There was something in the woman's dark eyes—a sadness, an accusation—that made Mariah distinctly uncomfortable. Perhaps it was her imagination. After all, she'd never laid eyes on her before. Then again, Mariah mused, perhaps it was simply her own guilty conscience reminding her that she and Desiree Lupone were not as far apart as she wanted to think they were.
Anxious to be out from under her scrutiny, Mariah excused herself and slipped into the curtained dressing room a few feet away. It took several minutes to unfasten the dozens of hooks and eyes along the bodice and slip out of the skirt.
On the other side of the curtain, she listened to Desiree's girls "ooh" and "ah" over Emaline's latest creations.
For her part, Emaline rambled on, filling the girls in on all the latest talk from the grisly lynching of a stranger whom no one seemed to know, to the fact that the apparently notorious Jack Slade had, in one of his drunken rages, shot up the spanking-new glass windows of the Mechanical Bakery for the second time, nearly hitting a miner named Levander Marchand in the process.
Slade's beautiful young wife, Alison, had—Emaline assured them—poured her husband back onto a buck-board and taken him home without so much as a blink. Word was, the merchants, to a man, were threatening to arrest him if he didn't change his drunken ways, but quick.
Mariah sighed and tried to shut out Emaline's ramblings. She pulled on the simple blue gingham day dress Emaline had made for another customer who had run off with "some foreign man" and gotten herself hitched before Emaline got her money. The gown, as it happened, fit Mariah perfectly.
She was gathering up the wedding gown in her arms when Emaline's voice drifted back to her.
"...hear that good-lookin' bounty hunter, Creed Devereaux, is back in town. That feller ever going to marry you, Desiree?"
Chapter 21
Mariah pricked her finger with a pin. "Ouch!"
"You all right back there, Miss Parsons?" Emaline called.
Creed and Desiree Lupone? Numb, she stuck the digit in her mouth and tasted blood. "I-I'm fine. I just... jabbed myself is all."
Emaline went back to her gossip. "My, my... that bounty hunter's a handsome devil. I suppose you heard about the other night? He hit a man at the California Exchange without an ounce of provocation."
"Oh, she knows," one of the girls chimed in. "Why, he came by to see her that very night it happened, knuckles bleedin' an' all."
Mariah's heart sank to her toes. Creed certainly hadn't wasted any time grieving over her. Apparently he'd no sooner gotten into town than he was with that... that—
"Nope," the girl went on, "he don't see no one but her when he comes to the Nightingale—"
"Lula Mae—" Desiree snapped. "I think you girl's 'ad better get back, 'adn't you? Cook said she ees serving a special tonight—boiled tongue..."
The trollop gulped audibly. "Oh, M-Miss Desiree... I didn't mean—"
"Off with you. Allez, allez! I will take care of ze rest."
As the girls tripped over one another to get out the door, Mariah swept back the curtain and sent a frosty glare at Desiree Lupone, who had the audacity to look apologetic.
Creed and the whore. She felt sick to her stomach. Of course the madam wouldn't want her girls talking about her clientele. Bad for business. Particularly when she's especially fond of one certain customer.
Mariah focused her gaze on a lone spider climbing up the dressmaker's wall and tried to breathe normally. "Miss Fitzwilly, I'll need a bill on these dresses."
Emaline seemed unfazed by what had just occurred and she fluttered a hand. "Mr. Travers will take care of all that, Miss Parsons, don't you worry. Oh, that blue gingham looks divine on you, my dear. Simply divine," she said, taking the maroon gown from Mariah. "And the one you picked out for your engagement party tonight is all ready for you." She lifted down a gown protected from dust by sewn-together flour sacks and handed it over the counter to her.
Engagement party, Mariah groaned silently. That had been Seth's brilliant idea. He'd invited everyone—friends, customers. Creed...
"Thank you," she answered briskly, feeling Desiree Lupone's eyes on her, burning into her back. She fought the urge to turn around and tell her what she thought. "Will you need another fitting on the maroon?"
"I shouldn't think so." Smoothing the wrinkles out of the skirt, Emaline laid it across the counter. "I think I have all I need."
"Very well. Tomorrow then." With her back stiff as a church pew, she turned to go. She hadn't taken five steps before Emaline resumed her prattle.
"Of course," Emaline continued to Desiree in a confidential voice, "you heard about the awful thing that happened up North to that couple managing A.J. Oliver's stage stop—Lochrie was their name, I think."
Mariah's hand froze on the brass doorpull.
"Oui, oui, 'oo 'asn't?" Desiree answered impatiently, clucking her tongue. "Épouvantable. Terrible. Now, Emaline... I really must be going."
Mariah turned back to the busybody. "Wh-what did you say about the Lochries? Did something happen to them?"
Emaline's face lit up like a holiday lantern at the prospect of enlightening her. "Mercy, yes, dear. You mean you haven't heard about it? Well, of course, you've only been here a few days yet. But it happened almost ten days ago. Why, they were both killed. Horribly, I might add, by some savage who, word has it..." she cleared her throat, "—well, there's no gentle way to put it—he had his way with the woman before finishing her off."
Hattie and John murdered? Mariah felt the room sway and she grabbed a coat tree for support and knocked it into the raw wood wall with a bang. She struggled for breath, but the blasted corset cinched off her air.
Desiree grabbed her arm before she could fall. "Le bon Dieu, Miss Parsons, are you all right?"
"I—n-no. Was... was it Indians?"
Emaline drew conspiratorially closer. "It's possible, though there wasn't an arrow on the place. Whoever it was had a fine hand at carving though."
"Oh, Gawd—" The words choked off in her throat. She pressed her fingers to her forehead. Hattie dead? It couldn't be. It seemed only yesterday that Hattie was selling her Petunia; telling her how happy she was living there and how much she loved her husband. Nausea churned Mariah's stomach. Who could have done such a thing?
Only one name came to mind.
Pierre LaRousse.
"Oh, dear, oh dear," Emaline fluttered, fanning her hands like an old hen. "Perhaps you should sit down. Your color's quite gone, dear. Goodness, I had no idea they were friends of yours." She minced closer. "They were, weren't they? Friends, I mean?"
"Sacre bleu, Emaline!" Desiree snapped. "For once, mind your own business."
Shocked into silence, Emaline snapped her galloping mouth shut.
Desiree helped Mariah to a chair and pushed her head down between her spread knees. "Zere, deep breaths. Zat's eet. You won't faint now."
Mariah stared at the floor, gulping air. She felt the blood rush back to her head and her vision clear. Everyone knew about this. Everyone but me. If that was true, it meant Creed and Seth had intentionally kept it from her. Behind her, Desiree stroked her hair lightly with one comforting hand. Desiree Lupone, Creed's whore...
Abruptly, Mariah pushed the woman's hand away and got to her feet. Her defiant look went from Emaline, who was staring wide-eyed at her, to Desiree, whose expression was closer to resignation than sympathy.
"I h-have to go," Mariah told them, backing against the door, making the little bell at the top jangle.
Neither woman tried to stop her.
She turned and yanked open the door, rushing outside into the cool air. She hurried across the rutted street, hugging her finished gown, barely noticing the wagons rolling by. Head down, she fought down tears while anger rose in her like autumn sap.
Hattie and John dead and Creed and Seth knew. They both must have known for days, but no one had told her. No, she had to learn it from the town blabbermouth and Creed's strumpet! She swiped at her eyes with th
e back of her sleeve and stomped through the drying mud.
Anger and grief duelled with a stinging hurt. And what a fool she'd been! Why, she'd probably meant nothing more than a convenient roll in the hay to Creed Devereaux. Her cheeks burned at the thought. He'd turned her away to go back to Desiree Lupone—a woman whose red hair was so glaring, she could probably stop carriage traffic on Chicago's East Side!
Mariah stepped up onto the sidewalk, her heels clacking an angry rhythm against the boards. If she'd been looking where she was going she would have seen him, but as it was, she collided with his massive chest with a smack and nearly fell on her bottom.
Creed grabbed her upper arms, steadying her. "Maudit, Mariah, it helps to walk with your eyes open." He tossed his cigarette to the boardwalk.
Mariah gasped and wrenched herself from his grasp. "You!"
Creed looked behind him in confusion, then spread his fingers across his chest. "Me?"
"Don't you touch me," she hissed, brushing past him and knocking away his outstretched hand and starting off again down the boardwalk.
"What the hell—?" Creed had to wait for two rank-smelling miners to pass before he could follow. She'd been crying, dammit, and he meant to find out why. He caught up with her in five strides and took her by the arm again. "Mariah, where do you think you're going?"
"To my room. Let me go."
"Not until you tell me what's wrong."
Her eyes flared gold as she whirled on him. "Why don't you ask your little friend, Miss Lupone? You two seem to share everything else."
Creed felt the color drain from his face. "Desiree?"
Her face crumpled again. "Ooooh! So you even admit it, you... you scoundrel."
At a loss, Creed shook his head. "Admit what? I don't know what the hell you mean."
"Don't you swear at me, Creed Devereaux. You have no right..." Her voice broke and she turned her face from him.
"All right, all right, ma petite—"
"And don't call me that either. I'm not your petite anything!"
Creed cursed silently. "Did Desiree say something to you?"
Mariah gave a choked laugh. "With the town's resident gossip monger on duty? She hardly had to."
His jaw tightened and she started off again, her heels beating a tattoo against the boards.
"Je m'en fou!" he swore, stopping her again. "There is a misunderstanding here somewhere..."
She looked up at him incredulously. "A misunderstanding? Is that what you call it? Let me go, Creed Devereaux, or, so help me, I'll scream."
With a shake of his head, his green eyes pleaded with her. "Mariah—"
A scowling young swain, seven inches shorter than Creed with a full red beard, stepped up to Mariah and gallantly scooped off his slouch hat. "Is this fellow bothering you, Miss?"
Mariah's mouth snapped shut as she appraised her rescuer. She swiped at her eyes. "I... yes... yes, he is. He—he won't let me pass."
Creed rolled his eyes. "Ah, Mariah..."
The redheaded fellow glared at Creed. "Unhand this woman, sir."
"Sacre bleu!" Dropping her arm, Creed whirled on the man. "Listen, you little pipsqueak—" Mariah escaped down the sidewalk and disappeared into the crowd.
The man balled his fists in a show of might. "Ladies walk unmolested on our streets, no thanks to fellows like you, sir." The miner danced in front of him.
Creed picked the man up bodily and sent him crashing into the log wall of Pfouts Store with a sickening thud. As he slid down the wall, Creed glared at him fiercely. "Next time you rescue a damsel in distress, mon ami, make sure she is in need of rescuing."
He started off after her without a look back at the men who were gathering around the fallen knight. It took him until he reached the front stoop of The Virginia to catch her and when she heard him coming behind her, she raced up the steps. But he was too fast for her.
"Mariah, wait!"
She turned on him again. "What do you want from me?"
"Answers."
"Answers? How about questions? For starters, why didn't you tell me about Hattie and John being murdered?"
Creed ground his teeth together. It was inevitable in a town this size that she'd find out before the wedding. He hadn't told her because... well, because he didn't want to see her hurt or remind her that she'd come close to meeting the same fate.
"You knew and you kept it from me," she accused, hands on her hips. "Why? Did you think I was too 'fragile' to take it?"
He looked at the ground, knowing she was right to be angry. "No. I would have told you, but I didn't want to upset you before your wedding."
Her throat swelled with tears. "How dare you presume to choose what I should and shouldn't know? I'm sick to death of people protecting me from myself! All my life, my father, my grandmother, now Seth and you..." She turned to go, but he stopped her.
"Stop that!" she hissed glaring at his hand on her arm.
Releasing her, he stammered, "Mariah, I'm... I'm sorry about keeping it from you. You had every right to know. I was wrong, mais oui?"
She stared at him, too angry to speak for several seconds. "Was it LaRousse?"
There was no keeping that kind of news from her. "I think so. He must have been looking for me."
She took a tremulous step back, leaning against the rough wooden wall. "And if... if I'd stayed there, he would have killed me, too."
"Oui." Creed's tortured eyes met hers. "Thank God you were too stubborn to stay."
"Oh, yes, thank God... indeed." She turned to go, but his voice stopped her.
"Mariah, I know you're upset about the Lochries, but that's not why you're so angry. What else?"
She sniffed and kept her face turned away.
"What the hell did that old biddy say to you?"
She sent him a haughty look, bordering on tears. "I hardly think I need to remind you of your exploits. You are, after all, the talk of the brothel. Not to mention," she added with a sniff, "the dress shop."
He took a step back, as though she'd punched him. "Mariah, I know Desiree, I admit, but—"
"Know her," she parroted with a bitter laugh. "In a strictly biblical sense, you mean."
Creed's expression darkened and he took her elbow again, this time dragging her into the lobby of the hotel. "Come on."
"What are you—? Let go of me." She tripped on the carpet inside the door, but he held her up. Her feet barely touched the floor as he whisked her past the two leather-covered settees parked in the lobby. "Creed!"
"We're going somewhere more private to discuss this before someone hears us fighting and gets the wrong idea."
The desk clerk watched open-mouthed as Creed dragged her across the foyer toward the hallway to her room. The rail-thin man cleared his throat timidly. "Uh... Miss Parsons? Is... uh, is everything all right?"
"She's fine," Creed snapped, cutting off her gasp of protest. "Mind your own damn business!"
The desk clerk drew in his chin and resettled his wire-rimmed spectacles on his nose.
Mariah's skirts tangled with Creed's trunk-like thighs as he hustled her toward her door. His fingers cut into her upper arm. He yanked her to a stop in front of room sixteen. "Where's your key?"
"You're hurting me," she told him, looking pointedly at his hand. When he let her go, she released the breath she'd been holding.
"You're not coming in," she said defiantly. "And how do you know this is my room? Have you been following me? Is that how you happened to be standing outside the dressmaker's shop today?"
"What if I have?"
She searched for the proper curse, but failed. "Well, don't. I don't want you following me."
With a look that would have put goose flesh on a snake's skin, Creed backed her into the door and placed one arm on either side of her shoulders, effectively trapping her, yet leaving a hand's span between them. The gown in her arms slid to the floor unnoticed. There was a restrained violence in his eyes, the kind that made her fear for her safety and sanity.
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Mariah gulped and pressed her back against the hard surface behind her. Her pulse, already rapid from running, cranked up another notch and a low ache started in her belly. He smelled of fresh air and male sweat, and there was just a hint of alcohol and tobacco on his breath. He didn't touch her.
He didn't have to.
Simply standing this close to him made her limbs turn to gelatin and had her thinking thoughts she'd sworn never to think again. Damn him, damn him!
"What you want, Mariah, is not always what's good for you." His whiskey-raw voice slid inside her bones and kindled an irreverent heat. What made it all the worse, she thought, was that he could still make her react like this after everything she'd just learned about him.
It made her want to sit down and cry her eyes out, or scream at the sky. But she could barely breathe, so she simply stared at him with her trembling chin held high.
"Now," he went on, "you will tell me what has you so upset." He inched threateningly closer. "Tell me."
Her lip quivered. "How c-could you?"
"How could I what?"
"Go to that... that woman after... after... what we—" She dropped her gaze to the floor. "You were barely in town before you ran to her bed."
Creed blinked and his scowl deepened. "Who told you that?"
"What does it matter?"
"Desiree's a friend, Mariah—"
She snorted.
"—and I did go to see her that first night, after Sadie's. But not for what you think. I was drunk. We only talked."
Her gaze leapt to his like a wild flame. "Talked? You must think I'm very naive to believe—"
He slammed an open palm against the door next to her ear, rattling it in its frame and making her jump. "You can believe whatever you damn well please," he growled. "And since when am I answerable to you, anyway? Sacre bleu! You're the one marrying another man. If anyone has the right to be jealous, it's me!" He shoved away from the door and paced to the opposite wall, banging his hand there, too, as if that would assuage the irreconcilable rage inside him.
Renegade Bride Page 28
