Amon chuckled. “I suppose it was rather rude of me to exclude le petit caporal.” He chucked Napoleon under the chin. “Shall I pour another, mon ami?”
Napoleon yipped. Jo jostled him. “I don’t think that will be necessary.” Why did fran?ais rolling from this man’s tongue send tingles skidding down her arms? “But perhaps you would be kind enough to explain something to me.”
He sketched a shallow bow. “Anything, mademoiselle.”
“Why did you present yourself as something you are not?”
“Excusez-moi?”
“You are not a common servant. Why did you not tell me you are the brother—”
“Half-brother. And I’m just another hired hand around here. Ranch foreman, nothing more.”
“I do not understand. You are Monsieur Collier’s son, are you not?”
“I am.” Holding her gaze, he raised his short glass of whiskey to his lips. “But I was born on the wrong side of the blanket.”
Bonté divine! Every time she opened her mouth, she made a fool of herself. A sip of sherry burned the mortification from her throat. “Please, forgive me. I did not mean to pry.”
“You didn’t.” He tossed back what remained of his whiskey and delivered the most unsettling wink. “There are all sorts of skeletons in Collier closets, ma chère—and no shortage of stray bones.” He nodded to Napoleon. “Keep a close eye on the little emperor. No telling what he’s liable to dig up.”
****
For the second time in fewer than twelve hours, Amon peeled off the wretched broadcloth and linen. This time, he let everything lie crumpled where it fell, padded across the bare-plank floor, and flopped onto his back in his bunk. A full moon shone through the window, bright enough to sear his brain through closed eyelids. He tossed a forearm over his face to block the light.
Three deep, slow breaths—in, out, repeat—settled the churning in his gut but did nothing to remove the images burned into the front of his memory. Eyes the greenish-gray of the Gulf of Mexico before a storm. Hair like spun molasses. Skin as silky as fresh cream. Tantalizing berry-stained lips. He’d bet what little he owned Josephine LaPierre tasted every bit as sweet as she looked, too.
Ill-considered though Pa’s matchmaking methods may have been, the old man was right about one thing: A beautiful woman bred and reared among New Orleans gentility was exactly the kind of bride Ben needed. A pillar of velvet, accustomed to negotiating all the traps of society life. Surely, a woman like that understood she would be little more than a trophy, a pretty trinket a powerful man could trot out in all the appropriate places…at least while she wasn’t shortening her life by serving as a brood mare.
Amon dragged his arm from his face and stared a hole through the ceiling. Did Mademoiselle LaPierre possess Suzette’s fortitude? Could she allow Ben the freedom to sate his desires with other women while propping up his destiny, wherever Fate led? Would she welcome Ben’s bastard son as though he were her own?
Honeysuckle. Her hair smelled of honeysuckle. If he closed his eyes…
That way lay madness. Even were Josephine LaPierre not his brother’s int— No, “intended” didn’t seem the right word.
Opening closets in Dumont was a risky proposition. Collier skeletons had a habit of playing fast and loose with Collier women.
Hypnotized by those gray-green eyes, fresh-cream cheeks, and berry-stained lips, he’d come too damn close to unlocking the one door that had to stay closed.
Chapter Three
Amon scooped up the beribboned hat, vaulted back into his saddle, and kicked the sorrel gelding into a headlong gallop. Two dozen yards ahead, Mademoiselle LaPierre’s glistening locks, undone by the breeze, streamed behind her, a red flag baiting a bull. Her lilting laughter smacked him full in the face.
He grinned. Damn her hide. She did that on purpose.
By the time he caught up, her chestnut mare had jumped the creek and found shade under the broad leaves of a cottonwood. The woman sat a sidesaddle like she was born to it: back straight, head up, and a that’ll-teach-you gleam in her eyes. The wind had burnished her cheeks, and all that dark hair flowed around her shoulders like a fountain of spun sugar.
Why had he balked when Jenny asked him to accompany the young lady on a ride?
Because socializing with a woman like Josephine LaPierre was not a good idea—not for a man like him. Wanted or not, she belonged to his brother. Even if she didn’t, he shouldn’t be anywhere near her. Damn those Collier skeletons.
He ground-tied the sorrel, handed the lady her hat, and reached up to lift her down. “You cheat.”
Her eyes widened in mock outrage. “Excusez-moi?” Her gloved palms burned his shoulders through his shirt.
When he set her on her feet, her knees buckled. Without a second thought, he pulled her close to prop her up. She gasped, and a jolt lit his pulse.
As gently as he could, he set her at arm’s length, then wrangled enough air to speak. “Been a while, huh?”
Her voice emerged thin, too. “Since I have ridden? Oui. Too long.”