Good Lord, Silver hadn't gone to bribe him, had she?
"Not to worry, son," Max said, sniffing an unlit cigar. "Silver's got a lawyer with her."
I'm doomed.
"And I told her to go ahead and pay off any debts you owe. I reckon she can talk just about anyone into dropping their charges, once she offers 'em the kind of restitution they ain't likely to see from a jury."
Rafe winced. Silver was going to make an honest man out of him—by indebting him to her father?
"Hell, Max," he said, shame lancing his chest, "I'd rather do my time than have you pay back all the money I swindled."
"I appreciate the sentiment, son. But it just ain't practical. 'Sides, you and me got a deal. You're supposed to stay around here, keeping Silver happy, so I can chase my woman around the bedroom, remember?"
Rafe smiled feebly. "Yeah. I remember."
"And I expect a coupla grandbabies out of you. You can't very well raise my grandkiddies from jail, now can you?"
Rafe averted his gaze. His heart was growing sicker by the moment.
"And don't forget too," Max said less boisterously, as if he sensed he'd made one of his habitual faux pas, "I owe you more'n a couple thousand dollars. You saved my daughter's life. Got her outta that damned cave-in and nearly cashed in your chips in the process. One of these days, when you have a daughter, you'll come to understand. They're worth a sight more than a measly fortune."
"That's kind of you to say," he murmured dutifully.
Max fidgeted, his chair creaking in protest. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them.
"At any rate," Max said, "I'm glad to know Silver had the good sense to fall in love with you and forget Townsend. I still can't get over the things he did: murdering his brother, beating Amy, hiring Benson as a spy, siccing those two thugs on you—not to mention what he'd intended for my Silver.
"Cellie's crystal ball couldn't have been more right. Me and Fred might have drawn straws to see who got to plug the bastard, if Nahele hadn't killed Townsend first."
"Nahele?" Rafe repeated distractedly.
"Sure. Don't you remember? Silver told me how Nahele appeared in a puff of green smoke, stinking as rotten as bad eggs, and rose up out of the treasure chest to strangle Townsend."
Rafe eyed Max dubiously. "Silver told you that?"
"Well, not in so many words." Max grinned impishly. "I sorta read between the lines. The 'green gas' part of her story tipped me off. After all, everyone knows sulfuric gas ain't green.
"'Sides. You can't tell me it wasn't strange how a howling wind swept through the cave at the exact same moment Townsend stepped on ol' Nahele's artifacts. Wind ain't normal underground."
Rafe's skin prickled. He hadn't thought of that. In fact, he wasn't sure he wanted to think of that. It reminded him of a line from Hamlet:
"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
Max grinned triumphantly, as if guessing his thoughts.
"Say," the millionaire blurted after a moment. He reached for his coat's breast pocket. "I almost forgot. You got a letter the other day from a Miss Seraphina Jones. Is that your sister?"
Rafe nodded, unable to disguise his sudden wistfulness.
"Reckon it'll make you feel better," Max said more gently, offering him the envelope.
Rafe grasped the paper, the tremor in his hand betraying his eagerness.
Max climbed to his feet. "Tell you what, son. I'll, uh, be out in the hall, if you need anything."
Rafe's throat was too tight to respond. He barely waited long enough for the door to shut before he was ripping open the envelope and tugging out its contents: two pages of flowery scrawl. Sera, he'd learned over the years, was a bit of a dramatist herself.
"Dear Rafe," the letter began, "I'm in love! But of course, Michael disapproves. I just know you would like my sweetheart, though. His name is Kit McCoy. He's handsome and blond—just like you! And even though he swears he's not, I think he's secretly a gunfighter! Isn't that exciting?"
Unease coiled through Rafe's innards.
"Michael is being positively beastly," Sera complained in typical eighteen-year-old fashion. "I have to sneak in and out of my window at night. I declare, I would have run away by now, if Michael weren't so sick. Do you think you could come home now, Rafe ? Michael thinks I'm a baby, and he won't listen to a single thing I say. Especially about letting a Louisville doctor see him..."
Rafe scanned the rest, his chest constricting. Sera was behaving just as irresponsibly as Silver had in Philadelphia with Townsend. Recalling the consequences of those moonlight rendezvous, he threw back the quilt—a mistake. The pain in his head nearly blinded him. Gritting his teeth, he sank back to the edge of the mattress.
Apparently, he'd be lucky to get to the kitchen, much less to Kentucky. For once, he thanked God that Michael was a belligerent, hard-headed donkey. What was the matter with Sera, letting a gunslinger woo her? And what the devil was wrong with Michael? Sera's letter was the first news Rafe had had of his brother's illness.
Slowly, persistently, guilt forced him to an unpleasant conclusion: he'd have to return to Blue Thunder as soon as he was well.
In the meantime, though, he had business closer to home. There was his own mixed-up, crazy romance to resolve. And there was a federal judge he had to answer to.
Sighing, he sank back into the pillows. He wondered if Gates would let him save Sera before enforcing the inevitable prison sentence on him. He wondered if he'd have time to wean Tavy from crab puffs and settle her in the wild before he was carted off to jail.
But most of all, he wondered gloomily, how many precious hours did he have left with Silver? Would she wait for him through all the months, maybe the years, while he was locked up for his humbugs?
* * *
Silver nearly did hit the roof when she returned to Aspen, but not because of otter mischief. Arriving from Leadville on the evening stage, she'd rushed eagerly up the stairs to tell Rafe her good news, only to find him missing from the bed that, quite frankly, he'd been in no condition to vacate.
"There's no telling when this young man'll wake up," the doctor had told her, Cellie, and Fiona in dire tones the morning after the cave-in. "When he does, make sure he keeps to his bed for five days at least. A concussion is no trifling matter."
As a result, Silver had camped day and night at his bedside until an uncharacteristically militant Cellie had marched into the room. Armed with her crystal ball and Judge Gates's telegram, she'd insisted that Silver was wasting a golden opportunity to help Rafe, and that she'd better stop moping and start packing.
Torn between her fear that Rafe might not live and her fear that he'd be jailed if he did, she'd finally relented, and spent nearly a week with lawyers, detectives, and Gates himself. To her amazement, the trip had proven every bit as successful as the spirits had promised.
Only now, Silver wasn't so sure she should have gone. Rafe's bed was empty. More troubling still, his traveling trunk and Tavy's cage were missing. Stunned by the evidence of his departure, she tried desperately not to believe the worst, until she spied the female handwriting on the envelope by his chamberset. Intuiting disaster, she approached slowly, her hand trembling as she forced herself to read Sera's letter.
A heartbeat later, Sera's letter was fluttering to the floor as Silver ran down the stairs, calling for Papa.
"Well, I'll be," Papa boomed, his voice rattling Aphrodite in her alcove. "Silver's back!"
Stepping briskly out from the stairwell, he entered the foyer in his top hat and cape. A slightly disheveled, blushing Cellie hurried after him, dabbing her lips. Silver tried not to imagine what they'd been doing in the coat closet.
"Papa, when did he go?"
"Who?" he countered jovially, flashing a naughty grin at his fiancée.
"Rafe, for heaven's sake." Silver wanted to shake him for being so obtuse. "He's gone! And he's not supposed to be. I mean, the doctor said
he shouldn't leave his bed."
"Well, now, daughter, doctors can be wrong. Besides, he looked hale and hearty to me the last time I saw him."
"He did?" She knew a fleeting sense of relief. "When was that?"
Papa scratched his beard, screwing up his face in a parody of concentration. "Hmm. Can't say that I recall. Seems like it's been a couple days now, since he took Tavy back to Swindler's Creek. 'Course, I've been a bit preoccupied, you know, what with that Marzetti fella jabbing me with pins to fit my wedding tuxedo. Then, of course, there have been the burial arrangements for Benson and the negotiations with the Miners Union..."
He puffed out his chest, suddenly beaming. "Why, I reckon you don't know, daughter. Me and Cellie arranged a settlement with Nahele. He's not so bad, once you get to know him. Said he'd leave the miners alone if they stop trout-fishing with dynamite. And he'll stop haunting you and leaving acorns on your window ledge if we plant a tree for every one we cut down."
"He said he'd be watching us, dear," Cellie said absently, shimmying her sash higher over her ample belly and the green and purple stripes of her tunic.
"That's right," Papa chimed in. "He wants us to keep his burial ground sacred. No wonder the poor devil was haunting us. He couldn't very well rest in peace with all our blasting rattling his stalactites, eh?"
Papa glanced around the foyer, then lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Say, you didn't happen to spy any of Nahele's real treasure tucked away in that crystal cave you were telling me about, did you?"
"Papa." Silver was rapidly losing patience with him. "Could we please talk about Rafe now, not treasure?"
"But he's your treasure, isn't he, dear?" Cellie interjected amiably.
"And the best treasures are always found where you least expect them." Papa winked, draping his arm around Cellie's waist.
Silver blew out her breath. Honestly, why did she ever bother asking them anything? Maybe Fred or Fiona knew if Rafe was coming back.
The sudden notion that he might not, hit her so hard that her knees buckled. What if he hadn't really taken Tavy to Swindler's Creek? What if he'd gone home instead to his sister and found someone else in the Kentucky backwoods? Someone like an old sweetheart?
"Well, so long, daughter," Papa said, giving her cheek a pat. "Gotta go. Dining and dancing tonight at the Chloride. Don't wait up," he added cheerfully.
"Papa, wait—"
"Oh, and dear," Cellie called over her shoulder as Papa bustled her over the threshold, "I did a little exorcism in your bedroom today. I hope you don't mind, but I had to pry the nails off the windows—"
The door slammed shut, muffling whatever else she'd meant to say. Silver blinked, dumbfounded, at the opaque glass. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Rafe was gone, and she had no idea for how long. Neither Papa nor Cellie had answered a single one of her questions. As for gathering information elsewhere, the clerk at the stage depot would be off duty by now, and God only knew where Fred and Fiona might be at this hour.
She felt like the butt of a conspiracy.
Dusty and demoralized, she fought back tears as she gathered her traveling skirt and dragged herself up the stairs to her bedroom. Moonlight slanted in alabaster shafts across her carpet; tapers flickered on her vanity, their reflections gleaming in the mirror.
Strange, she thought.
Stranger still was the steam that slowly spiraled from the copper bathtub on her tarp. She wrinkled her nose, smelling basil, of all things, in the water. It was no secret she liked to bathe every night at this hour; perhaps Cellie had drawn the bath in anticipation of her homecoming. Silver shook her head at this consideration. The woman really was dear—peculiar, but dear. She wondered how much lavender she'd need to pour into the tub so she wouldn't smell like a salad.
Sighing, she unpinned her hat and tossed it across her bed. Next, she tugged off her gloves. She was just about to tackle the back of her dress when she realized her buttonhook was missing from its jar. Riffling through the vanity drawers proved fruitless. She frowned.
"You wouldn't be looking for this, would you?" a liquid baritone drawled from the vicinity of the window.
She caught her breath, spying her errant lover in white linen and swallowtails against the backdrop of breeze-stirred curtains. He smiled lazily, tapping the hook against his lips.
She half laughed, half sobbed. "I thought you'd gone away."
"I did. To see how Tavy was faring." His eyes captured the light, pewter velvet in the shadows. "But 'journeys end in lovers meeting, every wise man's son doth know.'"
"The Tempest?" she whispered.
"Twelfth Night."
"Oh." Her heart took a dizzying leap as he strolled from his lair of shadows. "Is Tavy happy?"
"She has three stalwart suitors. I daresay she's beside herself."
He halted less than an arm's length away. The heat of him licked her limbs like a tiny bonfire, and her legs wobbled, starting to melt. She wondered if Papa had known just how healthy Rafe really was.
Then another thought struck her. If Rafe was healthy, he would be leaving soon for Blue Thunder.
"I, uh, learned you might be going to Kentucky," she ventured. She was unable to keep the anxiety from her voice as she imagined him facing a gunfighter. Nevertheless, she understood why he must go. She understood it only too well. "Do you think you'll be gone long?"
"Hard to say. I did promise Max I'd be his best man."
"Oh," she murmured again, staving off a stab of disappointment when he neglected to mention their own wedding. Despite the sultry caress in his voice, despite the seduction he'd obviously planned, his manner struck her as guarded. If irony was his preferred armor, then he was fairly bristling with it tonight.
"You've said nothing of your own journey," he murmured, his lashes fanning lower to conceal the turbulence in his gaze. "But then, I suppose it must have curled your toes to learn your lover had committed so many misdeeds."
"Oh no," she whispered, finally understanding the reason for his restraint. "You mustn't think that, Rafe. You mustn't ever think that. As far as I'm concerned, your past is behind you. And as far as the law is concerned, you're no longer a wanted man."
"I'm not?" He sounded incredulous.
"No, you're not," she said firmly. "All but one of the charges brought against you were made by wealthy men who wound up in jail for embezzling, mine salting, or worse. The Statute of Limitations will run out on your larceny warrants before their jail terms expire."
"You don't say?" The corner of his mouth twitched. "Well, I guess the old axiom is true: it takes a thief to know one. And the remaining warrant?"
"It was dismissed. Apparently the gentleman died. You don't have to run anymore, Rafe," she added quietly. "You're free."
He was silent, no doubt letting the full impact of this news sink in.
"Not really," he said after a moment.
Her heart skittered. "Wh-what do you mean?"
"Well, there's this little matter of... us." He twirled the buttonhook between his fingers, much as he used to do with the quizzing glass. "Devilish inconvenient," he taunted softly, "not being permitted to touch the woman you love. The woman you're hell-bent on marrying."
Relief fizzed through her veins, bubbling as fast and frothy as French champagne. She clasped her hands, unable to hide her grin as that giddy warmth suffused her face. He loved her! She'd only dared to hope it was true through all those harrowing hours in the mine.
"Is that a fact?" she countered, adopting that same lilting tone he so delighted in tormenting her with. "I can see how that might be vexing for a man of your... inclinations."
"That is a comfort."
"So, tell me, Mr. Jones. All this marrying business aside, exactly what kind of touching did you have in mind?"
"Hmm." His eyes gleamed like polished silver in the shimmer of the candle flames. "I thought we might start with something sweet, but not entirely lacking in... spice."
She shivered as his fingers skim
med up her neck and brushed her cheek. "That is nice."
"So glad you approve," he purred, loosening her hair and smoothing the strands. Raising a curl to his lips, he captured her eyes with his own. The promise she saw smoking there kindled sparks inside her belly.
"Next," he murmured, drawing her closer as he wrapped her hair around his fist, "I thought we might progress to something a bit more... titillating."
"A kiss?" she whispered hopefully.
"Why, darling." His wicked flash of dimples couldn't dispel the tenderness of his smile. "I thought you'd never ask."
His lips sealed off her laughter, and she clutched him closer, reveling in the unabashed hunger of his kiss. He felt so good, so achingly good as he pressed against her, and her senses reeled as she considered how many times fate had nearly stolen him from her.
"Oh, Rafe," she breathed, "I would have died if I had lost you."
He raised his head. When she saw the intensity in his gaze, her throat constricted. "Promise me you'll stay safe in Kentucky," she said tremulously.
"My darling," he murmured, "could you think, for even an instant, that there exists a force in this universe more powerful than the love that would bring me home to you?"
A tear seeped past her lashes, and he caught it on his lips.
"You have my promise, Silver," he whispered. "My word, my heart, my soul."
His mouth lowered, brushing hers, and his hands skimmed down her back. Her gown slowly surrendered, parting with a silken sigh. Dimly she heard the clatter of the buttonhook near her feet. Fabric rustled to her ankles as her chemise chased her bloomers to the floor. Giddily, she fumbled with his own clothes: the coat, the cravat, the cummerbund. When she reached for his fly, he gave her a lopsided grin, one that made her blush like an unschooled maid.
"How I love a woman who knows what she wants."
She giggled, and he swept her up in his arms, clasping her effortlessly against his chest. She had a moment to revel in the sinewy strength of him, in the electrifying sizzle of flesh against flesh. Then she realized he was headed for the bathtub. She clasped his neck tighter, practically squealing as he climbed over the rim.
Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) Page 31
