Nobody's Darling

Esmerelda’s heart began to pound even harder than her head.

She was so riveted by the cougarlike grace of his swagger that she never even felt her aunt reach over to clutch her icy hand. She never heard the Belles titter and whisper to one another behind their cupped hands that they would surely swoon were they to be accosted by such a handsome and virile villain. She never saw the second man appear at the opposite end of the arena, dressed all in white with an oversized tin star gleaming on his lapel.

“Throw down your gun, outlaw,” he barked in a rolling Scottish burr. “I’m the law in this town and we don’t take to your kind here.”

“Haven’t you heard, sheriff?” the man replied in a drawl as sweet and thick as sun-warmed molasses. “I never draw my gun unless I plan to use it.”

Jasper, Esmerelda thought frantically. Dear God, it had to be Jasper. She dragged her hand out of her aunt’s and groped blindly for the opera glasses. She lifted them to her eyes, struggling to focus through the fog of panic that had descended over her vision.

The men faced off, their hands poised over the sleek leather sheaths cradling their pistols. They both drew in one quicksilver motion. A shot rang out.

Esmerelda flinched as if she’d been hit. For a taut eternity, it was impossible to tell which man was hit. Then the man dressed all in black began to stagger. His knees buckled and he slowly crumpled to the ground, a crimson stain spreading over his heart. As he sprawled on his back, Esmerelda got her first clear look at his face.

Forgetting that the shells were blanks, forgetting that the blood was probably nothing more than strawberry syrup, forgetting that she hated Billy almost as much as she still loved him and had wished him dead a thousand times since they’d parted, Esmerelda leapt to her feet and let out a piercing scream.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Esmerelda’s scream fell into a silence so suffocating she wasn’t sure she would ever breathe again.

Billy slowly climbed to his feet, his gaze riveted on her as if they were the only two people in the arena. He swept his hat off the floor, dusting bits of straw from its crown, before sketching her a gallant bow.

The audience erupted in a frenzied wave of applause, hoots, and approving whistles. The men stamped their feet in unison, making the tiers of benches shudder.

Esmerelda continued to stand, frozen into place by her own mortification as she realized what an utter buffoon she’d just made of herself. She looked frantically around only to find the Belles gaping at her, their little pink mouths circles of scandalized delight. The earl appeared to be choking on a peanut, while her aunt pretended to study a playbill, her face a portrait of artless innocence.

Against her will, Esmerelda’s gaze was drawn back to the man who stood in that shimmering arc of light. As she met his wary gaze, her every sense came tingling to life, just as they had in that dusty saloon a lifetime ago. Unable to bear the exquisite pain of such an awakening, she turned to the left, then to the right, driven by a single primal urge.

Escape.

Ignoring the earl’s muttered “I should say!” and “Well, I never,” Esmerelda shoved past him, trodding ruthlessly on his feet. Although she continued to push and elbow her way toward the aisle, no one dared complain. They were too enchanted by the drama taking place practically in their laps. When her cashmere shawl snagged on the clawed grip of a man’s cane, she simply left it behind, although her bared shoulders made her feel even more exposed. The spotlight swung around to follow her, highlighting every lurch and stumble of her agonizing journey.

She reached the aisle only to discover she had nowhere to go but down. Holding her head high, she started down the carpeted stairs, praying she wouldn’t end up rolling down them in her haste.

When she finally reached the floor, her heartfelt sigh of relief drowned out the admiring gasps of the crowd. She had no way of knowing that Billy had wrested the reins of the pinto from the hapless Indian and swung himself astride until he came trotting up beside her. He looked harder and leaner than she remembered. His face was darker, his hair a brighter gold.

He slowed the horse to an amiable walk, tipping his hat as if they’d just happened to meet on a tree-shaded path. “Can I offer you a ride, ma’am?”

“I can promise you, sir,” she hissed out of the corner of her mouth, “that you have absolutely nothing to offer me.”

Devilish charm melted through his voice as he leaned down and murmured, “I wouldn’t be so sure of that if I were you, honey.”

Terrified he might be right, she quickened her steps, thinking only to reach the gilded doors at the far end of the theater before she made an even bigger fool of herself.

He nudged the horse nearer. “I need to talk to you, Esmerelda. You have to hear me out.”

“I don’t care to hear anything you have to say.”

“If you don’t care, then why did you scream when you thought I’d been shot?”

Esmerelda didn’t miss a step. “Because I was afraid I’d been deprived of the pleasure of killing you myself.”

Billy responded to her retort by wheeling the pinto around and cantering back toward the center of the arena. Esmerelda hated herself for feeling a stab of regret.

Andrew McGuire’s Scottish burr flooded the theater, magnified by the yawning mouth of the megaphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to the deadliest draw and quickest shot in all the American West…”

Warned by the thunder of hoofbeats, the relentless jingle of spurs, Esmerelda whirled around, clapping a hand over her heart.

Billy was galloping straight for her. He leaned low over the pinto’s back, determination hardening his eyes to silver.

“… the one name that strikes terror in the hearts of innocent maidens and lawmen alike…”

Esmerelda’s own traitorous heart skipped two beats for every one it hit. She stood paralyzed with helpless anticipation until Billy leaned sideways and swept her off the floor and into his lap with one powerful arm.

“… Mr. Billy Darling!”

The crowd roared their approval, no doubt believing the spectacle was all part of the show. The deserters who had been filing toward the exits went scurrying back to their seats.

Esmerelda squirmed in Billy’s arms. Being that near to him again, breathing in his rich tobacco-and-leather scent was a taste of both heaven and hell.

“Relax, Duchess,” he murmured into her hair. “You don’t have to be afraid of the horse.”

“I’m not afraid of the horse! I’m—”

Afraid I still love you.

She bit her lip before she could blurt out those damning words.

“Just hang on to me, angel, and pretend the saddle is a rocking chair.”

Blushing furiously, she twisted around to give him a long, hard look. He cocked an eyebrow, returning it with one of bland innocence.

The horse trotted toward the center of the arena, where Drew stood in the dazzling light of the spotlight, having ousted the Englishman who had introduced the show.

Even the eloquent sheriff seemed at a loss for words to describe Billy’s scandalous abduction of her. “As you can see, um, ladies and gentlemen,” he shouted through the megaphone, “the notorious gunslinger has swept this beautiful little lady off her feet.” He slanted them a dubious look as Billy slid off the horse, dragging a struggling Esmerelda after him. “Proving, once again, that no woman can resist the charms of an outlaw.”

“I can,” Esmerelda declared, landing with a deliberate crunch on Billy’s toes.

He doubled over in a bow to hide his grimace of pain, taking her captive hand with him. “You might want to play along with Drew for now,” he shouted over the roar of applause. “I’d hate to ruin your reputation.”

“You already have,” she shouted back. “Or have you forgotten?”