Susan Johnson (10 page)

Empress was shown into a bedroom suite larger than her entire cabin home, with sunlight streaming through large windows facing the mountain view. Golden light also illuminated, through stained glass windows, the adjoining bathroom where she had the luxury of a bathtub large enough for her to stretch out in. But the room’s decor received only a cursory glance as she hurriedly bathed and dressed. Her bedroll had been carried in and set out on the bed, her second pair of worn trousers and shirt hung in the grand armoire, a silk robe thoughtfully added to the emptiness of the wardrobe interior. The three garments looked woefully insignificant in the cavernous mahogany closet. A search of the several bureau drawers eventually located her change of underclothes. She was dressed in minutes, her feet slipped into her old comfortable boots, dried now and polished to a burnished sheen. Her newly washed hair would take too long to dry, although a warm fire burned in the fireplace, so she toweled it dry and combed it with an ivory comb set conveniently on the dresser top next to a matching brush and hand mirror. Then, drawing it back from her temples, she held its shiny length in place with two tortoiseshell combs found near the toilette set. Fingering the gilded ornament on the small combs briefly, a sudden nostalgia for her former life inundated her senses. Then, resolutely, she shook away the melancholy images, recalling with a demonstrable lift of her chin her brothers and sisters back home, needing her, and jabbed the combs into place.
Without another glance into the mirror she strode out of the room.

In all the terror and apprehension of the long night nursing Trey, she had momentarily lost sight of her reasons for being here. He had to live, not just for the personal satisfaction saving him would bring but because her bank draft must be honored if her family was to survive. Trey’s father had said last night: “Whatever I have is yours if he lives.” She wasn’t greedy; gold in the amount of her bank draft would be more than sufficient reward.

Now to see that Trey Braddock-Black continued to breathe through another day. And then another night.

If infection could be curtailed, if gangrene could be thwarted, if his temperature could be kept down—any number of problems could still arise. He’d lived through the night, but the battle for his life was far from over. But it was, Empress thought, striding down the hall, allowing herself the smallest smile, a very propitious beginning.

By evening, Trey could swallow from a spoon; at midnight he opened his eyes for the first time and said faintly, “Mama,” to his mother, who was standing beside him. His glance moved the short distance to where his father stood. “Papa.” His mouth turned up in a small smile. Then his gaze drifted to Empress, and his eyes widened in an abrupt reflex of startlement. “Hello,” he murmured. A hasty, scanning look assured him he was in his room, in his bed. “You’ve met my parents.” It was more a statement than a question, and under ordinary circumstances he would have been embarrassed as hell to find his latest paramour and his parents in his bedroom at the same time. But his memory had quickly recalled the reality of Flo’s shattered face, and he knew he was lucky to be opening his eyes at all. Parents, lovers, and bedrooms be damned. Not that it took a scrape with death for Trey to be audacious. But he’d always tried in the past to keep his amorous escapades out of his parents’ direct lines of vision.

Empress was blushing.

“This wonderful girl saved your life.” His mother was beaming.

“I think,” Hazard declared with feeling, “a bottle of Cliquot
is in order.” And soon the room was filled with well-wishers toasting Trey’s health.

It was Empress who ordered them all out after a decent interval, although her courteous
“S’îl vous plait”
softened the command. Trey was far from out of danger yet, and she didn’t want his celebration party to cause a setback. The regimen of fresh eggnog, medicines, and poultices was repeated through the second night, and by morning Empress knew that the risk of infection was over. The wounds were clean, with no drainage developing. Trey’s forehead was cool to her touch, and he was conscientiously drinking his eggnog. Although after a long period of untroubled sleep, near dawn, he’d awakened and grumbled about wanting real food.

“Another day,” Empress answered, but she ordered broth and pudding for his lunch.

By the third day, everyone’s routine was nearly back to normal. Hazard and Blaze helped in the sickroom whenever Empress needed them, Blue and Fox were underfoot, and every servant on the ranch wanted to stop by and visit. Visitors, too, had been calling, offering consolation, but had been kept from the sickroom on Empress’s orders. “After a few more days,” she’d declared, “when he’s stronger.”

Empress still slept on the cot to be near if problems arose, but Trey generally slept through the night.

On day four Trey announced, “I’m getting out of this bed.” He was feeling increasingly fit after two days of solid food: the steaks, potatoes, and Bessie’s pies that he loved. “I’m well.”

For a brief moment Empress debated defying his announcement but thought better of it when his eyes met hers. Determined eyes. “Haven’t I followed your orders contritely for days?” There was the faintest edge to his voice although his smile was pleasant.

So she helped him cross the short distance to the chair by the window and refrained from saying “I told you so” when his jaw set hard to keep back the gasp of pain as he slowly lowered himself into a sitting position.

“You’re a peach,” he murmured a moment later, his face drained of color, a thin beading of sweat on his forehead.

Empress’s brow rose questioningly.

“For not saying ‘I told you so.’ ”
“I haven’t known you long,” she replied genially, gratified that he’d recognized her reluctance, “but long enough to know better than to argue with you.”

He smiled. “An astute woman.” He gingerly relaxed against the chair, his color returning, his grin boyish.

She smiled back. “I like to think so.”

He was suddenly starkly masculine in his severely tailored nightshirt; or maybe in contrast to the pale blue striped linen, his dark skin and hair and the solid play of muscle revealed by the open neck was more compellingly male. His bronzed hands, grasping the chair arms, were strong and large. He seemed, in the short moments since leaving his sickbed, to have changed in dimension and presence.

His potent energy disquieting, Empress drew back, leaned against the windowsill, and grasped it with both hands behind her back. Maybe it was his smile, she thought abruptly; his smile was part wolfish and enticing. Did someone practice to perfect such devastating charm, or was it a natural extension of his perfect, charmed life? Rich beyond measure, if rumor was true, endowed with a physical beauty that startled at first glance. The kind that required a second careful look to assure one that one’s eyes weren’t playing tricks on one. Insulated by both, she thought. Except for the enemies, she reminded herself. Every paradise apparently had its serpent.

“And talented,” he was saying. His tone was ambiguous, and for a moment she wasn’t sure what he meant, her own thoughts distracting. His eyes were grave, she noted, as her glance rested on his. “I owe you my life, I’m told.” Clarification was instant then.

“And you, mine,” she responded sincerely.

“That was only money,” he remarked with a shrug.

“More generous than needed,” she quietly pointed out.

His eyes sparkled suddenly. He had an aversion to solemnity and touching scenes. “Should I”—he grinned—“retract a portion of my payment?”

She liked his grin even more than his smile and, after the last six months of struggle and despair, was whimsically partial to drollery. “You could try,” she responded with her own grin, patting the bank draft she kept close in her shirt pocket.
“Tempting,” he murmured, the fullness of her breast apparent under the soft flannel pocket. “Very tempting …”

She flushed under his drawling scrutiny and belatedly recalled the substance of their agreement.

“What day is it?” he asked quietly, and she knew his thoughts were in the nature of hers.

Empress stammered twice before blurting out, “It’s the fifth day,” in an altogether uncalled-for phrasing. She should have just said Tuesday, or January 25, or anything else but her gauche reference to their three-week arrangement.

“You never did get your clothes.” It was a simple declarative, yet infused somehow with a sense of future.

“I don’t need them. Really,” she added as his gaze swept her from the toes of her newly polished boots, past the frayed trousers and faded shirt to the tip of her wild, tawny mane of hair.

“Mother must have something.”

“No.”

“Why don’t I talk to her,” he went on, ignoring her negative reply.

“I like my own clothes.”

“Do you ever wear dresses?” The question was a casual inquiry.

“Sometime.” She couldn’t tell him she’d outgrown her last dress a year ago and hadn’t had the heart to remake any of her mother’s.

“Maybe you could just borrow one.” Empress began to protest, and he hurriedly finished, “For the visitors. Mama says they’re beating down the door, and how would it look for the enchanting healer who saved my life to be clothed like one of the hired hands?”

Empress’s lower lip trembled, and she looked away so he wouldn’t see the wetness in her eyes. Did he think, for heaven’s sake, that she wanted to look ragged? It was only that Guy, Emilie, Genevieve, and Eduard required clothes as well, and there hadn’t been any money.

“Oh, Lord, I’ve said it all wrong,” Trey said, apologizing. Reaching out, he caught a corner of her belt loop and tugged her closer. Taking her hand in his, he smoothed her slender fingers with his thumb. “You look wonderful. It’s only … oh, hell, you know how provincial some females can be. You
saved my life. I’m extremely grateful. My parents are grateful—
extremely
,” he emphasized softly. “You should be shown off as an angel of mercy.” He grinned. “God knows people have been saying for years that I need one. What do you say to Mama lending you a few gowns to—ah, stem the flow of gossip?”

Her eyes swiveled around instantly and held his in a deliberate peremptory glance.

“You will,” Trey declared calmly, “be introduced as the nurse who saved my life. No one will dare ask more.”

“How much do people know?” she asked with a cautious emphasis.

He didn’t answer immediately, weighing the nuance and substance of his reply. “You don’t live around here, do you?”

She shook her head no.

“I would have remembered if I’d seen you before,” Trey said softly, more to himself than to her. “Everyone knows everyone,” he went on.

Her green eyes were expressionless.

“And Lily’s caters to—well, many of my father’s friends and acquaintances, and some of mine too.” Expelling a small sigh, he continued, “Fifty thousand is—I guess you’d say—over the usual amount for Chu’s—ah, particular line of trade. That’s to say …” He paused, uncertain how to go on.

“Nearly everyone in Helena knows about you and me and the fifty thousand dollars,” Empress finished bluntly, and pulled her hand away.

Trey raked his fingers through his hair, a nervous gesture that only after the fact made him wince in pain and hastily drop his hand. “I don’t know exactly how many.”

Empress’s glance was challenging.

He met it solidly. “What the hell did you expect? Bold as you are, sweetheart,” he said with a small smile, “you must realize that sort of thing is not business as usual.”

She ignored his rebuttal. “Then why do I have to meet anyone at all?”

He didn’t say she was the absolute center of attention in this shooting, discounting his own role and the provenance of the deed. He didn’t say he had no intention of letting her leave before her three weeks were up. He didn’t say he was
seriously considering not letting her leave
at all.
The latter, however, was going to be slightly more difficult to arrange until he was more mobile and out from under his mother’s and father’s watchful eyes. He said instead with a casual blandness, “Don’t you know about stonewalling?”

She looked perplexed.

“It mustn’t be a French term,” he murmured, shrugging negligently, and added, “It’s a way of life for the Braddock-Blacks. You simply pretend nothing happened. How else do you suppose anyone survives a life of scandal?”

Her brows rose a fraction.

Was it a mild affront or inquiry? He wasn’t sure, but he opted for politeness. “So you haven’t lived a life of scandal.”

“Of course not.”

Ah, he was right. It was an affront from a woman selling herself at Lily’s. Amazingly flexible standards, he cheerfully decided. “To this point.” He couldn’t resist responding with a wicked grin.

“And maybe I won’t,” she retorted pertly.

Now that was a shade too flexible, even for his amiable assessment of social realities. “Too late, pet, I’d venture to say. At least in Helena. Montana’s a big territory, though.”

“Oh?” Her voice was fringing on coolness.

“I suppose you could return my check,” he remarked lightly, “and we could pretend that none of this happened, discounting the holes in my back, which would be difficult to ignore.”

Her temper flared suddenly. “You owe me, damn you.”

Trey realized immediately that he’d gone too far in his teasing. “Absolutely right. A thousand pardons,” he said, quickly apologizing. He didn’t care about the money, and good God, he could care less about society’s scruples or what people thought. For some unknown reason he only wanted her to stay. So he quickly soothed and appeased and diluted her anger. And before he returned to bed, he’d extracted a promise from her to consider trying on a dress or two. Step one accomplished.

He was politeness itself, circumspect in his remarks, flattering, generous, kind. He was very good at endearing himself to women. Too damn good, various disgruntled fathers in the
neighborhood had been known to remark. He ate particularly well that afternoon and took all his medicine without complaint in order not to offend his nurse. He also wanted all his strength for step two.