Her Dearest Enemy. Elizabeth Lane

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      Will was gone.

      * * *

      The frantic pounding on Brandon’s front door jerked him from the edge of a fitful sleep. He sat up, still groggy, swearing under his breath as he swung his legs off the bed, jammed his feet into fleece-lined slippers and reached for his merino dressing gown. What could bring someone to his house at this ungodly hour? Had something gone wrong at the bank? A robbery? A fire?

      Still cursing, he lit a lantern and made his way down the long flight of stairs. Only Helga slept on the ground floor of the house, and she snored too loudly to hear anything short of an earthquake. As for Jenny…

      His chest clenched at the memory of their confrontation over dinner. Lord, what he wouldn’t give to wake up and discover that he’d dreamed the whole miserable scene—and that his precious, innocent girl wasn’t really with child by a moon-eyed yokel who worked at the feed store and lived in a shack with his prissy schoolmarm sister.

      First thing tomorrow he would be driving her to Johnson City and putting her on a train for Baltimore, where his sister, God willing, would shelter her from scandal and see that her baby was adopted by a good family.

      As for himself, he would wait until the train had pulled out of the station. Then, by all heaven, he would go after the young fool who had ruined his daughter and make him pay for every despicable thing he had done!

      The pounding continued as Brandon lumbered across the entry hall. “Hold your horses,” he muttered, fumbling with the bolt. “You don’t need to break down the damned door!”

      Released by the latch, the door blew inward. A bedraggled figure stumbled into the hallway to collapse like a storm-washed bird against the wall. Brandon stared, his gaze taking in the wind-raked tangle of dark hair above copper-flecked eyes that were wide and frightened, set in a face that seemed too narrow and pale to contain them. The creature wore a threadbare cloak, clutched around her thin body with fingers that looked to be half-frozen. Her lips were blue with cold.

      Time shuddered to a halt as Brandon recognized Harriet Smith.

      Summoning her strength, she pushed herself away from the wall and stood erect to face him in the flickering lamplight. Sparks of defiance glittered in her eyes, but her teeth were chattering so violently that she could not speak. The shack by the cemetery was almost two miles from Brandon’s house. Judging from the looks of her, she had walked the whole distance in the storm.

      What was the woman doing here at this hour? Had she changed her mind about his offer? Not a chance of that, Brandon thought, remembering her fiery pride. More likely, her damn-fool brother had just given her the same news Jenny had given him and she’d come for her pound of flesh.

      A dizzying tide of rage swept through him. For one blinding moment, it was all he could do not to seize her in his two hands, jerk her off her feet and fling her back into the storm. After all, didn’t she share the blame for what had happened? Hadn’t she reared the young hooligan who’d impregnated his daughter? Hadn’t her coming to Dutchman’s Creek set the whole ugly chain of events in motion?

      With near-superhuman effort, Brandon willed his impulses under control. When he spoke, his voice emerged as a hoarse croak. “What is it? Are you all right?”

      She shook her head, her mouth working in a futile effort to speak. Specks of ice clung to her thick black eyelashes. They glowed in the lamplight like miniature jewels. Below them, her eyes watched him guardedly, emotions he could not read swimming in their coppery depths.

      Only one thing seemed clear—if he wanted the woman to talk, he would have to get her warm first. Shaking off the paralysis of surprise, Brandon set the lantern on a table and forced himself to move toward her.

      His hands pried her stiffened fingers loose from the edges of her cloak. The soggy garment fell to the floor, revealing beneath it a faded gingham dress, so hastily donned that the buttons down the front were misaligned with their buttonholes. The resulting gaps allowed glimpses of the creamy skin beneath—far more of it than any lady would want a gentleman to see.

      Brandon averted his eyes, but not swiftly enough. She glanced down, to where his gaze had rested an instant before. With a horrified gasp, she jerked her arms across her breasts. Color flamed in her bloodless cheeks.

      Without a word, Brandon whipped off his woolen robe and wrapped it around her trembling body. She huddled into its warmth, her eyes downcast, her teeth still chattering.

      Suddenly her gaze jerked upward. Her color deepened. Brandon bit back a curse as he realized what had caught her eye. The hem of his gray flannel nightshirt hung just past his knees, revealing the lower part of his bare legs and ankles—more naked flesh than any proper lady would be fit to see.

      Well, to hell with her, he thought. If the sight of his hairy calves offended Harriet Smith’s sense of propriety, that was her problem. It wasn’t as if he’d sent her an engraved invitation to come calling tonight. She could damned well take him as he was or come back when he was dressed for company.

      It was chilly in the front hall. Gripping her upper arm through the robe, he steered her into the parlor, where a few dying embers still flickered in the fireplace. Two comfortable leather armchairs faced the hearth. Thrusting her firmly into one of them, he gathered some kindling sticks from the wood box and began feeding them into the embers. Little by little, small orange tongues of flame began to lick at the splintered pitch pine. The crackling sound was warm and welcome.

      “Will’s gone.” Harriet’s low voice, rising from the shadows of the chair, startled him. “I think he’s run away.”

      Brandon bit back a sigh of relief. It would hurt Jenny’s pride to know that Will had deserted her, but in the long run it would make everything easier. Now, surely, she would stop fighting his plan to send her to Baltimore.

      He glanced up at Harriet, his expression deliberately cynical. “So the young rooster’s flown the coop, has he? Somehow I can’t say I’m surprised. I would have wagered he wasn’t man enough to own up to his responsibility.”

      She surged forward, her eyes suddenly angry. “I don’t know what responsibility you’re talking about, Mr. C-Calhoun,” she said, her teeth still chattering with cold. “But I didn’t fight my way through the storm to sit here and listen to you disparage my brother! I only came to ask you if you’d seen Will, or if you had any idea where he might be. If you can’t tell me, I’ll be on my way….”

      Her voice trailed off, catching at the end as if she were stifling a sob. Brandon stared at her in amazement. Lord, didn’t she know? Hadn’t the young fool told her what he’d done to Jenny?

      Turning away from the fire, he seized her icy hands—not out of affection or sympathy but in an effort to hold her captive while he pummeled her with the truth. Her thin, cold fingers were all but lost in his big fists. Instinctively they sought the warmth of his flesh, pressing into the hollows of his palms, even as her eyes blazed resistance.

      Heat and emotion had brought the color back to her face. With the wind-tossed mane of her hair framing her aquiline features, she reminded Brandon of some wild, mythical bird goddess, held to earth only by his determined grip. Let her go and she would fly away, back into the storm that had brought her here.

      Lowering his eyes, he forced his mind back to reality. When he looked at her again it was dowdy, СКАЧАТЬ