Darby: Bride of Oregon (American Mail-Order Bride 33) (4 page)

She was late. Or Jacobs was late. Either way, Rand
wasn’t pleased to be left standing on the steps of the gothic church like some
lovelorn fool.

A block away, a familiar carriage turned the
corner.

“Forgiven,” he whispered.

He felt each step of the horses until they came to
a stop beneath the porte-cochere. Jacobs jumped down but Rand waved him away
and opened the door himself. He stooped to unfold the step and when he rose,
his breath was stolen by the beauty staring back at him from the shadows.

No one moved.

He boldly stared for another few seconds, wanting
to press the moment into his memory like a flower pressed between pages. Would
he be able to recall it again, years from now?

Still, she didn’t move. He shook off his
enchantment and held out a hand to her. Was she a mouse that needed coaxing out
of the corner?

She nodded once as if she’d made some decision and
laid a gloved hand on his.

He knew that slipper. He knew that hem.

Finally, when the woman and gown were safely on
the ground, he stepped back and stared again.

“You are beautiful, Miss McClintock. Almost too
beautiful. You’ll make me forget what my sister looked like, if I’m not careful.”

She didn’t look too pleased with the compliment. “Forgive
me, sir. I had nothing suitable to wear and –”

“Nonsense. The dresses were there for your use.
Don’t mind me. It’s a sentimental day, so naturally, I am thinking sentimental
thoughts. Did Jenny tell you Rachel also had red hair?”

She shook her head. He wished she would speak more
freely so he could ascertain just how refined her speech was.

“I thought we could take a stroll around the
grounds and talk a bit before we go inside. What do you think?”

From the way she swallowed, she must not have
thought much of his idea, but she smiled and nodded anyway. He offered his arm
and she took it. He kept his strides small and she seemed to appreciate it. For
a minute or so, they walked in silence.

“My name’s Rand, by the way.”

“Darby McClintock.”

He laughed. “Yes. I know. I’ve been assured you’re
not Scottish in spite of your name.”

“That is correct,” she said carefully. He wondered
if she’d been insulted by his objection to Scots, but he was sure she would
come to understand why, eventually. There was no sense explaining unpleasant
things on their wedding day.

“I’m sorry you were in a position to answer my
advertisement. But I’m very glad you did.”

She looked surprised. “You are?”

If he were honest, he’d have to tell her he was
much happier about it after he’d caught a glimpse of her through the tower
window, before she’d wrapped herself in the robe. In fact, he’d repented for
his earlier wish that she would be homely and convinced himself that a woman
who could turn heads might be able to turn votes someday.

“I had almost given up hope,” he confessed
instead.

She stopped abruptly and turned the face him. “Please,
sir. If you wouldn’t mind. Will you tell me why you haven’t simply chosen a
bride from the young ladies of Portland?”

He understood her curiosity, and was pleased,
frankly, that she was able to express herself clearly. A wife with a head full
of fluff would be detrimental to his ambition. He could have found a way to
adjust, but it would be so much easier not to.

“I have political ambitions, Miss McClintock, and
marrying a local woman would mean marrying into her family’s politics. I want
to have no one influencing my judgment.”

She nodded. “It’s
Lady
Darby McClintock, by
the way.”

“Really? Why was I not told?”

She shrugged and they began walking again. “If my
fellow seamstresses would have addressed me that way, how long do you suppose
it would take for an employer to resent me?”

Rand nodded and grinned. “You see? We’re both in
politics.”

“You won’t have to disclose it, of course, if you
so choose.”

“Why?”

“Because you would hold the courtesy title of
Lord. And that might not be…politic. Here in the colonies, I mean.”

“The colonies.” He laughed. “Clever and beautiful.
I admit I feel like a very lucky man.”

“Truly?” She seemed genuinely surprised.

He nodded and his attention caught on her lips.
Heaven help him. “And you? How do you feel, Lady McClintock?”

“Honestly?”

“Please.”

She shrugged. “To steal a term from your Mr.
Jacobs…”

From the driver? “Yes?”

“Like a veritable bounder.”

He laughed all the way to the church doors, but
stopped the second he laid eyes on Jez. By the scowl on her face, he guessed
she’d been standing in the open doorway for quite some time. She wasn’t
scowling at him, though, but at his bride.

“Lady McClintock,” he said. “I’d like to introduce
you to my dear friend, Jez. Jez, this is Lady Darby McClintock.”

“Lady?”

“Yes.” He tried to warn her by raising his brows
that she’d better keep a civil tongue in her mouth. Darby wasn’t the type of
woman Jez was used to dealing with.

Jez narrowed her eyes. “Red hair? McClintock? And
you’re not a Scot? I’ll eat my hat—”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” The woman
held out a glove-covered hand.

Jez tried to hide a smirk while she ignored the offered
hand, pulled a bouquet of roses from behind her back, and held them out.

“Jez was kind enough to make the arrangements for
today,” he said, and glanced at the flowers. “They’re lovely.”

 “I shall never thank you enough,” Darby said. “But
be a dear and hold them for me, would you, until the ceremony’s over?” She
reached out with both hands and gave Jez’s black glove a squeeze.

Jez sucked air through her teeth and sputtered,
then threw the bouquet away from her. When they hit the paving stones, he noticed
large thorns between the ribbons that tied the roses together. Their wicked
tips glinted in the afternoon sun.

His bride had the gall to look surprised. “Oh,
what a pity. And it looked as if you’d
arranged
them so carefully, too.”

Jez yanked off the glove and sucked on the meat of
one finger, then another. Rand thought it best to keep his body between the
women while he and Darby stepped inside the church.

The ceremony was brief and uneventful. When the
minister invited anyone to object, Rand looked around for Jez, but she wasn’t
there.

Probably off licking her wounds—literally.

He looked his bride over once again, wondering if
she’d seen the glint of a mean thorn before she’d given Jez’s hand a squeeze,
or if she simply led a charmed life. When she glanced up at him, he couldn’t
tell if she was nervous or guilty.

The impending wedding night aside, he had the
feeling it was guilt that opened her eyes just a tiny bit wider than they might
have done otherwise.

He gave her a wink.

She grinned back.

Definitely guilt.

Darby felt rather lucky herself. Not only was she
able to hide her guilt by admitting to Judge Beauregard that she was a bounder,
he seemed to suspect the truth, that she’d thwarted that wicked woman’s attempt
to wound her with the roses, and he hadn’t cared a whit.

If she knew women, and she did, she was sure the
judge and this Jez had been more than just dear friends. And yet, he took Darby’s
side over hers. She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that. Of course, in
there somewhere was the fact that she had won her new husband’s loyalty but—

Saints preserve her, she was married!

As the carriage rolled through town, she examined
the unusual ring on her finger. Tiny leaves of silver filled in the gaps
between larger ones of gold and copper. The heart-shaped foliage was delicate
to begin with, but the tiny veins on them made the entire piece look alive, as
if those leaves might flutter and wave if the wind blew across them.

Determined not to fidget like the nervous bride
she was, she folded her hands in her lap and pretended not to notice each and
every time the man at her side breathed in and out. She found herself breathing
along with him but had to take shorter breaths once she realized she was
growing light-headed.

Was he so silent because he was nervous too?

The carriage wound its way back and forth, turning
half a dozen times in its climb up the western hillside. Though the mountain
range now blocked the late afternoon sun and left the road in shadows, they
turned the last bend and found the house lit from hundreds of candles, both
inside and out. A small staff waited on the steps, all smartly dressed in black
and white. The pinafores on the maids were as crisp and clean as snow in the
Highlands.

She was just about to say so when she remembered
to bite her tongue. Summoning her new accent, she said, “It steals my very
breath, my lord.”

He laughed. “Oh, this is all their doing.”

~ ~ ~

After their suppers were laid out and the servants
had all been thanked profusely, Darby was left alone with her new husband. They
ate in relative silence, though every now and again, they would laugh for no
particular reason. As far as Darby was concerned, she suffered from a dire case
of giddiness—a combination of delight and relief—that she chose not to examine
too closely. For tonight, she would just enjoy it.

She sensed his laughter came from the same place.

He lifted the champagne and pointed the opening
toward her half-full glass, but she shook her head. She needed her wits about
her…as long as they both shall live.

“I’ve been thinking about this night for a very
long time, Darby.”

The sound of her name wrapped in his dark, rumbly
voice made her shiver.

He got to his feet and she utterly froze while he
made his way to the sideboard. He reached into a drawer and closed it again.
When he turned, he held a small box in his hand. He settled beside her again,
and opened the box. It was empty but for a small slit in a bed of velvet. A bed
meant for a ring.

“Here,” he said. “Your ring once belonged to my sister.
And before that, it belonged to my grandmother. The ring is yours, now, but I’d
like you to take it off and put it in the box.”

She quickly did as he asked and tried to hide her
disappointment.

He closed the box and pressed it into her hands. “It’s
yours, Darby. And when you’ve known me for a little while, after we’ve spent a
few weeks under the same roof…” He laughed nervously and rubbed the back of his
neck. “What I’m trying to say is that I don’t expect to consummate our marriage
until you’re ready. And when you’re ready, you put the ring on your finger.
Then I’ll know.”

She blinked and rubbed fingers over her eyes to
make certain her head was clear. “You’re saying…” She shook her head, unable to
find a better way to say he was not going to—

“I’m granting you a stay of execution, Darby. You
will let me know when you’re ready to be my wife in every way, and you’ll tell
me by slipping that ring back on your finger.”

She opened the box and took a long look at the
precious creation that had been hers for just a little while.

“Please.” He forced the lid closed again. “I beg
you, don’t tease me. I don’t want to even glimpse that ring again until you’re
sure.”

She giggled. “What if I’m never sure?”

He grinned. “Then I’ll just have to seduce you.”
He sobered and shook his head. “Forget I said that. Too much champagne,
obviously.” He stood and walked to the large window that looked out on the
wilderness behind the house. “I think it is only right to allow you a few weeks
to get used to me. A month maybe.”

He strode to the chair by the door and lifted his
suit coat from it. “I don’t think I can stand sleeping here tonight. I don’t
trust myself, and I don’t want to scare you. I’ll sleep at the office and see
you for breakfast.” Before she could speak, he was at the door. “I’ll send some
of the staff back so you’re not here alone. All right?”

She was tempted to whip the little box open and
slide the ring on her finger just to keep him from leaving. But she was also
grateful for the reprieve. She couldn’t lie about that. No matter how much time
she’d thought about this night, she hadn’t put a real face to it until that
afternoon.

“A little time is a generous gift, sir. Thank you.”

His smile was more of a grimace, which she took to
mean that he was a little disappointed too. But he nodded and disappeared,
leaving her alone with a hundred sputtering candles.

Darby opened the box again and watched the
candlelight winking along the edges of the tiny silver leaves, giving the
impression the ring was on fire. She wondered what would happen if she were to
wear it to breakfast in the morning, but when her imagination made her feel
like she was burning along the edges too, she shut the box with a snap.

After sending one of the maids back to the house,
changing costumes twice and modes of transportation three times, Rand finally
arrived at his lair in the underground between Ankeny and Ash. He rapped on the
small window, and after Nero got a look at him, the door opened enough to sidle
inside. Shadow was sprawled out on the davenport with his woman, Abigail, on
his lap. His eyes widened.

Rand waved a hand. “Don’t let me interrupt,” he
said. “I’ve just come to change.” He had yet one more outfit that would
transform him into the Phantom.

“No need,” Shadow said. “The cages be empty
tonight.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m going to make the rounds
anyway, to be seen. Everyone has a good idea of where Rand Beauregard is
tonight, so he can’t possibly be the Phantom, can he?” He smiled, pleased with
his strategy, and even more pleased that it seemed like he’d planned his
walkabout all along. Of course, he hadn’t. And he hadn’t planned to leave his
bride all alone on their wedding night either.

It would have been so much simpler if she’d been a
plain young Englishwoman—a proper girl who knew her duties and expected to
consummate her marriage that night whether or not she was comfortable with the
stranger she’d married. It happened all the time in England, didn’t it? Women
were betrothed to whomever their fathers chose for them. It was all just
business.

But as soon as he’d glimpsed his bride in the
tower window, everything had changed. It wasn’t her beauty that complicated
things, though she was a beauty. And it wasn’t that she had turned out to be
more intelligent than he’d expected, though she had. It was just that blasted
image he carried around of his future wife, like a photograph with the shape of
a woman cut out of it. And while she’d stood there in the window, marveling at
the wild western forest, like a gift he’d prepared for her—which it practically
had been—it was as if she’d stepped easily into that void and filled it
perfectly, all the way to the edges.

That was what spooked him—that Fate knew him so
well. And the fellow standing in that picture next to her? What if he wasn’t up
to snuff?

Maybe, with the little bit of time he’d bought
himself, he could make sure he was. He’d made a good start. In the past two
years, he’d become a different man entirely. Too bad it had taken the death of
his sister to give him some perspective.

He opened the wardrobe, moved the clothes aside,
then opened the secret panel in the back where half a dozen black cloaks hung
below half a dozen masks. The faces had been covered in silver leaf. The comic
smiles reflected the light of the room at his back. The black eye holes stared
as if reading his mind.

His favorite was the first mask he’d ever made,
two years before. Damaged with dents and scratches, he chose it this time for
sentimental reasons, for the times he’d mistakenly believed everything was
perfect.

Rachel had married the perfect man. Rand’s house
had been the perfect symbol of the perfect success he’d made of Portland,
creating businesses, selling them, and starting the next, all while practicing
law and climbing to the top of his field.

But then Rachel had died and he’d gone off on a
tear. He’d wound up falling through the trapdoor at Bangor Joe’s. And if Jez
hadn’t found him and rescued him from that cage, he would have disappeared like
thousands of others had in the past forty years.

If Rach hadn’t died, he might have never known
what an unspeakable underbelly slithered along beneath the streets of the city
he had loved so dearly. If she hadn’t died, his traditional ambitions might
have grown like a wildfire and consumed him.

If his sister had lived, she would have
hand-picked a wife for him. But without her, he’d been left with Jez as the
only female in his life, and given his new ambitions, she wouldn’t do. But
luckily, he’d happened upon a copy of
The Grooms’ Gazette
and seen
firsthand that respectable men were allowed to ask for exactly the kind of
woman they needed.

So he’d asked. And Lady Darby McClintock—no,
Lady
Beauregard was his.

And he was terrified.

Shadow stepped into the bedchamber and closed the
door behind him. Rand traded the last of his cowboy trappings for the Phantom’s
black ones.

“And what does Mrs. Beauregard think of you
leaving the bed cold this night?”

Rand shrugged. “We have an understanding.”

Shadow snorted. “I doubt the lady understands what
you think she understands.”

“I will not force myself on her. We’re strangers.
It will be different...in a week or two.”

His friend gasped. “A week or two? You take Shadow’s
advice, and hurry back up the hill. You make an impression, that’s what you do.
If not, she be making a fool of you. Mark my words.”

Rand pulled the cool metal of his mask against his
heating face and hoped it would cool his thoughts, too. “Like I said, we have
an understanding. She didn’t run me off. It was my idea—”

“No good will come of this.” Shadow shook his head
and opened the door. “Mark my words.”

Rand refused to worry. He’d shown Darby
consideration. She’d been grateful. It was a fine start to their marriage. And
while she got used to the idea of sharing his bed, he’d get to work making sure
he was worthy of sharing it with her.