No Other Man (20 page)

If he
confronted her now, she'd lie. Close more tightly against him. He'd have to
find her out. Take what he wanted to know, because she'd give him nothing.

He closed his eyes. He needed to sleep.

His
eyes flew open again when her fist slammed against his back with surprising
strength.

"You
son of a bitch!" she hissed, turning away from him once again.

He stiffened, then eased. A smile slowly crept into his lips.
Fine. He'd had no right to rip up her nightgown. She could have the last word.
Tonight.

The days that followed his father's burial were busy for
Hawk. He would have to spend at least five to ten days away from the ranch if
he was going to ride north and find Crazy Horse. The ride was a beautiful one,
but he and Sloan meant to take cattle and presents, which meant pack mules and
a slow-going route. The idea of leaving his mysterious wife behind did not
appeal to him, but the current hostile Indian situation was so severe that it
had to take precedence over her personal problems. And she would never actually
be alone. Willow, Rabbit, and Jack Logan would be around to keep wary eyes on
the new mistress, right along with Megan, and Henry Pierpont as well, should
she threaten the estate in any way.

So far, she didn't seem to be intent upon doing any such thing,
even though the telegram she had received continued to haunt his mind.

She gave no sign of having any interest in anything beyond
Mayfair. By day, she was truly the model wife, lending a hand to whatever
household tasks were on the calendar, be it candle making, washing, or bread
baking. She managed to avoid him throughout most of the day, or perhaps, he
managed to avoid her.

By night...

The first night he had come into her room after that of his
father's funeral, he had found her cocooned in the covers. But when the lights
had been snuffed out and he'd crawled in beside her, he'd been both pleased and
amused to discover that she wore nothing beneath those covers.

"At least you learn quickly and have taken the vow of
obedience to heart."

"I'll never be obedient."

"But you've obeyed."

"I'm merely trying to preserve my wardrobe. Though I
should insist that you replace what you've destroyed."

"Buy you new outfits?"

"Pay me for them. I can replace them on my own."

"Ah. But, then, you don't need a nightgown replaced, do
you?"

He waited. When was she going to ask him for the money she
apparently needed.
Send help.
He was certain
the words were a plea for financial assistance.

"You are exasperating."

"At this moment, I am distracted. Come here."

"If you want me—"

"Yes, I know. Take what I want. I shall."

"Are you always so wretchedly persistent?"

"Always."

But she
was equally as stubborn. Every night, he made love to her. Every night, she
held herself aloof. And the dissatisfaction within him grew along with his
unease. She filled his thoughts when he was in the midst of payroll checks;
haunted him when he rode with Willow, choosing cattle to be taken on his ride
to see Crazy Horse. Determined to shake her hold on him, he spent a night in
his own room.

Being
away from her didn't help. He was not just disappointed or vaguely
dissatisfied, he was in pain. It had been a fool's determination. He was about
to leave her. The longing would intensify a hundred fold.

He'd be damned, of course, if he let her know.

The
night before the morning he had planned to leave, he sat in his office,
ostensibly going over accounts, in actuality asking himself if he felt safe
leaving her. He heard a tap on his door. Sandra stuck her head in, smiling her
exotic, catlike smile. "May I come in?"

"Please."

She
came to his desk. Her smile faded. "I think that I must tell you about
your wife."

"Oh?"

"She found her way to Gold Town today."

"What?" he demanded, startled.

Sandra
nodded. "She has studied the maps in your library. She had no problem
saddling a horse and slipping away. But I saw her, and I followed her."

He
leaned back. Under normal circumstances, he shouldn't have said or done
anything that might encourage Sandra to spy on her mistress.

But
these weren't normal circumstances. "What did she do?"

"She went to see Mr. Pierpont."

"Ah."
He wondered if Skylar had discovered that she would have inherited the houses
and most of the surrounding property if he had sought an annulment.

"What then?"

"She went to the telegraph office. Then she rode
home."

He nodded, tapping his pen against the blotter on his desk.
"Thank you," he murmured absently.

Sandra nodded. "Do you want to know what she said?"

He frowned. "In the telegram?"

"No, to Mr. Pierpont."

"You know what she said to him?"

Sandra smiled broadly. "I stood outside his window. She
said she had come to find out if she could have some kind of allowance of her
own. Mr. Pierpont told her that she had to speak to you. She said that she
didn't really need very much. He said that he was truly sorry, but that she
still had to speak to you."

"Well, good for old Henry!" Hawk mused. Henry had
drawn up the papers for his father to arrange a proxy marriage for him. But at
least now Henry seemed to have discovered a new loyalty.

Not that there was actually anything wrong with Skylar's
receiving an allowance for her personal expenditures. He just wanted to know
what she so obsessively needed the money for. It had something to do with
someone back east. A lover? No intimate affair had been consummated, but that
didn't mean that she hadn't been involved with someone else.

He looked up at Sandra, smiling. "Thank you again."

"It's important, the information I've given you."

"It may be."

She smiled again. "Then I'm pleased. I won't let her
hurt you."

"Sandra—" He hesitated. He was aware that she cared
about him. He had found her, orphaned as a girl, on the plain. She'd literally
been alone, seated in the middle of a small Sioux camp after a Crow raid that
had taken the lives of all the others in the band. His father had gladly taken
her in, giving her small jobs at first and seeing that she was tutored in
English and history. She had white blood, possibly Oriental as well, and David
felt she should learn about a variety of cultures and make her own choice as to
which she would like to live in. She had liked Mayfair, and as she grew up she
had taken on housekeeping chores and became a part of the family. She'd loved
his father and was equally fond of him, and he returned her affection. He was
just uneasy about the way her affection for him seemed to be shifting.
"Sandra, she is my wife. She isn't going to—"

"You didn't want her. Your father found her because
she's white. You can't trust her."

He hesitated in midbreath.

It was true that he couldn't trust Skylar. It was equally
true that...

She was his wife. The wife he hadn't wanted. The wife who
obsessed him. And somehow, he'd break down the barriers between them. Find out
what had happened in the past. And just what the hell she was up to now.

Find the woman he had touched that first night he 'd made
love to her...

"Sandra, Skylar is my wife."

Sandra smiled. "But you keep your own bed."

"Many white couples keep separate rooms."

Sandra smiled. "Because most white men tire of their
wives."

"Sandra, you're mistaken."

She shook her head, as if she knew a secret truth. "I'll
still keep her from hurting you. And I'm glad you keep your own room."

She left before he could say more. He leaned back, lacing his
fingers behind his head.

It was growing late.

Sandra might be mistaken about many things, but he did seem
to have a serious problem with Skylar regarding the activities she chose to
keep hidden from him. He didn't know how to solve that problem, but he couldn't
spend much more time now pondering it. He needed to gather a few personal
belongings if he was going to ride out tomorrow.

He left the office behind for his own bedroom. He pulled a
bedroll from beneath his bed and gathered his razor, strap, and brush from the
dresser. He mulled over the information regarding his wife's day, trying to
determine just how to handle her. How to approach her.

How to leave her.

He
realized he'd been fooling himself. He couldn't leave her.

Just as
he reached that conclusion, he was startled by a soft tapping at his door.

He threw it open, amazed.

He wasn't going to have to approach his wife.

She had come to him.

Skylar
stood there. She was wearing some kind of a night garment, but one quite
different from what she had worn before. This was all silk. Deep blue, very
low-cut in front and in back. Where it didn't blatantly hug her body, enunciating
every perfect curve, it seemed to shimmer around her. Her hair was down,
brushed to a flowing, golden sheen. She appeared elegant and soft. Dignified
... and sensual. The gown had been chosen with care. As had her perfume. It was
musky and ... seductive.

Her smile was charming and hesitant.

The
rapid rise and fall of her breasts and her labored breath belied the very
lightness of her smile.

He could tell that she was appalled to be here.

But she wanted something. Yes.

He wondered just how far she'd go to get it.

Twelve

She
hated being here. She wanted to crawl beneath the floor.

It was
all the worse because she realized she might be attempting this course of action
too late. It seemed he wearied of her at last. He hadn't come near her last
night. Had he slept here with someone else who didn't mind that sometimes he
slept elsewhere?

Was he perhaps expecting that someone now?

"Yes?" he inquired politely.

"May
I... enter this sacred domain?" Skylar asked, wincing as she realized that
her query had been half flirtatious and half very dry.

He
stepped back mockingly. "Do come in. Indeed. I am stunned by the honor of
your visit."

Skylar
walked nervously past him, crossing her arms over her chest, then allowing them
to fall as she realized it was a defensive gesture, hardly seductive. She
forced a smile to her hps, turning to survey the room as she did so. She
extended a hand toward the connecting doorway to the library. "What a
wonderful place."

"I'd
give you a tour, but it's evident you've taken one on your own."

"I never actually
took a tour," she said pleasantly.

"What do you want, Skylar?"

She grated her teeth together beneath her smile. Hating him.
This was sheer misery to begin with, but he was making it immeasurably harder.

"I just heard this evening from Megan that you are planning
to leave in the morning."

"I am."

Skylar stood at the foot of his bed, curling her fingers
around the bedpost. "You hadn't said anything to me," she said very
softly.

He studied her for a moment.

Then her heart leaped as he took a few steps toward her.
Coming around behind her, he lifted the heavy fall of her hair, placing his
lips against her nape, then her shoulder. His breath was warm against her ear
as he murmured, "You were concerned. You would have noticed that I was
gone."

"Obviously, I would have noticed," she murmured.

He lingered behind her. She couldn't see his face. Her pulse
raced, and she prayed that she was doing the right thing. Her pride seemed to
be suffering an almost mortal blow, but she couldn't let that matter at the
moment. She had to get her hands on some money. And it was true that he was
leaving. She'd have to endure one wretched night of giving away everything, but
then he'd be gone. And she'd have days in which she could prepare for the next
battle.

• He
moved away from her, striding toward the brandy decanter on a side table near
his wardrobe. "May I pour you a drink?"

"Were you going to have one?" she asked in what she
hoped was a soft and seductive tone.

"Now that you've chosen to honor me with this visit, of
course."

Despite her best efforts, she spoke before she thought.
"You're not honored in the least. If you'd wanted to see me, you'd have
done so."

He glanced her way briefly as he poured an inch of brandy
into each of two snifters. "Perhaps," he agreed, bringing the brandy
to her. "But it's quite different to have you here."

She accepted the snifter from him and felt his gaze so
intently that for a moment, her eyes fell. She could not meet his. She took a
sip of the brandy, then tossed back her head and swallowed it all. It nearly
choked her. It was wonderful. It warmed every part of her body.

"So," he murmured, still very close. "You're
concerned that I'm leaving. Why?"

The abrupt question startled her. "I..."

"I mean, frankly, you came this great distance, into the
wilderness, land barely known to whites until a little more than a year ago,
assuming you'd be on your own, taking charge. Staking claim," he said
politely. "You're suddenly afraid?"

"No, I'm ..." She pushed away from the bedpost, easing
a small distance away from him. She set her brandy glass down, running her
fingers idly over the handsome crystal carafe that held the brandy.
"Perhaps I hadn't realized quite how hostile the territory can be. The
army forts are much farther away than I had imagined."

"There's a company of men who were sent to keep the
peace around Gold Town, which isn't that far from here."

"That, of course, is reassuring. It's just that when
you're gone..."

"Yes?"

She hadn't heard him move. He was behind her again. He set
his own brandy glass down. She realized he had barely taken a sip from it. He
took the carafe from her fingers and poured more brandy into her snifter,
raising it before her. She took it from his fingers, turning away, lowering
her head. "Well, it's quite unnerving."