Hell's Belle (12 page)

Yeah, that sticky
little matter. Somehow she'd heard he wasn't exactly a stranger around the
Wadsworth bordellos. He managed a grunt now around the hunk of steak he'd just
put into his mouth. She didn't wait for him to chew before baldly informing
him, "I'm interested, I guess, because I've never been able to see myself
as anyone's wife."

He chewed, sipped
some water, and met her gaze with a level stare. "Why's that, exactly? You
seem—"

"Because I'm
not good at anything!" she hissed, going bright red. "Can't you
tell?"

Oh Lord. Del kept
his ranch boss face on, pretending she was just another cowhand who'd screwed
up a chore and needed an explanation that wouldn't be a big spoonful of
humiliation.

"Well now, I
don't think that's precisely accurate. You got a decent sense of direction. Hit
the river and walked the right way to get out to my place all on your lonesome.
Weren't ever out there before, so I'd say that was fairly good reckoning. I've
seen you sweep a floor. Seemed moderately talented at that. Place was spotless
until my pony crashed through the window. And before you say another word, we
both know that's pure hogwash about you waving your broom around and casting
any spell on the animal."

She set down her
fork and smiled at him. A real pretty smile that went clear up to her misty
eyes.

He cleared his
throat. "I've seen you take a set of stairs. You kept your skirts up just
enough to show a teasing bit of ankle and still be a very proper young lady.
Though I got to tell you, when a man's going up or down those stairs behind
you, his thoughts aren't on feet. That rump of yours has a nice sway to it. Not
overly exaggerated, but a man doesn't forget he
is
one."

She kept smiling
and blushed a bit. "Oh, and you pack real fast." She giggled then. He
grinned again. "How am I doing so far?"

"You're
amusing me with your clever wit. So…say I would make an adequate bride. What
makes you a good candidate for a husband?"

"I own a few
hundred acres along a decent river, have a good bunch of wranglers, some fine
horseflesh as my base stock. The ranch will be even better in a couple years,
but it's profitable now."

He put down his own
flatware and reached for her hand. As he expected, she stopped chewing and looked
wary, but attentive. "You're going to hear about it sooner or later. I'd
rather it come from me. I was fixing to marry someone else several months back.
So I added a bedroom onto the house, put in a new fireplace in the front room,
bought a nice rag rug. You didn't see inside the other day, but I think you'll
find it comfortable enough."

"Oh." She
looked…damn it, sort of defeated again. "What happened? I know it's rude to
ask, but since you brought up the subject…"

"She took off
one night with a professional gambler. Night before the wedding we had planned,
as it happens. In Reverend Phillips church. So you can see that I wasn't
exactly dying to go over there, either."

"No. No."
She seemed to think for a moment, and then shocked him by asking, "So you're
thinking we'd better tie the knot right away, before I change my mind?"

Hell. That made him
sound like some dimwit. But it was still probably better than the bald truth.
That he mainly just wanted her out of her corset and stays, and by now that
want was getting so powerful he'd sell his soul to the Devil to convince her.

"Something
like that," he replied, releasing her hand and going back to his dinner.

She spooned and forked
up a few more mouthfuls, then set her utensils aside to stare over at him.
"You must have heard what people in town are saying about me. It's not
just that horse incident."

"Nope, it's
the fact both your cousin and your uncle are horse's asses. Fletcher told me
his cockeyed story about how everything bad seems to happen to you. I told him
what I thought of that." He cocked his head, peered at her closely.
"You don't
believe
his garbage?"

"I haven't
always been fortunate," she ventured, glancing away from him. "I
don't necessarily think it means I'm cursed with foul luck or—"

"Nobody's
always lucky. Hell, I told you I got jilted, left at the altar. Me being such a
handsome buck, that's tough to swallow, I know. But it happened."

Twila snorted and
tried unsuccessfully to hide a laugh.

"Don't,"
he admonished. "I meant for you to laugh at me. I want you to laugh at me
or anyone and anything that tickles your fancy. Doesn't seem like you've had
much laughter or joy in your life, Twila Bell. And another thing I'm pretty
definite on, so we may as well get this straight now...I don't like that
moniker your uncle stuck you with, Hell's Belle."

Her lips twitched.
"I don't think my uncle meant for it to have an E on the end, as in
Southern belle or belle of the ball. It's more a play on our surname."

"Which is
another damned good reason to take mine. You going to do that, or not? You know
I can support you. I'm very much attracted to you, so…you don't need to worry
about me straying. If you want my promise that I won't consort with any painted
cats after we tie the knot, you've got it."

He flushed,
stupidly. Somehow he felt tense, ready for a fight.

"Then I
accept," she said quietly. "And I'll try to make you a good wife. I
really will."

He set down his
water glass. "You mean that?"

"Yes, or I
wouldn't have said it. You've persuaded me. Isn't that what you were trying to
do?"

"Reckon so.
I'm just going to ask one thing, Twila. And it's really, really important to
me."

"I'll
absolutely be faithful too," she volunteered, blushing again.

He shook his head.
"Pardon. I should have said two things. That's a good point, and I want
that too. We'll both take vows meaning to keep them." She nodded. "I
want your trust most of all. All right? I want you to trust me. Not scurry underfoot,
acting intimidated, afraid to speak up the way you did around your uncle. Trust
that I'll always look out for you. I'd never let anyone hurt you. Can't stomach
the thought of that."

She caressed his
thumb with a slow, meaningful stroke of her index fingertip. "I knew that,
Delancy. Otherwise I never would have left Uncle Fletcher's with you. So…I
guess we find a clergyman and speak the vows of matrimony?"

Del studied her
eyes without answering for a moment, and there was another of those eerie pauses
when Twila thought he could somehow see deep inside her. Maybe clear through
her. If he did, he had to know she was scared, but intrigued, too. She never
would have anticipated today's wild turn of events. But maybe for once in her
life, unbelievable as it seemed, maybe reverse lightning had struck.

Del had come to the
store to pay off her uncle. Somehow that transaction led to a heated
conversation—about
her
, of all things—and Del had crossed a line. There
was no going back for any of them. But for once, it wasn't a devastating blow
that robbed Twila of something precious. This seemed more like a weird blow
that might provide it.

A chance for
happiness with a man she found…amazing. Utterly fascinating. Strange and
wonderful, yet safe and comforting, too. She gazed into the wide blue horizon
of his eyes, so steadfast on hers. All things were possible, the future awaited
if she had courage enough to reach for it, there in that promising blue
expanse. She offered a hopeful smile and wasn't the least bit surprised when he
answered with a smile of his own.

Not that cocky grin
he'd tossed at her before, the same kind of grin he'd given her that first
morning…the one Betsy and the whores in town had been treated to and obviously
recognized for what it was. A ploy to charm just any woman. No, this was a
different smile, one Twila believed she was the only woman to have seen in many
months. The same smile some other woman had callously turned her back on.

A smile that
promised a future to be explored together. Wide and warm and certain.

And so, less than
two hours later, Twila Bell found herself legally wed to Mr. Delancy Jones
Mitchell.

* * *

Del lay awake
listening to the rhythm of his own breathing.

It was long past
midnight. He couldn't sleep on the stiff divan in the suite he'd rented in the
Dutchman's Lodge. He'd paid an excessive amount for a tiny bedroom with a large
sitting parlor, purposely so he'd have a place to sleep other than in the bed
with his new bride.

The irony of the
situation didn't escape him.

He'd spent his
original "wedding night" in a drunken orgy, doing anything but
sleeping in a harlot's bed. Now he was married, right enough…and here he was
again, not sleeping. On a horsehair sofa with stiff springs, one of which was
poking the middle of his spine. While his new bride hogged a perfectly nice
featherbed beyond a locked door.

Boy, how Jordy
would bust a gut over that. Not to mention Sandy and nearly every other man on
his ranch. Del winced, too easily envisioning the hooting laughter and crude
jibes.

Del Mitchell could
walk up to a horse and somehow sense what it was thinking, often gentle it in
record time, turn the wiliest pony into a decent market commodity and make a
handsome profit.

Del Mitchell could also
apparently set his mind to courting a woman, and end up ass over ears in a pile
of fresh manure.

Some fellas had all
the luck.

That word made him
scowl all over again. He wasn't going to tolerate any mention of hexes or
witchcraft, bad omens or worse luck, and his men better accept that's the way
it was. Twila didn't need anything but someone to believe in her and a little
time. Eventually, she'd come to believe in herself, and Lord, but Del wanted to
be there to witness that. It just wasn't time for his butterfly to come out of
her chrysalis just yet. He knew that. No matter how brave a face she'd tried to
put on things, he'd seen the uncertainty in her eyes.

Never press a
skittish creature, Del.

His father's first
lesson, when Del had barely been old enough to sit a horse's back and hang on
to the reins. Del's father was pure Irish, steeped in the old ways. Del's
father probably could have walked up to the lion like Daniel and pulled that
thorn right out, never once having to even think about the lion's fangs. He'd
been charmed that way.

Some of his magic
had been passed on to Del.

"But obviously
not the female
human
kind," he groused as he flopped over onto his
side, still trying to get comfortable. When he realized his new bride stood not
ten feet away in the darkness, he tumbled off the sofa onto the floor.

"Oh, gracious!
Are you all right?"

Probably wouldn't
be a good idea to advise her that his tumescent manhood had partially broken
his fall.

"You startled
me, is all," he blustered. Not quite all. She'd also embarrassed the holy
heck out of him, left him stiff with sexual arousal, and generally had him
thoroughly bemused. He attempted to gather his wits along with his blanket and
got back on his makeshift bed. "What did you want?"

"I don't quite
know how to say this."

Oh, honey lamb
, his mind raced.
Just blurt
it out! "Del, I want you to make love to me," would be fine. Even
"Del, I'm lonely in there all by myself."
Christ, he'd be
pathetically grateful if she just asked for a hug. He'd take it from there.

She struck a match
and lit the lamp on the table nearby, staring at him as though his hair was
standing out in every direction. A distinct possibility, since he'd been
tossing and turning for hours. He reached up to smooth his rumpled locks.
"Please tell me you didn't come out here to say we've made a horrible
mistake. Anything but that."

She shook her head.
Oh boy. She wore an agitated look and stood there awkwardly hesitant. He'd make
it easier for her.

"You know it's
acceptable. Whatever you need to say," he encouraged, sitting up again. He
needed to be ready to enfold her in his arms when she confessed to needing him.

"It wasn't a
mistake…I mean, not in the sense of an accidental sort of thing a person does
without intending to. I knew when you took these rooms that you obviously felt
uncomfortable about our…unusual circumstances. Unfamiliarity. And I appreciate
the gesture. I honestly do."

But…Here it came..
.He resisted the urge to rub his
palms together in glee. Candidate for sainthood up to this point, he really
was. He'd let her mumble out a few more subtle hints, then gather her in his
arms and make her forget who propositioned whom to get things consummated.

"But I think
we should go home now."

Maybe she was
talking in metaphors. "Home, as in our marriage bed, together?"

"Yes, on your
ranch."

He reached over to
the high back of the sofa, where he'd tossed his pants, and pulled out his
pocket watch. "Twila, it's two in the morning. And you suddenly think we
should ride home. Now?"