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The Scoundrel
Lisa Plumley
Schooling the scoundrel…Brawny blacksmith Daniel McCabe is not the marrying kind. He likes his freedom just fine, and no Morrow Creek lady is going to change that! But an unexpected delivery makes the bachelor rethink his roguish ways.Daniel suddenly needs a wife–and longtime friend Sarah Crabtree is quick to oblige. After all, she's been sweet on Daniel for years. But then Sarah's dream turns into a nightmare. Her love match is nothing but a marriage of convenience! Now Sarah has to convince the biggest scoundrel in Arizona Territory to let her into his bed–and his heart….
The mattress sagged. Sarah rolled over, a smile on her face.
Daniel started in surprise, his heart pounding. He clutched the bed linens and stared back at her. His first thought was, She looks angelic. Which was daft. Then, What the hell is she doing here? He didn’t remember having gotten in bed with her last night, but that didn’t mean… Could he have sunk so low as to seduce Sarah?
What was the matter with him? Of a certain, he was a scoundrel. But to have taken advantage of an innocent like Sarah? His friend?
Hoping to figure things out, he risked a wary second glance at her. Yep. She gazed back at him as steadily and as trustfully as ever. Just as she had yesterday, when they’d…exchanged vows.
All at once, Daniel’s wedding rushed back to him, complete with Sarah’s prettiness and that disturbing thing she’d said after he’d carried her inside the house.
Now I believe we’re married.
Praise for Lisa Plumley
The Matchmaker
“…will have readers laughing out loud throughout most of the book. This is another keeper by Lisa Plumley.”
—A Romance Review
“…filled with charming characters, a sassy love story and laugh-out-loud antics. THE MATCHMAKER, as creative and unique as Molly’s cinnamon buns, will satisfy your sweet tooth. It’s a winner.”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
The Drifter
“A sweet Americana tale…this gentle love story will touch your heart!”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub
“In this charming tale of acceptance Ms Plumley has touched a universal chord. Sparked with whimsy and humor, this is a thoroughly enjoyable book!”
—Rendezvous
“There’s a lot to like in THE DRIFTER. If you’ve missed those wonderful romances by LaVyrle Spencer, you might want to check it out!”
—Romance Reader
The Scoundrel
Lisa Plumley
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
In loving memory of Verna Plumley
Contents
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
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter One
August 1882
Morrow Creek, northern Arizona Territory
T here was only one thing Daniel McCabe didn’t understand about women—how a man could be expected to choose from among them. Beginning with the raven-haired ones and ending with the feisty ones, there was an endless variety of females for a man to sample. Settling down with just one seemed nigh unthinkable.
Curling his fist ’round the pint of Levin’s ale on his table at Jack Murphy’s saloon, Daniel smiled at the rouged-and-powdered beauty before him. Her costume shimmered of fiery satin; her bosoms pushed at its neckline in a way that made him wonder about the architecture of corsets. To make so much of so…much, the garments had to be fashioned of something sturdier than mere muslin and whalebones. Something more akin to tiny versions of the sleigh runners he’d been shaping at his blacksmith’s shop before coming here today.
The matter might require closer investigation, he reckoned. Much closer. How else to further his grasp of architecture and design? A man never knew when an intimate knowledge of such things might prove handy.
With a wider grin, Daniel propped both booted feet on the nearest ladder-back chair. Who was he fooling? If there was one thing he understood, it was ladies’ undergarments. The corset or garter had yet to be designed that could defeat him. ’Twas a point of pride, much like his knack for forging steel and wielding a twenty-pound hammer.
The snap of Jack Murphy’s bar towel pulled Daniel from his reverie. He glanced up to see the man scowling at him.
“Yes, Rose’s charms are a sight to behold,” the barkeep said in his drawling brogue. “But I brought you here to get your opinion on building a stage in that corner, McCabe. Not to watch you beguile my dancing troupe.”
“It’s unavoidable, Murphy. I can’t help it.”
“Try harder.”
“All right.” Reluctantly, Daniel spread his arms. “You heard him, ladies. I am not in the least charming, nor as irresistible as you might think. I am a serious man, with serious work to be done.”
The women on either side of Daniel giggled, plainly disbelieving. They did not budge.
Both were costumed as extravagantly as Rose. Both flirted just as boldly as she did. One laid her arm enticingly across his shoulders and pressed herself against him, her feathered headpiece tickling his nose. The other cooed over the fineness of his arms, honed by years of blacksmith’s labor. Each lady had promised him admission to her boardinghouse room later that evening, if he desired to receive “private dance instruction.”
To be sure, a man could hardly help but develop an interest. In waltzing, of course.
The lady to his right snuggled closer, not the least bit daunted by Daniel’s claims of seriousness. Their traveling ensemble had arrived in Morrow Creek two days past. They were set to perform at Jack Murphy’s saloon before moving west to San Francisco, if Murphy could construct a stage for them.
The barkeep’s exasperated gaze signaled his interest in doing exactly that. The Irishman was new to the territory, and Daniel liked him. He decided to try a bit harder.
“I warn you,” he told the troupe next. “I’m not a man for settling down. Neither am I a sweet talker, a fine dancer or even the least bit a dandy.” He nodded at his flannel shirt and rough-hewn canvas trousers. Although both were clean, they had seen hard use. “Stay away. You’d do well to cozy up to Murphy, instead. He’s a man of industry. Purpose. And coin.”
“Coin?” Murphy scoffed. “I was, before your aces turned up last night.”
“I never said I wasn’t lucky.”
The barkeep rolled his eyes.
“Only that you were a fine prospect for these ladies. Far finer than me.”
The women turned contemplative gazes upon the Irishman. One fluttered her fan. Another fluttered her eyelashes. As a group, they returned their attention to Daniel, undeterred.
Murphy snorted. He strode to the corner of the nearly empty saloon, his boots ringing across the scarred floorboards. With hands on hips, he surveyed the area where the makeshift stage was meant to be built.
Daniel shrugged, his grin wide. “See?” he called out to his friend. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“Hmm.” Rose sashayed a little closer. “I’d wager there are a few things you can do. Quite well, at that.”
Her ribald gaze swept over him, taking in his oversize frame and nonchalant pose. Daniel gave her a wink. He liked a woman who wasn’t afraid to go after what she wanted—just so long as what she wanted wasn’t him in a marriage noose.
Contemplating what diversions the night might hold, he pulled out a Mexican cigarillo. Eagerly, the lady to his left held out the table lamp to light it with. With an arch of his eyebrow, he murmured his thanks. These women were uncommonly bold. But at least they weren’t like most of the women in town—many of whom were inconveniently marriage-minded. Dallying with one of Murphy’s dancers would prove pleasurable…and pleasure, above all, was what Daniel lived for. Life was too short to be spent among missed opportunities.
It was also too short to shirk a promise to a friend.
Regretfully, he stood. His cigarillo’s plume of rich tobacco smoke trailed his progress across the room to join Murphy. In his wake, the dancers sighed.
Daniel offered them an apologetic over-the-shoulder glance—coupled with a smile to promise he’d make up for their disappointment later. Maybe he’d finish his ale, order a bath and invite one of the ladies to join him. Cleanliness was a virtue, after all. Or maybe that was patience. Either way, he reckoned he had things square.
He squinted at the space Murphy indicated. “You already talked to Copeland about getting the lumber from his mill?”
The barkeep nodded. “It’ll cost me plenty. But even after paying Rose and her girls, a dance show ought to make a profit.”
“Even after you factor in paying off Grace Crabtree?”
Murphy tilted his head in confusion.
“She’s bound to cause a ruckus once she hears you’ve got dance-hall ladies here,” Daniel said. “I’ve known them Crabtree girls all my life. Grace is the most trouble of the lot. She’s all het up over women’s suffrage. Other things, too.”
“That’s got nothing to do with me.”
“You’ll see. Grace is a meddler. If she decides to make this place one of her damnable ‘causes’—”
“My saloon isn’t a—”
“That’s what Ned Nickerson thought,” Daniel interrupted. “Until Grace and some of her friends chained themselves to the awning of his Book Depot and News Emporium, protesting because he didn’t have some lady author’s highfalutin book or other. In the end, Deputy Winston had to haul ’em away.”
Murphy frowned. Most likely, Daniel figured, he was imagining a passel of troublemaking females all picketing his saloon. With reason. Grace was a handful, and she knew most everyone in town. The Crabtrees in general were a bunch of original thinkers, prone to all sorts of oddball behavior. With one exception, of course.
“I could put in a good word for you with Grace’s sister,” Daniel offered. Murphy was out of his depth—whether he realized it or not. “Sarah’s the only sensible one of the lot. She’ll see that Grace ought to leave well enough alone.”
With a skeptical shake of his head, the barkeep strode the width of the corner, measuring the space available for his stage. For a moment, he was silent.
Then, “I can cope with Grace Crabtree.”
The man was deluded. “Have you never tangled with a woman before? Most of them are beyond reason.”
“I can cope with Grace Crabtree.”
Clearly, Murphy hadn’t spent much time with the fairer sex.
Daniel shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”
“No, it’s my saloon. I’ll see no one interfering with it.”
“Oh, yes, you will. Mark my words.”
One ale and two flirtatious encounters with the pouting dancers later, Daniel finished his measurements for Murphy’s stage. Although he wasn’t a carpenter by trade, he’d done his share of building, all the same. By the time he was old enough to reach for a straight razor for his peach fuzz, he’d grown a head taller than most men. Because of that, he’d learned to erect barns, raise roofs and rebuild storm-damaged houses…all while apprenticing as a blacksmith.
Now that he’d finished his plans for the stage, it had grown late. Murphy’s saloon was packed to the rafters with miners and merchants, ranchers and lumbermen. Tinny music accompanied Rose’s impromptu dance beside the piano—as did raucous cheers from the men watching. She fluttered her fan and swiveled her hips, belting out a rowdy rendition of a sentimental tune.
Comfortable at his table with dancers again on either side, Daniel smoked his second cigarillo. He tilted his head and aimed smoke rings at the fancy lanterns overhead, feeling satisfied. He had a whiskey at his elbow, a bellyful of Murphy’s tinned beans and bread, a friendly obligation fulfilled and the promise of a delectable evening’s entertainment ahead. A man’s life didn’t get much better than that.
“Daniel McCabe!” someone yelled. “McCabe?”
He glanced sideways. Several men stepped aside for a boy in a baggy suit and low hat. Daniel recognized him as the clerk from the railroad depot. He made his way through the crowd, an expression of urgency on his young face.
