Sighing, she turned the knob and opened the door.
A small lamp on the nightstand illuminated the room and cast the dancing light of shadows along the walls. Rounder’s space on the floor was empty. Her eyes swept the room looking for him.
Had he left?
“Camille?”
Her shoulders drooped, and she stepped further inside. “I’m here, Rounder.”
He emerged from behind the door as she closed it, still in his outer clothes although he’d unbuttoned his shirt. Unruly blonde hair rose up in stiff peaks on top of his head. His hazel eyes bore into her. She straightened her back, prepared for the tongue lashing sure to come.
With a dash of speed, his hands reached out and dragged into his arms. His chest felt solid against her cheeks. The pungent aroma of his musky, masculine scent invaded her nose.
What…
“I’m so glad you’re all right,” he breathed above her.
She felt his lips place kisses along her hairline, soft and warm. “Rounder.” It was a question and a statement all at once. Was he really being this gentle with her, so kind and tender?
“I kept praying through most of the game that you’d be all right.” His lips trailed to her temple. “I knew I had no right to beseech God for His assistance. There was nothing else I could have done. So I begged that the right cards would show up that would give me a chance to protect you. I was afraid for you, Camille. Afraid I didn’t have enough money. Afraid I wouldn’t be able to protect you.”
His arms squeezed her harder, almost crushing her ribs, but it was a pleasant sort of pain.
She thrilled at the tiny, almost absent kisses he placed on her forehead. “I’d thought you’d be angry.”
His lips drew away and she felt a curious loss. Something flashed in his eyes, brooding and sharp. “Angry isn’t the word, Camille. Furious would be more accurate. Enraged even.”
But he still held her against his body.
“Then why aren’t you…”
“Turning you over my knee?” A light note entered his voice as he lifted her head by her chin. “Because nothing I did would be as impactful as to what happened to you today. You learned a lesson that all the tongue lashings in the world could not impart.”
Camille nodded, feeling her eyes smart with ridiculous tears. Why was she crying? She was safe, wasn’t she? “You’re right.”
Something shifted between them, an awareness not unlike that first night they shared this room. Rounder’s gaze drifted from her eyes to her mouth. “What was so important, Camille?” The words were so low she could barely hear him.
“Carl Fremont.”
He stiffened against her. “What about him?”
“While you were at the saloon, the doctor sent for me. Carl Fremont isn’t a lawyer…”
“He’s a doctor.”
She started to draw away, but with slight crease of his brow, Rounder cupped the side of her face, holding her still. Camille swallowed a lump bulging in her throat. Why was she having a hard time breathing? “A doctor?”
“Yes.” His thumb swept in a continual motion over her cheekbones. It set her skin to tingling and she tried to ignore it as she focused on what he was saying. “While I was at the saloon, gathering information, I heard Barry refer to him as a doctor.”
Her eyes rested on the slight exposure of the skin at the base of his throat. His prominent Adam’s apple peeked through the opening of his shirt. “Honor said she saw a number of medical texts in his room at the boarding house which is how she figured out his background.”
“In order to protect his identity.”
“Particularly, if he’s a resurrectionist.”
Rounder paused in his caresses. “That can’t be.” His frown deepened. “There aren’t any colleges within the area willing to pay for the bodies. Congress only just approved of the ground-breaking for the Agricultural and Mechanical College of Texas earlier this year. They don’t even have a building yet.”
“Nonetheless, we have missing bodies.”
He blew out a breath and then turned back around. “You’re right. In the meantime, I’m going to talk to the sheriff tomorrow and try to get some more information. Seems like Sticks has family here in Lantern.”
Who would want to claim that man as a member for their family? “What should I do?”
“Stay close to Honor and keep your ears open for when Mrs. Ashmore’s son arrives or when you hear word of her passing away.”
A grim smile touched her mouth. “It’s rather macabre to be hovering like vultures waiting for the dying to take their last breath.”
“I agree.” Brusquely, he said, “You must be tired. I’m going to wash up. Sleep well, Camille.”
He headed toward the door. When his hand wrapped around the doorknob, she called his name. “What is it?”
“You told me once that people only fall into two categories. Am I still…a predator to you, Rounder?”
He inclined his head in her direction. “Why do you ask?”
“You saved my life today. I want to know what that makes me in your eyes.”
Did she dare admit that deep down inside, maybe she’d thrown herself into a reckless position because she wanted him to see her as a woman? A woman who could entice a man with such a tortured soul that he could be…
What? She wondered. He’d never revealed the source of his anguish and fear.
But she remembered the note of possession in his voice when Sticks challenged him. Remembered how he’d been prepared to fight in order to keep her safe. Surely, he was beginning to see her in a different light other than his queer notion that all of humanity were creatures caught in a never-ending cycle of the hunter and the hunted.
“I’m not sure what you are to me anymore, Camille.” He sighed. “I know that I would have killed any man that dared to touch you. It had nothing to do with being a colleague. Nothing to do with being an agent. You’re my wife and it’s my job to protect you.”
“For the duration of the case,” she added.
He was quiet for a long time, standing at the door as unspoken words filled the air between them. “I’ve always focused on myself, Camille. I’ve never protected anyone. I’ve too many sins, too many secrets. Self-preservation is the recourse of any wounded animal.”
A strange look crossed his features, but before she could identify it, he turned away. “Today, I wanted to protect someone other than myself. I was willing to risk my life in order to safeguard yours. I can assure you that I have never done that before.”
“Rounder, would it be so difficult to confide in me?” It was impossible to keep the entreaty out of her words. She wanted him to take her into his confidence. To trust her with his secrets and his flaws. “I told you my secret. Won’t you share yours with me?”
“I can never tell anyone. It would destroy my life.” A quiver underlined the words.
“It won’t.” She took a step toward him. “My mother taught us the Bible before she passed away. There’s a verse that says that the truth will set you free.”
Harsh, humorless laughter sounded in the room. “Set me free? It would imprison me,” Rounder retorted, unhooking his hand from the doorknob and coming to stand in front of her once more. He loomed like some avenging angel. “You may have found peace, but it’s impossible for me.”
“It’s not,” she dared to defy him. The muscles twitched under his tautly stretched skin. “Trust me.”
“I can’t.” He gripped her once more but instead of gentleness, his fingers bit into her flesh as he almost lifted her off his feet so that she was directly under him. A wild light entered his eyes, feverish and bright. “I can’t. I can never...”
She swallowed again and used the little mobility she had to reach up and caress his cheeks. “You can, Rounder. Surely you can see that. You say we are colleagues, but you’re also my husband. Shouldn’t a husband and wife lean on each other? Help each other?”
“I’m covered in lies.” He kissed h
er palms. The sensation sent a jolt through her system. “Burdened by secrets. Washed in guilt. Stained by regrets and sins.”
Her eyes smarted. “Please trust me.”
“Camille.” Her name was a groan, a need upon his lips. “You are so…you tempt me like no one else ever has. Is it because you have finally seen the color of my soul?”
She shook her head.
“I wonder if it’s because it’s too dark for even you to comprehend. I’m damned, Camille. Beyond saving. Lately…I’d begun to think that…”
“Yes? That what?” Her heart pounded in her chest.
“That maybe…we can be more than colleagues when this case was over.”
Her heart lurched within her chest. “Rounder!”
“I feel different with you. There are times when I think I can almost trust you.”
“You can trust me. I trusted you!”
“And I will never betray you. But that doesn’t mean you won’t do the same. I just can’t take that chance.”
He released her, and she almost collapsed to the ground at how much pain he’d inflicted on her. “I just can’t take the risk.”
***
Five days later, Rounder stood next to Camille in the small church for the funeral service for Mrs. Ashmore.
No one had been more relieved than Rounder to hear the old woman had died. Except for maybe Cyril and Perky. When Mrs. Ashmore’s son came two days ago bringing the news, Cyril had grumbled. “’Bout time. I woulda thought she’d have kicked the bucket years ago.”
To which Perky had replied, “Her bucket probably still on the Mayflower.”
On one hand, Rounder felt terrible that a woman who had fought off Death for so long had passed away. But her death allowed him to leave the stifling confines of his and Camille’s relationship.
The preacher, after a brief song, came to the stand and made the gesture for all of them to sit down.
Since that day, they’d barely spoken to each other. Camille’s golden eyes had dimmed, carrying within their depths the scar of woundedness he had afflicted on her.
With every ounce of strength, he fought off the need to comfort her, to open to her about his past. It was better this way. Her heart may be hurt, but Camille was a predator for a reason. If one potential kill got away, there was always a chance to gain another one.
He’d gone back to thinking of her as he once did. It was easier that way, too. This way, she wouldn’t be a woman he wanted to have for his own in every sense of the word. This way, he’d be able to retain a piece of his heart.
The rest of it belonged to her.
Did she realize that? Rounder snuck a peek at her. Her profile was exquisite – the long, slim throat curved like the bow of a violin. Those full lips outlined like an angel’s wings. Even the lift of her head, regal and stately.
The words of Blake’s poem flittered through his head.
Tyger, Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
Had he written the poem, he would have changed it from “tyger” to “tigress” and “fearful” to “lovely”. Then, that poem would have fully embodied all that Camille was.
Rounder loved every part of her. Her outward beauty, her inner flame. He longed to be possessed by her. She could devour him every day and he’d count himself the most fortunate of men.
The gift of her trust he’d carry till the end of time. It was his to treasure until fate cornered and trapped him.
That alone got him through the past week as Camille closed herself off. During the past week, he’d talked with the sheriff, the doctor, and the mayor. They had all been waiting like a wake of vultures for this moment. The sheriff, when he questioned her about Sticks, viewed her stack of wanted posters but couldn’t find anything on him.
“I know those men are outlaws, but the U. S. Marshal’s office ain’t got nothing on them.”
“Maybe they never got caught.”
Patience looked at him. “And dead men don’t talk, do they?”
If he could find out who Sticks was related to, maybe it would lead to the reason why they were staying in Lantern. Once during the week, he’d followed Carl to see he played a game with the ruffians.
That, too, didn’t make sense. Why would a doctor, who was obviously well off, play poker with men like that gang? From what he’d gather from the saloon girls he and the sheriff had interviewed a few days ago, Carl lost every game. Often, in place of money, he’d bet a trinket of some sort.
Why keep playing a losing game? Rounder knew it had nothing to do with the fever that sometimes came over men when they gambled. Carl didn’t frequent the saloon that often.
But every poker game was only with the ruffians. What could it mean? He’d yet to hear from his contacts in Chicago. With everything in an upheaval since the fire, they might not even respond to his inquiry till much later.
Camille carried on with asking discreet inquiries into town, trying to narrow down the list of suspects even though they were certain that Carl Fremont was the culprit.
At night a terrible silence lay between them. They’d pretend that neither of them was still awake. He’d listen to her toss and turn for hours and then, when she slept, her breathing was ragged, not low and peaceful as it had been.
The intensity of his nightmares increased. The almond brown eyes that once haunted him were now replaced by golden ones. He’d awaken, drenched in moisture, shivering from the terror of receding images.
Would he ever have peace? Did he deserve it?
The organ playing intruded on his thoughts. He blinked and saw that the service ended. As the pallbearers came to lead the procession to the cemetery just behind the church, Camille gave a short gasp.
“What is it, Camille?”
Her mouth fell open and her eyes were wide with fright. “He’s here,” she said under her breath.
Rounder leaned in. “Who’s here?”
She nodded toward the back of the church. “Sticks.”
Rounder glanced up sharply. In the far corner, he did see Sticks, but the man’s gaze was locked onto the casket, something suspiciously like sorrow on his face.
There could be only one reason why Sticks was here. He had to be related to Mrs. Ashmore in some fashion. In what capacity?
“Why do you think he’s here?”
“I’m not sure,” he said truthfully.
“You don’t think…” She swallowed nervously. “You don’t think it has to do with me, do you?”
From the way Sticks’ eyes were fixed on the processional, he didn’t think so. “I believe you’re safe.”
Even if she wasn’t, he’d take care of her.
“I can see the color of his soul,” Camille responded to his surprise. “Just now, it became visible to me.”
Intrigued, Rounder asked, “What does it look like?”
“Purplish.”
He grunted. “I would have thought a man like Sticks would have soul the color of oil,” Rounder mused. “But maybe that color is reserved for me.”
“I’ve told you before, Rounder. The color of one’s soul has no bearing on its condition. It’s part of the tapestry, a mural if you will. I wonder what God sees when He looks down from heaven at this world colored by His paintbrush.”
“What else?”
She cocked her head to the side. “His soul feels like…like…soft earth just after a light rain.”
At the grave site, everyone paid their respects after the preacher did the final benediction. Rounder saw Carl Fremont wander over to the man who was presumably Mrs. Ashmore’s son, offering condolences.
His lip curled.
Vulture. Neither prey nor predators, they were simply scavengers, content with the spoils. His father detested scavengers. “Even in nature, there must be some sort of honor, son. Scavengers are nothing more than cowards.”
He and Camille came forward to offer
their own condolences. Rounder felt a certain sense of shame at that he had no idea who Mrs. Ashmore was besides the next potential body to be stolen.
“You’re very kind, Mrs. Addison,” Mr. Ashmore said with feeling as he gripped her hand. “Thank you for—”
Abruptly the man stopped, his eyes fixed behind them. In an instant, his skin grew pallid as milk.
Rounder turned around to see what had caused the man’s sudden change in attitude. He saw no one besides the line of people wishing to greet him.
Had he seen Sticks?
“No need, Mr. Ashmore,” Camille stated.
Mr. Ashmore started and then glanced back down at Camille. “Yes, yes. Thank you,” he responded absently. Now a line a sweat trailed down the side of his face.
They moved on, Camille’s hand placed lightly in the crook of his arm.
“What do you think that was about?”
“It was Sticks,” Camille answered as they walked toward the place where they’d left the wagon. “I felt him behind me.”
“I talked with the sheriff. She couldn’t find anything on the outlaws but we’re sure that’s’ what they are. I don’t see the connection between Sticks and Mrs. Ashmore’s son.”
“Obviously there is something because he looked as if he were about to faint.”
“Well, one thing at a time.”
They reached the wagon and Rounder encircled his hands about her waist. For a moment, his hands lingered. He wished he had the right to gather her up close, place a soft kiss on her lips, and tell her how much he loved her along with a sweet nothing or two. Or three.
Instead, he pressed his lips together and lifted her up. She was a light as eiderdown. When he would have walked away, she grabbed his hand. A jolt went through him and he looked up to see her staring down at him.
What he saw her golden eyes snatched the air from his body. “Camille? What is it?”
He’d seen that look before within the depths of almond brown eyes. Now he saw it again.
An Agent for Camille Page 8
