That night, when the first man had come knocking at the door, Angel told him, in less than polite terms, to go away. Angry, he went to the Duchess and said he wanted his gold dust back. Duchess came up, took one look at Angel, then sent for Magowan.
Angel didn’t like Magowan, but she had never been afraid of him. He had never bothered her. He was just there at her side when she went for her walks. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t do anything. He just made sure no one approached her outside the Palace. She knew it wasn’t as much for her own protection as it was for the Duchess. He was there to make sure she came back.
Mai Ling never said what Magowan did to her when he had been sent to her room, but Angel saw the look of fear in the Chinese girl’s dark eyes every time he was near. All he had to do was smile at her, and the girl turned white and broke out in a sweat. Angel sneered inwardly. It would take more than words to make her afraid of any man.
That night, when Magowan came in, Angel was only aware of a dark shape standing over her. “You’re not going to get your money’s worth,” she said. She focused. “Oh, it’s you. Go ’way. I’m not going for a walk today.”
He ordered her tub filled. As soon as the two servants left, he bent over her again, grinning viciously. “I knew sooner or later we’d have to have a talk.” He caught hold of her. Sobering, she struggled, but he lifted her and dumped her into the icy water. Gasping, she tried to get out, but he grabbed her head and forced her under. Terrified by the iron weight of his huge hand, she fought. When her lungs burned for air and she was losing consciousness, he dragged her up. “Enough?” he said.
“Enough,” she rasped, dragging in air.
He shoved her down again. She bucked and kicked, clawing for escape. When he pulled her up again, she choked and vomited. He laughed, and she knew he was enjoying it. He stood in front of her, feet planted apart, and reached for her head again. An irrational fury rose, and she swung her fist straight and sure. When he dropped to his knees, groaning, she scrambled out of his reach.
When he came after her again, she screamed. He caught hold of her. She kicked and scratched, gasping with effort. He had a hand at her throat when the door burst open and the Duchess sailed in. She slammed the door behind her and shouted at them both to stop it.
Magowan did as she commanded, but he gave Angel a malevolent look. “I’m going to kill you. I swear it.”
“Enough!” the Duchess said, furious. “I heard her scream from the stairway. If the men heard, what do you think would happen?”
“They’d hang him,” Angel said, crossing her legs and laughing at him.
The Duchess slapped her. Angel fell back in shock. “Not another word, Angel,” the Duchess warned. Straightening, she looked at Magowan again. “I said sober her up, Bret, and have a talk with her. That’s all I want you to do to her. Do you understand?” She yanked on the bell cord.
The three waited in pulsating silence. The slap had silenced Angel. She knew Duchess had barely reined in her devil. She also knew after one look at him that another foolish outburst on her part might snap his leash.
When someone knocked discreetly, Duchess opened the door enough to order hot coffee and bread. When she closed the door, she crossed the room and sat down on the straight-backed chair. “I sent you to do something very simple, Bret. You do just what I tell you and nothing more,” she said. “Angel’s right. They’d hang you.”
“She needs a good lesson,” Magowan said, eyes black on Angel. All her bravado had evaporated. She’d seen clearly enough that something dark and evil shone in Magowan’s eyes. She recognized that look. She had seen it on another man’s face from time to time. She had never taken Bret seriously before, but he was serious, indeed. She knew also that fear was the very last thing she could show. It would feed his blood lust until even the Duchess couldn’t stop him. So she was calm and still, like a mouse in its hole.
The Duchess looked at her for a long moment. “You’re going to behave now, aren’t you, Angel?”
Angel sat up slowly and looked back at her with grave, sardonic eyes. “Yes, ma’am.” She shivered with cold.
“Give her a sheet before she catches a chill.”
Magowan snatched one from the bed and flung it at her. She wrapped the satin around herself like a royal robe and didn’t dare look at him. Helpless rage and fear feasted on her.
“Come here, Angel,” the Duchess said.
Angel raised her head and looked at her. When she didn’t move quickly enough, Magowan grabbed a handful of blonde hair and yanked her up. She gritted her teeth, refusing him the satisfaction of crying out. “When she tells you to do something, you do it,” he snarled as he shoved her.
Angel fell to her knees before Duchess.
The woman stroked her hair, and the calculated gentleness after Magowan’s brutality destroyed Angel’s defiance. “When the tray arrives, Angel, eat the bread and drink every last drop of the coffee. Bret will stay to see that you do. As soon as you’re finished, he’ll leave. I want you ready to work in two hours.”
The Duchess stood and went to the door. She glanced back. “Bret, not another mark on her. She’s our best girl.”
“Not a mark,” he echoed coldly.
He kept his word. He didn’t touch her, but he talked—and what he said chilled Angel’s blood. She forced the bread and coffee down, knowing the sooner she was done, the sooner he would leave.
“You’re going to be mine, Angel. In a week or a month, you’ll push Duchess too far or demand too much. And then she’ll give you to me on a silver plate.”
She had been good since that evening, and Magowan had not bothered her. But he was waiting, and she knew it. She refused to give him the satisfaction Mai Ling did. She always smiled at him mockingly when he came into the room. As long as she did what she was told, Duchess was happy, and Bret Magowan could do nothing.
But the walls were closing in again. More each day. The pressure inside her was building, and the effort to maintain the calm facade was draining her strength.
One more tonight and I can sleep, she thought. She held out her hands and looked at them. They were trembling. She was trembling all over. She knew she was losing control. Too much pretending for too long. She shook her head. All she needed was a good night’s sleep, and she would be all right tomorrow. Just one more, she thought, and hoped he’d be quick.
The knock came and she rose to answer. Opening the door, she took in the man standing there. He was taller and older than most, and well-muscled. Other than that, she noticed nothing special about him. But she felt… what? An odd uneasiness. An increasing of her shakiness. Her nerves were jumping, almost out of control. She lowered her head and breathed slowly, pushing the strange reaction down with every ounce of will she had left.
One more, and I’m free for the night.
Despite his twenty-six years, Michael felt like a callow youth, standing outside Angel’s open door in the dim lantern light of the brothel hallway. He could scarcely breathe, his heart was racing so fast. She was even more beautiful than he remembered, and smaller. Her slender body was clearly outlined in the blue satin wrapper, and he tried not to look below her shoulders.
She stepped aside so he could enter her room. All Michael saw was her bed. It was made, but visions came to him unbidden and, unnerved, he looked back at her. She smiled slightly. It was a worldly, seductive smile. She knew everything that was in his mind, even what he didn’t want there. “What’s your pleasure, mister?”
Her voice was low and soft and surprisingly cultured, but she was so direct, he was taken aback. She couldn’t have said anything to make him more acutely aware of what she did for her living, or of his own powerful physical attraction to her.
As he entered the room, Angel closed the door behind him and leaned back against it. She waited for him to answer while making a quick assessment of him. Her uneasiness lessened. He wasn’t so different from the rest. Just a little older than most, a little broader in the shoulders. He w
as no boy, but he looked uncomfortable, very uncomfortable. Maybe he had a wife somewhere and was feeling guilty. Maybe he had a good Christian mother and was wondering what she would think about his coming to a prostitute. This one wouldn’t want to spend a lot of time with her. Good. The less time, the better.
Michael didn’t know what to say. He had been thinking about seeing her all day, and now that he was here in her bedroom he stood mute, his heart beating its way up into his throat. She was so beautiful, and she looked amused. Lord, what now? I can’t even think past what I’m feeling. She walked toward him, every movement drawing his attention to her body.
Angel touched his chest and heard him suck in his breath. She moved around him, smiling. “No need to be shy with me, mister. Tell me what you want.”
He looked down at her. “You.”
“I’m all yours.”
Michael watched her cross the room to a washstand. Angel. The name fit the way she looked, a flawless, blue-eyed porcelain doll with pale skin and golden hair. Maybe marble was a better description. Porcelain shatters. She looked too hard for that—so hard, he hurt looking at her. Why? He hadn’t expected to feel that. He had worried too much about getting past the desire he knew she would arouse in him. God, give me strength to resist her temptation.
She poured water into a porcelain bowl and picked up a bar of soap. Everything she did was graceful and provocative. “Why don’t you come here and I’ll wash you.”
He could feel the heat rushing all through his body, most of it ending up in his face. He coughed and felt as though his collar were choking him.
She laughed softly. “I promise it won’t hurt.”
“It’s not necessary, ma’am. I’m not here for sex.”
“No. You’re here for Bible study.”
“I came here to talk with you.”
Angel gritted her teeth. Hiding her irritation, she let her gaze drift boldly. He moved uneasily beneath that look. She smiled. “Are you sure you want to talk?”
“I’m sure.”
He looked dead certain. With a sigh, she turned to dry her hands. “Whatever you want, mister.” She sat on the bed and crossed her legs.
Michael knew what she was doing. He fought the swift desire to take her up on the clear message she kept sending him. The longer he stood silent, the more his mind drew images, and she knew it by the look in her eyes. Was she mocking him? No doubt about that.
“Do you live in this room when you’re not working?”
“Yes.” She tilted her head. “Where did you think I lived? In a little white cottage at the end of a road somewhere?” She smiled to take the bite from her words. She hated men who asked questions and probed.
Michael studied her surroundings. No personal articles out, no pictures on the wall, no knickknacks on the small, lace-covered table in the corner, no feminine clothing scattered about. Everything was neat, clean, spare. A modest armoire, a side table, a kerosene lamp, a marble washstand with a yellow porcelain water pitcher, and a straight-backed chair furnished her room. And the bed on which she was sitting.
He got the chair from the corner, set it in front of her, and sat down. Her satin wrap had opened a little. He knew she was toying with him. She swung her foot idly, like a pendulum, sixty seconds to a minute, thirty minutes to a half hour. All the time he had.
Lord, I’d need a million years to reach this woman. Are you sure this is the one you meant for me?
Her eyes were blue and fathomless. He could read nothing in them. She was a wall, an endless ocean, a clouded night sky so dark he couldn’t see his hand before his face. He saw only what she wanted him to see.
“You said you wanted to talk, mister. So talk.”
Michael was saddened. “I shouldn’t have come to you like this. I should’ve found another way.”
“What other way is there?”
How was he going to make her understand he was different from the other men who came to her when he came by the same way they did? Gold. He had listened to Joseph and gone to the Duchess, and then he had listened to that woman say Angel was a commodity—a fine, precious, well-guarded commodity. Pay first, then talk. Paying had seemed the easiest, most direct way. He hadn’t cared about the price. Now it was clear the easiest way wasn’t the best.
He should have found another way, another place. She was too ready to work and not the least bit ready to listen. And he was finding himself too easily distracted.
“How old are you?”
She smiled slightly. “Old. Real old.”
He figured that was right. She wasn’t talking about years. He doubted much could surprise her. She looked prepared for anything. Yet he sensed something else about her as well, the same way he had the first time he had seen her. There was another layer beneath the one she was showing now. Lord, how do I get to it?
“How old are you?” she asked, turning his question back on him.
“Twenty-six.”
“Old for a gold miner. Most are eighteen or nineteen. I haven’t seen many real men lately.”
Her lack of subtlety put him on firmer ground. “Why the name Angel? Because of how you look? Or is that your real name?”
Her mouth tightened slightly. The only thing she had left was her name, and she had never told anyone what it was, not even Duke. The only person who had ever called her by her name was Mama. And Mama was dead.
“Call me whatever you want, mister. It doesn’t matter.” Just because he didn’t want what he paid for, that didn’t mean she was going to give him anything else.
He studied her. “I think Mara suits you.”
“Someone you knew back home?”
“No. It means bitter.”
She looked at him then and went very still. What game was this? “Is that what you think?” She lifted one shoulder indolently. “Well, I suppose Mara is as good a name as any.” She began to swing her foot back and forth again, ticking off the time. How long had he been here? How long did she have to put up with him?
He kept on. “Where are you from?”
“Here and there.”
He smiled slightly at her polite and sultry reticence. “Any here and there in particular?”
“Just here and there,” she said. Her foot stopped and she leaned forward. “What about you, mister? What’s your name? You from any place in particular? Do you have a wife somewhere? Are you afraid to do what you really want?”
She was leveling all barrels at him, but rather than be taken aback, he felt himself relaxing. This girl was more real to him than the one who had greeted him at the door. “Michael Hosea,” he said. “I live in a valley southwest of here, and I’m not married, but I will be soon.”
She frowned uneasily. It was the way he was looking at her. The intensity unnerved her. “What sort of name is Hosea?”
His smile became wry. “Prophetic.”
Was he making a joke at her expense? “Are you going to tell me my future?”
“You’re going to marry me, and I’m going to take you out of here.”
She laughed. “Well, my third proposal today. I’m so flattered.” Shaking her head, she leaned forward again, her smile cold and cynical. Did he think this was a new approach? Did he think it was necessary? “When would you like me to start playing my part, mister?”
“After the ring’s on your finger. Right now, I want to get to know you a little better.”
She hated him for dragging the game on. The wasted time, the hypocrisy, the endless lies. It had been a long night, and she was in no mood to humor him. “What’s to tell? What I do is what I am. All it comes down to is you telling me how you want me to be. But be quick. Your time’s almost up.”
Michael saw he had made a fine mess of this first meeting. What had he expected? To come in here, talk plain, and walk out with her on his arm? She looked like she wanted to give him the boot. He was angry at himself for being such a naive fool. “You’re not talking love, Mara, and I didn’t come here to use you.”
The steady deepness of his words and that name—Mara—roused her anger even more. “No?” She tilted her chin. “Well, I think I understand.” She stood. He was sitting and she moved close, her soft hands combing into his hair. She could feel his tension and relished it.
“Let me guess, mister. You want to get to know me. You want to find out how I think and what I feel. And most of all, you want to know how a nice girl like me got into a business like this.”
Michael closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, trying to close out the effect her touch was having on him.
“Do what you’re thinking about doing, mister.”
Michael put her firmly away from him. “I came to talk with you.”
She studied him through narrowed eyes and then yanked her wrapper closed and tied the satin ribbons. She still felt exposed beneath his scrutiny. “You came to the wrong girl. You want to know what you can have, I’ll tell you.” And she did, explicitly. He didn’t blush this time. He didn’t even react.
“I want to know you, not what you can do,” he said roughly.
“If you want conversation, go down to the bar.”
He stood. “Come away with me and be my wife.”
She gave a harsh laugh. “If you want a wife, send for one by mail, or wait for the next wagon train to cross the mountains.”
He came toward her. “I can give you a good life. I don’t care how you got here or where you’ve been before. Come with me now.”
She smiled derisively. “For what? More of the same? Look, I’ve heard it all before from a hundred others. You saw me and fell in love and now you can’t live without me. You can give me a wonderful life. What a crock.”
“I can.”
“It all comes down to the same thing.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“From my point it does. A half hour is more than enough time for anyone to own me, mister.”
Francine Rivers Page 6