A Touch of Camelot (17 page)

This caught her attention. "What?"

"Scorpions."

"What?"

Cole doubted that scorpions were indigenous to this part of Nevada, but at the moment, he was too exhausted to fight the childish pigtail-pulling part of him that had caused him to blurt this out in the first place. "You heard me. Scorpions. The place is crawling with them."

She catapulted to her feet. "It is?"

"No doubt about it." Cole chose a flat spot by the foot of a pine and sat.

"Aren't they poisonous?"

"Deadly." Cole had emptied his gun of bullets before jumping the train. He reloaded it now before setting it down within easy reach and collapsing onto his back. He closed his eyes. Once he was still, the pain in his shoulder faded back to a dull, throbbing ache. He hoped he’d be able to sleep.

A long silence ensued, filled only by the shrill machinations of busy nocturnal insects and Arthur's soft snores. Gwin moved about nearby, the folds of her skirt rustling as she circled, picking around stealthily in the moonlight. Right on cue, she spoke again. "I don't see any."

"Well, of course you don't see any. What do you think they are? Stupid?"

Her rose voice indignantly. "They're animals, for Pete's sake! Of course they're stupid."

Cole sighed. "Gwin, they don’t go after moving prey. They'll stay hidden until we're asleep."

"They will?" Her voice softened. "Oh, dear."

"Put it out of your mind. There's nothing we can do about it anyway. Get some sleep."

"Horrible, crawly little monsters. How can we sleep knowing they're just waiting for—"

"If it'll make you feel better, you can sleep right next to me, Guinevere, my sweet."

"Your
sweet
?"

Cole opened his eyes to see her staring at him in surprise. He grinned. "What are you looking at me like that for? You're the one who kissed me, remember?"

"That's just because I figured I'd never see you again, you lout. How was I supposed to know I'd be tripping over your stupid body less than an hour later?"

"Ah, well, I guess we’re just meant to be together, Miss Pierce."

"Oh, yeah? A real gentleman would have the courtesy to pretend nothing happened. I must have had a screw knocked loose or something."

"Suit yourself." He closed his eyes again, feeling no guilt. If she ended up sweating a little, it served her right for jumping the train in the first place. She should have trusted him.

There was a hesitation, two slow beats, then, "You
were
lying, right? There aren't any scorpions, right?"

He didn't answer.

"Cole Shepherd, you tell me the truth! There aren't any scorpions around here, right?"

"Gwin, you should know by now that I never lie."

After a moment, Cole heard her approach. She knelt by his side. When he looked up, it was to see that her hair hung in crazy, curling tendrils about her face. He found her particularly desirable this way, disheveled and out of her element, and he was perilously close to doing something about it. He decided he must be delirious—delirious from shock, delirious from pain, and certainly delirious from exhaustion. Knowing this, however, did nothing to alleviate his problem. His self control had flown the coop.

Gwin spoke cautiously. "All right, I'll sleep next to you, but I'm only doing this because it’s cold, otherwise, I won't get any sleep."

"Don’t worry. You can trust me. We slept together last night and nothing dire befell you."

Gwin gave him a long, lingering, suspicious look in response, a look Cole devoured because she was absolutely
right
to be suspicious, but he didn't offer any fair warnings to that effect.

Finally, she moved to lie down next to him, resting her head in the crook of his good shoulder. When he looped his arm around her shoulders at the same time, his fingertips came to rest perilously close to her right breast.

Don’t' think about it
, his conscience whispered. As she settled in to get comfortable, he remained very still, doing his best to think of nothing and thinking only of nubile breasts and supple thighs.

"See?" he said when she grew still. "I don't bite."

But he
did
want to bite. Or, more precisely, nibble. He would have liked to start with her earlobe, and then work his way down to the spot where her neck met her shoulder. Cole decided in that moment that the wisest thing to do would be to change the subject. "Gwin, I want you to tell me about San Francisco."

Her tone was predictably defensive. "As I recall, we already did tell you about San Francisco, and you chose not to believe us, remember?"

Cole absorbed this stoically. After all, he deserved it. "You told me what happened after the murders. Why don't you start from the beginning this time?"

"Why? Didn't you get all the facts from your precious Agency file?"

"The official version, certainly, but as we all know, Gwendolyn, sometimes the file can be wrong."

"All right, but it's not going to help. I've gone over it a hundred times and I still can't make any sense out of it."

"Humor me. How long were you in San Francisco before it happened?"

"Less than a week. Clell and I always traveled a few days ahead of the rest of the group to post signs for the revival."

Cole listened closely to her tale as it unfolded: five days in San Francisco for Gwin and Clell Martin, three for the doomed Silas Pierce and the rest of his group.

Gwin related the details of that final night in a grim, controlled voice: The tent revival that had gone well in spite of her premonitions of disaster; the interval afterward when she and Arthur and a man named Wilson had waited in the dark hills for the camp to empty; and, finally, the horrifying events that had ensued upon their return.

Her description of the killer was vague. Big. Well-dressed. Deep voice. Not much to go on. Arthur was the only true eyewitness and, bright or not, he had seen the killer through the traumatized eyes of a child.

"It was Wilson who saved us," she said. "We ran as fast as we could. We all ran, but Wilson couldn't keep up."

Cole felt her tremble and he hastened to stop her. "That's enough." He stroked her hair as his mind worked over the facts. "You never saw the man's face, but you said you would recognize his voice. Are you sure you never heard that voice before?"

"I'm sure."

"And Arthur, he saw the man's face, but he didn't recognize him either."

"Well, whoever he was, he had a heck of a grudge against Silas."

"Not necessarily."

"What do you mean by that?"

"He said it himself. He had a message to deliver. This man wasn't just a killer, he was a delivery boy, hired help, just like I suspect our friend on the train was. There's more here than meets the eye."

"I wish there was something I could have done to stop it. I just keep thinking that if only—"

"Wait a minute," Cole cut in, suddenly alert. "You said Silas went into town that day. What kind of business did he have in San Francisco?"

"I don't know."

"You told me you'd never been to San Francisco before. Was that true of Silas, too?"

Gwin hesitated. "I think so ... No, wait a minute. I know so. Before we got to California, he mentioned that he was finally going to see it for himself, Sidney's land of milk and honey."

"Sidney's land of milk and honey?"

"Do you think whatever Silas was doing in town that afternoon had anything to do with what happened?"

Cole paused. "Maybe. Maybe not." But he thought to himself,
maybe
.

"None of it matters anyway," Gwin said. "They've got the wrong man waiting for trial, and I'd bet my bottom dollar they'll have him convicted for it. No one cares who the real killer is."

"Don't you?"

"What kind of question is that? Of course I do."

"Then why are you so intent on running? You and Arthur are the only eyewitnesses. Without you—"

"Running, you call it? I don't call it running; I call it surviving. I won't put my brother's life in jeopardy, not for Silas's memory, not for my own need for justice, and certainly not to further your career."

Cole bristled at her insinuation. "My career has nothing to do with this."

"Are you so sure?"

"Yes."

Her entire body stiffened against him. "Are you still going to try to take us to San Francisco? Because if you are, I'll fight you on it. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, I know that." Cole was annoyed with her combative attitude. Why did she still insist on casting him as the villain?

"You think I'm just being stubborn,” Gwin said.

"No, I don't think you're being stubborn."

"You think I don't care. You think I'm afraid to go back there, don't you?"

Afraid? That thought had never crossed his mind. Guinevere Pierce didn't seem afraid of anything. "No, Gwin, I don't think you're afraid."

She didn't seem to hear him. "Well, maybe I am a little afraid, but I wouldn't let that stop me. Silas raised me, and I loved him very much. And Clell—" Her voice caught, and Cole suspected she might be fighting off tears. He regretted upsetting her.

She pressed on. "Clell was very important to me, too. I'd give anything to find the real murderer, to find out why it happened, to make some sense out of that awful night."

On impulse, Cole reached out with one finger to lift her chin. His wounded shoulder protested the movement by sending up a warning flare of pain, which he ignored. "I told you, I understand."

"It's Arthur. It's not right to—"

"Stop. Who are you trying to convince?"

"Nobody. I do what I need to do."

"And I told you, I can understand that. If he was mine, I'd feel the same way."

"You would?"

Cole let his finger trail up along the curve of her cheek. "I would."

Gwin studied his face, her expression relaxing, her eyes slowly losing focus. He recognized that expression. It was the same expression she had worn the moment before she'd kissed him in the baggage car, the moment before she'd uttered those nonsensical words.
"Oh my love, I am all yours."

At that moment, Cole's ever-logical mind deserted him. The case was forgotten. His job was forgotten. He was assaulted by fleeting images—the glimpse of her white-stockinged calf as she had mounted his stallion that first day in Caldwell, the curving shape of her lips when she smiled, the vibrant color of her hair when the sun played tricks through the venetian blinds of the train window. He remembered most vividly how she had felt in his arms just last night.

He was delirious all right. How else to explain the fact that he suddenly found himself kissing Guinevere Pierce?

Her lips were as soft and sweet and inviting as he knew they would be, though they stayed demurely closed. This was a surprise, but he remained patient, nudging her lips apart with his own, so that, when her mouth finally opened with a tiny intake of breath, he took the opportunity to slowly taste the essence of her. Yet still, she seemed hesitant. Had he moved too quickly? Was it possible that…?

Cole cast his uncertainties aside. Gwin was no innocent. Hadn't she been flirting with that slimy character, Monroe? Cole didn’t want to think about how that night would have ended if he hadn't interrupted them.

He kissed her again, this time parting her lips with no hesitation, and this time, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him just as fervently. Ignoring the pain in his arm, he pulled her closer and shifted position to run his fingers down along the curve of her waist to her hips, coaxing her closer yet again until she finally pressed flush up against him. Sweet mercy. As he relished the pleasure of Gwin's soft, feminine curves meshing against him, his pain receded, and he grew hard and aching for release.

Gwin made no move to discourage him as he unbuttoned her blouse, bending his head to kiss her neck, to bury his face in her hair. She nudged him gently with her hip, making his ache grow worse. He groaned into her neck and thought, when a woman moved like that, there was no doubt she knew what she was doing.

He pushed aside her blouse, his hand sliding over a smooth cotton camisole to finally close over the soft, pliable flesh of her breast. There was nothing else on earth quite like it—the feel of a woman's breast. He glided his palm lightly over the tip and felt it stiffen beneath his touch. She let out a soft breath and, again, arched her hips against him.

He rained little kisses down the length of her neck, tasting damp, salty flesh, working his way hungrily to the gentle rise of her breast. She whispered, "Cole, we shouldn't." But her fingers entangled in his hair, pulling him to her.

Cole knew enough about a woman's body to tell what she did and didn't want, and Gwin's body told him that she was as hungry as he. Cole ignored her feeble protests, hearing only the soft, shallow sound of her breath catching as he cupped his hand beneath her breast and lowered his mouth to its tip. She cried out in a frantic whisper, "We can't. My brother..."

Cole moved up to reclaim her lips, very soon stifling all protests. He pulled her against him, cradling his hardness in the soft flesh of her belly. He slid one hand down along the line of her waist and circled back around to unhook her skirt.

It had been a long time for him, much too long since Cynthia. All it would take was a few moments buried inside the welcoming moist warmth of her. He whispered against her parted lips. "It’ll be all right. He's asleep."

She turned her head. "No!"

The vehemence in her cry was just startling enough to penetrate his consciousness. He let go of her and raised his hand to cup her chin, feeling a sudden need to see into her eyes. Those eyes, however, were closed tight, denying him the answers he sought to find there.

He kissed her once more, gently, slowly, regretfully. "You're right. Of course you're right."

"If Arthur woke up and—"

"You're right, Gwin. Absolutely ... correct."

Gwin sat up and struggled with her skirt and then buttoned her blouse. This was for the best, Cole told himself.

"Come here," he whispered when she moved to lie back down. He slipped his good arm around her shoulders, urging her close again, glad that she didn't try to pull away. "I'm sorry."