The Northern Devil Page 17

  “Okay.” He didn’t sound convinced. He leaned out of the bed and she clung fiercely. “Relax, sweetheart, relax. I’m here, I’m not leaving you.”

  He stroked her hair and she tried to obey. But the cellar’s cold was too ingrained in her bones; only his warmth was keeping it away.

  He settled back into the bed. “Here you are.” He pressed a handkerchief into her hand.

  “Oh…” She sighed, warmth blooming in her heart. He’d been taking care of her, as he always did. She sniffled happily and blew her nose, then settled back against him as closely as possible.

  Her man.

  Lucas looked down at his wife. She didn’t appear to be going back to sleep, after what had obviously been one hell of a nightmare. What the devil should he do now?

  He might have asked advice about other kinds of problems. But marital? Even if he’d been inclined to discuss those issues, the only person whose example he was likely to follow was thousands of miles away.

  “Do you want to try to sleep some more?” he asked cautiously.

  She jolted into his chest, as if propelled by springs.

  “Woof!” “No!” they exclaimed simultaneously.

  He snickered at himself, wishing he dared rub his ribs. “Very well, dear. We won’t try to do that.”

  Now what? Talk—in the bedroom? Well, he wouldn’t make love to her, not when she’d been so scared. So, conversation it would have to be.

  “Would you like to talk? Or just hold each other?”

  She gasped softly.

  Lucas frowned but waited for her answer.

  “Both, perhaps?” she requested tentatively.

  He blinked, totally unsure of how to execute the combination. “Uh, very well. What would you like to discuss?”

  She shifted positions, settling her head on his shoulder. Her braid spilled down his arm, tickling his ribs and hip.

  He watched her with a certain appalled fascination, well aware that he was being judged by very unfamiliar standards.

  She cocked her head hopefully, gazing up at him. “Something simple. Perhaps how Mr. Donovan saved your life?”

  His jaw dropped. That story? Best to start with the most respectable facts. “I first met William Donovan seven years ago, in Kansas during the first winter after the War. He owns Donovan & Sons, one of the great western freighting houses.”

  These simple statements somehow made Rachel beam. “Go on,” she encouraged, twining her fingers companionably with his.

  “Donovan & Sons specializes in the delivery of high-risk freight to high-risk places and there weren’t many places more high risk than Kansas during those years. There were many times when his men’s deliveries of bullets and beans were the difference between life and death for us.”

  “Most admirable!”

  Now the tale became more risqué. He hesitated.

  “And?”

  “We encountered each other more than once, while relaxing in the, ah, sporting districts.”

  She cocked her head. “Was he married?”

  “No, not at that time.”

  “Then I don’t know why you’re hesitating to tell me that you both diverted yourself with soiled doves and the like. Isn’t that what you mean?”

  He went on quickly before she could ask him for more details of his activities. “Correct. We both enjoyed ladies of the evening and agreed on their treatment, which was always in accordance with the highest standards.”

  Something in his voice must have given him away, because this time she simply rubbed his arm when he paused.

  “I kept a mistress for a time.”

  “Did you care for her?” Her voice was very small.

  He answered flatly. “I thought I loved her.”

  “Oh, my. I’m sorry.”

  All he could do was nod and go on. “One day, my enemies killed her.”

  “I’m so very sorry, Lucas.”

  Lucas gripped her hand hard. Only two people had ever offered him sympathy for Ambrosia’s death—Donovan and now his wife. He went on, the words coming harsh and faster. “I knew who had killed her, but there was no evidence that would stand up in court. Rather than shoot her murderers down like the dogs they were…”

  “And become a murderer yourself.” Rachel nodded approvingly.

  Lucas’s mouth twisted. Nothing so honorable—but he wouldn’t risk destroying her good opinion of him by saying so. He briskly picked up the thread. “I chose to challenge them to a duel, knowing their South Carolina upbringing would demand they accept.”

  “You’d need a second for that. Donovan?”

  Her fine mind was at work again.

  “Exactly. Nobody else would have stood up with me, both because of why I fought and who I fought. During the duel, my enemies fought foul and Donovan saved my life. It was a very close fight.”

  “I’m glad he did,” Rachel agreed contentedly. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have you now. You said he wasn’t married back then. Is his situation different now?”

  He chuckled softly at her romantic turn of thought. “Yes, he has a wife now. You should heartily approve of Viola Lindsay Donovan, who was a miner’s widow before she married him. They’re a very loving couple and cannot abide being separated.” His tone gentled on the last phrases.

  Rachel’s voice was very soft. “Are both of them your good friends?”

  Lucas nodded fondly. “Yes, both of them, although I don’t understand them.”

  “I shall look forward to meeting them.”

  She settled down against him, showing no signs of continuing the conversation.

  He thought he should be relieved, but suspected he’d missed a feminine undercurrent.

  T.L. strode into his wife’s hotel room and jerked his head at her longtime maid. No fool, Madeleine dropped a curtsy and left immediately, although it had been years since he’d entered his wife’s rooms after teatime.

  Aurelia spun around in her chair to stare at him. She was beautifully dressed in a silk and lace confection that showcased her still elegant figure. Pity she’d never seen her body as anything but a weapon. “What are you thinking of, T.L.? She was brushing my hair!”

  T.L. held up a pair of cable forms, covered in feminine handwriting. “Recognize these?”

  She stared blankly for a moment before a horrified look briefly passed over her face. She concealed it quickly with an innocent mask, but the damage was done.

  “Yes, I thought I recognized your turn of phrase, madam.”

  She flung herself up out of her seat to face him. “I did not write those cables.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Aurelia, it will get you nowhere. Did you think I wouldn’t know your handwriting after all these years?”

  She hesitated. He almost laughed to see her trying to think of a way to turn this confrontation to her advantage.

  Now to remind her of the ground rules.

  “Remember, Aurelia: All family disputes are fought in private, as you’ve been warned before. If you take them outside, to the papers—as you attempted to do in this case—the rest of your life will be spent outside the family circle. At the house in Wilmington.”

  “Wilmington!” Her horror couldn’t have been greater than if he’d said Istanbul.

  He waited, not reminding her of that city’s virtues, such as its short distance from Philadelphia and her supposedly well-loved grandchildren.

  She sulked, pacing around the room.

  At least she didn’t try to use her famous blue eyes on him. That ploy hadn’t worked in decades, not since he’d realized that his true importance in her life was as her bankbook and her social foundation—never as an exciting attraction to her senses. He had no right to regret the lack of anything more, since he hadn’t asked for it.

  But he was damned if he’d let anyone he loved suffer for her stubbornness. He might not have demonstrated that very well before to Lucas, but he could—and would—change. He had to, if he wanted to see his second son again.

  Dammit,
if he’d realized before what had really happened before Martha died, instead of being blinded by his own guilt, he would have behaved differently. He wouldn’t have focused all his drive on making sure that nothing like that ever happened again, on making Lucas the perfect son, always living where his father could watch him. No, he’d have known that Lucas was Uncle Barnabas’s image, destined to make his own way in life—and to do so very well indeed.

  God willing, it wasn’t too late. He’d already started his campaign for Lucas’s trust by sending his best lawyers to hound the hypocritical devils on the Davis Trust’s board.

  She stopped and faced him. “Very well,” she said sullenly. “I will not discuss my son’s wedding, marriage, or wife with any newspaper again.”

  “I’m glad you finally see sense,” T.L. purred.

  She looked as though she wanted to spit at him. “Now will you leave?”

  “No. You will not interfere with Lucas in any other way at any other time.”

  She gaped at him. “Are you saying that you approve of his marriage to that—that servant?”

  “Lucas’s wife is a respectable woman who has moved in Boston’s finest circles with honor. She comes with a far greater dowry than the Tallmadge chit and, by all accounts, will be an excellent mother to our grandchildren. I see no reason, whatsoever, to object. In fact, I will do my best to see him seated as principal trustee of the Davis trust.”

  “Have you gone insane to change your mind like this?”

  “Most important, Lucas is a grown man and he has chosen her. I will support him in this matter, as in all others. I have tried to be a good father by making him follow in my footsteps. He refused and has successfully made his own way. It’s time to recognize his success and follow its direction.”

  “He’s a murderer and a failure!” Her voice rose to a shriek.

  “He was set an impossible task for a child. Does the lack lie in him—or in the taskmaster for the error of judgment? In another arena, as a man of affairs, I would punish the taskmaster.”

  “T.L.!”

  She hurled herself at him and he shook her off furiously.

  This wasn’t the first time he’d have liked to wring her neck. But it was certainly the first time he’d contemplated how to dispose of her body. He bit back his rage, wishing yet again he hadn’t been stupid enough to marry the first pretty face who came with a great family name.

  “Let me be extremely clear, Aurelia: You will make no further attempts to bring another daughter named Martha into our house through marriage, whether with Lucas or Tom. If you wish to have one, let us discuss adoption.”

  Aurelia was crying, the tears running almost silently down her face. She produced a handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose. “No, it must be through the blood. Martha was my darling, my showpiece. People always spoke so highly of me as a mother after seeing her.”

  She might believe only blood mattered, but Lucas had forced him to realize his son had a choice who he’d accept as family. If T.L. wanted to be included, he would have to earn it.

  “Then it will not happen because I will not have our—my, if you wish to disclaim all relationship—son’s life destroyed to change what cannot be undone.”

  Her shoulders were bent and her face hidden by the enormous piece of lace and silk, while great racking sobs shook her body. More of her anger was probably genuine than she’d like to admit. He hadn’t seen her cry this much since he’d forced her to live according to a budget.

  “Do you understand, Aurelia?” he repeated. Implied understandings were of no use with her.

  “Yes.” The answer was muffled but unmistakable.

  He turned to leave.

  She blew her nose loudly. “What will you do now?” she called.

  He turned, one hand on the door, surprised by her unusual display of curiosity in anything other than herself. “If I am to see him again, he must make the first move—which means I must support him now to my utmost as one grown man to another. What he needs is a snowplow, but they’re worth their weight in gold. If I can, I’ll send him one—but only Divine Providence can guarantee that it will arrive in time to aid him.”

  Chapter Nine

  Rachel and Lucas stood by one of the drawing room’s windows, watching the train pull into the big Army fort. The earlier snowfall had eased, allowing them a clear view of the broad Laramie Plains, the omnipresent sagebrush now only lumps under a blanket of snow.

  Lucas hadn’t served here while he was in the Army, although he’d passed through. Had he seen it with his mistress? Had she laughed and flirted with him? Had he adored her?

  Did it matter if the woman’s ghost watched Rachel’s marriage, given his passion in the bedroom?

  At least she had fewer worries about his future fidelity, if he’d been in love with his mistress. Guarding against romance would be easier than frequent bouts of unbridled lust for any comely female.

  “At least we’re almost at Laramie.” Lucas started to button his jacket. “We should be able to find out the snowplow’s health, one way or another.”

  Rachel was glad to return to flesh and blood realities. “Mitchell hasn’t been able to learn anything?”

  “No, which implies whatever’s holding Leventhorpe is tighter than Lee’s gray wolves, since both he and Mitchell served in the Army of Northern Virginia. Only blood kin or the like can account for that.”

  She winced. “Which means there’s little chance of turning him.”

  “Next to none. We’ve already tried gold and he’s not reachable by blackmail.”

  The train blew its whistle loudly, an earsplitting wail. Its wheels backed, screeching a protest, and came slowly to a stop. Lucas looked out onto the platform—and frowned slightly. “Scouts are back already.”

  His expression had turned fiercely contemplative, as if he was pondering a hundred options, few of them pleasant.

  “Should I be glad?” Rachel asked cautiously.

  He glanced down at her, a little wryly. “It’s always better to go on campaign well informed about the enemy, no matter how painful the resulting adjustments must be.”

  She nodded slowly, reminded yet again of just how very successful he’d been as a cavalry commander. In addition to being determined and cunning, he was also intelligent and ruthless enough to change himself whenever needed. A very deadly opponent indeed.

  “Wait here, Rachel, and I’ll bring them in. You’ll be warmer here, out of the wind.”

  He was gone in an instant, leaving her no chance to protest that she could have snatched up her coat and gone with him.

  Lucas returned a minute later with two men, both black-haired and dressed in rough clothing that had seen hard usage.

  One was tall and strongly built, his hat and broad shoulders almost scraping the door’s boundaries. He had much Indian blood in him, given his strong features and black eyes, yet something about the lightness of his skin stamped him as a half-breed, rather than a full-blood.

  The other was a rawboned young man, with alert blue-gray eyes and raven hair that flopped into his face when he removed his hat. He moved with an agility around the Empress’s fine furniture and crystal that belied his coltish frame. He might one day be startlingly handsome, although never pretty.

  They both looked like men to trust with one’s bottom dollar, although she didn’t think they’d fit neatly into a ballroom.

  Lucas performed the introductions quickly. The big half-breed proved to be called Little, which seemed very unsuitable, while the younger man was called Lowell.

  They both looked exhausted, cold, and hungry, but their manners were excellent.

  Mitchell and the other Donovan & Sons’ men joined them, marked by a round of understated masculine greetings.

  Rachel glanced at Braden in a silent command, who nodded and disappeared. She relaxed, satisfied that proper hospitality would be provided.

  “Did you manage to join the work train?” Lucas asked. Too impatient to sit down like th
e others, he was pacing close to the corridor.

  “Very easily,” Little said.

  “Few men wanted to,” Lowell added. “They only pay two and a half dollars per day and deduct one dollar for room and board. They were not surprised when we quit.”

  Rachel’s jaw dropped. “That’s ridiculous! Those wages won’t raise any zeal for shoveling snow at this altitude, for days on end.”

  “We’d have to double it, if we want to raise our own army,” Mitchell suggested, watching Lucas.

  “If we can find anyone to hire,” Lucas warned. “Wyoming and Utah’s mountains are not well supplied with men, especially at this season. Otherwise, we’ll have to follow the usual practice and encourage volunteers from among the passengers.”

  “They may be very willing, if it’s the only way to reach San Francisco faster.”

  Low rumbles of laughter answered Mitchell’s sally.

  Braden returned and began to set out coffee and sandwiches. Lowell fell upon the food like a hungry locust.

  Rachel eyed Little uneasily. He was quietly observing the others, looking like a parent permitting his children to argue, while knowing that the real problem would come from a different direction.

  “What about the snowplow?” Lucas asked, his gaze hooded and narrow on the older man.

  “The one with the work train is in good health,” Little said slowly.

  “But?” Lucas prodded.

  “The spare—the one in Laramie—has been taken apart for inspection, to make sure that it stays healthy.”

  “What?” Mitchell sprang to his feet.

  Rachel’s stomach plummeted to her feet. If that was true, every turn of the Empress’s wheels was taking them closer to the high mountain—and the likelihood of being trapped.

  Lowell took up the tale, his tone brusque and somber. “Turns out Collins and the head guy in Laramie are old friends, almost family. Collins persuaded Leventhorpe that it’d be best to look like he was really worried, just to make sure nothin’ goes wrong like it did last year. So right now, that snowplow is in pieces.”

  Rachel tried to draw a deep breath.

  Lucas looked as if he dearly wanted to tear down Leventhorpe’s office on top of him. “What if we force Leventhorpe to change his mind?”