Harlequin Historical February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Major's Wife\To Tempt a Viking\Mistress Masquerade (2 page)

It was there, at his desk, that he got the first glimpse of her. Frowning, for it was a perplexing sight, he pushed his chair back and stood to get a better look out the window. Mirth was a good feeling, and when it bubbled up the back of his throat, he let it out. This he had to see in person.

Leaning in the open doorway, shadowed by the overhang, Seth watched the wagon roll to a stop several yards away. A chuckle still tickled his throat, and he covered it with a cough as people started gathering, catching their first glimpses of his wife.

She was holding a once-fancy umbrella the wind had reduced into a misshapen frame of sticks waving several haphazard miniature flags, and her hair was bushed out as if a porcupine sat on her head. The skirt flapping around her ankles sent up puffs of dust as she climbed down, aided by Ben Cutter, who gestured toward the cabins. Throwing her shoulders back, she started walking across the hard-packed ground.

Seth was biting the inside of his cheek, for she certainly looked the worse for wear, but then a frown formed, tugging hard on his brows. He didn't remember her having a limp. Then again, they hadn't spent more than a couple hours together, and most of that time had been used up with her father convincing Seth to say I do.

* * *

Millie's backside was numb and her legs were stiff, to the point every step had her wondering if she'd become a walking pincushion. But head up, she started directly toward the man she knew to be Seth Parker.

He was the one smiling.

No, not smiling...smirking.

Holding in a great bout of laughter, she'd bet.

At her expense.

Frazzled, tired, weather-beaten and sore, she marched onward. Well, limped. The heel had broken off her boot back in Tulsa. Five days ago. On the other side of the world. For the first time in her life she felt as ornery as Rosemary.

A gust of wind caught her parasol, and this time Millie let it go. There was nothing left of it, anyway. People were gathering around, but she couldn't care less. She needed a bath, a cup of tea and a bed. In that order.

Never in all her born days could she have imagined what it was like traveling in a buckboard wagon with no canopy, across land that was little more than a desert, with two men who ate beans for every meal.

Beans.

Beans with no ginger. Everyone knew ginger helped eliminate human gases produced when people ate a lot of beans.

She hobbled onto the boardwalk, and without a pause in the clip-thud of her uneven footwear, she pointed toward the door behind her supposed husband. “Is that our house?”

“Yes.”

The grin he held back made her jaw sting as her teeth clenched. She ignored it, and him, and crossed the threshold.

A rusted, mini parlor stove, a crude table with two chairs, a tall cupboard, two doors and a ladder leading to an open area overhead... The open door on the right showed a desk, so she went left.

“That's Russ's room.”

The stabbing sensation between her shoulder blades stopped her movements. With only one heel, standing straight was impossible, so, as crooked as a scrub oak, she spun around. “Who is Russ?”

“Corporal Kemper,” Seth said. “My assistant.”

“He lives with us?”

“No, he lives with me.”

Millie pulled in air through her nose until her lungs were full all the way to her chin, but it didn't help. Rosemary would have an opinion on that, but Millie really didn't. Letting the air out, she asked, “Where will I live?”

Seth shrugged.

Her last nerve was gone, and she really didn't know what to do about it. Not that there was a whole lot she could do. Between the train and wagon rides, her well of self-encouragement had gone dry. Finding the fortitude to pretend to be Rosemary was impossible. Yet she was here, had arrived and needed to regain her composure to make it through the next three months. Taking another breath seemed to be her only option. So she did that. Long and deep.

Mr. Cutter and Mr. Winston chose that moment to appear at the door with two of her trunks. Both men had done all they could to make the unpardonable journey across the most desolate land in the nation as comfortable as possible—despite their predictable but unfortunate reactions to the beans.

“Where do you want these, Major?” Mr. Cutter asked.

Seth moved away from the door, stepping into the room, which made the tiny space ten times smaller. She didn't budge. She remained standing next to the little stove, which emitted a scent of creosote. Her nostrils would never be the same. They seemed to thrive on obnoxious smells now.

“Just set them down anywhere,” Seth instructed, never taking his eyes off her. With a wave of one arm, he said, “I'd like to see you in my office.”

“No,” she answered, returning a gaze just as bold as his. The clump of hair hanging over her right eye probably took some of the sting out of her glare, but she kept her chin up, mentally telling her hand not to tuck the hair behind her ear.

“No?” His expression suggested he rarely heard the word.

She didn't have a chance to respond before someone said, “I'll get my things.”

A young man with the longest legs she'd ever seen set her traveling bag on the table and then sidestepped around her toward the room with the closed door. Two other men set down her additional trunks and ducked out the front, while clanging and banging erupted behind her.

“Russ, your corporal, I assume?”

Seth nodded.

Had his eyes always been that blue, that piercing? Perhaps. She'd seen him only once. The day he'd married Rosemary. A few minutes ago Millie did recall his hair had been so black it looked blue, but he appeared taller than he had years ago, broader across the shoulders, and more unapproachable than her feeble memories recalled. Maybe it was the blue uniform. The tailoring of the outfits could do that to men.

The gangly corporal nodded as he scurried past her with his arms full. “I'll bring over some clean bed linens.”

“Later,” Seth responded curtly.

The man shot out of the cabin, and Seth shut the door behind him. The sound, as well as the darkness—for only a small amount of light filtered into the room from the open office door and alcove above—had Millie holding her breath. She'd best get used to it...being alone with him. Three months was a long time.

Once again he pointed toward the office.

Emptying her lungs with an audible sigh, specifically for him to hear, she held her ground. “I need a bath, I need a cup of tea and I need a bed. In that order. Then I'll meet with you in your office.”

Saying it aloud increased her longing. There was such an indecent amount of dirt in her hair that her scalp itched, her entire body felt sand-pitted and crusty, and her traveling suit was no longer either pale green or gray. It was now a pitiful shade of orange. The entire territory was made up of red-hued dirt that clung to everything. But it was the bed she wanted most. Just a few quiet moments, without wheels turning beneath her, to gather the energy to become her sister.

Seth leaned a hip against the table. “There's a community bathhouse at the end of the barracks. I don't have any tea, and I guess Russ just gave you his bed, but I'd advise you to change the sheets. I don't how long it's been since he did.”

A smirk still sat on his face, and it increased his genuine handsomeness, so much that she wondered if Rosemary remembered what he looked like, for looks meant a lot to her sister. Then again, perhaps Rosemary did. He was the one, after all, demanding the divorce. A weight settled on Millie's shoulders. It was her job to make sure it didn't happen for three months—until Rosemary delivered her baby.

Holding in the sigh welling in her chest, Millie concluded that, whether she was ready or not, it was time to start acting.

“Seth,” she said. A wife should call her husband by his given name, yet it felt very strange. “I understand you're curious about my arrival, but I've been traveling for almost two weeks, and I'm more than exhausted.”

He folded his arms, and the way his eyes traveled from her broken boot to her itching scalp made her need for a bath and clean clothes intensify.

“Curious?” he asked with a hint of cynicism.

She nodded.

“Oh, I am curious,” he said, with a direct stare. “Even more now that
you've
arrived.”

The way he said “you've” sent a tingle coiling around her spine. Rosemary had said they'd never been together, as in man and wife, so that was not something Millie needed to worry about, but that's what settled in her mind. Men grew amorous when they were alone for long lengths of time. Women, too, or so her friend Martin said. Not that she'd actually understood exactly what he'd meant.

Seth was still staring at her, and the least she could hope was the muted light of the room made it too dark for him to notice the way her cheeks blazed. Of all the things to think about, Martin's explanation should not be one of them. The fluttering in her stomach had her trying to reroute her thoughts. Rosemary was married to this man. He just wasn't the father of her child. It was truly a jumbled mess—which now, unfortunately, Millie was right in the midst of.

She was here for the child's sake, would do whatever it took to keep Seth from learning about the baby. Once things were settled—back home, that is—she might travel to Texas. Martin was there, and after this escapade—pretending to be married to a man she wasn't—she'd need her best friend. Her only friend. Few others would forgive such a scandal. But a life—no, two lives—were worth more than her reputation. Especially the life of an innocent child.

Seth shifted his stance, leaning farther back, and the smirk grew to resemble more of a smile as he looked her up and down again. It was unnerving, yet she couldn't think of a thing to say that might make him stop, nor slow the outrageous fluttering inside her.

“Matter of fact,” he finally said, slowly, thoughtfully, “I'm so curious I want to know the truth right now.”

She gulped, a nervous reaction she couldn't have stopped if she wanted to. The flurry in her stomach turned into a heavy glob. “Oh?”

“Yes, Millie.”

Every muscle in her body froze.

“Why are you here? Instead of Rosemary. My wife. Your sister.”

Chapter Two

“I
...I...I—” This couldn't happen. Closing her eyes for a moment, Millie imaged how her sister would react to the accusation. It appeared instantly, for Rosemary never accepted fault. Huffing out a breath, she sent across the room a bitter glare akin to ones she'd witnessed on several occasions. “Millie?”

“Yes, Millie,” Seth repeated. The ire zipping beneath his skin was mixed with a goodly portion of mirth. She was a sight, not just her travel-worn outfit and windblown hair, but her beet-red cheeks and eyes as big and round and startled as a doe's at the end of a gun barrel.

“I'm not Millie,” she insisted. “Goodness, Seth, I'd have thought you'd remember your own wife.”

“I do. And you're not her.” There wasn't anything he could put a finger on, for he didn't know the sister any better than he knew his wife. But this woman was not Rosemary, therefore she had to be Millicent, the younger sister. Why—the foremost question that had been bouncing around in his head for over a week—intensified.

“Seth,” she said, pressing both hands to the base of her throat. “I realize it's been five years, and I understand how easy it is to question my youthfulness. Yes, Millie is younger than me, but please...” Her sigh was accompanied with a steady batting of her eyelashes. “She's shorter than me, somewhat chunkier and not as attractive—her eyes are too close together. People have said that for years. Since the day she was born, actually.” Patting the hair sticking out in all directions, his visitor continued, “Now, I know I must not look myself right now, but once I've had a bath, you'll see it's me, Rosemary.”

Now, that sounded like Rosemary. Matter of fact, those were almost the exact words she'd said the first time they'd met. General St. Clair had just introduced them, and commented that the youngest sister wasn't home, but the two were practically identical. Rosemary had piped in then, stating that she was much more attractive than her sister. Seth recalled it so clearly because at the time, he'd thought her the snootiest girl he'd ever met. The next morning he'd decided she was a lot more than snooty. Downright mean and nasty was more like it.

Maybe she had changed. The Rosemary that had climbed into his bed back in Virginia, the same one that insisted he'd taken advantage of her, and convinced the general her reputation was ruined, would not have been as calm and patient as the woman standing before him. The girl from that night would have been screeching and stating a list of demands before she got off the wagon. Actually, she'd never have gotten on the wagon.

Frustration gurgled in his stomach. The two girls looked enough alike to be twins, he remembered that, and Rosemary was older by three or four years, if he recalled correctly. She'd be twenty-four now. He shoved away from the table. Why was he concerned with any of it? All he wanted was a signed divorce decree.

A knock sounded and the door opened before he responded. That wasn't unusual; his men knew he was always at their disposal.

“Excuse me, Major,” Ben Cutter said, barely glancing his way. “Ma'am, the bathing house is ready. I saw to it myself.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Cutter. Your kindness is never-ending.”

Seth's back teeth clamped together and had his jaw stinging. Not just at her fawning, but at how Cutter was looking at her. One would have thought the man was gazing at an angel. Seth, of course, knew differently.

“If you tell me what you need, ma'am,” Cutter said, “I'll carry it down there for you.”

An uneven click and thud echoed against the rough-hewn walls as she walked across the room toward the table.

“Her heel broke off in Tulsa,” Ben said directly to him. “It got caught in a knothole on the train platform. Ralph fixed it, but it broke off again yesterday.”

Seth didn't need an explanation; it made little difference. Yet because in most instances he did expect full reports from his men, he nodded to Cutter before he asked her, “Don't you have another pair of boots or shoes?”

The sideways glance she sent his way was full of intolerance. “Do you honestly think I'd be wearing these if I had another pair?”

That, too, sounded like Rosemary.

She lifted the tapestry bag Russ had set on the table. “I have day slippers I can wear now, but they wouldn't have held up while traveling.” Turning to Ben, she smiled. “I packed everything I'll need in here last night, after you and Mr. Winston explained the layout of the fort.”

“Here, then, ma'am, I'll carry that for you,” Ben replied, taking the bag and holding the door wide with his other hand.

“Thank you.” Chin up, she marched—with her awkward high-low steps—out the door, without a single backward glance.

Seth was just fine with that. Though he did follow as far as the opening. A crowd had formed, which was to be expected. The fort was close-knit, more so than some families, and there were a few men who'd probably been standing right outside the door, attempting to hear every word. They were off to the sides now, watching curiously. Only a select number of people had known he was married, but once the telegram came in, announcing her arrival, word had spread fast. A twinge pulled at his forehead. He'd have to tell his mother now, and better send the letter soon. If someone else mentioned it, she'd never forgive him.

“Major, sir,” Ralph Winston said, clicking his heels together as he stopped next to the open doorway. “Did Ben explain your wife wasn't hurt, other than a broken heel, when she fell? I did fix her boot, but without the proper tools, it broke again.”

Seth was grinding his teeth again; he had to pull them apart to answer. “Yes, he did.”

“She was attempting to help us load her luggage, sir. We told her it wasn't necessary. Half the town thought it was a gunshot, the way the sound echoed beneath the platform.” Winston wiped his brow and replaced his hat. “My heart danged near stopped working, seeing her sprawled out on the ground.”

Seth was a touched surprised by the concern that raced over him—and irritated. One more person to be concerned about. Responsible for. Army men were one thing. Women and children another—and something he never wanted to have to worry about again.

The giggle that sounded a short distance down the walkway snagged his attention, but through will alone, he kept his gaze from turning that way. He was about to dismiss Winston when the man continued.

“She's a trooper, Major. Was laughing to beat the band when I helped her to her feet. Never saw a woman laugh at herself like that.”

Seth's spine stiffened all over again. The Rosemary he knew—or the one he thought he knew—would never have laughed at herself. True, he'd left Richmond less then twenty-four hours after meeting her, returned here to the Indian Wars, but her attitude, her persona, had imbedded itself within him the first hour he'd known her.

“I'll see the heel gets repaired properly this time, sir.”

After a nod, Seth waved a hand, dismissing Winston. His eyes then went to where
his wife
entered the door to a room with tubs and water barrels. The officers' quarters were separate homes with space for private bathing, and Rosemary would have demanded to know why he didn't live in one of them.

He turned and reentered his cabin. Even after becoming a major, he'd gone on living in the barracks. Back then things had been so busy, he hadn't had time to think beyond knowing he had a bed to fall into at night.

The turmoil had calmed down considerably over the past few years, even more the past months, but he still hadn't thought about moving. Besides, the major's house, as it was known, had become a catchall. Storage for items no one knew what to do with.

As Seth spun to shut the door, the hairs on his neck stood up. People were still gathered about, some pretending to be on missions, whereas in reality they were staring at him. Watching for his next move.

That was common. By nature, and due to his position, everyone at the fort was always watchful for his command. This was different, though. It had nothing to do with army business, and... A heavy sigh escaped, one he hadn't known had built in his chest. He didn't know what his next move would be, either.

That was an oddity. For the first time in a very, very long time, he was at a loss.

“Major?” A hand planted itself on the half-closed door.

“Briggs,” he said, in answer to the man pushing the door open again.

“I see your wife,” the Swede said in his deep and gruff voice. “I bring food. Here to your cabin, she eat after cleaning up. No?”

It didn't matter what the man said, question or statement usually ended with no. And right now, it fit. “No, Briggs. If she's hungry she can eat at the hall like everyone else.”

“But Major, a woman—”

“She might as well get used to it.”

The startled look on the cook's face made something recoil inside Seth. He usually got along with his men, because of mutual respect, but the way he'd just snapped at the Swede, said he didn't like it. Seth squared his shoulders, let his stance confirm who was in charge. “Is there anything else you needed, Sergeant?”

“No, Major. Sir.”

The man spun around, and this time Seth all but slammed the door. Exactly what he'd always suspected. A wife would interfere with his duties.

* * *

A reflection of the dented brass tub caught in the mirror. The accommodations were rough, but she'd never enjoyed a bath as much. Twisting, needing the mirror's assistance in placing the combs, Millie coiled each braided length and pinned them in place at the back of her head. Drying it would take an hour, and curling it even longer, and she didn't have that kind of time. Besides, just as she'd suspected, curled hair would not convince Seth she was Rosemary.

Satisfied the combs were secure in hair that was once again brown and not dust gray, Millie tidied up the area before opening her bag to stuff her boots on top of the traveling suit that would never be pale green again. It had been new at the beginning of her journey, and clothes usually lasted her years. A miniature shiver had her lifting her head, gazing toward the mirror again.

The reflection in the glass mocked her. Millie would be sad about the dress, Rosemary would not. An invisible weight pressed upon her shoulders, so heavily she sat down next to her bag. Being Rosemary was more difficult than she'd imagined. Back in the cabin, when Seth had voiced his suspicion, it had been easy to know what to say. People often confused the two of them, especially from a distance, but in reality, her sister was more attractive, and never failed to remind her of it.

After she'd pulled Rosemary into her mind and said those words to Seth, her stomach had twisted inside out. His expression had turned hard; those piercing blue eyes had gone cold enough that she'd shivered. Seeing the tick in his cheek had made her afraid for the first time since she'd left Richmond.

Millie let out another sigh. No matter how irritated
Rosemary
made Seth, that's who she had to be—
Rosemary
. She had to remember that.

It took several deep breaths, and a few minutes of concentration, but by the time she opened the door and stepped out onto the walkway, she was once again convinced she could do it. Could be her sister for the next three months—until the baby was born.

People stared, mostly men dressed in their blue uniforms with brass buttons, wide yellow neck scarves and flat-brimmed hats, and though Millie would have smiled, nodded, Rosemary would not, so she kept her nose up and moved forward. She did ignore a few things that her sister wouldn't have. There was nothing she could do about the wind and dirt, and she had to wave at Mr. Cutter. It would have been too rude not to. The man had to be twice her age, yet his cheeks shone crimson every time he spoke to her. She appreciated him, too, for all he'd done.

Those things were inconsequential, of course. Seth was the only one who had to believe she was Rosemary. She could do that.

Then she arrived at their cabin, where he stood in the doorway.

Smiling.

Oh, goodness.

“Feel better?” he asked.

Millie pressed the thin leather soles of her day slippers against the boards below her feet. Rosemary wouldn't respond—she'd ignore him pointedly or start spouting demands. But he appeared to be making an effort, and whether her sister would appreciate that or not, Millie did, and couldn't discount it.

“Yes, thank you,” she said. “It's amazing what a little water can do.”

Once again his gaze became so penetrating her insides sprouted wings. A stirring silence grew between them, and she clutched the satchel handle tighter, afraid it might tumble out of her trembling fingers.

“Yes, it is,” he said, stepping back, clearing the cabin's doorway for her entrance.

She pressed a hand to her stomach, to calm the flapping there. The gown was a simple blue calico with short sleeves and a square neckline. It had seemed the most appropriate for the weather yesterday when she'd packed her bag, sitting in the back of the bumpy wagon.

When she lifted her gaze, the explanation died in her throat and her feet grew roots. There was a tightness in his jaw, and she could feel his contempt. Tugging her feet off the walkway, and praying she wouldn't stumble, for there was no excuse now that she was no longer wearing the off-kilter boots, Millie dipped her head and moved forward.

She'd barely stepped inside the cabin when a clanging noise echoed through the open courtyard.

“It's lunchtime,” Seth said. “Are you hungry?”

Five days of beans—the thought was still horrifying—blasted into her mind like a storm. Men could release the pressure beans produced, but women couldn't, and most certainly never in mixed company. She'd requested to sit in the back of the wagon for fear she'd burst at times, and the thought of eating beans again today was deplorable. But so was the confrontation about to take place—it was right under the surface. She could tell he was ready to claim once again that she wasn't Rosemary.