Each Time We Love (8 page)

The widow Blackstone kept a bottle of whiskey and several
glasses atop the pine bureau for Micajah's pleasure, and after
shrugging out of his jacket and throwing the garment on the bed, he
poured himself and Jeremy a generous slug of the liquor. Motioning for
Jeremy to take the chair, he flung himself down on the bed and, half
lying, half sitting, he took a sip of his drink.

In the flickering light of the candle, he studied the doleful
features of the man across from him. It was obvious that the past years
had not been kind to Jeremy Childers. His face was creased and lined
well beyond his years, his ragged, light brown hair hung dull and limp
around his unhealthy pale skin and his eyes were deeply sunken, dark
circles emphasizing their queer glitter. Never a big man, Jeremy looked
smaller and thinner than Micajah remembered, and there was an obviously
nervous air about him: he constantly fidgeted as he sat in the chair
across from Micajah, starting at the faintest sound, his hazel eyes
never still, always darting around the room as if he expected someone
to leap out at him.

Micajah had been pretty good friends with Jeremy and Orval
before they had disappeared on that trip to trade horses—they'd run a
few rigs together and Jeremy had been his partner in a couple of
robberies. In fact, Orval, Jeremy, Jem and Micajah had made up a rather
dangerous quartet of rogues in those days, but mostly they ran their
own separate, nefarious schemes, only joining together when it proved
necessary or profitable.

Micajah had been their natural leader; not only was his
personality the most dominant, but he was four or five years older than
the others and was the more experienced scoundrel… and he didn't blink
if there was violence to be done. Jeremy had always been a follower,
following either his or Orval's lead, and so with Orval dead, Micajah
wasn't the least surprised that the first thing Jeremy had done after
more than ten years in a Spanish prison was to come looking for him.

Nursing his whiskey, Micajah said idly, "Since you've been in
a Spanish jail all this time, I can hazard a guess as to why you were
looking for me—you want some money and need a place to stay for a
while." With the prospect of making a large amount of easy money before
him and feeling unusually generous, Micajah went on expansively.
"You're welcome to bed down here for as long as you like, and as for
the other…" He smiled darkly. "As for the other—I just took on a job
for a tidy sum and I might be willing to let you in on it. Would put a
little money in your pocket."

A funny
¹
little smile curved Jeremy's
pale lips and the queer glitter in his hazel eyes increased. Taking a
nervous gulp of the whiskey, he inhaled deeply and blurted out, "And I
might be willing to cut you in on a fortune in Aztec gold!"

Jeremy's words did not have the effect that he had expected.
Micajah remained unmoved, merely sending him a highly skeptical glance
and replying coolly, "You know what I think? I think those years in a
Spanish jail have addled your wits!"

"No! No! It's true!" Jeremy said in agitation, never having
considered that Micajah wouldn't believe him. "It's
true,
I tell you!"

There was such intense conviction in Jeremy's tone that a
faint flicker of interest showed in Micajah's cold blue eyes. "Tell me
about it," he said finally.

Nothing loath, Jeremy almost slid across the room in his haste
to kneel by the bed, and with the words tumbling frantically from his
lips, he told Micajah about the fateful trip to Spanish Texas that he
and Orval had undertaken in 1804, and the dying man he had found just
before he'd fallen into the hands of the Spanish patrol. For eleven
years Jeremy had kept the dazzling secret of the gold bottled up inside
him and to finally tell the tale gave him almost a feeling of relief.
The candle was sputtering in its pottery holder and the whiskey had
been diminished considerably when Jeremy finished speaking.

Micajah stared at him for several long, nerve-racking moments.
Ordinarily he didn't have any time for tales of hidden treasure, much
less of Aztec gold or the men who chased after such nonsense. He knew
about all sorts of fools who had wasted years trying to find the
notorious outlaw Sam Mason's supposedly hidden fortune near
Cave-in-Rock. Having only contempt for men dimwitted enough to believe
in such fairy-tale foolishness, Micajah had always turned a deaf ear to
stories of hidden treasure, but Jeremy's tale had caught his interest
the moment Bias Davalos's name had been mentioned, and when Savanna's
name had come up, he'd been fairly riveted by Jeremy's words. He wasn't
exactly certain that he believed everything Jeremy had told him—he did
believe that
Jeremy
believed it, but what
interested him more was the possibility of somehow using this knowledge
to get Savanna into his bed.

Taking a reflective sip of his whiskey, Micajah murmured, more
to himself than to Jeremy, "So Savanna O'Rourke has a golden armband
and a map leading to Aztec gold, does she?"

His expression intense, Jeremy nodded eagerly. "That's what he
said just before he died—'Savanna will have it." For a second Jeremy
looked confused. "Or was it Jason Savage who has the map… ?"

Micajah wasn't concerned about Jason Savage, at least not at
present; it was solely Savanna's part in this mesmerizing story that
had roused his attention. Tossing off the remainder of his whiskey and
sitting up abruptly, he said, "It doesn't matter. I know where Savanna
O'Rourke is, and that's all we have to bother ourselves with for the
time being."

Jeremy appeared thunderstruck, his belief in Micajah's
omniscience sealed. "You know where she is?" he asked dazedly.

Micajah nodded. "Yep, you could say that! After we take care
of this little job like I promised, we'll go see her and have a
friendly talk with her about that daddy of hers."

"Forget the job!" Jeremy burst out impatiently, his blue eyes
glittering with a zealot's light. "It's the gold we're after! And
Savanna can tell us how to find it!"

"And without money, we're not going to get very far!" Micajah
returned coldly. "We'll kill this St. Clair fellow and then, with
enough money to keep us comfortable and see us outfitted for a trip to
Texas, we'll go after your gold."

The implacable jut to Micajah's chin told Jeremy that further
argument was useless. "How're you going to kill St. Clair?" Jeremy
demanded sullenly.

"Don't know," Micajah returned cheerfully. "But I'm certain
before too long I'll think of something very deadly for our poor
not-long-for-this-earth Adam St. Clair!"

Oblivious of the unpleasant plans being discussed
for his untimely demise, Adam St. Clair was doing what after
thirty-four years of perfecting his technique he did with great aplomb
and style— infuriating, beguiling and effortlessly seducing a woman all
at the same time! Not that the lady in question needed to be seduced!

Upon her arrival in Natchez six months ago from Charleston
with her brother, Charles, to visit with their older married sister,
Susan Jeffries, Betsey Asher had taken one look at Adam St. Clair's
long-limbed elegant length, mocking sapphire eyes and curly black hair
and had decided then and there she
must
have him!
That he came with a fortune, well-bred connections and a renowned
plantation, Belle Vista, was certainly all in his favor, but it was
Adam
who fascinated Betsey and made her chase after him with shameless
abandon—despite Charles's displeasure with her choice. Her brother had
made it clear that he wanted her to marry a much more malleable
gentleman, but Betsey had turned a deaf ear. She wanted Adam! And she
intended to have him!

Standing an impressive six feet four inches tall in his bare
feet, Adam was definitely a noticeable young man under any
circumstances. When that height was coupled with a smoothly muscular
build, broad shoulders, rakishly handsome features and a devilish
charm, Betsey's pursuit of him was perfectly understandable. But Betsey
was after more than a delightful flirtation or even a passionate
affair; by choice she was unmarried at the advanced age of twenty-six
and now that it was imperative that she marry a
rich
man, she was becoming increasingly wrathful that a man who was not only
rich but one she desperately wanted was proving to be singularly
elusive when it came to proposing marriage to her.

Unfortunately, while Adam was entirely willing to bed her and
have her sobbing with gratification at his incomparable sexual prowess,
he had no intention of asking for her hand in marriage! Which was one
of the things, besides getting him out of his clothes and into her bed,
that Betsey had been angling for since the moment her wide green eyes
had met Adam's dancing dark blue gaze at the soiree her sister had held
to introduce Betsey to all the eligible young men in the neighborhood.

The darling of her doting wealthy family, born several years
after her sister and brother, Betsey had been spoiled and indulged
since birth and she was not used to being denied…
anything!
As she had grown older, the pattern of being granted her every whim had
continued—the fact that she had been generously endowed with a head of
wavy blond hair, thickly lashed, mysterious green eyes set in an
undeniably lovely face, and possessed an alluringly curved little body
had not escaped the attention of the gentlemen. From the age of sixteen
she had capriciously kept a string of helplessly ensnared suitors
dangling eagerly after her and once she had discovered that there were
ways to enjoy the pleasures to be found in the arms of a lover without
the confines of marriage, she had blithely refused to even consider the
most passionate appeals from the most eligible bachelors for her hand
in wedlock. At least that had been the case until the disaster her
brother, Charles, had created of their fortune had been revealed to
her, and until she had set her fickle heart on Adam St. Clair!

"But why
won't
you marry me?" she
demanded with a petulant curve to her pouting rosy mouth.

Sprawled lithely on the tumbled bed that bore witness to their
recent lovemaking, Adam regarded her with an amused glance from beneath
his thick black lashes. She was sitting in naked splendor at the edge
of the mattress and Adam's gaze was decidedly appreciative as well as
amused as he looked at her. The dark blue gleam of his eyes was barely
discernible, but Betsey caught the faint beginnings of a mocking smile
at the corners of his full-lipped mouth and said resentfully, "My
question wasn't meant to make you laugh!"

"I'm not laughing," Adam said lightly. "It is just that I find
it hard to concentrate on anything but that delectable little body of
yours when you are sitting in all your tempting nakedness not two feet
away from me."

They were in the bedroom of a surprisingly luxurious cabin
that was tucked into a secluded corner of Adam's vast estate, Belle
Vista, situated some miles north of Natchez. The onetime hunting cabin
had been turned into a discreet trysting place many years ago when Adam
had been deeply embroiled in a delicate affair with a married woman.
Having gone to great lengths to prepare suitable quarters in which to,
er, entertain the lady, he had seen no reason to abandon the place when
the affair ended—especially not when there were other ladies, like
Betsey Asher, who did not want their sexual liaisons with him to be
public fodder…

Adam continued to appreciatively eye Betsey's naked form as
she preened at his words, her full, pink-tipped breasts jutting
enticingly forward, but there was a part of him that was wondering if
he hadn't made a mistake in bringing her to the cabin in the first
place. Not that he didn't enjoy all that yielding white flesh brazenly
displayed for his gaze or the astonishing things she could do with that
pouting mouth of hers, but he'd made it clear from the onset of their
affair that marriage was not a state he had ever contemplated. Ever.
While Betsey had assured him most blithely some weeks ago when their
affair began that marriage was the last thing on her mind, regrettably
it would appear that the lady had changed her mind. Adam sighed. God,
how he hated scenes!

Encouraged by his remarks about her body, Betsey stretched
languidly and, looking coyly over at him, murmured throatily, "If we
were to be married, we wouldn't have to meet secretly anymore. This
'delectable little body' of mine that you enjoy so much would be in
your bed every night…"

"And whose bed would it grace during the afternoons?" Adam
asked sardonically, having no illusions about the young lady.

A gasp of outrage came from Betsey and she glared at him,
leaving off her sensuous posturings. Did he really know about her other
lovers? she wondered warily. She was certain she had been exceedingly
discreet. He couldn't possibly know that when he wasn't available she
appeased her appetites with a few other accommodating gentlemen in the
area, could he? Not that any of them was as skilled in bed as Adam St,
Clair! It was just too bad that he had to be the most desirable,
infuriatingly arrogant, utterly charming rogue she had ever met! she
thought resentfully.

Adam was undeniably all of those things as he lounged
carelessly against a pile of white pillows on the bed. A snowy cambric
sheet covered the lower half of his tall body, leaving bare the broad
shoulders, wide chest, narrow waist, and part of his upper abdomen. The
fabric lovingly outlined his lean hips and long legs, and almost seemed
to caress his blatant manhood as he relaxed there like a sultan
surveying his harem, his virility almost tangible. His skin appeared
very dark against the pristine whiteness of the sheet and pillows, the
lavish sprinkling of black hair which covered his chest and arrowed
down to disappear tantalizingly beneath the sheet intensifying his
darkness. A lock of curly black hair persisted in falling across his
broad forehead, and with those gleaming sapphire-blue eyes, deep-set
below thick, boldly arching black brows, those hard-angled cheekbones,
that formidable chin and the most sensually chiseled mouth Betsey had
ever encountered in her life, it wasn't surprising that he had been the
object of more than one woman's fantasy all of his adult life.