Head in the Clouds (26 page)

She looked over at the bureau. Every bride should be wrapped in her husband’s arms on her wedding night. Gideon might not be able to hold her, but she could still be wrapped up in him. A grin tugged at the corners of her lips.

Quietly sliding one drawer open after another, Adelaide finally found what she was looking for. She peeked behind her to make sure Gideon continued to sleep and dashed over to the corner farthest from the bed. The chamber had no screen to shelter her as she disrobed, so she turned her back to the room and hastily yanked the clothes from her body. Feeling scandalous, she dropped Gideon’s soft flannel work shirt over her head and slipped her arms into the sleeves. Even though the hem of the shirt fell past her knees, her sense of modesty wouldn’t allow her to remove her drawers. It also compelled her to button the shirt up to her chin—or collarbone, seeing as how the oversized shirt hung like a tablecloth on her petite frame.

It was his, though, and she imagined him holding her as she hugged herself and lifted the fabric to her nose. The smell of soap and sunshine was pleasant, but she wished it carried Gideon’s scent. She rolled the sleeves up to her wrists and, leaving her discarded clothing heaped in the corner, tiptoed to the bed.

Careful not to wiggle the mattress too much, she lifted the sheet and crawled in next to him.
Ah.
There was the aroma she’d been craving—in the sheets and on the man himself. Adelaide closed her eyes and inhaled. After a moment, she opened her eyes again, curled onto her side to face her new husband, and watched him sleep. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. The gentle rumble of his breathing—not quite a snore, but loud enough that she didn’t need to strain to hear him. It was comforting, peaceful.

All at once, the peace shattered as he moaned in his sleep and thrashed his arms about. Heart racing, Adelaide leaned over him and grasped his wrists.

“Shh, Gideon. It’s all right. Be still.” She continued to murmur soft words to him and hold him down until he relaxed. Even after he settled, she continued hovering over him, stroking his thick, dark hair and dropping occasional kisses on his forehead.

Outwardly, the peace had returned, but inwardly, Adelaide’s fears began to churn once again.

“I expect you to fight for me, Gideon Westcott,” she whispered, her jaw tense. “Just because I agreed to marry you doesn’t mean the battle is over. I signed up to be a wife, not a widow, and I demand a happy ending to our story. It is your duty, husband.”

He moaned again, and she thought she saw his lashes flutter. She ducked away and curled back onto her side, letting out a moan of her own. Stealing the man’s sleep was no way to speed his recovery. Laying more burdens and foolish demands on him probably didn’t help, either. She just wanted a life with him so much. So much, she ached with it.

Am I asking for too much, Lord?

She fell asleep waiting for an answer that never came.

Chapter 34

Reginald Petchey squinted at his solicitor through the dim glow of a single greasy lamp that stood atop the table between them. Hazy shadows confounded the man’s features.

“Are you telling me that Westcott is still alive?”

Farnsworth’s Adam’s apple bulged from his scrawny neck as he swallowed long and slow. “I-I’m afraid so, my lord.”

Reginald charged to his feet, sending the rickety chair flying out from under him. “It’s been a week, Farnsworth. A week!”

He stalked his assistant. The coward backed away until the weathered planks of the wall halted his retreat. Reginald pounced with one vengeful strike, slamming his fist into the wood behind the man’s head. Farnsworth flinched, and sweat beaded on his forehead, but he held his chin up. The show of mettle only enraged Reginald further.

“I’ve endured the squalor of this … this …” He gestured around at the insect-infested shell of a building he had condescended to live in.

“Line shack, sir.”

Reginald’s eyes snapped back to Farnsworth, and he wished he could bore into the man with something more substantial than a heated scowl. His hands itched to encircle the man’s throat and squeeze just enough to … He gritted his teeth. Through his clenched jaw, he spat out his disgust one word at a time, his enunciation so fierce that tiny specks of saliva sprayed across Farnsworth’s pinched face.

“I … don’t … care … what … it’s … called.”

Could the idiot not see what was important here? Like any good hunter, he’d been prepared to wait. He’d set up the ambush and timed everything to perfection. Unfortunately, the worthless Mexican he’d hired had proven to be a flawed weapon, wounding his prey instead of killing it with a clean shot. Yet Reginald hadn’t panicked. Weapons malfunctioned occasionally. One could not escape that. A good hunter must simply adjust his strategy and choose a new method for taking down his target. When José, bleeding and whining, staggered into the saloon to collect his pay last Friday, he assured Reginald that he had left Westcott with a gaping hole in his gut and a guaranteed appointment with death.

So Reginald had waited, selecting time as his new weapon of choice. He’d packed up his belongings and holed himself up in this miserable shack that sat on the western border of Westcott’s property, waiting and listening for the chance to make his move. For a week! And now Farnsworth was telling him that it had all been for nothing?

A roar exploded from him, and he punched the wall again before turning away from his solicitor.

“Perhaps we should g-g-go back to England, my lord.”

“And admit defeat? Out of the question.” Rage grew within him until he could no longer think clearly. He wanted to strike something. Someone. But brute strength couldn’t give him the results he needed. No. He required cunning, and cunning required thinking. Reginald forced himself to stop prowling around the square room like a caged beast. He straightened his cravat, brushed the lint from his brocade vest, and buttoned down the anger that seethed beneath the surface.

“I’m not like you, Farnsworth. I don’t abandon my purpose at the first sign of adversity. I persevere. I look for new paths of attack, unthought-of strategies, hidden weaknesses not yet exploited. …”

A faint inkling tugged at his consciousness, taking nebulous shape. The energy that had fueled his rage immediately rechanneled to feed his mind. Possibilities flashed before him, almost too fast for him to keep up. But he did. A familiar rush of power surged. He loved being brilliant.

“I’m not suggesting we run away, my lord, just relocate temporarily.” Farnsworth’s voice buzzed like a fly in his ear. Distracting. Irritating. Making him want to swat the fellow with a giant rolled newspaper. “Our funds are nearly depleted, after all.”

“And they won’t be restored without the girl,” Reginald barked without looking up. He paced around the tiny room and shoved Farnsworth out of his way as he circled the table. “Now, cease your bellyaching and let me think.”

Westcott was still alive. And if he’d survived a week with a hole in his gut, he couldn’t be counted on to succumb any time soon.

“Tell me again what the Menardville doctor said,” Reginald ordered.

“It was much the same as when I traveled to town three days ago. I reiterated how thankful I was to find a doctor in the wilds of Texas who had the capability of bringing a man back from the very brink of death. This time he didn’t question me about how I had heard about the case, and was more forthcoming with the particulars. Apparently tales of the rancher’s recovery have spread all over town since my last visit.

“After examining my throat to ascertain if the lozenges he’d prescribed had eased the redness, Dr. Bellows updated me on Mr. Westcott’s recovery. He didn’t mention Westcott’s name, of course, but it’s highly doubtful that he was speaking of another man with an abdominal gunshot injury.” Farnsworth held his hand to his throat and stuck out his chin, as if trying to alleviate the discomfort of his feigned symptom.

Although, it hadn’t been completely feigned. Reginald would never overlook such a detail. In order to avoid arousing the doctor’s suspicions, Farnsworth had downed three cups of scalding-hot tea at Reginald’s insistence prior to riding to town. The fellow had teared up like an infant, too. Pathetic creature.

“When I asked him if he had thought to write a paper for the medical journals on his successful treatment of the usually fatal wound,” Farnsworth continued, “he became quite animated about the case. He indicated that Westcott’s recovery would lend credence to something called abstentionist theory and would serve to refute a particular upstart physician named Sims who advocated an odd procedure called a laparotomy. I have no idea what he was talking about, but in the course of his rambling, he did mention that Westcott has only recently begun taking food—broths and liquids for the most part. He no longer receives morphine injections— although the wound continues to pain him substantially—and as far as the doctor knows, he has yet to leave his bed.”

Reginald stopped pacing and stared without focus toward the ceiling. “So the man is weak. As one would expect. It would be better if he were dead, but in his current condition, that should be easy enough to rectify.”

Farnsworth coughed, interrupting Reginald’s train of thought. “Why not just snatch the girl and carry her back to England? –Westcott is in no position to stop you. We should just take our leave of this blasted country before we end up on the gallows.”

Reginald glared his man into silence. “As long as Westcott is alive, he threatens my claim to Isabella. You know that. Now stop being squeamish and let me figure the rest of this out.”

Farnsworth slunk into the corner and, for once, kept his mouth shut.

Westcott was a noble type. Weakness. He was physically impoverished. Weakness. His men were tired from double shifts of guard duty. Weakness.

Reginald had spied out the ranch. He knew of the guards. But after a week without a single glimpse of trouble, their attentiveness and motivation would be greatly decreased. Most of them were probably grumbling about their pointless duty even now. He could use that to his advantage. And once the guard was dismantled, he could draw Westcott out with a bit of well-placed bait. Isabella would do nicely. Or that woman José had told him about, the one whose honor Westcott had defended with such gallantry. A man like Westcott could never sit back in safety while a female under his protection was in danger. He’d charge to his own death first.

Which was exactly what Reginald was counting on.

“Farnsworth, pack my bags. We’re leaving this shack.”

“For home, my lord?” The hope in his tone was comical. One would think that by now the man would know him better.

“No. You’re going to register Mr. Edward Church and his companion at the Australian Hotel in Menardville. Westcott is sure to have eyes and ears working in town, and I plan to give them something to report. You and I will put in an appearance this afternoon. I told that sneak Bevin that I wanted to learn all I could about the town in order to report back to my dear mother’s friend, so I shall. I’ll visit the shops, the card tables, maybe even that doctor of yours. Then we’ll pay that long overdue visit to Mr. Gideon Westcott.”

“We?” his mouse of an assistant squeaked. “But w-what about his guards?”

Reginald smiled, savoring the audacity of his new plan. “We’ll go in unarmed, of course. Two gentlemen come to discuss the possibility of renegotiating the current terms of guardianship.”

“Westcott will never relinquish the child.”

“No.” Reginald flicked a piece of lint from his sleeve. “However, I imagine he knows enough about my situation at this point to expect me to try to bribe him out of his principles. And I’ll oblige him. When he turns me down, I’ll threaten to return to England and fight him with every last pound at my disposal to have my niece returned to the bosom of her natural family. Then we’ll return to town and lament our need to leave without getting what we came for, creating a great display of disgruntled defeat. We will procure a coach, or whatever rustic conveyance the local livery can offer, and leave town, never to return.”

“Only we aren’t really leaving, are we?” Farnsworth asked, doom lacing his words.

Reginald grinned in answer. Gideon Westcott would soon have no say in Isabella’s future.

Chapter 35

Early morning light filtered through the edges of the thick damask curtains of Gideon’s bedchamber, teasing his eyelids open. The fogginess that usually plagued his mind after his drug-induced sleep was strangely absent. He pulled together fragmented memories and recalled Dr. Bellows’s last visit. Two days ago, maybe three. The doctor had forgone his morphine injection, having determined that enough healing had occurred to wean him off the medication, and last night Gideon decided to go without laudanum, as well. Waking clearheaded and alert was a luxury he had taken for granted, but after struggling through a mental haze every morning for the last ten days, he’d developed a keen appreciation for the experience.

With a tentative motion, Gideon stretched an arm in the air and winced at the tightness in his midsection. It still hurt, but the severity had diminished. Of course, some of the soreness was likely due to his unsanctioned excursions. Against doctor’s orders, he’d been hobbling the length of his room in the afternoons, using the furniture for support. He’d barely been able to stand the first time he attempted it four days ago, but he’d gradually worked up his endurance and yesterday made it to his desk and back. Though not up for a footrace, knowing he could putter about under his own steam soothed his pride and gave him confidence that he would regain his full strength in time. Something he thanked God for every day.

Stiff from lying in one position most of the night and a bit too warm, Gideon flung the blankets back and rolled to his left, holding the sheet aloft to ease his turn. He sucked in a sharp breath as pain shot up his torso and protectively pulled his knees up as he gingerly burrowed onto his side. Right into Adelaide.

His eyes widened, and the breath he had just inhaled hung suspended in his lungs.

Addie.

In his bed.

She puckered her face, disgruntled by his shifting, then let out a small moan and snuggled close to his chest. Her full lips parted on a satisfied sigh, and his pulse reacted as if the gentle sound were the crack of a starting pistol for the Thoroughbreds at Newmarket. It leapt forward and raced at a breakneck pace. His breath quivered while he debated for a second or two about what to do. Making up his mind, he settled his hand into the dip of her waist.

His gaze crawled over her, taking the time to absorb every detail of the woman he loved. The way her dark lashes rested against her creamy skin, flirting with the faded freckles along the tops of her cheeks. The way her unraveled braid left chestnut waves cascading over the pillow. The way the line of her neck created a hollow where it joined with her collarbone before disappearing under the fabric of … his work shirt?

His mouth quirked. She was wearing his shirt. For some odd reason, that fact gratified him even more than finding her in bed beside him. She could have shared his bed for convenience’s sake, to make it easier to tend him during the night. But wearing his shirt? That was personal. Possessive. She wasn’t in his bed out of a sense of duty. She was in his bed because she cared. For him.

His shirt had crept to the tops of her thighs, and his eyes greedily drank in the shapely legs that lay tangled in his sheets. Even encased in drawers, their slender curves were evident.

Gideon loved Addie’s beautiful spirit and godly heart, but he couldn’t deny that her figure pleased him, too. Quite a lot. He suddenly found a compelling new motivation to recover his strength.

Memories tugged at the edge of his mind, leaving him fairly certain she had slept in his bed before. He remembered her discarded clothes in the corner, and the trace of her scent on the pillow next to him. He even had vague recollections of her hands on his arms and her soothing voice shushing him as he battled the pain that burned through him like a hot iron. Yet until now, she’d never been in his bed when he awakened. He vowed to change that pattern. This delight was too rich to pass up.

Like an ancient explorer charting undiscovered territory, Gideon trailed a finger out of the valley of her waist and along the rising slope of her hip. He followed the line of her thigh as far as he could reach, then turned back to retrace his steps. Tripping over the wrinkles in the oversized shirt, he continued north—onto the level plains of her arm, over the swell of her shoulder, and onto the delicate path of her neck.

Pieces of a past conversation broke into his awareness. Addie lecturing him on his duty to give her a happy ending. A sensual smile curled his lips. He was more than willing to fulfill his husbandly duties. All of them.

Unable to resist any longer, he buried his fingers in the hair at the base of her neck and angled her face upward. He leaned forward and dropped soft little kisses onto her lips, starting at the corner and working his way across until she began to stir.

Her lashes flittered. “Gid—?”

He smothered her question with his kiss. No longer playful, he took her mouth fully, holding nothing back. She was no longer Adelaide Proctor, governess. She was Adelaide Westcott, wife.

His
wife.

It didn’t take long for her to recover from her surprise. She clasped his shoulder for support and stretched toward him. His pulse surged, and when she finally pulled away, he refused to let her separate from him completely. He rested his forehead against hers and listened to their ragged breaths echoing in the quiet morning.

“Feeling better today, are we?” Adelaide asked as she lowered her head back down to her pillow, her face a becoming shade of pink.

Gideon grinned. “A little.”

He traced the line of her hair around the perimeter of her face, tucking the loose strands he collected behind her ear. Her eyelids drifted closed, and a tremulous smile hovered over her lips. His heart hitched. How had he come to be so blessed? Not only had the Lord seen fit to spare his life, but he had given him a woman full of sunshine and love.

Sunshine. Hmm.
Gideon stroked Addie’s arm and fingered the blue fabric that bunched at her wrist. “I think this is the first time I’ve seen you wear a color other than yellow.”

She opened her eyes and met his gaze. “When I selected it, I was more concerned with holding on to something of yours than coordinating it with my wardrobe.” She bit her lip, and her attention dropped to a location somewhere below his chin. Her hands waved about in the small space between their two bodies as she rambled. “I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed it. I forgot my sleeping gown that first night, and I found it comforting to wear your shirt, so I continued the habit even after I moved my belongings to your room. Oh, and that’s another thing. I cleared out a drawer in your bureau and hung my dresses next to your coats. I hope—”

He laid his finger atop her lips to stop her nervous chatter. “Your place is with me now, Addie. I want you here. Move whatever you like. Wear whatever you like. All I care about is having you by my side.”

She dipped her chin in a nod and briefly closed her eyes, squeezing out a tear.

The droplet rolled over her temple and soaked into the sunbleached pillowcase. Gideon ached at the sight. He caressed the side of her face with his knuckles in an effort to erase the trail.

“What’s wrong, Addie?”

She pressed her lips together, but not before he noticed their trembling.

“I’m just so thankful to have you living and breathing,” she burst out, and relief washed over him. “I tried to believe and be brave for Isabella and the others, but deep inside I was so afraid I would lose you.”

Ignoring the soreness in his abdomen, Gideon gathered her close. He tucked her head under his jaw and stroked her back.

“I’m not going anywhere, dear heart. I have a happy ending to write with you.”

Addie stiffened. “You heard that?” she muttered against his chest.

Gideon chuckled, his joy too large to contain. He pulled back just enough to see her face. “Yes, I did, my little dreamer. And I plan to fulfill that duty to the best of my ability.”

He sealed his pledge with a kiss filled with tender promises of all that was yet to come.

Adelaide hummed the rest of the day. She cut Isabella’s lessons short because she was too distracted by thoughts of her new husband, and when Gideon insisted on being helped down to the parlor for a change of scenery that afternoon, she found one reason after another to saunter over there just to see him smile. Those glorious dimples were back in force.

The friendly, welcoming smiles she had grown to love still made her breath catch, but he’d added a new weapon to his arsenal. A secret, intimate smile that reminded her of warm kisses and strong arms. It never failed to flush her cheeks and flutter her stomach. The man was an invalid in a dressing gown convalescing amid a mound of cushions on the parlor settee; yet when he smiled at her like that, he became masculinity personified. Gideon had a dash of the rogue in him. And Adelaide adored him for it.

Now she stood at the kitchen table, cutting a slab of corn bread and crumbling it into a bowl. He’d complained earlier about not having anything to dig his teeth into. Said a man couldn’t be expected to regain his health if he only consumed liquids.

He’d begged her for a chunk of beefsteak with roasted potatoes and baby onions. She’d agreed to corn bread soaked in milk. He’d pouted like a little boy. She’d laughed and promised him a treat if he was good.

Then he’d given her one of those seductive smiles and vowed to finish every last bite of his mush. Titillating images had flooded her mind at her husband’s words, innocent though they were, and she’d scurried from the room to hide her blush.

How long did it take a woman to get used to her husband before she could think clearly again? Adelaide smiled at the tingles that continued to dance around inside her. Then again, perhaps thinking was overrated.

Adelaide shook her head at her foolishness and took the jug of milk firmly in hand, hoping to get a similar grip on her thoughts. She had just tipped it over the bowl of crumbled corn bread when a shot rang out from somewhere in the yard. She jumped, splashing milk on the table before yanking the jug upright.

Before she could steady herself and think what to do next, heavy footsteps thumped against the wraparound porch, nearing the kitchen door. Adelaide opened the knife drawer and closed her fingers around the hilt of a long carving blade.

The door flew open. “Señora Westcott, we have visitors.”

When she recognized Miguel, Adelaide released her hold on the knife, but her heart was far from relieved. The doctor wasn’t due for another day, and if it had been the preacher or another man from town, the guard would not have fired a warning shot. “Who is it?”

Her husband’s foreman met her eyes, his face grim. “He gave me this.” Miguel handed her a white card.

Adelaide bit her lip as she accepted it from him. She frowned at the exquisite gold engraving. The Right Honorable, the Viscount Petchey requested an audience. Adelaide glanced back up at Miguel, her spirit aching at the unfairness of it all. Just when Gideon had regained a decent grip on life, the devil showed up on their doorstep.