My Angel (12 page)

Suddenly disgusted with Velvet and with his own base desires, Devil strode down the stairs and into the parlor. At least twenty ladies plied their wares, laughing, drinking and smoking. He moved down the hallway and out the front door until he encountered fresh, clean air.

Leaning against a pillar, he let his mind wander back to Angela. He saw a lifetime of hot pursuit and exciting surrender with her.

He wanted Angela's long, coltish legs wrapped around him every night. With her by his side, her smile captivating all the seconds of his day, he could almost feel he'd achieved nirvana. Her bold honesty enticed him. Her innocent passion beckoned him. Instinctively, he knew she was the woman for him, his mate for the rest of his life.

The thought of taking a wife for the sole purpose of begetting an heir filled him with loathing, but he could see no solution to his dilemma. His grandmother would never accept Angela as his wife--as the mother of the heir.

He could not marry a whore.

Who would know?

Allah, the most desirable woman he'd ever known was a prostitute. That was fitting revenge, he supposed, for all the women he'd made love to in his lifetime. The one woman who made him feel things deep inside as no other, he couldn't marry because she wasn't a virgin.

The fact changed little. He still wanted her in his bed and his life. With an arrogance he freely admitted, he planned to have her beneath him in his bed as soon as he could provide
the proper environment. When he made love to her, it would be on a soft bed, and the room would be filled with candlelight. He wouldn't let the depraved Lawrence Stevens or the greedy Madame leBon stand in his way. As soon as he'd done his part in rescuing Emma, he would find Angela, kidnap her if necessary, and hightail it out of the country.

Of course, the realization that she would give herself to him without protest or the time-consuming seduction needed with a virgin lightened his mood. Hot passion and seductive nights with a spirited hellion in his arms was a lot to look forward to.

He struck a match on the pillar and lit a smoke. Embers floated lazily down from the cigarette. He watched and waited, coiled tightly and primed for anything. A cool breeze came down from the mountains, hinting at a possible late snow.

A head start on the weather would be nice, he mused. His gear was packed and ready; he needed only to add a few extra essentials for Angela. Midnight. He breathed deeply with thought. When the clock struck twelve or possibly sooner, he and Angela would be on their way east. In a few days they'd catch the train in
Cheyenne
then on to
New York
, where his ship waited for him.

She'd had such a strange reaction to his comments about women and their bodies. She'd bristled like a little tigress defending her cubs. And he'd told her the truth. He did prefer a woman who was not afraid to use her body for pleasure. Remembering the cold, aristocratic women his grandmother had introduced him to when he lived in
Russia
with her sent rivers of ice down his spine. To bed one of those ladies would be like bedding a statue. He would not--could not--endure that without the thought of his Angel to return to.

During his life with his father, he'd seen and made love to many exotic women. His father, the grand vizier, had a harem full of beautiful women. None, he thought, were as mysterious as Angela. His father had abducted his mother, brought her to his palace as a slave, but he'd quickly learned of her nobility. And just as quickly he'd fallen in love with her, naming her his first wife.

His father had no trouble forgetting his mother's earlier marriage to a Russian aristocrat, claiming the marriage no longer existed. Yet when her former husband and firstborn son had died, it had given Alexi control of untold wealth and an inheritance in
Russia
that could be denied by no one.

Velvet had interrupted what would have turned out to be a fast, unsatisfying first encounter with his Angel. Even though he'd been irritated with the madam, he was inwardly pleased she had come upon them. Now Velvet knew how he felt about Angela, and the madam would think twice before abusing her.

Control had been inherent in every move he made throughout his life, and somehow the little slip of a lady of the evening called Angela dissolved that control with a smile. He had the uncanny feeling Angela wrested control from him with every breath she took.

He'd have to be wary.

The soft, unnatural swaying of shadows at the edge of the forest beyond caught his attention. He searched the perimeter but saw nothing unusual.

Every instinct cried out to him.

Devil pushed himself off the pillar and moved toward the trees and the vision he thought he'd seen. Lawrence Stevens rushed from the back of the house, unaware anyone watched.

And Devil pursued the pursuer. Someone or something had put a crunch on
Lawrence
's plans, and Devil could only guess the cause.

Emma...

The faint shadows, the indistinct fluttering of light and dark at the edge of the woods, had been Emma Barringer. She had done the impossible. She had escaped.

He had to find her before Lawrence Stevens did.

Chapter Five

The second Angela stepped foot in Emma's room she knew something had gone wrong. She looked from the rumpled bed to the nightdress pooled on the floor near the armoire.

The curtains had been drawn, something that had never been allowed. Emma's water glass and pitcher were tipped, and opium-laced liquid seeped across the floorboards and into the rug.

Silence prevailed throughout the expanse of the room. Shivers of fear raced up Angela's arms, primal and implicit. She rubbed them as if the gesture could dispel the cold.

It couldn't. Nothing could.

"Emma? Oh, dear God, where are you, Emma?"

Angela stood near the center of the room now, searching for answers. She could see signs of struggle: an overturned chair, a picture on the wall slightly askew. For Emma to have left the room by herself, she would have had to overcome a great obstacle: her drugged state. Emma was in no condition to brave the wilderness outside the bordello, and she certainly couldn't walk down the road. Velvet leBon had bought the most secluded mansion in the wilderness outside
Denver
.

Angela had thought to dilute the drugs Velvet had given Emma. Instinctively, Angela had known Dakota meant to rescue his wife or buy her at the auction. There was no other recourse. If Jacob had proof, they could bring in the Pinkertons and the sheriff. They could catch Lawrence Stevens and Velvet leBon.

Even in Angela's wildest imagination, she could not have foreseen an escape. Despite the threat of punishment from her father, she would have warned Sam or Dakota if she'd thought Emma was strong enough to leave on her own. She could have told Devil. Both men sat downstairs in the parlor waiting for the auction, completely unaware of the events unfolding upstairs.

An auction at which Emma would not appear.

With Emma gone, she had no reason to stay. She was at risk here, not just from Lawrence Stevens, should he find out who she was, but from her father, too. She was more afraid of her father. Guilt had a way of eating a hole in one's heart, and this deception had left Angela feeling more guilt than she'd known in a lifetime.

After a few courage-rending deep breaths, Angela fled Emma's room, walking swiftly down the hall, determined not to draw attention to herself. She reached her own room and, after closing the door, leaned against the wood, letting go a little sigh of relief.

She had only minutes until Emma would be discovered; then chaos would take over. She didn't want to be anywhere near the premises when the pandemonium began. Before anyone discovered Emma missing, Angela had to get away.

Angela began packing, a heavy sigh coming from her. Why couldn't her father listen and try to understand? Hearing her side of the story didn't seem unreasonable. Her father wanted to see her polished. She wasn't a piece of silver, and she had no need for fancy Eastern society. She stuffed the dress she'd worn to the bordello into her valise.

No matter what Sam Chamberlain had in mind for her, he could not erase her Sioux blood. Her mother, White Flower, was half Sioux. Angela had inherited her blond hair and blue eyes from her grandmother, who had been captured by a Sioux chieftain. Many summers she' d lived with her tribe, been part of their customs, admired their courage and honesty. She admired Emma, too. She paused a moment.

"I'm proud of you, Emma Barringer,'' she said, "but you've put a hitch in the plans."

Angela dug through her remaining clothes. She continued
her search until she found her buckskins and moccasins. Dressing quickly, she turned to the mirror to braid her hair.

"Good Lord,'' she murmured. The sight of herself made her grimace with distaste. There wasn't enough water in the state of
Colorado
to wash the paint off her face. She pursed her lips, then puckered her mouth into a funny expression.

Her search for the soap took too many minutes. The scrubbing took longer. She washed until her cheeks were pink and raw. The kohl around her eyes smudged and burned. When she was finished, the paint was not all gone, but she liked the wide-eyed look a small amount of makeup gave her.

"Too bad you can't see me now, Devil." She flashed the mirror a mischievous grin before turning away. She slipped her knife into its sheath and tucked in her shirt. If Devil wanted her, he'd have to find her. She'd give him one week, she decided. Then she'd start looking for him.

"Angela! Open the door." Her father's voice from outside the door sent a ripple of fear down her spine, followed by a calming moment of resignation.

"Angela!"

Her name was uttered with such force, her heart missed a beat and she broke out hi a clammy sweat. She wasn't ready to face her father. Sam's frantic, angry pounding on her door was sure to break it down. "I'm coming." Her voice quavered and her nerves jumped. Knowing she had no other recourse, she slowly opened the door.