Tarnished Angel (38 page)

    "Why do you hate my father so much? And who are you?"

    No response.

    A frustrated flush flooded Devina's face. "I would like to know your name, at least your first name."

    The narrowed dark eyes studied her a moment longer. "There's no reason for me not to tell you my full name. Your father will know it soon enough. It's Ross Morrison."

    "Morrison!"

    Morrison's gaze hardened. "Surprised? You didn't really expect it to be Carter, did you?"

    "But you look exactly like"

    "Carter's the one who changed his name, not me."

    "What are you saying?"

    The heavy arm lifted from her chest, the leg shifted, and Devina was freed of Morrison's weight as he rolled away and drew himself to his feet.

    "Get up."

    Devina hesitated.

    "I said get up!"

    Devina rolled to her side and stood up, intensely conscious of

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    her appearance. Her hair had gone uncombed after bathing and lay in an unruly, curly mass on her shoulders. The rags she had been provided hung limply on her body, and she was certain she had not a spot of color on her face.

    "Put out your wrists."

    Devina closed her eyes. She could not bear to be tied again. She took a deep breath.

    "H- how can I cook if you tie my hands?"

    "Cook?"

    Devina raised her chin a notch higher. "I'm hungry. If I have to cook to eat, I'll cook."

    Morrison squinted suspiciously at her stiff expression for some moments before taking a step toward her. Switching the rope to his other hand, he looped it around her waist, then tied it securely as she watched with a knitted brow.

    "I've made all the mistakes I'm going to make with you. You'll stay untied as long as you keep yourself busy, and just to make sure…"

    Morrison tied the other end of the rope around his own waist. A sinister smile flickered across his lips.

    "Now get to work."

    Devina suppressed a sharp retort. With supreme control she turned to the fireplace.

Chapter XIV

    Her brilliant smile absent from her face, Camille walked along the
gaslit
main street in a brisk, angry step. She glanced with unseeing eyes toward the brightly lit saloons. Honky-tonk music, the steady clink of glasses, and shrieking female laughter blending with hearty male tones filled the night air. They were the sounds of Tombstone, as characteristic of the bawdy frontier town as the rhythmic pounding of the stamping mill and the rattle of ore wagons moving through the streets. It was a sound she would always associate with this time and this place.

    Camille unconsciously noted that it was apparently a very profitable night for saloons along the gaudy strip. The miners, prospectors, and assorted other patrons of the establishments appeared to have turned out in force in their nightly attempt to forget for a few hours the grueling work underground, the disappointment of played-out claims, and the monotony of long, hot days with little to look forward to other than a willing ear, a warm body, a bottle, and friendly companionship.

    Camille was well aware that it would be a similarly busy evening at Blond Marie's establishment, although their clientele was of a different class. But Camille knew from long experience that all men were alike when it came to the needs that drove them. She was well versed in the satisfaction of that need, and the demand for her services tonight would doubtless be very strong. In her heart, Camille knew the true reason for Marie's    refusal to grant her a few hours away this evening had nothing to do with that fact.

    Camille's anger flared anew. Marie's attitude toward her was no longer one of resentment. Marie's feelings for her had long ago passed that benign stage and moved toward emotions of a far more dangerous tenor: distrust, fear, jealousy, and hatred. Le Comte was the buffer between herself and those emotions, and Camille knew her relationship with him was also the cause of Marie's jealousy.

    "Camille, good
evenin
',
darlin
'."

    "How are you tonight, Camille?"

    "You're
lookin
' mighty fine tonight, Camille. Real
fetchin
'."

    Turning toward the chorus of male voices coming from the doorway of the Oriental Saloon, Camille smiled. Beers in hand, the cowboys responsible for the slurred compliments devoured her with their eyes, and she felt a flash of pity. These poor fellows did not stand a chance of accumulating the sum necessary for even one visit with her, but that did not stop them from wanting her. With a generosity of spirit typical of her nature, Camille broadened her smile without slowing her step.

    "
Merci,
monsieurs
. You warm the heart of a poor working woman with your kind words."

    Camille was not surprised when the three fellows politely tipped their hats in her direction. Unlike many of the other women of her profession, she had always been accorded this kind of courtesy, and she appreciated it, without truly understanding the reason behind it.

    Her anger of a few minutes before considerably lightened by the encounter, Camille paused at the intersection of Fourth and Allen, awaiting a break in the traffic. Taking her opportunity, she crossed quickly. Once on Fourth Street, she felt her heart begin an instinctive acceleration. She slowed her pace as she reached Charles's quarters. The window shade was drawn, but a soft light glowed from behind it. Charles was home.

    Camille tossed her heavy red curls and raised trembling fingers to the neckline of her gown. She had carefully chosen her attire for this visit. Green was her color, and the soft batiste definitely added an air of fragility to her rather substantial frame. On a woman of less ample proportions, the style of her frock might have been considered demure in its simplicity, but Camille was well aware that she could never look demure. Her vibrant    coloring, her stately size, and her very personality precluded that possibility.

    Her trembling persisted, and Camille could not resist a short, self-deprecating laugh. Ah, when one loved, one became so insecure, especially when one was not loved in return.

    It had been too long since she had had a visit from Charles. He had not come to her since that night of love they had spent together in his quarters. She had encountered him several times on the street, and his manner had been polite, casual, almost preoccupied. She had been hurt, confused.

    Only a short time after their last night together, Devina Dale had been abducted, and Camille had noticed Charles's preoccupation the next day. She had heard from several sources that Charles had attempted to join a party setting out in search of the beautiful young woman. She had also heard of his anger when Harvey Dale had refused to allow him to participate in the search.

    The town was divided in its opinion of Charles's part in the abduction, but Camille did not need to speculate. She knew Charles had had no part in it. Such an act was too foreign to his character, no matter that it had been his brother who had kidnapped the wealthy young woman.

    The ache in Camille's heart had grown with each passing hour. Charles was worried about the wealthy, cultured Devina Dale and obviously missed her. In his misery, he had no time for anything or anyone as unimportant to him as she. The ache of that realization had turned to pain.

    But her pain and her overwhelming desire to see Charles were not the only reasons she had again appealed to Pierre for permission to absent herself from the house this night. She would never force her presence upon Charles for such selfish reasons. Information had come to her only a few hours earlier, information that Charles needed.

    
Ah, Charles
, she pleaded silently,
you must not be angry with me for coming here even though you have made it plain you no longer wish to see me. And you must not be angry with my interference in your personal affairs. For you see, whatever threatens you threatens me also. I am a part of you, and always will be a part of you
.

    Her brown eyes bright with moisture, Camille smiled and knocked firmly on the door.

    The door opened to reveal Charles's frown as he stared at her for a long, silent moment. His hair was ruffled, a dark shock lying on his forehead in unaccustomed disarray. He was in his stocking feet and was clothed only in his trousers and a partially unbuttoned, wrinkled white shirt. Camille's eyes touched on the fine mat of dark hair on Charles's chest, and her heart gave a little lurch. How well she remembered lying beside him, her naked flesh pressed against his as she ran her fingers through that dark, coarse hair. She remembered the sensation of those same coarse hairs brushing her breasts and the erotic tumult that had ensued.

    But Charles was squinting in a manner which revealed that her knock had awakened him from sleep, and Camille resisted an urge to reach up and brush the wayward lock of hair from his forehead. Ah, how this man touched her heart.

    "Camille, is something wrong?"

    "Wrong,
mon
ami
?
Must something be wrong for me to visit you?"

    Charles shot a quick look toward the clock on the desk before stepping back with apparent reluctance to allow her entrance. "This is your busy time of night, isn't it? I thought Marie resented your taking personal time when it conflicted with her schedule."

    Camille nodded and walked past him into the room. She turned as he closed the door behind them.

    "Marie resents much that I do, Charles, but I do not concern myself with her resentment. It matters little."

    Charles's expression stiffened at her response. "Yes… The Count protects you from her ill will. I forgot."

    Camille gave a short laugh. If she had not known better, she would have thought she heard resentment in Charles's tone when he spoke of Pierre. But she knew she was merely responding to her own desire for Charles's deeper affection. Unable to withstand the temptation a moment longer, Camille stroked the dark hair on his forehead into place. He drew back from her touch, and the glow of her eyes darkened.

    "Yes, he protects me, but I did not come here to discuss Pierre." She saw Charles's gaze harden, and her smile faded. "Are you angry with me, Charles?"

    "Angry? Why should I be angry with you, Camille?"

    Camille attempted a smile. "I do not know,
mon
cher
,
but I     do not enjoy the thought. I would never want you to be angry with me."

    Charles's expression tightened further. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to be brief, Camille. I promised one of my patients I'd stop back tonight. She's had false labor several times this week, and she's not a well woman. I'm concerned about her and…"

    Halting in his explanation as Camille's gaze touched his lips, Charles frowned more darkly. "Why are you here, Camille?"

    Charles's sharpness cut her deeply. "I have come to warn you, Charles."

    "Warn me? Of what?"

    "Walter Sherkraut visited Giselle this evening. He is a very talkative man, very impressed with his own importance. One of Giselle's many talents is that she is a good listener, and this evening she listened very well. When Monsieur Sherkraut left, Giselle came directly to me."

    "What has Walter Sherkraut to do with me, Camille?"

    Hiding her pain at Charles's obvious impatience to be free of her, Camille went on, "Walter Sherkraut is a close business ally of Harvey Dale. It appears Monsieur Dale is attempting to gather the influential men of Tombstone together to have you driven from town."

    "Driven from town!"

    Charles's handsome face flushed a deep red, and Camille shared his distress. "Yes, Charles. It appears he has convinced a considerable number of these men that you assisted your brother in the abduction of his daughter."

    "That's untrue, and he knows it."

    "I know,
mon
cher
,
but Monsieur Dale has considerable influence."

    Charles gave a low snort. "And he intends to use that influence against me, even though I'm innocent. He hopes to punish my brother through me, and it makes little difference to him if he ruins my reputation, or even if I'm guilty."

    "That is correct."

    Charles laughed, but the sound was harsh, totally devoid of its usual warmth. "My brother was right all along, and it says little for me that I can see that clearly only now, when I am threatened by Harvey Dale, just as he was."

    "But you could not have known. Harvey Dale has been    successful in fooling many with his cunning. Pierre has told me that even he was once''

    Halted by the stiffening of Charles's expression, Camille shook her head. "
Mon
cher
,
what is wrong?"

    "Don't call me
mon
cher
,
Camille. My name is Charles. You can save those endearments for 'Le Comte,' or for your other clients. They'll appreciate them more than I."