“What if we want to taste the angel’s sweetness?” one man called out.
Camille put her hands on her hips. “That will cost you twenty dollars.”
The crowd oohed and aahed, elbowing each other and guffawing. She felt like a cow at an auction, dirty and trapped.
Catherine and Mary appeared with baskets and walked through the crowd, collecting coins. The jingle grew thicker and louder as more men paid for the pleasure of hearing Isabelle sing. She hoped none of them had twenty dollars, which was a likely thing. Most of them didn’t appear to be wealthy by any means, but they must be starved for entertainment. Six bits was not a tremendous amount of money, but it was more than enough to buy food for a week if a person was frugal.
Isabelle knew she had been blessed with a beautiful voice and looks pleasing to the eye. She didn’t expect to bilk people out of their money using those gifts. It made her nauseated.
Soon Catherine and Mary were using both arms to hold the baskets due to the weight of the coins. Camille watched with an eagle eye to make sure every man paid. After she was satisfied, she gestured to the musician again.
Isabelle spotted movement in the back of the crowd and saw Karl, Gunther and Mason standing behind them, as though they guarded the crowd from interlopers. She needed to ask Mason why he was helping them and ask Karl where Charlie was. So many questions and no answers to be had. Isabelle wanted to stomp her foot in frustration and refuse to sing, but she wouldn’t. Survival meant doing things she didn’t want to. She had to do what was necessary and protect her sister.
Nothing else mattered.
The first notes of “Kathleen Mavourneen” sounded in the air. Isabelle took a deep breath, thankful she knew the ballad, and started singing.
Mason’s jaw throbbed where the stranger had hit him. To his surprise, Gunther had pounded his great fist into the other man’s head and the drunk, foul-smelling brawler hit the muddy ground with a splat.
“Manners dictate that I should say thank you, I suppose.” Mason rubbed his jaw, unhappy to have yet another injury. At this rate, he would look like Gunther before the month was done.
The big man shrugged. “She sings. He didn’t pay.”
Mason knew “she” was Isabelle. He heard her belting out ballads and hymns with the banjo player accompanist. It was an odd situation and Mason didn’t know what Camille intended until she charged admission. She hadn’t known Isabelle could sing until that morning. How had she arranged for the musician? How had she known the men would pay to hear Isabelle?
There was a great deal of scheming afoot and Camille was at the center of it. She was most assuredly very smart and devious. What she had planned next was a mystery, and the worst of it was Mason wouldn’t be able to discover a damn thing. The Beckers were a strange band of closed-mouthed bandits. He had been right, however, to believe Gunther was the weakest link, although the biggest of the lot.
Gunther stared at Isabelle with a joyous rapture on his face. The man was already in love with her, that much was obvious. Mason didn’t blame him, since he had already fallen in love with the beautiful songbird himself. She hit each note with sweet perfection, and Mason closed his eyes, allowing himself the sheer pleasure of listening to her.
Another ballad followed the first two songs. She and the banjo player made simple music together. The men who had paid to hear got a bargain. They should have paid triple the price. If he hadn’t already been in love with her, he would have fallen head over heels for her upon hearing her voice.
As the notes died out on that last song, Camille appeared on the stage again and held up her hands. The men shouted in protest and stomped their feet for more. Greed shone in her eyes as she surveyed the crowd.
“Gentlemen, you paid two bits for each song. If you want more, you have to pay more.”
More protests from the crowd. Some walked away, shooting glares in Camille’s direction. Most of them, however, scrounged in their pockets. A few approached her with sacks of gold dust, which surprised Mason. Judging by the number of men who stayed and paid for more, Camille had found a moneymaking scheme sure to keep her attention.
This did not bode well for escaping from the Beckers or getting the wagon away from them. Considering the weight of the baskets Mary and Catherine were currently toting around, the day’s take was hefty. Mason’s hands fisted in frustration. He had to do something to help them escape or they would be wrapped so tightly in Camille’s schemes, they would never escape.
It didn’t matter if Mason made it back to North Carolina. Hell, he was supposed to be dead and would have been if not for his angel. No, only Isabelle and Charlie mattered. They needed to succeed in reaching their sisters and reuniting their families. The Beckers had no right to take what didn’t belong to them or force Isabelle to sing on cue as if she were a puppet.
Mason didn’t anger easily. He had stopped caring so long ago, that anger had gone the way of soft emotions like love. Meeting Isabelle had changed all that. He not only cared about her and Charlie, but he had suffered through emotions he had forgotten existed.
Since the Beckers had taken control of their lives, his consistent struggle had been with anger. Now that anger was inching its way toward rage. It left a bitter taste on his tongue, one he sucked on, feeding it.
It would help him be strong for them and for himself. He suspected Camille had been bilking people of their belongings long before they met. She had all the marks of a career criminal.
Camille motioned to Karl and Gunther and they moved to herd the men away who hadn’t paid for a second performance. No one protested when they spotted the sheer size of Gunther or the homicidal glint in Karl’s mud-brown eyes. They shoved and pushed until the men were far enough away to not get a free show.
When she was satisfied with the situation, Camille once again prompted Isabelle to sing. Her voice soothed Mason’s anger and at the same time fueled it. He stared at her, willing her to look at him, but her gaze remained somewhere in the distance. He didn’t blame her for letting her mind escape. Misery was evident in her expression and she sang the ballads with all the sadness in her heart.
That was what made her voice as poignant as it was. Her emotions were as evident as her beauty. Each competed with the other, drawing everyone’s eye to the woman on the stage. Her shoulders were back and her bearing proud. He was proud of her. She didn’t cower in the face of Camille or her family of fools.
Mason had never made a vow, but at that moment, he made one. He would see the Beckers gone from her life or die trying. His purpose in the world until now had been to breathe. Now it had become to save Isabelle and Charlie.
An unbreakable vow.
He kept his gaze on the crowd, unable to trust a single soul with her safety. She was his to protect and he would do whatever was necessary.
When she opened her mouth to sing, every man present held his breath. The ballad “The Last Rose of Summer” lilted across the air and the banjo player scrambled to catch up to her. Pure notes had the men mesmerized again except for two who were near the front of the stage. One elbowed the other to get closer and the gesture was repeated in kind.
Neither Karl nor Gunther noted the exchange, but Mason did. He moved toward the potential brawlers, his heart already thumping hard. Fighting wasn’t his favorite activity. He’d done his fair share while growing up, but he used his wit to escape from most fights as an adult. Until he’d been beaten within an inch of his life a month earlier.
Now he had to dig deep to find the well of skills in fisticuffs. The Beckers were too far away to be of any help. The sea of men did not want to part for Mason. Frustration bubbled up inside him and he found his sharp elbows to be an adequate weapon. The panting males protested and cursed heartily but he made his way toward the stage.
By the time he was within five feet of Isabelle, the two men near her had moved from elbowing to punching. Blo
od flecks flew onto her skirt and she stepped back, her face pale enough to make the few freckles on her nose stand out. She kept singing, never missing a note.
Damn, but she was tough.
He reached for the shorter man’s arm and missed. The scent of unwashed bodies, dirty ballocks and piss assailed his nostrils. He grabbed a swinging fist and found himself catapulted forward into the second man, like a human weapon. Bones crunched against bones and he hit the ground hard enough to make his teeth clack together. Damned if he didn’t bite his tongue too.
One of the men kicked Mason in the thigh, sending a sharp pain through his recently healed muscle. Snarling, Mason got to his feet and let loose a punch that would have leveled a tree. The kicker went down like a sack of flour. A grunt popped out of his mouth and damned if he didn’t flex his fists, ready for the next son of a bitch to fight.
There must have been something in his face because the men backed up and formed a wide circle around him.
“Listen up, you dirty fucking jackasses. The next person who gets close enough to splatter mud or blood on my wife’s clothes answers to me. You might have paid to hear her sing, but that’s all.” He met the gazes of the men nearest to him. Gunther appeared to his right, his arms folded, a look of what Mason assumed was approval on his ugly face.
Isabelle finished the song and let out a nervous laugh. “Thank you, dear.”
Mason gave her a grim smile. “Always, darlin’.”
The crowd looked between them and someone in the back grew brave. “I paid for three more songs and she only sung one.”
A few grumbles and murmurs of assent rippled through the crowd. Mason, wondering if he’d been possessed by a completely different man, pointed at them. “She will sing the next two songs, but heed my warning. I will kill the next man who dares to disrespect her.”
He surprised himself when the words tumbled from his mouth. Isabelle’s brows went up, but she didn’t respond to his words. Instead she turned to the banjo player and began singing another sad ballad. This one he didn’t recognize. The lyrics began with “I Defy Thee to Forget”. She seemed to know all the songs that would turn men to the consistency of strawberry preserves, inconsistent and formless.
He stood in front of the stage as she entertained them with another two songs. Camille stood at the edge, watching, her expression amused. Mason didn’t care a whit what the bitch thought, but her amusement rankled him. Isabelle could have been hurt if the men had devolved into an all out war. That was unacceptable and Camille shouldn’t think it funny.
Mason had only dealt with the need to kill someone once in his life. It had changed him, irrevocably and completely. At sixteen he didn’t know the consequences of his actions, but at twenty-nine he sure as hell did. He told himself killing Camille might be the right thing to do, but it might get his neck stretched or a bullet in his brain.
No, he would plan and scheme to outthink and outsmart her. Between he and Isabelle, they could manage it. All he had to do between then and now was to stop himself from strangling Camille. Easier said than done.
Chapter Eight
Isabelle looked into the fire and tried to forget what she had just experienced. Singing for the dirty, leering men had made her feel used and unclean. She had no means to take a bath or scrub the feeling from her skin. If Mason hadn’t intervened in the fight that had brewed right in front of her, she might have experienced firsthand what a punch to the face felt like.
She had scrubbed at her dress to remove the bloodstains, but there were still brown spots that would never come off. Along with the mud, there was no chance her dress would ever survive more than a few weeks. She had only two frocks to her name and now one was ruined. It would serve Camille right if Isabelle wore the stained dress to perform from now on.
After all, it was a certainty this experience at the settlement was the first of many. The amount of money that had changed hands astonished Isabelle. She had been a student of music for years for the sheer joy of it. Performing for crowds, for money, hadn’t been in her plans. Back in New York, she had been too busy with schooling and then packing their house to move west to have the opportunity to perform.
Now Camille Becker was stealing that talent. Isabelle tamped down on the rage that coursed through her at yet another piece of her life absconded by the charlatan. Soon enough, she and Mason would devise a way to save themselves and Charlie, along with the wagon. For now, Isabelle would survive. She should be grateful she didn’t have to sell her body to those men, only her voice.
Yet she wasn’t at all grateful. No, she was angry. Her head pulsed with it while her stomach churned at the memory of the men’s hungry gazes. She resisted the urge to shudder in disgust. She had to remain strong and remember the person who mattered most was Charlie. Isabelle needed to save her, no matter what.
Mason stayed close to her, his angry gaze shuffling between Camille and Karl. Charlie wasn’t permitted to stay with her. She was kept inside the wagon, out of sight and away from Isabelle. Camille had announced the sisters’ separation upon their return from the settlement.
At the memory of the betrayal in Charlie’s gaze, sadness had washed over Isabelle, pulling her down, stealing her hope. Maybe being strong was the wrong choice. Maybe she would only make the situation worse. She didn’t know what the right choice was and her emotions were swinging like a pendulum the more she thought about it.
“Tomorrow we work on Gunther and Mary some more.” He kept his voice so low she barely heard him. Mason had lent her his strength and support, something she sorely needed. He hadn’t left her side since she stepped off the stage.
“Why?” The word was torn from her throat.
He reared back and scowled at her. “Isabelle Chastain, are you giving up?”
Was she? Their situation was impossible and now that she was Camille’s livestock, she couldn’t see how they would make things better. Had she given up? What would her parents think?
Her father would hold her, pat her back and tell her to be strong. Maman would tap her arm and tell her to stop complaining. They had survived things that would have broken most. Isabelle had both her parents’ blood in her. She would get through this bout of melancholia.
“No, I’m not giving up. I’m…tired.” It was such a plain word for what she felt. Exhausted was more appropriate, emotionally, physically and spiritually.
He put his arm around her shoulders and tucked her beneath his shoulder. It was a new experience, but she found it lovely. His warmth surrounded her and she breathed in his scent. Yes, that was what she needed and she hadn’t known it.
They sat together, side by side, for a while longer. The others had gone to bed, with the exception of Karl. He sat opposite them using a dagger to pick dirt from beneath his nails. He was disgusting in so many ways, and he proved it every moment of every day.
“You two are sleeping under the wagon alone. Your blankets and such are gone.”
Mason started. “Pardon me?”
“You heard me. Mama told you she don’t want you with the girl ’cause she’s got plans for that little one. She got the blankets to use. You two sleep in the mud.” Karl gestured to the said mud beneath the rig. “Now, get a move on. I don’t want to look at you no more.”
Isabelle wanted to shout and rail at the man, but she knew he was simply the hammer being swung by the black widow. Camille manipulated everyone around her, including the simple, cruel man. No, he was not the one to throw her anger at, but it was tempting. Very tempting.
Mason pulled her to her feet and she let herself be led to the wagon. The air was crisp and cool, damp with the dew. A frost was on its way. Sleeping beneath the wagon would be uncomfortable and cold. She held Mason’s hand and wished they had a big feather bed to share. Not that he was her husband in truth, but they could pretend, if only to keep the Beckers from keeping them apart.
As they
passed the back of the wagon, Mason grabbed something and hustled her forward. She wanted to ask him what he was doing but kept quiet. No matter what it was, he didn’t want Karl to know. She got down on her knees on the patch of grass and peered in the shadows beneath the center of the wagon. It was good they didn’t have a lantern so she couldn’t see what they’d be crawling on.
With a sigh, she moved forward. Mason put a hand on her shoulder. “Hold on, darlin’.”
She didn’t know which surprised her more, the blanket he displayed in his other hand or the fact he called her darling. Both made her heart do a funny pittypat.
“Whose blanket is that?” she whispered.
He grinned, his teeth a slash of white in the dark. “Karl’s.”
She stifled a laugh behind her hands. Served him right for being such a bastard. He would sleep in the wagon, but he would have no blanket. Mason spread the blanket out and then guided her in before he joined her. Then he pulled something over them, which smelled of leather and was heavy.
“What is this?”
“Karl’s coat.”
At that, she snorted and buried her face in his shoulder. His own laughter shook his chest and she pressed in harder, loving the feel of his mirth.
“Won’t he come looking for them?”
“Maybe, but I don’t care.” Mason kissed the top of her head. “Every time I can earn his ire, we drive another nail in Camille’s plans.”
Isabelle tilted her face up, hoping to feel his lips again, this time on hers. His warm breath washed over her cheek and she reached up to trace his jaw.
“Belle, you tempt me.” His tone was husky, all humor gone.
“Be tempted. Kiss me, Mason.”
His touch was tentative, but she deepened the kiss, pulling his head down. Tingles raced through her and she reveled in the sensation. They were supposed to be married. There was no reason to disabuse anyone of that notion. No one would know what they had done in the darkness of the night.
The Jewel: The Malloy Family, Book 11 Page 10
