The Ballad of Emma O'Toole (6 page)

“Oh!”
With an indignant huff, Emma wheeled and bolted into the bathroom. Slamming the door behind her and clicking the lock, she sank onto the edge of the tub and buried her face in her hands. Her body shook with dry sobs. How had she gotten herself into this awful mess? And how was she going to get out of it?

She could offer Logan a divorce. He would certainly be glad to oblige. But that would take away her power to punish him. Even more vital was the matter of support for herself and her child. Maybe she could survive in a run-down miner’s shanty with no money. But her baby could easily sicken and die in such a place. She couldn’t risk her precious child for the sake of her pride.

She’d considered selling Billy John’s claim for whatever she could get. But who would buy a worthless outcrop that hadn’t yielded enough silver to buy a decent pair of boots?

It was time she stopped blubbering and faced reality. For now at least, she needed what a husband could provide—food, shelter and security. She would accept that much as her due. But as for the rest, she knew she could never love Logan, and she certainly couldn’t expect him to love her. She was trapped in this arrangement, just as he was.

By the time Emma had finished with the bathroom, dinner had arrived. Two covered plates sat on an oval silver tray, along with gleaming cutlery and linen napkins rolled into silver rings. The stemmed crystal glasses were so delicate that Emma feared they might shatter if she breathed on them.

The staff had also delivered a leather valise that Logan explained he’d left before his arrest. He had it in hand as he stepped into the bathroom.

“I know you’re hungry,” he said. “Go ahead and eat. No need to wait for me.”

As the bathroom door closed, Emma took her seat. The tray sat on the small table between the two chairs. Its elegance caused Emma to hesitate. She’d never eaten such a fine meal in her life. What if she broke or spilled something?

Lifting the knob on one domed plate cover, she took a cautious peek. Mouthwatering aromas teased her senses, roast beef with potatoes and gravy, fresh-baked bread…She inhaled, feasting with her nose. Her belly growled with hunger.

But she was a lady, she reminded herself, not some starving wastrel Logan Devereaux had rescued off the street. He needed to know that she could wait politely without wolfing down
every scrap put before her. Leaning back in her chair, Emma folded her arms. The chair was soft, the glowing stove deliciously warm. Her eyelids began to droop.

“Emma?”

She opened her eyes. He was gazing down at her, his face freshly shaved, his hair glistening with drops of water.

“Did you have a nice nap?” His eyes held a glint of mischief.

Still muzzy, she blinked up at him. “How…long have I been asleep?”

“Not long. But your dinner might be getting cold. I thought I told you to go ahead and eat.”

“You did. I chose to wait.”

“Well, let’s not wait any longer.” He whisked the covers off the plates. Emma’s dinner was still hot, the beef smothered in rich brown gravy, accompanied by mashed potatoes, glazed carrot slices and plump, golden dinner rolls with strawberry jam. Spreading her napkin on her lap, she used her fork to spear a sliver of meat. Her first taste was so sublime that she almost wept.

“Is something wrong?” Logan asked.

Emma shook her head. “It’s only that I’ve never eaten such a wonderful meal in my life.”

“It’s just roast beef and gravy.”

“I know. But it’s so good. And I’m so hungry.”

Something glimmered in the depths of his eyes. He glanced away, and when he looked back it was replaced by the chilly gaze she’d come to recognize. “Eat it up while it’s warm,” he said. “And remember there’s more where that came from. I may be a coldhearted bastard, but I’d never let a woman starve.”

Emma’s scramble for a clever reply came up empty. She supposed she should thank him for the meal. But after what he’d done to Billy John, he owed her more than a man could repay in a hundred years.

Her gaze shifted to the bed. Awkward as things were between them now, they were bound to get worse. When the judge had counseled her to be a submissive wife Emma had known exactly what the old goat meant. But that didn’t mean she had to heed his advice. If Logan so much as laid a hand on her tonight…

“Champagne?” Logan had opened a slender bottle and was holding it with the lip poised above the rim of her glass.

“You ordered champagne?”

“It was included with the room. A gift from
the hotel to the happy newlyweds. Have you ever had champagne, Emma?”

“I’ve tasted beer. It was awful.”

“There’s nothing awful about this. Try it.” He poured two fingers into her glass. Swirling bubbles effervesced to rainbow sparks in the lamplight. Logan sat back in his chair, watching her, his eyes hooded in shadow.

Emma lifted the glass to her lips, then paused as a thought struck her. “You’re not trying to get me drunk, are you?”

“Lord, no! Just taste it.”

Tipping the glass, Emma took a tentative sip. The glowing liquid burst like sunlight on her tongue. Its flavor was elusive—fresh and slightly tart. “Oh,” she said, taking another sip. “Oh, my goodness!”

“More?”

“Just a little.” She indicated a small measure with her fingers. “Too much might not be good for the baby.”

“Oh, that’s right, the baby.” He poured her another two fingers of champagne. Emma took tiny sips, savoring the taste as she gathered her courage. What she had to say couldn’t wait much longer.

“There’s something else that might not be good for the baby.” She glanced toward the
bed. “I’m well aware of your marital rights, Logan, but you can hardly expect to…” Her voice trailed off. Color flooded her face. She barely knew the words for what she needed to tell him.

“Listen to me, Emma.” He leaned forward in his chair, his dark eyes probing hers. “I want to make this perfectly clear. You’re a beautiful, desirable woman. If things were different between us, I’d carry you to that bed, rip off those god-awful clothes and make love to you all night. But I like my women willing. I won’t force you. Until and unless you say the word, I mean to treat you like a sixty-year-old nun. Do you understand?”

“Yes…and thank you for making your position clear.” Emma stared down at her hands, her face burning. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from him, but it wasn’t this.

“That said,” he continued, “there’s something else I need to make clear. I’ve spent the past ten nights lying in my clothes on a rock-hard jail bunk. Every bone in my body feels like it’s been run through a blasted stamp mill. After dinner I plan to get undressed and climb into that bed over there for a good night’s sleep. If you want to join me, you have my word I’ll be a perfect gentleman. But I’ll be damned if
I’m gentleman enough to spend the night on the floor!”

“Fine. I’ll manage somehow.” Emma took another sip of the champagne, her thoughts scrambling. “Since you plan on going right to bed, I believe I’ll take advantage of the bathtub. Believe me, living in a miner’s shanty’s been no picnic, either. At least the jail was warm and they gave you regular meals.”

“If you could call that pig slop they served up ‘meals.’” He raised his glass. “Here’s to better times for both of us, Mrs. Emma O’Toole Devereaux. Will you drink to that?”

Emma hesitated, then lifted her glass to meet his. He touched the delicate brim to hers, then drained the contents. Emma did the same, feeling the sparkle all the way down her throat. It was a truce of sorts, she supposed, and a necessary one while she gained her bearings in this new marriage. But she hadn’t forgotten her promise to Billy John.

She would find a way to make this man wish he’d never been born.

They finished their dinner in awkward conversation. Emma learned that he was from New Orleans and that his father had been a prosperous ship chandler. But when, over dainty strawberry
tartlets, she’d asked him why he hadn’t continued in the family business, Logan had evaded her question.

“Does every son have to follow in his father’s footsteps?”

“Certainly not, but it seems a more practical choice than becoming a gambler.”

“Maybe I wasn’t cut out for standing behind a counter. Maybe I wanted to see new country.”

“Were there others who could take over the business? Brothers, perhaps?”

“No brothers, but plenty of cousins and uncles. I imagine they’ve stepped in by now. My father would be elderly, if he’s still alive.”

“So you’re not in touch with your parents?”

A shadow passed behind his eyes. “That’s something I don’t talk about.”

“No brothers. What about sisters?”

“Just one. She died young. Something else I don’t talk about.” He rose, crumpling his napkin on the tray. “And now, since we both seem to have finished our dinner, I’ll put this out for the hired help and bid you good-night.”

Opening the door, Logan set the tray in the hall. A Do Not Disturb sign hung on the inside knob. He moved the sign to the outside before closing and locking the door. His hands loosened
the knot of his tie and reached down to begin unbuckling his belt. “My invitation to share the bed stands,” he said, glancing toward Emma. “If I crowd you, just give me a kick. I’ll get the message.”

As the weight of his belt dropped his trousers, Emma bolted for the bathroom.

Slamming the door, she leaned against it. Her heart was hammering, as if she’d expected Logan to follow her in and drag her to the bed. What was wrong with her? She’d worked in a boardinghouse full of men. Weary miners stumbling around in their underwear was a sight that barely raised an eyebrow. As for her new husband, he’d seemed sincere in his promise not to consummate their marriage.

And even if it came to that, it wasn’t as if she was a virgin. She’d conceived a child, for heaven’s sake. What was she so afraid of?

Plugging the tub drain, she turned on the tap. The water that gushed out wasn’t piping hot, but it was warm enough to be pleasant. A jar of bath salts stood on a wall shelf above the tub. Emma dumped a liberal sprinkling into the water. As she undressed, clouds of lavender-scented foam billowed above the rim of the tub. Had she used too much? Never mind, it smelled heavenly.

With a sigh, she sank into the warm bubbles. What luxury! The scented water was like warm satin on her skin. She lay against the back of the tub, her breasts rising like islands in a foamy sea. Her nipples were darker than she remembered, the nubs swollen and exquisitely sensitive to the touch.

They’d never really been explored by anyone other than herself. Her lovemaking with Billy John had been over by the time it had scarcely begun. Emma couldn’t say she’d disliked it. But she’d sensed there was something missing. Something she craved and needed.

Would it be different with Logan Devereaux? Closing her eyes, she recalled the sight of Logan’s hand, resting on his knee—long fingers, golden-brown skin lightly dusted with silky black hair. She imagined being stroked by that hand, the sensation of his palm skimming the tips of her breasts, gliding down her belly…

A liquid ache stirred in her loins. How would it feel to surrender—to be utterly possessed by that powerful male body?

Emma’s eyes flew open as the awful truth struck her. For all her pretensions, there was a secret part of her that
wanted
it to happen.

What was wrong with her? Her one true love and the father of her child had been dead less
than a fortnight. His killer, whom she had every reason to despise, was in the next room getting ready for bed. She ought to be seething with hatred, her mind roiling with schemes for revenge. Instead, here she was, sated with fine food and champagne and lying in a scented tub while her mind wandered down carnal paths.

A man like Logan would have known a lot of women, Emma reminded herself. He would be a skilled seducer, an expert at bending any female to his will. He would know exactly what to say, what to do, where and how to touch her. And he probably saw her as easy prey—a helpless lamb at the mercy of his appetites. Whatever happened, she couldn’t let herself forget what kind of man he really was—a killer who had taken her love away from her.

Closing her eyes again, she willed herself to picture every step of the shooting—Billy John, desperate and scared, trying to bluff his way out of a bad situation with a useless gun; Logan, coolly drawing his derringer and pulling the trigger on the count of three. The jury had let him off easy. But one truth remained. As a gambler, Logan would be experienced at reading people. Surely he would’ve recognized a bluff when he saw it. He must have sensed he was looking at a frightened boy, incapable
of violence. Yet he had aimed and fired, and Billy John had died.

By her reckoning, that was tantamount to murder. And she would not—could not—forget it.

L
ogan lay beneath the warmth of damaskcloaked eiderdown. He was weary to the marrow of his bones, but even after he’d blown out the lamp, sleep refused to come.

From the other side of the bathroom door came the sounds of his bride in her bath—the tinkle and splash of water, the shift of her hips against the tub. Moist lavender air wafted beneath the door, teasing his nostrils. Logan groaned out loud as his mind conjured up a vision of womanly curves, cradled by fragrant bubbles.

Damn!

In a moment of insanity, he’d promised Emma that he would treat her like a sixty-year-old nun—despite the fact that she was young,
nubile and as luscious as a ripe peach. As for her being a nun, her pregnancy made that comparison a joke. He’d done his best to take the high road. But, truth be told, he craved her sweet body with an intensity that made him ache like a hormone-crazed teenage boy.

She’d used her condition as an excuse to keep him at a distance, but Logan knew better. A healthy woman in the early stages of pregnancy had no reason to deny her husband. But that didn’t make it right for him to take Emma by force. He’d never bedded a woman against her will, and he wasn’t about to start off his marriage by raping his bride.

In his wandering years, Logan had enjoyed his share of women—not whores, but pretty ladies who’d played the game before and knew the rules. No ties, no tears and no regrets when he moved on.

Emma was different. She was vulnerable and emotionally innocent. And she was his wife. His
wife!
That would take some getting used to, especially since he’d promised to keep his hands to himself. If Emma had wed him for revenge, she was already getting it. Right now, he couldn’t think of a more hellish punishment than being kept in this wretched condition. But he didn’t plan to put up with the present arrangement
for long. Oh, he’d keep his word. He wouldn’t have her until she was willing. But he could be persuasive when he wanted something—and he wanted Emma. He wanted her naked beneath him, her thighs spread, her hips bucking, her hands clawing his back in a frenzy of need.

He wanted her to desire his lovemaking. Damn it, he wanted her to
beg
for it.

And he wasn’t about to settle for half measures.

The gurgle of the drain told him Emma’s bath was nearly done. He heard the water sluicing off her body and the creak of a floorboard as she stepped out of the tub. Moments later the door opened and Emma stepped out. Clad in nothing but her ragged shift, she carried a lighted lamp in one hand and her bundled clothes in the other. Her hair hung down her back in a long, loose braid.

Was she going to climb into bed with him? Logan closed his eyes to slits, lest she glance around and catch him watching her. In the spirit of modesty, he’d left on his long woolen drawers. But after picturing Emma in the bath, his arousal was threatening to burst the seams. Snuffing out her lamp, she moved toward the faintly glowing stove. Logan heard the creak
of a rocker as she settled into one of the chairs and pulled down the knitted afghan that hung over the back.

He weighed the idea of inviting her into the bed once more. But that would only set her off. If his bride wanted to spend an uncomfortable night sitting up, that was her choice. She could join him if she changed her mind. Meanwhile, maybe he could at least get some sleep.

Rolling over, he burrowed into the pillow and closed his eyes. Slowly he began to drift.

Emma huddled in the rocking chair. The scratchy woolen afghan was barely long enough to cover her cramped legs, and the seat ground against her bones. Her hair was still damp from the bath, and now that the stove was cooling, her teeth had begun to chatter.

What had possessed her to think she could spend the night sitting up? She was exhausted, cold and miserable. She was also ten steps from the most luxurious bed she’d ever seen.

And waiting in that bed was the devil incarnate—her lawfully wedded husband.

Standing, she tiptoed to the wood box, lifted out a chunk of log and thrust it into the stove. The log sank into the smoking ashes, refusing to catch fire.

From the bed came the sound of faint masculine snoring. Logan was stretched along one side, leaving plenty of space. He appeared to be fast asleep.

“Logan?” Her voice quivered in the darkness. There was no answer. Maybe it would be all right. The man had promised not to touch her. Even if he broke that promise, she could always leap out of bed and fend him off with a stick of kindling.

That last thought conjured up a vision so ludicrous that Emma had to suppress a giggle. She was being silly, she scolded herself. She had as much right to a good night’s sleep as Logan did. It was time she stopped being a martyr and claimed her rightful side of the bed. Years of hard work had made her a strong woman. If the man so much as made a move toward her…

Dismissing the thought, she lifted the covers and slipped beneath.

Fragrant, satiny layers closed around her. As she slid deeper into the softness, her coarse muslin shift, which was none too clean, bunched around her waist. She checked the impulse to yank it off, toss it on the floor and feel those delicious sheets directly on her freshly bathed skin. If her husband chanced to wake
up, he would surely take her nakedness as an invitation.

Squirming and bridging, she managed to pull the hem of her shift back down over her legs. Logan continued to sleep, a wispy snore emerging with each breath. Emma lay back on the pillow and closed her eyes. Tomorrow she would insist on their getting a room with twin beds.

In the years since her mother’s death, she’d slept alone, with a stout club at her side to fend off any wandering miners. Now, ironically, she had a protector—a dark, menacing protector who’d proved capable of killing at the first flash of danger. Logan Devereaux was the enemy she couldn’t trust, the husband she could never hope to understand. Sharing his bed was like lying beside a sleeping panther. Here she was safe from every danger—except him.

Despite her wariness, the bed’s downy warmth was pulling her under. Emma felt the heaviness of her tired limbs and the leaden weight of her eyelids. Her taut breath escaped in a long sigh as she sank into a dream.

Dressed in her shift, she was running up a steep hill through clouds of flying snow. The frigid ground cut her bare feet, each step leaving
a bloody track. Chilled and in pain, she stumbled to her knees. Her strength was ebbing, but she knew she mustn’t stop.

Gasping in the winter air, she staggered to her feet and plunged ahead. Her sides ached. Her lungs throbbed. What if she was too late?

Far ahead of her, a thin, ragged figure trudged upward, nearing the crest of the hill. She could barely see him through the swirling snow. “Stop!” Emma shouted. “Wait for me, Billy John!”

Her words blew away on the wind.

Summoning the last of her strength, she clambered up the steep rocks. The wind clawed at her hair and plastered her shift to her body. She was freezing now, her strength all but spent, but she was gaining on the bleak figure ahead of her. “Wait!” she screamed. “Wait for me.”

At the top of the hill he turned and looked back at her. His eyes were shadowed pits in his thin face, his shoulder wound an ugly crimson hole.

“Wait, Billy John,” she pleaded. “Let me explain!”

The sadness deepened in his eyes. As he shook his head, Emma knew she’d failed him.
Instead of avenging his death, she’d wed his killer.

“I’m sorry!” She gasped out the words. “Please understand. The judge would’ve let him go. There was no other way!”

He shook his head again, turned his back and walked into a cloud of falling snowflakes. Crying out his name, Emma reached the top of the hill. But she’d arrived too late. Billy John was gone.

A dog barking in the alley startled her awake. Pulse lurching, Emma opened her eyes. Seconds passed before she realized she’d been dreaming, seconds more before she remembered where she was.

Moonlight fell through a lace curtained window, casting flowery shadows on the far wall. Emma lay trembling as the memory of the dream washed over her. Had it been a message from the grave, a reminder from Billy John that she’d let him down? Or had the dream sprung from her own guilty conscience?

Still asleep, Logan lay alongside her in the bed. At some point he’d turned onto his side, his body curving lightly against her back. With her rump pressing the hollow of his belly, they fit together as neatly as two spoons.

His hands were not touching her. But she slowly became aware of a solid ridge jutting against her hip. Heat stirred in the depths of her body. At least he’d had the decency to clothe himself. But his underwear left little to the imagination, especially since her shift had crept up around her waist again.

Now what?

Emma supposed that a proper lady would scream and leap out of bed. But that would wake Logan, making things more awkward than ever. It might be wiser to keep still, ignore him and hope that before long he would roll back onto his side of the bed.

But ignoring the man was easier said than done. As she lay against him, Emma felt herself warming. Her heart pumped forbidden heat into her veins, triggering the same sensations she’d felt in the bath.

Now the stirrings were stronger than ever.
Why not?
an inner voice whispered. She was a woman in bed with her husband on her wedding night. Turn over, slip into his arms and everything would happen as nature intended.

She imagined his fingertips stroking her breasts, her belly, her moist folds. She imagined the texture of his skin, the smell and taste of him, the sheer male power as he thrust home…

No!
She brought herself up with a mental slap. Giving herself to Logan would make lies of all her promises. It would be the ultimate betrayal of her love for Billy John. Even thinking about it was sinful.

She forced her mind back to the dream, seeing the sadness in Billy John’s eyes and the grief in that wordless shake of his head. She knew now what It meant. The dream had been a warning, a sign that his soul wouldn’t rest until justice was done. It was up to her to give him that justice.

Until now she’d let things drift. But planning her revenge would take some serious thought. And she couldn’t think in this bed, with temptation lying hard against her back.

Scarcely daring to breathe, she eased away from Logan and inched toward the edge of the mattress. Once she’d reached it, she lowered her feet to the floor and slipped free. For a moment she stood on the rug, gazing down at him as she adjusted her shift.

Logan’s profile lay in dark silhouette, so flawlessly sculpted that he could have posed for the statue of a saint. In sleep, his features bore an angel’s gift of beauty. But when awake, his bitter black eyes, and the sardonic twist of
his mouth hinted at the state of his soul. Logan Devereaux was not a man to be trusted.

What sort of revenge would be suitable? Killing him was, of course, out of the question. Even if she were capable of it, she’d be arrested on the spot. What would happen to her baby then?

Much as she owed Billy John, the welfare of their child had to come first. For the foreseeable future she was going to need Logan’s support.

So what choices did that leave her?

Thoughts churning, she turned away from the bed and tiptoed back to the chair where she’d left her clothes. The stove had gone out, leaving a chill in the room. If she got dressed, she’d be warmer. Maybe then she’d be able to think with a clear head.

Teeth chattering, she pulled on her drawers and tugged her corset into place. Her ragged petticoat and made-over gray dress completed the sad costume. Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, she sat down to put on her stockings. Her fingers fumbled in the darkness as she laced up her sturdy boots. Everything else she owned, including her clean underclothes and her hairbrush, had been left in Billy John’s old mining shanty. There was nothing of material worth there, but the souvenirs from her
parents were precious. Maybe tomorrow when Logan was awake she would ask him about sending someone to fetch them.

She no longer dared go herself. Waiting for her in the street would be staring eyes, taunting tongues and human vultures like Hector Armitage, eager to sell every juicy tidbit of her story. Before the trial she’d had her share of sympathy. But now that she’d wed Logan, she’d be tarred by the same brush that had blackened him. Even her friends would likely turn against her.

A glance at the clock told her it was nearly 4:00 a.m. Finding the afghan, she covered herself as best she could and settled back in the chair to examine the idea that had just come to her.

The judge had told Logan that if he abandoned his bride, or mistreated her in any way, he would serve out his sentence in prison. Put her husband back behind bars, and she would be rid of him
and
have legal right to his assets.

The idea was cold-blooded. But Logan Devereaux deserved to suffer for what he’d done. If she could provoke him into leaving her or lashing out in anger, she could report the action to the marshal and her dilemma would be resolved.

Emma had never committed a deliberate act of cruelty in her life, but now she had a promise to keep. She would harden her heart and do what that promise required.

Logan awoke at first light. Emma’s side of the bed was cold and empty.

Raising his head, he saw her. She was slumped in one of the chairs, her head lolling to one side like a tired bird’s. Her long, pale braid hung over one shoulder. She was fully clothed and fast asleep.

Last night when she’d slept beside him, it had been all he could do to keep from taking her in his arms and pulling her under him. Feigning slumber had been torment when she’d shifted her rump to rest against his crotch. It had been a blessed relief when she’d slipped out of bed. Only then had he managed to get some real sleep.

Standing, he stretched his aching muscles. He could use a bath, but that would have to wait. On this, the first day of his new life, he’d made a long mental list of things that needed attention—foremost among them, his claim to the Constellation Mine.