His jaw was taut, and his eyes were narrowed. Certainly not an approachable man, she thought. He gave no indication of his thoughts, and she’d begun to regret her question when he shifted toward her.

“No one that should matter to you,” he answered shortly.

“Will you break her heart? Or is there more than one?”

He shook his head in a slow movement, his eyes on her. “Hardly. I don’t have time to chase after women.”

“Maria seems to think you don’t have to do much chasing.”

“Maria talks too much.” His grin was cocky.

“You didn’t answer my question. Are you going to break some woman’s heart if we marry?” She tilted her chin and waited for his answer.

It was enigmatic, as was the look he sent from beneath lowered brows. “Most women don’t have hearts that are broken so easily.”

She sighed, wondering how long it would take to get a straight answer. “Will you give her up?”

His smile tilted one corner of his mouth disdainfully. “Does it matter?”

Her cheeks were pink as she considered him. “There isn’t any hurry, is there?” she asked finally. “We don’t have to be married right away. Because if you’re having second thoughts, or if you’re planning on—”

“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.

T
he 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.

With shameless satisfaction, Emmaline reeled in the prize she had won. “There, on the bed,” she said with a lazy movement of her hand. “I left the box out in case you came by.”

Theresa’s mouth formed a soft circle of wonder as her small hand edged across the coverlet to allow slender fingers to trace the fragile flowers that graced the shiny prize she coveted.

“This is for me?” she whispered hopefully.

Emmaline nodded, her smile guardedly triumphant as she watched. “Open it, why don’t you?” she urged softly.

With an eagerness that brought a startled burst of laughter from her elder sister, Theresa clambered onto the bed and then, with anxious eyes, glanced back for approval.

“Go ahead, open it,” Emmaline said encouragingly as she approached the foot of the bed. She was heady with success, and her cheeks were rosy with excitement.

Pretty as a picture.
The words that described the scene flew into being as Matthew Gerrity watched from the doorway. Unseen, unnoticed by the two, who were deeply engrossed in their own involvement, he hesitated outside the room.

A strange emotion tore at his heart, a painful surge he recognized as jealousy tightening his jaw, and his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the woman who had begun to usurp his place. With feminine skill, she had brought about this happening, knowing intuitively what would whet a small girl’s curiosity, what would draw the child into her orbit.

“Sneaky,” he said in a casual accusation as he left his watching post to shatter the fragile picture burning in his mind. Unwilling to admit the beguiling of his senses, he chose to break the tenuous moment of vulnerability that had seized his control. He thrust away the moment of envy, the sense of standing outside the magic circle, his mouth tightening with the effort.

Emmaline glanced at him quickly, her smile smothered by the shuttered look he cast in her direction.

“Not sneaky, just devious,” she told him softly. “I need every foothold I can manage.”

Oblivious of the adults who spoke civilities over her head, Theresa was involved in the process of lifting the cover from the box, her fingers already foraging beneath the tissue, which had kept the contents from damage during the long journey.

With a gasp of delight and a whisper of wonder, she drew forth the beautiful bisque doll Emmaline had brought for her. With bonnet and gown barely wrinkled, with delicately hand-painted features smiling demurely in her direction, the loose-limbed creation enthralled Theresa completely. The doll’s hands were lifted carefully and examined, the slippered feet treated with tender regard.

Then the child’s small head lifted, and for the first time, Emmaline saw the sister she had traveled so far to meet and claim as her own.

“Oh, thank you, Emmie,” she said with joyous haste, her small tongue shortening the ponderous length of her sister’s name.

Emmaline cast a glance that reeked of triumph in Matthew’s direction and then allowed her features to soften as she sat down beside the girl, who held the doll with careful hands.

“Emmie?” she asked carefully, her heart rejoicing at the implied intimacy.

Theresa looked up and shrugged. “Emmaline is too long to say.” Her eyes darted to the tall form of her brother, who watched silently. “Do you like my present, Maffew?” she asked with obvious restraint as she awaited his opinion.

To his credit, Matt Gerrity smiled and nodded his approval. Unwilling to dampen the pleasure of his small sister, he faced the knowledge that his solitary relationship with her was at an end.

“Your sister knew just what you would like, didn’t she?” he asked, his question directed at both females.

Emmaline’s chin lifted defiantly as she allowed her smile to widen in response. “You had a head start, Matthew,” she said carefully.

Theresa looked from one to the other, as if she sensed the undercurrents that lay beneath their words.

He relented, unwilling to cloud the small face looking at him with a trace of uncertainty. “It’s a beautiful doll, Tessie,” he assured her. “I’m glad your sister brought it to you.”

The gathering cloud vanished. Theresa embraced the doll, her arms holding the stuffed body with care and her head bent as she crooned softly against the delicately rouged cheek.

Matt’s glance brushed with tenderness over the small form as she rocked the doll within her arms, and Emmaline’s breath caught in her throat as she glimpsed the warmth of his regard.

Just for a moment, an errant thought pierced Emmaline’s satisfaction as she hugged her small victory. Just for a fleeting second, she wondered how it would feel to have that same tender look bestowed upon her own being. And for the space of that moment, she felt alone, bereft of human touch, once more the lonely girl who had been searching for a lifetime and until now had never caught a glimpse of what she sought.

* * *

“You’re getting married?” The words were shrill and carried easily to the hallway, where Emmaline had paused. Voices from the library had alerted her to the presence of a visitor, and she had hesitated, unwilling to intrude upon a private conversation. With one hand, she leaned against the wall beside her, vacillating between advancement and retreat.

The murmur of Matthew’s voice was blurred by the rapid speech of a woman who appeared intent on overriding his explanation.

“I don’t understand! I just cannot believe you’ve dragged a bride out of the woodwork!” she exclaimed with the same shrill vehemence.

“Now, Deborah,” Matt said firmly.

A silence settled against her ears, and Emmaline leaned forward a bit, listening for the reply she was sure must be forthcoming. No longer was she tempted to retreat to her bedroom. Gone was the ladylike urge to ignore the passionate exchange in the library. The woman was talking about her, and Emmaline’s eyes were wide with annoyance.

“I was hardly dragged out of the woodwork,” she muttered beneath her breath.

A muffled sob reached Emmaline’s hearing, and then a whispered flow of words caused her to change her position. She took her hand from the whitewashed wall, jammed it in her pocket and moved carefully down the hallway, bent on catching sight of the unseen female who had managed to put a blight on this morning.

Hesitating before the open door of the library, she stiffened, her mouth tightening in disapproval. Matthew’s hands were busy, one distractedly patting a slender back, the other in the process of wiping away tears with a large white handkerchief. The woman who was allowing such familiarity with her person was sighing and sobbing with dainty purpose, the sounds at variance with the shrill comments she had been making only minutes ago.

“Am I intruding?” Emmaline asked from her vantage point. She schooled her features into a concerned mask and stepped forward.

Matt looked up and glared at her over the head of the woman he was attempting to comfort. “I’m not sure this is the time for a formal introduction, Emmaline,” he said bluntly.

The woman in his grasp shuddered once more, then straightened her shoulders and took charge of the handkerchief he held. Walking to the window, she pulled aside the white curtain and looked out upon the view from the front of the house.

Emmaline lifted one eyebrow in an unspoken question and, with a delicate movement of her hands, signified her willingness to retreat, backing away from Matthew’s apparent frustration.

“Never mind leaving.” He changed his mind and reached for her hand, clasping her fingers in a grasp she knew would be easier to accept than to wiggle out of. “This probably is as good a time as any,” he muttered, contradicting his first reaction to her appearance.

“Deborah,” he said briskly, and then waited while the woman at the window slowly turned to face them.

“This is Emmaline Carruthers, the woman who will be my wife.”

Not “my bride” or “the woman I’ve asked to marry me,” but, bluntly, “my wife.” Emmaline struggled to look pleasant. She knew she couldn’t manage friendly, and welcoming was far beyond her capacity for the moment. Pleasant would have to suffice.

With but a passing glance, the woman turned her attention to the tall man who had delivered her a telling blow. His jaw was set and rigid, but his eyes held a trace of pity Emmaline could not help but notice. Perhaps it was the unwanted suggestion of such an emotion that tightened the woman’s own features into a civil expression marred only by the flaring of her nostrils as she spoke.

“Congratulations to both of you. I’ll admit I was a bit surprised at the news, Matt, but then, you always were full of surprises,” she said, dropping her gaze, to brush with one hand at the unwrinkled expanse of her skirt.

“This is Deborah Hopkins, the daughter of our nearest neighbor,” Matthew explained as he drew Emmaline closer, his fingers tightening on her own as she reluctantly stepped next to him.

“I really must leave. I only dropped by to invite you to Sunday dinner, Matt,” the blond creature said, her breasts lifting as she stifled a sigh. Her eyelashes fluttered in a sad little gesture Emmaline noted grimly, and then, fastening her gaze on the man who stood across the room, Deborah smiled. Pathetically, her mouth trembled in a way designed to tug at a man’s heartstrings.