His mirthless laugh echoed down the hall as he shoved himself away from the door. His large hand swept the paneled hall, indicating the other closed doors. “This is not Bethlehem, madame,” he said with a sardonic leer. “We do have room at the inn. Pick a room and I will see it is readied for you. If you wish, I’ll see to it that Drake is not told where you’ve gone.”
“Why?” she demanded softly, clenching her fists in the tattered remains of her skirt. “Why would you do that?”
“Entirely selfish reasons, I assure you,” he said with a mock bow. “I happen to think that a night spent alone, away from his lovely wife’s company, will show Drake what he stands to miss should he decide to pursue my wife. No matter what you say, you are not the only one who would like to see your marriage work, Mrs. Frazier.”
“But he may not spend the night alone,” she reminded him coldly. Charles’s gaze darkened, but it was the only evidence her words had struck close to his heart—if, indeed, he had one.
His lips drew into a fine, tight line. “My wife is many things, but she is no fool. Even Angelique would not be so stupid as to visit another man’s bed while under my roof. Especially my brother’s.”
Hope kept her opinion about Angelique’s intelligence to herself. Seeds of doubt—doubt that this man had insidiously planted—tickled the back of her mind.
Charles’s reasons were, as he admitted, selfish. But was he right? Would a night alone cause Drake to appreciate her more, or would it serve only to make him suspect her “marital” fidelity?
She didn’t know, but her feminine pride screamed for her to find out. Slowly, she nodded. “All right,” she said finally. Her brows knit in a frown as she tapped an index finger against her pursed lips. Was she making a mistake? Would Drake truly miss her? Time would tell. “I accept; fix one of your rooms. I don’t care which.”
Charles, seemingly unable to believe his good fortune, smiled happily and beat a hasty retreat. He returned quickly, two servants in tow. Hope leaned wearily against the door, keeping a sharp eye on the hall in case Drake should unexpectedly appear. The servants, a mousy woman and a gaunt, haggard man, disappeared into a room across the hall.
Charles’s gravelly voice boomed orders for what seemed like an eternity before the three emerged. The servants scurried down the hall, the woman’s arms laden with bed linen, as they disappeared down the stairwell.
“M’lady, your bedchamber awaits.”
Hope tossed restlessly atop the big, cold, empty bed. Sleep, that ever elusive state, avoided her, as it had done the better part of the night. She wanted to believe that her restlessness was caused by fear of the nightmares that had renewed themselves after her last encounter with Tyrone Tubbs, but she was honest enough to recognize that as a lie. There were other reasons for her insomnia, reasons she avoided contemplating.
The music below had stopped hours ago and the silence was deafening. Her ears missed the soft snores Drake usually made in the bedroll beside her, and her body missed the warmth she was so used to curling into. Instead of the spicy scent of sweat, her nostrils were greeted with the smell of freshly laundered sheets. And, while her cheek might be cushioned by a soft, feather tick pillow, it was a muscular chest she wished to feel.
Drake! her mind screamed against her throbbing temples. Was he in his own room, she wondered painfully, or was he with Angelique? And did she really want to know the answer?
Angelique’s name, not yours, her mind rudely reminded her. Her heart tightened with the bitter memory.
“Fresh air,” she murmured in frustration, eying the closed windows on the far wall.
Yes, that’s it. I just need a little air and then I’ll be able to sleep, she thought, as she threw off the heavy covers and crept to the window nearest the bed. She was used to sleeping beneath the stars, with the cool, sweet breeze wafting over her cheek. This room, although twice the size of the cabin in Thirsty Gulch, was too small, too stuffy. She felt trapped.
Kneeling on the window seat, she unlatched the shutters and threw them wide. Her relief was immediate. She took a long, deep breath of the cool breeze that, heavy with the scent of coming rain, made the lace curtains by her side dance. In the distance was the playful chirp of birds and the faint rustling of tree leaves. The sound was like sweet music to her ears.
The knots of frustration tightening her stomach slowly began to ease. She lowered herself onto the window seat and sat cross-legged, her back cushioned against the windowsill. She closed her eyes against the first fragile fingers of dawn streaking the sky, and could almost imagine the wide open prairie stretching endlessly around her, and Lazy’s slow, steady gait rocking between her thighs.
Yes, I just needed some fresh air, she thought again, relieved. She scooted down on the seat until her head was cushioned against the hard wood.
Stifling a yawn, she savored the feel of the cool breeze against her bare calves and thighs. The white cotton chemise had bunched up to her hips, but she didn’t right it. She enjoyed the feel too much, and unconsciously imagined it to be a pair of calloused palms stroking over her flesh.
Sighing, she closed her eyes and surrounded herself in darkness—only to have her eyelids snap back up in shock.
Imagined calloused palms? God lord, those were calloused palms! They were on her calves, tenderly stroking the back of her knee, slipping briefly between her thighs before drifting up to linger on the quivering expanse of her stomach.
Hope sat bolt upright. Her head missed colliding with Drake’s by mere inches.
“How long have you been here? And what the hell are you doing?” she gasped as his hand boldly ascended. She glared angrily into his decidedly lecherous grin and, with trembling fingers, tried to push the chemise into place. He swatted her hand away, refusing to allow it.
“Surprised? Didn’t you think I’d find you?” he queried lazily. Again, his fingers slipped beneath the skirt’s hem, this time to tease her navel while his warm breath teased her upper chest and neck. His eyes were dark with a mixture of passion and victory. “You can’t hide from me, sunshine. You can try, but I’ll find you.” His lips lowered to taste the creamy hollow of her throat and he whispered against her tingling flesh, “I’ll always find you.”
“I—I don’t want you to find me,” she countered weakly. Her hands pushed desperately against his shoulders even as her body arched into his chest and hips. “And—my God, the window’s open, Drake. Someone will see.”
“That’s the least of your worries, but it is a damn good reason for you not to struggle.” His lips nuzzled and nibbled at her neck. A white-hot spark of desire rushed through her. “I’d hate to see you tumble to your death at such an inopportune moment.”
Hope went limp at the thought of falling through the window. At least, that was the reason she gave herself. She refused to believe her sudden stillness had anything to do with the shivers of desire his expert hand was eliciting.
“Let me go,” she whispered huskily, even as her hands crept around his neck and her fingers buried themselves in the silky softness of his hair. She was leaning against the windowsill now, and the hard wood was as firm and inflexible against her back as the male chest pressing intimately against her breasts. “I—I don’t want this to happen.”
He lifted his head, his gaze dark and penetrating as it searched her face. “Do you have a choice? Do you have the strength to stop it, even if you want to? God knows, I don’t.”
The sensual timbre of his voice rippled through her and she clung to him desperately. It was growing more and more difficult to deny the passion building between them, and she wasn’t entirely sure that denial was what she wanted anymore.
So what did she want? Her body answered that question with a will all its own.
A husky growl escaped Drake’s lips when she tilted her chin to allow him better access to her neck. One look at the pulse throbbing in the creamy base and he was lost.
His hands encompassed her waist, pulling her hard against his hi
ps, as his tongue tasted the spot that teased him to distraction. The flesh on her throat was cool, kissed by the soft breeze.
Her urgency grew to a demanding ache that could not be denied. Her passion was fueled by the evidence of his desire straining fervently against her. A surge of eagerness tingled in her thighs, seeped up to curl in her quivering stomach.
His fingers slipped down the outside of her thigh, turned inward, and began a much more provocative assault. His calloused palm teased her until a whimper of insistence rushed from her lips. She buried her face in his warm, hard shoulder, insistently straining against his searching caress as her fingers dug into his sinewy flesh. She wasn’t sure how much more of this tantalizing torture she could take before surrendering to humiliation by begging openly for release.
Drake never let her reach that point. Sensing her frustration, he slipped one hand beneath her knees, the other beneath her arms, and lifted.
Hope curled into him willingly. Her arms coiled around his shoulders as her tongue darted out to taste the salty expanse of his neck. Every muscle in his body tightened in reaction, and she allowed herself a momentary surge of victory before continuing with the sensuous assault.
Long, sure strides carried them over to the bed—a real bed—but instead of placing her atop the downy softness, he paused. Hope raised her head and looked at him through heavy lids. He caught his breath when he saw the dark eyes burning with desire.
“Ah, hell. Why start now?” he murmured huskily. His gaze drifted longingly to the bed before settling on Hope’s kiss-swollen lips. He lowered her to the floor.
Suddenly the only thing in the world that mattered was the feel of this man atop her, his muscular body pinning her to the plush carpet.
This time when his hand stroked her thigh, it ascended without stopping. The linen chemise was dragged with it. Hope shivered as the cool air wafted her naked body, but made no protest when the covering was removed and tossed aside.
The sun outside was growing brighter, caressing her flesh as Drake’s hungry gaze raked her naked form.
“That’s not fair,” she said, her voice throaty with desire as her fingers plucked at the buttons on his waistcoat. “You can see me, but I can’t see a thing.”
His eyes were dark with undeniable passion—and a glint of challenge. “And what, exactly, do you intend to do about it?”
A wicked grin tugged at her lips. “Even up the pot, gunslinger.”
He rolled onto his back, allowing her to tug at his clothes. He helped only when necessary, enjoying the feel of her fingers against his flesh much too much to stop her.
As he had done with her chemise, Hope tossed aside each article of clothing she stripped away with a flick of her wrist. When he was naked, she stretched out beside him, pressing her body urgently into his side. Slowly, she let her fingers launch an investigation of their own. A smile of satisfaction spread over her lips when Drake groaned and caught her wrist.
In an instant she was tossed onto her back, her head pillowed by his large palm as his body covered hers fully. The coarse hairs coating his chest tickled her breasts. It was a sensation comparable to none. He pressed against her in suggestive, rhythmic motions, but otherwise refused to relieve her torment.
“Now, Drake,” she pleaded when she could bear no more. “Pleeease!”
When his knee parted her thighs, she felt a shiver of anticipation course up her spine. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her hips instinctively arching up to meet his powerful entry. He filled her completely, but it wasn’t enough. She dug her fingers into his back as she met each wonderful thrust with an urgency that quickly spiraled out of control.
Hope surrendered herself to the wave of sensations crashing over and within her trembling body. At last, she shuddered in blissful fulfillment. Wave after wave of satisfaction rippled through her, prolonged and increased to an almost agonizing pitch with each driving thrust.
His mouth crashed over hers and she clung to his sweat-dampened shoulders. She swallowed his ragged moan as his body tensed and released, tensed and released. Then, when every last ounce of energy had been tapped, he collapsed on top of her.
His lips teased the curl of her ear as she snuggled against him, awash with languid contentment.
“Has anyone ever told you you have beautiful ears?" His warm breath rustled the wisps of hair that caressed her cheek.
Hope giggled, intentionally wiggling beneath him. “Nope. You’re the first.”
“You keep moving like that and we may never leave this room,” he warned with a throaty growl.
His breath caught as he slipped from her warmth, rolled to the floor on his back, and scooped her compliant body against him. His warm palm covering the hand that splayed his chest. Glancing down, his eyelids thickened when his gaze lit on her lips, still swollen and pink from his kisses. His hand slipped up her arm, over her shoulder. Hope shivered with desire, and a husky groan rumbled in his throat as his fingers buried themselves deep in the silky softness of her hair.
“Why, ah do declare, Mistah Fraziah,” she whispered against his shoulder, “you’re insatiable!”
Drake pulled her hard against him, a devilish twinkle lighting his eyes. “The price you pay for keeping me waiting six weeks.”
“Ah, well, I don’t ever want it said I don’t pay what I owe,” she replied with mock seriousness. “Eventually.”
Her fingers tickled the hair curling over his chest. She found and teased a small, rosy nub to erection. Batting her thick, ebony lashes for effect, she sent him a crookedly suggestive grin. “Besides,” she lowered her head and coaxed the tiny nipple with her tongue, “I find I rather like this room. I think I could live here quite happily.”
Drake chuckled. “Now who’s ‘insatiable’?” he mimicked. A shudder ran through him as her hand slipped down the tautness of his stomach. He grabbed her wrist and plopped it back on his chest before he lost all control. “I’m warning you, sunshine, if you keep playing with fire, be prepared to get burned.”
A flicker of emotion sparkled in her eyes, but was quickly doused. Drake cursed himself for all kinds of a fool and wished he could bite the thoughtless words back.
Hope stiffened and pulled away. Drake had no alternative but let her go.
“Hope, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” He reached for her, but she rolled away too fast.
“It’s alright!” Stooping, she withdrew her chemise from the bottom of the wrinkled pile of clothes and slipped it over her head with trembling fingers.
“But—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she replied through gritted teeth. Woodenly, she walked toward the bed and climbed beneath the covers.
She heard Drake’s muffled footsteps approach the bed, but she scrunched her eyes closed and refused to open them. The comforter was tightly clutched beneath her chin.
Drake tried everything he could think of to get her to talk. Nothing worked. The only word she would utter was “Leave,” and even then, only once.
Eventually, he gave up. Not knowing what else to do, he retrieved his clothes, yanked them on, and left. Hope caught a brief glimpse of the rumpled shirttail hanging to mid-thigh and the polished shoes dangling from his fingers as he gave her a final glance, then closed the door quietly behind him.
She stared at the door for what seemed like hours.
Damn him! she swore. Damn Drake Frazier for taking something so wonderful and turning it so sour!
Chapter 18
Drake spent the rest of the night—the early hours of the morning, actually—closeted in the study, poring over files, reports, accounts, anything he could get his hands on. At seven o’clock, he’d stumbled on the copy of a sealed bid Charles had submitted to buy the lease to City Wharf—Boston’s largest and most lucrative block of wharves on the north shore. The wharves would be a definite boost to the floundering business. The problem was, Charles would have a great deal of trouble pulling the venture off without sufficient funds to cover the inev
itable expenses. His bankbook was already depleted.
About nine o’clock, less than an hour ago, Drake found an even more incriminating piece of evidence.
The desktop was scattered with discarded files and crumpled papers. Drake ignored the mess as he leaned back in his grandfather’s favorite red leather chair. His tired, bloodshot eyes flickered between the two rumpled sheets of paper he held in each hand. The more he looked, the angrier he became.
The Bradfield-Stillwell Home, one declared in bold, black script. Beneath were paragraphs of information regarding a home for wayward boys that handled only the most dire of cases. It was followed by a brief plea for funds to keep it in operation. The other, titled the same and written in the same crisp hand, had two long columns, one, names, the other, figures. The names were easily recognizable. Beecher, Lowell; Webster, Quincy; Frazier—none of Boston’s more prominent citizens was omitted. Scribbled beside each name was a dollar amount. The total at the bottom of that column was staggering.
“The fool!” Drake crunched the papers in his fist and slammed them on the desk. The glass mantel clock, ticking rhythmically atop the flat mahogany surface, rattled with the force of the blow. He should have known Charles was capable of using a fictitious charity to draw much-needed money. Should have, but didn’t. In his wildest dreams, he had never imagined his brother would stoop so low.
He waited for what seemed like hours, until his anger faded to a dull throb, then pushed himself from the chair and moved toward the door with purposeful strides. Once there, he slipped a key from the pocket of his denims and unlocked the door.
It was as he was returning the key to his pocket that his fingers reacted to the silky key ring. Looking down, he saw the lock of chestnut hair he’d stolen from Hope the day of the fight with Larzdon. The dark strands were worked into a fine plait, the reddish highlights glistening like molten copper in the morning sunshine. Absently, he ran his fingers over the braid, his thoughts drifting to the woman upstairs.
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