Natchez Flame (37 page)

Stuart hissed at the stinging sensation. His mouth went thin, and he slapped her hard across the face. Several more stunning blows had her ears ringing and tears burning her eyes.

“It’s a shame I’ve had to hurt you, but you’ve left me no choice. I want you, Priscilla. You have thwarted me at every turn, but it has only made me want you more.” He shoved up her skirts, his damp palm sliding along her thigh as he fumbled with the buttons at the front of his trousers.

Priscilla tried to twist free, but her mass of hair had been caught beneath her, and it pulled her scalp painfully. She tried to kick him, tried to bite—and barely heard the pounding at the door.

At first she thought it was just her heart, slamming against the walls of her chest.

“What the blazes do you want?” Stuart called out, breathing heavily, keeping Priscilla’s wrists pinned.

“Sorry to bother you, boss, but there’s a message from Harding—he says it can’t wait.”

Stuart worked to control his temper. “It better damned well be important, Sturgis, or you’ll both be out of a job.” He let go of her arms, and Priscilla covered her breasts with them.

“Take these moments to resign yourself, Priscilla. The next time I step across that threshold, you will be my wife in every way.”

Priscilla bit back the sob in her throat. Stuart climbed off her, pulled on his shirt and tucked it in, then fastened his trousers. Grabbing his frock coat from the back of the chair, he strode toward the door.

When he slammed it behind him and turned the key in the lock, Priscilla started to cry.

“It’s him all right, the bastard.” Stuart peered through the crack in the door to the storeroom and fought to control his anger.

Through the smoke in the roomful of grimy, boisterous rivermen, he saw Brendan Trask leaning against the bar, sipping a whiskey. He was dressed like a gambler, ruffle-fronted white shirt, leather vest, and black breeches. A flatboat man named Boots Marlin, one of McLeary’s men, stood beside him, flapping his jaws.

Stuart turned toward Mace, fists balled tightly at his sides. “You did right in sending for me. We need to know why he’s here.”

“You want us to take him? I’ll make him talk—I promise you.”

Stuart glanced toward the door. “I’d rather have
you follow him, see what he’s up to, but with the raid coming off tomorrow, I’m afraid we don’t have that much time. Take a couple of McLeary’s men and wait for him outside the tavern. Once you’ve got him, tie him up in the cave. Do what you can to make him talk, but don’t kill him—I want that pleasure myself.”

Stuart turned away and started toward the back door. “I’ve got plans for the evening,” he finished. “I’ll be back tomorrow. When we’re through with him, we’ll take him out to the sandbar and get rid of him along with McLeary and Dobbs. We’ll take their cut of the profits from the
St. Louis
and be on our way back home.”

Harding smiled, his face looking gaunt and mean. “All neat and tidy.” A raspy chuckle escaped from his throat.

“Exactly,” Stuart agreed.
In the meantime I’ll deal with that lying little whore I married.
“It’s getting late,” he said, “I’ve got to be getting back.”

Mace smiled thinly. “Have a good time, boss.”

A little over an hour had passed before Priscilla could rouse herself enough to move off the bed. When she did, it was to the rasp of metal scraping against metal—someone was twisting the lock on her door!

Priscilla glanced around the room for something to use to defend herself, spotted nothing but the heavy, ornate Chinese vase on the pedestal near the door, and started toward it.

With a gasp, she realized the bodice of her dress hung open, exposing her breasts. Priscilla caught the
ends of the shredded green fabric, tied them together in a crude knot that at least gave her some semblance of modesty, and hurried to pick up the vase. She stepped behind the door just as it swung open.

Gripping the vase above her head with trembling hands, Priscilla held her breath.

“Priscilla?” came the whispered word. “It’s me, Jaimie.”

The air she’d been holding rushed from her lungs. Lowering the vase, she stepped from behind the door. “Jaimie—thank God.”

He closed the door behind them. “I picked the lock,” he explained. “I had to see if you were all right.” His eyes ran over her face, noting the bruise that already darkened her cheek, the one along her jaw. He saw her torn dress and the scratches on her neck and shoulders. “Good Lord, Priscilla—I can’t believe the boss would do such a thing.”

“He’s planning to finish what he started, Jaimie. You’ve got to help me.”

“If I’d had any idea … if I’d thought for a minute he’d hurt you, I wouldn’t have told him where you were.”

“You
told him? How did you find out?”

“I talked to Stevens. Threatened him a little. It wasn’t too hard.” He touched her cheek and unconsciously she flinched. “Damn him. We’ve got to get you out of here.”

Priscilla nodded, feeling a rush of hope. She should have known she could count on Jaimie. “I can’t go back to Evergreen.” That would lead Egan straight to Brendan. “I’ve got to find someplace else to go until I can get out of town.”

Jaimie crossed the room and threw open the door to her armoire. He pulled a satchel from the bottom and tossed it onto the bed. “We’ll go to your sister’s. You’ll be safe there.”

“How … how did you know about Rose?”

“She told me about you, after you went to see her.” He motioned toward the satchel. “You’d better hurry, Priscilla.”

Priscilla threw open her bureau drawers, pulled out a few undergarments and as many dresses as she could fit into the satchel. She wanted nothing from Stuart Egan, but she figured the bruises on her face and the trouble he’d caused were payment enough.

“What about McLeary?” She closed up the satchel.

“He’s out of town for a couple of days. Rose is alone.”

“How do you know she’ll help me?”

Jaimie smiled. “She’s a good woman, Priscilla. She’s tough on the outside, but her heart is pure gold. She’ll help you, all right.”

Jaimie crossed the room to the desk and pulled open the top drawer.

“What are you looking for?”

“This.” He held up a silver-handled letter opener, went to the door and jimmied the lock, then tossed the opener onto the floor. “He’ll think you got out by yourself.” Hoisting her bag onto a shoulder, he motioned her toward the door, and they moved silently into the hallway.

After listening for a moment to be certain no one was near, they crept toward the stairs in the back. Outside, they walked a goodly distance from the house, hailed a hack, and climbed aboard.

It didn’t take long to reach the Middleton Hotel. Pulling her shawl a little closer around her, covering the rips and tears in her dress, they entered the lobby and climbed the stairs.

Jaimie knocked on the door. “It’s me, Rose,” he called through the heavy plank door.

Priscilla didn’t miss the warmth in his words. A few minutes later, the door swung open, and Rose stood framed in the entry. She took in Priscilla’s battered appearance in an instant.

“My God, what’s happened?”

“Egan’s gone crazy,” Jaimie said. “I had to get her outta there.”

Rose hesitated only a moment. Wearing her pretty turquoise wrapper, her hair hanging down to her waist, she motioned them in and closed the door.

“I know this is a great deal to ask,” Priscilla said, “but I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

Rose eyed her a moment, then shrugged. “What’s one more stray cat?” She indicated Priscilla should sit down on the horsehair sofa.

Jaimie carried the satchel into one of the bedchambers, and Rose followed him in. Priscilla heard them speaking in low tones, heard her dresses being pulled from the satchel and hung up, then they walked back into the room.

“I can’t stay,” Jaimie said.

“Egan’s going to be furious,” Rose said.

“He won’t know I had any part in it.” He went to the door, and Rose followed. “He’s planning to leave for Texas within the week. He’s got to get back to the Triple R. If he doesn’t find her by the time his boat is
ready to leave, I suspect hell let her go. I’ll let you know what’s going on.”

Rose looked at him, a softness creeping into her face. Jaimie saw it and touched her cheek. “I’ll be back, Rose. I won’t leave you here with McLeary. I won’t let him hurt you again.”

Rose’s pretty brown eyes went wide. She started to speak, but didn’t.

“I’ll be back,” he repeated, bent down and kissed her, a gentle, possessive kiss that seemed to surprise them both.

“Be careful.” Rose sounded a little bit breathless.

Jaimie grinned. He looked handsome and much more in charge than Priscilla had ever seen him. “I will.” He went out and closed the door.

Rose crossed the room, looking a little bit dazed. She flushed beneath Priscilla’s regard, then straightened her shoulders and regained her taut control. “Why don’t I ring for some tea?”

Priscilla smiled wearily. “I’d rather have a brandy.”

Rose glanced at her in surprise, saw nothing but her sister’s grateful regard, and returned the smile.

“Good idea.” She poured two crystal snifters, handed one to Priscilla, and sat down in the chair across from her.

Priscilla sipped the brandy, which felt warm and relaxing. “Jaimie’s a wonderful man,” she said.

“A very good man.” Rose glanced away, toying with the snifter, running a long slim finger around the rim. “Too good for someone like me.”

Priscilla leaned forward, feeling a surge of protectiveness she wouldn’t have expected. Her eyes went
from her sister’s dark chestnut hair so like her own, to the full pink lips and big brown eyes. Their features were similar, but Rose’s face held a guarded-ness, almost an agedness that Priscilla’s didn’t. Her heart went out to the woman who had suffered so much.

“Jaimie doesn’t believe that. He obviously thinks a great deal of you. It seems you think something of him as well.”

“We haven’t spent much time together,” Rose said. “You know him far better than I.”

Priscilla arched a brow, wondering at the tone of her sister’s words. “Jaimie and I are friends, nothing more. I only met him when I reached the Triple R.”

Rose seemed relieved, though she did her best to hide it. “I thought maybe … you see it was Jaimie who wrote you the letters.”

Priscilla’s own dark eyes went wide. “Jaimie wrote the letters? But they were from Stuart.”

“Egan told him a few things he wanted you to know, Jaimie filled in the rest. Egan didn’t want to be bothered.”

Priscilla’s hand gripped the folds of her skirt. “I should have known! I knew something about him wasn’t right. The man in the letters was so honest, so gentle. I thought Stuart had somehow buried those qualities, that they were someplace deep inside him. It gave me hope that things might work out between us.”

She looked across at Rose. “The truth is he’s exactly the brutal, self-serving—bastard—he seems.”

Rose watched her closely, as if there was more she ought to say, but didn’t. “Jaimie said there was a
man … someone you fell in love with … a gunman back in Texas.”

Priscilla felt a lump rise up in her throat. “His name is Brendan.” A pain knifed through her chest just to think of him. “I fell in love with him almost the moment I saw him.”

“Jaimie said Egan had him arrested for murder. Do you know if he’s … if he’s … ?”

Priscilla smiled. She couldn’t help it. She remembered the feel of his hands on her body, of his warm lips covering her mouth. She remembered the feel of his hard body over hers, of his maleness thrusting inside her. She shifted on the sofa, and a blush tinged her cheeks.

“Oh, he’s alive—very much so.” Could she tell her sister the truth? She sighed. “It’s rather complicated, I’m afraid.”

Taking a sip of her brandy, Rose leaned back in her chair. She studied Priscilla with a calm regard that seemed to be sizing her up. “Caleb’s out of town. I’m used to late hours—and you’re not going anywhere. The way I see it, you could use someone to talk to.”

“I thought you hated me for what happened to your parents.”

Rose released a long, weary breath. “As you said, you were only six years old. The truth is, life’s nothing but a roll of the dice. Your roll came up sevens, mine came up craps. What happened to me wasn’t your fault any more than it was mine.”

Priscilla looked at Rose. Though her sister was a year younger, she seemed far older and a whole lot wiser. “I’d like someone to talk to. I’d like it very much.”

*  *  *

“Everything went just like you planned.” Mace Harding crossed the book-lined study to pour himself a shot of whiskey from the decanter on the heavy mahogany sideboard. Stuart sat rigidly behind his ornate walnut desk, smoking a thick cigar.

“Not exactly.” Unconsciously he clenched a fist. “My little bitch of a wife is gone.”

“What?” Mace whirled to face him. “How did she get away?”

Stuart fingered the silver-handled letter opener he had taken from the floor of her room. “It appears she picked the lock.” Once again, he had underestimated her.

“Son of a bitch. Think she’s gone back to Evergreen?”

Stuart had been contemplating that possibility—and several others—ever since his return. “Maybe. If that’s where she thinks Trask is. But she doesn’t know we’ve got him, so she’ll probably try to protect him, go into hiding someplace else. Either way, she’ll want to get word to him. I need you to hire a couple of men to watch the place. Anybody comes calling, have them checked out. Sooner or later, somebody will lead us to her.”

“What about the Triple R?” Mace asked. “Shouldn’t we be getting back?”
Getting the hell out of Natchez
, he was thinking.

“Just as soon as we find her—which shouldn’t take long. In the meantime, we’ll deal with Trask and the others.”

“Tonight?”

Stuart shook his head. “Tonight we rest up, get
plenty of sleep. We need to be ready for tomorrow.” He ground out his cigar. “I find myself looking forward to the … festivities.”

“Do you really think there’s a chance he still wants me?” Hours had passed, yet still they sat conversing. Since Priscilla had started talking, holding nothing back, confiding in her as if they were sisters in truth, Rose’s attitude had softened.