The Endless Sky (Cheyenne Series) (2 page)

      
“That half-savage, as you so quaintly call him, will graduate from Harvard next year. I seriously doubt if he's taken any scalps lately, not that I'd blame him, the way some people treat him,” Stephanie blurted out. Then seeing the malicious light in Addie's eyes, she could have bitten her tongue.

      
“So, you do know Chase Remington! Lucretia said you did, but I just couldn't believe it.”

      
Stephanie was saved from an awkward explanation when Rayburn Lawrence approached her and asked for another dance. She was ever so glad to leave the gossip mongering Addie behind, even if she did not find Ray the least bit appealing. He held her too closely when they danced and she disliked the overly sweet smell of the pomade he used to subdue his frizzy carrot hair, but most of all she hated the way he talked down to her as if she were a child or an imbecile.

      
“I heard Chase's name mentioned. Does Miss Lake know him?”

      
“No, I do...or at least I did, many years ago when we were children. Are you his friend, Mr. Lawrence?”

      
‘‘Now I've asked you to call me Ray, Stephanie,” he scolded, then smiled, drawing her closer. “Yes, although I'm not exactly certain that Chase has any real friends. Not the sort, you know. He's a born loner. We were thrown together in Professor Thayer's philosophy class last term. I assisted him in writing a paper on Locke and Hume. Metaphysical stuff, you know,” he added importantly. “Now don't bother that lovely little head worrying about what metaphysics is.”

      
Stephanie stiffened at his patronizing tone and interrupted coolly, “Metaphysics is an inquiry into the nature of ultimate reality and the terms in which it can best be categorized. I've read John Locke and David Hume.”

      
Damned Boston bluestocking
, Ray thought with irritation. The last thing he wanted to do was to discuss philosophy with anyone, especially a girl he wanted desperately to impress. In fact, Chase had written the paper for
him
, but it served Ray's purpose better when told in reverse. Or at least he thought it did until now. “You're far too beautiful to be a bookworm, Stephanie. Oh, there I go again, putting my foot in my mouth,” he said, noting her flush of embarrassment with satisfaction. “I didn't mean to be unkind.” He gave her his most boyishly charming smile.

      
“That's quite all right,” Stephanie said with a sigh. “Most of the girls at Miss Edgehill's Academy prefer piano lessons to philosophy, or painting silly little watercolors to studying art history. So, how did you and Mr. Remington meet?” she asked brightly, knowing it would annoy him to discuss Chase.

      
Gritting his teeth, Ray beamed at her as they swept across the floor. “It was the past spring on the Common...”

      
Chase observed Ray dancing with Stephanie whatever her name was. That strange sense of familiarity washed over him again as they drew nearer and he could study her face close up. She was tall for a female, even among his people where women averaged five and a half feet. Her body was slender, not quite the full bloom of voluptuousness so in fashion, but she was young yet. There was an honest freshness, vivacity to her that he found unusual among white women. He felt himself drawn to cut in on Ray and dance with her.

      
Absurd. Best if he stayed out of trouble for once and a girl like that one spelled nothing but trouble for the likes of him. Shrugging, he headed toward the library...and Agatha. He could sense the eyes of the women following him as he strolled from the ballroom, cat hungry young matrons on the prowl, silly little virgins tantalized with naughty thoughts, hostile and horrified respectable women who were appalled that a savage was allowed to contaminate their sacrosanct society. He despised them all.

      
Once there had been a white girl he had honestly liked. Stevie. The image of a freckled elfin face with a wide smile missing several teeth flashed into his mind. She couldn't have been more than eight. Hell, he was only twelve or so. Back when he was still naively trying to fit into white society. Before...
Don't think about it!

      
He made certain no one was watching as he turned to the left heading down the hall instead of out the front foyer. The Cabot home, like so many of the Beacon Hill mansions, was an immense mausoleum filled with endless dark passageways and dank cavernous rooms. Chase was a little early but the silent library was preferable to the noisy chatter in the ballroom. Most of the time he was comfortable being alone. That was how he chose to live his life.

      
Selecting a cigar from old man Cabot's humidor, he lit it and stared out the window at the winter garden where ugly topiary huddled beneath a blanket of soot-stained snow. Could white men leave nothing in nature untouched?

* * * *

      
Stephanie stood behind a large potted orange tree, praying that she had escaped the notice of Rayburn Lawrence. Of all her suitors, he was the most troublesome. Bumbling prep school youths who stammered or brought her wilted nosegays she could handle, but Mr. Lawrence was older, a college man. Of course, so were a number of others.
But they are not friends of Chase Remington
, her subconscious rose to taunt. She tamped the thought down. Chase had not even remembered her. She had felt his eyes on her several times as she and Lawrence danced but he had not approached.

      
The luster had decidedly worn off the evening. Her feet were swollen from having clumsy young men trample them on the dance floor and her head was beginning to ache from the smell of overheated bodies and heavy pomade. Father was doubtless closeted away in Mr. Cabot's private sitting room discussing business with other rich Boston merchants. She slipped quickly through the crowd and went in search of him.

      
Her slippered feet made scarcely a sound on the Khorasan rugs as she wended her way down the hall. Strange, all the rooms seemed dark. Had she taken a wrong turn? The house was immense and she had not often visited here in the evenings. Just as she started to turn and retrace her steps, she heard whispered voices. Some instinct made her freeze, flattening herself against the wall beneath the black shadow cast by a huge ornately scrolled rococo cabinet. The instant she heard Chase Remington's name she began to tremble.

      
“He's in the library now. Expecting to have a tryst at midnight. I've forged a note to the lady explaining that he'll be detained until one.”

      
“I expect the lady won't get 'er pleasurin', Gov'nor, seein's 'ow Remington’ll be dead before the clock strikes twelve,” a voice with a thick Cockney accent replied. “Ain't nobody better with a dirk 'n me, Gov.”

      
“Just be certain to make it look like a robbery. Leave by the library window. His paramour will discover him with his throat cut when she arrives. I wonder what tale she'll invent for sneaking into the Cabot’s' library at that hour?” Then the tone suddenly shifted from nasty amusement to tight anger as the man with the cultivated Boston accent admonished, “Don't botch the job—that damned savage is as hard to kill as a timber wolf!”

      
Where had she heard that voice before? Stephanie shivered with fright as the disembodied conversation concluded with an exchange of money and an assurance by the Cockney assassin that he would sail with the morning tide on the
Lady Jane
.

      
When a distinguished looking man dressed in expensive evening clothes walked past her hiding place, she was certain he could hear her heart pounding but his brisk stride never faltered. Then as he turned the corner the moonlight from a window struck him. Stephanie almost gasped aloud. She knew him! But surely she was mistaken. It must be a trick of the light.

      
She moved cautiously from her hiding place, praying the wharf rat with the dagger was not waiting to pounce on her and slit her throat. She had to find Chase and warn him! She recalled that there were two doors to the library. Since the assassin had not come this way, he must be planning to sneak in by the servants' entrance, which would give her time since that was a very circuitous route—if she could remember herself just where Mr. Cabot's library was!

      
Luck favored her. In a few moments she burst into the dark room, breathless and wide-eyed, frantically searching the moonlit interior for Chase. Before she could cry out his name a strong hand clamped over her mouth and she was slammed backward against a man's hard body. For an instant her blood froze with horror—was she too late?

      
Then a low smooth voice purred, “If you plan any more mad, impetuous dashes, I'd recommend not lacing yourself so tightly.”

      
Her spine stiffened in outrage in spite of the difficulty catching her breath.

      
He chuckled, then added, “If you create a scene, I assure you that you'll be more embarrassed than I.” What the hell was Ray's prim little heiress up to?

      
He eased his hand away from her mouth, but for some reason did not release his arm from around her tiny waist. The delicate scent of apple blossoms teased his nostrils as she struggled to twist around and face him.

      
“Chase, you're in danger! A man's been hired to kill you—he'll be here any—”

      
Her breathless whisper was cut short when Remington sensed the subtle air currents from another door opening across the room and once again muffled her mouth. “Quiet. I hear him.”

      
His whisper was barely audible to Stephanie, but she froze in his arms as icy fingers of dread caressed her spine. They were both going to die! Chase was unarmed. Who knew what sort of an arsenal that awful sounding Britisher possessed! Chase set her behind him, then pulled something from inside his jacket. She caught a silvery gleam of metal as he melted silently into the shadows, moving toward the stealthy figure crouched somewhere in darkness.

      
Stephanie bit down hard on her fist to keep from making any sound which would alert the killer. She could not see him now, but she could hear him moving cautiously across the room. There was no sign of Chase. Had he vanished in a puff of smoke, leaving her to die alone?

      
Suddenly the dull whump of two bodies colliding broke the stillness. Curses and panting ensued for what seemed an eternity to the terrified girl, but could only have been a moment. Books came crashing from their shelves as the two men fought in the shadows. Then the struggling pair moved in front of the large bay window behind Mr. Cabot's desk. Dear God above, the assassin almost matched the half-breed's uncommon height!

      
The men rolled across the desk, locked in an embrace of death. Moonlight shimmered on their wicked looking blades as each strained to free his knife hand from the other's grip. A lamp shattered against the wall, knocked from the desk along with a flurry of papers. The combatants fell behind the desk. A loud grunt was followed by a gasp, then one man rose over the other, silhouetted against the snowy landscape outside the window. A blade arced like silver fire and plunged. The death rattle which followed was unmistakable.

      
Stephanie stood frozen in terror. Why had she not run for help while she had the opportunity? When she heard Chase call her name, she rushed across the room and flung herself into his arms, sobbing, “Oh, Chase, thank God it's you. I was afraid that awful man killed you!”

      
Chase held her tightly and stroked the silky skin of her bare back where her ball gown dipped low. “How the hell do you know my name, Miss Stephanie?” She raised her head and he could see tears glistening in the moonlight as they fell down her pale cheeks.

      
“You honestly don't remember me, do you, Mr. Remington,” she replied stiffly, suddenly embarrassed to be blubbering like a schoolgirl while pressed indecently against the masculine hardness of his body. She tried to pull away but he did not release her. She swallowed for courage and met the glittering challenge in his eyes.

      
“No. I must confess I don't. Most mamas never let their virgin daughters within a mile of a mongrel bastard like me.” He felt her flinch but she continued to meet his gaze.

      
A wobbly smile touched her mouth. “You always enjoyed shocking polite society. Even more, I think, you did it to infuriate your grandfather. Reverend Remington was certain we were both bound for hell when you were twelve and I was eight.”

      
Recognition hit him like a punch. “Stevie? Is it really you?”

      
At the incredulous, almost wistful tone in his voice, her smile broadened. “Yes,” she replied simply. Suddenly his embrace felt familiar and very dear but then he released her, taking her hand and ushering her away from the desk. She felt bereft of his body's warmth.

      
“I must get you out of here before—”

      
Just then the hall door opened and a husky feminine voice called, “Chase darling, I'm here. That old sot is asleep and—” Agatha Lodge let out a hiss of vexation upon seeing the slender figure of another woman just behind Chase's broad shoulder. Even in the shadows, she could tell the chit was young. ‘‘Am I interrupting something, darling?” she cooed wickedly, one slippered foot tapping angrily.

      
“You might say that, Aggie, love,” Chase replied dryly, shielding Stephanie from the spiteful bitch's view. “You'd best go home to that ‘old sot’ before all hell breaks loose around here.”

      
“All hell already has,” she hissed, headed past Chase to confront the female bold enough to challenge her for his favors.

      
Chase took hold of her shoulders before she could reach her victim, backing her in the direction of the door. “You don't want to try my patience, Aggie,” he said in a silky voice. “It brings out the redskin in me.”