Hawk's Prize Page 5

  He tossed restlessly in bed as Chantalle said softly, “Simon Gault is dangerous, Tricia. I had hoped to spare you from contact with that kind of man. It’s imperative that you keep your distance from him.”

  “You needn’t worry about that.” Tricia placed the bucket of cold water on the nightstand as she continued, “It was quite obvious what he had in mind when he first saw me, even though he’s old enough to be my father. Besides, he was drunk.”

  “Drunk or sober, Simon Gault is not a man to be trifled with.”

  Tricia took a patient breath. “I’m not entirely without experience or common sense, Chantalle. I’ve been on my own too long not to realize when a man’s intentions are less than honorable. Besides . . . he was drunk.”

  “Simon consumes only the best liquor available.” Halting Tricia when she was about to respond, Chantalle continued, “I know, a drunk is a drunk no matter how he gets that way, but this man sees a difference. He sees everything differently from the way a principled man does. He has his own agenda, and to hell with anyone who’s in his way.”

  Tricia glanced at her patient. His face had started to flush an even darker color, and slow panic began invading her senses. She said impatiently, “I understand that Simon Gault is a dangerous man and you want me to stay away from him. I accept what you say, Chantalle, because my first impression supports your warning. Also, you know him far better than I, but I have one question. If he’s as dangerous as you say he is, why do you keep a room here specifically for his . . . enjoyment?”

  “I should think the answer to that question is obvious, Tricia. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer is good advice. Angie isn’t to be trusted either, but she brings Simon here. She enjoys his perversions, and because of her, he doesn’t bother the other girls anymore—and I’m still able to get a sense of what he’s up to.”

  “Why do you care what he does?”

  “Because—”

  A call from below turned Chantalle toward the sound. Looking back at Tricia, she said, “It’s busy downstairs tonight. I have to be there to make certain things don’t get out of hand.”

  Tricia looked at the brassy, middle-aged hussy standing before her, knowing that despite her appearance, Chantalle treated her customers fairly and with respect. Surprisingly, her customers seemed only too happy to respond in kind. Chantalle also kept her girls in line, and Tricia supposed that was the reason her house had a reputation unlike any other bordello in Galveston—because of Chantalle’s sincere, warmhearted nature despite the business of her establishment.

  “Don’t worry,” Tricia whispered. “I heard everything you said, and I’ll keep my distance from Simon Gault. It won’t be any problem for me at all.”

  Chantalle glanced at the delirious man in the bed and Tricia added, “As soon as this fella’s on his feet, he’s on his way, too. I promise.”

  Tricia did not speak when Chantalle kissed her cheek unexpectedly and then turned toward the doorway. Instead, Tricia picked up the bucket on the nightstand as the door clicked closed and poured water into the waiting basin.

  There was fire all around him and he was burning up. He struggled to escape from the flames, then stepped out onto clear ground at last, but he was still hot.

  He looked behind him. There were Yankees everywhere. They were all looking for him. They wanted him to reveal the location of the gold shipment, but he wouldn’t tell them even if he knew.

  “You’ll be all right soon. You’ll feel much cooler. Just lie back and rest.”

  He opened his eyes at the sound of her voice. It was the angel again.

  No, she wasn’t an angel.

  She was opening his shirt and slipping his arms free. She was struggling and he tried to help her but he could not seem to make his body cooperate.

  He was free of the garment at last. He gasped as he was enveloped by a sensation so cold that it stole his breath. He struggled to clear his vision and saw that she had tears in her eyes.

  No, don’t cry.

  “You’re going to be all right. You’ll see.”

  She spoke to him, and then she smiled.

  Her smile was beautiful.

  She was beautiful.

  He closed his eyes.

  Tricia struggled to hold back her tears. This man was so sick, she feared for his life. He was too young and too handsome to die. She looked at the broad, muscular chest she had bared for her ministrations, noting the scar on his shoulder. It was from an old wound. She wondered if he had received that wound in battle also. The war had taken so many lives, but although it was over, it still threatened him.

  She touched the scar with silent reverence, then dipped the cloth in the basin and twisted it dry before spreading it across his chest as she had done before. The cloth was frigid against his heated skin, and he gasped another mumbled protest. She repeated the act, allowing the cloth to warm up against his skin while she bathed his arms and face.

  The water warmed quickly, and Tricia refreshed it with colder water from the bucket. She performed the process again and again. Concerned when his fever did not appear to be subsiding, she moistened the smaller cloth and ran it across his forehead, then his cheeks and mouth. She felt his lips move underneath it, then started when his eyes opened unexpectedly and his hand grasped her wrist with bone-snapping strength. Her heart pounded strangely while his gaze searched hers for silent moments before his eyelids drooped closed again.

  Tricia remained momentarily still when he released her. In that moment of silent communication between them, his message had been clear. He was ill, but he would not surrender control easily.

  No, he would not tolerate having someone take his leg without his consent. Neither, she suspected, would he give his consent, no matter what the cost.

  An unidentifiable emotion twisted tight inside Tricia. She could not let him lose his leg.

  But the cloths were warming and the water in the bucket no longer helped. She needed to go down to the pump in the rear of the yard to draw cold water directly from the well. Yet she hesitated to leave him.

  With no other recourse, Tricia leaned close and whispered into his unhearing ear, “I have to go downstairs for a few minutes, but I’ll come back as fast as I can.” She added earnestly, “Don’t worry. I won’t desert you.”

  Sounds of animalistic passion rent the silence of Simon’s bordello room as he flipped Angie’s naked body over and thrust himself into her roughly from behind. Her pained protest excited him and he pumped hard against her. She was hot for him, was she? He wouldn’t get the best of her this time? He’d see about that.

  “Stop! Stop! You’re hurting me!”

  Breathless with his growing fervor, Simon bit Angie’s bare back cruelly. He smiled when she whimpered, and he muttered, “What did you say, Angie? You want me to stop?”

  “Yes . . . yes.”

  “Are you begging me to stop, Angie?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Let me hear the word I want to hear.”

  “Please.”

  “Once more.”

  “Please stop!”

  His passion accelerating at her tearful plea, Simon continued thrusting recklessly inside her. Grunting his final release, he shuddered to a halt and then withdrew from her at last to say triumphantly, “You lose again, Angie.”

  Breathing heavily, Angie turned over to face him. She brushed away a tear and managed a pained smile as she whispered, “Who says I lost, Simon? You? I got what I wanted, and in a few minutes I’ll be as good as new and ready to go back downstairs.”

  Not allowing Angie to see that her response had angered him, Simon said snidely, “Or maybe I’ll keep you here for another round.”

  “No! I mean—”

  Seeing the fear that Angie had inadvertently revealed, Simon laughed coldly. “I know what you mean.”

  He stood up and walked toward the washstand.

  Unwilling to admit defeat, Angie watched him as she drew herself to her feet, reached for her d
ress, and said harshly, “No, you don’t know what I mean. I mean I have information for you about that blond-haired tart you were salivating over in the hallway.”

  “Blond-haired tart—”

  Angie replied with a hint of irritation in her tone, “I saw you. I was watching in the hallway while you played the fool for that pretentious slut, and I heard what she said. Chantalle backed her up, but I know better. She’s no better than any one of us here.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “She’s the daughter of a whore, all right, but she’s not Chantalle’s daughter. Chantalle saved her from this ‘fate worse than death’ that all we women here are supposed to be suffering, but her blood is just as tainted as ours. She proved it by following that stranger who collapsed downstairs into a room at the end of the hall, and by telling everybody to leave her alone with him while she undressed him. And he’s hardly conscious!” Angie gave a hard laugh. “It doesn’t matter to her what condition he’s in, or that he’s a down-and-out Confederate who has nothing to offer but his body, just as long as she can get what she wants.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Because I made it my business to find out; because I know it pays well if I do; because I don’t like women like her who put on airs; and because I’m tired of seeing men fall for innocent acts like hers.”

  Simon paused to consider what Angie had said, then responded, “Or is it because you’re just a little jealous of that innocent young woman who has a man all to herself?”

  “I’m not jealous of her!”

  Fully dressed, Simon turned toward Angie and said, “Maybe not. Maybe everything you said is true. If so, I’ll pay you for the information like I always do.”

  “It’s true, all right!”

  Simon said as he pulled the door open, “Let me know what you find out.”

  Noting that the hallway was empty, Simon surrendered to libidinous curiosity and moved silently toward the room at the end. A tight smile on his lips, he boldly jerked the door open without knocking and looked inside. To his disappointment, Tricia Shepherd wasn’t there, but an obviously feverish man lay unconscious on the bed.

  Simon entered the room and pulled the door closed behind him. Uncertain, he stared as the man on the bed began mumbling incoherently. He saw the bloody bandage on the fellow’s leg and frowned.

  Who was this man? What was he doing here? Could Angie be right about the beautiful Tricia Lee Shepherd’s reason for spending so much time with him?

  Titillated at the thought, Simon felt his groin harden. If it were true, if Tricia enjoyed the diversity of perversion, she might be the source of endless hours of enjoyment for him . . . hours they could both benefit from before he left Galveston for good.

  He needed to know more.

  Certain there would be no interference from the unconscious man, Simon walked to the dresser where the fellow’s few belongings lay. He muttered under his breath when he found no identification, then picked up the pitifully small money pouch and looked inside.

  A few coins . . . a Confederate military button of some kind . . . an old ring . . .

  Simon drew the ring from the pouch to view it more clearly. The enameled crest was damaged, but the sailing ship was heart-stoppingly familiar, as was the Latin motto that was only partially visible.

  Quattuor mundom do. . . . To four I give the world.

  Simon stared at the ring incredulously. It couldn’t be! Another Hawk sibling could not possibly have come back to haunt him!

  Simon glanced again at the man in the bed. He was big and dark-haired, not unlike Whit Hawk, but Simon saw no family resemblance. He was certain of only one thing. Fate had provided him the opportunity to dispense with another possible Hawk both swiftly and quietly, and he did not intend to lose it. He’d worry about ascertaining the fellow’s identity later.

  Knowing that the unconscious man would provide little resistance, Simon picked up the loose pillow lying on the bed. There would be no marks on the body when they discovered him dead. Everyone would think he had simply died in his sleep, and a potential problem would be eliminated.

  Simon lowered the pillow over the helpless man’s face.

  “What are you doing?”

  Simon straightened abruptly at the sharply voiced question. With the pillow still in his hands, he turned to see Tricia Shepherd standing in the doorway. He remained silent as she walked toward him and demanded again, “What are you doing?”

  Simon said with a smoothness that belied the pounding of his heart, “I knocked, but no one answered. Angie told me that a customer had collapsed from a fever downstairs earlier today, and that you were taking care of him. I came in to see if I could help. He seemed uncomfortable, and I was attempting to slide another pillow underneath his head.”

  “He doesn’t need another pillow.” Her expression tight, Tricia added, “And he doesn’t need anyone but Dr. Wesley and me to take care of him.”

  “My dear . . .” Simon’s smile was benevolent. “I was only trying to help.”

  Tricia’s replied stiffly, “I should thank you, then . . . before I ask you to leave.”

  “But—”

  “Please leave.”

  Simon took a backward step. “Of course, my dear. However, Angie mentioned that this fellow was formerly a Confederate soldier. My sympathies are with all the poor fellows who served the Confederacy so bravely. Please don’t hesitate to call me if you need help in any way.”

  “Yes, of course. Good-bye.”

  Ignoring the tight pursing of Tricia lips, Simon drew the door closed behind him and strode swiftly down the hallway toward the rear exit of the house. He did not intend to allow the arrival of another possible Hawk to threaten his plans. He’d find out who this man was, and when he did . . .

  Not bothering to finish that thought, Simon drew the door open and moved quickly down the outside stairs.

  Drew awoke slowly. He looked around him, at the morning light shining through the elaborately draped window and at the gaudily decorated room. He ached all over, his leg was throbbing, and he was so disoriented he could not quite figure out where he was.

  A sound at his bedside turned him toward the beautiful blond woman asleep in a chair beside his bed. Her perfect profile was angled toward him, a graceful outline against the gaudy upholstery. Her complexion, although pale, was creamy and flawless; her features were small, fine, and motionless in sleep, and her lips were parted, as if in silent invitation.

  Don’t worry, you’re going to be all right. I won’t desert you.

  The angel . . .

  No, that was wrong.

  His mind clearing, Drew remembered. She looked like an angel and she talked like an angel . . . but she wasn’t an angel.

  The woman stirred, then came to full wakefulness with a start. Sea-green eyes that had been burned into his memory met his as she said, “Oh, you’re awake.” She blinked and pushed a strand of fair hair from her cheek, scrutinizing him more intently. She touched her palm to his forehead and said, “You’re definitely cooler. I’m glad . . . I mean, I think Dr. Wesley will be pleased.”

  “Dr. Wesley?”

  “You don’t remember him?” Appearing to think better of that question, she said, “He’s the man who cleaned out the infected wound in your leg, applied the poultice, and left the medicine you’ve been taking all night.”

  “All night . . .”

  He searched her expression confusedly, and she glanced away. Doing his best to ignore the renewed throbbing in his leg, Drew said with a trace of impatience, “I know where I am, and I know why I came here. What I don’t know is how I got into this room.”

  “You collapsed downstairs yesterday. You had a fever, and Chantalle had you brought up here so the doctor could look at you.”

  “Chantalle . . . the red-haired madam.”

  The angel’s lips twitched. “Yes, Chantalle—the woman who probably saved your life.”

  His teeth clenching tight against the
raw ache in his leg, Drew said gruffly, “I’m harder than that to kill.”

  He stared at the young woman in the flowing blue dressing gown. His gaze trailed slowly over her petite frame, assessing every inch, indulging himself and allowing the sight of her to dull his pain. An area of his body far distant from his brain stirred predictably, and he knew that if he didn’t feel like hell, she wouldn’t be standing beside the bed. She’d be in it . . . with him, and he’d be—

  Drew took a sharp breath as pain stabbed sharply.

  The young woman reacted by saying sympathetically, “Dr. Wesley will be here soon.”

  Drew blinked when the pain stabbed again, and the young woman said, “I’m sorry. I don’t have any more of the powder that the doctor left for you. I used it all up last night, but he’ll probably bring more. The powder will continue fighting the infection, and I can ask him for something to lessen your pain if you wish. I don’t know what he’ll prescribe, but a few drops of laudanum should do.”

  “Laudanum . . .” He had been witness to the easy administration of laudanum to many of his fellow soldiers while he was hospitalized. Remembering clearly that he had also seen many of them become addicted to the drug, he said flatly, “I don’t need it.”

  “The use of laudanum is entirely safe if carefully supervised.”

  “Is it?” Drew’s annoyance increased along with his pain as he snapped, “I know better.”

  “I beg your pardon . . . so do I.” The young woman’s voice lost its patronizing quality. “I saw laudanum used to great advantage when I volunteered my services in army hospitals in New York and I—”

  “In New York.” Drew went cold. “You’re talking about Yankee army hospitals—”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where you nursed wounded enemy soldiers.”

  Momentarily taken aback, Tricia replied, “They weren’t my enemies. Besides, the war is over.”

  “Not for me, it isn’t.”

  “That’s a fool’s response.”

  “No, that’s a Confederate’s response.”

  “There is no Confederacy.”

  Drew’s jaw locked tight. He needed to leave.

  He was about to throw the coverlet off when memory flashed, and he said, “I asked you to get me my pants.”