Authors: Colleen Quinn
“…and so we don’t give a damn if you want to leave after the service. All we want from you is your name.”
Fury washed over him as Biddle’s words sank in. This was positively archaic! These men would think nothing of forcing him into wedlock like some wet-behind-the-ears schoolboy caught in the throes of his first passion! He wasn’t some no-account farmboy or roustabout. He was from one of the most important families in Philadelphia, educated and wealthy to boot. If they thought they could get away with this…
“Forget it,” Michael said, anger emanating from him. “I will not be bullied into any wedding. I understand I have an obligation where the child is concerned, and I will see to that. But that’s where I draw the line.”
“You’re wrong, sonny,” Black Jack said grimly. There was a sound in the tent of a rifle cocking, and Michael turned to see the cycloptic stare of the gun pointed directly at his head. “I’ve known Rose since she was a little girl, and her father before that. You’ll join her in wedlock, or you won’t see the dawn. Understand?”
Michael stared at him incredulously. “But you can’t force a man to wed—”
Black Jack aimed the rifle higher. “This ain’t the city, where your fancy lawyers and judges can tell us what we can and can’t do. Out here in the West a man makes his own laws. And honor is one of them.”
Michael scanned their faces, but to a man they stared him down. They would do it. They would kill him, leave him buried in some old deserted ravine, and no one would be the wiser. Who would tell? He thought back to that day in the woods with Rosemary and the Indians, and the unbearable awareness that the same men who sat with them around a campfire could kill them on a whim. Just as the miners would now.
“So I think you understand our reasoning,” Biddle said, aware of the play of emotions on Michael’s face. “I would suggest you pick out something appropriate to wear while we have the same conversation with your bride. From what I know of Rose, she will be no more eager to wed than you.” When Michael glanced up hopefully, Biddle shook his head.
“It’s the baby we’re thinking about now. The rest can be damned.”
“Yes, what is it?” Rosemary barely glanced behind her as the circus troupe filed into her tent. She was in the process of folding away the gowns Michael had bought for her, intending to give them back to him before he left. She turned, surprised to see Rags and Biddle, Clara and Griggs, Zachery and Leonardo, all of them waiting with a similar grim expression.
“What’s wrong? You all look like you’ve been to a funeral.” It was Clara who spoke first. “You’re almost right, dearie. We’re getting ready for your wedding. I think that cream-colored dress you’re holding there would be grand.”
Rosemary glanced at the dress in her hands, then at the troupe, then broke into startled laughter. “Look, it’s really sweet of you all to want to cheer me up, but I have a lot of work to do, and it’s getting late—”
“She’s not joking, Rosemary,” Biddle said softly.
Rosemary glanced from one face to the next and saw the absolute truth of Biddle’s words. Rags looked worried, Griggs sad, Zachery shrugged, and Leonardo was emotional. Only Clara seemed to have her wits about her, and she snatched up the dress from Rosemary’s hands and cackled in glee.
“This will do. To think, he’s paid for the very dress she’ll wed him in.”
“I will not!” Rosemary took back the dress, her expression indignant. All hell was in her green eyes as she glared at Clara. “What in God’s name are you all talking about?”
“Michael Wharton has agreed to marry you,” Biddle continued, his voice firm. “For the sake of the child, you must wed him.”
“What!” Rosemary stared in disbelief, but again, none of the eyes wavered. “You must all be addled. Clara, did you put something in their tea again?” Rosemary felt Zachery’s forehead, but the farmboy merely shook off her hand and grinned.
“Nae, it’s not that. We’ve convinced him, Rose, with a gun to his head. And it’s a damned good thing, too. Why should he get off scot-free and run back to his fancy family in that heathen city while you bear the wee one alone? No, we saw to your vengeance, and he will wed—or the miners will shoot him down. It’s all been arranged.”
“I see.” Actually, Rosemary did. She had no doubt these odd and wonderful people had done just that. It showed the full measure of their loyalty, which was something she’d never questioned.
“So his punishment is to be married to me?” Rosemary gazed from one man to the next, and they all had the decency to look embarrassed. Biddle stepped forward, giving Clara an annoyed glance.
“That wasn’t our intention. We are thinking of you and the baby. You can’t be an unmarried mother, Rose. Think of the censure you would draw and for what? Because you loved a man who left you?”
“I don’t give a damn what people would say,” Rosemary said furiously. She looked beautiful in her rage. “I haven’t up until now. Why should this be any different?”
“Because there’s a baby involved,” Biddle explained carefully. “Do you really want your child growing up and bearing that burden? You know how cruel the townspeople can be. Is that what you want?”
That made her waver, but just for a moment. “Plenty of circus folk have babies out of wedlock,” Rosemary insisted. “There isn’t always a priest or a judge around when you’re traveling with a troupe. You know that.”
“Yes, but your child may not choose this life, Rose. Haven’t you ever thought about that?” He came closer, lifting her chin to his, his eyes, warm and sober, searching her face. “You’d be condemning him to a life in the show, where he could hide. It was right for you, Rose. You love this business. But what if it isn’t right for the baby? What if it’s a boy who wants to go away to school, to live in the city? Or a girl who cannot abide the troupe life? What then?”
“But I can’t marry him! Don’t you understand? I wouldn’t wed him if he was the last marriageable opportunity this side of vaudeville! I will find a way to make the baby happy, and if it doesn’t want this life, I’ll find a better one. But I will not sell myself to that man! Do you understand me?”
“I’m afraid I do, only too well.” Biddle released her, then turned to Zachery and gave him a quick nod. “I’m sincerely sorry, Rose, but for once, you cannot be boss. You’re wrong on this issue and you’re reacting emotionally. It’s time for plan B.”
Before Rosemary could speak another word, Zachery hoisted her up on one shoulder and wrapped his muscular arm around her thrashing legs. Gasping in outrage, her hair spilled down his back while she struggled to get free.
“Put me down, I swear to God you’ll regret this….”
“I think we’ll have to forgo the dress,” Zachery said with a grin as the bride, hanging upside down, beat against his back.
“I think in this case that would be wise,” Biddle said dryly.
This had to be a dream. None of it could be real. She wasn’t standing in the big top, her hands tied behind her back, dressed in her clown suit in front of a judge who looked like one of the miners, waiting to marry Michael Wharton.
Zachery had carried her, kicking and screaming, to the edge of the tent, where, in a clown conference, they’d decided to tie her hands. Apparently, they didn’t think they could watch both her and Michael, and if they needed to shoot, they didn’t want their target to be her.
The groom was standing beside her in the nightmare, clad in a dark polished suit, his eyes like glaciers. He’d glanced at her once, and she felt the cold anger in his stare, then he’d turned back to face the judge. Six guns were aimed at his head, and every one of the miners seemed to wish he would bolt, just so they could brag that they got him.
“And do you, Rosemary Carney, take this man as your husband, to love, honor, and obey—”
“I certainly do not! I’d see him in hell first!” Rosemary shouted, her composure, thinly wrought as it was, crumbling completely.
She couldn’t marry him, not like this. This was a mockery of what a wedding should be, a real marriage that meant commitment. God, to think just a few days ago she thought she loved him! He was a stranger standing beside her now, a cold, handsome, and ruthless stranger, and she wanted nothing to do with him. He was a banker, a bean counter, thought in terms of dollars and cents, debits and credits. She’d rather be saddled with one of the clowns, or Zachery for that matter, than him.
The judge continued as if she hadn’t said a word. Rosemary stared incredulously as he droned on, turning the page in a thick black leather book, ignoring her outburst.
“And do you, Michael Wharton, take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forth, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”
Rosemary tried to kick him, but Biddle placed a foot in between them, and Michael spoke coldly.
“I don’t seem to have much of a choice, do I?”
The flicker of a smile crossed the judge’s face, but he continued in the same monotones. “I now pronounce you man and wife. What God has joined, let no man put asunder.”
“No!” Rosemary protested, but no one else seemed to notice. Clara cackled, Biddle and Griggs shook hands, Zachery grinned, while Rags passed the whiskey. The miners hooted, slapping Rosemary on the back and bringing their rifles down to ground level.
“Best to you, old girl!”
“Live long and prosper!”
“This is the best danged wedding I’ve ever seen!”
“ ’Cepting your own,” Irish Billy teased Black Jack. “As I recall—”
“Bah!” Clara interrupted, then indicated Rosemary’s hands. “I think we can untie the lass now. The deed is done.”
“Not quite,” Michael said. His eyes looked furious. As angry as she was with this farce of a wedding, Rosemary still winced. “I believe it is customary to kiss the bride?” He turned toward the miners, as if waiting for one of them to change his mind and blow his head off.
Black Jack looked to Biddle, who nodded cautiously. “Yes, I think you’re right.”
“Good.” He turned to Rosemary, and she backed away, aware of what he intended and dreading it. He thought to make her pay for this, and he would do it by kissing her in front of everyone, humiliating her and proving his point to every man in the room. She wouldn’t let him do it, not now. She had no intention of playing his bride, and that meant in any form.
He smiled, but his expression was deadly. He took a step forward, his mobility much greater now that the guns were drawn. Rosemary scrambled backward and nearly fell but for Griggs lending her a hand.
“Does the thought repulse you so much?” she thought he whispered, but she wasn’t sure. Instead of the crushing, punishing kiss she expected, he leaned closer and kissed her softly, a featherlike touch that was filled with anger, pain, and regret. Stunned, Rosemary stared at him wide-eyed while he turned to the others, the miners and the troupe, and addressed them coldly.
“Since I have done my duty, I assume I can leave. I will be taking the morning train back East. As I have stated before, I will assume responsibility for the child and will send an allotment each month, but nothing else. You will hear from my attorney shortly.”
“Don’t he talk real pretty?” Black Jack beamed at him as if he was a newfound friend. “Must be his eastern accent.”
Michael turned and strode from the tent while the men laughed. Rosemary eased her arms from behind her as Zachery cut the ropes, then found herself enveloped in a dozen congratulatory embraces. A buzzing sound in her ears obliterated much of what they said, and she fought the sense of unreality that threatened to overwhelm her.
He knew about the child! They had told him and still had to hold a gun to his head to get him to marry her. My God, but he must hate her! If Rosemary ever had any doubts of how little she meant to this man, they were eradicated in that moment.
He obviously had no intention of staying and possibly would annul the wedding as soon as he got home. Why, then, did her friends do this?
For the sake of the child. Rosemary didn’t have to ask. They would have done what they thought was right, no matter how much she fought. They wanted the baby to have a name, and apparently, Carney wasn’t it.
Dear God, she was Mrs. Michael Wharton! A shudder went through her, and without wanting to, she thought about the way he kissed her. Why had he been gentle when she knew he was furious? He was even angrier than he’d been at the lion, and she’d gotten a snake in her bed as a result of that.
Perhaps he meant to do nothing at all. He had no reason to, she realized grimly. All he had to do was get on that train, go to Philadelphia, get his fancy lawyer to undo all of this, and he was home free. That he even offered to support the child stunned her, but she would starve before she touched a cent of his money. No, she should be glad it would be like this. She would raise the baby in the circus, surrounded by her family, and Michael Wharton would be little more than a distant memory.
And if it was all so perfect, why in God’s name was she crying?
“Come on, Rose. Stay and have a few drinks with us before the show.” Black Jack saw the tears in her eyes and gestured toward the group of miners. “We have to celebrate.”
“No,” Rosemary choked, nausea rising inside of her. The last thing she wanted to do was celebrate this joke they called a wedding! She turned to leave, fighting the knot in her stomach, knowing that to get publicly sick would be the last straw. Thankfully, she made it back to her tent in time and could dispel any doubt of her pregnancy in private.