Hawk's Prize (6 page)

Green eyes as clear as a tropical sea met his coolly as the young woman responded, “My name is Tricia Lee Shepherd. I’m Chantalle’s daughter.”

Momentarily too stunned to speak, Simon said, “Chantalle’s daughter . . . I didn’t know.”

A mature female voice from behind Simon responded in the young woman’s stead, “Yes, she’s my daughter.”

Simon turned at the sound of Chantalle’s voice as the flamboyant madam added flatly, “Everything else she just told you is true, too. She doesn’t work here, but your room is waiting for you. I’m sure Angie will be only too happy to accommodate you there as usual.”

“Of course, Chantalle.” Turning back toward the stunning young woman, he said graciously, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my dear. I hope to see you again under different circumstances.”

Simon turned toward his designated room. As he closed the door behind him, he heard Chantalle say, “Stay away from that man, Tricia.”

The young woman had the grace not to reply, and Simon sneered as he sat down on the bed. Chantalle had warned her daughter to stay away from him, but it had taken only one look for him to see that her precious Tricia was an independent young woman with a mind of her own.

The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

Simon’s sneer became a smile. He had the feeling that if he played his cards right, he would be able to convince the dear girl to visit his special room—possibly before the week was out.

Simon’s expression turned suddenly dark. When that sweet young thing lay beneath him, he’d teach her a thing or two that she wouldn’t easily forget, and Chantalle wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it. That would put the madam in her place!

He could hardly wait.

A sound at the doorway put a halt to Simon’s mental meandering. He glanced up as Angie slipped into the room and closed the door behind her. He felt his groin tighten as the sultry brunette said, “Welcome back, Simon. You may be a bastard, and if I don’t miss my guess, you’re drunk, but I’ll be damned if I’m not hot for you.” Opening her bodice with a practiced hand, she stood with her breasts boldly bared as she whispered, “Come and get it . . . and I promise you won’t get the best of me this time.”

He needed no further invitation.

Tricia looked up at Chantalle as the older woman followed her into the delirious stranger’s room. Dr. Wesley had left almost an hour earlier. In the time since, the stranger’s fever appeared to have escalated, firming up the decision she had reached earlier. Dr. Wesley had said she’d be wasting her time with cold-water baths, that her efforts would have no long-term effect on the stranger’s fevered state, but she had known she needed to try or forever suffer regret. She had seen so
many valiant soldiers leave the hospital with the loss of limbs because of infected wounds. She hadn’t been in charge of their treatment, but despite the fact that she had first met him only a few hours earlier, she appeared to be in charge of this fellow’s recovery.

He tossed restlessly in bed as Chantalle said softly, “Simon Gault is dangerous, Tricia. I had hoped to spare you from contact with that kind of man. It’s imperative that you keep your distance from him.”

“You needn’t worry about that.” Tricia placed the bucket of cold water on the nightstand as she continued, “It was quite obvious what he had in mind when he first saw me, even though he’s old enough to be my father. Besides, he was drunk.”

“Drunk or sober, Simon Gault is not a man to be trifled with.”

Tricia took a patient breath. “I’m not entirely without experience or common sense, Chantalle. I’ve been on my own too long not to realize when a man’s intentions are less than honorable. Besides . . .
he was drunk.”

“Simon consumes only the best liquor available.” Halting Tricia when she was about to respond, Chantalle continued, “I know, a drunk is a drunk no matter how he gets that way, but this man sees a difference. He sees
everything
differently from the way a principled man does. He has his own agenda, and to hell with anyone who’s in his way.”

Tricia glanced at her patient. His face had started to flush an even darker color, and slow panic began invading her senses. She said impatiently, “I understand that Simon Gault is a dangerous man and you want me
to stay away from him. I accept what you say, Chantalle, because my first impression supports your warning. Also, you know him far better than I, but I have one question. If he’s as dangerous as you say he is, why do you keep a room here specifically for his . . . enjoyment?”

“I should think the answer to that question is obvious, Tricia.
Keep your friends close and your enemies closer
is good advice. Angie isn’t to be trusted either, but she brings Simon here. She enjoys his perversions, and because of her, he doesn’t bother the other girls anymore—and I’m still able to get a sense of what he’s up to.”

“Why do you care what he does?”

“Because—”

A call from below turned Chantalle toward the sound. Looking back at Tricia, she said, “It’s busy downstairs tonight. I have to be there to make certain things don’t get out of hand.”

Tricia looked at the brassy, middle-aged hussy standing before her, knowing that despite her appearance, Chantalle treated her customers fairly and with respect. Surprisingly, her customers seemed only too happy to respond in kind. Chantalle also kept her girls in line, and Tricia supposed that was the reason her house had a reputation unlike any other bordello in Galveston—because of Chantalle’s sincere, warmhearted nature despite the business of her establishment.

“Don’t worry,” Tricia whispered. “I heard everything you said, and I’ll keep my distance from Simon Gault. It won’t be any problem for me at all.”

Chantalle glanced at the delirious man in the bed
and Tricia added, “As soon as this fella’s on his feet, he’s on his way, too. I promise.”

Tricia did not speak when Chantalle kissed her cheek unexpectedly and then turned toward the doorway. Instead, Tricia picked up the bucket on the nightstand as the door clicked closed and poured water into the waiting basin.

There was fire all around him and he was burning up. He struggled to escape from the flames, then stepped out onto clear ground at last, but he was still hot.

He looked behind him. There were Yankees everywhere. They were all looking for him. They wanted him to reveal the location of the gold shipment, but he wouldn’t tell them even if he knew.

“You’ll be all right soon. You’ll feel much cooler. Just lie back and rest.”

He opened his eyes at the sound of her voice. It was the angel again.

No, she wasn’t an angel.

She was opening his shirt and slipping his arms free. She was struggling and he tried to help her but he could not seem to make his body cooperate.

He was free of the garment at last. He gasped as he was enveloped by a sensation so cold that it stole his breath. He struggled to clear his vision and saw that she had tears in her eyes.

No, don’t cry.

“You’re going to be all right. You’ll see.”

She spoke to him, and then she smiled.

Her smile was beautiful.

She was beautiful.

He closed his eyes.

Tricia struggled to hold back her tears. This man was so sick, she feared for his life. He was too young and too handsome to die. She looked at the broad, muscular chest she had bared for her ministrations, noting the scar on his shoulder. It was from an old wound. She wondered if he had received that wound in battle also. The war had taken so many lives, but although it was over, it still threatened him.

She touched the scar with silent reverence, then dipped the cloth in the basin and twisted it dry before spreading it across his chest as she had done before. The cloth was frigid against his heated skin, and he gasped another mumbled protest. She repeated the act, allowing the cloth to warm up against his skin while she bathed his arms and face.

The water warmed quickly, and Tricia refreshed it with colder water from the bucket. She performed the process again and again. Concerned when his fever did not appear to be subsiding, she moistened the smaller cloth and ran it across his forehead, then his cheeks and mouth. She felt his lips move underneath it, then started when his eyes opened unexpectedly and his hand grasped her wrist with bone-snapping strength. Her heart pounded strangely while his gaze searched hers for silent moments before his eyelids drooped closed again.

Tricia remained momentarily still when he released her. In that moment of silent communication between
them, his message had been clear. He was ill, but he would not surrender control easily.

No, he would not tolerate having someone take his leg without his consent. Neither, she suspected, would he give his consent, no matter what the cost.

An unidentifiable emotion twisted tight inside Tricia. She could not let him lose his leg.

But the cloths were warming and the water in the bucket no longer helped. She needed to go down to the pump in the rear of the yard to draw cold water directly from the well. Yet she hesitated to leave him.

With no other recourse, Tricia leaned close and whispered into his unhearing ear, “I have to go downstairs for a few minutes, but I’ll come back as fast as I can.” She added earnestly, “Don’t worry. I won’t desert you.”

Sounds of animalistic passion rent the silence of Simon’s bordello room as he flipped Angie’s naked body over and thrust himself into her roughly from behind. Her pained protest excited him and he pumped hard against her. She was hot for him, was she? He wouldn’t get the best of her this time? He’d see about that.

“Stop! Stop! You’re hurting me!”

Breathless with his growing fervor, Simon bit Angie’s bare back cruelly. He smiled when she whimpered, and he muttered, “What did you say, Angie? You want me to stop?”

“Yes . . . yes.”

“Are you
begging
me to stop, Angie?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Let me hear the word I want to hear.”

“Please.”

“Once more.”

“Please stop!”

His passion accelerating at her tearful plea, Simon continued thrusting recklessly inside her. Grunting his final release, he shuddered to a halt and then withdrew from her at last to say triumphantly, “You lose again, Angie.”

Breathing heavily, Angie turned over to face him. She brushed away a tear and managed a pained smile as she whispered, “Who says I lost, Simon? You? I got what I wanted, and in a few minutes I’ll be as good as new and ready to go back downstairs.”

Not allowing Angie to see that her response had angered him, Simon said snidely, “Or maybe I’ll keep you here for another round.”

“No! I mean—”

Seeing the fear that Angie had inadvertently revealed, Simon laughed coldly. “I know what you mean.”

He stood up and walked toward the washstand.

Unwilling to admit defeat, Angie watched him as she drew herself to her feet, reached for her dress, and said harshly, “No, you don’t know what I mean. I mean I have information for you about that blond-haired tart you were salivating over in the hallway.”

“Blond-haired tart—”

Angie replied with a hint of irritation in her tone, “I saw you. I was watching in the hallway while you played the fool for that pretentious slut, and I heard what she said. Chantalle backed her up, but I know better. She’s no better than any one of us here.”

“What are you saying?”

“She’s the daughter of a whore, all right, but she’s not Chantalle’s daughter. Chantalle saved her from this ‘fate worse than death’ that all we women here are supposed to be suffering, but her blood is just as tainted as ours. She proved it by following that stranger who collapsed downstairs into a room at the end of the hall, and by telling everybody to leave her alone with him while she undressed him. And he’s hardly conscious!” Angie gave a hard laugh. “It doesn’t matter to her what condition he’s in, or that he’s a down-and-out Confederate who has nothing to offer but his body, just as long as she can get what she wants.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Because I made it my business to find out; because I know it pays well if I do; because I don’t like women like her who put on airs; and because I’m tired of seeing men fall for innocent acts like hers.”

Simon paused to consider what Angie had said, then responded, “Or is it because you’re just a little jealous of that
innocent
young woman who has a man all to herself?”

“I’m not jealous of her!”

Fully dressed, Simon turned toward Angie and said, “Maybe not. Maybe everything you said is true. If so, I’ll pay you for the information like I always do.”

“It’s true, all right!”

Simon said as he pulled the door open, “Let me know what you find out.”

Noting that the hallway was empty, Simon surrendered to libidinous curiosity and moved silently toward the room at the end. A tight smile on his lips,
he boldly jerked the door open without knocking and looked inside. To his disappointment, Tricia Shepherd wasn’t there, but an obviously feverish man lay unconscious on the bed.

Simon entered the room and pulled the door closed behind him. Uncertain, he stared as the man on the bed began mumbling incoherently. He saw the bloody bandage on the fellow’s leg and frowned.

Who was this man? What was he doing here? Could Angie be right about the beautiful Tricia Lee Shepherd’s reason for spending so much time with him?

Titillated at the thought, Simon felt his groin harden. If it were true, if Tricia enjoyed the diversity of perversion, she might be the source of endless hours of enjoyment for him . . . hours they could both benefit from before he left Galveston for good.

He needed to know more.

Certain there would be no interference from the unconscious man, Simon walked to the dresser where the fellow’s few belongings lay. He muttered under his breath when he found no identification, then picked up the pitifully small money pouch and looked inside.

A few coins . . . a Confederate military button of some kind . . . an old ring . . .

Simon drew the ring from the pouch to view it more clearly. The enameled crest was damaged, but the sailing ship was heart-stoppingly familiar, as was the Latin motto that was only partially visible.