Читать книгу Gerrity's Bride - Carolyn Davidson, Carolyn Davidson - Страница 8

The box was glossy, with an allover design of flowers, blue forget-me-nots and pale pink roses entwined in heart-shaped bouquets. It lay in solitary splendor on the bed, a splash of delicate color against the white coverlet.

Theresa appeared in the doorway and imitated her brother’s stance, her hands stuffed into her pinafore pockets, her feet apart and her head tilted to one side. Carefully she kept her eyes averted from the temptation that lured her. The package had been in the same place every day for three days, the same three days the door to Emmaline’s room had been left ajar, allowing for easy inspection of the interior.

The box, beguiling her with its mystery, had brought the child this far, the faraway land of its origin provoking her curiosity.

Miss Olivia had shown her a map of Europe and pointed out the orange area that represented France. Theresa had been disappointed. Certainly that blob of color was not what she had expected, and the map had not satisfied her yearning to know more about the source of the enticing box that lay just beyond her reach.

Prodded by the child’s questioning, Miss Olivia had dug deep in her satchel of books to find a slender volume that contained reproduced pictures of the French countryside. Grainy photographs of elegantly dressed Parisian ladies strolling down shop-lined boulevards had awed the child. She’d gazed with wonder at the Arc de Triomphe—Napoleon’s concept brought to life, offering welcome to the city. Certainly such a marvelous place could only offer indescribable treasures.

And such a treasure resided in the box that lay on Emmaline’s bed. Only Theresa’s inherent dignity kept her from it. Only her reluctance to accept the presence of Emmaline denied the eager curiosity that glistened in her dark eyes.

From the dressing table near the window, Emmaline watched the child’s reflection in the mirror she faced. Patience had never been listed in her personal catalog of virtues, but the past few days had found her seeking that quality with a persistence that would have given her grandmother immense gratification, had she known. Now she watched as the child in the doorway struggled with temptation.

“Would you like to come in?” Feigning ignorance of Theresa’s dilemma, Emmaline turned on the padded seat and smiled a careful welcome.

A lifted shoulder was her answer, together with a shuttered glance that denied interest.

“I’ve been hoping you’d come to see me.” This time the child met her gaze fully.

“Miss Olivia said I could leave off writing my letters till later if I wanted to,” she offered diffidently. One hand crept from her pocket and rubbed against the muslin of her skirt. “I just thought I’d see what your jackstraws looked like.”

Emmaline released her breath, relief and delight mingling to create a gentle smile. “I’d love to show you all the things I brought with me,” she said, rising slowly, as if she feared to startle a small wild creature.

Another step brought Theresa within the room, and she halted there, her eyes moving over the small evidence of Emmaline’s presence. A silver-handled brush and mirror lay on the dressing table, next to a crystal bottle of toilet water and a delicately painted china hair receiver. The open wardrobe displayed the meager contents of her luggage, and a paisley reticule hung from the wooden knob of the open door.

But the treasures she had planned to lure the child with lay within the depths of her carpetbag, and she turned to lift it from the floor behind the bed. Carefully she ignored the beribboned package that lay precisely in the center of the feather bed she had slept in for three nights. As if it were a worm on a hook, she had displayed it there with casual unconcern, hoping for just such a visit as Theresa had finally chosen to make this morning.

Reaching into the bag, Emmaline drew forth a jump rope with finely carved handles. “Have you ever tried to skip rope?” she asked.

Theresa’s head shook from side to side as she took another step forward, lessening the distance between them. “No, ma’am,” she said quietly, remembering her manners. “I’ve never played jackstraws, either. Miss Olivia said she played them when she was a little girl, though.”

Emmaline allowed a small grin of triumph to escape. Apparently Theresa had discussed this venture with her tutor. Certainly she’d been impressed enough to make her way here without further coaxing.

“Would you like to see my books?”

The child cast one yearning glance at the bed and then harnessed her curiosity with obvious effort. Her sigh was deep. “I do like books, ma’am.”

“Maybe you could call me Emmaline,” her sister suggested quietly. “What would you like me to call you?”

“I’m Theresa. Only Maffew says I’m his Tessie.” She stepped closer, her soft slippers silent against the wide planks of the bedroom floor. One small hand lifted to brush against the quilted coverlet, its fingers careful to stray no farther than inches from the edge of the bed. For a moment, her eyes darted once more to the flowered box, and then she tamed the errant glance.

“Oh!” Emmaline feigned dismay with a soft cry and a pursing of her lips. “I almost forgot about the present I brought you from France.”

“You did? You almost forgot?” Theresa’s eyes widened in wonder at such a lapse.

With shameless satisfaction, Emmaline reeled in the prize she had won. “There, on the bed,” she said with a lazy movement of her hand. “I left the box out in case you came by.”

Theresa’s mouth formed a soft circle of wonder as her small hand edged across the coverlet to allow slender fingers to trace the fragile flowers that graced the shiny prize she coveted.

“This is for me?” she whispered hopefully.

Emmaline nodded, her smile guardedly triumphant as she watched. “Open it, why don’t you?” she urged softly.

With an eagerness that brought a startled burst of laughter from her elder sister, Theresa clambered onto the bed and then, with anxious eyes, glanced back for approval.

“Go ahead, open it,” Emmaline said encouragingly as she approached the foot of the bed. She was heady with success, and her cheeks were rosy with excitement.

Pretty as a picture. The words that described the scene flew into being as Matthew Gerrity watched from the doorway. Unseen, unnoticed by the two, who were deeply engrossed in their own involvement, he hesitated outside the room.

A strange emotion tore at his heart, a painful surge he recognized as jealousy tightening his jaw, and his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the woman who had begun to usurp his place. With feminine skill, she had brought about this happening, knowing intuitively what would whet a small girl’s curiosity, what would draw the child into her orbit.

“Sneaky,” he said in a casual accusation as he left his watching post to shatter the fragile picture burning in his mind. Unwilling to admit the beguiling of his senses, he chose to break the tenuous moment of vulnerability that had seized his control. He thrust away the moment of envy, the sense of standing outside the magic circle, his mouth tightening with the effort.

Emmaline glanced at him quickly, her smile smothered by the shuttered look he cast in her direction.

“Not sneaky, just devious,” she told him softly. “I need every foothold I can manage.”

Oblivious of the adults who spoke civilities over her head, Theresa was involved in the process of lifting the cover from the box, her fingers already foraging beneath the tissue, which had kept the contents from damage during the long journey.

With a gasp of delight and a whisper of wonder, she drew forth the beautiful bisque doll Emmaline had brought for her. With bonnet and gown barely wrinkled, with delicately hand-painted features smiling demurely in her direction, the loose-limbed creation enthralled Theresa completely. The doll’s hands were lifted carefully and examined, the slippered feet treated with tender regard.

Then the child’s small head lifted, and for the first time, Emmaline saw the sister she had traveled so far to meet and claim as her own.

“Oh, thank you, Emmie,” she said with joyous haste, her small tongue shortening the ponderous length of her sister’s name.

Emmaline cast a glance that reeked of triumph in Matthew’s direction and then allowed her features to soften as she sat down beside the girl, who held the doll with careful hands.

“Emmie?” she asked carefully, her heart rejoicing at the implied intimacy.

Theresa looked up and shrugged. “Emmaline is too long to say.” Her eyes darted to the tall form of her brother, who watched silently. “Do you like my present, Maffew?” she asked with obvious restraint as she awaited his opinion.

To his credit, Matt Gerrity smiled and nodded his approval. Unwilling to dampen the pleasure of his small sister, he faced the knowledge that his solitary relationship with her was at an end.

“Your sister knew just what you would like, didn’t she?” he asked, his question directed at both females.

Emmaline’s chin lifted defiantly as she allowed her smile to widen in response. “You had a head start, Matthew,” she said carefully.

Theresa looked from one to the other, as if she sensed the undercurrents that lay beneath their words.

He relented, unwilling to cloud the small face looking at him with a trace of uncertainty. “It’s a beautiful doll, Tessie,” he assured her. “I’m glad your sister brought it to you.”

The gathering cloud vanished. Theresa embraced the doll, her arms holding the stuffed body with care and her head bent as she crooned softly against the delicately rouged cheek.

Matt’s glance brushed with tenderness over the small form as she rocked the doll within her arms, and Emmaline’s breath caught in her throat as she glimpsed the warmth of his regard.

Just for a moment, an errant thought pierced Emmaline’s satisfaction as she hugged her small victory. Just for a fleeting second, she wondered how it would feel to have that same tender look bestowed upon her own being. And for the space of that moment, she felt alone, bereft of human touch, once more the lonely girl who had been searching for a lifetime and until now had never caught a glimpse of what she sought.

* * *

“You’re getting married?” The words were shrill and carried easily to the hallway, where Emmaline had paused. Voices from the library had alerted her to the presence of a visitor, and she had hesitated, unwilling to intrude upon a private conversation. With one hand, she leaned against the wall beside her, vacillating between advancement and retreat.

The murmur of Matthew’s voice was blurred by the rapid speech of a woman who appeared intent on overriding his explanation.

“I don’t understand! I just cannot believe you’ve dragged a bride out of the woodwork!” she exclaimed with the same shrill vehemence.

“Now, Deborah,” Matt said firmly.

A silence settled against her ears, and Emmaline leaned forward a bit, listening for the reply she was sure must be forthcoming. No longer was she tempted to retreat to her bedroom. Gone was the ladylike urge to ignore the passionate exchange in the library. The woman was talking about her, and Emmaline’s eyes were wide with annoyance.

“I was hardly dragged out of the woodwork,” she muttered beneath her breath.

A muffled sob reached Emmaline’s hearing, and then a whispered flow of words caused her to change her position. She took her hand from the whitewashed wall, jammed it in her pocket and moved carefully down the hallway, bent on catching sight of the unseen female who had managed to put a blight on this morning.

Hesitating before the open door of the library, she stiffened, her mouth tightening in disapproval. Matthew’s hands were busy, one distractedly patting a slender back, the other in the process of wiping away tears with a large white handkerchief. The woman who was allowing such familiarity with her person was sighing and sobbing with dainty purpose, the sounds at variance with the shrill comments she had been making only minutes ago.

“Am I intruding?” Emmaline asked from her vantage point. She schooled her features into a concerned mask and stepped forward.

Matt looked up and glared at her over the head of the woman he was attempting to comfort. “I’m not sure this is the time for a formal introduction, Emmaline,” he said bluntly.

The woman in his grasp shuddered once more, then straightened her shoulders and took charge of the handkerchief he held. Walking to the window, she pulled aside the white curtain and looked out upon the view from the front of the house.

Emmaline lifted one eyebrow in an unspoken question and, with a delicate movement of her hands, signified her willingness to retreat, backing away from Matthew’s apparent frustration.

“Never mind leaving.” He changed his mind and reached for her hand, clasping her fingers in a grasp she knew would be easier to accept than to wiggle out of. “This probably is as good a time as any,” he muttered, contradicting his first reaction to her appearance.

“Deborah,” he said briskly, and then waited while the woman at the window slowly turned to face them.

“This is Emmaline Carruthers, the woman who will be my wife.”

Not “my bride” or “the woman I’ve asked to marry me,” but, bluntly, “my wife.” Emmaline struggled to look pleasant. She knew she couldn’t manage friendly, and welcoming was far beyond her capacity for the moment. Pleasant would have to suffice.

With but a passing glance, the woman turned her attention to the tall man who had delivered her a telling blow. His jaw was set and rigid, but his eyes held a trace of pity Emmaline could not help but notice. Perhaps it was the unwanted suggestion of such an emotion that tightened the woman’s own features into a civil expression marred only by the flaring of her nostrils as she spoke.

“Congratulations to both of you. I’ll admit I was a bit surprised at the news, Matt, but then, you always were full of surprises,” she said, dropping her gaze, to brush with one hand at the unwrinkled expanse of her skirt.

“This is Deborah Hopkins, the daughter of our nearest neighbor,” Matthew explained as he drew Emmaline closer, his fingers tightening on her own as she reluctantly stepped next to him.

“I really must leave. I only dropped by to invite you to Sunday dinner, Matt,” the blond creature said, her breasts lifting as she stifled a sigh. Her eyelashes fluttered in a sad little gesture Emmaline noted grimly, and then, fastening her gaze on the man who stood across the room, Deborah smiled. Pathetically, her mouth trembled in a way designed to tug at a man’s heartstrings.

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!”