Colorado Captive

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Victoria chuckled as she filled his teacup. “No, we shortened her real name, which is Zenobia. I hope we did the right thing, bringing her here. Elliott’s daughter hasn’t responded to my letter about her.”

  Matt frowned slightly as he glanced at Emily. “It could be that she hasn’t seen it. When I was at the ranch, she was feeling better—getting ready for roundup—which took her away from the house for a few days.”

  The Madame sighed, toying with an opal pendant that rested above her ample bosom. “It’s a good thing Silas hired you, since he’s too busy to keep track of Elliott’s affairs. Clancy claims Zenia is just what our clients have been asking for—and I have no objection—but I’m not sure Elliott’s daughter would approve.”

  Matt glanced around and stood so that only Victoria and Emily could hear their conversation. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “Zenia’s a Negress, Mr. McClanahan. Elliott insisted on paying his colored help the same wages as the rest of us, but not everyone shares his views.” Victoria waved coyly at a group of men who were entering the parlor. “Perhaps I should visit Miss Burnham at the ranch—”

  “I think you’d better stay here and keep an eye on Clancy,” Matt responded quietly. “His side of the ledger doesn’t balance as perfectly as yours does.”

  As she glanced toward the bar, the Madame’s aqua eyes narrowed. “You have a point. But when you see Emily, tell her she’d be wise to come visit the Golden Rose. Excuse me—I have to see what’s keeping our Zenia.”

  Emily watched Miss Victoria sway gracefully through the room, greeting guests on her way to the staircase. “Quick thinking, McClanahan,” she said in a low voice.

  “Part of the job,” he replied with a wink. “Has Clancy given you any trouble this week?”

  “No. He fetched Zenia on Monday, and he’s been congratulating himself ever since.” She glanced toward the bar, where the men were gathering after their obligatory cups of tea. “What about Nigel? Has he threatened you, or asked where I was?”

  Matt shrugged. “He’s kept to himself. Silas is acting as though his absence last week was legitimate, until we can prove he sabotaged the tracks.”

  Nodding, Emily spotted a buckskin dress and a jaded, dark-eyed smile. “I guess I’ll play maid now, since the Princess has spotted you.”

  She smiled at the woman in the feathers and war paint, and passed among the guests with a heaping tray of crumpets and little cakes. Josh grinned his thanks as she set a lemon tart on the piano. The ladies were making eyes over their china cups, at the same stock brokers, mine owners, and bankers who usually attended these gatherings. Barry Thompson laced his tea with brandy from the crystal decanter on the étagère, and she wagged a teasing finger at him.

  Around the piano, several voices rose in a chorus of “There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight”—until Josh abruptly stopped playing. He gazed toward the stairway as though he’d been bewitched.

  Zenia Collins seemed to float down the stairs, wearing a sea green taffeta gown that accentuated her slender yet well-endowed figure. Her doelike eyes widened as she took in the rapt faces of the men below her. She was one of the most beautiful colored ladies Emily had ever seen…and one of the youngest.

  Behind Zenia, Victoria Chatterly followed like a regal mother hen. “Gentlemen, may I present Miss Zenia Collins, our newest resident here at the Golden Rose. We think she’s a very special young lady, and you will, too. Zenia, dear, will you sing something for us?”

  Murmurs rose as the guests assessed the girl in green. Smiling shyly at Josh, she steadied herself against the piano as he played a few introductory bars. “Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes” was a familiar tune, yet when Zenia forgot her nerves and sang it in a soprano that was sweet and clear, the words seemed to take on new meaning. The guests applauded enthusiastically and demanded an encore.

  Emily saw no sign of Matt or Princess Cherry Blossom, but she couldn’t miss the way the men were eyeing Zenia like randy bulls, or the way Clancy strutted behind the bar, telling his customers how he’d found such an enticing morsel. Disgusted by his cocky grin, she went to the pantry to refill the tea trays. When she returned, Conrad Stokes was smiling broadly as he offered a pudgy arm to Miss Collins, patting her fragile brown hand. No one would be wanting more tea, so Emily returned to her table in the corner of the pantry.

  She knew such things went on, yet the sight of the portly white banker and his tender black prey troubled her. She picked up the latest Rocky Mountain News, trying to put the realities of the prostitution business out of her mind.

  “Well! It’s not often you see a woman reading a newspaper in a whorehouse.”

  Emily looked up to see McClanahan grinning at her. “Habit, I guess. Even though I know who killed Papa, I like to keep track of what other outlaws are in the area.”

  “Me, for instance?”

  “You’re the first one I thought of.”

  Matt lowered himself into the armchair across from her, patting his lap as he set his whiskey bottle on the table. Her tawny gaze was as eager as he’d hoped it would be, and he gave her a rakish once-over.

  “Don’t get any ideas, McClanahan. The bathing suite’s occupied,” Emily teased.

  “I know. The Princess is entertaining Thompson—cowboys and Indians, they call it.”

  After a week without his touch, Emily couldn’t resist the playful invitation that was written all over his face. She picked up her paper and perched demurely on his lap. “And what would you like to play?” she murmured.

  Matt chuckled, his desire rising as he caught the heady scent of her perfume. “Don’t be silly, rosebud. I came in here to read.” He turned her so she was balanced on his lap, facing the doorway. “You hold the paper, and I’ll hold you. How’s that?”

  “Shh! I’m reading.”

  “Fine. So will I.”

  Emily opened the News wider, creating a screen between them and whoever walked by the open door. It was a struggle not to laugh, because she knew damn well McClanahan wasn’t paying any more attention to the pages than she was.

  Matt poured a drink, slipping his free hand around her waist. As he sipped, his chin brushed lightly against her temple, and it was all he could do not to loosen her silky hair.

  She felt his warm breath falling on her cheek, and a hand closing gently over her breast. “Uh—looks like Pug Ryan’s still on the loose,” she said in a strained voice. “Guess you heard about him shooting those deputies in Breckenridge, after he helped himself to everybody’s valuables in the Denver Hotel game room.”

  “Yep. They’ll catch him one of these days.” Matt nuzzled the wispy hairs that had come loose from her braid. Grasping her hips, he shifted her weight more strategically over the bulge in his trousers. “I see your Wild Bunch friends made the paper, too.”

  “You mean this piece from Steamboat Springs, about Cassidy calling for a meeting of all the outlaws?” Emily chuckled as she pointed to the column. “He thinks they’ll get amnesty from the law by enlisting in the Spanish-American War. I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  “The Army’ll be too short of horses to fight, if they let those fellows enlist.”

  She turned to grin at him. “Well! It’s not often you hear a man making intelligent conversation with a woman in a whorehouse.”

  “Maybe I should stop. It could ruin my image,” he said in a husky voice. His right hand found its way between the buttons of her blouse, and his left was unfastening her skirt. With a low moan, he skimmed the velvety skin beneath her clothes until he felt coarse curls and the moist slickness below them.

  Emily sucked in her breath. “Somebody’ll see—”

  “Two sets of legs and a newspaper,” Matt breathed. “Perfectly innocent, unless you keep squirming this way. But don’t stop on my account.”

  His skillful fingertips made waves of warmth swirl up from the pit of her stomach until her head was in a fog. “What if someone walks in?” she murmured. With his rigid m
anhood prodding her bottom and his hands creating such an intimate torment, she was afraid Clancy or the guests would hear her crying out before long.

  McClanahan caressed her until they were both straining for release, and then he stopped. It took all his strength to clasp his hands over the waistband of her apron. “All right, then,” he said in a teasing whisper. “What shall we talk about now, Miss Burnham?”

  “Uh—Zenia! What’d you think of Zenia?”

  He ran his tongue along the edge of her ear. “She’s pretty, but I prefer fair-haired virgins myself.”

  “She’s no virgin. Clancy hired her away from a house in Creede.”

  Matt’s eyebrows went up. “Then why was he selling her innocence to the highest bidder at the bar?”

  “What?” Emily jerked around to face him, dropping her newspaper.

  He groaned against her shoulder. “You’ll end up on the floor if you don’t watch where you swivel those hips, sweetheart,” he rasped.

  “Sorry.” She stroked McClanahan’s cheek, scowling over what he’d told her. “You’re saying Stokes paid to be the first? That bastard Donahue promised Victoria—”

  Matt clapped his hand over her mouth. “Shh…maybe that’s just the game for the day. Whores build their business on fantasy, honey, and they’ve got a story for every gown in their wardrobe.”

  Emily recalled Zenia’s wide, childlike eyes and her halting entrance into the parlor, and she knew now why the colored girl’s situation bothered her. “It’s still disgusting,” she hissed. “And I’m going out there to—”

  “What good would it do?” McClanahan countered. He adored her flushed cheeks and flashing eyes, yet her sense of propriety pleased him more. “Like it or not, this is a whorehouse, Emily. You can’t challenge Donahue—not in front of the Rose’s most generous customers. Just be glad she’s with Conrad instead of with Clancy.”

  She let out an impatient sigh. “When I see Donahue alone, I’ll—”

  “Be careful, Miss Crusader. You know he’ll retaliate.”

  Emily blinked. And as she studied the handsome, compassionate face that was only inches from her own, she also knew how lucky she’d been that McClanahan had taught her the first lessons in love. “You’re right—I’d better watch myself,” she murmured. “Just hold me for a while, Matt. I…I’ve missed you this week.”

  “I’ve missed you, too, rosebud.”

  His arms encircled her and she relaxed against the steady rise and fall of his chest. She felt like a child, cherished and protected, yet free to express her inner feelings as she could with no one else. How would she be surviving the aftermath of Papa’s death if it weren’t for Matt McClanahan?

  He kissed her forehead and felt himself hardening again. His passion for her was growing more dangerous by the day—the consequences of accidentally exposing her identity were dire. Yet he couldn’t let her go.

  To prolong his state of anticipation, Matt poured another drink. “Want a sip?” he whispered. “They say it makes a lady…freer with her lover.”

  She laughed softly. “I’ve been too free with you already, McClanahan.” Emily returned his gaze as he drained his glass and set it down. He pulled her close for the kiss she’d wanted since the last time their lips had met, his whiskey-flavored tongue slithering between her teeth. He was holding her so tightly she could feel his hard, round pocket watch as well as something else poking her from beneath his clothes.

  “I’m going to shut the door,” he breathed.

  “What if someone comes in here looking for more tarts, or—”

  “Too bad,” he said with a chuckle. “This tart’s taken.” McClanahan carried her with him, and when the door was closed he sat in the armchair again, with Emily facing him. He slipped his hands under the hem of her uniform. “The last time I held you this way, I remember finding silk stockings. Mmmm…and here they are.”

  “You didn’t seem to mind.”

  She giggled softly, and as Matt grasped her hips beneath her pantaloons, Emily kissed him all over his rugged face. The fire he’d started earlier was rekindled, and she was throbbing with a desire only he could satisfy. “Why do you lead me on this way?” she murmured.

  “Because you’ve got the sweetest little ass I’ve ever seen,” he whispered. “Unfasten my pants. Take them down just far enough to ride me, like you did in the cabin.”

  His words sent a shiver of anticipation up her spine. Emily kissed him hungrily, moaning as he responded with tongue thrusts that matched her own.

  The pantry door opened and shut, and they heard a muffled sob.

  Emily yelped, clutching her clothes as she sprang from McClanahan’s lap. Zenia Collins was burying her face in the corner, her slender brown body shaking beneath her pink camisole and pantaloons. “Zenia, I thought—”

  “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know anybody was in here,” she said with a hitch in her voice.

  Emily glanced warily at Matt as she struggled to fasten her clothes. “What’s wrong? I saw you go upstairs—”

  “I couldn’t do it, Miss Eliza.” Zenia took her hands from her tear-streaked face. “Clancy explained how I was supposed to let the man touch me and…”

  Matt walked toward the colored girl, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket. “Did Mr. Stokes hurt you, Zenia?” he asked gently. “Miss Chatterly won’t tolerate violence against any of her girls.”

  “No, he wasn’t mean or nothin’,” Zenia replied in a shuddery voice. “He’s just so big, and when he got his clothes off I couldn’t believe I was supposed to—”

  The door opened again, and Victoria Chatterly stepped inside. After glancing at Matt and Emily, she focused sternly on the quaking girl beside them. “Why are you hiding down here?” she demanded in a tight voice. “You knew you weren’t signing on as a Sunday School teacher when you came to the Rose.”

  Zenia’s eyes grew huge. “Don’t beat me, Miss Victoria—please! I—I’ll try again. I—”

  The Madame’s face softened and she grasped the girl’s slender shoulders. “Clancy didn’t find you at a brothel in Creede, did he?”

  She shuddered and looked away.

  “Tell me the truth, Zenia. Things’ll go much easier for you.” Victoria glanced up, her expression tense yet apologetic. “May we borrow your coat, Mr. McClanahan?”

  “Certainly.” Matt slipped his jacket around the girl’s shoulders and then led her to the chair. “We’re not going to let Clancy hurt you, Zenia, but we have to know your side of the story. Everything.”

  The girl looked pitifully small as she clutched McClanahan’s gray frock coat around her. She blew her nose and then, in a high, childlike voice, she began. “My…my daddy, he’s a miner in Leadville, but he’s got no job right now. And my mama, she takes in washin’ but it don’t nearly feed us six kids. So when Mr. Donahue come along sayin’ he had a job for me—and he give Daddy an advance on my pay…”

  Emily cringed, wondering how Zenia had blossomed into such a graceful beauty. She’d probably lived in a squalid little shack and thought Donahue was Santa Claus—or the Savior himself—flashing his money at her father.

  The Madame sighed. “Clancy told me you were eighteen when I let him hire you, Zenia. How old are you?”

  Zenia looked at the floor. “Fourteen, ma’am.”

  “You’ve never been with a man either. Have you?”

  Zenia shook her head forlornly. “No, ma’am. Mr. Donahue told me and my folks I’d be doin’ honest work. But Mama says it’s a sin to whore.”

  “Yet you understood what sort of business you’d be involved in here, Zenia—”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “—and you could’ve said something before we spent hundreds of dollars at the dressmaker’s. The whole point of those pretty gowns and underthings is for men to take them off you, dear.”

  The girl nodded, her full lips quivering. “I know, Miss Victoria. I—I’ll try again, ‘cause I don’t want to owe you for them dresses. Don’t want nobody ma
d at me, neither.” Her eyes filled again, and she pressed Matt’s tear-splotched handkerchief to her face.

  Emily sensed there was something—or someone—else behind Zenia’s nervousness. “What’d Clancy threaten to do if you told anyone about this?” she asked quietly.

  Zenia’s dark, wet eyes grew round with fright. “He…he said he had a big bull whip.”

  “Well, he’s not going to use it,” Victoria stated. The planes of her porcelain face hardened and her tiara trembled in its white nest. “I’ll see that Mr. Stokes finds other company, and you—”

  “She can go home with me, until things have settled down,” Emily said.

  Miss Victoria considered her response for a moment. “You’re sure Silas won’t mind? I hate to impose on him.”

  “You won’t be.” Emily smiled at Zenia, pleased that the girl was looking less agitated now. “He goes to his club on Thursdays, and Idaho’ll be glad for the company.”

  The Madame reached for the doorknob with jeweled fingers. “That’ll give me a chance to straighten this out with Clancy—and we will come to an understanding. But that doesn’t mean I’m letting you out of this, Zenia. I expect you back here tomorrow, ready to work.”

  “Yes, ma’am. A deal’s a deal.”

  “Eliza can go upstairs and get your things,” Miss Chatterly added. “And Mr. McClanahan, I’d be pleased to provide you with complimentary entertainment after you escort these girls to Silas’s. I’d appreciate your being here when I talk to Clancy, too.”

  “Certainly, ma’am,” Matt replied with a smile. “It’ll be my pleasure.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Victoria Chatterly’s boudoir was as plush and elegant as the lady herself, yet as Matt lounged in one of her overstuffed chairs he knew the frilly pinks and ivories around him were chosen by a woman with a spine of steel. The lamps were low, the atmosphere perfect for an evening of splendor in the Madame’s brass bed. But watching Donahue squirm would be better sport by far, and he lit his cigar with a grin of anticipation.