Outlaw’s Bride (39 page)

Patch laughed and slipped an arm around Ethan’s neck to hang on. “Ethan, there’s no bed in this cave.”

Ethan looked around. “It seems you’re right about that. We’ll just have to make do with what we have.”

Patch took one look at the stone floor of the cave and said, “I get to be on top.”

Ethan laughed. “Somehow, Patch, I can’t conceive of you ending up anywhere else.”

For purposes of my novel, I have put the town of Three Rivers on the map thirty-seven years before it was actually established. Three Rivers was founded in 1913 and was originally known as Hamiltonburg. The U.S. Post Office renamed the town Three Rivers because of its location near the fork of the Nueces, Atascosa, and Frio rivers.

Supposedly, the old rock jail in Oakville was surrounded by three large oaks, one of which was actually used for hangings. The Oakville Post Office, which has always been and continues to be in the Oakville Mercantile, dates back to 1854.

Dear Readers,

If you’ve read
Outlaw’s Bride
, you’ve already met the hero of my next novel. Nicholas Calloway, a gunfighter and bounty hunter with a whore for a mother, fascinated me. He’s a ruthless man, with a soft spot for children and dumb animals, and no use—except one—for women.

I wondered what would happen if Calloway inherited a title and became the Duke of Severn. What if, when he returned to take up his rightful role in England, he crossed paths with an English spitfire named Daisy who considered him a barbarian and refused to be exploited or ignored? A sample of this rousing clash of wills, entitled
The Inheritance
, can be found following this letter.

I want to thank all of you who “crossed over” and enjoyed my contemporary Western Hawk’s Way Trilogy from Silhouette Desire. You helped make me #1 at both B. Dalton’s and Walden-books. If you’d like another taste of Hawk’s Way, watch for
The Cowboy Takes a Wife
, coming in March 1994 from Silhouette Desire, to be followed later in the year by the Children of Hawk’s Way Trilogy
The Unforgiving Bride, The Headstrong Bride
, and
The Disobedient Bride
.

I always appreciate hearing your opinions and find inspiration from your questions, comments, and suggestions. I enjoy learning more about you—your age, what you do for a living, and where you usually find my books, whether new or used.

Please write to me at P.O. Box 8531, Pembroke Pines, FL 33084, and enclose a self-addressed, stamped envelope so I can respond. I personally read and answer all my mail, though a reply might be delayed if I have a writing deadline.

Take care and keep reading!

Happy trails,

November 1993

I hope you enjoy this excerpt from my next novel, coming soon from Dell Publishing!

Joan Johnston

Her Grace, the Duchess of Severn, had been summoned to the library as though she were a naughty child. It wasn’t to be borne! Except, she had no choice but to bear it. The barbarian who had demanded her presence was none other than His Grace, the new Duke of Severn. From now on he would be making the decisions, guiding the lives and fortunes of all who lived at Severn Manor. And that included her, Margaret, the Dowager Duchess of Severn, the precious Duke’s widow.

Margaret, called Daisy by those who loved her, fought back a surge of grief for the husband who had been gone a year, taken by an inflammation of the lungs. She still missed Tony dreadfully. Especially now. Tony would know how to handle the toplofty foreigner who had come all the way from America—
where he had hunted down outlaws to make his living—to take the reins of power from her.

Daisy had held those reins for the past year during the search for the missing heir, so she knew how difficult they were to manage. It it were not for her concern that Tony’s long-lost cousin wouldn’t look after the best interests of the servants and tenant farmers she had grown to care for over the eight years she had been Tony’s wife, she would have been long gone to the Dower House.

But she wasn’t about to leave the premises until she had assured herself that a certain cold, gray-eyed stranger intended to take care of the people whose lives he now held in his callused, unrefined hands.

Daisy halted abruptly at the library door, unaccountably nervous now that the time for confrontation had arrived. Her corset prevented her from taking a deep breath, but as a belle who had once taken the
ton
by storm, she was a creature of fashion, and fashion dictated a tiny waist.

She resorted to several shallow pants to release the tension in her shoulders. She resisted the urge to wipe her sweating palms on the front of her yellow and black striped Worth gown and settled for balling her trembling
hands into fists, which she hid in the folds of her skirt.

“Is he in there, Higgenbotham?” she demanded of the servant stationed at the library door.

“Yes, Your Grace.” There was a short pause before he added, “Pacing like a tiger, Your Grace. If Your Grace wants my advice, you won’t go in there alone.”

“Thank you, Higgenbotham, but I’m sure he won’t do me any harm.”
He wouldn’t dare!
she thought. But a shiver of foreboding froze her in place.

Her first impression of the duke as he swept through the front door last night was of a very tall, very dangerous man. Then there were those disturbing rumors about how he had killed so many men in some godforsaken place called Texas. To be honest, she wasn’t sure what the man would dare. After all, he had actually drawn a gun on the solicitor who had been sent to America to find him! Or so Phipps had claimed.

“I shall be right here, Your Grace,” Higgenbotham reassured her. “You need only call for me, and I shall be instantly at your side.”

Daisy wanted to hug the old retainer for his support, but knew he would expire in a fit
of apoplexy if she did anything so impulsive. Higgenbotham was every inch a duke’s servant, which was to say, as much on his dignity as the man he served. They both knew that duchesses did not hug the servants.

Nevertheless, she gave him a warm smile before she squared her shoulders and said, “You may open the door, Higgenbotham. I am ready to meet His Grace.”

With an impassive face the old man opened the paneled mahogany door and closed it with a solid
thunk
behind her as she entered the library.

The room smelled of leather and, even after a year, slightly of the tobacco Tony had smoked. Daisy felt a pang of self-pity at being left a childless widow at twenty-six. She remorselessly snuffed it. Tony might have left this world before his time, but she was still here, and there was business she must conduct.

Her eyes were drawn to Nicholas, Eighth Duke of Severn, who stood with his back to her, staring out a window through which the sun streamed in golden shafts that exactly matched the twelve windowpanes. Tony had often lingered in the same spot, perusing the vast acres of rolling green lawn that surrounded Severn Manor.

As her gaze focused on the duke, she had an impression of strength, of barely leashed energy. She fought a sudden urge to flee as she waited for him to turn and make his bow to her. Instead, he confirmed her belief in his crude lack of manners by neither turning nor bowing before he spoke.

“I understand you’ve been managing things since my cousins—since Tony’s death,” he said.

“I have, Your Grace.” Daisy was mortified that her voice broke between the first two words, and that she had to choke out his title. She wasn’t going to let that broad, imposing back intimidate her. The Duchess of Severn was entitled to courtesy, and before he left the room, this boorish brute would acknowledge it!

Nicholas turned to face her at last, and it took all her courage to stand fast. For if she had thought his shoulders impressive, they were nothing compared to the sight of the duke himself. His face wore the most awful frown, but the rest of him was simply awesome.

The white shirt beneath his black frock coat was open at the throat, revealing a great deal of tan skin. She could even detect the hint of black curls on his chest! It was unforgivable
for a gentleman to appear undressed before a lady! The man had just confirmed her belief that he wasn’t the least bit civilized.

He radiated an aura of savage power totally unlike the well-bred gentility of his cousins, Tony and Stephen. Stephen had been killed in a hunting accident four years ago, but sportsman that he was, Daisy could never remember Stephen looking quite so predatory as the man standing before her now.

In appearance as well as manners the latest duke was nothing like his cousins. Both Tony and Stephen had been blue-eyed and blond-headed. This man had coal-black hair that hung down too long over his collar and hooded gray eyes that reminded her of a bleak winter night.

Where Tony and Stephen had possessed the hooked nose, full lips, and thrusting chin of past generations of Windermeres, this man’s profile was markedly different. His nose was straight, his chin strong—but hardly jutting—his lips thinned by annoyance or disdain, she wasn’t sure which. However, she was forced to admit he was a striking—all right, she conceded in disgust—a handsome man.

He smiled suddenly, revealing a wolfish mouthful of irritatingly straight white teeth.

She flushed, chagrined to discover that he had caught her staring. Color skated across her aristocratic cheekbones as she realized from the improper look of masculine approval in his eyes that he had been giving her an equally thorough appraisal.

“Have you looked your fill, ma’am?” he drawled, lifting a supercilious black brow. Daisy was startled by how much the arrogant gesture reminded her of the old duke, Tony’s father.

She stiffened as it dawned on her that the insolent American had failed to accord her the title due her rank. As the previous duke’s widow, and until the new duke married, she was the Duchess of Severn. How dare he call her
ma’am
! She was tempted to address him as
sir
, but forbore to stoop to his level. Maybe it was only ignorance that had made him address her so rudely.

“I am properly referred to as
Your Grace,”
she instructed him.

The duke arched one of those devilish black brows. “Oh? I had heard you were called Daisy. Although, dressed in those provocative stripes you look more like a bee than a flower.”

She couldn’t mistake the way his lip curled in amusement. He was laughing at her! She bit back the cutting retort that sought voice, drew herself up proudly, and said instead, “I apologize for staring. However, you must admit,
Your Grace
, that you bear little resemblance to your cousins.”

“That is easily explained,
ma’am
,” he replied curtly. “I am not my father’s son.”

Daisy had heard the story of how Nicholas had been torn away from his family at the age of eight. A hunting crony had nudged his blond-headed father in the ribs at the sight of the dark-haired boy, winked, and said, “Your wife has been out hunting a bit of sport for herself, eh, my lord?”

Until that moment, Nicholas’s father, the old duke’s second son, had been unaware of, or had simply ignored, the startling difference in appearance between his son and the rest of the Windermeres. It was only when it had been brought so uncomfortably to his attention that he had confronted his wife. She had denied being unfaithful, of course, but the damage had been done. Thereafter, Lord Philip could never look at Nicholas without seeing his wife in another man’s arms.

In a fit of rage one evening shortly after his crony had spoken, he had banished his wife
and son from his presence. Lady Philip Windermere, proud and hurt, had left England for America. Lord Philip had been too stubborn and too angry to call her back. Even though she never returned he had not divorced her. Nor had he disowned his son. He had died years ago in a carriage accident. Thus Nicholas, bastard though he was, had become Eighth Duke of Severn, Earl of Coventry, Baron Fenwick, and several other lesser titles when his two cousins had died childless.

A movement to her left caught Daisy’s attention. Her eyes widened in amazement. Standing beside the imposing Sheraton desk was a younger version of Nicholas. Her gaze streaked from the younger man to the duke and back again. The tall youth bore a startling resemblance to the duke, but his eyes were blue rather than gray, and his features hadn’t hardened into the stone mask that Nicholas wore.

Who was the boy? Since the youth was very nearly a man, there seemed only one conclusion. Nicholas’s mother must have borne another child!

“Your brother?” she asked the duke.

“My son, Colin Calloway.” In response to
her confused look, he explained, “I took my mother’s name, Calloway, in America.”

“But he
can’t
be your son! He must be at least—”

“Eighteen, ma’am.”

“But you’re only—”

“Thirty-five, ma’am.”

“But when he was conceived you must have been a mere
boy
of—”