The long hours alone were sheer torment, because when she wasn’t recalling Barry’s last, hellish moments she could only contemplate her bleak situation without him. Often she heard a stealthy rustling, as though someone were peeping through her keyhole, just as she often felt Allegra’s pale eyes boring into her back. The aquamarine on her finger was a constant reminder of the love she’d lost. The finished portrait in Frazier’s suite served as a haunting memento of the choices she wasn’t permitted to make about the most important event in her life.
And Frazier’s compliments, delivered with his polished, courtly eloquence, always tore her to shreds with their underlying messages. He was truly heartless. As the weeks passed and the wedding drew nearer, Lyla wondered if he hadn’t planned the mine catastrophe and the robbery at the Rose to eliminate all his competition so he could feed his raging obsession for her. It was an elaborate means of making her his own, but for a man with Foxe’s money and influence, such clandestine activities were merely a diversion—something to ponder as he awaited Hollingsworth’s next chess move each evening.
She was allowed to ascend to the third floor once, when Allegra was cleaning there. Out of sheer boredom, Lyla took a rag and dusted the gleaming wooden balustrades and the rich, carved tables that graced the hallway. The rooms on this level were indeed a puzzle: except for Hollingsworth’s quarters and Miss Keating’s neat, dormered apartment, the spacious salons had never been used. A grand ballroom took up most of the space, its parquet floor unmarred by dancers’ feet. A nursery and a small schoolroom waited silently for the heir she was to produce, and Lyla spent as little time as possible there.
What she really wanted to see was the belvedere and its guard. Where was the stairway that led to the small, windowed cubicle overlooking Foxe Hollow’s vast pasturelands? The only people she ever saw were Frazier and his two servants, and occasionally the three men who rode in and out to tend their ranching duties.
And of course she saw herself in her vanity mirror, an Irish lass who was fading like a flower plucked and hung to dry. Since the housekeeper never failed to cook unappetizing foods, and since Lyla had no desire to eat the confections Frazier plied her with, her stylish gowns now hung so loosely they dragged on the floor when she walked. The bridal portrait was a mockery, for the rosy-cheeked young woman in the picture no longer existed.
One afternoon she parted the lace curtains in the sitting room and gazed out. Connor Foxe was riding by on his prancing sorrel stallion, framed by a brilliant blue sky. He noticed the movement in the window and wheeled his horse around to look at her. In the sunlight, the dark waves of his hair and his obsidian eyes sparkled with life as he grinned at her. He waved, and Lyla was so glad to see a friendly face—even the face of a man who sickened her—that she gave him a halting wave in return.
“Do we have a visitor?” Frazier said from behind her.
Lyla turned to see him standing in the vestibule archway, regally clad and groomed, as always. “Only Connor, passing by on his horse.”
“Ah. He must be looking better to you as time goes by. Soon, my sweet…soon you may have as much of him as you want.”
Hardened by the last few weeks of his honeyed taunts, she ignored his remark. “Why doesn’t your brother ever visit the house?” she asked. “Surely, until the ewes come in for lambing, he and the men have little to do.”
“He knows his place,” Foxe replied coolly. “We share the same name as an accident of birth, but when I brought him to this country I set his boundaries and he accepted them. By mutual consent, our only ties concern the sheep.”
Lyla felt her cheeks coloring. “But you’ll share your wife with him? You’ll allow him to beget your heir?”
“Another partnership that is strictly business, dear-heart. And no business of yours to question.”
“And where will this mating take place?” she demanded. “In the bunkhouse? Will I be forced to sneak out like a—”
“No. I’ll escort you there myself. Weil tell the staff I’m showing you the facilities, explaining things before the flocks come in for the lambing and shearing.”
Her pulse pounded weakly in her temples as she thought ahead. “To maintain appearances, we’ll have to return to the house together. I suppose you intend to watch…probably take your damn sketchpad!”
“What a capital idea!” Frazier’s gray eyes glittered as he mocked her. “Who else has a visual record of the moment his son was conceived? And Kelly and Nate—why, they’d pay top dollar to have such alluring artwork on the walls beside their bunks.”
“You are the most despicable—” Lyla whirled on her heel and stomped past him, nearly knocking into Hollingsworth as she headed toward the stairs.
She spent the rest of the day in her room, gazing wistfully out over pastures that were dusted with snow. The sunshine dulled with cold as evening shadows fell. Aromas of boiled beef and cabbage drifted upstairs, but Lyla refused to go down to dinner. She might as well starve…emaciate herself to the point that Connor wouldn’t have her…allow herself to drift into a safe, dreamlike state where the horrors of her imprisonment would no longer trouble her, and finally pass on to her peace. It seemed the only way to escape, the only way to reunite with the man she loved.
When Miss Keating carried a dinner tray to her with a haughty sniff, Lyla left the linen napkin over it. Slowly she donned her nightgown, and then sat at the vanity brushing her long hair as though she were preparing for an amorous evening with Barry. He lived on in her mind, virile and strong and handsome, as he’d been during their first flirtations at the Golden Rose. It could do no harm to fantasize about him this way, since the only happiness she would ever find was the memory of his laughter and fond caress.
She climbed into bed to watch the sliver of a moon rise. She lay straight down the center of the bed with her hands clasped beneath her breast—a coffinlike pose, she realized, but it seemed so appropriate. It was January thirtieth or thirty-first—she had little need to know which. In only two weeks she’d have her last glimpse of reality at her wedding, and then return to Foxe Hollow to remain entombed here forever.
Lyla drifted off, visions of herself and Thompson sweetening her dreams. She felt the downy curls on his chest, the rough stubble on his cheeks, the satiny wetness of lips that roamed her body with the subtle sureness of a lover perfectly attuned to her wants and senses. He smelled leathery and masculine, evoking her own personal perfume with the heat of his muscled body. She ached to wrap her legs around him, to feel him thrusting inside her until they writhed in an impassioned frenzy.
She moaned, shifting beneath the sheets, which caused a rhythmic rustling that spurred her imagination, and—what was that sound on the fringes of her awareness? Footsteps? Scraping, not outside her door but on the roof, alongside her window. He was coming for her I Barry was here to rescue her from—
Lyla heard a tapping on the glass, and then the solid thunk of a boot heel on the casement, and suddenly her room whistled with a chilling wind that brought her out of her slumber. She shook her head, trying to focus on the lean figure that was shutting the window and then stealing through the shadows toward her bed.
But it was too short, too compact to be Thompson. Fully awake now, her eyes widened as the intruder instinctively clapped his hand over her scream.
“Ready and waiting?” Connor crooned. With his free hand he drew back the covers to gaze at her. “Satin and lace, all warm and wet from thinking about me today. God, you’re beautiful. When I saw you in the window I knew you were hungry for me, too, so I—”
Lyla bit his fingers so he’d yank them away, and then she screamed as loudly as she could.
Enraged, Foxe lunged and covered her mouth with his own as he fumbled for the hem of her nightgown. “You little bitch, you know you want me—”
As he forced his tongue between her teeth, his hand stole up her thigh to the apex of her legs. Lyla struggled, hoping what she heard was a key in her door, but Connor’s murmurings blocked
the sounds.
Then there were rapid footsteps and Hollings-worth’s loud cry. “Get off her, you foul—Frazier! Mr. Foxe, sir, come quickly!”
Connor remained sprawled over the top of her, raising only his head. “Get out of here, old man,” he snarled, “this is none of your affair. I could pinch your windpipe shut before you could swing one wrinkled fist at me.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Frazier’s crisp voice replied. There was the click of a pistol hammer, and then the room filled with lamplight and a tense silence. “Get out of her bed, slowly, with no tricks. We’ll discuss this downstairs, unless you’d like me to end this embarrassment with a bullet.”
Connor’s face was reddened with rage, but he rose, never taking his eyes from his stepbrother. “No call to get on your high horse,” he muttered. “Only claiming what you promised me. I’ve waited long enough, by God.”
As he approached the door, Frazier glanced her way. “See what comes of waving out the window? Someday you’ll learn, Miss Lyla.”
He left, his disgruntled brother in front of him, and Lyla hastily pulled the covers up over her exposed body. Hollingsworth was pinker than usual, averting his eyes, yet lingering in her room.
“Are…are you all right, Miss O’Riley?” he finally stammered.
“Yes, thank you.” Lyla shuddered, not daring to wonder what would’ve happened had the valet not heard her cries. “You were very brave. I’ve seen him kill a man much larger and stronger than you. And he enjoyed doing it.”
Hollingsworth’s eyes widened. “I’ll have locks installed on all the windows immediately, miss.”
“Thank you. I—I’ll be fine now.”
They exchanged a hesitant glance, each realizing that too much had been said. Then the valet bowed out, leaving her alone, and more terrified than ever.
When Lyla went downstairs late the next morning, the house rang with unusual silence. The dining room table had already been cleared of breakfast—if it had even been served. She smelled no aroma from the kitchen, heard no clatter of pans or conversation between the servants. Frazier’s typewriter was still, and a glance into his study told her he hadn’t spent his customary time reviewing the accounts or tending to correspondence.
She turned back toward the kitchen to find Hollingsworth watching her, his hands clasped before him and his face as pink and serene as a sleeping baby’s. “Good morning, miss. Shall I see to your breakfast?”
Lyla peered behind him, puzzled. “Am I so late that Miss Keating’s already cleared away the food?”
The valet smiled slightly. “It’s the first of the month,” he explained. “Mr. Foxe and his stepbrother make the rounds of all the sheepherders, with their pay and supplies. They leave very early and return very late, so Miss Keating and I generally take the day off.”
Already Lyla’s mind was racing with the possibilities this information presented. Her pulse sped up and she fought a giddy grin as she replied to the staid servant. “Well then, I won’t trouble you—”
“Oh, it’s no trouble, Miss Lyla. Mr. Foxe left strict instructions that you were to be watched at all times. We drew straws, and Miss Keating will begin her shift late this afternoon.”
“Oh. Of course.” Disappointment choked her. How could she have been foolish enough to think Frazier would leave her unattended for even a moment? Yet there had to be a way around these elderly guardians…
Lyla lowered her eyes, taking on the submissive, proper attitude Oliver Hollingsworth would expect. “I—I don’t know how anyone thinks I’ll get very far without a coat, or a horse. And why would I want to leave? Frazier’s a very generous man who took me in when I was destitute and alone.”
The servant shifted, his face coloring somewhat. “I’ve taken the liberty of packing you some food, Miss O’Riley,” he said quietly. “Your coat and pants have been laundered, and you may ride my gelding, Dickens. And might I suggest that time is of the essence?”
She stared into blue eyes that were beseeching and compassionate, yet Foxe’s valet otherwise appeared to be his standoffish self. “I—I don’t understand.”
“If you dawdle, and Miss Keating discovers our conspiracy, all could be lost.”
Her heart leaped, and she stepped forward to be sure he wasn’t a phantom of her imagination. “You’re letting me get away?” she asked in a hoarse whisper. “But when Frazier finds out I escaped, he’ll fire you, or—or—”
Hollingsworth shrugged. “The alternatives don’t really bother me, Miss Lyla. Last night’s intrusion confirmed my suspicions about the nature of your, er, betrothal, and I can no longer be a witness to such unconscionable acts.”
Lyla grabbed his slender hands and squeezed them. “But why? Please—tell me this isn’t another cruel trick.”
For the first time since she arrived, Oliver Hollingsworth the Third relaxed his stiff stance and leaned into their whispered conversation. “I knew something was amiss when you arrived smelling of smoke and looking so…unkempt. Mr. Foxe would never tolerate such negligence in the woman he was to wed, unless he was misrepresenting his intentions. After overhearing snatches of your conversations and seeing that—display—of sketches in his chambers, I’ve come to suspect that my employer isn’t the upstanding man he claims to be. And that you, Miss Lyla, will be severely compromised if you remain here.”
“Thank you. Thank you,” she replied in a tight whisper. “I thought I’d signed my obituary when I put my name on those agreements.”
Hollingsworth glanced behind him, as though he thought Allegra might be eavesdropping. “Were I in your place, miss, I’d see that those papers disappeared as well.”
“But his attorney’s signed—”
“That’s a forgery. Mr. Foxe doesn’t trust attorneys, and I daresay every document in his files is of his own making,” the valet stated matter-of-factly. “His artistic talent enables him to imitate any signature he ever saw. And I’ve come to realize of late that he’d have no qualms about using that ability toward covert ends.”
Her heart was pounding with this unexpected turn of events, but she’d get caught before she left Foxe Hollow unless she anticipated all of Frazier’s snares. She released Hollingsworth’s hands and paced a few steps, thinking. “What about Nate and Kelly? If they catch me borrowing your horse—”
“They’ve left for their monthly excursion into Colorado Springs, to squander their pay on cheap whiskey and expensive women.”
Lyla chuckled at his unexpected wittiness. “And what about the guard in the belvedere? Frazier told me…” The valet’s furrowed forehead confirmed her recent suspicions. “There isn’t one, is there? That was another of his lies, another intimidation.”
“I’m afraid so, Miss Lyla,” he replied with a shake of his bald head. “What a beastly boring job that would be! Mr. Foxe goes up there on occasion to survey the pastures and remind himself how bloody rich he is. If you can be extremely quiet, we’ll go up and have a look. Allegra’s in her room. If she suspects what we’re doing, our goose is cooked.”
Silently Lyla followed him up the grand staircase, on past the second-floor landing to the third story, carefully avoiding the spots she knew to be squeaky. Hollingsworth peered toward the housekeeper’s apartment. Then, with a finger upon his lips, he gestured for her to follow him to a doorway she hadn’t noticed when she was up here cleaning.
The uncarpeted stairs made their footsteps echo in the short, cramped stairwell, and then they ascended into a boxlike room where the uncurtained windows were nearly as large as each of the four walls. The only furnishing was a padded windowseat that went around the entire belvedere.
Lyla gazed about, astounded at the view from this lofty perch. Foxe Hollow stretched in every direction: the sheep buildings were to her right, the arched entry gate was ahead of her, and otherwise the rolling, snow-powdered foothills were uninterrupted for as far as she could see.
Hollingsworth stood beside her, pointing between the gate and the sheep compound. “N
o doubt James at the guard post will return you to the house at gunpoint, if he sees you. Best to cut across—do you see that distant flock, and the canvas-covered wagon?”
She nodded, thinking they looked like toys from here.
“Frazier and his brother will have stopped there already with their supplies. That particular herder has a surly disposition, but he’s your best bet for a temporary hiding place and directions out of Foxe Hollow.”
“What’s his name?” she murmured.
“Jack Rafferty. That’s what he’s told us, anyway.” Hollingsworth focused his clear blue eyes on hers. “Any questions? We’d best be leaving before Allegra suspects hanky-panky.”
When the old gent winked, she had to stifle a laugh. Who’d have thought Foxe’s prim valet would assist her, after all these weeks when he’d seemed to have barely tolerated her presence? Lyla descended the narrow stairway as quietly as her pumps would allow, pausing at the bottom for Hollingsworth.
“And what might you two be about?” a sour voice accosted them from across the hall. Miss Keating, dressed in her perennial gray, stood watching them from her doorway as though she did indeed suspect they’d been up to no good
Hollingsworth resumed his formal manner and tone. “Miss O’Riley became distraught when she learned Mr. Foxe had gone out for the day,” he explained. “I was showing her the ranch, telling her about the monthly rounds.”
“I never realized how huge his estate was,” Lyla chimed in with a coy smile. “Why, a person could wander lost for days and die of exposure before being found.”
“Keep it in mind,” Allegra replied pointedly. “These old bones tell me another storm’s blowing in.”
“A good day for cozying up to the fire with a pot of tea and your crocheting,” the valet commented. “Miss O’Riley plans to read in her room now, I believe.”
“Yes, a book from Frazier’s collection.” With a nod, Lyla descended the main stairway ahead of her newfound ally, careful not to betray her excitement by walking too fast. She was leaving! At long last she could escape this prison and return to reality.
Colorado Moonfire Page 24
