Caress of Fire (6 page)

He watched the fear she tried to hide. Pleased for getting to her but regretful for his means of persuasion, Gil offered, “Maybe you ought to take a rifle anyway. I'll load it for you. Who knows? You might get a lucky shot.”

Her fingers tightened on Willensstark's lead. “I–I'll hide during the day. I did it before, and I'll do it again.”

He fingered a blond braid lying over her breast. “Boy howdy, would those redskins love to get their hands on this. It'd be quite a coup for some hatchet-faced brave, having a blond scalp decorating his tepee.”

Her face ridden with fright, she pulled up her shoulders. “You're trying to s-scare me.”

“Maybe I am getting carried away. They'd think first before scalping you. No doubt they'd find a better use for all this blond bounty.” He gave Willensstark another pat. “Why don't you tell me which route you're taking? If Adolf Keller never sees the whites of your eyes again, I can tell him where to search. In which redskin camp, that is. You ever gotten a whiff of a tepee? Phew.”

“Cows smell, too.”

He chose not to reply to her statement. “Comanche men like being waited on hand and foot, so it's a good thing you don't mind hard work. Squaws do everything but the hunting and warring. Well, sometimes they do those, too. Whatever keeps them occupied–outside of keeping the buffalo hides warm on a cold night–they've got a papoose strapped on their back and a passel of younguns squalling at their feet.”

“If a woman is looking out for her own husband and children and home, I doubt she resents the work.”

Damn, his schemes weren't working. Yet he replied, “See, you're already thinking like a squaw.”

“No, I'm thinking like a woman.”

“Glad to hear you don't make a distinction. It'll make life easier. I hear the Injuns are fine ones for needlework, what with their beading and so on. Those braves, why, I bet they'll let you keep your needles to stitching, though I don't think they hanker for ribbons and lace and frou-frou on their headbands.”

If looks could have stitched Gil McLoughlin, he would have been tattooed with embroidery.

“It'll be tough, Lisette, breaking the news to Adolf.”

“You won't be needing to tell him anything. I'll write from Chicago.”

“How you gonna get there? Not on that, I hope.” He gestured at Willensstark, who brayed.

“He got me here. He'll get me away.”

“Right. Say, one more thing. When the Comanches capture you, better not try to escape. They don't take to that sorta stuff. I've heard they're not as bad about cutting off women's noses as they used to be. 'Course, you can never trust gossip.”

Her face whitened during his oration; he was glad for it. “I saw a couple of noseless white women toting breeds around San Antonio. White folks usually shun the women, which I think is an abomination, since it wasn't their fault they got captured and pregnant and maimed.”

Lisette's chin trembled. Again, Gil leaned against Willensstark's scrawny, pack-laden back, else he would have drawn his frightened quarry into his arms to assure her that no harm would befall her . . . as long as he drew a breath.

“You ever seen a woman after Comanches are done with her?”

Shaking like a leaf, she murmured raggedly,
“Ja, meine Schwester
.”

A multitude of emotions skipped over her face, indecision and consternation and agony among them. It was then that she buried her face in her hands and sobbed. He didn't know what she'd answered, but whatever it was, it was bad.

He took her into his arms, pressing her face to his chest and whispering, “Shhh, it'll be okay, honey. I promise.”

She cried against his shirt, wetting it, and his fingers held her there. Her arms locked around his back, holding on as if he were a lifeline.

What had she said a moment ago? He asked her to speak slowly, and she did.

“My sister Olga was captured by the Comanches. We found her . . . dead at the foot of Cross Mountain. She was only twelve years old.”

“Damn.”

He groaned, feeling awful. Matthias had told him Lisette had lost a sister, but he'd figured the girl had died of natural causes, just as the mother had during the trip from Germany. What else had the strawboss neglected to tell him?

“Lisette, forgive me for scaring you.”

Her reddened eyes lifted. “I am so frightened of being abandoned.”

“I'll take care of you. If anyone leaves, it'll have to be you, because I'll
never
leave you.”

“You mean that? You won't make me go away?”

“I stand by my word.”

“Oh, Mister McLoughlin, you are such a good man.”

“Keep spoiling me with your praise.”
I love it.

A tentative smile softened her ravaged face, and the devil within him lowered his mouth to hers. He tasted her salty lips; his arms wrapped around her. With a sigh, she opened to him, her hands climbing to his shoulders, and he took more than he ought to, considering she was overset with fear.

Yet as the moments wore on, she continued responding to his kisses, to his caresses, to his gently spoken endearments.

Their first kiss had been great; these were even greater. She was more than he'd ever expected, was warm and responsive, all innocence and awakening passion.

If he didn't stop kissing and cuddling her, he might get carried away. He wanted a virgin bride, not a virgin lover. For once, marriage would start on the right foot.

Through wedlock, he would cultivate her feelings and they would celebrate the act of love.

Pulling away, his heart slamming against his breastbone, his blood having centered in his groin, Gil cut around to the far side of Willensstark. He exhaled heavily.
Behave, Old Son.

“We'd better talk,” he said. “When we're married, you'll get my protection and the freedom to do as you please, as long as you go along with the pretense of being a loving and devoted wife. We mustn't bring suspicion on ourselves and let the men think it's only a sham.”

“That would be wise.”

“You'll decide whether we keep it as a marriage in name only, or make it a real one. You'll have the option of getting on that train for Chicago . . . or returning to the Four Aces with me.” He leaned across the mule to touch Lisette's cheek. “I do, however, reserve the right to change your mind about the convenience part of the marriage.”

Her eyes closed. “I–I can't marry you. I'm not a–”

Here we go again.
“Shhh. Don't say anything but yes.”

“You don't understand,” she murmured. “There is something you need to–”

“Enough talk. ‘Yes' is
all
I'll accept.”

Again he cut around Willensstark and brought Lisette into his arms, this time to hush her protests. He would do everything in his power to make theirs a real marriage. Furthermore, he was
not
going to lollygag in making it real.

At dusk, the Four Aces outfit made camp about eight miles northeast of the site of the predawn Comanche raid. Matthias Gruene chose not to appear at supper, and his decision had little to do with anxieties over having watched Lisette struggle all day with the chuck wagon and its team.

Being a loner by nature and especially by present circumstance, the strawboss plodded across the open range and tried to collect his wits. Impossible. He felt as if a tomahawk had rent his chest. McLoughlin was going to take Lisette to wife–tonight.

Behaving like a
Dummkopf
instead of a man of twenty-three, he hadn't protested when the Scotsman had asked for help in gaining Lisette's acquaintance. Matthias had figured nothing would come of the situation, Adolf being the way he was.

He should have known McLoughlin wouldn't stop until he got what he wanted.

Right now Matthias could have smashed the trail boss's face . . . and might before the wedding even began. He had always been fond of Lisette–overly fond of Lisette–and her happiness meant a lot.

How could he stop her foolishness?

He hurried back to camp. His fellow cowboys weren't crowded around the fire. Maybe they too were shocked at the upcoming marriage.
They couldn't be as surprised as I am.
Maybe his colleagues weren't shocked in the least, since they were eager for a good cook; so eager, in fact, that the cowherds had been on their good behavior. Probably McLoughlin ordered them away.

He was good at shouting commands.

The trail boss, Matthias noted, stood away from camp, huddled with the preacher. He quelled the urge to provoke a fight; Lisette was the one he needed to convince not to go through with the plans.

Matthias sought her out. The supper dishes washed and put away, she was tidying up the chuck box, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary would occur in the next few minutes.

Her hair flowing freely down her back; she wore the dead Willie Gaines's britches and shirt. Matthias recalled how, as a boy, he used to yank on her braids. As a man, he'd always wanted to touch those silky strands, but he hadn't been brave enough to make a bid for her hand.

Matthias didn't stand on ceremony when he reached her side. “Rather an abrupt courtship, wouldn't you say?”

“Desperate times lead to desperate measures.”

He studied her. From the grim set of her mouth, from the rigidity of her back, he knew she'd go through with the marriage. Which didn't mean he shouldn't show some courage.

“You aren't in dire enough straits to sell out on your dream.” He stepped closer. “Lise, you don't have to marry the Scotsman. I'll take you away from here.”

“If you'd offered yesterday, I would have accepted.”

“I didn't think it would come to this.”

“Matthias, you know he wanted to court me. I've accepted his proposal, and I won't look back.”

If he'd known she wanted marriage, he would have offered it; thus, there would have been no need for her to take flight from Fredericksburg.

Take flight . . .

He could abscond with her . . .

But what could he offer except protection? His worldly goods filled less than one duffel bag, his pocket held nothing but five measly dollars. Even his horse held the Four Aces brand. At a time he should have been collecting wealth, he'd been fighting Mister Lincoln's war. When it was over, he'd returned to a state struggling for economic survival. And the laughing blonde hadn't been the same girl he'd left in 1863. The laugh had gone out of her.

“Why is this marriage important to you?” he asked. “Why, after all these years of spurning admirers, do you want to mark yourself with a divorced stranger?”

Her shoulders drooped; she didn't reply.

“Do you love him, Lise?” he asked, hoping she'd deny it.

She slammed closed a cupboard drawer. “Enough to pledge my troth.”

“Enough to make you happy?”

He didn't believe her. He had heard of love at first sight, had never thought it existed, and still didn't. Yet Lisette wasn't a woman to lie.

“If there's even a slight chance you'll be happy, who am I to stand in the way?” he asked rhetorically, pitying himself for not being more aggressive
before
she'd met McLoughlin. His voice hollow, he said, “You have my best wishes.”

He made for the bridegroom. Ignoring the curled-lipped minister, he told McLoughlin in no uncertain terms, “You had better be good to the
Mädchen,
or you'll answer to me.”

McLoughlin, smooth and arrogant, gave his assurance.

 

 

Lisette watched Matthias as he went to her fiancé. She hadn't been completely frank with her friend, and it hurt to see him worried. She couldn't confess she'd had no choice but to accept Gil McLoughlin's proposal.

Saying yes to the bargain was a matter of survival. He had frightened her witless, evoking horrible memories of her sister. Lisette's eyes squeezed closed. As if it were yesterday she remembered that dry creekbed of eight years ago and the mutilated body beside it. Her thick, blond hair gone, there had been a grotesque, petrified cast to that precious, dead face. For Olga, Lisette had cried–then, and again today.

And Matthias' offer of help had come too late.

She'd promised the trail boss she'd be his cook, and she wouldn't renege on her word. If she had, she'd be as much of a lowlife as a certain male in San Antonio.

Moreover, she had faith in Gil McLoughlin. From the way he carried himself to the strong set of his jaw, his appearance bespoke trust. And as each moment passed, each time they conversed, her faith in him grew. He had promised to protect her from harm, and he would. He had promised not to abandon her; he wouldn't.

And the latter was the more important to Lisette.

The most significant aspect of their relationship, though, was: they needed each other.

He wouldn't regret giving her his name. She'd play the roll of affectionate wife without a lack of feeling on her part, and she'd please his men with her best culinary efforts, which would make the trail easier for everyone. He would find her a devoted and sincere partner in his enterprise.

Her all was what she would give . . . all but her body.

She glanced at the man who would give her his protection. He was walking toward her, his gait loose and relaxed. He appeared pleased at entering this travesty of marriage.
He did reserve the right to change my mind about the name-only part.
She could never, ever, allow their marriage to become anything more than a simple arrangement.

Her bridegroom was near her now, wearing a clean flannel shirt and twill britches. Gone were his hat, chaps, and gunbelt. He smelled of bay rum and fresh air. She enjoyed this scent, but she liked the manly, plain aroma of him as well. For once his hair was somewhat under control. The urge to tousle those loose black curls was as real as the canopy of stars above, the warmth of this evening, and the beaming smile of her soon-to-be husband.

“These are for you.” He lifted his hand, and his voice was as tight with emotion as the strings of her heart. “A bride can't get married without a bouquet.”

Her heart thrumming, she accepted the bluebonnets and buttercups. This wasn't a church, nor was the marriage for real, but never had such a sweet gesture affected her so deeply; she wanted to cry.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I–I never expected . . .”

“It's only appropriate.” His palm settled on her upper arm, his fingers curving. “Expect the unexpected.”

The preacher made a noise from his throat to call attention to their dawdling.

“Honey, let's get married.”

Gil McLoughlin offered his hand, and she laced her fingers with his. They took their places before the preacher.

Eli Wilson yelled, “We need witnesses.”

Seven cowboys appeared and lined up between the chuck wagon and the campfire. Sadie Lou, under the worktable, roused from sleep to sit up and watch the happenings. As if he were an invited guest, Tecumseh Billy trotted to the camp's perimeter, then stood by, his great horns turned in their direction.

Ashen-faced, Matthias walked up. His expression read, “I've given my best wishes, but I want you to think twice.”

She had done her thinking and deciding.

Nonetheless, the wildflowers began to shake, and trying to get a grip on them as well as on herself, she glanced upward. Clouds moved across the moon.

Preacher Wilson, the Good Book cradled in his palm, cleared his throat. “Let me repeat. Will you take this man to be your wedded husband?”

Her gaze flew to the man at her right, and she gained strength from his steadfastness. There was no other she'd want for her own. “I will.”

Gil squeezed her hand.

“Will you take this woman to be your wedded wife?”

“I will,” was the strong, sure reply.

Preacher Wilson turned back to Lisette. “Will you love, honor . . .

“... forsaking all others, for as long as ye both shall live?”

“I–I will.”

“Will you love, honor, and keep her, forsaking all others, for as long as ye both shall live?”

“I will.”

The sacred vows continued. Gil slipped a gold band on her finger and it carried the warmth of his hand. For a fleeting moment she wondered where he'd gotten it and why it fit.

“In the presence of God and these witnesses, I now pronounce you man and wife.” The minister smiled at the couple. It was his first expression of approval since Lisette had joined the Four Aces outfit. “You may kiss your bride.”

Gil's hand went to her waist, and it felt warm and protective . . . and provocative. He smiled his seductive smile that made mush of her insides. His lips parted to kiss her. Hers did not part. The bouquet fluttered from her fingers, yet she grabbed the cherished flowers from the ground . . . and accepted that her tall, strong partner would seal their vows with a deep kiss.

This was a wedding–their wedding–and she allowed herself to be weak. Just this once . . . no, once again.

Her fingers flattened against his nape as his lips met hers. His tongue moved inside, and she tasted the pure flavor of his mouth.
Mmmm. so nice.
His arms were around her, his hands pulling her close to the hard strength of his warm body.
Mmmm. nicer.

“Oh, Mister McLoughlin,” she murmured breathily. “You won't regret this. I promise with all my heart.”

This, she pledged meaningfully–to her husband and to God.

The witnesses cheered; the dog chased Tecumseh Billy from camp; Matthias drifted away from the celebration.

And Lisette wished her marriage could be different. If only she could accept all he'd offered . . . But theirs would be a good arrangement, she vowed. Somehow she'd keep her distance.

Once more, she whispered, “Oh, Mister McLoughlin.”

“Darlin', you'd better call me Gil.”