Carolyn Davidson - The Marriage Agreement

Gage said, reaching to grip her arms lest she fall into the water. “I just watched you here, with the breeze blowing your dress against your body, your hair tangled and curling over your shoulders, and I had to touch you.”

“Touch me?” She felt dazed from the desire blazing from the eyes of the man who held her.

“Only a bit,” he said softly, persuasively. “Like this.” His head bent and he kissed her, a sweet, seeking union of lips that made her breath catch in her throat. His hands held her, and she leaned forward until she was supported by the firm strength of the man.

“You draw me like a magnet, Lily.” He lifted his head and she felt the heat of his gaze, felt the beating of her heart in her throat and knew the wonder of being a woman….

Texas Gold

“Davidson delivers a story fraught with sexual tension.”

—Romantic Times

Tempting a Texan

“A pleasant bubble-bath read with Carolyn Davidson’s usual fine writing to recommend.”

—Romantic Times

A Marriage by Chance

“This deftly written novel about loss and recovery is a skillful handling of the traditional Western, with the added elements of family conflict and a moving love story.”

—Romantic Times

The Tender Stranger

“Davidson wonderfully captures gentleness in the midst of heart-wrenching challenges, portraying the extraordinary possibilities that exist within ordinary marital love.”

—Publishers Weekly

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The Marriage Agreement represented the end of a journey for me. I finally wrote the story of Yvonne Devereaux, the third of the Devereaux siblings.

She was what my editor and I called A Fallen Woman and, as such, one of those ladies who used to be kept in the closet. I loved Yvonne, found her to be honest, forthright and, above all, loyal to her family.

So what if she made some mistakes in her life? Don’t we all! So this book is dedicated to Lily, to all the Lilys who are a part of our families and who deserve all the love and respect we have to offer. I loved the Devereaux clan, and I hate to leave them, but they’ve all managed to find their way in this world and in the world of my imagination, so I have no choice.

To Mr. Ed, my own hero, and manager of all my affairs (yes, even that one) I offer my love and devotion for all time.

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Mississippi River

North of Memphis

Spring, 1878

T he messenger stood in the shadows beneath the overhang. The deck was deserted, except for the silent man who watched and waited; but waiting and watching was what he did best. It was his job. And he was very good at it.

The tall man who strolled casually toward him did not change direction, yet the messenger sensed he’d been spotted. And that was all right. It was because of Gage Morgan that he’d come to this place. So he watched as Morgan leaned with languid ease against the rail of the steamboat, looking across the muddy waters of the Mississippi toward the faint lights of a house.

Lifting a slim cigar from his jacket pocket, Morgan held it to his mouth and, with a soft scratching sound, set fire to the match he carried. He puffed once on the cigar and the smoke dissipated as it blended with the darkness, leaving only the red glow to remain.

“What news do you have?” His words were soft, barely carrying to where the messenger waited. Morgan stood as if mesmerized by the water flowing past the ship, as though deep in thought.

“I heard from Washington today. Everything is being put in place. They’re leaving it up to you to set the stage, but they want you to know that a lawman in Sand Creek is aware of the situation.”

“What would they like me to do about a cover?” His laugh was low, as if his thoughts amused him. “Forget I asked,” he said.

“You can go in as a married man who’s sent his wife off to keep her safe.”

“That won’t do it,” Morgan argued mildly. “Aren’t there any agents available?”

“You don’t want much, do you? A woman like that is hard to come by.”

“Not if the price is right,” Morgan returned mildly.

“Maybe you’d better find one yourself,” the messenger suggested, then with barely a whisper, he slipped through the shadows and made his way from his hiding place, leaving Gage Morgan to consider the situation.

What he needed was going to be well nigh impossible to come up with, but he was willing to give it a shot. The cigar flared again briefly and then was extinguished by the water below as it was cast into the muddy depths.

T hree aces, fanning before him as he edged the cards apart, was a good beginning, Gage Morgan decided. The chance of the dealer delivering the fourth was slim indeed, but even three of them were worth more than the fifty cents he tossed in the pot to up the ante. This just might be another lucky night. He leaned back in his chair, eyed the pile of coins in the middle of the table and waited.

A haze of smoke hung low over the men who were contributing to his wallet, and Gage wished idly for a wandering breeze to ease the burning of his eyes. Whiskey, cigars and wild women accompanied the dealing of cards, it seemed, no matter where men assembled as poker was played. Tonight promised to be no different than last night or the endless string of midnights he’d spent at just such a table.

He touched his squat glass of whiskey, running his index finger around the rim as he waited for decisions to be made. The five men who circled the table were old hands at this—their faces like stone walls, without a glimmer of emotion visible. And his was the same, he thought idly, should an observer take note. He prided himself on a stoic expression, knew the value of denying himself a gleam of triumph or a frown of consternation.

“More whiskey, mister?” The woman who stood at his elbow looked at his half-empty glass, and her hand brushed his shoulder, catching his attention. He shook his head, an abrupt movement that discouraged her attentiveness to his glass. She moved on to the man directly across the table and Morgan’s gaze rested on the red gown she wore.

It clung in all the right places, and the figure beneath the shimmering satin was lush, her hips a bit too slender, perhaps, but the fullness of her bosom was enough to draw every eye in the place. His were no exception.

Allowing his dark gaze to slide upward to her face, he found a wary expression in the eyes that returned his scrutiny. Her mouth was unpainted, a rarity in a riverboat saloon such as this, but her cheeks wore a dusting of some rosy hue. Dark hair hung in a mass of ringlets across her shoulders, halfway to her waist, drawn back from high cheekbones and held in place by silver combs that were incongruous in this place. Real silver, he’d warrant, not cheap imitations that could be purchased for a few cents.