Midnight Rider. Diana Palmer

her second husband. Eduardo had no more inherited his mother’s looks than he had absorbed her behavior and temperament. He was in all ways Spanish. To the workers on his ranch he was El Jefe, the patron or boss. In Spain, he was El Conde, a count whose relatives could be found in all the royal families across Europe. To Bernadette, he was the enemy. Well, sometimes he was. She fought with him to make sure that he didn’t realize what she really felt for him—emotions that had been harder these past two years to conceal than ever.

      “If you’re looking for my father, he’s busy thinking of rich San Antonio families to invite to his ball a month from next Saturday evening,” she informed him, silently seething. From the shadow his brim made on his lean face, the black glitter of his eyes was just visible. He looked her over insolently for such a gentleman and then dismissively, as if he found nothing to interest him in her slender but rounded figure and small breasts. His late wife, she recalled, although a titled Spanish lady of high quality, had been nothing less than voluptuous. Bernadette had tried to gain weight so that she could appeal to him more, but her slender frame refused to add pounds despite her efforts.

      “He has hopes of an alliance with a titled European family,” Eduardo replied. “Have you?”

      “I’d rather take poison,” she said quietly. “I’ve already sent one potential suitor running for the border, but my father won’t give up. He’s planning a ball to celebrate his latest railroad acquisition—but more because he’s found another two impoverished European noblemen to throw at my feet.”

      She took a deep breath and coughed helplessly until she was able to get her lungs under control. The pollen sometimes affected her. She hated showing her weakness to Eduardo.

      He crossed his forearms over the pommel of his saddle and leaned forward. “A garden is hardly a good place for an asthmatic,” he pointed out.

      “I like flowers.” She took a frilled, embroidered handkerchief from her belt and held it to her mouth. Her eyes above it were green and hostile. “Why don’t you go home and flog your serfs?” she retorted.

      “I don’t have serfs. Only loyal workers who tend my cattle and watch over my house.” He ran a hand slowly over one powerful thigh while he studied her with unusual interest. “I thought your father had given up throwing you at every available titled man.”

      “He hasn’t run out of candidates yet.” She sighed and looked up at him with more of her concern showing than she realized. “Lucky you, not to be on the firing line.”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “Well, you’re titled, aren’t you?”

      He laughed softly. “In a sense.”

      “You’re a count, el conde,” she persisted.

      “I am. But your father knows that I have had no wish to marry since I lost my son. And my wife,” he added bitterly.

      “Well, it’s reassuring that you don’t want to get married again,” she said.

      She knew little of his tragedy except that for a space of days after it, the “ice man” had become a local legend for his rage, which was as majestic as his bloodlines. Grown men had hidden from him. On one occasion Bernadette had encountered him when he was dangerously intoxicated and wildly waving a revolver.... No one knew exactly what had happened, except that Eduardo had come home to find his infant son dead. His wife had died suddenly soon afterward of a gunshot wound to the head. No arrest had ever been made, no charges brought. Eduardo never spoke of what had happened, but inevitably there were whispers that he had blamed his wife for the child’s death, and that he had killed her. Looking at him now she could almost believe him capable of murder. He was as hard a man as she’d ever known, and one she judged to be merciless when he had reason to become angry. He rarely lost his temper overtly, but his icy manner was somehow more threatening than yelling.

      She herself had seen him shoot a man with cold nerve, a drunken cowboy in town who’d come at him with pistols blazing.

      Eduardo hadn’t even bothered to duck. He stood in a hail of bullets and calmly took aim and fired. The man went down, wounded but not dead, and he was left at the doctor’s office. Eduardo had been nicked in the arm and refused Bernadette’s offer of first aid. Such a scratch, he’d said calmly, was hardly worth a fuss.

      She had hoped against hope that her father might one day consider making a match for her with this man. Eduardo was the very reason her heart beat. Just the thought of those hard, cool hands on her bare skin made her tingle all over. But an alliance between the families had never been discussed. Her father had looked only to Europe for her prospective bridegrooms, not closer to home.

      “You have no wish to marry?” he asked suddenly.

      The question caught her unaware. “I have bad lungs,” she said. “And I’m not even pretty. My father has money, which makes me very eligible, but only to fortune-seekers.” She twisted a fold of her skirt unconsciously in her slender, pretty hands. “I want to be worth more than that.”

      “You want to be loved.”

      Shock brought her eyes up. How had he known that? He did know. It was in his face.

      “Love is a rare and often dangerous thing,” he continued carelessly. “One does well to avoid it.”

      “I’ve been avoiding it successfully all my life,” she agreed with smothered humor.

      His eyes narrowed. Still watching her, he pulled a thin black cigar from a gold-plated case in his jacket. He replaced the case deftly, struck a match to light the cigar and threw the spent match into the dust with careless grace. “All your life,” he murmured. “Twenty years. You must have been ten when your family moved here,” he added thoughtfully. “I remember your first ride on horseback.”

      She did, too. The horse had pitched her over its head into a mud puddle. Eduardo had found her there, dazed. Ignoring the mud that covered her front liberally, he’d taken her up in the saddle before him and delivered her to her father.

      She nodded uncomfortably. “You were forever finding me in embarrassing situations.” She didn’t even want to remember the last one....

      “His name was Charles, wasn’t it?” he asked, as if he’d read her mind, and he smiled mockingly.

      She glared at him. “It could have happened to anyone! Buggy horses do run away, you know!”

      “Yes. But that horse had the mark of a whip clearly on its flank. And the ‘gentleman’ in question had you flat on your back, struggling like a landed fish, and your dress—”

      “Please!” She held a hand to her throat, horribly embarrassed.

      His eyes went to her bodice with a smile that chilled her. He’d seen more than her corset. Charles had roughly exposed her small breasts from beneath her thin muslin chemise and Eduardo had had a vivid glimpse of them before she struggled to get them covered again. Charles had barely had time to speak before el conde was on him.

      In a very rare display of rage, the usually calm and collected Eduardo had knocked the younger man around with an utter disregard for his family’s great wealth until the son of the shipping magnate was bleeding and begging on his knees for mercy. He’d headed for town, walking fast, and he hadn’t been seen again. Naturally, Bernadette’s father had been given a very smoothed-over explanation for Charles’s absence and her own ruffled state. He’d accepted it, even if he hadn’t believed it. But it hadn’t stopped him from throwing titled men at her.

      “Your father is obsessed,” Eduardo murmured, taking a puff from the cigar and letting it out angrily. “He puts you at risk.”

      “If I’d had my pistol, Mr. Charles Ramsey would have been lying on the ground with a bullet in him!”

      He only smiled. To his knowledge, Bernadette couldn’t even load a gun, much less shoot one. He smoked his cigar in silence as he studied her. “Did you ever hear from the unfortunate Charles again?” he asked abruptly.