Wilda's Outlaw (7 page)

How nearly impossible it was to resist jerking it from his unbearable touch. Dear God, she wanted out of this trap!

“Better, much better.”

Despite her vow to behave herself, she eyed his attire, a brown and tan riding habit complete with jacket and shiny knee-high boots, and remarked, “You as well,” then added, “Sir,” when his black eyes flashed.

In silence, he moved behind the desk, as if putting it between them would make this easier. His long, delicate fingers played with a silver letter opener, and he held her gaze, not saying anything until knots grew in her stomach and her jaw quivered. She had gone too far this time.

“Well, sit. Do sit,” he finally demanded.

Definitely an order. Shifting the voluminous skirts to one side, she obeyed, but remained perched on the edge of the overstuffed divan.

Leather creaked when he lowered himself into his chair, continued to finger the letter opener. “Now, as to your behavior last night, I am well assured that you were exhausted after your interminably long journey. That is no excuse for speaking out of turn, but I am willing to overlook it as poor judgment on your part. As my wife you will be expected to speak in a civil tone at all times and only when I speak to you, and to obey my wishes and be available whenever I need you…for anything.” He paused, peered at her through his eyebrows. “Do you understand?”

Heat rose in her throat and she could neither swallow nor speak. She tried clearing it, but only managed an embarrassing croak. Some things she could not imagine. Lying in this man’s bed was one of them.

“Well, speak up woman.”

All manner of replies crowded into her mind, but she ordered her tongue to cooperate. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

It was all she could say. No doubt a good thing, too, for she was sorely tempted to tell the man off, which would have done no good at all. This was to be her life, and she might as well learn to live it as best she could. She had few options, none of them attractive. A bad choice would see her, her sister Rowena, and their cousin Tyra cast out of this place in a strange land without hearth and home. Or he could return all three to the charity house at St. Ann’s in Manchester. Killing him was a temptation, but certainly not acceptable.

He interrupted her silent reverie. “I see you have been rendered speechless. I do hope you will learn to carry on a conversation. Perhaps Marguerite could instruct you, she seems to deal well with that husband of hers.”

“I…no one needs to instruct me. I am capable of carrying on a conversation, at least with any civilized person—”

“Which I am not, of course.”

“No…I mean, of course not. I did not mean that…exactly.”

“Exactly what did you mean, my dear?” His tone turned deceptively gentle, but his expression was anything but.

How could he be so handsome and so frightening at the same time?

“I meant, I simply meant that you have put me at a distinct disadvantage by challenging me in such a way. I am willing to be an obedient wife and perform my duties with a smile. But it would not hurt you to treat me with more respect as well, if that is what you expect in return.” By the time she finished, her stomach was in turmoil.

His face turned red, the scar a dark slash. “Respect? Respect? You are to be my wife, not a business associate.”

The roar of his voice made her cringe, but she did not back down. “As I understand it, sir, ours
is
a business arrangement. I will do my part and you will do yours. It would be so much more pleasant if we were at least kind to each other.”

“Pleasant? Kind? Successful people are not kind to each other. We get what we want out of this life, not because we are kind but because we do not allow others to deter us. I desire a submissive wife. Marguerite kindly introduced you to me, and I saw in you the possibility of an attractive partner who would defer to my wishes. Who would be grateful to me for taking her…you, and I might add, your meek sister and odious miscreant of a cousin, out of that sewer in which you were living. I made a bargain with you. I will keep it. As will you. Nowhere in that bargain did I say that you would be my equal, that we would discuss how I should act toward you or anyone else, or that you would dictate my actions in any way. Is that clear enough?”

Teeth clamping her lower lip to prevent any further back talk, she nodded her head, then said, “Yes, sir, perfectly clear.” He was an impossible dolt, a dunderhead, what one of the stable boys at St. Ann’s called an arsehole. Wouldn’t Marguerite love her having such thoughts?

****

The next morning, garbed in the clothing Rachel had loaned him, the pretty English woman’s gold cross and chain tucked safely into his pocket, Calder rode into Victoria City to inquire about a job. Leaving his Colt and holster in the saddlebag, he stepped up on the boardwalk and headed toward the newly erected building where he’d been told he could learn who was hiring.

The room smelled of newly cut lumber. A lanky American sat behind a makeshift desk at the front of the store, papers spread before him. Certainly not the English fop he had expected to be in charge. A hand printed sign announced, SIX BITS FEE.

“My name’s, uh…Joshua Lane, and I was told I might could find myself a job here.”

Without speaking, the man tapped his pencil on the sign.

Calder dug in his pocket and counted six bits from the scant handful of change. “Do I get this back if it don’t work out…I mean if I don’t get the job?”

“Nope,” the man said tersely. “I still did the hunting and sending. No reason I’d give you your money back.”

Calder eyed the precious coins lying on the desk, then shrugged. What the hell? He didn’t have much of a choice, save to ride all over town inquiring, and that’d make too many folks remember him later. Probably wouldn’t lead to a job either.

“Well?” the man prodded.

“Okay, fine. What’ve you got?”

Nodding, the man studied several lists, tracing the words with a grimy fingertip. “Well, you’re in luck, then, that is if you can handle blacksmithing. There’s tons of work to be done, more than can be handled by the one man who’s took on the job. He says he’ll try out an apprentice. You interested?”

Aware he shouldn’t be too eager, Calder nibbled his lip. “I don’t need no apprenticing. I’ve done that kind of work, with my pa, when I was but a shave tail.”

“Then this might be just what you’d want. It don’t pay much, but there’s a place in the back where you can bed down, so that counts for something. Especially here where rooms for the hired help is at a premium.”

The situation sounded ideal, but he made as if to think more about it for a spell.

Two or three men who had lined up behind him grumbled among themselves.

The man stared at him. “Mister, either you want the job or you don’t. They’s others waiting.”

Determined to remain friendly and not attract attention, he held up a hand. “Sorry, fellers.” Then to the man behind the desk, “Well, okay.” He thought maybe he’d better ask about the pay so as not to look suspicious. “So, what’s it pay?”

The man at his back muttered noisily.

“Ten dollars a month, and lucky to get that.”

“Hey, you gonna bed down here or just set up a revival?” the bowlegged man behind him asked.

Any other time or place Calder would’ve whipped the smart aleck’s butt, just on principle. Not today. Not here. Certainly not now. Instead, he took the slip of paper, thanked the man behind the table and left, tightening a cinch on his temper.

As he rode slowly up the street he studied the new storefronts until he spotted a plate glass window. Black letters proclaimed VICTORIA CITY BANK. Probably the first place they built, so they could stow away all their money. Only rich folks could buy up this much railroad land and build a town out of nothing, then hire others to run things. He intended to see they shared their riches with some of those less fortunate souls still suffering from that damned war. Even if he had to burn this town to the ground. The foreigners had no notion what settlers here had gone through just to keep a small piece of land and feed their families. They’d soon find out that it wasn’t as easy to take over a place as they might think.

The tall, bald blacksmith introduced himself as Lucas Smith, eagerly showed Calder where to put his horse and store his meager belongings, then put him to work.

Soon covered in sweat, Calder removed Jim Johnson’s shirt and hung it on a post. He carried coal to the forge and hauled in great chunks of iron from a pile outside the shop. With a pair of long handled tongs he stored Smith’s finished scrollwork still hot from the fire, and generally made himself useful to the man until darkness stopped them for the day. He hadn’t been allowed to forge so much as a piece of iron, and it might have been a good thing. He had never seen such twists and turns of design as Smith put in the decorative pieces. The man was an artist, good as Calder's Pa.

“These Englishmen are a picky lot,” Smith explained. “They want curlicues on their gates and decorations at their doors. I’ve hammered enough iron into knockers and hitching rails and pokers and fireplace adornment and gates and fences to fill a railroad car, and still the orders come. And that’s to say nothing of repairing broken wagon wheels and other such fittings. And I ain’t got time to teach you. Watch and learn. I need a young man such as you for the heavy toting. You can’t do that, you’re useless to me.”

“Hey, fine with me. I’ll do what you got for me to do.”

Calder retired to the small room on the back corner of the shop where he would be allowed to sleep in a bed of straw and find a bit of privacy. His belly growled, and he washed up at a rain barrel out back, put on his shirt and headed for the only eating place he’d seen in town—a restaurant in the hotel near the train depot. A fancy place called The Manor.

The meal, something called boiled pork and pease pudding, tasted foreign to him, nothing like fatback or salted ham, but he was too hungry to care. These Englishmen had an odd way about them, and they ate funny stuff too. A sweet pudding was offered, but he declined, afraid it would be as bad as that pease pudding served with the main course. Why didn’t they have plain old apple pie or peach cobbler? Maybe he could get Smith to allow him to cook his own meals on the forge after they’d finished up at night. He’d sure admire a hunk of beef, a bowl of beans and a good cup of Arbuckle Coffee to wash away the taste of that gruel the English called food and the pale colored tea they drank.

Despite the hard work, bad food and straw bed, he slept deeply that night and awoke rested and eager to fit in so no one would be suspicious of him. When he stumbled from his room Smith was loading up a wagon. Didn’t look like he’d have any spare time to check out the bank that day.

“Get a move on, son. We’ve got some work to do out at Fairhaven. One of them doo-dah English Lord’s places. Fetch that tool bag fer me.”

Fairhaven, huh? He’d heard of that place. At the moment he couldn’t recall where. Calder hefted the canvas sling and put it in the back of the wagon. After they loaded the portable forge and anvil, he climbed up on the seat beside Smith.

“Who’s this Lord?” he asked when they were on their way out of town.

“A Lord Blair Prescott. He’s built an honest to goodness stone castle a few miles out of town. Calls it Fairhaven. You ain’t seen the like in all your born days, I’ll wager. Limeys.” Smith shook his head, spat the last word like an epitaph, and snapped the lines across the horse’s flanks.

Despite his reason for being in Victoria, Calder looked forward to seeing a real English castle. He felt blamed good too, after working all the previous afternoon with Smith. A bit sore, but good all the same. His Pa had always said hard work was good for a man, but Calder had never much agreed till now.

Funny, how he remembered Pa all of a sudden. It wasn't like he wanted to, though. Then he'd have to recall that awful day he'd come on him sprawled in a bramble patch, killed by bushwhackers. And him only fifteen at the time. He shook away the vision of Pa dead like that, and watched the road ahead for first sight of the Englishman’s castle. Maybe he’d remember where he’d heard of this place by the time they got there.

Chapter Five

The clatter of hooves and rattle of a wagon distracted Wilda from this distasteful second meeting with Lord Blair. Beyond the window, a vehicle drew up outside the barn and two men leaped down. One, a giant with no hair whatsoever on his head, the other long and lean, with dark hair and a rakish walk—one she wouldn’t soon forget.

Her outlaw. What was he doing here? In the light of events taking place in the castle, the train robbery had temporarily slipped her mind. And now, outside the window, was one of the men who had pointed a pistol at her. Though she had not seen his face, she recognized the graceful way he moved. Her heart knocked against her ribs.

“Madame,” Prescott insisted. “I am here, not beyond that window.”

Regretfully, she dragged her attention back to the pronouncement of her doom. “I’m sorry, Sir. What is it you wish of me?”

“We must discuss the wedding arrangements, which were made prior to your arrival. All that remains is the fitting of the gown. It has been made for you. Simmons will take you to town this afternoon for that, and you may also shop for your, ahem…unmentionables.”

It was a wonder he hadn’t purchased those as well. How kind of him to allow her to choose her own drawers and corset. How badly she wanted to tell him so, but again she trapped her tongue between her teeth. His reference to unmentionables brought unwelcome visions. His hands removing her clothes, fingers brushing over her flesh, his mouth committing unthinkable tasks such as she'd only heard whispered about. She shuddered, slid her glance toward the barn once more. Both men had disappeared inside.

Prescott dropped the paper knife with a clatter, and she jerked, pinned her gaze once more on him. He rose, leaned forward, stiff arms braced on the desktop. “The marriage will be performed here Saturday, fortnight, in the formal dining room, with a reception to follow. Everyone from the village will attend, save the laborers. It will be a celebration and a feast. The first wedding to take place in Victoria City, and it will also be the finest anyone has ever seen. That is, if my wife-to-be can bring herself to concentrate on the ceremonies.”