Payton's Woman (6 page)

Her hand curled into a
fist. She hoped to force some control over her thoughts, but the heat that
gathered in her body seemed impossible to restrain. His kisses had unleashed a
force deep within that somehow had a will of its own. A liquid fire burned
inside, spreading outward and threatening to consume her if she allowed those thoughts
to run unchecked.

Dismayed at her body’s
reaction, she shook her head as she tried to sort out the reason. Other men had
kissed her, but during her entire twenty-two years of life, they’d never made
her feel this way. She could count on one hand the men who had attempted to take
liberties with her. And they were liberties, for she’d never given any of them
permission. A quick, stolen kiss taken without warning in an unguarded moment
or a deliberate kiss forced upon her while she protested, all received the same
response. A slap across the face delivered with the appropriate degree of
severity to equal her feel of repulsion toward that individual man.

Not so with the pirate.
His kisses weren’t stolen, nor were they forced.

She had thought she’d be
deeply repulsed by his touch, but the moment his lips had brushed across hers,
a fire had ignited deep within that still burned.

And it was a fire. Thoughts
of him inflamed her senses. The memories hovered in her mind. She could feel
his kiss, taste his mouth, and inhale his masculine scent.

“Stop,” she said to her
reflection. “You have to stop thinking about him. Just forget him,” she commanded
of the woman in the mirror even though she knew the impossibility of her demand.

She turned from the
dressing table and paced around the small room. Anger or extreme exertion was
the only thing that chased thoughts of him from her mind as well as her body. This
tiny interior didn’t allow for much exertion, so her anger had to suffice.

After slamming a few
things around in her room, she grabbed the empty water pitcher. She held the
crockery high over her head. The temptation to hurl it through the glass pane
of the window grew strong, but she squelched the urge.

Her employer who allowed
her to live in this cramped room on the uppermost floor of the house would
demand an explanation. She couldn’t very well admit she’d tossed it through the
window in a fit of anger, since her employer believed her to be a timid little
creature, not capable of strong emotion or even independent thought. She also believed
Julia incapable of lying. Normally, she didn’t utter even a tiny fib. She’d
always been an honest, moral person, but the lies had tumbled easily from her lips
when she spoke to the woman.

Perhaps it was because
her employer was Betsy Dunbar Collins—a vile and contemptible creature. Her son
was Lawrence Dunbar, and he’d murdered Julia’s brother. She knew it as the truth
because her brother’s own handwriting had named his killer. She recalled
opening his letter and reading the first few lines to her mother as she waited
eagerly for news from her loving son.

By the time you
receive this letter, I will be dead. The man responsible for my death is
Lawrence Dunbar.

She closed her eyes at
the memory. When her mother had collapsed in the chair upon hearing the news,
Julia had rushed out for the doctor. She’d returned to find her mother lying unconscious
on the floor. Nothing remained of her brother’s letter but ashes in the
fireplace. Her mother died three days later without uttering a single word.

In the darkness of her
mind, her anger raged. Lawrence Dunbar had also been responsible for her mother’s
death. She would find him regardless of the lies she told and the deceptions
she perpetrated. But it didn’t seem like a lie when she told falsehoods to
Betsy.

A week ago Julia had told
her she needed a few days off to visit a sick friend in Stockton. Then she’d
managed to smuggle the sapphire-blue evening gown from the room where the other
gowns were kept. Later, she’d returned the gown without anyone knowing. And no
one knew she hadn’t traveled to Stockton but had instead gone to San Francisco
for a secret rendezvous with Wilber Hennigan.

Julia had known the gown
would be perfect for the purpose in which she’d intended. Hennigan had never
taken his eyes from her exposed cleavage. In his distracted state, he’d
divulged all his dirty little secrets including everything he knew about Lawrence
Dunbar.

Dunbar hid in Mexico. After
his wound healed, he’d try to make his way to California to seek out Hennigan
for the money he’d left behind.

Now that his partner in
crime had committed suicide, Dunbar would contact his mother for help when he
arrived in San Francisco. Luckily, Julia worked as her secretary. Any message
from Dunbar would go through her hands before it ever slid under the nose of
his parent.

As for Betsy, her cruel
and vicious personality equaled Dunbar’s. Julia despised them both. Lawrence
Dunbar had murdered her brother. Not having her brother’s letter, she didn’t
have any solid evidence. And with Hennigan dead, she had no corroborating testimony.
But Julia would have justice—even if she had to dispense it herself.

Her temper flared. Her
patience grew thin as she waited for a message from the murderous scum.

She plopped her straw
hat on her head. On her way out the bedroom door, she grabbed her white gloves
and floral shawl. Perhaps a walk in the fresh air would calm her.

When she reached the top
of the steps that led to the entryway below, a shadow flitted across the
hardwood floor at the bottom of the staircase. She recognized the person
wandering around by the silhouette of fluffy feathers protruding from her
bonnet.

“Julia darling, I
thought I heard someone walking about.” Sylvia Morgan appeared at the foot of
the stairs. “It’s about time you came down.”

Julia stopped her
descent. In her present mood, she didn’t feel inclined to be pleasant, but she
made the effort. Betsy and Sylvia were good friends. She didn’t want to anger
either of them.

“No one else is up yet.”
Sylvia let out a heavy sigh. “I’ve been so bored sitting here alone.”

She didn’t want company,
particularly Sylvia’s. The woman had an uncanny ability for reading Julia’s
expressions. In her present emotional state, she may not be able to hide her
thoughts from the woman’s penetrating stare.

“I wasn’t aware you were
visiting today.” She made her way to the foot of the staircase. “Perhaps if I’d
known in advance, I could have rearranged my plans, but as you can see, I’m on
my way out.”

“You’re going out
dressed like that?” She rolled her eyes in a dramatic fashion.

“What’s wrong with the
way I’m dressed?” As soon as the words tumbled from her mouth, she regretted
asking. Sylvia had no qualms pointing out her flaws.

“Nothing is wrong...if
you’re the charwoman.” She pulled at the skirt of Julia’s gray muslin gown. “You’re
not wearing a crinoline or a hoop.”

“I don’t like to wear them.”
With a metal hoop scraping along the walls, she couldn’t sneak though the
house, but she gave Sylvia a different excuse. “They’re too cumbersome. I seem
to always knock things over when I walk about.”

“You’d much prefer
wearing nothing at all?”

“I have on a petticoat.”

“Only one, I suppose. You
realize that fashion dictates you wear at least three.” Sylvia stepped around
her to view her backside. “I swear, I can see the crack of your bottom.”

A gasp escaped her lips.
Her hand brushed at her backside even though she knew Sylvia exaggerated.

“Although that might be
a rather exciting look for the bedroom, I dare say it’s not for the daytime—particularly
with your figure.”

She closed her eyes and prepared
for Sylvia’s critical appraisal of her figure—or lack thereof.

“Good God. You’re not
wearing a corset.”

Her eyelids popped open
when Sylvia grabbed at her midsection.

“Yes, I am. I just didn’t
cinch it tight. Otherwise, I can’t breathe.”

“It’s not meant for
breathing. It’s for your bosom and waistline.” She pulled Julia in the
direction of the mirror hanging in the entryway. “Just look at yourself. You
have neither.”

A brief glance was all
she needed. Her figure suited her fine. Sylvia might not approve of how she
looked, but her opinion didn’t matter. She pulled her shawl over her shoulders
to hide her body from further comment and used the one strategy guaranteed to get
her on a different subject. “I wish I had your figure. You’re so tiny. And your
gown is beautiful. Pale pink is such a lovely color on you. It contrasts nicely
with your dark hair.”

“Well, thank you.” She
looked in the mirror at her own reflection as she preened and patted at her
hair and gown. “It’s silk, you know. Quite expensive. It’s from an admirer.”

“Of course,” she agreed,
for Sylvia never paid for anything. Her many admirers bought her expensive bobbles
and gowns.

“I must be going,” Julia
said. “I’m certain Mrs. Collins will be up shortly to keep you company.”

“Where are you going? If
it’s somewhere interesting, I might be persuaded to go with you.”

“I’m afraid you’ll find
this rather dull. It’s for the final fitting of my gown at Madame Russo’s shop.”
She had not planned to visit the shop until later today, but she needed
something to tell Sylvia.

“How droll,” Sylvia
said, but her mood brightened. “Perhaps I shall accompany you. I haven’t
decided what to wear to the Tinsdale party on Friday. Perhaps when I see the
gown you’ll be wearing, I’ll have a better idea about what I shall wear.”

“I don’t think you’ll
find my gown very inspiring,” she said, hoping to discourage her from tagging
along. “It’s just a simple frock without any embellishments.”

“Probably so, since I
know you don’t like to wear anything that draws attention to yourself.” She
linked her arm around Julia’s and steered her toward the front door. “But it
will give us an opportunity to talk. I’ve been dying to tell someone about the
little adventure I had last night.”

Julia didn’t bother to
hide her groan. A conversation with Sylvia was not something she looked forward
to. Her favorite topic centered on her sexual encounter of the night before, but
she allowed Sylvia to lead her to her carriage.

By the time they reached
Madame Russo’s shop, she had heard more than she wanted about Sylvia’s prior
night’s activities. But her stories were always the same. She’d invite a
gentleman to her home. He’d find her desirable and thrust some expensive gift
on her. Then he’d beg her to give herself to him. Ultimately, she and her “gentleman”
friend would sate their lust in various rooms throughout the house.

To Julia’s relief, Sylvia
never told of her encounters in intimate details—other than that first time
three months ago. She’d been so shocked when Sylvia had attempted to relate a
tale of lust and debauchery that she’d covered her ears with her hands and
demanded she stop.

Sylvia had given the
excuse that she only wanted to educate her since she seemed so naïve about men
and their lustful ways. Julia had then informed Sylvia that her mother had told
her all she needed to know about men. Anything else would be conveyed by her
husband on their wedding night.

Of course Sylvia had
laughed at her remark. Julia didn’t have a beau, much less a fiancé. To Sylvia’s
way of thinking, it seemed Julia didn’t want a man. She’d rejected all the men
she’d been introduced to at the numerous parties they’d attended.

Sylvia and Betsy
continually thrust men at her, but she’d thwarted all their efforts. They tried
to persuade her to become friendly with the men, but she’d never been impressed
with the ones she’d met. The men dressed in expensive evening clothes, their
speech sophisticated and their manners polished, but they were nothing more
than irksome bores. They may consider themselves gentlemen, but they reminded
her of the lecherous drunks she’d encountered a week ago in that dingy tavern.

The ones Sylvia and
Betsy introduced her to may not be grubby and filthy, but they were just as
repulsive.

Only one man interested
her. A man of courage and honor. His kisses had thrilled her. His touch had set
her body on fire.

She wondered how Sylvia
would respond if she related her own encounter with a dark-haired, blue-eyed pirate.
He’d found her beautiful. And she felt certain he’d desired her. But Sylvia
would probably laugh hilariously, for her evening had ended with nothing more
than a kiss.

A kiss she would never
forget.

“What are you thinking
about?” Sylvia asked. “You have a peculiar look on your face. I don’t believe I’ve
seen you smile like that before.”

“Nothing.” She wiped all
expression from her face.

The carriage rolled to a
stop in front of the dress shop. Julia climbed down before Sylvia could
question her further.

“Do you have to walk so
fast? Your legs are so long and gangly that I have to take two steps to keep up
with your one.”

She never slowed her
pace, since that wouldn’t stop Sylvia from berating her for not being small and
petite. She walked into the shop and left her in the street. By the time Sylvia
entered the dressing area, Julia had removed her hat and gloves, and unbuttoned
her gown.

Sylvia put her hand against
her chest as she gasped for air in a dramatic fashion. “I swear, Julia. You
walk so fast that I have to run to keep up with you.”

“I’m sorry, but I want
to get this over with. It seems like such a waste of time to be fitted for a
gown I’ll probably never wear.”

“Not to worry,” Madame
Russo said as she assisted her out of the plain, gray gown. “This was made more
to your specifications.”

While she untied the
strings of her petticoat, Madame Russo retrieved the undergarments.

Sylvia eyed the
crinoline the dressmaker held. “That looks crooked and misshapen.”