Forever in My Heart Page 15

  An hour later and for the second time that night, Maggie stopped cold on the threshold of the bedroom. Connor was sitting up in bed, occupying the entire middle section as he read the New York Chronicle, effectively claiming the four-poster as his territory.

  Maggie cleared her throat. "I don't recognize squatter's rights," she said.

  "What?"

  "You heard me."

  "I always hear you," he said patiently, not looking up from his paper. "But I never seem to understand what you're saying."

  Infuriated by his inattention, Maggie leaned across the bed and yanked the newspaper out of his hands. She stared at the crumpled paper in her clenched fists and was appalled by her behavior. When she raised her eyes to Connor, she saw he was watching her with that fascinated, studied look that completely unnerved her.

  "I'm sorry," she said, unable to quite convey how sorry she really was. She unfolded the paper, laid it on the bed's goose down duvet, and attempted to smooth it out. She was only marginally successful.

  "Let me," he said, removing the paper from beneath her fingers, "before you destroy it." He folded it neatly and placed it on the bedside table farthest away from Maggie. Then he gave her his full attention. "You were saying?"

  Maggie took a step back from the four-poster. "I don't recognize squatter's rights," she said again, pointing at him then gesturing to the entire bed. "Just because you got there first doesn't give you ownership."

  One of his dark eyebrows kicked up. "It doesn't? Do you mean there's somewhere I have to go to stake my claim?"

  "That's not amusing."

  "I hadn't meant it to be. I'm serious. Do I have to apply in the lobby for rights to the bed?"

  "You're doing this on purpose," she said, frustration edging her tone. "Where am I supposed to sleep?"

  He looked around him as if taking note of his complete possession of the bed for the first time. "Did you think I wanted the whole thing for myself?" he asked, baiting her. "I'm willing to share." He patted the bed. "Either side."

  Not quite believing that she'd heard him correctly, Maggie stared at him for a moment. "Go to hell," she said finally.

  He watched her go, his derisive smile flattening as she slammed the door on her way out.

  Maggie winced as the door thudded shut. When Connor didn't respond to her second childish tantrum of the evening, she eyed the sofa in the sitting room as if it were her enemy. Pillows and blankets were in the other room and she refused to return for them. Turning off the gas lighting, Maggie curled in one corner of the sofa, discovering unhappily that it was as stiff and as uncomfortable as it looked. She took off her robe and tried using it first as a pillow, then as a blanket. It was not particularly satisfactory as either.

  She stretched out, but her relatively short height was no benefit—her feet still dangled or curved her body unnaturally if she tried to rest them on the far arm. Noise and light from the street below filtered into the room. She couldn't do anything about the revelers, but she could shut out the light. She got up, padded over to the window, and drew the drapes. She tried both wing chairs as possible sleeping nests. Neither worked.

  She stubbed her toe on the footstool as she went back to the sofa and then turned her ankle as she danced around. Frustrated, she kicked the stool, which only served to magnify the pain in her foot. "Dammit," she swore, collapsing onto the sofa. She held her injured foot between her hands and massaged it. Connor Holiday would never be accused of being a gentleman, certainly never by her.

  The door to the bedroom opened. Connor leaned against the jamb, backlit by the lamps. "Are you quite finished?" he asked.

  "Finished doing what?" she asked impatiently.

  "Making noise."

  Even though she hadn't been doing it deliberately she asked, "Why should you sleep when I can't?"

  "Why indeed?" he asked dryly. He pushed away from the jamb and came into the sitting room. His eyes adjusted to the lack of light and he noticed for the first time that Maggie had hurt herself. "What happened?"

  "Nothing."

  Connor sat on one arm of a wing chair and cinched the belt of his dressing gown more securely about his waist. "Are you going to be this miserable the entire way to Colorado?" he asked. "Because if you are I'm going to reconsider my promise to escort you."

  Maggie didn't consider his threat a real one. "We have a deal."

  "People break deals all the time."

  "Not you." She didn't think he was a gentleman, but then neither did she believe he was without some shred of honor.

  Connor simply stared at her for a long moment. "All right," he said at last. "Not me. But that doesn't mean I can't be miserable right back."

  "You've already proved it," she said under her breath.

  He heard her and ignored the comment. "Do you really want to travel two thousand miles like that?"

  As a matter of pride she pretended to think about it. Finally she shook her head.

  "Very well then," he said. "How did you hurt yourself?"

  "I stubbed my toe on the footstool."

  "And?" he asked, not satisfied.

  She wondered how he knew there was more. "And I think I've sprained my ankle," she admitted reluctantly.

  Connor lit an oil lamp on one of the walnut end tables. He found the overturned footstool, set it in front of Maggie, and sat down. Without asking permission, he took her foot and rested it on his knees. He examined the toe first, flicking it lightly with his finger, then gingerly probed her foot and ankle.

  Maggie winced and jerked reflexively, trying to withdraw her foot when he managed to find the tender part.

  His hold was firm but gentle and he didn't let her go. He felt her relax, wary still, yet trusting him more than she just had a moment earlier. "It's a sprain, all right." His fingers absently stroked her warm skin as he spoke, lightly going over the bones of her foot. "What do you want to do about it?"

  "Why ask me?" Her voice was slightly breathless, something she didn't like and hoped he hadn't heard.

  "You want to be a doctor, don't you?" He felt her stiffen again, less trusting, though for different reasons, and it made him angry. "You told me that much yourself. I asked Skye about it this afternoon. She says the medical school didn't accept you. Is that why you came to me?"

  "Perhaps you can get some ice for my foot," she said.

  "Did you go to Madame Restell before or after your rejection?"

  "Never mind," she said, sitting up straighter. "I'll get the ice myself."

  Unconsciously Connor's fingers pressed more tightly on Maggie's injured foot. "Did you think of anyone but yourself when you made your decision?"

  Maggie's breath caught at the back of her throat as pain shot through her foot. It seemed to travel all the way through her spine and exploded in her head. "Please," she gasped. "You're hurting me."

  It all registered belatedly: his grip, her tears, his painful questions, her fear. Connor released her foot. "I'm sorry."

  She got up from the sofa and backed away from him, limping. "Don't touch me," she said hoarsely. "Don't ever touch me. I hate it when you do. You always hurt me. You don't know any other way." She was trembling now and her eyes were accusing. "I don't care if you do hate me, and I don't care what you think of me. You have what you wanted out of this marriage. I'm not the only whore in this room!"

  She shrank back as Connor came to his feet.

  "Maggie," he said quietly. He watched her press herself more solidly against the wall. Connor had no clear idea what he wanted to say. He despised what she had done. Didn't that mean he despised her as well? But perhaps not well enough. If he didn't want her, if he wasn't attracted to her, he wouldn't have to remind himself so often how much he disliked her. Self-loathing eclipsed any hint of color in his eyes. They were flat, black, and cold as a winter night. "I'll get the ice," he said. "Excuse me. I have to change." When he came out of the bedroom a few minutes later, Maggie was no longer pressed to the wall, although she was still leaning against i
t. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her flinch as he passed. "This is never going to work," he said quietly.

  Once she was alone, Maggie felt as if she were melting down the length of wall. She was dry-eyed, although she had never felt more like crying. It was difficult to swallow and there was a pressure in her chest that made it hard to breathe. What had he meant? What wasn't going to work? He wasn't talking about their marriage, certainly. It wasn't supposed to be a success. They had wed for failure. Anything else was unacceptable to either of them.

  Maggie drew her legs up to her chest and locked her arms around them. Was he going to back out of their arrangement? Earlier in the day she had seen Jay Mac take Connor alone into the library. Neither her father nor her husband had mentioned it later, but Maggie knew what had taken place. Jay Mac had handed over the deed to the Double H. The land was Connor's again, safe from the tyranny of Northeast Rail and the robber barons. And all he had had to do was take a wife he didn't need, didn't want, and didn't like.

  Connor wasn't long in getting the ice. The restaurant staff wrapped shavings of it in a linen napkin and gave him a bucket of it besides. There was no one at the St. Mark who wasn't willing to accommodate the newlyweds.

  Connor placed the shavings on the sofa and the pail of ice on the marble apron of the fireplace. "Come here," he said, holding out his hand.

  She hesitated but he didn't withdraw. Maggie placed her hand in his and let herself be pulled to her feet. He motioned to her to sit on the sofa. Instead of taking the stool for himself this time, Connor knelt on the floor and lifted Maggie's injured foot on the stool. He raised the hem of her nightdress a few inches then lightly pressed the napkin full of ice on her ankle.

  "Too cold?" he asked when he saw her grimace.

  "I can stand it."

  "That isn't what I asked. I can get another towel to wrap the ice in if it's too cold."

  She strove to be civil. "It's fine."

  Connor sat back on his haunches. "I apologize for what I did earlier," he said. "I didn't mean to cause you pain."

  Maggie knew he was talking about the physical pain. The other had been purely intentional. "I know. It's all right."

  "Do you always let people who hurt you off so easily?"

  Surprised, Maggie's eyes widened. "I don't understand."

  "I don't either," he said, studying her face. The cat-like shape of her eyes was more pronounced as she tilted her head. Her lower lip was drawn in, caught between her teeth in a habit that could indicate thoughtfulness or anxiety. There was the tiniest vertical crease between her brows as she drew them together. He had a sudden vision of her sitting up in a wide bed, her slender body somehow both edgy and eager as he walked into the brothel's bedroom. "If I had realized..." His voice trailed off. Would he have done anything differently? he wondered. Would he really have crawled into her bed that night? He had asked for someone quiet, someone who wouldn't ask too many questions, or worse, bore him with the story of her miserable life. He hadn't wanted to know anything about the woman under him, the woman who took him into herself and let him pound his frustrations against her slight and supple body. He hadn't meant it to be that personal.

  "Never mind," he said. The mask that imprisoned his features was back in place. He stood. "What did they say at the front desk when you asked about another room?"

  Maggie was caught off guard. It was a question she had expected much earlier. She nearly forgot what she had planned to say. "The hotel's full," she said. "The manager said there aren't any rooms to be had."

  "None at all?" A half-smile played at the edge of Connor's mouth. "I wish I had known that," he said.

  Maggie frowned. "Why?"

  "I wouldn't have bothered asking for one." He disappeared into the adjoining bedroom and when he returned he was carrying his valise. The sleeve of one shirt peeked out through the closure, pinched in his hasty packing. "Room 313," he said. "The manager had no trouble accommodating me when I told him I didn't want to disturb you. He offered me my choice of rooms, actually. Several were two bedroom suites, but I explained I didn't see the point of aggravating your injury by moving you."

  Maggie groaned softly, her face flushed with embarrassment at having been caught in her lie. "I hope you looked suitably frustrated when you spoke to him," she said, struggling to maintain her dignity. The thought that Connor might have revealed he was content, even delighted, to be rid of his bride for the night was humiliating.

  Connor didn't respond until he was in the hallway, well out of Maggie's hearing. "Looking frustrated was the easy part," he muttered.

  Chapter 7

  In the morning Connor joined Maggie for breakfast in her room. "Did you sleep well?" he asked, thinking of his own restless night.

  "Yes," she said quickly, not quite able to look him in the eye.

  "Your foot didn't hurt you, then?"

  "What? Oh." Maggie hadn't been thinking about her foot. It wasn't her ankle that had kept her up most of the night. "No... no, it didn't bother me... not at all. I'm not limping this morning."

  Connor lifted the silver dome that covered their bacon and eggs and began serving himself. "You're able to travel?"

  "Yes, of course."

  He nodded, not entirely satisfied but willing to be convinced. "Bacon?"

  "One, please."

  He gave her two and a generous serving of scrambled eggs. When he broke and buttered his biscuit he gave her the larger half. Connor made certain Maggie's coffee was always warm by adding a little more to her cup every time she took a few sips.

  His attentiveness made Maggie nervous. While the aroma of the food teased her senses, she discovered that under Connor's watchful eye everything had become essentially tasteless.

  He observed her pushing her eggs around her plate rather than eating them. "You're going to have to do better than that," he said. "I realize we're not going west by covered wagon, but you'll be surprised how this trip's going to sap your strength. You'd better eat up."

  She ducked her head and stared at her plate. "I can't eat when you're hovering," she said. "You're acting like a mother hen with your chick." The silence that followed her statement went on so long Maggie was certain she'd made him angry. She dared a glance upward.

  Connor burst out laughing. Her shock was so palpable that he laughed harder. It finally became necessary to raise his napkin to his eyes to wipe away the tears.

  "It wasn't that funny."

  He sobered gradually. "No one's ever accused me of it," he explained. "That's all. I've been called a—well, you can use your imagination. You've called me a few unsavory things yourself."

  Maggie felt heat rising in her neck and face.

  "But a mother hen? No, no one's every accused me of that." He took a quick bite of his eggs and stole another strip of bacon from the serving dish, then rose from the table. "I left my things in the other room," he said. "I'll get them now so you can finish eating in peace. We're expected at the train station at eleven so we have some time."

  When he was gone Maggie realized what a perverse creature she was. She actually missed his companionship. Meals in her home were never taken alone unless one was ill. There was always conversation, some exchange of ideas or general story telling. She was going to miss it even though she was rarely the one to initiate a debate and even less likely to take a major role. The chatter had always gone on around her, and it had been agreeable to be the quiet one. Her sisters thought she was as inscrutable as it was possible for a New Yorker to be. A faint smile touched Maggie's lips, and her eyes held the faraway look of someone capturing childhood memories.

  She shook her head slowly, laughing at herself, and began eating.

  * * *

  Connor was surprised when he heard the door to his suite open. He didn't think he had been very long getting his things together. "You decided you missed the mother hen already?" he called from the bedroom.

  Beryl followed the sound of his voice. "Mother hen?" she asked. "Is your poor little wif
e already homesick for her mama?"

  Connor dropped his valise back on the bed and turned to the doorway. He made no attempt to hide what he was feeling or thinking. His black eyes speared Beryl. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  Beryl untied the scarlet ribbon that secured her bonnet. A fringe of her dark chestnut hair fluttered against her forehead as she fanned herself casually with the brim. "You shouldn't talk to me that way," she said, unperturbed. "I could be here because something's happened to your father."

  "Are you?"

  She smiled and moved into the bedroom. "No." Beryl caught her reflection in the full-length swivel mirror. She was confident enough of her appearance not to dwell on it or try to rearrange it. No matter what Connor said, she knew he found her attractive. Beryl's walking dress was the same shade of scarlet as her bonnet ribbon. The bodice was a modest cut emphasizing the length of her neck and the narrowness of her shoulders. It was also tightly tailored, molded to her breasts and cinched in at the waist. She dropped her bonnet on a rocker and came to stand at the foot of the bed, inches from Connor. "Rushton's in good health." Her smile became sly and touched her eyes in the same way. "Vigorous health, actually."

  Connor had no difficulty taking her meaning. He wished his father would take Beryl to bed all day long. It was the surest way of keeping her out of his. "Does he know you're here?"

  "I told him I might stop by. He's gone to his office at the mill. He plans to meet you at the train station to say his farewells along with everyone else."

  "And you?"

  "I plan to say my farewells now." Her delicate hands came up to her throat, and she began to unfasten the silk-covered buttons. "Don't worry," she said. "I know your wife's in a separate room. They told me at the front desk. It's a shame about her foot. Do you think she did it on purpose? To stay out of your bed?"

  "Beryl, I told you before that when you married my father it was over between us. You can't have his money and me in your bed. There's been no love lost between Rushton and me but I won't do this to him. Credit me with something you don't have yourself—morals." He turned away and continued packing.