Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) (42 page)

This reasoning did not bode well for Rafe, whom the outlaws were threatening to "plug" for being such an annoying "deadweight." Silver hastily informed them that silver didn't lie around in nuggets, like gold, but instead was found in a lead compound called galena, and required an expensive chemical process to extract.

"You might have to muck out a half ton of lead just to get a dozen pounds of sterling," she exaggerated shamelessly. "If I were you, I'd set my sights on the jewels. They'll turn a pure profit, and they're a lot easier to carry."

"Yeah?" Snake eyed her with the same affection he might have reserved for a striking rattler. "And what makes you think you know so much, princess?"

She drew a shaky breath. "Because I'm Silver Nichols," she confessed. "My father owns this mine."

The outlaws' jaws both dropped. Then Snake threw back his head and howled with laughter. "Why didn't ya say so in the first place, sweetheart? Hear that, Loon? We're gonna be getting ransoms all over the place."

Thus, after scribbling a largely misspelled ultimatum, Snake sent Loon to deliver the ransom note to Papa and then to report to Aaron. Silver tried desperately to convince Snake to leave her and Rafe trussed up in the offices, where she was certain someone would eventually find them, but Snake, reluctant to leave his hostages aboveground while the promise of wealth beckoned below, insisted on "stashing" her and Rafe in the farthest reaches of the mine.

"Now I'm gonna start diggin'," Snake growled, snatching up one of the two precious tapers he'd had the foresight to grab from the box at the mine's entrance. "You stay right there by Gracie, where I can see you"—Snake patted his six-shooter menacingly—"or I'll put a couple more holes in yer head."

She nodded hurriedly, less concerned about his shooting her than his giving her a pistol-whipping to rival Rafe's. Even in this dim light, she could see the gash that spanned the length of the nickel-sized welt on his temple.
Rafe, oh Rafe, honey, please, please, wake up.

Desperate to touch him, to cleanse the blood that matted his hair, she waited for Snake to turn his back, then struggled frantically with her bonds. She told herself a few rope burns were inconsequential compared with the beating Rafe had suffered. Yet even though her skin rubbed off, the knots Loon had tied behind her back held fast.

She sobbed in frustration. The fear that Rafe might die and never know she forgave him was almost more than she could bear.
God please, I'll never lie again. I'll never scheme again. Just please, please don't let him die.

Above the ringing of Snake's pickax, Silver heard Tavy, at least she prayed it was Tavy, scratching around in the dark. Visions of Nahele chipped at her overwrought mind. She struggled to keep a sane thought in her head, even as the earth groaned and shifted around her, dribbling clumps of rock. The cave was far from stable.

Resting her head beside Rafe's, she fell into an uneasy doze. At least she thought she did, because one moment she'd been counting the rhythmic clash of steel against lead; the next moment, she could hear only its dull echo in the adjacent cave. Snake had wandered into the half-formed tunnel, leaving her and Rafe with their own guttering candle. It appeared at least four inches shorter now, and she guessed several hours had slipped by. Anxiously, she turned her head to check on Rafe. The pale gleam of silver eyes stared straight into her own.

"Softly," he whispered, no doubt anticipating her cry of jubilation.

She blinked, his beloved face swimming before her in the towering shadows. "H-how long have you been awake?"

"A half hour or so."

He rolled his head, grimaced, and listened. Satisfied that Snake was still engrossed in his treasure hunt, he met her eyes once more. She felt the heat of him steaming through his clothes, but he looked pale. So pale. Her throat ached as he tried to smile.

"Yeah," he said, when her gaze shifted uneasily to his bruised temple. "It hurts like hell. You?"

She shook her head. "I'm fine."

His eyes roamed over her possessively, critically, as if he didn't quite believe her and was searching for proof of abuse. She was glad he couldn't see her wrists.

"Where the hell are we?" he asked after a moment.

"Level Three."

His eyebrows rose. "The haunted level?"

"Papa's been blasting here, and I thought... I thought he'd come back and find us. So I convinced Snake to look for the treasure here."

"Where's Loon?"

"Gone to get Aaron."

Rafe's eyes narrowed. "How long?"

She glanced uncertainly at the candle. More than half had burned. "Four hours ago? Maybe five?"

"We don't have much time, then." He strained, muttered an oath, then smiled mirthlessly. "I've been tongue-tied before, but I'm afraid this is worse. Makes me feel like one of those preposterous dime novel heroes, who has been lashed to a dynamite keg. It looks like you'll have to save the day this time, darling. Feeling up to it?"

She nodded anxiously.

"Good." His tone was cheerful. Too cheerful. "I assure you, I'm quite clear on your feelings about my touching you. But might I persuade
you
to touch me?"

She winced. "Rafe—"

"My boot, to be precise," he continued over her protest. "I believe you'll find a hunting knife in the left one—unless, of course, Snake beat you to it."

She averted her eyes, tears stinging them almost blind. "He didn't."

"Good," he said more gently. "See if you can slip it free."

She shimmied closer, but it wasn't an easy task, not with her back turned. And not with her hands bound. The combination of nerves and sweltering, unventilated air made her hands slip on the handle. Even with his soft encouragements to guide her, she sliced his shin before she pulled the weapon completely free of his pants leg.

"I'm sor—"

"Forget it," he whispered, motioning her closer with his head. "Give it to me. I'll take it from here."

She felt like a failure, and not just because she'd made his leg bleed. "Rafe," she ventured, watching his shoulders bunch while his fingers worked in exacting movements to saw through the hemp. "I'm sorry I got you into this."

"You?" He glanced her way, and a lock of hair fell across his damp brow.

She nodded, ashamed. "If I hadn't convinced you to be Chumley, you might never have been ambushed, at least not by idiots who thought you carried the crown jewels—"

"My dear—" he gave her a lopsided grin to go with his forced cheerfulness"—I wouldn't have missed it for the world." His lips abruptly curved into a cunning, well-satisfied smile.
"Voilà."

Hope flurried in her chest as she watched his arms emerge from their prison.

"Your turn," he whispered.

"Hot damn!"

They both jumped to hear Snake's whoop, followed by the thumping of his boots as he ran across the tunnel.

Rafe muttered an oath. "Hold still," he hissed in Silver's ear.

Three slashes later, her ropes fell free, but it was already too late. Snake and his six-shooter were rounding the corner.

"Sit back," Rafe whispered, doing the same. "Pretend you're still tied."

She obeyed, frustration coiling in her gut.
Damn, damn, damn!
They'd come so close to being free. So close...

"I found them!" Snake cackled. A dirt-encrusted chest thudded at their feet. "I found yer crown jewels, Gracie!"

Rafe and Silver both gaped. The chest, which was small enough to carry under one arm, glimmered dully in the glow of Snake's candle as if it had been wrought from bronze. Beneath the scratches and the dust, there appeared to be intricate markings—
hieroglyphics
, Silver corrected herself. The strange, birdlike figure on her side of the chest looked half-human. She was stunned. Could this be the fabled treasure of Nahele?

"Give me the key." Snake held out his hand like a petulant child.

"The key?" Rafe asked slowly.

"Yes, the key, goddammit! It's locked. Or maybe it's stuck. 'Cause I don't see no keyholes on it." He cocked his head to the side and crouched down, banging the chest with his gunbutt. "You reckon it's stuck?" he muttered, as if to himself.

Silver drew a sharp, hissing breath. She wasn't able to stop herself. There, in the tunnel behind Snake, a circle of light bobbed along the moist, oozing walls. The outlaw narrowed his eye at her warning and jumped up, his .45 glinting in his hand.

"Loon?" he bellowed, as the nimbus grew brighter.

Stones scrabbled, dislodged by a boot. Silver felt, rather than saw, Rafe tense, drawing his feet beneath him. A ghoulish shadow rippled over the uneven blackness of the walls, bending itself around the corner. And then she smelled the faint odor of cigarette smoke.

"Loon is... indisposed at the moment," a rich, mocking baritone drawled. Aaron himself appeared then, lean and impeccably attired in black worsted, as if he were going to the opera rather than an execution.

"Oh, it's you." Snake's chest heaved as he jammed his Colt back in its holster. "Damn. I thought you were a ghost."

"Not yet." His lips curved in a haunting smile. "Although I daresay by night's end there will be several more ghosts to add to this mine's legend."

Silver swallowed, easing closer to Rafe. His muscles were wound so tight that they fairly hummed.

"And what have we here?" Aaron asked, gesturing with his cigarette toward Snake's box.

The outlaw's craggy face split in a grin. "It's the crown jewels. Jest like you said, Mr. Townsend!"

"Indeed?" Aaron exhaled a long tendril of smoke. "I take it I've interrupted the opening ceremony?"

Snake chuckled, rubbing his hands together. "Ye're just in time, if that's what you mean. I was about to blast the lid off this hunk of junk. But, uh, you can do the honors if you like, Mr. Townsend."

Aaron's smile was dry as he lowered his lantern to the floor. Tucking his unbandaged hand in his coat pocket, he puffed once more on his cigarette. "I wouldn't dream of it, my dear Snake. Please. Indulge yourself."

Snake needed no further encouragement. Practically salivating, he dropped to his knees, grabbed a rock with both hands, and started hammering the lid. Aaron's hooded, predatory gaze slid to Silver. Every hair on her neck stood on end. When he released her crawling skin from his stare, she noticed that Rafe's right arm had shifted just behind his knee, where he held his knife in a white-knuckled grip.

"That oughta do it," Snake panted triumphantly, waving away a cloud of dust. He tossed his rock to the side.

The rim of the lid had buckled; he dug his fingers into the gap and grunted, his neck muscles straining. Slowly, he pried the chest apart. The hinges creaked. More dust puffed around him in flurries. Then the lid simply snapped off, clattering to the stone, unleashing a putrid, eye-watering smell. Snake didn't seem to care. He was too busy pawing rotted fragments of what looked to be cloth away from the insides.

Next came a handful of crude animal figurines, carved from antler or horn. Snake frowned in confusion. He dug out the crumbling remains of feathers, seed pods, snail shells, and what appeared to be three petrified corn husks. His face darkened, and he started to snarl. When he dumped the chest over, pawing through the ensuing mound of river pebbles and sand, nothing even remotely resembling jewels was unearthed.

Silver blinked. Was this Nahele's legendary wealth? This collection of spoils from Mother Earth?

Snake grew positively livid. "These ain't no damned jewels!" he shouted at Rafe. "This here's Injun filth!"

"One man's trash is another man's treasure," Rafe said quietly.

"Why you smart-assed, biggety, son of a—"

Snake reached. But he wasn't fast enough. His Colt hadn't cleared leather before Aaron's .45 spit, blasting a hole through the outlaw's back. Snake jolted forward, staggering, and Silver stifled a scream, desperately choking down bile as the Texican fell less than ten paces from her feet.

The gunblast rolled again and again through the chamber, triggering a small but ominous shower of rock. Heedless of the danger, Aaron smiled his dry little smile and drew once more on his cigarette. Even though Aaron's bullet had most likely saved Rafe's life, Silver didn't know whether to be grateful or mortified.

Until Aaron spoke.

"Witnesses," he drawled, "are such an inconvenience."

Rafe's eyes narrowed to glinting slits. "So that's what happened to Loon?" he demanded acidly. "You shot him in the back?"

"And Benson," Silver whispered.

Aaron looked amused by her accusation. "He outlived his usefulness, my dear. Surely you understand. Rather like an old shoe one throws away. Or a contentious sweetheart."

"Aaron, no," she whispered, horror replacing her momentary hope that he had spared Rafe out of an attack of conscience.

"Surely you didn't think I'd let that little brick-wielding incident go unpunished?" He tossed his head, as if to flip his carefully styled hair away from his scar. "I must say, though, it will be a shame not to enjoy your millions. Perhaps I can get the ass who sired you to let me manage a memorial fund in your name."