Proving Herself Read online

  "Like I said," noted the rancher, "you ain't married yet."

  Laurel pressed her lips together and ducked her head, but she hardly looked chagrined. "No, sir."

  "Just be glad it was me, not your daddy, what interrupted you." Cooper shook his head. "I doubt a bucket of water would do y'all or that furniture of your mama's much good. Lord Collier, we'd best be gettin' you home."

  "Home," echoed Collier blankly, his lips still tingling. His side felt cold without Laurel snuggled up against it. Good Lord!

  Cooper crossed the room and drew him up by the elbow, as if helping an intoxicated mate find his way. "Snow's deeper, but I don't guess the walk back will be too much worse than the walk here." His gaze narrowed. "Might help you cool off some, too."

  Collier glanced back at Laurel, with her dark, gleaming hair spilling over her shoulders, her blue eyes sparkling, her lips redder than usual. He very much did not want to go back to the Coopers' home. But staying the night here could prove disastrous.

  "Yes," he said. "I had best accompany you, at that."

  Cooper did not sound particularly pleased as he said, "I figured you'd see it my way."

  When Collier reached back to take Laurel's hand, it did not feel quite so tough as it sometimes did. Perhaps because of how fragile he knew the whole girl to be, after having risked losing her to the weather. "Until the wedding then, Miss Garrison," he murmured, and kissed her knuckles.

  He wished her engagement ring were real. Perhaps, for a moment, he wished everything about this were real. That showed how badly worry had drained him. He no longer thought straight.

  "Until the wedding," she agreed softly.

  It took almost more willpower than he had to let her hand slip from his. "I'll make my good-byes to your family, then."

  As he left the room, Elise dove onto the sofa beside her sister and exclaimed, "That was a good kiss, wasn't it?"

  Unfortunately, he did not hear Laurel's answer.

  "Oh!" whispered Mariah when Laurel stepped out into the hallway in her wedding gown two days later. "It's beautiful!"

  Which just made Laurel feel guilty. Mariah had always dreamed of a fairy-tale wedding, but once she and Stuart had set themselves to it, they hadn't left time for fineries. Mariah had married in her best blue dress—the one she wore today! Instead it was Laurel marrying a British lord, draped in white silk and lace with a floor-length tulle veil.

  She did like her wedding gown, she supposed. Mama had kept it simple, limiting herself to a yoke of beaded lace that matched one long, flaring panel of lace and beadwork that opened off one hip to sweep down the side of the gown until it pooled into the generous train. Who wouldn't feel pretty in such a dress?

  Who wouldn't look like a lady?

  But Mariah should have had it, not her. Not for a wedding that was just pretend, anyhow.

  To even think that made Laurel's stomach cramp, and she had to swallow. Hard. Especially after taking Collier to task the other night, she had to go through with this. Didn't she?

  She turned to the full-length mirror. "I don't look silly?"

  "No!" Mariah sounded indignant at such a question.

  Mama reached carefully into the knot of orange blossoms and styled curls that they'd created of Laurel's hair and tucked a blossom more carefully, saying, "He won't know what hit him."

  Laurel stared at herself a little longer. She liked the idea of Lord Collier not knowing what hit him—more than she should.

  Her other sisters seemed equally impressed by Laurel's bri­dal gown when she swept carefully down the steps. Even Thaddeas grinned broadly and said, "Well, who are you?"

  "Shame on you," chided Mariah. Somehow getting married had given her the authority to scold a brother ten years her senior. "Acting as if you've never seen her pretty before!"

  "Not gussied up like this," insisted Thad, but he kissed Lau­rel's cheek by way of amends. "It looks good on you."

  "Thank you," said Laurel. But it wasn’t her; it was the dress. The rest was pretend, as she and Collier had agreed.

  Why that should sadden her now, she had no idea.

  All Papa did was nod once at her, his gaze admiring de­spite his continued reservations about her wedding. "Best be gettin' you there afore you take mind to skip out," he drawled, and claimed her mother's best cloak to drape over her shoul­ders. "Have a hard time findin' you in all this snow."

  "I'm not skipping out, Papa," she assured him, embarrassed to have folks dressing her like a doll, as if she were unable to do for herself, but not embarrassed enough to push him away.

  Her father sighed, as if disappointed.

  "Jacob Garrison," scolded Mama, and Papa kept his peace.

  Lace and satin were draped across the Coopers' parlor and hall, which was abloom with white roses and orange blos­soms. When she saw Uncle Benj and his wife in their party best, Laurel felt better about her own fine gown. Surely Col­lier would expect elegance.

  Alexandra bustled her and Papa off into the upstairs sitting room, instructed them to come down the steps when the music began, then left them alone together. If Laurel weren't wearing gloves—special ones, with a slit up one finger es­pecially for a wedding ring!—she would be chewing her fin­gernails by now.

  "Not too late to change yer mind," Papa reminded her one last time, despite Mama's Warning.

  "I gave my word."

  "Don't count until after the vows."

  "I'm not changing my mind, Papa," she assured him—but then she wondered, What if he relented? If her father agreed, here and now, to let her stay on her claim alone, would she still marry Collier? Even after giving her word, would she?

  But she didn't ask. Papa didn't offer. And the piano music began. "Here goes," said Laurel, as Papa gave her his arm.

  Then he hesitated, touching her cheek with his free hand.

  "Papa?"

  "I hope you know what you're doin', Laurel Lee," he drawled.

  Then he led her to the landing and down the stairs, to marry a man she did not love.

  Collier looked so blindingly handsome in a fine Prince Al­bert coat and high polished boots that she nearly forgot that she didn't love him. But she'd do well not to forget.

  Maybe the marriage would be pretend, but the ceremony seemed even less real. Despite her fears, Laurel managed the "I will" as clearly as Collier, but she felt suddenly shy when he ducked to kiss her afterward. While she'd kissed him be­fore, it had not been in front of her family! Still, even embar­rassed, she could do worse than be kissed by the bright-eyed Collier Pembroke.

  "Hold steady, Lorelei," he whispered. "That was the worst."

  But she wasn't so sure.

  The afternoon blurred after that. They bundled over to her parents' house for a small reception with friends and neigh­bors. Shaking hands and accepting kisses wore on Laurel fas­ter than she would have guessed. And she noticed that Collier winced, almost imperceptibly, every time someone congrat­ulated her.

  Finally she elbowed him and asked why.

  "It is not done. The groom gets the congratulations, not the bride. The honor was not conferred upon her, but upon him."

  "Well, it's done in Wyoming" she warned him. Where we have more important things to do than read books on etiquette.

  "I am pleased that you think it such an honor to wed me."

  Then he had another hand to shake, she had another kiss to bear, and they both received more congratulations. At mo­ments like these, she felt glad it was all pretend. She did not have to worry about the fact that, because of the storm, they'd moved their wedding from a Wednesday—"best day of all," according to the rhyme—to a Friday, "for losses." She did not have to concern herself over the meaningful glances folks exchanged, wondering—she guessed—just how soon the first baby would come. She needed only finish out the day and tomorrow they'd go home to her claim.

  But she and Collier had one more obstacle to clear.

  They could have spent the night at her parents' house, of course, or at t
he Coopers' residence. Instead, after changing into street clothes, they followed local tradition and went to the West's finest hotel north of Denver.

  "Who is that?" asked Laurel, as Collier walked her through the lobby of the Sheridan Inn. Three men stood in the hallway that she had heard led to the Buffalo Bill Saloon, watching in some amusement. To judge from their fancy suits, cloth-topped shoes, and forward manner, they weren't local boys.

  "Those," said Collier tightly, "are remittance men."

  "Are they friends of yours?" She turned around as they walked, because Collier was leading her onto the elevator after the bellboy and their two bags whether she wanted to go or not.

  One of the Englishmen winked at her, or else at Collier. She wasn't sure which. Either way, she narrowed her eyes in threat, even as the elevator man closed the grilled cage in front of her.

  "Not friends exactly," he admitted.

  "Oh! Is that the one you knocked down, protecting my honor?"

  Looking down at her, Collier smiled. "I did not knock him down, and how would you know?"

  "I have my ways of finding out," she said mysteriously.

  "Your sister Victoria," he teased, showing his dimples.

  She grinned back up at him. At the very least, this marriage would, as Mariah had said, be ornamental.

  But it would also present challenges, and the first was their big, quiet hotel room.

  "So," she asked, falling loosely into a chair. "How shall we amuse ourselves?"

  Only then did she think better of the question.

  Her new husband's golden hair might make him look like an angel. But his slow, full smile was devilish.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Laurel stood, unsettled by Collier's smile. They had a deal! True, he'd expressed doubts at their ability to keep that part of the bargain, but it was a bargain, even so!

  It hadn't occurred to her that maybe she ought not trust him. Now they were alone together. Soon they would be alone in her claim cabin. Worse, as her legal husband, he had a right to ...

  To her relief Collier sank gracefully onto the mate to her chair. "We do what we agreed to do, Lorelei. We pretend."

  She ignored the endearment. "But not when we're alone."

  "No." He exhaled slowly. It had been a very big day, what with getting married and all. "Your virtue is safe with me for now ... unless you wish to renegotiate our agreement."

  And risk babies? Permanence? England?

  A shiver ran through her at his smoky look. It was only now twilight. They'd not even pulled the bed down from the wall... not that she should be thinking of beds.

  "Not hardly," she assured him.

  When a knock startled her, she spun to face the door as

  she might a bear. Collier laughed. But he also reached for her as he stood and crossed toward it. "C'mere."

  When she hesitated, he turned those eyes to her again— shiny but dark in evening shadow—and his dimples deep­ened. "Please."

  So she did. He took her hand, slid an arm around her waist, and then he opened the door.

  The bellman from the lobby held a tray with a tall bottle and two crystal glasses. "Sorry to disturb you folks," he said. "These were sent over by Mr. Benjamin Cooper."

  Cole stepped back from the door, drawing Laurel with him, sliding his other arm around her. His warmth and solidity tempted her to relax into the casual embrace, even as she questioned such public intimacy.

  "Please put them on the table," Collier instructed, then ducked his head so that his breath scalded Laurel's ear. Ohhh! Knees suddenly weak, she leaned more heavily into him. "This is our wedding night," he whispered. His lips brushed her neck. "Do pretend to enjoy it."

  Wasn't she?

  Somehow, as his lips sneaked across her jawline, she could not form words to challenge his assumption.

  "I'll leave you alone now," promised the bellman. When Laurel opened her heavy eyes, he'd returned to the doorway.

  "One moment," insisted Cole, and slid a hand from around her. Laurel had to swallow back an instinctive protest at how much colder she felt. When he offered the man a tip, Collier's forearm brushed near her breast. She shivered. "Here you go."

  "Thank you, sir." The bellman didn't look to see what he'd gotten. "I'll make sure nobody disturbs you folks."

  Collier's "We'd appreciate that" sounded smoky.

  When the door shut, Laurel needed deep breaths to gather her strength. Then she spun out of his embrace. "What was that about?"

  "That," he answered easily, shrugging out of his dress jacket, "was how newlyweds would likely behave."

  "Not in front of someone else."

  Returning to the table to drape his coat on a chair back, then lifting the bottle, Collier slid his gaze back to hers. "You've really never been in love, have you?"

  "Have you?" she challenged, then remembered his lost fi­ancee. Well, he shouldn't have riled her.

  "Not in its purest form," he assured her. "You?"

  "I haven't had the time."

  But he found that amusing, too.

  "It's a good year," he said instead, apparently about the bottle. "Your uncle has fine taste." Then he set about remov­ing the stopper, a process he managed so competently that it drew her curiosity despite herself.

  "Is that wine?" she asked finally.

  "Champagne." He raised an eyebrow. "You've never im­bibed?"

  "The only spirits my father tolerates—"

  "—are for medicinal purposes," he finished. To judge by his dimples, he found that funny. "Well, you married to es­cape your father's yoke. If I'm not to take your innocence the usual way, allow me this: let's celebrate with a toast."

  "Papa never had me in a yoke! He just... worries."

  "Now his worrying shan't keep you off your ranch. Ahhh, here we go." With a loud pop, the cork flew from the bottle and bounced off the ceiling. Laurel retrieved it while Collier poured champagne into the goblets, where it fizzed and bub­bled.

  The cork smelled tart but not unpleasant. Uncle Benj would not gift her with something downright immoral. Would he?

  And she and Collier had accomplished quite a bit today, even if it wasn't what the rest of Sheridan thought they had.

  Collier offered her a crystal goblet, an inviting half smile hovering on his full lips, his eyes livelier than ever. Sometimes the unfair beauty of this man overwhelmed her, as if she'd momentarily forgotten it. His hair caught the glow of the elec­tric lights, and his shirt looked crisp and starched.

  "Perhaps just a sip," she agreed, accepting the drink. She'd boarded the train, as far as trusting him went. Might as well give up the notion of jumping off.

  Her fingers brushed his as she accepted the glass. The champagne looked even better up close, full of bubbles. Bub­bles danced on her nose, making her want to sneeze.

  "To success," toasted Collier. "However we define it."

  Not very romantic, but then, this was business.

  "To success," Laurel agreed. He touched his goblet to hers with a gentle clink, and they each took a sip.

  Champagne tickled inside, too, and she coughed. Then, looking up at him through her lashes, she returned his friendly smile. "I thought it would be sweeter."

  "Oh, no," he assured her. "That would ruin it. Take another taste, and hold it on your tongue a moment."

  She did. The champagne hopped around her mouth like a grasshopper, then slid down her throat, and that was better.

  "You like it?" Cole prompted.

  She nodded. They both took another sip.

  Then he said, "Let's do another toast, European-style."

  "European?"

  For a moment, as he extended his own goblet, she thought he meant her to drink from his glass. The idea tickled as much as the champagne. But he drew his hand around hers, so that their arms circled as they tipped their own glasses toward their lips.

  "What shall we drink to?" he asked.

  "To the claim," she decided.

  He hesitated barely a momen
t, then nodded. "To the claim." And they each took another fizzy sip.

  Laurel began to feel warm inside, which seemed odd, since the champagne was cold.

  "And to Brambourne," Cole insisted then. "May our lands get proper stewardship on both sides of the Atlantic."

  That seemed fair—especially with that extra bit—so Laurel said, "To Brambourne," and they drank again.

  Then, since she liked this custom, she said, "To family!"

  At that Cole hesitated. Did he not like his family?

  "May we finally prove ourselves to them," she added.

  Now he nodded. "To proving ourselves."

  After that sip, Laurel giggled.

  Collier widened his bright, bright eyes. "You find some­thing amusing, Mrs. Pembroke?"

  Being called Mrs. Pembroke seemed even funnier. Less funny was how Cole pried her goblet gently from her hand. "Wait!" she protested, reaching after it.

  "I think you'd best pace yourself," he advised. "It needs to last us all night."

  "Except for when we're in bed," she argued, then flushed, hotter than ever before, and not just because of the cham­pagne.

  Though maybe partly because of that.

  "Not that we'll be doing anything untoward in bed," she added stiffly. "Maybe we should take turns. With the bed. I'm guessing you don't want to sleep on the floor."

  He parted those full, soft lips of his as if to argue, then shook his head instead. "I'm nowhere near ready to sleep," he assured her smoothly. "Are you?"

  She shook her head. Nowhere near.

  "Hmm." He looked around them. It was a regular room, nothing special except for their bags, electric lights, his dress coat hung over the back of a chair.

  His face brightened. "Do you play cards?"

  She nodded. "Whist is fun."

  "Well, we can start with that," Cole agreed, and pulled out a chair for her. It was the chair that already wore his coat. Laurel, pleasantly dizzy now, sank into it. She liked the feel of his coat behind her. It smelled nice, like him. Collier pushed the chair in with her on it. He was very good at that sort of thing.

  "It's early. I'll go down to the bar and get us a deck."

  "Take me!" She sounded like Elise. "I've never seen it. It's supposed to be very impressive. For a bar."