by Amy Sandas
“You didn’t ask who it was,” he accused. His voice was dark with disapproval.
Alexandra took a step back and crossed her arms over her chest. “Why should I? I knew this was your room.”
His gaze dropped momentarily to where her breasts were pushed up by her crossed arms, and Alexandra realized that without a camisole beneath, her fine blouse did not provide proper cover. Before she could shift her arms to cover herself, his eyes lifted back to hers.
His scowl had deepened. “I could have been anyone.”
Alexandra frowned at his stubbornness. “But you weren’t,” she argued. Then she added, “You shaved.”
He blinked at the swift shift in topic, his tense expression sliding away in an instant. “Look, I figured you wouldn’t be dressed for going down to the restaurant, so I arranged to have some food brought up here.” He paused to glance back over his shoulder. “I’ve got a fire going, and a table has been brought up.”
Her eyes widened in astonishment. “Are you asking me to dine with you?”
He hesitated, his body taut, as though he wished to take back the invitation. Then he let his gaze meet hers, and something sharp and hot struck her right below her sternum. The sensation was instantaneous and intense, then diffused to a wave of warmth before she could fully analyze it.
“If you don’t—”
“I’d love to,” she interrupted with a wide grin. She was not going to let him take that back. The idea of a nice meal at a table, accompanied by the possibility of conversation, was too enticing to lose.
“Just let me, ah…” She glanced back over her shoulder. “I will be just a moment.”
She headed back into her room and grasped a light blanket off the bed to draw it around her shoulders. As a shawl, it was imperfect, but at least it provided some modesty.
He was still standing in the doorway when she stepped back behind the bathing screen.
“Ready,” she said, her voice a touch breathless.
He didn’t move at first. His eyes seemed to consume her in silent consideration until a knock on his other door signaled the arrival of their meal.
Seventeen
Dinner was a huge mistake.
Malcolm knew it the moment she opened the door, with her hair falling lush and wavy down her back, wearing little more than a white cotton underskirt and a thin blouse that did little to conceal the shape of her breasts. But he’d gotten snared again by those blue eyes of hers and found himself inviting her to his room for dinner. Now they sat across from each other at a little table with a warm fire to one side and a bed to the other.
The food was unmemorable, but that could have been because he kept getting distracted by the woman across from him.
“Have you been to this town before?”
Malcolm paused in the act of bringing a forkful of food to his mouth. She was determined to have a conversation, even though at that moment he wanted nothing more than to escape from the way her casual proximity was affecting him.
She blinked, waiting for an answer, but he could barely find the proper words to respond as the blanket she’d tossed around her shoulders slipped down once again. He refused to lower his gaze toward the lovely shadows beneath the nearly transparent material of her shirt.
But that meant he had to look at her face.
She looked younger with her hair loose and tousled down her back and falling over her shoulders, her manner soft and relaxed. The sense of intimacy she invoked had him wishing for things he hadn’t thought of in years. Though Malcolm was finding the effort to ignore his lusty thoughts almost more than he could take, it was the quiet longing inside him that bothered him most.
“Have you?” she prompted.
“Once or twice,” he replied before filling his mouth with food. “A few years back.”
Before she could ask another question, Malcolm stood. He had intended to wait until later to partake of the whiskey he’d picked up at a saloon after dropping off their laundry, but his mind needed a little dulling. Returning to the table, he poured himself a drink.
When she pushed her own glass across the table with her slim fingers, he lifted a brow in surprise.
She smiled at him from beneath a veil of thick lashes. “May I share?”
He gave her a pour. Half of what he’d given himself.
“You have traveled a great deal, I suppose,” she ventured as she drew her glass back and lifted it to take a sniff of the hard liquor.
Malcolm leaned back in his chair. “You could say that.”
The whiskey was good, but he wasn’t exactly drinking for the pleasure of it tonight. He watched as she took a tentative sip. Her eyes went wide and teared up a bit, but she didn’t start coughing. After a moment, she took another sip.
He resisted the urge to shake his head.
The woman was damned determined to prove herself. That much was obvious. Though what exactly she was trying to prove and to whom was unclear.
He didn’t want to be curious about her.
They were still a week or so out from Helena, and once they got there, he would wash his hands of her. Walter Dunstan was hiding out farther north, and Malcolm was anxious to get to him before the fugitive caught wind of his approach.
That had happened more than once in the first years of his pursuit. Malcolm would get to within a day’s ride of the man, and somehow, the Kid would hear news of the relentless bounty hunter on his trail, and he’d have just enough time to slip away.
The quicker Malcolm got to him, the faster he would finally have the justice he’d been after for so damn long.
He watched as Alexandra took another sip of the whiskey. Her eyes drifted closed, and she swirled the liquor in her mouth before swallowing. Malcolm’s belly tightened, sending jolts of need to his loins, making him hard and aching in an instant.
Apparently, justice was not all he wanted.
But it was all he was willing to take.
He downed the last of his whiskey, then shoved his plate away before he poured himself another glass. His insides were too uncomfortable to finish the meal, despite how hungry he’d been only an hour before. The hunger he felt now wouldn’t be satisfied by anything on the plate.
“Why do you want to kill that man up in Montana?”
Malcolm tensed. The liquor had certainly loosened her lips, though it probably hadn’t been needed. The woman had a disturbing tendency to want to know too much.
She had also finished eating and sat leaning forward with her elbows resting on the table. She idly turned her glass, making the whiskey spin in a slow swirl, while her gaze remained locked on him, as though he were the most interesting thing in her world just then.
And maybe he was. Maybe her curiosity was fueled by boredom. Or maybe it was the whiskey making her look at him like that. Whatever the cause, he felt her focus like a bullet straight through his middle. “He is a murderer.”
“Who did he kill?”
“More than one person, according to the tales I’ve heard.”
Her eyes narrowed just a fraction, and she tipped her head to the side, causing a fall of dark hair to slide over her shoulder and caress her cheek. “But only one person that matters, I’d wager.”
Malcolm didn’t answer. It didn’t seem necessary.
“What if you don’t find him?” Her question was soft, but it hit him with the force of a steam train.
He tipped another healthy dose of the whiskey down his throat. A vision formed in his mind: Gavin lying in that dirt alley with a pool of dried blood surrounding his lifeless body. “I will,” he vowed. “If it takes me to my dying day, I’ll find him. And I’ll kill him.”
“And after?”
Malcolm tightened his grip on his empty glass. After was a vague dream of a notion. “After doesn’t matter,” he muttered.
“What about a wife
? Children? A home somewhere?”
Her words sent a swift kick of pain through his insides. There was a time he’d imagined having those things. In a “someday” sort of way. But everything changed when he’d let his brother get killed. Gavin had been his responsibility—his family, his blood—and he’d failed him.
He looked at her then, his jaw aching from being clenched so tight. Her gaze was expectant. Her pretty features formed into an expression that was somewhat sad, somewhat fascinated. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like how her questions made him feel. “Such things ain’t for me.”
“Never?”
“Nope.”
Malcolm didn’t deserve some cozy little life while his brother had nothing but the cold ground. Vengeance. Justice. Those were the things that mattered.
For some reason, his answer frustrated her. He could see it in the way her black brows drew together and her chin jutted out just a bit farther. She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest.
“So, you will just keep riding back and forth through the territories until you die. Alone.”
He shrugged. Eventually, his work would lead to a bullet in his chest. It would be a fitting end.
“I find that a terrible waste,” she said in a low voice.
Malcolm pushed to his feet. “Then it’s a good thing it ain’t your life. Dinner is over. Best get some sleep. I will bring your clothes first thing in the morning. We head out early.”
He stood stiff and still beside the table as she slowly rose to her feet. Before she turned away, however, she picked up her glass of whiskey. Rather than taking another small sip, she tipped the glass and drained the last of the liquor in one large swallow.
Putting her glass back on the table, she pinned Malcolm with a steady stare. “Sleep well, Malcolm.”
Then she turned and walked sedately across the room to the connecting door, looking every bit the fine lady, despite her unbound hair, underclothes, and stocking feet…until the moment she turned in the doorway.
She glanced back over her shoulder, eyes bright.
Malcolm wasn’t sure what he saw in that look, but it made his body go into a riot of need while his heart thudded heavily against his ribs. It scared him, to be honest. He needed to get some distance between them—and a closed door—before he gave in to the urge inside him to keep her near.
Dammit.
It was all he could do to stand there as his blood thundered through his veins, his insides knotted, and all the muscles in his body gripped tight to his bones. His desire for her was a painful thing just then.
As though she knew what he was feeling—or perhaps because she felt just a drop of it herself—her lips parted on a breath that went deeper than a sigh.
“Go to bed, Miss Brighton,” he said, his voice harsh and heavy.
She stood there for a second longer, and he wondered if she’d refuse. He had never known the kind of anticipation he felt in that moment while she seemed on the verge of coming back to him. His mind raced through the scenario as though it played out in front of him.
She’d let the blanket fall from her shoulders as she approached. He’d lift his hands to brush her hair back so he could see her face and reveal more of her subtly concealed body. Then she’d place her hands against his chest as he leaned forward to finally get a taste of those lips.
His musing was cut short by the sound of the door clicking shut. With her on the other side.
Malcolm swept up the whiskey bottle and took a healthy swig. He’d need all the help he could get to fall asleep tonight.
Eighteen
The whiskey didn’t help.
Malcolm spent most of the night fighting not to hear every blasted sound she made the next room over. From the soft slide of the bedcovers to her low, even breath once she drifted off to sleep. It didn’t help that he’d decided to nurse the bottle of whiskey from a chair he’d placed right beside the connecting door.
He told himself it was to make sure she was safe.
He’d gotten used to having her close. Without being able to see her tucked in her bedroll across a campfire, he felt a need to ensure her presence another way.
That was how he noted the subtle shift when the gentle sounds of slumber turned to something else. At first, the low murmur only brought him to his feet. He paused to listen for any further evidence of distress. Then he heard her cry out, as though in pain or fear.
He didn’t hesitate. Not even considering that she may have locked the connecting door—she hadn’t—he charged through it, searching for her in the darkened room.
The bed was easy enough to spot, and her small form was right in the center, twisting in the blankets as she thrashed about in her sleep. There was no one else in the room, no evidence of any outward danger.
Just a dream.
Malcolm was about to leave when she cried out again, her hands grasping and shoving at the twisted bed covers as though they attacked her. The word no tumbled over and over from her lips in a warped litany.
He glanced back to his own room. This woman’s dreams were none of his business.
But the longer her nightmare went on, the more pitiful and frightened her whimpers became. She was fighting a demon in her sleep, and that demon was winning.
“Don’t touch me,” she nearly shouted, the words dissolving into heavy sobs.
He’d had enough.
He strode forward and reached for her shoulders to shake her awake. At his first touch, she jolted violently, her breath hitching in her chest. He jostled her again, saying her name quietly but firmly to reach past the boundaries of sleep.
She reacted with a whimper, then a fierce growl as she struck out at him, throwing her fists wildly toward his chest.
Then she suddenly sat straight up in bed, her hair a tangled mess, sweat coating her skin, her eyes wide with terror. “I didn’t mean to,” she whispered, her voice thin and scared. “I swear, Papa, I didn’t mean to.”
Malcolm stiffened. She was still trapped in her dream.
“Alexandra. Alex, wake up. It’s me.”
She blinked a few times and her eyes slowly began to focus on him in the dark. They were still haunted, and her breath was still swift and shallow, but she was fully awake now.
“Oh my God,” she murmured before her entire body began to shake.
Malcolm had no idea what to do, but then the matter was taken out of his hands as she launched herself against his chest. Her hands curled tightly into the material of his shirt, and her face tucked in at his throat.
He sat on the bed, holding her like that for several minutes, feeling awkward and useless.
She didn’t cry, though by the degree of tension in her body, he knew she could have. Instead, she just took long and steady gulps of air, pressing her slight form against him, silently demanding he keep her safe in the circle of his arms.
After a bit, she seemed to calm down.
“You all right?” he asked.
“I’m sorry. I haven’t had that nightmare in years.”
“Must’ve been the whiskey.”
“You called me Alex,” she muttered. “I like it.”
Malcolm didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure what had prompted the nickname, but he liked it too. It denoted the same strength and determination as her given name, but was less refined, less rigid. Truer to the woman he’d started to see her as.
After a moment, she drew back just enough to tip her face up to his. Nighttime shadows played gently over her face, making her eyes seem even more beseeching, and her mouth that much more inviting.
He didn’t want to think of her mouth.
He didn’t want to think of her body either, all warm and pliant, but he had no choice, when every second made him more and more aware of how her soft curves fit against his hard angles, and how her breath carried the faint scent of whiskey, while
her hair smelled of wild honeysuckle.
Sweet elegance and fire.
That’s what she was.
As he sat there, resisting the urge to explore more of what she was made of, down to every secret little detail, she brought one of her hands up to brush her fingertips along the side of his jaw.
A flare of need angled to his groin. He ground his back teeth together in resistance. He should stand up and get the hell out of there.
“Thank you,” she murmured, “for coming to me.”
He made the mistake of watching her mouth as she spoke, the way those lips shaped the soft words, and all hell broke loose inside him. It was the catalyst he needed.
Releasing her, he rose to his feet. “Go back to sleep.” Then he walked back into his room and closed the door hard behind him.
He didn’t sleep a wink.
* * *
The next morning, Malcolm waited under the extending eaves of the livery next door to the hotel. He’d had breakfast sent up to Alexandra’s room with her freshly laundered clothes. He had grabbed only a quick bite himself, feeling a need to get out of his confining room and into the fresh air.
He was on edge.
To be honest, he had been on edge from the moment Alexandra Brighton had approached him in that saloon. Every day since, the discomfort had only dug deeper.
Leaning his shoulders back against the wall, he pulled his tobacco pouch from his pocket and rolled a cigarette. The morning air was crisp, though the sun shone bright in the sky. It was late August, and though autumn was still a little ways off, the days were getting cooler. So were the nights.
He took a long draw on the cigarette. He refused to think of the ways to make nights warmer on the trail, but his body responded to the subconscious suggestion anyway. With a sound of frustration, he tossed the half-finished cigarette to the dirt and ground it out with his heel.