Wicked Temptations Read Free Page A

somewhere you will not wish to be."
    Spittle spewed from the man's mouth as he said, "Are you threatening to have me arrested if I make a claim on my bride?"
    Priscilla glared at the man. "Yes, Mr. Bottoms, I am doing precisely that!"
    Veins standing out in his neck, he said, "You haven't seen the last of me. I will find Miss Chandler and she will marry me or she'll have hell to pay.   I have two young'ns needing lookin ' after, chickens to feed, a cow that needs milkin ', a cabin that needs cleanin ' and a garden that needs planting. And I just paid ten dollars for a new feather mattress. There will be a woman in my bed before the week's out!"
    "That may be," Priscilla said, "but Miss Chandler will not be that woman! Meanwhile, I suggest you start looking for a nanny, a farm hand, and a mistress. You are no bargain as a husband. I am just thankful that Miss Chandler will not be strapped with the likes of you."
    Jethro Bottoms mumbled a string of expletives under his breath, shoved his way between Lord Whittington and Clayton Rathborn, and stormed out the door. When the other two men didn't budge, Priscilla said in a firm tone, "Good evening, gentlemen. I will be at the bank promptly when it opens. And if either of you know Mr. Frank Gundy, please inform him that Miss Edith Hogan will also be working for me, and that he too can be at the bank when it opens."
    Clayton Rathborn shoved his hat on his head, cut loose with a string of expletives he did not try to cover, and stomped out. But Lord Whittington remained.
    "Is there something more that you want?" Priscilla asked.
    "Yes, as a matter of fact there is." He scanned the room with its broken type trays and limitless little lead blocks of type scattered across the warped wood floors, his gaze coming to rest on the old Albion press. "If you intend to start another newspaper in Cheyenne ," he said, his voice holding a hint of warning, "you will find your competitors very unfriendly."
    "I am not worried about unfriendly men," Priscilla said. "The world is filled with them."
    Lord Whittington eyed her in a condescending manner, giving her the impression he was sizing her up as a disgruntled, man-hating, old maid, which perhaps she was. Her experiences with men had not been pleasant ones, Lord Whittington, with his haughty, patronizing demeanor a shining example of what she disliked about them. He placed his hand on the bar of the old press and gave it a shove, but the giant screw, locked from rust and disuse, refused to turn. A look of satisfaction crossed his face. "Running a newspaper is not something a woman can manage on her own," he said. "I assume you are on your own."
    "And why would you assume that?" Priscilla asked. "Is it because I am a rather plain-looking maiden lady, well past my prime, or because you believe that a woman without a man is incapable of pursuing a man's profession, even if that profession is quite suitable for a woman?"
    He eyed her with impatience. "I believe that women are suited for running certain businesses, Miss Phipps. Many own and operate millinery shops and other trades catering to   females. But running a newspaper is a dangerous and cutthroat business. Not only does it take physical stamina, and in many instances foolhardiness, but it is common for editors to lash out at each other in back-alley terms, disputes often ending with knives or bullets."
    Priscilla glared at the infuriating man. "If this is an attempt on your part to scare me off, Lord Whittington, you will soon learn that I do not scare easily. And I am aware of the dangers. I grew up helping my father run his newspaper. Granted, it was a small-town paper, but we faced the same criticism and threats that larger papers face."
    A puzzled frown crept across his brow. "Then you actually do intend to start a newspaper?" he asked. Plainly he had not taken her seriously. Until now.
    Priscilla ratcheted her chin up a notch so she could look directly at him, and said, "May I ask what