Pale Moon Stalker (The Nymph Trilogy) (6 page)

Then he smiled sardonically. Even if he decided he wanted to fulfill the terms of his uncle's will, would Sky agree? He could well imagine her furious reaction if he broached the idea. Sky had obviously been devoted to her first husband, probably loved him still. She had been willing to make a devil's bargain to see justice done for his murder. Which brought him back to the practical matter at hand. He looked down at the note just delivered from Jerome Bartlett's assistant.

He broke the silence. "May I come in?"

Sky turned, nearly dropping her brush, then tangled it in her thick hair. "You move as quietly as a Pawnee raider," she accused, trying to cover her reaction to him as he stood in the doorway between their quarters. He wore a black brocade robe belted carelessly around his narrow waist. The lapels gaped open, revealing far too much of a thatch of pale silver-gilt hair on a hard, muscular chest. Below his neck, his skin was as pale as she had imagined. Sky wondered how he kept from sunburn, spending so much time in the broiling heat of her native land...and in Africa.

"Sorry, I didn't intend to disturb you, but when I saw the light, I assumed you were still awake." He admitted nothing of watching her for several moments before announcing his presence. "I have something I thought you'd like to see."

She glanced at the note in his hand. "What is it?" she asked, trembling as she disentangled the brush from her hair.

He stepped closer and she turned to face him, letting her hair act as a curtain covering her breasts beneath the sheer night rail. It was all Max could do not to reach out and brush the hair back so he could feast on the proud, upthrust mounds hidden beneath all of that ebony luster. But if he did that, he knew he would not be able to look without touching. And that would violate their agreement.

What bloody self-punishing instinct made me open that door?
He cursed silently as he handed her the note, but could not keep his fingers from brushing hers. When she flinched and withdrew her hand, he could see that she was trembling. Bloody hell! So was he! At least she was not as indifferent to him as she attempted to make him believe she was.

Filing that thought away, he said, "Upon my request, Jerome Bartlett has unearthed some information that will help us track the Deuce."

She quickly scanned the lines, then asked, "How does knowing his identity here in England help us? I already knew he was an Englishman. He's in America now, disowned by his family."

"Ah yes, but a family that still remits funds to him to keep him across the Atlantic."

"How can you be certain this Jonathan Framme, third son of an earl, is Johnny Deuce? Just because of the first name—"

"You didn't finish the report. Allow me to summarize. Young Framme was banished back in eighty-one for the last in a series of indiscretions. He enjoyed using a riding crop on young girls. Tolerable as long as he contented himself with prostitutes and serving wenches. But he made one unpardonable error—he plied his whip on the daughter of an MP."

Sky nodded. "The actions certainly seem to fit, but it's not conclusive."

"Framme's middle name is Ducelin, a male version of his grandmother's name, Ducelina. And she was the one who raised the spoiled darling. She's also the one sending the remittances."

"Deuce from Ducelin. It makes sense. Can you trace where she's sending the money?"

He smiled harshly. "Always keen witted, m'lady. Being connected with the banking establishment, Jerome requested a few favors from clients and learned that one firm discreetly sends the remittance to New York. From there, the money is forwarded wherever our prey chooses. The most recent place is Denver."

"Denver is a large city," she said, doubtful yet daring to hope.

"I have a friend there named Blackie Drago who knows every unsavory secret in the city. If anyone can learn where Deuce is currently skulking about, it's Blackie. I'll wire him in the morning to begin the search. My affairs here will be settled tomorrow. We'll leave the day after."

"Then you have the title and fortune secured from Cletus?" she asked, shuddering at the memory of the odious little toad. An oddly guarded expression veiled his face.

"I've done all I can in London. Yes...I believe it is," he added on a more positive note.

When he turned to leave, Sky said quietly, "Thank you, Max."

"No thanks necessary. Remember Remy." He paused at the doorway and murmured, "Sky, you did well setting down Cletus tonight. You made me proud, m'lady."

She watched him step through the doorway and close the walnut door. When she turned back to the mirror and picked up her brush, she was startled to see a look of shy pleasure wreathing her face.

* * * *

Sky found it difficult to sleep in her elegant bedroom that night. Whether her insomnia was caused by the unsettling experience with Cletus at dinner or Max's earlier ill humor after returning from his solicitor's office, she did not know. After tossing and turning for an hour, she threw back the coverlet and rose, then turned up the gaslight.

Just as she began scanning the books in a case against the wall adjacent to Max's room, she heard the sound of Max's voice. The tone was soft, indistinct at first, but there was an anguish in it that had her straining to hear what he was saying. Then his voice grew louder. He appeared to be issuing orders.

"Form the company here, backs to the redoubt!" He let loose a string of curses. "I don't give a damn if there are a million of them—follow my commands and you'll survive. Do not fire until I give the order." His tone was precise, cold, deliberate now.

Sky found herself reaching for the heavy brass knob to the door separating their rooms. It felt clammy in her grip, but it was not locked. Too preoccupied to consider why neither of them had thought to take that simple precaution, she opened the door and peered inside. A sliver of moonlight trickled into the large room through the draperies. His hair shimmered like a pale halo, framing his stricken face.

Max sat upright in his bed, eyes wide open. Yet she was certain that he was not awake. His hard gaze was fixed on something only he could see. He raised his right arm in the air, bent at the elbow. His right fist was closed with the index finger curled and the thumb upright...as if he were holding a pistol. Very slowly his thumb moved back, cocking his dream weapon.

Suddenly he extended his arm and shouted, "First rank, preeesent," drawing out the last word before he commanded, "Fire! Second rank, preeesent. Fire! Third rank—" He stopped abruptly, making a choking sound and squeezing his eyes shut. His arm dropped. He fell backward onto the mattress, mumbling to himself, a garbled mixture of oaths and horrible descriptions of "blood, so damned much blood...rivers of the filthy red stuff...bones are still white, shining through it... bloody hell! That's right. This is hell...bloody flaming hell…"

Sky stood transfixed for another moment as he gradually quieted, tossing in a restless, exhausted sleep. She silently withdrew, closing the door and locking it from her side, then leaned against it to quell her shaking. Max could never know she had spied on him. If he thought for an instant she had witnessed his midnight battle, the proud Englishman would be humiliated beyond bearing. No wonder he did not want to speak of his earlier life. What had he witnessed?

What had he done?

He had been an officer in some distant and bloody war. Cletus had mentioned Rorke's Drift and the Zulu warriors of Africa. Was that the battle Max had been reliving in his nightmare?

He could not have run from the fighting or left the army in disgrace. No, something else had caused his alienation from his family, his coming to America. She had witnessed firsthand his coolness under fire. He'd become a bounty hunter, for heaven's sake—scarcely the occupation of a man who had won the Victoria Cross.

Then another thought occurred to her. He only hunted murderers, even though the bounties for bank and train robbers were usually much higher. What if he risked his life bringing killers to justice as a means of atonement? What had he done for which he must atone?

* * * *

In two days they were booked on a steamer bound for America. Because their suite had a sitting room separating their sleeping quarters, Sky had no idea if his nightmare recurred during the crossing. She had heard no further outbursts during their brief sojourn in London. Now aboard ship, the mystery continued. She felt loath to ask him about his experience in Africa, or the battle which had earned him the highest military honor bestowed upon a British soldier. Thinking of butchers like Custer and Chivington in America, she found it difficult to imagine her husband being cut from that cloth.

Without knowing anything about the battle at Rorke's Drift, she had no way to judge, other than by his terrible nightmare. Maxwell Stanhope was a man riven by guilt and bent on atoning. She intended to understand why before they parted.

* * * *

The nearer they drew to New York, the more Max stewed about his dilemma. Should he make a permanent commitment to Sky? Would she be willing to accept such a cold offer? She obviously cared nothing for money or the trappings of English society. He had watched her standing at the ship's railing when they embarked. She looked not at the receding coastline of the Old World, but rather, gazed eagerly to the West. She was going home.

Oddly, he realized for the first time that so was he. America, brash, crude and dangerous as it could be, had become his true home. The time spent in London had only served to sharpen his perception of how far he had drifted from English propriety. A life of serving in parliament, hosting formal dinners and attending Ascot filled him with claustrophobic dread. Maxwell Stanhope had the pedigree, but no longer the predilections for being a baron—if, indeed, he'd ever possessed them. He longed for the clean, harsh wind of the High Plains, the babel of languages and races, the teeming promise of the New World.

A place where a man could begin again...

But did that mean begin with the added responsibilities of a wife and family? Even if he decided to chance a permanent marriage, that still left Sky's feelings to be considered. How could he approach her? "Bear me a child and be tied to me for life just to spite Cletus Stanhope?" Doubtful that would win her over! But there was that undeniable frisson of sexual attraction that sizzled between them at awkward and unexpected moments. He could seduce her...

She could scalp him, too, once she learned why he'd done it. He smiled wryly.

By the time they landed in New York, Max was no closer to figuring out what he should do than when they'd left London. He brooded in his stateroom, pacing as a steward loaded his steamer trunks and carried them away. A light tap on the open door broke into his reverie.

Sky stood dressed in a soft blue suit with a jaunty little hat perched on her head, her lush hair caught in a heavy bun at her nape. She looked good enough to eat—and he was very hungry. "Everything packed and ready to go?" he asked before he blurted out his thoughts or something equally stupid.

"They took the last of my things," she replied. "I know it's customary, the mourning clothes, but I'm glad you didn't want to continue wearing black for the year. It always did seem a foolish idea to me."

"Uncle Harry abhorred it. He would've wanted to see you in clothes to match your eyes, not your hair. He would've approved of you, you know." What had made him say that?

She appeared to digest the remark, uncertain why he was flattering her. The marriage was a sham, and Uncle Harry certainly wouldn't approve of that! She practically thrust the telegram she'd been holding at him as she explained, "This just caught up with me. You know I've been keeping my family in Dakota Territory informed of where I've been this past year. My father worries—in fact he's worried so much about our marriage and trip to London that he took it upon himself to have a wire sent to my brother."

"Clint Daniels in St. Louis?"

Sky sighed with frustration, waiting until the steward wheeled Max's trunks from the cabin, leaving them alone. "Yes. And Clint, being the protective elder brother he is, found out when our ship was arriving—don't ask me how—and sent this wire, demanding to meet you."

"Imperious fellow," Max said with a hint of a grin. "Resourceful, as well. You mentioned he was in the river trade, dabbled in real estate. Does he own stock in the Pinkertons as well?"

"Quite possibly, but one thing I know for certain. If we don't detour to St. Louis for a family visit, he'll track us down." She bit her lip and looked out the porthole at the busy wharf.

"What is it, love? We can spend a few days in St. Louis, then take the train directly west to Denver. It's not so out of our way." Max knew there was more to her relationship with Daniels than she'd told him. "Do you and his wife not get on?"

Sky smiled sadly. "Delilah's my best friend in the world. I've missed her as much as Clint."

"Then what?" He waited.

Sky met his keen gaze, knowing she would have to explain some family secrets she did not want to reveal. "You asked why I didn't have my brother avenge Will's death for me..." she began.

"And you said you neglected to tell him it was murder. That if he sought vengeance it would 'stain his soul.' Something you were quite certain wouldn't bother mine...if I indeed possess a soul. Some reason for doubt on that score."

"I didn't intend to hurt you, Max," she said earnestly.