Sweet Savage Love Read online

  A woman of about twenty-five, well-formed, and wearing a red satin dress that clashed with her fiery red curls burst in, laughing.

  “Ah—but you take so long! I thought you were not here, but now—yes now I’m glad that you are—you are ver’ handsome, Mimi was right!”

  Steve Morgan was locking the door, and as he turned back to her the woman flung her arms around his neck, pressing her voluptuous body closely against his.

  Amazed, and fascinated in spite of her own embarrassing predicament, Ginny saw the young woman’s bright, painted lips part and then glue themselves to the man’s, in spite of his obvious stiffness and hesitancy.

  In a moment, she had flung her head back to look up into his face.

  “What is the matter lover? Don’t you like me?”

  And then, over his shoulder, her dark eyes met Ginny’s cool green gaze, and her eyes widened.

  Stiffening with outrage, Frenchy let her arms slip from around Morgan’s neck as she stared at Ginny, her dark, angry eyes taking everything in.

  “I think I am begin to understand,” she said, her voice shrill with rage. “Who is she? An’ what is she doing here?”

  The woman’s arm pointed dramatically, and she took a step forward, but Steve Morgan had grabbed her quickly around the waist.

  “Now wait just a minute—her being here is an accident…”

  “Oh, an accident, hein? An’ her gown all tore from her shoulders, that is accidental too?”

  With a coolness she was far from feeling, Ginny shrugged.

  “No, indeed it wasn’t! It seems that Mr. Morgan mistook me for you, and without giving me a chance to explain or to defend myself he—but why don’t you ask him to explain? I’m sure he’ll do it much better than I could!”

  “You’re doing quite well,” Steve Morgan said grimly. He dropped his hand from Frenchy’s waist and looked at her quizzically. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but she’s right. She knocked at the door, and I thought it was you. Guess I got carried away!”

  Expressions of anger, doubt, incredulity and finally amusement chased each other across the Frenchwoman’s face as her eyes went from Morgan to Ginny and back again.

  Finally, surprising them both, she began to laugh, throwing back her bright head.

  “Oh—but this is the best joke I have hear! So—” her eyes flashed at Ginny, “he think you are me and he don’t want to wait, hmm? Well—you are pretty, cherie,” she admitted generously. “How can I blame him? Men are so impatient sometimes!”

  “Impatient is hardly the word I’d use for Mr. Morgan’s actions,” Ginny snapped, giving him a malicious look.

  Steve Morgan, his face unreadable now, walked over to the bureau that was set against one wall and poured himself a long drink from the half-empty bottle of bourbon he had left out.

  “I think,” he said politely, “we should all have a drink and discuss how we are to get miss—miss—” he raised an eyebrow at Ginny who stared back at him mutinously, her lips pressed tightly together, and then went on, shrugging, “this young lady back safely to wherever she came from, with her gown intact.”

  His words suddenly reminded Ginny of her errand upstairs—the fact that even now Sonya might have sent someone upstairs to search for her, and her eyes widened with dismay.

  “Oh no!” she gasped, “if—if my father ever finds out where I am, or what happened, he’d—he’d kill you, and I’d be ruined! What on earth am I to do?”

  “Yes, think of something,” Solange chuckled teasingly, her small, dark eyes crinkled with amusement. “You do not wish for an angry papa to find his daughter here, do you, Steven cher?”

  “That, believe me, is the last thing I wish!” he said grimly, and slammed the glass down on the bureau. Ginny felt his glance flick over her and blushed again, but he added, as if he hadn’t noticed her discomfiture, “thank God you’re not hysterical any longer, at least. Perhaps you could get back to your room and—er—sew the gown back together? I only ripped that stupid little rose off your shoulder—it ought to be around here somewhere—”

  “Only! You took all kind of unforgivable liberties, and now you try to pretend that—”

  “But wait!” Solange cast a calculating look at Morgan and turned to Ginny. “He is right—it only needs just a little stitch at the shoulder here, you see? An’ me, I always carry a needle and thread with me. So—I will fix it. An’ you, mal homme, you will find that rosette for us, oui?”

  Her head whirling with a mixture of rage, frustration and humiliation, Ginny forced herself to stand still while Frenchy wielded her needle with surprising efficiency, chattering away all the while in French. She had been delighted to discover that Ginny spoke her native tongue, and her eager questions about France and the new fashions were almost pathetically revealing of her homesickness. In spite of the fact that this Solange was, no doubt, a bad girl, Ginny could not help liking her—there was something so friendly, so honest and direct about her that it was impossible not to feel sorry for her, and of course, she had already confided that it was a man who had brought her to the profession she was now engaged in.

  Men! Ginny thought, were the root of all women’s troubles. Look at the trouble that the detestable Mr. Morgan had caused her!

  She flashed a quick look at him from beneath her downcast lashes and caught his gaze on her, but this time his startlingly blue eyes wore a somber, almost thoughtful expression. What was he thinking? And what kind of a man was he? She answered herself bluntly. A gunman. A man to whom human life meant nothing, obviously. And a man who would take what he wanted without any scruples, even if his victim was a defenseless woman! She had looked away from him nervously, but she could not help recalling the way in which he had held her imprisoned in his arms, the brutal kisses he had forced on her. She could not help shuddering, and Solange asked solicitously if she were cold.

  “I will be finish in just a minute—and then you can get your shawl, yes, and go back to your papa. Perhaps you will say you felt unwell, yes?”

  As much as she hated having to lie to her father and to Sonya, Ginny supposed that it might be the best excuse she could give—and she had, after all, drunk quite a lot of wine with her dinner.

  8

  The excuse that Frenchy had suggested served Ginny well enough after she had returned to the dining room downstairs, with her shawl and Sonya’s over her arm.

  “Ginny! Why, what took you so long? I was beginning to feel quite worried about you!”

  And certainly, Sonya’s face wore a white, distraught look that was unfamiliar, and caused Ginny a pang of guilt.

  She bent over Sonya’s chair as she handed her the shawl and whispered that she had run too fast up the stairs and had begun to feel quite dizzy…

  “And then, of all things, I discovered that the rosette here, on my shoulder, was quite loose. So I stayed to sew it back on. I’m sorry, I really am!”

  Sonya gave her a smile that seemed only a little forced, and squeezed her arm as if to make up for it.

  “You don’t need to apologize, my love! And the gentlemen have been so wrapped up in their conversation I’m sure you were hardly missed!”

  Ginny heard her father chuckle as she slipped demurely back into her seat beside Carl Hoskins.

  “Women and their dilly-dallying! Primping before a mirror, weren’t you daughter? Here, try some of the famous Texas coffee and tell me what you think of it.”

  Even though the meal had long since been cleared away, the men lingered over their cigars and coffee, and the women, obviously used to being left out of their husbands’ discussions, talked softly among themselves. Ginny longed for the civilized customs of Europe and the east coast of America where the women would withdraw discreetly to leave the men to their boring talk.

  Carl Hoskins was paying much more attention to her now, and his obvious admiration was like balm to her wounded sensibilities. What charming manners he had—he was a gentleman. How different he was from Steve Morgan! She found herself
wondering what it would feel like to be kissed by Carl Hoskins. His kisses would be gentle and undemanding, she was sure of that. He would treat her with respect. And he did not look like a pirate, or a bandit! His blond hair contrasted well with his tanned face, and was carefully trimmed, as were his discreet sideburns. Steve Morgan’s sideburns had swooped down the sides of his face, almost to the jawline, and his thick black hair had, she recalled with distaste, been allowed to grow too long, so that it curled at the nape of his neck. Yes, all he needed was a mustache or a beard and gold hoops in his ears and he’d make a villainous pirate.

  I hate him, she thought. I despise and detest him! And I hope that I never have to set eyes on him again.

  There were no sounds of revelry in the next room that night, although Ginny was careful to lock both her door and her window. All the same, she could not help wondering if Frenchy had stayed, and if he had been as eager to tear her clothes from her body as he had seemed to be earlier. A shudder went through her body when she thought of it. Last night it had been the woman who had sung so badly, and whose embraces he had wanted to avoid. Tonight—but no, she told herself firmly. A rake—a libertine like that—he is not worth thinking about. It is over, and I need never see him again.

  It was only when she was lying in bed, trying to compose herself for sleep, that the horrible thought struck her that her father had actually spoken of hiring this same Steve Morgan as scout for their wagon train. Hadn’t he explained earlier that he needed a man who knew how to use his guns?

  It would be the duty of their scout to guide them through wild and rough country that was infested with savage Indians, and to see to their defense in case of attack. But how could anyone trust such an unscrupulous man?

  “The Western gunfighter is a strange breed,” William Brandon had said. “He’s a professional killer, and he works for pay, but he is at least loyal to the man who pays him. It’s a matter of pride, and of reputation. And very few outlaws will mess with one of these professional gunmen, because they are afraid of them. They’re ruthless—and yet, you would be safest with such a man to guard you.”

  But if the man were Steve Morgan, would she be safe? For the second night in succession, sleep was long in coming.

  Ginny would perhaps have slept earlier, and more soundly, if she’d known that Steve Morgan was not in his room next to hers.

  He had spent quite a pleasant hour with Frenchy, who was young enough and attractive enough to please his somewhat fastidious tastes, and indeed, she had proved so adept, once they were in bed, that he’d quite looked forward to having her spend the whole night with him.

  Unfortunately, Mr. Bishop had different ideas, and when Paco Davis had knocked at the door to tell Steve regretfully that he’d been invited to join in a late poker game, Steve had consoled Frenchy with thirty dollars and a promise to visit her room later, if the game did not go on until morning.

  Bishop had engaged a private gaming room at the Cattleman’s Rest, and when Steve arrived there by way of the back staircase the room was already stuffy and filled with cigar smoke. Empty glasses and bottles stood on the table, and as usual, Bishop, who played poker with ruthless concentration and a great deal of luck, had been winning.

  “Got in a game with some drummers from back east,”

  Paco said laconically. “They just left, or I’d have come looking for you earlier. But you would not have liked that very much, hey, amigo?”

  Steve returned Paco’s white grin.

  “No—you’re right. I sure wouldn’t have appreciated being disturbed much earlier!”

  Bishop had been playing solitaire while he waited for Steve. Now he looked up expressionlessly, gesturing at the table before him.

  “Cut for the deal. This is supposed to be a serious poker game, remember?”

  “It’s going to be serious for sure, if you keep winning all my money,” Paco grumbled as he dropped into a chair.

  Steve lit a cigar and sat opposite Bishop, waiting for the man to speak. The cards were dealt, and he studied his hand silently. It had to be urgent, or Bishop wouldn’t have sent for him in the middle of the night. Perhaps Bishop had learned something new since this evening—he’d been expecting a man from up north somewhere; one of their couriers who spent his time travelling, and collecting information at various points. It was like doing a puzzle—everybody in the service had some of the different pieces, but it was up to the men like Bishop to put them all together and make them fit into some recognizable pattern.

  “I talked to Yancey tonight—” Bishop said suddenly, glancing up from his cards. “He’s already on his way to Sante Fe. But he had the information I needed. Brandon’s got the money—in gold bullion.”

  Paco whistled softly.

  “Gold? But why gold? It’s heavy—clumsy to carry around in that much bulk too, and pretty damned dangerous as well, I’d say.”

  “He’ll have thought of a clever way to send it wherever it’s supposed to go. Don’t underestimate the man. He’s not only intelligent, he’s dangerous as well, and he’s got a lot of people working with him we don’t even know about yet.” Bishop’s voice was sharp.

  “Like that Eastern syndicate he’s formed?” Paco’s voice showed unwilling admiration. “Some of the richest men in the country, and they’re still greedy for more—more land, more power.”

  “Texas, Arizona, New Mexico—not to mention all the territory just the other side of the border. A monumental land grab, with most of the dirty work being done by someone else.” Steve shot a look at Bishop, and saw him frown.

  “Senator Brandon is a man of ambition,” Bishop said dryly. “And he’s certainly picked the worst time for us. The only real law in Texas is a handful of Rangers, and the territories of Arizona and New Mexico are even worse off. Also, you know as well as I do that the Indians have practically had things their own way during the war; and to cap it all off, with the French fighting the Juaristas in Mexico—”

  “It’s a great big powder keg!” Paco finished grimly.

  “And we’re supposed to stop it from blowing up?” Steve lifted an eyebrow at Bishop, wondering what the older man had in mind. Bishop always had a plan of some kind, and fortunately, they usually worked.

  “Gentlemen, we’ve talked about this already. And luckily for us, at least we have some inkling of what’s afoot. Let’s take the facts we know, shall we?” His eyes went from Steve to Paco, his voice was colorless. “For instance, we know that on this side of the border, the Indians are being provided with arms and ammunition, and certain chiefs are talking of forming treaties between all the tribes. We know that the Texans are unhappy, to put it mildly, with their reconstruction government, and their discontent is being fomented by the corrupt, power-crazy carpetbaggers who have been sent out here to run things. The individuals themselves are unimportant—they’ll be easily gotten rid of when the time comes. It’ll be the job of my men in Washington to find out who picked them.

  “South of the border now—you two know better than I do how things are going. We’ve been giving Juarez what help we could during the war, and the French realize by now that their position in Mexico is a trifle shaky, to say the least.”

  “Bazaine’s been paying his armies out of his own pocket,” Steve said sharply. “But it hasn’t been enough—so he’s given them license to loot and kill. And Maximilian pretends to know nothing about it—”

  “That gold Brandon is carrying is supposed to pay the French army,” Bishop interrupted. He added softly, “But I don’t think they’ll see much of it. You see, Brandon has a contact—a friend you might call him—in the French army. A Colonel Devereaux.” He sat back in his chair, the cards held loosely before him. “Devereaux got married recently—a rich hacendado’s daughter. He doesn’t want to leave Mexico. He’s made friends with several of the richest landowners, and my information says he’s got his own ideas about that money.”

  Paco Davis swore softly in Spanish.

  “So—he helps Brandon
build his empire, in return for a share of it.”

  “We think so.” Bishop’s voice was cool, emotionless.

  “What’s our part in all of this?”

  A thin smile touched Bishop’s lips. His eyes met Steve’s briefly.

  “You’ll steal that gold. We’ve promised Juarez more help, more money. He gets the gold, and when he’s back in power, we’ll have a good friend in El Presidente.”

  “You make it sound so easy.” Steve poured himself a drink out of one of the half-empty bottles on the table. He had been drowsy and irritable when Paco had routed him out of bed and Frenchy’s arms, but now the old, keyed up feeling of excitement and anticipation sharpened his mind and swept him with exhilaration. He grinned at Bishop, who had been watching him silently.

  “Where’s the gold? Here in San Antone?”

  “That’s what I was coming to.” Bishop’s voice sounded dry and pedantic. “Senator Brandon is not going to accompany his wife and daughter to California. Not immediately, that is. He has to return to Washington very soon. He has the gold now, but naturally he will not carry it back there with him.”

  “The wagon train…that’s it! Why, the cunning, hungry bastard!” Paco’s voice was soft, his eyes narrow. “He’s going to use his wife and daughter to make it all look above board and natural, isn’t he?”

  “Sure—he sends his womenfolk to California with a wagon train and some cattle. And that gives him a perfectly reasonable excuse for hiring as many men to send along as he has.”

  “You’re right—” Bishop nodded at Steve. “It’s not only a good political move, but a clever one. Somewhere along the way one of the wagons gets—lost, shall we say? It’s my guess this is meant to happen somewhere in New Mexico or Arizona. No one is any the wiser, but Devereaux will have the first shipment of gold and Brandon will be safe in Washington where no one can pin anything on him. I suspect he knows we keep tabs on him, but he doesn’t know we’ve learned about his rich friends and his syndicate. In fact, if you do succeed in stealing the gold, I doubt if Brandon will dare make a fuss about it—no one is supposed to know…”