Darby: Bride of Oregon (American Mail-Order Bride 33) by Bella Bowen Page A

one.
    Maybe British hadn’t been the wise request after
all. England shared a border with Scotland. Maybe all Brits had some Scottish
blood in them.
    But that Mrs. Carnegie, who ran the Bride School,
had once been the upper crust of New York Society. Surely she could find him
the kind of woman he was looking for. Someone he could take to bed on his
wedding night and never have to worry about it again. She would mind her own
business and he’d mind his. Just like his original plan.
    No more mail-order brides for him. No matter how
carefully he’d worded his needs, he’d still attracted the wrong sort.
    Trust a Scot to go where she was specifically
uninvited.
    A dull pain throbbed in his stomach at the thought
of her. So he took pity on himself and stopped thinking about her at all.
    ~ ~ ~
    The streets of Seattle were a welcome change. Rand
found a new gambling hall well away from the waterfront so he wouldn’t have to
worry about some customer disappearing through the floor, specifically himself.
All along the coastline, there was a booming slave industry. But that didn’t
mean he had to get involved.
    After he became governor, he’d worry about it. If
he stuck his nose where it didn’t belong, in a strange city, he might end up in
China instead of the Governor’s office. And what good could he do there?
    The second evening of his vacation, he had just
lost his twentieth dollar of the day when he decided to try his luck elsewhere.
After walking the streets for a good half hour, though, he found himself on the
steps of Rosemary’s. And the only gambling he’d find inside that establishment
was with his health if he wasn’t lucky.
    The Scot was inside, he warned himself.
    His stomach hurt again, and his leg throbbed a few
times to remind him what had happened the last time he’d seen her. But a little
train ride and a lot of sleep had fixed him up fine. Why his leg throbbed now
was a mystery.
    He marched up the steps a little harder than
necessary, to remind his leg who was boss. Once inside, he was greeted by
Rosemary herself who assured him his guest was safely secluded in a room
upstairs with his guards taking turns at her door.
    Just being in the same building with her brought
out the worst in him, but he asked Rosemary for a favor anyway.
    ~ ~ ~
     Darby jumped when the door opened, but it was
just Rosemary again. Instead of fussing over her and asking what she could do
for her, this time, the woman was nervous.
    “I need you to come downstairs,” she said. “I wasn’t
supposed to keep you all locked up after all.”
    “You mean I can leave?” Darby had no idea where
she would go. She didn’t have much in her pocket. And it was dark out. But if
there was a chance she could leave and never have to face Rand Beauregard
again, she’d take it.
    Rosemary shook her head. Her straight white hair
shivered around her. “No. You can’t leave. But…but you can come downstairs for
a little while, just for a change.”
    Darby sighed. She would have liked nothing better
than to hide from the world, but after a whole day in the little bedroom, she
welcomed a different wall to stare at.
    “All right. Thank you.”
    Elton, the tall one guarding the door, followed
along behind them. He looked confused but kept silent.
    Rosemary’s parlor was much cheerier than Jezebel’s.
The same red velvet covered the furniture, but instead of dark walls, they were
painted with colorful murals depicting life on the sea shore. Of course the
women who peopled those paintings were scantily dressed, but considering they
were in a brothel, Darby was surprised they were as modest as they were.
    Four young women with dramatic make up and equally
scant clothing gathered at the far end of the long room and giggled and chatted
like school girls.
    Rosemary pointed to a chair by a potted tree and
Darby sat. She’d changed out of her britches, washed the horse hair from her
body, and donned a clean dress that had once belonged to Rand’s