Pale Moon Stalker (The Nymph Trilogy) (10 page)

"This is only a scratch. I admit I was lucky, but now we're forewarned. I won't be careless again. We can be pretty certain that attack in the park was intended for both of us. Whoever is trying to kill you is also trying to kill me—and I very much doubt it's some kin of one of the men you captured or killed for bounty. If not Cletus, who? Phillip? Your solicitor?"

Max scoffed. "You're a frightful judge of people if you think Phillip capable of such perfidy, and as to Jerome Bartlett, he's been with my family since I was a boy. Not only are they good men, but neither has anything to gain if I die. Only Cletus."

"But I must die as well," she said calmly. "I've been doing a bit of reading in my brother's library. On English law. In spite of the fact I told you I would not accept it, you had a will drawn up leaving everything you own to me. Of course, I can't keep the title, but the bulk of your fortune is not entailed. Cletus or Phillip or Bartlett—or all three together—must have me dead, too. If you die, Cletus will be Ruxton right enough, but with little to show for it.

"The settlement your uncle gave him is forfeit. Your will supersedes it now. You've told me that twenty thousand pounds a year is all the title's entailed estate yields. We already know what a 'paltry sum' he believes that to be. No, Cletus wants me dead, too. Perhaps one or both of the others could be in this, as well, for a share of the fortune."

"Cletus is too indolent and cowardly to think of bribing them," Max said, unconvinced yet acknowledging that she was still in danger. "I could always disinherit you, love. Give all my uncle's money to charity."

"A sensible idea but it would still leave you in the bull's-eye. We go to Denver together...
love
," she added, daring to use his casual endearment. She was not his love. Yet when he'd seen the bloody gash on her arm this morning, the look in his eyes had stolen her breath away. Sky forced herself to think rationally. He merely felt guilty, that was all...wasn't it?

"I could give the money away now. I never wanted it in the first place," he said, knowing it was not yet his to give. But he was quite certain this was a poor time indeed to explain Harry's devious codicil to her.

"I only have six hundred dollars left to pay you for Deuce," she said, wondering how he would react. Was their bargain over?

"You still thirst for vengeance for your priest, don't you, Sky Eyes of the Ehanktonwon?"

She stiffened. "It isn't vengeance. It's justice. Deuce is a monster who'll kill again and again if he's not stopped—and who knows how many innocent girls he'll torture along the way?"

Max shrugged rather too casually. "Forget the six hundred. You've already paid my price. All right, you win. We go to Denver together. But you'll remain the beneficiary of my will."
And stay safe with my friends in the city while I track Deuce.

Chapter Five

Being a close friend of Steve Loring, a Denver railroad magnate, had its advantages. When Max had wired Blackie to begin tracing Deuce, he'd also wired Loring and asked if one of his custom cars might be available for the trip. What he had not realized was that the convenience of a real bed still meant that he had to share the spacious railcar with his wife. They slept separately but he feared that his nightmares, dormant since London, might resurface on the train. So far he'd managed to hold his demons at bay...with a bit of help from overindulgence in alcohol.

On the third evening, Sky ordered her usual bath. While he listened to the sounds of her humming softly behind the large silk screen at the rear of the car, his mind conjured up visions of her naked in the tub, her dusky smooth flesh slick with bubbles, glistening in the flickering lights. Every splash of water was like a jolt of lightning.

How much more of this could he endure? Normally, he excused himself while she bathed, but the afternoon had slipped by too quickly and he had already consumed half a decanter of brandy when two youths arrived and quickly filled the tub.

They were to have dinner in their car that evening, at her suggestion. Perhaps because of the way he had begun drinking? Max wondered what she would think if she knew why he was behaving so badly. Damn, he would be soused before the braised quail was served if he did not stop. Drinking would solve none of his problems...but passing out just might.

He shoved the glass away, disgusted with his self-indulgence. The sounds of soft cloth rustling behind the screen indicated that his wife was finished with her bath. He raised his head and watched as she emerged, her hair pinned in a haphazard topknot with wispy tendrils touching her flushed warm skin.

"You look damp and refreshed," he said, his mouth going dry at the sight of her.

"And you look as 'soggy' as dear cousin Cletus." She smiled wryly when Max's hand halted halfway to his ear, a habit he'd developed since they'd met. "I may have to wring both of your ears this time."

"If you twist my ear again, I'll be tripping over it," he said irritably.

She inspected him, taking in his bloodshot eyes and the amount of brandy left in the decanter. "Pity I don't have another basin of cold water to dump over your head. Then, again..." Her eyes scanned the elegantly appointed private car's furnishings, settling on the dry sink below a rounded mirror where shaving utensils had been laid out.

"Are you considering the basin of water or the razor?" he asked.

Sky smiled, tightening the belt of her embroidered yellow silk robe. "Well, it certainly wouldn't do to have you bleeding all over this lovely Turkish carpeting, or even to stain it with water, so I'll allow you to have a cool bath the same as I."

He inclined his head. "Ah, 'the quality of mercy.' "

Ignoring his attempt at levity, she ran her hand over the satiny teak trim on a brocade settee. It stood facing two leather chairs with a heavy brass tea table in the center of the grouping. "You have very wealthy friends in Denver. I expected you to know saloon denizens, but not rail tycoons."

"Steve and Cass Loring have been friends of mine for some time. You'd like her. She built her father's freighting business into the largest in the Rockies before she was twenty years of age."

"I'm impressed. Also rather surprised that you'd admire such independence in a mere woman."

He looked at her, studying the strong, beautifully sculpted shape of her face. "I've always admired independent women. Why do you think I didn't choose a simpering English schoolgirl to wed?"

"I seem to recall something about your desire for a woman willing to relinquish her title once the will was adjudicated," she replied with a lightness she did not feel. His gaze was unsettling in the extreme. As if...

He grunted as he rose unsteadily to his feet and pulled the cord summoning the porter. "Bugger the title," he muttered beneath his breath.

Before Sky gathered courage to ask what he had just said, the porter tapped on the door and Max ordered a bath before their evening meal, which was to be served at the small dining table by one of the large windows in their car. In moments the tub behind the screen had been refilled. Perhaps he could sober up enough so that he would not pass out during the first course.

While he was bathing, Sky admitted a host of men in white jackets who quickly set the table with fine linens and china, then wheeled in a long cart with heated sterling chafing dishes on it. Dinner was ready whenever they chose to eat.

She thanked the stewards and dismissed them, then took a seat at the table, as far away as she could get from the sounds of Max's bath. Willing her mind to focus on anything besides her husband's naked body, she gazed out at the countryside, watching the mountains on the far horizon. It had been two days since the jagged Rockies appeared, yet they seemed no closer, only a hazy promise beckoning from the west.

Eager as she was to return home again, it had been difficult to say good-bye to Clint and Delilah. She hated deceiving them and feared that Delilah suspected something was amiss with her marriage.
What will she think when she finds out my relationship with Max has been a sham?

Sky pinched the bridge of her nose with thumb and index finger, trying not to think of how hurt her sister-in-law and Clint would be. At least Delilah would understand why Sky had wanted to keep Clint out of her quest. But her brother would be furious that she had made such a cold-blooded arrangement and brought a stranger into their home under false pretenses just to "save him from himself."

"Deep thoughts?" Max asked as he took a seat across from her. He, too, was damp from his bath and wore a dressing robe to the table. A bottle of French Margeaux sat between them, cork lying beside it. He noted that Sky had already taken several sips from her glass.

She looked up, wakened from her troubling reverie. "No deep thoughts," she replied. "I'm just impatient to reach Denver and get to work." She turned from his unnerving gaze and studied the sagebrush and scrub pines of eastern Colorado that seemed to whiz past the speeding train.

He studied her profile. Lord, she was beautiful! After sharing a bedroom in St. Louis and now a private railcar, the proximity was driving him half mad. At least they each had a comfortable bed and did not have to pretend marital bliss for the porters, but it was small consolation.

Women had always been easy for him. He knew his looks and the money his family possessed helped. He'd never had to do anything special to have females falling at his feet, from simpering society belles to sharp-eyed harlots. After a succession of mistresses through university and during his tenure in the army, he'd decided that he did not possess the temperament for faithfulness. Besides, women tended to become demanding of time and attention he did not want to give.

In America, he'd availed himself of high-priced prostitutes, content to slake his lust and move on to the next city or town, always rootless, searching for new adventure—or trying to outrun old demons. Now, thanks to Harry, here he was saddled with an enigmatic wife who still fancied herself in love with her dead first husband. Sky was set on avenging his death so she could put her own demons to rest.
Ah, love, you may find that once justice has been served, the demons refuse to rest...or allow you to rest either.

Ever since that day in Jerome Bartlett's office, he'd wrestled with the question of whether he wanted to consummate the marriage and have a child with Sky Brewster Stanhope. How would she react if he told her why he required an heir? The proposal of marriage had been mercenary enough without involving an innocent babe. She'd probably take that nasty little .38 pistol and shoot him in the heart. He could scarcely blame her.

But he still desired her. She was like no other woman he'd ever known—keenly intelligent, fiercely independent, intensely loyal...and a most sensual creature, although he was virtually certain she was unaware of it. Married to a priest. They had probably made love in the dark, both wearing nightshirts! Did they say grace before...
Flaming hell, what an obscene bastard I've become!

In spite of his foul humor, he was sure she was aware of the sexually explosive chemistry between them. Each time they touched, he could feel the tension humming. Max knew women and those signs were unmistakable, even with one like Sky. He was certainly unlike her first husband in every imaginable way, he thought wryly as he poured himself a bit of the wine.

He raised the round crystal bowl in a toast. "To Denver and our quest," he said.

Sky raised her glass and nodded, saying nothing as the soft tinkle of crystal echoed over the steady hum of the rails beneath them. Each was lost in private thought.

Max wondered what she was thinking as she helped herself to a bowl of clear golden broth flecked with fine herbs. Could they build a relationship that would allow them to raise a child? He'd seen far too many marriages among the English aristocracy where children were ignored as much as the vows their parents had taken. His own mother and father had gone their separate ways after Edmund and he were born.

The only love match he had ever known had been that of Harry and Lodicia, which ended tragically after such a brief, bright run. Now past his thirtieth year, Max still doubted such constancy as his uncle had exhibited ran in his soul. Before he even thought of truly making Sky his wife, he had to sort that out. Then, if he decided it was possible for him, he would have to consider the best way to approach her with a new and even more unsettling proposal...

Idly fishing for some clue about her plans for the future, he asked, "Will you resume your role as legal protector of the Ehanktonwon once Deuce is dead?"

The question startled her. Before she could stop herself, she said, "I've honestly never considered...that is, all I've been able to think of since the courts let him go was getting justice. After that..."

"Best to consider the 'after,' love. To borrow a Shakespearean conceit from your uncle Horace, 'The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.' "

"There is no good in Johnny Deuce," she snapped, closing the lid over the roast quail with a sharp clank.

"I only meant that ghosts have a way of returning to haunt one." His eyes were darkest green, distant and hard for an instant before he turned away.

"You believe I'll regret being responsible for Deuce's death?" she asked.
As you're haunted by whatever you did in Africa?