Silken Dreams (26 page)

Her brow creased when he stiffened slightly but did not immediately turn.

“Is something wrong?”

He turned then, and the expression on his features banished her fears. He didn’t regret what had happened. His eyes still glowed with a smoldering warmth.

He took a step toward her. “How do you feel?”

She felt a heat rise into her cheeks and prayed the darkness concealed her blush. “Fine.”

“Sore?”

“Yes.”

He sighed and padded toward her, slipping beneath the sheets and drawing her against his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Really?” she asked after a moment, slightly hurt and wondering how she could have misinterpreted the expression she’d seen in his eyes only moments before.

At her disappointed tone, he chuckled. “I’m sorry you’re sore, not sorry we made love.”

“Oh.” Her lips curled into a smile, and her arms wrapped around his waist. After the silence had settled around them with a silken heat, she asked, “What time is it?”

Once again, she felt Ethan hesitate. “Almost midnight,” he finally said. His arms tightened around her shoulders, holding her close, and she thought she felt him place a brushing kiss across the top of her head. Then he sighed and reached out to hand her more currant wine.

“Drink this.”

She regarded the cup in surprise, wondering when Ethan had retrieved the cup from the floor and filled it again.

“It will ease some of the aches,” he murmured when she hesitated.

Lettie obediently swallowed the contents, frowning slightly when the drink didn’t seem nearly as palatable as it had only hours before.

She handed Ethan the cup, and he returned it to the bedside table. Then she lay her head on his shoulder, her hand brushing idly against his stomach.

Once again, she felt a kiss against the top of her head. Looking up, she found Ethan watching her with a curious regard.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered, noting the serious set of his jaw.

He shook his head. “Nothing.” He crooked a finger and reached to skim his knuckle over her cheek. The caress so closely imitated the way Ethan had touched her in prelude to their lovemaking that Lettie’s fingers curled into his waist and her breathing came a little quicker.

Fighting against the delicious lassitude that seemed to seep through her veins, she rolled onto her back, pulling him with her.

“What makes you look so serious?” she murmured, running her hand up his torso to his shoulder, delighting in each curve and hollow she found along the way.

Silence pulsed between them for a moment, then Ethan said, “You know I care for you, Lettie.”

She nodded, her eyes growing heavy and slumberous. “Of course I know.”

“I would never hurt you.”

“I know.”

He bent to kiss her, once, twice. The pressure of his lips was poignantly gentle, almost worshiping. Yet there was a hint of sadness to the caress, one that tugged at Lettie’s consciousness.

Her arms wrapped around his shoulders and she drew him closer, hungrily seeking the passion she had felt only moments before in his arms. But she felt so tired.

Ethan broke away, noting the dark luster of her eyes and the velvet texture of her skin. She nudged against him like a hungry kitten and he bent, crushing his mouth to her own and pressing her so tightly against him that they were nearly melded into one flesh. Once again, awareness flared between them. Hot and insistent. And Ethan surrendered to the sensations, wanting to commit them to his memory for all time.

When Lettie’s fingers slipped down weakly to curl into the muscles of his shoulders, he moaned, holding her tightly against him.

But she broke away and whispered, “I love you… Ethan.” Her nails dug into his skin, and she uttered a sound that was half sigh, half groan. Then her fingers slipped from his back, inch by inch, and she became lax in his arms.

Setting her against the pillows, Ethan tenderly pushed the hair back from her face, his motions gentle, yet filled with an untold regret.

A tightness gathered in his throat as he gazed down at her innocent features. His heart seemed to have wedged in an aching lump in the center of his chest.

“Sleep now, Lettie girl,” he whispered. He brushed her lips once again with his own, knowing that it would probably be the last time for them both. Then he got up from the bed and retrieved the currant wine that he’d laced with a healthy dose of Celeste Grey’s sleeping powder only moments before. Dumping it into the chamber pot, he stepped into his trousers and moved to the stairwell. At the top, he paused and turned.

Despite his own pain in deceiving her this way, Ethan knew it was for the best. “I really do love you, Lettie,” he whispered. “Some day you’ll understand.” Then he padded down the steps and slipped into the hall.

Once back in his own room, Ethan quickly finished dressing and gathered what few belongings he could claim as his own. Glancing at his watch, he swore when he realized he was late. Much too late.

Taking one last look, Ethan strapped his gun belt around his hips and stepped toward the bed. Lifting one of the periodicals, he gazed at it in the dim light of the lamp on the bureau.

Only moments before joining Lettie, some of the pieces of the puzzle had begun to slip into place. Looking through the assorted magazines, Ethan had been able to discern a pattern in Judge Krupp’s career. Whenever hope seemed dim and a suspect seemed about to slip through the judicial system, the Star appeared to execute the man. And seven times out of ten, the men involved were being tried in Judge Krupp’s court.

Ethan’s eyes dropped to the article that had merely intensified his suspicions. Though small and easily overlooked, the piece had named Judge Krupp as one of the new owners of the Hamilton Mississippi Railroad. Jeb Clark had been killed while guarding a shipment for the same line. And somehow, though he didn’t have any proof, Ethan suspected that Clark had also been a member of the Star.

Although Ethan was nearly certain that Krupp was the man behind the Star’s sudden interest in the activities of the Gentleman Bandit, Ethan still had no clues as to who was attempting to copy his own methods. But if all went well tonight, he would know for sure. One way or the other.

Dropping the paper onto the bed, Ethan extinguished the lamp and slipped into the hall. Silence pressed down around his shoulders, reminding him of all the nights he’d spent with Lettie. Talking. Touching.

Pushing back the regret that taunted him with all the might-have-beens he’d been battling for some time now, Ethan hurried down the staircase, let himself out through the back door, and disappeared into the night.

But even as he moved silently through the darkness, away from the boardinghouse and all it entailed … he knew that the feelings he had for Lettie Grey would never be so easy to abandon.

Jacob jerked awake and blinked, staring down at the reports on his desk. Somehow he’d fallen asleep amid the wealth of tasks awaiting him. Yet, now that he was awake, the thoughts that had drummed through his head returned to haunt him.

Why had the Star decided to trap Ethan McGuire with the mythical gold shipment? It would be much more logical for Jacob and his men to guard the bank. If Ethan were caught red-handed, there would be no need for a vigilante execution. The courts would see to it that Ethan was shot or hanged, without any possible repercussions.

So why all the attempts at subterfuge?

A soft knock broke the quiet, and Jacob rubbed a hand across his face, realizing it was the same noise that had awakened him.

“Coming!” he called, reaching for a match and quickly igniting the wick of the lamp kept on the corner of his desk. Setting the chimney back in place, he moved to open the door a crack and peer outside. When he found Abby Clark waiting on the boardwalk, he gazed at her for a moment in surprise, then quickly opened the door.

“Abby! Is something wrong?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” She took a step into the room, then stopped, halfway through. “They brought Jeb’s body in from Harrisburg tonight… and I…” She took a deep breath, then continued in a rush. “I was on my way home from the funeral parlor when I came to a decision.”

She held out a tattered box, which had been bound by a worn piece of string.

“These were Jeb’s.” She pressed her lips together, then continued. “I know you’ll do the right thing by them.” She looked up, and her eyes were filled with worry. “Keep them someplace safe, and don’t let anyone know what they contain. I think Jeb would have wanted you to have them.” Her head bobbed in a curt nod. “Yes, I know he would have wanted it this way.” Her hand reached out, and she squeezed his arm. “You take care.”

“Let me take you home.”

“No,” she answered brightly, then added again, “No, I’d rather take the time to walk back. Alone. Besides”—she gestured to the box—“you’ve got a little reading to do tonight, and I don’t want to keep you.”

Moving back outside, she turned and walked away from the house at a slow gait, until finally, the black of her clothing blended into the night.

Taking a breath, Jacob closed the door, set the box on the table, and pulled on the string. When he lifted the lid, his brow creased in confusion at the scraps of note-scribbled paper, newspaper clippings, and letters. Lifting one of the dog-eared pages from the pile, Jacob scanned the angular writing that belonged unmistakably to his dead friend.

At first, the words darted through his mind in a scattered volley of images, but soon the images began to coalesce, then burn with the intensity of a brand. Dropping the page, Jacob picked up another, and another, reading quickly, haphazardly. Then his hand dropped into the box, curling around a handful of Jeb Clark’s carefully documented notes concerning the governing board of the Star.

“Dear God,” he whispered softly to himself, his voice filled with the sound of his own dread… and his own epiphany.

Dropping the papers, he jammed the lid over the box. Then he grasped his hat, rifle, and a box of shells, and he strode out into the black of the night.

Ethan crouched low in the shadows around the bank, listening for the slightest noise that might be out of place in the darkness. When only the lazy chirp of the crickets punctuated the silence, he moved around the back of the bank to the side alley. Taking a long metal file from his pocket, he inserted it into the keyhole, nudging slightly until he managed to twist the lock and open the door.

Glancing over his shoulder, Ethan slipped inside and closed the door behind him, then stood to full height. For a moment he paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the blackness of the interior. His heart raced in a heady combination of exhilaration and dread as he was rushed by the familiar scents and shadows of a night-cloaked bank office. Not for the first time, he found himself grateful that he’d given up this kind of a life. And if his hunches were correct and the man imitating him appeared tonight, he could give up this kind of life for good.

Slipping his revolver from its holster, Ethan crept into the bank, looking for a place to hide until the thief made his own appearance. He was nearly halfway through the front lobby when he halted and became still. He thought he’d heard something: a mere whisper of a sound that was out of place.

Changing directions, Ethan crept toward the door of the office, crouching low so that his shadow would not be seen from the windows surrounding the cubicle. Slowly, cautiously, his hand closed around the doorknob and he opened the door a crack, wincing at the slight creaking noise.

A split second later, Ethan realized that the thief had already been there. The doors to the safe hung open, the shelves lay bare, and the overpowering stench of kerosene cloaked the tiny office and rose to assault Ethan’s lungs.

Standing up, Ethan took only a moment to gaze into the office. Through eyes that watered and stung, he glanced down, seeing the shape of Silas Gruber’s blood-soaked body. A searing curse rose in Ethan’s mind, but he bit it back, realizing he’d just walked into a trap.

A burst of panic shot through his body and he whirled to race from the room, but before he could take three steps, something heavy crashed over the top of his head and he felt himself crumpling to the ground.

For a moment, the bank was silent.

Then a figure in black stepped forward and gazed down at Ethan’s body. “Krupp said you would come,” the thief murmured, then dropped an iron bar to the ground and grasped Ethan McGuire by the heels. “I guess you weren’t as smart as everyone thought.”

Once Ethan’s body had been positioned by the front door, the thief grunted in relief, then stepped outside to retrieve another container of kerosene and a white vellum calling card.

The thief smiled in secret pleasure. Tonight, Ethan McGuire and the Gentleman Bandit would die forever in the blaze of the Madison City Thrift and Loan.

The stench of kerosene clawed at the back of Silas Gruber’s throat, causing him to struggle to consciousness. Blackness surrounded him. A grasping, heavy blackness filled with the stark odors of sweat and fear.

He gasped and coughed. Biting back the whimper that rose in his throat, Silas reared his cheek away from the splintered wood of the floor. A searing pain shot from a point behind his ear to the center of his skull, threatening to plunge him once again into unconsciousness. If only he had waited for the Gentleman outside. But no, like a fool, he’d waited in his own office, thinking the darkness would conceal him.

Clenching his jaw to still the unmanly sobs that seemed to tumble loose from his throat, Silas squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus his mind on something other than the pain: the accolade he would receive for apprehending the Gentleman and his wife.

Natalie.

After tonight, she’d never let him live down the debacles of his career. She’d never believe that he had done it all for her. For Natalie…

With her name filling his head like a tangled litany, Silas’s eyes opened and he reached out, sliding his left hand across the rough floorboards. Even in the pitch black of the night, he could see the oily sheen of his own blood, could sense the rasping grate of the crushed ribs in his chest. But he was a desperate man. Desperate and frightened.

Clawing at the floor, he slid his body forward, inch by agonizing inch, praying all the while that the black-garbed figure would not return. An almost hysterical bark of laughter burst from between his clenched teeth. How many times had he assured himself that he would know just what to do if the Gentleman returned? How many times had he contemplated the beating he’d give the thief responsible for his loss of position and wealth and his wife’s disfavor? Yet when the moment had come, Silas had seen nothing, heard nothing, done nothing.

Silas’s laughter became a jagged sob. His head sank to rest on the floor, and he panted for breath. The fingers of Silas’s left hand once again moved to claw a path forward, while those of his right clenched miserably around his prize: the black neckerchief of the figure who had caught him unawares. He had no doubts that the thief had been the Gentleman, and he had to get outside… had to warn Krupp… had to…

Silas’s hand reached out again, then froze. His fingers had not encountered the rough boards of the floor, but a smoothly polished boot. He fearfully raised his head. In the darkness, he saw nothing but a solid ebony shape within the blackness of the bank office. Then the figure took a step back, opening the door that led to the side alley bordering the bank and the Mercury Saloon. A weak, blue-gray wash of starlight slipped over the figure’s unguarded features.

“Goodbye, Gruber,” the shadow whispered.

Silas’s eyes squinted in the darkness. That voice. That—

The shadow moved again. A match rasped against the doorframe and flared to life. Silas’s head reared, and he tried to push himself upright. Recognition and panic shuddered through him, along with the pain.

Then the figure flicked the match from gloved fingers.

Silas watched in horror as the tiny whisper of light arced through the blackened building toward the puddle of kerosene in the corner by the safe. The door closed. The match fell.

“Nooo!”

The night filled with the whooshing breath of fire.

At the rush of heat and smoke, Ethan coughed and struggled to consciousness. “Lettie?” he rasped, then winced at the pain thundering at the back of his head. Opening his eyes, he came face-to-face with a licking trail of flame eating its way toward him.

Ignoring the searing pain of his own body, Ethan lifted himself, intent upon reaching the door. But when he saw the dark shape of another body, he crawled toward the man, reaching out to turn him onto his back.

A shudder of recognition raced through Ethan’s body when he found himself staring into Silas Gruber’s wild eyes. Memories came pounding to the fore, and with them a shimmering realization. Five years before, Ethan’s last heist had been in Chicago, where Gruber had served as director to the Chicago Mortgage and Thrift. And although Ethan had never personally seen the man, he’d followed the publicity, heard about the scandal that had ensued. Because of his lackadaisical security, Gruber had been demoted and sent to another bank in…

Madison.

Silas Gruber’s eyes widened in mutual recognition. His face suddenly became fierce, and he reached out to grasp Ethan’s shirt with a bloody hand. “Damn you,” he growled. “You did this to me. You—” His words suddenly stopped and his brow creased in confusion. “You aren’t… the one…” he muttered, almost to himself.

Ethan grew still at the man’s words. “Who did this, Gruber?” he demanded. “Who’s responsible?”

But the man didn’t seem to hear him. Instead, his eyes grew dull, seeming to look in upon himself. “I paid Krupp to kill you… hated you.” His fingers tightened, pulling Ethan toward him. “After what you did to me … I would have done anything. Anything!” He gasped and squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. The fire roared closer and hotter, but Ethan found himself unable to move until he knew the truth. “Krupp… Star. For a price, he will arrange… murder.”

Ethan glanced beyond Gruber at the licking flames. From the moment he’d seen Silas’s face, he’d guessed that Gruber was the man he’d overheard talking to Krupp weeks before. Now he had his proof. But that didn’t explain who had been impersonating the Gentleman Bandit. It was obvious that Gruber had thought it was Ethan McGuire.

Gruber cried out, and his fingers grew lax. Bending toward him, Ethan demanded over the hiss and crack of the fire, “Who did this? You realize they meant to kill us both tonight. Who?”

Gruber’s eyes flicked open, but Ethan knew his mind was in the past. “I killed … Jeb … for Krupp.” A gurgling chuckle bubbled from his throat. “Discovered I didn’t have the… nerve to kill a man… I meant to wound him…” His fingers clenched. “Just… wound him…” His lips twitched. “But the blast … set it wrong … it finished the job…”