Woman of Three Worlds (9 page)

His jaw dropped. Eager dancing lights in his deep blue eyes changed to angry glints. “I don't remember your being so ceremonious when you were in that overturned stage,” he thrust. “However—” He made a mock flourishing bow. “Will you do me the very great honor?”

“Good evening, everyone!” Michael O'Shea had come out of quarters and hurried forward. As he bowed, Brittany saw the embroidered silver bars on his shoulder knots, those Regina coveted. “Good to see you in for the dance, Tyrell. Why don't you stroll down with us?”

Zach's face reddened for an instant before it went stonily impassive. “Thanks, but I need to have a word with the colonel first.” He gave the women an abrupt nod, wheeled and strode off toward the Shaws'.

O'Shea grinned down at Brittany, but his tone was severe. “Miss Brittany, this has to stop.”

“What does?”

“Your getting prettier each time I see you. Soon it'll be past bearing by a poor mortal.”

“Blarney,” she teased, grateful that he hadn't suspected why Tyrell had been talking to her. Why hadn't that impossible man plainly and properly invited her to the dance? Disappointed vexation welled up in her, but she told herself fiercely that he needed a lesson. She smiled defiantly at O'Shea and took his extended arm with the single gold loop. Regina, hand on Edward's plain sleeve, swept past them to lead the way.

Enlisted men wore dress helmets, and red plumes of artillery mixed with cavalry yellow in the group gathered around the quartermaster's storehouses, which held six months' supplies from Fort Yuma. The whole population of the post was assembled, from laundresses to Mr. DeLong and Colonel Shaw, who was coming through the crowd now, nodding and speaking as his wife graciously did the same.

At the far end of the room the trumpeter was testing his cornet while one of Mr. DeLong's assistants tuned his fiddle. The orchestra was completed by the drummer. They struck up with spirit as the Shaws entered and the colonel swooped with his lady down the hall. He was a thin, graying man who regarded his wife as fondly as if she were the bride who had married a second lieutenant twenty-five years ago.

Now that the dance was formally opened, the floor quickly filled. Brittany's fear of stumbling awkwardly about swiftly vanished as she learned that O'Shea's hands and posture indicated which way to move. The floor was so packed that no one could notice mistakes and she was soon enjoying the dance.

Bridget O'Malley, flaming hair swept up with the brown velvet bow, glided past with surprising grace in the arms of a dark, burly sergeant. Captain Fenwick, the surgeon, squarish of shoulder, beard and face, steered his wife with care, for her bustle protruded so far that it required plenty of room. Gertrude Fenwick's taffy curls were adorned with garnet combs that matched her swishing taffeta dress. Of the four laundresses only Mollie Stroud, the slim, black-haired wife of the bugler, was pretty, but the enlisted men waited their turns eagerly for being favored by the women and meantime danced with other troopers.

Hugh Erskine stood near the door, watching the festivities as if they were those of stone-age aborigines. Tyrell was nowhere to be seen. Somehow that dulled Brittany's excitement, though when she looked up at O'Shea the expression in his gray-blue eyes made her pulse leap.

“I thought you said you couldn't dance,” he murmured. “You're light as a cloud. Makes me want to hold you tighter to be sure you're real.”

He did so, palm warm and strong at her back, smiling down at her with possessiveness. “Lieutenant!” she said breathlessly.

“I wish you'd call me Michael.”

“Is that proper?” she asked doubtfully.

He whooped and spun her in a circle. “Lieutenant!” she implored. “Michael! I can't follow when you move so fast!”

“You're doing well enough,” he laughed.

Edward claimed her for the next dance, so bumbling and unsure that their feet were constantly entangled. Sweat from his perspiring brow dripped on Brittany, and she was unspeakably relieved when the number ended and Michael O'Shea eagerly took her back.

He proved to be her best partner. Captain Fenwick pumped her stolidly about as if she were a recalcitrant mechanism. Colonel Shaw's keen hazel eyes were benevolent and kind as he inquired about how she was liking the post, but he danced stiffly, as if counting steps. She was astonished when Major Erskine bowed to O'Shea, who'd reclaimed her after each dance with someone else.

“If I might be so fortunate, Lieutenant O'Shea?”

“We're all fortunate to have Miss Brittany, sir.” The lieutenant laughed. He relinquished Brittany with a secret pressure of her hand and went to make his duties to Gertrude Fenwick.

Erskine danced with grace and when he sensed Brittany's need for a stronger lead, he supplied it, but his stern manner made her uneasy and more clumsy than when Michael O'Shea's gay nonsense made her forget to worry about what her feet were doing.

“How do you find army life, Miss Laird?” He had a cultured, pleasant voice, but it was curiously flat.

“I can scarcely judge, Major. My former life was so secluded that Camp Bowie seems quite busy and exciting.”
Except for the hours I spend trying to get my little cousins to pay attention to their lessons
.

A faint smile tugged at the firmly set mouth. “Ah, then you're not disturbed at inconveniences? Your cousin let me know, charmingly, of course, that my arrival forced her into highly inadequate quarters made even less suitable by your addition to the household.”

Annoyed at her cousin for making her sound a burden, Brittany said coolly, “I can't see that my presence has incommoded my cousin, sir, since I sleep on a couch in the parlor.”

That startled him into looking at her more closely. His time at the post had bronzed his face, and it made a striking contrast to his well-groomed silver hair. “Indeed? I'm sorry about that, Miss Laird, and I would cede my quarters to family except that I expect mine very shortly.”

“Your wife is coming?”

He flinched. “My wife is dead. It's my daughter who's arriving, along with her nurse.”

“I—I'm sorry, Major Erskine,” Brittany floundered. “Is your daughter an infant?”

“No. She's nearing five. But her nurse, an excellent woman, though limited, gives Laurie security when I have to be away.” He sighed. “I'm beginning to fear that my sister is right and I'm selfish in dragging the child around army posts.”

“If you'll pardon my boldness, sir, keep your daughter with you,” Brittany urged. “I have very little memory of my father, but what I have is my greatest treasure.”

Her voice broke. A great wave of longing for Tristesse, Tante, and the father she barely remembered swept over her. She blinked back tears, glancing down to hide them.

“Thank you for saying that, Miss Laird.” The major's tone was gentle. “You really think I'm not wronging Laurie by keeping her with me rather than sending her east to my sister?”

“Sir, your love is the best thing you can give her.”

“It cheers me to hear that. But,” he added worriedly, “she will soon be of an age where she'll need the understanding and example of a woman of refinement.”

He was so troubled that Brittany said reassuringly, “She's very young, Major, and perhaps in a few years—” Her voice trailed off.

“I'll marry again?” He gave an acid laugh. “I swear that in these two years of my widowhood I've had every eligible sister, cousin, and daughter of my fellow officers thrown at my head till I'm weary dodging. I suppose I'll be forced to marry eventually, for Laurie's sake, but I view the expedient with repugnance.”

“Then you had best not marry, sir. It would be a grave injustice to your wife.”

“Why, if she knew my motives? I would support her in reasonable comfort. She would serve as mistress of my household and Laurie's preceptress. There would be no wearisome pretense of love between us.”

“You think that a good model of marriage for your daughter?”

“It would be civil, at least, with, I trust, an amiability. I certainly won't wed a woman that I hold in dislike.”

Brittany bit her tongue to keep silent. Perhaps he had loved his wife so much that this was all he was capable of, and there were doubtless many spinsters who'd be overjoyed at the bargain. Still, she pitied a child growing up in such a joyless, formal atmosphere.

The major pressed, “You disapprove?”

“It's none of my affair.”

“Still, I should appreciate your opinion.”

“Very well, Major. I believe your child would fare better with the sincere love of one person. To expose her to an unloving union would be, I think, like giving her a tiny dose of daily poison—not enough to kill or sicken but enough to stunt her own capacity for true affection.”

The major winced, but his tone was patronizing. “A young lady must be romantic, of course. From my observation, children, so long as their needs are met, pay little heed to how their parents get on.”

“Not conscious heed.” Brittany thought regretfully of spoiled, unhappy Angela and Ned. “But a house without love is like one without fresh, healthy air.”

He shook his distinguished-looking head. “You may be right in an ideal sense, Miss Laird, but it's clear you've grown up quite out of touch with reality.”

“Marrying without love will never be my reality.”

He smiled briefly. “Indeed, my dear young lady, I wish you may find a husband who'll fill your expectations.”

The number ended. Before O'Shea could claim her, Zach Tyrell took her hand, grinned carelessly at the approaching lieutenant. “With your permission, Mike?”

He swept Brittany away without waiting for an answer. On his breath she could smell the whiskey she'd learned to identify during her journey. Offended by it and his preemptory manner, she held herself as far away from him as she could and said icily, “You didn't ask
my
permission, Mr. Tyrell.”

Those dark blue eyes dwelled on her mouth, her throat, where the pulse throbbed like trapped wings, touched the bareness of her shoulders. “Why bother?” he said grimly. “I'm going to dance with you whether you like it or not.”

As she gasped and stiffened, he grinned audaciously, bringing her closer to him with a hand that spanned her back. “Just consider it payment for my saving your neck,” he suggested. “The Apaches would have done a helluva lot more than dance with you—though when it was all over, if you weren't kept for a drudge, they might have danced your scalp at a victory celebration. They wouldn't have raped you, though.” He went on casually, slurring his words a bit. “Apaches don't take scalps much. Once in a while they want one for ritual purposes, but mostly they leave the hair.”

“Mr. Tyrell!”

“If you can call O'Shea Michael, you can call me Zach.”

“I know Lieutenant O'Shea considerably better than I know you! And let me add, sir, that you do not improve upon closer acquaintance!”

He brought her so near that their bodies touched. She gasped, breasts tingling at the contact, warmth rushing through her. “Let's make our acquaintance real close and see what you think then!”

They were by the open doors. A spillover of soldiers were dancing on the hard ground, so they were unremarked as Zach danced her outside in a wild spin and out through the soldiers.

“I—I'll scream!” she choked.

“Do. Then Mike and I will have to fight and the post will really buzz.”

“You—you—”

They had reached the darkness behind the school-house. He brought her full against him. His mouth came down on her protesting lips. At first his kiss was brutal, harsh as his arms, but then he groaned, molding her to him, and his kiss turned pleading, urging, tenderly plundering, till she ached and lay tremulous in his embrace.

He laughed huskily as he lifted his head. “Well, Miss Brittany, on closer acquaintance, you improve till I damn near can't stand it!”

Her knees still refused to hold her, but as the intoxicated dizziness drained away at his mocking words, she said coldly, “Now that you've had your—your payment, please return me to the dance. My escort will be worried.”

“And whispers will start?” He shrugged, keeping an arm loosely around her while his big warm hand held hers. “I came to see you, not lollygag around with a passel of women I've no interest in. As for Mike, we're friends. When I tell him you were supposed to go with me, he won't be too angry.”

“I never said I'd go with you!” she blazed. “How could I when you didn't ask?”

“You knew I was coming in.” When she started to speak hotly, he placed a finger on her lips. “Don't play games, Brittany! You knew I'd come for you.”

She sputtered at his cool arrogance. “So I'm to read your mind? You could perfectly well have stopped by when you brought in that Indian boy.”

“So you're miffed about that?” he chuckled. “Fact is, I didn't have time to palaver and I knew if I saw you, I'd want to stay a while. How's the kid doing?”

“All right, I suppose.” Brittany felt a twinge of guilt that she hadn't inquired about the child, but the truth was that she didn't want to be reminded of Apaches. “He keeps to himself except for going to school.”

Zach mused a moment. “I thought about keeping the poor little devil myself,” he said roughly. “But I'm gone a lot, and I thought he'd get sent up to San Carlos, where he probably has relations.”

“Then you don't think he ought to be educated?”

“In the white man's way instead of as an Apache?” He shook his head ruefully. “I don't know. The Apache way of life has to change. They can't raid and range all over their old haunts. But their religion and customs and knowledge of the wilds—those they can keep. Those the boy should know. Along with enough white man savvy to let him handle them.”