Love and Fury: The Coltrane Saga, Book 4

by Patricia Hagan

  She waited outside while Sister Mary Francesca, a nun with two years’ nursing practice, examined Colt. At long last, Dani was allowed to enter the barren room. The walls and ceiling were white. There were no curtains at the arched windows, which overlooked a bare, rocky slope and an autumn-browned valley below. The floor was wood, and had been scrubbed with bleach and water so many times that there was no color left to it.

  There were four beds lining each side of the long room, narrow cots with iron headboards. Colt was lying very still on a bed near the window, a crisp cotton sheet and a thick wool blanket over him. His head was wrapped in a cocoon-like bandage and propped on a pillow. His eyes were closed, and his chest moved only a little.

  Dani looked at Sister Francesca, her eyes begging for good news—but for honesty as well.

  “Your brother has not been conscious in all this time,” Sister Francesca informed her frankly. “The bullet did not enter his head, or he would be dead. It grazed his skull, and grazed it hard. With my limited medical knowledge”—the nun shrugged apologetically—“I can only assume that the bullet hit hard enough to bruise his brain, causing a concussion.”

  Dani swallowed hard. “Will he live?” she whispered.

  Sister Francesca looked away. “I have done all I can think of. We will just have to wait and see what God wants to do about this.”

  Dani moved to Colt’s bed and, leaning over him, brushed her lips against his cheek. “Live, John Travis,” she whispered. “Live. Please.”

  Then she turned away. It was time, she decided, to send a message to Travis Coltrane that his children needed him.

  Gavin Mason strode furiously up and down the area outside the hatchway to the deBonnett cellar. His men were bringing up the crates of gold with agonizing slowness. Damn it, why was this taking so long? The ship he had booked for the voyage to Santorini was in the harbor, so all they had to do was load the gold and set sail.

  Dirk Hollister stood a little ways off, watching the men struggling with the crates. Gavin regarded him warily. How could the blundering fool have been so stupid as to kill Coltrane and Pope so close to the convent? Hollister hadn’t admitted it, but the two men with him had told Gavin they’d questioned the wisdom of the shootings, telling Dirk that the bottom of the mountain was a far better place. And at the very least, the bodies ought to’ve been hidden. But Hollister was hell-bent and wouldn’t listen.

  Gavin had exploded when they reported to him. He told Hollister what a stupid son of a bitch he was, and now things were dangerously tense between them.

  Gavin hadn’t liked it any better than Hollister did that Coltrane and Briana had been found naked in each other’s arms. When the men brought her back, Gavin saw her virginal blood smeared on her thighs and rage overtook him. Everything was clear now. He knew the depth of her feelings for Coltrane. She had drugged Coltrane, but she hadn’t coupled with him, not if she was still a virgin. All this time, Gavin had been deceived.

  Well, no matter. It was over, and Coltrane was dead. Briana, bound and gagged, would be hidden on one of the wagons that would transport the gold to the ship. They were going to Santorini. Once they were safely there, he would have Briana whenever he wanted her.

  Gavin didn’t have to ask what had made Hollister act so crazily. Hollister both desired Briana passionately and hated her savagely for scarring him.

  As three men struggled futilely to get a crate through the hatchway, Gavin’s tension got the best of him, and he railed, “God damn it, move your asses. You got it down there, so why can’t you get it up? We haven’t got all day. Hollister blundered the job, and we’ve got to put as much distance as we can between us and France, because you can believe Travis Coltrane is going to come after us with everything he’s got.”

  “Which is…” Alaina taunted softly, “a lot.”

  Gavin whirled around. What was she doing here?

  “Get out of here, you old bitch! I won’t listen to your goading. You’re looking for trouble.”

  Alaina flinched. Why must he treat her this way in front of these men?

  “Did you hear me, bitch?” Gavin roared, lips turned back in a vicious snarl, eyes glittering. “Get out of here!”

  “After all I’ve done, you ungrateful…” Alaina sputtered.

  “Ungrateful!” Gavin shoved her away from him, and she sprawled to the ground.

  “I warned you I wasn’t going to listen to your drunken nagging anymore,” he cried.

  “You old bat!” he went on furiously. “You’re the one who should be grateful—grateful I was able to stay with you so long. You’re a disgusting old lush.” He gave her a savage kick in the side.

  Slowly, gasping with pain, Alaina struggled to stand, falling twice before she managed to get herself up. Her side hurt terribly, and she clutched at it, crouching over.

  Gavin took a menacing step nearer. “I will tell you one time: Get out of my sight, or you’ll make me really hurt you.”

  She reached out for the stone wall of the house, leaning on it for support.

  The crate was finally through the hatchway.

  “Is that the last one?” Gavin asked, and the men grunted assent.

  “Get it on the wagon, and let’s head for the harbor.” He turned to Dirk and said, “I’m going to make sure Delia’s ready. Wait for me by the wagons.”

  He started toward the house, and Alaina called out, “Wait! What about me? How long before you come home, Gavin?”

  Gavin turned around very slowly and stared at her. What did it take to make her comprehend? “You brought all this on yourself, Alaina. I am sick of you, and I don’t know whether I’ll come back or not.”

  Alaina’s spirit had not been crushed despite all the humiliation of the last few weeks. “You bastard!” she screamed, her voice ringing out like a death knell. “You goddamn, no-good bastard! You can’t just leave me here to starve while you take everything for yourself. I’ve got as much right to that gold as you have—more, really. If it weren’t for me, you’d never have gotten it.”

  “I owe you nothing,” Gavin growled.

  Just then Dirk dared to intervene. “You aren’t going to leave her here to starve, are you?”

  Gavin sighed. “Don’t be dramatic, Hollister. She still has some things she can sell—furniture and so on. Now let’s go. She’s not destitute. If Travis Coltrane catches up with us, we’ll be destitute.”

  Alaina had, at last, become too angry to feel humiliated. She was smoldering with a rage so fierce it actually caused a burning sensation in her chest. And she knew just what to do about it.

  By the time Gavin finished yelling at Delia for being so slow and rushed downstairs again, heading outside to check the wagons, Alaina had reached the kitchen. She heard Gavin leave, then crept to the big chopping block in the middle of the room. Beneath, neatly positioned in their slitted compartments, were a dozen knives of various sizes.

  She chose the longest and largest.

  Then she began to make her way upstairs. All was quiet.

  She picked her way along carefully, for her side was aching terribly, and it was grueling to climb the stairs. She was also having difficulty focusing. How many vodkas had she had today? She couldn’t remember. When she had taken care of the evil in the house, she promised herself, had gotten rid of the demon that had taken over Gavin’s will, she would have champagne to celebrate.

  What had happened outside, Alaina told herself, was not Gavin’s fault. The man she had loved for so long, treated as a son in his younger years and then as a lover, would never, ever treat her that way. Why, Gavin was Stewart Mason’s son, and Stewart had adored her.

  No, the Gavin she loved had become possessed by that creature who’d seduced him and come back with him from America.

  The door to Delia’s room was ajar. Alaina stood very still and peered inside.

  Delia was standing in front of her dressing table, humming as she tucked her curly hair inside a wide-brimmed straw bonnet. She was wearing a pink
velvet dress made in the newest fashion. She looked fresh and pretty. She twirled, smoothing the long, flowing skirt, delighted with herself. The delicate lace edging at the high collar, framing her face, gave her an innocent, cherubic look.

  Delia was thinking about how good Gavin was for her. Oh, he was no great lover, and she didn’t much like him that way. She also did not love him. But he was rich, filthy rich, and that made all the difference that mattered. She intended to stick to him like a newborn calf to its mother. Nothing would come between them as long as he stayed rich.

  She went out onto the small balcony off her room, wanting a last look. Who knew whether she’d ever come back to Monaco? Gavin had said they probably wouldn’t. It was a dramatic view. The rocks below were large and jagged, and the azure waters of the Mediterranean lapped lazily among them. Sea gulls darted, crying to each other. It was a lovely view, but Delia resentfully recalled the panorama from Alaina’s balcony. There, the sea could be seen in all its splendor, as well as the mountain range to the east.

  Delia placed her hands on the waist-high balcony railing, standing on tiptoe and leaning forward, trying to see the yard to her left. Only a tiny corner of the yard was visible. She wanted to see Gavin, to wave to him to let him know that she was on her way downstairs. She knew that she made a beautiful sight, the sea and sky surrounding her for background.

  Gavin was nowhere in view. She turned, and in that instant, Alaina brought the knife down in a deadly arc.

  With lightning speed, Delia leaped to the side. And then she gazed in horror as the force of Alaina’s lunge propelled her over the railing. Dumbstruck, Delia watched the screaming Alaina hit the scrubby brush along the rocks, then tumble on downward to lie at the water’s edge. She lay very still.

  Alaina’s scream died away, and Delia’s shrieking took its place.

  She was still screaming when Gavin burst into the room moments later. He slapped her hard several times until she stopped screaming and succumbed to broken sobs. “She tried to…stab me. I jumped to the side, and she just plunged over the railing.”

  Gavin’s thoughts raced while he quieted her. As he was weighing the odds against Alaina’s still being alive, Dirk burst in.

  “Mason!” he called. “She’s not dead. She must’ve hit the bushes first, and that broke her fall. But she won’t live long, not the way she’s busted up.”

  Gavin eyed him shrewdly. “Is she…very bad?”

  Dirk nodded brusquely. “What doc do you want to send for?” he asked. “I told the men not to move her till the doctor got here.”

  When Gavin spoke next, both Delia and Dirk gaped at him, amazed and disbelieving.

  “We’ll leave her where she is. When someone eventually finds her body, they’ll, think it was an accident that happened after we’d already gone. To send for a doctor means answering a lot of questions. See?”

  At last, the horses and wagons began to move down the road toward Monaco, and the ship in the harbor.

  Gavin and Delia, in the deBonnett carriage, felt like royalty. Settling back against the smooth red leather seats, Gavin placed a possessive arm around Delia, drawing her close.

  Thinking of Alaina on the rocks, dying, was unpleasant, but not intolerable. She had become a lush and a bore. Once, he had enjoyed her. Hell, he’d even been fond of her. But those days were gone.

  Gavin smiled as he gazed at Delia. He hoped she was taking a good look at the coastline, because she would not be returning—not with him, at any rate.

  He intended to leave her in Greece.

  He would return to Monaco with Briana. She would be either his mistress or his wife, whatever he decided was best. He was, by God, going to possess her— No, he was going to own her.

  Travis Coltrane sat behind the large mahogany desk in his richly appointed office at the American Embassy in Paris. He was wearing a three-piece suit in a soft shade of charcoal gray. His shoes were black and highly polished. A gold watch chain hung across his vest. Travis looked important. He was important.

  And he hated his job.

  Tossing aside the document he was trying to read, he rose from the high-backed burgundy leather chair and went to the window. He stood there, hands folded behind his back. Though Kitty had guessed he was miserable with their new life, he had not, as yet, said so to her in plain words.

  Travis had never been a desk man, an indoors man, and he never would be. He longed to return to Nevada and his beloved ranch. He longed to work in fresh air and sunshine. Hell, he was so eager to get back in the saddle, he wouldn’t even complain when the snows came and the frigid winds blew.

  He told himself to concentrate on where he was. The view before him was surely magnificent. The Champs de Mars, a vast parade ground, stretched south for more than half a mile. The Champs de Mars had been the scene of many historical events, including violent riots and celebrations during the French Revolution.

  At the far end stood the Ecole Militaire. A handsome military school built in the eighteenth century, it looked more like a palace than a military academy. Initially meant to provide officers’ training for the sons of poor aristocrats, the school was later opened to outstanding students from academies outside Paris.

  Travis recalled the story he’d heard concerning the academy’s most famous student—Napoleon Bonaparte. It was said that his final report card had carried the notation Will go far, if circumstances permit.

  Thoughtfully Travis looked at the controversial new structure at the north end of the parade grounds. Built for the 1889 Paris World’s Fair by the architect Alexandre Eiffel, it was the object of much criticism. It was called everything from a curiosity to a monstrosity, and many people wanted it torn down. Travis respected the Eiffel Tower for what it was: a brilliant engineering feat. The pressure per square inch the tower exerted upon the ground was no greater than the pressure per square inch a man would exert sitting in a chair. At 985 feet, it was easily the tallest structure in the world. There was a nice restaurant there. He and Kitty had dined in it a few times, and…

  Kitty.

  How he loved that woman. He’d never loved anyone so much. All he wanted was to make her happy in their old age, as happy as she made him.

  He’d thought that some time in Paris and traveling through Europe was what she wanted. But Kitty was more homesick than she would admit, and she missed Colt terribly.

  Travis shook his head. A nagging worry increased with every day that there was no word from Colt. It had been over three months and, damn it, this wasn’t like Colt. Surely he knew his parents would worry.

  A knock startled Travis out of his reverie. He went to his desk, sat down, and picked up the document again before calling, “Yes, come in.”

  His secretary seemed nervous. That, for her, was unusual. Miss Tyrone, an old maid at thirty, detested men in general, but she was an efficient secretary and nothing bothered her. Once, Travis had teased her about the severity of her appearance, good-naturedly joking that she probably scared men away with her drab clothes and overly serious expression. She told him in her usual flawless English that that was how she wanted it. From then on, Travis and Miss Tyrone kept each other at a distance.

  As he watched her cross the room, he began wondering what could be wrong. As she held out a yellow telegram, he saw that her hands were trembling.

  “For you, sir, a personal matter.”

  “It’s about time,” Travis cried jubilantly, taking the paper from her hands. “Do you think now I’ll find out what that son of mine has been up to?”

  Miss Tyrone’s face was filled with sympathy as she said, “It isn’t from your son, sir. It’s from your daughter…”

  And before Travis’s eyes could focus on the words before him, he felt his blood turn to ice.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  No one attempted to stop Travis Coltrane from entering the convent on Jaune Mountain, which was just as well. He rode through the gates, his eyes narrowed, his back ramrod straight.

  He was met
by a fluttering nun and refused to listen to her protests, moving politely past her toward the convent. Knowing she was beaten, Sister Marie led him down a shadowy, dim hallway that smelled of old newspapers and wet hair, until they reached the infirmary.

  Travis stepped inside silently.

  At the far end of the room was a young woman in white on her knees beside a patient’s bed, head bent in prayer. Was it the daughter he hadn’t seen in fourteen years?

  At the sound of approaching footsteps, Dani looked up with tired, burning eyes. A gasp stuck in her throat as she watched the man come toward her.

  She was looking at the image of her brother! He was tall, husky, muscular. He had the same smoke-gray eyes as John Travis. The only marked difference was the touch of silver in his raven-black hair.

  With pounding heart, Dani gripped the edge of her brother’s bed and struggled to stand. Tears began trickling down her pale cheeks from the sharp pain of joy mixed with sorrow—joy at seeing her father…sorrow over their long estrangement.

  Travis, shaken, held out his arms to her. She moved toward him slowly, and he folded her against his chest. They clung to each other.

  When, finally, they drew apart, Travis tersely told the nun on duty to leave them alone. Darting a questioning look at Dani, she left the room.

  When they were alone, Dani hurriedly explained all she knew about her brother’s condition. Colt was still unconscious. He was no better and no worse than he had been the day before.

  After taking a long look at his son, Travis turned back to Dani. He gently cupped her chin and looked down at her with all the love he hadn’t been able to give her for fourteen years. “Tell me,” he whispered. “Tell me everything.”

  She nodded and shyly reached for his hand. They sat down, side by side, on the cot next to Colt’s.

  Dani spoke very slowly, searching for the words. She cried, and then resumed her story. Her father never interrupted.