Renegade Bride Read Online Free PDF Page A

together.
    Traffic filled the street beyond the stage, with horses and vehicles negotiating the mud gingerly. A freight wagon, pulled by mules, rolled by and the driver shouted obscenities while slapping the traces against the teams' backs.
    Mariah breathed in a lungful of calming air, then turned to Maeve and her husband. The older woman's eyes were misty and her smile stiff. "Goodbye, Maeve," Mariah whispered, giving the woman a hug, already missing her. "Thank you for everything."
    Maeve shushed her with one hand. "If there's ever anything ye need—anything at all, just ask."
    "That goes for me as well, Miss Parsons," Jamie put in. "'Tis glad I was to know my Maeve didn't have to face that trip alone. It's been a pleasure meetin' ye, as brief as it was." He cast a sidelong glance at Creed Devereaux then looked back. "You're sure we can't change yer mind about goin'?"
    Mariah shook her head. "Don't worry about me," she told them, kissing each on the cheek. "Either of you. After all, I'll be traveling with a whole stage full of passengers. What could possibly happen?"
    She wondered at the worried look Maeve and Jamie exchanged, then hugged them goodbye. "Now, I've kept you two long enough," she said, forcing a smile. "I'm sure you have plenty of catching up to do. Go on, both of you, and God bless."
    "I'll write, Mari," Maeve called over her shoulder as Jamie led her back toward the fort.
    "Me, too!" Mariah returned in a tone that was brighter than her mood. She watched them go, a hollow emptiness settling in the pit of her stomach as she turned back toward the stage. She was alone now. Truly alone.
    "All aboard! I got a schedule to keep!" called the grizzled driver as he climbed to his perch at the front of the coach. Beside him an armed guard sat at the ready with a large bore coachgun.
    The male passengers plowed through the fifteen feet of mud separating the stage from the walkway and began boarding. Mariah looked for Devereaux, but he wasn't among them. She found him adjusting the cinch on his blue roan horse nearby. With his back partly to her, she took the opportunity to appraise the man.
    Behind that rough shadow of beard and the deep lines of fatigue written on his face, she guessed he was younger than she'd thought at first—perhaps only six or seven years older than her own twenty. His body was long, lean, and graceful, without a spare ounce of flesh. The maroon fabric of his shirt pulled against the ridges of muscles along his spine and broad shoulders. His buckskin pants hugged the muscular contours of his legs and were neatly tucked into an expensive-looking pair of brown leather boots. No doubt purchased with blood money, she mused.
    "You'll not be riding in the coach, Mr. Devereaux?" she called out hopefully.
    He glanced back at her and shook his head. "I'll be following along behind."
    Relief swept through her. At least she wouldn't be forced to endure his constant presence on the trip. She'd only have to see him at the swing stations.
    She cast a disgusted look at the quagmire beneath the walkway. Her only pair of boots were already soaked, but she didn't relish the prospect of sitting for hours in a wet, muddy gown. Nevertheless, she started down the steps.
    It wasn't until he was almost in front of her that she heard him approach. She looked up just in time to see Devereaux reach for her and scoop her up into his arms. Fear and mortification rifled through her as he lifted her off the step, wrapping his arms intimately about her.
    "Oh! Mister Devereaux!" Through the fabric of her dress she felt his hand tighten around her thighs as he negotiated a two-inch-deep puddle of water. His face was only a whisper from hers, near enough to catch the starchy scent of lye soap, close enough to be sure he could feel the pounding of her heart against the wall of his chest. It flustered her beyond reason. "Please—I—"
    "Please what?"
    "Put me—"
    In three more steps, he'd deposited her on the retractable step of