Wildstar Page 13

  Logan's expression was derisive. “Where is she, Father?” he asked mockingly. “Out spending my inheritance?”

  His father ignored the sarcasm and braced himself for his son's next reaction. “Brent took her to the doctor.”

  Logan's blue eyes widened in disbelief. “You don't mean to tell me that you've saddled me with an invalid.”

  “No, don't be absurd. She's healthy enough physically.”

  “Physically?”

  “She's been having a little trouble remembering things, so Thomas insisted on her seeing a physician.”

  Logan stared at him for a long moment without speaking. “A little touched in the head, is she? No wonder no one will have her. I can see now why Thomas was in such a hurry to marry her off.”

  The thought of being trapped with such a wife was infuriating enough to bring on another white-hot blast of fury.

  “I'll stop this travesty, if it's the last thing I ever do,” he thundered.

  He was halfway to the door when his father called after him desperately, “She's not crazy! She had an accident; she's just lost her memory. You've got to wait and meet her. She's expecting to return to Denver with you.”

  Logan glowered at his father from the door.

  “I'm not taking her anywhere! And if you like the woman at all, you'd better advise her to get an annulment or expect to have a damn miserable life.”

  Michael shook his head sadly, his voice low and pleading. “Give her a chance, son. None of this is her fault, and she's prepared herself to go home with you.”

  Logan turned back, his hand on the doorknob, his voice cold and deliberate. “I don't really care if she has or not. It's not my problem, and I have more pressing matters on my mind at the moment. She engineered this whole mess without my help, and she can get out there by herself. Or you can take her, Father. But if you do, don't expect any welcome from me.”

  Michael Cord watched the door slam behind his son, dreading the moment he'd have to relate Logan's message to his lovely new bride.

  Eleven

  The room was very quiet and almost dark. Heavy brocade draperies were drawn over tall, paned windows, allowing only a narrow band of afternoon sun to escape across the polished floor. A myriad of golden motes hung suspended, in the bright shaft of light, reflecting dusty images in the glass bookcases lining the walls. A single candle burned, casting a yellow glow upon a thin, elderly man who sat hunched over a curved velvet couch. He moved slightly, his craggy face intent upon the woman before him, then spoke softly to her, his words gently rhythmic in a heavy French accent.

  The woman, was beautiful, and she lay still, her slender hands folded upon the voluminous folds of her skirt. The shimmery fabric glowed beneath her creamy skin, and her long blond hair was pulled back in a heavy chignon at her nape.

  Across the room, nearly hidden in one dusky corner, Brent Holloway's eyes gleamed as he watched the gentle rise and fall of soft, satiny curves above her bodice. He was very handsome, with straight features under dark, curling auburn hair, and his eyes were green, darkened by brown flecks in the iris. They did not waver from the woman as he absently stroked one finger across his immaculately trimmed mustache, his lips curved in a self-satisfied smile.

  Brent was amazed at just how much he wanted Elizabeth. And he'd wanted her since the first moment he'd seen her. He could vividly remember that night in Denver, when Rankin and Smythe had brought her to the shabby boardinghouse on the outskirts of town. They'd dragged her into the room, kicking and snarling like a small wild thing. Now, dressed as a lady, she was exquisite, but of that first night all he could remember was her silvery hair and purple eyes. All his life he'd craved fiery, passionate women, and she was like a hellion in her fury. He liked women to fight him. His loins tightened with desire, and he awkwardly shifted his long legs on the oriental hassock.

  She'd hurled vicious curses at her captors in a strange guttural language, her bright hair tangled and thrown over her shoulders, and Brent had wanted to step from his hiding place behind a screen and fling her upon the bed for his pleasure. Subduing her in such a rage would have been immensely satisfying. But he had not. It would have ruined his scheme to hold her for ransom. A scheme he'd taken a lot of trouble to set up.

  It had started the night he'd run into an old friend from St. Louis at the Criterion Saloon in Denver. His name was Alfred Huddleston, and they'd met several years back before Brent and Isabel had made the move from St. Louis to gold-rich Denver. Huddleston was already well into his cups by the time Brent had joined him, and he'd mumbled for some time about his homesickness for his family before he'd mentioned Thomas Pennington. Brent had come alert at once, aware that Thomas Pennington was one of the richest men in St. Louis. When Huddleston had gone on to say that Pennington wanted his granddaughter back before he died, Brent had plied his lawyer friend with liquor. His tongue had loosened considerably after that, and Brent had found out that someone named Tracker was to steal the girl from a tribe of Cheyenne, then meet Huddleston at the Cherokee Hotel on the first of October.

  Brent had seen the opportunity at once to make a great deal of money by abducting the girl and holding her for ransom. After all, the hard part was being done for him; the girl was to be delivered on a silver platter. All he had to do was get rid of Alfred and take the girl away from the man called Tracker. But in order for it to work, he knew he'd have to hire others to do the actual abduction. Brent knew Thomas Pennington too well and might be identified by the girl later; Brent's mother was a distant cousin of the Pennington family.

  It hadn't taken him long to persuade Carl Rankin, a dishonest cardshark, to join in the scheme. He'd been Brent's partner for a time in a gambling con and was totally unscrupulous. Carl hadn't batted an eye when Brent had told him to kill Alfred Huddleston.

  All had gone well from that point, and Rankin had paid off his two friends the night the girl was abducted. They had left for St. Louis that very night, but the girl had remained wild and savage, refusing to speak or even tell them her name. They'd been forced to keep her inside the covered wagon during the entire six-week journey. But it had been just as well, because Brent could not afford to let her see him. He remained out of sight, permitting Rankin to keep her in line when they let her out of the wagon. But he'd made sure that Rankin had not violated her in any way. She was to be his and his alone.

  He frowned suddenly, his heavy brows forming a harsh slash above his eyes. When they'd arrived in St. Louis with the girl, Rankin had sent the ransom note to Thomas Pennington, keeping Elizabeth in a sleazy hotel on the waterfront. Brent had made it a point to be with Thomas when he received it, so he could act as intermediary for him. Thomas had never suspected Brent was involved, much less that he was the engineer of the whole plot, and Brent had managed to ingratiate himself with Thomas, becoming fifty thousand dollars richer at the same time. And he was certain he would have won Elizabeth too if her fool of a grandfather hadn't insisted on dredging up the damn betrothal contract. Now she was legally married to Logan Cord. The scowl deepened, compressing Brent's features, as an angry tic jumped in his clenched jaw. His hands curled into hard fists, and he sought to relax his ire, transferring his eyes away from Elizabeth to the windows. His only consolation was that Logan wouldn't have Elizabeth for long. If everything went as planned, the lovely lady would ask that her marriage be annulled. Brent was determined to marry her, and as her husband control the fortune she'd inherit from her grandfather.

  He grinned, returning his regard to where she lay upon the couch. He'd made great progress already at poisoning her mind against Logan, and it had been even easier than he'd expected. She'd become exceedingly receptive to suggestion since Dr. Petaire had mesmerized her. His eyes sought the elderly doctor. They were halfway through the session now, and Brent listened intently as Marcel droned the familiar words.

  “Elizabeth, my dear,” the slow, whispery voice was saying, “you must listen carefully and obey me. You must forget all that has happened
to you before you came to live with your grandfather. You must forget the Cheyenne, you must forget your childhood with them. You will remember nothing of the abduction, of being held for ransom. Your life will begin anew, your past forgotten. You have lost your memory in a fall. You were born Elizabeth Pennington Richmond, and now you have married Logan Cord. You grew up in Boston with your Aunt Margaret. You will be receptive to all new experiences, Elizabeth. You will diligently learn everything taught to you about white people and their ways. You must learn to be gentle and ladylike in all that you do....”

  Brent quit listening, having heard the identical indoctrination session every day for almost four months.

  He'd continued to win gratitude from Thomas by suggesting mesmerism to control the girl's behavior. Even after Elizabeth had been returned to her grandfather, she had remained savage, refusing to wear white clothing or acknowledge Thomas as her kin. It had broken her grandfather's heart, especially since he was ill with tuberculosis without long to live. The fact that Elizabeth hated him and blamed him for her misery ended his reluctance to take her to Dr. Petaire. He wanted her to love him, to allow him to love her before he died. He would have done anything at that point to make her accept her new life. When Thomas saw the success of the initial treatments, he decided that Michael Cord and his son need never know the real reason for Elizabeth's sessions with Dr. Petaire, preferring to hide her experiences with the Cheyenne. He prefabricated the story of a fall and a memory loss, and through mesmerism Elizabeth had come to believe it; Michael Cord had no reason to question his own father's friend.

  Bringing Elizabeth to Marcel Petaire had been a stroke of genius on Brent's part, and since the process of mind control was a new concept in America, it was fortunate that Brent had met Marcel in Paris, where he'd traveled some years earlier, and become interested in his work. Their friendship had encouraged Marcel's move to St. Louis, and it had been easy enough to persuade the good doctor to work on Elizabeth. Marcel had been intrigued by her case.

  They'd had to resort to drugs during the first session to gain her cooperation, but then once she was in a trance, they'd found her to be an excellent subject, very easily indoctrinated.

  Brent sighed and crushed out his cigar in the bowl beside him as Dr. Petaire's voice repeated the same words over and over. He stood and stretched, wishing the session would end. He moved to the window, watching the street below, but his thoughts remained on Elizabeth. It had never occurred to him that he might wish to marry Thomas’ granddaughter. From the beginning, when Alfred Huddleston had let slip his mission in Denver, Elizabeth had been nothing but a pawn in Brent's plot. But after he'd seen her, he'd known he had to have her.

  He regretted that Huddleston had had to die, since they'd been friends for so long. He felt a twinge of guilt when he thought of Alfred's wife and three daughters. But the lawyer could have incriminated Brent, and Brent couldn't let that happen. Nothing could tie him to the plot, nothing could make Elizabeth hate him as she hated the man called Tracker.

  Brent turned to face her. It was working according to his, plan. At first she'd hated this Tracker for betraying her. She'd cursed him and Thomas over and over. That was before the mesmerism when she'd fought against anything that tied her to the life of the white man. Now she seemed to have forgotten a man named Tracker ever existed. Brent drew another cheroot from his breast pocket and lit it. The plot had worked beautifully from beginning to end. Now all he had to do was woo Elizabeth until she was so in love with him that she would defy her grandfather and refuse to stay married to Cord.

  A door opened behind him, and Brent turned, as a whiteclad nurse entered quietly and whispered urgently to the doctor.

  “Is there a problem, Marcel?” he inquired, and the doctor nodded, openly dismayed by the interruption.

  “Yes, there's an emergency downstairs. Some kind of warehouse explosion at the docks.”

  Dr. Petaire paused, casting a worried look at the sleeping woman. “I suppose I must bring her out of the trance early, but it is not good to vary the treatments.”

  “I'll sit with her, Marcel. Perhaps it won't take long.”

  The doctor frowned in indecision and at his hesitation, Brent continued persuasively, “Go ahead. I don't mind waiting, especially when it's for Elizabeth's sake.”

  The nurse cleared her throat anxiously. Marcel glanced at Elizabeth again, then warned Brent to watch her until he returned.

  Brent nodded, anticipation glittering deep in his eyes. The door closed behind them, and his teeth flashed briefly as he stared down into her beautiful face. The need to touch her hardened in a tight knot of desire, his eyes traveling slowly down the fragile column of her throat to the soft curves above the neckline. He trailed one finger slowly over the satiny mounds, savoring the warm velvety feel of her skin, then lowered it into the deep valley between her breasts. His breath accelerated, and he wetted dry lips as he intruded his hand farther beneath the green silk until he cupped her breast. He tightened his fingers cruelly.

  She would have cried out in pain if she'd been awake, and his loins reacted to the thought. More than anything in his life, he wanted to tear the thin bodice apart and feast his eyes on the perfection hidden from him. He'd wanted her for so long, and she was so very helpless lying before him. But it would be stupid to molest her now, and Brent Holloway was not a stupid man.

  He slipped his hand away and rearranged her gown, just as Dr. Petaire entered. Brent leaned back, surveying Marcel out of innocent eyes.

  “It's very bad. Many are hurt, and I fear I must end the session.”

  Brent stood back silently and watched Marcel lean over Elizabeth.

  “I will count backwards from five, Elizabeth, and when I reach one, you will open your eyes. You will remember my commands and obey them. Five, four, three, two, one....”

  Elizabeth opened her eyes, their violet depths dark with confusion. An unnamed fear arose within her and tightened like a heavy leather strap, as she struggled to remember what had happened. Dark green eyes loomed above her, and Elizabeth stared up into their warmth, the panic receding as she recognized Brent. Brent loved her. If Brent was with her, she was safe. He smiled down at her, a tender, loving smile, and his voice was soft and reassuring.

  “I'm here, my dear. Everything is all right.”

  She remembered Dr. Petaire then, and turned her head, knowing the old French doctor would be nearby. He smiled and patted her hand.

  “And how do you feel, my dear Elizabeth?” he asked gently.

  Elizabeth smiled shyly, now that the first wave of suffocating fear had left her.

  “Did everything go well?” she asked him. She wanted so desperately to regain her memory, the memory Grandfather said she had lost in a fall, to fill all the voids she could not understand.

  “The session was most satisfactory, Elizabeth.”

  “But will I remember soon?”

  Hope trembled in her voice, and Dr. Petaire's eyes met Brent's briefly before he answered gently, “In time you will, my dear. I promise you.”

  He took her small hand and squeezed it, then helped her to her feet. “The day will come when you will remember everything, so just relax and empty your mind of worry. Let things happen as they will. Anxiety will only impede your progress.”

  Elizabeth nodded, and the doctor turned to Brent. Both men missed the disappointment etched so vividly across Elizabeth's lovely features as she stood quietly beside them. It was a terrible way to live, remembering nothing of her past, of her parents or childhood. She looked around thedim room dejectedly. Her memory began in this very room. She had not known Brent or Dr. Petaire for long, but they were her friends now. Knowing she could count on them helped soothe the savage, terrifying nightmares of naked, painted bodies and dark caves and serpents and circles of blue that haunted her nights.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the images that awakened her screaming.

  “Elizabeth? Do you feel well?” Brent said as he slippe
d one hand around her slender waist and pulled her close to him.

  “Don't worry, my love. You'll remember eventually. I know you will.”

  Elizabeth nodded and leaned gratefully against his tall strength, wanting to believe him. He'd been so good to her, and he'd been there for her whenever she needed him.

  “I must go now, Elizabeth,” said Dr. Petaire with a warm smile. “Please try not to distress yourself. You must trust us. Brent and I have your best interests at heart.”

  “I do trust you, Doctor, you and Brent.”

  And it was true, they were her only two friends, except her grandfather.

  “I must get downstairs now, my dear. Do take care of yourself.”

  Brent placed her velvet cape over her shoulders as the doctor hurried from the room. He gripped her arms lightly, then slid his palms slowly down her arms. He turned her to face him, his lips touching her brow with the lightest of kisses, and Elizabeth allowed it, leaning slightly into the circle of his arms. Her eyes drifted closed as his mouth brushed against her fragile cheekbone. He was always so gentle with her, Elizabeth thought despondently. If only he could have been her betrothed. How wonderful it would have been to marry him, instead of a stranger she'd never met. Brent had found her lips, his kiss deepening, and Elizabeth placed her palms against his chest and turned her head away.

  “Please, Brent, I cannot. I am a married woman now.”

  “You should belong to me,” Brent murmured, as he pressed a warm kiss against the side of her throat. Elizabeth slipped from his grasp.

  “Please. Logan Cord is my husband.”

  “Damn Logan Cord to hell!”

  Elizabeth jerked away, shocked by his viciousness.

  “You're too good for him! He's a brutal rake, never satisfied with one woman, and he'll make life hell for you!”

  Elizabeth gasped, fear of the unknown rising until she could not breathe. Brent had told her many times that Logan Cord was a cruel man who would treat her badly, and her heart now became like a lump of ice in her breast.