But once she’d got her horse under control and had dismounted … and while she’d been silently wondering what exactly was going on here … she’d been startled by Calvin, who’d stepped up to lead a suddenly docile Red Sky away. The stable boy had said he would brush and rub down the tired horse. Calvin assured her he would then give Red Sky a bag of oats. With that, the other men had cheerily escorted her to the back door and told her that Mr. Talbott was out for the evening. Taylor had drawn the only conclusion she could. The men were glad he was gone. Only that could account for the unfathomable high spirits that seemed to have seized Greyson Talbott’s employees.
Once she’d been all but carried to the back door—and again like last night—there had stood Bentley in the open doorway. Only this time he’d been as overawed to see her as she’d been with him last night. He’d clasped her hands and then forgotten himself and hugged her tightly. He’d all but dragged her into the kitchen for Cook to make over her. And that tiny tornado of a person had shrieked happily, forced Taylor into a chair, and then proceeded to feed her to death. Silently, having not said one word since she’d arrived, so surprised was she by her reception, Taylor had eaten out of fear of what the crazy white people would do to her if she didn’t.
After she’d eaten, she’d meant to slip away to her room, but that was not to be. Mrs. Scott had presented herself in the kitchen. Bentley and Cook had sobered and then had quietly slipped out of the room. Alone with the woman who’d called her names that morning and whose life Taylor had herself threatened, Taylor had slowly stood up, not knowing what to expect. She’d got her biggest surprise of all. The woman had burst into tears and had twisted her apron in her hands and had begged Taylor to forgive her for her unkind words. The stout older woman had even told Taylor she wouldn’t blame her if she wanted to scalp her. She’d even said she deserved it. Taylor had assured her she was forgiven and that she didn’t feel a scalping offense had been committed.
And that had led to further happy insanities. A bath had been drawn. The giggling chambermaids had unbraided and washed Taylor’s hair. They’d taken away the dusty and rumpled clothes that earlier that day had been her new finery. Then they’d assisted her, against her wishes, with her actual bathing. Taylor had endured all this silently. She’d also absolved Greyson Talbott of any fault for his employees’ behavior. Taylor now blamed everything on the full moon outside. It was the only explanation she could come up with for the lunacy that surrounded her.
After her bath, she’d been pulled and poked into a white cotton nightgown of her own … one purchased that morning by Mrs. Scott … and had finally been left alone in her room for the remainder of the evening. She’d locked the doors. Both of them. The one to the hall and the one that led to the dressing room between her and Greyson’s bedrooms. Then, she had stayed put until she’d felt reasonably certain that the spirit-possessed people had gone to bed. Only then had she donned a wrapper and tied it around her waist. Then, and gingerly, she’d unlocked the door to the hall.
Outside her room, she’d stopped, looked, and listened. And sighed with relief. Blessedly, she appeared to be the only one about. So she’d sneaked downstairs to the library. She couldn’t sleep. Perhaps she was overly tired. And her stomach still hurt from supper. She’d lit the lamp, selected a book to read from those nestled in the stacks on the shelves, and settled herself into a comfortable leather chair that faced the door.
And now, with her legs outstretched, her bare feet propped up on the big desk, she was enjoying a good book, a whiskey, and a thin cigar.
When the door across the way opened, Taylor started. She looked up, the cigar clamped between her teeth, a short crystal tumbler of whiskey in her hand, and the book propped up on her thighs. Into the room stepped the master of the house. Greyson Talbott. Taylor struggled to have no reaction at all, such as guiltily jumping up or dropping the glass or sucking air and choking cigar smoke into her lungs.
“I saw the light under the door,” he said simply.
Taylor nodded slowly and stared back at him through the blue haze of the cigar smoke curling around her head.
“Calvin said you’d come back.”
She nodded again, desperate to maintain her Cherokee impassivity and at the same time not choke on cigar smoke. Both things were hard to do. For one thing, she felt the least bit guilty about being caught here. Guilty and vulnerable, somehow. But wreaking the most havoc with her imperturbability was … the impressive man had apparently begun undressing before he’d come in here. His dark suit coat was thrown over his arm, his vest was unbuttoned, and his collar was open … So were the first two buttons of his white shirt. At his neck, and through the vee opening there, Taylor could see dark, crisp, and curling hair peeking out.
Pulling the cigar from her mouth, she exhaled the smoke and swallowed, refusing to acknowledge to herself that she was affected. But she was. Cherokee men didn’t have much, if any, chest hair. Her traitorous mind wondered what it would feel like to run her fingers through it. But with the cigar still held between her fingers, all she could do was thoughtfully roll it … until she caught the drift of her thoughts. Quickly, guiltily, Taylor poked the cigar back in her mouth, clamping down on its innocent length with more force than was necessary.
She met Greyson Talbott’s gaze. He’d caught her looking. There was awareness in his dark eyes now that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Taylor raised her chin, daring him to say or do anything about it. He didn’t. But still, silence between them reigned. She watched him scan her cozy den, fully assess the degree to which she’d encroached on his private territory, and again meet her waiting gaze.
“Thought I’d check with you. I just like to make sure my guests are comfortable. Do you have everything you need?” Amusement laced the sarcasm evident in his voice.
With every appearance of a calm she didn’t feel, Taylor again unclamped the cigar from between her teeth. She glanced at it and realized she’d nearly bit it in two when he’d walked in. Expertly she exhaled the hazy blue smoke and took a sip of her—his—whiskey. She grimaced at the burning trail it made down her throat, and then considered him standing there across the way, his hand still on the doorknob.
“I have everything I need,” she assured him.
Greyson Talbott quirked his mouth, as if fighting a grin, and nodded. “Good. I’d hoped you’d feel comfortable enough here to ask if you couldn’t find what you wanted. But now I see I shouldn’t have worried.”
Taylor tried not to feel the sting of his reproof that clearly said she was the intruder here. Instead, her mind insisted on focusing on details other than manners. For one thing, this man made quite the sight standing there. Tall. Muscled. Handsome. And slightly amused … yet sensually aware of her. Very aware. Taylor took in a shallow breath, the only kind she could with her chest so tight. She couldn’t lie to herself. She was just as affected by him. He stirred feelings inside her that she’d already acknowledged to herself, feelings she was also determined to keep to herself. She tried again for a deep calming breath … and didn’t have to be told what kind of a sight she made. It was there on Greyson’s face. He couldn’t take his eyes off her legs.
Mainly because they were crossed at the ankles … and bared all the way up to her lap, where her gown and wrapper had pooled when she’d propped her feet up. Taylor’s fingers tightened around the tumbler she still held. She had never before been so acutely aware of her limbs. Under his scrutiny, they seemed to throb with a life of their own … a pulsing, hot vitality that centered itself about where her bedclothes had. And yet she refused to reach out to cover them from his sight. She couldn’t—her hands were full … and his hot stare froze her in place.
“You’d better knock your ashes off before you burn yourself.”
Taylor blinked, frowning, not comprehending what he meant. He pointed to her cigar. She looked at it perched there between two of her fingers and saw that he was right. A light gray and impressive length of burning ash was about to
cascade onto her. Coolly, as if she’d intended to do so all along, she did as he suggested. She tamped the cigar lightly over the ashtray and turned back to him. “Thank—”
He was closing the door behind him. Then he leaned a shoulder against its solidness, tossed his coat onto a nearby chair, and crossed his arms over his muscled chest. With a knee bent, causing the muscles of his thigh to strain against the fawn-colored fabric of his trousers, Greyson Talbott stared back at her. Several things occurred to Taylor, none of them innocent. The two of them were alone together in the same room … and weren’t about to be interrupted. It was late at night. She was in his house willingly this time and dressed for bed … which was where he clearly wanted to take her.
She tilted her head at a wondering angle … and wondered what she’d do if he made such a suggestion. She wasn’t so sure she’d refuse. She had every reason in the world to turn him down and only one to accept: she wanted to. That was all the provocation she’d ever needed before. But none of those men had been white and possibly her enemy.
Before she could digest that thought, one that had the effect of a cold splash of water in her face, Greyson started toward her. “Mind if I join you? I sometimes enjoy a good cigar and a whiskey myself before I go to bed.”
The closer he came to her, the harder her heart thumped … and the more her body tingled. Giving nothing away, Taylor shrugged and took a nonchalant sip of her drink. “Help yourself,” she said. “It’s your house.”
“That’s right. It is.” His voice held a pleasant, conversational note as he stepped past her. She caught a whiff of his masculine scent … which was already mixed with a hint of cool night air, liquor, and tobacco. And excitement.
Taylor couldn’t see him now but knew, from her own earlier actions and from the sounds she heard behind her, what he was doing. On a small sideboard back there sat a crystal whiskey service that resided atop an ornate silver tray. He was pouring himself a splash … a generous splash … of the intoxicant. Taylor quirked her mouth, admiring the respectable amount of liquor he’d served himself. Then, the sound following that had to be him choosing a cigar from the humidor and lighting it, she surmised.
In another moment, he would join her. She blinked, concentrating now on herself. This was her chance. Gingerly holding her drink up out of her own way and sticking the thin, half-smoked cigar in the ashtray at her elbow, she lowered her feet to the floor, put the book on the desk, and pitched forward to jerk her bed gown and wrapper over her legs. Quickly she resettled herself and grabbed up the smoking tobacco.
Just then, Greyson stepped around her, coming into view holding his own whiskey and a lit cigar, of course. He stood directly in front of her, close enough for her to nudge him with a toe, if she’d been so inclined. An exaggerated expression of disappointment rode his features. “Oh, please, Taylor,” he drawled, “you don’t have to make yourself presentable on my account.”
Unexpectedly she felt a heated blush claim her cheeks. Taylor had no idea when the last time she’d blushed had been. She’d believed herself too jaded to feel shame or chastisement strongly. But now, and with this man, she felt … unarmed, unsure of herself. And she hated that. It was a weakness. She made a show of setting the whiskey glass down on the small padded table next to her chair. She then crushed the cigar stub out and made as if to stand up. “I’ll leave you to your late-night enjoyments.”
Greyson took the cigar out of his mouth and stopped her with a single word. “No.” Then he added, “Please. I want to talk to you.”
Chapter Ten
Warily Taylor resettled herself in the chair and watched Greyson one-handedly tug a leather ottoman toward her, all without spilling a drop of his liquor. Despite herself, she noted the thrilling bulge of his arm muscles under his shirt as he labored. And the way his eyes squinted against the smoke from the thin cigar clamped between his teeth.
When he had the ottoman where he wanted it—directly in front of her—he mounted it like he would a horse and sat straddled atop it, his knees to either side of hers. He leaned in toward her, making her feel trapped and small. Her expression hardened, became a grim warning for him not to encroach any farther. Gone were her earlier feelings of passion for him. This was to be an inquisition. Taylor said or did nothing that would let him know she was the least bit frightened … because she wasn’t.
All while staring at her—a clear attempt to intimidate her, she suspected—he handled the cigar, exhaled smoke, took a healthy sip of his drink, and clamped the cigar back in his mouth. She said nothing. In the next moment, he removed the cigar from his mouth and abruptly asked, “Where’d you go today? You didn’t go to your aunt and uncle’s. I just came from there. Or your father’s. He was there, too. And everyone was sad because of your hanging.”
Taylor tilted her head at an insulted angle and brushed back the long black hair that spilled forward with her movement. She sat up and tugged the heavy silken mass over her shoulders, out of her way. This motion also bought her time to formulate her answer. She wasn’t about to tell him she’d done nothing but wander the city aimlessly like a frightened child, afraid to confront her white kin. When she again met his gaze, she realized from the glimmer in his dark eyes that he hadn’t missed a single, apparently sensual, movement of hers.
Taylor knew how to quell that look. She narrowed her eyes and glared, much like a threatened wolf would. “I don’t answer to you.”
She braced herself for his reaction. Monroe Hammer would have slapped her, had she spoken to him in such a way. But all this man, this big white man, did was nod and grin. “No, you don’t. And you don’t have to tell me. You’re right. I’m sorry for my prying question. Let me ask something more nicely. Why’d you come back here?”
He wasn’t sorry, and wasn’t asking nicely. She’d been fooled by his smile. Taylor’s jaw worked with her rising anger and her humiliation at having to admit the truth. “I came back because I had no choice.”
“I see.” Again holding her gaze with the piercing strength of his own, he put the cigar to his lips, inhaled, then turned his head to blow out the smoke. Then he took a sip of his whiskey, eyeing her over the rim of his round crystal glass as he did. Lowering his drink, and with the cigar clutched expertly in his other hand, he said, pleasantly enough, “If you ask me, you had plenty of choices of places to go. If not your father’s or your uncle’s, then a hotel. A boardinghouse. Any of those. And probably some others I haven’t thought of. So, why’d you come back here to me? The way I see it, if you’re expecting me to feed and house you and your horse, then you owe me an answer. An honest answer.”
He was right. She knew that. But it didn’t make it any easier for her to swallow the lump of pride hurting her throat. Nor did it make her feel more kindly disposed toward him. It finally occurred to her, though, that she could save face by using his words from last night against him. “I came back here tonight for the same reason you brought me here last night. I do not know who I can trust. I do not know who is telling these lies that I am dead. Or why they would.”
He exhaled gustily. “Well, you were right on one score this afternoon. Your father said this evening that your mother sent the letter regarding your hanging. So it probably happened like you said. But knowing that doesn’t change anything. We may know who, but we don’t know why. So I believe you’re still in some sort of danger and must be careful whom you trust. But apparently, since you’re here, you trust me, right?”
Taylor shrugged. “I have no reason not to. You say you care because of your friendship with my father. And that is good. It means you will seek the same answers that I am. And from the same people. For those reasons, I am here with you now, in your home.”
Taylor watched him nod, watched him roll his cigar between his fingers. He suddenly looked up, sending her a sidelong glance through long, thick eyelashes. “I see. So you thought we should join forces?”
Taylor would give no quarter. “No. I did not think this. I know this. I have no choi
ce because this is your town. These are your people. And I do not know the way of things here. You do.”
“Well,” he said with a chuckle, “I thought I did before last night when I met you. But let me tell you something about my evening, Taylor. From the looks of things here in my study, yours was better than mine. But before I do, do you need any further fortification?” He indicated her empty whiskey glass.
Taylor shook her head no. She believed she needed a clear head for this talk. “I am fine.”
He chuckled. “Yes, Taylor, you are. You are very fine.”
She took his meaning. So did her body. An unbidden thrill of desire danced along her nerve endings. But she kept her impassive expression in place.
“I spoke with Amanda James this evening,” he said abruptly. “She tells me you have the bluest eyes she’s ever seen. She envies you your eyes.”
Surprise had Taylor dropping her stoic pose. She sat forward eagerly. “You have seen Amanda?” She forgot herself enough to clutch at his shirtsleeve. Under her hand, his arm felt hard and warm. “What is she like? How does she look? Did she ask about me?”
“Whoa there. One question at a time.” He moved, dislodging her hand so he could rest his glowing cigar on the edge of his desk. He placed his drink next to it, and then surprised Taylor by taking her hand in his. Her breath caught when he slowly rubbed his thumb back and forth over her palm. With her lips parted and her breathing shallow, Taylor pronounced herself glad he wasn’t looking into her eyes. Instead, he had his gaze trained on his actions with her hand.
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