Louisa Rawlings (16 page)

“Yes.”

“And what’s there? A wife? A sweetheart?”

His mouth twitched sardonically. “Why is it you can make even a simple question sound like a challenge? My grandfather lives in Ingles.”

“Oh.” She looked at her hands, feeling uncomfortable under his searching gaze. It had sounded like a challenge, cool and superior. Designed to make him squirm. She thought, He certainly brings out the worst in me. “And you visit him every week?” she asked more kindly.

“Every week, even in winter. And even if I have to travel half the night.”

She looked at him in surprise. “That’s very dutiful of you.”

“He can’t walk. He’s dependent upon me for his food. And his firewood in the winter.”

“What a heavy burden for you. Can’t you find someone to care for him when you’re not there? That is…” She felt herself blushing. Perhaps he couldn’t afford it.

“It isn’t a question of money, Miss Bradford, if that’s what you’re thinking. Gramps is a queer duck. He doesn’t much like people. I’m his only contact with the outside world, and that’s just about the way he likes it.”

“Still, it’s a burden.”

He turned to the window and stared out at the gray sky. One powerful hand still clutched his pipe. “You said it yourself. I’m dutiful. Filled with a sense of duty.” There was an edge of bitterness to his voice.

He seemed more human than she’d imagined him to be. Human and vulnerable. “Why do you permit him to tyrannize you?”

“It isn’t tyranny. I do it to myself. Because he’s the only family I’ve got.” He turned to look at her.

Oh, God, she thought. His eyes. Like glowing amber, stripping her naked where she sat, burning into her flesh. She couldn’t allow it! “That’s perfectly foolish!” she snapped, drawing herself up. “To turn your life upside down…!”

His eyes narrowed in sudden anger. “How well you play the grand lady, Miss Bradford! Do you do it because you’re bored? Or fearful? Or because you truly enjoy being a snob? I care about my grandfather because while men like your father were making money casting cannon, men like my father were dying in front of those cannon! I had two brothers as well. They died together at Gettysburg. Gramps may chain me to him—but four years of war, four years of hell forged those chains!” His hand had become a fist. Willough gasped in horror as the pipe shattered in his grip.

He could crush me as easily as that, she thought, shivering.

Nat exhaled slowly and uncurled his hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

I’m
sorry, she thought. I didn’t mean to sound snobbish. It always seemed to be the only way to keep him at a distance. To pretend a superiority she didn’t feel, in order to hide the strange uneasiness she
did
feel in his presence.

The door opened. Brian Bradford strode into the office. “Afternoon, Nat. Willough.” He frowned at his daughter. “Haven’t you sent for more gowns yet? Never mind. There’ll be time to shop in Saratoga in August. Nat, Clegg tells me he’s closing down Number Two for repairs next month.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. It will ease your work. I want you to come to Saratoga for a couple of weeks. Stay at the house. I have some bankers coming in. I want to discuss an expansion… I’d like you to be in on it.”

“What about the clerk’s duties? Will Miss Bradford stay here?”

“Willough? Good God, no. Bill can fill in as clerk. I need Willough in Saratoga.”

He needs me, thought Willough. She’d never felt more pleased at something her father had said. “Daddy…”

Brian smiled at her. “With all those men around, lass,
someone’s
got to be my hostess.”

Her heart sank.

“You might find Miss Bradford more useful if you had her sit in on the meetings,” Nat said quietly.

Brian looked doubtful. “Yes. Well…we’ll talk about it in Saratoga. One other thing, Nat. This note about paying the fillers more. Do you think I’m made of money?”

“The note came from me, Daddy.”

Brian turned. “You? Are you daft, Willough?”

“There’s been a lot of talk. The fillers aren’t getting much more than the woodcutters. And the work is twice as dangerous. Two men quit last week. They went over to Eagle Lake to work for Ordway. You can’t run your furnaces if no one will charge them.”

“Let them all be damned. Bleeding me dry,” growled Brian.

She sighed in exasperation. “Jim Hopewell nearly died last week when the furnace flared up and set him on fire! The fillers are angry. Clegg’s heard dangerous talk…an extra dollar a week won’t break you.”

Brian banged on the desk with his fist. “Dammit, Willough, I won’t have you telling me how to run my business!”

Nat cleared his throat. “If the fillers refuse to work, it’ll cost you more than a dollar a week to bring in new men. You won’t be able to get anyone local. The word will get around.”

Brian looked thoughtful. “You think so?”

“Sometimes it’s just plain short-sighted to cut corners. You don’t want to get the men grumbling. You won’t get any work out of any of them.”

“Maybe you’re right, Nat.” Brian pulled a cigar out of his waistcoat pocket and headed for the door. “Give the fillers a raise.” He lit his cigar and opened the door. “Not a dollar, damn ’em! Seventy-five cents a week.” He scowled. “But fire the first bastard who complains!” He went out of the office, slamming the door loudly.

Willough stared at the bottle of ink on her desk, feeling an irrational urge to hurl it across the room. Daddy had changed his mind because of Nat.
Her
advice had meant nothing.

“Your father’s a damn fool, Miss Bradford.”

She frowned. He’d just bested her with Daddy. The last thing she wanted now was his sympathy. “I dislike swearing, Nat,” she said coldly.

“I’ll say it anyway. He’s a damn fool. For not knowing what he’s got in you.”

“It’s not for us to question him,” she snapped.

He ran his fingers impatiently through his blond curls. “Christ! Can’t you even take a compliment? I’m trying to tell you I think you’re one hell of a woman!”

She felt trapped by his presence. “I told you, I don’t like swearing!”

He shook his head. “We always seem to end up fighting,” he said tiredly.

She was still thinking of Daddy. “Perhaps we’re rivals,” she said with bitterness.

“Not in my mind. I can work my way up to manager—even buy into a share some day. But the business will be yours. You’re a Bradford. You could fire me tomorrow, and there wouldn’t be a damn thing I could do about it. I don’t see any rivalry there.”

She was beginning to feel a bit foolish. He had been her ally with Daddy. “Maybe I meant we seem to be…at cross purposes.”

“I don’t know why. We certainly think alike when it comes to the business. The only difference between us seems to be that I’m a man and you’re a woman.” He smiled, bringing the boyish dimple to his cheek. “And that’s a difference I’ve always found interesting.”

She made a face. “You have a fondness for vulgarity. Perhaps that’s why we don’t get along.”

“And you, Miss Bradford, seem to think that cloaking the truth in a kind of prissy gentility makes it more palatable. Frankly, I prefer to say what’s on my mind.”

“Then do so,” she said coolly, surprised at her own boldness.

“All right. I don’t know whether you dislike me or not. Sometimes I think you’re afraid of me. It doesn’t really matter. We make a fine team in this office. I consider us equals, not rivals or adversaries. I would hope you do the same.”

She smiled shyly, feeling chastened. “Your point is well taken. Perhaps we can begin by being equal in the matter of names. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t call me by my Christian name, since I’ve been calling you Nat.”

“I’ve been hoping you’d say that…Willough. I was mighty tired of calling you Miss Bradford.”

She giggled as a sudden thought hit her. “You made it clear from the first that you didn’t consider yourself a gentleman. I’m surprised you waited for my permission to do what you wanted!” She was delighted to see him blush. It made him human. She wondered why she
did
fear him.

And then his eyes swept her body and came to rest on her face. He smiled. “Perhaps there’ll come a time when I won’t ask your permission.”

She shivered at the naked desire in his eyes. She was right to fear him. How did a woman handle a man like him? She’d been taught how to behave among men with manners—like Arthur.

At the moment Willough’s thoughts had turned to him, Arthur Bartlett Gray stepped out of the railroad car and brushed a bit of soot from his patent-leather shoe. My God, he thought, but MacCurdyville is ugly. No wonder Isobel had refused to live here! He’d thought Brian’s house in Saratoga was primitive enough, but at least the town of Saratoga had a certain charm, and the hotels were always filled with pretty—and accommodating—young women. He looked around with distaste at the shabby buildings and barren hills, then sighed. Well, it couldn’t be helped. He needed Brian’s signature on that lease today. Needed it enough to go out of his way to get here to MacCurdyville. But if all went well, he’d be able to get the signed papers back to Albany tonight. And the ten thousand. Brian had raised the roof over that, but in the end he’d given in. He’d make ten times that much on the New Russia land.

He looked about. A grimy little urchin was standing on the station platform, staring at him. He frowned and fished a penny out of his pocket. “You. Boy. Go over to the livery stable and have them send round a carriage for me.” He flipped the coin in the direction of the boy, who grinned toothlessly and scampered down the street.

Arthur thought, Ugly little child. They ought to be kept out of sight until they’re old enough to put in a decent day’s work. God knows they’re good for nothing else.

The carriage was old and creaked, but at least it would get him to the ironworks. He leaned back on the hard seat and looked at his surroundings.

Brian Bradford’s domain. A mill town, like a thousand others. The rows of workers’ shanties, the stables, the ice house with its pond, the schoolhouse, the rickety little church. Behind him the ore pits; beyond, the four furnaces belching flame into the sky. The workers, like ants, crawling over the whole scene, carting ore and iron and charcoal day and night.

The carriage labored up a steep hill toward the MacCurdy Ironworks. Brian Bradford’s domain, Arthur thought again, glancing up at the distant building marked “Office.” He squinted at the figure that had just emerged from the office and smiled to himself.

And Brian Bradford’s daughter. He hadn’t realized until now how eager he was to see Willough again. She seemed to be preoccupied with one of the furnaces, peering intently in that direction. It gave him the perfect opportunity to examine her at his leisure as his carriage approached. My God, she was magnificent! Tall and stately, with a lushness of form that made his hands itch to touch those breasts, that young body. And the face of an angel.

He laughed softly. And the virginal innocence to match. It had been a long time since he’d seduced a virgin—it might be a delicious challenge. She was easily disarmed by flattery and charm; he’d already discovered that in her mother’s house. He could begin his campaign today—soften her up with sweet talk. And Brian had said they were going to be in Saratoga for a week or so next month. He could plan to be there himself. Stay in a hotel, so it wouldn’t seem a contrived plan. A stroll in the garden, boating on the lake. He could charm her into his bed in no time. He cursed under his breath, remembering the fear in her eyes. God knows what Isobel had told her about men and sex! He would have to assume she feared everything but knew almost nothing. In some ways, it was to his advantage. She might not realize she was being compromised until it was too late. And then, of course, if she resisted, he could always force her. But he would have to be very careful not to frighten her off until the moment when…

She turned and saw him in the approaching carriage. Smiling, she lifted her hand and waved. He smiled back and tipped his hat to her.

I’ll have you, Willough Bradford, he thought. One way or another, I’ll have you!

Willough held out her hand shyly. “How nice to see you again, Mr. Gray.” She thought, I really am glad to see him. Such a gentleman. He was her mother’s admirer; that didn’t prevent him from being her friend. Somehow the seventeen-year difference in their ages seemed less and less important.

He took her hand in his. “You’ve forgotten so soon that you were to call me Arthur,” he chided. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. She could feel the soft tickle of his mustache on her flesh.

She was aware she was blushing. His kiss on her hand, his courtly charm made her as helpless as a schoolgirl. “Arthur. It will take time to get used to.”

“Not too long, I hope. I feel as though I missed so many years while you were away. Years when I might have watched you growing more beautiful. When you stopped being the child who called me Uncle Arthur. Do you remember when I called you Weeping Willough?”

“I thought it was amusing, but I was afraid to tell you so.”

“Weeping Willough,” he repeated. “I should never wish to see tears in those lovely eyes.”

What was the matter with her, trembling like a fool? “Please…” she whispered, pulling her hand away.