Firestorm (15 page)

Betsy shrugged and started to organize the contents of her dresser. “Shall I help you bathe, ma'am?” she asked later.

Storm came out of her reverie. She had closed her eyes, letting the hot water drain away her tension, thinking about home, about her brothers, whom she missed terribly. Nicky. Silent, strong, he would always protect her, always offer a shoulder to cry on. He would want to kill Brett, she mused, nodding to Betsy. And wild, mischievous Rathe—an impossible tease. Even Rathe, just turned fourteen, would want to go after Brett. He was as good a shot as any of them, perhaps the bravest of them all if recklessness could be called bravery. Storm had to smile at the thought of the three Bragg men, Pa and Nick and Rathe, standing side by side facing down and terrorizing a lone, frightened Brett. It was a delicious fantasy.

There was an abrupt knock on the door, and even before she could sink lower, she knew who it was. “I'm bathing,” she called out, but the door was already open, and Brett stood there glowering. Betsy dropped the soap and sponge and stood, clearly intimidated by him.

“I asked you to bring the letter to my study,” Brett said. He was no longer looking at her face. His gaze was scanning the water, trying to scan her, but Storm had sunk
every portion of her anatomy up to her chin beneath the bubbles. That chin now tilted upward, her mouth setting into a mutinous line. Brett suddenly smiled.

“Leave,” he told Betsy without looking at her.

Storm's eyes went wide. “No,” she cried in a panic. “Brett, I'm bathing!”

His smile broadened. “So I see.” He motioned to Betsy. “Get out.”

Betsy fled. In her terror, she forgot to close the door. Without taking his eyes from Storm, his smile reminding her of a wolf's grin, Brett shut the door. Then he stepped to the side of the tub. Storm sank lower, or tried to. His eyes were very, very bright. She knew he had forgotten the letter.

Brett casually reached down and picked up the sponge and soap, kneeling next to her shoulder. Their gazes locked. She realized he was soaping the sponge, and she became mesmerized by how large and strong his brown hands looked. “What do you think you're doing?” Her voice was a squeak.

His smile broadened. “Helping my wife bathe.” The sponge moved over her shoulder. Storm wrenched around and grabbed the wrist holding the sponge. “I'm not really your wife. The annulment, remember?”

The smile disappeared. He tossed the sponge into the tub, straightening. “How could I forget?”

Storm instinctively crossed her arms over her breasts as his eyes sought to pierce the protective layer of bubbles and water. He smiled tightly and casually reached for a towel. “Get out.”

She hesitated. “Could you—”

“Get out, and I mean now.”

Storm swallowed and stood. The water and bubbles parted, running down her long, lithe, superb body in rivulets. As she stepped from the tub, she was painfully aware
of Brett's gaze, which was roaming every part of her—eagerly.

She was so superb, so magnificent, that for a moment, Brett couldn't think. He could only look at her and feel the maddening fullness of his loins. Her body was strong. Never had he seen such a strong, muscled figure on a woman. But it was completely feminine. Completely sensual, willowy despite its strength. Her shoulders were broad, her torso long, her waist narrow. Her breasts were full but high and firm. Her hips were perfectly rounded, her legs long, curved, with the slightest ripple of muscle beneath a layer of softness. And she was golden all over, except for her nipples, which were a darkened coral-rose.

He placed the fluffy towel around her shoulders, trying to control the trembling that beset him.

She jerked away, wrapping the towel tightly around her. Her eyes shone with blue fury. Brett took a deep breath. In one second, he was going to yank that towel away, lift her and throw her on the bed, and to hell with an annulment. “Get dressed and bring me that letter. You don't want me to have to come up here for it again.” He walked stiffly away.

He paced his study until he had calmed down enough to deal with the matter at hand. He would not think about her and how she seemed to jolt him beyond control every time he was near her. Instead, he would think about the annulment. He would send their letters tomorrow. It would probably be five or six weeks before Bragg arrived. The other alternative was for him to take her back himself. That would be damn inconvenient—he had all his business affairs to tend to. It would probably be inconvenient for Bragg to drop everything and come for her as well. What if her father couldn't come until the full six months were over, as originally planned?

He grimaced, unable to imagine continuing this farce for that long. He did not think he had the willpower to
resist such an enticing morsel when it was under his own roof, day after day, night after night…He poured himself a drink, then lit a cigar. He was not going to let his thoughts drift in that direction again.

She appeared in the doorway ten minutes later, clad in a heavy, quilted winter robe. With her hair in one braid, and the robe hiding her figure, she almost resembled a child. Except for that face—it was no child's face. Too extraordinary, too stunning…

“Come in.”

She did, looking worried. In her hand was an envelope.

Brett moved around his desk and around her to close the door, then he gestured at a chair in front of the desk. Storm sat. “May I?” He reached for the letter.

“It's sealed.”

“I intend to read it.”

“It's personal,” she cried, looking upset.

He studied her. “If you've spoken badly about me, I want to know. If some enraged father is going to come after me, I want to know.”

“I haven't,” she mumbled.

“Then let me read the letter.” Instantly he realized the illogic of his reasoning, but she didn't. She seemed so pathetic and abjectly miserable, he felt a stab of anger toward himself. But curiosity won out, and he took the envelope she handed him, slitting it. He read:

Brett looked up, scowling. He wasn't sure why, but the letter disturbed him greatly. He didn't like reading about how sorry she was for failing her parents, and he hated her thinking she had made a fool of herself. She was even trying to protect him, when she could have blamed him completely for what had happened. The innocence of the letter reminded him that she was not yet a woman, merely on the verge of womanhood. Only seventeen. “Do you love them, or are you afraid of them?” he asked softly.

Her face was averted, and when she looked at him he saw how embarrassed she was. “I love them. I miss them—so much.” Her face flushed beautifully. “They will never understand why I did what I did. I don't understand, either.” She looked away.

Something dangerous and threatening tugged at his
heart, and he found himself kneeling at her side, tilting her chin to face him. “Passion between a man and a woman is normal. I met your father once. It seems to me he would understand passion.”

Storm's gaze was so hopeful he felt an overwhelming tenderness. “Do you think so?”

He nodded, smiling slightly. Then he stood and tore up the letter.

“What are you doing?”

“I'll write the letter,” he said. “There's no need to humble yourself like this. And you haven't made a fool of yourself,” he added with a flare of anger.

“You had no right to do that!”

“As your husband, I had every right,” he stated calmly. Now that the offensive letter was destroyed, he felt better. “I'll write something to this effect: ‘Dear Mr. Bragg, Your daughter and I have found ourselves to be incompatible. We mutually desire an annulment, providing it meets with your approval. Your daughter is still innocent, if that should be an objection.' Etcetera. There's really no need to go into any further detail.”

“Why don't you just sign my name?” Storm flared.

“I doubt they would think you wrote the letter,” Brett said easily, sitting on the edge of his desk and picking up his cigar. “Tell me, Storm, why did you protect me?”

Her answer was sullen. “I wouldn't wish anyone dead.”

“Dead?”

She turned to him. “Brett, when Pa comes, you have to be ready to hide. If he decides you've wronged me, he'll kill you.”

Brett smiled. “Hide?” He said the word as if it were a foreign idea.

“I'm serious!”

He laughed then. “So am I. Why should I hide? You're intact.” He frowned. “Aren't you?”

“Pa will probably want to kill you no matter what I say. Can't you understand?”

“Are you intact? Innocent?”

“What?!”

“Are you a virgin?” Brett asked, his tone no longer light, his eyes dark and blazing.

As soon as Storm heard the question, her indignation was lost beneath cold fury. She clamped her teeth together, trembling, so insulted and angry she couldn't speak.

Brett frowned, pierced with disappointment. No answer seemed to be the answer he didn't want. His anger returned full force. He had known it all along, hadn't he? No innocent exploded with passion and climaxed as quickly as she had in a public garden, just from his touch!

“Maybe I
should
let Pa kill you,” Storm gritted.
Imbecile!

“He seems a reasonable man,” Brett retorted.
Little tramp!

“Not only was Pa a Texas Ranger, he's also half Apache. He believes in vengeance, Apache-style.”

Brett stared. “What?”

Storm smiled, enjoying what she thought was his fear. “Maybe he'll cut out your tongue, or cut off your fingers. Pa believes in making the punishment fit the crime.” She flushed. “You're lucky you didn't…that we didn't…He'd cut it off!”

Brett barely heard. “You're part Indian?”

“And proud of it. Now maybe you'll listen and hide when he comes to hunt you down.”

He couldn't believe it. No wonder she was such a little savage. No damn wonder.

“If you'll excuse me,” she said stiffly. He was staring at her as if she were a freak. Now she probably disgusted him.

“You're excused,” Brett said, looking away. Part
Apache. It probably explained her striking looks, her unusual form.

Storm paused at the door. “Don't worry,” she said as nastily as possible. “I won't wait up.”

His head jerked up. “What does that mean?”

“I feel sorry for the woman or women you keep, to have to put up with an arrogant bastard like you!”

Anger flooded him. “At least they aren't hypocrites. At least they don't pretend to be something they're not!” he shouted.

He was referring to her pretended innocence, but Storm thought he meant she'd passed herself off as completely white. “I hope you stay out every night!” she shrieked. “I can't wait until this nightmare is over!”

“Don't worry,” he yelled back as she stormed out. “I intend to stay out any and every night that I damn well please. At least some women know how to be women—not some Texas savage!”

A moment later he heard a door slamming, so loudly he was sure the walls upstairs shook. He grabbed his jacket, and being true to his word, stormed out of the house himself.

The next morning Storm stared in dismay at her image in the mirror. Her eyes were red. This would never do. Everyone would know she had been crying. Brett would know.

He had been gone only a few hours last night. A few hours, but long enough. Storm told herself she didn't care, that she wasn't crying because of that bastard. She was homesick and alone and lonely. But her excuses sounded hollow even to herself.

There was an ache in her heart, one she wouldn't understand. She kept seeing Brett with some faceless woman, some sleazy, blowzy trollop. She thought bitterly: Good. Anything to keep him out of my bed. What a rutting pig. And a bigot. She was proud of her Apache heritage. It wasn't her fault he hadn't known of it. When she thought how he'd accused her of being a hypocrite, of pretending to be something she was not, a fresh tear welled. Storm furiously blinked it back. He was nothing but some blue-blooded dandy!

She waited until he left for his office, then she went downstairs, ordering her horse saddled and brought around. She couldn't eat, a sure sign that she wasn't herself. Instead she rode Demon for an hour with a groom accompanying her, an Irish lad with a ready grin who viewed her on her horse with awe. Storm didn't mind. She
had known Brett wouldn't let her ride alone, and Sian was her own age, although he was a strapping six feet, and armed as well. She was relieved he wasn't an old, brooding fusspot like Bart. Better yet, Sian knew horses, and when she asked questions, he was eager to talk. She liked his brogue.

When it was late enough, Storm and Sian rode to the Farlanes'. Sian moved to help her down, but Storm gave him a cocky grin and leaped down Apache-style in a vaulting motion. His blue eyes went wide. She knew she was showing off, but it felt wonderful. She felt she could enjoy herself with Sian. He was like her brothers.

Marcy didn't have any other callers and hurried into the parlor just moments after Storm arrived, a cry of gladness on her lips. Her expression died the moment she saw Storm's face, pale and red-eyed. She hugged her. “Oh, dear, come, sit down. Lila, bring some refreshments, please.”

Storm bit her lip. She thought she was all cried out, but a fresh surge of tears threatened just from being in this kind woman's company. That would never do. She mustn't cry in front of everyone. She smiled wanly instead.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” Marcy asked gently, holding Storm's hand.

“I hate him.”

Marcy looked genuinely upset.

“If I had known Paul was forcing him to marry me, I would never have married him. Never.”

“Nobody really forces Brett to do anything,” Marcy tried.

“They did this time.”

“What's done is done,” Marcy said softly.

“No. It's not. Brett and I haven't consummated the marriage, and we're getting an annulment.” She was shocked at how bitter her words sounded. As if she were hurt and rejected. As if she wanted Brett as her true husband.

Marcy stroked her hair. “Oh, dear. Brett must be in one of his terrible rages. Is he?”

She swallowed. “How did you guess?”

“He's the kind of man who always gets what he wants, and make no mistake, he wants you.”

The words were thrilling, but then, with logic, Storm remembered every aspect of their relationship with utter clarity and knew they were false. “No, you're wrong, Marcy.”

Lila returned with muffins and croissants, coffee and cream. Storm watched Marcy serve, making the task seem elegant, her hands feminine and sure. Storm couldn't imagine ever being so graceful herself. Her movements were clumsy and rigid. Marcy didn't spill a drop. Storm gratefully sipped the hot, sweet coffee.

“Why are you so upset, dear?”

Storm set down the cup. “I want to go home. I can't stand Brett. On top of everything, he's a damn bigot.” Fresh tears rose.

Marcy started. “Now what?”

“I told him Pa's half Apache, that Pa will probably kill him for touching me. Brett told me I was a hypocrite!” She gulped. “Pretending to be something I'm not.”

Marcy stared, then comforted her. “Storm, I've never known Brett to be a bigot. That doesn't sound like him at all.”

“Those were his exact words. He's angry that I'm not all white; he thinks I was trying to hide my Indian heritage from him on purpose. And he tore up the letter I wrote home. He's so hateful.”

Marcy was thinking. “Maybe he was referring to something else. He must have been very angry.”

“He's always angry,” Storm said, brushing her tears.

Marcy's heart had already gone out to her. Now it went further. The beautiful girl loved Brett, it was as clear as day. Marcy wanted to thrash him, and maybe she would
with her tongue. “Why don't you cry, Storm, and let it out.”

“No,” Storm said, pulling away. “Does Brett have a mistress?”

Marcy froze.

“He does, doesn't he,” Storm said, sounding bitter and angry. “He's been out all night both nights.”

Marcy gaped. “He went to his mistress on his wedding night?”

Storm tilted her chin. “I refused to let him into my bed, Marcy. Better her than me. I don't care that he sees her, I just can't stand being humiliated in front of the whole damn town.”

Marcy was angry. Just because Storm had denied him, he had no right to stomp off in a rage like a little boy. Half the town was probably talking about where Brett had spent his wedding night. His needs weren't that urgent!

“What's she like?” Storm asked.

Marcy was startled. “Dear, if you want to know if Brett has a mistress, you'll have to ask him,” she said carefully. She knew that she shouldn't be getting involved in the personal affairs between a husband and wife even if the couple was Brett and Storm, even if they were on the verge on an annulment.

“But you said…” Storm stopped. Marcy had indirectly answered her question, but she wasn't satisfied. Of course he had a mistress, she had been sure of it all along. What she really wanted to know was if that was where he had been going these past few nights. How was she going to find that out without asking him directly?

“Well, most men have mistresses,” Marcy hedged.

“Does Grant?” Storm realized the impropriety of the question the moment she'd spoken. She flushed. “I'm sorry!”

Marcy smiled. “That's all right. No, he doesn't. The
day Grant takes a mistress is the day he'll lose me forever, and he knows it.”

“He never would,” Storm said enviously. “He loves you. You can see it every time he looks at you.”

Marcy knew, then, that she would send Grant to chastise Brett. Not outright. She'd let him pry and wheedle his way first, but if Brett didn't give an inch, she'd make sure Grant told him of the gossip outright. Hopefully, Brett would be ashamed for humiliating his bride, even if they did want an annulment.

“Stay for lunch, Storm. We can go shopping this afternoon.”

Storm was about to say yes, but then she thought of how people would stare at her, people who knew Brett had seen his mistress on his wedding night (assuming he had), and she declined politely. She would spend the day riding with Sian.

Actually, she wanted to ride south to San Diego, then turn east toward Texas. The thought took hold.

 

“This is a surprise,” Brett said.

Grant smiled. “As if it's unusual for us to have lunch?”

Brett toyed with the silverware. His mind drifted to his impossible wife, who wasn't really his wife at all, and the letter he still had to write. He didn't really have time today; maybe he'd write it tonight. What would a few additional days matter?

“Brett?”

He smiled ruefully. “Sorry. Hectic day. You know how Mondays are.”

Grant studied him casually. “I figured with a sweet bride like Storm you'd be on a honeymoon for a few days.”

The change in Brett's attitude was immediate. His face darkened, the muscles going rigid. Even his hands closed like steel traps around the silverware. “Sweet? Yes, as far
as taste goes, but that's it. Storm is most definitely not sweet.”

“Trouble in paradise?”

Brett straightened, glaring.

“Just trying to help.”

“Let's order. The roast duck is fantastic.”

“For lunch?”

“I'm starved.”

They ordered, then sat in tense silence, suggesting to Grant that Brett was preoccupied and annoyed. Grant still couldn't believe what Marcy had told him. He decided to go straight for the jugular. “Is it true?”

Brett glanced lazily at him. “Is what true?”

“The rumors I've heard.”

“What rumors?”

“That you spent Saturday night, your wedding night, at Audrey's.”

Brett stared, incredulous, his gaze growing cold. “Jesus Christ! A man can't shit in this town without everyone knowing it!”

“So it is true.”

“It's no one's business but mine,” Brett said warningly.

“I'm your friend, and when I see you acting like a country jackass, humiliating your bride in front of the entire town, then it's my business to say what I think.”

Brett gritted his teeth and fought for control. His temper was a powder keg these days; it took little to set it off. “Everyone will understand in a few months. We're going to get an annulment,” he said finally. But he was feeling a twinge of guilt. He shook it aside, remembering the gun, remembering how
she
was the one who had denied him, how
she
was the one who wanted an annulment,
she
was the one who couldn't stand him—the best damn catch in San Francisco!

“Are you sure that's what you want?” Grant said softly.

Brett stared. “Just because I want to bed her, that's no
reason to marry her,” he said crudely. “And, yes, it's what I want. This topic is closed. Here are our meals.”

Grant knew he was testing their friendship, but he had to. He saw the way Storm affected Brett—he had seen it that first night she and her father had arrived, dirty and weary from the trail. He had been amused at the sight of the lush girl-woman in buckskins; Brett had been mesmerized. Grant wasn't surprised that Brett had lost all sense of honor and had compromised Storm at the Sinclairs; he remembered how he himself hadn't exactly been an angel when he was chasing Marcy. A man did not ignore social standards like that, did not lose control, did not act the way Brett had been acting ever since the betrothal was announced, unless he was in over his head. Brett just didn't know it yet. And Grant knew his friend. He wasn't a cruel man, maybe a hard one, but God knew, with his unhappy upbringing, it was understandable. Grant was sure Brett was feeling guilty about the gossip, and he wanted him to feel even worse. “Storm called on Marcy this morning.”

Brett jerked up his head. His eyes gleamed dangerously. “I see. A conspiracy.”

“Storm knows nothing about my coming here, although she did tell Marcy you were getting an annulment.”

Brett threw down his fork. “She would air our damn laundry!”

“Brett, relax,” Grant said, touching his hand. “I've never seen you like this.”

“What else did she say?” Brett demanded, fighting for control.

“Not much. Mostly, she tried not to cry.”

Brett sat very still.

“Have you seen her today?”

“No.”

“Her eyes are swollen and red from crying.”

Brett didn't move, but his eyes flicked to the linen ta
blecloth. Had she been crying all night? He hadn't heard her. Why had she cried? Because he'd found out the truth, that she wasn't an innocent virgin? Why had she been crying?

“You should be trying to figure out what you've done to make her cry. For God's sake, Brett, she's only seventeen. You treat Leanne St. Clair with kid gloves compared to Storm, and Leanne is a bitch.”

“Enough,” Brett said, picking up his fork and stabbing his salad. “She's probably crying because she's homesick, or because she hates me.”

“It's just not like you to be so unkind,” Grant said.

Brett looked up. “It's not every day a man gets blackmailed into marrying against his will, either. Do you blame me for being angry?”

“But who the hell's fault was it to begin with?” Grant persisted.

“Hers!” Brett nearly shouted, slamming his fist on the table and making their glasses jump. “That witch trapped me—believe me, Grant, she's no innocent; she knew what she was doing all along! She trapped me, dammit, and now she realizes she's bitten off more than she can handle and she's changed her mind!” He punctuated that statement with another fist on the table, halting conversation all around them. Brett slapped down his napkin, standing and lowering his voice to a furious whisper. “Well, let me tell you something, my friend. Maybe I've changed
my
mind!” He stalked away.

Grant watched with amazement. Then he smiled, picked up his fork, and continued eating. Marcy would be pleased with him.

 

Brett went straight home. He was angry that Storm had gone crying to Marcy, blurting out their private business. If she had something further to say, she could say it to
him. He left King standing at the hitching post and bounded into the house, bellowing, “Storm!”

There was no answer, so he took the stairs two at a time and barged into her room. She wasn't there. On his way back downstairs, he almost ran down Peter. The man was trying to speak, but Brett cut him off. “Where is my wife?”

“She left this morning on horseback,” Peter told him.

“Yes, yes, I know. She went to see Mrs. Farlane.” Then he glowered. “You mean she's not back yet?”

“No, sir.”

Brett paced the foyer. He pulled out his watch fob; it was almost three in the afternoon. “Peter, what time did she leave here?”

“Around ten, sir.”

Brett felt a finger of fear grab his insides. Five hours. She had left five hours ago. He whirled on his majordomo. “She did go with Sian.”