“Yes, Mama.”
Her mother’s eyes fell to Lettie’s rumpled skirt and the bodice she clutched in her hands, then her eyes skipped to the bed. Lettie cringed, wondering if there was some way a mother could tell if a man and woman had slept in the same bed together simply by the way the sheets lay in careless disorder. But her mother merely turned to regard her again in confusion.
“Did you sleep in those?” she asked quietly, gesturing to Lettie’s skirt and camisole. Her lips once again pressed into a disapproving line. The second cardinal rule of the boardinghouse: Always appear neat and well-groomed.
“I was just getting dressed.”
Her mother opened her mouth as if to remonstrate her, then closed it again. “Perhaps you’d better choose another skirt. That one is a trifle… gritty.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Her mother looked at her again, her dark eyes probing in the weak morning light. “A proper young woman is always careful of her mode of dress, Letitia. She should wear things that are neat, freshly ironed, and clean. Otherwise, one tends to make the wrong impression and attract the attention of the wrong sort of people.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Evidently finished with her remarks, Celeste turned and moved toward the steps. “We’ve got baking to do today, and after all the noise this morning, the boarders will probably be coming down early. Don’t take too long.”
“No, Mama.”
“Your brother came by this morning. He wanted to speak to you, but one of his men called him away. He told me to tell you that he’d be by later.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Celeste reached out a hand to grasp the banister, then paused when her eyes fell on the tray that still lay on the bedside table. The bits of leftover food and drink could be clearly seen, as could the two cups.
Lettie opened her mouth to explain, but her mother merely glanced at her and shook her head in bewilderment. “Lettie, one of these days you’re going to have to stop your foolish daydreaming” was all she said before she lifted her skirts and retreated back down the stairs.
Lettie waited until long after she’d heard the squeak of the door and the click of the latch before sagging against the wardrobe in relief. It was some moments later before she heard a low rap from inside the armoire.
Spinning around, Lettie yanked open the door, confronting the sight of her Highwayman sitting in the bottom, with half a dozen garments tangled over his head.
“May I get out now?” he muttered tightly.
“Yes, of course.”
She helped him pull the clothing out of the way, then stepped aside to let him pass. Very carefully, he swung his legs to the floor and pushed himself free. Then he turned on her, his eyes blazing with a blue fire.
“Just what kind of a game are you playing?” he demanded.
“What?”
“I knew your brother was desperate, but I didn’t think he’d stoop so low as to offer me his sister for the night, just to ensure my whereabouts.”
Lettie gasped and her hand whipped out, slapping him across the cheek. “Of all the ungrateful things to say!”
She moved to stalk past him, but he grasped her arm, yanking her hard against him. Hard enough that she could sense the careful control of his breathing, feel the leashed power of his anger. The red imprint of her hand seemed to glare at her from the firm contours of his cheek.
“Damn you! What’s your brother trying to prove?”
“Nothing! If you’ll remember, I hid you from him last night.”
“You also drugged me, didn’t you? Didn’t you?” He clasped her elbows and shook her.
“I—”
“Don’t lie to me!”
“All right! I drugged you.”
“Why?”
She clamped her jaw together in obstinate silence.
“Lettie”—he shook her in warning—“why?”
“I knew you’d try to leave. The house was being watched. I couldn’t let you try to escape.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s the truth.”
The room shuddered in silence as the man who held her seemed to pause and digest her words. “Then why is he coming this morning?” he asked, his distrust still tightly threaded within the tone of his voice.
“I don’t know.”
“Lettie.”
“I don’t know!”
The stranger’s stance remained taut, his features rigid. Clearly, he doubted her words, but more than that, he doubted her intentions. “Why are you helping me if this isn’t some plan of your brother’s?”
Lettie pulled against the restraint of his arm until he released her. She forced herself to step away, even though her heart had begun to pound.
“Why, Lettie?” he demanded. When she didn’t answer, his voice rose. “Why?”
“Shh! You’ll bring the whole house charging in here like a flock of sheep.”
The man glanced over his shoulder as if her words could conjure someone behind him, and for a moment, Lettie saw a flash of vulnerability within his features, like an animal who felt trapped and unsure of his own ability to escape. In a moment, however, his expression once again became closed and wary.
“Why did you help me?” he repeated again through gritted teeth.
“Because I had to,” she finally said, spinning away from him and marching back toward the wardrobe. Snatching a day dress from the garments that had fallen untidily onto the bottom, she slammed the door and whirled to face him. “If I hadn’t helped you, you would have slept in jail.”
The soft twitter of birds seeped into the silence of the room. Lettie stood up, stiffly withstanding the stranger’s regard. She’d forgotten how piercing his gaze could be. Finally, when his scrutiny became almost unbearable, Lettie whispered, “Please turn around.”
“Why?”
She licked her lips, then rued the gesture when his gaze zeroed in on the fullness of her mouth. “I need to change my clothes,” she murmured uncomfortably. “I can’t do that if you’re watching.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, but, as if he realized he would get no more answers from her, he slowly presented his back.
She quickly stripped off the bodice and previous day’s skirt and tossed them onto the foot of her bed.
The man’s head seemed to jerk in the direction of her fallen clothing, then returned. His shoulders straightened, but he didn’t speak.
Lettie’s eyes narrowed in consideration. Her gaze slipped from the tousled dark waves of his hair to the sleep-wrinkled expanse of his shirt. Her eyes clung, then could not be pulled away. The simple chambray workshirt had come untucked at his waist on one side and the tail of fabric draped over one buttock, clearly emphasizing the way his rib cage curved in such a beguiling way into his waist. Once again, Lettie was struck by the narrow square of his hips, the firm swell of his buttocks, the lean strength of his thighs. The Beasleys would have been delighted.
“Lettie? What are you doing?”
The sound of the Highwayman’s voice eased into the silence, the tone low and rich like the stroke of velvet against bare skin, but filled with suspicion.
“What?” she breathed, distracted by the fact that this man’s form still seemed more fantasy than reality.
His shoulders stiffened. “What are you doing?”
He whirled suddenly, as if fully expecting her to be aiming some unknown weapon at his back. His body braced; his hands tensed. Then he paused when he realized she was unarmed. And undressed.
His eyes scorched a path from her head to her toes, returning again to linger on the flare of her hips, the narrowness of her waist, the fullness of her breasts, all lovingly encased in the soft cotton of her unmentionables and the sturdy canvas of her corset.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured stiffly. “I thought…”
But he didn’t turn around.
Lettie could only swallow against the sudden tightness of her throat. Looking into his eyes, she caught her first glimps
e of masculine awareness. And although it was thrilling, it was also frightening. This man was not her Highwayman. This man was real. She couldn’t turn him on and off at will as she did her fantasies. He had a mind of his own, a strength of his own… desires of his own.
Lettie clutched her dress in front of her. In matters of the heart, Lettie had little experience with boys, let alone grown men. Since her mother had rigidly taught her to be a “proper” young lady, and her brother guarded her like a nervous father, she could count the number of times she’d been alone with a boy on one hand—and most of those times had been far from romantic.
Yet she’d lived too long in a boardinghouse to remain ignorant about what happened between a man and a woman. And where her own limited experience had left off, her imagination had stepped in to fill the gap. But imagination would never be enough. Some day, she wanted to know what it felt like to have a man trace her cheek with his fingers, or press his lips against her hair. But more than that, Lettie wanted to lay her own palm against a man’s chest, wanted to test the texture of a beard-stubbled jaw.
The man took a step forward.
Suddenly nervous and embarrassed by her own thoughts, Lettie dragged the gray-and blue-striped day dress over her head, quickly fastened the hooks at her hip and along her waist, then shoved the buttons of the bodice into their respective holes.
By the time she’d finished, the stranger was only a few scant inches away. His eyes were burning. Aware.
Her breath seemed to snag in her chest. In her fantasies, she had never hesitated in indulging her wildest whims with the Highwayman. But this man was real.
Taking a deep gasping breath, Lettie brushed by him in a near run, intent on escape, but once again he reached out to catch her arm, forcing her to face him.
“Where are you going?” His voice was low and bittersweet, like the lap of a kitten’s tongue against her bare flesh.
“Th-the baking. I have to… bake.”
The man’s grip tightened ever so slightly, and he took a step forward. His free hand lifted, and one knuckle skimmed across the delicate slope of her cheek.
Lettie reared back as if scorched. Her hand clamped around his wrist in an effort to free herself, but he refused to acknowledge her silent plea. Instead, his finger returned to touch her jaw. “You won’t tell anyone that you’ve seen me?” His voice became silky. Hard.
“No.”
His finger moved to feather across the bottom curve of her lip. She struggled to breathe when he took another step closer and the warmth of his body seeped through her clothing to her skin. Faint traces of dirt still dusted his cheeks, and the scraggly beginnings of a beard had grown even darker overnight. Somehow, his dishevelment only made him seem more unapproachable, and oh, so appealing.
“Goodbye, then.”
And suddenly, Lettie wanted him to leave. This man was unpredictable. Dangerous.
His eyes dropped to where she still held him by the wrist. Unconsciously, her thumb had been brushing back and forth over the white strip of bandages.
She gasped and tried to pull away.
He glanced up, and their gazes locked.
Lettie could barely breathe. “Just go,” she whispered.
He made a soft sound in the throat as if mocking her effort at control. Then he looked down and Lettie grew still. Warm. Slowly he lifted her hand, extending her fingers. For long moments, his eyes traced the angry cut across her finger. Without speaking, he peered up at her, and something within his eyes seemed to soften in disbelief.
“You cut yourself,” he murmured, as if denying the evidence of his own eyes.
She attempted a nonchalant shrug. “I had to do something. Jacob kept looking at the blood on the floor.”
He tugged softly at her hand, drawing her toward the abandoned tray from the night before. A small roll of cotton bandaging had dropped to the floor, and he tugged at Lettie’s hand, forcing her to sit on the edge of the bed. Then he took a small cotton strip and tenderly wound it around the slash on the tip of her finger.
“You should have done this last night.”
“I didn’t think…”
He glanced up at her, his eyes dark and compellingly warm, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he finished his task, his fingers brushing gently against her skin, causing her to feel things, think things, about this man that she’d never thought about any other man before.
When he’d finished, he stood up and drew her to her feet. Only a hairbreadth of space separated them, the distance so slight that Lettie could feel the friction of his trousers against her skirts as she fought to breathe.
He continued to watch her, a touch of gray entering his eyes, his mouth softening slightly. He took an infinitesimal step closer. Very slowly, his gaze shifted to trace her brow, her cheek, her mouth. “Thank you,” he murmured. Then he lifted their hands. Gently, he opened her fingers and pressed his lips to her bandaged finger.
Lettie gasped at the unbelievably tender gesture. When he released her, she twisted away, feeling as if a tiny corner of her soul trembled and unfurled. Then, not knowing what more to do, she lifted her skirts and rushed past him, clattering down the steps.
Once outside the door, she leaned back against the portal for a moment to gather her scattered senses. A sweet shiver coursed through her limbs, and she closed her eyes. She was glad he was leaving. Glad.
But as she turned to walk down the steps, Lettie couldn’t deny the fact that she wasn’t glad. Not entirely.
Chapter 6
Jacob Grey squinted against the early morning sunlight and issued a curt set of instructions to a pair of men, then motioned for them to continue their search. Turning, he took a few steps and gathered the reins of his horse in one hand before lifting his gaze toward the boardinghouse.
His jaw tightened in frustration as he studied the simple whitewashed structure. The night before, soon after he and his men had left, his deputy had found a horse tied to an oak tree near the creek, less than three hundred yards from the house. On its back had been a valise containing a few changes of clothing and some men’s toiletry articles. A faint set of bootprints led briefly west, then vanished, leaving no trace of the man. And deep in his heart, Jacob knew just who their suspect had been: Ethan McGuire.
His hand tightened into a fist. How long had he been chasing McGuire now? Seven years? Eight? As an inexperienced deputy, Jacob had been intrigued by the Gentleman Bandit—even secretly envious of the man’s all-out gall. But as the Gentleman had grown more and more daring, Jacob had vowed to apprehend the man.
Within a year, he had amassed every scrap of evidence on the Gentleman Bandit. He’d become obsessed with the crimes. And he’d nearly caught him once.
Jacob frowned as the memory of that night five years before returned to jab him with his own stupidity. He remembered the way he’d begun to think like the Gentleman, anticipating his moves. Then one night, he’d cornered the man at the Chicago Mortgage and Thrift. The Gentleman had gazed at him in surprise from above the black bandanna tied over his mouth; his azure eyes had sparkled in something akin to admiration.
And then the safe had exploded, throwing Jacob to the ground and knocking him unconscious. He’d awakened to find himself tied and gagged, sitting in a field full of foxtails without a stitch of clothing to his name, the Gentleman’s calling card tucked beneath the ropes binding his wrists.
A growl of disgust lodged in Jacob’s throat. He’d vowed to find the man. Find him and hang him. But after that night, the Gentleman had ceased his thievery.
Until the last few months.
Now Jacob was more determined than ever to capture Ethan McGuire. This time, Jacob would not be so gullible. The man was out there somewhere. And Jacob intended to find him and bring him to justice.
He jammed his hat onto his head and swung into the saddle, his gaze sweeping the area. It seemed impossible to believe that the man could have disappeared so easily. Especially with nearly a dozen men on his tail. But somehow
he’d managed to escape capture. Again.
Jacob stiffened slightly when the muffled clop of hooves heralded the arrival of his deputy, who had been assigned to take the horse they’d found to the corral behind the jailhouse.
Rusty Janson took one look at Jacob from beneath carrot-colored eyebrows, then spat a stream of tobacco into the dust in disgust. “You haven’t slept yet, have you?”
Jacob didn’t answer. He merely pulled his gloves more securely over his fingers.
“You were supposed to take a break and get some sleep.”
“I’m all right.”
Rusty shook his head at Jacob’s stubbornness and reached for a fresh plug of tobacco from his shirt pocket. “Found anything yet?”
“No.”
The deputy glanced around him as if there could be someone listening. “I was asked to give you a message,” he finally murmured, handing Jacob a folded piece of paper.
Jacob stared at the note for several moments before finally reaching out to take it, sensing somehow what it would contain. Although Jacob was able to deliver messages to the Star Council of Justice by means of the lightning-blasted oak tree, the Council’s replies were to be kept secret, and individual instructions were delivered only after notification had been given. This way, no man could divulge the complete workings of the Star.
After hesitating only a moment, he unfolded the missive and stared at the single symbol: an eight-pointed star surrounded by a circle. In the center of the star, the initials SCJ had been carefully inscribed.
Jacob stared at the note, fighting his own misgivings. After last night’s robbery—and the injury of a deputy—the Star Council had evidently decided to revise their decision concerning Ethan McGuire. At dawn, a new set of instructions would await Jacob at the tree.
Taking a match from his shirt pocket, Jacob ignited the tip and touched it to the edge of the paper. After the flame had caught hold, he tossed the note to the ground and gathered the reins to his mount.
“The suspect has evidently gone. I told Cooper and Gold to take a pair of men and double check the area around the creek. Tell the rest of the men to go on home. There’s no sense keeping the posse any longer. The man’s probably miles away by now. Miles away.”
Silken Dreams Page 7
