Since Helga’s departure, he’d adjusted fairly well
to living alone. Keeping the place clean was a matter
of not getting it dirty to begin with. His laundry
was done by the Chinese family who lived through
the block from the bank, and when he wanted more
than a simple meal, he could order whatever he
wished in the dining room at the hotel.
The loneliness, however, was another matter.
The gruff, aging German housekeeper had never
provided him with much company. But at least hers
had been another presence in the house. Until Helga’s
departure, Brandon had never realized how
much he missed the sound of another person’s footsteps
in the hall, another person’s voice from the
kitchen, or the cheer of light and warmth when he returned
home at the end of a long day.
But missing Helga was nothing compared to missing
Jenny. Jenny’s absence was a black pit in the
depths of his soul—a pit he could stumble into anytime
he dropped his guard. If she had been away at
school or suitably married, he could have borne it.
But the fact that she was just out of reach, right here
in Dutchman’s Creek, pregnant and wed to the man
who’d defiled her, was more than he could stand, especially
on Christmas day, when all the blackbirds
of emotion and memory came home to roost.
He stood, now, at an upstairs window, watching
the bloodred ball of the sun sink toward the western
peaks. The day had been long and dreary, and he was
grateful to see it coming to an end. Tomorrow he would
be all right. The bank would be open. He would have
people to see and work to occupy his thoughts. Christmas,
curse the day, would be over for another year.
Why don’t you just change your name to Ebenezer
Scrooge and be done with it?
Harriet’s angry words flashed through his mind as
he lowered his gaze to the snowy road and saw a dark
figure trudging along a wagon track, coming toward
the house. Joy and dismay did battle for his heart as
he recognized her slim, erect stature and blowing
cloak. Without doubt, she had come to torment him.
But at least she had come.
By the time she had climbed the front steps,
stomped the snow off her boots and rapped the lion-
headed brass knocker, he was waiting for her in the
front hall. A strange giddiness swept over him as he
opened the front door. Suddenly, inexplicably, it was
Christmas, and he was no longer Ebenezer Scrooge.
“I thought you might appreciate a little holiday
cheer,” she said, holding out the covered basket she’d
taken from beneath her cloak. “It’s only leftovers
from our Christmas dinner, but since the hotel restaurant
is closed…”
The words trailed off as Brandon stepped behind
her and lifted the cloak from her shoulders. She was
dressed in one of those awful gray schoolmarm
frocks of hers, with no jewelry to brighten its grim
effect, but her hair waved softly around her face,
framing her luminous eyes and cold-pinked cheeks.
What did the woman want from him this time? he
wondered. He knew better than to believe Harriet
Smith would walk a mile through the snow to pay a
social call on a man she despised.
But never mind, he would know soon enough.
Meanwhile, he could savor the company of a female
who, by turns, challenged, intrigued, aroused and maddened
him. For better or for worse, Brandon realized,
he had never spent a boring moment in her presence.
“Are you hungry?” she asked, as if groping for
something to say. “There’s ham and potatoes and
fresh rolls in this basket. They were warm when I left
the house, but I fear I couldn’t walk fast enough to
keep them that way.”
“There’s a fire in the stove,” Brandon said, drap
ing her cloak over a chair. “I can warm up the food
in the oven, but I’ll only take the trouble if you’ll
agree to stay and share Christmas dinner with me.”
Her eyebrows arched above her stunning, cop
per-flecked eyes, but before she could protest, he
spoke again.
“It’s been a long, black day, Harriet. I realize you
might not be hungry, but you can sit at the table and
share the time. Afterward I’ll drive you home in the
buggy.”
Still she looked uncertain. “You’re alone now. The
gossip—”
“Hang the gossip! It’s the company I’m craving
even more than the meal. Stay. Please.”
Her breath eased out in a little sigh of resignation.
“Very well. For a little while.” She handed him the
basket, pausing to take a small, wrapped package
from beneath the gingham towel that covered it. “A
gift,” she said. “Let’s put this dinner in the oven.
Then you can open it.”
“A gift?” Brandon was taken aback. “Blast it, I
didn’t—”
“Oh, it isn’t from me,” she said. “It’s from your
daughter.”
For an instant Brandon felt himself teetering on
the edge of the black pit. He wrenched himself back
to a state of cold control. “I asked the boy at the dry-
goods store to deliver a gift to Jenny,” he said. “Did
she get it?”
“The rose-colored shawl? Yes, she opened it this
morning. The color is lovely on her. But there’s only
one gift Jenny wants from you.”
Brandon felt the black pit yawning beneath him.
“Don’t start,” he said, unable to keep the raw edge
from his voice. “It’s Christmas day and you’re here
to help me celebrate.”
He found an iron baking pan in the cupboard and
carefully scooped the ham, potatoes, gravy, yams
and bread into it from the plate Harriet had brought.
There was enough food for two meals, at least,
with a generous slice of mince pie wrapped in a
separate napkin. Rinsing off the plate and putting
the pie on a saucer, he replaced Harriet’s belongings
in the basket. Then he slipped the pan of food
into the hot oven. Harriet watched him from the
doorway, looking ill at ease, as if she feared that invading
a man’s kitchen might be a breach of etiquette.
Maybe asking her to stay had been a
mistake.
“There, that’s done,” he said with forced cheerfulness.
“Now, while that fine dinner warms, we can
relax in the parlor.”
She moved aside to let him pass into the dining
room, then followed him to the parlor with the air of
a condemned prisoner being led to the gallows. The
tension between them was leaden. Maybe they would
both have been better off if he’d just snatched the
damned basket from her hands and sent her back the
way she’d come. Or better yet, if he’d simply refused
to answer the door.
But no, it was Christmas and he had been drowning
in despair before she came. Prickly and defensive
she might be, but he was grateful for her
company and he would do his best to make her visit
enjoyable for them both.
Since Jenny’s departure he had rearranged the
parlor to suit his own comfort. The two armchairs
that had once flanked the fireplace had been moved
back against the far wall. In their place, the long,
comfortable leather couch had been pulled up before
the fire, with a low mahogany table in front of it. On
these solitary winter nights, it had become Brandon’s
accustomed place. He ate, worked and sometimes
even slept here.
Pausing to lay a fresh log on the fire, he ushered
her to a seat on the couch. She sank into the sumptuous
leather with a little sigh, savoring the soft
warmth as Brandon walked to the sideboard, took out
two small etched-crystal wine goblets and filled them
with the aged Bordeaux he kept for his most important
guests. He rarely drank unless he was entertaining,
or being entertained, but this seemed a fitting
occasion.
“Merry Christmas,” he said, holding one goblet toward
her.
Her full lips parted. “Oh, but I don’t—”
“It’s cold outside, and this lovely wine came all
the way from France to warm you up,” he said lightly.
“Every drop holds a season’s worth of bright summer
days. Try it.”
She took a tentative sip. Her mouth puckered appealingly,
recalling the memory of that lingering
kiss beneath the wrecked landau. He would like to
taste those lips again, Brandon thought—to mingle
the taste of the wine with the taste of
her
, losing
himself in the rich, heady, biting sweetness, to
kiss her until she moaned beneath him and begged
for more.
She took another small sip. “It’s…rather good,”
she said, setting the goblet on the table and reaching
into her pocket. “Now it’s time to open your present.”
Brandon felt his stomach contract as she handed
him the small, soft package, which was wrapped in
plain brown paper and tied with a bow of red yarn.
He felt the black pit, created by his rift with Jenny,
widening beneath him, threatening to pull him down.
“I’m sorry,” he said, fighting for self-control. “I
didn’t expect—”
“I know,” she whispered, her fingertips brushing
his arm. “Open it, Brandon. It was made with love.”
His hands, all thumbs now, fumbled with the simple
bow. The edges of the paper parted to reveal a
folded length of clumsily knitted gray wool, trimmed
with knotted fringe at the ends.
“She made the scarf by herself,” Harriet said. “It’s
not perfect because she was just learning to knit, but
it will be warm this winter. Jenny didn’t want to forget
you at Christmastime.”
Brandon checked the package for a note. To his
mixed disappointment and relief there was none. But
an aching lump had closed off his throat. He fought
back the rising waves of emotion that threatened to
drown him.
“It’s…a fine gift,” he said, fingering the lumpy,
uneven stitches. “Tell her I’ll wear it proudly. And
please thank her for me.”
“You could thank her yourself. Why don’t you?”
Harriet was leaning toward him, her eyes moist and
shining in the firelight. Tendrils of dark hair had escaped
their pins to curl softly against her cheeks.
Her lips were parted, her full, firm breasts straining
against the confines of the gray serge, showing the
faint, shadowed outline of her nipples.
Brandon imagined burying his face between those
breasts, losing his pain in the refuge of her womanly
warmth. He imagined gathering her into his arms,
stretching out on the couch and holding her close
while his bitterness drifted away in a cloud of purest
bliss. Miss Harriet Smith, his prim, straitlaced, sharp-
tongued nemesis.
Lord, how he needed her.
Chapter Twelve
“B
randon?” Harriet spoke his name cautiously, as
if awakening a sleepwalker. “You haven’t answered
my question. Why not thank Jenny face-to-face, or
at least write her a note?”
He studied her a moment longer, then sighed and
turned away to gaze into the fire. Placing the lumpy
scarf on the table, he picked up the wine goblet and
cradled it between his palms.
“I know you mean well, Harriet, but I don’t want
to thank Jenny for her gift in person, or even in writing.
The scarf was a sweet gesture, but we’ve hurt
each other enough already. Why open ourselves to
more grief?”
“Jenny told me the same thing when I suggested
inviting you to Christmas dinner.” Harriet picked up
her own glass and cupped it as he did. Backlit by the
fire in its cut-crystal goblet, the wine glowed like fa
ceted garnet between her fingers. She had enjoyed
the way the first taste of it had burned a trail down
her throat, but she was hesitant to drink more. Her
self-control was frayed enough as it was.
“It’s just as well you didn’t invite me,” he said. “I
wouldn’t have come. You can’t fix what’s happened,
Harriet. Nobody can.”
“Except you.”
“Don’t.” He raised the glass, drained it and replaced
it on the table with a click. “It’s Christmas, and
the last thing I need from you is one more argument.”
“I see.” Harriet took a nervous sip of the wine, cradling
its mellow heat in her mouth while she groped
for something intelligent to say to the man. Verbal
sparring, she realized, had become their accustomed
pattern. While attacking him or defending herself, she
had never been at a loss for words. But now, in this
state of truce, she found herself as fluttery and tongue-
tied as a fourteen-year-old girl at her first dance.
Brandon leaned back into the leather cushions, his
stormy cobalt eyes appraising her from head to toe.
His skin was golden bronze against the stark white
of his open collar, his silver-kissed hair rumpled, as
if he’d combed it with his fingers. He looked as rakishly
dangerous as a pirate.
“You’re a beautiful woman, Harriet,” he said.
“Why is it you’ve never married?”
The color flamed in her cheeks. “I very nearly did
marry once, years ago.”
“May I ask what happened?”
“There were…complications on my part, things
my fiancé didn’t want to deal with.” It wasn’t a good
time to mention Will, she thought. “In the end he
walked away and married someone else.”
“He was a fool.” Brandon’s vehemence startled her.
“No,” Harriet said. “We weren’t well suited. He
was wise enough to see that.”
“He was a fool.” Brandon’s voice had dropped to
a throaty whisper. Their secret kiss blazed through
her memory, rousing coils of liquid heat that tightened
and shimmered in the deep core of her body.
She found herself aching for the taste of his mouth
on hers and the plundering thrust of his tongue that
ignited a conflagration of need inside her.
The terror she’d felt that night had long since
faded. But the memory of being in Brandon’s arms
remained tormentingly sharp and clear. In that moment
when his warm lips had closed on hers, setting
loose a rush of thrilling sensations, she had felt utterly,
completely alive. The thought that she might
never feel that way again was a dark, desperate
weight in her soul.
Brandon had forgotten that kiss, or at least regretted
it, she reminded herself. But her nature had become
stronger than her sense of logic. Driven by
yearning so deep she could not control it, Harriet
parted her lips and leaned toward him.
His hand reached out and gently cupped her chin.
She felt her heart drop as his eyes burned into hers.
“I do remember kissing you, Harriet,” he said huskily.
“And I remember you kissing me back.”
His lips brushed hers in a foray of light, nibbling
kisses that stirred a low moan in her throat. Her arms
slid upward, hands catching his neck, tangling in his
thick hair as the kisses grew deeper, and deeper still.
“Oh…” She arched against him, wanting only to
be close, to feel his arms around her, the hard length
of his body pressing hers. “Don’t…”
“Don’t what?” he murmured against the curve of
her throat. “You’d better tell me now, Harriet, before
it’s too late.”
“Don’t…stop.” She felt herself spinning out of
control, wanting him, needing him, all of him.
His breath rasped as he fumbled with the buttons
that fastened her high collar. She reached up to help
him, frantic to feel his touch on her body. He uttered
a mild curse as the last button popped loose, bounced
to the floor and rolled under the sofa. Then she felt
his kisses on the untouched skin of her breasts; oh,
sweet, sweet heaven, she could have died from it.
“Damn it, I’ve wanted you, Harriet,” he muttered,
easing aside the tattered lace edge of her camisole.
“Ever since that night, I’ve ached for the feel of you,
the taste of you…”
Her heart seemed to stop as his tongue brushed her
bare nipple. Gently he licked the sensitive nub of flesh,
tasting, kissing, sucking, until she groaned. A flood of
primitive sensations coursed through her body as she
pushed upward against his hot, seeking mouth.
Brandon, I love you…I love you so much
. The
words quivered on her tongue, but Harriet knew better
than to speak them out loud. Brandon had said
nothing to her about love. He had not mentioned any
kind of future together, not even something beyond
this moment. She would be a fool not to slap his
face, struggle off the couch and flee for the sake of
her virtue. But the fire that surged through every vessel
and fiber of her being was so exquisite that she
had no will to resist. All she wanted was more of this
deep, throbbing sweetness. More of him.
His exploring hand found her stockinged legs beneath
her petticoats. “Tell me if you want me to stop,”
he whispered hoarsely. “Tell me now, or I might not
be able to. I don’t want to hurt you, Harriet. Only to
pleasure you.”
“You won’t…hurt me.” Her eyes were closed, her
head flung back on the cushions. Her breath caught
as his hand found the opening in her drawers and
brushed her moisture-slicked thigh. She was about to
become that most scandalous of creatures, a fallen
woman. And in this heat of total abandon, there was
nothing she wanted more.
They both sensed it at the same time—the bitter
smell of smoke pouring out of the kitchen stove. Harriet
gasped and went rigid. Brandon cursed roundly,
vaulted off the couch and plunged toward the kitchen.
Crimson-faced, Harriet took a moment to rearrange
her clothing before rushing after him. She
found the kitchen filled with sooty black smoke.
Brandon, with a towel protecting his hand, had just
opened the oven, where the Christmas dinner they’d
put in earlier was burning down to cinders.
Seizing a pitcher of water from the counter, Harriet
poured it over the burnt offering. Clouds of hissing
steam billowed around her as Brandon rushed to
fling open the windows and doors to let in the fresh
air. A cold, snowy wind blasted through the house.
When he returned moments later to face her, his
features had once more assumed the impersonal
mask she knew so well. Harriet’s stomach clenched
as he cleared the smoke from his throat with an imperious
cough. Even before he spoke, she knew exactly
what he was going to tell her.
“I don’t know about you, but I’d say we were
saved from ourselves in the nick of time. Forgive me,
Harriet, I pride myself on being a gentleman. I don’t
know what came over me. Maybe it was the wine.”
Harriet clutched the white porcelain pitcher against
her body, aware that the steam had transformed her
hair into dank strings that hung woefully around her
soot-smeared face. “Yes,” she said, willing her voice
not to tremble. “It must have been the wine. If I were
going to toss away my virtue and ruin my reputation,
it certainly wouldn’t be with a man like you!”
“Oh?” One dark eyebrow slid upward. Merciful
heaven, he was going to prolong this miserable charade!
“And for what sort of man would you toss away
your precious virtue, Miss Harriet Smith? I’d be curious
to know.”
“A kind, gentle, decent man!” Harriet flung the
words back at him. “A man who would value and respect
me, a man who would never try to intimidate
or bully me, or use me to get his way!”
“And?” His expression was like granite, his voice
as sharp as a freshly stropped steel razor. “What else?”
“A humble, forgiving man! One who wouldn’t be
too hasty to judge others or let self-righteous pride
cut him off from his own daughter—his own flesh
and blood!”
The silence was broken only by the distant banging
of a shutter and the whistle of wind through the
open house. Brandon had not moved, but she could
sense the rising tension in him, like floodwaters
pounding behind a dike.
“Harriet,” he said, in a low, tormented voice,
“Jenny isn’t my own flesh and blood.”
The white porcelain pitcher slipped from Harriet’s
ice-cold hands to shatter on the tile floor. Neither Brandon
nor Harriet made a move to pick up the pieces.
“Jenny doesn’t know,” he said. “Lord, I’ve never
told this to anybody, and I don’t know why I’m telling
you now, except that I seem to end up telling you
everything—” He exhaled raggedly and sank onto
the edge of a chair.
“Ada, Jenny’s mother, was two years older than I
was, and a lot more experienced, although I didn’t realize
it at the time. I was barely eighteen when she
lured me into one of the rooms of the hotel her father
owned. A few weeks later she told me she was
in a family way, and I did the honorable thing. Jenny
was born less than eight months after the wedding,
but when I saw her and held her for the first time, that
tiny little scrap of life, I fell head over heels in love.
I vowed to provide her with a good life if I had to
work my fingers to the bone.”
“And you did,” Harriet said. “Jenny had everything
a little girl could want.”
“Except happy parents.” He shifted on the chair, as
if he were in physical pain. “We’d been married for five
years when Ada told me. I don’t think she’d ever
planned for me to know, but she was drunk and we were
in the middle of a ripping fight, and it just came out.”
Numb with dismay, Harriet stood rooted to the
floor with the shards of the broken pitcher scattered
around her. Part of her ached to go to him. But Brandon,
she knew, would not want to be touched or comforted.
Not by her.
“She’d had an affair,” he said. “The man was married
and prominent in the town—she never would tell
me his name, but it was easy enough to guess. Her
monthly time was always regular, and when it didn’t
come, she went after the first randy young fool she
could find. Me.”
Harriet thought of Jenny—the stunning blue eyes,
the mannerisms, the facial expressions, all the little
ways in which she was so like Brandon. How could
she not be his natural daughter? There had to be
some mistake.
“Are you certain your wife was telling the truth?”
she demanded. “She was drunk and angry. How do
you know she wasn’t just trying to hurt you?”
“You think I haven’t asked myself that same question?”
He shook his head. “No, it all adds up. The
man in question was still living in the town. I knew
we had to get away, so I took Ada and Jenny and
moved here, to Dutchman’s Creek. I could have divorced
her—I certainly had legal grounds. But I
didn’t, and you know why.”
“Yes, I know why,” Harriet said, loving him in
spite of the hurtful things he’d said to her. “The truth
didn’t matter. Jenny was your daughter in every way
but one. She’s still your daughter, Brandon.”
“Don’t preach to me, Harriet,” he snapped. “You
know how I feel about Jenny. You know how I’ve
wanted to help her. I just can’t stand the thought of
seeing her life turn out like—” He bit off the rest of
the sentence and stood. “Help me get the house
closed up, and I’ll drive you home.”
Harriet stood her ground. “Like her mother’s? Is
that what you were going to say?”
He glared at her, his mouth set in the stubborn line
she’d come to know so well.
“How dare you even think that, Brandon Calhoun?”
She was suddenly furious, lashing out at him
with all her strength of spirit. “Based on what I’ve
heard about your wife, Jenny is nothing like her!
She’s open and loving and sweet-natured, without a
devious bone in her little body! If she didn’t get those
qualities from her mother or from you, all I can say
is that her real father must’ve passed on some excellent
blood!”
She had gone too far. She realized it as soon as she
saw the expression of horror and loathing on Brandon’s
face. If she’d been a man, she thought, he
would likely have attacked her with his fists or challenged
her to a gunfight. As it was, he could only take
refuge in icy, exquisite politeness.
“It’s time we were getting you home,” he said.
“I’ll hitch the horse to the sleigh while you’re putting
on your cloak. Don’t forget to take your basket.”
Harriet drew herself up until her spine was ram-
rod-straight. “You needn’t trouble yourself,” she said.
“It’s a bit windy out, but the snow is well tracked. I’ll
be quite all right.”
“A gentleman doesn’t turn out a lady alone on a
cold evening,” he said. “You can wait in the parlor if
you’d like. I’ll only be a few minutes.”
“No.”
“No?” Again, that upward slithering of an eyebrow.
“The walk will do me good. And as for your being
a gentleman…”
Leaving the rest of the sentence unspoken, she
turned away and stalked toward the door.
She would have been wise to make that her final
exit line, Harriet would reflect later. But as she
stepped into the entry hall and reached for her cloak,
the awful weight of the humiliation she’d just suffered
came crashing in on her. She had been on the
verge of giving her heart, soul and body to this man.
Then he’d turned on her, treating her with a contempt
so cold and stinging that he might as well have
slapped her across the face.