Chapter Nine
WARM MORNING LIGHT FLOODED Alice’s bedchamber. Lounging on her bed in only his drawers, Rupert watched as she twirled and dipped before him, the sheer cloth she used to mimic a veil wrapping lovingly around her body. Sunlight formed a nimbus around her, bathing her in gold as she danced and sheer undergarments teased him with flashes of her skin. As she spun the veil above her head, her breasts almost lifted out of the lace chemise she wore.
Arousal, so recently satisfied, began a lazy curl through him. Who would have thought such naughty undergarments were out there, just waiting to be purchased by a woman such as Alice? And the way she looked in them...Well, he was certain no other woman in all the world looked as good as she did. How could they? They weren’t her. So, he watched as she dipped and twirled, and her underthings flashed him tiny bits of her flesh.
Bloody hell, but he loved her underthings.
Settling into the nest of pillows he’d created, he crossed his arms before him. This display was in aid of the coming Spectacular, an act she wished her dancers to learn. He found it most affecting, but then she could be standing there reading the Magna Carta and he would find her affecting.
Three nights ago, the second Spectacular since his arrival in Ironwood had occurred, and Alice had been just as magnificent as with the first. It had been fascinating, seeing her in the lead up. She’d been tense and on edge and rather panicky, and she’d snapped and snarled at him as she’d sat in bed and worked on her scripts. He’d been content to sit beside her, rubbing her back and giving her comfort when she allowed it.
Then the Spectacular had happened. Afterward, she’d been euphoric and excited and looking to celebrate, and he’d…helped. Lord, how he’d enjoyed helping.
He grinned. Would that he helped every night.
Lacing his hands behind his head, he followed her dips and swirls. A morning such as this was a rare occurrence. In the month since their relationship had begun, he could count the number of times he’d seen her thus in daylight quite comfortably—two, if any cared to know. He still had concern for her reputation, for Ironwood was not so large a town the discovery of a man in a widow’s bed would go unnoticed and without comment.
Alice, it appeared, had no such concerns. When he’d awakened just before dawn in order to stumble from the Diamond as if he’d spent his night in debauch, she’d instead drawn him back, mumbling something as she’d snuggled against him. Gently, he’d suggested he should not be discovered here, but she’d merely snuggled deeper, already asleep again. Weak man that he was, he hadn’t left, and so he found himself propped on her bed as mid-morning light streamed through her window, watching as she danced for him.
With a final flourish, she swept into a deep curtsy, bending at the waist as she held the veil spread before her.
He clapped. “Very affecting.”
“I think so.” Rising, she gave another little swirl before running the veil through her hands. “The girls reckon it’s too complex, but better it be too complex than boring.”
“True.” He held out his hand.
Coming around the bed, she took it, and when he tugged on her hand, she sat on the edge. Head bowed, she ran the veil though her fingers over and again, lost in something only she could see, while he simply looked at her. Dark hair tumbled down her back, offering a contrast between the gold of her skin, and the fan of her lashes against her cheeks just made him want to lay his lips gently upon her. She was so beautiful, his Alice.
“Have you ever been to Paris?”
His eyebrows shot up. That question had come completely out of nowhere. “Paris?”
“Yes.”
Something must be intensely interesting about her veil, as she’d yet to raise her gaze from it. Brow furrowed, he regarded her. “A time or two. Why do you ask?”
She didn’t answer for the longest time. “Do you think this would work in Paris?”
He still had no notion of her purpose, but he had some of her meaning. “Your routine?”
Eyes downcast, she nodded.
Considering what little he knew, he wasn’t sure how valuable his opinion would be, besides which she was acting reticent and strange, completely opposite of the Alice he knew. Her lowered head, her hesitation, the way she wouldn’t look at him spoke of an Alice unsure. He could only think her question held meaning beyond a gathering of words. With the Spectacular just gone, and the one that would come, he’d wager it had to do with her talent and passion for her theatre. If Paris was known for anything, it was an abundance of theatres and the people who populated them, and the opportunity for someone with such a passion was immense.
He had a need to frame his answer carefully. “I think your routine is as good as any I’ve had occasion to see. You know. In Paris.” Christ, he was bungling this. “Why do you ask?”
She lifted a shoulder.
Clearing his throat, he forced his hands to remain at his sides. She wouldn’t welcome his touch, not yet. “There must be a reason.”
“I just—I think it would be...” She drew a pattern on the veil and, finally, looked up. “Paris would be amazing, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” Unable to hold back any longer, he captured her hand and gripped it tight when she tried to pull it away. “You want to take this act to Paris?”
She tugged again. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Why not?” Her Spectacular would be perfect for Paris. There were so many different ways she could approach it, and Parisians would love the romance of the American West. “I should think there are no cabarets in Paris with an American West theme, and people do tend to revere that which is different. I think the Spectacular would work outstandingly well.”
Hand going lax in his, she said nothing.
Thumb caressing the back of her hand, he gentled his tone and no longer worried the faint hint of Wales bled through. “You could do the act in Paris.”
Still nothing.
“Alice.” Scooting forward, he tucked his finger under her chin and forced her gaze to his. “You could.”
Uncertain brown eyes regarded him. “What if they laugh?”
Quiet and hesitant. Words he never thought he’d associate with her, and a response he’d never thought she’d utter either. “Why would they laugh?”
Sudden anger burned away any uncertainty he’d seen in her. “Why wouldn’t they? ‘Look, there’s that hick girl from some nowhere town in the middle of America. Why did she ever think she could attempt Paris?’”
“Turn it the other way.” Capturing her hands, he shifted so he sat right in front of her. “They know nothing of Alice Reynolds, the most successful promoter in the West. See her magnificent Spectacular, direct from the heart of America!”
Brows drawn and jaw set, she watched him with eyes still troubled. Anger as a defence. There was the Alice he knew.
To put her at ease, to convince her, he doubled his efforts. “Fall in love with her exotic dancing girls! Marvel at the death-defying Tranmere Twins, and the snake lady whose name I can’t quite remember at the moment! And, if the stars align and our luck is right, Alice Reynolds herself may deign to perform for us.”
At this she smiled, though it was reluctant. “I don’t perform.”
Quick as a tick, he changed tack. “Alice Reynolds doesn’t perform, she’s Alice Reynolds. Instead, see the delights known only to those in the American West, available here—for your viewing pleasure—at Mrs Reynolds’ Burlesque Spectacular!” Here he cheered and clapped, making a right arse of himself if any were to see but her.
She captured his wildly gesticulating arms, her smile having grown somewhat and a considering look in her eye. “They would be in awe, wouldn’t they?”
“Of course they would. You’ve only to leave.” Grinning, he tugged her into him. “Know anyone who wants to buy your saloon?”
With a snort of disgust, she fought against him, but her defence was half-hearted and clearly pretence. Wrestling her beneath him, he dropped a kiss on her nose as she scowled rather adorably up at him. “You should definitely take such a dance to Paris. It’s very affecting.” Smoothing a lock of silky black hair from her forehead, he grinned. “I’m affected.”
“I know. I can feel how you’re affected” A scowl still marred her features, but he could see the amusement bubbling beneath.
Heaving a sigh, he pressed his hips to hers. “Damnation, male anatomy has betrayed me again.”
At this she laughed and brushed a kiss over his lips before flopping back on the bed. With a smile of his own, he shifted to her side and tugged her into his arms. Placing her hand on his chest, she settled beside him. Contentment, an emotion he had little experience with, warmed him as he trailed nonsensical patterns on her bare upper arm.
“Is there something you want?” she said.
“Hmm?” The skin beneath his fingers was soft and resilient, and he could touch it whenever he pleased. How bloody marvellous.
“Is there something you want? Like Paris?” She linked her fingers with his hand resting lax on his chest. “Beyond the saloon, I mean. Which of course you’ll never get.”
“Won’t I?” He grinned when she squeezed his hand almost painfully.
“I’m serious. Do you want something? For yourself?”
He wanted her.
The thought rocked through him. Immediately, he backpedalled. He couldn’t think such things, not when she was near. It would be better to examine a thought in totality and detail, once he had occasion to regard it properly, not when she was in his arms and there was still a whole morning before them.
So instead, he painted a smile on his face, more for his benefit than hers, and shrugged. “What’s wrong with wanting a saloon?”
“That’s all?”
“That’s not enough?” He forced himself to remain relaxed, to continue stroking her arm. Christ, she couldn’t start asking such, although he should have anticipated that she would. Bloody hell, where was his brain? Well, he knew where his brain was. The bloody thing was in his drawers, when it should be coming up with ways to get around her questions.
Her fingers dug into his skin a second before relaxing. “All right, then. Where are you from?”
What was she up to now? Racking his brain, he tried to get the damn thing to work properly. “I’m from Britain.”
“Yes, but where in Britain? It’s a big place, you know.”
“I do know. I’m from there.”
She tensed. Silence fell, and he didn’t know how to make it stop. Why was she asking? He wasn’t prepared. He’d not told anyone his past, and not even Smith knew it in its entirety. He didn’t know how to phrase it right, how to tell her he was from a tiny town in the north of Wales, had spent his youth shovelling coal onto cargo ships, and had managed through cunning and some measure of deceit to find his way to America and a more lucrative pursuit. How could he tell her all this, and not tell her he’d lied? Over and repeatedly, since the moment they met.
He knew her, and he knew how she would react. She wouldn’t react…well.
Moments passed. Endless moments, where he had no notion of what to say.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she finally said.
Remaining silent, he brushed his lips against her temple and ignored the voice telling him she should already know of his purpose in Ironwood.
“But I would be much obliged if you did.”
He winced. Her words got more Western-fied when she was annoyed. “I know.”
“You could possibly tell me a mite or two more about yourself. I know next to nothing.”
Worry he might push her too far made his own voice sharp. “I know.”
The silence that followed weighed heavy. In his arms, she no longer lay relaxed, her body almost buzzing with her tension.
Finally, she exploded. “Dammit, Llewellyn! What’s so hard about telling me?” Shoving herself up, she flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Were you a drunken lay-about? Did you get locked in jail a spell? Was your pappy a mean, cheating cur? What?”
“No! None of those things.” Agitation had the Welsh bleeding into his words, and he rose to face her. “You’re right, it shouldn’t be hard. I should tell you. I don’t know—I can’t—I just can’t, all right?”
“No, it’s not all right.” Crossing her arms, she pressed them into her stomach. “What is this to you?”
Cautiously, he regarded her. “What do you mean?”
“This.” She waved her hand over the bed. “Us. What is this?”
“I don’t know.” Running his hand through his hair, he exhaled. “Do we have to define it?”
“No, we don’t have to define it. I like spending time with you. I love sleeping with you, but you’re so closed-mouthed. I don’t know why you’re here, why you’re with me. I don’t know why you’re pretending to be something you’re not. I don’t understand any of it. Llewellyn.” Taking his hand in hers, she took a breath. “I want to know you, Rupert.”
Torn, he stared at her. Her eyes implored him to tell her all. Christ, he wanted to know her, too, but he couldn’t tell her why he was in Ironwood. Not yet. Not until he had each phrase perfect. But as for the rest... “I’m from Bagillt.”
Scowling, she made to pull away. “If you’re going to make things up—”
Hauling her back, he captured her hands. “No, I’m really from there. It’s a small town in North Wales.”
“North Wales?”
“Yes.” He drew a map on her palm. “This is England. Scotland. Wales is here.”
Staring down at the imaginary map, she said, “So that’s the accent I can hear every now and then?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you leave?”
Unbidden, memories of Bagillt rose, leaving behind a sour taste. “Why wouldn’t I? It was a small town populated by smaller people.”
Cocking her head, she regarded him. Usually, he had some idea what was going on behind those amber eyes. Now, he had no clue. “Ironwood is a long way from Wales.”
“It is.” He exhaled. He’d no desire to relive those days, and yet she seemed determined that he did. “I’m the bastard son of a bigger bastard, one who never stopped to see if he’d impregnated my mother after having his fun. I grew up in a town where everyone worked in the colliery, and as soon as I was old enough to support myself, I left. I made my way to Cardiff and shovelled coal onto cargo ships until I was convinced the dust coating my skin would never wash away. So, I scraped enough money to head to London, then New York, then San Francisco.”
“Then here.”
Sharply, he nodded. “Then here.”
“Where you want to buy my saloon?”
“Yes.”
She studied him. “And that’s it.”
Keeping her level gaze, he nodded again. Bloody hell, she was too sharp. She knew there was something more to his story, and he shouldn’t have said what he had about his time shovelling coal. If he weren’t quick to discern how to tell her, she’d figure it out for herself.
“And you act the fool because…?”
At least this he could tell her. “Because you learn more if people think you’re dull-witted. It’s like you wearing the black of widow weeds.”
She raised her brows, all ironical-like. “So men remember their place?”
“So you lead them to believe what you want them to believe.”
The corner of her mouth lifted in a wry smile. Touché, he supposed. “What do you need to learn?”
He stared at her helplessly. Christ, he wished he’d never signed that damn confidentiality agreement. He’d thought nothing of it, had done what the contract stipulated a hundred times. Never had he become personally involved. But now, with Alice... “I can’t tell you. Not yet.”
She tilted her head. “Can’t?”
“I swear, as soon as humanly possible, I will tell you.” God, please, let her believe him.
A moment passed. Another. She studied him with that considering look on her face, and he prayed to every god he’d ever heard of that she would accept his words.
“I won’t wait forever,” she finally said.
“I know.”
She regarded him a moment more, before nodding as if to herself. Crawling toward him, she pushed him back so she could lay by his side.
Hardly daring to breathe lest she change her mind, he placed his arms around her. Thank Christ she’d given him time. When next she asked, and it would be sooner than he’d like, she wouldn’t be so willing to accept vague promises.
Stroking her back, he stared unseeingly at the wall. He had to find a way around his contract.