Nevada Nights Page 10

  She felt his grip gradually relax. She thought she detected a slight tremor.

  Rose and Quenton stood on either side of the bed and together lifted the old man to a full sitting position. Quickly tucking the pillows behind him, Rose tied a napkin around his neck and handed him a steaming cup of tea.

  Staring at her over the rim of the cup, he said, "I bear a lifelong grudge against Big John McCormick. I’ve never permitted his name to be mentioned in my house."

  Cameron glanced at Quenton. His gaze was riveted on his father’s face.

  Cameron stood. Her sudden, blazing anger was reflected in her eyes. "Then I’ll leave you to feed your hatred, Mr. Lampton. I am my father’s daughter. And a grudge against him is against me as well."

  The old man’s hand shot out, clutching her sleeve. For long moments they faced each other.

  At last, he broke the silence.

  "Forgive me, Miss McCormick. Please stay."

  Her gaze didn’t soften. "I can’t promise not to mention my father, Mr. Lampton."

  "I won’t ask that of you."

  She nodded slightly, satisfied. Quenton and the ancient housekeeper seemed to heave a sigh of relief.

  While they ate, Rose hovered, filling their cups, pouring fresh water in glasses. When she wasn’t busy, she sat across the room staring at Cameron as if she, too, had a need to memorize her features.

  "I think it’s wonderful that your son is an artist, Mr. Lampton." Cameron cast a warm smile at Quenton.

  "Do you?" The old man finished his soup and waited until Rose took the bowl from him.

  "Don’t you?" There was ice in her words. She seemed to be issuing a challenge.

  He glanced at his son. "I suppose I’m resigned to it now. It’s obvious that he’ll never work this land."

  "But he has a wonderful gift. I think you should be proud."

  "Do you?" The bright, birdlike stare fixed upon Cameron. "And are you proud of your family?"

  She flushed. Immediately his hand reached out for hers.

  "Excuse an old fool’s outburst. I’ll—contain myself."

  Quenton, silently watching, now interrupted. He wanted to distract these two from growing hostility.

  "Cameron, would you like to try on the gown now?"

  She smiled, as if aware of his clumsy attempts to assuage her temper.

  "All right."

  He turned to Rose. "I’d like Cameron to pose in the green satin gown. You know the one."

  The old woman led Cameron to another room. A hand-stitched quilt of embroidered roses covered the canopy bed. Sheer curtains hung at windows shut tightly against the cool breeze. The room had the musty smell of age and disuse.

  "Whose room is this?"

  The old woman sighed. "This was Elizabeth’s room. William Lampton’s daughter."

  "Quenton said she has gone. Where did she go?"

  The old woman’s face seemed to crumple. "Elizabeth is dead."

  "How long has she been dead?"

  The old woman turned. "Eighteen years."

  Eighteen years. And still Quenton couldn’t speak of her death.

  Going to a closet, Rose brought out a beautiful gown of green satin. Setting it on the bed, she opened a jewelry box and removed a black velvet ribbon on which was pinned an exquisite emerald broach.

  "Shall I help you into the dress?" she asked.

  Cameron nodded. Slipping out of the prim cotton gown, she raised her arms and felt Rose slide the satin gown over her head. Behind her, the old woman’s stiff fingers fumbled with the hooks that ran from her shoulders to below the waist.

  Next Rose fastened the velvet ribbon, while Cameron lifted her heavy mane of hair.

  "Oh, look at you." Rose’s voice was hushed, almost reverent.

  Cameron turned to study her reflection in the dressing mirror. The woman staring back at her was a stranger.

  The dress was cut very low in front, dipping to reveal the swell of her breasts. The gown was fitted to show off her tiny waist. The skirt fell in soft folds to the floor.

  The emerald at her throat caught the sun’s rays, gleaming vividly, perfectly matching her eyes.

  If Cameron believed in magic, she would believe it was in this dress. It transformed her. She found herself standing taller, her chin thrust proudly. She tossed her head, sending the cloud of hair dancing about her face and shoulders.

  Never had she worn anything so fine. Studying her reflection, she could almost believe she was the elegant woman in the mirror.

  As if in a dream, Cameron turned and followed the old woman back to William Lampton’s bedroom.

  Quenton was standing beside the bed. He turned expectantly. She gave him a brilliant smile, then walked toward the bed. The old man’s face seemed chiseled from granite. He stared, unblinking, for long moments. Cameron felt a sense of his shared pain. This was his daughter’s dress. And he, too, had never accepted her death.

  "I’d like you to pose in the sun parlor. The light is best there." Quenton held out his hand, and Cameron accepted it.

  She knew without turning around that the old man was still studying her. She could feel his steady gaze boring into her back.

  Quenton led Cameron to a sunny, spacious room filled with plants. In front of the window he positioned her on a low chair and fussed over her hair and the skirt of the gown until everything was as he wanted it.

  Today he worked quickly, as though driven to paint the woman before him as soon as possible.

  Sensing his impatience, Cameron remained quiet, allowing him to concentrate completely on his work. She didn’t speak, and she avoided asking him any questions about himself. She was content to watch his hands at the easel and to study the intense expression on his face.

  A shadow darkened the doorway, and Cameron’s gaze followed it. A moment later, Colt filled the room with his presence.

  Her eyes rounded in surprise. Seeing her expression, Quenton followed her stare.

  "Well. Back from your ride?"

  Colt nodded.

  "What are you doing here?" Cameron’s tone hardened.

  "I might ask you the same thing."

  She glowered at his impudence.

  Quenton, seeing the sparks between them, interrupted. "Colt is boarding here, Cameron."

  "Boarding?"

  He paused. "He pays us well."

  She was instantly sorry for her outburst. She should have realized their financial circumstances.

  "I see. I hope you lock up your valuables."

  "Cameron!"

  She bit her lip.

  A hint of a smile curled Colt’s lips.

  Quenton turned to him. "Cameron has agreed to pose for me. What do you think?"

  "Why are you allowing him to look at the portrait when you won’t let me see it?"

  "Because it’s bad luck to let the model see it until it’s finished."

  She watched in silence as Colt walked closer and studied the canvas.

  His gaze slid from the picture to her. As he silently studied her, she felt her skin begin to burn. The look was as intimate as a touch. With his eyes, he was undressing her, one by one unfastening the hooks at her back, slipping the satin gown from her shoulders, over her hips, and dropping it with a whisper to the floor.

  Quenton had studied her just as carefully, but she had never felt this embarrassment at his look. He had studied her as an artist would, seeking out the contours of her face, the lift of an eyebrow. But Colt’s look was intimate, as if already knowing every line and curve of her as well as he knew his own body.

  Quenton began once more to work, ignoring Colt, who stood beside him devouring her with his eyes. While he worked, Quenton saw the change in Cameron’s expression. Before, she had been simply a beautiful woman. Now, watching Colt beside him, her eyes softened to a dreamy expression. Her lips parted slightly, not in a smile, but in an invitation. The artist saw so much more than others could see. While he painted, he continued to search her expressive face, knowing what she her
self might be still denying—that she was in love with the man standing beside him.

  Cameron wondered how long she could endure having Colt in the room, those dark eyes pinning her, those lips parted in the most tempting of smiles.

  "How much longer?"

  Cameron lifted her hair from her damp neck and stretched her cramped muscles. Quenton looked up from the canvas suddenly.

  "I’m sorry, Cameron. I’ve been so immersed in my work, I forgot how long you’ve been holding that pose." He set down his brush. "I think I’ve burdened you enough for one day. Can we continue this tomorrow?"

  She nodded.

  When she again looked up, Colt had left the room, as silently as he had entered.

  Quenton began cleaning his brushes. "Would you like Rose to help you change?"

  "No. I can manage. Should I stop by your father’s room before I leave?"

  "Yes, if you don’t mind. If he’s still awake, I’m sure he’d like to wish you good day."

  Cameron climbed the stairs and let herself in to Elizabeth’s room. Once again she was struck by the musty odor of disuse.

  She walked to the closet and removed a sachet-scented hanger. Placing it on the bed, she straightened and attempted to reach the fasteners at her back. The door opened, then closed softly, and Cameron turned with a smile.

  "Oh, Rose, I’m so glad—" She stopped in mid-sentence, at the sight of Colt.

  He leaned against the closed door and crossed his arms over his chest. She was reminded of a mountain lion flattened against a rock ledge, about to strike an unsuspecting deer.

  Cameron could feel her heartbeat begin to accelerate. This house was so big, no one would hear her if she called for help. She studied Colt’s face. His gaze trailed from her delicate features to the pale column of throat, and to the soft swell of breasts exposed beneath the daring neckline.

  She felt herself begin to blush at the way he was looking at her. Heat infused her skin and coursed along her veins. She ran a tongue over lips gone suddenly dry.

  "Please, Colt. Leave me alone."

  His frown turned to a smile. There was no happiness in the smile. There was a thread of danger in the curve to his lips. "At least you’re learning some manners, Cammy. This time you said please."

  In swift strides he was across the room and caught her by the shoulders. "I only wanted to look at you. And to touch you. To see if you were real or a vision."

  She lifted her head proudly, to deny the fear that his presence created. Her nostrils flared. "And what have you decided?"

  His hands kneaded her bared shoulders. "Oh, you’re real, Cammy. A very real woman." His voice lowered ominously. "Downstairs, did you know what I was thinking?"

  She flushed.

  "I thought about carrying you away and lying with you, alone, somewhere on a hillside, beneath the stars. I thought about undressing you, gently, and taking the time to look at you, and touch you, and hold you."

  She was too paralyzed to speak.

  His hand circled her throat and pressed against the back of her neck. "And now, I’m beyond thinking."

  She felt a tremor pass through her. His breath was warm where it feathered the hair at her temple. His head dipped lower, drawing her slowly to him, and her eyes widened, anticipating the kiss.

  He stared into her eyes, loving the warmth of those green depths. And then her lashes fluttered, and his lips claimed hers.

  He wanted the kiss to be gentle. He wanted to taste, to touch lightly. But the moment his lips found hers, the kiss became hot, seething with the passion he fought to control. His hands pressed her tightly to him, and still it wasn’t enough.

  His mouth was avid, moving over hers, drawing her deeper into his passion. His hands moved along the satin-clad back, sending sparks skittering along her spine. Everywhere he touched her she was infused with heat.

  The satin gown, the roughness of his hands, the growing passion she could sense in him, combined to test her control. She felt a searing, blinding heat and flashes of color in her brain as his lips moved over her lips, her eyelids, her cheeks.

  "Oh, God, Cammy. How I want you." The words were spoken inside her mouth.

  She moaned softly, clutching his shoulders for support. "Colt. Oh, Colt. I feel ... I feel on fire."

  He lifted his head, studying her lovely face. Her lips were moist and swollen from his kisses. Her eyes, round and luminous, seemed too large for her face.

  His eyes narrowed. In one swift movement he lifted her in his arms and deposited her on the bed. Then he was beside her, pulling her roughly into his embrace.

  His lips roamed her face, then dipped to her throat. She gasped and for a moment stiffened in his arms. His lips continued to nibble at the sensitive skin of her shoulder until he felt her resistance waver. Boldly, he slid the satin from her shoulders and moved his lips lower, until they probed the delicate swell of her breasts.

  She moaned softly, unable to stop him, and unwilling to end the pleasure his lips brought. The need for him was becoming almost pain.

  Passion was driving him, until he no longer cared if she protested. She wanted him. He could sense it in her response. And he wanted her with all his being.

  His fingers slid the satin lower until his lips could claim the breast whose nipple grew taut at his touch. He heard the moan that escaped her lips and felt her arch toward him.

  Cameron’s heart lodged in her throat. Her body was on fire. Her mind refused to respond to her commands. She felt fear. Yet even the fear was being overruled by a growing passion. She was at Colt’s mercy. And she sensed that he had gone beyond all thought.

  "Cammy." Her name was breathed against her throat, and then his lips covered hers, taking her deeper, until she writhed and whispered his name.

  "Colt." Her hands cradled his head, her fingers twining in his dark hair, while her lips opened to his kiss.

  They had slipped over the line of reason into a hard, driving need. They both sensed it. He hovered over her, gripping her shoulders until she nearly cried out.

  She was slipping away, losing herself to this man’s touch. His lips, his fingertips, his breath mingled with hers, were all that mattered now.

  "Miss McCormick?" Rose’s muffled voice sounded from beyond the door. "Would you like some help undressing?"

  Colt lifted his lips from hers. Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

  He gave her a wry smile and touched her hps with his fingertip.

  "Miss McCormick? Quenton thought you might need a hand."

  Cameron swallowed. Even now, Colt’s lips brushing her shoulder brought a tremor of delight.

  "Thank you, Rose. I can manage." Her own voice sounded strange to her. She hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to speak.

  "I’ll just wait here then. I want to be certain Miss Elizabeth’s gown is properly fastened before I put it away."

  Reluctantly, Colt and Cameron moved apart, each struggling for breath. It seemed an eternity before their breathing returned to normal.

  With a sigh, Colt struggled to his feet. He wore a grim smile as he whispered, "It seems again it wasn’t meant to be. Farewell, little Cammy, for now."

  He lifted her hand, then allowed his gaze to travel lazily over her one last time. She lay on the bed, her hair a fiery contrast to the green eyes smoldering with newly discovered passion. Her lips pursed in a little pout. The satin gown caught the rays through the gauzy curtains, making her appear like a sun goddess. He pressed his lips to her palm, then curled her fingers over it, as if to hold his kiss.

  Without another word, he stalked to an adjoining door and was gone.

  Slowly, almost languorously, Cameron stood and studied her reflection in the dressing mirror. Was it this dress that had so changed her, from the prim maiden to a wanton? Was it Elizabeth’s ghost, infusing her with a passion that was alien to her? Or was the passion her own, springing to life at Colt’s touch, banked now for the moment but simmering just below the surface, ready to
leap to life whenever Colt summoned it?

  With a long sigh, she removed the velvet ribbon and the fiery emerald and slid the satin gown over her hips. When she had dressed once again in the prim cotton dress, she again studied her reflection. It told her nothing.

  She opened the door for the patient servant.

  "Thank you, Rose. I’ll go now and say my goodbyes to Mr. Lampton and Quenton."

  "The old man is asleep. But Quenton is waiting downstairs."

  Cameron walked slowly down the stairs, puzzling over all that had happened to her this day.

  Quenton was waiting on the sagging porch. "Will you come tomorrow, Cameron?"

  "Yes. I’ll try. Tomorrow."

  "Noon. We’ll lunch with my father again."

  He helped her mount. He studied her face for long moments. She was wearing the same cotton dress, the same bonnet. Yet she seemed somehow different.

  Without another word, she wheeled her horse and was gone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "Miriam, didn’t you tell me the mines had been abandoned years ago?" Kneeling beside Miriam’s wheelchair, Cameron’s voice was edged with excitement.

  "Yes. Most of them were started by prospectors on their way to the gold fields of California. I suppose they took a look at these bleak hills and figured they had to be good for something. Unfortunately, the only thing they found was some awful blue clay that clogged their equipment and made separating the gold impossible."

  "Could prospectors be digging on McCormick land without any of us knowing it?"

  Miriam shook her head. "I don’t see how they could dig right under our noses without being seen. Why? What have you found today?"

  Cameron lowered her voice. "I found a fresh mine shaft on my section of land today. It’s very near the border between McCormick land and Lampton land."

  Miriam smiled at Cameron’s apparent confusion. "It’s just another old abandoned mine, Cammy. The landscape is littered with them." She shook her head knowingly. "Fools and their dreams of glory. Now, tell me what else you saw on your ride today."

  Putting aside her own doubts, Cameron described the hundred and one things she had seen that she was certain would amuse Miriam. Through her eyes, the young woman confined to the wheelchair watched the flight of a hawk as it circled, then swooped down on an unsuspecting little rabbit, before finally carrying it off into the trees.