Satisfaction had crept into Dale's expression, and Charles belatedly realized he had played into Dale's hands by providing the exact reaction he had been seeking. He was barely in control of his rage when Dale nodded his head.
" I'll get those files to you as soon as I can, Carter. I'll expect you to pass my message to your brother, and I want you to know I will hold you responsible for any hardship Devina suffers while she's your brother's prisoner."
"And I'll hold you to account for any hardship Camille suffers."
"Oh, yes, the French whore. I must admit I thought you had better taste."
Carefully concealing his anger, Charles raised his eyebrows, focusing on Dale's triumphant expression. He shrugged. "Well, unlike some men, I've never had a driving obsession for Oriental women."
Harvey Dale jerked abruptly erect, his narrow lips twitching spasmodically, and Charles took his turn to laugh.
"You've taken the trouble to snoop into my private life, Harvey. I suppose it never occurred to you I'd do the same. Devina will be interested to know you have an Oriental mistress who is a year younger than she."
Maintaining his shaken silence, Harvey turned and walked out of the house without another word, his rapid step taking him back in the direction of Allen Street.
Charles's flash of satisfaction was brief. He had meant what he said: He would not allow Dale to hurt Camille. He had also meant what he said about Devina being the true victim of this whole mess. Even now she was subjected to Ross's bitterness and hatred, though she had done nothing to earn them except to be born to the name Dale. Would his brother realize that, or was he at this very minute causing her to suffer?
Devina's eyes moved over Ross's profile, etched against the morning light streaming through the doorway of the cabin. He was so intense as he leaned over her ankle and examined the stubborn swelling there. But her own attention was not so undivided. She found she was far more fascinated by the manner in which Ross's dark hair curved against the shape of his head and lay smoothly against his neck. She remembered the texture of that thick waving hair under her hands as she ran her fingers through it while she clutched him against her.
A hot flood of emotion colored Devina's cheeks, and she closed her eyes. She was still sick from her wound. Her mind was cloudy, refusing to function in a logical manner, but one thing had never been clearer to her: She wanted this man with every fiber in her body.
She was only too conscious of the broad expanse of Ross's shoulders, now covered by one of the shirts he had laundered so carefully the afternoon before. He was fully dressed and proceeding with the chores of the new day. He had approached her from the fire the moment she opened her eyes to the light of morning and had stood over her with a strangely sober expression. She had been momentarily disoriented, uncertain whether she had dreamed the events of the previous night or whether they had truly happened. Her reaction to her uncertainty must have registered on her face, for at that moment Ross had crouched down beside the bed and lovingly covered her mouth with his.
Devina took a deep, shaken breath. That kiss stirred her now, even in memory, as did the echoes of Ross's whispered endearments as his lips had strayed to her cheek, her fluttering eyelids, her ears, the column of her throat. Her heart had begun a rapid beating, her breathing had quickened, and Ross had drawn back. She remembered the hunger in his eyes as he spoke in a throbbing whisper.
''You make it hard for me to listen to my common sense, Devina." He had stroked her cheek and kissed her lips once more before continuing with a small smile, "I should've waited until you were stronger to make love to you, but once I had you in my arms, I was past waiting, past thinking." He had smiled again and leaned closer until his chest rested against the coverlet that shielded her nakedness, his lips touching hers. "But we have time, time for you to grow stronger."
His dark eyes promising more, which went unspoken, Ross had then drawn himself back to his feet. He had turned to the fire and filled a cup and carefully held it to her lips until she had drained the last of the steaming coffee. He had been tending to her ankle ever since.
She knew he was concerned about the swelling. She had seen it in his frown, in the way his eyes snapped back toward hers when he had lightly touched the wound and she gasped. He had been bathing the ankle for the past half-hour, soaking cloths in water as hot as she could bear, and applying them to the wound. Her ankle felt significantly improved, enough for her mind to wander, as it was now.
She realized these new feelings which filled her were an abrupt reversal of her previous attitude toward Ross. She was uncertain whether this sense of time suspended, this strange unreality was due to the complications of the snakebite. Whatever its source, it provided her a welcomed relief from the anxieties she had suffered from the moment at her party when she had realized it was not Charles, but a stranger with Charles's face who held her in his arms.
That man was a stranger no longer. He was Ross. It came to her in a flash of unexpected clarity that this new intimacy between them, this closeness that eliminated all fear and uncertainty, was a desire which had remained undeclared in her mind from the moment she had awakened in Ross's arms.
It had been Ross's eyes that had haunted her, given her no peace after their first meeting on the stagecoach. But she now saw in his eyes none of the threat, the confusing contempt she had first seen there. Instead, she saw all she had unconsciously wanted to see, and an exhilarating joy touched her heart.
Somehow it mattered very little that she was Ross's hostage. He was caring for her, loving her. It mattered little that in the world outside the cabin, Ross Morrison was an ex-convict, a thief, and a kidnapper, that she was his victim. She no longer felt victimized. She felt only cherished, loved wholly and completely, loved more thoroughly than she had ever been loved before. She would not question these feelings. They were right for this time and place, and they would be enough for now.
The water had cooled and Ross had returned the cloth to the bucket. He was examining the swelling again, frowning more intensely. He turned to look at her and his expression changed. He drew himself slowly to his feet and moved to stand near the head of the bunk. He remained looking down at her, the chiseled planes of his face sober before he finally slipped to his knees beside her.
Cupping her face in his hands, he whispered in a low, ragged voice. "Don't look at me that way, Devina. I'm having a hell of a time with myself this morning. I dragged myself out of that bunk before you woke up because I knew what would happen if I stayed there any longer. I kept telling myself that you aren't well, that you need rest. I promised myself I'd behave and give you a chance to regain your strength. But, honey, if you keep looking at me like that…"
"Looking at you?"
Ross shook his head. "
Dammit
, Devina." He lowered his mouth to hers, and Devina surrendered to his hungry kiss. She had no resistance to the drowning sea of emotions that surged within her as he pressed his kiss deeper. She gave herself up to the arms that held her lovingly, to the hands that caressed her, to her own desire to draw him closer, to take him in.
Devina murmured an inaudible word of protest as Ross abruptly withdrew from her. He took a deep, steadying breath, expelling it seconds later in a wry, shaken laugh.
"You're pale, Devina. You look exhausted. Your hair is tangled, your cheeks are drawn, your eyes are two blue mirrors of confusion in your face, and you look lost and forlorn in that bunk all alone. But you're beautiful, more beautiful than any woman I've ever seen, and I've never wanted any woman more than I want you right now."
The spark glowing deep within his eyes flared to flame again, and Ross touched his lips lightly to hers once more. A low groan escaped him as her mouth clung to his.
"You're sick, Devina,
dammit
! Your ankle is still swollen and you're going to need every bit of your strength in order to get well. I know what I should do and what I shouldn't, but I'm fighting a losing battle with myself, and you're not making it any easier."
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize."
"Your face is an open book, darling, and you're going to have to help me, or I'm going to climb into that bunk right now and make love to you."
The emotions raging inside Devina were suddenly making her head swim, and she closed her eyes in defense against them.
"Devina."
"I… I'm all right. I'm just a little tired."
Ross was frowning again. He touched his hand to her forehead. Obviously relieved, he nodded.
"Sleep, then. I'll have something ready for you to eat when you wake up. You'll feel a little stronger after you've eaten."
Devina closed her eyes obediently. She did not feel like sleeping, but sleep was a safe retreat from the chaotic emotions assailing her, from this new, appealing Ross who touched her heart, who made her want to reach out to him, who had turned her hatred of him into a soul-shaking emotion she had never before experienced.
Ross was still beside her. She could feel his sweet breath fanning her face as he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. She sighed at his gentleness, and relaxed under his touch. She did not want him to leave her.
«» «» «» «» «» «» «» «» «» «» «» «»
Slowly descending the last three steps to the foyer, Camille raised her hand to her hair in a characteristic gesture and tucked a bright, straying wisp back into her upswept coiffure. She had long before given up hope of perfect grooming, acceding to the stubbornness of the curls, which persisted in escaping despite her attempts to subdue them. She had been told by a particularly affectionate client that her wayward curls were a reflection of her personality: bright, energetic, warm, full of life, and so very lovely to touch. That affectionate client had been Charles Carter. Camille had never forgotten those words, and she had never looked at her riotous curls with dismay again.
She released a soft sigh. That particular memory was only one of the many that she cherished.
The annoying thickness in her throat returned, and Camille swallowed hard against it. She felt the familiar prick of tears, and she took a deep, steadying breath. This affliction had been the bane of her existence in the past few weeks, returning at the most inopportune moments to assail her. She feared she would never be free of its rigors.
Charles, I miss you so terribly…
Camille gave the foyer a perfunctory glance. Several of the girls were busy entertaining clients in the parlor. It was early in the day, and they had no need to hurry. They would drift upstairs soon.
A knock at the door made Camille turn in its direction. She was surprised to see Giselle respond to the summons. With practiced charm, the lovely brunette guided a well-dressed client toward the parlor, and Camille's brows rose even further. Marie must be slipping to allow one of the younger girls to assume her duties so early in the day. She knew Marie would rather die than turn the house over to one of those potential rivals for her position, even for a minute.
Camille gave a small shrug. She cared little about Marie's insecurities and petty jealousies. She had found during the past few weeks that there was very little she truly cared about. The small spot of desolation that had begun to ache inside her when Charles dismissed her from his rooms had expanded to encompass her heart and her mind, until she had been forced to feign even the most casual friendliness to her faithful clients. She had received several concerned inquiries as to her health, and it was obvious the change in her had not gone unnoticed. She was well aware that she could not go on this way.
Camille turned toward the familiar doorway beside the staircase. Pierre had summoned her to his office. She had spent a considerable amount of time with Pierre in the past weeks, and she was extremely conscious of his tender regard. The thought had touched her mind that Pierre's tenderness was beginning to exceed the bounds of friendship, and she sincerely hoped she was wrong.
It was one thing for her to please a client; that was a business matter, and there was no strong personal tie. It was another matter entirely when a heart was involved. It was especially difficult when the man so involved was one she loved and respected as a friend. It complicated matters to no end when a step taken toward a more intimate relationship by that valued friend would compromise his avowed commitment to a wife he loved and cherished. She did not want Pierre's compassion to lead him to a betrayal for which he would never forgive himself.
Camille's light brows drew into a concerned frown. Pierre had been so good to her. She did not wish to cause him pain.
At the door to Le Comte's office, Camille paused and took a firm hold on her composure. She would be honest with Pierre; she would explain things, so he might view the situation between them more clearly. He would soon leave for Paris. He would return to his loving wife, and his self-inflicted celibacy would end. Camille knocked on the door, suddenly determined that, whatever happened in her personal life, she would not cause Pierre difficulty in his.
A quick response from within took Camille into the small office, only to bring her up short. His back to the window, the light of morning holding his compact frame in dark relief, Camille saw Le Comte. Beside him, her satisfaction only too visible, stood Marie. Apprehension touched Camille's senses.