Page 7 of Sweet Savage Love
7
S enator Brandon had reserved a private dining room that night so that his family and guests might eat in privacy. The hotel they were staying at boasted a French chef and the fine wines that accompanied their meal that night also came from France.
Tonight it was easy to imagine that they were dining in a fine Eastern restaurant. The large table was adorned with a snowy linen tablecloth, set with heavy china and silverware—the waiters were well-trained and unobtrusive.
It was amazing, Ginny thought, what could be achieved with enough money and influence—creating a civilized oasis in an uncivilized world was just one of the smaller things. I shouldn’t think that way, she thought guiltily. Why, I’ve been told that San Francisco, for instance, can hold its own with any of the larger European cities. And yet, it was almost unbelievable to imagine that she was still in San Antonio, Texas, where outside on a street that was an unpaved expanse of red dust, a man had been shot dead in front of witnesses.
Ginny took a sip of her wine, willing herself to forget about the early afternoon and the scene she had watched. A man had died violently—she must get used to it. She was fully aware that she might watch worse things happen on the long journey by wagon to California.
“My dear child,” her father had warned her, “I do not want you to imagine that this journey you have undertaken is without risk. There might be hostile Indians—some white men who are as bad or even worse, because they have turned renegade.” His voice had been serious, she knew that he was worried and perhaps a little uneasy about the prospect of his wife and daughter travelling alone to California. And yet, he was a practical man too. He had admitted quite honestly that it would prove a tremendous political advantage to him—the fact that like so many other emigrants to the golden state, his wife and daughter had undertaken the long and arduous journey by wagon train. There was also another factor to be considered, and that was the safety of the gold, the importance of their mission. No one would suspect that William Brandon would send help to the French in Mexico, or that two women would be entrusted with a mission of such critical importance. If Brandon’s motives were suspect in any circles (and he had also admitted that there were some who had these suspicions) they would never imagine that he would take his wife and daughter into his confidence. Westerners put “good” women on a pedestal—Sonya and Ginny would be much admired for their courage in undertaking such a long and hazardous journey without the Senator’s immediate protection, and the gold and arms could be delivered into the right hands without suspicion being aroused in the wrong quarters.
My father is an intelligent man, Ginny thought proudly. She looked up and met his approving glance as it rested on her for just an instant.
Tonight, in honor of the Senator’s guests, both Ginny and Sonya had worn evening gowns purchased in Paris, but it was apparent, soon after they had descended the staircase, that the latest styles had not come this far west as yet. There were five other women present—wives of the wealthy cattle ranchers who were Brandon’s guests, and their hoop-skirted gowns in dark shades of brown or maroon were uncompromisingly highnecked in spite of the almost oppressive heat.
Ginny could feel the disapproving glances of these older, dowdy women rest on her from time to time, and although she was stubbornly determined to show no embarrassment, it was hard to feel exactly comfortable! She was glad that she had been seated next to Carl Hoskins, her father’s young foreman; and gladder still to learn that Mr. Hoskins would be accompanying them to California.
Carl Hoskins was an extremely handsome young man, with blond hair that gleamed in the candlelight, and a small, carefully trimmed mustache that enhanced his good looks. He was, Ginny learned, the younger son of a recently impoverished plantation owner, and had been a captain in the Confederate army. Now, he intended to make his fortune in California.
“I mean to learn all I can about the cattle business,” he confided to Ginny, made slightly dizzy and reckless by the combination of her beauty and the wine that flowed so plentifully. “I’m not going to waste my time searching for gold—there are bigger and more stable fortunes to be made by ranching, so I’ve heard. Someday, when I’ve saved up enough money, I’ll buy a ranch of my own; build up herds of Hereford cattle for beef and Jerseys or Guernseys for dairy products—” he broke off, embarrassed at the effect his own ill-timed enthusiasm might have on this dazzling, sophisticated young woman beside him.
“Go on,” Ginny said softly, her emerald eyes seeming to glow. “I’m not at all bored, if that’s what you are afraid of. I want to learn all I can about California, and the way people live there.”
Her green velvet gown matched her eyes, and when she leaned towards him as she was doing now, Carl was almost uncomfortably aware of the slight, rounded curve of her breasts, revealed by the extremely low décolletage of her dress. Her shoulders were bare and gleamed like ivory—matching green rosettes held her gown together at the shoulders, and she wore long gloves that reached to her elbows. I can tell these old biddies don’t like her gown, Carl thought bemusedly, trying to keep his attention on her conversation, but I sure do. If that’s the latest style—it suits her, and she’s sure got the figure to carry it off! Suddenly, he found himself looking forward to the long journey to California, even though, at first, he had not been exactly enthusiastic about the fact that they were to have two women along.
Born a Southern gentleman, Carl Hoskins possessed both charm and good manners, in spite of the fact that he had not thought it necessary to avail himself of more than a formal, cursory kind of education. Books and foreign languages had never interested him; he had had other things to occupy his time and his mind. And when he had returned home from the wars to find his father’s acres seized by a carpetbagger government for non-payment of taxes, Carl had been philosophic enough and angry enough to be able to turn his back on it all and head west. It helped when his father wrote to William Brandon, who had been an early acquaintance of his. And Brandon trusted him—Brandon had plans that would include Carl in the adventure as well as the profit.
Not usually at a loss for words or compliments where women were concerned, Carl found himself shy and almost tongue-tied around Ginny Brandon. He had never met a woman exactly like her before—combining the graceful charm of a young girl and the intelligence and sophistication of a woman. And she was flirting with him—he didn’t know quite how to react to it.
What Carl did not realize, because she hid it so well, was that Ginny was bored. And when she was bored, she talked more than usual, her conversation light and frivolous.
Did the men here have nothing to talk about but raising cattle and selling them? Had the women no other interests but their homes and their children? But then, in this vast and half-empty land, what else was there?
They were well into their third course now, and Ginny allowed her glass to be refilled, smiling when she caught Sonya’s eye. She had already noticed that most of the other women did not drink any wine at all, or merely took small, polite sips. It was another thing that she felt they must disapprove of, and she didn’t care. No doubt they would go home tonight and gossip among themselves that the Senator’s daughter drank too much wine and was fast. The thought made her smile again, and Carl, who thought her smiles were all for him, felt his heart beat faster.
Her father was talking to Mr. Black, on his right, and because he was wearing a small frown on his face, which was unusual, Ginny found herself paying attention to his words.
“Do you know anything about a man who calls himself Whittaker? I was talking to your town marshal today, asking him if he could recommend a good scout for my wagon train, and he told me this man knows every trail between Texas and California. But it’s strange I hadn’t heard his name before.”
Black, a portly, cheerful-looking man with a full beard, chuckled.
“Marshal Trevor always gets kinda nervous when he gets a famous gunfighter in his town. And this hombre you were just talkin’ of shot Bart Haines just this afternoon—Bart was supposed to be one of the fastest, but the way I heard it, he hardly got to clear leather.”
Involuntarily, Ginny’s fingers tightened around the stem of her wineglass. She felt her whole body grow stiff. But the other gentlemen had joined in the conversation now, and her sudden tension went unnoticed.
“He’s a gunfighter? ”
Vance Porter, who sat on Ginny’s right, leaned forward to answer her father.
“Sure. One of the fastest guns for hire. But I’ve heard he’s ridden shotgun for Barlow, scouted for the army, and taken a few herds up to Abilene too.”
“He comes from your own state, Senator,” another man broke in. “And Whittaker isn’t his real name either. It’s Morgan—Steve Morgan.”
Sonya, who was usually never clumsy, dropped her ivory fan with a clatter, and Ginny glanced across at her as one of the men picked it up gallantly and handed it back to her. Sonya’s face, usually so placid and composed, looked flushed, and her eyelashes dropped to hide her embarrassment as she murmured her thanks.
It’s too much, Ginny thought. First it is cattle and now it’s gunfighters! She had half-opened her mouth to say that she had actually witnessed the gunfight these men had talked about, but catching sight of Sonya’s face, unusually pale now that the color in it had receded, Ginny thought better of it. Perhaps the thought of killing upset Sonya, too.
Snatches of conversation came to her amid the subdued clinking noises the waiters made as they cleared away plates and empty glasses. Even Carl Hoskins seemed more interested in her father’s plan for hiring a scout than he was in her. He was leaning forward, his fair head gleaming in the lamplight, and Ginny slanted a wicked glance at him. She remembered a story she had heard once, about a certain Parisienne lady who had deliberately loosened the strap of her evening gown to cause a diversion when her lover had appeared too interested in a rival. Unconsciously, Ginny’s fingers touched the velvet rosette on her right shoulder—it was loose, she suddenly remembered that she had meant to have Tillie sew it on firmly before she dressed for dinner. But no—it would never do! These sharp-featured women with their disapproving looks—how horrified they would be! And Carl Hoskins, even though he was very handsome, wasn’t worth it. All the same, the mere idea made her want to giggle.
“Ginny my love—” Sonya’s soft voice caught her attention. “I wonder if you would mind fetching our shawls upstairs? I believe it is actually getting rather chilly.”
Poor Sonya, her face had an unaccustomed pallor, and Ginny thought she could see her shiver slightly.
Smiling consolingly at her stepmother, Ginny made her murmured excuses, glad of a chance to escape for a while.
One of the waiters directed her to the back staircase—she had no desire to use the one that led down into the lobby and run the gamut of bold masculine stares that she had encountered earlier in the evening when she and Sonya had descended to dinner on her father’s arm.
Lifting her long, trailing skirts, Ginny went quickly up the narrow, rather winding staircase that would take her up to the second floor. Its threadbare carpeting proclaimed that this must be the servant’s staircase, lying at the end of the passageway that was furthest from her room.
Pausing at the top of the stairs to catch her breath, Ginny noticed for the first time how dimly lighted the narrow corridor seemed to be at night. It looked deserted, and somehow its emptiness and the silence up here almost frightened her.
It’s nonsense, and I’m being silly, she told herself firmly. I’ll find my room first, and then Tillie can help me find Sonya’s shawl.
But the feeling of uneasiness persisted and she walked swiftly, and as quietly as she could along the lonely corridor, with its shadowy walls. All the doors looked exactly alike, and it was almost impossible to read the numbers that had been painted on them. To make things worse, when she reached the end of the passageway she found that one of the lamps had been allowed to go out and it was quite dark.
“Oh—oh, darn ,” she whispered to herself, annoyed because she could not even remember exactly where her room was located. “Merde!” she whispered again, daringly, the sound of her own voice making her feel braver. A thread of light showed under one of the doors, and she bent closer to read the faded numbers. She could make out a two and a five—257, hadn’t that been the number of her room? Tillie usually kept the lamp lighted—perhaps she’d stayed awake.
Ginny hesitated for a moment and then tapped very lightly at the door, waiting impatiently for Tillie to open it. But what happened next took her completely by surprise.
The door opened very quickly from the inside, and before she could utter a sound she felt her hands grasped firmly as she was pulled, unceremoniously into the room.
She was only half-aware that the door had thudded shut behind her—too shocked and startled to do anything but gasp her dismay, Ginny found herself gazing into a pair of the darkest blue eyes she had ever encountered. They gleamed wickedly at her, half-shadowed by the longest eyelashes she had ever known a man to possess.
The darkness of his face, with its rather rakishly slanted eyebrows formed an almost startling contrast to those blue eyes, which narrowed as they studied her boldly and openly. She was petrified with fear and astonishment, her lips parted, but no words came from her dry, contracting throat.
The man smiled suddenly, and she thought, almost wickedly, showing a flash of white teeth; and she noticed, irrelevantly, the grooves that deepened on either side of his mouth as he smiled.
“Well, by God!” he said slowly, his eyes travelling insolently over her body, “so you’re Frenchy. Mimi really delivered the goods this time!”
His hands still held firmly onto hers, and before she could find the strength to utter a word, Ginny found herself jerked forward and gathered into the man’s unwelcome embrace—and worse, felt his lips come down over hers, harshly, and somehow possessively.
She had been kissed before, but never like this! Nor had any man dared hold her so closely that she could feel the entire length of his body against hers. His mouth was hard and merciless, instead of merely touching her lips gently it seemed to sear into them like a flame, forcing them apart under the onslaught of his kiss.
He held her with one arm just above her waist and the other around her shoulders so that she felt crushed and completely breathless; and when she would have moved her head away to escape, she felt his hand slide upward, catching the curls at the back of her neck to hold her pinioned.
Ginny felt her head begin to spin—it fell back helplessly as waves of dizziness and heat washed over her. To her horror, she felt his tongue pillage her mouth, forcing little involuntary whimpers from her throat. Oh, God, God, she thought weakly, do men really kiss like this? What is he doing to me? What will he do next?
Quite suddenly, when she was on the verge of fainting, his hold loosened somewhat, and he raised his head slightly to look down into her face.
“I didn’t think any woman could be this beautiful, Frenchy,” he whispered. His eyes were narrow and hard with a kind of desire she could sense but could not fully understand. She fought to regain her breath, to exercise some control over her suddenly weak and trembling body, and he bent his head again—she felt his lips burn into the hollow at the base of her throat.
“No!” The one word was all she could manage and it came out as a despairing gasp. She felt his fingers pull teasingly at the loose rosette and gasped again with outrage. Almost unconsciously she spoke in French.
“ Monsieur—non! Oh—what are you doing?”
The rosette came off and he laughed.
“Forget the stupid rose—I’ll get you another.” His lips muffled her cry of protest as he murmured against hers. “I’ll buy you another gown too, sweetheart, for I’ve a mind to tear this one off your body. You know I want you, and I’m an impatient man.”
His mouth seemed to attack hers again as his arm tightened around her waist, drawing her closer. Ginny felt her knees grow weak, so that she swayed against him involuntarily. She felt only half-awake—this is a bad dream, it cannot be real, her mind repeated dully, and she was aware of a strange, creeping sensation of languor, of a terrified kind of acceptance that had nothing to do with either her mind or her will. With a feeling of almost dreamlike detachment, Ginny felt his tongue explore her mouth, felt the gown slip off her shoulders as his hand caressed the curve of her breast. Her hands were trapped between their bodies, and could only press ineffectually against his chest, while her helpless struggles only seemed to excite him further, and drive him to taking even bolder liberties.
Helplessly, she felt his fingers find and press against the rapidly hardening point of a nipple, and the sensation was like a shock wave running through her body, snatching her back to reality. Now she struggled in earnest against his encroaching hands and lips, horrifyingly aware that his shirt was open to the waist and her bared breasts, protected only by the thin silk of her chemise, were pressed against his bare, warm chest.
The pressure of his body, the animal heat of it, and the naked demand of his kisses were too much to bear. With her head swimming, Ginny forced herself to go limp in his arms. Surely, if he thought she had fainted, he would not continue this—this attack on her body and her senses?
He released her so suddenly that she stumbled backwards, to be brought up short by the alarming, unexpected pressure of the edge of a bed against the back of her thighs.
With a wail of pure terror, Ginny’s hands came up to cross involuntarily over her breast as she saw him walk towards her with that stalking, catlike tread she remembered so well.
“Frenchy—will you stop acting so damned coy and take off that gown? Now, or I’ll take it off you!”
She saw his arms reach out for her again, and like a cornered animal, Ginny brought one hand up with all the strength she could muster and felt her palm crack against the side of his face with satisfying force.
The look of stunned surprise on his face filled her with a savage pleasure, and instinctively, she brought her other hand up, longing to rake at him with her nails. But this time, he managed to forestall her; catching her wrist and squeezing it cruelly until she cried out with pain. They stood eye to eye for a split second, his blazing with anger, and hers shining with tears of pain and frustration. She would have struck him again with her free hand, but he caught it too and held it in his harsh, merciless grip.
“Goddammit, you French bitch!” he said through his teeth. “What kind of stupid game do you think you’re playing?”
The cold fury in his voice and the dangerous look in his eyes would ordinarily have made her shrink back in terror if she had not been so angry herself.
“You—you rude, abominable m-monster!” Her voice shook with fury. “How dare you treat me this way? How dare you drag me into this room and—and then attack me as if I were a—a—” Her indignation at this point was so great that further words failed her and she stood panting, struggling to free her hands so that she could strike at him again.
From anger, the look in his eyes was turning into one of puzzlement, and then, slow-dawning dismay.
His black brows drew together in a frown as he took a backward step, holding her at arm’s length now as he studied her. Sobbing with rage and humiliation, Ginny became suddenly aware of the state she was in—her gown slipped off her shoulders, her hair falling down her back in tangles.
“If you’re not the girl Mimi was supposed to send over, then who—”
“Will you let go of me? I am not the—the slut you were obviously expecting—couldn’t you wait even to ask before you fell on me like an animal?”
Breathlessly, blinking back tears, Ginny stormed at him fiercely, her anger making her brave, “You—you’re worse than any savage, you murderer!”
She saw his eyes freeze into chips of ice for an instant, and then he quirked a slanted black brow.
“Never have murdered a beautiful woman, though,” he said reflectively, and then, his tone suddenly becoming harsh, “ yet! ”
Still holding her wrists, he gave her a swift backward shove before he released her, and Ginny found herself floundering into a sitting position on the bed.
“Ohh!” she gasped, her eyes widening with shock and fear.
She saw a corner of his mouth twitch with amusement as he looked down at her.
“Suppose you just sit there for a minute and tell me— quickly, if you please, ma’am—who you are and why you came tapping at my door? After all,” he added reasonably, “I was expecting a—female guest. How was I to know that you were not she?”
In spite of the softly reasonable tone of his voice there was an underlying steely quality to it that made Ginny answer him, a trifle sullenly.
“I—I mistook your room for mine; there was no light in the corridor and I couldn’t read the numbers on the door. And then—” she flashed a hateful look at him, “you dragged me inside without giving me a chance to say a word, and you—you—”
“Attacked you?” he supplied helpfully and rage swept through her again when she saw that he was actually grinning at her. So he thought it all very amusing, did he?
She sprang to her feet angrily, forgetting once more to be afraid, and this time, he stepped back cautiously, although his eyes still mocked her.
“Now ma’am—don’t you go attacking me! ”
He heard her indrawn breath of fury and the dancing, mocking lights in his eyes seemed to intensify. A corner of his hard, reckless mouth lifted in a teasing smile, and Ginny, seeing it, gritted her teeth.
“You are the most objectionable, hateful—”
“It was really your fault, ma’am. It was your beauty that carried me away. Why, I couldn’t believe my luck when I saw you—I had the irresistible impulse to kiss you, and I—”
“Will you stop trying to make a—a joke of what you did?” He was teasing her, he had the effrontery to think that she was some stupid ninny of a girl who would allow herself to be coaxed and cajoled and teased out of her well-founded rage!
“I cannot see how you could possibly mistake me for the—the type of female you were obviously expecting,” Ginny went on coldly, trying to ignore the annoying smile on his face. “Although I must confess I feel sorry for your female visitors if you are used to greeting them in such a forcefully affectionate manner! Are you afraid they will refuse your advances unless they are not given the chance to do so?”
His glance flicked over her from head to toe, making her cringe instinctively. She had never encountered such obvious, crude insolence in any man’s eyes before! It was as if he stripped her naked with a look.
“If you’ll forgive me for saying so, ma’am,” he drawled, “I’m certainly not used to seeing ladies dressed the way you are—not in this little town, anyhow. Not that I’m complaining, mind,” he added wickedly. “In fact, you look even more desirable just the way you are now…”
Ginny could feel the blush that spread all over her body as she became miserably, angrily aware all over again of how she must look at this moment. Her hands snatched for her gown, pulling it up over her half-naked bosom, and tears of rage and frustration filled her eyes.
“You are the rudest, most detestable man I have ever met!” she spat at him, her voice choked. “Will you stand aside and let me go? I’ll not stay here another minute and be further insulted!”
He made no attempt to move, however, and she saw him frown.
“You’ll either let me go or I’ll scream!” Ginny’s voice was high with a rising hysteria she tried to control. Surely, after what he’d done already, he didn’t intend to—to—
“You can’t walk out like that. ” His voice was flat, impatient. “And as for screaming—you didn’t scream before, why should you now? I’m sure you’re too intelligent to want to create a scandal.”
He was actually threatening her, trying to blackmail her! Ginny stared at him with a mixture of fear and contempt, wondering what he would do if she did scream after all.
He seemed almost to read her mind, for he frowned again, shaking his head at her impatiently.
“Now look—I promise you I won’t try to—er—attack you again! But please try to be reasonable. You cannot possibly—”
He broke off as a soft knocking at his door startled them both, and for just a second they were like fellow conspirators, exchanging looks of apprehension.
The knocking came again, this time louder and more insistent, and Ginny’s hand flew to her mouth. Whoever it is, she thought despairingly, if they find me here like this with him, my reputation is ruined! No one would believe—they’ll wonder why I didn’t scream—oh, God, what will I do now?
A woman’s voice with a heavy accent called softly from the other side of the door.
“étienne? Steve Morgan? You can open the door, it is me, Solange. Mimi told me you’d be expecting me—are you there?”
Ginny had to fight back the impulse to burst into hysterical laughter. And something must have shown on her face, for she felt Steve Morgan’s fingers close meaningfully around her wrist, and flinched.
“That, I suppose is your Frenchy!” Ginny whispered, making her voice as cutting as possible. “Will you kindly let go of my wrist and tell me what you intend to do now?”
She noticed, with satisfaction, that for a moment he looked as much at a loss as she, and then as the woman’s voice called his name again, louder and more petulantly this time, his manner became purposeful.
“I know one thing,” he said shortly, “I can’t leave her out there raising hell! She’ll have everyone in the damn hotel in here, wondering what’s going on.”
He dropped her wrist, and then leaving her standing in the middle of the room he reached the door in two easy, purposeful strides and flung it open.
A woman of about twenty-five, well-formed, and wearing a red satin dress that clashed with her fiery red curls burst in, laughing.
“Ah—but you take so long! I thought you were not here, but now—yes now I’m glad that you are—you are ver’ handsome, Mimi was right!”
Steve Morgan was locking the door, and as he turned back to her the woman flung her arms around his neck, pressing her voluptuous body closely against his.
Amazed, and fascinated in spite of her own embarrassing predicament, Ginny saw the young woman’s bright, painted lips part and then glue themselves to the man’s, in spite of his obvious stiffness and hesitancy.
In a moment, she had flung her head back to look up into his face.
“What is the matter lover? Don’t you like me?”
And then, over his shoulder, her dark eyes met Ginny’s cool green gaze, and her eyes widened.
Stiffening with outrage, Frenchy let her arms slip from around Morgan’s neck as she stared at Ginny, her dark, angry eyes taking everything in.
“I think I am begin to understand,” she said, her voice shrill with rage. “Who is she? An’ what is she doing here?”
The woman’s arm pointed dramatically, and she took a step forward, but Steve Morgan had grabbed her quickly around the waist.
“Now wait just a minute—her being here is an accident…”
“Oh, an accident, hein? An’ her gown all tore from her shoulders, that is accidental too?”
With a coolness she was far from feeling, Ginny shrugged.
“No, indeed it wasn’t! It seems that Mr. Morgan mistook me for you, and without giving me a chance to explain or to defend myself he—but why don’t you ask him to explain? I’m sure he’ll do it much better than I could!”
“You’re doing quite well,” Steve Morgan said grimly. He dropped his hand from Frenchy’s waist and looked at her quizzically. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but she’s right. She knocked at the door, and I thought it was you. Guess I got carried away!”
Expressions of anger, doubt, incredulity and finally amusement chased each other across the Frenchwoman’s face as her eyes went from Morgan to Ginny and back again.
Finally, surprising them both, she began to laugh, throwing back her bright head.
“Oh—but this is the best joke I have hear! So—” her eyes flashed at Ginny, “he think you are me and he don’t want to wait, hmm? Well—you are pretty, cherie, ” she admitted generously. “How can I blame him? Men are so impatient sometimes!”
“Impatient is hardly the word I’d use for Mr. Morgan’s actions,” Ginny snapped, giving him a malicious look.
Steve Morgan, his face unreadable now, walked over to the bureau that was set against one wall and poured himself a long drink from the half-empty bottle of bourbon he had left out.
“I think,” he said politely, “we should all have a drink and discuss how we are to get miss—miss—” he raised an eyebrow at Ginny who stared back at him mutinously, her lips pressed tightly together, and then went on, shrugging, “this young lady back safely to wherever she came from, with her gown intact.”
His words suddenly reminded Ginny of her errand upstairs—the fact that even now Sonya might have sent someone upstairs to search for her, and her eyes widened with dismay.
“Oh no!” she gasped, “if—if my father ever finds out where I am, or what happened, he’d—he’d kill you, and I’d be ruined! What on earth am I to do?”
“Yes, think of something,” Solange chuckled teasingly, her small, dark eyes crinkled with amusement. “You do not wish for an angry papa to find his daughter here, do you, Steven cher? ”
“That, believe me, is the last thing I wish!” he said grimly, and slammed the glass down on the bureau. Ginny felt his glance flick over her and blushed again, but he added, as if he hadn’t noticed her discomfiture, “thank God you’re not hysterical any longer, at least. Perhaps you could get back to your room and—er—sew the gown back together? I only ripped that stupid little rose off your shoulder—it ought to be around here somewhere—”
“ Only! You took all kind of unforgivable liberties, and now you try to pretend that—”
“But wait!” Solange cast a calculating look at Morgan and turned to Ginny. “He is right—it only needs just a little stitch at the shoulder here, you see? An’ me, I always carry a needle and thread with me. So—I will fix it. An’ you, mal homme, you will find that rosette for us, oui? ”
Her head whirling with a mixture of rage, frustration and humiliation, Ginny forced herself to stand still while Frenchy wielded her needle with surprising efficiency, chattering away all the while in French. She had been delighted to discover that Ginny spoke her native tongue, and her eager questions about France and the new fashions were almost pathetically revealing of her homesickness. In spite of the fact that this Solange was, no doubt, a bad girl, Ginny could not help liking her—there was something so friendly, so honest and direct about her that it was impossible not to feel sorry for her, and of course, she had already confided that it was a man who had brought her to the profession she was now engaged in.
Men! Ginny thought, were the root of all women’s troubles. Look at the trouble that the detestable Mr. Morgan had caused her!
She flashed a quick look at him from beneath her downcast lashes and caught his gaze on her, but this time his startlingly blue eyes wore a somber, almost thoughtful expression. What was he thinking? And what kind of a man was he? She answered herself bluntly. A gunman. A man to whom human life meant nothing, obviously. And a man who would take what he wanted without any scruples, even if his victim was a defenseless woman! She had looked away from him nervously, but she could not help recalling the way in which he had held her imprisoned in his arms, the brutal kisses he had forced on her. She could not help shuddering, and Solange asked solicitously if she were cold.
“I will be finish in just a minute—and then you can get your shawl, yes, and go back to your papa. Perhaps you will say you felt unwell, yes?”
As much as she hated having to lie to her father and to Sonya, Ginny supposed that it might be the best excuse she could give—and she had, after all, drunk quite a lot of wine with her dinner.