My Angel (60 page)

"No." Her protest was weak.

"Fine."

Once more he leaned back in a negligent, uncaring pose. Nothing seemed to shake the man or rattle his nerves. She finished the chore then covered the child with the blanket she'd draped over her shoulder.

"Does he have a name?"

"What?" Her mind snapped to attention.

"Does he have a name?''

Alexi's patience seemed to be abundant today. He waited for an answer with his head cocked to match his grin.

"Alexander," she whispered, wishing all the while she hadn't named him that.

"What?" His pose changed, no longer quite so arrogant.

For a moment she thought she saw a flash of warmth in his eyes.

It vanished.

"What?" he asked again.

Strength and power vibrated in the depth and tone of the single word. He demanded all.

It wasn't a question, and she knew it. It was a command, a confirmation that she'd lied to him about the child's parentage. He wanted nothing but her complete surrender.

He sounded so very smug in the knowledge she'd just placed in his lap.

"Alexander Samuel Chamberlain," she told him, her chin lifted slightly, her emphasis on the last name.

He flinched. She was determined not to let him know how vulnerable she was. How much she had loved him.

"Popov," he told her, his tone brooking no argument, his gaze shredding her nerves until she trembled.

But there was much to argue. He had never seen fit to offer his name to her. Now he made it sound as if the past were her fault.

Tears swam in her eyes. Once again she broke down in front of him, and she hated herself for her weakness. This time she didn't hold a gun on him, and this time she found herself in his arms, wrapped in the heat and the warmth of the man she'd always loved--but a man who would not return that love.

She had no quick replies to his probing questions. The tears she shed were useless tears and would solve nothing. Yet she couldn't seem to stop. Angrily she brushed them away, but more followed. Unstoppable rivers of pain and anguish pulsed from her, wetting his shirt.

His hands were soothing hands, his words calming words. There was nothing personal or intimate about his gestures. He touched her heart and her soul while she reminded herself he wanted nothing from her except the child that lay sleeping peacefully by her side. For so long she'd held her love for him deep inside.

She'd given herself over to the care and nurturing of Alexi's small son so the child would not be like his father--cold and so very hard.

Now Alexi was demanding her soul, her heart, her firstborn, and as surely as he'd broken her heart once before, he would break it again. She had no defense against him.

He was not begging her forgiveness.

Instead he demanded their child.

"What do you want from me?" Her words were muffled in his shirt. She put her hands on his broad chest and pushed away from him.' 'What do you want from me?" she demanded again. Still, he held her within the circle of his arms, his expression almost cruel.

"Everything you're willing to give. Your love. Your hand." His voice cracked, and for a moment she thought she saw the chill in his eyes warm to a heated glow.

She was mistaken.

"I've already given all that I can."

"It's not enough."

"No more, Alexi. Go home. Go back to your country, where nobility is more important than love, and leave the two of us in peace. This is no place for a man so drenched in the ideals of the aristocracy that he can't see beyond his long, elegant nose."

She wiped the tears from her cheeks with her arm.

"Go home," she whispered.

"When you agree to come with me."

"Never."

"What? You've had your fill of adventure?"

His tone of voice, filled with scorn, the look in his eyes, suffused with pity, took their toll.

She rose, meaning to scoop the child into her arms. Too late she saw he'd read her mind and had little Alexi in his arms.

He rose.

"Not this time," he said with a slow drawl. He whistled for Jabbar. The horse wasted no time in coming to Alexi's side.

"You can't do this," she told him. "He needs to eat. He--"

"Wet nurses are not hard to find."

"What?" Her astonishment echoed in the small glade.

Jabbar nickered softly, nuzzling his master's arm. With little effort, the babe tucked against his chest, Alexi mounted his stallion.

"Are you coming or staying?'' he inquired politely.

Chapter Twenty-one

Watching Devil Blackmoor ride toward the high pasture made Sam realize how much he loved Angela and wanted what was best for her. What was best for Angela was to be alone with Devil so they could work out their differences, and the next best thing for Angela was a speedy marriage.

A shotgun wedding, if necessary.

White Flower stood by Sam's side, his wife, Angela's mother.

"Go get the preacher," White Flower said, her small hand gently squeezing his own. "I'll pack her things. Devil will want to start for home as soon as it's done."

For a long moment Sam didn't move, couldn't. His heart pounded against his ribs. "You're sure?" he asked. "I don't want to be called a meddling old fool tomorrow. I gave Devil my word I'd give him time to convince her."

"I'm sure, and so are you. The only way she'll back down and marry him is if she has to. She's as stubborn as her daddy."

"Stubborn as her mama, you mean."

White Flower smiled. "You were of the same mind. Hard-headed. Determined to have your own way."

She ran her hands up his chest and kissed him. Sam grunted and took the woman into his arms, her fingers winding around his neck and feathering into his hair. He loved her so much, and he wanted Angela to be happy with her man.

White Flower pulled away. Their gazes locked, a wealth of
unspoken knowledge flowing between the two of them. They understood each other, understood how sometimes two stubborn fools might have to be pushed together by those a little older and a great deal wiser.

Whether Sam liked it or not, Devil was Angela's man, and the arrogant aristocrat needed to be put in his place. Sam had seen how Devil had looked at Angela, saw the naked yearning, the love brimming hi his eyes.

Angela would have never gotten into this fix if she didn't love Devil.

How the hell the man had let her go was beyond anything Sam could understand. He understood duty. He understood loyalty and honor, too.

But Devil had crossed an ocean for Angela, given up his birthright, and Sam wasn't about to let all that effort go to waste. He wanted to see his daughter married and happy, and he wanted his grandson to have a strong last name, a name that wouldn't label the child a bastard.

Breathless from his kiss, White Flower could barely speak. "The preacher headed south from the trading post two days ago. On that lazy mule he couldn't have gotten too far. My bet is that he's stayed the night with the Johnson's. She's the best cook in these parts, and he has a hankering for good meals."

White Flower's hands had slid down his back, and now she was kneading the seat of his denims. "You got something else on your mind, woman?" he asked, his voice low and throaty. Unable to withstand her silent invitation, he groaned and pulled her into his arms for another heart-stopping kiss.

Everything he'd ever wanted, Sam found in this woman's arms. He didn't want to go anywhere but time wasn't standing still. He pulled away. "Now you keep that thought, woman," he said in a growl after giving her a warm smile. "I'm awful hungry."

"Hurry," she whispered, her subtle invitation hanging on the air between them like a potent aphrodisiac.

"South, you say?"

She nodded.

"Keep those two headstrong youngsters here--with the shotgun if you have to."