The Rustler's Bride by Tatiana March

Author:Tatiana March [March, Tatiana]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B00OBSC62W
Goodreads: 23390894
Published: 2013-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

Declan kept up his resolve for two days and two and a half nights. He didn’t eat. He didn’t sleep. He spent endless hours in an agonized struggle with his conscience.

He told himself it was right—evil right—to make his marriage real. What better way to crush Andrew Sinclair than to take his daughter away from him?

He told himself it was right—true right—to make his marriage real. When Andrew Sinclair lost his ranch, he could take care of Victoria. He could get a job as a ranch foreman somewhere north. Montana. Wyoming. He could provide for her.

Then he told himself it was not all right in any way at all. She needed to be able to marry one of those affluent men her father had talked about. And that was the thought that got him out of bed. The thought of her married to someone else.

Right or wrong, he didn’t know. But he knew he had to do it.

He got up in the faint glow of moonlight and took his yellow shirt from the bedpost where he’d slung it. He shoved his arms into the sleeves, tearing another seam. His bare feet were soundless on the floor as he padded out of the room.

Around him, the house slept. A clock somewhere had chimed midnight long ago. Taking the stairs on tiptoe, he counted doors in the upstairs corridor until he found the one that matched Victoria’s bedroom window. Last night, he had sat on horseback on the other side of the stable yard, watching her light go out.

He tried the brass knob. It turned without a sound.

When he entered, he found the room bathed in soft moonlight. A cool night breeze flowed in through the open windows. Victoria was sitting up in bed, the plain white covers gathered like snowdrifts about her feet. She wore a nightgown of fine cotton, with a high neck and long sleeves, and lace at the collar. Her hair cascaded in a dark curtain past her shoulders. He could see a blue silk ribbon twined into the glossy tresses.

His ribbon.

“Have you been waiting for me?” he asked.

She didn’t speak, merely dipped her head in a silent nod.

“How long?”

“Five years.” She pursed her mouth. “And nine days.”

Five years of waiting. Nine days of resisting. It seemed crazy now that he had thought he could keep away from her. He wanted her, could no longer remember a time when he hadn’t wanted her. He’d been captured, had almost died, because after hearing that she’d returned home from boarding school he had taken foolish risks, ridding too close to the house, hungry for a glimpse of her.

He crossed the room, sat down on the edge of the bed. Slowly, giving her plenty of time to object, he lifted his hand to the row of tiny buttons at her throat. He sprang the first button open. And the second. And the third. Through it all, his gaze never left hers. When he had enough buttons freed from their moorings,

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