“I didn’t want to go anyway,” she muttered to herself. “Any friends of Becket’s can’t possibly be worth the time and effort it would no doubt take to penetrate their thick skulls. I can just imagine the scintillating conversation I’ll be missing. All about cows and manure and such.”
“Miss Grace?” Billy’s voice was muffled though the thick door. “Are you all right?”
Until he’d spoken Grace hadn’t realized that her voice had been continually rising as she talked to herself. She glared at the door, but refused to answer. Traitor. She’d begun to believe that Billy was her friend. What a silly notion.
“Miss Grace?” There was alarm in his voice.
“Don’t worry, Billy,” she answered him sharply. “I’m just fine, and I’m still here. The drop from the window is a bit much for me, even if I were likely to attempt escape by that route wearing nothing but my unmentionables.”
Billy was silent, and Grace felt a smidgen of satisfaction. She’d embarrassed him again, no doubt. No more than he deserved.
She threw herself on the bed face first, burying her nose in the sapphire blue coverlet that felt cool against her too-warm face. Blast him! Blast all men, especially Dillon Becket. He was so smug, so sure of himself. How dare he take away her clothes and keep her prisoner in this room? She yanked at the covers and wrapped them around her shoulders, cocooning herself against Dillon Becket and the rest of the world. He would be sorry. Somehow…some way…if it was the last thing she ever did…
Grace looked down at the sheets she was sitting on. White as newly fallen snow, soft and satiny to her touch. A mischievous smile crept across her face and stole away the uncertainty that plagued her.
With a spark of life in her heart again, Grace pulled the silk sheets from the bed and quickly wrapped one around her body. One look in the cheval glass showed her that the line of her drawers was much too evident, and the chemise bunched unattractively under the thin silk. She dropped the sheet and stripped to the skin.
So Dillon Becket was ashamed of her, just as her father had always been. She had never been good enough, or smart enough, and even when she’d begun to mature and turn into what some people called a little beauty, it had been all wrong. Even at ten years old she’d looked too much like her mother to suit her still-grieving father.
Once again she wrapped the white silk around her body, more carefully this time. After a few sloppy attempts she managed to drape one end of the silk over her left shoulder, leaving the right shoulder bare. She rummaged through the jewelry she had discarded on the dresser, and opened the carved box. The piece she wanted was sitting on top of a jumble of jewels. With a smile Grace took the serpent pin Mikhail had given her and pinned it at her breast, securing the sheet in place.
Grace studied her reflection in the tall mirror. And frowned. She looked like a woman wrapped up in a sheet. With a critical eye she took down her hair and brushed it until it hung straight down her back. That was a little better.
She ran her fingers through the jewelry that sparkled on the dresser. A short choker of diamonds and rubies, a perfect complement to the pin she wore, was fastened at her throat. She slipped on one bracelet and then another, and then another. It didn’t matter that the styles and the gems didn’t match. Grace wore pearls and emeralds and topazes on one wrist, rubies and sapphires and garnets on the other. When she moved she clanged merrily, like a pocket full of silver.
She turned to the mirror again. Better. She pinched her cheeks and bit her lips, making the color rise in her pale face, and then she glanced down at the remaining gems on the dresser, and lifted the final piece.
A garnet choker was laid atop her head and pinned into place. The gems circled her head, and tiny lengths of worked gold that were placed between the garnets dropped against her hair and her forehead.
The sheet dragged against the floor, and Grace lifted the hem of her makeshift gown. At least Becket hadn’t taken her slippers, though she would have gone downstairs in her bare feet, if necessary.
“Billy?” she called tentatively at the closed door. “Are you still there?”
There was a short pause before Billy answered. “Yes, Miss Grace. I’m right here.”
“I’m sorry I was so rude to you earlier,” she said pitifully. “But I was disappointed.”
“You don’t need to apologize to me, Miss Grace,” he said gruffly. “I’m just sorry…well, the boss don’t mean to be a jackass, most of the time.”
“So it just comes naturally to him?” Grace smiled, pleased with herself already.
“I reckon.”
She leaned toward the closed door, placing her nose almost in the crack. “Billy, could I ask you to do me a favor?”
“I can’t bring you no clothes,” he said quickly. “The boss made me promise.”
“It’s not that. I’m…I’m rather hungry. Do you think you could manage to sneak me up a little something to eat? And some water, perhaps? I hate to be a bother.”
On the other side of the door, Billy sighed heavily. “Of course, Miss Grace,” he said, evidently relieved that her request was so simple.
There was a single heavy footstep moving away from the door. “And Billy?” she called hesitantly. “Just slide it inside the door. I’m suddenly very tired. Arguing with Becket is quite exhausting, I’ve discovered. I might even take a short nap before I eat.”
Billy agreed, and Grace listened with her ear pressed against the door as the heavy man strode down the hallway and descended the stairs. It took only a moment to arrange the fat pillows under the blue coverlet, so that if Billy did glance toward the bed when he slid her requested food into the room he would believe she was sleeping there.
She glanced toward the bed, one hand on the doorknob. It did look as though someone slept there, she thought with a small smile. And then she opened the door and stepped into the carpeted hallway.
Grace slipped noiselessly down the stairs, listening to the sounds of the party as they drifted toward her. People laughing and talking. The clink of glasses against silver trays.
She stood in the doorway, to the side where no one could see her, until she spotted Becket. He was conversing with a simpering blonde, most likely Abigail Wilkinson. His back was to her, and she kept her eyes on that back as she slipped into the room and headed in the opposite direction. Away from Dillon Becket.
There were at least thirty people in the airy room, she judged, mingling in small groups and drinking from fine crystal. It didn’t take long for her to get herself noticed.
A very tall, very blond man approached her with what she instantly recognized as a lecherous grin and an interested sparkle in his narrowed brown eyes.
“Ma’am.” His drawl was definitely Texan, slow and lazy and casual. Honey brown eyes peered strongly, intimately into her own. “I don’t believe we’ve met. It’s rude of me to introduce myself, I know, but your beauty has taken my breath away, and I couldn’t wait for someone to introduce us properly.” He grinned, and Grace returned his smile. A charmer. She knew how to handle a man like this one.
“Kind sir.” She mimicked the accent Mikhail had spoken with, the accent of a Russian who spoke English with little difficulty. “I…I very much appreciate your kindness. I know no one here, but for my master.”
His eyebrows raised slightly at this, but he said nothing about her master. “My name is Wade. Wade Wilkinson.” Grace extended her hand and he took it, kissing her knuckles softly, gallantly. “And if you will tell me your name,” he said in a low voice, lifting his eyes to her again, “you will know two people here tonight.”
Grace bit her lower lip. This man was Abigail Wilkinson’s brother, and this was his house. “My new name is Grace. Everyone must call me Grace now.” Her accent was pronounced, but not too heavy.
Wade Wilkinson continued to hold her hand, and to look at her with that amused twinkle in his eyes. He was quite handsome, she had to admit, in a colorless sort of way. His sun-bronzed face was nicely shaped, his
hair and eyes earthy, his mouth a bit too wide.
“My real name,” she continued unshaken, “is Nadezhda Borisovna Khachaturyan, but that is much too difficult for my master’s tongue. You see, after he von me—”
“After he won you?”
Grace nodded, and then dropped her head so she was looking at the floor. She sighed very deeply and wished silently that Wade Wilkinson would release her hand. “Yes.” She breathed the word. “Lost on a turn of the cards. A sad state to find oneself in after…well, life was so different before…before my father died.” She continued to stare at the rug beneath her feet, afraid to look into Wilkinson’s face lest she smile.
“What happened, darlin’?”
It was all the prodding Grace needed to continue. “My family vas a part of the Russian aristocracy. Ve lived in a palace near St. Petersburg, and I vas to marry a prince. Prince Mikhail.” She lifted her eyes to the man who towered over her. “But my father died, and my brother Vladimir took me from my home. He…he had taken up with the narodniki, the radical students who rouse the peasants to violence. Vladimir sold me, and I left my country on a very big sheep.”
“A sheep?”
Grace stared unflinchingly and unsmilingly into the man’s face. “Yes, Mr. Vilkinson, a sheep. The captain of the sheep took me to New Orleans to be sold, but he lost me in a game of chance to my new master. He has been most kind,” she said humbly.
Wade Wilkinson continued to smile at her. “Well, this is most interesting. Abigail’s parties are usually as dull as ditch water. Just exactly who is your…master?”
Grace turned her head slightly, catching a glimpse of Becket’s back. “Master Dillon.” She pointed surreptitiously to the other side of the room. “Please do not tell him I am here.” A hint of desperation entered her voice. “I beg of you, sir. I vas told to remain upstairs, but ven I heard the people talking, the people laughing”—she sighed wistfully—“I had to come down, just for a moment.”
“Why would he make you stay upstairs?” At last Wade’s grin faded.
“He is ashamed of me. Ashamed of my terrible accent. He says to me, ‘Grace, ven vill you learn to speak correctly. You are embarrassment to me, Grace.’
“I am ashamed. He thinks I am a most inadequate concubine.”
Wade’s eyes nearly popped out of his head, and Grace noticed with pleasure that she was attracting a small crowd. “Concubine?” the rancher asked in a harsh whisper.
“Yes.” Grace cocked her head to one side. “Do not all Texans have concubines?”
Another man whispered into Wade’s ear, and Wade pointed to Becket, who was still lost in conversation with his pasty blonde.
“Dillon Becket?” The second man’s eyes widened.
A young girl, surely no more than eighteen years old, stepped forward, her eyes wide with wonder. “Did I hear you say that you’re from Russia? And you were going to marry a prince?”
“Once that vas true.” Grace turned to the girl and kept her face as solemn as she could. It was proving to be more and more difficult. “But no more. I find myself reduced to this. I vas educated to marry a prince, and now I have been reduced to chattel.” Her voice was low and sad. “But I must learn to accept my fate. At least Master Dillon doesn’t beat me quite so much as my last master, the horrible captain of the sheep.”
Wade leaned closer to her, staking his claim in a primal sort of way. “Darlin’, if Dillon ever lays a hand on you, you just let me know. We don’t beat our women here in Texas.”
“Tank you, Mr. Vilkinson,” Grace managed to whisper.
“Call me Wade.”
“Vade,” she said shyly.
Everything was going beautifully, and then Grace heard a familiar voice bellowing her name.
Chapter Six
Dillon spared little attention for the slowly growing crowd on the opposite side of the room. Abigail was flirting with him as shamelessly as Grace had flirted with that damn bandit, smiling and laughing, batting her lashes, and he was enjoying it. It was nice to spend an evening with a woman who was pleasant, and mild mannered, and sweet. Abigail made him forget, for a few moments, about the woman who was sitting upstairs, unclothed and under guard.
At least, he tried to convince himself that he had forgotten about Grace.
But finally it seemed that every person in the room, but for Abigail and himself, was gathered together—a cluster of craning necks and close-pressed bodies—and his concentration was disturbed.
“What’s going on over there?”
Abigail fluttered her eyelashes and whipped open her lace fan. “Shall we find out?” She laid her hand on his offered arm, and they walked together toward the mob.
Several party guests in the pressing crowd glanced over their shoulders, and when they saw Dillon approaching with Abigail they moved aside, parting and making a pathway to the center of the mob.
As a blue-clad female body moved away Dillon saw a woman’s back, and he knew it was Grace. Whether it was the hair or her shape, a shape that was all too clear in whatever the hell she was wearing, he didn’t know. But she lifted her arms in the air in a perfectly synchronized motion, palms upward, and lamplight sparkled off the multitude of bracelets at her wrist.
He hadn’t planned to bellow her name, but couldn’t have stopped himself if he’d wanted to. Her name flew from his lips in a shout that shook the rafters and quieted the room. Even Abigail was shocked into silence, and she released his arm and stepped away.
Grace turned to face him, her movements deliberate and sensual, a slightly victorious smile appearing briefly on her face. It was a smile meant for him alone, just before she dropped to the floor in a fluid motion.
She placed herself at his feet, an offering of white silk and glimmering jewels, of pale skin and shimmering black hair.
“I am so sorry, Master Dillon,” Grace said to the floor, her strange accent muffled. “I am vicked voman to disobey your command.”
“What the hell are you doing down here?” he yelled, still stunned by her appearance. “And why are you talking like that?”
“Like vat, Master Dillon?” she asked innocently.
“Stop that, dammit,” he demanded, grabbing her arm and pulling her to her feet.
“Do not beat me, Master Dillon,” she pleaded most convincingly. “I vill do better. I vill practice my English every day.”
Wade stepped forward chivalrously. “It doesn’t seem fair to punish the girl for her accent. I personally find it charming. And you must admit she speaks English a whole hell of a lot better than any of us speak Russian.”
Several guests agreed, and Dillon could only shake his head in wonder. “Russian?”
“No.” Grace turned a sorrowful face to the crowd. “I am in Russia no longer. I must learn to speak proper English.”
Abigail stepped forward, her lips a thin line, her eyes no longer sparkling and flirtatious. “Dillon? This is Grace?” Her voice was a harsh whisper. “I thought you said…I expected…and you said she was tired from the trip.”
Wade grinned wickedly and leaned forward just slightly. He was enjoying himself too damn much. “She’s his concubine,” he said in a low, but not very low, voice.
“What?” Dillon bellowed.
Abigail began to fan herself furiously. “Dillon, can you please explain this?”
Grace’s eyes were wide and innocent. “Is not right word, concubine, Master Dillon? Slave? Mistress?”
“Shut up, Grace,” Dillon warned.
Wade placed himself protectively at Grace’s side.
“Damned indecent of you, Dillon. Berating the girl for her accent and banishing her to her room.” Wade gazed down at Grace, and it was clear that he was captivated. “Darlin’, we don’t have slaves in Texas. You can go anywhere you want to, and Dillon Becket can’t stop you.”
Dillon took a single step backward and crossed his arms over his chest, pushing his anger aside. “Yes,” he said calmly. “You can go anywhere you want, Grace. Anytim
e.” He let his eyes rest on her slender throat and a bare shoulder.
She stared at the floor, and after a moment she lifted her face to look into his eyes. For a second, perhaps, there was no artifice there, no devilish glee. “But I have nowhere to go,” she whispered.
Quickly a false smile stole over her face. “So now I am going to live in Texas, on a very big ranch. Vith cows and horses and Indians.”
Abigail studied Grace from head to foot, her eyes widening as she realized, about the same time Dillon did, that his ward was dressed in a sheet.
“What is that you’re wearing?” Abigail asked softly.
Grace turned her full attention to Abigail, and Dillon definitely did not like the fire he saw in those bluebonnet eyes. “It is a simple costume,” Grace said serenely. “All that my Master Dillon vill allow me to vear. He has taken all my clothes from me,” she revealed in a voice that was only slightly lowered. “I had some suitable English costumes, but my master has taken them all avay.”
Grace turned those burning eyes to Dillon. “Is that not correct, master?” It was a challenge. She was telling the truth, in a way, at least as far as her clothing was concerned.
He could have argued, but decided against it. “I reckon that’s about right,” he drawled.
Grace returned her attention to Abigail, studying her hostess’s gown with apparent avid interest. “You are vearing a most interesting costume yourself. Vy do American vomen vish to make their derrieres appear so very…so very…” She cocked her head to one side and craned her neck to get a better look at Abigail’s bustle. She gestured with her hands, bracelets rattling as she held her hands far apart. “Vide?” she finally finished.
“Grace.” Dillon faced her with his arms crossed and a deepening frown on his face. “Go to your room.”
Grace bowed deeply at the waist, her palms together at her breasts. The gold and jewels across her forehead danced against her pale skin. “As you command, Master Dillon. I vill be vaiting for you.” Her voice was soft, but not so soft that every pair of straining ears in the room couldn’t hear.
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