Tomorrow's Dreams (12 page)

Penelope's breath caught in her throat, and her body went as limp as a poke bonnet in the driving rain. She wanted to pull away, she wanted to feel repulsion at his touch. But … damn him! As much as she hated him at that moment, she liked what his fingers were doing to her lips. And to her everlasting shame, she found herself wishing that he'd replace his thumb with his mouth and tongue. Hating herself for wanting him, yet powerless to deny her own desire, she sagged toward him.

Seth cupped his cool hand beneath her chin and tilted her face up to his. Their lips were scant inches apart. Trembling with expectation, her lips parted, wantonly begging for his kiss. As he captured her stunned gaze with his smoldering one, he murmured, “Such lovely lips. Such a sweet mouth. It should be … eating.” With that, he pulled away and sat back in his chair, chuckling. “I thought you said you were hungry, Princess.”

Penelope jerked back against her own chair, mortified. Oh, she was hungry all right, and by the way Seth was gloating, he knew exactly what she craved. Hating him for his arrogance and herself for her ninny-witted weakness, she picked up her fork, staring at her plate as she fought to regain her composure.

After a long moment, Seth leaned over and crooned, “Never fear, Princess. The food is the one thing Titania didn't touch.”

That reminder was like salt being rubbed into her wounded pride: it stung. But she'd die before she let him see her hurt. Instead she fixed him with a disdainful stare and retorted, “Loss of appetite is the first symptom of the French pox.”

He returned her haughty gaze with one of amusement. “You seem to have become quite an expert on the pox of late.”

“Hallie told me all about the pox … and other things before I left San Francisco. She said that it wouldn't do for me to be ignorant about the ways of the world and men.”

Seth guffawed. He'd like to have been a fly on the wall when Jake's wife, Hallie, who was not only a doctor, but a mission worker as well, lectured Penelope on the facts of life. Intrigued, he asked, “Oh? And what are the ways of the world?”

“Considering your reputation with women, I'd guess you know them well.” She cut a dainty piece of lamb and tasted it. It was good. She took a bigger bite.

“I know them. I just wanted to make sure you do.”

“I don't see how that is any of your concern.” She swirled a piece of lamb in the accompanying brown sauce, wishing he'd drop the whole uncomfortable subject.

This time she got her wish. “How's the lamb?” he inquired, watching her stuff the sauce-drenched morsel into her mouth.

“Different … but good. Not at all like ordinary fried lamb.”

“I didn't say it was fried lamb. I said it was lamb fries.”

“Surely it's the same thing?”

“Well, both are lamb.” Seth's expression was angelic as he explained the difference. “Fried lamb usually consists of lamb chops that have been fried. Lamb fries are sheep testicles. The locals claim it's food fit for royalty.”

Penelope gagged. “Lamb …” She sputtered and choked.

“… Testicles,” he finished for her. Tilting his head to one side, he peered at her face, his eyes bright with interest. “I didn't realize it was possible for a live person to turn that shade of green.” He bent nearer and touched her cheek. “Striking color. Lovely, really. It perfectly compliments your red nose.”

Seth leaned against the Shakespeare's back door, sucking in the night air. It smelled fresh, with just a hint of the pungent-sweet scent he'd come to associate with the West. From the moment he'd smelled that prairie perfume, he'd loved it, but never had he appreciated it more than he did tonight after being cloistered in the vomit-stench permeated private room with Penelope.

Unbidden the vision of Penelope retching miserably into the chamber pot flashed through his mind. That picture was enough to make him exhale the fresh air guiltily. When in God's name had she become so weak-bellied? Three years ago she wouldn't have so much as batted an eyelash at the notion of eating sheep's testicles. Back then she'd had a cast-iron stomach and gastronomic valor to challenge his own.

Swearing beneath his breath, he yanked his cigar case from his pocket and cradled it between his palms. The worse part of his prank-gone-wrong was that he couldn't allow himself to comfort her. He couldn't hold her and soothe away her nausea. He couldn't playfully tease and distract her from her misery the way he'd done the time she'd been so wretchedly ill with influenza.

No. Because of his cursed lack of self-control, he didn't dare do more than express tepid concern. For he knew that if he were to bow to his emotions now, he might be powerless to deny them in the future. And that was a chance he couldn't take.

The object of his remorseful musings let out a miserylaced groan. “I th-think I'm going to be s-sick again.”

Seth looked with alarm over to where Penelope stood clutching at an empty beer barrel. She was wavering back and forth like a green sailor on a roiling deck, retching dryly.

Muttering a self-denigrating oath, he dropped his cigar case back into his pocket and hastened to her side. Though his good sense warned him that he should maintain his pretense of icy indifference and keep his distance, his sense of honor argued that she was Jake's sister, and for his friend's sake he had an obligation to see to her welfare.

Or so he tried to tell himself as he pulled her trembling form into his embrace. “Breathe deeply,” he murmured, stroking her back and hair. “The nausea will pass in a moment.”

He could hear her gasping for air and feel her soft breasts heaving against his chest as she struggled to comply. “Good girl. Now take another one,” he coaxed, resting his cheek against her silky hair. “Draw it in slowly and hold it for a count of five.”

Nodding against his chest, she did as he directed.

They continued on like that for a long while, he crooning commands and she dutifully obeying. Eventually her dry heaves subsided into soft, hiccuping burps.

“Better?” he inquired, massaging the base of her neck.

Penelope nodded and emitted another burp.

For some odd reason, Seth found those unladylike sounds charming. Smiling at his own absurdity, he moved his hands lower to knead her tense shoulders. She melted against him with a sigh.

As he worked, his gaze returned again and again to the ivory taffeta beneath his palm. Being a man who adored women, he'd had more than a little experience in selecting feminine frippery. That experience told him that Penelope's gown was of third-rate material, sewn by a fourth-rate seamstress. Hardly the type of garment the Penelope he'd once known would have worn. The Penelope he remembered had been the epitome of elegance.

His eyes narrowed as he fingered the coarse lace of her Vandyke bertha collar. A couple of hours earlier he'd almost managed to convince himself that her Shakespeare escapade was simply a poor career decision. After all, she was adventurous by nature and touring the West was just the sort of thing that might appeal to her. He also knew that, like himself, she was full of stubborn pride and that she would suffer the consequences of her bad judgment rather than admit that she'd made a mistake.

At least that was how he'd rationalized her defensive behavior on the stairs. Pride and embarrassment. But now, seeing the normally impeccably garbed Penelope Parrish in this shoddy gown … well, to his way of reasoning, this gown confirmed his initial suspicion that she was in trouble. And whatever sort of trouble she was in, he'd have laid ten to one odds that it was far more serious than she cared for him to know.

The thought of Penelope all alone and in trouble, too frightened or ashamed to seek help or comfort, sent a fierce flood of protectiveness washing through him. What he wouldn't give for the chance to be her modern-day Sir Galahad. He wanted to be the man she trusted above all others, the one she turned to in times of trouble. He wished—

Smothering his urge to curse a blue streak, Seth abruptly pushed Penelope away. He might as well wish for the moon for all the chance he had of attaining his heart's desire. Damn it to hell! He had to get a grip on his emotions before he did something disastrously stupid.

It didn't help his confused state of mind when Penelope took his hand in hers and whispered, “Thank you for being so kind, Seth. I'm sorry to be such a nuisance.”

The humility of Penelope's unwarranted gratitude shamed Seth to the very core of his being. Feeling smaller than an ear mite and lower than a villain with a noose around his neck, he replied sincerely, “I'm the one who should be apologizing. Feeding you those fries was a nasty trick.”

The light of a million stars and the full moon illuminated Penelope's features as she tilted her face up to meet his gaze. Seth's breath caught in his throat as he stared down at her.

Dear God! She was beautiful. Especially when she smiled the way she was smiling now, displaying the most irresistible pair of dimples this side of heaven. Seth had always loved those dimples, and it took all of his remaining willpower not to pull her back into his arms and kiss them.

Still smiling, Penelope shook her head. “It was silly of me not to remember what a prankster you are … especially where food is concerned. I'll never forget the time you brought me a beribboned box of chocolate dipped snails.” She reached up and tucked a tendril of his hair behind his ear, just like she used to do during their courtship. “You let me eat every last one before you told me what they were.”

The sweet familiarity of her gesture took Seth's breath away. When he was finally able to reply, his voice was little more than a raw whisper. “The confectioner who sold me those bonbons assured me that they were all the vogue.”

She laughed, and he couldn't resist grinning in return. “Greedy girl. As I recall, you didn't bother to ask what they were before you attacked them like a starving street urchin.”

He also recalled how she had shrieked with mock indignation when he'd confessed his little joke, and tickled every ticklish inch of him in retaliation. It made him ache with longing just remembering the closeness they had once shared.

“I'll make you a deal,” she said. “You promise not to feed me any more of your exotic delicacies, and I'll forgive you for making me sick this evening.”

It was Seth's turn to laugh. “Now you're sounding like a true Parrish. Perhaps there's hope for you yet.”

“Perhaps.” She grinned up at him. “Do you agree?”

He focused his warm gaze on her dimples. “How can I say no in the face of such charming persuasion?”

As they shook hands, sealing their bargain, the door creaked opened. Out piled Bertram, Effie, and Miles. Penelope dropped his hand and backed away, her face the color of bleached muslin.

Troubled and more than a little perplexed by her reaction, Seth turned to study the intruders through narrowed eyes.

“I've been looking all over for you, Lorelei,” Miles scolded, roughly seizing Penelope's arm. “Mother says I'm to take you back to the boardinghouse now.”

Seth moved protectively to Penelope's other side. “The lady is feeling ill. As her companion this evening, it's my duty to escort her home.”

Clucking like a mother hen over her chicks, Effie shoved Miles aside. “Poor dear. She does look a bit green around the gills.” She planted her palm against Penelope's forehead. “Hmm. She feels warm, too.” Nodding knowingly, she concluded, “I think a dose of Flannigan's Patented Female Regulator is in order.”

Penelope's stomach churned at the thought of one of Effie's nasty patented cures. Fighting her nausea, she groaned, “I'll be fine. I just want to go to the boardinghouse and lie down.”

“Which is where I intend to take you,” Seth replied, looping his arm through hers.

“Oh, no you don't!” Miles planted himself squarely in front of the couple. “We may be at your beck and call during working hours, but you have no say in what we do outside the Shakespeare. Mother told me to escort Lorelei, and I intend to do just that!”

Seth raised one eyebrow in sardonic amusement. “Do you always do what your mother tells you?”

Miles's face contorted with indignation. “My mother is the finest woman in the world,” he declared defensively. “As such, it is my duty to obey her. I'd remember that if I were you.”

“And I would remember who held my gambling voucher if I were you,” Seth snapped back, his patience wearing dangerously thin.

Miles had the good grace to flush. “A
gentleman
would never bring up that subject in front of ladies.”

“And a
man
would never allow those same ladies to degrade themselves in order to repay his gambling debts.”

“Why, you—!” Miles sputtered with impotent rage. “Y-you—! I'll show you who's the m-man around here!”

“Oh, my!” Effie frantically fanned herself with her dogeared script. “I do hope you gentlemen aren't going to come to fisticuffs!” She peered back and forth between the warring factions, her gleeful expression belying her anxious words.

Penelope hoped not, either. She shuddered to think of what Adele might do if she should be the cause of Miles getting his dainty nose bloodied. Determined to circumvent the impending row, she disengaged her arm from Seth's. “Miles always serves as my escort. Perhaps it would be best if he saw me home.” She cast Seth a pleading look, praying that he would let the matter drop.

But Seth wasn't about to be put off. Tossing Miles a scathing look, he growled, “As your brother's friend and confidant, I consider it my duty to decide what is best for you. And allowing you to wander the streets of Denver in the middle of the night with this mewling mama's boy as your protector is definitely against my better judgment. You'll come with me.”

Miles let out an infuriated screech and advanced toward the taller man, his fists poised to strike. Seth simply looked down his nose at the actor, amused.