Honor (30 page)

Honor laughed, the wine emboldening her to say, “You’ve always struck me as a man of few words, Mr. LaRouche.”

He put one elbow on the table and leaned closer. “I’ve never seen much point to talking when you have nothing to say.”

Oh, you are very eloquent, Honor thought, but you speak with your body rather than words. “In that case, you’d make a terrible lawyer.”

“I suspect so, ma’am.” He wiped his lips with his napkin and said out of the blue, “The name’s Nevada, by the way.”

Whether the fire or the wine caused her cheeks to grow warm, Honor couldn’t tell. “I’ll call you Nevada if you’ll stop calling me ma’am. It makes me sound like a—a schoolmarm.”

His eyes danced with mirth. “You’re not like any schoolmarm I’ve ever known…Honor.”

The sound of her name on his lips brought another flush of warmth to her face, and she turned her attention back to finishing her soup. Her lawyerly composure was fast deserting her tonight.

When the butler and footman answered their master’s next summons, they bore large ramekins filled with sherried lobster. When they left, LaRouche said, “I’ve never been to Boston. What’s it like?”

Honor spent the next fifteen minutes drawing comparisons between the Hub of New England and New York City. LaRouche listened intently, interrupting her to ask intelligent questions about the city long after they finished their fish course. Finally the butler interrupted them with dishes of lemon ice to clear their palates.

“You lived there with your aunt?” LaRouche said.

“Yes. Theodate Putnam Tree,” Honor replied, giving her aunt’s name a certain proper Bostonian imperiousness. Then she smiled. “Despite her name, Aunt Theo is quite unconventional. She collects French paintings of the Impressionist school, terrorizes Boston in her motorcar, and once took a young lover.”

The minute she realized what she had said, her hand flew to her mouth in horror and she turned crimson. “I’m so sorry,” she muttered, looking over at the fire, down at her lemon ice, anywhere but at the man seated across from her. “I didn’t mean to say that. Do forgive me. It’s the wine.”

He didn’t embarrass her further by catching her eye or smirking. “I’d like to meet your aunt Theodate one day. She sounds like a most unusual lady.” Then he went over to the bellpull to give Honor time to compose herself.

When the main course was served and the butler was about to pour the burgundy, LaRouche said, “No wine for Mrs. Davis, Winston.”

Honor stared at him, surprised by his uncharacteristic display of masculine presumption.

The moment the servants left, LaRouche said, “You can cuss at me all you want, but it won’t do any good. I never serve spirits to women who can’t hold their liquor.”

Her annoyance dissipated like smoke. Mollified, she regarded him with a grudging respect. “I know far too many men who would have let me drink myself senseless.” And taken advantage of her afterward.

“I don’t know why. Can’t converse with a senseless woman.”

After taking a bite of the delicious rare roast beef, Honor said, “I’ve committed the cardinal sin of monopolizing the conversation. Now it’s your turn to tell me about yourself.”

Wariness flickered in the depths of his eyes. “Not much to tell.”

Honor grinned. “You don’t like talking about yourself, do you? Well, that’s too bad. You’ll just have to humor me.”

His mustache twitched, and he smiled almost shyly. “As I said, there’s not much to tell.”

“You’re too modest. Were you born in Nevada?”

He nodded.

Honor leaned forward, bursting with curiosity. “Where? In a mining town? On a ranch?”

“I was born in a Virginia City whorehouse.”

Her fork stopped halfway to her mouth. Surely she had misunderstood. “I beg your pardon?”

He repeated himself, never taking his eyes off her, daring her to look away.

She set down her fork and stared at him for what seemed like an eternity. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

Again that diffident shrug. “My mother was a dance hall girl who sold herself to whoever was willing to pay.” His gaze didn’t flinch. “She was a whore. Life dealt her a bad hand, and that’s how she survived. I never held it against her, but that’s what she was. I didn’t know my father.”

“I can imagine you had an…unusual upbringing.”

A faint smile touched his mouth. “You could say that. I learned a whole lot about women and even more about the mindless cruelty of men.” His smile died, and a faraway look glazed his eyes as if he were looking back into a turbulent, troubled past.

Sitting there quietly, Honor envisioned him as a little boy always seeing too much, hearing too much, and learning things that only a grown man should know, and her heart went out to him.

“Honor?”

The sound of her name brought her back to the present. She found Nevada LaRouche regarding her with a frown of concern.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” he said. “I should have spared your feelings.”

She reached across the table and placed her hand on his. “I asked you to tell me about yourself, and you did. I much prefer the truth to a falsehood, however well intentioned.” She took her hand away. “Where is your mother now?”

“Dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need. It happened a long time ago.”

She didn’t dare ask how his mother had died. “How old were you?”

He sipped his wine. “Twelve. After the funeral, one of my mother’s best customers, a local rancher, took me in and taught me everything he knew about ranching because I was Chantal’s son, and I reckon he had loved her in his fashion. When I turned sixteen, I took off on my own.”

“Sixteen.” Still more boy than man. “How did you survive?”

“By using my wits and my hands.” He stroked the stem of his wineglass. “Sometimes my gun.”

What had he said to her that foggy morning at Coppermine, that he had broken more than one law in his lifetime?

She took a deep, shuddering breath, for the four walls suddenly closed in on her. She had to know. “Did you ever kill anyone?”

He placed both hands palms down on the table as if daring her to find blood on them. “Only when I had to.” His shoulders tensed. Did he expect her to recoil in disgust or slap his face or denounce him as a murderer?

She envisioned the little boy he had once been, raised among loose women and rough men. “You’d better eat,” she said softly. “Your food will get cold.”

The clock on the mantel chimed midnight. In the fireplace only glowing embers remained. The servants had cleared the table long ago, then discreetly retired for the night.

Honor sat too close to Nevada on the sofa as he sipped his brandy, her velvet skirt covering part of his leg. The lateness of the hour and the hushed, shadowed library lulled her into soft conversation and shared confidences.

Nevada had just finished telling her how he first met Damon Delancy, who had saved him from three men intent on shooting him and stealing his horse.

“So he saved your life, and you became friends,” she said.

“More like brothers.” He stared into the depths of his brandy glass. “He took me under his wing and made me his partner. Taught me everything he knew.”

She brushed an errant lock of hair away from her cheek. “You know so much about commerce now. Have you ever thought of starting your own company?”

“Can’t say that I have. I make all the money I could need or want working with Delancy.” He gave her a quick, self-deprecating smile. “I reckon one of my biggest faults is that I lack ambition.”

“Don’t!” Her vehemence made the word ricochet through the hushed room like a shot. She placed a hand on his arm. “Don’t you dare think of it as a fault! You’re a strong, steadfast man whom people can depend on. If you hadn’t been there after I was beaten, I—” She stopped. Her hand fell away, and she sat back.

“What about your husband?” he said softly, his eyes shadowed.

Honor rose and turned her back so he wouldn’t see her tears. “He had enough ambition for ten men, but I could never depend on him.” Rows of book spines swam and danced before her eyes. “Robert and I may have been married, but we were not…not…” She groped helplessly for the right word.

“Mated?”

The animalistic word evoked an image of two loping wolves silhouetted against the vast, endless night sky. “Yes,” she said, “we never…mated. Our spirits never connected. Whenever I really needed him, I always found myself alone.” She shivered. “And it made me angry.”

She didn’t hear Nevada rise. She felt a warning rush of air against her back just a second before his warm hands rested lightly on her bare shoulders. He said nothing, demanded nothing.

Not this, she thought. Not with this unlikely man.

Honor turned, her heart thudding so loud she feared he could hear it in the surrounding stillness. His hands resettled on her shoulders with a gentle persistence. Suddenly unsure, she raised her gaze no higher than his white tie, still loosened. When he whispered her name, she looked up into the eyes of a stranger.

The remoteness, had vanished, unmistakable desire now smoldering in its place. Honor had never seen cool blue eyes turn so hot, and she felt the heat both weaken and strengthen her. She wanted to run. She wanted to stay and burn.

His hands slid down her arm in a light, questioning caress. She could feel him holding back, sense the tension stretching taut within his lanky frame. He watched and waited.

With a soft sigh of surrender, Honor went to him and felt herself tenderly enfolded in his embrace. He fit her to his lean, hard body, holding her close in the circle of his arm while he tucked her head against his shoulder.

Steadfast, she thought, inhaling the faint spruce scent of his shaving soap mingled with freshly starched linen and clean male skin. She slid one arm around his waist while he took her other hand and held it against his heart.

She closed her eyes. Her pain eased. Her loneliness vanished.

Nevada stirred He placed his fingers beneath her chin so he could tilt her face upward. Honor opened her eyes, then let her gaze drift down to his mouth, half hidden by his mustache. She stood on tiptoe and parted her lips in blatant invitation.

Nevada accepted with alacrity. The moment he covered her mouth deftly with his own, his warm, hard lips tasting sweetly of brandy and desire, Honor’s blood ignited. Her hand slid up to cradle his hard, warm cheek. He moaned deep in his throat at her touch, and kissed her harder.

Suddenly he stiffened and broke the kiss, but still held Honor in his arms. “Shouldn’t do this,” he whispered raggedly, his cheek pressed to hers.

She moved back to look at him. “Because I’m married?”

“I’m not in the habit of taking another man’s woman. It’s not right.”

Honor stepped away and crossed her arms, daring him to trespass. “I’ll have you know that I am not for anyone’s taking, Mr. LaRouche.”

He stared at her in keen, silent appraisal. “I can see that. Either you give yourself to a man or he doesn’t get you at all.”

“Exactly. In the eyes of the law, Robert and I are still married and will remain so until I can divorce him, but I no longer regard myself as married.” A bittersweet smile touched her mouth. “I know I should feel some regret that my marriage has failed, but I’m too angry with myself for having used such poor judgment in marrying him in the first place.”

“We all do things we later regret.” LaRouche stirred. “What if he comes back?”

“I don’t think he will. For all his bravado, he’s a coward. He couldn’t face me after what he had done. When my maid Tilly came to collect her back pay, she said that Robert just left and told her to find a new position because he was leaving me and I wouldn’t be able to afford to pay her wages. Can you blame me for never wanting to see him again?”

“Can’t say that I can.”

“He even wanted me to lie for him.” She told LaRouche about the night of the Foggs’ dinner party and how Robert had wanted her to keep her profession a secret.

“You took the blame yourself so your husband wouldn’t look bad?” When Honor nodded, he muttered, “I thought your story was full of holes. You’re not the kind of woman who hides her accomplishments.”

“Not when I’ve worked so hard for them.”

Honor shivered, and not from the room’s sudden chill. Discussing Robert had conjured him up like an unwelcome guest sitting in the corner, spoiling the rest of the evening for her. “It’s late, and I have to be at the office early tomorrow. Perhaps you’d better take me home.”

“Only if you agree to have dinner with me again,” he said, catching her hand.

If I accept, there will be no turning back, she thought. She smiled. “I’d like that.”

Honor missed him the moment she locked her apartment door and the emptiness closed in on her once again.

She undressed, creamed her face, and slipped into bed, but found that sleep eluded her. She rose and returned to the parlor, where she sat in a corner of the sofa, hugging her knees and thinking of Nevada LaRouche.

Her growing attraction to the man astonished her, especially since every instinct warned her to put a thick, high wall between them. He wasn’t her kind. He broke the very laws she had sworn to uphold. He probably engaged in questionable business practices, like the man who had destroyed her father.