The amusement in his voice was plain. Serena’s lips tightened. Ward Dunbar thought he had put her in a dilemma. So he had, though she would die before she would let him know it. At least the wrapper was secure, she told herself, leaning forward experimentally, not so apt to slip as a towel. However much it might look as if she was going to come out of it, she was in no danger of doing so. The white flesh so artfully exposed belonged to her. It was her body; there was no necessity for her to be embarrassed by it. The only way she could be made to feel uncomfortable was if she permitted the man outside to make her conscious of herself.
“Serena?”
“Coming,” she answered and, taking a deep breath, turned to open the door before she changed her mind.
6
Ward stepped back to allow her to emerge. Face gravely impassive, he said, “Perfect, but then I knew it would be.”
“I don’t doubt your experience in these matters,” she answered with a fine attempt at composure as she lifted a hand to her hair. “I suppose you also thought to provide me with a comb?”
“No, but I will be happy for you to use mine.” Almost as if reluctant to look away from her, he turned to where a pair of silver-backed military brushes lay on his chest. Picking up the matching comb, he handed it to her.
“Thank you.” She swung to give him a view of her well-covered back. Dragging the comb through her curls, she moved into the sitting room, where she could see an assortment of dishes left upon a tray on one of the tables. Ward stepped around her, beginning to remove the covers from the food.
Serena stood back, trying to bring some order to her hair, working at a snarled strand. “Don’t wait for me.”
He made no reply, but watched with his hands resting on the back of the chair he had pulled out for her until her hair hung like a dark, damp curtain about her shoulders.
She put the comb on a stand to one side, then came forward to sit down. The skirt of her wrapper began to part, and hastily she caught the edges together with one hand as she drew the chair under the table. Only as the hanging edge of the paisley shawl covered her lap did she release her hold.
His face unnaturally solemn, Ward took his place across from her. Serena slanted him a suspicious glance, then looked quickly away again.
“Do — do you have no arrangements for cooking here?” she asked.
He shook his head. “All my meals come from the Chinese eating place — it doesn’t deserve to be called a restaurant — down the street.”
“How convenient,” she commented.
“By the tone of your voice I suppose you mean how lazy and shiftless?”
He had read her well. She did not trouble to hide it.
“I prefer to think of it as a matter of foresight. I don’t have a lot of time to spend on eating; I’m not particular as to quality except for an occasional binge in Denver, when I happen to be up that way. Moreover, if I have no kitchen, there is no excuse for Pearlie to come in and cook for me, or as would be more likely, hire a cook for her to supervise at odd hours, a woman who would be slamming pots and pans around just when I am trying to sleep after being up all night downstairs.”
“Her devotion must be so tiresome,” Serena commented in a pretense of sympathy.
“Do you never say what you mean? I agree it probably sounds conceited, but there is more to it than appears on the surface.”
Serena picked up a plate, ladled out what looked to be beef stew upon it, and handed it to Ward. She then served her own. “Pearlie is your business partner?”
“Half owner of the Eldorado.”
“She lives close by?”
“Next door, in the parlor house she built and staffed with her own funds, since you are so curious. And you needn’t look disapproving. There is a great deal more to such a place than the upstairs bedrooms. They offer a friendly drink, warm surroundings, and soft, female companionship to men who lead a hard, cold life far away from their homes.”
“For a price.”
“True, but one most men are willing to pay. The girls who occupy such places are not, strictly speaking, respectable, but then women of that sort are hard to come by out here. With few exceptions, the respectable women are all married, or too young or old to be eligible. Unless they are holding out for a rich husband, most decent young women, no matter how unattractive, are snapped up the minute they step foot in the district. There are more than fifty-five thousand people in this area. Of that number, better than half, approximately thirty thousand men, are without women, though some may have wives elsewhere. But all of them, married or unmarried, have money in their pockets and loneliness and lust in their hearts.”
“You are eloquent in your defense of such people. Or is it in Pearlie’s defense?”
“Pearlie needs none; her life is her own choice. As for the rest, perhaps it’s myself I am defending.”
There was a wry look in his green eyes that was backed by a degree of warmth that had little to do with the beginnings of companionship slowly growing between them. His gaze rested briefly on the marble-tinted expanse of Serena’s shoulders, flicked over the glistening lock of her hair that had fallen forward across her breasts, and touched upon the sweet perfection of her mouth. His face tightened as with determination he turned his attention back to his plate.
Serena lowered her eyes also, aware of the flutter of nerves in her stomach. It was ridiculous for her to feel the least urge toward understanding of the reasons behind this man’s treatment of her, very nearly as ridiculous as her sensitivity to his shift of mood. He wanted her; she knew it. Something about her must have provoked his desire, or was it just that she was there, available to him?
In the hope of distracting him she said, “I suppose you spoke to — to Pearlie about me, about my staying here?”
He gave a short nod.
“She was agreeable?”
He looked up, his eyes hard. “There was no necessity for her to agree. She may be my partner, but she has no claim on me, any more than I have on her.”
“Strange,” she commented, tilting her head to one side.
“What do you mean?”
“Her attitude was not exactly disinterested, and then there is all this.” She indicated the room with a sweeping gesture of one hand. “It seems unlikely that she went to so much trouble and expense merely for your comfort. It looks to me as if she expected to share her handiwork, more especially since the style seems to be in her taste instead of yours.”
“Impossible, not after all this time. You don’t understand.” Despite the certainty of his words, his expression did not clear.
Serena gave a small shrug. “Apparently not.”
“Regardless,” he said, his voice soft, tentative, “there is nothing in what is between Pearlie and myself that need be a concern to you.”
“Are you telling me to mind my own business?” she inquired, forcing a smile.
“Not at all. I’m telling you that you have nothing to fear from Pearlie.”
“That almost sounds as if you think I am jealous.” She should drop this line of conversation. Why she persisted with it, she could not have said, but she could not bring herself to leave it alone.
He surveyed the frown between her eyes, a faint smile curving his mouth. “I hope I am not so stupid as to suggest such a thing.”
“That is no answer,” she said suspiciously.
“Isn’t it? I thought it was.”
“I am not jealous,” she said, her every word distinct so there would be no chance of misunderstanding. “In fact, I would be happy to relinquish my place to Pearlie.”
“No doubt, but that would not suit me at all.”
“I fail to see why!”
“But then you are not looking at the — situation from my vantage point.”
It was impossible to sustain the bright-green mockery of his gaze. There was an edge to it that seemed to scorch her through the blue sateen of her wrapper, a promise that brought the sting of color to her cheeks. “No
,” she answered, a light quiver in her voice. “Nor you, mine.”
He was silenced. The minutes ticked past, filled only by the scrape of cutlery against stoneware. Finally, Ward put down his fork. “You told me when we first met that your parents are dead. But have you no other relatives? Grandparents? Aunts and uncles? Anyone who might take you in?”
“None.”
“No one at all?”
“I never knew my father’s parents. He left them behind in Ireland when he came to the United States. As for my mother’s people, they did not approve of her marriage. My father was not welcome in their home. My mother and I used to return for a visit now and then, before my grandmother died. Afterward, my grandfather made a settlement upon my mother with the understanding that if she gave a penny of it to my father, if she stayed with her husband instead of returning to care for him, her own father, as he thought was her duty, then he never wanted to see any of us again.”
“This settlement, I suppose it is long since spent?”
“I’m afraid so. My father worked hard, but he was never able to stay in one place for any length of time. It has been three years since I can remember a home. The last of the money went to finance our expedition into the gold country. He was going to come here to Cripple Creek and make his fortune. He was going to be able to give my mother and me everything he wanted, everything he thought we deserved. There would be riches without end.” She looked away, her eyes dark with remembrance.
“I suppose every man — and woman — who comes here thinks the same.”
Was his comment directed at her? She did not like to think so, but it was more likely than not. Serena did not reply.
“Most of them wind up working underground in the mines for about three dollars a day, the men, that is. The women are not so lucky.”
Serena barely heard. Too late she realized the direction of Ward’s questions. If she could have claimed rich and influential relations, grandparents concerned over her fate, then Ward might have thought twice about keeping her here in his rooms. If she could have manufactured some sort of message from them, then he would have been forced to let her go. As it was, she had delivered herself into his hands. He need have no worries, no compunction about holding her as long as he liked. The warm blood receded from her face, leaving it pale. Slowly her hands, resting in her lap, clenched into fists.
Ward pushed back his plate and leaned back with one forearm resting on the table. “Are you afraid of me, Serena?”
Her head came up. Her chin took on a proud tilt. “Certainly not!”
“It would have been easy to convince me otherwise.”
“Because I object to — to becoming the object of your affections? I had not realized that was a mark of cowardice.”
“You know that isn’t what I meant.”
She did know it; still, with stubbornness born of pride and fear, she refused to acknowledge it. She sat tight-lipped.
“Will it be so bad, since you aren’t afraid, to stay here with me? I am a man, nothing more. I won’t hurt you, or let harm come to you in any form, so long as you are with me. I will not insult you with a pretense of love, but I want you more than I have wanted any woman.” A quick frown came and went across his face, as if he had not meant to say the words that had left his lips, and yet hearing them, had recognized their truth.
“You speak as if I had a choice,” Serena said slowly, slanting him a blue-gray glance from beneath her lashes. “I was under the impression that I had none.”
“I would feel better if you were not unwilling.”
“A willing prisoner? A contradiction in terms, surely? You expect too much.”
“I was not referring only to your status in this room.”
“You — you mean you prefer that I am not unwilling to — to share your bed?”
He inclined his head, a slight smile relieving the severe lines of his mouth. “It could be put that way.”
“I am sorry to disappoint you!”
“I doubt that,” he said, “though I wonder if you realize you make it necessary for me to try, at least, to persuade you to reconsider.”
“You need not bother!” she snapped, a shade of panic in her voice as he got to his feet, moving toward her. She stood up and sidestepped her chair, intending to put the width of the table between them.
He reached out, catching her wrist. “No bother at all,” he said. “None whatever.”
“Ward, you don’t mean—” she began, retreating despite his loose hold.
He followed her, his tone determined for all its softness as he answered, “Oh, but I do.”
“You can’t, not now, in the middle of the morning.” She had to make the protest, though what she saw in his dark-green eyes gave her little hope that he would heed it. And then as the backs of her legs touched one of the couches, she realized the reason for his indulgence of her attempt to avoid his embrace. He had been gently guiding her toward the couch’s low, pillow-strewn softness.
“What better time?” he murmured, a quizzical smile in his eyes as he released her wrist to place both hands on her shoulders, forcing her down. “Or place?”
He pressed her back among the cushions. Her wrapper fell open, exposing the curving lines of her hips and legs. Her hair spread around her like a dark and shining cloak. The ties that held the garment she wore proved no impediment to the man who had chosen it. As she lay rosily naked, Ward knelt beside the couch. He took up a long strand of her hair, letting it curl confidingly about his fingers for a moment before he let it fall, watching with bemused eyes as the silken strand with its rainbow highlights covered the tip-tilted roundness of her breasts.
“You are so lovely. It would probably be good for my soul if I could resist your innocent provocation, but I think, sweet Serena, that I would as soon be damned.”
“Ward?” Serena whispered, a question in her blue-gray eyes as she searched his face. There was in his words a faint indication that he remembered more of the night before than she had thought. But there was no time to consider the possibility. His arms were around her, holding her against the cold bone buttons of his coat; his mouth took hers in a burning demand. The sudden fierce rise of his ardor swept over them, and he possessed her there among the decadent oriental splendor, in the clear light of day.
Afterward, Serena lay in the curve of his body with her cheek resting on Ward’s forearm, and covered at least in part by the flowing skirt of her wrapper. She could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back that made it seem he was on the verge of sleep. She wanted to feel resentment, some vestige of anger. Her limbs seemed weighted and her mind too steeped in languor. Sighing, she closed her eyes. She did not notice that the fingers of one hand were stilled curled around the hard brown hand of the man who held her.
The days that followed settled into a routine. Ward spent the evenings in the barroom below talking, playing cards, acting the part of host to the merchants and miners who patronized the Eldorado. In the small hours of the morning he would seek his bed, and Serena. They awoke, usually, just before midday to the arrival of a breakfast tray brought by the Chinaman. Included with the fare was a pot of hot coffee and a folded copy of the Daily Miner. With their second cup of coffee, they perused the news, reading of the political chicanery in Washington, the repercussions of the strike among the miners during the summer just past, the day’s ration of mining accidents and freighting mishaps. A sensational item, one that took space for several editions, was the death of a woman from one of the Myers Avenue cribs. She had been beaten in a senseless act of violence. Her hoard of money, no small amount, had not been touched, and as far as anyone was willing to say, she had no enemies, was generally well liked. From reading the articles, Serena received the impression that although it was not too unusual for one of the ladies of the lamplight to give up her life due to pneumonia, tuberculosis, a botched abortion, or an overdose of morphine, for one to become the victim of murder was out of the ordinary. It was discreetly s
uggested that the most likely culprit was her paramour, if she had one, the man who lived by her ill-gotten wages. The newssheet discounted the idea that the killer might have been a customer. It was of the opinion that there was no need for panic among the women of the town.
The paper finished, Ward might stretch and reach for Serena, or less often, slide naked from bed and pad into the dressing room to bathe and shave. He never seemed aware that Serena lay watching him, or if he was, he did not mind. He moved with the unselfconscious grace of an animal, the muscles gliding fluidly under his skin, rampantly, undeniably male. It was an attitude that Serena gradually began to copy, though with varying success.
The afternoons were devoted by Ward to business matters, though he did not discuss them except in vague terms. He would return after a few hours, well before dinner. Now and then a visitor dropped in to see him, but he never invited the men in, taking them instead back downstairs to his table for a drink in the barroom. It was just as well. Not only did Serena have little desire to be introduced as Ward’s kept woman, she still had nothing to wear other than the wrapper he had bought her. Her trunk had not arrived. Ward seemed unconcerned, though Serena worried, as the days went by, that her few belongings might have been taken off the train at another stop, at Canon City or Florence, or even have been left on board to be unloaded in Denver. In the meantime, the result was that for most of the day she wore next to nothing. Sometimes she wrapped herself in a sheet and trailed around the rooms like an imitation Roman goddess. At others, she borrowed one of Ward’s shirts from his wardrobe, though more often she lay in bed unclothed, resting against a pile of pillows with a book in her hand.
Her reading material came from Ward’s collection. It was piled in a box pushed ignominiously under the bed, doubtless during the redecoration. Among the volumes was a complete set of law books, including the 1825 revised edition of the Code Napoleon for Louisiana, something for Serena to puzzle over as she turned it in her hands. There were also a number of classics in worn bindings, an assortment of the works of the romantic poets, and a sizable number of the type of literature known as penny dreadfuls. The classics she had already read; her grandfather had enjoyed a well-stocked library in his plantation home, and her summer visits had been long. Poetry did not suit her mood. It was the cheap novels of Western adventure that she devoured. She became so engrossed in tales of desperadoes, of mountain men and Indians and pony soldiers, that often she would hardly notice Ward’s footsteps in the hall outside in time to reach for her sheet or wrapper.
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