Wicked Temptations (2 page)

She looked at the stairway leading to what would be their living quarters. If downstairs was any indication, she did not look forward to what was up there. Jim was good with plaster, and he could paint the walls and fix the door, and just about anything else that needed fixing, but first, the place would have to be cleared of the old press and broken equipment, and the type cases would have to be repaired...

The sound of heavy footfalls on the porch outside caught her attention. Before she could react, the door swept open and a man's large frame filled the doorway. "I am Adam Whittington," the man announced in a voice smacking of well-established British aristocracy, "and I've come for my bride."

Priscilla stared at the man. Tall and powerfully built, with a crop of untrimmed brown hair, intense brown eyes, and a double-breasted waistcoat that stretched across his broad shoulders and thick chest, the man looked more like a frontiersman in fancy dress than landed gentry. "The brides are not here," she said, finding herself trapped in the man's dark gaze. Danger lurked in those eyes, not the kind of danger she'd felt when she'd looked into the eyes of a rattlesnake on the trail, but the kind of danger capable of piercing her heart and finding its way into her soul.

The glint of impatience flashed in the man's eyes. "Then if you'll direct me to wherever she is, I'd like to collect her and be on my way."

Priscilla's heart thumped in dismay. She had never met a man who exuded so much command and confidence, the combination evident in the firm set to his jaw and the almost brutal line of his mouth. But she would not cower beneath his uncompromising demeanor. Hardening herself for his reaction to her forthcoming announcement, she said, "Well, the fact is, Lord Whittington, Miss Burns has decided not to marry you. She is working for me now. When the bank opens in the morning, I'll give you a bank draft, reimbursing you for the cost of expenses for her journey, and that will terminate her contract with you."

The man stood looking at her, hands clenched at his sides. "Where is she?"

"I'm not at liberty to say," Priscilla replied. "But the termination agreement in her contract with you was quite clear. Upon reimbursement of expenses, she would be released from the contract. Now, if you'll excuse me, Lord Whittington, I have work to do."

"Bloody hell you do!
I contracted for a wife, and that's what I intend to have. Now I will ask you one more time. Where is Mary Kate Burns?"

The apprehension Priscilla felt moments before was replaced by anger. She would not be intimidated by the man, even if he did own half the territory. "Miss Burns is secure from the likes of you," she said. "Furthermore, if she were here to observe your rude and truculent behavior,
 
and she had not yet changed her mind about marrying you, she would certainly do so now. Besides, you are far too old for the young woman."

"That is for me to decide."

"No, that is for Miss Burns to decide," Priscilla clipped. "Which she already has."

Before Priscilla could press her demand for Lord Whittington to leave, the second of the four men she was expecting stepped up to the open doorway. He removed his hat, revealing a balding head ringed by mouse-gray hair. "I'm Clayton Rathborn," he said, "and I've come to fetch Miss Johnson. I've got the wagon outside for her things."

Priscilla recognized the man from a photograph he'd sent to Libby. With his ruddy complexion and pockmarked face, he was even less attractive than in his photograph. The only reason Libby agreed to marry him was because she'd been caught in a compromising way with a man she'd thought to be a suitor prepared to ask for her hand, but who turned out to be married. The wife who'd caught them described, in prurient detail, the whole affair and posted it on the town bulletin board for all to see and relish. Clayton Rathborn's offer to take on a "soiled" woman as his wife was the answer to her prayers, at the time.

Priscilla backed around behind the old printing press, wanting to put something solid between her and both men as she said, "Well, you see, Mr. Rathborn, the fact is, Miss Johnson has decided to …" she took a long breath to settle the erratic beating of her heart....

"Let me guess," Lord Whittington said in an irritated voice, "Miss Johnson has decided to renege on her contract. Right?"

"It was her decision, Lord Whittington," Priscilla said. "I simply offered Miss Johnson a job so she could support herself while working off her travel expenses." She found the man's steady gaze disconcerting, but she was determined not to be distracted by it. She had the gut feeling they'd cross paths in the future, and it would not do for the owner and editor of
The Town Tattler
to cringe in his presence. Squaring her shoulders, she said to Clay Rathborn, "You will be reimbursed for Miss Johnson's expenses."

Clay Rathborn's eyes narrowed. "I'll hear it from Miss Johnson. Where is she?"

"Like I told Lord Whittington, the women are secure until this has been worked out. Neither of you have a claim on them. They have chosen not to marry you, and you will be reimbursed for their expenses. And that is that."

Lord Whittington stepped around the press and gazed down at Priscilla. "No, Miss Phipps, that is
not
that! I contracted in good faith to take Miss Burns as my wife, and I expect her to honor our contract."

Priscilla propped her hands on her hips, held the man's caustic gaze, and said, "You are not bargaining for a mule, Lord Whittington. You're contracting for a woman to share your life, and sleep in your bed, and bear your children. It might be a simple arrangement for a man of your callous nature to enter into, but the young women who will be working for me do not look at things the same way. For them, the prospect of finding love with the men they marry is important. There's nothing more to be said. You'll both receive your bank drafts when the bank opens in the morning. Good evening gentlemen." She stood firm, waiting for the men to leave.

To her dismay, the third of the four men appeared. From his muttonchop whiskers and
 
mustachio she knew it was Jethro Bottoms, Abigail Chandler's intended. Before he could speak, Priscilla said, "Mr. Bottoms, Miss Chandler has changed her mind and she will be reimbursing you for expenses and terminating your marriage agreement—"

"The hell she's terminating our agreement!"
Jethro Bottoms shouted, face livid. "I've waited three months for the damn woman and I'm not going home without her. Where is she?" He started up the stairs.

Priscilla called after him. "You will not find Miss Chandler up there, Mr. Bottoms. She is not in this building. And she will not be going home with you. Ever! You will be reimbursed for her expenses when the bank opens, and if you decide to cause trouble, you will find yourself sitting somewhere you will not wish to be."

Spittle spewed from the man's mouth as he said,
"Are you threatening to have me arrested if I make a claim on my bride?"

Priscilla glared at the man. "Yes, Mr. Bottoms, I am doing precisely that!"

Veins standing out in his neck, he said, "You haven't seen the last of me. I
will
find Miss Chandler and she
will
marry me or she'll have hell to pay.
 
I have two
young'ns
needing
lookin
' after, chickens to feed, a cow that needs
milkin
', a cabin that needs
cleanin
' and a garden that needs planting. And I just paid ten dollars for a new feather mattress. There
will
be a woman in my bed before the week's out!"

"That may be," Priscilla said, "but Miss Chandler will
not
be that woman! Meanwhile, I suggest you start looking for a nanny, a farm hand, and a mistress. You are no bargain as a husband. I am just thankful that Miss Chandler will not be strapped with the likes of you."

Jethro Bottoms mumbled a string of expletives under his breath, shoved his way between Lord Whittington and Clayton Rathborn, and stormed out the door. When the other two men didn't budge, Priscilla said in a firm tone, "Good evening, gentlemen. I will be at the bank promptly when it opens. And if either of you know Mr. Frank Gundy, please inform him that Miss Edith Hogan will also be working for me, and that he too can be at the bank when it opens."

Clayton Rathborn shoved his hat on his head, cut loose with a string of expletives he did not try to cover, and stomped out. But Lord Whittington remained.

"Is there something more that you want?" Priscilla asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact there is." He scanned the room with its broken type trays and limitless little lead blocks of type scattered across the warped wood floors, his gaze coming to rest on the old
Albion
press. "If you intend to start another newspaper in
Cheyenne
," he said, his voice holding a hint of warning, "you will find your competitors very unfriendly."

"I am not worried about unfriendly men," Priscilla said. "The world is filled with them."

Lord Whittington eyed her in a condescending manner, giving her the impression he was sizing her up as a disgruntled, man-hating, old maid, which perhaps she was. Her experiences with men had not been pleasant ones, Lord Whittington, with his haughty, patronizing demeanor a shining example of what she disliked about them. He placed his hand on the bar of the old press and gave it a shove, but the giant screw, locked from rust and disuse, refused to turn. A look of satisfaction crossed his face. "Running a newspaper is not something a woman can manage on her own," he said. "I assume you are on your own."

"And why would you assume that?" Priscilla asked. "Is it because I am a rather plain-looking maiden lady, well past my prime, or because you believe that a woman without a man is incapable of pursuing a man's profession, even if that profession is quite suitable for a woman?"

He eyed her with impatience. "I believe that women are suited for running certain businesses, Miss Phipps. Many own and operate millinery shops and other trades catering to
 
females. But running a newspaper is a dangerous and cutthroat business. Not only does it take physical stamina, and in many instances foolhardiness, but it is common for editors to lash out at each other in back-alley terms, disputes often ending with knives or bullets."

Priscilla glared at the infuriating man. "If this is an attempt on your part to scare me off, Lord Whittington, you will soon learn that I do not scare easily. And I am aware of the dangers. I grew up helping my father run his newspaper. Granted, it was a small-town paper, but we faced the same criticism and threats that larger papers face."

A puzzled frown crept across his brow. "Then you actually do intend to start a newspaper?" he asked. Plainly he had not taken her seriously. Until now.

Priscilla ratcheted her chin up a notch so she could look directly at him, and said, "May I ask what concern it is of yours? It's my understanding that you are a cattle rancher. Granted, you own one of the larger spreads in the territory, but your enterprise will be in no danger from me unless, of course, you engage in improper or illegal means of operation, and I were to report it in an article. But it would be a stretch for me to assume anything of the sort. Am I right?"

"You are right, Miss Phipps. My cattle operation is secure and my business practices above reproach. But
Cheyenne
has several newspapers, and they would not look favorably on yet another paper starting up."

"If you are referring to the
Cheyenne Daily Leader
and the
Cheyenne Daily Sun
, I am familiar with both newspapers," Priscilla said. "From what I've learned, they serve the interests of the Wyoming Stock Growers Association and have a wide circulation, which makes me curious. Why, may I ask, would you think that a mere woman, starting up a small paper, would be in danger here? That was your concern wasn't it? That as a single woman, I might be in danger of bodily harm, if I were to enter a field dominated by men?"

He gave her a look of tolerant understanding. "It is not that you are a woman, single or otherwise," he said. "It is anyone starting a newspaper. But a woman is naturally more vulnerable than a man." His expression emotionless, he waited for her response.

"I don't feel vulnerable in the least," Priscilla said. "After all, Miss Abigail Scott
Duniway
established
The New Northwest
in
Portland
,
Oregon
and has made a success of it without being threatened, as did Miss Laura
DeForce
with the
Daily Leader
down in
Stockton
,
California
. And not far from here, Gertrude and Laura Huntington have the
Platte
Valley
Lyre.
But I don't believe you fear for my safety. I think you have other concerns. Perhaps an ax to grind because women are starting to infiltrate a field that has, until recently, been completely dominated by men."

Lord Whittington drew in an extended breath, plainly exasperated with the changes in his life—losing his long-awaited bride, confronting a woman entering a man's domain. When he stood staring at her, she said, "You seem to be at a loss for words. Are you afraid I might penetrate your association's publishing empire and steal their subscribers and advertisers?"

To her surprise, an amused glimmer came into the man's eyes, and the hard line of his mouth softened with a half-smile, which had the odd effect of bringing heat rushing up her face to settle in her cheeks like hundreds of tiny hot prickles. The corner of his mouth tipped up further, as he replied, "Not if that's the press you intend to use."