Again, the fleeting image of that young woman in New Orleans passed through his mind. The same image that had plagued his dreams since the night he had seen Sabine in Havana.
Michael scowled, frustrated as he stared up at the ceiling. Why did that senseless image keep coming back to him? It was nothing – she was nothing. Just some silly girl who was probably crying her eyes out over some ridiculous trivialty. Like hair ribbons. Or a spat with some beau.
That still didn’t explain why she continued to haunt him. Suddenly Michael laughed aloud at the recollection. New Orleans. It was the first American city he had entered in two years, and it was almost like Christmas when he heard his first words of English spoken on the streets. Familiar words. Familiar names. And he didn’t stand out like a foreigner.
But what did he almost get himself into? Helping another woman.
It was a weakness of his, he supposed as he released a sigh, trying to rescue women in distress – even when they really didn’t come asking for it. That was what had landed him in trouble in the first place.
Kansas again, he brooded, and a frown creased his handsome features. It invaded his thoughts once too many times lately- something he had tried to escape for two years now; but his pursuers had yet to give up, even though his contacts said the sheriff in Lawrence had deemed the killing of George Morrison purely an accident.
Michael let loose a heavy sigh and settled his gaze again on Sabine. It was time things were laid to rest. Let’s face it, he contemplated silently. Morrison had tried to rape a woman in an alley – a woman of color. Not that it made a difference, but outrage filled him when he, along with four other men, had heard her cries.
No one went to her aid.
When he dashed into the narrow alley to interfere, he was horrified by what he saw. She lay sprawled out on the ground, bathed in moonlight, her clothing torn, her breasts exposed for all to see. Revulsion and anger spread through him and he grabbed her kneeling attacker from behind.
Michael never saw the gun Morrison held until it pointed at his chest.
“Get outta here,” the man snarled. “Just you turn around. You didn’t see anything here.”
Michael caught the woman’s pleading look, and knew he couldn’t abandon her. She could have been someone’s mother, sister, wife.
“Leave her alone.”
A snort of scornful laughter escaped his adversary’s lips. “You a nigger lover, boy?”
Morrison lunged at him then, and despite his large build, the man was remarkably agile. They grappled in the dust of the dark alley until the sound of a gunshot separated them. Morrison slumped against the planked wall of the saloon, blood pooling in the packed, dry earth.
“Run,” the woman told him urgently. “You run from here ‘fore they catches you. They’ll gets you for sure if you don’t.”
“But…” he started hesitantly. “The law…”
“Ain’t no one gonna believe no colored woman, no way, no how. And all them men out on the street,” she said decisively, “they’s all Morrison’s friends. He’s rich. Rich for these parts, at least. They’ll say you started it. You best run from Lawrence, mister.”
He didn’t even have time to think about it.
The angry shouts of men grew loud outside the saloon, and Michael’s gaze darted to the fallen body of George Morrison. The blood. God, was that how much blood was in a person’s body?
And he had to run. He beat it out of Lawrence and the States as fast as he could, dragging along a handful of possessions and his new bride Julia, until he finally landed here. It was the only option…unless, of course, he wanted to find himself the guest of honor at a necktie party. The thought was less than inviting.
He hadn’t returned to Kansas since, and it hadn’t bothered him too awfully much. He liked it here in this wild land where nobody bothered him unless he went looking for it. Where he could step outside each day and not have to worry about constantly looking over his shoulder.
But the word was out. Morrison’s friends were still looking for him, and their vengeance continued as strong as it had two years ago. How long would it all last? The happiness? The security? When would it finally come crashing down around his ears?
Looking down at Sabine again, a tenderness came to the sharpness of his blue eyes. She definitely had been a lady in distress, and, yes, he wanted her to stay, though he knew it was a rash decision.
He couldn’t pinpoint it, but there was something about her that drew him. Maybe it was those eyes…that hair…or maybe it was just because she was unlike any other woman he had ever known.
No, he wasn’t stuck with her, Michael decided as he absently stroked at one of those errant curls that lay against her shoulder, and he wound its length about his finger, studying it intently as if it were some incredible discovery. He really did want her here, this beautiful woman who made his blood run cold, then hot, then cold again.
Michael shifted uncomfortably as he guiltily smoothed the curl back in place. He had no right to feel this way, no right at all.
Chapter Twelve
The long shadows of twilight had stretched far against the walls when Sabine stirred to awareness and hesitantly opened her eyes. It wasn’t a dream. Everything was just as she remembered it. The decadent luxury of the feather mattress. The china cup she had drunk from earlier. A half burnt tallow candle that rested on a nearby table.
She sat up, surveying her surroundings as she gently smoothed her rumpled curls. So little there was to look at. The walls were bare. The floor was bare. The windows were bare. But the furniture was sumptuous. Carved bedposts. A lovely wardrobe. A dressing table. Mirrors. This was, most definitely, a lady’s room.
Her stomach rumbled with hunger as she arose from the bed on unsteady legs. Wincing, she took a few steps. Well, she hadn’t hurt her ankle as badly as she ‘d thought, she convinced herself. In a few days she should be as good as new.
Clad only in her chemise, she bathed from the pitcher on the stand, closing her eyes as the soothing coolness soaked her skin. Forever. She wanted to stand here forever and let the water slide languidly over her arms and face. Forget about everything and just lose herself in the mesmerizing rhythm of the wash cloth as it stroked against her body.
“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.”
With a gasp, Sabine hastily covered her scantily clad bosom with her hands and whirled to face him, her eyes darting around the room wildly in search of her clothing. Darn it, where were her things? What had he done with them? She stamped her foot irritably as she creased her brow in frustration.
Michael Pierson lounged comfortably in the doorway, his muscular arms folded against the wide expanse of his chest. A flicker of amusement surfaced in his features, and the corners of his mouth curled up in a smile. How could he, she thought indignantly. How could he simply waltz in here and pretend as though nothing was wrong?
“You – you should have knocked,” she accused, her eyes wide as she inched cautiously away from him.
“I didn’t think you’d be awake.”
His gaze tactfully averted to the floor. His gesture caused her embarrassment to burn hotter, and she narrowed her eyes to angry slits. Gentleman or no, he had no excuse for his marching right in here. Who did he think he was, anyway? According to the law of this land, he might have ownership of her, but he had no right to invade her privacy!
“Where are my things,” she demanded, her manner crisp as she attempted to cover his disconcertion. “My clothes. Where are my clothes?”
“I burned them.”
“You did what?” she shouted and took a step toward him, her mouth agape incredulously. “Those were all I had.”
Rage tore through her. He had some nerve. What did he take her to be? Some cheap hussy he had bought to warm his bed? She faced him, her hands set stubbornly, furiously, on her hips.
“Look,” he snapped, jabbing a finger in her direction. “You don’t understand, do you? What do you take me for?”
>
“I’m no whore.”
The evil word had slipped from her lips before she’d had the opportunity to stifle it. There. She had said it. And she didn’t care that she had always been brought up to be a lady. It was perfectly clear that was all men would think of her. A whore. A trollop. A loose woman who was passed around for their pleasure.
“Is that why you think you’re here?” he exploded, his countenance darkening with uncontrollable fury. “Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately, Sabine? Have you happened to notice that Manuel Colón almost killed you with the way he beat you? What do you want me to do? Sit back and wait for him to finish you off?”
“What’s that got to do with my clothes?”
She was so damned irrational. Michael strode into the room purposefully, anger blazing in his eyes. Why the hell couldn’t she understand? She was so blasted headstrong she didn’t even take the time to see the gravity of her situation. Clothes. All she cared about were those damned scraps of rags that Colón had expected her to wear with some form of dignity.
Sabine darted away from him, her heart pounding wildly with fear as he advanced. How could she have been so mistaken? He was just like all the rest. Nothing special. Nothing different. Not the man she initially hoped he’d be.
Scrambling, she frantically slid under the bed, her semi-nude body trembling as she furtively peeked out from the twisted sheeting that draped to the floor. Oh, dear Lord, what kind of situation had she fallen into now?
His shouts ceased, and the impatient thump of his boot heels rang in her ears, mixing with the pounding of her heart and the ragged breathing that escaped her. He muttered a curse, and Sabine flinched as she heard his fist solidly strike an object somewhere in the room. More swear words. The pacing of his footsteps. A frustrated sigh from near the door.
“I’m sorry.” His voice was subdued, tired. “Will you please come out?”
No response. Well, did he honestly expect to get one? Only if I was a complete fool, Michael answered himself dourly. She’d been through enough already without him losing control like a madman.
He waited…and waited…and waited until the monotonous ticking of the kitchen clock nearly drove him insane. He wasn’t leaving. Sooner or later she was going to have to come out from under that bed and talk to him.
“Look, Sabine, I’m not trying to put anything over on you,” he continued as he pulled a chair next to the doorway and sat down. “I just thought maybe you would like to rid yourself of that place altogether. I mean, you and I both know what happened. Colón isn’t known for his congeniality toward women…nor will he take no for an answer.” Michael leaned his head tiredly against the wall and stared idly at the ceiling as he let loose a sigh. “When I saw you the other day, I knew you had to get out of there. Luís tried, and that failed.”
His gaze shifted to the bed again. She hadn’t moved. Not even an inch. Damn stubborn woman. Couldn’t she tell he meant her no harm?
“Well,” he continued, “I got lucky anyway. Fortunately, this four of a kind came along…”
“A card game!” Her head popped out from beneath the bed skirting, her hair edged with dust, green eyes blazing angrily. “You won me in a…a card game?”
She slid out into the open, her chest heaving with outrage as she surveyed Michael’s bemused expression.
”I knew that’d you get you out.”
She all but screamed at him in frustration. How dare he! How dare he sit there and laugh at her as if she were some addle-brained fool!
A card game. The vision of it played over and over in her brain. She could just see him at the table, a wide grin spread across his face as he laid his hand out on the table, a whoop of triumph escaping him as he found himself in possession of a new toy to occupy his time.
Quickly her hand reached out and snatched up the first object it came in contact with. She’d give him something other than cards to think about. Oh, yes, Michael Pierson would rue the day he’d ever thought of her as something to play with. The china cup flew across the room, shattering into tiny pieces far from her aim.
A short laugh of amusement escaped him. What a spitfire she was. Whatever had possessed him to think she should be in a sitting room, occupied with needlework?
“How can you laugh at me?” she continued in frustration, her bare foot stamping against the floor. “I’m not some piece of fancy jewelry or …or a horse!”
“No, you’re not. But, Sabine,” Michael commented with forced seriousness, “it’s not every day I see such contempt coming from a half-clad female.”
Sabine stiffened visibly, and she spun away, crossing her arms against her breasts in an effort to conceal them as the images of Troy Markham and Manuel Colón flooded her memory.
“What do you want from me, Mr. Pierson?” she questioned without facing him. “What is it you expect?”
The smile on Michael’s face quickly faded as her cool words fell on his ears. She slowly faced him, her emerald eyes mirroring the distrust, the hurt, the bitterness that rang out so clearly in the tones of her voice.
“I don’t expect a thing from you,” he told her simply as his gaze met hers.
She cocked an eyebrow skeptically.
“I suppose, then, that you intend for me to run about unclothed? I won’t be playing your fancy lady.”
Michael stood up and replaced the chair to its rightful position at the dressing table.
“And I never said you would. In the wardrobe there are a few things,” he said as he began to leave. “See if any of them fit.”
“Oh.”
The simple word sounded so foreign coming from her, and Sabine stared awkwardly at the closed door between them. Suddenly she felt foolish for losing her temper, though she wasn’t quite sure why. She shouldn’t feel guilty about a thing. He deserved the brunt of her anger – every single bit of it.
She turned to the wardrobe. So, she thought suddenly as she attempted to push a disconcerting idea from her mind, whose clothes were these? And how did Michael come into possession of them?
Perhaps the belonged to someone else in the household staff, she considered thoughtfully, though she had yet to hear any other stirrings about the place.
It must be, then, that they were the belongings of a mistress, former or otherwise. Sabine fell her heart fall to the floor, but quickly gathered up the pieces and put them back together as her gaze darted briefly to the door.
Ridiculous. Why on earth were these stirrings of jealousy invading her brain? She didn’t possess an ounce of envy when it came to this man who thought of her only as a result of a decent night’s hand of cards. She couldn’t stand him in the least!
The garments in the wardrobe were exceptional, though; sumptuous…but hardly suited to working about the house. Satins. Silks. Velvet – in Cuba? Carefully she sorted through the gowns, removing one after another until they all lay on the bed.
Good, sweet Heaven, she had never seen so many gowns in one place – or belonging to one person. And they were all so…impractical. Somehow she couldn’t picture herself in garnet velvet, complete with ebony braiding, scrubbing away at the kitchen floor
With a sigh of dissatisfaction, Sabine smoothed her hand over an ornate home gown or sprigged cotton and crocheted lace. The lace. Sabine wrinkled her nose at the yards of creamy lace that spread in multitudinous tiers across the full skirts, the capped sleeves, the ample bodice with its revealing neckline. It was the closest thing to a functional dress she had found, and it would have to do, she supposed, even if it was too large for her.
She slipped into it, and began the arduous task of untangling her hair with the silver-handled brush she found next to the water pitcher and bowl. Standing at the mirror, she picked out the loose twigs and dust that persisted to cling among her tendrils. The dust. How had she let her sensibilities run away with her and allow her to act so foolishly? Under the bed, hiding like a frightened child. Ridiculous. Embarrassing.
Standing in the mirror, she intently
examined the injuries Manuel Colón had inflicted upon her. A ring of bruises still encircled her neck, but, thankfully, they had begun to yellow and fade. And the nasty cut that marred her cheek had shrunk and was well on its way to healing.
But the eyes that stared back at her were not her own. They were disillusioned, cold. She couldn’t even remember a time when she didn’t look that way; it had been so long since she had laughed, felt like that carefree girl she had once been.
It was useless even to consider it. The girl had been replaced by a bitter woman who had no time for frivolous thoughts and dreams. Dreams didn’t come true…and people – well, men – couldn’t be trusted for a second.
A light tap on the door brought Sabine out of her reverie, and she cracked it open cautiously.
“Did you find everything you need?”
“Yes, Mr. Pierson,” she replied with polite humility, her gaze unconsciously dropping to the floorboards. “This will be perfect.”
He stepped inside and examined her closely. Perfect? She looked like hell in that contraption of Julia’s. All that…lace. He hated lace.
He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and leaned against the doorjamb.
“You don’t like it.”
“No,” he admitted frankly, “I don’t.”
“There’s nothing functional in that wardrobe, Mr. Pierson,” she said as she hitched the too-large bodice farther up on her shoulder.
Michael nodded in agreement. Tomorrow, he made a mental note, get something decent for her to wear.
Damn. He wished she’d quit staring at the floor as if she were some sort of inferior. And that dress. It was the most atrocious thing he had ever seen in his life. Well, Julia had never been known for her taste – or conservatism – when it came to clothing, anyway. She equated ostentation with class. Somehow, for her, it never seemed to work.
Bitterness crept into his heart, burning with a fierce heat as the thought of her came to mind. This Sabine was dredging up a whole lot of memories he’d rather just forget.
Julia Hartmann Pierson, faithless bitch. That’s what he had come to call her after almost two years. Sure, she was loyal, just as long as things went her way…and just as long as the money kept rolling in.
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