Glorious Angel (23 page)

“I’m leavin’ now, ma’am.” His courtesy held more than a touch of sarcasm.

Grant’s harsh attitude was a defense against his desire for Angela. He wanted her, but she loved Brad.

“I believe we said good-bye last evening, didn’t we?” she said archly.

“You did. And now I will,” he replied and crossed to her bed in two quick strides.

He bent down, grabbed hold of her shoulders, and covered her lips forcefully with his own. The harshness left him and he became increasingly tender. Slowly, he sat on the edge of the bed and wrapped his arms around her, pressing her gently against him.

Angela did not try to push him away. She did not return his kiss wholeheartedly, but it was a pleasant kiss and she felt secure in his arms. She did not feel the stirrings that Bradford’s touch induced, but kissing Grant was rather nice.

She moaned softly for what she could never have again, but Grant mistook misery for desire.

“Angela, say you will marry me,” he said deeply, kissing her neck. “You are like a prairie flower—too delicate to touch, but too beautiful to leave behind.”

She was deeply moved by his poetic words. And he was such a handsome young man, far more striking than Bradford. He was taller, stronger, and he would probably be a gentle lover.

He would make a fine husband, one she could be proud of. But she didn’t love him, nor did
he
speak of love.

“Why do you want to marry me, Grant?” she asked gently.

“I want to make you my wife,” he answered simply.

“But why?”

He stared into her eyes, dark pools of violet, near blue in the morning light. “I want you,” he said, so quietly it was almost a whisper.

“But you don’t love me. And I don’t love you,” Angela argued.

“What I feel for you is near to love,” he returned.

“Be honest with me, Grant,” she said in a level voice. “What you want is to make love to me.”

“Well, of course!” he said, astonished, flustered by her frankness.

“And if I were to let you make love to me, then there would no longer be the need to marry me. Am I right?”

“If you ain’t the damnedest woman I ever met!” he exclaimed, shocked now. He got quickly to his feet. “That ain’t the way it’s done, Angela.”

She laughed at his expression. “Come now, Grant. I thought you Texans threw convention to the winds.”

His expression changed abruptly. A sparkling glint appeared in his dark green eyes and he gazed down at her appraisingly. A grin crossed his lips and, without another word, he started unbuttoning his shirt.

Now it was Angela’s turn to be startled. “What—what do you think you’re doing?”

His grin widened. “I plan to take you up on your offer, ma’am.”

“Grant, no!” she gasped. “I was not offering myself to you. I was just trying to explain some
thing. You don’t want me as a wife, you just want me in your bed.”

“That’s true enough,” he returned without taking his eyes from her. “I always assumed you fine ladies wanted the two to go together. But you’ve showed me different.”

“Get out of here, Grant Marlowe!” Angela shouted. Apprehension was turning to fear and she started to leave the bed on the opposite side.

Grant caught hold of her arm and jerked her back to the center of the bed. He held her wrists securely against the pillow as he leaned over her, pure rage on his features.

“I’ve no intention of rapin’ you, Angela,” he growled. “But in the future, watch what you say to a man. If you weren’t a damned virgin, I’d take you here and now!” Then he smiled at the fear in her eyes. “Good-bye, Miss Angela.” He released her hands then and left the room without a backward glance.

Angela stared at the closed door for long moments after Grant left the room. She just plain didn’t understand Grant Marlowe. His moods changed as quickly as the sky on a windy day.

Well, Grant was gone now and she was on her own. She sighed and left the bed to begin dressing. She had a lot to do today and in the days before the stage came. She wanted to purchase a small weapon that she was determined to keep under her pillow and to wear strapped to her leg
during the day. She could not allow herself to be helpless.

And she would begin asking questions about her mother. Perhaps someone in this very town knew of her. Yes, she had a lot to do.

Thirty-three

The first knock on Angela’s door was so light that she didn’t hear it. The second knock was like thunder and she bolted upright, completely awake, leaving behind her troubled dream.

With wide, startled eyes, Angela glanced quickly about the darkened room. A continuous hammering began and she jumped from the bed, pulling the sheet with her, and struck a match to light the candle on the bedside table. But before she could get it lit, her door crashed open.

Angela stood paralyzed, the sheet clutched against herself. There was only a dim light coming from the outside hall.

The intruder stumbled into the room and then suddenly fell to the floor. Angela could see only his large frame silhouetted in the dark. He clumsily struggled to his feet and she ran to the bed
and searched frantically under the pillow until her hand touched the little derringer she had purchased only that afternoon.

With the slim weapon firmly in her hand, Angela gained her courage. “S-stay where you are or I’ll have to shoot you.” Her words did not sound as brave as she had wanted them to.

“What?”

The voice was all too familiar, and with the sudden recognition, Angela exploded into rage, so furious that she slipped back into her old speech.

“Grant Marlowe! Just what in hellfire do you think you’re doin’ bustin’ in here? I oughta shoot you just for the scare you gimme!”

“Damn—I knocked—first!” he slurred. “Whyn’t you answer?”

“You didn’t gimme a chance to! And you’re drunk!” she yelled, further enraged.

“Yes, ma’am—I’m drunk,” he replied. “With—with good reason.”

He sounded like a proud little boy. Relief finally taking over, Angela began to laugh. She placed the gun down carefully on the table by the bed, wrapped the sheet firmly about herself, then leaned over to light the candle.

Grant shielded his eyes from the sudden light, then squinted at her from the middle of the room where he swayed. She moved past him to the door and closed it quietly, then leaned back against it.

“Now tell me what you thought you were do
ing, busting into my room in the middle of the night?”

“I tol’ you I—I knocked first. I got worried when you didn’t answer—”

“Never mind, Grant,” she cut him off. “Just tell me what you’re doing here. I thought you’d left for the ranch this morning.”

“I did.”

She sighed. He was having trouble keeping his balance, so she helped him to the chair by her bed. He collapsed gratefully into it.

She stood looking down at him like a scolding mother. “If you left this morning, then why did you come back?”

“To see—you.”

“Why?”

“Was drinkin’ on the way. Got—to thinkin’—had to try once more,” he said, holding up a finger to make himself clear.

“Try what once more?” she asked, becoming exasperated.

He smiled boyishly. “To get you to marry me. Couldn’t leave—you here alone.”

“Oh, Grant! Honestly!” she said, shaking her head. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Marry me.”

She sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at him with gentle eyes. “Grant, the answer is still no. I do not intend to marry you or any other man—ever.”

“But you need someone,” Grant replied after her words had sunk in.

“I do not
need
any man!” she yelled defiantly. “I am capable of taking care of myself!”

Hoping to change the subject, she asked, “Did you get yourself a room before you stormed up here?”

“No,” he replied with a sheepish grin.

She sighed. “Very well. Since you’re in no condition to go anywhere right now, you can stay here. I’ll go down to see about getting another room for myself for the rest of the night.”

He grabbed her hand and held it. “Angela, stay here with me. I won’t—”

“No, Grant,” she replied firmly and started to tug on his arm. “Now come on and I’ll help you into bed.”

He let her pull him the few feet to the bed. Then she helped him out of his heavy jacket and shirt, and managed to yank off his boots. When she pulled the cover up over him, he grabbed her hand again and looked at her with yearning.

“One kiss—before you go,” he ventured, holding her hand to his cheek.

“If that’s what it takes to make you go to sleep,” she replied.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned over to kiss him. She felt his arms wrap around her and press her closer to him, but she didn’t pull away. The kiss was pleasant.

Angela didn’t hear when the door to her room slowly opened. Nor did she sense the presence of the man who stood in the doorway, watching her for a long moment. But she did hear the door when it closed, and she pulled away from Grant’s embrace to look in that direction.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

She looked back at him and smiled. “Nothing. I thought I heard something, but I guess I was mistaken.” She tucked the covers about his neck and smoothed the hair on his forehead. “Now go to sleep, Grant. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Thirty-four

Bradford Maitland returned to Mobile to learn that his father was dead.

A dock worker, a congenial man who assumed Bradford already knew, relayed the news by way of condolence as Bradford stepped off the packet. The torment of the last few weeks became even more bitter because he had not been there when his father died. There was deep sorrow and a smoldering rage as well inside Bradford as he rode out to Golden Oaks.

It was midmorning, but the mansion was eerily quiet when he entered it. His eyes were a golden blaze of yellow as he scanned the hall to find that all the doors were open, except one. He went directly to his father’s study and opened the door with such force that it slammed back against the wall, knocking loose a large picture that fell to the floor with a crash.

Zachary Maitland jumped to his feet. He had been sitting at his father’s desk, and he stepped quickly behind the chair, as though the desk and chair would afford him protection. There was sheer terror on his handsome face as he watched his brother walk slowly into the study.

“How did it happen?” Bradford’s words were slow and even.

“It was his heart, Brad,” Zachary replied appeasingly, his eyes wide. “Nothing could be done.”

“How did it happen?” Bradford repeated his question, his voice raised slightly.

“It was another attack!” Zachary shouted now, as if he were defending his life.

And indeed he was. For, at that moment, Bradford felt an overwhelming desire to kill someone, and he didn’t much care who it was. He crossed to Zachary swiftly and hooked his hands into his brother’s coat lapels.

“You
caused the first attack!” Bradford said with calculating fury, watching Zachary’s eyes grow huge in surprise and fear. “Now, brother, you will tell me what caused the attack that took his life!”

“It—it just happened!” Zachary stuttered. “There was nothing anyone—”

“Do you think I am an idiot?” Bradford cut in. “You will tell me the truth—
now
—or by God I’ll beat it out of you!”

“All right—all right, Bradford!” Zachary cried,
his face losing its color. “But it was an accident—I swear it! How were we to know that Father was at the top of the stairs—that he could hear us arguing?”

“We?”

“Crystal and—and me. Father was supposed to be taking a nap, as Dr. Scarron suggested he do each afternoon since—since—well, you know. You were here.”

“Yes, I quite remember how upset Father became over his
ward’s
disappearance,” Bradford remarked distastefully.

He released his hold on Zachary and walked slowly over to his father’s liquor cabinet.

“All right, Zachary,” Bradford said as he filled a tall glass with straight Bourbon. “I want to hear all of it now, and it had damn well better be the truth.”

Zachary stood frozen to the spot. He cleared his throat nervously. “Well, as I said, Crystal and I were having an argument. We had been in the drawing room, but somehow we ended up in the hall—I followed her—yes—because she said she had no more to say and was going to her room, but—I stopped her in the hall. We didn’t know Father was at the top of the stairs—that he could hear.”