Willow: A Novel (No Series) (28 page)

Devlin softened a little, and there was warmth in his eyes. “For a start, you could go to Gideon and tell him, straight out, what you were trying to do. And then you could go home and get into a dress that doesn’t make you look like a hurdy-gurdy dancer!”

Willow didn’t care for her father’s suggestions, though she supposed they might have made sense to some people. She’d let the remark about borrowing her gown from a dance-hall girl pass, but saying she resembled a hurdygurdy dancer was going
too far
.

She stiffened, pressed her lips together, and stood stock still, glaring up into her father’s face.

Devlin sighed again and shook his head. “I should have known you wouldn’t listen,” he said.

Willow’s color was high. Insult heaped upon injury, that was the substance of her evening. And she’d looked forward to it so much, felt so womanly in her splendid velvet dress.

“You don’t seem to object to dresses like this one when Dove Triskadden wears them!” she accused.

The music stopped, then started again. Someone sawed industriously on a fiddle, and people stepped lively all around Willow and her father, but neither one of them moved at all.

Devlin arched one eyebrow. “You’re not Dove Triskadden, in case you’ve forgotten. And watch what tone you take with me, young lady. I can still send you off to find a switch.”

Despite everything, Willow couldn’t help smiling. In all her life, she’d never been spanked, but there had been one near miss, long ago. “Remember the last time?”

Devlin smiled. “How could I forget? I sent you to find a stick I could spank you with and you came back dragging a fence post!”

Willow was smug. “You didn’t spank me, either—you were laughing too hard.”

Devlin shook his head, his eyes dancing at the memory. “I figured an eleven-year-old with that much gumption ought to be let off with a warning.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Willow saw Gideon whirl by with Daphne in his arms and felt subdued again. If she approached Gideon now, as her father had suggested, he would probably only laugh at her.

And that would be worse than anything.

“Oh, Papa,” she sighed, “I’ve done it this time.”

“I’m afraid so,” agreed the judge, but his tone was tender and his eyes smiled at her. “Do you want me to talk to Gideon?”

The day when Devlin Gallagher could fight her battles for her was past, and Willow knew it. She shook her head and they finished the waltz in silence.

*   *   *

Overheated and tired of dancing to Gideon Marshall’s tune, Daphne hurried outside. Hell’s bells, had the whole
town come to this affair? It certainly seemed so, but the grassy yard surrounding the dance hall was empty and quiet, and the breeze was deliciously cool.

Drawing in a deep breath of fresh air, Daphne wished that she’d been able to reason with Willow and Gideon and end this stupid game they were playing, once and for all. Alas, they were both as stubborn as a miner’s mule.

Inside the hall, a new set was beginning. Daphne slipped into the shadows edging the porch, lest Gideon see her and insist they dance again. It was then that she saw the rider, sitting statue still on his horse, perhaps a dozen yards distant, the two of them bathed in moonlight.

Daphne’s heart leaped into her throat. Steven? It
couldn’t
be. Not now, not here.

Heedless of the dangers of approaching a stranger, on horseback or not, Daphne swept off the porch, skirts in hand, and marched forward.

“Steven?” she marveled, hardly able to believe her eyes when she was within a few steps of him.

He tilted his head slightly in suave acknowledgment. His fair hair shone silvery gold in the light of the summer moon. “Daphne,” he replied in greeting, as calmly as if he hadn’t endangered his freedom—possibly even his very life—by coming there.

She stared at him, amazed and stricken by emotions she’d never felt before, as he swung one leg over his saddle horn, gained his footing on the soft ground, and strode toward her.

“May I have this dance?” the outlaw asked, after executing one dashing bow.

“Are you insane?” fretted Daphne, breathless because her heart was bounding around inside her, now surging into her throat, now plummeting to her stomach.

The distant strains of a waltz came to them, over the whispering prairie grass, swirling around them, enclosing them like an embrace. They came together slowly, surely, as though they’d danced like this before at some point just beyond the reach of their memories.

In a dream, perhaps, or another lifetime.

When the music stopped, however, the strange magic shattered instantly. Daphne, ever practical, faced the dismal facts. Enthralled as she was by this magnificent man, he was a thief with a price on his head—a price that had been put there by her own father.

“Leave, Steven,” she whispered. “Please—get out of here before someone sees you and . . .”

He was still holding her hand; his fingers, remarkably gentle fingers, moved idly over her knuckles, sending little molten shivers into every part of her. “Daphne—”

“No!” cried Daphne, as much to herself as to him. “Don’t say it. Don’t say anything at all, because I won’t be able to bear it if you do!”

With that, she turned to flee for her life and for her sanity, only to be restrained and then wrenched full into Steven Gallagher’s broad chest. The impact took her breath away.

Moonlight glimmered in his eyes as well as his hair as he caught her chin in one hand and tilted it upward. In the next moment, he was kissing Daphne with a commanding
sort of gentleness, molding her soft frame to his hard one with magical hands.

It wasn’t easy, but after some concerted effort, Daphne finally broke away from his kiss. “Steven, I’m not one of your loose women. I . . .”

His hands, his brazen, strong hands, were still cupping her bottom, still holding her to the devastating evidence of his desire. He cocked his splendid head to one side and his smile was slow, sensuous, and very, very sad. “Come with me, Daphne,” he said. “Right now. Tonight.”

Daphne actually considered the suggestion. The idea of riding away with this man, on his horse, and surrendering to him in some isolated, moonlit place had definite appeal. “No,” she answered. She might have been smitten—and worse—but she wasn’t stupid.

“You’re a virgin,” Steven guessed, his hands kneading her plump, firm derriere.

Daphne flushed. “Of course I’m a virgin!” she sputtered. The frankness of country folk, she thought distractedly, was going to take some getting used to.

“I will love you gently,” he said. “In fact, Daphne Roberts, I will make you plead for more.”

Somewhere, Daphne found the strength to draw back one hand and slap Steven Gallagher’s face, and soundly. “Of all the
arrogant
, ill-mannered, presumptuous—”

He arched an eyebrow, silently urging her to continue her quiet damnation. Laughter burned blue in his eyes.

Far away, in the dance hall, the music began again. Daphne realized, with horror, that Gideon would soon
notice her absence and come in search of her, if he hadn’t done so already.

“You’ve got to get away from here!” she said desperately, forgetting her ire, her indignation, and, partly anyway, her foolish yearning for this man. “Please, Steven, go now! I couldn’t bear it if—”

“If they caught me?” he said, his lips perilously near her own again, drawing her. “But I’m arrogant and ill-mannered. Not to mention presumptuous. Surely you don’t care if I hang—”

“Steven!” Daphne pleaded, and the word was a sob of terror.

He kissed her forehead. “You’re staying at my father’s house, aren’t you?” he asked.

Feverishly, Daphne nodded. What had she been thinking, tarrying here with a wanted man, allowing him to take such a risk? Dear Lord, if he didn’t go, and go soon, someone was sure to see him.

Blithely, he patted her pulsing bottom with both hands. “Are you sharing a room with your homely cousin?” he inquired, as though they had all the time in the world.

“Yes!” she said. “Please—”

“I’ll be waiting in the judge’s stables, Daphne. When the dance is over, come to me.”

Daphne would have agreed to almost anything by that time, so desperate was she to see this handsome, infuriating outlaw safe. “All right, all right!” she choked out, and then she turned and fled, and this time Steven made no move to stop her.

She had almost reached the dance hall before she dared to look back.

Steven had vanished.

Daphne sighed and looked up at the star-speckled sky, as if in search of a sign. She didn’t have to meet Steven Gallagher in his father’s stables; indeed, she would be a fool if she did, an utter fool. He was on the run, an enemy of her father’s, and they certainly had no future together.

No doubt, deflowering her would be sport to him, nothing more.

Again, Daphne sighed. She could stand there and philosophize all she wanted, she knew. But when the dance was over and the Gallagher house was quiet, she would go to meet Steven.

*   *   *

“If you ever wear a dress like this in public again,” Gideon intoned, his smile rock hard as he danced with his wife, “I will turn you over my knee!”

Willow was hurt, but she tossed her head defiantly and glared up into Gideon’s face. “You’ll have heart failure when you get the bill,” she said. “Or, at least, I
hope
so.”

The familiar muscle pulsed in his jawline. “You charged that getup to me?” he said through his splendid and tightly clenched teeth. “Good. That gives me the right to tear it to shreds.”

“You wouldn’t dare, Gideon Marshall!”

“Watch me, hellcat.”

Willow felt tears burning in her eyes. “I thought you would like this gown,” she said, unable to hide her feelings. “I thought I looked—well—rather nice in it.”

Gideon’s face gentled, and he held her just a little closer. “Oh, you look a lot better than rather nice,” he assured her.

“Then, why—?”

He reached up and touched the tip of her nose with an index finger. “Hush,” he interrupted quietly. “I’m trying to explain my churlish and reprehensible behavior, here.”

Willow only looked at him, waiting, praying that this cruel and foolish game they played could be ended.

Gideon smiled, maneuvering her toward the open door and the privacy outside the dance hall. Gripping her hand, he led her across the shadowy porch and toward a familiar buggy. Reaching that, he lifted Willow into the seat and climbed up beside her.

“Willow, I know that one person can’t own another,” he said raggedly. “I know it and yet I try to own you, and I’m sorry.”

“What does that have to do with my dress?” she asked, truly confused and still a little hurt.

She loved that dress.

Loved the way she looked and felt wearing it.

Gideon caught one of her hands between both of his own, there beneath the dark canopy of the buggy. “Everything,” he confessed. “Willow, I try to be objective about you, I really do. But when you wear something like that and other men are looking at you, seeing everything but your tonsils . . .”

Willow blushed and swallowed hard. “You
were
jealous,” she said, and though that had been her end, there seemed to be no satisfaction in the knowledge that she had achieved it.

“Jealous?” he drawled. “God, that is a pitiably inadequate word for what I felt! The only time I had any peace this whole night was when you were dancing with your father.”

Having said that, he took up the reins, released the brake with a motion of one booted foot, and urged the single horse into motion.

He drove in silence until they were out of town, hidden in a copse of trees. The creek flowing past—Willow had always known that creek—seemed strange and somehow magical.

Willow was conscious of Gideon, more conscious than she’d been even on the dance floor, when he had held her so close. “I’m sorry,” she said, and the tears on her face were audible in her voice.

“Why?” chided Gideon in a tender whisper.

“I was hoping to make you jealous.”

Gideon smiled. “I guess we’re even, then,” he said. He hooked a finger in the neckline of her velvet dress—which was suddenly a bit too warm for comfort, just as Daphne had warned it would be. “It’s a wonder you didn’t fall right out of that thing,” he teased. “Half the town was probably praying you would.”

Willow gave an involuntary, sniffling laugh. “Were you hoping that, Gideon?”

He chuckled. “Yes. But I was going to shoot the first man who looked.”

“A-are you really going to tear up my dress?”

“Ummm,” he replied hoarsely, considering. “Definitely not. I want you to wear it for me. And not wear it
for me.” Gideon set the brake lever again, then let go of the reins. The patient old horse bent its head to graze on sweet grass sprinkled with stray shards of moonlight.

“W-what about Daphne?” Willow asked.

“What about her?” retorted Gideon, his right hand coming to rest on the full softness of Willow’s left thigh.

“You can’t just go off and leave her at the dance—”

“Seems to me I’ve already done that,” Gideon said. He seemed to be looking at her mouth with great interest, as though it had qualities he’d never noticed before. Then, mumbling, he added, “Don’t worry. Devlin will see Daphne home when the dance is over.”

Unaccountably nervous, Willow intertwined her fingers in her lap.

Their house was in the opposite direction.

Gideon smiled and took in the dancing leaves of the cottonwood trees all around them. They were completely alone, but because they faced the broad spring moon, the interior of the buggy was filled with silver light.

“Fall out of your dress, Mrs. Marshall,” he said quietly.

Willow sat very still, transfixed, staring at this man who had such incredible power over her.

“Now,” he added, in companionable tones.

Fingers trembling with desire and with a rebellion that would not quite come to life, Willow reached up and took hold of the daring neckline of her gown. A slight downward pull made her lush breasts spill out, milky white in the moonlight.

Gideon drew in his breath and tentatively touched one of the crimson buttons that awaited him with the tip
of one finger. “Mine,” he said, and he sounded wonder stricken rather than proprietary.