Free The Ballad of Emma O'Toole by Elizabeth Lane

her. But she slowly became aware of a solid ridge jutting against her hip. Heat stirred in the depths of her body. At least he’d had the decency to clothe himself. But his underwear left little to the imagination, especially since her shift had crept up around her waist again.
    Now what?
    Emma supposed that a proper lady would scream and leap out of bed. But that would wake Logan, making things more awkward than ever. It might be wiser to keep still, ignore him and hope that before long he would roll back onto his side of the bed.
    But ignoring the man was easier said than done. As she lay against him, Emma felt herself warming. Her heart pumped forbidden heat into her veins, triggering the same sensations she’d felt in the bath.
    Now the stirrings were stronger than ever.
Why not?
an inner voice whispered. She was a woman in bed with her husband on her wedding night. Turn over, slip into his arms and everything would happen as nature intended.
    She imagined his fingertips stroking her breasts, her belly, her moist folds. She imagined the texture of his skin, the smell and taste of him, the sheer male power as he thrust home…
    No!
She brought herself up with a mental slap. Giving herself to Logan would make lies of all her promises. It would be the ultimate betrayal of her love for Billy John. Even thinking about it was sinful.
    She forced her mind back to the dream, seeing the sadness in Billy John’s eyes and the grief in that wordless shake of his head. She knew now what It meant. The dream had been a warning, a sign that his soul wouldn’t rest until justice was done. It was up to her to give him that justice.
    Until now she’d let things drift. But planning her revenge would take some serious thought. And she couldn’t think in this bed, with temptation lying hard against her back.
    Scarcely daring to breathe, she eased away from Logan and inched toward the edge of the mattress. Once she’d reached it, she lowered her feet to the floor and slipped free. For a moment she stood on the rug, gazing down at him as she adjusted her shift.
    Logan’s profile lay in dark silhouette, so flawlessly sculpted that he could have posed for the statue of a saint. In sleep, his features bore an angel’s gift of beauty. But when awake, his bitter black eyes, and the sardonic twist ofhis mouth hinted at the state of his soul. Logan Devereaux was not a man to be trusted.
    What sort of revenge would be suitable? Killing him was, of course, out of the question. Even if she were capable of it, she’d be arrested on the spot. What would happen to her baby then?
    Much as she owed Billy John, the welfare of their child had to come first. For the foreseeable future she was going to need Logan’s support.
    So what choices did that leave her?
    Thoughts churning, she turned away from the bed and tiptoed back to the chair where she’d left her clothes. The stove had gone out, leaving a chill in the room. If she got dressed, she’d be warmer. Maybe then she’d be able to think with a clear head.
    Teeth chattering, she pulled on her drawers and tugged her corset into place. Her ragged petticoat and made-over gray dress completed the sad costume. Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, she sat down to put on her stockings. Her fingers fumbled in the darkness as she laced up her sturdy boots. Everything else she owned, including her clean underclothes and her hairbrush, had been left in Billy John’s old mining shanty. There was nothing of material worth there, but the souvenirs from herparents were precious. Maybe tomorrow when Logan was awake she would ask him about sending someone to fetch them.
    She no longer dared go herself. Waiting for her in the street would be staring eyes, taunting tongues and human vultures like Hector Armitage, eager to sell every juicy tidbit of her story. Before the trial she’d had her share of sympathy. But now that she’d wed Logan, she’d be tarred by the same brush that had blackened him. Even her