WEARY AS HE WAS, EMMITT STILL MANAGED TO VISIT THE MAIN RANCH HOUSE TO SPEAK TO THE OLDER KELLINGTON BROTHERS ABOUT WHAT WENT ON UNDER THEIR NOSES.
Fate conspired against him. The men had already left for town, bound for his office after news of what happened reached them.
Emmitt thanked the lushly beautiful Ms Caroline Kellington for her hospitality, and asked her to pass on a message to her husband to see to Beauregard’s care in case they missed each other.
An hour later back in town Emmitt asked Doctor Herbert Pollock to visit Beauregard and found little in the way of opposition when remuneration was assured.
Failing all attempts to be inconspicuous, the town folk trailed him from the edge of town, to the physicians, to the courthouse where he offered testimony to support an arrest on a cattle thief, and then back to his office.
His butt barely touched his seat before the door burst open. Emmitt hesitated then let himself drop the rest of the way. The old chair creaked. “Homer.”
“Where is he?” Homer Roseberry marched in reeking of cheap bug juice. “Was he alive? Where is he? Why isn’t he rotting in that jail waiting for the hangman? That redskin mongrel must pay for dragging the good name of my family through the mud. Our taxes pay your wages. I want justice.”
Emmitt didn’t respond well to intimidation or ranted demands. Wiping spittle from his chin, he focused past Homer’s shoulder on the wretch hovering by the doorway.
Franklyn Buckley Junior looked like his conscience pricked him, because the usually ruddy-faced youth was fish-belly pale, and had dark circles ringing his eyes. The scratch marks on his face and the bloodshot cornea looked nasty too.
They also corroborated a piece of Roslyn Roseberry’s testimony.
A chunky hand slammed onto the desk rattling stationary. Homer thrust his face forward, sneering. “Well? Why aren’t you saying anything?”
Emmitt stared pointedly at the hand. “I must be suffering heat stroke, because I’m hallucinating a vision of you storming into my office without so much as a ‘By your leave,’ demanding answers to questions you have no right to ask.”
“No right? She was my sister, my only sister, and that unholy creature raped and killed her.”
Emmitt frowned. “Where did you hear that nonsense?”
“Frank Junior told it.”
Emmitt looked at the man himself. “You did?”
“She looked it.” Franklyn Junior mumbled to his boots, avoiding eye contact. “I hung back after the others to see if I could help her. Sweet on her, weren’t I? She looked dead. So did he.” He swallowed. “He is dead, isn’t he?”
Eyebrow quirked, Emmitt returned his attention to Homer. “Miss Roseber-Kelling–” He took a moment to get things straight in his head. “Miss Roslyn is very much alive, that I can assure you.”
Homer hurled an accusing look over his shoulder at Franklyn Junior who paled considerably and shuffled backward. He bumped into Wyatt Kellington who filled the room with his austere aura. Behind him crowded his younger brother William, who looked as if he’d been delivered a blow he’d yet to recover from.
Wyatt, the eldest Kellington sibling was a well-built, well-liked, even-tempered kind of man except when it came to his youngest brother Beauregard. With dark hazel eyes, wavy brown hair, and a winning smile, he’d found the courtship of his wife Caroline to be an effortless thing. Standing in the Sheriff’s office while most of the town milled outside clamouring for gossip had his face curdling something fierce.
Younger by a handful of years, Handsome William, the middle Kellington son was a deeper thinker, and more intense than his oldest sibling. He never lacked for female companionship of the widowed variety, and was well fed by the matchmaking mothers who dreamed of his wedding to their eligible daughters.
Both men were considered fine company, unfortunate blood relation to an Indian savage or not
Straightening, Homer glared at Wyatt and shook his fist. “Your brother is a dead man.”
“He isn’t already?” Wyatt grated.
“No,” Emmitt said, intrigued when Franklyn Junior gasped and moaned pitifully at the news.
Homer blinked. “He’s alive?”
“Of a sort.” Emmitt saw no need to educate him as to Beauregard’s uncertain condition. Clear he knew more than he was saying, Homer sketched a dangerous game Emmitt refused to play. “Man like that’s hard to kill.”
“He won’t be breathing long. Not when my Pa hears about it. Not after what he did to Lynie. He’ll hang.”
“Maybe.” William flanked his brother, and cut the larger man to pieces with a rapier gaze the colour of autumn leaves. “Maybe not.” He looked at the Sheriff, nonchalant with self-possession. “We’ll deal with him.”
“That’s a pack of lies. The rotten bastard’s still alive, isn’t he? After he raped my own sister.” Homer stabbed a finger towards Emmitt. “Even the lawman’s too afraid to put that Injun six feet under. Since the law is useless in this town my family will take matters into their own hands.” He crossed his flabby arms over his chest. “I’m of a mind to go out there with my boys right now and fetch Lynie home.”
Seeing through this phony act of brotherly concern, Wyatt remained unmoved. “No.”
Arms dropping, Homer turned puce. “What?”
Wyatt studied him with icy distain, but his fists rhythmically clenched and unclenched. “If we catch you or any other fool on Kellington land without permission, Beauregard won’t be the only dying man in Dawson Lake bound for the bone orchard.” Wyatt poured on the ice, drilling the other man to the spot. “Am I understood?”
“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”
“Roseberry, get out of my face. I will knock you so hard you’ll see tomorrow today.”
William’s presence underscored his brother’s warning.
Snarling, Homer pushed past and spilled into the street cussing, and yelling up a ruckus.
Gulping, Franklyn Junior scurried after him.
“So, Sheriff, how is my brother?”
“There aren’t words, Wyatt.” Emmitt motioned for them to pull up chairs, but accepted the frustrated headshakes declining the offer. “Bert will visit him directly, latest tomorrow afternoon. It’s a long ride out.”
“And the woman he took?”
Emmitt sighed. What a bad box. “Miss Roslyn is alive. Beaten bad though.” He grimaced remembering her split lip, and the discoloured bite marks at her neck that disappeared under the raggedy shirt she wore. “While I’m not entirely sure I can attest to her mental stability she seems defensive over Beauregard. Very certain her version of events is what happened, though I can hardly accept all of it as true without further investigation.”
“Her version of events?” asked William.
“She claims Beauregard helped her run away from home, offered her shelter out of the goodness of his heart then tried to protect her from a mob rustled up by Elstein Roseberry.”
Wyatt’s face darkened. “There is no goodness in Beauregard. He’s ugly inside, cold and mean. Any goodness died with Riverbird.”
“Why would she lie?” William protested. “Why defend him if he hurt her?”
“Fear?” Wyatt looked grim. “She’s afraid of him like everyone else. Worried he’ll come after her if she speaks up.”
Emmitt drummed his fingers on the desk, thoughtful, looking for a diplomatic and tactful solution. “Maybe we should let it lie for a few weeks. Let her come around on her own to the reality of her situation.”
“We can’t leave that lady out there with him. Adding insult to injury won’t help.”
“From what Miss Roslyn told me she isn’t setting a toe outside that house until he’s up and about. Made that point quite clear with a gun to my gut.” Cautious, he tested the waters. “That sound like a woman who was ravished to you?”
“You’re defending him?” Wyatt was outraged. “What he did is all over town. My wife is in hysterics.”
Emmitt spread his fingers in a placating gesture. Now was plainly not the time to mention they may have gained a sister-in-law. “At this point it’s all hearsay. I got versions of the truth coming at me from all angles. I have to make up my own mind, as do you. Until then, let it lie. Things aren’t what they seem. Beauregard will recover, and you boys can talk it out. I’ll discover if any law was broke, I swear.” He tapped the metal star pinned to his chest. “This tin holds me to it.”
Eyes sad, William nodded. “I’d like to hear what Beau has to say.” He placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Squeezed. “Maybe the Sheriff is right and it’s not as bad as it looks. Maybe he got caught up in something nasty. Elstein always hated him. Maybe–”
“You always did believe Beauregard was nothing but misunderstood and forever in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“But–”
“Save it.” Wyatt’s voice was tight, expression bleak. “Bruised or not, Beauregard will explain himself and be rewarded with what he so richly deserves.”
ROSLYN MILKED THE COW. Ms Goat proved so uncooperative there’d been no other option. Unlike her smaller pen mate, Ms Cow had simply stood, chewed grass, and endured the ham-fisted fumbling on her teats.
Roslyn managed a quarter pail before stumbling into the house to glorify Beauregard with her accomplishment.
Rabbit stew was for supper. It smelt delicious. Though Beauregard grunted when told he could have some she could tell he was pleased. Sunset was glorious. Roslyn wished the windows were cleaner so she could enjoy it without going outside.
The house needed a scrubbing, and she added it to her List of Impossible Tasks which grew longer yet more achievable each day.
Much to Beauregard’s exasperation, she insisted on spoon-feeding him the stew so he didn’t have to move a muscle other than to chew.
Horses thundered into the yard.
Her heart stopped for a full beat then kicked painfully in the confines of her chest.
Hands trembling, she set down the meal and picked up the pistol she’d taken to carrying with her everywhere. “Beau?”
“Give me the pistol.” She did. He held it securely then changed his mind. To her confusion he pushed it back into her palm. “Get the rifle. I’ll take it then. Quickly.”
Roslyn make it to the kitchen table.
As she reached to grab the rifle the door crashed open and rebounded of the wall. The nightmare that door slamming open preceded four days previous was too much for her patched psyche to take.
Scream strangled in her throat, Roslyn’s bones locked her into position.
Traversing the distance between them with stretched, heavy-booted strides, Wyatt extended an arm, scooped her up, and dumped her over William’s broad shoulder.
The utter ridiculousness of it stunned her into indignant silence before she vehemently objected. “What the devil? Unhand me.”
“Quiet, and no fits. It’s over now, you’re safe.” William turned and strode out the door. “Wyatt will take care of Beauregard as I take you home.”
His meaning was incomprehensible to her. “Take care of....” Roslyn struggled in earnest. “Let go. You release me now, or so help me god, I’ll–” She jammed the pistol into the small of his back. “I may not be a good shot, but even I won’t miss this close.”
William stilled. Said in a calm, coaxing voice, “Now see here Miss–”
“Down.” She let him hear the click as she pulled the hammer. “Now.”
Back on her own two feet, she lifted the pistol. If she pulled the trigger a coin-sized hole would blow through his brain.
Sick with worry over what might occur in her absence, Roslyn spared him no more than a feral glare before twisting on her heel and bolting back into the house.
With a curse, William dashed after her.
Built leaner than his older brother, his longish hair gleamed a rich chestnut in the last rays of sunlight, and his autumn eyes narrowed with apprehension. A thinker like his father, Will let her go because deep inside he cosseted a hope that his younger brother wasn’t beyond redemption, and deserved this woman’s protection.
Roslyn’s stomach clenched at the booming yell coming from the bedroom, and chased down its owner.
At one time she’d thought maybe the Older Kellingtons would help her and Beauregard. How naïve she’d been. They were no better than the ignorant town folk. No good would come of them visiting.
She wanted them gone.
Exploding into the room, she held up her pistol. “Get away from him. I’ll shoot you stupid if you don’t.” Unused to yelling, her voice came out a pitched warble that ripped through the higher octaves. “Get away.”
Wyatt spun with a scowl. His sweat-dampened waistcoat slapped across his chest. “Will? Can’t you keep hold of one tiny woman?”
Affronted by his inability to recognise her as an opponent, Roslyn gripped the gun with both hands. “Don’t make me.”
“Get outside and wait for us to take you home.” Wyatt speared her with a despotic look he sincerely expected her to shrivel under. “This is a family thing. You’re not invited.”
“I’m his wife.”
Entering the room, William choked.
Wyatt’s face twisted in a jumble of disgust and shame. “Woman, did he knock clean whatever smidgen of sense there was in that pretty blonde head of yours? I didn’t come here to listen to you defend the man who did that to your face.”
Flabbergasted, she groped for composure. “You can’t talk to me that way.”
“He’s got you stashed out here like a slave, half-dressed, barefoot, doing God knows what to you when the sun goes down, and you’re still looking after him.”
Flushing at the implication she and Beauregard were intimate, Roslyn’s chin jutted. “Look at him. He can barely breathe sometimes, and his face was worse a couple days ago. How exactly he is torturing me when he has yet to pee without fainting?”
“Roslyn.” Beauregard’s voice was a pained rasp, his irritation evident with the glance he tossed her. “Quit screechin’ and put that down. Wy’s just fixin’ to get mad, is all.”
“William said Wyatt was going to ‘take care’ of you. Not the good kind of care I’ll bet.” Her scandalised tenor left them with no doubt as to what she’d assumed. “And he looks pretty mad already, Beau.”
Laughter lit his coyote eyes. “They aren’t here to murder me.”
“Says who?” Wyatt turned on him. “Ungrateful son of a bitch. After all this family’s done for you this is how you repay us?”
Beauregard projected an air of arrogant dismissal without bothering to move or talk. He stared at the ceiling as if something far more worthy of note held his attention.
“Don’t pull that stone wall horseshit, Beau.” William’s voice was a growl. “Answer him.”
Tone dropping to a conversational drawl, Roslyn mirrored Beauregard’s unruffled manner. “Well, thank you kindly for calling. I would invite you to stay for supper, but we weren’t expecting guests.” Pistol held high, she stepped out the doorway so as to not impede their departure. “Please do come again when Beauregard is feeling better.”
Wyatt stared at her as if she’d taken complete leave of her senses. He leaned over Beauregard and spoke in a low snarl, quaking with rage. “I don’t know what you did or said to make her so afraid of you she’d lie, but know there will be a day of reckoning, little brother.”
He left without another word. William followed just as stoic.
Roslyn watched them ride off in a southwesterly direction she guessed must head to the main ranch house.
Marching back into the bedroom, she halted at the foot of the bed and balled up her fists on her hips. “How could they?”
“Don’t fuss.”
“Not only was it rude, it was wrong, Beau. They didn’t ask for the truth. I stood right there and he didn’t even care about what I said. They’d already made up their mind and wanted to finish what my father and those thugs started.”
Lips rigid, Beauregard looked worn out. “I’m still hungry.”
Rolling her eyes in a very unladylike gesture of vexation, she finished feeding him his stew and even treated him to a glass of cow juice promising coffee the next morning.
At no point did Roslyn worry over how willing she’d been to end the lives of two men. Such aggression would have been outrageous to her a week prior.
“Want me to read you to sleep?”
“Naw. My head aches.” His eyes warmed. “You yell good.”
“Wait until you hear how I got away from William.”
DOCTOR HERBERT WASN’T A BAD MAN, JUST A WEAK ONE. Roslyn saw how scared he was when he arrived the next morning on the Sheriff’s orders.
She tried to be compassionate, but felt a dart of annoyance each time his hand shook or his voice wobbled when conducting his examination of the injuries.
Beauregard was unconscious, so he wasn’t even staring at the doctor with his stony cold predator eyes.
She consoled herself with the understanding the physician had over twenty years of doctoring under his belt in Utah before retiring to Dawson Lake to cater to its diminutive population and their trivial ailments.
Assuring her nothing she’d done made the patient’s condition worse, he told her to carry on as is, and offered a brown bottle of laudanum with strict instructions of use to ease pain.
She gave him three dollars from her fifty dollars, and thanked him profusely for his time and advice after making sure he’d keep this appointment with Beauregard strictly confidential.
Herbert hesitated on his way out. “Miss Roslyn, I don’t know what’s gone on out here, and by the sorry state of you and Mr Kellington, I don’t want to, but you’ve always been such a pleasant acquaintance. I wish to offer my help should you need it. May I deliver you somewhere? Back to Roseberry Ranch, perhaps?”
“No.” Roslyn decided not to elaborate on why she didn’t need to return to her family. She could tell nothing she said would alter Doctor Herbert’s mind that Beauregard committed every depraved act the gossips alleged. Just like the Older Kellingtons, he’d made a judgement without a shred of evidence, and found a man guilty based on prejudice alone. There was no talking to some people. “Beau needs me.”
Dumbfounded by the unappreciative response, he peered at her over half-moon spectacles. Sweat rolled down his temples, and strands of greyish hair stuck to his wrinkled forehead. “Please administer to your expectations. It’s a miracle he’s alive. A full recovery is unlikely, you understand?”
Her hand fluttered about her throat. “He’s dying?”
“I’m merely cautioning you to prepare for the worst. That’s my professional opinion.”
“Will you come back to check him again?”
“Won’t do any good, but yes, same day next month.” It was clear he didn’t expect to find the patient alive. He tipped his hat. “Good day to you now.”
After considering the physician’s warning from a number of angles, Roslyn decided there was no point enlightening Beauregard.
She would keep on as she had and was confident he’d recover. She had medicine now. That would help.
LIFE GOT EASIER. Weeks passed without issue, and Roslyn reduced the wild chicken population by a third. She cleaned the house from top to bottom. The cobwebs had her screaming, but they were swept away the same day she chased out the mice. The floor, surfaces, and cupboards gleamed with wax. The kitchen was pristine. Buttery light streamed though spotless windows. She soaked the lacy curtains overnight in strong lye soap then re-hung them the next day bright white. She weeded the vegetable patch. Hunted the surrounding land and transplanted pretty wild flowers into neat rows in the front garden. She beat years of dirt from the floor rugs, and scrubbed the seating upholstery.
Roslyn tried to think of a time in her old life where she’d ever been so tired, or so happy. Nobody chided her if she slouched, or slapped her if she had more than one spoonful of sugar in her coffee. No one minded if she took a second helping of food, and there were no complaints that her hair wasn’t tidy, her corset tight enough, her manner agreeable.
Freedom was an aphrodisiac.
She understood now why so many widows balked at being remarried. Why give up independence to be squashed under the thumb of a man when you could do most chores yourself, or pay someone else to do it for you?
The day Doctor Herbert reappeared stating he was fulfilling his promise to return after a month set her reeling. Through him she learnt since the initial frenzy died, exactly what happened in the northeasterly third of the Kellington Ranch was a source of much speculation. She also discovered the gossips fell silent whenever the tight-lipped Older Kellingtons sauntered within earshot. No one wanted the seething fury growing within Wyatt to be taken out on his or her hide.
Doctor Herbert doggedly fed her titbits on her family, assuring her they continued to request the Sheriff fetch her home, but she maintained such a disinterested air he eventually gave up.
Busy summer days passed, and Roslyn blossomed. Her face healed until only a small scar near her hairline betrayed the horrible morning of her marriage.
Improvisation came easily now, and she barely blinked at tasks that would have previously been unthinkably boorish or inappropriate.
She washed the dress she’d arrived in, but after wearing the gown for a day she realised how ludicrous she looked trussed up in a corset and petticoats as she milked a cow. She was happy to borrow Beauregard’s trousers and shirt. The outfit was cooler, and trouble-free to manoeuvre in.
Roslyn learned that Beauregard wasn’t just shy around strangers or unwilling to converse with people he had no more than a minor acquaintance with, but that he didn’t talk much period. She chattered about everything and anything while he stared out the window, or at the ceiling, or simply closed his eyes and dozed until she left the room in search of entertainment. Her endless streams of questions were met with clipped, one worded answers, grunts, and sometimes when he really felt mean merely a piercing look from his gold medallions.
She didn’t blame him, not one bit.
Each time he looked at her he must think of the morning he nearly died. Each moment he lay in the bed unable to do for himself must have gnawed on his pride and deepened his resentment for anybody called Roseberry.
As he healed she expected him to become belligerent or downright hostile, but he never so much as raised his voice to her when she did things she thought must hurt like the blazes, like wrapping his ribs, for example.
The swelling eased, the bruises faded from red and purple to yellow and brown, and his face lost its raw mashed meat look. He was a faultless patient. He dealt with situations that sent her into spasms of embarrassment with defeatist tolerance. The first time she bathed him when he was fully lucid had been the most humiliating experience of her life. She’d touched his man part, it swelled into hardness, and she burst into tears thinking she’d broken even more of him when he demanded she leave the room and not return until he called her back.
Other than that they rubbed along well enough.
It cemented Roslyn’s opinion that Beauregard Kellington was the most decent of men.
A week after Doctor Herbert’s second visit Beauregard was able to sit up in bed. The week after that he could shuffle to and from the dining table with minimal assistance.
BEAUREGARD REMEMBERED WAKING TO BLOOD. The metallic smell, bitter taste, and gory sight of blood. The sole reason he hadn’t lost his mind was because when his eyes finally opened and focused they landed on an angel.
Roslyn had survived. Not only survived, but had saved him.
He vowed to live only so that she didn’t feel a failure.
His secondary thoughts centred on the knowledge he should never have allowed himself to be unarmed the moment he took Roslyn from the barn.
Stupidity wasn’t an attribute he suffered, yet never before had a man acted so dumb.
After hearing the veranda step squeak he’d convinced himself the men would rant, beat on him a little, then drag Roslyn off to get hitched to that sadistic bastard Franklyn Junior. He’d known it might get ugly, but that the threat of a California collar tied to a charging horse was as bad as it’d get.
So wrong, and so dumb.
On the journey over Beauregard knew the Roseberrys would reason out Roslyn was missing within hours. How they had discovered not only that she was gone, but also that she left with him eluded his grasp.
They were seen.
The mob arrived too quickly for any other logical explanation.
Even after the beating got bad, it wasn’t himself he worried over, but Roslyn. The men begun to gravitate toward her with ill intentions immediately after it became clear Elstein no longer cared what happened to his daughter.
That so called genteel Christian men would treat a lady so atrociously turned his stomach to rot. The abuse they heaped upon her was made an infinite amount more horrifying by his inability to protect her.
Her pluck, iron-will and gritty determination astounded him, humbled him. Why it caught him by surprise he couldn’t say.
After all, he’d seen what she was made of fifteen years ago.
Wyatt handled the situation as badly as he always did. Exploding into anger, accusatory, condemning before taking the time to assess. William followed like a trained dog, only remembering he had a good head on his shoulders perfectly capable of forming its own opinions when he was outside of Wyatt’s sphere of influence.
Dealing with his family tired him. He was a grown man and didn’t have to explain himself to anybody.
So he didn’t go around blabbing his virtues to try and lessen the ruthless loner reputation the superstitious town folk tarred him with.
He’d done nothing wrong. That was what was important.
You’d think his blood would understand that. Would know he didn’t respond to their relentless finger pointing because frankly he found their condescending pomposity rude.
The only person who recognized his right to silence was Roslyn.
She talked and talked, asked question after question, most of them rhetorical, and made overlong observations for the tiniest, most immaterial things, but she never demanded he talk back. Never assumed it was her God given right to receive his attention simply because she wanted it.
He’d watched her grow from a frightened cub whose courage was too big for her body to a lioness prepared to rip open flesh.
The changes in her will stick, he thought. Her tenacity exposed a previously hidden beauty that made her pretty features truly exquisite.
Her battered face healed well. Her movements stopped being stiff and transitioned into charming.
Admiring her soft curves faintly revealed beneath the cotton shirt she slept in was the highlight of his day. To his chagrin knowing the doctor and his brothers saw her in this state pissed him off. He’d have to tell her. Soon. Someday soon when he’d looked his fill.
The more days that passed the harder it became to disguise his desire. He burned for her, and it wasn’t a hazy, groin warming lusting, but a pinpointed, gut-clenching need that chomped his last damn nerve.
The day she washed him while he’d been awake for it nearly finished him off.
Absent-minded, she’d grabbed hold of his shaft and vigorously pumped with the soaped rag until his body had no choice but to respond.
Lord help him, her guileless response to his aroused condition had not been to ease him, but to burst into frightened tears. For a moment he’d forgotten who and what she was, what she could never be. He’d ordered her out the room. Not because he wanted her gone, but because despite her tears she hadn’t released her hold, in fact, it tightened as she sobbed.
If she’d jerked that hand one more time he’d’ve spilled all over her.
Abdominals cramping, balls aching, he’d stewed for hours about it, bitter at his mixed blood, bitter at her high society world that looked down on him and all he had to offer.
Reputation in tatters or not, being his wife was considered worse then death.
Hell, white women had been blowing their brains out for years during raids in fear of being claimed as an Indian bride.
Society in Dawson Lake would shun her for spending time out here, whether she could prove she was untouched or not. She couldn’t go home. Elstein would show no mercy. The best chance at a real future she had was to follow through with the original plan and head to California.
It stuck in his craw, but maybe forcing his brothers to hear him out about what really happened so they’d help her was worth the effort. Looking them in the eye and having to stress that he wasn’t a murderer, woman beater or rapist galled him – they should know better – but he’d do it for her.
Something needed doing soon. Allowing the lust to grow was becoming self-destructive.
The weeks passed quickly, and he struggled to conceive of a future where she wasn’t crashing around in the kitchen, humming while she cleaned, or returning from the garden covered in mud and grinning like a loon.
She burrowed under his skin, and he’d have a hell of a time digging her out.
Often he spent hours daydreaming about getting down on one knee and convincing her to stay and marry him for real. They built a life together ... in this damn house he loathed as much as he hated Elstein Roseberry.
Beauregard had been reduced to gritting his teeth when her grass and soap scent invaded the room a moment before she did. The smell stayed long after she was gone, and he was left miserable, breathing in lungfulls of the stuff.
The sway of her hips in his trousers drove him completely insane. Her brilliant smile and expressive eyes tied his tongue in knots when the occasion came where he did need to speak, telling her how to care for the animals, or warning her away from going under the house to find more supplies.
Weeks of silent torture had him coiled tighter than a rattlesnake, and she had no idea of the effect she had on him.
There were times he caught her looking at him with wide-eyed wariness, and he wanted to snap and growl just to see how she’d react. She’d probably laugh in that soft, pretty way that caressed a body.
Roslyn never looked at him as if he was an animal, nor had her expression ever registered disgust when in his proximity. There were even times her touch lingered. It was as if the attraction went both ways....
He wondered if she’d care her spouse had savage blood, dark skin, and soulless eyes.
Husband.
Wife.
To his brothers she’d said, “I’m his wife.” He was shocked she admitted to the ceremony having taken place. He would never forget it, and didn’t know how to feel about her lack of shame over it.
Ms Roslyn Kellington.
Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world convincing the lioness to stay.