To Love a Scoundrel (9 page)

Behind him, Jewel's mind raced at top speed. She recalled each fact from his file, no matter how insignificant, and searched for the best way to approach him. She centered on his marriage of less than a year, hoping he still carried that newlywed glow and adoration of the fairer sex deep inside his black heart, then settled on a plan.

"Oh, my," she said in a breathless sigh.

Startled, Jesse spun around.

Jewel fell into his arms. Sighing again, she batted her thick auburn eyelashes. "I believe I'm going to faint."

Jesse's first instinct was to release her and let her fall to the floor. Then he made the mistake of gazing down at her alabaster skin, following the trail of freckles across her cute nose, and looking into her big green eyes as they stared up at him like those of a sleepy kitten.

"Aw, hell," he grumbled, catching her waist and pulling her snug against his hip. "Try to hang on long enough for me to—" Jesse cut off his own words as he noticed a man at the back of the restaurant duck out the side door. Guessing he'd be facing a self-appointed posse of one when he stepped outside, Jesse decided to use the waitress's misfortune to gain an advantage.

"Boys, I think it'd be best if we use this little gal as a hostage. Make a run for it. I'll be right behind you."

Resting her head against his shoulder, Jewel tried to ignore the stench of a man on the run, the foul odor of old sweat mingled with sage and stale tobacco. She concentrated on his words and her next move. Being a hostage could work to her advantage, she decided, and would certainly favor the safety of the customers in the restaurant. Once outside, away from the others, she could simply pretend to faint, then remove her gun from her left thigh and, if necessary, the stiletto from her right. The shock of her turning on him, armed and ready to kill, would surely be enough to guarantee the arrest of Jesse James, if not the others.

"Now remember," Jesse warned the diners as he seized Jewel's waist and began dragging her backwards,"we don't want to see no heroes. Put your heads down on the tables—now."

After the initial rustling and clatter as the customers followed his orders, the restaurant' became as still as a graveyard. One by one the outlaws backed out the front door until only Jewel and Jesse James were left standing in the adobe building.

"I strongly suggest," Jesse said by way of a final order, "that you all count to one thousand and don't get up off them tables before then. If I see so much as a whisker peeking outta this place, me and the boys'll be obliged to give you the shave of your life—and it'll be your last one, too." Then, viciously jerking his hostage behind him, he jumped through the doorway and headed for the waiting horses.

Using her body as a shield, he half dragged and half carried Jewel as he made for his mount. Swiveling around, looking for the man he'd noticed sneaking out of the depot, Jesse climbed astride the horse with Jewel still hanging from his hip.

She began to struggle, frantically working on a way to alter her original plan, but her thoughts and wind were knocked from her as Jesse kicked the horse in the flanks and took off after his men.

From the side door of the depot Brent crept around the corner. Hunkering down behind a load of firewood, he removed his hat and looked around for a better vantage point. Then the outlaws took off, heading right for him.

Brent drew his pearl-handled pistol and labored to steady the barrel as he peered down the sights. The gun continued to shake in his hand as the riders swept by him, unaware of his presence, and before he knew it, the final rider and Jewel were in his sights. He stood up, waving the gun in the air, and shouted, "Stop or I'll shoot."

Lowering his head so it was level with Jewel's, Jesse propped the barrel of his gun on her shoulder and fired twice as he rode past the man in the black suit.

Brent dropped back down behind the firewood, unscathed, but out of options. Struggling with an aim that he'd never been able to master, he followed the silhouette of the outlaw with the gun sight, closed his eyes, and squeezed the trigger.

A woman cried out. Jewel dropped to the ground amid flying hooves. Jesse James turned in his saddle, screaming in pain, and fired three rounds in Brent's direction. Then all was quiet save for the fading thunder of the stampeding gunmen.

The weapon in his hand shaking like a buckboard over a rock-bed creek, Brent swallowed hard and jammed the weapon back into its holster.

"Jewel?'' He choked the name out of a throat so tight he could hardly breathe. Looking through the dusty veil around her, he saw that she lay sprawled in the dirt. One sleeve of her crisp white blouse was streaked with blood. "Jewel?"

After jumping to his feet, Brent catapulted over the stack of wood and rushed to the spot where she lay. Squatting down beside her, he reached out, thinking to turn her over, but suddenly he couldn't seem to touch her. What if his lousy shooting had hurt her badly? Killed her, even?

"Jewel?" he said tentatively, still unable to assess the damage. "Hey, little lady, are you all right?''

Her face buried in the loose dirt, Jewel struggled to regain her wind. Her left arm felt as if it were on fire, and her lungs begged for oxygen. Her right ear was ringing, echoing the retort of James's Colt, the sound ricocheting off every corner of her skull. Finally the painful ache in her ribs began to diminish. Then she became aware of the gambler and the fact he was sputtering above her.

Able to breathe at last, she slipped her right arm beneath her body and began to push herself to a sitting position. Strong hands gripped her shoulders and helped pull her upright.

"Jewel?" Brent said, brushing the dirt from her face. "Are you all right?"

Again using her good arm, she pushed away from him and looked down at her bloodied sleeve. "Do I look as if I'm all right, you fool?"

"I'm sorry if I hurt you," he said, relieved to see she wasn't mortally wounded. "I never was much of a shot. If it makes you feel any better, I think I got the thief with the same bullet that hit you."

"That makes me feel a
lot
better," she spit out as she struggled to her feet.

Standing up and reaching out for her, again he apologized. "It's not as if I planned on hurting you, you know. I had to do something. I couldn't just let those guys ride off with you, could I?"

"So you decided to blow a hole in me? Good thinking, you two-bit sharpshooter. I think you broke my arm." Jewel whirled around and began to stomp off toward town, complaining loudly as she progressed down the street. "That miserable no-good gambler. He actually shot me."

Brent stayed one step behind her, still trying to apologize. "I said I'm sorry. I don't know what else you expect me to do. After all, I did save you from those hoodlums. The least you could do is thank me."

"Thank you?" Jewel planted her feet and turned on him. "Thank you?" she repeated. "I had things under control. I didn't ask you to save me from anyone, and I sure didn't ask you to shoot me. No thanks to you, Jesse James got away—again."

"Jesse James? Are you saying I shot Jesse James?"

"Yes, you great big hero," she said with a smirk, "but don't forget—you shot me, too, you sharpshooting dandy." Jewel spun around and resumed her march toward town.

"There's no need for name-calling," Brent said, still following along. "You're just a little upset, probably shaken from the fall. Let me take you into town to see the doctor."

Over her shoulder she said, "You're not taking me anywhere, you hear? Just stand right there. If you try to touch me, I'll scream."

"But—" Brent's vision picked up a glittering object near his foot. He bent over, retrieved the item, and called to Jewel, "Hey, wait up. I found your glasses."

Determined this would be the last time, Jewel wheeled on him. "Keep them. Take them home to your kids as a souvenir of the day you shot Jesse James, or—poke them up your nose. I really don't care what you do with them. Just leave me the hell alone." She began to back away, glaring at him, daring him to follow her. When she was sure he understood how serious she was, Jewel turned around and stalked off toward town.

"That idiot actually shot me.
Me,
" she muttered to herself. "I can't believe it, I can't believe any of this. Wait till Allan finds out I had Jesse James in my grasp, and I let him get away."

She kicked at pebbles as she walked, biting her lip with each new wave of pain in her injured arm, but managed to keep up her tirade. "It's most definitely Brent Connors' fault.
All
his fault, and if it's the last thing I do, I'll get even with that devilish dandy.
More
than even."

Chapter 5

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

June 7, 1876

Harry Benton stepped out of the hydraulic elevator and onto the thick wool carpeting of the fourth floor of the Fairmount Hotel. As he reached the door to his suite, he noticed a young couple bickering in the hallway next to his room. Taking his time fitting his key to the lock, Harry eavesdropped as the auburn-haired beauty gave her companion the boot.

"...so let's leave things the way they are, Richard. Thanks for a wonderful time—the exhibition and all the parties were lots of fun."

"But, Jewel," Richard protested, "last night was just one of those things. I had a little too much to drink, I guess. I'll do better tonight if you'll just give me a chance."

Jewel stared at him, considering his proposal, wondering what her real objections to the handsome young Pinkerton agent were. Was it the wispy blond hair? The fact Richard did not have dark wavy locks? Or was his skin too smooth and baby-like, lacking so much as a stubble where a thick, lush mustache should have been?

Richard smiled just then, drawing her attention to his mouth. His lips could have been painted lines; they were incapable of curving into the crooked smile that made Brent Connors look as if he had a feather in his drawers.

Somehow, she realized with a sudden flash of insight, that feather had moved over to her own undergarments. Because of it, of
him,
she'd spent the last few weeks of her forced vacation trying to relieve that itch and wipe the memory of Brent Connors from her mind. Nothing had worked. Not Richard and not the marvelous excitement of the exhibition, with all its newfangled machines. Damn that miserable gambler, she thought. How had Brent managed to worm his way into her mind and her dreams so easily?

"May I come in, Jewel?" Richard asked. "I promised Mr. Pinkerton I'd keep an eye on you while you were here, and besides, I uh... I think I'm falling in love with you."

She snapped her head up and took another long look into the pale blue of his eyes, noted the puppy dog droop to his expression. Love? How had he gotten love out of a few shared meals and laughs? That notion surely couldn't stem from his awkward and drunken attempts at lovemaking last night, could it?

Love. The word alone turned her stomach and darkened her thoughts. Love, if there really was such a thing, was for idiots and the feebleminded, people who were unable or unwilling to manage on their own. Love was something that could never happen to a strong person like Jewel Flannery.

Trying to hide her irritation, she raised her voice an octave and said, "I'm sorry to hear you feel that way, Richard. I hope I didn't give you the impression that I, that we could be more than..."

Jewel hesitated, disturbed as much by the tinny sound of her voice as by his undisguised adoration. Then she suddenly realized eyes other than Richard's were gazing at her. She turned and spotted a distinguished-looking gentleman standing one door away. He looked totally intrigued by the situation between her and Richard—and completely amused.

She abruptly turned back to the Pinkerton agent and brusquely said, "As I tried to tell you, Richard, I'm sorry you feel that way, but I must say good night. Thanks again for all the fun, but I'm afraid you and I have come to the end of the road. I'm simply not interested in having anyone love me right now. Good night and good luck."

Harry laughed to himself as the young woman, hampered by a cast surrounding her broken arm, struggled with the lock, then disappeared behind her door. Sympathetic as well as tickled, he called to the frustrated man left standing in the hallway,
"C'est la vie."

Then Harry waltzed into his suite, calling out as he entered, "Oh, Duchess? Where are you hiding, my dear sweet girl?"