by Faye Hall
Abby nodded.
“You’re really going through with this then?” Patrick asked.
She glaring at her brother, then turned back to the madam to organize what she needed for the night ahead. Lotte couldn’t ignore the sound of her brother slamming the door as he stormed out of the room. She knew that in his heart Patrick meant well, and as always, he was trying to protect her, but right now Lotte didn’t want his protection. What she wanted was Devon.
* * * *
The carriage pulled up in front of the Pioneer Hotel.
“We’re here, Mr. Munroy,” the driver said.
Devon sat in the carriage, pondering what was ahead of him this night. He usually came to the hotel to get his supply of alcohol, or sent one of the servants to collect it. Never had he come here for the women. Never had he thought to. But now…
He felt as if he was losing his mind. Lotte had never been far from his thoughts since the night she died in his arms, but lately it was more than just that. Now, it seemed as if wherever he looked, Lotte was there, taunting him and reminding him of what could have been.
Burying his head in his hands, Andrew’s words came back to him. Devon knew he couldn’t bring Lotte back from the dead, but maybe if he could find a woman like her, someone he could fool himself into believing could be his once lover back from the dead… Maybe Andrew was right. Maybe this new woman at the hotel was the one he needed to help him move past his grief. By the description he’d been given, Devon began wondering just how much like Lotte she could be. Maybe she was the same woman he kept running into over the last few years.
Whomever this woman was, Devon hoped that should he be with her, be able to lay with her, that maybe she would be able to fill the gap that kept growing inside of him; the gap left there the night of the shooting. Maybe this new woman at the tavern would be able to give Devon his lost love back, if only in his own mind.
As Devon walked into the crowd filling the Pioneer Hotel, men and women flocked toward him, trying to get him to join in the festivities. Despite their efforts to make him join in with their dancing and drinking, Devon shrugged them all off. He didn’t want to join in their frivolities. All Devon wanted was to take his usual seat at the old oak bar and drown his sorrows in a bottle or two of brandy.
Devon had almost reached the bar when he was stopped by a drunken man’s hand on his arm. “Mister, come join us.”
Devon tried to shake him off. “No, thank you.”
The drunken man pulled on his arm, suddenly stopping his dance with the ladies surrounding him, his irritation at Devon’s refusal clear. “Do you think you’re better than us?”
Without warning, Devon turned, his hand going automatically around the man’s throat. His anger was all he had left to stop himself from falling apart before everyone there. Having this man talk to him was bringing emotions to the surface that he was far from comfortable with.
“Oh, I’m better than you, you little bastard. Be it on the street or in a whorehouse. You would do well to remember that too.”
The man struggled, gasping for breath, but Devon merely tightened his grip, knowing that if he wanted, he could break his neck in a wink of an eye.
“Let him go, Devon,” the bartender’s voice rang out.
Devon continued holding the man’s throat until a single shot rang out, silencing the bar.
“Devon Munroy, let the man go before he messes his pants,” Patrick roared.
Turning slightly, Devon’s stare met that of the bartender’s. Seeing the deadly seriousness on the slightly shorter man’s face, Devon knew, if need be, Patrick would make him let go of the other man.
“I don’t want to have to shoot you, Devon,” Patrick said, turning the pistol toward him.
Devon watched the weapon now being aimed in his direction. Reluctantly, he let the drunken man drop to the floor. “My apologies, Patrick,” he said almost sarcastically, walking toward the bar and taking his usual seat.
“You can’t keep doing that, Devon,” Patrick said as he replaced the gun back under the bar.
“Why?” Devon asked. “Are you afraid I’m bad for business?”
Patrick shook his head. “I’m worried you’ll pick the wrong man one day, and it’ll be you gasping for breath.”
Devon raised his brow. “Why the concern?”
Patrick shrugged. “I just don’t want to clean up the mess you’d make is all.” He turned to get a glass from the rack behind him, then turned back to Devon. “You’re a strong man and taller than most, but you aren’t invincible. One day, I fear you will come off second best.”
Devon looked at him seriously. “I couldn’t be that lucky.”
Patrick raised a curious brow. “That sounds as if you’ve had a rather challenging day.”
Devon nodded. “Believe me when I say you couldn’t even begin to imagine.”
“Anything I can do?”
Devon could feel his features tense. “Not unless you can you bring someone back from the dead for me?”
The bartender shook his head. “I wish I could. I’d be a rich man if I knew how to do that.”
Devon nodded. “If you ever learn how, I’d give you my entire fortune.”
“Until then?” Patrick asked, holding up an empty glass.
“The best brandy you have.”
Pouring the drink, Patrick studied him. “Will the alcohol help?”
Devon shook his head. “Hasn’t yet.”
Patrick smiled. “Tonight may be different. You may find something other than alcohol to help improve your mood.”
Devon watched as the bartender walked away. Though he appreciated the attempt, he knew Patrick was wrong. Tonight would be no different. The alcohol would barely dull the aching in his heart, and his doubts were growing that any woman at the hotel, be she new or old, would help quench the constant aching in his heart.
Sitting at the bar, Devon looked around at the happenings and interactions of people inside this grand hotel. Despite his need for alcohol, it disgusted him that he should find himself there again, this time contemplating spending the night with a working girl. He didn’t want to be there hungering for a woman. He wanted numbness like every other night.
A figure of a woman caught his eyes from the back of the tavern, her hair a light reddish color. Devon felt his heart skip a beat and his breath catch in his throat. Closing his eyes, he let out a steadying sigh. He knew the woman couldn’t be Lotte, and that she was most likely just the woman Andrew had told him about. Still, the feeling that filled him when he first saw her was unlike any he had felt for some years.
“Patrick, who’s the redhead walking around out the back there?”
Going to Devon, Patrick turned in the direction he pointed, but there was no one there. Slowly, he turned back to Devon.
“Maybe it’s time you came here for more than just the alcohol, Devon. It might help you cope with your grief over the woman you lost.”
Devon stared into his glass. “I don’t come here for the women.”
Patrick nodded. “I know that. But maybe it’s time you did. You can handpick any woman you want, and I’ll make sure she’s ready for you.”
Devon sat staring into his glass, thinking on the bartender’s offer. Slowly, he nodded.
“Just point out which ever woman you want, Devon.”
Catching a familiar scent of musky rose, Devon turned immediately, expecting to see Lotte. All he saw was the departing figure of a curvaceous woman, her hair a glowing light reddish color reaching near to the gentle sway of her rear.
“I want her,” was Devon’s reply, turning back to the bar and downing the last of his brandy.
* * * *
Patrick poured Devon another drink, eyeing him carefully as he did so. “Are you sure that’s the woman you want for the night, Devon?”
Devon nodded.
“You don’t have to look so defeated about it. You’re not the only man who comes to a whorehouse rather than bed his wife.”
Devon shook his head. “It’s not that. It’s just…” His words faded away, unable to continue.
“Lotte Higgins died nearly four years ago, Devon,” Patrick reminded him. “No one could blame you for coming here for a woman.”
“But I don’t want any other woman. I want Lotte back, alive and in my bed,” Devon said as if from far away. He sipped his drink. “But maybe if I lay with that woman here… Her hair’s not quite as red as Lotte’s was and she’s more curvaceous than she was, but still, I can pretend it’s Lotte again, if only for a moment.”
Patrick studied the man before him, pitying him. “Red hair you said? We do have a new girl working here, still untouched by any man here. I can go have her readied for you if that is your wish.”
Devon sat staring into his drink. Finally, he looked up at Patrick. “You don’t let any man handpick the girls in here. So why are you allowing me?”
Patrick shrugged as he wiped out a glass, hoping for an air of casualness. “Maybe I just feel sorry for you.”
“Why would you care?” Devon asked him. “I’m not the only sorry soul that comes in here.”
“True.” Patrick nodded. “But you have been mourning for the same woman for nearly four years. I can’t help but feel sorry for you.”
“What do you know of the girl I lost?” Devon inquired.
Patrick shrugged. “I know enough.”
Devon looked up at him, his gaze studying the man before him. “How?”
Patrick wanted to tell him the truth. He had wanted to years ago, but Lotte wouldn’t let him. After he told his sister that Devon had married Elizabeth Fanti, Lotte made him swear he would keep her survival a secret from everyone, including Devon.
“Who are you, Patrick?” Devon questioned. “You know so much about me, claim to know about the woman I loved, yet I barely know more than your name. I don’t even know how you were unlucky enough to receive such severe burns to the side of your face.”
Patrick returned his stare, struggling to keep the promise he’d made his sister. “I’m nobody, Devon,” he finally answered, returning to wiping out glasses. “As for the scar, I’ve had it so long, I’ve no memory of what I looked like before it.”
“You seem vaguely familiar to me somehow,” Devon continued. “Like I’ve met you somewhere before. Maybe in another hotel in a different town perhaps?”
Patrick struggled against telling him the truth, reminding Devon of when and why they knew each other. Though he felt this man deserved the truth, he knew this wasn’t the time nor place.
“Familiarity goes with the job, sir. I learned long ago that a bartender in a small town needs to know what he can about his regular customers. And if he can’t, then he quickly learns to pretend and act as if they’d met years before.”
Needing to escape, Patrick called for one of the working girls to tend the bar.
Handing her the towel and giving her instructions, he turned back to Devon. “I’ll go see about getting you that redhead, Devon.” With that, Patrick turned and walked out the back of the bar.
* * * *
Devon watched the bartender walk out the back of the hotel, very aware of where he was going. This wasn’t why he thought to come there when he left his house this afternoon, but now…
Looking around at his surroundings, Devon wished he could say this night was no different than any other. The revelers crowding the Pioneer Hotel were similar to the usual crowd of drunks and working girls Devon normally saw. The insides of the hotel were made up of a solid oak bar and a winding staircase leading upstairs to the rented rooms. The meals served there were far better than those in the finest restaurants back in England. The bar also stocked many of the finest liquors. As far as places went in North Queensland, the Pioneer Hotel was the best Devon had ever seen. And the women…
In truth, he didn’t know what the women were like who worked there. Never had he thought to find out either. In all his years, he had never been able to figure out why a man would leave the comfort of his own bed, of his own wife, to partake in loveless affairs with the women who worked in such establishments. He had certainly never seen himself becoming one of these men.
Burying his head in his open palms, Devon struggled to accept that certain events had pushed him to become the regular he was there. The reality was he felt as if he was being chased by shadows, memories taunting and tormenting him into hoping the woman he once loved, the woman he had killed, was still alive somewhere. Shaking his head, Devon admitted he was the biggest of fools to still be in love with a dead woman.
Those that had flocked around him after Lotte’s death assured him that his grief would lessen as the years passed, but here he was, nearly four years later, and still Devon woke in the middle of the night, images of Lotte swimming in his head. But Devon knew better than anyone that he couldn’t make love to a dead woman. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t deny that he missed the feel of a woman’s body next to his own, entwined with his own, her softness begging for release.
Devon knew this woman Patrick had gone to ready for him for tonight wouldn’t be his lost love, but he hoped if he drank enough brandy, then the color of her hair, the feel of her curves, could be just enough for him to pretend he was again making love to Lotte, even if only for a few minutes.
* * * *
Walking out the back of the hotel and up the staircase to the working rooms, Patrick left Devon sitting at the bar, drowning in his own sorrows. Over the past several years, he had seen this man in a myriad of states, from pitiful to the pathetic. Each night, as he refilled Devon’s glass with brandy again and again, his pity for him grew. He believed once this man had truly loved his sister, and seeing how her apparent death had affected him still now, Patrick began to realize the true extent of Devon’s affections.
It saddened him to see what had become of this once tall, strong built man. To see him become a mere shadow of the man he’d once been was cruel, and he had tried to tell his sister as such many times. Still, Lotte held him to his promise, to keep her survival hidden from Devon.
Patrick may not have wanted Lotte to risk her life again by becoming involved with Devon Munroy, but nor could he keep watching the pathetic suffering and self-punishment that Devon continued to put himself through.
Again, tonight when he went to see his sister, Patrick would beg her to tell Devon the truth about what happened that terrible evening so long ago. Again, Patrick doubted it would do any good. He had begged her so many times over the years, but not once had she agreed it was time to put Devon out of his misery. Patrick was certain tonight would be no different.
His thoughts returning to Devon, Patrick realized though that this evening was already different. Never before had he come to the hotel asking for a woman. Even upon the many times Patrick had offered one to him, Devon had always refused. Yet tonight he hadn’t. Instead he had handpicked the only red-haired woman in the hotel.
Why was tonight so different?
Knocking on his sister’s door, Patrick entered, closing the door behind him.
“You need to tell Devon the truth, Lotte. It’s killing him thinking that he’s the reason for your death. It’s been killing him for nearly four years. Even this man doesn’t deserve so much torture.”
Lotte wouldn’t look at him. “If I tell him the truth, he will rush straight home to Elizabeth, his wife, and tell her. When that happens, brother, neither of us will be safe. Father is no longer here to protect us. We will be dead within the month.”
“What if he doesn’t tell his wife?” Patrick asked. “What if he loves you enough to keep your secret?”
Lotte turned to look at her brother. “And what if he doesn’t, Patrick?”
Patrick walked toward his sister. “Is your need for revenge still so important after all these years that you would continue to let the man you love believe you to be dead?”
Lotte stopped brushing her hair. “Elizabeth needs to pay for what she did to me, to us. If
Devon were to ever learn that I survived that night, if anyone was to learn, everything I’ve worked for would be for nothing.”
“Devon loves you, Lotte. Even after all these years, he loves you.”
“He loves me so much that he married Elizabeth weeks after I was shot!” Lotte spat at him.
“You know why he did that,” Patrick rebutted. “His father’s life was in danger and you were gone. He cared nothing for what would happen to him.”
“As you say, brother,” Lotte replied tartly.
“Is it worth all this heartache, Lotte?”
“Heartache?” Lotte asked. “You know nothing of heartache, Patrick. It isn’t you who has to watch Devon walk around town with that woman on his arm. It isn’t you who goes to see Devon every night knowing within minutes he will be crawling in Elizabeth’s bed!”
Patrick didn’t try to hide his anger at what he was hearing in his sister’s words. “You’ve been going to see him?” Patrick asked, his voice steady and hard. “You’ve been sneaking into his estate house to see him?”
Lotte went to turn away from him, but Patrick reached out, grabbing her arm and stopping her.
“Damn it, Lotte!” he yelled. “What if you were seen? What if Elizabeth had seen you?”
Lotte didn’t answer him.
“For a woman so determined not to let Devon learn the truth, you have been tempting fate by going to see him.”
Still Lotte said nothing.
“Stop torturing the poor man!” Patrick demanded. “Enough is enough. You need to tell him the truth.”
“Tell him the truth?” Lotte exploded at her brother, pulling down the shoulder of her gown, revealing her scar. “You think that man out there wants to see this? You think he wants to take some scarred woman to his bed?”
“Lotte.”
“No, Patrick! What Devon wants is a whore. That’s why he’s here tonight and that is what I’ll give him!”
Leaving his sister’s room, frustrated with Lotte’s continued stubbornness, Patrick headed back out to the bar and to Devon. He was almost there when he passed the tall, curvaceous figure of the hotel’s madam. Reaching out, he placed his hand on the older woman’s forearm.
