The Ballad of Emma O'Toole. Elizabeth Lane
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clear. I’ve spent the past ten nights lying in my clothes on a rock-hard jail bunk. Every bone in my body feels like it’s been run through a blasted stamp mill. After dinner I plan to get undressed and climb into that bed over there for a good night’s sleep. If you want to join me, you have my word I’ll be a perfect gentleman. But I’ll be damned if I’m gentleman enough to spend the night on the floor!”
“Fine. I’ll manage somehow.” Emma took another sip of the champagne, her thoughts scrambling. “Since you plan on going right to bed, I believe I’ll take advantage of the bathtub. Believe me, living in a miner’s shanty’s been no picnic, either. At least the jail was warm and they gave you regular meals.”
“If you could call that pig slop they served up ‘meals.’” He raised his glass. “Here’s to better times for both of us, Mrs. Emma O’Toole Devereaux. Will you drink to that?”
Emma hesitated, then lifted her glass to meet his. He touched the delicate brim to hers, then drained the contents. Emma did the same, feeling the sparkle all the way down her throat. It was a truce of sorts, she supposed, and a necessary one while she gained her bearings in this new marriage. But she hadn’t forgotten her promise to Billy John.
She would find a way to make this man wish he’d never been born.
They finished their dinner in awkward conversation. Emma learned that he was from New Orleans and that his father had been a prosperous ship chandler. But when, over dainty strawberry tartlets, she’d asked him why he hadn’t continued in the family business, Logan had evaded her question.
“Does every son have to follow in his father’s footsteps?”
“Certainly not, but it seems a more practical choice than becoming a gambler.”
“Maybe I wasn’t cut out for standing behind a counter. Maybe I wanted to see new country.”
“Were there others who could take over the business? Brothers, perhaps?”
“No brothers, but plenty of cousins and uncles. I imagine they’ve stepped in by now. My father would be elderly, if he’s still alive.”
“So you’re not in touch with your parents?”
A shadow passed behind his eyes. “That’s something I don’t talk about.”
“No brothers. What about sisters?”
“Just one. She died young. Something else I don’t talk about.” He rose, crumpling his napkin on the tray. “And now, since we both seem to have finished our dinner, I’ll put this out for the hired help and bid you good-night.”
Opening the door, Logan set the tray in the hall. A Do Not Disturb sign hung on the inside knob. He moved the sign to the outside before closing and locking the door. His hands loosened the knot of his tie and reached down to begin unbuckling his belt. “My invitation to share the bed stands,” he said, glancing toward Emma. “If I crowd you, just give me a kick. I’ll get the message.”
As the weight of his belt dropped his trousers, Emma bolted for the bathroom.
Slamming the door, she leaned against it. Her heart was hammering, as if she’d expected Logan to follow her in and drag her to the bed. What was wrong with her? She’d worked in a boardinghouse full of men. Weary miners stumbling around in their underwear was a sight that barely raised an eyebrow. As for her new husband, he’d seemed sincere in his promise not to consummate their marriage.
And even if it came to that, it wasn’t as if she was a virgin. She’d conceived a child, for heaven’s sake. What was she so afraid of?
Plugging the tub drain, she turned on the tap. The water that gushed out wasn’t piping hot, but it was warm enough to be pleasant. A jar of bath salts stood on a wall shelf above the tub. Emma dumped a liberal sprinkling into the water. As she undressed, clouds of lavender-scented foam billowed above the rim of the tub. Had she used too much? Never mind, it smelled heavenly.
With a sigh, she sank into the warm bubbles. What luxury! The scented water was like warm satin on her skin. She lay against the back of the tub, her breasts rising like islands in a foamy sea. Her nipples were darker than she remembered, the nubs swollen and exquisitely sensitive to the touch.
They’d never really been explored by anyone other than herself. Her lovemaking with Billy John had been over by the time it had scarcely begun. Emma couldn’t say she’d disliked it. But she’d sensed there was something missing. Something she craved and needed.
Would it be different with Logan Devereaux? Closing her eyes, she recalled the sight of Logan’s hand, resting on his knee—long fingers, golden-brown skin lightly dusted with silky black hair. She imagined being stroked by that hand, the sensation of his palm skimming the tips of her breasts, gliding down her belly…
A liquid ache stirred in her loins. How would it feel to surrender—to be utterly possessed by that powerful male body?
Emma’s eyes flew open as the awful truth struck her. For all her pretensions, there was a secret part of her that wanted it to happen.
What was wrong with her? Her one true love and the father of her child had been dead less than a fortnight. His killer, whom she had every reason to despise, was in the next room getting ready for bed. She ought to be seething with hatred, her mind roiling with schemes for revenge. Instead, here she was, sated with fine food and champagne and lying in a scented tub while her mind wandered down carnal paths.
A man like Logan would have known a lot of women, Emma reminded herself. He would be a skilled seducer, an expert at bending any female to his will. He would know exactly what to say, what to do, where and how to touch her. And he probably saw her as easy prey—a helpless lamb at the mercy of his appetites. Whatever happened, she couldn’t let herself forget what kind of man he really was—a killer who had taken her love away from her.
Closing her eyes again, she willed herself to picture every step of the shooting—Billy John, desperate and scared, trying to bluff his way out of a bad situation with a useless gun; Logan, coolly drawing his derringer and pulling the trigger on the count of three. The jury had let him off easy. But one truth remained. As a gambler, Logan would be experienced at reading people. Surely he would’ve recognized a bluff when he saw it. He must have sensed he was looking at a frightened boy, incapable of violence. Yet he had aimed and fired, and Billy John had died.
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