No Other Man (25 page)

"I'll have to find out though, Henry, won't I?"

"Think carefully," Henry warned him. "Others
from your Scottish hills and cliffs and vales may well know what words to use
to trick you. If David and you both perish, there are numerous distant
relatives waiting to take over not only your Scottish lands and titles—but now
all your American wealth as well. This may be a malicious trick."

"Again, I'll most certainly have to find out, won't I?"

"What about your business here with your mother's people?"

"I have time," Hawk said quietly. He stood.
"Not a great deal of it, but I do have time."

"Don't get your hopes up, Hawk. It's so incredibly unlikely
that David could be alive. You saw him buried. I suspect some impostor means to
get his hands on Douglas land through you. Don't be tricked. You have too much
business here—and a new wife."

"Oh, don't worry, Henry. I intend to see to my business
here—and, of course, to my new wife. But I do believe that I will meet this
man, impostor or no, on the night of the Moon Maiden at the Druid Stone."

Skylar had long finished eating when Hawk
returned. To her relief, he didn't seem to have learned any damning information
about her. He sat opposite her, appearing pre- occupied, then looked at his
pocket watch while he drained the shot of whiskey that he'd ordered the minute
he had sat down. "Let's go," he told her curtly. "I've a few
more words for Henry."

Skylar didn't realize just how late it had become until they
walked back across the street to Henry's office.

Hawk told Henry very briefly that they were heading west over
the hills for an indeterminate time and that Hawk would inform him when they
returned. If Sabrina Connor should arrive before they made it back, Henry
should see to her overnight accommodations at the inn and then her ride out to
Mayfair.

"It will be my pleasure," Henry assured them.

Minutes later they were out on the street again. Hawk walked
quickly ahead of her. He waited impatiently at the horses, ready to boost her
into her saddle.

Skylar refused to mount so quickly. "What took you so
long at Henry's?" she asked.

"Nothing that concerns you. Ah! Is that a sigh of relief
I
'm hearing?"

"You're
hearing
nothing that concerns you," she replied sweetly.

"But you do concern me. Henry has assured me that we
fire most legally bound together. It's so curious. Did you marry for the title
or the money?"

She longed to hit him; his voice was so strange, so taunting.
"Neither," she informed him. "But you've no desire to see
anything other than what you've chosen, so you can take your title and your
money and go to hell. Except—"

"Except?"

He never would understand. She'd married to escape. And now,
no matter how hateful he was being, she owed him.

She lifted her chin. "Thank you," she said, her
tone cool, controlled, as distant and dignified as she could possibly make it.

He made a sound of impatience, apparently no longer

interested
in the fight. "A mail is obligated to help his wife's kin."

"But
you didn't want a wife, much less her kin. Although you may actually find you
like your sister-in-law better than your wife."

"Skylar, I don't dislike you."

"You don't even trust me alone in your house."

"I
don't trust you—that doesn't mean I dislike you."

"Well,
you can't possibly like someone you don't trust."

He put
his hands on his hips and looked straight in her eyes. "Well, you can't
possibly trust someone who doesn't tell the truth!"

She was
suddenly sorry that she had started this—so much for a simple thank-you to this
man. His mood was foul. She'd leave him to it.

"I haven't lied to you."

"You haven't told me anything."

She
lifted her own hands in a gesture of impatience. "There's nothing to tell
you—"

"I imagine there is."

' 'Look, I was trying to say thank you—''

"The truth would be a nice thank-you."

"I told you—"

"Tell
me what you told my father that made him choose you for this marriage?"

What
was he accusing her of now? "Go to hell," she told him evenly.
"I'm sorry that you don't like anything about this." She started
walking by him. She could mount a horse by herself.

Except
that he wouldn't let her. Even as she passed him, he caught hold of her around
the waist, lifting her with ease, and setting her firmly upon Nutmeg. His hands
lingered upon her as he looked up at her.

"I like the nights," he drawled.

She
felt herself blushing. "What a pity, then, that we couldn't stay home.
That we're now on a trail into Sioux country with one full-blooded Oglala,
another half-breed, and ten cows! And we just won't be able to have a half
second alone."

He started to laugh, mounting up on Tor beside her.

"Lady
Douglas, surely, you've heard! Where there is a will, there is a way. My dear,
just where do you think little Indians come from?"

"You're
impossible. You can't begin to think that we'll have a moment's privacy—"

"I
imagine we'll have quite a bit of privacy, actually," he assured her.
"There is no more beautiful country than that which surrounds the Black
Hills, and I'd be greatly remiss if I did not see to it that you enjoyed the
absolute glory of nature all around us."

"What
an incredible man! You're ever so good to me!" she exclaimed
sarcastically.

He
walked Tor around her roan, facing her. "Well, Lady Douglas, I didn't want
a wife, but I acquired one. And once something is in my possession... well, I
do my best."

"Thank
the Lord. In your
possession,
I just know
that I'll be completely safe."

"Thank
the Lord, indeed. I can promise you safety, my love, because I'd kill any man,
red or white, who tries to take what is mine."

The
intensity of his words sent of shiver of unease shooting within her. He wasn't
a man to be crossed.

Well, she didn't intend to cross him.

"Aren't
you in a hurry to get moving?" she demanded.

He
shook his head slowly, a satyr's smile curving into his lips. "Not
anymore."

"What?" she demanded.

"Not anymore."

"You've
been as impatient as a prowling cat all day and now—"

He
pointed to the sky. "The sun will be setting soon. We'll have to catch up
with Willow and Sloan tomorrow."

"But—but—they'll
be waiting. They'll be worried. They'll be expecting us, they'll—"

"I told Sloan that
if we ran into darkness, we'd catch up with him tomorrow. They'll wait."
"But then—"

"We'll take a room at the inn." "Tonight?"

His smile deepened. "Obviously, my dear." "But—"

"Imagine!
All that privacy!" he drawled with relish. "Hmm. Privacy, and a wife
who should be damned grateful at the moment. Oh, I should really, really like
this night!"

Fourteen

"You should be
hanged," Skylar muttered.

He arched a brow, looking at her with mock despair.
"Whatever happened to 'Thank you, Lord Douglas, my dear husband'?"

"You know,
Hawk,
you
have a nasty way of taking advantage of things."

"I intend to take advantage of things quite pleasantly,
actually."

She groaned.

His eyes were green fire as he laughed up at her. "You
were
trying to say thank you properly, weren't
you?"

She groaned again, allowing her face to fall against the
roan's mane. He laughed.

"Come on. I'll leave you at the inn, then take the
horses over to the livery stable."

Hawk
came into the inn with her briefly. He apparently knew the round, very proper
proprietress, Mrs. Smith- Soames, well enough because the woman was quick to assure
him that she had the best room in the house available and that every amenity
would be afforded them.

Skylar
was left in the foyer with a cup of tea while Hawk's "customary
requirements" were seen to; Hawk took the horses over to the stables. By
the time Skylar had finished her tea, a maid appeared to tell her that her room
was ready. She followed the girl, who was wearing a black dress and a perfectly
starched white apron and cap, up the stairs to the end of the hallway. Double
doors opened on a sumptuous room. A huge four-poster bed was against the far
wall, a fireplace spanned half the opposing wall, and the largest hip tub
Skylar had seen in her entire life, made of copper and wood, sat in front of
the fire, steam rising from it in great waves.

"Lavender soap, Lady Douglas,"
the young maid said, setting a purple bar down upon a huge pair of bathsheets.
"And sandalwood here, for Lord Douglas, of course."

"Lovely," Skylar murmured.

The maid moved across the room. "Mrs. Smith-Soames has
sent up her finest champagne, ma'am. It's here, with glasses, and some
chocolates, all with her fondest wishes for the happiness of your
marriage."

"My marriage ... oh, yes."

The maid smiled: she was a rosy-cheeked girl with a few
traces of a British accent remaining. "If you need anything at all,
there's a bellpull by the bed."

"Thank you so much."

The girl left her. Skylar restlessly moved about the room.
She'd dressed for a night in the wilderness, and now suddenly she was standing
on a handsome Persian carpet. Nothing had been what she had imagined since she
had come here.

Did it matter? Her all-important wire was soaring across the
country even as she stood there. Jim Pike would receive word tonight. He was so
wonderful and kind a man, he would immediately find a way to reach Sabrina, who
would be waiting, hoping ...

By tomorrow, she could pick up her money and be on her way.

Skylar exhaled, moving thoughtfully across the room to the
windows, opening the heavy velvet drapes that fell over them. She thought about
Hawk and felt a strange quivering in her abdomen. She was somewhat alarmed to
realize that she wasn't dismayed about being here. She wasn't dismayed about
him. She was anxious . ..

Excited.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no ...

Yes.

She frowned, realizing that she could see another establishment
just across the yard. She could dimly hear the sounds of laughter and music
coming from it. A window on her own level was open. A brunette in nothing but a
corset and her the altogether was leaning out the window, laughing delightedly,
calling out to a man below. A man who had just stepped out of the saloon next
door to the inn and was now lighting a slim cheroot.

Skylar looked down. Her heart skipped a beat. Blood rushed to
her face. The man was Hawk. He was staring back up at the whore, smiling,
saying something in return.

The woman suddenly stared across the way at Skylar. She
laughed harder.

Skylar let the drapes fall. She turned away from the window,
incredulous. How long had he been gone? Had he been with the woman? Did he
really think that he could just waltz from one woman to the next, from a whore
to a wife?
A wife he didn 't want. Good God, when
she'd been threatened with being forced away, it hadn't mattered what she had
said to him. She'd told him that he could have whatever women he desired,
hadn't she?

But good Lord, she hadn't meant it! Well, perhaps she had at
the time, but then she'd never imagined a marriage as intimate as the one they
were sharing.

He could move quickly when he chose. Damned quickly. The door
opened and he walked in. He'd cast away the cheroot somewhere and entered,
closing the door with a shove of a booted foot, folding his arms across his
chest, his head cocked, green eyes on fire as he stared at her.

"Spying?"

"Spying!" she gasped out incredulously.

"Watching? I hadn't imagined you as the voyeuristic

type,
my love, but then, if there is a different entertainment that might amuse you
... ?"

"It
would amuse me to see you hanged and scalped!" she hissed. She wanted to
walk out. He barred the door.

"What happened to 'thank you'?"

"I already said it."

"I thought you meant to show it."

"You shouldn't think."

"You shouldn't talk."

"It
seems to me you've found appreciation elsewhere."

He
arched a brow very high, then strode across the room to her. She looked for a
way to avoid him; there was none. She backed herself to the window, then there
was nowhere else to go. He kept coming. If the window hadn't been closed, she
might have fallen right out of it. His hands fell upon her shoulders.

"Do
you immediately think the worst of every man?" he demanded. "Or is it
only me?"

She
gritted down hard on her teeth. She shouldn't be goading him. He'd seemed in a
strange mood since he'd left his private meeting with Henry Pierpont, yet she
didn't think he'd learned anything about her. Still, he seemed dangerously
tense. And still, she couldn't seem to control her own tongue. "I just saw
you talking to a naked whore," she told him matter-of-factly.

"She wasn't exactly naked."

"She wasn't exactly dressed."

"Did you care?"

"Perhaps
we are in the age of an industrial revolution, but I do not care to be part of
an assembly line!" Skylar assured him.

He shook
his head, laughing suddenly. "You want to be believed all the time, taken
at face value! I don't know a damned thing about you or what really went on
between you and my father, but you tell me that you cared for him and I am
simply to believe it. Well, my dear wife, I took our horses to the stable, I
talked with old Jeff Healey, and

I passed by the Ten-Penny Saloon to come here. You are now
free to believe me, or not, as you choose."

"What if I choose not to?"

"It will make no difference to me."

She stared
back at him, wondering in what way it would make no difference. Would he stay
with her anyway—or would he choose to spend the night elsewhere?

Did the
threat matter? She did believe what he was saying.

She
simply wasn't convinced he cared enough about her or her feelings to lie.

"Do
you know the naked whore leaning out the window?" she asked politely.

"I
do," he acknowledged. Her lashes swept her cheeks. He emitted a sound of
impatience. "I haven't been a married man that long, you know."

Her
lashes fell again. He set his knuckles beneath her chin, lifting it, forcing
her eyes to fall upon his once again. "I stabled the horses, I returned
here. I'm going to go downstairs and ask Mrs. Smith-Soames to awaken us at the
crack of dawn tomorrow morning. When I come back, I really would like not so
much a proper thank-you but a bloody truce if nothing else."

"And if..."

"And if what?"

"If I'm not obliging?" she whispered.

He smiled. "That remains to be seen, doesn't it?"

He
turned and strode away, leaving Skylar to stare after him. She bit into her
lower lip, watching the door close in his wake.

For
several seconds she stood very still. Then she suddenly began to kick off her
boots, hopping about as she tugged off pantalettes and hose. She cast off her
clothing, paused, folded it neatly. She didn't want it to appear that she had
been panicked or rushed. She wanted him to think that the truce she had decided
to grant him had been a careful decision.

Not a mad scurry of uncertainty!

She
piled her hair on top of her head, securing it in a knot. Then she plunged into
the tub with a washcloth and the lavender soap. She heard the door open and
made a careful display of raising one of her legs and slowly, sensuously
washing it.

To her
amazement, she suddenly heard a very feminine clearing of the throat. She
dropped her leg back into the water and turned around to stare at the young
maid who had come back into the room carrying a tray.

The
girl was blushing slightly. "I'm so sorry, Lady Douglas. Lord Douglas
suggested I bring up a tray now in case you two get hungry later. I knocked,
but you didn't hear me. I thought perhaps you had left the room as well. I
didn't mean to interrupt you."

"You—didn't
interrupt me," Skylar murmured, feeling very foolish. The girl scurried
into the room, set the tray on a table, and scurried out.

So much
for attempting to become something of a siren, Skylar thought. Maybe he had
gone back across the way. To the half-naked, bosomy brunette.

"Truce?"

Her eyes flew open. Hawk was back.

He smiled, hunkering down beside her.

"I
like you wet, you know," he told her. "It brings back fond memories
of our first meeting. Is this a truce?" he demanded.

She
nodded, then suddenly stretched out her wet arms, wrapping them around him.
"I'm taking you at face value," she said quickly, earnestly. Then she
felt the urge to back away from what she was beginning.

"Yes?"

"I'm—believing
what you say to me." There could be no backing away now.

He
nodded. "Yes?" There was the slightest trace of wry amusement in his
voice.

"I just... I just want you to believe in me, too."

He
nodded. He picked her up, wet and dripping, held her close to him, heedless of
the soaking he was getting from her.

"Hawk?" she
murmured insistently.

"I slay all monsters," he said.

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"No matter what they appear to me?"

"What do you mean?"

She
shook her head. "Just... if I ever ask, give me the same in return."

"Skylar—"

"I
swear, I believe what you say. Believe me in return."

He
didn't reply. It didn't matter at the moment. He carried her to the bed, laid
her atop it on her stomach. He kissed the entire length of her back, her nape
... each little bone, the small of her back, her buttocks, the backs of her
knees, of her thighs ...

The
clean sheets were cool beneath her. The feel of his flesh was fire. The touch
of his lips a simmer that brought the blood racing throughout her body.
Firelight crackled, the night air was sweet. She was drowning in sensation,
sensual comfort... desire.

The
firelight flickered. She came atop him, glowing almost as copper as he in the
low-burning light.

He
stroked her cheek, her collarbone, the valley of her breasts.

"I
just have to find a way to be thanked more often," he murmured.

She
smiled. His fingers threaded through the hair at her nape, and she rolled with
him. It was their last night in civilization. A reprieve. She allowed the lure
of sensation to sweep her into the sweetness of the night.

Morning always came too soon.

Senator Brad Dillman sat in his chair before the fire,
staring at the flames. Night had come, but he wanted no other light within the
room. A blanket lay over his legs; he was warm and comfortable. And waiting.

Sabrina had been out, which meant something was going on.

They were sisters, but they were as different as night and
day. Skylar could never control her temper; Sabrina could hide her every
thought from the world. She could play any role asked of her, and at the
moment, she was playing the role of dutiful daughter. At first, Sabrina had
obviously been afraid that he'd call the police, report Skylar. Perhaps even
have Pinkertons hunt her down. But now . . .

Now, she was simply . .. dutiful.

And waiting. He was damned well aware of it.

He shook his head. Fool girls, they could plot, and they
could plan, and they could even run. But they couldn't run far enough or fast
enough.

He heard the door closing downstairs. Very quietly. Sabrina
was going out again.

He quickly rolled his wheelchair to the window and saw that
Sabrina was indeed hurrying from the house. Furtively, of course. He didn't
allow her to go out alone after dark.

But he certainly intended to let her go this time.

He spun his chair around and rolled quickly down the hallway
to Sabrina's room. He quickly looked over his shoulder. She might well suspect
that he could come here, even though she had been very careful not to make him
suspicious.

Skylar had always proven to be trouble. He should have gotten
rid of her when she was a child. The idea of killing a child had never
disturbed him. General Sherman himself had said it best in reference to the
Indian problem when the soldiers killed little ones by accident or design—nits
make lice. However, with all the accusations she had thrown his way, it had
always seemed best to appear the martyred stepfather. Now she had somehow made
good an escape. He'd had his aides go through every train, ship, and stage
schedule available, and they had found no trace of a Connor traveling, or even
of a single female. He didn't know what she had managed, but one thing was
certain—