Kitabı oku: «Naughty Marietta»
At Marietta’s gentle touch, Cole felt a quick rush of sexual excitement. He brushed her hand away and turned his back on her.
“Sing some more, Marietta,” he said, knowing that her singing would quickly dampen his desire. “I do so like to hear you sing.”
“Really?” she asked, eyes shining.
“You have no idea,” he said as he picked up his chambray shirt.
Marietta was thrilled. Her singing had had the desired effect. She would use it as her chief tool to tempt him. And once she had seduced him, had given herself to him, he would surely fall in love with her. So much in love he would not force her to go to Galveston to her grandfather. He would take her wherever she wanted to go. And she wanted to go back to Central City and the opera!
Marietta inwardly shuddered at the prospect of allowing Cole to actually make love to her. She didn’t really know what to expect. Wasn’t sure she would know what she was supposed to do when the time came.
She was worried. But she had no other choice. If she was ever to be free of him, then she would have to let Cole make love to her. It would, she knew, be quite a sacrifice on her part.
But it would be worth it.
Also by Nan Ryan
THE SCANDALOUS MISS HOWARD
THE SEDUCTION OF ELLEN
THE COUNTESS MISBEHAVES
WANTING YOU
CHIEFTAIN
Naughty Marietta
Nan Ryan
For seven of my favorite writers
who are also valued friends
Marsha Canham
Lori Copeland
Heather Graham
Virginia Henley
Kat Martin
Meryl Sawyer
Christina Skye
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
One
June 1872
Midnight in Galveston, Texas, a Southern coastal city still under the occupation of federal reconstruction troops seven long years after the end of the War Between the States.
A man who had given the ultimate for the Confederacy’s cause—his only son’s life—sat alone in the paneled library of his spacious seaside mansion. He was grimacing in agony, his teeth were clenched, his eyes closed.
Seventy-eight-year-old, wheelchair-bound, Maxwell Lacey—crippled in a fall from a horse years ago—was suffering. The increased dosage of laudanum failed to kill the pain. The disease that was slowly ravaging his frail body was incurable; he would not recover. Nor, he realized, would his passing be an easy, peaceful one.
The pain refused to go away. It was unbearable. He could stand it no longer. He would stand it no longer.
Maxwell Lacey opened his eyes, gripped the arms of his chair and anxiously wheeled himself across the room and around behind his massive mahogany desk. Grimacing in misery, he opened the bottom desk drawer and took out the old Colt revolver he had carried as a young man. Perspiration dotting his pale, drawn face, he calmly loaded the weapon, raised it and placed the cold steel barrel directly against his right temple.
His finger on the trigger, he glanced across the room. His watery eyes fell on the poster advertising Marietta’s starring role in her most recent opera. Maxwell Lacey swallowed hard and blinked to clear his vision. Focusing on the diva, he gritted his teeth against the worsening pain and slowly lowered the revolver.
Shaking his gray head, he laid the weapon atop his desk. He folded his age-spotted hands together, placed them beneath his quivering chin and sat quietly for a long moment, staring fixedly at the poster. Lost in the mists of memory, he was tormented with anguish and regret.
He thought back over the years to when he was young and the mansion was filled with children’s sweet voices and his wife’s throaty laughter. Now the big house was silent and lonely, had been for a long, long time. All were dead: his son, Jacob, his daughter, Charlotte, his devoted wife, Annabelle.
Maxwell stared at the poster as tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks. And he came to a decision. He would attempt to right some of the terrible wrong he had done.
Suddenly, for the first time in days, the pain eased.
Maxwell Lacey sat in the shadowy library of his opulent home all night, patiently waiting for the summer dawn. Come morning, he sent a servant to summon his attorney to the mansion.
Upon his arrival, Marcus Weathers was immediately shown into the library. Puzzled, the attorney stepped inside and greeted his client.
Turning his wheelchair around and without so much as a “good morning,” Maxwell instructed Weathers, “Draw up my last will and testament!”
The lawyer frowned, his eyebrows knitting. “You already have a will, Maxwell. Don’t you recall, you made it several years ago.”
“I’m changing it, so get out your pen and start writing,” Maxwell bellowed.
“Why the urgency?” asked Weathers as he took a seat facing Maxwell’s desk. “Has something happened? Are you…?”
“Yes,” Maxwell Lacey interrupted. “Doc LeDette was here last evening. The prognosis is not good. I haven’t long to live and I want to…I have decided that I am going to…. Damnation! What is that infernal hammering?”
The steady, rhythmic hammering just outside the steel-barred window elicited no curiosity from the darkly bearded prisoner whose cold blue eyes stared unblinkingly at the ceiling.
In the shadowy cell at the rear of the Galveston city jail, Confederate war veteran and condemned prisoner Cole Heflin lay on his bunk with his hands folded beneath his dark head and his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.
Cole Heflin knew what the hammering meant. A gallows was being constructed. A hanging was to take place at noon. And he, Cole Heflin, was the man who would be hanged. He had been charged with burning Hadleyville—a Northern munitions-supply station—during the war. The Northern press had dubbed him “the man who burned Hadleyville.” Secretary of War Stanton had declared the act a crime against the Union. A crime for which he would hang.
Cole did not fear death. He had faced it many times in the bloody four-year struggle in which most of his friends had perished.
Reflecting on his thirty-four years on earth as he calmly awaited the fast-approaching hour of his death, Cole realized with little regret that he would be leaving no one behind to mourn his passing. His mother and father had long since gone to their final reward and the pretty young woman who had promised to be his faithful sweetheart and wait for him until he came home from the war hadn’t. She had waited only a few short months before running away with a wealthy New Orleans cotton broker.
There would be no tears shed over his passing, including his own. But he did have regrets and remorse that he had not kept his pledge to Keller Longley.
Cole’s eyes clouded as his thoughts turned back to that hot summer day in 1864 when his best friend, Keller Longley, died in his arms on the battlefield atop Lookout Mountain.
When the war began, Cole and Keller—friends since their Texas childhood—made a solemn vow. Should one survive and the other die, the survivor would take care of his deceased comrade’s family.
Cole swallowed hard as he recalled that terrible moment just before Keller died. “You’ll look after Ma and little Leslie, won’t you, Cole?” Keller had managed to say weakly, clutching Cole’s shirtfront as his lifeblood flowed out of him.
“You know I will,” Cole assured him as he cradled Keller in his arms and cried like a baby.
Now Cole ground his teeth in frustration. He hadn’t kept his promise to Keller. He had failed his friend, hadn’t been able to look after Keller’s widowed mother and baby sister. Cole closed his eyes and grimaced, a muscle clenching in his lean jaw.
Before the war Cole had been a young, struggling attorney. But he couldn’t practice law when the war ended. A fugitive with a price on his head, he’d had to lie low. Had to constantly keep on the move in an effort to elude the occupation troops and avoid being caught and hanged for burning Hadleyville.
Finally, in desperation, he had attempted a bank robbery to get money to help Keller’s mother and sister. He had been caught. An alert captain on the provost marshall’s staff had matched the captured felon’s face to the old federal death warrant.
What would have been five years in Huntsville State Prison for the failed bank robbery became a federal death sentence. He would hang for the burning of Hadleyville and the destitute Longley women would be left to struggle on alone.
The hammer of the ancient clock in the town square struck the hour. The jailer’s booming voice drew the reclining prisoner from his painful reverie.
“It’s time, Heflin,” the jailer said as the heavy cell door swung open and he held out a pair of silver handcuffs.
Cole slowly turned his head, nodded and agilely rolled up and off his bunk. Rising to his full, imposing height of six foot two inches, he extended his wrists and said, “Crowd forming?”
“A big one,” said the burly jailer with a broad smile.
“Well, let’s go give them what they came here for,” said Cole calmly.
Flanked by two armed federal marshals, Cole Heflin walked out of the Galveston City Jail and into the sun-splashed square where the newly built gallows dominated the cloudless blue skyline.
“Here he comes!” The excited declaration swiftly swept through the gathering as the throng parted to let the prisoner through.
“The bastard’s getting what he deserves!” exclaimed a well-dressed, transplanted Easterner who spat contemptuously at him as Cole passed.
The expression on Cole’s face never changed.
“I don’t care what he’s done, he’s too handsome to die!” shouted a brazen young woman and, elbowing her way through the crowd, she stepped right up to Cole and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him soundly.
A mixture of whistles and boos rose from the shocked spectators. Other less forward young ladies threw bouquets at the tall, dark Southerner, while a majority of the men, Confederate veterans who considered Cole a hero, shouted admiringly, “Hurrah for the brave Johnny Reb! The man who burned Hadleyville!”
Cole climbed the gallows’ steps to the wooden platform where a new rope hung down in an ominous loop from the sturdy overhead beam. There stood an old robed padre and the hangman, dressed all in black.
The jailer cautiously uncuffed Cole. Cole gave him no trouble. Instead, he stepped into place directly below the looped lariat and atop the trapdoor.
The rope was lowered, the loop slipped down around Cole’s neck. The hangman produced a black hood. Cole declined.
The hangman asked, “Any last words, Heflin?”
“No,” said Cole as the priest stepped closer and began to read passages of scripture.
The hangman was tightening the noose around Cole’s neck when an out-of-breath gentleman, soon identified as Marcus Weathers, forced his way through the crowd, shouting, “Stop! Don’t do it! I have signed orders from Colonel Patten of the Federal Occupation Forces for you to cease and desist!”
The shout drew everyone’s attention to the well-known attorney. In his raised hand was a blue legal document. Marcus Weathers rushed up onto the platform and handed the papers to the executioner. The document was read and then, frowning, the executioner announced, “Take the rope from the prisoner’s neck. The hanging’s off!”
Two
A low moan went through the crowd.
Amid rising jeers and cheers, Cole stood stunned and totally still as the jailer roughly removed the noose from around his neck.
“You’re free to go, Heflin,” the big lawman said, clearly disappointed.
Marcus Weathers stepped forward, smiled at Cole and said, “Come with me, Mr. Heflin. The carriage is waiting.”
“Where are we going?” Cole asked.
“You’ll see,” replied Weathers as he took Cole’s arm and slowly guided him down the gallows steps, through the buzzing mob and toward the black carriage.
Cole was driven a short distance to the city’s waterfront. The carriage soon turned into a long palm-bordered avenue that led to an opulent seaside mansion. The white two-story building was located at the center of a great expanse of well-manicured acreage. It gleamed in the late-morning sun and Cole quickly realized its inhabitants were afforded an unobstructed view of the Gulf of Mexico.
Cole was ushered into the imposing mansion and immediately directed to a large, darkly paneled library where an old man sat in a wheelchair.
Maxwell Lacey smiled when Cole entered the room and said, “Welcome to my humble abode, Mr. Heflin. Won’t you have a seat.”
Cole continued to stand. “I’m afraid you have the advantage, sir.”
“I usually do. Or, at least, I try to,” Maxwell Lacey said with a chuckle.
Cole didn’t share his amusement. “Who are you? What’s this all about?”
“You’ll know soon enough what it’s about, Mr. Heflin. But allow me to introduce myself. I’m Maxwell Lacey. You may have heard of me.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“No matter. Would you like a drink?”
Cole accepted. An unobtrusive servant immediately handed him a bourbon. Cole turned the heavy shot glass up to his lips and drank thirstily.
Maxwell Lacey dismissed the servant with a wave of his hand and said, “Please, sit down, Mr. Heflin. Let’s have a little talk.”
Cole drained the glass, set it aside and folded his long body down onto a comfortable sofa. Lacey wheeled his chair out from behind his desk and moved closer. He continued to smile as he sized up the lean, darkly bearded man.
The man he had chosen to do his bidding.
Maxwell laced his fingers together in his robe covered lap, leaned forward and said, “I know all about you, Heflin. You’re the man who singlehandedly burned Hadleyville during the war and—”
“Ancient history,” Cole interrupted with a dismissive shake of his head.
“Not ancient history to the occupying federal forces,” Maxwell Lacey reminded him. His eyes flashed when he added, “You were tried and convicted in absentia years ago and sentenced to hang! Took them seven years to catch you.”
Cole shrugged his wide shoulders. “What’s that got to do with you?”
“Everything, Heflin. I saved your life. Had the federal commander order you taken down from the gallows. I am a very powerful man in Galveston. And a rich one. I greased the necessary palms, pulled the necessary strings to have your life spared.”
Cole raised one well-arched eyebrow, looked Maxwell Lacey in the eye and said, “My sincere thanks. But again, why?”
With an ominous laugh, the old man ignored Cole’s question and stated, “I expect to be repaid for your deliverance. You will do exactly as I ask, Mr. Heflin.”
“And why would I ever do that?”
A sharp pain pressed Maxwell’s spine. He paled, but continued as though Cole had not spoken. “There is a special young woman, a Miss Marietta Stone, an opera singer in Central City, Colorado.” He pointed across the room to the poster featuring Marietta. “She is my granddaughter and my only living relative.” He paused.
“Go on,” Cole said.
“I am dying—I have only a matter of months, perhaps weeks, to live. My granddaughter must be brought to Galveston before I pass away.”
“And you’ve chosen me to go get her, bring her here.”
“Exactly.”
Cole looked thoughtful, as if he was considering the proposition. But when finally he spoke, he said, “No, I don’t think so. Find somebody else.”
Maxwell’s wrinkled face instantly turned scarlet with anger. He thundered, “Damnation! If just anyone could bring her back from Central City, you’d be swinging from the gallows this very minute! I saved your life. You owe me, young man!”
“True,” Cole admitted, pausing briefly. “I’ll go,” he finally answered. “But here are my terms. Before I leave for Colorado, you’ll pay me ten thousand dollars cash.”
“Ten thousand dollars! Why, this grand house didn’t cost much more than that. You’re out of your mind if you think I’ll give you that kind of money.”
Cole sat calmly, said nothing.
“That’s highway robbery! You’re in no position to demand anything,” barked Maxwell Lacey. “Let me remind you again, I saved your life. You will go after my granddaughter or you’ll go right back to the gallows and be hanged.”
Still, Cole didn’t budge. “Ten thousand or your precious granddaughter stays in Central City.”
Maxwell Lacey was not a man used to being bested. His first inclination was to order this arrogant upstart out of his house. Send him back to the gallows. Let the ungrateful bastard swing. But time was short. Running out. His days were numbered.
“Very well,” he said grudgingly, “I’ll pay you the ten thousand.”
Cole smiled for the first time since entering the mansion. He said in a low, level voice, “You will have your attorney deposit the money in the Gulf Shores State Bank this afternoon. I’ll leave for Colorado in the morning.”
“Agreed,” said Maxwell and he, too, was smiling. His attorney had, by telegraph, queried both Union officers and fellow Confederate officers and all had agreed that Cole Heflin’s word was as good as his bond. “Weathers is waiting in the parlor. He will accompany you to the bank.”
Cole nodded, rose, shook the old man’s hand and then turned to leave the library.
But he stopped abruptly when Maxwell Lacey said, “Ah, one last little thing I didn’t mention, Heflin.”
Cole turned. “Which is?”
Maxwell looked sheepish when he admitted, “Marietta may not want to come with you.”
Cole frowned. “Jesus, are you telling me I’m supposed to bring this woman back against her will?”
Maxwell nodded his head. “Absolutely! I’m certain she’ll refuse to come. It’s a long, complicated tale and of no concern to you. Your orders are to bring my granddaughter safely back here to me.”
Cole made a face. “Just how am I supposed to persuade this woman to—”
Lacey interrupted, “If you can’t convince her to come peacefully—which I fully doubt will happen—snatch her right off the stage! Kidnap her! Use force if necessary. Do whatever you have to do, but bring her back. You understand me?”
“I don’t like this,” Cole said.
“Why, Heflin, what’s kidnapping to an arsonist, a bank robber?” Cole gave no reply. Lacey continued, “You don’t have to like it, just do it. I’ll give you the ten thousand you’ve demanded and fully finance your trip.” He lifted a hand and indicated the soiled jail garb Cole wore. “Buy yourself some decent clothes, travel in style and stay at the best hotels.” He paused then, looked hopefully at Cole.
Cole said, “How do you know I won’t take your money and disappear?”
Lacey replied, “I don’t. But I’m a pretty good judge of character and I’d bet everything against it.”
“I’ll bring your wandering granddaughter home to you, Mr. Lacey. Count on it.”
Central City, Colorado
“No, no, you must start over!”
“Not again!”
“You heard me,” said Madam Sophia.
Marietta made a face, sighed heavily, but cleared her throat and began anew.
It was early afternoon. Marietta Stone, a twenty-five-year-old, red-haired opera singer, was practicing her roulades and glissandos under the tutelage of her two-hundred-and-fifty-pound voice coach, Madam Sophia.
Teacher and pupil were ensconced in Marietta’s private quarters, a luxurious five-room suite above the Tivoli Opera House. In a few short days, Marietta would debut at the grand opera house in a production of Verdi’s La Traviata.
She was the star.
The young singer took her voice lessons seriously. She was determined to become a famous soprano in the glamorous and exciting world of opera. She never doubted that she would achieve the fame she sought.
Marietta was a woman as obstinate as she was beautiful. She believed that she could change, if not the world, her world. As indeed, she had. Endowed with intelligence, determination and great beauty, she had been successful in the dogged pursuit of her goals.
“No! No! No!” scolded the frustrated Italian voice coach as Marietta reached for a high note and went a trifle flat. Marietta immediately fell silent. Madam Sophia, shaking her head, said, “Try again and remember to breathe properly as I have shown you. You must learn to enunciate and strengthen your vocal cords.”
Marietta was not stung by the reprimand. She trusted her voice coach completely. The acclaimed—and well-paid—Madam Sophia was an expert in the physiology of voice production and control. Marietta felt fortunate to have such a talented teacher. And, she was pleased that she was Madam Sophia’s only pupil.
“You will begin once more,” instructed Madam Sophia, “and practice breathing properly so that you can reach those high notes without going flat!” Madam Sophia paused. “You must be better before dress rehearsal.”
Marietta nodded, took a deep, slow breath. She began the musical scales, but was momentarily interrupted by a knock on the suite’s door. Marietta stopped her exercises. The rotund voice coach frowned.
“That will be Maltese,” said Marietta.
Madam Sophia exhaled with annoyance. “Must he come here while we are practicing?”
“He won’t stay long,” assured Marietta.
Madam Sophia held her tongue, said no more. She couldn’t object too fiercely. Taylor Maltese paid her handsomely to tutor Marietta.
Marietta hurried to the mirror to examine herself. She pinched her cheeks, bit her lips, drew the feathered lapels of her pink satin dressing gown together. Then turning, she said, “Sophia, let my visitor in, please.”
Muttering to herself in Italian, Madam Sophia opened the door and then hurried out once the dapper, immaculately dressed suitor had entered. A slender man of medium height with silver-gray hair, hazel eyes and a ruddy complexion, Taylor Maltese was an extremely wealthy, middle-aged bachelor. He owned and operated a number of Colorado’s most prosperous gold and silver mines as well as Central City’s newspaper, the Gilpin Hotel and many of the stores and saloons of the thriving mountain hamlet.
He also owned the Tivoli Opera House, which was more of an indulgence for him than a commercial venture. He loved music, opera…and his beautiful leading ladies. Especially his current leading lady, the opera’s star, Marietta.
Maltese had a spacious three-story home high on a bluff above Central City, as well as a huge stone mansion down in Denver, which was his primary residence. His great wealth and position in society made him the target of many hopeful women longing to become Mrs. Maltese. They were wasting their time.
Since the moment he had first seen her, Maltese had been totally smitten with the young, lovely Marietta. His first glimpse of the flame-haired beauty had been a year ago on the stage of his own Tivoli Opera House. He had come to see a production of La Bohème. He hardly noticed the celebrated soprano who was the star. Marietta, in a bit role as a café customer in the chorus immediately caught his eye. He was entranced. And had been ever since.
He so adored Marietta, he was afraid to press her for fear he might lose her. He longed to take her in his arms, but he didn’t dare. He had seen flashes of her fiery temper and didn’t want that anger directed at him. So he contented himself with nothing more intimate than kisses on the cheek and the pleasure of her company.
Now Marietta turned her most dazzling smile on her aging suitor and played the coquette, to his delight.
“What did you bring me, you naughty boy?” she purred, swaying seductively toward him, eyeing the bag in his hand. She moved in close, draped one arm around his neck and playfully tickled him under the chin with her long, painted fingernails.
Maltese beamed with joy. He held the bag behind his back and said, “You have to guess, sugar.”
Marietta toyed with the lapels of his custom cutaway, tilted her head to one side and said, “Mmm, let me think. A hat? Jewelry? A red ball gown?” She put out the tip of her pink tongue, licked her top lip and said in a soft, sultry tone, “No, no, I know what it is. It’s shoes!”
It was a game the two of them frequently played. Marietta knew exactly what he had brought her. Didn’t have to guess. Her bewitched suitor had given her dozens of pairs of shoes. Shoes of every kind and color. Soft leather pumps imported from Italy. Saucy satin slippers from Paris. Even a pair of hand-tooled cowboy boots.
Now as he laughed merrily, Marietta continued to play her part. She reached around behind him, took the bag, drew it up and peeked inside.
“Would you…put the shoes on for me, sugar?” asked the hopeful Maltese.
“Why, of course, Maltese,” said Marietta. She took a seat on an armless velvet chair and made a big production of trying on the dainty new dancing slippers.
Her enchanted admirer sank onto a sofa nearby and watched as if she were totally disrobing. Marietta, cleverly allowing her long dressing gown to part just enough to give him a fleeting glimpse of a shapely, stockinged knee, winked at the heavily breathing Maltese.
She stretched her long right leg out straight and turned her foot one way then the other, as if she was carefully inspecting the new slipper. From beneath veiled lashes she stole a quick glance at her admirer. Beside himself with sexual excitement, Maltese tugged at his choking cravat. The pulse in his throat beat rapidly.
He’d had enough, Marietta quickly decided. Didn’t want him having a heart attack.
She modestly pulled her robe together, rose to her feet and said sweetly, “It’s such a warm day, isn’t it. Shall we have a glass of icy lemonade? Cool off a bit?”
“Yes,” Maltese managed to say weakly. He drew a clean white linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and nervously blotted his shiny forehead. “Oh, yes, sugar, that would be nice.”
