Cinnamon and Roses (9 page)

It wasn't until Caleb had rolled away that Rebecca opened her eyes. Her surroundings surprised her. She was still in Caleb's hotel room, the oil lamps burning bright. For some reason, she had expected to awake in some faraway land or a field of colorful wildflowers beneath a blue, cloudless sky.

Somehow she found the strength to lift an arm and rub her eyes. Letting her head fall to the side, she watched the even rise and fall of Caleb's chest. His eyes were closed, and he might have been sleeping. A fine sheen of perspiration dappled his body. His usually neat black hair was tousled.

Caleb groaned and rolled to his side, running a hand through the unruly locks. “I'm sorry."

Rebecca's breath caught, and she closed her eyes, pulling at her bodice to belatedly cover her nudity. Her fingers shakily tied the ribbon of her camisole and
rebuttoned
the dress.

"Did you hear me? I said I'm sorry."

"Yes, I heard.” She reached down to smooth her crumpled skirts. Rebecca wished there were some way to get out of the room without having to look at him. His apology was humiliating enough, but to meet his eyes would surely make her burst into tears.

"If I had known you were ... well, after you said you'd seen ... I just assumed...” He ran his fingers through his hair again and sat up. “I'm sorry, is all. I never should have touched you."

Rebecca slipped off the bed and picked up her discarded underclothes, rolling them into a tight ball. Her face heated with shame at the memory of Caleb's removing them from her willing body.

Willing.
Maybe she should pack her things and move back to Kansas City. No doubt
Lilah
would welcome Kate's daughter to the Scarlet Garter with open arms.

She wouldn't be worth as much as before, of course. Men wouldn't pay as much for a used parcel as for an innocent virgin.

Rebecca covered her eyes in an attempt to dam the tears. She had been a virgin, all right, but never innocent. Her mother had seen to that.

Caleb's strong hands folded over her shoulders. She pulled away and headed for the door.

"Rebecca, wait."

She didn't. She grabbed for the doorknob, but Caleb stopped her, turning her to face him.

"Here,” he said, pressing something into the palm of her hand.

She looked down, blinking hard several times to clear her vision. The money she'd taken earlier rested there, more wrinkled than before.

"You son of a bitch.”
Her shame melted into a fury that burned hotter than any blacksmith's forge. “I wasn't good enough for your money when I sewed a dress for your mistress, but now that you've bedded me, I am? Is that it?” She took a step toward him and held the cash in his face. “You can keep your money, Mr. Adams. I am not for sale. I have never been—nor will I ever be—a whore."

With that, she threw the money at him and quit the room, racing down the hotel stairs and across town as fast as her shaking legs would carry her.

She'd told Caleb she was no whore. The words reverberated through her mind again and again. And then a niggling doubt intruded, bringing her deepest fears to the surface.

The problem is,
that voice warned,
maybe you are.

A fierce pounding in her head woke Rebecca. It was only when she stumbled out of her room, barefoot and in her nightdress, toward the kitchen that she realized the noise was coming from the front door. When she opened it, Megan Adams swept into the house, her bright yellow skirt flashing.

"I can't tell you how much I love these dresses, Rebecca. They're so
comfortable,
I don't even want to take them off at bedtime. Where's the new one? I want to try it on."

Rebecca squeezed her eyes shut and tried to recall where she had put the new gowns. She could scarcely even remember making it. She shook her head in apology. “Would you mind joining me for a cup of tea? I'm not quite awake yet."

Megan followed her to the kitchen and crossed a leg under her as she sat in an unladylike fashion on one of the two chairs at the table. Her brows knit as she watched Rebecca.

"What is it?” Rebecca asked, noticing the odd way Megan was looking at her. “Have I sprouted another head or something?"

"Something,” Megan agreed. “Rebecca, you look horrible."

"Thank you very much,” Rebecca replied sourly.
“Just the thing to make a person feel special."

"No, I mean it. You look terrible. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, why?"

"Well, first of all, it's nearly two in the afternoon, and you're obviously just getting up. Second, your face is as white as milk, and your eyes are as puffy and red as ripe tomatoes."

"Tell me my hair looks like a side of beef, and we'll be all set for a dinner party."

"What's wrong?” Megan asked worriedly.

"Nothing's wrong. I'm fine."

"Then why did you sleep past noon? You told me you're awake every morning at the crack of dawn."

Rebecca sighed and rubbed one bare foot over the other, partially to warm them, partially to stall for time. If her visitor had been anyone other than Megan, Rebecca would have excused herself and gone to dress, but she felt comfortable with the girl.

"I was up late last night. I finished your gown and then started reading a book.
A very sad book, which is probably why my eyes are swollen.
Didn't your mother ever warn you about crying before going to bed?"

Megan shook her head, and Rebecca began feeling guilty for her lie. In truth, it had already been midnight when she left Caleb's room and ran home. She'd spent the rest of the night—or wee hours of the morning—sobbing her heart out and chastising
herself
for being every kind of fool.

"What book was it?"

"Hmm?"

Megan sighed and propped her elbows on the table as Rebecca brought two cups and the tea kettle.
“The book.
What's the title? If it was that good, I might like to read it."

"Oh, um, I ... I can't recall the name.” Rebecca scanned the room for something to take Megan's attention from the book. “It really wasn't good, just sad."

"But if you stayed up all night to—"

"Oh, look,” Rebecca cried
,
spotting Megan's dress folded over the back of the rocking chair, right where she'd left it. “Why don't you go try it on while your tea cools?"

"But—"

"Go on, now. I know you're dying to see how it fits."

With much prompting and prodding, Rebecca finally got Megan into the bedroom. Holding the sides of her head as a sledgehammer began to pound at her temples, she gulped down three scalding hot cups of cinnamon tea before Megan reappeared in the moderately fancy smoke-gray dress.

"I think Papa will approve, don't you, Rebecca?” Megan twirled around, making the gown seem more exquisite than the color and fabric alone would have allowed. “He wants me to have one for Sunday services. Somehow he didn't think the others were appropriate, given their bright colors."

"I can understand that,” Rebecca acquiesced.

"I'll wear it over to the Express right now and see what he and Caleb
think
."

At the mention of Caleb, Rebecca's head seemed to pound all the harder, and a small moan escaped her otherwise tight throat.

"Are you all right?” Megan asked, coming to her side with concern.

"Fine,” Rebecca said, pushing herself up from the table. “Let me wrap the yellow dress so it doesn't get dirty.” She moved to the other end of the house and got out the materials needed to protect the outfit. When she was finished, Rebecca handed the package to Megan.

"Here's the payment for the dress, Rebecca,” she said. “And, you know, it's the strangest thing. Before I came, Caleb insisted I give this to you. He said he owed you for something but wouldn't say what. Funny, I thought he was all paid up for my things.” Megan shrugged and handed Rebecca the money.

Her fingers closed over the bulge of cash. From the looks of it, these were the same bills he'd tried to foist on her last night.
The son of a bitch.

For a moment Rebecca considered giving the wad back to Megan with explicit instructions to Caleb on where he could put his money if he was so eager to be rid of it. But she thought it best not to involve Megan in their battle.
Although Caleb obviously didn't agree.

"Thank you.” Rebecca forced a smile to her lips. “And thank your brother for me, too, please."

She held the stiff smile and politely wished Megan farewell. The minute the girl was out of hearing distance, Rebecca slammed the door and huffed in fury. If that bastard thought he could pay her for her favors, he had another thing coming. She was not a whore. She was not like her mother.

Once.
It had only happened once, and Rebecca swore—to God, to the heavens, and to herself—that it would never, ever happen again. She would never let Caleb Adams or any other man seduce her into his bed.

And that was exactly what he'd done. He had taken advantage of her completely, grabbing her like that and kissing her senseless. What was that if not seduction? It wasn't as though she had undressed and climbed into Caleb's bed just waiting for him to walk in. She had gone there to collect her money, nothing else. Caleb Adams was entirely to blame. Rebecca wasn't innocent in the ways of men and women, but she'd hardly encouraged him to paw her the way he had.

Rebecca went to the parlor and dug through the Widow Fitzgerald's collection of old tea tins, settling on the one farthest in the back. She pried open the lid and stuffed Caleb's money inside. Oh, she would keep it, but she wouldn't touch it for anything other than the direst circumstances. She'd be damned if she would put that money toward her own comfort. For then she might as well admit she'd become a whore—just like her mother.

Replacing the tins, she walked into the bedroom and donned her oldest, ugliest, and most worn day dress. After all, why shouldn't her clothes match her mood?

A hot flood of pain rushed over Rebecca when Sabrina Leslie entered the shop later that day. The woman marched toward her, obviously having something to say. Rebecca made a show of putting aside her sewing, determined to hide her uneasiness from Caleb's mistress.

"May I help you, Miss Leslie?” she asked when the woman came to a halt before her. She looked up to find Sabrina glaring down at her, daggers shooting from her eyes.

"Stay away from him,” she ordered without preamble.

"Excuse me?” Rebecca asked, though she knew perfectly well whom Sabrina meant.

"I take care of Caleb's needs,” the woman continued, hands on her hips. “
All
of them. There is nothing he could possibly want from you.
Except maybe the novelty of a quick roll in the hay with a hayseed."

Rebecca swallowed past the lump in her throat. She was painfully aware that Sabrina's words were true. Caleb was rich, handsome, and could have any woman he wished, any time he wished. Proof of that stood before her now.

Sabrina was beautiful, sophisticated. Even if the years were slightly dimming her physical perfection, she still knew how to make a man happy without even trying. Comparing herself to that, Rebecca had to wonder, what could Caleb possibly want from her?

Didn't she know better than anyone how men used women? Hadn't she told herself time and time again never to get involved with the opposite sex? How could she have let herself be lulled into such mindlessness last evening? How could she have let him touch her, make love to her?

"Don't think that your pathetic little act of innocence is going to work,” Sabrina snapped. “I may be going back to
New York
, but that doesn't mean you can seduce him away from me. Caleb is only sending me ahead so that I can ready our apartments for his arrival. He'll be coming after me in a few weeks, and I'll have him all to myself again. He won't even remember your name."

Rebecca had no doubt that Sabrina was right.

She inhaled deeply, fighting back the tears that stung her eyes. “You needn't worry. Miss Leslie. Caleb Adams isn't the least bit interested in me.” She forced the next words from her mouth, though they burned all the way up her throat.
“Nor I in him."

Two Saturdays later, the entire town gathered for the annual Harvest Barn Dance and Good Eats, as the red-lettered banner boasted. Caleb Adams stood leaning against the open rear doors of the livery stable, his fingers drawing lazy patterns on his glass of punch as he watched couples dance in the bright lamplight. Each year at the end of July, the citizens of Leavenworth joined together to celebrate one last time before bringing in their crops.

Being the largest building in town, the livery had been cleared of any sign or scent of livestock and opened for the occasion. Bales of straw lined the inner walls for seating, and homemade streamers decorated with dried flowers adorned the rafters. A makeshift stage had been built in one corner for the musical group consisting of three fiddles, a banjo, and an off-key harmonica.

Caleb turned, somewhat surprised at the sound of his companion's high giggle. She obviously found whatever she'd been saying very amusing. He allowed his mouth to lift in a false smile as he nodded, hoping she wouldn't realize he hadn't paid a whit of attention to her story. Nor had he heard a word she'd uttered throughout the two dances he'd been forced to share with her.

What was her name, anyway? He'd no sooner set the brake and stepped down from the wagon than the petite blonde had attached herself to his arm. Megan had introduced them, but he could no longer recall her name. She was pretty enough, Caleb thought, taking in her tiny form and small breasts, but she couldn't be more than seventeen, if that. A lovely young lady trying to sink her claws into a rich husband, like all the rest.

"Would you like another glass of punch, Miss...
"

"
Anabelle
,” she said, stroking his arm coyly. “I told you to call me
Anabelle
. And I'll call you Caleb."

"Very well,” Caleb replied, looking down at eyelashes fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird. “I'll be right back.” He took her cup and made his way around the dance floor.

Spotting his sister behind the refreshment table talking with another girl, he made a beeline for her and attacked. With a cold glare, he sent Megan's new friend skittering. “I don't know what you thought you were doing when you told that girl to keep me company, but you'd better get her off me—
fast.
"

"Aren't you enjoying Miss Archer's company?” Megan asked, grinning wickedly. “Why, I thought for sure you'd find her to your liking."

Caleb grasped Megan's arm and squeezed. In a low voice he said, “I like her about as much as I would a mad dog. She grabbed on and won't let go. Get her away from me, Megan. I mean it."

Megan let out a martyred sigh. “I'll try. Why don't you make yourself
scarce.
"

"I'll be outside.” Caleb thrust the punch glasses into her hands and turned for the double doors.

He took a deep breath of night air. Deciding to avoid the party for a while, Caleb stuck his hands into his pants pockets and moved down the deserted street of town, deliberately walking in the opposite direction of Rebecca's house. The music faded behind him, finally becoming almost pleasant, off-key harmonica and all.

He'd thought about Rebecca a lot over the past weeks.
Hadn't been able to get her out of his head, in fact.
Every time he closed his eyes, she was there, floating in front of his mind's eye like some silky, sultry apparition, exactly the way she had been that night more than two weeks ago.
Writhing beneath him, setting his skin afire, her throaty little moans filling his ears.

And if the days were bad, the nights were pure hell. He would lie in bed for hours, tortured by the memory of her warm flesh, as smooth as satin, rubbing against his own. Rebecca's image would dance in front of him, and his traitorous body would react, swelling painfully—remaining that way until, in the early hours of morning, he could douse himself with cold water, hoping to ease his suffering somewhat and keep others from noticing his uncomfortable predicament.

She'd ruined him.
Branded him.
Mind, body, and soul.

Oh, he had tried to rid his memory of Rebecca—the feel of her tongue against his own, the spicy scent of each strand of her glorious hair, the tingle her touch sent to every part of his being. Even when he'd drunk himself into a stupor at the Dog Tick and taken one of its available women upstairs, Caleb hadn't been able to get Rebecca out of his brain. He'd ended up paying the redhead for her time and nothing more.