Chapter Eighteen

The bruised-purple twilight faded into darkness. Stars winked on in the heavens. Finally. They were in Grey’s retreat, the library, two nights following the ill-fated picnic and shoot-out. The days were exhausting with their steady stream of dignitaries, luminaries, and social gadflies coming to express their concern and outrage—but mostly to indulge their curiosity regarding Taylor’s position in the Talbott household, Grey knew. But now, the sun having set, all was quiet. He and Taylor were alone together and partaking of after-dinner cigars and brandy. The very picture of lackadaisical adversaries, they sprawled in two facing leather-upholstered chairs. They’d propped their feet up on a common ottoman in the space between them.

A homey, comfortable, intimate scene. Except that, as always, the two of them were at an argumentative impasse.

In the less-than-three newsworthy weeks that had expired from the night he’d met her, Grey now admitted to himself, he’d been nothing but ambivalent in his dealings with Taylor. First he’d wanted her to go. Then he’d wanted her to stay. Then he’d wanted her to go. And now again, he wanted her to stay. Absurd was what it was. Now she wanted to leave. And he would not hear of it—for any reason, his heart cried out, but especially because she only wanted to leave his house, not St. Louis.

“I cannot believe you would leave me, Taylor.”

“I am not leaving you. We are not married—”

“We could be so this very evening. I could call a justice of the peace and—”

“Be serious. I am going to stay with my cousin, as I should have done in the beginning.”

“In the beginning you were going to stay with your father. If you must leave me, why don’t you go to your father’s, instead?”

“I cannot.”

And that was all she’d say on the subject, the blastedly stubborn girl. Grey had his hands full. There was no way in hell he could allow her to go to Amanda’s—even more important … to her aunt and uncle’s. Worse, he had to prevent her going for reasons he had sworn not to tell her. Damn that Charles James, anyway.

So, stuck as he was and having to make his argument with the only weapons he could use, Grey sent her an arch look. “All right. Your cousin. The one whose father most likely would try to kill you, according to what we believe? That cousin? You wish to go stay with her? Taylor, you heard the policeman today. That man you killed was a known hired gun and no mere robber as this same uncle of yours so elaborately claimed. Don’t you wonder who could have hired him? Please go to your father’s, where I know you’ll be safe.”

“No. I need to go stay with Amanda. For my aunt’s sake.”

“So you’ve said. And what exactly is it you could do? You’d be in a huge mansion full of rooms, all of them unfamiliar to you, and with an army of servants watching and reporting your every move. Therefore, what more … to ensure your aunt’s safety … could you do that Amanda, with her greater freedom of movement and authority in the same household, could not?”

Taylor’s chin came up. Grey took a deep breath.… Dear God, he’d wounded her pride. That would only make her more adamant.

“Amanda is timid with her father. I am not,” Taylor said from behind that inscrutable Cherokee mask of hers.

“I agree. But again I ask you … what exactly would you do differently than she’s already doing?” Grey frowned at his own question. “Come to think of it, what exactly is she doing? I don’t suppose she’s strapped on a gun and hauled in the police, has she?”

Through the blue haze of her cigar smoke, Taylor narrowed her eyes at him. A shiver skittered over Grey’s skin. If she ever turned that expression on him in earnest, out of genuine anger or hate, he’d need more than that gun and the police he’d just teased about. Swallowing, displaying bravado, Grey prodded her to speak. “Well?”

“She has not yet strapped on a gun or involved the police. She is watching over her mother … checking her food and drink and her medicines.”

“Unbelievable.” Grey shook his head. “How is she checking them? Is she first trying them herself? What if something is poisoned, Taylor? She’s risking her life, somewhat like a king’s taster.”

Taylor frowned her confusion.

“A person paid to taste a king’s food first in case his enemies have poisoned it.” Just then, a course of action that could keep Taylor here with him, and her aunt and cousin safe, at least temporarily, popped into Grey’s head. It was so simple. Feeling suddenly better, even expansive, he decided—in a diabolically good-natured way—to continue his baiting of Taylor before he proposed his plan to her. “Never mind about that. I prefer to talk about your behavior. This disloyalty toward me on your part is very eye-opening. I did take a bullet for you.”

“Now you are pouting like a child. And you did not take a bullet for me. The shooter had a poor aim, that is all.”

“Oh, pardon me. From where I’m sitting, with this bandage still wrapped around my head, the bastard had pretty good aim.”

Taylor sipped at her brandy and eyed him over the snifter’s rim. “You are the one who told me I had to leave.”

“I meant St. Louis and for your own safety. I certainly never meant because I didn’t want you here with me. I do. But now you wish to go merrily leap into the lion’s jaws. I won’t allow it.”

To Grey’s utter dismay, Taylor didn’t say anything … she simply arched an eyebrow at him and grinned around the cigar she’d stuck back in her mouth. Her expression was a clear-enough answer. He could not allow it all he wanted.… She would do as she damned well pleased. On the one hand, he applauded her. She was one hell of a woman, unlike any other woman he’d ever met. He was absolutely, totally, besottedly head over heels in love with her. And on the other hand, he’d like to choke the life out of her for being so damned stubborn and willful and for scaring the hell out of him by not taking better care to keep herself alive, because she had to know that he would die without her.

Grey took a deep breath. He’d barely been able to think all that in one sentence without pausing for air. Then he realized that he hadn’t really told her yet that he felt all that for her. Grey looked her in the eye. “I will die without you here.”

She chuckled as she placed her cigar in the ashtray on his desk and blew smoke out the side of her mouth. “No, you will not. Your head wound is not that bad.”

Well, so much for romance. His head wound, of course, was not what he’d meant. But he’d use the opening she’d given him. He wasn’t above it. “Yes, it is.” Employing great drama, he put a shaking hand to his head. “I fear I’m suffering a relapse.”

“What does that mean … a re-lapse?”

Grey lowered his hand and tamped his cigar’s ash into the ashtray perched on his lap. He also worked to hide his grin. Now he had her and, shamelessly, he was going to keep her. If she wasn’t going to leave St. Louis altogether, then here with him was the safest place for her to stay. He sought her gaze. “A relapse means a worsening of symptoms after one first appears to be getting better. It’s a very dire circumstance. I shouldn’t be alone.”

“You are not alone. You have ten people on your staff. Besides, it is Mrs. Scott who is now nursing your injury. Not me.”

Grey grimaced and grumbled. “And how well I know that. The old harridan—that means … well, means ‘old lady,’ I suppose. At any rate, she thinks she still has to sleep in that blamed chair in my room.”

Taylor’s grin was a sensual tease in itself, but with her foot she poked at his. “Perhaps she, too, fears this awful re-lapse you speak of.”

Trapped by his own words, Grey sulked openly.

“Ah. You are angry because it is her and not me in your bedroom.” Taylor took a sip of her brandy. Above its rim, her blue eyes danced with teasing lights.

“Damned straight I am. And well you know it,” Grey mock-fussed right back. But inside, his heart quickened. It was true. He missed Taylor’s sweet body sleeping next to his. Her scent, the silky feel of her skin, the sweep of her thick, black hair draped over his arm, her touch, her kiss … her wild lovemaking.

“Then why don’t you, uh, remove the chair from your room?”

Catching on to her meaning and suddenly animated by anticipation, Grey sat forward, careful of the ashtray and the cigar in it. “Would you come to me if I did?”

“No. I am done with coming to you. You must now come to me.”

Grey sat back, loving this sensual innuendo between them. “What’s this, my girl? You wish to be courted?”

“Perhaps.”

Then he realized something else that had his pulse leaping. “I see. You’re staying. You couldn’t be courted, I couldn’t come to you, if you weren’t here. You’re not leaving, are you? I’ve convinced you to stay, haven’t I?”

“No. I have decided myself to stay. And I have come up with a better plan than leaving here.”

“A better—now wait. I, too, have a plan.”

“I like mine better.”

“You don’t even know what mine is.”

“No, I do not. But mine will work better.”

“Now how can you say that? Tell me what your plan is.”

“First tell me yours.”

“Why? So you can say it was yours when you like mine better? I hardly think so.”

Taylor shrugged. “Have it your way. Tonight tell Mrs. Scott, while she prepares to sleep in the chair in your room—”

“All right, I’ll tell you my plan.” He lowered his eyebrows over his nose. “I cannot believe you would use, uh, bedroom blackmail on me.”

Taylor grinned and shrugged and took a sip of her brandy. “It wouldn’t be the first time.” Then her gaze warmed, became hot and sizzling. “I’ll leave my bedroom door unlocked … that is, if you and your head feel up to it.”

*   *   *

The next day started very early and very disastrously. Taylor and Grey were rudely interrupted by a frantic knock on her bedroom door. Taylor’s groan was no longer that of pleasure.

Grey lifted his head and shouted, “Go away!” The masterful effect was ruined by his being scooted down under the top sheet and … kissing Taylor. So all he’d done was tent the sheet with his head, send a muffled command to his servant, and amuse Taylor with his antics.

“I say, are you still in there, sir?” This was Bentley … on the other side of the door and again knocking.

From under the sheet, Grey asked, “What did he say?”

Rolling her eyes, giving up, Taylor lifted the covers and stared down at her lover, who had this morning fussily discarded the bandaging that encircled his head, saying he didn’t need it or any more nursing from a gaggle of females. Taylor hadn’t been offended because she hadn’t been among the gaggle of females who’d insisted daily on changing his dressing and clucking like hens over him. “Bentley wants to know if you’re still in here.”

Grey’s face was deadpan. He looked down at her nakedness, kissed her there, and then smiled up at her. “Tell him yes, my oh-so-sweet Taylor. And tell him I would like to stay in here for as long as I live. It’s part of my plan, too.”

“No, it is not. And I cannot tell him that. He is out in the hall, Grey, and he knows you are here.”

Grey heaved a sigh. “He doesn’t ever listen to me. You tell him to go away.”

“Go away!” Taylor called out.

“I fear I cannot, Miss James.”

Taylor looked down again at Grey. “He fears he cannot.”

“The man does not yet know the meaning of fear, I assure you. But once I get at him…” Cursing, fighting the tangling sheet, Grey pulled himself up Taylor, stopping to kiss her skin as he went. Then, lying atop her, his weight supported on his elbows, he yelled to his butler, “Why the devil can’t you go away? Are you tied to the damned doorknob, Bentley?”

“No, sir, I am not. But I have a message for you both.”

Grey looked down at Taylor under him. “He has a message for us.” She nodded that she’d heard. Grey turned his head toward the door and called out, “A message? Do you mean from on high, man? Angels and trumpets? That kind of message?”

There was silence … then, “No, sir.”

Defeated, Grey lowered his head until his forehead was touching Taylor’s. She arched up and kissed him with little nipping bites on his lips. “I’ll give you thirty minutes to stop that,” he whispered, grinning. But he duly raised his head and again shouted, “Well, spit it out, Bentley! And let me assure you that someone had better be dying!”

“Oh, sir, I’m afraid someone is. It’s Mrs. James. Mrs. Camilla James. She’s taken a turn for the worse.”

Taylor tensed, her gaze riveted to Grey’s. Her limbs felt heavy and weak, and it had nothing to do with Grey’s weight atop her. “He has killed Aunt Camilla,” she said through gritted teeth.

“No,” Grey said, earnest now. “She’s not dead. A turn for the worse, Taylor, is not the same thing as dead.”

“But it is close.”

“Yes, it is.” He flung the sheet off them, pulled himself off her, and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress. Taylor was right behind him and already scrambling out of bed. As soon as her feet hit the carpeted floor, she headed for the bathroom.

Behind her, Grey called out to his butler, “Hold on, Bentley! I’ll need you to do some things. For one, order up the brougham.”

Taylor jerked around to face Grey and saw he was pulling on his pants. “I will not need the carriage,” she told him. “I will take Red Sky.”

“No, you won’t, so we will need the brougham. I intend to get your aunt out of that house. And I can’t do it on horseback.”

“Then take it. But I am going now on Red Sky. We may have to split up for some reason. If so, I want to be able to do that.”

Grey’s expression hardened, but he didn’t argue with her. Instead, as Taylor watched, he stalked toward the door, opened it a crack, and peered out at Bentley. “Get Calvin up and have him saddle Red Sky.”

“I won’t need him saddled. It will take too much time.”

Grey looked over his shoulder at her. He’d firmed his lips until white lines appeared at either side of his mouth. Taylor narrowed her eyes at him. Grey turned again to Bentley. “Get the brougham and Red Sky. And get us some coffee. And Mrs. Scott. Miss James will need help dressing.”

“Dammit, Grey, I do not need her.” Defiant and naked, already braiding her long hair, Taylor faced Grey’s angry expression. “You are trying to delay me. I can dress myself in my britches and shirt.”

“You’re not going over there ahead of me and alone, Taylor.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Then you need to hurry, because I will if I have to. I am also taking my gun and my knife. This is my fight and my family. I will not sit back and wait for carriages and coffee and ladies’ maids. Amanda needs me now.”

“Yes, she does. But we’re both going, Taylor. Amanda will soon enough be my family, too.” Grey looked as if he meant to say something else, but out in the hall Bentley spoke first.

“Excuse me, sir. But Miss Amanda’s runner is down in the foyer and awaiting a reply. He says Miss Amanda said to tell Miss Taylor that her mother is calling for her.”

Taylor frowned, staring Grey’s way. “Aunt Amanda is calling for me?”

“It’s not all that strange, Taylor … especially if she is as bad off as Amanda says.”

“But shouldn’t she instead want her own daughter, who is already there?”

Grey’s expression was unreadable, as if he had carefully blanked it. “I don’t know. We have to hurry, Taylor. You can get that answer for yourself when we’re there.” With that, he looked to Taylor for her answer to Bentley.

She grabbed a length of ribbon off her dresser and tied it around the end of her braid. “Tell Bentley to have the boy go for the doctor, if Amanda has not already had him do so. And have him tell her not to leave her mother’s side, that we will be there as soon as possible. But first go ask the boy who else is with Amanda.”

Grey turned to the unseen Bentley and nodded, as if only to confirm that Bentley had heard her. “Yes, miss.” Bentley’s muffled footsteps retreated.

Taylor grabbed up her discarded bloomers and camisole, tied herself into them, and began searching for her cotton stockings. In her search, her gaze locked suddenly with Grey’s. He was shrugging into his shirt. His expression was grim. Silently they dressed and waited for Bentley’s return. In what seemed like hours but was really less than a few minutes, Bentley spoke from the other side of the door. “Sir? Miss? The boy says Mr. James, her father, is present. That’s good, at least.”

“Oh no,” Taylor said softly to Grey, hugging herself in an effort to stave off the fearful shivering that had her feeling sick.

His grim expression saying it all, Grey never looked away from her as he called out to his butler, “Thank you, Bentley! Forget the coffee and Mrs. Scott, but have the brougham and Red Sky readied, if you would.”

“Yes, sir.” Again Bentley’s footsteps could be heard retreating down the hall toward the steps.

Grey closed the door and, in silence, he and Taylor finished dressing. Suddenly, hurrying shuffling footsteps approached the bedroom door. Taylor froze. Grey followed suit and gave her a look that said, What now?

The knock on the door made Taylor jump, even though she’d known it was coming. The sound barely preceded Bentley’s excited, fearful voice. “Excuse me, sir, but may I please have a word with Miss James? It is extremely important.”

“Of course. Hold on.”

Taylor, now tucking her shirt into her britches, brushed by Grey and opened the door. “Yes, Bentley, what is it?”

The little man’s face reflected great distress. “I don’t know quite how to say it, miss. Or what it can mean. But I’ve just had the most extraordinary thought or vision—I really do not know what to call it.”

Taylor’s mouth dried. She gripped the door harder. “Just tell me what you saw.”

The little old man inhaled deeply and then spoke rapidly. “Well, miss, it came as I passed the mirror in the hall just now. I swear to you that I am forever going to avoid looking into mirrors after this. At any rate, it was that dark shadow, like I saw before. Then it was a cloud. Then it became a big angry bird, black and gray in color. That was frightening enough, but then it was swooping down on you. And you were at Mr. Stanley James’s residence. The bird, though … its beak was opened horribly and it had its talons bared.”

Taylor’s breath came in a gasping rasp of sound. She felt Grey at her back, although he hadn’t touched her or said anything. She leaned back against the warm and solid support of his broad chest. He put a hand on her arm and held her protectively. “In your vision, what was I doing, Bentley?” Taylor asked, already fearing his answer.

Bentley’s face drained of color. He didn’t want to tell her; that much was evident. “Mind you, I only saw this for a second or two, and I am now trying to recall every detail. But you were … well, you were lying on the ground. Bleeding. And under you, as if you’d thrown yourself protectively over her, was Miss Amanda.”

Taylor felt as if she’d been gut-punched. It was Rube’s curse coming true. The old Cherokee guard had said she or those she loved would die. He’d said they would not live long lives and would not know happiness. It was coming true—and she had brought all this on them herself. By being here and by being alive. No more. She would do everything she could to make certain they lived—and she didn’t, should it come to that.

“Son of a bitch,” Grey said at her back, startling Taylor back to the moment. “Are you sure that’s all you saw, Bentley? Where was I?”

“I didn’t see you, sir. I’m sorry.”

Grey gently squeezed Taylor’s shoulders, kissing the top of her head. “It’s not true. Don’t you see? It can’t be because I’m not there. And I won’t leave you, Taylor.”

She gave a shake of her head. Her chest felt very tight. Drawing in air was difficult. She had to keep her private vendetta a secret from Grey. He would tie her up and leave her here if he had any idea what she planned to do. She had no idea why Bentley hadn’t seen Grey there … but something would happen to separate them. It would. Spirit guides were never wrong.

“I’m so sorry. But I felt I should tell you,” Bentley was saying, looking from her to Grey. “I’m certain it’s a warning of some sort.” Then he clutched at Taylor’s arm and looked into her eyes. “You will be careful, won’t you, miss? We’re all quite fond of you here.”

Moved by his declaration, Taylor nodded and tried to speak around the lump of fear and emotion clogging her throat. “I will be careful, my man-bird. As always, you will be my talisman, and you will keep the danger from me.”

She’d said it with a smile … but she knew she’d lied and that it was impossible. The danger would find her. And it would kill her.

*   *   *

Before Grey could even alight from the brougham, the front door of the Stanley James residence was jerked open. Amanda stood in the doorway. Sobbing and dressed in rumpled clothes that appeared to have been worn since yesterday, she clung to the doorjamb and to the door itself, swaying between them as if she’d been lashed to them. “Thank God you’re here. I fear Mother is dying.”

Grey spoke from the carriage’s door he’d just opened. “Where is Dr. Meade’s carriage? I told your boy to go for him.”

“I haven’t seen him,” Amanda sobbed.

“Then where’s your father?” Grey barked as his feet hit the ground. From the corner of his eye, Grey was aware of Taylor’s movements. She had dismounted from Red Sky and was handing her reins over to Calvin, who’d ridden here topside and seated next to the driver.

Amanda’s face contorted with another spasm of emotional pain. “Father left. I don’t know where he went.”

Grey frowned, exchanging a pointed look with Taylor, who now stood beside him and was pale, tight-lipped … and dangerously silent. “That’s odd behavior for him, Amanda,” Grey said, hearing the angry bark in his own voice. It wasn’t directed at her but at the ugliness he felt certain the day’s events would expose to them all.

With Taylor at his side, they quickly strode up the walkway that led to the opened door where the girl was. “Amanda, how is it that you’re left to open the door? You must have a staff approaching fifty here. Where’s your butler?”

It wasn’t propriety he worried about, but chaos. Was no one in charge? Was nothing being done for Camilla? And to help Amanda?

“Grey, please, what does it matter? I was afraid!” Amanda cried, now wringing her hands together. “I heard your carriage and ran to see if it was the doctor or my father. When I saw you and Taylor from the window, I came running down myself. I sent Henry up to be with his wife, Betsy, our housekeeper. She’s something of a nurse and is with Mother right now. Please, Grey, Taylor, help me.”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do, Amanda. Help you. I need to know where everyone is, though, in order to do that. I have to say I don’t understand your father at all. The man’s wife is dying—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s true. She is,” Amanda said, her voice breaking, a hand to her temple. She stared at the ground as she spoke, sounding as if she weren’t aware she was speaking aloud. “So pale and vomiting. She’s wringing wet with her own perspiration and can barely talk.” Suddenly Amanda sought Grey’s gaze, her own wide-eyed and nearing the precipice of panic. “I don’t know where Father is. Do you hear me? He left in a rage, saying he would kill her.”

With those dire words, Amanda flung herself outside and into Grey’s arms. Taylor immediately tore her cousin away from Grey and spun her to face her. “Amanda, listen to me. Kill who? Who did he mean?”

Amanda sobbed and nodded. Taylor exchanged a fearful look with Grey and then lovingly brushed Amanda’s hair away from her emotion-dampened face. She gently gripped the other girl’s chin. “Amanda, who do you think he meant?”

But Grey knew. “My mother.” Even to his own ears, his voice held the ring of steel. “Goddammit,” he said through gritted teeth. Both women faced him, frozen in place, their eyes wide. “Take Amanda inside, Taylor,” he ordered. “Go inside now, both of you. Go on.”

“Grey, your mother? Are you sure?” This was Taylor. She hadn’t moved, and she still held onto Amanda, who was clinging to her.

His heart was breaking, but Grey tried his hardest not to dissolve right there. “Yes, my mother. Who else? You said so yourself not three days ago on our picnic. It’s what Amanda also believes. Am I right or not?”

The women exchanged a glance and then faced him again. They didn’t need to say a word, yet Taylor spoke, her heart in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Grey.”

He nodded. “Me, too. For all of us.”

“You have to go to her.”

Grey stared stupidly at Taylor and felt certain his bones were melting. He could barely think. Stanley James had gone to kill his mother? Why? Supposedly the two were in love. Then he remembered Bentley’s vision. His mind cleared. “No, Taylor. I’m not leaving you. Franklin is home with her. He’ll protect her. And Bentley said we—”

“No. Bentley said only me. I can take care of myself. I always have. And Franklin may not be with your mother.”

“He’s not,” Amanda cut in. “He’s at Uncle Charles’s. There’s a meeting of his campaign committee. I sent a boy to get them, but to tell them to come here. So your mother is alone, Grey. And she can be the only one Father meant.”

Taylor spoke next. “Go to her, Grey. She’s your mother. If she’s done something, no matter what it is, she’s your mother and you must respect her.”

Grey stared at Taylor for a long heartfelt moment. “Remember those words, Taylor. You’re going to need them today. Now, go inside and take Amanda with you. Be with Camilla while you can.”

With that, he pivoted to face the brougham, his gaze searching. “Calvin!” he called out impatiently. The boy sprinted around from the carriage’s opposite side and gave Grey a questioning look. “Jump on Red Sky and ride for Dr. Meade’s. God alone knows what’s become of that James runner. After that, ride for the police. Send them to my mother’s home. It’s where I’ll be. Go now!”

Without looking back to see if Taylor and Amanda had done as he’d said, Grey hopped back into the brougham, yelling out to his driver as he did, “To my mother’s home, Edward! Hurry!”

As Edward climbed hastily onto his perch, Grey closed the door and peered out the small window, looking to where he’d left Taylor and Amanda. They were still standing there … holding each other and staring at him. Grey’s gaze locked with Taylor’s. In her blue eyes he saw everything he needed to see. Love. Regret. Sympathy. She was hurting for him and for what he may face at his mother’s. Yet Grey knew that what Taylor faced here was most likely a hundred times worse. A hand held out to her, he nodded, acknowledging her silent message.

“Do you have your gun, Grey?” Taylor suddenly called out, already reaching for hers, as if she meant to throw it to him.

It wasn’t what she wanted to say, Grey knew, but it was all she could say at this moment. He understood. Both of them needed not to think, not to feel. But to act. God willing, there would be time later for crushing emotion. But not now. So, hoping his expression conveyed to her the depth of his love for her, Grey shook his head. “Keep your weapon, Taylor. I have mine. And you … you will need yours. Be careful.”