Pale Moon Stalker (The Nymph Trilogy) Read online

  "I suppose, in a way, I'm still breaking my oath, but when I learned more about what kind of animal his murderer was, I couldn't let it rest. I want that killer dead."

  Max sighed. "Hell, I'd like to help you, but there was a letter waiting for me when I returned this morning." He glanced over at the drawer beneath the washstand. "I have some very pressing business that must be resolved back in England. I truly am sorry, Mrs. Brewster. I hunt men, but I don't set out to kill them."

  "I don't believe you'd have any qualms about killing this one—if you're the man called the Limey."

  She seemed so sure of herself. "You know I am. But what would make me agree to your offer? Surely not your delightful interviewing skills," he could not resist adding.

  Those huge blue eyes flashed triumphantly. "Several weeks ago, you were in a card game with a man, cleaned him out. He was a bad loser and tried to draw on you. You had him beat by a mile, but like a damned fool, you didn't squeeze the trigger. The man left the bar, got on his horse, rode sixty or seventy paces down the street, unbooted his rifle, and shot your horse, which was tied at the hitching rack. Shot him in the belly."

  Max turned pale under his suntanned skin. "Johnny Deuce shot Rembrandt...my Remmy, the bravest, most intelligent, beautiful paint pony I ever saw. If he's the son of a bitch who killed your husband, you'll get what you want. Sooner or later our paths will cross again. I assure you that he'll be as dead as you could wish him."

  Sky shook her head. "That's not good enough. I want him dead at my feet, and I want him dead now! I've already waited for over a year fighting for justice in courts that don't know the meaning of the word. I can pay you seven hundred dollars to do what both of us want. Kill Johnny Deuce."

  Max stared at Sky intently while thinking about the news he had received that morning. A crazy idea flashed into his brain. Wildly improbable, but it just might work. She could be the solution to his dilemma...if he handled the matter deftly. The shock of learning about his uncle Harry's death had not yet worn off. Hell, it probably never would. That was why he had sought the oblivion of liquor. Harold Stanhope, Baron Ruxton, was the only family he had ever cared about...and now he was gone.

  He absently gazed at the drawer in which he had placed the letter from his uncle's London solicitor. He had to return...and soon. "What if I make you a counterproposal?" His mouth curved ever so slightly at the double entendre only he understood.

  One of Sky's finely arched black eyebrows rose. Heaven above, when the man smiled that way, she had no idea what to expect. "What kind of proposal?" she asked suspiciously.

  "Why, of marriage, naturally," he said with a perfectly straight face.

  Sky almost dropped her rifle. She did lean it in front of her, using the stock to support her suddenly unsteady legs. "How much did you have to drink?" was all she could manage to say.

  "I am quite sober, thanks to you—and deadly serious, I assure you."

  "Why would an Englishman want to marry a mixed-blood woman, much less one he's just met—and not under the most ideal circumstances, as you've repeatedly reminded me?"

  He made a dismissive gesture with one elegant hand. "Back in England, your Sioux blood, what little there is of it, wouldn't signify. I have just come into an inheritance, but to claim all of it, I must present to my solicitor in London a suitable wife. The intent, I believe, is for me to wed and fertilize a delicate English Rose."

  He spit out the phrase as if it were a slice of lemon. "But there may be another option...with no fertilization required. You're educated, Church of England, and to make it believable, attractive. You fit the requirements admirably," he added, amused at her stunned expression. She looked as if she had just seen George Armstrong Custer leap out of his grave, yanking arrows from his body.

  "You're rather crudely proposing what I believe the English call a marriage of convenience. Is that right?" At his nod, she attempted to gather her wits, unable to believe such a bizarre bargain. "I assist you in claiming your inheritance and you kill Deuce for me in return?"

  "Precisely so. We can have the marriage annulled once we return to America. Then I'll track down Deuce and—"

  "No! First you kill him, then I marry you and sail to jolly old England," she countered stubbornly.

  Max rubbed his burning eyes, cradling his head in his hands. This wasn't going to be easy. She wasn't going to be easy. "It can't work that way. It might take weeks, even months, to track him. I haven't the luxury of time. I have inherited my uncle's title, but if I don't return immediately, I'll lose his unentailed fortune. Worse, my gutless little bastard of a cousin will receive it in my stead. Cletus allowed my elder brother to die when we were children. If not for that...I doubt I'd go back."

  "You don't want the money? The title?" she asked, amazed.

  "I don't give a damn for any of it. I am not unlike what some would unflatteringly call a remittance man. My uncle has sent me money, which has been piling up in a New York bank for the past five years. Couldn't talk the old boy out of it, so..." He shrugged, then looked away, staring with those cold green eyes into a time and place far away.

  "So, you let this money sit untouched and made your own way with a gun," she supplied. The man was an enigma. What would cause him to do such a thing? Sky intuited that it would not be wise to ask. Then he stood up and advanced a step toward her. Now he was grinning at her like a lobo wolf...a very dangerous male animal. She did not back away but stood her ground.

  "That is one of the tools of my trade," he said, gesturing to the .45-70 Winchester in the corner. "By the by, that Smith & Wesson double-action you left basting in whiskey at Rosie's was custom-made to my precise specifications. If it's damaged, the cost of a replacement will come out of your share of the inheritance."

  "I have not agreed to marry you—and if I did, it wouldn't be for money," she replied, caught off guard by his sudden shift in mood. "Anyway, it...it wouldn't be proper. Will's only been dead a little over a year."

  "Do you want me to kill Deuce or not?" He studied her keenly, trying to gauge what lay behind those incredible eyes. Would she help him?

  "Yes, I do, but if I go through with this sham marriage, will I have to accompany you to London?"

  "I'll book adjoining staterooms. You may lock your doors against me," he said dryly.

  Sky considered her options. With every passing week, Deuce's trail grew colder. She had learned he'd left Dakota Territory almost immediately after the last in a series of mock trials left him a free man. He was afraid of what she would do. Rightly so. "How could you find him months from now after we return from England?"

  A good sign. She was not rejecting his terms outright. "It's what I do. Track wanted men," he replied simply.

  She barely shook her head. "Why would you ask me to form this alliance? Surely you could find any number of women who'd give their eyeteeth to marry a titled Englishman." One handsome as sin like you.

  "I want the liaison to end amicably. What I don't want is a woman who covets being a baroness so much that she'll raise a fuss about an annulment. Your speech and manners—in spite of your rather unorthodox dress—indicate that you're well bred. I'm quite certain you do not want to remain my baroness. But can you act well enough to fool my solicitor, hmm?"

  "You are presumptuous, arrogant and altogether too glib..." She allowed her voice to fade away, placing one slender finger to her cheek, making him wait. "In spite of that, yes, Maxwell Stanhope, I'll marry you." The moment she spoke the words and saw a triumphant gleam in those hard green eyes, Sky wondered if she had just made the worst mistake of her life.

  * * * *

  St. George's Episcopal Church, Bismarck

  "I now pronounce you man and wife," the priest said solemnly. "You may kiss the bride." The latter was added with a gentle smile as the elderly clergyman looked from Sky to her husband.

  My husband, Maxwell Livingston Stanhope, Baron Ruxton. Sky felt her throat tighten with uncertainty as she looked up at his face, trying to read any emotion. There was none discernable. At least he wasn't gloating, thank heavens, but at the prodding of Father Granton, he did lower his head and give her lips a chaste brush. She felt an odd frisson of...something pass over her fleetingly. Then, before she could identify the feeling, it evaporated. She resisted the urge to touch her lips with her lace-gloved fingertips.

  Looking around the ornate brick church with its gold-trimmed altar, she considered how different this was from her first marriage to Will in a tiny wooden chapel on the Ehanktonwon reservation. She had worn a white buckskin tunic lovingly embroidered with beads and quills, made for her by the women of her tribe. Her whole family was there...and so was love. Now she had just wed a dangerous stranger after making a frighteningly cold-blooded bargain.

  As they left the church, Max sensed her restiveness and knew she was having second thoughts. "Repenting our bargain so soon?" he asked.

  "No...that is, it seemed wrong to make vows before a priest that we don't intend to keep—not that I want a real marriage," she quickly amended.

  Max chuckled. "If I thought for one moment you did, I'd be the one having second thoughts. But I explained why it had to be a Church of England marriage."

  "A civil ceremony wouldn't be sufficient to satisfy the requirements of your uncle's will," she replied, trying to convince herself.

  "You're still in love with your dead husband, aren't you?"

  The question surprised her. Of course she would always love Will, but what business was it of his? Composing herself, she replied, "I adored Will from the moment I first saw him standing at the foot of the gangplank of my brother's stern-wheeler."

  "You have a brother?"

  Sky nodded. "Yes, Clint Daniels from St. Louis."

  "That's where your white famil
y lives?"

  "Yes, just Clint and his wife Delilah and their children. Clint is my adopted brother. He married my sister Teal and became one of us...until she was killed..."

  "Sorry to bring up unhappy memories," he said after her voice faded away.

  "It was a long time ago. Clint brought me to St. Louis and saw to my education so that I would be able to return to my people and help them in their struggle against the whites."

  What a mystery she was. "You speak about the whites as if they're your enemy. Is that why you didn't ask your brother for help when your husband was killed?"

  Her face became shuttered. "Clint doesn't know about Will's murder. I never told him. He would have sought vengeance...and that would stain his soul."

  Max considered her words. But mine is so black already, what matters another smudge or two? For some inexplicable reason the implication hurt.

  * * * *

  When they reached New York, Max reserved a suite in a fine hotel with a sitting room separating their bedrooms. They had one evening before their ship sailed for London. Sky had mentioned reading about Delmonico's in the heart of New York's "Tenderloin District." He intended to surprise her by taking her to the famous restaurant.

  Sky stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom, imagining what Max was doing at the moment. No doubt he was dressing, humming tunelessly as he had so often done on the long rail trip from Bismarck. It seemed a lifetime since she had lived with a man. Will had always been thoughtful about simple courtesies, assisting her in and out of carriages or opening doors for her, but his touch had been gentle and familiar...comfortable.

  When Max did the same things, she felt completely different. There was a strange tension between them. She almost thought he was angry with her for some fault she did not understand. Now that they were so close to embarking for his homeland, did he regret marrying a woman of mixed blood?

  She checked her appearance again in the mirror. The deep rose silk gown dipped low in front, revealing more of her breasts than she would have chosen as the wife of a clergyman, but it was the height of fashion for ladies of quality—or so the saleswoman had assured her. She wore her mother's cameo on a slim gold chain around her neck.

  Since childhood, she had carried the treasured memento with her everywhere, but the engraved gold wedding band from Will she had placed in a shabby black velvet pouch. Removing it from her finger when she made her bargain with Max Stanhope had felt like a betrayal. She glanced down at the heavy gold ring that the Englishman had placed on her hand. There were no words of love etched on the inside of the band. It felt heavy...and cold. Like her new husband's eyes.

  A tap on the adjoining door interrupted her troubled thoughts. She walked across the room and opened it. Max looked every inch the English lord in a dark blue wool suit, his white shirtfront winking with emerald studs. His tall, lean body was made to wear custom tailoring. He had been to a barber and his curly hair was fashionably tamed, the sideburns palest blond against his bronzed skin. For an unbidden moment, she caught herself wondering if his body was as pale as his hair. Appalled at the thought, she quickly suppressed it.

  "You look quite splendid, m'lord," she said with an insouciant curtsey.

  "Even more so, you," he managed as his gaze swept from her lush black hair, braided in an intricate crown atop her head, to the soft curves of her hips revealed by the tempting concoction in silk that clung so lovingly to her body. His attention was drawn back to the deep vee of her cleavage where a simple oval of carved ivory nestled. Fortunate cameo! "Is that a family heirloom?" When she reached up and fingered the cameo, he felt his throat tighten, wanting desperately to touch those soft mounds.

  "It belonged to my mother. The only thing she managed to hide from her Pawnee captors."

  Max struggled to find his voice, then said, "It's as lovely as you."

  * * * *

  Sky was delighted by Delmonico's. After sharing a bottle of excellent champagne, they both began to relax. He enjoyed watching her study the haughty socialites and powerful Wall Street businessmen surrounding them. "Many of the men and women you see here are as powerful as any earl or duke in England."

  Sky made a moue of distaste. "They exploit Indian land and prey on the poor of every race."

  He smiled at her. "You would be a daunting reformer. Even the likes of Gould and Fisk might back down if you jabbed your Winchester in their fat guts."

  "A thought worthy of consideration," she said dryly. "But not in such a lovely place. The meal was incredible. Thank you, Max, for bringing me here."

  "My pleasure," he said, and it was, indeed. He signaled a waiter for the check.

  Outside, the night was warm and the moon full when they stood on the street awaiting a hack. When an open carriage approached, he hailed it.

  The driver, a small fellow with slicked-back dark hair and an ingratiating smile, asked, "Would you folks enjoy a ride through Central Park? Perfect night for it."

  "I'd appreciate some fresh air," she said to Max. "It's been seven years since I lived in a large city and I don't like the smell or closed-in feeling of being surrounded by so much brick and stone."

  "The park it is, then," Max said, then asked, "Are you homesick?"

  She shook her head. "No. I need time away from the memories back in Dakota lands. But eventually I'll return there to live out my life."

  And find a real husband. The thought rankled. He pushed it aside. "No interest in St. Louis?"

  "It was a good place to learn what I needed to know."

  "Yes, how to outwit the wily white-eyes," he said wryly. "Tell me more about what you studied in St. Louis. Healing arts? Teaching?"

  "We have a doctor and several missionaries who care for our ill and teach our young. No, I read law with one of the most successful attorneys in the city." She watched that silvery eyebrow rise just as she'd expected it would.

  "I might have to let go our family solicitor. Poor Jerome…"

  "You'd be unwise to dismiss him," she said with the hint of a smile. "I know nothing of English law."

  "That's a relief. Jerome Bartlett's been with the Stanhopes for decades. Quite a decent chap."

  Suddenly, their carriage came to an abrupt halt in a tree-shrouded grove. Sky was thrown against Max's shoulder. She could feel his arm reaching inside his jacket for the .32-caliber Hopkins & Allen pocket revolver she knew he carried.

  "Stay down," he commanded as the driver jumped from his perch and vanished into the darkness.

  Sky had learned her lesson well the day Will died in her arms. She never again went anywhere unarmed. As Max looked from side to side for an approaching thief, she plunged her hand into her small beaded reticule and extracted her Colt Derringer just as a shot rang out and her husband cursed.

  "Are you hit?" she whispered.

  "No," he muttered, sliding from the carriage when he detected a figure emerging from the bushes. He palmed the .32 so that it would be invisible in the gloom, and raised what appeared to be empty hands. "Don't shoot. I'll give you my money—"

  A harsh guttural laugh echoed in the darkness. "More'n that, I'm thinkin'," the thief said as he raised his pistol and took aim.

  Max's arm came down lightning fast and he rolled to the ground. From a prone position he fired as the startled thief's finger closed on the trigger of his gun. He missed. The Limey did not.

  Sky held her Derringer level, watching their assailant crumple. Max stood up and walked over to the man on the ground, kicking his weapon away. Suddenly, a slight movement caught her eye from the side of a large tree. "Max, watch out!" she shouted, firing at the man taking aim. She knew she was out of range, but the shot did the trick. The thudding of footsteps pounded away from them as he crashed through the undergrowth.

  "Are you all right?" she asked, struggling to alight from the carriage in her slim skirt.

  "No. Blasted suit's ruined," he replied calmly, holding up his left arm to reveal a tear in the sleeve from a bullet.

  "You can afford a new suit. New arms are difficult to come by, even for a baron. Consider yourself very lucky," she said in a chiding voice.

  "I always have been...so far." There was a darkness in his voice before he shifted his attention to the unconscious man, who moaned softly. "Bastard was a frightful shot."

  "Why would he try to kill you when he thought you were willing to give him your money?" she asked, looking down at the man lying on the ground. A rough customer, probably from New York's infamous slums. "Our driver was part of the robbery setup."