Tomorrow's Dreams (10 page)

The woman's diamond-hard eyes narrowed as she pretended to mull over the question. “Since you don't carry a cane and wear spectacles, it's obvious that you're not blind. And considering your bastard's existence, I can assume that you're intelligent enough to recognize a man's more—shall we say—potent charms.”

Her voice grew soft, dangerously so. “Therefore, you must be lying. My guess is that you know Seth Tyler, and that you know him well. He seemed entirely too possessive to be a stranger.”

The pain in Penelope's scalp was excruciating now. Desperate to escape Adele's punishing grasp, she admitted, “Mr. Tyler is my brother's closest friend. He's known me since I was twelve and seems to think it's his duty to protect me.” A film of tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision. “Please believe me. I'm trying to discourage him. I promise I'll get rid of him.”

“Unfortunately it's not that simple.” Adele released her hair abruptly. “I had a drink with this Tyler person to—well, let's just say I wanted to learn the lay of the land. You might be interested to know that Floyd included Miles's promissory note in the sale of the Shakespeare.”

Penelope rubbed her sore scalp gingerly. “I'm not surprised. Seth Tyler drives a hard bargain.”

“True. But I drive a harder one. And I was able to persuade him to reduce our theatrical commitment from twelve weeks to six. That means we'll be free of Miles's gambling debt in time to make our engagement in Tombstone. I hear it's possible for a pretty singer to make over two hundred dollars a night there.”

Penelope refrained from informing Adele that Seth only intended to stay in town for six weeks. She also knew better than to mention that be meant to take her with him when he left. Instead she asked, “How did you manage to talk him around?”

Adele shrugged. “It was amazingly simple. Like most men, his brains are between his legs. When he expressed an interest in you, I pointed out that you could be persuaded to spend time with him if he agreed to a certain concession. That concession was that he reduce the duration of our performance obligation.”

Penelope was as shocked as if Adele had slapped her, which would have been preferable to being forced into Seth's company. How dare Adele make such a promise! How dare Seth agree!

How dare she say no? Picking up her hairbrush, she asked with a sigh of resignation, “What do you expect me to do?”

“For a start, you'll surprise him with your company tonight. Floyd's had a private supper set up in Room Four.”

“But I can't dine with him tonight. I didn't wear an appropriate frock.” Penelope pointed the brush at a much mended walking suit hanging from a wall hook. The garment was at least three years out of style and could best be described as ratty.

Adele eyed the suit with distaste. “I can't understand why you insist on dressing like a washerwoman these days.” She gave a derogatory sniff. “You used to have exquisite taste in clothing.”

It was on the tip of Penelope's tongue to retort that she wouldn't be forced to dress like one out of ten neediest charity cases if Adele didn't take every cent she made. But, of course, she didn't dare. Plucking at the brush bristles, she explained:

“Tommy needed medicine last month. It took most of my savings, since everything costs twice as much out here. Perhaps I'll be able to afford a new gown in a few months.”

“Well, that's not going to do us any good tonight, is it?” Crossing her arms over her chest, Adele considered the problem. Suddenly she snapped her fingers and uttered a triumphant, “Aha!”

After rummaging through several of the wardrobe trunks, she produced the ivory taffeta evening gown Penelope had worn in a recent production of
The Count's Courtship
. Though the material was cheap and the workmanship poor, it was still far more modish than anything in Penelope's hopelessly dated wardrobe.

Nodding her satisfaction, Adele straightened the crushed silk roses in the basque corsage. “Yes. This should do quite nicely.” She held up the frothy creation for further inspection. “The cut is elegant, but the neckline is discreet enough so as not to give that Tyler person the wrong idea.”

Lowering the gown a fraction, she fixed Penelope with a severe glare. “I won't have you giving the man any wrong ideas, either. You may dine, dance, or play cards with him, but you'll keep him at arm's length at all times. And you will only associate with him during working hours and under this roof. Understood?”

Penelope nodded. No problem there. The real problem was going to be keeping herself from wringing the infuriating man's neck during her stint as his reluctant companion.

Laying the gown across a closed steamer trunk, Adele continued, “I expect you to return the costume right after dinner. If I find any stains or damage, the cost of the repairs will be taken out of your wages.”

Penelope stared down at her hairbrush, taking care to hide her resentment. Not only did Adele pay her less than the lowliest scullery maid; the greedy woman was always levying ridiculous fines. There was a fine if Penelope was a minute late for rehearsal, one for forgetting a line. If her voice wavered during a song? That blunder would cost her plenty. It was a wonder she wasn't fined for blowing her nose or using the outhouse.

She stole a glance over to where Adele was digging through a box of costume jewelry. Well, she'd be free of the she-devil and her fines soon enough. She had a plan; one that would regain her freedom and put Thomas back in her arms, where he belonged. She just needed to get her hands on five hundred dollars.

As Penelope began to pull the pins from her hair, still contemplating her scheme to reclaim her son, Adele draped a pearl bead necklace around her neck. “You'll wear your hair down, like in
The Mountain Sylph
,” she commanded, snapping the necklace clasp closed. “The sight of all those curls seems to turn men into witless fools. Why, we swept up close to two hundred dollars worth of gold from the stage last time you wore it like that.”

She paused a moment to critically examine Penelope's face, before adding, “And for God's sake, do something about your nose. It's redder than a boil on a bookkeeper's backside.” With that, she pivoted on her heels and glided toward the door.

But before she got more than halfway across the room, she paused. “Oh. By the way.” When she turned, Penelope could see cruelty gleaming in her eyes. “Sam was in town today. He says to tell you that your brat has the croup again.”

“Tommy is nearby?” Penelope held her breath as she awaited the answer. During the past year and a half, Adele had had the Skolfields hold the baby in hiding places along the company's performing route. Having him near was an effective way to control Penelope, for it made Adele's threats terrifyingly possible.

It also made it possible for Penelope to see him regularly. It was those few hours with her son that made her life bearable.

As if reading her thoughts, Adele replied, “Yes. If you're wise, you'll remember that while you entertain Seth Tyler.”

“I'll do anything you say. I promise,” Penelope swore. “Just let me see him for a few hours on Sunday. It's his second birthday, and I want to take him some presents.”

Adele let out a scornful grate of laughter. “As if the brainless little brat knows what day it is … or anything else for that matter. I've seen smarter children in idiot asylums.”

Prudently curbing her impulse to protest Adele's cruel assessment of her son, Penelope implored, “I know what day it is, and it's important to me that I make it special for him. Won't you please just consider letting me go?”

Adele gave a noncommittal shrug. “I'll consider it … if all goes well this evening.”

Chapter 8

“How come them Injuns didn't scalp you?” gasped the saloon girl, her red-rouged lips forming a wide O of horror.

Seth stuffed another bonbon into her mouth, grinning at the way she wiggled her backside against his groin as she chewed.

“I was rescued by a fellow stagecoach passenger, a traveling saleslady from Chicago,” he explained, letting one finger meander from her lips to her thinly veiled breasts. “Seems she was set on making a killing peddling her extra-heavy cast-iron frying pans to Denver's wives. Claimed those pans were thick enough to fry a steak to perfection and heavy enough to persuade a roving husband to stay home at night.”

With tantalizing slowness, the girl unfastened the tiny pearl buttons at the front of her camisole. “Nivver seen a travelin' saleslady before,” she murmured, baring her plump breasts to her new boss's appreciative gaze. “Was she pretty?”

“Aside from the fact that she was six feet tall and almost bald—”

“Bald!” The girl's eyes bulged with disbelief.

“Curling tongs accident,” Seth replied mournfully, though his expression was anything but mournful as he cupped the girl's soft breasts in his palms. “Burnt her hair off to the roots. What was left stood straight up on end, kind of like an irate porcupine.”

“Poor saleslady.” The girl practically purred as she arched her back in response to Seth's caresses.

“Poor me. Since the other passengers had gotten off the stage at Fort Lyon and the driver had headed back for help, the Indians were left with slim pickings as far as scalps went. Hers, of course, was rejected without a second glance, while it was decided that mine would make a fine trophy.”

The girl raked her fingers through his hair, pulling it over his shoulders. “Can't say I blame 'em. You do have purty hair.”

Seth chuckled and dropped a kiss on her vanilla-cream flavored lips. “Fortunately the saleslady liked it, too—on my head. So just as those two savages were all set to scalp me, she came bounding up behind them bellowing like a raging bull. Before they could say ‘Ugh,' she whomped them over the head with her top-of-the-line frying pan and knocked them out cold.”

The girl shrieked with laughter and threw her weight against him, sending him sprawling backward across the worn red velvet settee. “Yer funnin' me!”

“Want to see my top-of-the-line, extra-heavy cast-iron frying pans?” he countered, wrestling her down on top of him.

Still giggling, she snaked her hand between their closely pressed bodies and slipped it into his trousers to give his sex a naughty tweak. “You swear? There really was a saleslady?”

“Swear on Chief Left Hand's ghost,” Seth murmured, arching up against her wantonly probing fingers.

“It don't count none to swear on a dead Injun. Everybody knows Injuns ain't honest.” With that pronouncement, she began to rub up and down his length.

“Sure they are, sweetheart,” he said, rolling his hips in rhythm with her hand. “Those two Indians honestly indicated that they were going to scalp me.” Despite his best efforts to become aroused and her skillful ministrations, his sex barely stirred.

What the hell is wrong with me?
he wondered, opening his legs as she cupped him. He held is breath, awaiting the shock of pleasure he knew he should feel.

Nothing. He felt nothing but a vaguely annoying prodding sensation in his nether regions. His breath escaped in a hiss. Why the hell wouldn't the damn thing behave? It wasn't as if he couldn't get an erection. He got them all the time … day … night. He awoke as hard as a rock every morning.

The answer, as disturbing as it was, was one he knew all too well. It was the reason he'd failed to find pleasure the single time he'd bedded a woman since his split with Penelope; the same reason he hadn't accepted the numerous carnal invitations he'd received during the past two years.

That reason was that he still loved Penelope. And the thought, much less the act, of having sexual relations with anyone else left him about as excited as attending a Temperance Society meeting. He'd been a fool to think he could spend his lust like this. Frustrated and more than a little shamed by his dismal performance, he gently pulled the girl's hand away.

“Mr. Tyler,” she protested.

“Seth.”

“Seth,” she echoed, reaching for his trouser buttons. “Don't you worry none. Titania'll have you hard in no time at'll.”

Before he could reply, there was a soft knock at the door. “Seth?” queried a half-muffled voice.

“Who could that be?” he muttered, relieved by the interruption. As if in response to his question, the door swung open and in strolled Penelope.

“Seth—” Penelope stopped in her tracks, taken aback by the sight of the couple on the settee. Though Seth was fully clothed and the girl was merely kneeling between his legs, his flushed face and her glare confirmed her suspicion that she'd interrupted something intimate. Stammering an apology, she turned to leave.

“Wait!” he barked.

She paused, wanting nothing more than to flee the oddly painful sight of Seth with another woman. Yet, it had been a long while since she'd had the freedom to do what she wanted, and like everything else she'd done over the past two years, her reason now for seeking Seth out had nothing to do with her own wants. It was remembering that reason that made her turn and face him.

“Have you met Titania, Princess?” he drawled.

Penelope nodded, discomforted by her irrational urge to yank the hussy off him and boot her broad backside out the door. As she watched, Seth drew the girl down on top of him to whisper in her ear. The girl giggled and nodded at whatever he said, then stood up, blatantly flaunting her bare breasts.

Penelope didn't miss the lazy look of admiration that crossed Seth's face. For some inexplicable reason that look made her temper rise a few degrees. “I see you found a willing
dinner
companion,” she snapped.

Seth sat up and tossed his tousled hair back over his shoulders. “Plenty of hungry girls here at the Shakespeare.”

His indifference made her temper hit the boiling point. “I can just imagine what those girls are hungry for,” she muttered.