by Austin, Lori
She thought Alexi managed, just barely, not to smile.
The lawman shook his head hard and dragged his gaze from Cat’s chest. “Why didn’t you come out when we called?”
Alexi pushed his way through the crowd until he stood at Cat’s side. “I’m afraid she doesn’t speak English.”
“None?” The leader of the posse sounded skeptical.
Alexi grabbed Cat by one wrist and yanked her close. “No need,” he murmured, running his palm across her bare shoulder.
Cat shivered. Good Lord, those hands.
Alexi brushed his thumb along the soft skin at the crook of her elbow, and Cat planted that elbow in his stomach. She proceeded to give him a piece of her furious Spanish mind. If they weren’t careful, she’d end up in jail or worse.
Alexi, who had turned his back to the others, rolled his eyes and smirked, but he let her rant on. They both understood that the more Spanish she spoke, the less Cat O’Banyon she appeared.
“What’s she sayin’?” whispered the heretofore silent man. Considering his high-pitched voice, Cat understood his reticence to speak.
“How should I know?” muttered the lawman. “This is Missouri, not Texas.”
Alexi winked at Cat, then turned. “I doubt very much you’d want to hear the translation.”
The leader’s gaze narrowed. “I say we do.”
Alexi shrugged. “She says you are the sons of swine to barge into a lady’s tent. She believes your mothers were …” Pausing, he tilted his head. “Well, I should not repeat that in the presence of a lady.”
“She said it,” one of the others pointed out.
“Nevertheless,” Alexi continued. “Something about how you will die. Blood, sweat, pain, your intestines in a fire.” He waved one hand. “It all blends together after a while.”
The men shuffled and murmured. Cat was certain she heard one of them say, “Witch.” She tensed. Being accused of witchcraft didn’t happen often these days, but it happened. And it always ended badly.
For the witch.
“What good is she if she can’t speak English?” the lawman asked.
“Ah, but, gentlemen.” Alexi glided in behind her, then dipped one hand down the front of Cat’s blouse, boldly cupping a breast and thumbing the nipple until it peaked and drew every eye, every thought, in the room. “She is so very good at everything else.”
Cat gritted her teeth and waited for the men to leave. Unfortunately, Alexi was giving them a performance for free that they couldn’t find outside a raree-show for several dollars.
He kept his hand down her shirt, palm around her breast, thumb just brushing the nipple. She wanted both to elbow him again and to lean back against his shoulder and sigh. It had been so long.
However, it hadn’t been long enough that she could overlook an audience.
“Vete,” she muttered.
Alexi put his mouth to her ear, as if he were nuzzling her. “Patience, chiquita,” he murmured, then licked the lobe.
The moan that escaped her was low and full of promise. A couple of the men watching answered in kind.
Alexi lifted his head, but he kept his hand right where it was. “Pardon me. I had forgotten you were there.”
Cat couldn’t see his smile, but she heard it in his voice. Felt it in his—
He pulled her more firmly against him. Yes. He was definitely smiling with more than his mouth.
“You will understand if I ask my associate to show you out.”
Cat risked a quick glance through the curtain of her hair. Mikhail stood in the opening, and she hadn’t even heard him arrive.
“Hold on, now,” the lawman began, and turned. When he had to lift his head, then lift it some more, for his gaze to reach Mikhail’s, the remainder of what he’d been about to say faded to a gurgle.
Everyone else appeared frozen, staring as well. Obviously none of them had seen Alexi’s show or purchased his elixir. Which was probably for the best.
Mikhail cracked his knuckles—the sound like gunfire in the sudden silence—then swept aside the tent flap. The posse filed out, though each one could not resist throwing a final glance over his shoulder. Perhaps to make sure the big man was not going to break their necks as soon as they turned their backs. Or, more likely, to discover if Alexi would be unable to wait until they were gone to toss her onto the mattress, throw up her skirt, and—
He pulled his hand free of her shirt, and Cat had to stop herself from snatching it back. What was he doing?
She spun, clapping a palm to either side of Alexi’s head, narrowly missing the boxing of his ears—she was out of practice at the art of grabbing a man with anything other than violence—and yanked his mouth to hers.
One of Alexi’s first rules: If you give an audience what they want, they don’t look beneath the surface for the how or the why or the what. Therefore, Cat hoped if she gave the posse what they wanted now—a peek at what they thought would be happening later—they could quit dragging their feet and vete!—
Go!
She also wanted them to leave with the picture of Alexi and his Mexican peasant woman foremost in their mind. They would imagine what occurred after the lowering of the curtain—or in this case the tent flap—and they would forget about Cat O’Banyon. If not forever, at least for the time it would take the three of them to disappear. However, as Alexi’s lips touched hers, Cat was the one who forgot things. Or perhaps she merely remembered.
The taste of his tongue—iced whiskey, maybe wine. Its texture worn satin—smooth, familiar—both comfortable and infinitely exotic. Her hands gentled, her fingers sliding into his hair, one lock curling about the base of her thumb, then fluttering against her wrist, causing gooseflesh to race up her arms, across her chest, down her back.
His tongue withdrew, and she nipped his lip in case he was thinking of following it. Instead, he trailed kisses to her neck, her shoulder, the warmth of that clever mouth burning every last shiver away. He’d always known exactly what she needed. Alexi knew what everyone needed before they even knew it themselves.
His lips brushed the tops of her breasts; his hands skated the backs of her legs, pausing when they encountered nothing but skin. “You were short on Mexican peasant woman drawers,” she murmured into his hair.
“Do Mexican peasant women wear drawers?” he whispered, breath casting across the damp trail left by his mouth.
“You would know.”
“Perhaps.”
She smiled at the words, lips curving against the top of his head like a caress. Typical Alexi, to agree but never to answer. She thought back on the times she’d asked him questions about himself. Had he ever told her anything at all?
His tongue slipped beneath the bodice of the blouse, sliding over a nipple, and for just an instant her mind went blank.
She fought her way free. She could not afford to let her body cloud her thoughts. Better if Alexi’s body clouded his. Best to keep him off balance. It was the only way to remain in control.
“They’re gone,” she murmured and stepped back, crossing the tent as if she hadn’t just been clasped desperately in his arms and wishing she never had to leave them.
Keep reading for a special excerpt from a beloved title by Lori Austin writing as Lori Handeland, available as an eBook for the first time
WHEN MORNING COMES
Available now from InterMix
Several moments passed before Seth Torrance realized the pounding in his head was echoed by a pounding on his bedroom door. Groaning, he turned away from the sound, only to get a faceful of blazing sunlight.
What time was it?
“Major?” The voice on the other side of the door was familiar. Nevertheless, four years away from home, combined with at least four glasses of whiskey, made Seth’s mind a muddle.
“Sir? Your mother requests your presence at the dinner table.”
Dinner? Damn. He’d slept through breakfast—again. His mother would not be amused. But she so rarely was.
“Major?”
The identity of the speaker came to Seth with such blinding clarity he winced, or maybe that was just the sun in his eyes.
Beckworth. The butler.
Seth had known the man for years. Why couldn’t he seem to recall anything clearly from the time before he’d put on the Union blue? Perhaps because the four years he’d spent at war were so much more vivid to him than anything the present had to offer.
More horrible, true, but the shouting, the shooting, the crying, the dying still lived in his mind and in his dreams. Seth had hoped to recover at home, in a place that he knew, surrounded by those who cared about him. Instead, he’d only gotten worse.
“There’s a letter for you, sir,” Beckworth continued as if Seth had answered. “From Virginia.”
Virginia? The only person he knew in Virginia was—
Seth sat up. The room spun. The cannons boomed inside his head. He wanted to lie down and stay there forever. But Beckworth had at last lit on the one thing that would get him out of bed so early in the afternoon.
Henry. His best friend from their days at West Point. When they’d graduated twelve years ago, Seth had returned to the North, Henry to the South. By then the tensions that would lead to the war had already begun to rear their ugly heads. Seth hadn’t seen or heard from Henry since. He’d often thought of him, wondered where he was, how he was.
Now the war was over and Henry had contacted him. For the first time in years, Seth looked forward to something—opening that letter.
Gritting his teeth against the pain in his head, Seth stumbled across the room and opened the door. “Hand it over.”
Beckworth’s long nose twitched and his nearly nonexistent lips tightened. But he said nothing.
Seth hadn’t shaved for several days; he hadn’t bathed either. He’d slept in his clothes and fed his nightmares with whiskey. He must look as awful as he felt, and that wasn’t easy.
When Beckworth continued to stare at him without moving, Seth snatched the missive from the gold tray perched on the butler’s gloved hand. He wanted to sneer at the uselessness of it all, but he’d discovered one thing in the last four years. Sometimes honor and tradition were all that stood between being a man or a monster. Funny, but at times they were what made a man into a monster, as well.
Seth shook off the memories and glanced at the envelope. He frowned. The letter wasn’t from Henry, after all, but from an attorney named Arthur Blair. Seth didn’t know him. He had a feeling he didn’t want to.
Ignoring Beckworth, who hovered in the hall waiting for … Seth wasn’t sure what, he tore open the envelope. As if they had a premonition of the words contained therein, his fingers trembled as he withdrew the paper.
May 1, 1865
Dear Major Torrance:
I regret to inform you of the death of your friend Henry Elliot at Saylor’s Creek.
However, I would not be writing you this letter had not his wife, Georgina, followed him to our Lord yesterday following the birth of his child.
Mr. Elliot’s final wish was that you, Major, become the guardian of all that was his. His will and testament in this regard are in my keeping.
Please come posthaste to the Elliot farm outside of Winchester in Frederick County, Virginia.
Sincerely,
Arthur Blair
Attorney at Law
The trembling in Seth’s fingers spread throughout his body. He collapsed into the nearest chair.
“Major? Sir? Bad news? Shall I—”
Seth slammed the door on Beckworth’s questions. Blessed silence filled the room. Too bad his head still pounded with the force of Confederate artillery.
Henry was gone. Seth found the tidings hard to believe, despite the hundreds of thousands of casualties. But then his friend had always been so much more alive than anyone else.
Henry laughed louder, rode harder, shot straighter. At West Point, he’d been near the top of their class, while Seth had wallowed near the middle. Of course, when the call came to war, it hadn’t mattered where they’d placed on the list. Hell, look at Custer. Autie had finished at the bottom of the pile and it hadn’t hurt him any.
But to lose Henry at Saylor’s Creek—a horrible battle so near the end of a horrible war …
Seth got to his feet, crossed the room and reached for the whiskey again. But instead of drinking, he peered out the window, ignoring the pain in his eyes and his head, intensified by the bright and shiny sun. He stared at the loud and boisterous streets of Boston; he didn’t really see them.
He had been at Saylor’s Creek, too. Had one of his bullets ended Henry’s life? Seth would never know, so he would always wonder.
He thought back to the glory days before the war, back when everything had been simple, back when honor and duty didn’t get men killed. He and Henry had been as different as two friends could be—one a Boston-bred, wealthy Yankee, the other a Virginia-born, land-rich, money-poor farmer—but they had agreed on two things: Duty raised men above the beasts and honor elevated mere men to heroes.
Did he still believe that? Seth wasn’t sure. But there was something he did believe. True friends were forever. Henry had entrusted him with his most precious possessions, his child and his farm.
Seth placed the bottle back on his nightstand untasted, then called for a bath. He couldn’t very well go to Virginia like this.
***
“Seth, I forbid you to leave.” Honoria Simons Torrance turned away, expecting her orders to be followed without argument. They always were. “It’s time you took the helm of this family and the business.”
Seth stifled a sigh. His father had died when he was ten, and his mother had taken control of the munitions plant that had been in her family for generations. She’d done well. But now she wanted Seth to assume her position, and he didn’t think that he could.
Not because he didn’t know the business. He’d spent several years learning it when he’d returned home from his extended tour of Europe, which had followed his graduation from West Point. But four years spent seeing what a bullet could do to a person had cured Seth of any desire to make them. Not to mention that the first time he’d set foot in the plant upon his return, the sheer volume of the noise had left him pale and shaking. He’d excused himself as ill, and he hadn’t been back since.
“You’ve been doing fine, Mother.”
“Of course I have, but what will people think? You come home, hide in your room, then abscond to Virginia. I can just imagine what they’re saying about us.”
His mother had always cared more for what people thought than what he needed. Seth couldn’t really fault her for it. She’d been raised to look lovely, pour tea, and have children—then turn them over to others. Once his father had died, she’d had a business to run, and she’d done so with the same determination she did everything else.
Now she’d determined that it was time for Seth to assume his responsibilities. She’d even chosen him the perfect wife in the form of Sophie Beck, a Boston-bred heiress he’d had occasion to meet only once. He could barely recall Sophie’s face, which didn’t endear him to the prospect. He ought to remember the single meeting he’d had with the woman he was expected to marry.
“It’s far too dangerous in the South,” his mother continued. “Wait a few years until the army gets things straightened out. Then it’ll be a fine place for a holiday.” She returned her attention to the list of wedding guests.
With the war officially over but a month and certain Confederate stragglers continuing their lost fight in far reaches of the country such as Louisiana, Alabama, Mississippi, even Texas, Seth understood his mother’s concern. For a former Union officer to travel alone into what had been so recently enemy territory was ill-advised, to say the least. But then he hadn’t exact
ly been a model of sanity since his return.
“I’ll be fine, Mother. I managed to survive the war. I can manage a quick trip to Virginia.”
Even if he hadn’t been managing much but a bottle lately.
“Quick?” She frowned at him over the tops of her spectacles. “How quick?”
“Only as long as it takes me to find out what I’m dealing with, then make some arrangements for the child and the farm. Shouldn’t be more than a month all told.”
“You’re supposed to be married in two months.”
Seth rubbed at the pain that had sprung up again behind his eyes. He had not agreed to marry Sophie, hadn’t asked her, didn’t know her. But typically his mother rolled right over any obstacle in her path by ignoring it. She wanted him to marry Sophie and provide grandchildren, so she merely arranged the wedding.
And Seth, who couldn’t bring himself to feel much of anything these days beyond panic, had let her.
“I am not marrying Sophie in two months, Mother.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I’m not saying I won’t get married. I’m not even saying I won’t marry Sophie. But I’d like to have some say in the rest of my life. Right now, I have a duty to honor Henry’s last request.”
It felt good to say no. He’d have to try it more often.
Her lips pursed. “You have a duty to your father’s legacy. Your loyalty should be to this family, not to some Rebel who got himself killed.”
“I highly doubt he got himself killed. The Union army probably had a bit to do with it.”
“So you feel guilty? That’s foolish.”
Seth did feel guilty. But that was beside the point. “I have a duty to Henry,” he repeated. “I’m honor bound to go. I’ll be back in a month.”
By ignoring his mother and plowing ahead with what he meant to do—a trait he’d learned from the master—Seth was able to leave the very same day.
Since the railroad lines had been disrupted—a fancy word for torn apart and thrown away—throughout Virginia, Seth rode his horse toward Frederick County.
The roads were filled with soldiers headed for home in both directions. Seth was polite to those he met, but he didn’t tarry to chat. As he continued south, the men he encountered were thinner, more bedraggled, less friendly. He couldn’t say he blamed them, but he wasn’t turning back.