Gambler's Tempting Kisses

by Charlotte Hubbard

  be—”

  “And I came to apologize,” Blue continued, as though unaware he was interrupting anything. “I once implied that your beloved here was too virtuous to succumb to your wolfish intentions, and I was wrong. Can you blame me for being stunned? You’re the last fellow I figured would end up with powder burns on his privates.”

  Charity flushed furiously. She gripped the edge of the sheet more tightly above her breasts and was about to demand that Blue leave, when her husband swung out of bed and hit the floor with a hard thump.

  “You and I will settle this, so my wife won’t have to endure any more of your obnoxious behavior,” Devereau ordered. He pointed angrily toward the doorway that led to their sitting room, but Jackson didn’t budge.

  “I hear she made a beautiful bride, and that the Reverend even acted the part of the proud papa, rather than admitting his little girl—”

  “Get out!” Charity blurted. “You of all people have no right to judge what we’ve done—especially since we’ve done nothing wrong.”

  The treelike Indian regarded her coolly and then looked Dillon up and down. “I can see my wedding present is unappreciated, so why should I bother sharing what I learned about Charity’s mother? I’ll just do the gentlemanly thing and go.”

  “What’d you find out?” Devereau snapped.

  Jackson’s smile was foxlike. “Ask Phoebe. She sends her love, by the way.”

  “Does she know where Mama is?” Charity leaned forward, trying to ignore the scout’s leer. “If you don’t tell us—”

  “I was just leaving,” he said with a shrug. “In fact, Abilene’s so tame now that all my old cohorts have moved on, and I see no point in wasting my time here. Happy trails, Devereau.” As stealthily as he came in, Blue disappeared through the doorway on moccasined feet, his snide laughter trailing him down the corridor.

  “That’s the best wedding present of all,” Dillon muttered. “Any friend would’ve waited until morning.” He stopped his ranting to look at Charity with a resigned sigh. “I’m truly sorry, honey. I never dreamed he’d—”

  “I’m not surprised,” she answered with a shrug. “Papa will always act sanctimonious, Mama will get what she wants with her smile, and Jackson Blue will behave as though he’s still out among the buffalo. It’s their nature, Dillon.”

  Once again her poise caught him off guard. Instead of cowering when Blue had barged in, she’d confronted him; instead of bemoaning yet another mishap on her wedding day, Charity displayed an insightful tolerance beyond her years. Dillon smiled at her. “You’re right. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  “Of course I’m right,” she quipped, letting her gaze follow the length of his body. “What were we going to do—chase him down the hall, both of us naked, if he didn’t leave?”

  The thought struck him as so ridiculous that he shook with laughter. Charity was studying him with the solemn interest of an Eve who was anything but ashamed of her nudity, her gaze so provocative he felt himself hardening again. “It’s a good thing you’re not like the average preacher’s daughter,” he said as he approached the bed. “We’ll probably run up against many an embarrassing situation between now and . . . what’s the matter, honey? What’re you staring at?

  “You.” Devereau probably didn’t enjoy being scrutinized, yet now that he stood before her, with the last rays of the sunset casting a golden spell on his body, Charity couldn’t pretend to be embarrassed by the sheer physical beauty of him. “You look like the famous statues I saw in a book once,” she continued softly. “Except you’re not wearing a leaf.”

  He stroked the tendrils of hair from her forehead, wondering how his life had taken such a turn in the few days he’d known this disarming young woman. When he reached for the sheet, Charity sat stock-still, letting him gaze at her pert breasts as the bedclothes fell away from her. She opened her arms, and with a reverence akin to prayer, Dillon made love to her until the room grew dark around them and the evening breeze cooled their sated bodies.

  Charity shuddered, caught between dreaming and wakefulness, and inhaled the warm, spicy scent that could only be Dillon’s. He was propped against the pillow-padded headboard, sipping whiskey, his arm loosely cradling her.

  “Welcome back,” he murmured. “Your timing’s perfect, because our dinner just returned. The cook was none too pleased about warming it at this hour, though.”

  She stretched languidly and gave him a lazy grin. “What time is it?”

  “What does it matter? Appetites are allowed their own schedule on a wedding night.”

  He kissed her forehead and rose to fetch the supper tray. Charity sat up, suddenly ravenous when the aromas of warm beef and bread reached her nose. The room’s furnishings seemed to sleep in the shadows created by the small lamp Dillon had lit. He twisted a bottle carefully between his hands as he braced it against a firm thigh, and then a loud pop made her jump.

  “Champagne,” he explained as he held the streaming bottle over two goblets on the night stand. “I thought you might like to taste it even if you don’t finish the glass.”

  Charity took the fizzing goblet he offered, smiling at the tiny bubbles that were spraying her hand. He slid onto the bed beside her and clinked their glasses together. “To you, my dear Charity,” he said with an intimate grin, “and to the laughter and loving we’ll share along the way.”

  She smiled and sipped lightly from the delicate stemware. A tiny, bittersweet explosion occurred in her mouth, making her cough and laugh as she looked at Dillon. “Tickles all the way down,” she gasped.

  “Careful there. We can’t have you turning into a lush—not when we have business to tend to later today.” He went to get the supper tray, removing the silver domes from the two plates before bringing it to the bed. “Perhaps we can sit cross-legged, facing each other with this between us for a table,” he suggested.

  Eagerly she scooted around into the position he’d described, bumping her knees and shins to his. Their plates were laden with succulent steak and soft slices of bread, and carrots that smelled tangy with orange sauce. “Jackson Blue may be crude, but you can’t argue with his taste in dinner.”

  Dillon laughed. “I can remember plenty of times when I was down on my luck at the tables, and he’d rustle me up some buffalo or whatever else he had. He’s not always the inconsiderate lout you’ve seen.”

  Charity nodded and washed a bite of meat down with more of her champagne. “I figured he had some redeeming qualities or you wouldn’t have saved his life.”

  Dillon watched her eyes meet his, requesting the story, and he was again amazed at how she seemed to recall the tiniest details from everything he’d ever told her. He struggled to keep his gaze on her face rather than on the two lamplit peaks swaying above her side of the tray. “We met here in Abilene, back when we were both starting out,” he began quietly. “He didn’t come into town often—preferred keeping company with those shaggy herds to rubbing elbows with drovers and merchants and sporting types.”

  Scowling, Charity chewed for a moment. “If he liked the buffalo, why’d he slaughter them? I thought Indians believed in the sanctity of the land and killing only to meet their needs.”

  “True enough. But for Jackson, killing buffalo was a way to earn a good living and get revenge on his mother’s people at the same time.” She was listening so intently she’d forgotten about her dinner, so he raised a forkful of carrots to her lips. “You see, Blue’s only half Indian—Northern Cheyenne. His father was a colored man who abandoned his mother to go to the gold fields shortly after Blue was born, and even though the tribe took her back, they made their disapproval quite plain. Which is why he ran off.”

  “So that explains his odd coloring,” she replied thoughtfully. Charity sipped from her goblet again, recalling the times she’d observed the overbearing scout. “But why’s his English so perfect? He’s obviously an educated man.”

  “Also true,” Devereau replied, pleased that her dislike for B
lue hadn’t clouded her perception of him. “He attended a small mission school for a few years—long enough to learn to read and get baptized, before the freedom of the plains called him away. Blue studies every book he can get his hands on, and he can do a damned impressive recitation of Shakespeare when the mood strikes him.”

  “So how’d he end up at death’s door? My guess is that an irate husband went after him.”

  Devereau laughed loudly. “A logical assumption, but his paramours were too loyal and he was too slippery to get caught in the act. No pun intended.”

  A curious lightness was working its way up into Charity’s head, and she grinned at her husband’s joke.” So he cheated at cards, and the other players tried to scalp him with his own tomahawk. That’s how he got the scar down the side of his face, right?”

  He glanced at her goblet and realized the champagne was talking, because Charity wasn’t a woman who took pleasure from someone else’s pain. “Close as we can figure,” he said quietly, “something spooked his horse, and the crazy animal charged into the herd they’d been stalking. Blue lost his seat . . . got gored by at least one buffalo, and should’ve been dead when I found him outside his cabin. His foot was still stuck in the stirrup.”

  She suddenly felt sick. “What’d you do?”

  “I kept him drunk enough that the town doctor could patch him up,” he replied as he squeezed her hand. “He was a surly patient. The first day he could hold a pistol, he asked me to lead his horse to the cabin door, without telling me he was going to shoot it.”

  “Oh, Dillon . . .”

  “I think he harbors some resentment toward me to this day,” Devereau finished with a wistful smile. “Had he died, he wouldn’t have to admit to losing control of his mount—to himself or anyone who asks about his scar. Proud to a fault, Blue is.”

  The image of Jackson Blue’s blood-soaked body dangling from a horse still wasn’t setting well. Charity laid her fork down. “Why doesn’t he make up another story then? He’s certainly capable.”

  “I’m sure he does when the occasion calls for it.” Devereau sensed that the remains of their meal would go untouched, so he laid the tray on the nightstand and coaxed Charity to snuggle up beside him. “That wasn’t a fitting tale for a wedding night, honey, and I’m sorry I spoiled your supper.”

  His warmth accelerated the effect the alcohol was having on her. She shook her head, wearing a smile that felt lopsided. “You only told it because I asked. No harm done.”

  Charity’s wooziness made her eyes wobble and she let her head flop endearingly against his shoulder. He pulled her close, tucking the sheet around them. She had every right to be exhausted, and she was giggly with her first liquor, and Devereau fully intended to let her sleep . . . if only she weren’t running her fingers lightly across his chest, in a rhythmic pattern that occasionally grazed his nipples. He sucked in sharply when her ring snagged a tuft of hair.

  Charity bolted upright. “Dillon, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I—”

  “No harm done,” he echoed. He kissed her hand, noting the way the gold band twisted loosely on her finger. “I should’ve had the goldsmith make it a little smaller. It was nearly twice this size when I took it into the shop this morning.”

  Vague questions ran through her mind, questions she wasn’t sure she should ask. “You had this ring before?” she mumbled, studying the diamond’s wide, flat face for the hundredth time. The stone was so large she saw her own miniature image in its glistening surface.

  “I bought it with my first big winnings, after a spectacular night aboard the Delta Queen,” he replied with a grin. “Do you like it, Charity? I can get you another one if you’d prefer a different shape or setting, but I didn’t see one I liked at the jeweler’s today.”

  “Oh no, it—it’s lovely.” She hesitated to quiz him about this rather sensitive subject, yet her tongue was loose enough to let the question slip out. “Was this ring originally for another woman, Devereau?”

  Charity’s doleful face made him hug her close. “No, but it does have a shady past, I’m afraid.” He smiled, doubting she’d feel offended by the truth. “That was my first shiner. It’s a genuine diamond, the kind gamblers wear when the stakes are high. By slipping the stone to the underside of your hand,” he explained as he demonstrated on Charity’s slender finger, “you can read the cards as you deal them out to your opponents. It takes a lot of skill to pull it off without being detected, but it’s one more way to defend yourself against unscrupulous sharps.”

  Suddenly she was giggling, a victim of the champagne. Then she wiggled the massive diamond in the light from the lamp, delighted with the rainbows that flashed on the white sheet in front of her. “And how do I defend myself against you, Mr. Devereau?” she asked in a husky whisper.

  “You don’t.” He gave in to the urge to kiss her upturned lips, knowing it would lead to anything but the rest his adorable new wife deserved. “You entrust your heart and soul to me, dear Charity, as I’ve entrusted mine to you.”

  The afternoon sun blazed down, and squinting made Charity’s head pound harder. Why did people drink, if this awful, sick throbbing was the result? Or did they become drunkards by drowning the pain with more and more alcohol? Her stomach rumbled queasily and she forced herself to keep pace with Dillon, who was reminiscing about his previous days in Abilene.

  “The Drover’s Cottage I originally directed you to used to be right over there,” he said as he escorted her along Texas Street. “It stood three stories high and had a hundred and twenty rooms. The Gores ran it—served imported liquor and food as good as you find in St. Louis—but they dismantled the place and moved on to Ellsworth, where the cattle business was still flourishing.”

  A blind man could tell that the girl beside him had a first-rate hangover, but she’d refused to rest in the hotel room. Devereau kept up his patter as they went to visit with Phoebe Thomas, hoping to make her feel better. “And over there was the Lone Star, a dance hall where the girls wore knee-length skirts and Mexican camisoles. The Texas cowpokes liked that sort of thing, I suppose.”

  “And you didn’t?”

  Dillon bit back a laugh, because Charity sounded as though even her voice was in a great deal of pain. “Some of them weren’t too comely, as I recall, but when the longhorns were in town there was such a demand for female companionship that looks didn’t matter much. Lots of those ladies wore white kid boots with derringers tucked inside them, because when hell was in season—that’s what we called it when the trigger-happy Texans showed up—everybody feared for his life.”

  It didn’t sound like such a fine place to be, and yet he spoke in a tone that glorified all the chaos that must have reigned in Abilene back then. Charity held her tongue as they kept walking, knowing her headache would sour any comments she made. They passed in front of a school building, and she couldn’t help noticing a neat yellow house across the street. “It’s not often you see such a high board fence around a place in town,” she remarked. “Was that to keep the rowdy element in, or to keep it out?”

  Devereau wondered if his bride had a sixth sense about such things. “Actually, that was the classiest bordello in town—and maybe it still is,” he replied with a chuckle. “Mattie Silks served only the finest champagne, and her girls were the prettiest things this side of Kansas City.”

  From the corner of her eye, Charity saw his dimple appear. “And how would you know that?”

  Devereau cleared his throat, still laughing. “That’s where Hickok and I had our shoot-out, when Mattie’s choicest dove couldn’t decide which of us deserved the pleasure of her company,” he replied lightly. “Here we are, sweetheart. Are you sure you want to go in? I can ask Mrs. Thomas a few questions while you rest on that bench, if you’d rather.”

  The worn wooden seat outside Thomas’s Dry Goods Emporium looked terribly inviting, shaded as it was by the store’s porch roof, but Charity declined. Phoebe Thomas was her best chance to hear about Mama—anyone passin
g through Abilene was likely to visit the general store—and it was up to her to gather information Dillon might miss. He was normally as observant as any man, but returning here had put him in a nostalgic mood and Phoebe Thomas was a friend from those early years ... a very pretty friend.

  The moment they stepped through the door, Mrs. Thomas flashed a beguiling smile, as though she’d been expecting them. “Surely you newlyweds aren’t so bored that you’ve come to shop,” she teased.

  Charity suddenly wished she’d worn Voletta Littleton’s deep green gown. Not only was Phoebe radiant in a rose blouse and a flowing skirt of a slightly deeper hue, but a glance around the tidy store made her feel even frumpier: the curtains were made from the same blue gingham she was wearing. The storekeeper’s spritely wife had noticed this, too, and dismissed her with a bat of her long lashes.

  “What can I show you today?” she asked with a smile intended only for Dillon.

  “Two things, actually,” Devereau replied. “We’d like to look at your yard goods first. I doubt we’ll have time to get any dresses made before we leave, but I thought we’d check your stock.”

  “And?” the raven-haired proprietress asked as she led them toward the fabric bolts stacked along the wall.

  “We’ve come for some information. Jackson Blue thought you might be able to help us.”

  Charity preceded him down the aisle behind Phoebe, feeling more mortified by the minute. Ordinarily the prospect of new clothes overjoyed her, but buying yard goods from a woman who was so fashionably dressed—and who was openly flirting with her husband—was the ultimate embarrassment.

  “We have some lovely new linens and silks,” Phoebe was saying. She waved a graceful hand toward bolts of summery pastels, and then glanced at Charity’s dress. “Or perhaps Mrs. Devereau prefers the simplicity of cotton prints.”

  “Mrs. Devereau wants only your best,” he replied, running folds of the elegant silks through his fingers. “What would you choose for yourself, Phoebe? You’ve always dressed to perfection.”