by Shirl Henke
Her slippered feet made scarcely a sound on the Khorasan rugs as she wended her way down the hall. Strange, all the rooms seemed dark. Had she taken a wrong turn? The house was immense and she had not often visited here in the evenings. Just as she started to turn and retrace her steps, she heard whispered voices. Some instinct made her freeze, flattening herself against the wall beneath the black shadow cast by a huge ornately scrolled rococo cabinet. The instant she heard Chase Remington's name she began to tremble.
“He's in the library now. Expecting to have a tryst at midnight. I've forged a note to the lady explaining that he'll be detained until one.”
“I expect the lady won't get 'er pleasurin', Gov'nor, seein's 'ow Remington’ll be dead before the clock strikes twelve,” a voice with a thick Cockney accent replied. “Ain't nobody better with a dirk 'n me, Gov.”
“Just be certain to make it look like a robbery. Leave by the library window. His paramour will discover him with his throat cut when she arrives. I wonder what tale she'll invent for sneaking into the Cabot’s' library at that hour?” Then the tone suddenly shifted from nasty amusement to tight anger as the man with the cultivated Boston accent admonished, “Don't botch the job—that damned savage is as hard to kill as a timber wolf!”
Where had she heard that voice before? Stephanie shivered with fright as the disembodied conversation concluded with an exchange of money and an assurance by the Cockney assassin that he would sail with the morning tide on the Lady Jane.
When a distinguished looking man dressed in expensive evening clothes walked past her hiding place, she was certain he could hear her heart pounding but his brisk stride never faltered. Then as he turned the corner the moonlight from a window struck him. Stephanie almost gasped aloud. She knew him! But surely she was mistaken. It must be a trick of the light.
She moved cautiously from her hiding place, praying the wharf rat with the dagger was not waiting to pounce on her and slit her throat. She had to find Chase and warn him! She recalled that there were two doors to the library. Since the assassin had not come this way, he must be planning to sneak in by the servants' entrance, which would give her time since that was a very circuitous route—if she could remember herself just where Mr. Cabot's library was!
Luck favored her. In a few moments she burst into the dark room, breathless and wide-eyed, frantically searching the moonlit interior for Chase. Before she could cry out his name a strong hand clamped over her mouth and she was slammed backward against a man's hard body. For an instant her blood froze with horror—was she too late?
Then a low smooth voice purred, “If you plan any more mad, impetuous dashes, I'd recommend not lacing yourself so tightly.”
Her spine stiffened in outrage in spite of the difficulty catching her breath.
He chuckled, then added, “If you create a scene, I assure you that you'll be more embarrassed than I.” What the hell was Ray's prim little heiress up to?
He eased his hand away from her mouth, but for some reason did not release his arm from around her tiny waist. The delicate scent of apple blossoms teased his nostrils as she struggled to twist around and face him.
“Chase, you're in danger! A man's been hired to kill you—he'll be here any—”
Her breathless whisper was cut short when Remington sensed the subtle air currents from another door opening across the room and once again muffled her mouth. “Quiet. I hear him.”
His whisper was barely audible to Stephanie, but she froze in his arms as icy fingers of dread caressed her spine. They were both going to die! Chase was unarmed. Who knew what sort of an arsenal that awful sounding Britisher possessed! Chase set her behind him, then pulled something from inside his jacket. She caught a silvery gleam of metal as he melted silently into the shadows, moving toward the stealthy figure crouched somewhere in darkness.
Stephanie bit down hard on her fist to keep from making any sound which would alert the killer. She could not see him now, but she could hear him moving cautiously across the room. There was no sign of Chase. Had he vanished in a puff of smoke, leaving her to die alone?
Suddenly the dull whump of two bodies colliding broke the stillness. Curses and panting ensued for what seemed an eternity to the terrified girl, but could only have been a moment. Books came crashing from their shelves as the two men fought in the shadows. Then the struggling pair moved in front of the large bay window behind Mr. Cabot's desk. Dear God above, the assassin almost matched the half-breed's uncommon height!
The men rolled across the desk, locked in an embrace of death. Moonlight shimmered on their wicked looking blades as each strained to free his knife hand from the other's grip. A lamp shattered against the wall, knocked from the desk along with a flurry of papers. The combatants fell behind the desk. A loud grunt was followed by a gasp, then one man rose over the other, silhouetted against the snowy landscape outside the window. A blade arced like silver fire and plunged. The death rattle which followed was unmistakable.
Stephanie stood frozen in terror. Why had she not run for help while she had the opportunity? When she heard Chase call her name, she rushed across the room and flung herself into his arms, sobbing, “Oh, Chase, thank God it's you. I was afraid that awful man killed you!”
Chase held her tightly and stroked the silky skin of her bare back where her ball gown dipped low. “How the hell do you know my name, Miss Stephanie?” She raised her head and he could see tears glistening in the moonlight as they fell down her pale cheeks.
“You honestly don't remember me, do you, Mr. Remington,” she replied stiffly, suddenly embarrassed to be blubbering like a schoolgirl while pressed indecently against the masculine hardness of his body. She tried to pull away but he did not release her. She swallowed for courage and met the glittering challenge in his eyes.
“No. I must confess I don't. Most mamas never let their virgin daughters within a mile of a mongrel bastard like me.” He felt her flinch but she continued to meet his gaze.
A wobbly smile touched her mouth. “You always enjoyed shocking polite society. Even more, I think, you did it to infuriate your grandfather. Reverend Remington was certain we were both bound for hell when you were twelve and I was eight.”
Recognition hit him like a punch. “Stevie? Is it really you?”
At the incredulous, almost wistful tone in his voice, her smile broadened. “Yes,” she replied simply. Suddenly his embrace felt familiar and very dear but then he released her, taking her hand and ushering her away from the desk. She felt bereft of his body's warmth.
“I must get you out of here before—”
Just then the hall door opened and a husky feminine voice called, “Chase darling, I'm here. That old sot is asleep and—” Agatha Lodge let out a hiss of vexation upon seeing the slender figure of another woman just behind Chase's broad shoulder. Even in the shadows, she could tell the chit was young. ‘‘Am I interrupting something, darling?” she cooed wickedly, one slippered foot tapping angrily.
“You might say that, Aggie, love,” Chase replied dryly, shielding Stephanie from the spiteful bitch's view. “You'd best go home to that ‘old sot’ before all hell breaks loose around here.”
“All hell already has,” she hissed, headed past Chase to confront the female bold enough to challenge her for his favors.
Chase took hold of her shoulders before she could reach her victim, backing her in the direction of the door. “You don't want to try my patience, Aggie,” he said in a silky voice. “It brings out the redskin in me.”
She pressed her voluptuous breasts against his chest and gave a theatrical sigh. “I'd love it if you got savage, Chase.”
His fingers bit into her shoulders as he shoved her through the open door into the hallway. “No, you wouldn't, believe me, Aggie.” With that he released her and slammed the door in her face.
Stephanie stood rooted to the floor during the exchange. Still reeling from a brush with death, she could scarcely believe her ears. Old Mortimer Lodge's beautiful w
ife was having an affair with Chase! “Aggie, love?” she echoed in a huff.
“No time for indignation now, Stevie.” Chase seized her wrist once more and pulled her stumbling behind him toward the servants' entrance to the room as “Aggie, love” pounded on the locked library door, shrieking curses Stephanie had only heard hackney drivers on Boston Common utter.
Carefully shielding the body lying behind the desk from her view, he held the narrow door open. “We have to get out of here before someone hears her and finds the body.”
Stephanie picked up her skirts as they descended the narrow steps into the servants' quarters below. “Then...he's dead.” She really had little doubt. “Do you always carry a knife on your person when you pay a social call?”
“It comes in handy from time to time.” His voice was bitter. “I never know when I might want to scalp someone.” When they reached the bottom of the stair, he led her down a long, narrow hallway, stopping to check behind the doors along the way until he located one leading back upstairs. In a few moments he pulled her into an empty sitting room on the main floor of the mansion. A gas light illuminated the elegantly appointed interior, which had apparently been recently vacated. The aroma of expensive cigars hung in the air.
Closing the door behind him, he motioned for her to have a seat on a balloon-backed easy chair, then walked briskly over to where a cut-glass decanter of amber liquid sat on a serving cart. Pouring two matching tumblers, he offered her one.
She shook her head. ‘‘Father forbids me to touch spirits.”
A smile quirked his beautifully sculpted lips, then quickly faded as he shoved the glass into her hand. “No doubt he would also forbid you to attend knife fights. Take a sip. Father isn't here now and I don't want you fainting on me.”
She drew herself up, reminding Chase of the plucky girl who had befriended him so long ago. “I never faint,” she replied stubbornly.
“Drink it anyway,” he commanded, tossing off his much larger portion and reaching for a refill. After taking another swallow, he leaned one arm on the marble mantel of the fireplace and studied her with troubled eyes. Now he could see why she had looked so familiar back in the ballroom. Her hair, bleached a paler straw color by the sun when she had been a tomboy, now had darkened to a rich deep bronze. The freckles were gone but the stubborn chin and clear golden eyes were the same. Her cheekbones were just beginning to take on the elegant hollows of definition and her lips were pink and full. She had grown into a beauty.
Feeling his intent examination as the silence between them thickened, Stephanie took a quick sip of the pungent liquor for courage, then burst into a fit of coughing. Chase set his glass on the mantel and knelt beside her chair, massaging her back with one elegant long-fingered hand while the other one held her arm. She had forgotten how dark his skin was next to her fairness. A frisson of sexual awareness danced along her nerves, tingling where he touched her.
“Take another sip, slowly, then tell me how you got mixed up in that little episode in the library.” He guided the glass to her mouth and she obeyed. When the tip of her tongue darted out to cleanse the brandy from her lips he groaned silently. Damn the little minx, she was far more tempting than all the Aggies on earth!
Stephanie felt the second taste of liquor hit bottom and was oddly soothed by it. She cleared her throat and began. “After losing my way while I searched for Father, I overheard two voices in the darkened hallway. One man was paying the other to sneak into the library and kill you. As soon as they parted, I rushed there to warn you.”
“I'm greatly in your debt. Most women would've swooned on the spot or run dithering for help that would have arrived too late to do me any good. You always were brave for a paleface kid, Stevie.” He flashed her a devastating grin.
At the old teasing nickname, she smiled in return and the years fell away...almost. Then he had been a rangy boy poised on the brink of adolescence, she a scrawny tomboy, but now they were no longer children. She could feel her heart pound so wildly it must surely sound as loud as the base drum in the Salvation Army band that played on the Common.
Chase stared mesmerized at the tiny pulse fluttering rapidly in the hollow at the base of her delicate throat. Earlier, when Ray was dancing with her, he had thought her a skinny schoolgirl. Now, watching the soft swell of pale breasts above the azure silk of her gown, he reconsidered.
“I'm not a paleface kid anymore, Chase,” she whispered, unknowingly echoing his thoughts.
Damn, this was Stevie Summerfield, a Boston heiress, an innocent. What the hell was he thinking! Removing his hands from her as if scorched, he stood up and paced quickly across the carpet. “I'd better return you to the party before you're missed.”
Stephanie watched him move, restless as a caged wild animal. She was confused by his abrupt withdrawal. “Yes, I...I suppose I'd better find Father...but there is something else I didn't tell you, Chase.” She hesitated, uncertain of how to broach the horrifying accusation—or even if she should. The light had been dim. Surely she had been mistaken.
“What is it?” he prompted.
“I...I believe I recognized the man who paid that sailor to kill you.”
“It was my uncle Burke, wasn't it,” he said tonelessly, without a hint of doubt in his voice.
Chapter Two
Chase brushed past his uncle's officious secretary and strode into Burke Remington's private office. Knowing it useless to protest, the sputtering Gibbs closed the door after the wild Remington boy. Chase looked contemptuously at the distinguished blond-haired man seated behind the immense mahogany desk. Burke calmly sipped from a cup of sweetened Darjeeling tea. The only thing betraying any emotion in his patrician face was a tiny tic at his graying temple—that and the narrowing of his ice blue eyes.
Smiling coldly, Chase tossed a bundle of bills onto the desk, saying, “Quite a shame, wouldn't you agree, Burke, that one cannot ask to see references when hiring a cutthroat? It'll cost you more than a couple of hundred to see me dead.”
Burke set his Havilland cup down in its saucer and rose, placing his well-manicured hands, palms down, on the desk. Leaning forward, he let the naked loathing he felt for this dark-skinned savage blaze from his eyes. “Are you prepared to prove that wild accusation?”
“No. I can't. Unfortunately, your assassin is dead. I was forced to slit his throat before I could make him talk. You must really be getting desperate, Burke.” He watched with satisfaction as the distinguished blond man's complexion turned waxy pale for a moment, but his big barrel-chested body remained poised over the desk. Even dressed in a custom-tailored wool suit and silk shirt, he exuded power...and menace.
“As usual, you display the same flair for the dramatic as your dear grandpapa...even if you are a trifle more bloodthirsty,” he added in a pleased tone of voice, watching Chase's jaw muscle bunch in fury when he gritted his teeth. “Oh, you do so hate being reminded of how much you're like old Jeremiah, don't you?”
“I've often been told I resemble my mother.” The blow struck home as Chase knew it would. Burke hated the fact that Anthea's classically chiseled features had been passed along to a half-breed bastard.
‘There is nothing of my sister in you.” Burke bit off each word precisely.
“Half my blood is Remington, no matter how much I hate it.”
“You hate it!” the older man roared, leaning farther over the desk as if ready to climb across and attack. “You insolent half-breed trash, how do you think I feel having a mongrel like you claim the Remington name!”
Chase's lips thinned in disdain. “I am the son of Vanishing Grass and Freedom Woman. I never wanted to claim the Remington name. It was your father who dragged me back here. I'd rather have gone to prison with my father's people than live in Boston.”
“Spare me your noble airs. You've been willing enough to spend the Remington millions carousing with your worthless college friends. Women, cards and whiskey. Red savages have quite a problem with whiskey, so I've been told.
Can't hold their liquor worth a damn.” Burke smiled nastily.
“It isn't just the money, is it, Uncle Burke? You don't care about my inheriting half the old man's estate as much as you care that I'm Anthea's son and you—”
“I'll see you in hell—right along with that filthy savage who raped my sister and put a bastard like you in her belly.”
“My father didn't rape my mother. She came willingly to him. She loved him.”
“You're pathetic—just as ignorant as one of those greasy illiterate savages if you believe that.” Burke forced a pose of condescension.
“I believe my mother, and what gnaws at your rotten guts is that you do, too. She never lied in her life.”
“Anthea doesn't know lies from truth. She's scarcely had a lucid moment in the past seven years.”
“And we both know why, don't we, Uncle Burke?” There was a sinister undercurrent to the question.
The elder Remington stiffened, “I pray nightly for your death and I always have my prayers answered. After all, I am the Reverend Jeremiah's son,” he added darkly.
“You'll have to pray harder, then. Maybe you ought to get off your knees and try killing me yourself next time... Remember, the Lord helps those who help themselves.”
“I wouldn't contaminate my hands by touching you.”
Chase shrugged. “Yes, after all, I wouldn't want you to get any of that greasy Indian filth on them. But on my honor as a ‘filthy savage,’ I promise you'll pray for your own death before I finish with you.”
After Chase stalked from the room, Gibbs appeared at the door, Adam's apple bobbing nervously. “Are...are you quite all right, Mr. Remington?” he asked timidly as if half expecting to find his employer lying on his desk scalped.
Burke waved the little man out of the room impatiently. Shoving his teacup aside, he poured himself a stiff shot of expensive Scotch whiskey. He downed it neat, then stared out of the window, remembering the past...regretting it.