Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  “We will send her a message by telegraph in the morning from Cripple Creek.”

  “I can’t go to Cripple Creek with you,” Serena said, her voice thin as she lifted one trembling hand to massage her forehead. “I have no clothes.” Her head ached. She could not think straight, and she felt cold all over since Ward had left her alone on the seat of the tilbury.

  “We will tell Mrs. O’Hare to put your trunk on the first train up the pass in the morning.”

  “No, I can’t!”

  “You will have to,” he said, and reached to close his warm fingers around her elbow.

  “Why? Why must I?”

  “Because,” he said roughly, “you need a keeper, before you wind up in a crib somewhere taking on all corners.”

  Before she realized what he meant to do, he pulled her toward him, placed his hands at her waist, and lifted her down. The instant her feet touched the ground, he bent to put his arm beneath her knees and lifted her high against his chest.

  Alarm coursed along Serena’s veins. She wanted to cry out, and yet, so strange was Ward’s manner she could not be certain she had reason to be so disturbed. He seemed driven by anger rather than lust. Perhaps in her overwrought state she had read more into his words than he had intended. In any case, she was not sure that here, late at night, in her disheveled state, any man who came in answer to her screams would believe her in need of help. She had been given good cause of late to doubt it. That being so, she lay rigid in his arms as Ward climbed the steps of Nathan Benedict’s private railroad car and shouldered inside.

  Serena received an impression of richness, of thick blue carpet, the soft sheen of brocade and velvet, and the gleam of mahogany. A door at the upper end of the car stood open, revealing a tiny pantry-kitchen. Ward swung in the opposite direction, toward another door at the far end of the main parlor area.

  It was reached in a few strides. Ward depressed the brass handle and kicked the panel wide. Inside was a sleigh bed, with the gilded and scrolled headboard and footboard of the Empire style. Strewn with jewel-hued pillows, its coverlet of champagne brocade shone in the dim light of the parlor lamp. It seemed to fill the small room, crowding the brocatelle chairs and the small tables with their unlighted lamps topped by milk-glass shades.

  Serena stiffened, her hand gripping the material of Ward’s shirt. It did no good. He stepped to the bed and dropped her onto its shimmering surface.

  The instant she felt the soft brocade beneath her, Serena flung the coat that covered her aside and rolled in a flurry of skirts, sliding toward the far side of the bed. Ward dived after her. He caught her upper arm, hauling her back among the pillows. The weight of his body came down upon her, pressing her into their silken plumpness. She stared up at him, her gray-blue eyes stormy and her breathing quick.

  “Ward, no—” she said, searching the stern set of his features, seeing the desire that warmed the green depths of his speculative gaze.

  “I know it’s not what you want, but it will be better than what you were heading for. Even if I am not a silver baron or a gold king, I am not a poor man.”

  “You don’t understand!”

  “I understand that I want you. I haven’t been able to get the feel and taste of you out of my mind. I watched you today and told myself you were just another woman bent on making an easy fortune in the gold camps, one I would forget as soon as you were out of sight. I was wrong. I suspected it within an hour, I knew it for a certainty when I saw Otto Bruin with his hands on you. I wanted to kill him, to beat him slowly to a cringing death.”

  “It’s wrong. What you are doing is wrong!” she cried.

  “Is it? I claimed you for mine, and mine you will be for a day, a week, a month — until this craving I have for you is satisfied. Nothing, nobody, will interfere, not now. Later when it’s over, you can do as you please. I won’t try to stop you.”

  “No, I can’t—”

  “You can and you will,” he said, his harsh voice cutting inexorably across her words. “It has never been my habit either to force women or to pay their price, but for you, darling Serena, I will make an exception!”

  His mouth descended on hers with urgent heat, twisting, searching for a sweet weakness. Serena tried to turn her head, but the piled pillows gave her little room. She struck at him, hard, angry blows that made little impression. The pressure of his lips increased and his tongue slipped past her defenses in an intrusion so intimate it made her draw in her breath and arch away from him, bringing up one knee. This added purchase gave her the strength to wrench herself away from him. With a smothered gasp, she scrambled over the smooth surface of the bed.

  It gained her nothing. The tumbled silk of her hair was caught under his elbow. Before she could jerk it free, he shot out a hand, fastening it on her knee, dragging her back as he pushed her skirts higher, exposing the marble whiteness of her thighs. With a sob in her throat, she snatched at that exploring hand. He immediately lowered his head to the full mound of her breast exposed by her torn bodice. He had eased to support himself on his right elbow, at the same time confining her left arm with the weight of his body. She had only one hand to use to stop his ravishing caresses. Clenching her teeth, she released his hand on her thigh and sank her fingers into the crisp, dark waves of his hair. She curled them tightly together and pulled.

  As satisfying as was his grunt of pain, she had no time to enjoy it. His left hand, left unhindered, sought higher under her skirts.

  Never had she been touched so. It was unbearable. She released her grip, heaving herself upright on a surge of trembling rage. She would not be taken like this. She had not succumbed to Elder Greer; nor would she be brought down to defeat by this man.

  But the strength of the Mormon had dwindled the longer she fought. Not so the gambler’s. With incredible swiftness be shifted, imprisoning her wrists in his hard fingers and carrying them to the small of her back. Slowly, with iron determination, she was forced back down among the pillows. His leg weighted hers, holding her immobile. His face, dark with passion, hovered above her, and then his lips took hers once more in a thorough possession that was no less hateful for being gentle. Holding both her hands behind her back with one of his, he pushed aside the chemise, moving his warm palm over her naked breast. She flinched, then shivered at the odd sensation of reluctant pleasure that moved along her nerves. His kiss deepened, his touch grew bolder. Then in panic she heard the rending sound as he finished what Otto had begun, stripping away the remains of her dress. The constriction at her waist loosened. She felt the slide of her chemise straps and turned her head from side to side in silent, hopeless negation.

  He did not heed it. The cool air touched her bare skin. Ward’s lips felt burning hot in contrast as he trailed soft kisses to the valley between the trembling hills of her breasts. The feel of his mouth on one fear-contracted nipple sent her mind careening through the dark recesses of space, splintering, dividing, one portion unable to bear, refusing to accept what was happening to her, slipped into blackness, while another stirred with heightened sensitivity and increased vulnerability to the assault upon her senses.

  “Ward—” she said, a strangled whisper of sound. “No. Don’t—”

  He stopped her pleas with his mouth while he pushed her petticoats down over her hips. She shuddered as she felt them leave her, felt the thrust of his knee between her legs. His hands moved over her, smoothing the curves of her body, lingering in the tender hollows, remorselessly invading, ceaselessly caressing.

  Her heart beat high in her throat, her lungs strained for air, her skin expanded, glowing with internal heat. A stillness came upon her. Deep inside she felt an opening, stretching sensation.

  His touch left her. At the edge of sanity she sensed his swift movements as he divested himself of his clothing. There was a fleeting instant when she might have torn herself free if she had not been so lost in indolence. On the edge of longing, she felt the urge of flight, but there was a stronger need to wait for his ret
urn.

  It was not long in coming. The hard strength of his thighs was against her. She tensed against the probing firmness of his manhood, arching away from him, spreading her fingers over his chest. His arms encircled her, holding her, molding her along the lean length of his body, pressing her hips closer. A trembling ran over his frame, and with a slow twist of his loins, he thrust into her.

  Serena caught her breath against the burning pain, the air constricted in her chest. Tears sprang into her eyes and ran in slow tracks down her cheeks.

  Ward went still. “Serena,” he whispered, an aching sound threaded with remorse.

  As if released by that soft acknowledgment of her anguish, she let out her pent breath on a soundless sigh. Gathering himself, Ward moved deeper, carrying with him a soothing, spreading warmth. The sensation pulsated through Serena, washing back upon itself with a feeling of awakening. Her skin prickled as the slow drive of his desire increased. She seemed to have no will, no more need for resistance. Her mind retreated in confusion before the primitive compulsion to yield, to accept him because it was less hurtful than denial, because in acceptance there was a deep and dark red solace.

  He eased from her but did not let her go. With gentle fingers he smoothed the fine strands of her hair from her face, releasing the tension where it was caught beneath him or under her shoulders. For all his nearness, the close rise and fall of his chest and the naked length of his body against her, he seemed remote, lost in thought.

  At last he sighed. “I’m sorry, Serena. I have no excuse, except that it has been a long time since I knew a woman who told the truth.”

  She drew away a small space. “It doesn’t matter,” she answered, her tone stifled. “If it had not been you, it might well have been Otto.”

  The seconds ticked past. “A commendable attitude,” he drawled. “Am I to understand you see me as a cut above, a small cut above, our apelike friend?”

  “If — if you like.”

  “I don’t like! I told you—”

  “I know, you don’t force women!” Serena rolled farther from him, flinging the dark curtain of her hair behind her shoulders. The action revealed the proud thrust of her breast and the long, supple line of her hips as she supported herself on one elbow.

  Ward turned his gaze sharply to the ceiling. “I am beginning to think my mistake was even greater than I realized.”

  “I would be happy to think so!” Serena replied through gritted teeth.

  “I’m sure you would. The question of what is to be done with you remains, however.”

  “Nothing need be done with me. I will take care of myself!”

  “As you have so ably done until now? You said it yourself: if not me, then some other man would have taken advantage of you.”

  “It is so kind of you to remind me.”

  “Unkind, you mean? That doesn’t make it any less true.”

  That could not be denied. Serena swung from his set face and, pushing to a sitting position, began to search for her clothing.

  Ward leaned over his side of the bed and came up with a bunched wad of material. “Is this what you want?”

  She sent him a venomous look and snatched the dress and petticoats from his hand, giving them a hard shake. The dress very nearly came apart in her hands, so fragile was the worn material now that it had been torn. Her sharp sound of dismay was loud in the silence.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll buy you a new one,” he told her, a trace of impatience in his voice.

  She flung up her head to throw him a look of sparkling scorn. “Thank you, no. I want nothing from you.”

  “That’s a bit hasty, don’t you think?” He lifted his hands to lock them behind his head, turning to lie back with his long form stretched at ease like a huge cat, his interested gaze turned in her direction.

  “No,” she said baldly.

  “I do. In fact, I see nothing wrong with my original idea.”

  The corner of her mouth curled, though she did not look at him as she turned her chemise to the right side and slipped it over her head.

  “You mean to take me with you to Cripple Creek?”

  “In part. Since you have been so obliging as to say you prefer me to Otto, or any other man, I think I will keep you with me.”

  “I never said anything of the kind!”

  “You ran away from Otto and your Mormon elder, but you have yet to leave me.”

  “I tried,” she said, her fingers slowly clenching on the torn ribbons she was trying to use to fasten her underclothing.

  He reached out as though he would touch her, then drew back. “So you did. I’m sorry. I only meant that you stayed with me after the hailstorm, and earlier today. You sit there and look at me now as if God made no lower creature, but you haven’t broke and run.”

  “I — I can’t go naked!”

  “You could if you were frightened enough.”

  “I thought you understood that I — that I wanted to be left alone. As for right now, what good would it do to run away?” Bitter irony laced her tone as with her lashes lowered, she jerked the ribbon of her chemise into a ragged bow, ignoring the jagged rent that outlined the curves of her breasts, and dragged her petticoats on over her head.

  “Exactly,” Ward said and came up from the bed, one strong hand closing over her fingers. “You have nothing to lose, not now, and everything to gain. With me you will have comfort and safety, two things you will find hard to provide for yourself.”

  “For how long?” she inquired, lifting her gray-blue eyes cold with contempt to his face. “A day, a week, a month?”

  “As long as you require them.”

  The words were firm, the green gaze unwavering. Still, how could she believe him, or believing, bear such an arrangement? He had not mentioned marriage, and certainly she did not want it, but there was nothing in her upbringing that would allow her to live with him under any other circumstances.

  “I don’t,” she said distinctly, “require anything at all from you.”

  “Your mistake, I think,” he answered, his voice soft and his eyes narrowed.

  He might have said more if a discreet knock had not sounded at that moment from outside the railroad-car door that opened into the parlor.

  In an instant Ward was on his feet, pulling on his trousers. “There is a bathroom through there,” he told her, his voice quiet as he indicated a small door opening beyond the bed. As she gathered her torn dress to her and slipped inside, he was already moving from the bedroom, closing the door into the parlor section quietly behind him.

  The bathroom was as luxurious as the rest of the car. The tub was encased in fine-grained mahogany; the seat of the toilet and the water closet high above it were of the same wood. The fittings of the tub and washbasin were of ornately etched brass, though the water that trickled from them was cold. The Turkish towels were a deep blue and carried the monogram of the owner, as did the cream linen washcloths that hung on the mahogany rack. A faint bluish light entered the small compartment through an arrangement of tiny semicircular skylights in the ceiling, an innovation she had noted also in the bedroom and parlor.

  Close attention to the appointments of the railroad car was as good a means as any of distracting her mind from what had occurred. Looking around her made a good excuse for not meeting her own eyes in the oval mirror above the lavatory, not seeing the pale face reflected there.

  What was she going to do? The choice was plain. She could stay, or she could go. She could remain with Ward and journey to Cripple Creek as his — call it his companion, for want of a better word — or she could return to the boardinghouse and the near-hopeless quest for a job to keep herself. One way she would have security, food, and shelter, for a time. The other she would have her self-respect, also for a time, a small length of time, until the days of accommodation she had paid for were done. If she went with Ward, she would have to accept his embraces; if she did not, she might well be reduced in a few short days to seeking the embraces o
f other men. As Mrs. O’Hare had said not so long ago, virtue was little defense against starvation.

  Virtue. She felt as if her own had been stripped from her, not in a single act, but by one betrayal after another over the past three days. The injury she had taken was as much to the mind as to the body. She felt herself to be vulnerable, easy prey. In such a state, she was by no means sure she would be able to avoid the peril Ward had envisioned for her, as a crib girl allowing men to use her body in order to survive. If that was what her life was to be like, wouldn’t one man be better than many?

  No. She was not so weak, she could not be. There must be another way. Mrs. O’Hare would help her. Or would she? She was a friend of Ward’s. Would the widow lift a hand knowing the gambler did not want her to be helped? Mrs. O’Hare was so certain Ward Dunbar was a good man, better than he thought himself to be. Poor deluded woman.

  She had to do something. There had to be a way out. There had to be.

  “Serena?”

  Ward’s quiet tap came on the door. Serena had not even begun to try to piece together her dress to put on over her ragged undergarments. A considerable expanse of bare skin was still showing through the rents. It did not matter that Ward had already seen her unclothed. At that moment she had an overwhelming, irrational need to cover herself.

  On a brass hook on the back of the door hung a man’s robe of quilted satin in royal blue with velvet lapels. Serena hesitated a moment, her fingers clenched on the softness of it then as Ward called her name once more, she snatched it down and pushed her arms into the sleeves, pulling the belt taut at the waist.

  “What is it?” she called, her voice breathless.

  “You can come out now.”

  The robe, designed to be full-length for a man, was ridiculously long. It dragged on the floor as Serena emerged. Her attention on the deep cuffs she was rolling up her arms to free her hands, she pretended not to notice, though the color across her cheekbones was high.