The Heart Breaker (5 page)

He was stunned by her beauty. She was exquisite in the cool, ethereal way of a goddess, with that delicate, oval-shaped face, that slender, patrician nose, that perfect, porcelain skin.

Lust coiled and tightened in his gut. He couldn’t blame that bastard Randolf for wanting her.

Her eyes were alluring, the shade not quite
brown but the rich gold of sherry. Her lips were red and lush and velvety as rose petals. And her smile … soft, tentative, vulnerable. Sloan felt his heart kick against his ribs as she offered him an apologetic smile.

“Forgive me for my rudeness, sir. I … I’m afraid you find me at a loss. Would you care to be seated?”

Sloan swore under his breath. She was still quivering with fear, her cheeks flushed with mortification, yet she was trying to put
him
at ease. He would rather see her flushed with passion.

The thought came unbidden:
Would she make love the way she had in his dream?
The memory of her moving over him, her lush, silken body surrounding him, made him hard in an instant as another tide of unexpected, unwanted arousal hit him.

Damn, he’d gone too long without a woman. And this wasn’t just any woman. Miss Heather Ashford was a lady of breeding all the way down to her lace drawers. She reminded him of royalty, with her gracious manners and her precise, elegant voice. Proud, aristocratic, no doubt very cold and correct. And as helpless as a newborn calf. She couldn’t even cross a city street or fend off an unwanted suitor on her own. Sure as hell
not
what he was looking for in a wife.

Damn Cat for tricking him.

Sloan tugged off his hat and ran his hand roughly through his hair as he fought the urge to turn and run. What the devil was he doing here? What did he need with a blue blood on his ranch? He was going to kill Cat when he saw her.

Heather was experiencing similar sentiments regarding her friend as she floundered in a sea of agonized embarrassment. This had never happened to her before, this debilitating loss of composure.

Yet as Sloan McCord’s silence deepened, somehow she found the courage to let her eyes graze his. He was giving her a thorough scrutiny, his look almost offensive in its bold assessment of her femininity.

She was supposed to
marry
this man?

Caitlin had plainly mislead her. As had Winnie. She had expected a gentleman. Mr. McCord was evidently no gentleman. His unruly hair, a rich tawny gold heavily streaked by the sun, was too long to be fashionable. His lean, bronzed features looked as if he’d never seen the inside of a genteel parlor. Yet it was his hardness, his intensity, that unsettled her. He seemed as uncompromising as the Rocky Mountains he called home.

A lifetime of reserve hadn’t prepared her for Sloan McCord. Those light, breathtaking eyes were slightly narrowed, as if permanently squinting against the sun, but there was a coldness, a distrust lurking behind their emotionless gaze. And his hard, chiseled face was set like granite.

“Would you care… for tea?” Heather asked, striving to conceal her distraction.

His sensual mouth curled, whether in amusement or disdain she couldn’t tell. It had been the wrong thing to say, she concluded.

“I think maybe this situation calls for something stronger than tea,” he said, his tone lightly mocking.

“I… believe Winifred keeps some whiskey in the kitchen.”

“Don’t bother. Ma’am,” he added almost as an afterthought. He made no move to sit down, although at least he had removed his hat. “You didn’t seem to be expecting me. Maybe you didn’t get my telegram?”

“Yes… I received it yesterday.”

McCord’s frost-filled gaze swept slowly over her again. “You don’t look ready.”

“My belongings are packed. And I have closed my school.”

“What about Randolf? That looked like unfinished business to me.”

Heather took a shaky breath. “Evan labors under a mistaken assumption. He thinks that because I’m indebted to him, he owns me.” Her chin rose the slightest degree. “I happen to disagree.”

McCord hesitated, as if debating what to say. Then he blew out a long breath and fixed her with those intense, ice-blue eyes. “Well, I’ve been thinking … I might have been rushing you. In fact… maybe this whole thing is a mistake.”

“Mistake?”

When he remained silent, Heather said awkwardly, “Forgive me, I am not usually so dull-witted. What is a mistake?”

“Our getting married.”

Her uncertain expression held a hint of distress. “Have your circumstances changed, then? Caitlin said you needed a mother for your daughter… and a political hostess for your campaign this summer.”

“I do.”

“Then you … find me … objectionable in some way?”

Hell, yes, Sloan wanted to reply. “Let’s just say you aren’t what I expected.”

“What… did you expect?”

“Someone more suited to be a rancher’s wife. Someone less … helpless, less upper-crust.”

The faintest glimmer of wounded vulnerability shone in her beautiful golden eyes. “I know what it must look like, Mr. McCord … but despite present appearances, I am not entirely helpless. For the
past five years I’ve worked for my living, running my own school.”

Sloan felt something twist in his chest and did his best to ignore it. Duchess Ashford
did
look helpless. That ebony silk gown made her seem fragile, in need of a man’s strength. She looked exquisitely delicate, like expensive crystal. And yet, unwillingly, he had to admire her aplomb, her dignified manner. She had recovered from an assault that would have had some ladies whimpering on the floor. And according to his sister-in-law, Heather Ashford was gamely scraping out an honest living—and repaying her father’s crushing debts to boot.

Sloan slapped his hat impatiently against his thigh. “Sure, you’ve run a fancy finishing school. But knowing how to pour tea and play the pianoforte won’t get you very far out West.”

Her chin lifted. “I can cook and sew and care for a child as well as hold teas.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that I’m not the proper husband for you. I’m a cattle rancher. You’re a blue-blooded city woman. I don’t need a duchess for a wife.”

“A … duchess? I am hardly that.”

“Caitlin tells me you come from a wealthy family.”

Heather pressed her lips together as he struck a nerve. “My mother’s family was well-to-do, but that has little to say to my present circumstances. I have been living quite meagerly since my father’s passing, I assure you. Most of my worldly possessions went to pay his debts.”

Sloan frowned. “You say you still owe Randolf fifteen hundred dollars?”

“Yes … or rather, his bank.”

He winced at the reminder. He’d been forced to
take out a mortgage on his ranch to raise the sum—an obligation that would put him in one hell of a precarious financial position until spring roundup when he could sell some of his beeves. But money, as big a problem as it was, wasn’t his prime worry regarding Heather Ashford. The chief problem was …
her.

He felt unaccountably vulnerable with her. He didn’t like the feelings she shook loose inside him, with her grace and beauty and touch-me-not air. He felt like the rawest cowhand around her. He had no right to be lusting after this satin-skinned duchess. He owed more to the memory of his late wife.

His guard stayed up as he studied Miss Ashford closely. “You do realize that my daughter is half Cheyenne Indian?”

“Yes. You made that clear in your letters.”

“Her half-breed blood wouldn’t sit too well with most ladies.”

“I assure you, it will hold no weight with me.”

He made no reply, but one heavy, dark-gold eyebrow rose skeptically.

“You don’t wish to marry me after all, is that what you are trying to tell me?”

Sloan hesitated. As a gentleman, he couldn’t say such a thing. As a gentleman he wanted to take her in his arms and erase that wounded look in her eyes. As a
man,
he wanted to loosen that sleek knot and let her hair stream down all pale and silken, like it had in his dream. He wondered if she would clench and shiver around him in climax as she’d done in his dream… Sloan drew a sharp breath as fresh desire knifed through him.

He cursed again, telling himself the ache in his groin would pass. What he felt for Miss Ashford was simply healthy lust, nothing more complex.
She had a cool, untapped sensuality any man would find challenging. He just didn’t want the challenge.

Hell, his mind was only playing tricks on him. Along with his body. The duchess was doubtless a missish prude, nothing like his dream. She wouldn’t possess the uninhibited passion of his late wife, either. Doe’s favorite place to make love was a grassy meadow under the hot sun. This crystal-and-lace figurine would probably cower under the covers.

Yet he couldn’t honorably back out of the marriage now. Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to convince Miss Ashford to turn him down.

He took a deep breath. “What I’m saying is that maybe you should reconsider. A soft woman like you isn’t cut out for the kind of life I live. Working a ranch is tough on the hardest folks.”

“I am stronger than I look,” Heather argued stubbornly. “And I am in excellent health.”

His mouth twisted cynically. “Are you now?”

“Would you care to inspect my teeth, sir?”

He grinned unwillingly at the way she lifted her chin with evident pride. The impression he’d had of inner fragility was evidently misleading. The duchess had steel in her backbone. She was no shrinking violet. But that didn’t mean she was cut out to be a rancher’s wife, or the mother of his daughter. He felt a fierce, protective love for his child. He couldn’t entrust Janna to a woman who couldn’t even take of herself.

Sloan shook his head. “Good health or not, in one day I’ve had to save you twice. What makes you think you can survive out West if you have trouble managing here in civilization? What makes you think you can look after my daughter? I won’t have time to devote to pulling you out of scrapes.
I sure won’t be able to protect you every minute of the day.”

“You won’t be required to.”

“Look … Miss Ashford.” He took another tack. “I don’t believe you know the whole truth about me. Caitlin wasn’t completely forthright about my situation. I’m not wealthy like Randolf. I’m holding on to my ranch by my fingernails. I can’t afford to support a wife with fancy tastes.”

Heather felt anger lap at her, driving away her nervousness. “I am not looking for wealth in marriage, Mr. McCord. If I were, I would have accepted Evan Randolf’s proposal long ago. Indeed, I fully intend to carry my own weight. I won’t be a burden to you.”

“Just having to keep you decked out in silk gowns will be a burden.”

His words slashed at her pride. “I assure you, I do
not
expect silk gowns—or anything else besides food and shelter.”

When he remained silently doubtful, Heather asked tightly, “Once and for all, are you withdrawing your offer of marriage?”

Feeling trapped, Sloan exhaled a breath of frustration. “No. I just want you to be damn sure about what you’re letting yourself in for. The work is not only backbreaking, but dangerous. There’s been a range war going on for decades.”

“Caitlin told me something about the feud, but she said it had ended for the most part.”

“Did she tell you about all the innocents who’ve died?”

“She … told me about your wife.”

The pain was swift and sharp. Sloan shut his eyes so that the duchess wouldn’t see his own private hell. He didn’t want another woman to get hurt the way Doe had been hurt. He couldn’t bear the guilt.
Yet if Heather became his wife, the violence could touch her.

She didn’t look the sort to cotton to violence—which might be an argument he could use in his favor.

“I’m not blameless myself. I’ve killed when I had to, more men than I care to count. I have blood on my hands.”

His frank admission disturbed her, yet she couldn’t believe he could kill indiscriminately. She looked down at his hands. They were not a gentleman’s hands. The hard fingers were work-roughened, the palms callused, injured— Heather winced as she saw the fresh blood welling there. The fingers of his left hand oozed red, while the palm was scraped raw.

“You do indeed have blood on your hands,” she said somewhat tartly. “You must have hurt yourself when you climbed aboard that carriage. Those cuts should be dressed.”

When she reached for his injured hand, though, Sloan pulled it back, keeping it out of reach. “I don’t need a nursemaid, any more than I need a duchess.”

Her head snapped up at that, and he saw the flash of fire in her golden eyes. She looked as if she wanted to tell him to go to the devil but was too well-schooled in social niceties to be so blunt.

Sloan pressed his argument. “You would do better with Randolf. He’s more your style.”

“I believe,” she responded a bit testily, “that I am in a better position to decide what sort of husband Evan would make me.”

Sloan shrugged his muscular shoulders. “Maybe so. But I know what sort
I
would make. You wouldn’t be happy with me.”

Probably not,
Heather thought, although she gritted
her teeth and restrained herself from saying so. Happiness was a dream she could no longer afford. As long as her debts remained, she would be obliged to settle for a marriage of convenience, with the chance to do some good in her life.

She would not beg Sloan McCord to take her, though. Nor would she be the one to back out. If he meant to withdraw his offer, he would have to do so without help from her.

“I am sorry,” she replied coolly, “if you traveled all this way merely to dissuade me from marrying you, but I haven’t changed my mind. The advantages to us both outweigh the drawbacks. Indeed, I see no reason we cannot have a relationship based on mutual respect and shared goals.”

That seemed to stop him momentarily, but then his hard mouth curled.

“Some ladies have misguided notions about love.” His bright eyes pinned her, challenging her. “I loved my wife, duchess. I’m not looking for anyone to take her place.”

Her chin lifted again. “I would not
dream
of trying.”