Just This Once (11 page)

He dragged her chin up, his long fingers
clamped to her cheeks. “You know all the angles about money, don’t
you. What’s your name again?”

“Josie,” she bit out. She fought back tears
of pain as his fingers dug painfully into her face. “Josephine. I
told you during the wedding ceremony. Don’t you remember,
darling?
”

He grinned. An unpleasant grin. “I only
remember one thing about that ceremony—except for Latherby trying
like hell to stop it. Know what that one thing is?”

She shook her head, as much as she could,
when he was imprisoning her jaw.

“This.”

Without warning, his arms tightened around
her waist and his face lowered swiftly toward hers. Josie’s heart
leapt into her throat. He was going to kiss her again.

He smelled faintly of soap, and of whiskey
and of man, and it was not unpleasant. But he was too strong, too
near, holding her too tight. She felt overwhelmed, and suddenly she
was reminded vividly and horrifyingly of Snake, of his crude
strength and brutal hands and of how he had hurt her. She’d vowed
that night she’d run away never to let any man hurt her like that
again.

She heard him laugh as if from a long way
away. “Drunk as I was, I couldn’t forget lips like yours,
angel.”

“Let me go.”

His face dipped lower, his mouth only a
breath away from her trembling lips. “No need to act shy with me. I
happen to know you had a job dancing in front of a whole saloon
full of men. Don’t tell me you didn’t sleep with the
customers.”

“How dare—”

His fingers locked on her wrist as she tried
to slap him. “And now you’re my sweet little wife, remember. You’re
legally mine. I can kiss you if I want, Josie. Touch you. Bed
you.”

Panic clawed through her. An image of Snake
pushing her down on the floor, pinning her arms, yanking her skirt
up, filled her mind. She kicked at Ethan’s shin, and pushed against
him with all her might. Ethan continued to hold her, without any
noticeable difficulty, but his soft mocking laughter had changed to
a frown.

“What in damnation is wrong with you?”

“You might have married me, but you don’t
own me! Nobody owns me! I never agreed to let you... to behave as
if... our bargain never mentioned—”

“Marital relations?” he suggested helpfully,
burying his fingers in the sensuous cloud of her hair.

“Yes! No! I mean
no
to marital
relations! If you touch me, this marriage is over.”

She was shaking from head to toe. There was
a panicked wildness in her eyes that Ethan had seen before in
hunted animals and that made him release her abruptly.

“You have something against marital
relations?” he asked sardonically, but as he studied her pale face,
the quivering lower lip, he wondered what in hell she was so afraid
of. Could it be that his delectable little bride was a virgin?

Impossible.

“This marriage is a sham. I agreed to it
only to stay out of jail, so if you try to take advantage of me,
I’ll have no choice but to leave. Do you hear me? I’ll run away,
our deal will be over, and you’ll be left to explain the
disappearance of your wife. I don’t think you want that.”

His eyes narrowed. “It
would
be
damned inconvenient and you know it.”

“Fine. Then we understand each other.”

He didn’t understand anything about her. A
beautiful thief and liar who’d marry a man to stay out of jail, who
wore provocative costumes and showed her ankles to a roomful of
leering men, but wouldn’t let him touch her. A virgin? A prude? Not
likely. Or was she just particular, and he didn’t measure up?

Ethan nearly chuckled. He’d never had any
complaints before. Women tended to be downright fond of him,
despite his disinterest in fancy wooing. He guessed it was
something other than that. She looked shaken still, as if she were
clinging to her self-control with every drop of willpower she
possessed.

“Have it your way, lady.” Reluctantly he
released those springy chestnut curls, undraped his arm from her
waist, and took a step back. His eyes lingered briefly, with faint
regret, at those temptingly full lips. “It’s just fine with me. I’m
not all that interested.”

“Good!”

“Latherby’s arranged separate compartments
on this train, and I’ll have him get the same on the ship. At
Stonecliff Park, there’s enough rooms for twenty people to live
without ever having to see each other. But you and I will see each
other. For a few months, we’ll put on quite a show.”

“That’s just fine with me. As long as it’s
only in public. You agree to that?”

“With pleasure, ma’am.” He spoke with an
exaggerated drawl, and his smile was full of mockery. “I’ll survive
somehow without the benefit of your affections.”

“And I without yours. Then our business is
finished. Except for some details. When will this... marriage be
officially over?”

“Six months. Then you leave and never—and I
mean never—show your face to me again.”

“With pleasure.” Josie mimicked his cavalier
attitude. Six months. During that time she could begin her
search—discreetly, of course. At the end of it, she’d know if it
truly led her to her past or only in circles once again.

She’d just have to take what came at that
point.

“Don’t you want to know how much money I’m
going to settle on you when this is over?” he asked.

Startled, she glanced up from her reverie.
“It doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, it’s more than I have now.”

He looked surprised, and his glance
sharpened on her. Josie took a deep breath. “If that’s all, I’d
like to rest awhile in my compartment.”

“That isn’t all.”

She waited, bracing herself for she knew not
what. It occurred to her that for the next six months she was going
to be very much in this man’s power. Except for that one condition
she had set forth, he would control how she spent her time, where
she went, how she dressed, what she could do and could not do—in
fact, he would control most everything about her life—until this
ridiculous charade of a marriage was ended.

And just who was he? What kind of a man had
she thrown in with?

She had no clear notion. There was something
compelling about him, a rugged, singular strength, a
damn-it-all-to-hell arrogance, a seething anger, but beyond
that...

She knew there was more. She’d glimpsed it
in his eyes when he’d spoken of his father turning over in his
grave. And she sensed there was far more driving him to this
bargain than mere financial gain.

If there was one thing she’d learned growing
up in too many places to count, it was that, for good or bad,
people were usually much more than they seemed.

“I’ve already warned you about giving me
trouble when we get to England. And I want to be sure you know what
kind of trouble I mean.”

“Then why don’t you tell me?”

“If you steal so much as a button from
anyone we meet—if you pick one pocket, pull one trick—”

“I won’t.”

Ethan stretched out a hand and caught her
chin. His eyes locked upon hers with ruthless warning. “You’re damn
right you won’t,” he told her quietly. “And remember that if you
break your end of the bargain, I’ll have no compunctions about
breaking mine.”

He released her abruptly as Latherby
reentered the car, leaving Josie to wonder if he was referring to
revoking the money he’d promised to give her at the end of their
“marriage”—or to his promise not to force her to perform her wifely
duties. She was left to guess, for the solicitor came forward then,
glancing worriedly from one to the other, and giving a little
cough.

“Latherby, you’re about to become a very
busy man.”

“My lord?”

“We won’t be depositing the lovely Josie at
the next stop after all. She will be accompanying us to England—as
befits my wife. It occurs to me that she’ll need some
instruction.”

“My lord!” Latherby’s jaw dropped. “You
can’t mean—”

“The hell I can’t. Are you refusing your
aid?” Ethan raked him with a steely gaze that had the solicitor
gulping.

“No, certainly not, but... there will be
much to do, my lord, if we’re going to embark on this mad scheme.
There will scarcely be time—I think we must begin some lessons at
once. If this woman is to pass as a lady of quality and win the
approval of someone as austere as Mr. Grismore, we have our work
cut out for us.”

“You mean
you
have your work cut out
for you,” Ethan snapped back. “You’ve already buried me up to my
chin in legal papers and financial documents I need to read and
sign. As of now, my wife is your responsibility.”

“My responsibility?” The solicitor blanched.
“But what do I know about teaching someone how to be a lady?”

“A hell of a lot more than I do.” Ethan
Savage returned to the table and sank wearily into his chair,
scowling at the pile of papers before him.

“She’s all yours,” he told Latherby, with a
certain cold pleasure. His gaze raked the girl with her simple
rumpled gown and her tumble of unruly hair and her blazing, defiant
face.

“Take this little gypsy and turn her into a
countess.”

“
A countess?”
It came out as a croak.
Blankly, Josie stared at him.

His eyes flickered with a glint of harsh
amusement.

She felt horror rise within her. A strange
light-headedness swept over her—no doubt because she’d gone so long
without a bite of food.

But oh, heavens, for a moment there she’d
thought Ethan Savage had said she must be transformed into a
countess.

“Yes.” Latherby turned to her when Ethan
didn’t answer, only continuing to stare at her with that
maddeningly calm expression. “Come along, miss... I mean, ma’am, I
mean... my lady. We have much to do. And much to learn. You were
married last night to the Earl of Stonecliff. Which makes you, for
the foreseeable future, and may heaven help England—his
Countess.”

Josie’s knees buckled. She grabbed at a
chair for support, missed, and as the train pitched once more
around a curve, she tumbled headlong. Flying, she landed smack
across Ethan Savage’s lap.

“As I said, Latherby,” Ethan said coolly as
he held an armful of soft, mussed woman who for the moment was too
frozen with shock to move. “Better get down to business. You’ve got
your work cut out for you.”

“W
e’re nearly
there. Are you ready, Josephine?” Mr. Latherby’s voice sharpened as
he studied Josie by the light of the carriage lamps. “Look alert
now. This is to be your first real test.”

Even as he spoke the carriage turned wide,
clattering down a tree-flanked road shrouded in fog.

Ready?
she thought, controlling the
panicked urge to push open the carriage door and bolt into the dark
night.
I’ll never be ready for this.

But there was to be no bolting. Ethan Savage
rode beside the coach on a magnificent white horse, which glimmered
in the mist like Pegasus.
He’d probably lasso me and simply drag
me up the drive to the house if I tried to flee,
she reflected
bleakly.

But then her practical mind recalled that
Ethan Savage had no lasso. He no longer even wore a gun belt and
holster or the two deadly Colts. Sometime during the course of
their journey, he had shed those staples of the American West. He
had altered subtly, even his voice losing some of its western
inflection. He now wore an English black-and-gray-checked sack coat
over gray corduroy trousers. With his gleaming riding boots, top
hat, and gloves, he looked every inch the English gentleman, while
she...

Well, she thought, staring down at the new
scarlet merino cloak Mr. Latherby had purchased for her in New
York, and the snug lavender kid gloves and boots—she looked, on the
outside at least, like an elegantly proper lady.

“My lady? You must remember to answer when
someone speaks to you. It is rude merely to stare into space.”

“Sorry, Mr. Latherby... er, I beg your
pardon,” she amended quickly, lifting distressed eyes to him. “Damn
it, I’ll never pass inspection, not even by the servants.”

“Calm yourself, do calm yourself,” Latherby
urged. Nervously he snatched his spectacles off his nose,
frantically polished them with the sleeve of his coat, and then
shoved them back in place. “I beg you to remember what is at stake.
His lordship could not only lose everything, he could lose face,
irrevocably, if this debacle is discovered.”

“You care about him, don’t you, Latherby?”
Josie asked suddenly, as she observed the beads of sweat forming on
the solicitor’s high brow. Latherby didn’t normally get himself so
worked up, she’d noticed during the time she spent with him on the
Atlantic crossing.

“Of course. He is my client. I’m
responsible—”

“It’s more than that. You like him.”