by Carol Finch
Rozalyn had grown up like a wild flower. Only her grandmother had attempted to offer her direction. If Rozalyn lost Lenore she would have no one who truly cared about her. Rozalyn suddenly realized this, and she vowed when the day came for her to relinquish her earthly claim on this good-hearted old woman, Lenore would go in peace. She decided to give Lenore what she wanted, even if it was not in her power to do so.
"Do you want to know a secret, Grand'mere?" Rozalyn whispered confidentially. "I think I have found a man much like Grand'pere, one who can make me as happy as Philippe made you."
A smidgeon of color worked its way into Lenore's waxen features. "Have you truly, Rozalyn? Do not lie to me, child. It would break my heart to live on false hope," she wheezed, emphasizing her poor health.
Rozalyn did not bat an eye. Was it so wrong to deceive Lenore when this meant so much to her? Was it wrong to give her hope when her strength failed her and her days were numbered? She could not blurt out the truth, not now. She would never allow Lenore to know that the man of her dreams remained a fantasy, out of her reach.
"Oui, Grand'mere," she insisted. As Rozalyn pasted on a love-struck smile, her vivid imagination began to conjure up a most dashing gentleman, one who probably didn't even exist. "He is tall, dark, and incredibly handsome, a fine specimen of a man who takes my breath away when I look upon him." Rozalyn cast her grandmother a discreet glance, overjoyed that the news was having the same effect as a magic potion. Lenore had straightened in her chair and had inclined her head, intending to miss not one word of Rozalyn's confession.
"Tell me more, my dear," the elderly woman said enthusiastically. "I want to know everything about this new man in your life."
Rozalyn closed her eyes and dreamed up a Prince Charming, a man who surpassed all those she had met. "He walks with a confident stride, and is a mite arrogant perhaps, but rightfully so, Grand'mere. He is powerfully built, with sturdy broad shoulders a woman could lean on for consolation and compassion, and his handsome face is framed with thick, dark hair and his eyes"—she paused and then thought better of giving a specific color, in case her next beau could not perfectly fit the description— "his eyes dance with a living fire, while his smile is so warm and contagious it can melt a woman's heart."
"Even one encased in ice ... like yours, child?" Lenore taunted, her eyes taking on the sparkle Rozalyn had not seen in them of late.
"Especially mine," Rozalyn gushed like a bubbling volcano. "My heart flutters beneath my breast as if it might leap out when I am near him." She was spreading it on a mite thick, but her words had done wonders for Lenore's condition. They had given the old woman a breath of hope, a sense of serenity she lacked.
When Lenore noticed the glow in Rozalyn's cheeks she readjusted her spectacles to ensure that she was not imagining things. "So you have, indeed, met a man to your liking," she surmised.
"Oh, oui, Grand'mere" her granddaughter insisted with a positive nod, playing the role of a love-smitten maid to the hilt. "I think this time I have found a man who can make me happy. I will even relinquish my wild wandering ways if he asks for my hand. He does not want to change me, you understand," Rozalyn hastily added when her grandmother's eyes narrowed skeptically. "He accepts me as I am and he has no need of Papa's money. For him, I could be true and I would never think to embarrass him with some impulsive shenanigan."
Lenore's graying brows formed a dubious line over her eyes. She found herself becoming more suspicious of her granddaughter by the second. If Rozalyn had discovered true love, why hadn't she mentioned this mysterious gentleman before when she'd been given the third degree? And what kind of man could make this rambunctious hoyden sacrifice her freedom for the sake of love? He sounded too good to be true. That made Lenore skeptical of his existence. She would have to see him in the flesh to believe there was such a perfectly matched beau for this sprite nymph.
"Then I should like to meet this one," Lenore demanded in a tone that anticipated no argument. "When I see the two of you together I will know for certain that he is everything you say he is and that you truly care for each other."
Rozalyn wilted back on her haunches like a delicate flower drooping in the blistering summer sun. "You want to meet him?" she chirped, inwardly cringing as her lie tumbled down around her like a rockslide.
Lenore gave her gray head an affirmative shake. "Today . . . now ... as soon as you can fetch him to me."
Good God! Rozalyn thought disgustedly. Now what the devil am I going to do? How can I talk my way out of this mess?
Her grandmother would have a fit if Rozalyn suddenly admitted that she had made this all up. The truth could cause another setback in Lenore's deteriorating health. The grade dame would begin to rant and rave, and that could well be the last lecture she ever delivered. It seemed Rozalyn was to be the death of her grandmother, one way or another.
Stall, Rozalyn advised herself. She had to allow herself enough time to collect her wits and determine how to wade out of this gigantic lie after she had sunk into it neck deep. Oh, why hadn't she kept her mouth shut? Her good intentions had not been an ounce of help.
"I would ... uh ... very much like you to meet him," Rozalyn stammered. After climbing to her feet she presented her back to Lenore, concealing her troubled frown. "But he is quite busy at the moment and I seriously doubt he—"
"Too busy to pay his respects to a dying woman who may not live to attend the wedding? Mon Dieu, surely he could spare me a few minutes of his time," Lenore scoffed and then gasped for breath. "Look at me, child! I have one foot in the grave and I am living on borrowed time. We cannot, delay. I would despair if I fell asleep never to wake. I demand that I be permitted to meet the man you have described. I want him here, tout de suite!"
"Mais, Grand’mere, it is quite impossible—" Rozalyn muttered, only to be cut off by Lenore's annoyed sniff.
"Fetch him posthaste. I may not see another sunrise, but I will damned well meet your intended. I have something to say to your new beau . . . if indeed there is one," Lenore added and then tossed Rozalyn a dubious frown.
"Of course, there is," Rozalyn adamantly insisted.
The gleam in Lenore's gray eyes warned her granddaughter that she was determined to have her way in this matter. Rozalyn must produce living proof of the man she had conjured up and now! Sweet merciful heavens. Where was she going to find this chivalrous knight on such short notice? Lord, she could use a miracle. Rozalyn lifted her eyes heavenward, wondering if she were asking the impossible and knowing in her heart that she was.
Finally, she heaved a defeated sigh and nodded in compliance. There was naught else to do but walk calmly from the mansion. Once outside, Rozalyn would dash madly through the streets of St. Louis until she located a man who closely resembled the description she had given Lenore. My, what a tangled web she had woven for herself this time.
"I will fetch him to you, but do not despair if I do not return within the hour. I will bring him to you as soon as I can. God, what was she saying? She couldn't fish such a man from this melting pot of humanity if she had one year, much less one hour!
"Time grows short," Lenore wheezed, feeding upon Rozalyn's sympathy. She fully intended to force Rozalyn's hand on this important issue. If Aubrey would pot see to the child's future, she must. She would see Rozalyn properly wed ... if it was the last thing she ever did, Lenore promised herself. If this man met with her approval, she would accelerate the courting process. Rozalyn would be wed ... as soon as arrangements could be made. "I only pray that I do not breathe my last before you return." Lenore clutched her chest and coughed hoarsely. "God forbid that I do not endure the hour. If I am not here when you come back . . . always remember that I love you. ..."
Rozalyn was frantic. Lenore's last plea was nearly her undoing. The smile plastered on the young woman's face slid off her lips when she breezed down the front steps, and she frowned grimly as her gaze circled the abandoned street. What was she going to do if she could not find a man who met her des
cription? Prince Charming thought he had trouble, Rozalyn mused resentfully. He had only to find a foot to fit a glass slipper. Rozalyn had to locate an entire body, one with a muscular physique, crisp raven hair and bright, intelligent eyes. Mon Dieu! She had embroiled herself in such a wild lie that she feared it would swallow her up.
Her full skirt swished about her as she scampered across the ground. Despite it, she vaulted into the saddle, then sent the stallion racing down the street. Her pale blue eyes scanned the surroundings and her mind buzzed with apprehension as she thundered toward the heart of St. Louis in the hope of finding a man who would suit. She prayed the good Lord would deliver such a man in her hour of need. Her thick lashes fluttered up and her gaze soared skyward as she clung to that thought.
"It was a necessary lie," Rozalyn declared self-righteously. "I only told Grand’mere what she needed to hear, to lift her sinking spirits. I could use some divine assistance down here." When the sun hid its head behind a fleeting cloud, casting a shadowed frown on Rozalyn, she let her breath out in a rush. "Oh, very well, I will see to this grisly business myself."
She had found herself in many scrapes because of her impulsiveness, but she had always been able to rescue herself from trouble. This time, however, she had waded in much too far for she had not expected Lenore to force her hand. It would kill the grande dame to learn that there was no such man and that her most recent suitor was still entangled in the shrubbery. Jeffrey had been abruptly dismissed, rejected, and anyway he was blond. Rozalyn could not have rounded him up and dragged him to Lenore's doorstep, not even if she'd dyed his hair and padded his waistcoat to make him appear more muscular. The man Rozalyn had conjured up, quite simply, was everything Jeffrey Corday was not.
Why hadn't she promised Lenore that she would take courting seriously in the future instead of spewing forth wild tales about a man she couldn't produce? Rozalyn chided herself as she leaned against the bay stallion's neck, urging him into his swiftest gait. Damnation, if she managed to escape from this catastrophic lie she vowed never to tell another one. But Rozalyn had the sinking feeling that her tall tale would cause disaster.
This is not the time for depressing thoughts, she told herself. Surely she could find a man to fit the description. She would convince him to assist her and she would be willing to pay a king's ransom for his time and trouble. It would be money well spent.
With that encouraging thought whipping through her head, Rozalyn veered toward the main street of St. Louis. She was anxious to begin her search for a man with jet-black hair and a powerful body, not to mention a darkly handsome face that would turn any woman's head. God, was she mad? Rozalyn gulped hard and then silently answered quietly, but unequivocally . . . yes.
Chapter 2
Dominic Baudelair straightened his tailor-made jacket and then eased a shoulder against the supporting post of the mercantile shop. His dark, craggy features wore a pensive frown, his keen gaze inspecting the thriving city that had sprung up on the banks of the Mississippi.
Odd, he mused as he peered toward the wharf where he had spent the past two days. It was inconceivable to Dominic that the city could have changed so drastically the past five years. Because of his isolation in the Rockies it had taken him two full days to adjust to such a swarm of people.
Although St. Louis still retained the sophisticated ways of the French who had settled it, crime ran rampant in the streets. Since Dominic had shed his buckskin garb and donned the trappings of a gentleman he had endured one near brush with disaster. It was most ironic, he mused pensively. He had survived encounters with hostile Indians and had ridden the treacherous waters of the Missouri in a keelboat, but when he'd set foot in so-called civilization he'd very nearly had his scalp split open for the sake of the coins he carried in his pockets.
Thieves and thugs prowled the avenues of St. Louis; Dominic could attest to that fact after his painful encounter. Although the good citizens complained that it was dangerous to venture out after dark, they had yet to organize a regular police force so scores of ruffians swarmed up from the raucous waterfront to prey upon the wealthy French aristocracy. A gentleman took his life in his own hands when he dared to venture out alone at night.
Keen green eyes swept the faces of the stylishly dressed crowd milling around him as Dominic smiled quietly to himself. It was still difficult to adjust to a congregation of so many people. He had been too long in the wilderness. Pushing away from the supporting beam, he ambled down the boardwalk. After his self-imposed isolation, Dominic hungered to appease his urge to hold someone soft and feminine in his arms. Then he intended to turn his mind to his purpose, the one that had brought him from the precipices of the Rockies to the crowded streets of St. Louis.
Aubrey DuBois . . . when the man's face materialized before him a disgusted scowl appeared on Dominic's dark features. For the past several years DuBois and his agents had brought their caravans to the rendezvous at the foot of the mountains. They carted supplies to hard-working trappers, like himself. DuBois' floating version of the company store was welcomed, but not without reserve. The furrier bought up pelts and then transported them back to St. Louis; so, instead of traipsing back to civilization with their furs, the trappers could return to the mountains. It was a seemingly honorable effort on DuBois' part, Dominic thought resentfully.
Actually, although DuBois pretended to send the caravan to save the trappers valuable time, he was far more concerned about himself. Another sour frown etched Dominic's features when he remembered the sky-high prices DuBois demanded for his supplies and he cursed the man. Whiskey sold for thirty cents a gallon in St. Louis, but DuBois charged three dollars a pint at rendezvous. Coffee and sugar were ten cents a pound, lead was six cents, and gunpowder was seven cents . . . but not at the foot of the Rockies. There, the price was as high as the altitude. DuBois demanded two dollars a pound for each item. One would have thought the man was selling gold instead of coffee and gunpowder!
Other much-needed merchandise was marked up as much as two thousand percent. Dominic considered DuBois' scheme to be nothing more than highway robbery. Aubrey seemed to have some personal grudge against the very men who supplied him with furs.
By the time the trappers sold their fur pelts at low prices and bought their essential supplies at ridiculously high ones, they had very little profit, and they spent their last few coins on the Indian maidens who came to trade at rendezvous. Oftentimes, this was the only opportunity for the men to appease needs that had built up for ten months or more while they were hunting in the mountains.
Because of the hardships DuBois imposed on trappers, Dominic had made the journey to St. Louis. Having refused the low prices offered at Green River, he was determined to find a profitable market. He had collected more than six hundred pelts during the winter and spring of 1836. It seemed foolish to settle for two dollars a pound for beaver pelts when he could sell them in St. Louis for eight dollars a pound. After his business transaction, Dominic had stashed more than fifty thousand dollars in the bank. It angered him to think that many of his friends would have found trapping rewarding if they had accompanied him back to St. Louis where they would have gotten the top price for their fur pelts.
Things are going to change, Dominic promised himself. If DuBois refuses to lower his outrageous prices, I will compete with him.
Dominic dearly loved the mountains. Indeed, although he had inherited his grandparents' estate he chose to leave its vast wealth untouched while he roamed the wilderness. But if Aubrey would not listen to reason, Dominic planned to invest some of his money in a floating trade store that would charge the trappers much lower prices than DuBois did.
Who the hell did Aubrey DuBois think he was? God? Dominic snorted disgustedly. DuBois was a powerful man who controlled one of the largest fur companies in America. He dominated a half-million-square-mile fur empire, but he could be cut down to size. The man had stooped to selling illegal whiskey to the Indian tribes to entice them to trade, and he thought
nothing of sending his henchmen to bribe Indian agents, thereby saving himself the necessity of providing the tribes with the supplies government treaties specified when white men bargained with Indians for furs. DuBois had also instructed his henchmen to scare off rival traders with threats and, occasionally, robbery.
In short, DuBois was a scoundrel in every sense of the word . . . and his daughter was an unruly misfit, or so Dominic had heard. He had never met the chit, but the grogshops on the wharf were thick with stories about this wild-hearted termagant who had taken St. Louis by storm. Like father like daughter. Dominic smirked. Why, the entire DuBois clan was probably reprehensible. Rozalyn DuBois had made an infamous name for herself in civilization, just as Aubrey had made a name for himself among the trappers. Although Dominic had seen Aubrey each summer at rendezvous, he had steered clew of the man as much as possible. But now he had come to St. Louis to confront the furrier with his grievances, and he was not leaving until they had come to terms.
Suddenly, Dominic heard hooves thundering toward him. Jolted from his contemplative deliberations, with the agility of a jungle cat, he leaped onto the boardwalk. His condemning glare sought the inconsiderate rider who had very nearly trampled him. That reckless son of a ... Dominic's disrespectful epithet trailed off when his piercing green eyes skipped over the rearing bay stallion's flailing hooves and came to rest upon its rider.
His astonished gaze locked with a pair of light blue eyes that danced so spiritedly they held Dominic spellbound. They were the strangest color of blue he had ever seen, so pale and sparkling that they-unnerved him. Dominic could not drag his glance away from this young woman. A fringe of thick, black lashes surrounded those laughing pools of blue that lit up her exquisitely beautiful face. And she had a dainty upturned nose, wild raven hair, high elegant cheekbones, full sensuous lips, and . . . Dominic felt desire kindle in his veins as his all-consuming gaze swam over the voluptuous curves of her breasts and then resettled on her soft, inviting lips. He blinked bewilderedly but continued to stare at the nymph who had brought her stallion down on all fours. Her steed now pranced in a tight circle while she studied Dominic from all angles. I must be dreaming. I have been too long in isolation, he told himself. Yet, before him was the most gorgeous creature he had ever laid eyes on.
