The Ballad of Emma O'Toole

“You did. I chose to wait.”

“Well, let’s not wait any longer.” He whisked the covers off the plates. Emma’s dinner was still hot, the beef smothered in rich brown gravy, accompanied by mashed potatoes, glazed carrot slices and plump, golden dinner rolls with strawberry jam. Spreading her napkin on her lap, she used her fork to spear a sliver of meat. Her first taste was so sublime that she almost wept.

“Is something wrong?” Logan asked.

Emma shook her head. “It’s only that I’ve never eaten such a wonderful meal in my life.”

“It’s just roast beef and gravy.”

“I know. But it’s so good. And I’m so hungry.”

Something glimmered in the depths of his eyes. He glanced away, and when he looked back it was replaced by the chilly gaze she’d come to recognize. “Eat it up while it’s warm,” he said. “And remember there’s more where that came from. I may be a coldhearted bastard, but I’d never let a woman starve.”

Emma’s scramble for a clever reply came up empty. She supposed she should thank him for the meal. But after what he’d done to Billy John, he owed her more than a man could repay in a hundred years.

Her gaze shifted to the bed. Awkward as things were between them now, they were bound to get worse. When the judge had counseled her to be a submissive wife Emma had known exactly what the old goat meant. But that didn’t mean she had to heed his advice. If Logan so much as laid a hand on her tonight…

“Champagne?” Logan had opened a slender bottle and was holding it with the lip poised above the rim of her glass.

“You ordered champagne?”

“It was included with the room. A gift from the hotel to the happy newlyweds. Have you ever had champagne, Emma?”

“I’ve tasted beer. It was awful.”

“There’s nothing awful about this. Try it.” He poured two fingers into her glass. Swirling bubbles effervesced to rainbow sparks in the lamplight. Logan sat back in his chair, watching her, his eyes hooded in shadow.

Emma lifted the glass to her lips, then paused as a thought struck her. “You’re not trying to get me drunk, are you?”

“Lord, no! Just taste it.”

Tipping the glass, Emma took a tentative sip. The glowing liquid burst like sunlight on her tongue. Its flavor was elusive—fresh and slightly tart. “Oh,” she said, taking another sip. “Oh, my goodness!”

“More?”

“Just a little.” She indicated a small measure with her fingers. “Too much might not be good for the baby.”

“Oh, that’s right, the baby.” He poured her another two fingers of champagne. Emma took tiny sips, savoring the taste as she gathered her courage. What she had to say couldn’t wait much longer.

“There’s something else that might not be good for the baby.” She glanced toward the bed. “I’m well aware of your marital rights, Logan, but you can hardly expect to…” Her voice trailed off. Color flooded her face. She barely knew the words for what she needed to tell him.

“Listen to me, Emma.” He leaned forward in his chair, his dark eyes probing hers. “I want to make this perfectly clear. You’re a beautiful, desirable woman. If things were different between us, I’d carry you to that bed, rip off those god-awful clothes and make love to you all night. But I like my women willing. I won’t force you. Until and unless you say the word, I mean to treat you like a sixty-year-old nun. Do you understand?”

“Yes…and thank you for making your position clear.” Emma stared down at her hands, her face burning. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from him, but it wasn’t this.

“That said,” he continued, “there’s something else I need to make 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.