Gerrity'S Bride (5 page)

Only as she made her way past them to the doorway did she deign to look directly at Emmaline. Her eyes swept from the top of her unruly curls, down past the black mourning dress that hung in heavy folds to the floor. In a gesture that dismissed Emmaline as insignificant, Deborah moved past her, and it was only when she reached the front door that Matthew moved.

“Let me walk you to your buggy,” he offered, releasing Emmaline’s hand and reaching Deborah’s side with long, easy strides.

She looked up at him with a brave little smile and nodded, stepping back so he could open the door.

Emmaline shook her head in disgust and walked back to watch from the window as the couple approached the buggy standing in front of the house. A small, dark mare stood patiently within the harness, tied to the hitching rail that was just beyond the patch of grass.

How odd, she thought. The woman would make a wonderful actress, changing from feigned sorrow to acceptance to disdain in a matter of moments. And for the life of her, Emmaline couldn’t put a finger on which emotions were genuine. That the girl truly cared for Matthew was probable. This likely was the one he had referred to. The one he said would not be heartbroken by his marriage.

She tended to agree with his judgment. “I don’t think anyone could break her heart,” she said beneath her breath as she watched them. Matthew assisted Deborah onto the high seat of the buggy and then untied the mare, turning the buggy with one hand on the harness. Lifting a hand in a farewell, he watched as the horse broke into a rapid trot at the urging of her mistress.

He turned back to the house, his eyes fixed on the window where Emmaline waited, narrowing as he caught sight of her there. With long, measured strides, he went back to the porch and up the steps to cross to the wide front door. In moments, as long as it took her to turn aside from the window and move halfway across the room, he was back, framed in the doorway, his face a dark cloud of anger.

“All that was far from necessary,” he said with rough impatience. You should have kept your nose outa here, Emmaline. This whole thing was none of your business.”

A twinge of guilt stabbed her, and she hastily threw up a barricade of irritation to thwart its interference. “My name was mentioned. That made it my business,” she said pertly. “After all, I’m the bride you dragged out of the woodwork,” she added with soft emphasis.

“If you hadn’t been eavesdropping, you wouldn’t have heard that remark,” he growled defensively. His jaw firmed and his eyes glittered as she glowered at him.

“I was coming from my bedroom down the hallway. I couldn’t help but hear,” she explained with lofty hauteur.

“Well, you should have trotted right back down that hallway. You could tell that Deborah was upset,” he said with measured anger. “I had only just told her that we were to be married, and she spoke too quickly.”

“Are you defending her, Matthew?” Clasping her hands behind her back, Emmaline surveyed him cooly.

“Deborah doesn’t need defending. She’s more than able to take care of herself,” he answered bluntly.

“Perhaps just the sort of wife you need.” Emmaline’s suggestion was coated with subtle sarcasm.

“Perhaps.” The word dropped between them, and Matthew wished immediately that he could retrieve it, unsaid. This had gone on long enough, and he sensed Emmaline becoming more agitated by the moment.

“Look, it’s beside the point, Emmaline. I’m not marrying Deborah. I’ve never even discussed the subject with her. She’s a neighbor and a friend. Let’s just forget the whole thing.”

“Maybe you never discussed marriage with her, but your friend certainly had it in mind, Matthew. And what was I supposed to think when I came and found you...
together?
” she asked emphatically.

He glared at her impotently, unable to deny her statement. “She was crying. What should I have done? Shoved her away?”

Emmaline shrugged. “I’m sure a gentleman like you would never do that.”

She could really get his dander up, Matt acknowledged glumly. And in a way, she was right. Certainly Deborah had been considering him as a husband. He’d have been a fool not to recognize it. And he probably should have been more considerate when he broke the news to her. But a few kisses and stolen caresses didn’t add up to marriage, in his book. Deborah had probably set her cap in his direction, and his innate honesty forced him to admit silently that it likely would have come about...had not this fiery little baggage come into his life.

But she had, making an impact he was still attempting to absorb. His aggravation at her interference and the rush of emotion she managed to let loose within him combined as he approached her with measured tread.

Too late, she attempted to sidestep his grasp. He was upon her before she could maneuver past him, and his hands were reaching for her. His eyes flared with a hot purpose that had her retreating, struggling against his hold, turning her head from the warmth of his appraisal.

“Let go of me,” she demanded, her hands rising between them and fisting, to pound against the width of his chest.

“Not on your life,” he growled. “You sauntered in here and claimed your rightful place. Don’t deny it, Emmaline. You knew exactly what you were doing when you came through that doorway.”

She met his eyes with a wary look, and her hands unclenched, her fingers spreading against his shirt and pressing against him, as if to retain some small space in which to defend herself.

“No, I...” she began carefully, attempting to explain her actions, then stopped, knowing he was right. She probably should have retreated to her room and left Matt to his explanations. Better yet, if she’d stayed in her room just a while longer... No matter. It was done. She’d known he’d be angry with her interference, and, too late, she wished she could undo the events of the past several minutes.

He held her shoulders firmly, his eyes focused on the myriad expressions that flooded her features. Then his gaze lowered, sweeping over the same dark dress Deborah had surveyed with such scorn. His mouth quirked at one corner, and his fingers shifted their grip, sliding a few inches down her arms. One eyebrow lifted a bit as he watched her, unwillingly admiring her defiant stance.

Emmaline felt heat radiate within her as he surveyed her, from the uptilted thrust of her chin to the soft curves of her breasts. She faced him proudly, fighting the urge to cross her arms over the cushion of her bosom, her senses vibrantly alive beneath the dark intensity of his gaze.

With heavy-lidded precision, his eyes lazily surveyed her slender form, and his movements were careful as he allowed his hands to slide to her waist. Then, moving them upward, he clasped her ribs, just beneath the swell of her bosom, and with a steady urgency his thumbs moved, resting against the lower curve of her breasts.

She flushed, feeling the pressure there, where no man had ever dared to trespass before. Where no gentleman had even cast a lingering glance in passing. She was taken aback by his forward behavior, and yet within her she felt a spark of excitement that would not be denied. A flaring need brought tingling life to the part of her that he touched...a warmth that begged to be brushed against, a heat that cried for the movement of his hands. But good sense, and her rigid upbringing by Delilah, prevailed.

“Don’t.” The single word whispered from her lips, was a plea he could not deny. He lifted his gaze reluctantly from the vision that tempted him and looked instead into her eyes.

As quickly as it had filled him, Matt’s flaring anger was gone, washed away on a tide of regret. As much as Emmaline had deserved his harsh disapproval, she was not deserving of his crudeness.

His hands dropped from her, and his nostrils flared as he inhaled abruptly. “I’m sorry, Emmaline. I shouldn’t have touched you in anger.”

“No...” She shook her head.

For a moment, she swayed, her own breathing irregular, her heart fluttering within her breast like a captured bird that strained to escape. Once more his hands framed her shoulders, and he steadied her, his jaw firm, his gaze sober, only the strange light in his eyes giving her a glimpse of the emotion he held in check.

Her laugh was uneven and forced as she tilted her head to one side. “You’ve really done it now, you know,” she said, her voice trembling.

“Have I?” He muttered the words through lips that barely moved.

“Yes, you’ve let the cat out of the bag. You told Miss Hopkins that you’re going to marry me. The whole town will know it by nightfall, if the Arizona Territory is anything like the state of Kentucky. And I suspect people are alike the world over.”

“Maybe,” he conceded roughly.

She tilted her head back, her eyes meeting his. “Are you going to marry me?” she whispered, and he nodded without hesitation.

“When?” she asked in the same whisper, as if she could not raise her voice beyond the soft questioning that was but a breath of sound.

“As soon as I can make the arrangements.”

Her mouth formed a soft O and he yielded to the temptation of her lips, his mouth descending to cover them with his own.

She shivered in surprise, bracing herself for the same sort of assault he had launched on the porch only days ago. Instead, Emmaline found that the mouth he pressed to hers was all warmth and tenderness. His hands slid up to either side of her head, holding her with gentle purpose as he explored the textures of her face. Her eyes closed and she caught her breath as his caress brushed against her cheek and then to her temple, his nose burrowing in the curls that lay in abandon against her brow.

She was caught up in the pleasure he offered. With only a moment’s hesitation, she leaned into his embrace and relaxed against the broad firmness of his chest. Tentatively her fingers crept to his shoulders, and she grasped handfuls of his shirt.

He gentled his touch, only his mouth paying homage to the softness of her skin, the curve of her throat, and again to the lips that inhaled his scent.

This time he growled a wordless sound of triumph as he parted her lips and edged his tongue against the tender skin. “Open your mouth for me,” he said with dark purpose, his lips brushing carefully with coaxing movements.

She shook her head, moving against his grasp. Her eyes opened in dismay as his demand penetrated her lassitude.

His sigh was deep and his regret enormous as he drew back. A trace of humor lit the depths of his eyes and his mouth twisted in wry acceptance as he viewed the flushed face of the woman he intended to marry.

She wore his brand—the glow of latent passion that lay just beneath the surface of her bewilderment. He tamped down the surge of desire that billowed once more within him.

“You’ll open for me next time,” he promised her in a lazy drawl that told her of his satisfaction at this turn of events.

She dropped her hands from him, confusion darkening her eyes as she considered what he had demanded of her. Then, the determination within caused her to her stiffen against his grasp. She shook away his hands, stepping back from the nearness of his big body.

“Don’t count on it,” she said softly. “Don’t count on it, Gerrity.”

Her skirts swished about her, her head lifted in defiance, and he let her go as she brushed past him, turning to watch as she left the room.

It wasn’t until she closed the door of her room behind her that Emmaline crumpled. Leaning against the heavy planks, she slid down to sit on the floor, burying her face in her hands. Her fingertips traced the path his lips had taken, barely touching the surface of her flesh where the heated kisses had burned against her.

“Oh, Delilah,” she whispered against her palms. “You didn’t tell me about this. You didn’t tell me!”

O
livia Champion could be an attractive woman, Emmaline decided. If only she weren’t so grimly determined to look like a typical teacher. Her primly clad body and her smoothly scraped-back hair advertised her calling, as did the subservient air she wore like a garment.

Like a chameleon against the sand, she blended into the atmosphere of the house, and only here at the breakfast table had Emmaline heard more than one-syllable replies from the woman. Apparently this was a daily routine. Matthew questioned and Olivia answered, reciting Theresa’s schedule for his approval.

Her dark eyes focused on Matt’s face as Olivia placed her napkin carefully across her lap. Emmaline watched as a faint softening of the other woman’s features was quickly concealed by the lowering of her head.

So that’s how the land lies, Emmaline thought with awakening interest. The words spoken described lessons and books, but the subdued glances and carefully orchestrated movements told a different story.

“Today we’ll be working mostly on letters and numbers,” Olivia said quietly, her eyes limpid as she lifted her lashes in Matt’s direction. “I’ve planned a geography lesson for this afternoon, but that will depend on Theresa.” She glanced at Emmaline, her expression tolerant, as she elaborated. “Sometimes she gets a bit cranky after noontime and needs a short rest.”

Emmaline nodded, striving to hide the smile that begged to curl her mouth. “I seem to suffer from the same problem some days,” she agreed. Glancing at Matt as if she were seeking his reinforcement, she continued. “She’s only five years old, Miss Champion. You’re not pushing her too rapidly, are you?”

Olivia shook her head. “Certainly not. Mr. Gerrity wants his sister to be more than literate. His plan is to send her back east, to a university, when the time comes. But for now she is only beginning the basics, learning her letters and numbers as I read to her from the classics. We look at pictures of other countries and read about them, learning history and geography at a primary level.” Her gaze swept across the table to rest with tender concern on Theresa, whose own eyes had moved from one adult to another.

Well said, Emmaline thought with a trickle of humor. The woman was a teacher to the bone, with hardly a shred of impetuosity within that dignified frame. Except for the sidelong glances that Matt seemed so oblivious of.

“I’m sure you have the situation well in hand,” Emmaline murmured, her attention on the butter knife she was using with a lavish hand.

Across the table, Matt’s dark eyes focused on the two women. Even as he listened to the words they spoke, he measured them in his mind. It was unfair, he decided. The contrast between them put Olivia at a distinct disadvantage. Next to the bright curls that surrounded Emmaline’s head and cascaded down her back in an early-morning frenzy, the tutor’s dark hair was commonplace, slicked back into a tightly wound knob at the nape of her neck. Only the somber clothing each wore placed them on common ground; Olivia’s dark gray morning dress just shades lighter than the black silk that adorned Emmaline’s curves.

He frowned as he considered the covered buttons that divided Emmaline’s fitted bodice, ending at the small stand-up collar circling her throat. Covering all the soft flesh there, except for an inch or so in front, where he caught sight of the vulnerable hollow his lips had touched only yesterday.

“I want you to put away the mourning, Emmaline,” he announced as he cut the beefsteak that lay on his plate.

“Really.” She managed to put subtle emphasis on each syllable as she softly defied his edict.

His fork waved in her direction. “Yes, really. You’re not likely to meet any members of high society out here, and the rules of behavior you followed in Kentucky don’t apply.”

She glanced at him with barely concealed disdain. “Rules of behavior never vary when it comes to civilized people,” she said politely.

Olivia Champion swallowed the last bite of her breakfast with almost indecent haste and snatched the white napkin from her lap to cover her mouth. “May I be excused?” she asked softly, and her eyes were shuttered as she rose from her chair. “I must prepare for Theresa’s lessons.”

Matt’s nod was curt, but Emmaline found her tongue. “Certainly, Miss Champion. We’ll look forward to dinner.”

His gaze was morose as Matt watched the young woman leave the room. “You’ve had a week to look her over. Is she any good?” he asked in an undertone. “I mean, do you think she’ll do for Tessie?”

Emmaline’s left eyebrow lifted as she considered him. “Why on earth are you asking me? Didn’t you check into her credentials before you hired her? How long has she been here?”

He shrugged diffidently. “For three months, just since Tessie’s birthday. My mother hired the woman, sight unseen, from a newspaper ad, when she decided that it was time for Tessie to begin schooling.”

“Well, I suppose she’s doing well. She seems to like Tessie, and she certainly admires you.”

“Me?” Matt shook his head as he swallowed the last bite on his fork. “What do I have to do with anything? You’re just trying to ignore the issue.”

Blankly Emmaline looked at him. “What issue?”

His hand waved in her direction, encompassing the darkness of her attire. “That black thing you insist on wearing,” he muttered with disgust.

Emmaline’s chin lifted, and her eyes glittered. The man was totally blind to the attachment Tessie’s teacher was forming for him, and yet managed to notice every detail of her own appearance. How dare he criticize her dress?

Matt chewed calmly, surveying the arrogant picture she presented, his own eyes lowering to his plate as he fought to hide the gleam of amusement he could not suppress.

“This black thing,” she announced with genteel anger, “is made of the finest silk, imported from France and sewn by Lexington’s most accomplished dressmaker.” Her head nodded once when she’d completed her announcement.

His drawl became more pronounced as he inspected her carefully. “Well, it sure won’t do for summertime in the Arizona Territory.”

“I beg to differ with you,” she said smartly. “We’ve had this conversation once before, if I remember correctly, and my position has not changed. I intend to remain in mourning for at least six months. Given the circumstances of our marriage, I consider that sufficient.”

His chair pushed back, silent against the thick rug that covered the dining room floor, and Matt rose to his feet. He spread his palms flat on the heavy pine table and leaned to confront her, parroting her words precisely.

“Given the circumstances of our marriage, I insist you send for some more appropriate clothing from Kentucky. Either that, or I’ll take you into Forbes Junction to sort through the ladies’ things at the dry goods.”

A flush rose from her throat to cover her cheeks, and Emmaline swallowed the angry words that formed in her mind. Just who did he think he was? This misbegotten...

“Well?” He leaned closer, and she fought the urge to scoot her chair back, fought the inclination to put more than a few inches between his hard-bitten features and her own.

Her fingers clenched into fists as she pounded them on the table, her elegant manners flying to the four winds. She met his arrogance in equal measure.

“Well, what?” she said between gritted teeth. “Who gave you the right to judge my wardrobe, Mr. Gerrity? Until I stand before a preacher and say all the right words, you have no right to dictate to me! About anything!”

His eyes flashed with smothered amusement as he assessed the haughty demeanor of the woman who faced him. He’d ruffled her feathers, that was for sure. He decided he might as well finish the job, as long as he was at it.

One hand lifted from the table and snaked out to cradle the curls that covered the back of her head. Fingers gripping securely, he pulled her forward, balancing himself with the other hand that pressed firmly against the table between them. Tiny flecks of amber glowed within her blue eyes as she tilted her head against the pressure of his wide palm. Not fear, he noted with satisfaction, but defiance, lit those gently slanted eyes. Her lips were firmly closed, her jaw clenched, and her nostrils flared with the force of her indrawn breath as he lowered his mouth to stake his claim.

As kisses went, it wasn’t much, he thought ruefully. She had clamped down hard, her teeth held tightly together, like a bulldog with a bone. He molded her lips with his own, amused by the pursing and pushing at him, and then, with a growl, he bit at the lower lip that protruded, nipping it gently until she protested.

“Um...bffft...” The words were captive within her mouth, and he quickly followed his attack with a gentle bathing of his tongue against the fullness of the flesh he had grasped between his teeth.

Then, as quickly as he had leaned forward to take hold of her, he released her and stood erect, his damp mouth slanted into a grin that bespoke his victory.

“I have the right, Emmaline,” he told her quietly. “I’m in charge here, over everything and everyone on this ranch. Most especially, my dear bride-to-be, I’m in charge of you. That gives me the right to be concerned for your welfare.”

He waited for the explosion that was sure to follow, but she only watched him warily, her tongue exploring the cushion of her bottom lip.

The worrying of her mouth had not hurt, she realized, only caught her attention, which was no doubt what he’d had in mind. He’d caught her attention, all right. Twice before, he’d kissed her, first with a harshness that branded her as his prey. The second time had been an awakening, a tender, careful perusal of her lips that had beguiled and tempted her into hazy desire.

Now, in a demanding fashion, he had arrogantly taken her mouth, riding roughshod over her muffled protest. As hard as his hand had been, holding her in place, as determined as his mouth had been, tasting of her own, she could not be afraid of his dominance. Only of the strange emotions his touch had forced into being within her.

“And what if I decline your generous offer, Mr. Gerrity? What if I choose not to shop at the dry goods?” She rose from her chair and waited, her eyes speaking her defiance.

His grin became a smile of anticipation as he allowed his own gaze to slide downward over the bodice of her dress, admiring the slender curves beneath the black silk.

“Why then, Miss Carruthers, I’ll have to find something appropriate of Maria’s for you to wear,” he said with mocking assurance.

“Maria’s?” Her glance was skeptical, questioning his intelligence without words.

Arrogantly he ignored her insinuation, viewing her dark garb measuringly. “You’ll need a different outfit, if you expect to go riding with me. We’ll just have to make Maria’s fit.”

“I hardly think so,” she said, denying his suggestion. “We just aren’t built the same.”

His grin caught her unawares, and she bit at her lip. His threat to stuff her into Maria’s clothing had been mere foolishness. No two women could be more different. Once more he’d managed to rile her with his teasing.

And then he relented, his smile shamefaced now. “Peace? A truce of sorts?” He lifted his hand in a placating gesture, waiting for her nod of agreement. “I have just the thing for you to wear,” he said softly.

Matt Gerrity in the role of a supplicant was not to be believed, and Emmaline privately gloated at the sight. She could afford to be generous, she decided, then smiled and shrugged eloquently.

“You’re going to have a chance to make good on your claims,” he told her, reaching for her hand as he reminded her of her boast. “I’ll get you outfitted, and then we’ll see just how well you can ride some good Arizona horseflesh.”

* * *

“Whose is it?” she asked as she smoothed the soft leather garment with the palm of her hand. Dark against the pristine white of the coverlet on her bed, the riding skirt was spread for her approval. Made of tanned leather, sewn with careful stitches, it was certainly not Maria’s. Slim at the waistline and flaring into a full, separated skirt, it was obviously some woman’s prized possession. Her hand brushed once more at the creamy texture of the leather as Emmaline admired the garment.

Matthew Gerrity’s jaw clenched, tightening for a moment as he watched her slender fingers. “It belonged to my mother,” he said finally, his voice clipped, as if he found the words difficult to speak.

Emmaline’s eyes widened as she stood erect, clutching the skirt to her breast. “Oh...well, maybe I shouldn’t...”

He shrugged, lifting one shoulder, as if it were but a minor detail, this protest on her part. “It’s too fine a garment to go to waste,” he said soberly. “I don’t think she’d care if you wore it.”

As if a veil had lifted, his mouth twisted into a smile when Emmaline nodded, accepting the gift he offered.

“Thank you,” she said gently. “I’ll be very careful with it.”

His smile widened into a grin, quick and unexpected, taking her by surprise. Another side of this man, she realized, one she hadn’t expected. A warmer, softer element that had caught her unprepared.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the grin vanished and the taciturn rancher once more stood before her. “Get ready,” he said gruffly. “I’ll get someone to saddle up a couple of horses.”

She nodded, lifting the soft leather to brush it against the curve of her cheek, watching Matt as he turned away to leave her room. Deep within her body, a coiling heat radiated, bringing about a tingling awareness of him. Of high cheekbones and dark hair, a strong jaw with deep slashes defining his cheeks, wide shoulders and hard, heavy muscles beneath the cotton shirt he wore.

The door shut behind him quietly, and she closed her eyes, intent on recapturing the purely masculine look of him to ponder for a moment. The width of his shoulders, the strength of those wide-palmed hands that had lifted her so casually, taking her weight as if it were nothing. Her heart pounded more rapidly while she remembered the moments on the porch, when he’d held her and kissed her with harsh intent. Yet his kiss had not repulsed her or caused her to fight his embrace.

It was a puzzle, she decided, her eyes blinking open. And nothing in her sheltered past had prepared her to interpret the feelings that ran rampant within her. To give her his mother’s riding skirt... She shook her head unbelievingly, inhaling the fine scent of the leather.