Lonesome Rider and Wilde Imaginings (13 page)

“Tomorrow? At Mrs. Peabody's! She and Mr. Delaney can be there that way. That is, assuming we can get our hands on a minister.”

“I'll find one,” he promised her. “I'll get my hands on one. Even if I have to ride back to the Union army to do so!”

Jessy laughed. “Seems to me like you never really were any kind of an outlaw. And if you were, you've been fully pardoned.”

“That's how it seems,” he agreed.

Then, shaking, he swept her into his arms. “If the wedding's at Mrs. Peabody's tomorrow …”

“Yes?” she whispered huskily.

“Think we could start the honeymoon at home tonight?”

Laughing, she ran her fingers through his ink black hair and fell in love with his ruggedly handsome features all over again. “I think so!” she whispered, and he carried her into the house. “I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you. I never knew just how much until I nearly lost you.”

She didn't know what to say, and so she kissed him.

“And to think!” he said softly. “I won you in a poker game. On a gamble.”

Jessy smiled, stroking her fingers through his ink dark hair. “And to think! I kept you on a gamble!” she replied. She arched a brow and smiled again. “I love the West,” she murmured. “I love the wild, wild West—and the wild, wild things you can find in it!”

“Oh?” Blade asked.

“Mmm. And I love you.”

“Oh?”

“Want me to prove it?”

“Mmm.”

They walked through the house. They both knew that they'd made it. Out of the fire, into life. And their future loomed there before them, wondrously in their Western frontier. They had slept together in the wilderness.

And then love had made it a home.

Wilde Imaginings

Chapter One

“A
llyssa!”

The husky sound of her name, more a statement than a question, caused her to catch her breath. It was not that she was afraid of the darkness or the mist, or even of the man.

It was just that he had appeared so suddenly before her in that misty darkness.

She stopped, trying to see through the field of swirling fog. At first all that she could fathom was that he was tall and carried himself with a certain arrogance, his hands planted firmly on his hips, and he was watching her from a distance, coming no closer.

He was the kind of man who waited for people to come to him.

Then a breeze came shifting softly by her, touching her cheeks, cooling them and seeming to roll away some of the mist.

He wore his hair slightly long. It curled at his nape, while one lock fell rakishly over his forehead. It was dark hair, nearly black, gleaming in the dampness of the night. His face was handsome, with masculine, ruggedly sculpted planes and angles, a broad, sensual mouth, and large, wide-set eyes that seemed to glitter. They were hazel, she realized, and in the curious light they seemed to have a touch of gold about them. He was clean-shaven, broad-shouldered and tightly muscled. Even with the distance that still lay between them, Allyssa sensed that he was a man accustomed to constant physical action. He seemed to be in excellent shape. His clothes emphasized the taut-muscled, athletic quality of his build. He was wearing black pants that hugged the leanness of his hips, high black riding boots, and a loose white cotton shirt that made a deep V at his throat and had sleeves that flowed until they were cuffed at the wrists.

Had he ridden here? she wondered. Perhaps it had been the only way to come, the storm had been so bad.

Yet she hadn't been expecting him.

“Allyssa?” This time his voice was softer, huskier. Perhaps more of a question now, and then again, maybe the sound was just reflective and even a little amused.

He had been studying her in turn, and she was just a little bit the worse for wear. She had rather plummeted into this trip to the moors. Actually, she had decided less than forty-eight hours ago to leave the safe harbor of her home in Maryland and come to England.

And she had certainly never planned for this kind of rain or mist, or the fact that she would arrive and find no transportation, none at all, at the minuscule train station in the ancient town of Fairhaven.

And there had indeed been nothing at first. Nothing.

When she had first arrived she had stood in the cold and the wet and the near darkness, shivering, watching as a thick mist slowly rolled down from the hills just beyond the station. She hadn't expected the town to be big, and she certainly hadn't expected to be greeted by any of her very distant relatives.

But she hadn't expected it to be so very silent and dark, either, when her train had chugged into the tiny station. Surely there should have been someone around, but there wasn't. The train had stopped, depositing her with her baggage, then chugged on into the night. Within seconds it was gone, swallowed up in the darkness, and the great rolling mass of steel might never have been. Like the indistinguishable shapes looming at her in the fog and darkness, it might have been a phantom vehicle, a trick of the imagination. All that was real here were the darkness, the cold, the swirl of the fog around her, the phantoms of the night.…

She was letting her imagination run away with her, she'd told herself. The platform beneath her feet was very real. The station itself was real; there had just been that note on the door to the small office stating that office hours were from nine to six seven days a week, with time off for tea from two to three. There was nothing in the least ghostly or frightening about the night. The only difficulty had been her own foolishness. She hadn't come from the largest city in the world, but Baltimore was certainly cosmopolitan enough.

And it had never, never occurred to her that she might come here and find nothing.

Nothing …

Until now.

He was here now. The tall, dark stranger with the powerful build who seemed to know her.

Was he a trick of the light? Or the lack of it?

Full darkness had come quickly once she had arrived. When the train had been slowing for the station, it had still been light. Oh, not very light, but light enough. She had seen the beautiful, rolling hillsides. The grass had been beautifully, deeply green, truly creating an emerald splendor. The sheep on the hillsides had appeared very white against that deep green background. The scenery had been incredibly lovely. Lonely and even haunting, perhaps …

“Allyssa! Are you frozen there, girl?”

This time the tone was impatient. Aggravated. She had grown accustomed to the sound of English accents, as diverse as those in America, since she had boarded her flight at Washington International Airport for her trip into Heathrow. This man's was different still. Light, yet his tones were deep and resonant. He spoke with a sure sense of command, as if he were a man accustomed to handing out orders and to having them obeyed. Who was he? She tried to remember the habitants of Fairhaven the solicitor had described to her. Was this her very distant cousin? She hadn't asked to be picked up—she hadn't had the good sense to do so, she reminded herself curtly—so how had he known when to come for her?

How had he known that she was coming at all? She had never written or phoned, never even agreed that she would definitely come.

What difference did it make? He was here. The night was as wet as a river, and surely he intended to take her to the castle, a far more pleasant prospect than trying to find a way to stay dry and warm beneath the eaves of the tiny train station.

“Yes, yes! I'm Allyssa Evigan,” she said quickly, hurrying along the concrete path toward him. For a moment she was afraid that she had imagined him, created him from the wealth of mist and darkness, but as she hurried he remained right where he was without disappearing. He continued to stare at her, certainly real enough.

When she reached him, she paused again, waiting. He was studying her more intently. Those sharp hazel and gold eyes quickly ran the length of her, judging, assessing.

What did he see? Under normal circumstances, she thought that she might have put forward a decent enough appearance. She was a medium five feet six inches in height, a bit thin, maybe, but her curves did exist. She had her mother's features, fine and small, and her father's eyes, large and green. Her hair was a soft natural blond that she wore layered far past her shoulders. Brandon had always told her that she had great eyes and magnificent hair, that he would have wanted to marry her for the color of either her hair or her eyes alone.…

But that was a long time ago now. And her magnificent hair was sodden and damp and clinging to her cheeks. She had worn jeans, anticipating the long, hard hours of travel, but she had also worn a silk blouse, and beneath the crush of her trench coat, she was certain that it was wilted and the worse for wear, too.

She should have spent a night in London, she chastised herself. She could have caught up on her sense of jet lag. She could have arrived here looking if not dignified, at least a bit more human!

But it was too late for that. And, really, she didn't owe this man anything. Since he didn't mind being rude, she could respond in kind.

She arched a brow. “Are you frozen there, sir?”

He smiled. A handsome smile, meeting the challenge. Then he laughed out loud, and it was a pleasant, provocative sound. She felt somehow warmed. Angry still, but warmed. He was blunt, he was bold, but he had a definite charm about him. Very masculine and seductive, she thought, somewhat amazed.

“Well, now, you're the newcomer, you know. You're going to be looked over often and well,” he told her.

Well, that was true enough. And blunt, too. She wondered if she should have come at all—whatever was happening in Fairhaven couldn't really concern her. She'd never even heard of the place until the strange little solicitor had appeared on her doorstep three weeks ago, informing her that her great-grandfather—she hadn't even known she'd had a great-grandfather—had died, and that it was imperative that she come to the reading of his last will and testament in Fairhaven.

She might have simply offered the man coffee or tea and then forgotten all about him, except that she could never, never forget the way things had been when her mother died. She could never forget holding her and listening to her cry softly, nor could she forget the things her mother had said.…

Well, she was here now. She had told herself that she wasn't coming, but she was here. The reading of the will wasn't for another week, but Mr. Sheillan, the solicitor, had assured her that all the heirs of Padraic Evigan were assured a place in the castle, so there would be time for her to see the fine estate and the countryside—and to get to know her kin.

Well, if this man was kin …

Distant kin, she reminded herself. Her great-grandfather, Paddy, had been one of three cousins and had inherited the estate from his grandfather. But his cousins had heirs now, too, one, at least, who lived at the estate. Darryl Evigan.

This must be him.

The man before her suddenly pointed to the dark sky. “Can you see them? Just the ghost of them. Storm clouds are coming back in. The rain will start up again soon. We had best get going.”

She nodded. “That's fine, thank you. I'm so grateful that you're here. I hadn't expected anyone to meet me. I hadn't written or called. I didn't realize that it would be quite so small a place. No taxis or—”

He reached over and with a strong grasp took her small overnight bag from her fingers. The rest of her luggage had been set against the wall of the station by the porter.

“Too small for you, is it?” he asked her. The words were polite enough, but the tone held just an edge of contempt.

“I never said that.”

“Ah, but were you thinking it?”

“I was merely thinking,” she said evenly, “that I was glad you came along. There are no taxis here. A cold station is not a nice place to spend the night.”

The hazel-gold of his eyes flicked over her again. “No, it's not, is it?” he said softly. Then he reached out and touched her chin, causing it to rise. She longed to wrench it away from him, but for some reason she remained still while he searched her eyes and studied her once again.

“But you know,” he said softly, “perhaps you won't be welcomed here.”

She did pull away then. “I don't know why I should be welcomed. I've never been here before. I never even knew the place existed.”

“Until you heard about the will.”

“Until I heard about the will.”

“Mmm, a gold digger,” he said. He was smiling. She didn't know if he was serious or teasing, for there did seem to be laughter behind the words. Yet they might well be very serious.…

He was blunt. She would have to be equally blunt. “Perhaps you wouldn't mind insulting me and assessing my motives once we've reached the castle? It really is wet out here, and I'm freezing.”

“Of course, of course! How remiss of me. It's just that I really don't feel the cold. You've more luggage?”

“Yes, down there. I'll just run—”

“No, we can't manage it tonight. Someone will come in the morning.”

“But—”

“It will be perfectly all right. This is a very, very small place, as you've commented. Come on now. I can't take your luggage, the way that I've come. Especially if you can manage with this?” He lifted her small leather case.

“Yes, I—”

“Good, let's go.”

He took hold of her elbow with a definite authority. He wasn't accustomed to anyone refusing him, she thought resentfully. But since it was very cold, not to mention so miserably wet, she would wait until tomorrow to start firmly setting him in his place, she determined.

When they got down the small brick steps that led to the back of the station and the platform, she narrowed her eyes against the darkness, looking for a car. She didn't see one. She heard a shuffling sound and looked quickly in the direction from which it had come.