Frost Fire, page 12
"You can take the casket back to the freight car now, boys. As you can see, the young lady has miraculously risen from the dead, just as I predicted she would."
Tyler stifled more waves of humiliation at the low guffaws of the porters entering the room.
"She smelt bad nuf to be a dead 'un," said one.
"You shore she ain't no haint, Mr. Kincaid, sir?" said the other. "She shore looks pale and poorly."
"No, Homer, she just has an aversion to Limburger cheese," Gray Kincaid replied, laughing.
Tyler kept her eyes riveted on the darkness outside, far more concerned with her own fate now that Gray knew she had robbed him.
"Are you sure you won't join me for supper?" Gray asked later from the round marble table at the other end of his private car.
Tyler made the snowflakes in the crystal globe dance without looking up at him. He still refused to tell her his plans for her or what he had done with Harriet. Anger boiled inside her. He was purposely tormenting her!
"You're about to shake that thing to pieces," he commented dryly.
"I like to pretend it's you," she snapped back. His answering laugh infuriated her.
"If you really don't like this roast turkey and chestnut dressing, maybe I could scrounge up an apple or some smashed cake for you," Gray offered as he poured more wine from the magnum chilling in a silver bucket beside him.
"Tell me if Harriet's all right," she said softly. "Please," she added at length in a stiff, reluctant tone.
"Harriet is back in Chicago with Charles. She's staying at my house as my guest, so you don't have to worry about her."
"She isn't on the train? But I need her!" Tyler blurted out, distressed to find herself unexpectedly abandoned by her only friend.
"That's selfish of you," Gray observed casually, "but I suppose I shouldn't expect anything else. As for Harriet, in Chicago she'll have a chance for happiness with Charles. Don't you want her to be happy?"
"Yes, of course I do, but—"
"But what?"
"But nothing. Just leave me alone."
"I wouldn't leave you alone here with my safe any more than I'd leave a cat in a birdcage."
Tyler's gaze went to the windows. Silence prevailed for a while, until her stomach growled loud enough for Gray to hear it. He laughed, and Tyler flushed.
"Aren't you curious as to where we're going?" he asked, "and what I intend to do with you once we're there?"
"You know good and well that I am, but not enough to beg you to tell me."
"Suit yourself."
Tyler frowned. Why hadn't she kept her mouth shut. She did want to know, and now he would make her ask him again, the wretch. He was enjoying himself, and she was making it easy for him.
"All right. Where, are you taking me?"
"Well, Tyler, I'll tell you what. We'll play a little game. That idea ought to appeal to you since you seem to enjoy games so much. It's really very simple. You answer a question of mine, then I'll answer one of yours. That's easy enough, wouldn't you say?"
Tyler gritted her teeth until she thought they would splinter. Her eyes glittered with suppressed ire.
"All right," she agreed tightly.
"Why did you go to all this trouble? Surely you knew you couldn't get away with it."
"I almost did, didn't I? If you hadn't come back early, we would have been gone forever."
"Ah, but 'almost' doesn't count for much, does it, Tyler?" he reminded her with yet another scornful smile.
She was silent.
"Tell me about your life with your uncle Burl," he said then, as if they were having a polite conversation over afternoon tea. "When did you go to live with him?"
"After you killed my father and stole Rose Point!" she cried, turning on him, eyes ablaze.
Gray set down his glass very carefully and leaned indolently back in his chair to watch her.
"Neither of those things is true, and you know it," he replied calmly, though inwardly he was aghast at the hatred on her face.
"Yes, it is true! You burned Father's cotton and took Rose Point! You stole everything from him! He'd still be alive today if it hadn't been for you!"
"Your father shot himself at Rose Point. I had nothing to do with it. He lost the plantation because he mortgaged it to the hilt to subsidize one of the Mississippi Confederate regiments. Then he didn't have the guts to face bankruptcy, so he killed himself."
Tyler shook so hard she could hardly speak. "Liar, you're a damnable liar! Uncle Burl told me everything. You chose my father to ruin. You chose Rose Point from all the surrounding plantations."
"It was wartime, Tyler. Unpleasant things happen in wartime."
"I don't care. I hate you! I'll always hate you! I'll hate you until the day I die!" She stifled a sob and turned away, covering her face with her hands.
Gray watched as she began to cry, determined not to be affected. He wanted to think she was faking, playing another trick to work on his sympathy, but he knew instinctively that she wasn't. She was miserable and confused, exhausted and defeated. And he knew how that felt. He had seethed, boiled, and then wept in the exact same way one long-ago, stormy night in Mississippi.
Rising, he went to her and pulled her into his arms as he sat down beside her. She immediately put up a fight, but it was a feeble one, and she eventually lay weakly against him, weeping. Silent, he held her for a long time, letting her cry until the sobs dwindled into embarrassed-sounding sniffles. He held out his handkerchief. She took it, then sat back, looking at him out of red, swollen eyes, the white powder streaked and smeared across her young face.
"Why are you being so nice to me now, after what I did?" she demanded, wiping her eyes.
Indeed, why was he? Gray wondered. But deep inside, he knew the reason, and it scared the hell out of him.
"You remind me of me, I guess. Once a long time ago I went after revenge, and now I regret it. I guess I don't want that to happen to you."
"Did you get your revenge?"
"Yes, for a while."
Tyler waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't, and she was too weary to pursue the subject.
"How did you know who I was?"
"Stone told me that night at the Richmond Hotel."
"That's the night you tried to—" Her words faltered, her dark lashes sweeping down.
"Yes," Gray said. "I wanted to see how far you'd go to make your sham succeed." A slow, dark color stained Tyler's cheeks as he finished. "And I learned that some of the stories Stone had heard about your dalliances with men were probably exaggerated. That's when"—he paused, his lips curving into a grin—"I decided there might be some hope for you."
"How dare you think I did such things with men!" Tyler cried, her anger rising again. "Uncle Burl would never let anyone touch me! He loved me and watched over me."
"Don't praise that man to me," Gray said sharply. "From where I stand, he was nothing but a cold and calculating corrupter of children. You're lucky he didn't get you hanged for your thievery."
"Don't you talk about him that way. Don't you ever! He took me in when I didn't have anybody, thanks to you! He raised me and loved me and took care of me!"
Gray didn't answer, and their gazes held for a moment, long enough for Tyler to recognize the sympathy lurking in the depths of his eyes. She looked away, not liking the way it felt to be the object of his pity.
"What are you going to do with me?"
"I've already telegraphed Chase, and he's going to meet us, in New Orleans and take you to his hacienda. He's been searching for you for a long time. Did you know that?"
Tyler shook her head. She was vastly relieved that Gray Kincaid did not want to press charges against her for breaking into his safe, and she couldn't have been more pleased to learn that she was going home with Chase. She had always liked her cousin, even though she hadn't seen him since the war and knew he was very much against her involvement in his father's schemes. Uncle Burl hardly ever spoke of his handsome, blond-haired son; they hadn't gotten along well.
When she remained quiet, Gray smiled as he noted again the havoc her hot tears had played with her death mask.
"Why don't you wash your face? You'll feel better. There's a water closet and bedroom just beyond those drapes."
He watched her move away as bidden, but remained where he was, feeling as drained emotionally as she no doubt did. He wondered just how much she really knew about her father.
Even the thought of Colin MacKenzie made his stomach twist into strangling knots. If she knew what her father had done to Gray, Stone, and Carly—to everyone in his family—would she understand his motives? Or would she still blame him for causing her father's death? Worse, would she hate him more for telling her the truth, and thereby tarnishing the sterling, cherished memory of her father? He wondered if Tyler knew him for what he really was—a vicious, cruel tyrant. Or did she close her eyes to his faults and remember only what she wanted?
Gray leaned back against the upholstered sofa, resting his head on the cushions. He sighed, staring at the curtains draping the entrance to the bedroom where Tyler had disappeared.
What a strange, ironic twist of fate, he thought, that in a way he himself was responsible for all the terrible misdeeds Tyler had perpetrated. Just as he had told her, he had managed to wreak the vengeance he had thirsted for so single-mindedly during his youth in the streets of Chicago. To others, he had called it necessary, an act of war.
But it had been more than that. It had been premeditated, cold-blooded revenge, his long-nurtured, well-thought-out plan to repay Colin MacKenzie for his crimes against the Kincaid family. When the Confederacy had seceded, he had immediately put together his own unit of volunteers, all friends or employees of his companies, to fight against the South. The Union Army had received him gladly, giving him the rank of captain and honoring his request to serve in Mississippi.
Once there, he'd methodically forged his way to Natchez, with Rose Point as his eventual destination. When the opportunity had arisen, he'd sent an entire unit to the MacKenzie plantation to burn its cotton. Without even setting foot in the house he hated so intensely, he had made Colin MacKenzie a pauper. He'd never expected the man to commit suicide, but when he had, Gray had only felt satisfaction.
After the war when Rose Point had come up for sale, Gray had bought it with a feeling of grim gratification. But one walk through the luxurious rooms had been all he could stomach of the place. The damned house was too full of painful memories, and he had ordered it boarded up and left to rot, along with every stick of furniture inside. Vengeance complete, he had rarely even thought about the place until nearly eight months ago, when he had decided to put it up for sale.
Now, years later, he was faced with the end result of his unscrupulous acts against Colin MacKenzie: MacKenzie's daughter, innocent, appealing, thieving, lying, homeless, and orphaned, thrust into the corruptive company of Burl Lancaster. Gray knew he was as much to blame as her cheating uncle and cowardly father.
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his head in his palms. Poetic justice? Was that what this was all about?
For better or worse, Tyler had ended up in his hands. He could try to make amends for his past actions, or he could shrug off his responsibility and send her packing with her cousin. That was what she wanted. He had detected the relief in her eyes when he had told her his plans for her. But, God help him, was that what he wanted?
He stood, bracing his arms on the narrow windowsill of the open window, letting the brisk night air ruffle his hair as the shrouded landscape of Illinois rushed by in the darkness. He visualized stepping off the train in New Orleans, imagined Chase Lancaster taking Tyler's arm and leading her away. His heart twisted at the mere idea of losing her. My God, surely he wasn't in love with her!
He straightened up, running his fingers through his thick hair, then shook his head. Lord, if he was, he was doomed, because he was the one man on earth with whom Tyler would never share her life. I hate you. I'll always hate you. I'll hate you until the day I die, she had cried. But she was young and obviously didn't know what was best for her. Her cousin, Chase, was a sensible man and a good friend of Gray's. Perhaps they could arrange a suitable solution to the problem.
But what solution was there, other than marriage?
He had already considered taking her as his wife, before he knew the truth about her. Now it made even more sense to him. Why shouldn't he marry Tyler?
Smiling, he crossed the room, thinking Tyler had been too quiet for too long. He parted the portiere and found her on the bed, lying on her side with her knees drawn up and one hand beneath her cheek, sleeping like a child. Her face was scrubbed clean of the pale powder, but dark circles lay like shadows beneath her long, thick eyelashes.
Never had he seen her look quite so young and soft and desirable as she did just then, and he strained to curb his desire to reach out and stroke her cheek, to lie down beside her and pull her into his arms. He contented himself by gently lifting a long, shiny lock of her hair and caressing the silky texture between his thumb and forefinger. God, how he wanted her, he realized, half appalled by the force of his feelings.
Suddenly eager to reach New Orleans and meet Chase Lancaster, he pulled the heavy blue bedspread up over her shoulders, then doused the oil lamp affixed to the nightstand. He was a patient man. He had won his fortune, his reputation, and his revenge on Colin MacKenzie with such patience—and now he would win the heart of MacKenzie's daughter in the same way. Sooner or later, he always got what he wanted.
10
Tyler stared glumly out the drape-lined window. The long gold fringe attached to the curtain's bottom edge swayed desultorily in cadence with the train's motion. She was completely and totally bored. For nearly five days and endless miles, she had watched never-ceasing stretches of forest, interspersed with fields being tilled for planting. They had chugged southward toward Louisiana through one small rural town after another, all looking alike with their long wood-planked platforms and depots covered with sloping tin roots rusted by rain and winter weather. Only the names painted on the swinging wooden signs varied—Jamesville, Willow Roe, Rolling Fork, nondescript little hamlets whose inhabitants always stopped to gawk at Gray Kincaid's palatial black-and-gold car.
She sighed, glancing toward the fringed portiere that separated the spacious bedroom where she sat from the equally large parlor. She listened, trying to figure out what Gray was doing, but couldn't detect a sound over the rhythmic clacking of the train. He was probably working; that was all he had done since the night he had dragged her unceremoniously out of the coffin.
For the first two days, she had been too angry and embarrassed to seek out his company, and he had made no attempt to talk to her. He hadn't even looked at her. In the beginning, that had suited her fine. She had felt too vulnerable to be close to him. His touch was dangerous.
Thoughts of the tall, dark Yankee's burning lips and roaming hands initiated waves of response inside her body. She remembered vividly that night in his bedchamber when her bodice had come free with a deft twist of his fingers. Even more unforgettable was the feel of his mouth wandering over her bare flesh. She swallowed hard, then frowned, furious with herself. She had melted under his touch, like the fastest of low women. How could she have let him go so far? What would have happened if she hadn't found the strength to resist?
In her heart, she knew what would have happened, and it appalled her. She would have relinquished any vestige of her virtue, the honor that Uncle Burl had protected so vigilantly for so long. Vague notions of what it was like to lie with a man flickered in her mind. Her uncle had told her countless times that it was not a happy experience for a lady, that the act was by nature designed for the enjoyment of men. She knew only that for her it would be painful, humiliating, and frightening. In fact, that was her uncle's exact description of the marital act. And after that intimate talk, which they'd had when she was just thirteen, Tyler had decided that there was not a man alive she would ever want to marry enough to go through such tortures.
She couldn't help but wonder, though, how the first part—the kissing and holding, like Gray had done to her in the sleigh—could feel so good when the rest of it must be a trip straight down to hell. None of it mattered anyway, she decided. She didn't want a man. They weren't worth the fuss, and with the exception of Gray Kincaid, they were entirely too easy to manipulate. Why, all they ever thought about was catching a glimpse of her ankle or bosom. No, she didn't need them. Even so, she could not forget the gentleness and kindness Gray had displayed toward her that first night on the train, even after all she had done to him.
Her feelings were so ambivalent, in fact, that she had spent a great many hours at the window, trying desperately to sort through the confused emotions bumping around inside her head. Meanwhile, he sat blithely at his desk in the parlor, writing or reading the endless stacks of newspapers and telegraph dispatches brought to him from nearly every depot at which they stopped. His business enterprises were apparently more widespread than she had first imagined.
Out of boredom, she had begun to speculate about his background. Other than his wartime crimes against her family, she knew nothing about him. It was strange that more concerning him hadn't surfaced when she and Harriet were living in his house. To Tyler's knowledge, Charles had never mentioned Gray's past.
Thoughts of Harriet made Tyler's spirits dip to a new low. She missed her dear, loyal friend and wondered if Charles Bond really would propose to her—and if Harriet would accept. They certainly did make an agreeable couple, and Harriet had often recounted to Tyler how much she admired the kindhearted doctor. As soon as she was safely with Chase again, Tyler would send a long letter to Harriet, asking her about everything and inviting her to come to Chase's hacienda, if he had no objection.
Standing, Tyler paced restlessly along the expensive carpet, woven in the design of rich, golden leaves on a dark brown background. The porter should be arriving soon with breakfast. Homer was a friendly sort, who always gave her a big smile and cheerfully wished her good-day—which was more than her traveling companion did. For the most part, Gray Kincaid acted as if she didn't exist.
