Pale Moon Stalker (The Nymph Trilogy) (12 page)

All of this was so new...wild...mindless...forbidden. Then every fragmented vestige of thought fled as a fiercely sweet contraction began deep inside her quaking body. But instead of flaring and dying out as she expected, it built, growing stronger, multiplying into a series. She opened her mouth to cry out his name, but he smothered it with another soul-robbing kiss. When his whole body stiffened and shook, she could feel his staff thicken even more. Through her own continuing ecstasy, she felt him spill himself high and deep inside her in pulsing waves that at last satiated her own seemingly boundless need.

When he collapsed on top of her, burying his face against her neck, Sky stroked the silver-gilt curls of his head and held him fast. His arms embraced her, buried in the tangle of her hair. They lay that way for several minutes, utterly spent. Then their breathing slowly began to return to normal. Max pressed a soft kiss against her throat and murmured indistinctly, "I've wanted this for so long..."

His last words were unintelligible to her, but Sky realized that what she'd taken for hostility and embarrassment over having wed a woman of mixed blood had perhaps been the simple desire of a man for a woman, a woman in close proximity. She knew she was attractive, even beautiful some said, although she was not vain enough to believe that. Among the Sioux, her delicate features and lighter complexion were a liability. Among the whites, her dusky skin and straight black hair were a stigma. She had never found her place in either world...until Will Brewster had fallen in love with her.

Will!
How could she have forgotten him so quickly? To lie with the gunman she'd hired to kill Deuce—it was unthinkable, unforgivable. Bad enough she'd made a devil's bargain with the Limey to obtain his inheritance in exchange for bringing justice to Will's murderer. Now she'd betrayed the memory of the husband she'd meant to avenge.

Max felt her body stiffen beneath him, even detected the slightest hint of a hitched breath. "Regrets again, love? I have none," he murmured, nuzzling her neck. When he spoke the words, he realized they were true. His decision was made. Sky was well and truly his wife now and he wanted to continue that way...but did she?

Chapter Six

When Max rolled to his side, allowing her to sit up, Sky clutched the night rail bunched at her waist and quickly covered her breasts, holding the ripped cloth up to her neck. "Well, I suppose I have my answer," he said softly.

If she had not been so embarrassed and guilty, Sky might have noted the hurt in his voice. But all she could think of was that she'd betrayed Will.

"So, you're still in love with your priest," he murmured, sliding off the bed, quite splendidly naked, and unconcerned by that fact as he reached for the robe tossed across a chair and put it on. She damn well wanted his body, if nothing else of him. Let her look!

"I'm...confused, Max," was all she could manage. Just looking at his backside made her desire him again. Why did he have this...this
physical
hold on her? It was something she'd never felt before. And that, too, was a betrayal of Will.

"Your first husband is dead, Sky. He wanted you to marry again, to—"

"No! He never intended for me to marry a man like you!" The moment she said the hateful words, Sky wanted to call them back. This time she could see the hard gleam in his eyes, the way a mocking smile covered the pain she had inflicted. "I didn't mean—"

"I rather think you did. 'A man like me'—don't you mean a killer? Poor trade, this, a man of war in exchange for a man of peace. Do you want to cry off our agreement now?" Max was surprised to realize he was holding his breath, waiting for her answer.

She swallowed, trying to regain control of her senses, to think rationally. "Even if I wanted to end our bargain, I could not. I'll not compound the sin of lying in church by lying to a bishop for an annulment."

"We could always get a divorce. Of course, when you found that
noble
replacement for me, getting married again in church would present a bit of a problem." He stressed the word "noble" mockingly, angry and wanting to lash out at her, to wound as he had been wounded.

"There'll be no 'replacement' for Will, noble or otherwise," was all she could think to say.

He watched her slide from the mattress, still clutching the ridiculous flimsy nightclothes in front of her like a shield as she stood facing him across the tangled bedcovers. "First you feel guilty for not consummating our vows. Now you feel guilty because you have. Sky, have you any idea what in bloody hell you do want, love?"

He did, but he was damned if he'd confess it to a woman who chained herself to a 'holy ghost' rather than be wife to a man with such a sinful soul as his.

"Don't call me your love!" she snapped. "We don't love each other. We do, however, still have a bargain to fulfill. I've done my part for you in England. Now you do yours for me in America."

Max walked deliberately around the bed, his eyes fixed on hers, waiting to see if she was actually so ashamed of what they'd done that she'd run from him. "You mean do what I do best..." he drawled as he stood in front of her.

He was stalking her like a sleek, deadly mountain lion. Sky knew it would be cowardly, not to mention a tactical error, to back down. She stared up into his harshly beautiful face and replied in an equally cold tone of voice, "Yes. Kill Johnny Deuce."

* * * *

No longer a raw gold rush boomtown, Denver had grown into a formidable city by 1884. Nattily dressed Eastern businessmen brushed by Jewish rabbis and shabby dirt farmers on the bustling sidewalks, each intent on his own task. In the streets, burly sweating teamsters cursed and wielded their bullwhips over teams of mules while Chinese immigrants dodged through the heavy traffic.

Though it had been bypassed by the Transcontinental, other rail lines had come to Denver in the preceding decade. The town had become a bizarre mixture of Gothic brick edifices still skirted by wooden shanties. Opera houses and sporting houses existed within shouting—or singing—distance of each other, even if the music was of varying quality. Only in a city such as Denver could the fanciest bordello and the largest Methodist church have been designed by the same architect.

Everyone agreed the American House was the finest hotel, having hosted a ball for the Russian Grand Duke Alexis back in 1872. Max had wired ahead for a suite. When their carriage pulled up and the doorman unloaded their luggage, Sky swept inside to check the registration while Max remained behind.

Since the passionate interlude on the train and its ugly aftermath, they had spent the final day of their journey studiously avoiding each other. She had stayed behind the screen in her bedroom area, packing. He had sent a porter to attend to that chore for him while he sat brooding in a vacant coach seat, staring out at the mountains but not seeing them.

At least the sleeping accommodations in a luxury hotel would allow real privacy. She would not be able to hear his nightmares and he would not be able to seduce her, Sky thought angrily. But there was an ache in her heart that denied what she had said to him that night. Some small kernel of hope buried deep inside her would not relinquish its hold.

But her guilt would not relinquish its hold either.

As she climbed the winding staircase to the second floor, Sky considered how she would survive being alone with Max on the trail. They would have to share a campfire, though they would have separate bedrolls. Perhaps Deuce would not be far off and the hunt would end quickly. But then what?

Breaking into her chaotic thoughts, the bellman opened the door to the suite with a flourish and ushered her inside, saying, "If there's anything you need, please ring, Mrs. Stanhope." With that he was gone.

Mrs. Stanhope. She was Max's wife. He had said he didn't regret consummating the marriage, but that didn't mean he wished a lifetime commitment. Maxwell Stanhope had made it very clear from the beginning that the last thing he wanted was to be saddled with a wife. He merely wanted her body...and she wanted his. Simple, yet so very complicated.

"I'll just have to uncomplicate it. We have a murderer to bring to justice," she said as she closed the door to her bedroom firmly and began to unbutton her yellow silk suit jacket. Shortly, she heard Max enter the sitting room, then close the door to the opposite bedroom. A small, bitter smile curved her lips. "Let's get on with it, m'lord Limey."

Max quickly stripped off his civilized clothes and dug out his trail gear. If Blackie Drago had been able to get a line on Deuce, there were at least six hours of daylight left. He could find out what he needed to know and be on his way, leaving Sky behind while he fulfilled his promise to her. After that...damned if he had any idea.

With an oath, he checked the action on his Smith & Wesson and slipped the weapon into its well-oiled holster and strode to the door leading directly into the hall. He yanked open his door and almost collided with Sky. She stepped away from the hallway wall and stood directly in front of him, dressed in trail gear.

He rubbed his ear, remembering the first time he'd seen her in those tight buckskin breeches and the plainsman's hat with her fat plait of hair hanging down her back. The Yellow Boy lay cradled comfortably in her arms. He'd had more pressing matters on his mind in Bismarck than examining the rifle. Now he could see how Daniels had customized it for his sister. It had been shortened slightly and refitted with a new butt plate, and half the magazine underneath the barrel had been removed. It had less cartridge capacity but the modifications made a very lightweight weapon perfect for a skilled woman to handle.

Sky met his level gaze with one of her own. Daring him.

"Dammit to bloody hell, get it through your beautiful but very dense skull—I'm going after Deuce. You're staying here. I'll bring his body to you if you don't trust me to kill him."

"That wasn't our deal, Max. I'm going with you," she replied calmly.

He let loose a volley of oaths, but she remained unmoving, blocking his way to the stairs. "At least leave the damned rifle behind. Blackie Drago's my friend."

"As far as I've seen, you don't seem to make friends. Besides, we're going to a saloon. If you'll recall what happened in Bismarck, you don't do very well in saloons." Sky was gratified to see him flush angrily beneath his tan.

"I was exhausted that day."

"So exhausted you almost drowned in a shot glass and lost that fancy six-gun," she replied, eyeing the weapon in his holster.

He could see the fierce, stubborn light in those blue eyes and knew it was useless arguing. He hadn't been able to convince her to stay in St. Louis. He probably wouldn't have any more luck keeping her here either. It would do no harm to take her to see Blackie. Maybe the wily Irishman could charm some sense into her...or lock her in one of the upstairs rooms with his madam, Junie Walsh, standing guard.

"You don't need that rifle at Blackie's place," he said.

"From here on, where I go, the rifle goes. I can handle it faster and shoot straighter than most gunmen can draw and fire. My brother taught me."

"Flaming good thing your brother wasn't in the artillery. We'd look damned silly rolling a howitzer down Cherry Street," he muttered. "Let's get on with it, then."

Smiling grimly, Sky followed his angry strides down the stairs.

The Bucket of Blood had not changed since the last time Max had visited Denver. Drago's saloon and bordello had been legendary in the city for nearly two decades now. It was an enormous place, gaudy and noisy, with a three-foot-high beveled glass mirror running the length of the bar. The floor was polished oak and the walls were covered with red flocked paper imported, according to the proprietor, all the way from France. Two pianos plunked out a verisimilitude of harmony while satin-clad ladies of the line swished between rough-looking teamsters and miners.

The clientele was not socially prominent, but they had plenty of cash to spend. A big man, bald as the Ruxton butler, stood behind the bar polishing glasses. Seeing Max enter, his mouth split into a wide grin, revealing several missing teeth. "Good afternoon, Odd Job," Max said, walking up to the bar.

Sky slipped in silently behind him, moving sideways and positioning herself against the wall, taking stock of the room and its occupants. The Yellow Boy dangled casually from her right hand, barrel down.

"Good to see ya, Max. Boss man got yer telegraph right 'nough. You still drinkin' the usual?" Odd Job inquired, pulling a bottle of stout from beneath the bar as Max nodded.

Sky listened to the two men, then decided that Max was indeed among friends. She stepped up to the bar and laid her Yellow Boy on it. Her manner remained watchful.

"Hey, purty lil breed, why so cloudy-faced? Reckon I cud cheer ya up," a tall skinny teamster suggested with a drunken hiccup.

Sky cocked the rifle without removing it from the bar. Its barrel was pointed in the direction of the teamster. "I'm 'cloudy-faced' because I can almost hear the thunder now...and the lightning's gonna flash very soon after."

Max barely turned toward the drunk. "If I were you, old chap, I'd move further down the bar and leave the lady alone. That way you might live to crack your whip another day," he said conversationally, nodding to the coiled bullwhip hanging from the teamster's thin shoulder. "If you work for Cass Loring, I'd hate for my wife to make her shorthanded."