Deed to Damnation

Unbridled

The night had ended with Ireland turning her back on Henry and his spiteful display. She was holding envelopes full of engagement presents and her fiancé was nuzzling up to Missy, his emotional and physical pit stop. Worse yet, she had to pretend it didn't bother her in the least. But inside, she was twisted with a rage she dared not show. If he saw it, he would laugh at her and torment her about it. He would see it like it was. A weakness.
Which weakness? Her heart asked, as she headed upstairs with her chin held high, the anger or the jealousy? Both were such ugly emotions and each was a dent in the armor she had constructed. Keep him out of your head and your stupid heart, she told herself. She did not look back as she retreated to bed for the night.
Look at that smug little bitch, Henry thought as he stole glances at Ireland as she hustled up the stairs. She hadn't even looked back with her nose in the air and all that money in her hand. What I should do is chase her up those stairs and fuck the nonchalance right out of her. He thought she would at least throw a tantrum or make a spectacle out of herself but she simply left, apparently not the least bit concerned that he was exploring Missy with roving hands and whispering all the crude things he wanted to do with her.
Missy was watching too even as Henry's warm breath on her neck was sending chills through her. She knew Ireland was probably livid with him and with her as well. But what could she do? Henry Delarue was her boss and she loved him. She always complied to his wishes, especially when it came to his voracious primal wants. Pouring two shots of whiskey, she downed them hard and fast and continued to do so until she was numb and wobbly. How could she face Ireland in the morning? Things had changed now. And even though Ireland was doing her damndest to hide her want for Henry Delarue, Missy knew better. They had become friends and that was something she felt she never really had. Even the girls who worked beside her were just that, working girls and the only thing that mattered was making money, not friends. It wasn't long before that half of the whiskey bottle was in her stomach, numbing her thoughts and torn emotions.

It was no surprise to Ireland that she woke up alone in the wee hours of the morning. Undoubtedly, Henry was right next door with his blonde lap dog. Throwing on one of his oversized shirts, she went downstairs to make coffee. It was still dark although the pitch black of night had given way to the grayish blue of a very early sky.
She sat quietly, alone in the parlor and contemplated the night before. She was disgusted to find herself still seething at Henry's disregard. First he throws an engagement party then gifts her a beautiful mare and after all that, he turns to another woman as if these things were nothing.
They are nothing to him, you fool, she told herself. You're just another conquest to him. Why not take a wife? That in itself was a symbol of success. He had managed to get the daughter of a dead man that the whole town thought he had murdered to marry him in just under two months. Quite a feat for a supposed killer. She sipped the coffee that was just as bitter as her swirling thoughts until daybreak.
By the time Ireland was ready to leave for the long day at the tailor's, Joss had already served breakfast to Henry's gang. A tray had been brought upstairs but Ireland had no appetite and left it outside the door to get cold. She had gathered up her wedding gown and the riding habit that needed alterations and headed downstairs, dreading that she might actually see both Henry and Missy basking in their lusty afterglow. But as she came down, arms full of garments, that was not what she saw. Henry was nowhere to be seen but Missy was, sitting sullenly at a table with Robyn, who had a look of concern.
Missy caught Ireland's gaze fleetingly but then stared down at her own breakfast that hadn't been touched. Apparently, she wasn't the only one without an appetite. Robyn was talking to her in a hushed tone. On further inspection, Ireland noticed that Missy had a swollen lip and her normally bright blue eyes were dull and swollen from crying.
Good, Ireland thought cruelly. Stupid whore probably fell down the stairs or had some cowboy give her a rough ride. Just desserts. Her mind went back to where she had last seen her, slamming shots with Henry's hand planted firmly in her bodice. She was actually shocked at her own biting thoughts and was seriously struggling with not saying them outright. Instead, she left Missy to her misery and headed out to Charles Ludy's tailor shop.
She was more than happy to realize that Henry had already left town. She had peeked in the barn on her way to the shop to see her beautiful new mare. Henry's black stallion, Bolt, wasn't in his stall and his worn leather saddle was missing. She honestly wouldn't even know what to say or how to act around him at this point and that in itself was unnerving.
Pretty soon you'll be able to tell him all about what's rightfully yours, she told herself. And then you'll have something on him. Half would be returned and she would milk her title and his money for all it was worth. Henry himself had pompously announced that a marriage contract was a legally binding document. Just as legal as a deed, he told her, with an arrogance only he could muster.
Suddenly, she felt better, a little lighter in her heart. Let him have whatever woman he wants, she decided. And to hell with whatever the townspeople thought of her. It was becoming increasingly clear they were going to scorn her anyway.
As if on cue, Ireland heard the unmistakable whiney twang of Emma's voice. She had just climbed the weathered wooden steps of the tailor shop when it drifted to her ears. The door was open for the first cool morning of late summer so there was no ringing of the welcome bells as she strolled in.
"Can you believe it?" Emma exclaimed from the back room. "She's actually going to marry that...that...demon! You know he killed her father?"
"Did you see the way Gwen Drake looked?" Another voice replied. "She was looking at him like he was the devil himself!"
Ireland was pretty sure it was Theresa Teasdale in the back with Emma. They were thick as thieves, those two.
"Well, why wouldn't she?" Emma answered. "He defiled her sister, you know."
"I heard he got to a few women in several towns. Beastly man." Theresa spat.
"And then to renege on paying Charles? He's going to be busy with that woman all day for nothing. I have a wedding coming up too, you know."
"You don't cross Delarue."
It was Charles Ludy chiming in.
"Besides, it was your damn mouth that made that happen." He snapped.
Emma had started to protest but Ireland didn't want to hear another word. She cleared her throat loudly from where she stood. Charles came around the corner looking like the cat that ate the canary.
"Oh, Ms. Devereaux." He stammered. "I'm sorry. I didn't hear you come in."
"Obviously." She answered.
Emma and Theresa followed shortly afterwards, red faced and silent as they hastily retreated, shutting the shop door behind them. Ireland watched them through the window as they strolled towards town, giggling with their palms over their mouths.
"I wonder what Mr. Delarue would think of that kind of chatter?" Ireland snipped, placing the garments on a nearby table.
Her subtle threat caused Charles to fumble with his basket of needles and thread. He turned pale at the suggestion that she would inform Delarue of the overheard exchange. His marriage to Emma hadn't even happened yet and he was already thinking of divorce.
Immediately, she felt bad. Charles Ludy had done nothing really except have poor taste in women. She was testing the water. Exactly how much influence could she have touting Henry Delarue's name? By the tailor's pallor and barely veiled panic, she imagined she had a lot.
"Don't worry." She soothed. "I won't say anything to him. But I should say that you should reconsider your marriage plans."
"Believe me. I have been." He replied.