by Jo Robertson
Even drenched in blood – his own, Gage hoped, not Meghan's – Sharpe was regaining his confidence. "They'll never convict me," he boasted, his voice unnaturally calm. "I'm too wealthy, too fucking rich, and too connected in society for that."
Gage tilted the Springfield upward, his finger loose on the trigger. "No one's above the law." Even as he spoke, he knew the words weren't true.
Men were often above the law. The Battle of Sugar Hill proved that. Countless soldiers and braves alike died, but no one was held responsible for the death of the innocents.
"You're just like me," Sharpe sneered, holding the knife steady on Bailey's neck, gouging a little with each word, taunting them both. "You and I are kindred spirits, Gage, birds of the same feather."
A sickening fear that Sharpe's words held a grain of truth made Gage pause. "You and I are nothing alike," he retorted after a moment. "You're a sick, twisted excuse for a man."
"I know what you did, you know." Sharpe flashed a cunning smile at Gage. "I read your files."
A chill deep to the bone ran through Gage, and a momentary confusion nonplussed him. Impossible! No one could gain access to his Army files.
Even if they did, none of the particulars of the events at Sugar Hill was written down. They existed only in the deepest, darkest recesses of his memory.
Gage saw shock ripple through Bailey's slender body, saw her begin to fall, and Sharpe viciously jerk her upright.
"Apparently your little whore doesn't know about your military past, Marshal." Sharpe laughed. "And she was stupid enough to stick her nose where it doesn't belong. Just like her foolish friend, Nell Carver."
Gage knew the Springfield wouldn't give him the accuracy of aim he needed to end this. Even if he could raise the rifle to his shoulder, sight down the barrel, even as fast as the bullet was, Sharpe could slice through the tender flesh of Bailey's neck before it pierced Sharpe's brain.
He'd sever her tendons and carotid artery. She'd never survive. No matter how fast Gage got his shot off, no matter how deadly accurate he was.
"All right, then," he said, lowering the rifle and holding it out to the side. "I'll drop the gun if you release her."
Sharpe's voice rang high and maniacal in the empty room. "Sure, why not?"
Gage knew the man had no intention of letting Bailey go. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pruitt inch closer to Sharpe.
"Don't do it, Gage!" Meghan shouted. "Don't trust him."
"Stay back!" Sharpe warned as he jerked Meghan around and began dragging her towards the door.
Gage followed him, still holding the rifle loosely at his waist, still keeping his eye on the knife at Meghan's neck. Sharpe and Meghan reached the door, stepped backwards, and stood on the packed dirt around the shack.
"Please," Meghan pled, her eyes shiny with tears. "He's a monster. He can't be trusted."
"Trust me, Bailey," Gage said softly and flung the rifle away from the shack entrance where it hit the ground with a plopping thud.
"You fucking idiot," Sharpe snarled and released the tip of the blade ever so slightly from Bailey's neck, preparing to jam it viciously across her throat.
Gage nodded to Bailey and knew in the split second that followed that she understood the message. She let her legs go limp and sagged to the ground in a movement that took Sharpe off guard and off balance.
In one swift, smooth action Gage never imagined he could execute, he reached behind him for the Deringer he wore at the back of his waistband. He aimed high and steady.
The bullet hit Sharpe directly between the eyes.
The knife clattered to the ground. Bailey fell to her knees and rolled awkwardly out of the way.
Sharpe toppled to the muddy marsh bed, his face buried in the muck and mud of the Great Dismal Swamp.
Gage swooped Bailey up and held her tightly against his chest, his hands trembling as he caressed her bare back.
"You foolish, girl," he whispered into her ear, "don't you know how my heart would break if anything happened to you?"
She tightened her grip around him like a vise.
"Posh," she said shakily after several long moments, "a person's heart can't actually shatter." Her actions belied her words as she clutched him fiercely. "Men are so silly."
Chapter 39
Bailey filled in most of the gaps for Gage and her father from the hideous story Aaron Sharpe had related to her. Surprisingly enough, Mr. Taylor the school janitor, provided information about the other disappearances in the county.
Half a dozen persons had gone into the Great Dismal Swamp over the last twelve months and never returned. Superstition, old fears, and long-held prejudices had prevented contact with the authorities.
"Someone was always 'splainin' how's they missin' folks jest took off up north or hitched up with some man or tother," Taylor explained. "They all Negras, so no one cared much to find out what happen to 'em, and they famblies was too scared to complain."
Scared of what, Gage wondered? The town marshal, Aaron Sharpe, or the still-new and uneasy alliance between whites and Negroes in North Carolina?
Further investigation into Sharpe's murky background and examination of the documents and news clippings in his office yielded more information about how the man had degenerated from teenage Klan member to a monster who enjoyed killing for its own sake. Sharpe had enjoyed keeping some small memento of his victims – a hair ribbon, a slip of paper, a piece of jewelry similar to the ruby ring Nell Carter had been given by James Wade.
Gage suspected they'd never know the full story of Oliver Nolan – or Aaron Sharpe – which wound from Alabama where he was born Joseph Carpenter, Jr., to northern Virginia where he emerged as Aaron Sharpe. From there the tale continued west where under another name he'd amassed a fortune in mining. Gage suspected their killer had left quite a few dead bodies along the way they'd never know about for sure.
Dr. Bailey had seen to his daughter's wounds, wept unabashedly over her safe return, and thoughtfully found several days' personal business to conduct in Raleigh. Gage developed a new-found appreciation for the doctor's discretion, and if anyone noticed Gage's quiet visits during the night to the Bailey home, not a word was mentioned in the Marshal's hearing.
#
At the moment Gage traced his forefinger down the slim, bruised and scratched body of his soon-to-be wife. He wouldn't bed her so carelessly – and so enjoyably, he admitted – if he didn't intend to wed her.
Still, his wife-to-be had remarkably independent ideas, some quite fixed, so he'd have to tread carefully in the marriage negotiation. Even though he'd already spoken to her father, Gage realized Meghan wouldn't appreciate his old-fashioned sense of propriety. That information might be best kept from his prickly woman.
Meghan rolled over onto her stomach and nuzzled close to him, her hip warm and soft against his thigh. Gage trailed gentle fingers from her nape to the smooth, rounded curve of her buttocks. She pushed her heavy black hair aside and slanted a deliciously heavy-lidded look his way.
"You look like a woman who's been thoroughly satisfied," he murmured, his lips tracing the path of his fingers.
She shivered and reached for him. "If you keep assaulting my senses so expertly, I'll turn into a quivering mass of desire," she warned.
His hand stilled as he sobered a moment. Remarkable, he thought, that she'd been kidnapped and battered, nearly raped by a madman, but the experience hadn't shied her from his touch, his kiss, his overwhelming and often uncontrollable need for her body.
She flipped over and hugged him tightly, seeming to sense the direction of his thoughts. "Don't worry," she whispered in his ear. "I'm a fine, sturdy girl."
"Woman," he corrected with a smile.
"Woman," she conceded, "thanks to your expert instruction."
"I love you." He nuzzled her neck, feeling his cock grow immediately hard and demanding. Would he never get his fill of her?
She gasped as his mouth covered her breast and his fingers probed
between her legs to find her wet and slick. "Oh, God, Tucker, I want you so much." Her breath came in sharp puffs of sighs and groans that delighted him. "Inside me. Now," she demanded. "I can't wai – "
He felt her climax the moment he entered her, the soft folds clamping hard around him in endless spasms. With concerted effort, he anchored himself on his elbows and stared into her glazed eyes. He loved watching her at the height of desire.
She wrapped her legs around his waist and then his own mind fell over the edge with her as he emptied himself into her and reached for heaven.
#
Meghan felt as languid and drooping as a wilted sunflower. Tucker constantly amazed her with his clever hands and mouth, and she marveled at the depth of her passion and willingness to experiment. Surprised, too, at the inventiveness and ardor of a man she'd until recently thought of as very contained and aloof.
Goodness, how had she been so wrong? She lay beneath him, his face in the crook of her neck, his weight gloriously heavy. Skimming her hands over his shoulders, back and buttocks, she traced the scars she knew welted his body. Battle scars, she knew, very much like the ones that gnashed at his heart.
She kissed his shoulder and gently shoved at him. "Hmmm, very heavy," she murmured even as she felt him grow harder inside her. Really, Gage had the stamina of a stud horse!
She groaned as he flipped her so that she lay on top of him. "Better," she smiled, squirming in a way she knew would arouse him further.
She stopped at the serious look in his eye. "What's wrong?" she asked immediately, a gray cloud threatening to dim her pleasure.
Gage framed her face with his large, beautiful hands. "What could be wrong?" He kissed her mouth and deepened the movement, almost desperately. "I have the most amazing woman in my bed – "
"My bed," she interrupted.
"Your bed." He thrust upward and gripped her bottom possessively. "My woman."
Running her hands through his thick brown hair, she stared into his eyes. "You're not sorry, are you?"
He hesitated a fraction of a moment. "Sorry for what?"
She moved her head to indicate their joined bodies. "For this, for being my first and not marrying me."
He braced his legs and in one sure movement sat up, cradling her in his lap. The increased pressure was so intense, she gasped aloud. "Good Lord."
"You'll have to do the work," he cautioned, busy with his mouth on her breast, his hands guiding her hips in a steady rhythm.
The ride was wild, painful, beautiful and when they came together, she thought she'd never felt so pleasured in her life. Steadily, slowly their hearts stopped pounding, their breath became normal.
When the world righted itself again, Gage framed her face, kissed her gently. "Who says I'm not marrying you?"
About the Author
Jo Robertson was born in northern California but raised in a military family and lived in Germany, Oklahoma, Virginia, and Idaho before marrying and settling in California. The mother of seven children, she enjoys reading, scrapbooking, and quilting.
Her youthful dream of being a writer fell by the wayside after college when she married, had children, and taught high school English. Although she loved teaching, she left her career in 2004 and began writing full time.
She’s the author of the Bigler County Romantic Thriller Series (The Watcher, The Avenger, and The Traitor) two historical suspense novels. She’s a founding member of the Romance Bandits, a blog of eighteen writers who host guest writers and write on a number of topics. The Romance Bandits Blog has become quite popular among romance readers and writers.
Also, she’s won several awards through Romance Writers of America – the 2006 Golden Heart Award for romantic suspense with her manuscript The Watcher, and the 2007 overall Daphne du Maurier Award for excellence in writing for The Warrior.
From Author Jo Robertson
An excerpt from another historical romantic thriller inspired by a true murder case
Frail Blood
“I hate ... any taint of vice whose strong corruption inhabits our frail blood.” – Twelfth Night
Prologue
Northern California, June 1909
Alma Bentley lifted the frayed hem of her cotton skirt and strapped the pistol to her left ankle.
She’d known from the first time a fellow looked at her in that certain way – raking his eyes over her like she was nothing more than a cheap piece of meat on the butcher’s block – that she was a wretched, plain-faced girl.
But Joseph Machado was different. He treated her like the blue-ribbon winner at the state fair. He said she was a rose among the thorns. How she’d loved the sound of that.
A rose among the thorns.
Alma repeated the words with a sigh of regret, adjusted the gun against her leg, and let the skirt drop into place. Her chapped knuckles caught on the coarse fabric. In the dull finish of the mirror fashioned from a large scrap of aluminum, her reflection stared back at her, a nondescript, dark, solemn-faced girl with a brown mop of tangles falling over a low forehead.
What Joseph done to her was wrong. He ought not to have treated her so poorly. With no respect. Made promises and then renigged on them.
A promise was like a holy vow. Sacred.
She slapped her palms together several times. Well, wasn’t no use worrying about it now. As Mama always said, you hafta lay in the bed you make. And Alma sure had made this rocky mess of pebbles and boulders.
But still, it wasn’t right what Joe done. Now there was nothing left but to try and get back some dignity.
And make him think twice about hurting a girl like that.
#
The Machado house squatted on several acres of land off the main road to Placer Hills. Alma was used to walking the distance, for she’d done it several mornings a week during the four months she’d been employed by the Machado family.
This early evening, however, the trek seemed longer. She felt the heavy reminder of Joseph’s betrayal in the weight of the pistol grinding into her leg. The hem of her dress dragged in the dusty ruts. She’d begun to sweat and dark circles dampened her long-sleeved frock even though the delta breeze had cooled off the hot June day. Although she was a sturdy girl used to lots of hard work, her face was red with the exertion and the seriousness of her errand.
The sun had nearly dipped below the mountains before Alma came round the bend to the outbuilding where the Machados stabled their horses. She spied Mr. Machado’s fancy automobile beside the barn, but that didn’t mean nothing. He hardly ever rode the contraption, was always out on one or another of his horses. The animals were all he seemed to think about – that and the farm land.
She peeked into the stable and sure enough the horse and carriage were gone. Tonight was Miss Phoebe’s and Mrs. Machado’s night out with their lady friends. That meant Joe was alone.
Good. It was high time they had a talk.
She rapped softly on the door at the back of the house where she entered when she came to work. Mrs. Gulley was usually here then, but not this late at night, of course. Alma hesitated before continuing through the mudroom and into the kitchen. The house was eerily silent.
She tiptoed to the area that Mrs. Machado called the “sitting room,” although not much sitting happened there ‘cause no one ever visited the Machados that Alma could see. This room was empty too.
“Joseph,” she called softly.
No answer.
She reached down to unstrap the pistol and dangled it nervously in her left hand hidden behind her skirts. She couldn’t have said what she intended to do with the gun if someone had asked her at that moment. Alma hardly knew her own dark thoughts most of the time.
Scare Joe, she might’ve said. Make him say he was sorry. Or give her a few soft words to fill the sad, empty hole left inside her by his deceit and betrayal.
Despair washed over her for a moment, crumbling her resolve. What had she gotten in her head? Wasn’t nothin’ Joe was scared of. For more than tw
enty-five years he’d lived with his pa and that awful excuse for a ma and his strange older sister. Wasn’t any gun gonna frighten Joe Machado.
Suddenly shaking, like a fit coming on, started in her knees and spread up through her gut to her wrist where the gun dug into her hip, her fingers numb as they gripped the handle. She turned to go, feeling like a stupid little girl gone on a useless errand.
She was an idiot, a great big dumb fool who didn’t know when a man was lying through his teeth and gussying up to her with sweet words – words like a rose among the thorns. She couldn’t even tell a falsehood from the truth.
A crash sounded from upstairs, and she jumped around like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers, her eyes wide and fixed on the stairs. They led up to the second floor landing and the bedrooms of the Machado family. She knew exactly which one was Joe’s because she’d been there once – only once – when his folks and sister Phoebe were gone to San Francisco.
Loud footsteps clumped down the stairs. Her eyes grew wide and she raised the pistol. Out of fear? Surprise? She couldn’t hardly remember why she was here.
“What the hell . . .?” Joe said from the doorway.
And then Alma fired the pistol without a single thought passing through her mind except a vague sense of alarm. Even as she dropped the pistol and backed out of the door, a niggling thought lodged in the back of her brain.
Joe, clutching his shoulder and starting to fall. And a faint thud from somewhere in the house.
But then panic took over and she raced into the woods as fast as she could go and didn’t stop running, terror and fear nipping at her heels, until she reached the turn in the road that led to Placer Hills. There she sank down to her knees in the damp leaves and nettles by a giant pine and clutched her head in her fists.
