Читать книгу Bounty Hunter's Bride - Carol Finch, Carol Finch - Страница 9

Cale was so shocked by the unexpected sight and feel of the female pressed up against him that he stood immobilized, his arm crushed to her heaving bosom, his pistol still crammed against her throat. He couldn’t say he’d been surprised often in his thirty-two years of hard living. But the woman’s unexpected arrival at his door sure ’nuff stunned the hell out of him.

Her fresh clean scent infiltrated his nostrils, and he had to try hard not to breathe her in. The feel of her lush body clasped familiarly to his was a vivid reminder that he hadn’t been with a woman since he couldn’t remember when.

He would have predicted that this refined, delicate-looking female would keel over and faint dead away—or at the very least, wail, whimper and beg for release. But she didn’t. The lady obviously had a stronger constitution than he would have presumed. He liked that about her, among other things—like the way she felt in his arms. But she was either amazingly courageous for coming here, or incredibly foolish. He didn’t know which.

Although the woman looked as harmless as a fly, he didn’t release her. She could be the distraction that preceded the springing of a trap. Some sneaky weasel could be lurking in the hall, waiting to blow Cale to smithereens.

“Skeet,” Cale whispered, then angled his head toward the partially opened door.

The dog trotted across the room and cut around the corner so sharply that he slammed into the woman’s legs before searching out trouble in the hall. A moment later he returned to sniff at the woman’s skirts.

No doubt Skeet was as unfamiliar with the perfumed scent of a citified woman as Cale was. Usually Cale’s reputation and profession worked as effectively as repellent to send decent women running in the opposite direction—often screaming. He was, after all, a hired gun, the circling vulture of Judge Parker’s brand of justice, and a half-breed to boot. Although the Cherokee had been labeled as one of the five civilized tribes in Indian Territory, most folks regarded all Indians—himself included—as heathens to be avoided and confined to reservations.

Which made it all the more baffling as to why this lovely, obviously well-bred woman was here.

“Whaddaya want, lady?” Cale growled menacingly.

She appeared so badly shaken that he figured he’d scared the wits clean out of her. Well, good. If she didn’t have more sense than to come knocking on the door of a man of his reputation, she needed a good scaring.

“I—I…have a p-proposition for you, sir,” she panted.

Thick Louisiana accent, he noted. He wondered if this little Southern belle realized she was way out of her league when dealing with him. If she didn’t know it yet, she would soon. Even he knew it was taboo for gently bred ladies of quality to consort with men like him. If she wanted to keep her reputation intact she needed to get the hell away from him—fast.

When it finally dawned on Cale what she’d said he glanced down into her pale face—and nearly drowned in the depths of the most remarkable violet eyes he’d ever seen. A thick fan of curly lashes framed those spellbinding pools, which sparkled as if lit from within. Her peaches-and-cream skin was blotched with color—an outward manifestation of the fear that was streaming through her. ‘Course, he could feel her heartbeat hammering like a tomtom against his forearm, so there was no question that he’d frightened her badly.

“Proposition?” he echoed. “What the hell kind of proposition?”

She gulped audibly and tried to force a smile, but he noticed the expression wobbled on the corners of her Cupid’s-bow lips. And damn, what a sweet, inviting, sensuous mouth she had, too. He was tempted to steal a taste while he had the chance. For sure, this was likely the one time in his life he’d ever be this close to sophisticated feminine perfection.

This little bundle of lavender satin and lace had it all—the delicate skin and bone structure, the curvaceous body, the beguiling face and a coil of silver-blond hair that reminded Cale of trapped moonbeams. His rough handling had caused one side of her coiffure to come unwound, leaving two thick, curly strands dangling on his shoulder—just close enough for him to get a whiff of their clean scent.

Why had the personification of every man’s sweetest dream rapped on his door, offering him a proposition? What the hell was this? Some kind of cruel joke? Hadn’t he been ridiculed because of his mixed heritage often enough without her showing up to remind him of who and what he was?

Suspicion clouded Cale’s mind again. He wondered if some spiteful renegade who wanted to launch him to hell had paid her to set him up. “Skeet, guard the door,” he ordered gruffly.

With ears laid back and an unwelcoming snarl, the dog obeyed instantly, sinking down on his haunches in the hallway. Cale kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot. When he shifted to pat the woman down, ensuring that she wasn’t packing hardware, she squawked in offended dignity.

“Now see here, sir! There is no call to manhandle me! I only came for a chat. Any fool can see I’m not the slightest threat to you.”

“Where’re you from, princess?” he asked as he slid his hand beneath the hem of her gown to check for stashed weapons in her soft kid boots. Again she squealed indignantly when his hand touched her leg. He ignored her and completed his search. When he was assured she was hiding nothing but her seductively curvaceous body, he dropped the pistol still trained on her and slid it into its holster.

She made a big production of fluffing the wrinkles—caused by his manhandling—from the sleeve of her gown. Then she looked down that pert little nose at him. “I swear, I’ve never met a more suspicious man. Do you greet all your guests with a gun to the chin and a swift frisk?” she asked with a huff.

“I don’t usually have guests, only intruders,” he reported as he motioned for her to take a chair at the table. “I asked where you hail from.”

“N’Awlins, though I don’t see that it matters,” she said snippily.

“Figured as much. That drawl is unmistakable.”

Hanna took a seat, noting Cale Elliot didn’t do her the courtesy of pulling out her chair the way most gentlemen would. But what did she expect? This rough-edged bounty hunter knew nothing about polished manners and etiquette. Not that she held it against him. She’d had her fill of haughty aristocrats who showered her with effusive flattery and fawned over her in hopes of drawing the interest of a wealthy shipping heiress.

When Cale straddled a chair—backward—and stared warily at her from beneath his furrowed brow, she realized this was a novel experience for her. He was a novel experience. This brawny bounty hunter, who dressed in worn buckskin, was absolutely nothing like the stuffy gentlemen her father had tossed in her path since she’d blossomed into a woman. There was a wild, dynamic presence about this man that intrigued her.

Eyes as dark as midnight, surrounded by a hedge of coal-black lashes, bore into her, as if searching out the hidden secrets in her soul. A leather band at the base of his neck anchored his long glossy hair—hair as black and shiny as a raven’s wings. He looked as if he hadn’t been within a mile of a razor in weeks. His dark beard and mustache gave him a most formidable appearance.

Hanna was certain that even her father might be just a tad intimidated by this ominous-looking creature. She knew for a fact that Cale Elliot was a solid, muscular six-foot-two and two hundred plus pounds, because she’d been plastered up against his rock-solid body. He was hard-edged, tough and suspicious. Not to mention that only God knew how much blood he had on his hands. This, she predicted, was the last man on earth her father would want her to marry—which was one more reason why Cale Elliot was positively perfect for her.

“Are you married?” she blurted out, then bit her lip and cursed her lack of finesse.

Two black eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “What the hell kind of question is that?” he said, then snorted.

“A straightforward one,” she replied, marshaling her nerve and her resolve. “Are you married or not?”

“No. Are you?” he retorted in the same gruff tone he’d employed since the moment he yanked her up against him and jammed his pistol to her throat.

“Not yet, but I plan to be very soon,” she replied resolutely.

Cale frowned, bemused. “Why are we having this conversation and who are you?”

Hanna overlooked his rude manner and defiantly ignored his question. With each passing second she became increasingly confident that this was the man she needed to ensure her independence from her father. Cale Elliot was hard as nails, formidable and abrupt. His reputation and occupation warned most people away. Most people, but not Hanna Malloy. She’d marry him on the spot if there were a clergyman or justice of the peace present.

“All right, Miz N’Awlins,” he drawled, mocking her Southern accent. “What’s this business about a proposition? I’ve had a long three weeks and I’m ready for a bath, a nap and a hearty meal. You’re keeping me from them. What the hell do you want with me?”

Hanna lifted her chin and met his piercing stare. Fleetingly she wondered if the devil himself had eyes this deep and black and penetrating.

“Well? Spit it out,” he snapped impatiently. “Your time’s almost up. I don’t like conversations that last more than a minute.”

Hanna flinched at his razor-sharp tone. She had to get up her nerve all over again. Since Cale Elliot apparently preferred straightforward and right-to-the-point dialogue, she’d accommodate him.

“I want to marry you,” she told him flat out. “I have five thousand dollars in cash as incentive to convince you to accept.”

Cale reared back so abruptly that he very nearly launched himself off his chair. His obsidian eyes shot open in stunned surprise and his bewhiskered jaw dropped to his broad chest. “Wha’d you say?” he choked out.

His shocked expression provoked her amused smile. If nothing else, she had Cale’s undivided attention. “You heard me, Mr. Elliot. I want a husband and I want one now. I want that husband to be you.”

He just stared at her as if she had Spanish moss dangling from her earlobes. Well, she mused, she supposed they were even now. He looked as stunned as she’d felt when he’d rammed a pistol beneath her chin and clamped her against his brick wall of a chest.

When Cale finally recovered from his shock, his gaze narrowed dubiously. This had to be a setup, he decided. Unfortunately, he was too rattled to figure out what the hell was going on. Why would this enchanting, sophisticated female propose to him? To distract and confuse him? Someone had obviously put her up to it. No decent woman in her right mind would want to attach herself to the stigma that followed him like a looming shadow.

He had a dozen strikes against him, and she looked to be all that was gentle and refined in this world. She could have her pick of beaus, and she claimed she wanted to marry him? There was definitely a catch, he decided. Was she a ruined woman who desperately needed a name for her unborn babe? Was she intent on punishing an unfaithful suitor by taking a husband far below her social status?

Another thought, of a dark and violent nature, bombarded Cale. If this lovely creature had been set upon by some lusting, abusive bastard, who’d left her with child the same way—

Cale jerked upright, refusing to let bitter memories of the past intrude and distract him. It was true that he was rough around the edges, had very little formal education and no sophistication whatsoever, but if there was one thing his Cherokee mother had taught him it was never to misuse a woman to satisfy his own needs. He had never forced himself on a woman and he didn’t hold with men who did.

“Well, Mr. Elliot?” she prompted when he lingered so long in thought. “I’ll pay you half the money now and half after the ceremony. Do we have a bargain?”

“First off,” he said, settling his forearms on the back of the chair, “don’t call me Mistah Elliot or suh,” he ordered, mimicking her drawl. “The name’s Cale, pure and simple. Secondly, why do you want to marry me? It’s obviously not because of my refined manners, my dashing good looks and endearing charm.”

He watched her astutely as she folded her hands in her lap, squared her shoulders and lifted her amethyst gaze. Cale steeled himself against the hypnotic lure of her eyes, her elegantly formed features. He felt as if reality had somehow been suspended, leaving him drifting in a world so remote from the daily rigors of staying alive that he could scarcely conceive of it.

He was sharing conversation with this astoundingly beautiful woman? In his room? That in itself was scandalous. Her reputation would be in shambles if anyone saw her arrive or exit.

He watched her draw a deep breath that caused her full breasts to strain against the dainty bodice of her gown. Her delicate brows drew together, as if she were carefully choosing her words.

“I’m offering no illusions, Mr.—Cale,” she quickly corrected. “I wish to take your name in a marriage of convenience. The union will not be consummated, of course. There will simply be an exchange of cash for possession of the marriage certificate. I’ve no intention of restricting or altering your life, nor mine. After the ceremony you are free to go your way and I will go mine.”

Well, he thought, so much for that titillating fantasy of having this lovely vision naked in his bed. He should’ve known she wouldn’t be the slightest bit inclined to cuddle up with the likes of him.

“If there comes a time when you meet a woman you wish to marry, you need only to contact me and I’ll tend to the divorce proceedings quickly. In essence, I’m simply asking you to put your signature beside mine on the dotted line. You’ll be well paid for your assistance.”

Cale studied her for a long, pensive moment, trying to figure her angle. He wondered which scenario fit her situation. The jilted Southern belle out for revenge? The ruined lover trying to save face? The abused woman who’d come to fear intimacy because of a nightmarish assault, and who sought protection with his name and reputation?

“What do you get out of this marriage of convenience?” he asked curiously.

He watched her squirm beneath his piercing scrutiny, but eventually she composed herself and flashed him a smile that did funny things to his pulse. He tried not to become distracted, but damn, she was so pretty that her beauty kept sidetracking him. Forcefully, he concentrated on her reply.

“I want the freedom to go where I please, do as I please,” she declared with noticeable determination. “I want the freedom to answer to no one but myself for the first time in my life. I am sick to death of being stifled and controlled and maneuvered by men who see me as nothing but a pawn. I want to discover who I can be in the West.”

He cocked a brow at that. Little Miss I-Wanna-Be-Independent didn’t have a clue what dangers she’d face while traveling across Indian Territory to reach the land of milk and honey she envisioned. Well, the fact was that the milk was curdled and the honey came with dozens of bee stings. She’d have to wise up and toughen up considerably before she could handle herself in places where law and order didn’t prevail the way they did in N’Awlins. It went without saying that she was naive and obliviously unaware of the difficulties she’d encounter on the road to her much-sought-after freedom.

Life beyond Indian Territory was brutal. Life anywhere was a bitch, and you just had to learn to deal with it.

Because of his background and line of work, he’d become jaded and cynical. He dealt with liars, cheats, thieves and killers on a day-to-day basis. He’d brought in dozens of criminals who would drop a man in his tracks, just to seize possession of his fancy boots, his fast horse or his pocket change.

The prospect of turning this unsuspecting female loose in dangerous territory made Cale cringe.

His thoughts scattered like buckshot when she doubled at the waist to lift the hem of her skirt. Curiously, he watched her wrestle with her cream-colored petticoats. She straightened in her chair and laid a roll of money—that had been inconspicuously hidden inside the hem of her petticoats—on the table between them.

“Here’s half of the easiest money you’ll ever make, Mr.—Cale.” She stared him squarely in the eye. “Do we have a deal?”

“You’re running from someone or something,” he guessed accurately.

He noticed her telltale flinch before she composed herself and flashed him a distracting smile. Cale was an expert at reading faces, and he noticed the guarded expression in her eyes. He could almost hear the cogs of her brain cranking, as she tried to decide how much of the truth to tell. He figured white lies and half-truths were all he’d likely hear from her.

“I am on the run, in a manner of speaking, but not from the law. Only from an intolerable situation.”

“Are you with child?” he asked bluntly.

Her face flooded with so much color he wondered if she’d go up in flames. She shook her head vigorously, causing a few more tendrils of silver-blond hair to cascade over her shoulder. “No, I’m not,” she assured him in a strangled voice.

Judging by her reaction to his probing personal question he suspected she was as pure as the driven snow. Damn, he and this pixielike female were polar opposites. Cale had been purged of purity and cured of naiveté years ago. He’d seen the worst that one human could inflict on another. He’d been cursed frequently and fluently. He’d been to hell and back so many times that the devil himself had nothing new to teach him.

Impatiently, she rose to her feet, then reached for the money on the table. She pivoted to modestly tuck the roll into her bodice, then wheeled back to face him. “If you aren’t interested in my bargain, perhaps you could refer me to one of your acquaintances who might be agreeable.”

Cale stood up, sighed, then stared at her for another long moment. “I’ll think about it,” he said, stalling. “I need a bath and a sleep. I’ll meet you downstairs in the restaurant for supper in two hours. Surely you can wait that long to get yourself hitched.”

She smiled faintly as she turned toward the door. Cale’s betraying gaze dropped to the graceful sway of her hips—hips that he’d touched familiarly while searching for concealed weapons. No wedding night, she’d said. No more than a chaste kiss to seal their hasty union at the ceremony. That didn’t sound like much fun.

Well, hell, even the best of men—and he was the furthest thing from the best of men—would object to being denied one night in this woman’s arms. After all, he’d be legally entitled, wouldn’t he? He’d rather spend one night with her and opt to let her keep her wad of money.

Always on alert, Cale reflexively grabbed his six-gun when she halted abruptly, then lurched toward him. He was definitely cynical and mistrusting, he mused. He didn’t even trust this vision of refined beauty not to double-cross him. But then, life had taught him to trust no one but himself if he wanted to live to see another sunrise.

Her violet-eyed gaze dropped to his hand, which now held a pistol pointed at her chest. She lifted her face and her wry smile indicated that she understood his instinctive need to be leery and alert at all times.

“I suppose, like you, I’ll have to learn to be less trusting and more attentive if I’m to survive in the West.”

“You’ve got that right, sugah,” he said, mocking her magnolia blossom accent. “I can guaran-damn-tee that honorable men are few and far between where you’re going. You could use a crash course in survival. No offense, Miz N’Awlins, but you’re about as green as they come.”

“No offense taken, sir,” she replied. “And while we’re being honest with one another, you should know that you are still my first choice as a husband. I prefer not to go hunting for second best—” Her voice dried up when she opened the door and was met by Skeet’s menacing snarl.

“Come,” Cale ordered quietly.

The oversize dog cast Hanna a wary glance, then trotted forward. When she made the crucial mistake of reaching down to pet Skeet’s broad head the dog snapped at the air a mere inch below her outstretched fingers. She jerked back her hand to ensure she still had five fingers attached. Again she’d surprised Cale. Most folks he encountered gave Skeet a wide berth and never tried to befriend him. Obviously, she was a kind, caring soul, despite whatever situation had put her on the run and provoked her to tell him little white lies.

“A word of warning,” Cale cautioned as he snapped his fingers, signaling the dog to heel. “Never, ever, make sudden moves toward Skeet. He’s in the same line of work I am and he’s damn good at it. Better than I am, in fact.”

She stared at Skeet, then glanced at Cale. “I could have sworn I saw a sign posted on the steps that said No Animals Allowed.”

Cale nodded. “You did. But Skeet has special privileges. I did a small favor for James Jensen. Now Skeet and I have the best hotel accommodations. Skeet may be banned from the restaurant, but he has the run of this suite.”

She smiled slyly at him. “That is the boiled-down version of the story James conveyed to me. Saving a man’s life and ensuring that he wasn’t parted from his hard-earned money constitutes far more than a small favor, Mr. Elliot.”

When she turned to go, Cale called after her. “Oh, by the way, if I agree to your bargain, I want six grand and there will be a wedding night.” He waited for her reaction, curious to see just how determined she was to get herself a husband. Determined enough to pry another thousand from her purse and come willingly to their marriage bed, if he so requested?

Cale watched another blush suffuse her cheeks, saw her eyes flare with temper and her fists knot in the folds of her gown. Better that Little Miss N’Awlins know here and now that he couldn’t be charmed or cajoled into doing anything he didn’t want to do, especially when he knew she wasn’t being completely honest with him.

“Well?” he asked, battling an amused grin as he watched her stiffen like cured mortar and glare daggers at him. “You never did tell me your name. Seems that if I do decide to wed you I oughta know what to call you.”

“I’ll consider your request,” she said tightly. “We can hammer out the details over supper.”

Five would get him ten that she was going to spend the next two hours trying to figure out how to convince him that he didn’t really want a wedding night and that five grand was more than plenty for the use of his worthless name.

And speaking of names… “Who are you?” he asked again.

“Sarah Rawlins,” she said, then turned and left.

Cale scowled at the closed door. He’d bet his last silver dollar that he still hadn’t learned that mysterious woman’s true name. Again he wondered what she was running from and how soon the past would catch up with her. It always did—somehow or other. That was the gospel according to Cale Elliot.

He drew in a deep breath and muttered when the alluring scent of her perfume filled his senses. It clung to his clothing, teasing him, tormenting him. Just like the vision of that woman with secrets in her eyes.

Muttering at the sudden, whimsical image of him and Sarah Rawlins—or whoever she really was—rolling around naked on his bed, Cale stalked to the door to flag down a maid and request water for a bath. Considering that dainty female’s affect on his male body, he could use a cold bath, but his screaming muscles needed relief. He’d spent too many days in the saddle. Too many nights on the ground, sleeping with one eye open and one hand clamped over his Colt.

He’d spent three weeks on constant alert, expecting to be bushwhacked at every bend of the road, from every overhanging sandstone cliff, from the shadows of every cave where outlaws lurked, armed to the teeth. Cale desperately needed to soak in a tub, relax and ponder Sarah’s proposition.

Hell, he thought, if she really was determined to marry someone, it might as well be him. It wasn’t as if he had any other potential prospects beating down his door. But all the same, a man was entitled to a wedding night for the use of his name—especially when his new wife looked, smelled and felt as tempting as Sarah Rawlins.

Her offer of money didn’t persuade or impress him, because money wasn’t a motivation for him. He’d been stockpiling cash in Fort Smith’s bank for years and had money to burn. What he didn’t have was a wife and the titillating trimmings of a wedding night. He wanted that violet-eyed beauty to come willingly into his arms, wanted to know what it was like to touch purity and refinement.

And secretly wished her innocence and good breeding might somehow rub off on him.

Cale waited impatiently while a troop of young boys filed into his room to fill the tub with steaming water. When he had the place to himself once again, he stripped off his clothes, sank into the tub and sighed contentedly. Ah, there was nothing better than a long-awaited bath…unless it was one uninterrupted night in the arms of an alluring woman who’d sought him out with an intriguing proposition.