Ten years of riding with Johnson side by side, fighting for their lives back to back, insisted that his pal had to have a good reason for forcing a good woman into that brute’s clutches. But he couldn’t discuss it here and risk exposing his friend’s devious tactics when half the town stood within earshot. Those gossipmongers had elected Johnson mayor with far less fuss than expected. Sure as two cups of cavalry punch could knock out a civilian, fewer bribes had changed hands than was customary during an election.
Nine-Fingers Isham, Johnson’s favorite bouncer, appeared out of the shadows behind the mayor. He rocked back and forth slightly, his fingers ostentatiously shoving his coat away from his guns.
Damn. Johnson would be twice as ornery with that jailbait to back him up.
Justin needed time to create a private chat between them and stop his old friend from ruining himself in front of his constituents.
“Don’t think so, Johnson.” Justin slowly, deliberately smoothed her beruffled mantle with his free hand and watched his old friend’s eyes widen at the unusually possessive gesture.
She uttered a tiny squeak, which a chipmunk couldn’t have heard from a foot away. Then she patted his fingers and leaned confidingly against him, as if he was the most welcome man in the world.
Good girl, she’d taken the hint, even though she was shaking like a leaf.
“She insulted my most important guest.” The Confederate veteran’s expression darkened with rage and he leaped off the boardwalk into the street. “Nothing’s bigger than that.”
A rude comment linking Simmons’s reputation to Johnson floated past from somebody hidden deep in the crowd. The mayor’s hands twitched closer toward his guns. He glared at his partner, not the rabble-rouser.
The crowd fell quieter, probably in anticipation of a showdown, the greedy cows.
A muscle throbbed in Justin’s cheek. At least his so-called innocent would live to be haughty another day, if he did her fighting.
“Ace Moreland’s here to see me.” Justin’s voice held steady on the biggest lie he’d ever told his partner. No way in hell would he allow her to be hurt—or the Georgia veteran to be bushwhacked by hypocritical townsfolk.
He lifted her hand to his lips—and the sweet scent of lavender blurred his senses.
“Don’t feed me that bullshit, Talbot.” Johnson glared at him from only a few feet away, his hazel eyes narrowed until they were almost yellow with rage. “We work together, like we have for the past ten years to build an empire.”
“Not in this.” Justin kept his voice to the same harsh whisper his friend had used. “Not with a woman at stake.”
“What’s different about her?” His saddle partner’s voice rose to a threatening growl. “You’ve never stayed with a lover for longer than a weekend, let alone flaunted one. Besides, Ace Moreland won’t settle down with any man.”
“Certainly not you.” Moreland spoke for the first time, since Wolf Laurel’s mayor had burst onto the street. She nestled closer to Justin until her feathered bonnet teased his jaw.
He knew damned well his face softened. Was it his fault he wanted to kiss her cheek and pull her closer?
“Mr. Talbot’s invitation was irresistible.” Her rich voice deepened into a husky invitation to sin, unlike her earlier, sharper tones. “I find myself anticipating every minute in his company.”
She stroked Justin’s hand with a cat’s elegant, anticipatory sensuality. Slow, drugging heat stirred to life within his blood and moved to follow her fingers’ every languid move.
“I don’t believe either of you.” Johnson was still vehement.
Everyone on the street had fallen silent in order to listen.
How could he prove a prior connection to Moreland?
“Go ahead and stick your head in the sand,” Justin drawled. “Miss Moreland and I will enjoy the music at the Hair Trigger Palace from my box.”
“You’ll take Ace Moreland up to the top floor?”
She jerked convulsively.
A smirk broke over Johnson’s face and he slapped his thigh with a loud guffaw. “Pal, she will slap your face and bolt out of there faster than an overloaded mule breaking the plow’s traces.”
Justin clenched his jaw against a profane retort to stop the Georgian’s ugly comments. Moreland saved him the difficulty.
She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder like a cat claiming a well-loved fireside.
“Mr. Talbot has promised me a most delightful show,” she purred. “Shall we go, darling?”
Darling??? Oh yes, of course, she needed to use an endearment for her so-called lover, no matter what she truly thought of him.
She smiled up at him from under her bonnet. Blue ribbons fluttered across her mantle, as if fighting the wind. Hell, that bit of cloth wasn’t worth a damn against a Colorado snowstorm, let alone a blizzard’s beginnings.
“Sure. Afternoon, Johnson.” He touched his hat to Johnson. It’d be easier to talk when they didn’t have dozens of listeners eager to pass on gossip.
The other Confederate veteran nodded, equally curt, and stood aside. His eyes were dark and calculating, which put his temper in the certain-to-rise-again category.
Crap, now he looked like a stubborn pig. Justin bit back a sharp retort, out of courtesy to his lady.
Johnson snorted, flipped him a rude gesture, and stomped back into his hotel.
Pity they couldn’t settle this here and now with their fists, as they would have ten years ago.
Moreland didn’t wait for them, God bless her, but hurried toward the closest building. She slipped on the Hair Trigger’s icy steps and Justin caught her in a single long stride. This time, her fingers clutched at his lapels and a whiff of her scent teased his nostrils.
Even more of his blood sprang to life despite the wind’s bitter lash.
Lavender and Castile soap were clearly the Devil’s handiwork.
He cursed, tossed her up into his arms—and greatly enjoyed her smothered shriek. She might slap his face in a few seconds, but he’d have this much to remember her by.
Then he shoved the Hair Trigger Palace’s swinging doors open and carried her inside, with her carpetbag beating time against his leg.
Chapter 4
Thump, thump! The great doors swung shut behind them and sent a burst of cold air swirling through Charlotte’s skirts. Wall sconces and heavy lanterns overhead flickered briefly, then burned sullenly once again to hint at ornate columns and dark green walls. In the distance, a long, broad shaft of light split the saloon’s center to mark the stage. From there, a curvaceous soprano sang passionately of death-defying love in songs translated from Italy’s latest operas.
Card tables were stuffed onto the Hair Trigger Palace’s floor. Men crowded around them more intently than frogs ever studied dragonflies in a tropical jungle. Each side of the room below the balcony had its own bar. There an oil painting of a complacently nude female was surrounded by glittering rivers of glass bottles lit by dozens of candles. Skilled bartenders in crisp white shirts and dark vests served whiskey, bourbon, beer, and every drink known or imaginable to a constantly shifting throng.
The air was hot and greedy, heavy with anticipation for the upcoming sights.
She could have touched the balcony’s underside from where Talbot held her against his chest.
She was trapped more completely than in Simmons’s room.
Damn, damn, damn, why had she simply let herself be carried off? Surely being a woman didn’t have to limit her choices that much, did it? She could have done something else, the way a man would have.
No matter how much drier this was than the town outside—which was hardly difficult with a storm about to begin—she was still inside the Hair Trigger Palace, the most dangerous concert saloon in Colorado’s wickedest city. Even worse, Talbot, the best shootist in the Rockies, carried her, steady as her father’s finest stallion.
She was cold to her bones, yet everywhere he touched, her treacherous flesh longed to be
closer. Closer to the soft glide of a fine wool frock coat shifting to follow the strong male form underneath, closer to the unhurried breathing caressing her cheek, closer to the sensual aroma of bay rum rising from his skin to invite her touch. This was insanity.
She needed to escape, despite the unbidden warmth stealing into her from his proximity. She had to leave Wolf Laurel before the weather and Johnson combined to chain her to Simmons’s bed, no matter what Talbot did.
“Put me down,” Charlotte ordered and thumped his shoulder hard. She’d fought and survived before. She could do it again. Somehow.
“Try to look as if you adore me,” Talbot whispered and let her slide far too slowly down his front. His profile glowed dark gold in the shadows under his hat, like a Greek hero amid Hades’ fires.
The saloon’s heat seeping into her toes was far less noticeable than the slow glide of woolen coat and silken vest across her skin, or the hard muscles in the shoulders and chest underneath. Protection and temptation incarnate.
No, and no, and no. She could not afford to lose her head over another attractive man. No amount of loneliness excused her folly with that fast-talking gambler.
“You . . . you . . .” She glared at him, for once unable to find words.
A wickedly teasing laugh flashed through his eyes so quickly she almost missed it, before his countenance turned sober again. “My lovely Miss Moreland. I first glimpsed you in Denver at Ed West’s saloon.” He brushed a kiss across her knuckles.
The simple touch jolted into her heart.
Somebody coughed politely nearby and Charlotte blushed hotly, then immediately, silently cursed her own inexperience with flirtatious men. If only she was back at the poker table where she knew the rules and how to dampen the risks.
“Evening, Garland.” Talbot drew out every syllable as if he was rolling out a welcome mat. He turned Charlotte with a dancer’s grace to face the newcomer. “My dear, may I present you to Sam Garland, my right-hand man? Sam, this is Miss Moreland.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Garland.” She extended her hand to the big man, whose neat black frock coat equipped him to disappear into New York’s Wall Street far better than into a mining town’s howling mob.
“Pleasure is all mine, Miss Moreland.” He shook her hand briefly, his grasp nicely calculated to protect her from a potentially crushing grip. Formalities satisfied, he clasped his hands and waited.
A passerby started to approach their circle too closely. Garland’s calm visage immediately shifted into a furious glare. The miner held up his hand in apology and stumbled away, seconds before spilling his beer on Talbot. Garland sniffed in dismissal and settled back, his duty accomplished far more efficiently than Johnson’s minion had done at the hotel.
“Miss Moreland and I will watch the show from upstairs,” Talbot said.
“All the regular boxes are sold, sir.” Garland frowned. “The poetry recital is a larger draw than expected.”
“No, I meant my box. I don’t need to hear Poe’s Raven again, and my box has curtains, like the others on that floor.”
At the top of the house, where the fancy women plied their wares. She’d never thought a single night’s folly would dump her irredeemably into their class.
Charlotte kept her expression bland and unreadable, despite the urge to run screaming into the storm outside. Thank God for the discipline so painfully learned in Boston’s finest finishing schools. It had proved useful in more than one mining town.
“Of course, sir.” Garland carefully avoided looking directly at her. “Your box is ready, just the way it always is.”
“Excellent. Please have Russell send up a pot of his special coffee.”
Not liquor to numb her resistance?
“Certainly, sir,” Garland agreed. “Anything else?”
“I don’t want to have any trouble tonight.”
“Sir?” Garland looked nonplussed, clearly startled by an unusual statement.
“If anyone’s temper should be frayed by visitors—such as the mayor’s staff—don’t let them blow off steam in here.” Talbot’s voice was no less deadly for all its quiet.
He’d set his staff to guard against Johnson’s men? For her?
Surprise, then delight, raced through Garland’s eyes. But when he spoke, he was steady as a deacon making vows. “Whatever you say, boss. Hair Trigger Palace will be polite as a Boston dowager’s front parlor.”
“Thank you. Come along, my dear.” Talbot urged her into a walk and she went willingly, after nodding goodbye to Garland. Her feet had thawed enough to obey her, although she couldn’t have carried off a full-dress ball amid Boston’s finest circles.
He led her up the main stairs to the second level, where well-dressed men and women leaned forward to watch the show from boxes the equal of any in London or Boston. There was less tobacco smoke here above the tables, and Charlotte could see the singer for the first time.
A man shoved his way into the center of the tables below and turned to look around. His scarred face was brutal under his bowler and Charlotte shivered when his gaze sliced across her and Talbot.
“Nine-Fingers Isham,” her escort muttered and glanced down at her. “Johnson’s man.”
The intruder started to charge toward the stairs but Garland blocked his path. Isham tried to object but the Palace’s man insisted on taking the newcomer over to the bar, close to two burly bartenders. A big tankard of beer appeared and Isham glared at it.
A moment later, he grasped the handle and leaned back to ostentatiously stare at a single, empty box high above. Garland took up his station beside him, equally polite, equally deadly.
Charlotte’s hair lifted off the nape of her neck. If she moved an inch away from Talbot, she’d lose his protection and that of his men. God help her.
“Don’t worry, Miss Moreland. He can only watch, as long as you’re with me,” Talbot said under his breath.
“Thank you,” Charlotte replied, equally softly.
Talbot nodded in response to eager greetings from audience members and continued upward, still lightly holding her hand and carrying her carpetbag. They emerged into a much narrower, but equally clean, hallway. One side was painted in vibrant green, while the other offered a series of silk curtains in between gilded columns. Chinese lanterns swayed over narrow Oriental carpets. A man groaned happily from within one curtained box and a woman chuckled inside another.
Charlotte twitched her skirts away from the fluttering drapes, as if they might speed up the frissons gliding across her skin. Walking with Jeremiah Holbrook had never felt like this.
On the other hand, her escort took no notice—of either the goings-on in the boxes or the numerous bullet holes in the walls. He growled at a candle that had recently been shot in half and stopped to put the pieces back in the wall sconce.
“Does that happen often?” she ventured to ask.
“Nightly. We check on all of them frequently.” He ground his heel hard into an ember until it vanished. “It’s why I only use candles, not kerosene.”
“You’d have had a fire.” She couldn’t keep the horror out of her voice. If it wasn’t built of brick, such a conflagration would turn this building into a bonfire within a handful of minutes. And afterward the block and the town, unless the citizens turned lucky in the wind and their ability to pump water and deliver it. Even big cities like Chicago and Boston had burned to the ground within the past few years.
“That doesn’t happen to what I care about, not if I can help it.” He glanced at her, his expression as harsh as when he’d faced Johnson.
“It has before.”
“Yes.” His tone slammed the door on any additional questions. Not that she’d have inquired—she’d already gone further than Western manners deemed polite. Angering somebody who wielded guns so easily would be very unwise, no matter how ready he seemed to protect her.
He twitched open the curtain to the last box at the end and she preceded him inside.
It
was a cozy nook, where the carpets were deep enough to block the floor’s chill. A leather settee, large enough for two big men to sit on with a jewel-toned, velvet quilt tossed across its back, occupied the center. A small charcoal stove offered cheerful warmth from one corner, while a single polished brass spittoon hid in another for the obviously few guests who’d dare chew tobacco.
One man’s comfort ruled here, not careless ribaldry like the floors below or brazen sensuality like the corridor outside. It hardly looked suitable for somebody who spent hours practicing with those heavy, heavy guns in his hands, either. This was graceful and elegant, like a showpiece created for somebody bred from generations of blue blood.
Charlotte was more confused—and more attracted—by her protector than ever.
He set her carpetbag down in the niche beside the proscenium arch above the stage.
“May I take your mantle?” he offered. “It must still be quite damp from the snow.”
“Oh yes, of course.” She shrugged it off, into his waiting hands. Faint wisps of steam drifted up from the fine wool to merge into the tobacco smoke from below where the opera singer was bowing to raucous applause.
He handed it outside, between the curtains.
“May I take your bonnet, too?”
She hesitated. It would be scandalous to uncover her head when she was so utterly at his mercy, especially when so many respectable women here wore their bonnets. And yet it was her sole bonnet. If she was to salvage its ribbons and feathers from their current bedraggled mess so she could leave town without appearing the fool, her headgear must be dried quickly.
Damn.
She bit her lip and unpinned the once-fashionable bit of millinery with almost military speed. Her hands were steadier when she untied its bow and handed it to him.
“My servants will see to it. They’ve restored far more damaged clothing.” He shook the bonnet slightly, as if he could envision its former Parisian flair.
“May I see your cheek? If it’s badly injured, I can send for a doctor—”
“No!”
“Are you sure?”
Her eyes met his in the drifting golden light. He looked predatory, like a hunting cat. “Who hurt you?”
Improper Gentlemen Page 3
