Yorke nodded, casting a final glance over his shoulder at the now-still clump of greenery. Nothing there.
He listened to Hartendy’s jocular retelling of a particularly thrilling hunt and thought about his plans for the luscious Lillian Cabot.
Chapter 21
“Poker is a game of both skill and chance, and you need both to win the hand. The wise gamesman also knows when it’s time to put down his cards, gather up his winnings, and leave the table.”
— Charles Lowell Adams, Dispatches from The Iron Road, Great Western Rail Company
Lillian pulled the cover high on her shoulder and shifted to her side. As she did, the skirt of her gown twisted, the delicate fabric tangling uncomfortably around her legs. She thought to yank off the nightdress, then sighed. What was the point? Charles and Conn, roped into a card game by Uncle Wilbur, the old cardsharp, would likely be at the tables until dawn. While sleeping in the nude with her men felt perfectly natural, it was less so when she was alone. Besides, it was chilly in the car without their muscled bulks to keep her warm.
Rather than lay awake missing them, she forced her breaths to slow, reaching for the comfort of sleep. After the excitement of the last few weeks, she certainly needed it. Not that she regretted her sleepless nights on account of Charles and Conn. Or didn’t eagerly look forward to more of the same. She smiled, sure she must look like the cat that ate the cream. They were competitive men, and when they chose to compete in bed they were incomparable. She sighed. The arousing memories did nothing to help her relax.
Lillian rolled to her back and stared up at the skylight and the glittering stars beyond. Not a cloud veiled their brilliance. They winked and sparkled like white diamonds on a swath of indigo silk.
The soft click of a lock woke her. The familiar sound of a door closing down the corridor made her heart race. More awake with each breath, she pushed up on one elbow and looked expectantly toward the doorway. “Charles? Conn?”
As if summoned by her voice, a shadow appeared in the black hallway just outside her room. Lillian’s heart leapt into her throat. She couldn’t make out his features, or more than the rough outline of his body, but she knew it wasn’t one of her men. Menace rolled off him like a wave of heat from a fire. She sucked in a harsh breath, more terrified than she’d ever been in her life. A stranger was here, in her car, in the middle of the night. And she was all alone.
With panic-driven speed, Lillian kicked the covers away and leapt out of the bed, hand reaching for the bedside lamp, a glass, anything to defend herself with. He was on her in an instant. He threw her back onto the bed. Lillian screamed. Fingers dug into her throat, changing her scream to a coughing gasp.
She heard fabric rip, felt the chill of the room touch the bare skin of her breasts where the man’s body wasn’t pressed against her.
“What’s the matter, Mrs. Cabot? Getting choosy about your lovers all of a sudden?” At first, she didn’t recognize the words or the voice. All she could take in was the moist heat of his breath against her ear, the fingers pinning her down by her neck, the other hand roughly exploring her breasts. Lillian gripped his wrist in both hands and fought to pull his hand from her throat. Her skirts worked against her, the tangled fabric limiting her struggles.
She felt the hard rod of his erection jab painfully into her belly. The evidence of his excitement made her shudder in revulsion.
With a burst of strength, she forced his hand a fraction of an inch from her neck and sucked in a desperate breath of air. He grunted and exerted more force. Before he could regain his stranglehold, she sank her nails into his wrist and forearm through his coatsleeve. He shouted a curse and reared up in pain. As he did, the dim glow of starlight briefly illuminated his face, and she got her first good look at him.
“Yorke!”
Rage contorted his features. Teeth bared, eyes narrowed to slits, a vein pulsing visibly on his forehead, he didn’t even look sane. “Yes,” he growled. “I would have given you anything. Treated you like a queen. Instead, you’re a filthy whore. Well, now you can be my whore.”
Without warning, he backhanded her. Pain exploded from Lillian’s cheekbone, and she tasted blood. The room spun, and she closed her eyes. She heard more fabric tear, knew he was ripping the nightdress from her limp body. She wanted to fight him, but her arms and legs refused to move with any co-ordination.
He roughly shoved her thighs wide and settled himself between them. His hand reached between their bodies as he fumbled with the fastenings of his trousers.
Lillian knew she had to do something, but couldn’t think what. A grunt of satisfaction told her when he succeeded in freeing himself.
* * * *
Conn looked up from his cards and scanned the room. He stiffened.
Not bothering to be quiet, he said, “Oi. Where’s Yorke?”
The chips fell from Charlie’s hand as he, too, looked around the room. “Bastard’s gone,” he said.
Without a word, they tossed down their cards and shoved away from the table. Striding over to another group of players, Conn demanded, “Where’s Yorke?”
Startled by Conn’s dangerous tone, the men looked at one another. “Tossed in about twenty minutes ago,” one said.
“Shit.” Conn spun away to follow Charlie, who was already heading for the door.
“What’s going on?” Wilbur Hartendy called after them.
Conn heard Charlie begin to answer, then cut himself off with a clipped, “We’ll explain later.”
They burst through the door. Forgoing the steps, Conn leapt to the ground. As he did, one of Devereaux’s men approached. “Did you see Yorke leave the car?” Conn demanded.
“No,” the guard said. He held a long-gun like he knew how to use it. “But the man assigned to patrol this area missed his last check-in. I came to see if he was held up in the crew car for some reason, but another lad’s gone to alert Devereaux, just in case.”
“We don’t have time for this, Charlie,” Conn said impatiently. He started to run toward Delilah’s car, his friend fast on his heels, shouting at the guard that Yorke had slipped away and to round up Devereaux’s men.
Her car was silent, dark. Nothing looked out of place.
Then they heard the scream.
* * * *
Lillian tightened her grip on Yorke’s penis, twisting as hard as she could. Even groggy with pain, she had enough strength to make him howl. He lashed out at her, more from reflex than design. His fist connected with her chest hard enough to make her lose her breath. Lillian’s fingers reflexively loosened, and he tore himself away. She didn’t wait for him to regain his senses. She half-rolled, half-stumbled to stand on the other side of the bed.
When he looked at her, his eyes were incandescent with rage. “You bitch!”
Yelling in fury, he came at her over the bed. Lillian leapt back, hips crashing painfully into her dressing table. Glass bottles clanked together. Without looking, she grabbed a perfume bottle and hurled it at his head. She missed, grazing his shoulder. Her next missile clipped his ear. The delicate glass shattered. Her desperate fingers touched a book. He was almost on her when she threw it. The sharp corner struck his cheek. His hands stretched out, fingers curled into claws.
Grimly, Lillian prepared to grapple with him.
Then Yorke was gone.
“You bloody bastard!” Conn’s voice, usually so quiet, filled the room. A thunderous crash shook the car. Then another.
She startled at the warm touch of someone’s hand on her bare arm. “Lilly?” Then his scent enveloped her with his embrace.
“Charles,” she said, clinging to him. Strong arms gathered her close.
She heard a meaty thunk and Yorke’s cry of pain. “Going to kill you, you filthy fucker,” Conn growled.
“Conn,” Charles said. When his friend didn’t answer, just, from the sounds of it, continued to beat on Yorke, Charles called his name more sharply. “Lilly needs you.”
That, at last, seemed to penetrate. The sound of
fist pounding flesh paused. Lillian heard Conn’s ragged breathing and Yorke’s whimpering pleas.
“Toss him outside for Devereaux’s men to handle,” Charles said. “Then come back here. Lilly needs you,” he repeated, as if certain that was the only thing that would penetrate Conn’s fury.
Conn grunted his assent and dragged Yorke from the room. He was back in moments, easing Lillian from Charles’s arms and into his own with a gentleness that belied his violence of moments ago.
“Ah, my Delilah,” he crooned. “Tell me you’re all right.”
“Conn,” she said. She reached for Charles, and he took her hand. “Charles. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come.”
Charles kissed her knuckles. “We’re here now.” He let go of her hand. She heard him rummage around, then strike a match. Conn drew her to the bed, sat down and settled her in his lap as the soft glow of the wall lamps grew brighter.
When they saw the scraps of her nightgown, they exchanged murderous looks. Hands still gentle, Conn took a cover from the bed and wrapped it around Lillian. Charles sat beside them. She clutched his hands and cuddled against Conn’s chest.
“Did he hurt you, love?” Conn asked.
She shook her head. “Nothing that won’t mend.”
“Then he did hurt you,” Charles said, violence coloring his voice.
She squeezed his hands and brought them to her face, rubbing his knuckles along her sore cheek. “Just bruises,” she insisted. “I’ll be fine.”
“Do you want us to fetch the McCurdy lass? Bring another woman for you to talk to?”
She looked into Conn’s eyes with a trembling smile. “No. Maybe later. Right now, I just want to sit here with you two. Is that all right?”
Conn’s arms tightened around her. “More than all right. We’ll sit here as long as you need us.”
Charles kissed her fingers. “We’re not going anywhere.”
Chapter 22
“Despite the beauty of the mountains, it can be a cold, deadly glory. Far from the tame parks of the city, the beasts reign supreme. Treat them with respect, and they will respect you.”
— Charles Lowell Adams, Dispatches from The Iron Road, Great Western Rail Company
Yorke didn’t feel co-ordinated enough to get his feet under him, though Maguire didn’t give him a chance to try. Clutching a fistful of coat and shirt, Maguire dragged him out of Lillian’s room, down the corridor and through the darkened sitting room. Throwing open the outer door hard enough to slam against the side of the car, Maguire shoved him through and down the stairs. Instead of catching him, the group of men waiting there stepped back. Yorke cried out as he landed on his belly on the hard ground, pain jolting through his body. His face burned and throbbed where Maguire’s fists had pounded it. The bloody nicks from shards of glass were barely noticeable in comparison to the overall general ache that covered him from head to toe from the beating and fall to the ground. It all paled to insignificance compared to the pulsing agony between his legs where Lillian had mangled his manhood.
“Watch him,” Maguire growled. Then he went back inside, likely to coddle the precious Mrs. Cabot.
Yorke gingerly began to roll to his side. Rough hands grabbed him, jerking him to his feet by his arms.
“You heard the man,” a harsh voice Yorke recognized as Devereaux’s said. “Find somewhere to stash him away from the guests until Mrs. Cabot decides what to do with him.”
Yorke tilted his chin to look up at the other man, squinting when he realized one of his eyes wouldn’t open fully.
“God, would you look at this mess.” The site boss scanned Yorke’s body, disgust plain on his face. “Fix yourself. The last thing we want to look at is your pasty dick.”
Yorke realized a single button preserved what was left of his dignity when the men holding his arms shoved him away. They watched with derision as he refastened his trousers with fingers that felt like sausages. Then they dragged him around the edges of camp to the storage area near the paddock and tossed him in a tent lit inside with a few lanterns.
With the sly cunning of a trapped animal, Yorke lay limp where they dropped him. Even when one man prodded him with the toe of a boot, setting off another lightning bolt of pain, he refused to move.
He heard a sigh. “Guess we’d better get the doctor. Pansy-ass fop can’t take a little smack.”
“Gotta admit, that Irishman’s got fists like boulders,” another man observed.
“Since this one’s got a head like one, probably cancel each other out.”
Laughing, they left the tent. Yorke cracked a lid to make sure he was alone. And saw a man tied to a cot. Murchison. A heavy chain hobbled his legs at the ankles. It was attached by another short length of chain to one of the thick poles supporting the roof of the tent.
It was just as obvious the chain was unnecessary. Murchison, his complexion deathly white under the stubble of his beard, didn’t seem at all the fearsome thug now. Greasy sweat shone on his face, and a bluish gray tinge circled his lips, which twitched slightly, as though the unconscious man spoke to ghosts. Bright blood speckled the white bandage wound around his torso.
Apparently Yorke needn’t have worried that Murchison would talk.
Too late now. His best option was to steal a horse, supplies, and strike out on his own. He needed time to think. To plan. He was confident Lillian wouldn’t lodge a complaint with the authorities or her father. Men were rarely, if ever, punished for their indiscretions, especially men of his social class.
Worthington might make things difficult for him in Boston, but Yorke had no intention of returning to that city. He may have failed in his ultimate task here, but he had managed to be a thorn in the side of the Great Western Rail Company for a while, at least. He was certain his other employer would be able to make use of his talents.
All he needed was to find a way to reach someone in authority.
Yorke began to lever himself up from the ground. His left arm crumpled. Pain exploded from his wrist, and he let out a short, sharp cry before he could stop himself. It must be sprained. Gritting his teeth, Yorke used his right arm to get himself up. He shuffled toward the door flap, careful to keep close to the canvas wall. Peering out, he spied a man standing guard just outside.
Smiling grimly, he edged along the wall until he reached the back of the tent. Crouching down, he grasped the bottom edge of the canvas. It took some effort, but he pried up a small section of the heavy material. With only a pause to ensure his suspicion was correct, that no guard patrolled the perimeter of the tent, he wriggled under the canvas. By the time he was through, his clothes clung to him, drenched in a wash of fresh sweat. His body was a solid scream of pain. Ignoring it, he consoled himself with thoughts of visiting Lillian someday, once he was settled in his new life. Thinking him long gone, she would never expect it. And then they could resume their acquaintance.
He scuttled away from the tent to crouch behind a convenient stack of crates. Using what cover he could, he made his way as swiftly and as quietly as he could toward the corral.
The sound of approaching voices stopped him.
“Maguire laid into him pretty good,” Devereaux said. “Don’t really blame him. Maguire and Lowell Adams caught him attacking Mrs. Cabot.”
“Maybe I should check on her first, then,” Ritchards said.
“Had one of the lads fetch her companion, Miss McCurdy. She said Mrs. Cabot is a bit bruised and upset, but nothing she can’t handle. Said she’d send for you if she needs you. Strong woman, that Mrs. Cabot.”
The men’s voices faded as they moved away from Yorke. Soon, they’d reach the supply tent, find Yorke gone, and sound the alarm.
Two more men stood guard at the paddock. After the stampede, Devereaux wasn’t taking any chances, it seemed.
Yorke considered the situation. Then, deciding speed and surprise were his best weapons, he shoved at a stack of crates beside him, anxiety giving him strength. The crates toppled, f
alling against the side of the tent and caving it in. Without waiting to see the results, Yorke sprinted away, only stopping when he came to another stack. He didn’t bother with silence. He wanted to attract attention. Yorke only wished he had a fast way to start a fire. Still, he wasn’t disappointed. The men guarding the paddock shouted as they noticed the tents around them swaying and bobbing, heard the crashes and thuds as crates tumbled against each other and to the ground.
Hefting their guns, they bolted in the direction of the last stack Yorke tumbled. While they inspected that, debating a hurried search of the area together or singly, as one man went for help, Yorke belly-crawled under the bottom slat of the fence into the corral. Selecting what he knew to be a docile mount, he led it to the rail, using its body to shield him from the guards until he was close enough to open the gate. Using a fistful of mane, he hauled himself to the animal’s back and kicked it into a startled run. The guards appeared too late to do more than yell as the horse thundered past.
Yorke hunched over the animal’s neck, clinging tightly with his uninjured arm and both legs, struggling to guide it without reins and stirrups. An experienced rider, he maintained enough control to force it away from the camp and toward the tree line. If he could make it there, he could hide out for a few days and plan his next steps. Once the furor over his escape died down, he’d sneak back into camp and either reclaim his belongings or rifle the supplies for what he needed.
Moonlight shone cold and harsh through the canopy, emphasizing the contrast between dark and light. The shadows loomed blacker, the moon’s glow silver bright. Instead of making it easier to navigate the woods, it was harder to discern the true path from illusion. A distant shout made him peer over his shoulder. Then another. It was easy to surmise a search party was in the making.
Yorke ducked to avoid a low-hanging branch and sneered, confident his intelligence would see him through. Relying on Murchison to implement the plan had been his mistake. He saw that now. If not for the other man, Lillian and her lovers would never have stopped him.
The Railroad Baroness Page 18
