Книга - The Seduction Of Ellen

The Seduction Of Ellen
Nan Ryan


THE SPINSTEREllen Cornelius knows exactly what Mister Corey is: an unscrupulous swindler…a man without morals who will fleece her foolish old aunt out of her fortune. But as the group travels west in search of the fountain of youth, Ellen is both repelled and beguiled by his dark, compelling sexuality. Her only protection is to hide behind her prim, patronizing manner and her acid tongue.THE SEDUCERSteve Corey tests Ellen's fragile poise saying things to her that no gentleman would say to a lady. He enjoys infuriating her, takes great pleasure in shocking her. He's become the dark seducer of her dreams, delivering a thunderstorm of ecstasy to a lonely, unsophisticated woman who's been hurt and disappointed too many times before.But he'd never dreamed that his seduction of Ellen would lure his own heart into uncharted territory as well….







“There is nothing nice about you, Mister Corey.”

He smiled and in that smooth, half-mocking voice that only added to his magnetism, said, “You can be cruel. Anybody ever tell you that? Real cruel.”

“I have had excellent tutors,” Ellen coldly informed him.

“Well, if that were the case, why didn’t you…?”

“Don’t start with me! You know nothing of my life or the circumstances that govern it and I will not be appraised by a common carnival barker!”

For a long moment Mister Corey said nothing as he watched the expression on her face. When he spoke, it was in low, soft tones. “We live not as we wish to, but as we can. Or so the philosopher says.”

“Really?” she answered hatefully. “And if I want to hear any more of your trite little platitudes, I’ll be sure to let you know.” She gave him a smug look, pleased with herself.

But as usual, he surprised her. Leaning close, he said, “What about when you want me to kiss you again? Will you let me know?”

“Oh! That will never happen, I assure you. I did not want you to kiss me that morning at the station. And the day will never come when I do want you to kiss me!”

“What about the night?”

“Neither morning, noon or night. Not ever.”

He grinned wickedly. “Say that to me again in twenty-four hours.”

“Gladly!”

Nan Ryan “brings us a hot story with the unique flavors of New Orleans, heated passion, mystery and the spice of her signature sensuality.”

—Romantic Times on The Countess Misbehaves


Also available from MIRA Books and

NAN RYAN

WANTING YOU

THE COUNTESS MISBEHAVES

THE SCANDALOUS MISS HOWARD




The Seduction of Ellen

Nan Ryan





www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


For

my dear sister

Glenda Henderson Howard

With love, affection and most of all,

gratitude for being there with me

during the bad times as well as the good.




Contents


Part One (#uaad144e8-29e1-5a75-bf33-4fc1e38a57d9)

Chapter One (#uf5bb0c20-4d56-5bbf-a9d7-48bdb9387576)

Chapter Two (#u532ad952-3397-582f-b528-f11a482af185)

Chapter Three (#ua4dedc8e-d68b-5d71-a1ad-d3a465f499e0)

Chapter Four (#uc8e0e178-b643-5517-a199-c4e44fb4508b)

Chapter Five (#ued4fc6dc-47d7-53cf-94db-246b59400efe)

Chapter Six (#ueaf8c3e5-1929-5541-8df2-24989e4549eb)

Chapter Seven (#u76f70959-2c25-5578-ada4-5a0813f2f66f)

Chapter Eight (#u065e36a0-b0f0-5045-89e9-75bca7521d2f)

Chapter Nine (#u4b7ea03c-62c1-56a6-a193-14078cee8107)

Part Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)



PART ONE




One


London, England

Early April 1899

It was growing dark when Ellen Cornelius stepped down from the hired coach before a gloomy tenement house in London’s West End. Ellen gazed at the dilapidated building and inwardly shuddered. She did not want to go inside. She dreaded knocking on the door, dreaded meeting the person behind it. Nervous, doubtful, Ellen longed to climb back inside the carriage and return to the safety and comfort of the Connaught Hotel.

She didn’t dare.

She hadn’t chosen to come here. She had been sent by her indomitable aunt, aging American heiress and industrialist Alexandra Landseer.

Alexandra, with Ellen in tow, had come to London from her Park Avenue home seeking a medical miracle. Desperate to slow the aging process, Alexandra seemed convinced that money would buy her longevity.

“Why can’t I live forever?” Alexandra had often asked with an arrogant sincerity. “I don’t intend to die like everybody else. I intend to stay young and vital!”

Now, after spending a week in a famed London clinic, Alexandra was both angered and disappointed by the results. She had been outraged when the team of noted Harley Street physicians bluntly told her that there was absolutely nothing they could do for her. She was, they pointed out in forthright terms, only mortal.

Nor did they sugarcoat their prediction that although she seemed to be in fairly good health, she could not expect to live many more years past her present age of eighty-one.

So now Ellen, Alexandra’s only niece, had come alone across the city of London to this strange place to do her aunt’s bidding. Just as always.

Ellen would, she knew, continue to endure and acquiesce to her self-centered aunt for as long as the old woman lived. She would cater to her every whim.

She would do it for Christopher—for her son who was now a cadet in South Carolina.

Resigned, long ago, to her lot in life, Ellen Cornelius looked older than her thirty-six years. And felt older. Especially tonight as she stood alone and frightened in this squalid section of London. She did not even know why she’d been sent to the West End. Only that she was to instruct the tenant in #203 to contact Alexandra Landseer at the Connaught Hotel in Mayfair as soon as possible.

Ellen summoned up her courage, stepped smartly up the weed-choked front walk and entered the building. It was dim and foreboding inside. The light was inadequate and as she looked up the shadowy stairway, Ellen felt the fine hair rise on the back of her neck. She clamped her teeth together, forced herself to climb the rickety stairs and, squinting, soon located the correct room.

Her heart in her throat, she lifted a hand and knocked. She waited, listening for sounds of movement inside. She heard nothing. Seconds passed. Ellen knocked again, more forcefully this time. Still no answer. Apparently no one was in. Beginning to relax, Ellen tried one last time.

Secretly delighted that no one was home, she hurriedly skipped back down the stairs and out into the deepening dusk. Once in the carriage she instructed the driver to return her directly to the Connaught and then she settled comfortably against the plush leather seat, relieved that one more unpleasant task was behind her.

Halfway to the hotel, the coach slowed as it passed a noisy street fair. Ellen’s green eyes began to glow slightly as she watched the gaily colored lights and the crowds of people and the shouting pitchmen hawking their games and wares. On a lark, she behaved impulsively, uncharacteristically. She decided to seize the opportunity to stay away from the Connaught—and her demanding aunt—for at least another hour.

“Driver,” she called out excitedly. “Please stop the carriage. I…I am going to visit the fair!”

The coach stopped quickly and the smiling, ruddy-faced driver helped Ellen down.

“You will wait for me?” she asked.

“Why, I certainly will. Stay as long as you want, madam,” he said, then eagerly confided. “I took my wife to this very fair last night and she had such a good time she’s still in high spirits.” He winked at Ellen and grinned.

Ellen smiled back at him and replied, “Perhaps it will sweeten my mood.”

“Guaranteed,” he assured her.

Nodding, feeling uncommonly buoyant, Ellen turned away and hurried toward the bustling fair to join the milling crowds.

The night was mild and the slight breeze that touched Ellen’s face and lifted wisps of her chestnut hair was pleasantly warm. She was glad she hadn’t brought a wrap as Alexandra had instructed.

Ellen found herself smiling as she made her way in and out of groups of starry-eyed children clinging tenaciously to strings supporting high-flying balloons. Her smile broadened when she noticed a trio of pretty girls, giggling and sticking their tongues out to taste the huge pink balls of cotton candy they carried. Ellen noted that the girls were well aware of a group of admiring young men following them at a distance, the bashful boys elbowing each other and laughing and blushing.

Young and old were obviously enjoying themselves and their happiness was contagious—soon Ellen realized that she, too, was having a good time. As she strolled leisurely past the many booths, a palm reader’s tent caught her eye and her interest.

Ellen had never in her life visited a fortune-teller. A little shiver of excitement skipped up her spine as she took a couple of decisive steps forward, pulled back the heavy scarlet curtain and stepped inside. Immediately feeling anxious and wishing she had not been so adventurous, she nonetheless took a seat in the shadows directly across from a turbaned old crone.

For a long tense moment the bony, wrinkle-faced woman stared at Ellen, making her extremely uncomfortable. Then the soothsayer took Ellen’s right hand in her own and studied it carefully. When she finally looked up, there was an odd expression on her face.

She made a strange prediction.

Her voice gravelly and coming from deep inside her narrow chest, the fortune-teller said, “I see a pretty young woman with glossy chestnut hair, flawless fair skin and large eyes that shine with excitement and anticipation. Green eyes they are. Vivid emerald eyes that sparkle with fire and mischief.” The old woman paused and gazed unblinkingly at Ellen, then told her, “This emerald-eyed woman is soon to meet a man of great mystery and charm. A dark stranger who sees into her secret heart. A tall, spare man with lustrous coal-black hair and dark liquid eyes who will put the bloom of the rose back into her pale cheeks and—”

“No, wait. That’s enough. Stop,” Ellen interrupted, swiftly withdrawing her hand and waving it dismissively. “I know all too well about the past. Tell me of the future.”

The garishly painted Gypsy looked Ellen straight in the eye and said, “It is not of the past I speak. It is of the future.”

Rejecting her comment as utter foolishness, Ellen shook her head in annoyance, dropped a coin in the fortune-teller’s hand, rose to her feet and left the tent.

Back outside, Ellen continued to saunter between the bunting-draped booths, stopping abruptly before a stall where a tall, spare man with lustrous coal-black hair stood on a raised platform. Torchlight falling on his chiseled face revealed squint lines that radiated outward from his eyes, forming grooves on either side of his nose down to his mouth.

A long, curving scar on his tanned right cheek gave him a villainous appearance. So did his eyes. Eyes as black as midnight. Eyes from which not one bit of light shone. Eyes that had seen too much of life.

Dressed entirely in black—suit, vest, silk shirt and leather shoes—the man held a bottle of patent medicine up to the crowd. In a tone as lifeless as his eyes, he extolled the many benefits to be derived from the secret elixir.

He glanced down, catching sight of Ellen standing directly below. Without a smile or change of expression, he crouched and held the bottle out to her. “What about you, miss? Shall I put the bloom of the rose back into your pale cheeks?” he asked in a low, flat voice.

“No, I…I…” Confused and momentarily tongue-tied, Ellen quickly turned away and left.

But she couldn’t get the stranger out of her mind. All the way back to the Connaught, Ellen saw his tanned face and heard his low voice saying, “Shall I put the bloom of the rose back into your pale cheeks?” Ellen blushed as she guiltily acknowledged that he could probably do that and more.

She was surprised at herself. And perplexed. That she could have such a profoundly unsettling reaction to a stranger—a common carnival barker no less—was totally out of character. Besides, she had been so certain that her ability to feel any kind of attraction to the opposite sex had died years ago.

Perhaps not.

Ellen shivered involuntarily in the closeness of the carriage. Then she shook her head and smiled at her schoolgirl silliness. Still, she was glad she had gone to the fair. Glad she had seen the dark, dangerous-looking man and that he had made her pulse quicken. No harm had been done and it had been rather exciting. Lord knows there was precious little excitement in her life.

Ellen’s foolish smile began to fade and she sighed wistfully as a rush of memories washed over her. Painful memories of an unhappy girl so anxious to get away from her domineering aunt that she had married the first young man to come calling. Vivid memories of the hurt and disappointment she’d felt when she’d realized that life with her neglectful husband, Booth Cornelius, was no better than it had been with her cold, uncaring aunt.

Terrible memories of Booth Cornelius walking out on her some twenty years ago. Abandoning her with an infant son to raise alone. Hurtful memories of having to return, shamefaced and repentant, to Aunt Alexandra.

There were bitter memories of that one time—years ago—when she had made a brave attempt to break away from her aunt. But, she’d had Christopher to care for and no skills with which to earn a decent living. Within a few short months she’d been forced to return to Alexandra’s where she had been ever since.

Where she would stay forever if that’s what it took to ensure her adored son’s inheritance. Ellen had been cheated out of her own fortune. She wouldn’t let it happen to Christopher.

The last traces of Ellen’s smile had disappeared. Now melancholy from recalling her empty past, the young woman silently cursed the cruel fates that had allowed her widowed father, Timothy Landseer, to be killed in the War Between the States. And as if her beloved father’s death had not been devastating on its own, his wealthy widowed mother had died less than six months later.

Her grandmother’s will had never been changed. A dead man could not inherit. The entire Landseer fortune had gone to Alexandra, Timothy Landseer’s older sister and only sibling. Young Ellen was left beholden to Alexandra for the very roof over her head.

Ellen felt fatigued by the time she reached the Connaught. Climbing out of the carriage, she hoped against hope that Aunt Alexandra would have retired for the night.

She hadn’t.

“Well?” Alexandra rose from her chair and placed her hands on her broad hips, when Ellen entered their suite. “Did you do as you were told?”

“I did,” said Ellen flatly. “But it was a wild-goose chase. No one was home at the given address.”

“No one home? Then you will return there tomorrow!” declared her disappointed aunt.

“Not unless you tell me the purpose of the visit,” said an exasperated Ellen.

The frowning Alexandra suddenly began to smile like the cat who got the cream. She picked up the late edition of the London Daily Express from a table beside her armchair. The paper contained an advertisement that had captured Alexandra’s attention and prompted her to send Ellen across the city.

Excited, Alexandra attempted to read. Squinting, she held the paper farther away, then finally said, “I don’t have my eyeglasses. Here, you read it.”

Ellen took the newspaper and read aloud, “‘Do you long to turn back the clock? To rejuvenate your aging flesh? To replenish brain cells? If so, come drink of the Magic Waters and recapture your youth! Contact Mister Corey.”’

Ellen looked up from the newspaper.

“The address is listed, the one I sent you to,” Alexandra pointed out. “You will go there again in the morning.”

Calmly, Ellen said, “Aunt Alexandra, you know very well that these so-called Magic Waters will not make you young again and—”

“Did I ask for your opinion? I did not. You will go there tomorrow, do I make myself clear?”

Too weary to argue, Ellen simply nodded, dropped the newspaper back on the table and retired to the blessed privacy of her room.

But sleep eluded her. As she lay in bed in the still darkness, she thought only of the man with the unforgettable cold black eyes.

And for some odd, unexplained reason, the vivid vision caused her eyes to smart with unshed tears and her lonely heart to ache with a reawakened regret for what never was.

And would never be.




Two


As soon as the sun rose the next morning, an impatient, robe-clad Alexandra Landseer knocked on Ellen’s bedroom door.

“Wake up, Ellen,” Alexandra called loudly. “Get out of bed now! I want you at that West End address in time to catch Mister Corey before he leaves. Get up, Ellen. Get up.”

Ellen grimaced, gritted her teeth, but dutifully rose and began to dress. When, moments later, she entered the suite’s spacious drawing room, Alexandra looked up from the sumptuous breakfast she was hungrily devouring.

Chewing and swallowing quickly, Alexandra explained, “I didn’t order anything for you. There’s not enough time. You can have breakfast when you return.” She patted her mouth with a large linen napkin and added, “The carriage is waiting downstairs. Go now and find out all you can from this Mister Corey.”

“Good morning, Aunt Alexandra,” Ellen said flatly.

“Yes, yes, good morning,” Alexandra muttered distractedly. “You tell Mister Corey he is to come to the hotel and meet privately with me at eight sharp this evening. Don’t take no for an answer. I must speak with him.”

Ellen gave no reply. Alexandra was still firing off commands when Ellen left the suite.

The journey across London wasn’t as nerve-racking in the daytime, but when she reached her destination, Ellen found the building and its unkempt surroundings even more depressing than she’d remembered. It was glaringly obvious that anyone who lived in this run-down tenement was impoverished.

One would assume that the person who held the secret to eternal youth would be incredibly wealthy. Ellen rolled her eyes heavenward, silently damning Alexandra and her latest exercise in idiocy.

When Ellen stood before the door to #203, she took a deep breath and knocked. This time her knock was promptly answered. Answered by a tall, spare man with lustrous coal-black hair and eyes to match.

The carnival barker from last night’s street fair!

Ellen’s eyes widened in surprise and alarm. Again she felt the racing of her heart, a weakness in her knees. Struck speechless, she started to turn away without stating the purpose of her call.

But the man who’d opened the door took her arm and drew her inside.

“I’m Mister Corey,” he said in a low, flat voice with a hint of a drawling Southern accent. “And you are?”

“I…ah…Ellen Cornelius,” she managed, her voice slightly shrill.

“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” asked the unsmiling Mister Corey, releasing Ellen’s arm.

Nervous, rushing her words, she explained, “My aunt, Miss Alexandra Landseer, saw your advertisement in the newspaper and she…ah…she asked that I come here to learn more about this…this…water you claim is magic.”

Mister Corey nodded. “Come with me,” he said and directed her into a sparsely furnished sitting room where a small, bald, coppery-skinned man awaited.

Mister Corey made the introductions and offered Ellen a chair. He remained standing. Ellen sat down and listened politely as Padjan told her that he was an Anasazi Indian whose home was far away in America’s great Southwest. He spoke eloquently and excitedly of Magic Waters in the Lost City of the Anasazi, a city hidden high in the rugged canyonlands of Utah.

“The location of the Lost City,” he said with great authority, tapping his chest with a forefinger, “is known to me alone.” Ellen could hardly hide her skepticism, but she said nothing. Padjan continued, his dark eyes aglow, “In that secret place are Magic Waters from which a person can drink and stay forever young.” He paused, as if waiting for her to speak.

Not knowing how to respond, she said, the cynicism evident in her tone, “That I would like to see.”

“And you can,” said Padjan. “I will take you there if you so desire.” He smiled at Ellen then, his teeth very white in an incredibly smooth, youthful-looking face. “Drink of the waters,” he told her, “and the passing of time stops.”

At that, Ellen said resolutely, “I’ve no desire to make time stand still.” She glanced nervously at Mister Corey who was quietly watching her, arms folded, lifeless dark eyes fixed on her. “Nor is there any part of my youth I would wish to reclaim,” she continued, returning her attention to Padjan. “As I told you, my aunt sent me here. She’s the one who wants to live forever, not me.” Ellen abruptly rose to her feet. She looked from Padjan to Mister Corey and said, “My aunt has instructed me to bid you to visit her this evening. Can you do that? Both of you?”

“We can and we will,” said the smiling Padjan, rising to face her.

“Very good,” she said, turning away, then pausing and turning back. “Be at the Connaught Hotel at eight this evening.” She looked at Mister Corey. “The Connaught is in Mayfair by the—”

“I know where the Connaught is,” he said, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

“Oh. Well, good. I just supposed that…”

“…someone like me had never been in the better part of London?” he finished for her.

“No, I…That isn’t what I meant.”

“That’s exactly what you meant,” he coolly accused and she flushed hotly because it was true.

Eager to get away from him, Ellen tensed when Mister Corey followed her to the door. He reached around her to open it. For a split second she stood directly before him, trapped between his tall, lean frame and the closed door. Instantly plagued with a bad case of the jitters, Ellen was terrified she would start trembling and that he would notice her nervousness.

Her anxious eyes fixed on the hand gripping the brass doorknob, she felt as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of her lungs.

Mister Corey languidly opened the door.

Ellen bolted into the dimly lit hallway and, without looking back, rushed down the stairs as if fleeing the devil himself.

Mister Corey stood in the open doorway looking after her, mildly amused by her obvious aversion to him. A slight smile briefly touched his lips.

But it never reached his eyes.

Alexandra Landseer, wearing her finest, was ready and eager to receive her invited guests. Her steel-gray hair had been dressed elaborately atop her head and she wore an expensive creation of silver-gray silk that would have been stunning on a younger, slimmer woman. Her wrinkled face had been liberally dusted with powder and her cheeks sported twin spots of rouge. Sparkling jewels graced the crepey folds of her neck and dangled from her fleshy earlobes.

On joining her aunt in the suite’s drawing room, Ellen had commented that it might not be wise to wear so many valuables for this particular occasion.

“After all, Aunt Alexandra,” Ellen reminded her, “I told you when I returned this morning that this Mister Corey is nothing more than a common carnival barker. I saw the man last night hawking his magic potion at a street fair.”

The gussied-up old woman made a sour face. “You had no intention of telling me about stopping at the fair, did you?”

“But I did tell you,” Ellen defended herself.

Alexandra replied, “Not last night you didn’t.”

“Last night. This morning. What difference does it make?”

Alexandra toyed with a priceless rope of pearls-and-diamonds dangling from her throat and pursed her lips. “Tell the truth, if you hadn’t recognized Mister Corey this morning, you would never have told me about going to the fair last night.”

Ellen crossed her arms over her chest. “And shame on me. I hadn’t realized that doing something as daring as going to a street fair on my own should be immediately reported.”

“Don’t you get smart with me, Ellen,” Alexandra warned, pointing a finger at her niece as the younger woman turned and left the room.

Alexandra ignored her niece’s surprising show of audacity. The heiress was in too good a humor to be bothered by Ellen’s reaction. Alexandra was as excited as a child waiting for Santa on Christmas morning. She was zealously looking forward to this evening’s meeting. It was to be, perhaps, the most important meeting of her entire life.

“Ellen,” Alexandra shouted loudly, “our visitors should be here soon. Where are you?”

Ellen, attired modestly in a simple white piqué dress she’d worn for several summers, returned to the drawing room.

“Right here,” she said, managing a smile.

While Ellen dreaded seeing the intimidating Mister Corey again, she wanted to be present for this little conference so she would know exactly what ensued. Alexandra, who successfully dealt daily with titans of rail, steel and telegraphy, seemed to lack all common sense when it came to the issue of staying young.

Ellen was afraid that the two scheming strangers would easily convince Alexandra that they held the secret to eternal youth. And, therefore persuade her aunt to pay an astronomical sum of money to take her to their so-called Magic Waters.

“They’re here!” Alexandra announced excitedly at the knock on the door. She waved a bejeweled hand at Ellen, “Go let them in, please. No, wait just a minute.”

Alexandra always insisted on staying seated when greeting guests. She preferred to play the role of a monarch on a throne, expecting her lowly subjects to come forward to bow and beam and fawn over her.

“Ready?” Ellen asked, barely concealing her annoyance as Alexandra fussed with the shimmering silk skirts that swirled around her feet.

“Yes, you may admit them,” said the queenly Alexandra and Ellen went into the foyer to open the door.

The smiling Padjan entered the marble-floored vestibule. In his arms was a large green paper bag that he held as gingerly as if he were carrying a piece of fragile crystal. He was followed by Mister Corey who was clean shaven and surprisingly immaculate in a white linen shirt and neatly pressed dark trousers. Ellen felt her stomach contract.

“Good evening, Padjan, Mister Corey,” Ellen calmly acknowledged. “Won’t you come inside and meet my aunt?”

Padjan, the crown of his bald head gleaming in the light of the wall sconce, nodded eagerly. But first, he turned and carefully placed the bag on the table beside the door. Then he and Mister Corey followed Ellen into the suite’s large drawing room.

“Aunt Alexandra, this is Padjan,” Ellen indicated the smaller man. “Padjan, may I present my aunt, Miss Alexandra Landseer.”

Grinning from ear to ear, Padjan stepped forward, bowed from the waist and, taking the hand Alexandra offered, said with sincere enthusiasm, “It is a true pleasure to meet such a great lady, Miss Landseer.”

Charmed, she said, “Forget the formalities, call me Alexandra.”

Nodding, Padjan released her hand and moved aside.

“And this,” said Ellen, glancing up at him, “is Mister Corey. Mister Corey, my aunt, Alexandra Landseer.”

Mister Corey was not impolite, but he did not grin or bow to the seated heiress or take her outstretched hand as Padjan had done. “Miss Landseer,” he said and almost imperceptibly nodded.

Within minutes Alexandra and Padjan had their heads together, talking like two old friends. Padjan knew exactly what Alexandra wanted to hear and he wasted no time telling her about his Lost City and its Magic Waters.

Mister Corey said little.

Ellen said even less.

The two of them sat at opposite ends of a long brocade sofa. Ellen, paying close attention to the conversation taking place between Padjan and her aunt, was nevertheless vitally aware of Mister Corey’s strong masculine presence.

Occasionally casting covert glances at him, she wondered what he was thinking. He looked bored. Disinterested. And he looked as if he was bored and disinterested much of the time. He was, she surmised, a man who was experienced and world-weary. She got the impression that he had been everywhere and done everything and that he expected life to hold no further surprises or joys for him.

How, she wondered, had he ended up living in an old tenement building far from his native America? Hawking magic elixirs at street carnivals?

“Just you wait right here!” Padjan was saying as he nimbly rose to his feet and hurried out into the foyer.

In seconds he was back with the green paper bag. Gingerly placing the bag on the footstool before Alexandra, he looked up at her and said, “Here is proof that I am who I say, a member of the Anasazi, the Ancient Ones who the world believes have disappeared.” Dark eyes flashing, he opened the bag, swept it aside and withdrew a beautiful pottery artifact. He placed the artifact on the stool before Alexandra. “This came from the mystical Lost City,” he proudly declared. “You will see nothing like it anywhere else in the world.”

Alexandra sat up straighter in her chair and reached out to touch the exquisite urn. An avid collector of pre-Columbian art, she immediately recognized that the piece predated many within her own collection, that it was authentic and not some modern reproduction.

Her bejeweled hands running admiringly over the precious artifact, she said, “Ellen, perhaps you’d like to retire to your room now. The gentlemen and I have some business to conduct.”

“If you don’t mind, Aunt Alexandra,” Ellen tried to sound casual, “I’m finding this so fascinating that I’d prefer to stay and—”

Alexandra looked up from the relic she was admiring. “I do mind,” she cut Ellen off.

Ellen, mortified, felt Mister Corey’s dark, disapproving gaze touch her. Without meeting his eyes, she was certain they held an expression of mild disdain. He was, she felt sure, silently rebuking her for meekly allowing her aunt to dismiss her as if she were a child.

Well, she didn’t care what he thought. He knew nothing about her relationship with Alexandra or why she allowed the older woman to order her about. She was not surprised that her aunt had insisted she leave. She had expected it.

She was always banished from the room anytime finances were to be discussed.

Alexandra patiently waited until the door was shut and her niece was out of earshot, then said, “Gentlemen, let’s get down to business. I want to hire the two of you to take me to the Magic Waters and—”

Interrupting, Padjan shook his head. “Miss Landseer, there are four in our party. If one goes, we all go.”

Alexandra frowned. “Four? We’ve no need of four people. Can’t you just leave the other two here?”

A deep shade of red appeared beneath Padjan’s smooth copper skin. “Never,” he said and he was no longer smiling. “If you are ever to see the Magic Waters, you will take all four of us.”

“Oh, all right,” said Alexandra. “You will take me to your Magic Waters.”

“I will,” said Padjan, nodding solemnly.

“Then give it to me straight, please. Tell me, how much?” Alexandra asked. “How much is this entire operation going to set me back?”

The terms were promptly laid out. The deal was quickly made. Alexandra told the pair she would, come morning, have her niece book passage to America for them all within the week.

“Tie up any loose ends you have here in London and be ready to sail to America when I send word,” she instructed Padjan and Mister Corey.

“We’ll be ready,” said Padjan. “The sooner, the better.”

“I agree. I can hardly wait,” enthused Alexandra as she showed them out.

She closed the door behind them and clapped her hands with glee.




Three


Aboard the SS White Star

April 1899

In top cabin staterooms, very near to their own, was the strange carnival contingent that was to guide Ellen and her aunt to the Lost City of the Anasazi.

After having met all four, Ellen wondered how such a diverse group of people had ever come together.

Mister Corey was obviously a loner who needed no one. If he had any feelings, he never revealed them. He said little, rarely smiled, kept his own counsel, went his own way. His rugged sensuality, heavy-lidded gaze and devil-may-care attitude was repellent and appealing at the same time.

A man best left alone.

Enrique O’Mara was the exact opposite of the somber Mister Corey. He was a sunny-dispositioned, carefree half-Latin, half-Irishman, who everyone called Ricky. Of average height, Ricky was a sturdy, muscular man in his early thirties. He had dark wavy hair, snapping green eyes and an ever-present smile that could melt the coldest of hearts.

There was Padjan, of course. A man who loved to talk to anyone who would listen, he could speak for hours on any subject under the sun. Seemingly better educated than most university graduates, he impressed both Ellen and Alexandra with his vast wealth of knowledge. Alexandra was clearly fascinated by Padjan and the two spent long hours together talking.

Rounding out the quartet was the birdlike Summer Dawn, a tiny Indian woman who was so old and so weak she could not walk unaided and no longer spoke. Shriveled and extremely frail, she had tried to smile when Padjan had introduced her, saying simply, “This is our sweetheart, the precious Summer Dawn.” Nodding, smiling, both Ellen and Alexandra had assumed that Summer Dawn was a close relative of Padjan’s. His grandmother, or perhaps even great-grandmother.

Having met the entire foursome, Ellen’s concerns had only increased. Did Alexandra actually expect these down-on-their-luck characters to lead her to the fountain of youth? There was no doubt in Ellen’s mind that they were a bunch of charlatans whose sole aim was to fleece Alexandra of her fortune. And she dreaded the prospect of spending the next several weeks—perhaps even months—in the company of such disreputable people.

Especially in the company of the disturbing Mister Corey. Ellen wouldn’t allow herself to even think about the treacherous trek across the rugged country of western America when there would be nowhere she could escape his presence.

It would be all she could do to avoid him on the long voyage home.

As feared, Ellen encountered Mister Corey on shipboard.

Often.

She simply couldn’t bear to stay in the stateroom forever listening to the constantly complaining Alexandra. She had to get away from her aunt for a few minutes now and then if she were to maintain her sanity. But every time she ventured out to stand at the railing to feel the mist on her face or take a leisurely stroll around the deck, the unprincipled man she held personally responsible for this entire costly charade mysteriously appeared.

And immediately gravitated toward her.

“Enjoying the voyage?” he asked that sunny afternoon as he stepped up beside her.

“I was,” she said pointedly, “until now.”

“Does that mean you’d rather I hadn’t joined you?”

“How quick you are,” she replied.

He cocked his head to one side. “You don’t like me, do you, Ellen?”

“If I ever gave you a thought,” she responded, “I’m sure I wouldn’t.”

“Oh, you’ve given me a thought or two.”

Her head snapped around. “I most certainly have not! I have much better things to do than—”

“Like what?”

“Like…oh, for heaven’s sake, Mister Corey, what is it you want from me?”

“I don’t know, Ellen,” he drawled. “What are you offering?”

Ellen felt her face flush hotly. Anger rising with her growing discomfort, she said, “Nothing for you. Get this straight, Mister Corey. You may be able to hoodwink my aunt, but I am not quite so gullible.”

An infuriating half smile touched his full lips and he said, “You don’t want me to put the bloom of the rose back into your pale cheeks?” He lifted a hand and lightly brushed her face.

She stiffened and pulled away from his touch. “I want nothing from you,” she said firmly, “except to have you out of my sight!” Lifting her chin, she added, “If you think for one minute that I intend to stand idly by and let you and your band of thieves steal all my aunt’s money, you are sadly mistaken.”

“How do you know we are thieves?” He was unfazed by the accusation. “What if we’re telling the truth and there really are waters of magic?”

“You stopped recognizing the truth years ago, Mister Corey. Your entire life is a lie.”

“And yours isn’t?”

The offhand remark cut too close to the bone. Flustered, Ellen said anxiously, “If you’ll kindly excuse me.” She turned and hurried away.

Ellen blamed Mister Corey for this whole outlandish fiasco. The others were merely pawns in his elaborate con game. It was, she felt certain, Mister Corey who had hatched the far-fetched scheme. He who had rounded up the players and he who would claim the lion’s share of the money they managed to swindle out of Alexandra.

Ellen strongly suspected that the cold Mister Corey would not be content with the sum—however great it was—that her aunt had agreed to pay. He had undoubtedly read about Alexandra Landseer’s visit to London in the London Daily Express. He knew that her aunt was an extremely wealthy woman and extremely vain. It was as if he had purposely placed the advertisement in the paper knowing that Alexandra would see it and respond.

Would a man like that be satisfied with what he’d been promised or would he try to relieve Alexandra of the bulk of the Landseer fortune?

These doubts were nagging at Ellen on the fourth evening at sea when she accompanied Alexandra to a shipboard dance. She found herself hoping that the cool, confident thief wouldn’t be there.

But despite the fact that she knew exactly what he was, she couldn’t deny the attraction he held. A fact that shamed and frightened her.

She shuddered to think that such a flawed man could nonetheless so perfectly symbolize the fortuneteller’s prediction and the mysterious, dreamlike vagueness of her own romantic fantasies. Fantasies that had long been forgotten until she’d had the misfortune of meeting Mister Corey.

Thank God he couldn’t read her thoughts.

Midway through the evening’s dance, Ellen finally began to relax. How foolish she had been to worry about Mister Corey appearing at this gala affair. Surely his kind had not been invited. And even if he had, he couldn’t possibly own the proper attire for such an occasion.

Bored and growing warm in the stuffy, crowded ballroom, Ellen told Alexandra that she was going up on deck for a breath of fresh air.

“Don’t stay out too long and catch a cold,” her aunt berated.

“I won’t,” Ellen dutifully replied.




Four


Lifting the skirts of her well-worn ball gown, Ellen made her way toward the wide center staircase, paused at the base and looked up.

And lost her breath.

His lean, tanned hand resting carelessly on the smooth marble balustrade, Mister Corey stood at the top of the stairs. He was elegantly dressed in dark evening clothes and a pristine white ruffled shirt. His hair had been carefully brushed and was shimmering in the light from the crystal chandeliers. The curving scar on his right cheek shone pale white against the darkness of his olive skin. The left corner of his mouth was lifted in the hint of a teasing smile, but his black, brooding eyes were as lifeless as ever.

Mister Corey was looking directly at Ellen and she at him. She wished she could return to her chair. But it was too late. Holding her gaze, Mister Corey leisurely descended the carpeted stairs, took her elbow and guided her onto the polished dance floor.

In his arms, Ellen was more than a little uncomfortable. His nearness—the closest she had been to a man, other than her son, in ages—was so intimidating she was momentarily tongue-tied and unduly flustered. Heart pounding, face flushed, she made a misstep. Mister Corey caught her, held her tightly and suggested she relax.

Which made her all the more nervous.

Fully aware that she was behaving like a foolish, frightened old maid, Ellen realized—miserably—that the perceptive Mister Corey had already picked up on her involuntary response to him.

But Ellen was also an astute woman.

While Mister Corey had that insolent, nothing-bothers-me manner of a totally secure man, she sensed that his caustic wit and sardonic grin likely masked some deep, underlying pain.

She knew enough about concealing pain behind a brittle facade to easily recognize the practice in others. Somewhere in Mister Corey’s past, he had been hurt. Badly. She would bet her life on it.

But that was his problem, not hers. Her once-fragile heart had long since hardened. This dark, mysterious man warranted no compassion from her. He was, after all, a thief and a fraud and she had no use for him.

Mister Corey didn’t know what was going through Ellen’s mind at that moment, but he was well aware of his unsettling effect on the lonely woman. Her dislike of him was elemental and impersonal. She firmly believed that he was after her aunt’s money. Ellen Cornelius clearly didn’t approve of him, didn’t like him.

But she was attracted to him on a purely physical level. It was not a mutual attraction. While he had no doubt that she had once been quite beautiful, there was now little about her that was appealing. She was too thin to suit his taste. With his arm around her, he could feel her ribs and there was no generous swell of bosom rising above the square-cut neckline of her sadly out-of-fashion pink ball gown.

Her brown hair didn’t gleam with golden highlights and she wore it pulled severely back from her face and twisted into an ugly pinned-up knot at the back of her head. Her green eyes were large and almond-shaped, but they held no spark, no glow. And her lips seemed to be permanently drawn into a stern line of disapproval that strongly discouraged any temptation to kiss them.

The years had been unkind to Ellen Cornelius and she obviously was not a happy woman. But he had no real interest in learning the cause of her disillusion. Her problems were the last thing he needed.

Feeling awkward and anxious and wishing the dance would end, Ellen was conscious of the fact that dozens of ladies in the ballroom were far prettier than she. She wondered why Mister Corey had chosen to dance with her. Was it simply that he was mean-spirited and cruel and enjoyed upsetting her, liked having her make a fool of herself in his arms?

Her forehead pressed against his cheek, Ellen nervously glanced around, convinced that everyone was watching them. She wasn’t that far off the mark. Within minutes of his late arrival, a number of interested females were twittering and smiling, intrigued by the dark, enigmatic Mister Corey.

As soon as the dance ended, Ellen found herself back in her gilt chair beside the elegantly gowned Alexandra, who wasted no time critiquing her niece’s performance. “You never did learn to dance properly. You haven’t any natural grace, Ellen. You are clumsy and uncoordinated and you’d do well to just stay off the floor and stop embarrassing yourself and me.”

Ellen was so accustomed to her aunt’s belittling, she paid her no mind. Her undivided attention was on Mister Corey and his new dance partner, a tall, stunning, expensively gowned beauty with dark hair, fair skin and a voluptuous body that she was eagerly pressing against his.

Even Alexandra noticed the striking couple. “Ellen, look who Mister Corey is dancing with now!”

Endeavoring to sound nonchalant, Ellen said, “Mmm. Who is she? Do you know her, Aunt Alexandra?”

“I know of her,” sniffed Alexandra. “She is Mademoiselle de Puisaye, a rich, spoiled French beauty who does exactly as she pleases. They say all the eligible bachelors on the Continent are after her.” Alexandra clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Looks like she is enjoying the dance with Mister Corey a bit too much.” She shook her head and exhaled loudly, “What could any sensible woman see in that rude, scowling man?”

“I can’t imagine,” said Ellen.

And then she felt her heart squeeze painfully in her chest as the music ended and the French beauty whispered something to Mister Corey.

He nodded.

She laughed.

And the couple hurriedly left together.

Waiting just long enough to make certain she wouldn’t bump into the pair, Ellen claimed a raging headache and escaped to the stateroom she shared with her aunt. Inside, she paced about, restless and edgy.

And wondering, miserably, if Mister Corey had only seen Mademoiselle de Puisaye to her stateroom where he had said a gentlemanly good-night. Or had he gone inside?

Instinctively, Ellen knew the answer. She sighed and sank down onto the edge of the bed.

Just a few doors down, in the well-appointed stateroom of Mademoiselle de Puisaye, Mister Corey and the French beauty sank down onto the edge of the bed.

“I saw you the minute you walked into the dance,” said the confident Gabrielle de Puisaye, “and I said to myself, ‘That man is going to make love to me tonight.’ You are, aren’t you?”

Mister Corey leaned down and placed a kiss on the bare swell of her breasts above her low-cut bodice.

“Tonight. In the morning. Tomorrow afternoon. Whenever. Whatever you want.”

“I want you to undress me and I want you to tell me your name.”

“Mister Corey,” he said, urging her to her feet before him.

“I know that,” she said. “I mean your given name.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said as he turned her about and began to deftly undo the tiny hooks going down the back of her lush satin evening gown. He urged her opened dress down to her waist and was amused to see that she wore absolutely nothing beneath the gown’s bodice. Curious, he pushed the dress to her hips and revealed her naked backside. “My, but you’re a brazen lady, Gaby. No underclothes of any kind?”

Giggling, Gabrielle shoved her shimmering eggshell gown to the carpet, stepped out of it, kicked it aside and turned to face Mister Corey. Naked, save for her shoes and stockings, Gabrielle quickly discarded her dancing slippers, peeled the stockings down her legs, and tossed them aside. She sank to her knees before him and quickly removed his shoes, but not his black stockings. She then rose to her feet, bent to him, kissed his lips, then eagerly climbed astride his lap.

“I’m not brazen, I just plan ahead,” she told him, running her hands through his hair and tracing the long white scar down his cheek with a red-nailed finger. “This way you don’t have to fuss with all that cumbersome silk and lace to get to the real goodies.”

“I do admire a woman who is well organized,” he said, his hands spanning her bare waist. “Now, if you’ll just give me a minute, I’ll get undressed.” He started to lift her up off his lap. She resisted, clinging to his neck.

“No, not yet,” she begged. “Do it to me while you’re still fully dressed. I like it that way. It’s so…naughty and exciting.”

Her hands went to the waistband of his dark trousers. Looking into his cold black eyes, she promptly freed his throbbing erection and said, “Oh, God, I knew it. You’re so big and hard and hot. Put it in me, Mister Corey. Hurry, hurry, I can’t wait to feel you moving inside me.”

Mister Corey willingly obliged.

“Ahhhh,” Gabrielle moaned with delight as he slowly impaled her on his hard, pulsing flesh.

With his hands on her firm thighs, he guided her, lowering her soft, yielding body down onto him until he was buried in her.

She loved it.

Gabrielle immediately began rocking and thrusting her hips and Mister Corey quickly caught her rhythm. Her bare, full-nippled breasts pressed against his dark face, the Frenchwoman murmured teasingly, “You’ve done this before, Mister Corey.”

“As have you, Gaby,” he replied.

Unashamedly experienced, needing no extra time and mindless of her partner’s stage of arousal, Gabrielle quickly climaxed, letting herself go, crying out in her ecstasy. Damp with perspiration, heart pounding beneath her naked breasts, she collapsed against him, wrapping her arms around his neck and clutching his sides with her knees. She was aware that he’d not yet attained release and she was glad.

She wanted more.

Sighing, smiling foolishly, Gabrielle finally sat up, looked him in the eye and said, “You’re still hard, Mister Corey. Soooo deliciously hard.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Do you like games?”

“Try me.”

“Let’s see if we can manage to get all of your clothes off while you’re still inside me. Wouldn’t that be an enjoyable challenge?”

It turned out to be just that.

The couple tumbled about on the bed, rolling to one side so that Mister Corey could get his arm out of a jacket sleeve. Gabrielle busied herself with the buttons on his white ruffled shirt. Working furiously, Gabrielle laughing all the while, they contorted their bodies, reaching around each other, tugging at clothing, taking care to not come apart.

Finally Mister Corey was as naked as she, except for his dark stockings.

“Here’s how we’ll do this,” he said, lying on his back with Gabrielle seated astride him.

He slowly rolled up into a sitting position facing her as she drew her legs around his back. Checking to see if she was comfortable, assured that she was, he bent his right knee and brought it up close to his side. Immediately taking her cue, she twisted about, reached out, and peeled off his black stocking. She tossed it to the floor and said, “Now give me your other foot.”

“We did it!” Gabrielle cried jubilantly, when the last black stocking came off. “Now, let’s do it.”




Five


“Good morning, Miss Cornelius. May I join you?”

Ellen turned from the ship’s railing to see Enrique O’Mara approaching.

Nodding, Ellen said, “That’s Mrs. Cornelius, Mr. O’Mara.”

He laughed and said, “That’s Ricky, Mrs. Cornelius.”

His warm, friendly manner and infectious grin disarmed her. She laughed too and said, “That’s Ellen, Ricky.”

“Ah, sí, Ellen,” the good-natured Ricky replied as he stepped up and rested his muscular forearms on the railing beside her.

Spanish on his mother’s side and Irish on his father’s, Ricky O’Mara possessed the good looks and fiery spirit of both parents. He was one of those rare individuals who enjoyed every minute of his life, no matter where he was, who he was with, or what he was doing. He took genuine delight in things others hardly noticed. To him, a spectacular sunrise was cause for celebration. As was the dazzling sight of the vast Atlantic Ocean stretching before them. He found joy all around, which made him a joy to be around. People liked Ricky O’Mara because he liked them.

Ellen Cornelius was no exception. Circumstances being what they were, she had honestly expected to dislike him. But it was impossible. The happy-go-lucky Ricky was a naturally sweet, kind, fun-loving man who cared about others. He was so amicable, Ellen wondered why on earth he chose to be friends with the sullen Mister Corey.

Ellen lifted a hand to shade her eyes and said, “Tell me, Ricky, how have you been entertaining yourself these past five days at sea?”

Ricky’s broad grin grew broader still. “Oh, it has been easy. There is so much to do and see. So many delicious meals.” He winked at her and added, “So many pretty women on this ship, Ellen.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed,” she said dryly. “Anyone in particular that you—”

“No, oh, no,” he said emphatically, shaking his dark head for emphasis. “I love all women.” He flung his long arms out in an encompassing gesture. “I could never love only one.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I am very sure. I will never marry. It wouldn’t be fair, since I could never be a faithful husband.”

“No, no, it wouldn’t,” Ellen said. “At least you know yourself and admit it.”

“Yes, I do. I have never been in love,” he stated, then reasoned, “I am thirty-four. If it hasn’t happened to me by now, it never will.” Laughing then, he touched Ellen’s hand where it gripped the railing and said, “What about you, Ellen? You are Mrs. Cornelius, so you must have been in love once. Will you fall in love again?”

She answered quickly. “Never in a million years.”

She laughed then and Ricky laughed with her. They fell silent for a moment, then Ricky needlessly cleared his throat and said, “Ellen, I know that you do not approve of me, of us, but—”

“I really don’t want to discuss it, Ricky,” she stopped him. “Whether I approve or not is unimportant. You were contracted by my aunt, not by me. My opinion, as usual, is of no value. So, you’d be wasting your time trying to convince me that this upcoming excursion is on the up-and-up.”

“But it is,” he said, his expression earnest. “Padjan knows where—”

“Ricky,” she interrupted, “please. Let’s change the subject.”

Ricky wisely heeded her advice. The disarming smile back on his lips, he said, “You know something? I like you, Ellen Cornelius.”

Ellen raised an eyebrow at him. His flashy grin suggested both his amusement with the world and his fondness for it. And for himself. But on him the expression was somehow boyishly charming.

“I like you too, Ricky.”

In the following days—and nights—Ellen saw Mister Corey and Mademoiselle de Puisaye together regularly. Bristling each time she spotted the laughing French beauty seated beside Mister Corey at dinner, or at a gaming table, or on a railside bench in the moonlight, Ellen reminded herself she was far too sensible to care.

While there was no denying that Mister Corey had a certain menacing charm, Ellen knew instinctively that he had found the kind of woman he preferred in the bold French beauty. The kind of woman he deserved. A woman who was much like himself. A woman who shared his values—or lack thereof. The counterpart to his toughness and vulgarity and sensuality.

They were, Ellen decided, a perfect pair and they had her blessing!

After ten full days at sea, the SS White Star slowly entered the New York harbor. Ellen hadn’t realized how homesick she’d been until she saw the imposing Statue of Liberty rising to meet the clear New York sky.

Once again, Ricky O’Mara stood beside her at the railing. “Glad to be home?” he asked, his dark-eyed gaze on the Manhattan skyline.

“You have no idea,” Ellen said.

“Ah, but I do,” said the smiling man who had been away from his beloved America for more than a year.

Still in her stateroom, Alexandra was giving Mister Corey instructions as the ship inched its cautious way toward the dock, several tugs urging it into its proper berth.

“I will be ready to leave for the West in ten days,” Alexandra told him. “You are to make all the traveling arrangements for the journey. I own a private rail car, but there’s only enough room for Ellen and me, so you will engage additional cars to transport your group.”

“I’ll see to that this very afternoon,” said Mister Corey.

“How far can we travel by train?”

“To Grand Junction, Colorado.”

“And after that?”

“By wagon, on horseback,” said Mister Corey. “And at the very end—on foot.”

“On foot?” Alexandra was nonplussed. “You can’t expect me to walk! Perhaps you are not fully aware of just who I am. I am Alexandra—”

“Doesn’t matter who you are, Miss Landseer. If you want to reach Padjan’s Magic Waters, you may have to walk the last few miles.”

Her face red, an angry Alexandra said, “Don’t ever interrupt me again, young man! And don’t be telling me what I will and will not do. You, sir, are insolent and disrespectful and I’ve half a mind to banish you from my sight right now and let Padjan take care of everything and…” Mister Corey casually got to his feet and walked away. “…what are…wait a minute! You come back here! Where do you think you’re going?”

At the door, Mister Corey paused, turned, looked her squarely in the eye and said, “If you want to dismiss me, that’s your prerogative.”

“Well, now, not so fast,” said Alexandra, suddenly anxious, afraid the highly anticipated expedition might fall apart without the man who was coldly looking at her. “I…I didn’t mean it, really. We need you. I need you. I want you to stay and help guide us to Padjan’s Lost City.”

“Fine. But get this straight, Miss Landseer. I do things my way, not yours. I make decisions based on what will be best for everyone, not just on what will be best for you.” A muscle danced in his lean jaw when he added, “If anyone is to be carried when we reach the rugged, almost impassable gateway into the Lost City, it will be Summer Dawn, not you.”

Alexandra Landseer stared at him, nearly swallowing her tongue. No one had ever talked to her the way this impudent man was talking to her. Her position of power, her great wealth had successfully insulated her from tactless upstarts like him. She was so accustomed to having people grovel to get in her good graces that she couldn’t believe that someone like him, a man who was obviously poor and without resources, would dare challenge her.

“If I escort you to your destination,” continued Mister Corey, “I run the operation. What I say goes. My authority is absolute and will not be questioned and my orders will be obeyed by everyone. Including you. You are no different than any of the others who will be in my charge. Obviously, you are used to bossing people about, but you won’t boss me. Not ever. So, it’s up to you. You have exactly one minute to make up your mind.”

“I want you to stay,” she said meekly, barely audible.

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”

Her voice strengthened and her eyes flashed with anger when she repeated, “I want you to go with us!”

Mister Corey nodded, but he did not come back across the room. “Where are we to stay while we’re in New York?” he asked, and caught the perplexed expression that immediately came into her light-colored eyes. She was, he knew, terrified he might expect that they’d be staying in her home. He knew better, but he said innocently, “Will we be staying with you and Mrs. Cornelius?”

“Certainly not. This is a business arrangement, you are not a friend. Book yourselves some rooms at a nearby hotel.”

“Will do,” he said and was gone.

Alexandra Landseer was in high spirits.

After a couple of days of rest, she invited Mister Corey and Padjan to her Park Avenue mansion for lunch and the opportunity to discuss, in depth, their exact route to the Lost City.

When the pair appeared empty-handed, carrying no maps or charts, Alexandra’s hands went to her broad hips. “Where are the maps?” she demanded. “I had hoped to lay them out on the dining table to study them.”

Padjan said calmly, smiling as he spoke, “The Lost City can be found on no map other than the one in my head.” Seeing her disappointment, he said, “Do not trouble yourself, Alexandra. I know the way and I will take you.”

“Oh, I just can’t wait to get there,” said Alexandra as they went in to lunch, Alexandra and Padjan leading the way, Ellen and Mister Corey following. “Tell me again what it will be like and how long I will need to drink of the Magic Waters before I become young again.”

Padjan chuckled, pointed a finger at her and said, “That, Alexandra, will depend on you.”

As she was anytime she was in Mister Corey’s presence, Ellen was extremely uncomfortable. She sat directly across from him and, while she made it a point not to look in his direction, she could feel his eyes examining her. When finally she could stand it no longer, she glanced at him.

He was staring unblinkingly at her, those obsidian eyes fixed on her. He wore a jet-black shirt and it suited him perfectly. Everything about him was dark. Dark strength. Dark sexuality. Dark heart.

Ellen felt a chill skip up her spine and she quickly looked away. She reached for her stemmed wineglass and drank thirstily. She had the awful feeling that, without making a sound, Mister Corey was laughing at her.

Damn the dark demon.

By the time the luncheon ended, Alexandra was in such a good mood, Ellen decided this was the right time to broach the subject of visiting Christopher.

As Padjan and her aunt continued to discuss travel plans, deciding on the day they would depart, Ellen waited for an opening. Finally she said, “Aunt Alexandra, since once we leave for the West we may be gone for months, I would like to go down and visit Christopher for a couple of days.”

Ellen held her breath. She badly wanted to see her son. But Alexandra could easily prevent her from making the trip.

To Ellen’s delight, Alexandra was perfectly agreeable. She said, “Why, yes, of course. Go see Chris. Have Mister Corey go with you.”

“Certainly not!” Ellen was quick to protest, casting an anxious look at him.

Ignoring Ellen, Alexandra turned to Mister Corey and said, “Ellen’s son, my great-nephew, is a cadet at the Citadel. You will accompany Ellen to South Carolina to visit him.”

Ellen was looking directly at Mister Corey. She caught a brief, puzzling flickering in his dark eyes and the minute tightening of his jaw before that familiar half smile touched his lips and he said, “Ellen’s a big girl. She can go alone.”




Six


Ellen was not pleased to learn that Mister Corey would be driving her to Grand Central Station.

It was, of course, Alexandra’s idea.

Ellen had not been consulted.

Ellen hadn’t found out until late Thursday afternoon when she hurried down the stone steps of the Park Avenue mansion. Before even glancing toward the carriage, she’d been distracted by a black Persian cat that was sitting on the bottom step. The beautiful cat belonged to the Winstons who lived across the street. Ellen would have given anything to own a cat, but Alexandra wouldn’t allow it. So Ellen contented herself with petting the Winstons’ Persian anytime she got the chance.

Smiling, she sank down onto her heels and rubbed the cat’s head. “How are you today, Prince,” she addressed the purring feline. “You come to say goodbye?” She remained as she was, stroking the cat and talking to him for several minutes before reluctantly rising to her feet.

It was then that she looked up and saw Mister Corey lounging against the parked carriage. Watching her, as if amused.

“What are you doing here?” she asked sharply as he took her valise.

“Driving you to Grand Central Station. What else?”

“What have you done with Jerome?” She looked around for the faithful old Landseer driver.

“We gave Jerome the day off,” said Mister Corey as he reached out, encircled her small waist and lifted her up onto the carriage seat.

Ellen exhaled with annoyance when Mister Corey slid onto the seat beside her and gave her a sly, sidelong glance. She knew then how he was going to behave. Or misbehave. She was tempted to jump down out of the carriage and hail a hired conveyance to drive her to the train depot.

Her apprehension escalated rapidly. The carriage wheels had hardly begun to turn on the pavement before Mister Corey was teasing and deviling her. She realized he arrogantly assumed that he could easily upset her, just as he had at the shipboard dance.

But he was wrong.

Now that she was back home and in familiar, comfortable surroundings, Ellen had regained her rigid composure. She could and did hold her own with her needling tormentor and, in fact, took secret pleasure in triumphantly putting him in his place.

Subtly, but directly, so that there was no misunderstanding, Ellen let Mister Corey know that she thought he was far beneath her in social status and class. She made it clear that she was of the upper echelon and did not associate with his kind.

Mister Corey seemed to take her disdain in stride. He smiled when he said, “You really think you’re better than me, Ellen?”

“Yes and don’t you ever doubt it!” she replied sarcastically.

And then took a great degree of satisfaction from seeing the distinct hardening of his tanned jaw. She wanted to laugh out loud. She had managed to penetrate that ever-present armor of indifference. Taking pleasure from her small victory, Ellen suddenly realized that she needn’t fear Mister Corey. He was human after all. Despite his impervious demeanor, he obviously had feelings that could be hurt, just as she did. That valuable bit of knowledge would work to her advantage. It was simple, really. All she had to do was to never let him forget that she felt nothing but contempt for him.

“Ah, but I do doubt that you’re any better than me,” he said, “and so do you.”

“Not for a minute, Mister ‘Carnival Barker’ Corey!” she replied cuttingly.

“There are worse ways of earning your daily bread.”

“I can’t think of any.”

“I can.”

Ellen gave him a smug look. “Pray tell, what could they possibly be?”

“Constantly kowtowing to a disagreeable old woman, for one.”

“You have no right to judge me.”

“Nor you me.”

The two continued to spar all the way to the train depot.

When the carriage finally reached busy Grand Central Station, Ellen felt a great sense of relief. While she was now confident that she could successfully put Mister Corey in his place, it was taxing and she was eager to get away from him.

As soon as he had helped her out of the carriage and retrieved her valise, Ellen said, “I can manage from here.”

“I’ll go inside with you,” he stated flatly.

Ellen made a face. “What about the carriage? You can’t just leave it unattended.”

Mister Corey looked about, motioned to a young boy who was selling fresh-cut flowers. Flipping the boy a shiny silver dollar, Mister Corey said, “Watch this carriage until I get back and I’ll give you another dollar.”

“Yes, sir!” said the boy, then beamed when Mister Corey withdrew a bill from his pocket as he reached for a bouquet of fragrant ivory roses.

“For you,” Mister Corey said and held out the roses to Ellen.

The frown still on her face, she reluctantly took the flowers, not wishing to cause a scene in public.

Inside the huge terminal were crushing crowds of people, all seeming to be going in different directions and all in a hurry to get there. Ellen was bumped by a big, stout man before she had taken two steps.

“You okay?” Mister Corey asked. She nodded. He took her hand and said, “Follow me.”

Running interference, he managed to get her safely through the terminal and out onto the platform where the trains arrived and departed. Pointing out the locomotive that would take her to Charleston, he looked up and down the tracks and asked, “Where’s the private rail car? I thought those private cars were usually added to the rear.”

“I’m not taking the private rail car,” Ellen said, dreading what she knew was coming next.

“Not taking it? Why? What’s the use of having…?”

“For your information, Mister Corey,” Ellen said, “it costs a great deal of money to transport a private rail car. The price is equivalent to eighteen first-class rail tickets, plus an additional fee.”

Mister Corey’s dark left eyebrow lifted. “Jesus, that rich old woman makes you travel in a day coach like the poorest of travelers?”

“It isn’t that far to—”

“It’s seven or eight hundred miles,” he corrected. “It will take nearly twenty-four hours.”

“I enjoy visiting with the other travelers,” she said, wishing he would mind his own business.

“Sure you do,” Mister Corey said, “and trying to sleep in one of those hard chairs is really delightful.”

“All aboard for Philadelphia, Salisbury, Norfolk, Wilmington, Charleston, Savannah and Jacksonville!” shouted a portly uniformed conductor.

“That’s me,” said Ellen. “It’s time for departure. You may go now.”

She made an attempt to take her valise from him. He withheld it. Travelers were pushing forward, eager to board the train. They were surrounded by people.

“I have to go,” she said, again reaching for her suitcase.

She had no idea that Mister Corey had decided to have his last bit of fun at her expense.

Purposely speaking loudly enough for most of the crowd to hear, he said, “Goodbye, dear. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll keep close watch on the children while you’re away.”

As she stared at him round-eyed and openmouthed, he wrapped an arm around her waist, drew her into his embrace so swiftly the bouquet of ivory roses was caught and crushed between them and kissed her soundly.

“All aboard,” called the chuckling conductor, spotting the kissing couple as he stood in place beside a set of portable steps. “All aboard!”

Vaguely, as if from far away, Ellen heard the conductor’s shouted appeal for all passengers to get on board. But she was far too captivated by the warm, smooth lips moving on hers to respond to anything or anyone but the dark, devilish man who was kissing her as she’d never been kissed in her life.

Mister Corey held nothing back. He kissed her as if they were all alone, two lovers who were hot for each other and about to make love. His sleek tongue slid deep inside her mouth, exploring, touching, conquering in an intimate invasion that shocked, thrilled and scared her half to death.

Then all at once, the hot, intrusive kiss ended as unexpectedly as it had started.

“All aboard that’s going aboard!” shouted the perspiring, shiny-faced conductor.

“Better get on board,” said Mister Corey coolly as if he had done nothing more than shake her hand.

Ellen gave no reply. Her face was bloodred and her heart was racing. She was furious. She was shaking. She was half-dazed and confused. Mister Corey took her arm, guided her to the train steps, handed the conductor her valise and said to the man, “Look after the missus for me, won’t you?” He peeled off a bill and handed it to the rail employee.

“I’ll sure do that, mister,” said the beaming conductor. “Don’t you worry about your little wife, we’ll take real good care of her.”

Her face a study in silent fury, Ellen made her way down the aisle as the locomotive’s wheels began to slowly turn on the tracks. She found her seat and dropped down into it, the crushed bouquet of ivory roses still gripped tightly in her hand. She gritted her teeth and closed her eyes.

Then jumped, startled, at the faint rapping on the train window. Mister Corey stood there mouthing the words, “See you soon, Ellen.”

Her head snapped around and she faced straight ahead. She silently begged the train to start moving. To leave the station. To hurry and take her far, far away from this cocky carnival hawker who had dared to kiss her against her will!

Or had it been against her will?

As the train finally began to pick up speed, Ellen miserably searched her soul. Had she participated in the disgraceful caress? Could she have freed her lips from his? Had he physically forced her to stand there locked in his close embrace? As he kissed her with such devastating intimacy, had she shamelessly kissed him back?

The southbound train left Grand Central Station—and Mister Corey—behind and was moving toward the outskirts of the city.

But Ellen couldn’t leave behind what had happened there.

She kept reliving that blazing kiss as the miles clicked away. Over and over again she felt those hot, smooth lips moving aggressively on hers, felt the incredible hardness of his broad chest pressed against her breasts, felt the powerful strength of his arm around her waist.

Ellen gave herself exactly a half hour to behave like a silly young girl. During that time she carefully plucked one of the ivory roses from the bouquet, withdrew a book from her reticule and placed the rose inside the pages. She closed the book.

Then closed her eyes and sighed and squirmed and daydreamed and pretended that she was someone else and he was someone else and that the two of them were madly in love and could hardly bear being parted from one another, even for a few short days.

At the end of her allotted half hour, Ellen’s blood had cooled and her equilibrium had returned. She was herself again, a wise, sedate, rational woman who placed the book in her reticule where it belonged.

She also placed Mister Corey where he belonged.

Out of her thoughts.

Ellen was weary.

Tired to the bone.

She had been sitting up all night and all day in an uncomfortable wooden day chair and her back was aching mercilessly.

But her exhaustion magically departed when, less than twenty-four hours after leaving New York City, the train began traveling across the beautiful South Carolina lowlands toward the coastal city of Charleston. Hardly able to contain her excitement, Ellen lowered the window to look out. She inhaled the heavy, humid air and could have sworn it carried the faint scent of magnolias. Soon she could see the tall spire of St. Michael’s Church. Her heart raced. She was almost there.

Ellen considered Charleston, South Carolina, to be a beautiful, unique, seductive city, unlike any other. The city proper was built on a peninsula between two rivers, the Ashley and the Cooper, which flowed together to form the busy Charleston harbor. The earliest settlement in South Carolina, it was an enchanting, semitropical city where gracious living prevailed, good manners were requisite and some of America’s oldest, wealthiest families lived.

The pace was much slower here than in New York City. The content Charlestonians took the time to enjoy life’s pleasures and the pleasures were many. Chris had told her that Charleston was often referred to as an American Venice by the proud citizens. And she knew why.

The train was fast approaching the downtown depot. It was nearing three in the afternoon. In less than one hour she would see her son. When she’d wired Chris that she was coming, he had wired her back, saying, apologetically, that he would be unable to meet her at the station. It was a long-standing tradition that Fridays at 3:45 was parade at the academy and all the corps marched. His general leave wouldn’t start until 5:00 p.m. Then he would be free until midnight.

Ellen was glad he wouldn’t be at the station. She knew she looked a sight and she wanted to freshen up and change clothes before she saw her son or his friends.

She didn’t want Christopher to be ashamed of his mother.




Seven


Ellen hired a carriage to take her to the Mills House on Meeting Street. Chris had made reservations for her at the imposing five-story hotel in downtown Charleston a few short blocks from the harbor.

As the uniformed doorman stepped forward to help her down from the carriage, Ellen asked the cabdriver if he would kindly wait and drive her to the Citadel. She wouldn’t, she promised, be more than fifteen minutes. The driver agreed.

Once inside her fifth-floor room, Ellen went hastily about throwing open the windows. She paused before one for a moment and looked out, viewing the Battery and the sailing vessels on the calm waters of the Ashley River. And out in the harbor, the big parrot guns of Fort Sumter, that historic place where the War Between the States had begun.

It had been, legend claimed, cadets from the military academy her son now attended who had opened fire on a Northern supply ship attempting to deliver supplies to the garrison at Fort Sumter. The first shots fired in the war.

Ellen turned away.

She didn’t want to think about war and destruction. She wanted to dwell entirely on the next two carefree days she would be spending with her son.

Humming happily, Ellen took a hurried bath, redressed her long chestnut hair neatly atop her head and put on her best summer frock, a sky-blue poplin with elbow-length mutton-chop sleeves, tight waist and narrow skirt that flared at the knee. Taking one last appraising look in the mirror, Ellen frowned and sighed. She certainly wouldn’t win any beauty prizes. Her cheeks were too hollow, her complexion too sallow, her hair too dull.

She turned away, grabbed her gloves and reticule, rushed downstairs, out onto the street and up into the waiting carriage.

“The military academy,” she said. Then, unable to keep her maternal pride to herself, she added, “My son is a cadet at the Citadel.”

“Is he now?” the cabbie responded, then drove several long blocks down Meeting Street until he reached the section of the old rampart called Marion Green. Once a state arsenal and guardhouse, it was now the remodeled, three-story Citadel.

Quickly paying the fare, Ellen was out of the carriage with the agility of a young girl. She was ushered through the gate and onto the academy grounds by the Cadet Officer of the Guard.

Her heart aflutter, Ellen hurried toward the parade ground to join other visitors and natives who were watching the South Carolina Corps of Cadets marching in full-dress parade. Ellen stood at the perimeter of the quadrangle with the other onlookers, shading her eyes against the strong Carolina sun, searching a sea of bright young faces for the one dear to her heart.

The marching cadets wore their crisp summer whites. The tight-fitting waist-length jackets with their stiff stand-up collars had a triple row of brass buttons adorning the chest. The neatly pressed trousers had gold stripes going down the outside of each leg. Those stripes were now moving as one, as feet were lifted and lowered in flawless cadence by the well-trained cadets.

On their heads were tall, plumed hats with chin straps worn just below their noses. The cadets’ white-gloved hands swung back and forth in perfect precision. They were, Ellen thought, America’s finest sons and her heart swelled with happiness at the knowledge that her own precious son was one of their elite number.

Awed, she watched the proud corps pass in review while the regimental band played and the crowd of visitors applauded and waved American flags. Ellen continued to anxiously hunt for Chris. Finally she spotted him. Her hand went to her breast and she exhaled with pleasure.

Christopher marched with the skill and expertise of one who’d spent many long hard hours on the parade ground. His back was rigid, his shoulders straight, chest out, stomach in. He was staring straight ahead. Lean. Proud. Erect.

A true cadet.

When the dress parade ended, Ellen stayed where she was. She spotted Chris looking about and knew that he was hunting for her. She raised a hand and waved. He caught sight of her and a wide boyish smile instantly spread across his face. He yanked off his plumed hat and started running toward her, dodging other cadets as he came.

Ellen didn’t move. Just stood there admiring him as he sprinted toward her. Tall and blond and incredibly handsome in his crisp summer whites, he was the precious child of her heart, the light of her life, the one thing in this often dark, dismal world that had made it all worthwhile. The mere sight of him coming toward her erased all the pain and loneliness she’d ever known. The brilliant sun in her universe, he was, and always had been, the sweetest, kindest, most loving child in the world.

But he was no longer a child, she realized almost sadly as she watched him approach. He was no longer her little boy. He was no longer a boy. That nervous, slender eighteen-year-old who had entered the academy last autumn was gone. In his place was a sleek, efficient, confident young man.

Chris reached his mother, threw his arms around her, lifted her off the ground and swung her round and round while she laughed, somewhat embarrassed.

Chris Cornelius was the opposite of Ellen. Where she was by nature prim, sedate, timid, submissive and distrustful, her only son was gregarious, friendly, trusting, outgoing and fun-loving.

When at last Chris put Ellen down, he gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek, not caring who saw, and said honestly, “I’m glad to see you, Mother.”

“I’ve missed you so,” she softly replied. She drew back to look up at him. “You’ve grown,” she said as if surprised. “You’re taller than you were at Christmas break.”

“I have,” he said proudly, “Guess how tall I am.”

“Six foot?”

“Six-one,” he said, laughing. “Come on, I want to introduce you to my friends.”

“Are you sure?” Ellen asked hesitantly. “I don’t look my best after all those hours on the train.”

Chris’s blond eyebrows shot up. “Aunt Alex didn’t let you come down in the rail car? You had to sit up in a day coach the entire way?” Ellen nodded sheepishly. His brilliant blue eyes momentarily flashed with anger, then he quickly smiled again and said, “I sure hope God threw away the pattern after he made her, don’t you?” Ellen laughed. Chris laughed with her, squeezed her waist and said, “Mother, you look beautiful. Let’s go meet my friends.”

Chris introduced Ellen to his roommates, three young men who had been through the grueling plebe year with him. They were mannerly, attentive, and made easy, amiable small talk.

After several minutes of pleasantries, Ellen said, “I’ve heard the first year at the academy can be quite difficult.” She smiled at Pete Desmond, a big, muscular cadet from Richmond, Virginia, and said, “Tell me, were the upperclassmen mean to you knobs?”

Pete glanced at Chris, who stood behind his mother. Chris shook his head. Pete grinned and said, “No, ma’am, Mrs. Cornelius. They were most helpful and kind.”

Ellen didn’t believe Pete. She had heard the stories of how the upperclassmen at military academies were sometimes quite brutal to the plebes. She had worried about Chris since the day he had come here, had wondered what he was going through.

“You hear that, Mother? What did I tell you?” Chris said.

Chris, not wanting to worry her, had never told his mother of the demeaning torment and physical misery he had suffered at the hands of some sadistic upper-classmen. He had never once, in his weekly letters, mentioned his agonizing loneliness, his intense fear, his constant exhaustion. His biggest fear had been that he would be branded a coward and drummed out of the corps like so many others who had come here with high hopes, only to be sent home in shame.

He never would tell her.

He had made it.

The first year was almost over and he had survived the rigors of the institute and had never complained, except to the three cadets who were his roommates. They had been through the torture with him. They had shared his terror and had understood his fear. They had comforted him when he was in danger of breaking and he had done the same for them. The experiences they had shared had drawn them closer than brothers. The four of them were good friends. The best of friends. Chris loved these three brave, loyal men with whom he had been through the fires of hell. He knew that they would be his friends for life.

Chris invited the roommates to join his mother and him for dinner that evening, but they respectfully declined.

Jarrod Willingham, a slender, red-haired, freckle-faced cadet from Memphis, Tennessee, said, “We do appreciate the invitation, Chris, but I know if my mother came to visit, she’d want to have me to herself for a while.” Jarrod grinned and winked at Ellen.

Ellen smiled and nodded.

The visit to Charleston was everything Ellen had hoped for and more. After an excellent dinner that evening, she and Chris strolled toward the Battery in the bright Carolina moonlight. Their pace leisurely, their conversation inconsequential, they soon reached South Battery and continued beneath the tall oaks to the seawall.

Chris took Ellen’s hand as they ascended the steps of the seawall. At the top, they stood in silence for a time before the railing, watching the glittering lights of houses along the shore of James Island and listening to the unique sounds of the sea.

The tide was going out. The powerful beams of the moon were now in command of the ocean’s current. It was a warm, beautiful, starry night, perfect for promenading along the old seawall.

Deeply inhaling the heavy, moist air, Chris said, “It’s nice here, isn’t it, Mother?”

“Mmm,” she murmured. “Breathtaking. I wish I could spend the rest of my life here.”

Chris laughed. “You don’t mean that.”

“Oh, but I do. I would love to live in these warm lowlands near the ocean.”

“Who knows? Maybe someday you will,” Chris offered. Left unsaid was that it would have to be after Alexandra had passed away.

“Perhaps,” she said dreamily, not really believing it.

On leaving the seawall, they walked down the Battery to East Bay and Chris pointed out the stately mansions on the tree-shaded streets South of Broad, where the aristocracy resided.

“The old Charleston families dwell in these houses,” Chris told his mother. “I know a couple of cadets who came from here.”

Although she had been raised around great wealth, and presently lived in an opulent town house, Ellen was awed by these splendid southern residences that were guarded by ancient towering oaks and surrounded by lush, verdant gardens. It was the gardens that most impressed her. Accustomed to the starkness of the plain concrete sidewalk outside the Park Avenue town house, she was enchanted by the profusion of flowers and leafy vines and velvet lawns before her.

“This incredible garden,” she enthused, gazing at one particularly well-tended, flower-filled terrace sloping down to the street. “These grounds must be the most beautiful in the entire state of South Carolina.”

“They are exquisite, but you should see Middleton Place,” Chris said offhand. A pause, then, the idea abruptly striking him, he said, “How would you like to see Middleton Place, Mother? It’s an old, uninhabited plantation that was once one of the glories of the Low Country. The gardens and ponds are still there. Would you like to see them?”

“I would love to see them.”

“Tomorrow at noon, as soon as general leave starts, I’ll hire a carriage and we’ll drive out into the country. You have the hotel pack us a picnic lunch and we’ll make a day of it.”

“I can hardly wait.”

The ride out into the lush, green countryside of South Carolina was highly enjoyable for Ellen. Along the narrow dirt road, tall pines grew and several bountiful orchards were filled with blackberries, grapes, persimmons and plums. Birds sang sweetly in the trees and the occupants of passing carriages waved as if greeting old friends.

It was early afternoon when the pair reached Middleton Place on the banks of the Ashley River. Ellen was eager to explore the estate and Chris was only too happy to point out where the plantation house had once stood. He told her the home had been built in the mid 1700s in the style of an Italian villa.

“What happened to it?” Ellen asked. There was nothing there but a pile of rubble.

“A detachment of Sherman’s army occupied the plantation in the war. When it was time to move on, the soldiers ransacked the house, then set it on fire. Then the walls finally fell in the earthquake of ’86.”

“Such a shame,” said Ellen.

“Yes,” Chris agreed, “but the gardens are still here and someone—I don’t know who—tends them regularly. Come.”

Chris showed Ellen the most magnificent grounds that she’d ever imagined. Classical in concept, geometric in pattern, the gardens featured parterres, vistas, allées, arbors and bowling greens. And everywhere, among the live oaks and Spanish moss, was water, reflecting in its depths the clear Carolina sky.

There were broad-terraced lawns and butterfly lakes and a rice mill pond. Azaleas and magnolias and camellias in full bloom sweetened the air with their fragrance.

Chris told his mother the history of the house and its family while they ate cold chicken and ham and cheese and rolls as they sat on a blanket in the shade of a tall oak.

Feeling lazy after the meal, they stretched out on their backs to talk and doze and enjoy the serenity and beauty of the warm May afternoon. A time or two Ellen considered telling Chris about the upcoming adventure—or misadventure—that Alexandra had planned. But she didn’t want to spoil this perfect spring day. She would tell him tomorrow.

On Sunday, Ellen and Chris attended church services at St. Michael’s. Afterward they had lunch in the Mills House dining room. It was during the meal that Ellen told her son of Alexandra’s latest folly.

“Chris, you know that Aunt Alexandra hates the idea of getting old,” she began.

Chris laughed and said, “Somebody should tell her that she’s already old.”

His mother smiled, then was serious. “I know. But she doesn’t want to get any older, so…”

Ellen drew a deep breath and related the entire story. She told him that Alexandra had been furious with the physicians in London when they’d told her there was nothing they, or anyone else, could do to slow down the aging process. That she was an old woman and couldn’t expect to live many more years.

Ellen went on to explain that Alexandra had seen an ad in the newspaper promising magic waters that would keep a person forever young. Ellen talked and Chris listened intently, seeing the worry in her eyes.

When her story was finished, Chris did his best to console Ellen, to jolly her, to make light of the situation, although it worried him that his mother and aunt would be traveling with strangers, people who were obviously of less than sterling character.

“I just wish Aunt Alex would wait a month,” said Chris. “Then I could go with you, watch out for you.”

“It isn’t our physical safety that most concerns me, Chris. These people are nothing but liars and thieves. And Alexandra wants to be young again so badly, there is no telling how much money they’ve taken from her. Don’t you see, they know how foolish she is and they may be planning to rob her of the entire fortune.”

“Now, Mother,” Chris soothed, “I’m sure you’re worrying needlessly. Aunt Alex may be behaving foolishly, but she hasn’t lost her mind. Surely she’d never let anyone get their hands on all that money.”

“I’m not so certain,” Ellen said. “I believe she’d give away the bulk of her estate if she thought it would get rid of a few wrinkles and buy her ten more years.” Her eyebrows knitted, she said, “For heaven’s sake, it is your inheritance we’re talking about here, Chris. The Landseer fortune should go to you and—”

“Mother, I wish you would stop worrying about my inheritance and—”

“Never!” Ellen said, interrupting. Her chin raised pugnaciously, she said in a cold, level voice, “I have tolerated that ill-tempered old woman all these years and I mean to see to it that you are not cheated out of what is rightfully yours.” Before he could reply, she softened and said, “It will be a long, difficult journey we’ll be making. We’re going all the way to the canyonlands of Utah. The lead guide, Mister Corey, has said that near the end we may have to walk and—”

“Corey?” Chris interrupted. “Did you say Corey? What is this Mister Corey’s full name?”

“Ah…I really don’t know. I’ve never heard anyone call him anything but Mister Corey. Why? Is the name familiar to you. Have you heard of Mister Corey?”

Chris paused with indecision, then said, “No. No, Mother, I haven’t.”

He quickly changed the subject, turning the conversation to the activities at the academy. No more was said about the journey or the man leading it.

But after Chris had seen his mother off at the train station, he hurried back to the Citadel. Its quadrangle was nearly empty on this warm spring afternoon, very few cadets on the grounds. Chris went into the silent building that housed the Hall of Honor.

In a glass display case he examined the sun-faded outline of a Silver Star, the nation’s second highest award for bravery. The medal was no longer there. Nearby, a framed photograph of the graduating class of 1882 hung on the wall. In the third row, standing fourth from the right, a cadet’s face had been crossed out.

Chris read the name below, scratched through, but still discernible.

Cadet Captain Steven J. Corey.




Eight


The contentment, the happiness, the warm glow that had enveloped Ellen during the long, lovely weekend in Charleston was rapidly slipping away. No matter how hard she tried, she was finding it difficult to retain that wonderful sense of well-being she’d felt from the minute she’d stepped off the train in Charleston on Friday afternoon.

But now it was Monday.

Blue Monday.

And the northbound train on which she rode was moving steadily closer to New York City and the terminal at Grand Central Station. The joy of the past three days was behind her, already a sweet, fading memory.

Ahead of her was a long arduous journey to the inhospitable West with her cranky aunt and a motley group of unprincipled characters led by a disrespectful man who had kissed her at the depot as if the two of them were lovers.

Ellen’s eyes opened.

A little tremor surged through her slender body. She told herself it was a shudder of revulsion at the memory of that audacious kiss.

But was it?

The train was now slowly rolling into the station. Dread was rising, creeping through her bones, tightening her throat, giving her a slight headache. Anxiously she peered out the window, praying she would not see a tall, lean man with coal-black hair and a long white scar on his right cheek waiting on the platform.

Her prayer was in vain.

Leaning lazily against a wide, square column that supported the depot roof’s overhang was Mister Corey. He was wearing a white shirt, buff-colored snug-fitting trousers and freshly polished leather shoes. Clothes that were no different from the ones worn by many of the other gentlemen on the platform. At least a half-dozen men were dressed similarly. They all looked neat, clean, harmless. Except for Mister Corey.

He looked neat.

He looked clean.

But he didn’t look harmless.

Ellen realized she was holding her breath. She didn’t want to get off the train. She didn’t want to encounter Mister Corey. She didn’t want to talk to him. She didn’t want him to drive her home. And she sure didn’t want him to kiss her.

As she made her way down the narrow aisle toward the car’s door, Ellen stiffened her spine and silently lectured herself. Never let him see that you are nervous. Insult him before he has a chance to upset you. It’s the only thing his kind understands.

Ellen stepped down from the train, tensed, expecting the dark devil to hurry forward, grab her off the steps and attempt to kiss her again. To her surprise, nothing of the kind happened. She looked about and saw that Mister Corey was still leaning against the pillar, unmoving, his arms crossed over his chest. What kind of game was he playing now?

Frowning, Ellen stepped down onto the platform, lifted her valise with effort and headed into the busy terminal. She glanced at Mister Corey out of the corner of her eye and felt her temper rise. He was making no move to come to her, to relieve her of her heavy suitcase, to assist her in any way.

Ellen went completely through the huge, crowded terminal and out onto the sidewalk in front of the station. She was raising her hand for a carriage when Mister Corey stepped up beside her, took the valise and said, “Welcome home, Ellen.”

She did not return the greeting. “Where is the carriage?”

Inclining his head, Mister Corey took her arm. “Just down the sidewalk about twenty yards. Think you can walk that far?”

“I can walk all the way home if I have to,” she warned, pointedly freeing her arm from his loose grasp.

“Then why don’t you?” he coolly challenged.

Her head snapped around and she glared at him. “Oh! I have,” she said in clipped tones, “had just about enough of you and—”

“I don’t believe you,” he cut in smoothly. His gaze briefly lowering to her lips, he said, “I don’t think, Ellen, that you’ve had nearly enough of me.”

“Are you blind and deaf?” she said, flustered and annoyed. “Don’t you know that you disgust me?”

They had reached the parked carriage. Mister Corey stepped close, put his hands to Ellen’s waist and lifted her up onto the leather seat. He placed her valise in the back and climbed up beside her.

“Your kiss,” he said softly, looking directly into her eyes, “was not the kiss of a woman who finds me disgusting.”

Ellen’s eyes narrowed. “I did not kiss you, you kissed me and I most certainly—”

“You kissed me back.”

“For heaven’s sake! Try and get this through your thick skull, Mister Corey, I did not want you to kiss me. I did not kiss you back. And I forbid you to ever kiss me again! Now, please, kindly just drive me home!”

Mister Corey smiled, nodded, unwrapped the long leather reins from around the brake handle and guided the horse and carriage out onto the busy thoroughfare. He made several attempts at small talk, but Ellen refused to respond.

He knew how to get a rise out of her.

“Was your homesick baby boy happy to see you?” he asked. No reply. Ellen stared straight ahead, acting as if she had not heard him. He knew she had. He pressed on. “Is he a mama’s boy?”

The insult of his question unleashed an angry diatribe from Ellen. Turning, she snapped, “My son is not a baby and he most definitely is not a mama’s boy. Christopher is a man and he has proven it.” She gave him a sneering look and added, “But then, that’s something you would know nothing about. You’ve probably never even heard of the Citadel, much less know what a great honor it is to attend the prestigious South Carolina military academy. Only the brightest and the best enter those gates and many of them are gone within days or weeks, unable to stand up to the rigid rules of the institute.”

“Is that a fact?”

“It most certainly is! And that is exactly as it should be. Those who are weeded out, and there are many, do not belong there. The academy’s goal is to make brilliant, steely-nerved officers of fine, intelligent young men like my son. I assure you that no fools or cowards or weaklings graduate from the Citadel.” She gave his lean frame an assessing glance, and asked, “Do you think you could have made it, Mister Corey?” Her tone, as usual, was condescending. “Could you have withstood the harsh discipline and intense punishment a plebe endures? Or would you have been too much of a coward?”

Ellen was looking directly at him when she asked, so she noticed the tension in his jaw. She immediately recalled the same thing happening the day Alexandra had suggested he accompany her to Charleston.

She was curious, but in an instant his expression changed and he said in a flat, drawling tone, “Looks like you’ve found me out, Ellen Cornelius. Yesiree, the truth is I’m a sniveling, quivering, trembling coward.” He laughed then.

She did not. “It isn’t funny, Mister Corey. I would think you would at least have enough pride to be ashamed to admit that you are a coward.”

“There was a time, long ago, when I was. But now I’m used to the label and it doesn’t sound that distasteful anymore. There are worse things to be called.”

“Yes, I suppose there are. Like swindler or cheat or thief,” she said hatefully, a smirk on her face.

“Perhaps, but I know some that are worse.” He pinned her with his night-black eyes. “Like toady or bootlick or kowtower.”

Ellen’s face instantly flushed with hurt and anger. Her green eyes flashing with fury, she said, “Insult me if you will. What you think of me is of no importance whatsoever. I do not need—nor want—your approval.”

“I don’t believe you,” he calmly replied.

In the 1890s America’s privileged took great pride and pleasure in showing off the expensive toys their vast wealth could provide. And so it was a period of the most splendid and ornate private railroad cars man could imagine. The wealthy all owned them, even if they seldom or never traveled. For the snobbish upper crust, the private rail car was an absolute necessity. The quintessential exhibition of ostentatious elegance.

Of all the private rail cars, none were finer than the sleek, gleaming ebony car with the gold script lettering on the door. The elegant car belonging to one of America’s richest women, Miss Alexandra Landseer.

Commissioned by the Pullman Company at the beginning of the decade, it had taken the company more than a year to finish the luxurious conveyance.

The delay was not the fault of Pullman, but of the persnickety lady who was to own the car. The interior had been changed no less than half a dozen times because Alexandra couldn’t make up her mind as to what she wanted. The harried workmen would think that they had finally completed the Landseer job, only to be told by a frowning Alexandra, bejeweled hands on her hips, that “No, this just won’t do! The bedroom is too large, the sitting room too small! All these walls must be torn out. You’ll simply have to start over. I will not pay you a penny until I get exactly what I want!”

And so it had gone for the entire year.

But, giving the devil her due, when finally the rail car had passed Alexandra’s discriminating inspection, it was a rolling wonder.

Inside, intricately carved boiseries exhibited the craftsmen’s infinite capacity for detail. A composite observation-sleeping car, the Lucky Landseer boasted a marble bathtub with gleaming gold fixtures. In the spacious sitting room, beneath a vaulted ceiling heavily embellished with Gothic fretwork, sat a handsome, oversize sofa and two matching easy chairs. The pale blue velvet furniture rested upon a thick, plush Aubusson carpet of blue and beige.

At the rear of the handsome room, a door opened onto an observation deck. A waist-high railing of beautifully carved iron lace bordered the small open-air deck. A narrow steel ladder went from the floor of the deck to the car’s top.

There was no furniture of any kind on the observation deck, although there was plenty of space. Alexandra saw no need for chairs or a settee. She had absolutely no interest in sitting out in the open, and it was always her own comfort that concerned her, no one else’s.

If Ellen or any invited guests wished to spend time on the observation deck, they simply would have to stand.

On the other side of the living room, in the car’s opulent bedroom, all the windows were draped with ice-blue velvet curtains. Alexandra never allowed those heavy drapes to be opened. She stated unequivocally that when she was inside her boudoir, she did not want some unwashed peasant along the tracks looking in at her.

The bedroom was capacious and comfortable and decorated with heavy carved furniture, gold-framed mirrors, marble statuary and handsome globed lamps and sconces. Beautiful artwork graced the wood-paneled walls.

Alexandra thought the room ideal.

Ellen did not.

It would have been, had it been hers alone. But the room was Alexandra’s and Ellen was forced to share with her aunt. Two specially built beds, covered in pale blue velvet spreads, were separated by only a small night table. The lack of privacy made Ellen dislike traveling in the splendid car.

But, tomorrow she would be trapped inside the velvet prison for several long days and nights as the train rolled westward.

Ellen exhaled loudly. Tonight, the eleventh of May, 1899, was the last night she’d spend in the quiet serenity of her own bedroom for many weeks.

Slipping her nightgown over her head, Ellen sank down onto the edge of the bed. It was well past midnight, but she wasn’t sleepy. Her anxiety was rising steadily as departure time neared. The last thing on earth she wanted to do was to go out West on this outlandish, expensive lark.

It was more than just the senseless waste of money that bothered her.

She had a nagging premonition that once the journey westward was under way, nothing in her life would ever be quite the same again. She felt as though she would be caught up in some clandestine web of danger from which she could never escape. She had the frightening feeling that she might never return to the safety of this Park Avenue town house.

And, that even if she did, she would not be the same person she was when she left.

Ellen shook her head and silently scolded herself. She was being unforgivably silly. Nothing was going to happen to her. Nothing more than a long, boring trip across the country and a senseless trek to some ordinary water hole where Alexandra would learn, too late, that there was no such thing as a fountain of youth.

Then, at last, back home to her sheltered, well-ordered existence.

Ellen sighed, took the pins from her hair and let it spill down around her shoulders. Without aid of a mirror, she swiftly plaited it into a thick braid. She yawned, blew out the lamp and got into bed.

There was nothing to worry about, she assured herself. She had cleverly managed to avoid Mister Corey since the morning he had met her at Grand Central Station. Four pleasant days without seeing him.

And in that time the memory of his burning kiss had faded until she could hardly remember what it had felt like.

Out of sight, out of mind was actually true. And she would keep him out of sight on the long train trip to Grand Junction, Colorado. All she had to do was to constantly stay inside the close confines of the Lucky Landseer.

It wouldn’t be easy, but she could do it.

She would do it.

She had to do it.

Ellen’s resolve strengthened as Mister Corey’s arrogant words came back to her, “I don’t think, Ellen, that you’ve had nearly enough of me.”




Nine


At the last minute, Alexandra had decided to not take any servants along on the train trip. It was customary, when she traveled in the Lucky Landseer to have at least the chef and her personal maid, Esther, accompany her. She decided against it for this journey and, as usual, her decision was a selfish one.

She worried that if her servants were on board, the group with which she was traveling might assume that they, too, could avail themselves of their services. The outsiders might mistakenly take it for granted that her chef would cook for them and that her maid would tend their needs.

That would be the day!

Now as she excitedly rushed around on the morning of departure, Alexandra congratulated herself on electing to leave the servants at home. She was aware that their absence would not make the trip any easier. But she could do it. She would take her meals in the dining car, just like any common passenger. And, after all, she had Ellen.

“It’s them!” Alexandra cried out as a knock came at the mansion’s massive front door. Her uniformed butler, the solemn, long-suffering Dunwoody, immediately appeared. Alexandra put up a hand and stopped him. “No, Ellen will answer the door. You should be seeing to the luggage.” Turning to Ellen, she said, “Don’t just stand there, let them in! What in God’s name are you waiting for?”

Ellen couldn’t tell her aunt that she was waiting for the pounding of her heart to slow its beat. Ellen was sure that when she opened the door, Mister Corey would be standing there, tall, dark and intimidating.

Ellen squared her slender shoulders, lifted the skirts of her cotton summer dress and proceeded across the black-and-white marble tiles of the spacious foyer.

She opened the door and immediately smiled.

She was greeted by Ricky O’Mara who said cheerfully, “Good morning to you, Ellen. Are you and your aunt ready to leave?”

“We most certainly are,” came Alexandra’s distinctive voice from behind Ellen. “Now get in here and get this luggage loaded! Where’s Mister Corey? You’ll need his help to—”

“No, Miss Landseer,” said Ricky, coming inside. “I can take care of the luggage.” Alexandra made a face, went to the door and looked out. Ricky quickly explained, “Mister Corey and the others will meet us at Grand Central Station.”

“Oh,” said Alexandra, mollified. “Good. Yes, that’s fine.”

Ellen wanted to echo her aunt. She felt she had been temporally reprieved and was grateful. With any luck, she would not have to see Mister Corey this morning. She and Alexandra would board the Lucky Landseer with Ricky and a porter’s help. And if she played her cards right on the journey, if she ate her meals at either an early or late hour, she likely wouldn’t encounter Mister Corey more than a time or two on the entire train trip.

It was, she figured, more than two thousand miles to Grand Junction. With all the stops the train would make along the route, it would take several long days before they reached their destination. Several peaceful days in which she would not have to contend with the troublesome Mister Corey.

Feeling herself relax, Ellen finally began to smile. When Ricky and Dunwoody had loaded the many valises and cases and heavy trunks into the waiting carriage, Ellen went back up the steps of the town house to say goodbye to the servants.

She hugged Ida, the housekeeper, a big, rawboned woman with a ruddy face, salt-and-pepper hair and a kind heart. She shook hands with Dillon, the portly chef. Next came Alexandra’s personal maid, Esther, a small, agile, middle-aged woman with gray-streaked red hair and a saucy manner.

Esther wrapped her short arms around Ellen and whispered in her ear, “Don’t be waiting on bossy old Alex hand and foot while you’re gone. She’s the one wanting to go off on this asinine adventure, so just tell her to make her own bed and comb her own hair.”

“I will,” Ellen promised, smiling. “You take care of things here while we’re gone.”

“That’s what I’m here for, honey,” said Esther. She and the others followed aunt and niece to the front door. Alexandra turned, gave Esther a halfhearted pat on the shoulder and commanded, “You’ll see to it that Ida and the cleaning girls keep this place immaculate, just as if I were here.”

“No,” teased Esther. “Once you’re safely out the door we’re throwing a big party. All the servants up and down Park Avenue are invited. You get back here, you’ll find empty champagne bottles and cigar butts all over the place.”

Alexandra didn’t bother responding. Just frowned, waved a dismissive hand and went down the front steps. Ricky lifted Ellen up into the carriage and turned to Alexandra.

“May I assist you, Miss Landseer?” he asked politely.

“You’d jolly well better, young man!” she snapped.

The wide smile never left Ricky’s handsome face. Stepping forward, he placed his powerful hands at Alexandra’s thick waist and effortlessly lifted her onto the seat. Solicitously arranging her skirts around her feet, he grinned at her and said, “Why, you’re as light as a feather.”

“Don’t waste your time trying to butter me up, O’Mara. It won’t work. You know your place. See that you stay in it.”

“Sorry, Miss Landseer,” Ricky apologized and Ellen wanted to choke her inconsiderate aunt.

But Ricky was neither hurt nor insulted. He had realized early on that Alexandra Landseer was a shallow, rich, self-centered woman and that dealing with her would often be unpleasant. He didn’t mind. Her rudeness didn’t bother him. In fact, he almost felt sorry for her. She was undoubtedly a miserable person.

His sunny smile still firmly in place, Ricky swung up onto the seat beside the aging heiress, and asked, “Now, are we ready to leave?”

“I’ve been ready from the moment I read Mister Corey’s advertisement in the London Times. Let’s be on our way!”

“At your service, madam,” said Ricky, reaching for the reins.

“No! Wait!” Alexandra abruptly grabbed his arm. “Stop. Wait a minute. I’m not ready after all! Good heavens, I was about to get off without my chalice.”

“Your chalice?” said Ricky, dark eyebrows lifting in question.

“Yes!” Alexandra said irritably, almost shouting. “My goblet. My golden goblet!” She looked sharply at him and said, “I must take it with me! I have it all planned. It is from the golden goblet that I will take my first drink of the Magic Waters!”

Alexandra turned to order Ellen back inside, but Ellen had already scrambled down out of the carriage and was rushing up the steps of the town house. In seconds she returned and in her right hand was a deep-blue velvet bag with a drawstring pulled tight at the top. Inside was Alexandra Landseer’s golden goblet. Ellen held it up for her aunt to see.

“Now we can leave,” said Alexandra.

“You’re welcome, Auntie,” Ellen said quietly. Ricky lifted her back up into the carriage and the two of them exchanged knowing looks. Ellen was suddenly very glad that a man as nice as Ricky O’Mara was going on this long journey. She felt as if she had a friend in the likable Spanish-Irishman.

At Grand Central Station, Ricky quickly engaged a porter to transport the luggage through the crowded terminal and out to the tracks. When Ellen exited the building and stepped onto the platform, she automatically looked for Mister Corey.

She immediately caught sight of the bald, beaming Padjan. The wiry little man was standing on the steps of a rail car near the end of the train, slowly backing up the steps and gesturing to someone below.

Mister Corey moved out of the crowd and up to the car. In his arms was Summer Dawn. He cautiously carried the old Indian woman up the train steps, deftly turning to one side to ensure that she wouldn’t hit either side of the door as he eased her into the waiting car.





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