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  Lourdes cringed inwardly, knowing how she must seem to the woman: an interloper intent on stealing her intended. She should have considered that when she'd agreed to accompany the man about. Mr. Finnegan seemed intent on ignoring the woman, though. He led Lourdes up the steps, staying between her and the other woman.

  "And what is this, Finn?" that woman said when they'd come up even with her. Her voice was low and velvety, with a hint of that accent that must be Irish. "A last little fling? I shouldn't be surprised. How very changeable of you."

  That certainly implied her ownership of Mr. Finnegan. Lourdes could feel his irritation in the taut muscles of his forearm under her hand. A group of men, older than the ones they'd passed earlier, emerged from the front door. As their path was blocked by the woman, they couldn't help but overhear what was said.

  "Miss Doherty, I don't know if you've had the pleasure of making Mrs. Medina's acquaintance yet," Mr. Finnegan said in a cool voice. He turned toward Lourdes. "This is Miss Doherty, Mrs. Medina."

  Lourdes reached across and offered her gloved hand. Miss Doherty raised one delicate eyebrow, and did exactly what Lourdes expected. She lifted her nose in the air. Just as Lourdes had dealt with high-handed men before, she'd also dealt with Diego's aristocratic female relatives. They'd considered a wife from America beneath his consequence, and whispered behind their hands that her darker skin must mean she was mestizo--not pure Spanish. She'd learned to ignore all that. So Lourdes dropped her hand and smiled up at Mr. Finnegan. "Shall we go inside?"

  "Of course," Mr. Finnegan said. He led her past the silent Miss Doherty, nodding to the other gentlemen as they passed. Once they'd gotten inside the doors, he handed his hat to a footman and drew Lourdes down a side hallway. "Come look at the view from the tower, Mrs. Medina."

  There was indeed an alcove that would be inside the tower she'd spotted from outside. The lights hadn't been turned up and the lace curtains were drawn, allowing visitors to gaze out into the darkness beyond the panes. Lourdes barely caught a glimpse before his hand encircled her arm.

  "I should not have dragged you into this, Mrs. Medina," Mr. Finnegan said solemnly. "I did not mean to bring you to her attention. That was poorly done on my part."

  Was he truly concerned? Lourdes shook her head. "A mischance, nothing more, Mr. Finnegan. She may assume the worst of me--and you--but that's her concern, not mine."

  "She is not the sort who cares about innocence." His grip on her arm above the top of her long glove had tightened. When Lourdes glanced pointedly at his hand, he let go and stepped back. His expression remained stern. "That was no mischance, Mrs. Medina. She must have someone watching me."

  He sounded very certain, as if it were common for intended brides to have their future husbands followed about. "Forgive me for being overly bold, Mr. Finnegan," Lourdes said, "but do you intend to marry her? You don't seem to like her at all."

  "I must marry, and no other alternative has presented itself."

  That was a peculiar answer. Since he hadn't objected to her first intrusive question, she dared another. "Surely a man like yourself could find a dozen suitable women willing to marry you."

  He snorted. "Willing, yes. Suitable, no. Are you offering yourself for the position?"

  Lourdes stepped back, only keeping her mouth from falling open by sheer will. She stared at his jacket buttons; he was tall enough to make her feel tiny. She'd merely meant to point out that a man of means shouldn't have any trouble finding a wife. "I didn't say that, sir."

  "Can't bring yourself to call me Finn, can you?" he asked, annoyance creeping into his tone.

  She raised her chin and looked him in the eye. "I might be from the frontier, Mr. Finnegan, but I was raised with better manners than that."

  There was an avid gleam in his eye as he looked down at her face, one she couldn't quite place. One corner of his lips turned upward. He stepped closer, wrapped one arm about her waist and pulled her up against him.

  For the moment there were no witnesses. In this alcove, no one in the household would see them…but if she cried out they would be surrounded in seconds. And she wasn't certain whether she wanted that. He held her tight to his chest, her corset pressing into her flesh. There were surely a dozen layers of fabric between them, but she felt as if she could smell his skin, feel the beat of his heart. It was exhilarating and alarming at the same time.

  For a moment, his eyes held hers, almost as if he was deciding what to do with her. Then he leaned closer. His breath carried the scent of wine. At the last second before his lips met hers, Lourdes turned her head slightly, her native reserve overcoming her impulses.

  His breath warm in her ear, he whispered, "Were you talking to that mare in the corral this afternoon?"

  Lourdes jerked away, stepping back awkwardly when he released her. She came up against a wall or door and stood there gawking at him. It took a second to gather her nerves. She smoothed one hand down the front of her gown and tried to look calm despite the pounding of her heart. Her voice shook when she said, "I don't know what you mean, sir."

  He smiled again, the wide smile she knew was real. "Yes, you do. You wouldn't have reacted that way otherwise. I heard you. Thought it was Gorey at first, but didn't seem like him."

  "You heard me?" she asked and then realized it was nearly an admission. "Whatever do you mean?"

  He stepped closer. "You were telling the mare to be calm. You told her you would see her later."

  In all her life, she had never known anyone other than her father who'd been able to talk to horses, or hear another do so. Chuy couldn't do either. But this man had heard her doing so. He'd implied that Mr. O'Donnell could as well, yet Mr. O'Donnell had said nothing. "Is such a thing common here?"

  He cast a glance back toward the foyer as if to make certain the footman assigned to watch the door hadn't followed them. "Not at all. Plenty of witches hereabouts, but none of them speak to horses that I know."

  "I'm not a witch," she whispered quickly. The Church didn't automatically condemn witches, but they still looked at them askance. The more provincial churches tended to be stricter, so her family had always kept their tiny gift secret. They would never have called themselves witches.

  Mr. Finnegan leaned closer. "Then what are you?"

  Was that why he'd sought her out at dinnertime, because he'd discovered her secret? Did he intend to use it to blackmail her? Of course, she could turn the same accusation back on him. Gathering her nerve, she used his earlier words. "I am myself, Mr. Finnegan. Are you a witch?"

  "Not at all, my dear." He grinned down at her, showing neat square teeth. "So, are you offering yourself for the position?"

  Position?

  Her blank look must have communicated her confusion, because he asked, "Are you offering yourself as a candidate to be my wife?"

  Lourdes opened her mouth to deny it, but stopped herself. "I hardly know you, sir," she pointed out instead.

  "Finn," he said. "You could start by trying that."

  Lourdes swallowed. Most women, given the opportunity to marry a wealthy and handsome man, would probably jump at the chance. Even so, she hated to be pushed into anything. She'd fled Texas to escape being forced into a marriage she didn't want; she wasn't going to jump from the pan into the fire. "Mr. Finnegan," she said firmly.

  With a devilish smile on his lips, he held out one arm for her to take. "Shall we go on in, then, Mrs. Medina?"

  Lourdes laid her hand on his arm, adjusted her shawl, and went with him into the brighter realm of the card room.

  ***

  It had to be nearly three in the morning by the time they left that place, and Mr. Finnegan was several hundred dollars richer. It was a gift Lourdes wished she had, but she'd never been lucky at cards. That implied she was lucky at love, but that wasn't true either. She had loved Diego, yet lost him before their tenth anniversary.

  In the chilly morning air, she walked along under the streetlamps at Mr. Finnegan's side. It had been a surprisingl
y enjoyable evening. He'd kept up a mild banter, talking about his farm, some of his horses, and many of the residents of the town, all very tactfully. He'd been…charming.

  He'd plied her with water from the various springs for which the town was named. That had caused her to visit the ladies' retiring room a couple of times, but had also purged all worry that he was getting her drunk with lascivious intent. By the time he walked with her through the hotel's front doors, she felt quite back to her normal self, if a bit tired.

  And as soon as she thought that, she had to cover a yawn behind her hand.

  Mr. Finnegan patted her other hand where it lay on his arm. "Not accustomed to late nights?"

  They entered the lobby of the hotel. One of the porters watched them with sleepy eyes, apparently not shocked to see a woman return at this hour. Fortunately, the usher behind the front desk was far enough away that he couldn't hear their conversation. Lourdes turned back to Mr. Finnegan. "I'm not accustomed to early mornings, sir."

  He let the 'sir' pass. "Well if 'tis morning by your reckoning, then I should be on my way, should I not? And the horse…"

  "I have nowhere to keep Nevada should you give her to me," she admitted. "So I can't…"

  He smiled down at her in an apologetic manner. "I cannot go back on my bargain, Mrs. Medina. It is not possible."

  A man of his word? How unusual these days. She glanced pointedly out the front windows where darkness still reigned. "It's not morning yet, so I haven't fulfilled my part, have I?"

  It was a graceful way out for him.

  "But it is morning, Mrs. Medina," he said, nodding to the clock on the other side of the lobby. "Perhaps you could come out to my farm later today and visit your horse. We can make arrangements for her then."

  He had told her enough about the place that she didn't think she'd have trouble finding it. Maybe she could talk him out of the gift then. "Very well."

  He lifted her gloved hand and kissed her knuckles. It was the barest brush of his lips, but she could feel it through the cotton. Her heart fluttered as if she were a young girl again. His expression suggested he knew the effect he had on her. "Good morning, then, Mrs. Medina. You brought me good luck at the tables, and for that I must thank you."

  He turned and walked out of the hotel, leaving her all too aware of the two young men who'd been watching. Hoping the flush on her cheeks didn't show, she nodded to the usher at the desk and then headed for the elevator.

  ***

  Lourdes had been lying in her bed for some time, drifting in and out of sleep. She was warm and comfortable, and felt no urgent need to rise. She absently ran one hand over the elaborately carved headboard, then fingered the medallion now at its more customary place about her neck.

  She hadn't been able to get Mr. Finnegan--Finn--out of her thoughts. That wasn't like her. Usually she ignored men. She'd had too much responsibility before to spare the time to be courted, not that she would have accepted any of the men who'd made advances toward her back home. None had been to her taste. It was nice to know a gentleman was willing to make her feel worth his effort. And she likely wouldn't have another offer of marriage.

  But she didn't need a husband. Diego had seen to that, making certain the money he'd left her couldn't be touched by her brother. That had been her salvation. When Chuy tried to force her into marriage, she'd been able to walk away. It hadn't been an easy decision. She'd left behind the graves of her daughter and husband and parents. But there had been no one living left to hold her there. That had been Diego's final gift, the ability to take that chance. It was her new life, her new start.

  So even though she found Mr. Finnegan charming, she had no intention of being dragged into his family problems. He hadn't talked about his mother, but Lourdes could picture the woman. She would be lovely like Mr. Finnegan himself, but cold, the domineering sort who kept her hand on her son's fortune to force him to marry the bride of her choice.

  Lourdes heard a voice in the hallway. She turned her head and through the Brussels lace curtains saw the pale glow of dawn. She stretched wearily, trying to recall the hour of mass at the church down on William Street. Seven, she decided. She should have ample time to attend mass and eat breakfast before going out to Mr. Finnegan's farm. Surely he wouldn't expect her before ten.

  She shook the cobwebs out of her head. She rose, retrieved her wrapper from the end of the bed, and rang for a chambermaid. When the maid arrived at her door, Lourdes ordered a bowl of hot water and, once the maid had gone, she peered in the direction of the ladies' washroom. To her surprise, she saw a familiar face at the end of her hallway--Mr. Finnegan, talking with one of the porters. She ducked back inside her room and closed the door.

  What was he doing here? Had he been at the hotel for the remainder of the night? Or had he just come back? He was still dressed in his evening wear, which suggested he'd stayed at one of the hotels. Perhaps he'd had an assignation. She felt her cheeks burn and tried to force down a surprising surge of jealousy. It was wrong of her to assume the man had found a bed to sleep in so quickly. And it was wrong of her to feel that if he had, his doing so had anything to do with her. He wasn't her concern.

  She stood with her back against the door, trying to talk sense to herself. When a knock sounded behind her she jumped and squeaked. She whirled about and glared at the door, one hand pressed to her chest.

  "I know you saw me, Mrs. Medina," Mr. Finnegan said from the hallway.

  Go away, she thought automatically, a rational response still far from her lips.

  "Are you sure that's what you want?"

  He'd heard that, her unvoiced thought, just like a horse would. She jerked the door open and stared at him. He smiled down at her, looking as fresh and crisp as if the evening were just beginning, while she stood there in her nightdress and wrapper. She hadn't even put her slippers on yet.

  "How did you…?" she began.

  She heard another door opening farther down the hallway. He glanced that direction and then smoothly stepped into her room, drawing the door closed behind him. "Forgive me, Mrs. Medina, but it wouldn't do for you to be seen talking to me at this hour."

  "So you come into my room?" She wasn't a woman who got flustered, but she hadn't had enough sleep to have any sense at all. She would rather he'd stayed in the hall.

  "I'll leave in a few minutes," Mr. Finnegan reassured her. "Don't worry yourself."

  Lourdes heard two people walk past, chattering as they went. She was at a disadvantage. Her blue flannel nightdress was one Diego had favored, and therefore old. The wrapper was embroidered with bright flowers in pinks and wines, her abuela's work. It didn't match the nightdress in any way. Her braid was down, and her feet bare. She cast about and finally spotted her felt slippers peeking out from under the edge of the bed, so she went to retrieve them. While she worked her toes into the slippers, she leaned over only to discover that her hair had come loose from its braid, falling like a black curtain to hide her face. She brushed it back with one hand.

  "You have beautiful hair," Mr. Finnegan said.

  Lourdes jerked erect. While she'd been looking down, he'd come closer. Now he stood only a few feet away. He had that look in his eyes again, the one he'd had when he first sat down to dinner. Like he was weighing his chances of seducing her.

  If she backed up, she would give him the idea that she was frightened, so she stayed where she was. "Thank you."

  He took a lock of hair in his fingers. "Do you ever wear it down?"

  Lourdes firmly gathered her hair back with both of her hands. She twisted the mass of her hair so that it flipped over her shoulder and fell down her back instead, out of his reach. Her hair clip lay on the bed, so she picked it up, intending to braid her hair again. "Of course I don't," she told him, a snap creeping into her tone.

  Any gentleman would know that. To wear it down would look wanton. Or childish.

  "'tis a shame," he said softly, leaning closer.

  He was going to try to kiss her now,
she decided, possibly a prelude to getting her into the bed from which she'd just risen. She knew how to stop that, should he get too close for comfort. Her father had taught her that trick when she'd first started working with the vaqueros on the hacienda. Fortunately, she'd only had to use it a couple of times.

  The true question was whether she wanted him to kiss her.

  In his favor, he was likely very experienced at kissing...and everything else along those lines. On the other hand, he was overbearing and set on having his way. He was to be married soon to a very unpleasant woman who would, if Lourdes decided to stay in this area, probably go out of her way to cause trouble for her imagined rival.

  His bare fingers touched her cheek.

  Lourdes didn't back away. This close, he towered over her. She didn't quite reach his shoulder. He would have to lean down to kiss her. He seemed inclined to do so, so she let him.

  His lips were warm on hers, soft. She could still taste wine on them. Her eyes closed of their own volition, so she didn't see the expression on his face, but the sigh she heard when he wrapped one arm about her and pressed her body into his surely must be a sound of pleasure.

  Yes, she wanted him to kiss her. She'd decided that now. A bit late, but…

  His arm was lifting her against his hard body so that she stood on her toes. She slipped her arms about his neck. She felt his tongue against her lips and opened her mouth. He deepened the kiss, both his arms about her now. Lourdes wasn't sure if her feet were touching the floor any longer. She felt womanly and alive, as she hadn't in years. She raised one hand to cup his cheek.

  Finn hissed sharply and shoved her away from him. Her legs hit the edge of the bed and she sat abruptly. She gaped up at him, bewildered by the sudden rebuff.

  With his hand covering his cheek, he glared down at her. "Was that intentional?"

  Intentional? "What are you talking about?"

  "Setting iron to my flesh, my dear," he snapped, as if that were obvious. The endearment on the end of the statement didn't make up for his harsh tone.