Caress of Fire by Martha Hix Page A

in 1863. The laugh had gone out of her.
    â€œWhy is this marriage important to you?” he asked. “Why, after all these years of spurning admirers, do you want to mark yourself with a divorced stranger?”
    Her shoulders drooped; she didn’t reply.
    â€œDo you love him, Lise?” he asked, hoping she’d deny it.
    She slammed closed a cupboard drawer. “Enough to pledge my troth.”
    â€œEnough to make you happy?”
    â€œJa.”
    He didn’t believe her. He had heard of love at first sight, had never thought it existed, and still didn’t. Yet Lisette wasn’t a woman to lie.
    â€œIf there’s even a slight chance you’ll be happy, who am I to stand in the way?” he asked rhetorically, pitying himself for not being more aggressive before she’d met McLoughlin. His voice hollow, he said, “You have my best wishes.”
    He made for the bridegroom. Ignoring the curled-lipped minister, he told McLoughlin in no uncertain terms, “You had better be good to the Mädchen, or you’ll answer to me.”
    McLoughlin, smooth and arrogant, gave his assurance.
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    Lisette watched Matthias as he went to her fiancé. She hadn’t been completely frank with her friend, and it hurt to see him worried. She couldn’t confess she’d had no choice but to accept Gil McLoughlin’s proposal.
    Saying yes to the bargain was a matter of survival. He had frightened her witless, evoking horrible memories of her sister. Lisette’s eyes squeezed closed. As if it were yesterday she remembered that dry creekbed of eight years ago and the mutilated body beside it. Her thick, blond hair gone, there had been a grotesque, petrified cast to that precious, dead face. For Olga, Lisette had cried–then, and again today.
    And Matthias’ offer of help had come too late.
    She’d promised the trail boss she’d be his cook, and she wouldn’t renege on her word. If she had, she’d be as much of a lowlife as a certain male in San Antonio.
    Moreover, she had faith in Gil McLoughlin. From the way he carried himself to the strong set of his jaw, his appearance bespoke trust. And as each moment passed, each time they conversed, her faith in him grew. He had promised to protect her from harm, and he would. He had promised not to abandon her; he wouldn’t.
    And the latter was the more important to Lisette.
    The most significant aspect of their relationship, though, was: they needed each other.
    He wouldn’t regret giving her his name. She’d play the roll of affectionate wife without a lack of feeling on her part, and she’d please his men with her best culinary efforts, which would make the trail easier for everyone. He would find her a devoted and sincere partner in his enterprise.
    Her all was what she would give . . . all but her body.
    She glanced at the man who would give her his protection. He was walking toward her, his gait loose and relaxed. He appeared pleased at entering this travesty of marriage. He did reserve the right to change my mind about the name-only part. She could never, ever, allow their marriage to become anything more than a simple arrangement.
    Her bridegroom was near her now, wearing a clean flannel shirt and twill britches. Gone were his hat, chaps, and gunbelt. He smelled of bay rum and fresh air. She enjoyed this scent, but she liked the manly, plain aroma of him as well. For once his hair was somewhat under control. The urge to tousle those loose black curls was as real as the canopy of stars above, the warmth of this evening, and the beaming smile of her soon-to-be husband.
    â€œThese are for you.” He lifted his hand, and his voice was as tight with emotion as the strings of her heart. “A bride can’t get married without a bouquet.”
    Her heart thrumming, she accepted the bluebonnets and buttercups. This wasn’t a church, nor was the marriage for real, but never had such a