Perhaps it was understandable to worry about a prisoner who was his sole hope of recovering vital U.S. minting plates.
It was not understandable, however, to miss the nudge of her buttocks against his inner thigh. Or the flutter of her heart against his forearm. His saddle felt empty without her.
And that was the dangerous part.
Hardening himself against his baser instincts, he turned suddenly, thinking to grab his deerskin and cover himself. His eyes met Fancy's. She blushed and glanced away. If he hadn't known her better, he might have thought he'd actually flustered her. Now that would have been a switch, wouldn't it?
A slow grin stole across his face.
"You best quit your staring, girl, or your eyes are going to bug out."
Her color deepened, and he smirked. Madam Hellcat did have the jitters!
"I... don't know what you mean."
He folded his arms across his chest. She trained her gaze behind him. Or above him. Anywhere but on him. The devil sneaked inside him, then. Maybe it was time for a little harmless retribution.
"A smart lady like you? I think you do know."
Fancy hiked her chin. She could feel her face flaming, and the knowledge rankled. For some unfathomable reason, she was having a hard time recovering her composure. It wasn't as if she'd never seen a naked man before. In fact, she'd seen so many more than her share that she thought she'd lost the ability to appreciate one. Yet here she sat, going weak on the inside just watching Cord put his trail-hardened muscles on display.
"I'm not the only one who thinks 'right highly' of myself, it would seem," she said tartly. "It just so happens I was watching the sunset."
"The sunset, eh?" He tossed a "sure you were" grin at Zack, and the boy chuckled. "Now don't you go getting any ideas about mischief-making after dark. You wouldn't last an hour on the run in this country. Not with those Injuns prowling around."
She wished she could slap that smirk right off his face. "I suppose that's your way of trying to frighten me."
"I've seen desperate people do desperate things."
"Your concern is truly touching, Marshal. But like you said, I'm smart. And those 'Injuns' are nothing more than men to me."
"You've got us menfolk all figured out, eh?"
"What's to figure?" she said haughtily. "You're all pitifully simple. You get hungry. You get amorous. And you butt heads to determine king of the herd."
He looked amused. "Sounds like a mighty limited view, if you ask me."
"Oh, so you're miraculously different?"
"Well..." His eyes twinkled. "I reckon I can't answer that, on account I couldn't be a fair judge."
She pressed her lips together. She didn't know what was worse, his teasing banter or the butterflies that it had launched in her belly.
It scared her to death to think that she might actually have come to like this man. First, she'd doubted her right to hand him over to Ned Wilkerson. Next, she'd started mooning over his flexing muscles!
Something was wrong, terribly wrong, if Cord Rawlins could make her blush. She decided she'd better start an argument before she did something really foolish, like lose her heart to him.
"The fact is, you couldn't possibly be objective," she goaded. "Why, you've got two brothers who worship the ground you walk on. And your wife was probably even more starry- eyed."
The humor drained from his face. "You don't know a damned thing about my wife."
"I know her type. A virgin 'til her wedding day. Sheltered, helpless, and pure. At least, that's what she had everyone thinking. She had you eating out of the palm of her hand, didn't she, Cord?"
"That's enough."
"Enough of what? The truth? But surely that couldn't be. An honorable man like yourself would respect the truth."
"You wouldn't know the truth if it were a snake that crawled up and bit you."
"Maybe." Her lips carved out a mocking smile. "Or maybe you're not a fair judge of that, either."
His face darkened.
Her heart hammered. BShe steeled herself for the worst. She expected an explosion, a slap, perhaps even a good, hard shake. Instead, he reached for his shirt and yanked the deerskin over his head. He grabbed his Winchester next.
"It's almost dark," he said gruffly. "I'm going to see what's keeping Wes and those rabbits."
Zack shot Fancy an accusatory glare. She did her best to ignore him. This was her moment of triumph, and she wanted to taste the sweetness.
As she watched Cord stalk away, though, she tasted nothing but ashes.
Chapter 8
That night, Fancy dreamed about the whorehouse. She saw herself as she'd been at the age of eighteen, trapped in a life she abhorred.
Then, from out of the mists of Portsmouth Square, a man entered the chandeliered foyer. He was not overly tall, but he appeared broad shouldered and narrow-waisted beneath his long, flowing overcoat. He surrendered his gloves to the porter, but not his hat, and try as Fancy might, she could not see his face as he wandered through the plush velvets and rich woods of the parlor.
The madam rustled forward, intercepting the gentleman with two glasses of champagne. He graciously declined her most coveted of invitations. This night, he had come for a virgin, he said, and he inquired after Fancy. The madam smiled and nodded. She accepted his purse, and Fancy knew a moment of panic. Surely the madam would not pass her off as a virgin!
The gentleman approached her, and her heart plummeted. She thought to protest when he took her hand, but his white teeth flashed in a disarming smile. For a moment, she was too dazzled to speak.
The next thing Fancy knew, she lay naked before him. The bed was like an island in a sea of candleglow. He came to her, and the gauzy bed hangings swirled behind him, distorting and muting the light. She tried to see his face once more, but the shadows favored him so, that her eyes grew weary and soon fluttered closed.
She retreated to the furthest corner of her mind then, a place where she need not think or feel. She surrendered her body dutifully to his pleasure, not her own. Never her own.
Her lover would not let her escape him so easily, though. His hands were callused and gentle as they roamed over her, chasing tingles across her skin, coaxing tremors from her limbs. She was amazed and not just a little frightened when she responded to him in ways she had never intended. She thought she should tell him of the madam's hoax, but when she tried to warn him, when she tried to push him away, his arms folded her to his heart, and his lips wooed hers with tender kisses.
He whispered Spanish love words, words she had despaired of ever hearing. She listened in growing wonder. Perhaps it was not so wrong to let him love her, she mused hopefully. Perhaps he wouldn't care that she was unvirtuous and impure if she could only find the way to please him.
She wove her hands through his hair—thick, rich waves of darkest brown. He murmured encouragements. His fingers delved lower, stroking her thighs. She thought she must go mad for the sweet, unfulfilled promise of his passion. She started to moan. He clasped her closer, and her nipples buried in the soft sorrel down of his chest. His kisses grew hungrier, deeper. She gasped, her eyes flying wide. Finally she could see his tanned face. She tore her mouth free to cry out his name.
"Cord!"
No. It couldn't be!
Her heart racing, she replayed the scene. She tried to recreate that precious moment of discovery, when she at long last gazed into Diego's dark eyes.
But the gaze that returned her own was forest green with wanting.
"No! Not Cord..."
Her cry was desperate this time. She panted. Dear God, how could this be? How could she have surrendered her dreams, the only refuge she had left in this world, to Cord Rawlins?
"Fancy."
His voice filled her head, and she thrashed harder, succumbing to an uncontrollable fear.
"Leave me be!"
A weight pressed down on her shoulder. "Fancy. Wake up. Wake up, darlin'."
She gasped and blinked. Th
e stars spun into watery focus. Next came Cord, silhouetted against the dying campfire. His hand squeezed her shoulder.
"There. That's better."
Her pulse thundered in her ears; her breaths rasped.
"You're safe now," he said.
But she wasn't safe.
She sat hastily, retreating from his touch. For a moment, all she could do was crouch there, gulping down air, feeling like a first-class fool.
"You were dreaming," he said softly.
"It was a nightmare!"
He nodded. She could see his eyes now that her own had adjusted to the firelight. They fairly glowed, but with concern or amusement? She couldn't say.
Oh God, did he know? Did he hear her cry out his name?
"Were you dreaming about Blood Wolf?"
Visions of the Indian's twitching stump of a hand stole into her mind. She shuddered. Even that ghastly image would have been better—far better, she told herself weakly—than visions of making love to Cord Rawlins.
"No. Of course not. Indians don't scare me. I told you that."
"So you did."
He was close, so close. The bedroll was like an island in a sea of emberglow.
Nonsense, she thought. She wasn't dreaming now.
Still, it was hard to forget. And it was hard not to wonder.
Would his touch move her as it had in her dream? Would he promise her love? Would she let herself believe?
His warmth lapped gently over her. She could hear the lulling rhythm of his breaths. Her senses expanded, drinking in each nuance of man—the sheen of his hair, the scent of his skin, the intoxicating light in his eyes. She could have drowned and refused to revive. She could have reached out and...
"I dreamed about prison," she said hastily. She had to break the spell. Lying didn't feel good; it just felt familiar.
"Prison, eh?"
She hiked her chin and nodded. He sat back on his heels.
"I reckon prison can be a scary place."
She said nothing. Her mind flashed back to a time long ago, a memory she thought she had buried. Her mother, unable to cope with her fading beauty, had thrown herself from a third-story window. Fancy had been thirteen. Packing her meager belongings, she had run away, but the madam's thugs had hunted her down. The first time that they'd dragged her back, she had merely been beaten. The second time, she'd been locked in the cellar. For three endless days, she'd huddled without food, warmth, or light.
She hadn't dared to run away again.
"You know, Fancy, you could keep away those nightmares," Cord said quietly. "You could make your life a whole lot easier, if you'd just tell me where those plates are."
Idiot. She cursed herself. Why had she confided her fears about prison? He was her enemy. Had she thought he would sympathize?
"Why should I tell you anything?" she asked hoarsely, forcing the lump from her throat.
"Because I could tell the governor how you cooperated. Get him to shorten that prison sentence you're bound to get."
She gave a short, hollow laugh. "You'd do that for me?"
"Yes."
She was afraid to believe the sincerity in his tone. "Why? Don't tell me it's the right thing to do."
"It is the right thing to do," he insisted, his eyes captivating hers. "That and... Well, hell. A girl should settle down. Find herself a man. You don't need to be running from town to town, cheating and stealing to get by. That's no kind of life. You can do better, Fancy."
She wanted to believe him. God, how she wanted to believe. But she knew better. She was a realist. No man, no good and honest man, would want her. She was on her own unless she found another Diego. Until she did, she'd spend her days cheating and stealing. She had to. She would never, ever, go back to whoring.
She looked away from him. "I like my life just fine, Rawlins. I don't need some tin-star crusader preaching salvation at me."
"My offer still stands."
Damn him, why was he doing this? Why was he making it so hard to hate him?
"Forget it," she said. "I'll take my chances in court. Providing I get there, of course."
He shifted closer. His heat had so charged the inches between them that she felt rather than saw his ripple of movement.
"And why wouldn't you get there?" he murmured. "Is Santana's cavalry on its way?"
She cursed herself a second time. Why didn't she just blurt out that she and Ned Wilkerson were going to sell their plates to Mexican nationals?
"I just figured that between the bats, pumas, and Comanches, I was going to end up buried in this godforsaken wilderness you Texicans call home."
He didn't look convinced. He smoothed back her hair, catching a lingering tear on his thumb. She felt her heart leap.
"Is there something you're needing to tell me?" he asked gently, his palm coming to rest along the traitorous pulse in her throat. "Something about your friends?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"I think you do." The sea-green depths of his eyes threatened to drown her. "Santana's men are coming for you, aren't they?"
She swallowed.
"Fancy?"
She felt herself sinking. She tried to twist away, but his hand was her anchor. It was all she could do to stay afloat, to remind herself who he was and what he'd done to Diego. She couldn't let Cord Rawlins tempt her when she had failed so miserably to tempt him.
And yet, as he leaned closer, she felt reality slipping away. The tip of his nose nearly brushed hers. If she tilted her head, if she parted her lips, she could kiss him. She could run her tongue along that mobile mouth and sip the tangy-sweet flavor of man. Already his tobacco and leather scent had drawn her taste juices. She could nibble and lick; she could savor that secret, indelible seasoning that was unique to Cord Rawlins.
And what was worse, she wanted to.
"It's not like you to hold your tongue, darlin'."
Her palms moistened at the husky timbre of his tone. "Let me go."
"Let you go?" He smiled. "That's all? No lies? No insults?"
"Let me go, damn you!"
His mesmerizing gaze lowered until it was fastened on her mouth. For a moment—one breathless, stunning moment—she hoped he would kiss her. His lips had already parted; moist and soft, they invited her own. If she hadn't known him better, if he hadn't proven time and again that he found her so unappealing, she might have believed he was tempted too. His breathing had quickened. She heard the cadence of his heart—or was it hers?—echoing all around them.
Her belly heated. Some primal, unthinking part of her took control. She swayed nearer. Her lashes fluttered, and she sought the lips she couldn't bear to admit she wanted.
"Let you go?" he whispered as her mouth hovered a fraction from his own. His thumb brushed her cheek. "No one's holding you back this time, darlin'."
She blinked, then stiffened. Humiliation seared through her like a freshly forged blade. She recoiled, hating him for the truth of his words, hating herself for her weakness.
"Are you quite finished harassing me, Marshal?" God, Fancy, how could you have fallen for your own scam? "I'd like to go to sleep now."
His brows arched over those gemstone eyes.
"I reckon so. You've told me everything I wanted to know. Except of course"—his dimples peeked in a wistful kind of smile—"why you called out my name in your sleep."
Fancy nearly died. She wished she had. Her face flamed hotter than a Chinese firecracker. "That's preposterous."
"Don't remember, eh?"
"No, I do not!"
He chuckled warmly. "Now there's that lie I was waiting for. And here I thought I'd go disappointed."
"You can go to hell!"
She flopped down, tugging the blanket to her chin. When she rolled over in a huff, he laughed again.
"Pleasant dreams to you, too, darlin'."
He moved away. She watched his shadow as it played over the ground, slipping past the saddles and Wes's bedroll. Only then did she realize the boy was awak
e. He'd been lying there, watching them, listening to every blessed word they'd said! He grinned when she noticed him, and she thought about crawling under a rock.
Squeezing her eyes closed, she prayed fervently that Ned Wilkerson would hurry up and find her and put an end to her misery.
* * *
"Wake up. Breakfast is waiting."
Cord started, eyeing Zack curiously as the boy snapped at Fancy. It wasn't like him to be so brusque. Nor was it like him to stomp off to the fire without so much as a "Good morning, ma'am."
What was eating the boy?
"Looks like someone got up on the wrong side of the bedroll," Wes quipped, withholding the coffeepot from Zack's outstretched hand.
"Give me that, pea-brain."
"Uh, uh, uh. Ladies first."
Cord's gaze shifted to Fancy. She looked a little disconcerted as she blinked after Zack, but he attributed her confusion to being jolted from sleep, not to the boy's behavior. She wasn't likely to care whether Zack was upset. In truth, if she cared anything at all about Zack or Wes, she would have confessed to the things she knew about Santana's men.
Damn her, anyway.
Cord sipped his coffee. He'd spent a restless, guilt-ridden night, but lying awake until dawn had given him plenty of time to set himself straight. At first, he'd been moved when he heard her cry out. The tremor in her voice, the misty violet of her eyes, had led him to believe that prison truly frightened her. He had never jailed a woman before, and he had worried that the courageous, quick-witted girl he'd so admired the day before would be broken by the reformatory. So, like a fool, he had softened, offering to plea-bargain for her.
She had refused to come clean, though. She had refused to discuss the plates or the outlaws. He figured she was hoping he would be ambushed and she would be rescued. The more likely outcome, of course, was that she would be murdered—along with Zack and Wes. Couldn't she see that he and the boys were the only ones keeping her off of boot hill? Couldn't she have been honest, just this once, and admitted their danger?
His jaw hardened as he fortified himself with the dispassion required by his badge.
Fancy Holleday had broken the law. No one had put a gun to her head and forced her to rob that train. That being the case, it was his job to bring her to justice. She could lie and cry and lure him to sin as much as she wanted. None of it would keep him from handing her over to the courts.
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