Silken Dreams

by Bingham, Lisa

  Rusty nodded and straightened, obviously uncomfortable at the reminder of Clark’s death. “If you’re sure you don’t want anything?”

  “I’m sure. Thanks.”

  After snatching his hat from the coat tree by the door, Rusty slipped outside and closed the door behind him. The bell overhead issued a muffled jangle, then grew silent.

  Jacob looked up again and watched his deputy stride out of sight down the boardwalk, then bent back over the reports on his desk. A frown creased his brow. For hours now, he’d been studying the reports from the railway theft: printed accounts of physical damages, monetary losses, witnesses’ statements. But there was something unsettling about the whole affair. Something more than the death of a friend.

  First of all, why hadn’t any of the railroad employees seen anyone approach the train once it had stopped? Except for a few trees and some bushes, the water stop was in a virtually clear area. And why hadn’t anyone heard Jeb’s cries for help, or a shot in the night? Though the Gentleman had never been known to rob a train before, the security for the gold shipment had been amazingly lax. Yet no one had stepped forward to point a finger of blame toward the railroad. The officials were too concerned about placing blame upon an outside influence.

  Damn! It just didn’t make sense. It was almost as if someone had planned for the robbery to occur. And for Jeb Clark to die.

  Sliding open the drawer to his desk, Jacob withdrew the file of clippings he’d collected over the years. One by one, he lifted the articles from the folder and placed them on the desk until the top was littered with yellowed squares of newsprint. Then he began to place the clippings into one of two piles: Those that had occurred five years before were placed on the left; those that had occurred in the last few months were placed on the right.

  For several long moments, Jacob sifted through the information he’d gathered over the past few years, but it was not until the articles had been sorted into separate piles that he began to notice a slight deviation in pattern.

  Those on the left were almost identical. Five years before, the Gentleman Bandit had displayed a tendency to steal paper first, then gold—never taking more than he could carry in order to get cleanly away. Once he’d gathered his booty, the man would explode the safe, tack a vellum calling card to the inside of the front door, and disappear into the night before help could arrive.

  Jacob’s finger nudged the smaller pile of clippings on the right, spreading them onto the desk. In the last few months, the robberies followed basically the same pattern. In most cases, the bills were taken first, then the gold. But the quantities were larger, heavier, as if the man had become greedy in his tasks. And there were slight deviations from form. In Eastbrook, some jewelry had been taken; in Dewey, a bag of coins; the train to Harrisburg, stock certificates. Yet the rest of the pattern remained intact: the destroyed safe, the vellum card, the lack of tangible evidence—but then there had been one piece of evidence. The watch at Eastbrook. A watch that reportedly belonged to Ethan McGuire. It was that one piece of damning evidence that had forced the Star to show its hand.

  And then there were the murders.

  Jacob’s hand suddenly stilled over the pile of newsclippings. Five years before, the Gentleman had never hurt anyone. In fact, he had put himself in danger of being caught once or twice rather than see a person injured. Even that night Jacob had nearly caught him in Chicago, the Gentleman had seen him safely out of the bank.

  So why would a man who had shown such respect for life five years earlier suddenly become a cold-blooded killer?

  For the first time, Jacob found his instincts balking against what he knew to be true. He couldn’t help thinking that Ethan McGuire was not behaving true to form. And although the passage of years between the two sets of crimes could explain the discrepancies, Jacob still felt a tension in his gut—as if he were missing something. Something important that would cause all of the pieces of the puzzle to fall neatly into place.

  Shaking off his own doubts, Jacob took a deep breath and scooped the clippings together before dropping them back into the folder. Ethan McGuire was merely slipping in his old age. It was the only logical explanation. After all, it had been five years since the man had supposedly “retired.”

  The bell to his office door jingled, and Jacob glanced up to find Gerald Stone standing just inside the threshold.

  “Got a minute?”

  Jacob nodded and casually replaced the folder in his desk drawer.

  Gerald closed the door behind him and stepped into the room. There was a certain caution about the other man’s manner that put Jacob immediately on his guard.

  Gerald glanced behind him. “Anyone but Rusty here?” he asked, with overt casualness.

  Jacob eyed the man, sensing he’d come on behalf of the Star. “No. Did you need Janson for something? He’s gone to the Mercury for a drink and a bite to eat. I could send for him if you’d like.”

  “No. No, that’s fine.” Gerald sat on the edge of the desk and picked up a cast-iron plaque that Jacob kept on his desk as a paperweight. “We’re alone, then?” he asked again.

  Jacob nodded, keeping his features expressionless, while all the time his heart had begun to beat in his chest with a powerful insistence.

  “I just had a chat with Krupp.”

  Jacob regarded his friend with narrowed eyes. “Oh?”

  “We’re setting a trap for Ethan McGuire tonight. Gruber has leaked word that a mythical shipment of gold has already arrived in town… unannounced. Krupp’s planning on having his men guard the place in case someone might be planning to take it during the night. He wants us to be ready to back him should he need us.”

  “Us?” Jacob repeated.

  “You. Me. Our men.” He threw Jacob a meaningful glance. “Krupp has this feeling that the Gentleman will take the bait and make an appearance.”

  “The thief would be a fool to try anything so soon after Clark’s death.”

  “Nevertheless, we’re to be there, just in case.”

  Jacob waited a moment before adding, “On behalf of the Star.”

  “On behalf of the Star,” Gerald repeated, reaching into the inside pocket of his vest. “Since you’re now a part of the governing board, you’re to memorize this list of members who are subject to your orders. Once you’ve committed the names to memory—”

  “Burn the paper.”

  “That’s right.”

  Jacob hesitated only a moment before reaching for the list. Skimming the names, he found himself slightly shaken by the number of men involved, men who would be subject to his orders and would follow them to the letter, whatever those orders might be. There was Mason Whitby, the blacksmith; Adolph Schmidt, the owner of the dry goods—even Randolph Goldsmith.

  “There are a lot of names here,” he commented needlessly.

  Gerald shrugged. “Not really. Old Krupp’s got the major portion of the group. His battalion’s about twice what you’ve got.”

  Jacob glanced at him in surprise, then looked at the list again. Each man’s name had been written beneath that of the contact from the outer circle of assistants and the location of his communication station. The Johnston farm serviced only a fraction of Jacob’s group of men.

  “Come dawn, Krupp wants you and a few of your men to meet him at the Johnston farmhouse—you won’t need the entire battalion tomorrow; three or four men should do it. You’re to tell Rusty which men you wish to employ. He’ll notify them all tonight.”

  “Rusty knows the identity of the governors?”

  Gerald nodded. “He was Clark’s lieutenant. We figured you wouldn’t mind if he kept his position.”

  “No,” Jacob answered quickly. “No, I don’t mind. What if Krupp needs our help before dawn?”

  “We’ll let you know.”

  Jacob nodded. “And if we apprehend the Gentleman, we execute?”

  “No.”

  Jacob looked up in surprise.

  “Not immediately. If the man
is caught, the Star wants McGuire’s guilt to be fully exposed to the public before his execution—just so things appear nice and tidy when he winds up dead. We’ll have you keep the Gentleman under guard at the Johnston farmhouse so that it appears he’s escaped again. That will create a stir in the town, what with Clark’s death and all. By the time we actually execute him, the townspeople will be singing the praises of the Star.”

  “But—”

  “Are you questioning orders?”

  Jacob took a deep breath, then finally murmured, “No.”

  “Good,” Gerald replied firmly. Then he stood up and stepped toward the door, settling his hat over his head. “Tell your sister I said hello, will you? She’s a pretty thing. Smart.”

  Jacob felt his blood turn to tiny shards of ice.

  “Yep, she’s a right pretty girl. It’d be a pity if anything had to happen to her, especially with the two of you being so close. Course, nothing could go wrong if you follow your instructions and see to it that Ethan McGuire doesn’t escape you again.” Throwing Jacob a deceptively congenial smile, Gerald opened the door and lifted a finger to the brim of his hat. “Night, Jacob. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  The door closed and shuddered slightly within its frame, but Jacob barely noticed. He was staring instead at the place where Stone had been, while a cold fist seemed to close around his heart.

  The Highwayman joined me by the side of the old beaver dam. The afternoon fairly dripped with heat. The sky hung low and stormy, filling the air with its heavy hand. I had escaped from the house and come to the water, hoping for a breath of air, a whisper of a breeze. But the stagnant weight of the approaching storm seemed to smother all motion, save for the rhythmic lapping of the creek.

  My eyes closed, my neck arched, and I lifted a hand to wipe away the perspiration that gathered beneath the thick weight of my hair. Thinking I’d heard a whisper of sound—like a breath of air ruffling through the grass—I let my hand slip around my neck and unfastened the first button of my bodice. Then the second. And the third. Soon my blouse gaped, ready to catch the slightest breeze, the first stirring of air.

  Still standing with my eyes closed, I reached for the satin ribbon beading the edge of my chemise. Slowly, ever so slowly, I drew the ribbon free from its bow.

  It was at that moment I heard him gasp.

  My eyes flew open, and I whirled toward the stand of trees beside me. Fear shuddered through my veins as I sought to pierce the darkness for the source of that single betraying sound. Then a shadow stepped away from the gnarled cottonwood not five yards away.

  My Highwayman.

  For some reason I have been unable to fathom to this day, the fear seeped from my body and, with it, my resistance to his charm. As he moved closer, my breathing quickened, my heart began to pound. But not with fear. No, something else began to throb in my veins. Something hot, and urgent, and aching. With each step he took toward me I grew more restless, more wanton. Until, stopping only a few inches away—so close that I could feel the heat of his body, smell the musk of his skin—he reached out to touch me.

  One single finger, clad in black leather, slipped beneath the edge of my bodice and slid the garment from the curve of my shoulder, all without touching my skin, so that I felt only a whisper of warmth, a shiver of need

  He looked up at me just once, his eyes glittering darkly before he glanced down at the firm curves of my breasts. They thrust above the tight lacing of my corset and threatened to spill from the edge of my chemise. He gazed at them, long and hard, for several moments. Until they ached. I ached. Then he smiled and reached out to touch me.…

  Lettie moaned sleepily, opening her eyes. As if she had conjured his image, she found Ethan squatting beside her. The late-afternoon sunlight stroked the dark waves of his hair and haloed his features until he appeared more fantasy than reality. He’d changed into the clothing he’d had in the valise, clothing that only seemed to emphasize his strength, his masculinity.

  His finger reached out, grazing the curve of her cheek, before dipping down to circle her lips. His eyes were dark, intense, as if he had been able to sense a portion of her fantasies.

  “You fell asleep for a few minutes. Perhaps you should go to bed for an hour or two,” he murmured.

  She smiled, wondering if he had intended the double interpretation that could be attached to his words.

  “Tired?” he asked softly.

  She nodded. “I never seem to get enough rest.”

  His eyes seemed to grow serious. “That’s because you spend too much time with me.”

  She shook her head. “No. Not enough time.”

  A shuttered look slipped over his features, and, not for the first time, Lettie knew that her words had caused a silent battle within him. For years, Ethan had convinced himself that he was somehow unworthy of life’s gentler emotions. And her own joy at being with him seemed to fill him with distrust.

  “You don’t know what you’re saying,” Ethan murmured after a few moments of silence.

  But Lettie found it hard to concentrate on what he was saying. His finger had begun to stroke back and forth across the fullness of her lower lip, scattering all possibility of coherent thought.

  Her lips parted and her tongue darted out to tease his finger before disappearing again.

  Ethan groaned.

  She smiled, feeling a delicious thrill at becoming the temptress for once.

  He reluctantly pulled his finger away, closing it into his fist, as if Lettie would come looking for it unless he hid it. His gaze flicked away, then returned to lock with her own. “You’re playing with fire, Lettie girl,” he whispered huskily, his jaw tightening.

  Her chin tilted and her smile filled even more with womanly seduction. “I’ve told you, Ethan: I’m not a girl.”

  Her hands reached out to twine behind his neck, pulling him forward. Knocked off balance, Ethan fell to his knees, bumping his chest to hers before he could push himself upright. He tried to draw back. Lettie followed.

  “Lettie,” he sighed, reaching up to try and unclasp her hands.

  Inexplicably hurt by his actions, she allowed herself to be pushed away.

  He stood up and walked a few feet away.

  “Why, Ethan?” she asked after the silence seemed to become smothering. “Why are you always pushing me away?”

  He sighed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “I told you my conditions. There can be nothing more between us than a few stray nights. And for once in my life, I’m trying to do the right thing. I’m no good for you, Lettie.”

  She waited, sensing there was more.

  “I haven’t always been honest, Lettie. You know that.” He turned, and his eyes gleamed with self-disgust. “After the death of my father, my mother remarried. Her second husband was a bastard. He wasted my mother’s inheritance, then left her when the money was gone. We had to eat.” His head dipped and his shoulders lifted ever so slightly in a self-deprecating shrug. “And do you know what? I liked it. Damn, my heart used to race so hard! I never felt so alive. When I was stealing, I felt vindicated. My stepfather had never been able to support my mother. But I could. I could support her and his children as well. And no one ever knew where the money came from. No one but me and my stepbrother.”

  He moved slowly toward the creek. “I developed quite a reputation for myself. No one could catch me. And except for your brother’s half-formed suspicions, no one had the slightest idea who I was.” He laughed, but the sound was bitter. “Then one morning, my stepfather returned with a fortune that made my efforts look puny. And I woke up and realized I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror. I didn’t like that feeling.”

  He turned to gaze at her with eyes that had grown dark and fierce. “I swear, Lettie, I haven’t done anything illegal in the last five years and—damn, I was so close to that pardon! So close. Because I’d never killed anyone, I was granted leniency. All I had to do was restore a bulk of the money
I’d stolen. The money had to be earned in honest labor, and I had to stay out of trouble with the law for five years. Now they’ll never believe me. They’ll never believe that I’ve been honest or that I’m not responsible for the latest robberies.”

  She walked toward him, reaching out to slip her arms around his neck and hold him close. He grew stiff at first, then, bit by bit, he relaxed until his arms wrapped around her and he held her to him as if he would wither and die if she let go.

  “They’ll believe you, Ethan. When the true criminal is found, they’ll believe you.”

  He shuddered against her in evident disbelief.

  “I believed you with much less than that.”

  He twisted his head to bury his mouth into the hair spilling around her nape. “I’m not quite the hero you think I am. In fact, I’m the worst kind of bas—”

  “No.” She forcefully stopped his words with her fingers. “The true criminal will be found and you’ll be given your pardon. Then we’ll find some way of being together. You have to believe in that.”

  When he gently disengaged himself from her embrace and turned away, Lettie glared at him in frustration. “Damn you, Ethan McGuire! Don’t turn away from me as if I were some child painting rainbows for you.”

  “Then what are you doing?” he demanded, facing her. “Even if I were to gain my pardon by some miracle of chance, what good would it do me? Do you actually think your brother is going to allow you to become involved with a man like me? Pardon or not?” He issued a short bark of sarcastic humor. “Jacob isn’t going to take lightly to your being involved with a man who has any kind of a blemish on his past, let alone a criminal record, like mine.”

  “I am not living my life for my brother!”

  “Well, maybe you should!” he shouted, then quickly lowered his voice. “I’m bad for you, Lettie.”

  “In what way?”

  “No woman should be shackled to a man like me.”

  “Stop waltzing around what you’re really thinking. The only person concerned about your past is you!”