Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  Ward’s mouth twitched. Reaching out, he lifted the heavy swath of her hair from inside the collar of the robe and spread it out over the quilted satin.

  Serena flinched, her nerves tight. Ward let his hands drop, a dark flush coming into his face before he turned away.

  “Who — who was it?” Serena asked, swallowing with an effort.

  “Nathan’s driver. He left a basket with his employer’s compliments. It seems my host thought I might enjoy a midnight supper, since I was fortunate enough to have a guest with me for the trip.”

  Serena ignored the irony of his tone. “That was — kind of him.”

  “Wasn’t it?”

  “I suppose I must have looked hungry to the driver.”

  Ward swung to face her. “Are you?”

  Serena had spoken at random. It was a shock to realize that her suggestion was nothing less than the truth. Her eyes were dark-blue with amazement edged with self-doubt as she stared at him.

  “It’s not an unusual reaction,” he said, his voice quiet, and carefully reserved. “It doesn’t mean you are depraved.”

  “I — I never thought it did!” she declared with a lift of her chin, but she could not deny the gratitude that flicked over the surface of her mind.

  “How long has it been since you ate last?”

  “This morning. Mrs. O’Hare fixed a plate for me before I left the boardinghouse, but I was too anxious to go out and find work to swallow more than a bite or two.”

  He nodded, the thick lashes of his narrowed eyes shielding his expression. “Shall we call a truce, then, while we eat? Making decisions on an empty stomach never pays.”

  His grave manner was suspect. Serena had the odd feeling she should be on her guard. The effort was too much, however. What harm could there be in sharing one more meal with this man? She had nothing to fear from him now, had she? She gave a brief nod, and as he stood to one side, swept before him into the parlor with the tail of the blue velvet robe slipping along behind her.

  The basket contained a roasted chicken, link sausage, crusty buttered rolls, pickles, dried apple tarts, and to wash down the repast, a bottle of iced champagne. Though plain, the fare had a delectable smell as Serena took it from the basket. Rummaging in the pantry kitchen, Ward found a knife, a pair of forks, plates, and two flat-bowled wine glasses. They set their places on a round table in the parlor section. Ward drew up chairs, opened the champagne and filled the glasses, then held Serena’s chair while she seated herself.

  “Shall I carve the chicken for you?” he asked in mock politeness as he took his place across from her and picked up his glass.

  “I can manage.” Serena detached a wing with a large piece of white meat, then glanced at Ward’s empty plate. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  “Not just yet.” He lounged back in his chair, sipping at the sparkling yellow liquid in his glass.

  “There’s too much for one.”

  “You forget, I’ve already eaten.” His dark-green glance rested briefly on the blue shadows of the bruises beginning to appear on her wrists where they emerged from the sleeves of the robe. He looked away, drinking off his wine in a single swallow, before he leaned to refill his glass.

  Serena tasted the champagne with caution. It was decidedly refreshing. It seemed to tingle along her veins, leaving a surprising sense of well-being behind. Setting her glass aside, she bit into her chicken with renewed relish.

  Despite the effects of the champagne, it was not easy to make her meal under Ward’s brooding regard. As much as possible, she turned her attention away from his broad-shouldered form with the bronze sheen of lamplight falling across his bare chest. She surveyed the parlor, the blue-and-champagne-colored Wilton carpet, the taupe brocade draperies with their deep fringe and tassels, the Turcoman cloths that covered the tables, and the blue-and-rose brocatelle upholstery on the mahogany-and-gilt-framed settee and chairs.

  A familiar object lay in one corner of the settee. “My shawl,” Serena exclaimed. “Where did it come from?”

  “The driver rescued it from the street, along with my hat, on his return trip to the hotel. He dusted both off as best he could, but I’m afraid being left in the dirt didn’t help them.”

  Serena gave a nod. No matter how dusty it was, her shawl represented a covering for her torn dress, some means of sustaining dignity and modesty until she could get to her trunk for a change of clothing. It was odd to think of such things while having supper with a man in a state of near undress, perhaps, but after what had passed between Ward and herself, that also did not seem to matter.

  Clearing her throat, Serena said, “Speaking of rescues, I haven’t thanked you for stopping Otto a little while ago. I was grateful that you came along just then.”

  “Was?” he queried, staring at the play of light in his wine glass. “Never mind. I expect that’s an accurate statement of your feelings, and I will accept it as such. But I didn’t just happen along; I was looking for you.”

  “For me?” Serena could not keep the astonishment from her tone.

  “I left the hotel early, went back to the boardinghouse. Mrs. O’Hare told me you had gone out and weren’t back yet. She seemed to think that you were worried about her charges for the room. I kept thinking about you walking the streets, seeing you being tolled into one of the parlor houses or dance halls in Colorado City. I wasn’t too happy when I commandeered Nathan’s rig and set out to find you; by the time I saw you with Otto I was in a mood to — to take my temper out on the first person I met.”

  It was as near an explanation for his conduct as she was likely to get, she thought. Trying for a less strained mood, she said, “I appreciate the sacrifice, if you left your poker game for me. That kind of thing must mean a great deal to you.”

  “Because I run a gambling hell?” he asked, a hard smile flickering across his features.

  “I suppose that was what I meant.”

  “The poker game started after the business meeting. I wasn’t interested enough in it to stick around. Few men choose to relax in the same way they make their livings. Besides, my profession tends to give me an unfair advantage. If a man comes to the Eldorado for a game, he accepts that fact; anywhere else,” he finished with a shrug.

  His attitude was understandable, even commendable; it was the irony with which he expressed it that baffled her. She ate her chicken in silence, crumbling a roll as her appetite receded. Her gaze lifted to the ceiling, where the small skylight surrounded a painting of cherubs holding flower garlands floating in a blue sky. In one corner was a radiating sun that looked suspiciously like a rounded heap of precious metal. Noticing it, Serena allowed a smile to curve her mouth.

  “What is it?” he inquired, and when she pointed out the resemblance gave a brief upward glance. “It’s possible. Nathan has a sense of humor. It would be a fitting emblem, don’t you think, for a man who counts a major part of his wealth in gold-mining shares.”

  “This man, Benedict — is he proud of being rich?” It did not seem unlikely, since his monogram, an ornate set of initials encircled by sheaves of wheat, adorned not only the towels in the bathroom, but nearly everything else in sight, from the linen napkin in her lap to the heading of the draperies at the window.

  Ward shook his head. “Not really, though Nathan enjoys his money, or rather the things it can buy. Most of this” —he indicated the furnishings of the car with the hand that held his glass— “was planned by his wife just after they struck it rich. She died before it was delivered. Nathan always hated that.”

  “You sound as if you have known him a long time.”

  “Only since I came out here in ‘91. That was just after his Century Lode was assayed at two hundred eighty dollars to the ton. His wife died a few months later. It can’t have been more than three years that we have known each other; it only seems like a long time.”

  Wrenching himself out of his chair, he moved to a small sideboard that held a cut-glass condiment set and several decanter
s hung with silver tags. Taking up the cut-glass bottle marked brandy, he removed the stopper, sloshed an inch of the dark spirits into his glass, replaced the stopper, and returned to his chair. Noticing that Serena had emptied her champagne glass, he poured the last of the bubbling wine into it and set the napkin-wrapped bottle to one side.

  Serena stifled a yawn. She pushed back her plate, flicking a glance at Ward from the corner of her eye. Her hunger was appeased now, her flash of content gone. All she felt was weariness and a dull alarm at the way the man across from her was drinking. He sat watching her, his green eyes intend on the hectic color that lay across her cheekbones and the blue shadows beneath her eyes. To avoid that narrow scrutiny, Serena picked up her glass and drank.

  Abruptly he stretched out his hand and took the empty glass from her fingers. “Go and lie down. Get some rest,” he said, his voice harsh. “It will take a little time to send a message for the carriage again to take you back to the boardinghouse. You may as well make the best of it.”

  She glanced at the connecting door, the longing to do as he suggested plain in her face. She was weary beyond endurance, her body bruised and sore and her spirit beginning to flag. She would not admit it, however, even to herself.

  “Now,” he grated, “before I change my mind.”

  It would be stupid to fail to heed the warning. Serena rose on unsteady legs, and with the quilted robe trailing behind her, moved slowly into the bedroom. She put her hand on the knob of the connecting door and quietly swung it shut, pressing it until the latch clicked into place.

  Removing the robe, she hung it away once more where she had found it. She turned on the brass tap in the bathroom then and wet a cloth with cold water. She wiped it over her face and arms, and then when she was through, carried it into the bedroom. Taking the coverlet from the bed, she rubbed at the reddish stain that marred its smooth perfection When she was satisfied that little trace remained, she spread the coverlet over a chair to dry. Only then did she climb into bed and slide between the fresh sheets.

  For a long time she lay, her fingers caressing the raised satin stitch of the monogram that marked the linens, staring up at the small, half-closed eyes of the skylights that glowed with the light from the railroad terminal. Her mind teemed with all that had happened to her in the past two days. Elder Greer, the counsel of Saints, her long trek ending with Ward and the hailstorm. Her arrival in Colorado Springs, Otto, his fight with the elder, the ravaging clutch of his hands. Ward again, a tall avenger, possessive champion, passionately tender lover. She closed her eyes as she felt once more the piercing pain that had taken her virginity. She wanted to feel outrage, grief, hate. All she could muster was a sigh of tiredness.

  She was jerked from the edge of sleep by a clanking, metallic thud. Brakes ground and squealed, steam hissed, a mighty engine panted. The car was being connected. It began to move, rocking, swaying on its way to Cripple Creek. She had not agreed to go, had not said she would stay with Ward. It was too late now. Too late. Anger stirred and died away. Well then, let the train take her, let the decision be made for her; she could not bring herself to care.

  Serena came awake with a start. The train was still moving. They were beyond the town, for there was no light filtering through the skylights. The bedroom was dark and filled with the rush of air. Somewhere a door swung back and forth, banging against the wall with each swing.

  She sat up. The door into the parlor was open, also thrown wide, moving in the rocking draft, as was the rear door that led from the bedroom out onto the back platform of the train. Through this last doorway came the noise of the engine ahead of them, the pounding of its great heart and the scraping grind of the wheels on the metal track. Beyond the opening, standing on the platform, was the shape of a man, a dark silhouette against the night sky.

  Serena slid out of bed and padded over the vibrating floor to the rear door. It was Ward who stood in the windy, smoke-whipped darkness. He was shirtless still, his muscled arms braced against the guardrail of the platform as he stared up at the pinpoints of orange sparks flying past overhead, winking out as they flew over the top of the Pullman car next in line.

  “Ward?” she spoke quietly, allowing nothing of the sudden fear that gripped her to seep into her voice.

  He turned, a deliberate movement. Seeing the white blur of her chemise and petticoat, he looked away again.

  “Why are you out here? You’ll freeze. Come inside.” She took a step closer, reaching out to put her hand on his bare shoulder. The contact sent a tingle of shock along her arm, and unconsciously she tightened her hold.

  He acknowledged her presence beside him with a brief glance. “Lies, Serena,” he said quietly. “How we lie to ourselves. I was a gentleman once — an upright citizen who would have shot without a thought the kind of cur who would take a woman against her will. I told myself, in spite of everything, that I could still make that claim. I was wrong. What, then, do I deserve for what I have done to you, sweet Serena?”

  “You — it was a mistake,” she whispered, driven by some traitorous sense of compassion to ease the pain she heard in his voice. Though he spoke plainly and stood rock-steady against the swaying of the train, she thought he was more than a little intoxicated.

  He straightened slowly, turned. “Are you making excuses for me?”

  “No, but neither can I deny the reasons that are there, not if they can be counted as important.”

  He lifted his hands, placing one on either side of her cheeks, cradling her face. “They are important,” he said, his voice soft though his face was unreadable in the dark. “Oh they are, but can they justify the longing I feel for you, the need I have, knowing that I have destroyed your innocence, to do the same again? And this need to keep you with me, knowing it’s not what you want. What kind of man am I?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered in distress, aware of an ache that began in the region of her heart and rose upward with the press of tears into her throat.

  “It might be better if I found out, once and for all.” He set his mouth to hers with the touch of tender fire. It flamed between them as their lips clung, a leaping thing that consumed puny questions of doubt and blame, feeding on itself. He pushed his fingers deep into the dark mass of her hair. He tasted the trembling corners of her mouth and trailed fire along the lovely turn of her jaw to the hollow of her throat. One hand smoothed down her back, pressing her hips to the lower part of his body. Her pulse throbbed as she felt the heat of his desire, and she clutched his shoulders, spreading her fingers over the muscles of his back. She half expected to find him chilled by his vigil; instead his skin held a fevered warmth that made her shiver with her own recognition of the windy chill.

  He drew back, turning her toward the open doorway. A quick swing and it had closed behind them, shutting out the noise and the smoky, blowing wind. Her head rested on his shoulder, the black silk of her hair spilling over his arm. He tilted her chin with one finger, kissing her eyelids; then he bent to lift her, holding her close as he put one knee on the bed and eased down with her upon the rumpled sheets.

  With slow care he removed her chemise and drew off her petticoat, then stripped off his trousers. His hand cupped her breast, sensing the pounding of her heart, then slid down over her belly to test the muscles of her abdomen tensed in a strange combination of fear and anticipation. He gathered her close then, letting the side-to-side movement of the railroad car rock them in a gentle and steady rhythm while their mouths were sweetly molded together. The taste of brandy was on his lips and the freshness of the night clung to his body. In the flush of growing excitement, Serena felt the thrust of his tongue and shyly, hesitantly, touched it with her own. The pressure of his arms increased, constricting her breathing. His hands clasped the soft swell of her hips in an intimacy that should have been repellent, humiliating, but was not. Her breasts were flattened against the hard planes of his chest. She brushed the fingers of one hand along the strong column of his neck, feeling inside her
the slow welling of her own ardor. It was a blooming thing, suffusing her, crowding out all except the sensations that assaulted her from within. She felt a tender soreness as he pressed into her, and then it was as though she had received that which alone could increase the growing, molten pleasure that engulfed her. He penetrated deeper, his movements quickening, and on an upsurge of rapture she clung to him, ascending in a white heat of expanding, limitless exultation, floating, returning to earth only as his movements slowed, finally ceased.

  They did not move apart, but lay with their bodies entwined as their breathing eased. And the train roared on, climbing ever higher into the mountain night.

  5

  The Spanish peaks called the Sangre de Cristo, blood of Christ, mountains were tipped rose-red where the light of the morning sun was reflected on their mantles of snow. They lined the horizon to the southwest, distinct in the high, clear air, and yet blue and mysterious with distance. To the north lay the snow-capped purple ranges of the Rockies, while to the east loomed the lavender-gray granite of Pikes Peak. In their journey to Cripple Creek, Serena and Ward had circled around the four-hundred-square-mile mass of the shining landmark. The gold-mining district was on its western slope, actually a part of the great mountain itself.

  Cripple Creek township was located in the depths of an ancient volcanic crater, lying like the dregs in the bottom of a wide-mouthed wineglass. At the top of the rim, there were traces of brownish-green grass, a few stands of aspen and spruce, but for the rest, there was only scarred earth and tumbled rock piles of mine diggings. The gold in this region, Serena had once heard her father say, was not found like that uncovered in other strikes. The soft ore had been forced up by volcanic action from deep inside the earth, carried along natural fissures in a chemical salt solution with a number of other minerals, silver among them. As a result, there was little surface gold, none of the fabulous nuggets of pure metal such as had been found in California’s gold rush of ‘49. Placer mining, panning in the mountain streams of the area, yielded little more than flakes and specks of the mineral. In order to get at enough of the gold to be worthwhile, vertical shafts had to be sunk through the granite following the lines of gold-bearing fissures. Hard-rock mining was difficult and dangerous work, requiring an enormous investment in special tools, machinery, and buildings. It was not an undertaking for a poor man.