The Hawk and the Dove (42 page)

“Who are you?” he asked.

“No one you’d be interested in knowing.”

Oh, but he would, he would. It was unlike him, but he checked himself, keeping his badgering thoughts to himself. “Do you know Mourning Howard?”

She looked at him as if he had insulted her. “I might. Why?” She made a move to get up, but discovered her skirts were pinned beneath the sharp points of the rowels on his spurs.

“Would you move your feet? My skirts are caught.” She tugged at the fabric, but he made no move to lift his feet. He was certainly different from the men she was accustomed to. He did not treat a lady like a lady. Of
course, she didn’t exactly look like a lady; wearing her oldest dress, her skirts rumpled, her hair going in more directions than a road map.

“I asked if you knew Mourning Howard. Do you want to answer my question, or does this stubborn streak mean you’d rather kiss?”

If the devil can’t come, he will send someone, and she was convinced this man was the replacement. “I
know
Mourning Howard but I don’t know you or why you want her.”

“Just tell me where I can find her.”

“Not until I know why.”

“You’re a daring little saucebox, aren’t you?” His look was direct. “It’s perfectly honorable, I assure you. She’s the reason I’m here.”

Her head flew up, her eyes widened. Her heart threatened to fly right out of her chest. Panic. Alarm. A swiftly spreading sense of dread. Emotions crowded along nerve passages all at once, not one of them getting through, leaving her blank. “What—” It came out as a croak. She tried again. “What are you going to do with her?”

Amusement glittered in his eyes. “Do? Why, nothing. Not in the sense you mean, anyway.” She was even more alluring when she blushed. “Her mother is married to my father. I’ve come to take her back to Texas with me.”

All the color he had admired in her lovely face vanished. Instantly.
“You’ve
come?” she managed to squeak. “You’ve come to take her with
you?”
It was obvious he wasn’t going to help her make a fool of herself, merely giving her a look that said she was giving a gilt-edged exhibition all by herself.

The grooves on either side of his mouth deepened. “As an escort, nothing more. I’ve just come from St. Louis, so it wasn’t out of my way to stop here in Memphis.” Seeing
the shocked look on her face, he added, “At her mother’s request.”

She was deathly pale. “You can’t be,” she said. “There must be some mistake. All the way to Texas with you? But you’re …”

As if reading her thoughts, he said, “Listen, my little paragon, I don’t seduce family members, if that’s what you’re thinking. Even I had a mother. And, believe it or not, unlike you, I have a name.”

“I know who you are, Clint Kincaid.”

He stared at her with an expression that was startled, but difficult to read. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

“Mourning Howard.”

“Oh, shit.”

It was her turn to smile. He eyed her with amused astonishment and then threw back his head in laughter, but only momentarily. As soon as the skull-splitting pain ricocheted from temple to temple, Clint groaned. “I guess I deserved that,” he said.

“Yes … you did.” The look he was giving her made her uneasy. Mourning bristled, then changed the subject. “You’re early. We didn’t expect you until next week.”

“Finished my business in St. Louis a little ahead of schedule,” he said. Eyes gray as goosedown considered her. So this was Caroline’s daughter. Too bad. She was a real eyeful, but she was family. That made a difference. A
big
difference.

“Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me who you were?”

“I just did.”

“I mean earlier.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Christ! Now we’ve regressed to platitudes. I don’t think I deserve that,” he said flatly.

Mourning smiled, thinking he deserved anything she
decided to throw at him, including the cast-iron skillet and the rolling pin.

Clint’s face darkened. “Are you packed and ready to go?”

A flash of irritation came and went. “I’m packed and ready … but I’m not sure I want to go … at least not all the way to Texas with you.”

“Why is that?” he asked in a blandly curious tone.

“Because I have decided I don’t like you.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he said, “or I might take the time to find out just how true that statement is.”

“You lay one hand on my person again and I’ll …” Mourning couldn’t think of a warning foul enough to threaten him with. Any fool knew the devil wasn’t afraid of anything—except God—and He had been avoiding her a lot lately. She looked around for something to throw.

Clint laughed.

And that made Mourning furious. She jerked her skirt, which gave with a loud rip, and scrambled to her feet.

For an injured man he moved surprisingly fast as he grabbed her wrist. “Don’t be in such a hurry,” he said softly. I know you hate to leave such a romantic setting, but do you suppose you could see to my head? I think I’m in need of a stitch or two.”

“Come into the kitchen,” she said sharply, then yanked her arm free. She turned and hurried from the barn. She stepped lightly across the barnyard to avoid soaking her slippers in the mud. She did not wait for him, the
ching, ching, ching
of his spurs telling her that Clint Kincaid was following close behind.

Virginia Henley is the author of seventeen romantic novels, including the
New York Times
bestsellers
Seduced
and
Desired
and the national bestsellers
A Woman of Passion
and
The Marriage Prize.
Her work has been translated into fourteen languages. A recipient of the
Romantic Times
Lifetime Achievement Award, she lives in St. Petersburg, Florida.

Published by
Dell Publishing
a division of
Random House, Inc.
1540 Broadway
New York, New York 10036

Copyright © 1988 by Virginia Henley

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
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eISBN: 978-0-307-56765-9

September 1988

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