CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

Amanda found herself looking forward to Monday evening with the same degree of anticipation as she would an infestation of locusts. The Judge and Dianna Moore had come to Rosalie in the late afternoon, and, though she had prayed and willed for a storm to open up the heavens and wash away the roads, Michael Tarrington had been the one holding the reins of the buggy as their visitors drove up the tree-lined avenue.

Looking more piratical than ever, he was wearing a fawn-colored jacket over dark-brown trousers that fit snug to the bulge of muscles on his thighs. His shirt was snow-white linen, left casually open at the throat to counter the humid effects of a hot August afternoon. He wore his flat-top hat at a rakish angle, slightly off to one side and forward to shade his left eye. His boots were knee high and made of supple black goatskin that seemed as comfortably molded to the shape of his calves and feet as a pair of thick socks.

Reflecting her own dark mood, she had deliberately worn one of her mourning frocks, a plain, high-necked, long-sleeved dress of dull black cotton with nothing, not a braid or a line of piping, to relieve the severity. Sarah had been dismayed, William had declared she looked like a crow. Ryan had been the only one not to criticize her, saying it was only fitting to wear mourning clothes to mark the day they entertained a Yankee at Rosalie.

Verity had reacted no differently to Tarrington this time than the last, hugging her mother’s leg and giving every good impression of being determined to hide in her skirts all evening. But her resolves, along with a considerable portion of her shyness, dissipated a few seconds after Michael Tarrington produced a huge covered and beribboned basket from the floor of the buggy.

“The card says this is for a Miss Verity Jackson,” he had announced, frowning over the pink square of vellum. “Does anyone know where I might find the young lady in question?”

An enormous blue eye edged around a stiff fold of cotton and lingered long enough to catch Tarrington’s attention.

“Ahh. Well, if no one knows anyone by that name, I suppose we’ll just have to carry this big old basket all the way back to town with us. I wonder, though, if she would mind if we took a peek at what’s inside. It’s powerfully heavy—too heavy for me to hold like this without spilling. I’ll just set it down a minute and maybe we can pull back the cloth an inch or two …?”

Verity swayed to the side, using Amanda’s leg to maintain her balance as she watched the gingham cloth being drawn slowly back. The basket had been filled to the brim with oranges—a dozen or more—and perched on top, her eyes as big and blue as Verity’s own, was a doll with long blonde ringlets and a pink velvet pinafore.

The child had capitulated without any further struggle. Tarrington had held up the doll and Verity had walked toward it like someone in a trance. The oranges had been the icing on the cake, buying him a dimpled smile every time he looked at her and a comical, double-eyed attempt to mimic him every time he charmed her with a wink.

Dinner was an ugly pretense at civility. Ryan glowered with open hostility, almost defying anyone to speak to him directly. He was too much the gentleman to cause an outright scene at his mother’s table with a guest she had personally invited, but if stares could kill, the Yankee would have been colder than a corpse before they finished the first course of catfish soup.

Ryan’s black mood had a direct effect on Dianna, who looked to be on the verge of weeping each time she tried to draw him into the conversation and was met with a dark stare. Sarah was the only one who could be relied upon to jump into the breach. She was always starved for company and starved for gossip, and having someone there—now that Alisha was gone—with whom she could share her observations from the wedding kept her chattering almost non-stop.

Amanda wanted to scream. She did not care that Permalia Howard had turned into a shocking hussy, or that Dorothea Prine was as swollen as a ball of dough and should never have appeared in public in her condition. She did not care about the petty trials and tribulations affecting other people’s lives. She did not care about anything anymore. She only wanted to find the strength to survive through Wednesday night and then it would not matter if she cared or not anyway.

Mercy had done an impressive job of outfoxing potential scavengers after the wedding feast. She had hoarded several sacks of meat and savories from the pantries at Summitcrest, and the catfish soup was thick with vegetables and spices, the roasted haunch of beef was tender and juicy, the gumbo hot enough to set the glands in everyone’s mouths squirting rivers of saliva to drench the fire. But Amanda’s appetite had deserted her the instant she had seen the carriage rolling down the avenue. She spent the better part of the meal pushing her food from one side of the plate to the other, eventually earning enough attention to win a not-so-subtle pinch from Mercy as she carried platters to and from the kitchen.

Michael Tarrington was to blame, of course. His presence was to blame for Ryan’s sullen resentment and Sarah’s babbling foolishness. He was the cause of Dianna’s helpless frustration and Verity’s open treachery.

When the meal ended and Mercy had cleared away the empty plates, Amanda begged to be excused and spent more time than usual getting Verity washed and ready for bed. She brushed out the child’s hair and told her a long story, staying by her bed well after she had fallen asleep, her hands clutched tightly around her new doll. Amanda was half hoping Tarrington would be gone by the time she descended the stairs again, but no. He was in the parlor with the others, seated by the fire, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, feigning an avid interest in a discussion between William and the Judge over the proper way to distill bourbon.

Ryan and Dianna, she was informed by her mother, had gone for a stroll in the gardens and wouldn’t it be hospitable (said with suitable emphasis) of her to invite Mr. Tarrington to do the same?

Tarrington saw the soft pink flush that darkened Amanda’s complexion and he caught himself staring again, at the prim black frock, the matronly chignon, the face so pale and devoid of any animation it made it nearly impossible to envision her on the deck of the Mississippi Queen. The green velvet gown had been anything but modest or matronly. It had encouraged her breasts to swell voluptuously over the edge of the bodice. It had drawn attention to the smooth white slope of her shoulders and lured the eye downward to marvel over how tiny the span of her waist was. It seemed insane to even think the two women were one and the same. A betting man would have staked his entire fortune on the sister, Alisha, being the one more likely apt to seek her thrills by masquerading as Montana Rose. Tarrington had met the twin only briefly on the day of the wedding, but he had felt those blue eyes stripping him naked and taking his measure in less time than it had taken him to offer his congratulations to the happy bride and groom.

Bristling with more curiosity and intrigue than he cared to acknowledge, Tarrington rose to his feet, acting on Sarah Courtland’s suggestion before Amanda had any chance to refuse.

“A pity you did not seem to enjoy your dinner,” he said as they exited through the parlor doors. “The creole was exceptional.”

“I wasn’t very hungry.”

“Nothing to do with the company, I trust?”

Amanda gave his attempt at brevity a measured look then searched the shadows until she saw the vague outline of Dianna and Ryan. They were strolling toward the summer-house, and even in the heavy gloom, she could see that Ryan’s limp was more pronounced than usual, a sure sign he was battling more emotions than he could handle.

She turned and walked abruptly in the opposite direction, leaving Tarrington standing alone in the glow of light from the parlor.

“Like my daddy always said,” he mused wryly, following after her. “A bad impression is better than no impression at all.”

“You take too much upon yourself, sir, to assume my mood is entirely owing to you.”

“Implying there are weightier subjects on your mind than your penchant for frequenting riverboats and dealing from marked decks?”

She stopped abruptly on the path and turned to face him. “Believe it or not, Mr. Tarrington, there are.”

Her voice was as cold and sharp as a blade, and Tarrington had to remind himself that she was not the helpless widow, despite the widow’s weeds. Nor was she the innocent, maligned, suffering Southern belle struggling valiantly to hold on to her dignity and pride despite the hardships of the war and the humiliation of defeat. She was not afraid to enter a man’s world and call his bluff. Nor was she reluctant to use her considerable talents to cheat, lie, and steal with the same impunity she used to start a man’s blood pounding in his temples and surging through his belly. She could shuffle, mark, and deal a deck of cards slicker and faster than anyone he had seen. She was clever and she was cunning.

She was a woman, for God’s sake, and that made her the most dangerous and deceptive creature on earth.

Tarrington watched her start along the path again, and followed thoughtfully behind. Insects hummed in the uncut grass and somewhere in the distance a dog bayed at the glistening crescent of the quarter moon. Stones and pebbles crunched underfoot, swept along by the hem of Amanda’s skirt. Slippery, opalescent light dappled the ground between breaks in the trees and, in the distance, gleamed wetly on the flooded fields.

Amanda stopped finally under the awning of the huge oak that stood guarding the front of Rosalie. There was enough light to see where Verity had been playing earlier in the day. Hardened mud cakes and moss pies littered the clearing, and they had to sidestep to avoid stumbling into the pit she had excavated.

“I suppose you are waiting for the explanation I promised,” Amanda began quietly.

“I confess, nothing I have seen or heard here today has done anything to alleviate my curiosity."

“Were you expecting to see silver and fine china? I’m sorry to disappoint you, but unfortunately, some Yankee captain took a liking to the d’Iberville crest and ‘appropriated’ it for his dear wife back in Washington. The china was two hundred years old, brought from France by my mother’s ancestors. Personally, I would have smashed it before I let some sticky-fingered Yankee take it away, but Mother was more sentimental. She helped him pack it, hoping she could at least protect it from rough handling.”

“I didn’t mean to imply—”

“I know what you meant to imply,” she interrupted flatly. “You were expecting to see evidence of how I spent my ill-gotten gains. Furniture without the stuffing torn out, perhaps, or pictures on the wall instead of faded squares on the paint. Eight matching chairs to put around a dining room table made of something other than two old doors nailed together. Again, I am sorry to disappoint you, but furniture and paintings were not a high priority these past few months. What you saw in the parlor and the dining salon tonight is the sum total of what was left and what we could salvage after your valiant army stripped us bare.”

She waited for him to rise to the bait so she could feel justified in letting go of her temper. But he did nothing. He said nothing. He merely watched her through dark hooded eyes that told her nothing of what he was thinking.

“I did not say that to brag about who we were or to buy your pity for what we have lost. I said it because there have been d’Ibervilles on this land since Natchez was nothing more than a trading post for trappers. In fact, the post itself was called Fort Rosalie.” Her gaze slipped past his shoulder and softened as she looked at the regal, columned splendor of the ghostly shadow that rose up behind them. “This was once a beautiful, gracious home. It was a beautiful, gracious way of life that no one who was not a part of it could ever hope to understand.”

“And never will if we are continually blockaded at every turn.”

Disdain rippled through her like a wave of ice water. “You don't even try to understand. You want to conquer and dictate. You want to make slaves out of the masters and teach us the error of our ways, and the irony of it is—you don’t even see the irony. Winning the war wasn’t enough for you. You brought in your military rule to degrade and humiliate us, to steal everything we own, to beat us onto our knees. You claim freedom to be the right of every man and slavery to be an offense against God, yet you see nothing wrong with putting those same free slaves to work on the same land for harder and longer hours in exchange for the ‘privilege’ of having ten square feet to live on and paying all their wages back in rent.

“Then there are those who think freedom means never having to work again. They suddenly discover their benevolent new Yankee masters are not prepared to feed, clothe, and house them for nothing, so they live in shantytowns and murder each other for a scrap of bread. Meanwhile, honest white folk—women and children for the most part, and men who would not have dreamed of treating their slaves as badly as you liberators treat the free-issue slaves now—are thrown out on the streets and are forced to beg for their next meal. Tell me, sir, what have you accomplished in your victory? How have you improved the plight of humanity? And how can you, in any honesty at all, expect anything but blockades at every turn?”

Tarrington took a moment to answer. Apart from his sisters, who were all as outspoken as magpies, he had yet to hear a southern woman express her feelings and observations so eloquently. Most lowered their eyes and bit their lips and kept their opinions to themselves ... if they were allowed to have any, that is. Even Dianna deferred to the Judge if one of his bushy eyebrows was raised.

"May I ask you a question?"

He nodded. "Of course."

“Why, exactly, did you buy Briar Glen? Surely you knew how the people hereabout feel toward Yankees and carpetbaggers. Why would you willingly stick your hand into a nest of angry hornets?”

“Maybe I like living dangerously. Maybe I like the challenge and maybe”—he paused and his gaze fell to the luscious pout of her mouth—“when I see something I like, I don’t mind taking a few stings to get it. But I didn’t think we came out here to talk about my motives. I thought we were going to talk about yours … or, more specifically, what sent you out prowling the night as Montana Rose.”

“Maybe I just like living dangerously,” she said, her eyes sparkling as she flung his own words at him. “Maybe I like challenges and maybe ... maybe I had no choice.”

"Everyone has choices, especially between doing something right and doing something wrong.”

“But if it is something necessary, do you stop to think if it’s right or wrong?”

He studied her in silence, his eyes reflecting pinpoints of light from the slivered moon. The urge washed through him, like a shower of cold water, that he wanted very much to kiss her. It was absurd and he knew if he did not back away, she would win her point by the mere act of him not stopping to debate the right or wrong of it, just the need.

“You said you had no choice. What did you mean by that?”

She sighed and took a few steps into the moon-shadow to reach up and pluck at a hanging leaf.

“In ’56,” she began, “a blight went through the county, affecting the cotton crops along both banks of the river for a hundred miles or more. Rosalie suffered heavy losses that year. Not enough to ruin us, but enough to put a strain on our working capital and leave very little as a cushion against a second year of blight, should it happen.”

“Which, I assume, it did?”

“Three years in a row the harvest yielded less than a tenth of what it should have. We were still all right, what with our stables and what Ryan made each year from breeding and selling his thoroughbreds. But there was all that talk of war. Father was eager for it, as far back as I can remember. There were always men in the library holding meetings, arguing, haggling, planning for the glorious day when Mississippi would secede and the South would become an independent country.

“When the day finally came and war was declared, he nearly shot the provost marshal for trying to tell him he was too old to join the Army of the Confederacy. He and my brothers enlisted right away, and with everyone convinced the fighting would be over in a month or so, no one worried about failed crops or three years’ worth of borrowing on credit. And no one worried that the Confederate bonds we were given in exchange for our horses would eventually be worth less than the paper they were printed on.

“I suppose we were luckier than most when the fighting ended. Two of our men came home. Rosalie was still standing, though most of our slaves had run off and the fields were lying fallow. This close to the river, we were frequently pressed to play host to unwanted guests. The armies of the North and South used our home for their headquarters at varying times over the years. They ate our food and commandeered our livestock, but again we were lucky; the Yankees spared the house instead of burning it or blowing it up for sport. As an infant, Verity used to cry when she heard the sound of boots outside the nursery door. After a while, she even grew too frightened to do that and she would just sit there, shaking in terror while the soldiers ripped apart the bedding and floorboards searching for any hidden valuables.”

“Why the hell didn’t you leave? Or at least get away from the river?”

“We did leave for a while,” she said softly. “Alisha and I went to New Orleans. Verity was born there, but … we couldn’t stay. There wasn’t any point; it was the same everywhere, and we were needed here. Father had been sent home by then, and it was too much for Mother to cope with his injury and … and ... everything else.”

Amanda paused and looked up into Tarrington’s face. “He tries, he honestly does, but he gets confused so easily. He withdraws and shuts himself away somewhere in the past when things get too difficult, and it sometimes takes days for him to come back to us. He never talks about the war, never seems to notice how things have changed around here. He prefers to act as if Stephen, Evan, and Caleb are just out of sight somewhere … and for the sake of his peace of mind, we have learned to live with it.”

It was the first time she had mentioned her husband, and once again Tarrington found himself battling strange urges— to know what the man was like, to know how much she had loved him, how much she grieved for him now. Questions he couldn’t ask, of course.

“It must be difficult for the child. Not having a father, I mean.”

“Verity never knew him; Caleb is just a name to her,” Amanda said quietly, bowing her head.

“And … your husband? Did he know …?”

“Caleb died a month after we were married,” she said without thinking, without emotion. “So no, he never even knew he had a child."

“She’s a beautiful little girl,” he said quietly. “He would have been very proud of her.”

“She’s more than just beautiful, Mr. Tarrington. She is the most important thing in my life, and I would do anything … anything to keep her safe.” Amanda lifted her chin again. “Even dress like a two-bit whore and deal off the bottom of the deck.”

“You still haven’t told me why you chose gambling as a means to try to improve your lot. Or where the hell you even came up with the idea, let alone the nerve to try something so outrageous. I don’t recall any of my sisters saying five-card stud was a required course at the finishing school.”

"We went to the bank first, to the Natchez Mercantile. They loaned us enough money to buy seed to plant the fields last year and again this year. There were already huge debts against us, but again, we had no choice. Ryan had to sign more notes and until a few weeks ago, there was a good chance we could have paid some of the loans back and still have had enough left over to see us through next year.” She paused and smiled grimly. "Unfortunately, God and E. Forrest Wainright conspired to make sure that didn’t happen.”

“I am passingly familiar with the one entity,” Tarrington said with a small curve to his lips, “but who is E. Forrest Wainright?”

My future husband, she thought abruptly, shaking her head slightly at the irony. “A speculator and a profiteer. He bought up all the notes on Rosalie and demanded his money within thirty days of giving us notice.”

“Were those the original terms of the loan?”

Amanda smiled bitterly at his lack of understanding. “There were no terms, Mr. Tarrington. Not as you might know them. Our family had been doing business with the Mercantile since the day it opened its doors. Our word was our bond, our honor our collateral. Had the bank still been in the hands of men who would no more doubt Ryan’s promise to honor my father’s debts than they would doubt the sun coming up each morning, we could have survived any number of Yankee bureaucrats.”

Tarrington refrained from pointing out the material flaws in all of this Southern chivalry. He patted his breast pocket in search of a cigar instead. “How much do you owe this Wainright fellow? And when is the loan due?”

“Fifty thousand dollars,” she said calmly. “By the end of next week.”

Tarrington whistled softly and forgot all about the cigar. “I admire your initiative, madam. You expected to earn it all in a few hands of cards?”

“I was on my way to doing so, if you’ll recall.”

Tarrington did not rise to the bait. “I am still pressed to ask how you arrived at that particular method to try to earn the money you needed.”

Amanda hesitated, but only briefly. What did it matter now anyway?

“You are no stranger to the riverboats yourself, sir. Have you ever heard the name Billy Fleet?”

“Fleet?” Now where the deuce was she going with this? he wondered. “He worked the river back in the forties, if I remember correctly. Somewhat of a legend in his own time, he was said to have the fastest hands and keenest card sense of any sharp before or since.”

“I shall have to tell Father that,” she murmured with a crooked smile. “He would be tickled to hear himself called a legend, I’m sure.”

“Father? Your father is Billy Fleet?”

“Was, Mr. Tarrington. He was Billy Fleet. And it was just a game to him, the bored, spoiled son of a wealthy man who found it exciting and stimulating to ride the riverboats and challenge his own destiny. He gave it up when he married Mother and had to assume the responsibility of the running of Rosalie. For the past twenty-seven years, he has been just plain William Courtland, one of Natchez’s most upstanding, law-abiding, eminent citizens.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Tarrington muttered, genuinely impressed.

“No doubt you will be,” she agreed. “And long before you ever intended if so much of a whisper of this goes beyond these shadows. Judge Moore would shoot you himself, without blinking an eye.”

“The Judge knows William Courtland is Billy Fleet?”

“Everyone in Adams County knows, Mr. Tarrington, so it would hardly be worth your while to take out an announcement in the Gazette”

“Your high opinion of me is flattering, Mrs. Jackson.”

“It would be even higher if I thought you were the kind of man who would destroy the reputation of an old, broken man in a wheelchair.”

“You don’t seem to be too worried about your own reputation.”

“I am doing a fine enough job ruining it myself.”

“Not without a little parental guidance,” he countered smoothly. “Or are you going to tell me your esteemed father had no hand in teaching you the art of ...what did you call it? Challenging destiny?”

“It started out as simple parlor tricks,” she explained, discarding the shredded oak leaf. “As an amusing way for the family to pass a rainy afternoon.”

“The family? You mean you weren’t the only one to benefit from your father’s knowledge?”

“I wasn’t even the best. My brother Stephen could have played naked and still won every hand with four aces.”

“An enviable talent,” he said with a wry smile. “And the others?”

“Evan was cautious, but he usually won if he put his mind to it. Alisha is good, but she tends to get greedy and, when she does, she overplays her hand.”

“And Ryan?”

“He used to drive poor Father to distraction. He could gentle an unschooled Arabian with a touch of his hand, but put a deck of cards in those same hands and he was all thumbs.”

Tarrington nodded. “Which explains why you were the one seated in the games and he was merely there to guard your back. Is he the only one who knows?”

“Besides you, yes,” she said miserably. “And he would have been quite happy removing you from the list if I hadn’t talked him out of it.”

Tarrington’s eyes glittered strangely. “May I ask why you did?”

“I didn’t think Alisha would appreciate gunfire at her wedding,” she said bluntly.

“Probably not,” he agreed, his smile concealed beneath the full moustache. “All the same, the wedding was several days ago and I am still in one piece.”

“You’re also Dianna’s cousin.”

“Ahh. Yes, that might tend to take some of the adoring glow out of her eyes. On the other hand, I don’t imagine it put any great shine in his each time he watched you pour yourself into that green velvet dress and sashay onto the deck of a riverboat.”

Amanda reached up and closed her fingers around the gold locket. Standing there in the darkness, cloaked in shadows and black bombazine, she herself could hardly believe she had done it. The fights with Ryan—and there had been some monumental confrontations—the appalling risks they had taken … it had all been for nothing. They were exactly where they had been a month ago, two months ago, six months ago before the notion had ever occurred to her. In the beginning, she had done it just to put food on the table—and an orange in Verity’s hand. In the end, she had been caught up by her own pride and greed, and, in truth, probably deserved nothing better than a fate sealed by E. Forrest Wainright.

Amanda was not aware of the softly filtered moonlight that was giving Tarrington a very good view indeed of the uncertainty and vulnerability that came into her face. Her eyes were wide and misty, her chin no longer firm and stubborn but struggling valiantly to keep the tremors confined to the already much abused lower lip. Wisps of fine golden hair had floated free of the chignon, curling at her temples and trailing along her throat, drawing his eyes and his less censurable thoughts down to where her hand twisted the chain of the gold locket.

“For what it’s worth,” he murmured, “if I were in your position, I don’t know if I would have had the guts to do what you did.”

“For how very little it is worth, Mr. Tarrington, I don’t want your praise,” she said softly. “Or anyone else’s, for that matter. I feel cheap and tawdry enough as it is.”

“It wasn’t intended as praise. It was a stupid, foolish, recklessly insane thing to do, and you were just plain lucky to have had me for a playing partner that night. Anyone else seeing those magic fingers at work would have put a bullet into you first and pondered the merits of your pluckiness later.”

“Regardless if he was cheating himself?” she pointed out wryly.

“As I told you on the Queen, I was merely protecting my interests.”

“And I was attempting to protect mine and those of my family.”

Tarrington wanted to shake her but, instead, became brusque and businesslike. “Very well, Mrs. Jackson, I have heard your explanation, and for whatever insane and reckless reasons of my own, I believe you.”

“Thank you very much,” she said her voice tight in her throat, “but I do not need to be patronized either.”

“I’m not patronizing you. I’m making you an offer.”

Her eyes narrowed instantly with suspicion. “An offer?”

“To forget everything I know about the elusive Montana Rose, and to forget this conversation ever took place. Furthermore”—he paused and seemed to have to give himself a little shake in order to comprehend what he was about to say —“I will loan you the money you need to pay off the debts on Rosalie—at a fair rate of interest, of course.”

Amanda clutched the locket so tightly the chain bit into the flesh at the nape of her neck. “And what would you expect in return for such generosity?”

“First—a promise. A solemn promise, backed by this rigid code of honor you Southerners hold so dear, that your days as a river pirate are over.”

“I have already made myself that promise."

“Nonetheless, I’ll want your word on it. I know how fickle a woman’s mind can be when it becomes inconvenient to recall what she has or has not promised. Five sisters, remember? None of whom ever told a man the straight truth whether it was necessary to lie or not.”

“You said first, implying there were more conditions?”

Tarrington felt his body tense, felt the hot, slow rush of desire flow into his extremities. It was there, on the tip of his tongue, needing only breath to give it substance. His mind and body had already given it enough consideration to have denied him a single moment’s peace since he had confronted her on the deck of the Mississippi Queen, since he had first envisioned her naked and welcoming him into her arms. Moreover, if the disdainful light in her eyes was anything to judge by, she knew exactly what he wanted. It would come as no surprise that he wanted her.

“It was merely a figure of speech,” he said, smiling tightly. “There are no other terms, no other conditions. Well? Do we have an agreement?”

Amanda’s frown was as slow to form as her words. “No. No, Mr. Tarrington, we do not. I cannot take your money.”

“Why not? You were willing to take it a week ago.”

“A week ago … the circumstances were different.”

“Why? Because we were sitting around a table deliberately trying to cheat each other?”

“No,” she said softly. “Because a week ago we needed the money. As of yesterday, we don’t.”

“The loan has been settled?”

“In … a manner of speaking, yes.”

“What manner?”

Amanda tensed perceptibly. “I fail to see how it could possibly be any of your business, or your concern, to know.”

“You haven’t followed your sister’s example, I hope, and found some rich, addled bastard to marry yourself to.”

She opened her mouth to respond but closed it again.

And for a man who had spent the long years of the war holding endless night watches, scanning blackened seas and starless nights for any sign of enemy patrols, the broken moonlight that filtered through the branches of the oak might well have been bright sunlight. He could see the blotches of color rouging her cheeks and he could see the movement in her throat as she worked to ease the dryness in her mouth. Prickling his suspicions further, for the first time all night her eyes refused to meet his, even though she knew he was staring at her—an affront she had never failed to challenge until now.

“What have you done?” he asked quietly. He tucked a finger under her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “You haven’t done something truly stupid, like try to renegotiate the terms with Wainright?”

She attempted to pull her chin free, but he would not allow it.

“It wasn’t stupid,” she declared. “It was the only option we had left.”

A tense few seconds passed before he found a way to phrase his next question, hissed as it were, in a voice so silky it sent a shiver down her spine. “And what kind of terms is he demanding?”

Amanda shook her head and this time, when she tried to break his hold, he curled an arm around her waist and brought her up hard against his body.

“Maybe I asked the wrong question,” he said on a growl, his eyes unrelenting as they searched her face. “Maybe I should be asking what kind of terms you offered him?”

“Please,” she gasped. “Let me go.”

“Not until you tell me what I want to know.”

“It isn’t any of your affair to know,” she insisted breathlessly.

“Wrong turn of phrase to use,” he said, drawing her so close against his body, she could feel the buttons of his shirt pressing through her basque. Her heart was pounding and her limbs seemed to have lost all respect for the commands she was giving them to push away, to break free of the wall of muscle that was threatening to overwhelm her.

“Mandy—” His mouth was only inches from hers, his eyes so wide and dark they filled her entire field of vision. “What have you done?”

“It isn’t your affair, Yankee,” she cried fiercely.

He swore softly and shifted his hand from her chin to the nape of her neck. His mouth covered hers without further preamble, his lips and hands holding her with enough force to prevent any possibility of escape. The kiss was nothing like the light feathering he had tried to seduce her with on the Mississippi Queen. There was nothing teasing or tentative about it, nothing that suggested he would stop or even let her gasp at a decent breath until he had had his fill. What small concessions he did allow, he took ruthless advantage of, thrusting the wet heat of his tongue between her lips, probing deeply, penetrating her defenses with an intimacy bolder than anything she had expected or, indeed, knew how to resist.

Caleb’s kisses had never flooded her limbs with such a fiery weakness. They had never sent her hands twisting into his lapels or her body curling inwardly with shock. He had surely never painted her mouth with such lush, erotic suggestions that she felt corresponding ribbons of motion begin to slither and slide between her thighs.

Tarrington sank his fingers into the knot of her hair and tore away the pins holding it prisoner. It tumbled loose, spilling over her shoulders like liquid moonlight, and he used a silky fistful of it to draw her head back, to expose the slender white arch of her throat to his roving lips.

“Stop,” she gasped. “Stop … please.”

“Is it my affair yet?” he demanded huskily.

Amanda’s lips throbbed and tingled. Her senses were reeling, her thoughts spinning out of control. His tongue was unleashing rivers of sensation along her neck, and with a gasp, she realized his hand was doing the same to her breast, stroking and kneading the flesh through its thin layers of bombazine and cotton, brazenly tracing the contours with a skill that shattered what few illusions she had remaining.

He was not a man to be trifled with. Not a man who liked to play games or a man accustomed to losing them. She had challenged him, defied him, and rebuked him, and now he was telling her, in no uncertain terms, he could take what he wanted, willingly or not.

“Well?” he growled. “Do I get an answer?”

“No,” she cried. “No, you can’t change anything now. You mustn’t interfere. It’s done. I have given my word—”

Tarrington swore again and reclaimed her mouth, smothering her words beneath the bold insistence of yet another kiss that threatened to reduce her to a shivering, shuddering puddle of raw sensation.

“Tell me,” he grated, his moustache chafing the moist and ravaged pout of her lips. “Tell me what you have promised to Wainright, or by God …”

“I have promised to marry him,” she gasped, the words so ragged and broken, Tarrington could not be certain his ears had heard her correctly.

“What? What did you say?”

“I—” She swallowed hard and her voice improved on the whisper, but barely enough to rise above the solid thrumming of her heartbeat. “I have agreed to marry him and he … in turn … has agreed to extend the loan on Rosalie.”

He released her like a red-hot rock and gaped down at her in disbelief. His own senses were none too reliable at the moment. His body was strung as tightly as a bow, the heat was ebbing and flowing through his flesh, causing a confused welter of emotions from anger to arousal, from intense desire to damning fury.

A bead of sweat crawled through his hair and slid down his neck. He backed off a pace, then another, then raked a hand through his hair, across the back of his neck, staring at her as if he were still having trouble comprehending what she was telling him.

“I’m offering you the money you need … without any terms or conditions or threats of foreclosure. Take it.”

“I can’t. I have given Wainright my word.”

“Break it,” he snarled. “The bloody world will not end if you do. Pay the bastard what you owe him in cash, not by … by …”

“By selling myself to him?” she finished on a choked cry. “Is that so much different from what you would have expected in exchange for your generosity?”

“I told you—”

“You told me there would be no conditions, no demands. But there would have been expectations, would there not?”

Tarrington glared at her, at the brittle contempt sparkling in her eyes. The taste of her was still on his lips, the feel of her impressed on his body, and he was shocked to have to admit to himself that she was probably right. There would have expectations, possibly even demands.

“Since I have already made my attraction to you quite clear," he said in a low voice, "I won’t deny the obvious, madam. But the choice of whether or not you reciprocated would have been yours, and at least you would have had a choice. With someone like Wainright, I would hazard to guess the only choice you’ll have is whether you show him your gratitude on your back or on your knees.”

Amanda’s face drained in a sickening rush. She reacted instinctively, swinging her hand up out of the darkness and slapping his face with all of the strength and outrage she could muster. It was considerable and Michael Tarrington staggered back a step, his cheek stinging as if it had been caught by the lash of a whip.

He kept his face turned to the side long enough to win the war against his own reflex to strike back. When he did look at her again, his eyes were tense and brilliant, gleaming with enough fury to stop the breath in her throat.

He moved suddenly and was maliciously pleased to see her flinch. But it was only to offer a formal, if not ingratiatingly polite, bow, saying nothing, sparing her neither another word nor a glance as he turned and walked back to the house.