Her Dearest Enemy. Elizabeth Lane

emotions he could not read swimming in their coppery depths.

      Only one thing seemed clear—if he wanted the woman to talk, he would have to get her warm first. Shaking off the paralysis of surprise, Brandon set the lantern on a table and forced himself to move toward her.

      His hands pried her stiffened fingers loose from the edges of her cloak. The soggy garment fell to the floor, revealing beneath it a faded gingham dress, so hastily donned that the buttons down the front were misaligned with their buttonholes. The resulting gaps allowed glimpses of the creamy skin beneath—far more of it than any lady would want a gentleman to see.

      Brandon averted his eyes, but not swiftly enough. She glanced down, to where his gaze had rested an instant before. With a horrified gasp, she jerked her arms across her breasts. Color flamed in her bloodless cheeks.

      Without a word, Brandon whipped off his woolen robe and wrapped it around her trembling body. She huddled into its warmth, her eyes downcast, her teeth still chattering.

      Suddenly her gaze jerked upward. Her color deepened. Brandon bit back a curse as he realized what had caught her eye. The hem of his gray flannel nightshirt hung just past his knees, revealing the lower part of his bare legs and ankles—more naked flesh than any proper lady would be fit to see.

      Well, to hell with her, he thought. If the sight of his hairy calves offended Harriet Smith’s sense of propriety, that was her problem. It wasn’t as if he’d sent her an engraved invitation to come calling tonight. She could damned well take him as he was or come back when he was dressed for company.

      It was chilly in the front hall. Gripping her upper arm through the robe, he steered her into the parlor, where a few dying embers still flickered in the fireplace. Two comfortable leather armchairs faced the hearth. Thrusting her firmly into one of them, he gathered some kindling sticks from the wood box and began feeding them into the embers. Little by little, small orange tongues of flame began to lick at the splintered pitch pine. The crackling sound was warm and welcome.

      “Will’s gone.” Harriet’s low voice, rising from the shadows of the chair, startled him. “I think he’s run away.”

      Brandon bit back a sigh of relief. It would hurt Jenny’s pride to know that Will had deserted her, but in the long run it would make everything easier. Now, surely, she would stop fighting his plan to send her to Baltimore.

      He glanced up at Harriet, his expression deliberately cynical. “So the young rooster’s flown the coop, has he? Somehow I can’t say I’m surprised. I would have wagered he wasn’t man enough to own up to his responsibility.”

      She surged forward, her eyes suddenly angry. “I don’t know what responsibility you’re talking about, Mr. C-Calhoun,” she said, her teeth still chattering with cold. “But I didn’t fight my way through the storm to sit here and listen to you disparage my brother! I only came to ask you if you’d seen Will, or if you had any idea where he might be. If you can’t tell me, I’ll be on my way….”

      Her voice trailed off, catching at the end as if she were stifling a sob. Brandon stared at her in amazement. Lord, didn’t she know? Hadn’t the young fool told her what he’d done to Jenny?

      Turning away from the fire, he seized her icy hands—not out of affection or sympathy but in an effort to hold her captive while he pummeled her with the truth. Her thin, cold fingers were all but lost in his big fists. Instinctively they sought the warmth of his flesh, pressing into the hollows of his palms, even as her eyes blazed resistance.

      Heat and emotion had brought the color back to her face. With the wind-tossed mane of her hair framing her aquiline features, she reminded Brandon of some wild, mythical bird goddess, held to earth only by his determined grip. Let her go and she would fly away, back into the storm that had brought her here.

      Lowering his eyes, he forced his mind back to reality. When he looked at her again it was dowdy, stubborn Harriet Smith he saw. Harriet Smith, his enemy, dressed in his own robe and a pauper’s gown that gapped between the buttons.

      He pressed her hands so hard that she winced. “Didn’t your brother talk to you?” he rasped. “Didn’t he tell you about the ungodly thing he’d done to my Jenny?”

      “What?” She stared at him, caught off guard. “Will told me he’d changed his mind about going to college. We quarreled…” Her voice trailed off. Her eyes widened in horror as the realization struck her.

      “Yes!” Brandon crushed her hands in his, wanting her to feel the kind of pain he was feeling. “Your no-account brother has gotten Jenny with child. She gave him the news yesterday, and now he’s skipped out on her, slunk off like the filthy coward he is!”

      He watched her crumble then, like a mud figure in a deluge—first her face, then her head and shoulders. Even her fingers seemed to dissolve in his hands.

      “No,” she murmured dazedly. “Will’s always been such a good boy, so upright and honorable. He wouldn’t do such a thing, especially to someone he cared about!”

      “He would and he did,” Brandon snapped, releasing her hands. “I’m only thankful that he’s finally out of Jenny’s life for good. The young scapegrace has caused her enough grief.”

      “No!” Harriet was sitting straight now, leaning forward, her eyes like twin flames in the darkness. “Tonight at supper, Will said he wouldn’t leave her— that he would never leave her. He must have been trying to tell me about the baby, but I refused to listen. I just—”

      She halted in midsentence, the color draining from her face. When she spoke again, her voice was taut and strained. “Where is your daughter?”

      “In her room where she belongs,” Brandon growled impatiently. “I checked on her before I went to bed. She was sleeping like an angel.”

      It was only a half truth. Jenny had cried herself into silence behind the closed door of her room. Later, when Brandon had passed her door on his way to bed, she had not answered his discreet knock. He had left her in peace, resolving to settle things in the morning.

      Only now, as he gazed into Harriet’s stricken face, did the truth leap like chain lightning from her mind to his.

       Not that! Dear God, anything but that!

      Knocking over a footstool in his haste, Brandon dashed for the entry and seized the lantern from the table. Harriet sprang to her feet and plunged after him, clutching her skirts as they pounded up the stairs.

      Brandon was not a religious man, but he found himself silently praying as they reached the door of Jenny’s room. Please let her be here. Let her be safe….

      But it was too late for prayers. Even as he fumbled with the knob and flung the door open, he knew what he would find.

      Chapter Four

      As the door to Jenny’s room swung open, light from the upraised lantern cast Brandon’s features into craggy relief. Harriet watched from the shadows as waves of raw emotion swept across his face—first disbelief, then despair, then a tide of helpless fury, as if he were biting back a howl. She had never seen a man look so angry, or so wretched.

      Harriet braced herself for a tirade against her brother, but it did not come. He only stood in rigid silence, one white-knuckled hand gripping the lantern, one taut muscle twitching in his cheek.

      No words were needed. His expression made it clear that when Brandon caught up with Will, there would be hell to pay.

      Tearing her eyes away, Harriet stared past him into the silent room. The pretty little bedchamber was in perfect order, as if young Jenny had given it a farewell tidying before she’d vanished into the stormy night. The pink satin coverlet had been carefully smoothed over the canopied bed, with ruffled pillows arranged against a headboard of inlaid mahogany. A lacy afghan, crocheted in shades of rose and mauve, was draped over the back of a carved wooden rocker. Its