Silken Dreams (7 page)

“Lettie? What are you doing?”

The sound of the Highwayman’s voice eased into the silence, the tone low and rich like the stroke of velvet against bare skin, but filled with suspicion.

“What?” she breathed, distracted by the fact that this man’s form still seemed more fantasy than reality.

His shoulders stiffened. “What are you doing?”

He whirled suddenly, as if fully expecting her to be aiming some unknown weapon at his back. His body braced; his hands tensed. Then he paused when he realized she was unarmed. And undressed.

His eyes scorched a path from her head to her toes, returning again to linger on the flare of her hips, the narrowness of her waist, the fullness of her breasts, all lovingly encased in the soft cotton of her unmentionables and the sturdy canvas of her corset.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured stiffly. “I thought…”

But he didn’t turn around.

Lettie could only swallow against the sudden tightness of her throat. Looking into his eyes, she caught her first glimpse of masculine awareness. And although it was thrilling, it was also frightening. This man was
not
her Highwayman. This man was real. She couldn’t turn him on and off at will as she did her fantasies. He had a mind of his own, a strength of his own… desires of his own.

Lettie clutched her dress in front of her. In matters of the heart, Lettie had little experience with
boys
, let alone grown men. Since her mother had rigidly taught her to be a “proper” young lady, and her brother guarded her like a nervous father, she could count the number of times she’d been alone with a boy on one hand—and most of those times had been far from romantic.

Yet she’d lived too long in a boardinghouse to remain ignorant about what happened between a man and a woman. And where her own limited experience had left off, her imagination had stepped in to fill the gap. But imagination would never be enough. Some day, she wanted to know what it felt like to have a man trace her cheek with his fingers, or press his lips against her hair. But more than that, Lettie wanted to lay her own palm against a man’s chest, wanted to test the texture of a beard-stubbled jaw.

The man took a step forward.

Suddenly nervous and embarrassed by her own thoughts, Lettie dragged the gray- and blue-striped day dress over her head, quickly fastened the hooks at her hip and along her waist, then shoved the buttons of the bodice into their respective holes.

By the time she’d finished, the stranger was only a few scant inches away. His eyes were burning. Aware.

Her breath seemed to snag in her chest. In her fantasies, she had never hesitated in indulging her wildest whims with the Highwayman. But this man was real.

Taking a deep gasping breath, Lettie brushed by him in a near run, intent on escape, but once again he reached out to catch her arm, forcing her to face him.

“Where are you going?” His voice was low and bittersweet, like the lap of a kitten’s tongue against her bare flesh.

“Th-the baking. I have to… bake.”

The man’s grip tightened ever so slightly, and he took a step forward. His free hand lifted, and one knuckle skimmed across the delicate slope of her cheek.

Lettie reared back as if scorched. Her hand clamped around his wrist in an effort to free herself, but he refused to acknowledge her silent plea. Instead, his finger returned to touch her jaw. “You won’t tell anyone that you’ve seen me?” His voice became silky. Hard.

“No.”

His finger moved to feather across the bottom curve of her lip. She struggled to breathe when he took another step closer and the warmth of his body seeped through her clothing to her skin. Faint traces of dirt still dusted his cheeks, and the scraggly beginnings of a beard had grown even darker overnight. Somehow, his dishevelment only made him seem more unapproachable, and oh, so appealing.

“Goodbye, then.”

And suddenly, Lettie wanted him to leave. This man was unpredictable. Dangerous.

His eyes dropped to where she still held him by the wrist. Unconsciously, her thumb had been brushing back and forth over the white strip of bandages.

She gasped and tried to pull away.

He glanced up, and their gazes locked.

Lettie could barely breathe. “Just go,” she whispered.

He made a soft sound in the throat as if mocking her effort at control. Then he looked down and Lettie grew still. Warm. Slowly he lifted her hand, extending her fingers. For long moments, his eyes traced the angry cut across her finger. Without speaking, he peered up at her, and something within his eyes seemed to soften in disbelief.

“You cut yourself,” he murmured, as if denying the evidence of his own eyes.

She attempted a nonchalant shrug. “I had to do something. Jacob kept looking at the blood on the floor.”

He tugged softly at her hand, drawing her toward the abandoned tray from the night before. A small roll of cotton bandaging had dropped to the floor, and he tugged at Lettie’s hand, forcing her to sit on the edge of the bed. Then he took a small cotton strip and tenderly wound it around the slash on the tip of her finger.

“You should have done this last night.”

“I didn’t think…”

He glanced up at her, his eyes dark and compellingly warm, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he finished his task, his fingers brushing gently against her skin, causing her to feel things, think things, about this man that she’d never thought about any other man before.

When he’d finished, he stood up and drew her to her feet. Only a hairbreadth of space separated them, the distance so slight that Lettie could feel the friction of his trousers against her skirts as she fought to breathe.

He continued to watch her, a touch of gray entering his eyes, his mouth softening slightly. He took an infinitesimal step closer. Very slowly, his gaze shifted to trace her brow, her cheek, her mouth. “Thank you,” he murmured. Then he lifted their hands. Gently, he opened her fingers and pressed his lips to her bandaged finger.

Lettie gasped at the unbelievably tender gesture. When he released her, she twisted away, feeling as if a tiny corner of her soul trembled and unfurled. Then, not knowing what more to do, she lifted her skirts and rushed past him, clattering down the steps.

Once outside the door, she leaned back against the portal for a moment to gather her scattered senses. A sweet shiver coursed through her limbs, and she closed her eyes. She was glad he was leaving. Glad.

But as she turned to walk down the steps, Lettie couldn’t deny the fact that she wasn’t glad. Not entirely.

Jacob Grey squinted against the early morning sunlight and issued a curt set of instructions to a pair of men, then motioned for them to continue their search. Turning, he took a few steps and gathered the reins of his horse in one hand before lifting his gaze toward the boardinghouse.

His jaw tightened in frustration as he studied the simple whitewashed structure. The night before, soon after he and his men had left, his deputy had found a horse tied to an oak tree near the creek, less than three hundred yards from the house. On its back had been a valise containing a few changes of clothing and some men’s toiletry articles. A faint set of bootprints led briefly west, then vanished, leaving no trace of the man. And deep in his heart, Jacob knew just who their suspect had been: Ethan McGuire.

His hand tightened into a fist. How long had he been chasing McGuire now? Seven years? Eight? As an inexperienced deputy, Jacob had been intrigued by the Gentleman Bandit—even secretly envious of the man’s all-out gall. But as the Gentleman had grown more and more daring, Jacob had vowed to apprehend the man.

Within a year, he had amassed every scrap of evidence on the Gentleman Bandit. He’d become obsessed with the crimes.
And he’d nearly caught him once
.

Jacob frowned as the memory of that night five years before returned to jab him with his own stupidity. He remembered the way he’d begun to think like the Gentleman, anticipating his moves. Then one night, he’d cornered the man at the Chicago Mortgage and Thrift. The Gentleman had gazed at him in surprise from above the black bandanna tied over his mouth; his azure eyes had sparkled in something akin to admiration.

And then the safe had exploded, throwing Jacob to the ground and knocking him unconscious. He’d awakened to find himself tied and gagged, sitting in a field full of foxtails without a stitch of clothing to his name, the Gentleman’s calling card tucked beneath the ropes binding his wrists.

A growl of disgust lodged in Jacob’s throat. He’d vowed to find the man. Find him and hang him. But after that night, the Gentleman had ceased his thievery.

Until the last few months.

Now Jacob was more determined than ever to capture Ethan McGuire. This time, Jacob would not be so gullible. The man was out there somewhere. And Jacob intended to find him and bring him to justice.

He jammed his hat onto his head and swung into the saddle, his gaze sweeping the area. It seemed impossible to believe that the man could have disappeared so easily. Especially with nearly a dozen men on his tail. But somehow he’d managed to escape capture. Again.

Jacob stiffened slightly when the muffled clop of hooves heralded the arrival of his deputy, who had been assigned to take the horse they’d found to the corral behind the jailhouse.

Rusty Janson took one look at Jacob from beneath carrot-colored eyebrows, then spat a stream of tobacco into the dust in disgust. “You haven’t slept yet, have you?”

Jacob didn’t answer. He merely pulled his gloves more securely over his fingers.

“You were supposed to take a break and get some sleep.”

“I’m all right.”

Rusty shook his head at Jacob’s stubbornness and reached for a fresh plug of tobacco from his shirt pocket. “Found anything yet?”

“No.”

The deputy glanced around him as if there could be someone listening. “I was asked to give you a message,” he finally murmured, handing Jacob a folded piece of paper.

Jacob stared at the note for several moments before finally reaching out to take it, sensing somehow what it would contain. Although Jacob was able to deliver messages to the Star Council of Justice by means of the lightning-blasted oak tree, the Council’s replies were to be kept secret, and individual instructions were delivered only after notification had been given. This way, no man could divulge the complete workings of the Star.

After hesitating only a moment, he unfolded the missive and stared at the single symbol: an eight-pointed star surrounded by a circle. In the center of the star, the initials
SCJ
had been carefully inscribed.

Jacob stared at the note, fighting his own misgivings. After last night’s robbery—and the injury of a deputy—the Star Council had evidently decided to revise their decision concerning Ethan McGuire. At dawn, a new set of instructions would await Jacob at the tree.

Taking a match from his shirt pocket, Jacob ignited the tip and touched it to the edge of the paper. After the flame had caught hold, he tossed the note to the ground and gathered the reins to his mount.

“The suspect has evidently gone. I told Cooper and Gold to take a pair of men and double check the area around the creek. Tell the rest of the men to go on home. There’s no sense keeping the posse any longer. The man’s probably miles away by now. Miles away.”

Touching his heels to his mount, Jacob turned the animal toward the boardinghouse. He had to retrieve a few things from his office, but first he wanted to talk to Lettie. He needed to warn her about Ethan McGuire.

Moving silently across the garret, Ethan peered out the window into the sunlight. Though he couldn’t see anyone near the house, he sensed the presence of the lawmen who’d stayed behind to search. Their nearness did not dissuade him from his course of action, however. He would simply have to be especially careful in leaving.

Waiting until he heard a babble of voices from the dining room, Ethan slipped into the hall and down the back stairs. Only once was he nearly caught, when an older woman bustled into the room, retrieved a pot of coffee, then left. Within moments, Ethan had slipped outside and into the barn. Unsheathing his revolver, he ducked behind the tack-room door and waited.

Barely five minutes had passed before Ned Abernathy stepped into the barn to retrieve the horse and buggy. Ethan waited until the younger man had bent down to set his sample cases on the ground, then Ethan crept up behind him and snapped an arm around his neck.

Ned jerked and grasped at the arm that held him until, without warning, Ethan released him. The younger man whirled. He froze for only a moment before he swore and snatched his hat from his head. “Dammit all to hell, Ethan! You nearly scared the life out of me!”

“Hello, Ned.”

Ned regarded him stiffly, his pale gray eyes growing brittle, his jaw hardening. “What are you doing here?”

Ethan took a deep breath, but he was less than surprised by the other man’s unenthusiastic welcome. After all, he and Ned had been rivals as children. And nothing much had changed in the last few years—which was the reason Ethan had journeyed to Madison: to see if his younger stepbrother had decided to enact some tardy measure of revenge.

When Ethan didn’t answer him right away, Ned glanced over either shoulder, as if fearing someone might overhear their conversation, then demanded, “What do you want?”

Ethan sighed. “I certainly haven’t come to argue.”

Ned eyed him with disapproval. “I thought you were supposed to be in Nebraska, working on that farm.”

Ethan shrugged, knowing that Ned was referring to the employment he’d taken on a potato farm in Nebraska to help pay for the fines levied against him by the governor when the man had offered him a pardon. For two years, Ethan had worked in the sun and the rain—hard, back-breaking labor—all in an attempt to earn a measure of the peace and self-respect he’d known before becoming the Gentleman. But a month earlier, to his surprise, Ethan had been approached by one of the governor’s former aides to work as a private security specialist for one of the state’s most prestigious banks.

Since Ned seemed far from inclined to listen to any long explanations, Ethan merely stated, “I quit. I was offered another position.” When Ned didn’t speak, Ethan continued: “The Wallaby bank in Chicago wants to hire me as a… security specialist. Ironic, isn’t it?”

Ned merely stared, his expression stiff and proud.

Ethan gazed at his stepbrother for a moment. It had been years since he’d seen him. Ned was a little taller than Ethan—characteristics inherited from different parents—but he still had the same stubborn expression that Ethan saw in his own mirror each morning. And the coolness in his eyes Ethan remembered only too well.

Finally, Ethan broke away from the younger man’s gaze and crossed to the door of the barn, opening it a slit, and peered outside. “How is Mama?” he asked quietly.

A beat of silence passed before Ned answered. “Worried. She’s still upset with me because I left Princeton and moved to Madison to take a job drumming with Goldsmith. She still doesn’t understand that I need to make my own way in the world, pay my own debts. She thinks I’ve sown enough wild oats.” His tone grew bitter. “She wants us both back in Chicago. She wants us to be a family.”

“We’re not a family.” A biting edge coated Ethan’s words, and he sought for control.

As always, the thought of his stepfather filled Ethan with a rush of painful memories. Ethan was twelve when his father died of consumption, fifteen when his mother had married Rucker Abernathy. From the beginning, Ethan had hated the man—and his family. None of them were worthy of his mother’s affections, he’d thought. And unfortunately, he’d been right. Within a few years, Rucker Abernathy had nearly driven the family mercantile into the ground. Then suddenly he’d disappeared, leaving behind the children from his first marriage and the McGuires’ empty bank account.

“Things have changed at home,” Ned insisted.

Ethan snorted in disbelief and closed the door.

“My father
has
changed, Ethan. And he loves Lillian. He’s truly sorry for what he did. You should learn to forgive and forget.”

Ethan threw Ned a hard look. “For my mother’s sake, I hope he’s sorry. Sorry as hell. For my sake, I don’t give a damn. Mama was always more Christian than I ever was. Maybe she can forgive him, but I can’t. And I can’t live near them and pretend otherwise. He may be your blood father, but he’s not mine.”

What shimmered in the air unspoken between them was the fact that as soon as Rucker Abernathy had absconded with the family fortune, Ethan had begun to steal. First, as a means to support his mother, who had been forced to take a job as a clerk in the family business; then, as a means to show Rucker just how far Ethan was prepared to go to demonstrate his rebellion and disgust.

By the time Rucker had returned with a fortune made from mining in the West, Ethan had developed a name for himself—the Gentleman Bandit. He’d become the scourge of Illinois, robbing at least ninety percent of the banks in the state at least once, some as often as half a dozen times. And he’d refused to give up his “habit.” Especially when Rucker had discovered his escapades and Ethan saw the way the man lived each day in fear that Ethan would be caught and Rucker’s shaky position in society would crumble.

It wasn’t until a few years later, when Rucker told Lillian what Ethan had done to support the family, that Ethan began to realize his actions had been hurting himself more than they’d ever hurt Rucker Abernathy. Before he knew she was even aware of his activities, Lillian had approached the governor, then had come to Ethan with a possible pardon. By that time, Ethan had realized he would do anything to regain his self-respect. But more than that, he would do anything to have his mother look at him again with pride.

From that moment on, he’d vowed to follow the governor’s stipulations to the letter. Ethan had signed a confession of all the crimes he had committed, then promised that for five years he would stay out of trouble, work at an honest job, and repay a portion of the money he’d stolen. Each time he’d been tempted to stray, he’d remembered the look on his mother’s face when she’d slipped from the shadows of the carriage house just as Ethan had returned from stealing twenty thousand dollars in greenbacks from the Chicago Mortgage and Thrift.

That memory caused Ethan to wince. Was it any wonder he hadn’t been home in nearly five years? Why he’d purposely chosen to work out of state at menial jobs? When he next saw Lillian McGuire, he wanted to face her as a whole man. One with honor and self-respect. One who had served his penance, even if he hadn’t gone to jail.

“Mama is happy, Ethan. She wants you to come back. To live with us.”

“She wants something I can’t give her,” Ethan stated bitterly. “If I went back, I’d spend every waking moment hating your father. And he would always hate me for reminding him of the fact that I’m not his son—yet
I
resorted to thievery, just to feed my mother and
his
children!” Ethan paused before adding, “But that shouldn’t keep you from staying at home and enjoying your father’s new-found wealth.” His voice took on an edge of suspicion. “What brings you here to Madison, Ned?”

Ned’s gray eyes became masked and enigmatic. “I’ve got my reasons.”

Ethan leveled a piercing gaze on his younger stepbrother. “Such as masquerading as the Gentleman Bandit?”

“No!”

“You knew my methods as well as I knew them myself.”

The air about them hung heavy with suspicion. Ethan had only been stealing for a few months when he’d needed an alibi and had been forced to take Ned into his confidence. Soon Ned had learned every technique Ethan had ever employed. Which was why Ethan had come to find him. If anyone could copy Ethan’s methods to the letter, it would be Ned.

“Is that why you came here?” Ned parried.

“Yes.”

“I’m not responsible.”

“Dammit, Ned, you’re the only one who could know so much!”

“I’m not responsible!”

“You always hated me when we were young.”

Ned paled slightly. “I didn’t hate you,” he whispered. But they both knew that wasn’t true. At first Ned had hated Ethan because he’d been forced to share a father. When Rucker left, Ned had hated him because Ethan refused to let “little Ned” join him during his robbing sprees. After a time, Ned had hated Ethan for reminding him of things he would rather have forgotten—like a father who had deserted him, and tainted money.

Silence cloaked the barn, disturbed by nothing more than the soft whisper of straw drifting to earth from the loft. The tension in Ned’s body relaxed ever so slightly.