Yep, she was playing a high-stakes game, he thought. But then, cheaters could afford to.
"Maybe you should start taking off your clothes," she said huskily.
"I'd much rather be taking off yours."
"But I'm only wearing this shift, Marshal. Truly, you're overdressed with all your buttons, buckles, and spurs."
She reached for his belt, but he caught her hand, raising it to his lips. Her fingers felt like velvet against the stubble of his chin.
"The clothes can wait," he murmured, rubbing her palm against his whiskers. "You aren't in a hurry, are you?"
"No..."
"Glad to hear it. 'Cause sunup's still a long way off."
Her eyes hooded as he brushed back her hair. God, it felt so silky. He'd been longing to run his hands through it ever since he saw her standing there in front of the hearth. All those fire-burnished curls, spilling over her arms and breasts, reminded him of the feather warbonnets that the Plains Indians wore. He just wished that the war part of his analogy wasn't quite so fitting.
She smelled of soap and summer rain. He lowered his head and breathed deeply, imagining the sheen of water on her skin. Too bad she'd bathed alone. Too bad he hadn't found out in time to, well, invent some really pressing reason to stop by his room. At watering holes along the trail, he'd gotten quite handy at watching her from the corner of his eye. He would staunchly tell himself that he was just doing his job.
In secret, though, he was always disappointed that she didn't strip off her chemise and wade into the current. Sometimes he'd thought she knew exactly what he hoped for, and that she spited him just to watch him chafe.
He touched his lips to hers. She tasted like peaches. Weaving his fingers through her hair, he tilted her head back to savor every delectable morsel. He'd never much cared for the fruit until now—until every ripe, luscious inch of her was filling his arms.
God, it had been so long. He'd forgotten what a healthy appetite should feel like. She tasted and felt and smelled so good that it was easy, damned easy, not to remember the game she was playing.
Or rather, the game he was playing.
He cupped her buttocks. She was slimmer and firmer than the women he was used to, but that didn't bother him much. She was fuller on top. He pressed her closer, relishing the feel of her breasts as they flattened against his chest. Longing to fondle one, he slid his hands upward. When his fingers splayed over her ribs, she flinched and gasped, recoiling.
"I thought you weren't in a hurry," she said accusingly, bracing a hand against his chest.
The look on her face was more pained than aggrieved. It confused him.
Had he hurt her?
"Fancy, if you want me to stop—"
"No," she said quickly. "We have a deal. I'm not going back on my word. Are you?"
"No, but—"
"Good."
She drew a deep breath and smiled. He was learning how to tell her real smile from her fake one, and he was pretty sure this one was forced.
"Why don't you take off your boots, cowboy, while I turn down the bed?"
She started to flee.
"Not so fast, footloose."
Grasping her around the waist, he dragged her back, but he wasn't prepared when her spine struck his chest. He staggered as his rowels snagged her hem. The floor pitched beneath him, and he muttered an oath as he heard a rending tear. In the next instant, she landed on his lap with an unceremonious "umph."
"Rawlins, you clutz!"
She flailed, which helped his spurs shred the gown further. He realized the fabric had swathed his leg to hers, but it wasn't until his head had fully cleared that he became aware of the creamy white of her thigh against the black bear pelt beneath them.
"I told you to take your boots and spurs off!"
He chuckled. He couldn't help it. She looked angry enough for her ears to start smoking.
"Does all this caterwauling mean you're not hurt?"
She stiffened. Pushing the hair from her face, she glared over her shoulder at him. "Yes, no thanks to you. Look what you've done!"
"I'm trying to, darlin'."
She slapped the hand that reached for her thigh. "The very least you could do is help me, Rawlins."
"I was trying to do that too." He did his best to look grave, but the corners of his mouth kept tilting up instead of down. "Looks like your gown's about ruined. Reckon it'll have to come off now."
"You did this on purpose."
"I did not."
"You most certainly did!"
"Now why would you think that?"
"Because you're drunk. I'm surprised you didn't just grab me by the hair and shove me down on all fours."
His mirth died. "Is that what you're used to?"
Pain turned her eyes stormy violet once more. "Let's just get this over with."
She tried to rise, but he pulled her back into his arms.
"Fancy, wait."
Her muscles quivered like fiddle strings beneath his forearm. Suddenly, he wondered if he'd misjudged her. Maybe she wasn't a tease who used men to gratify her vanity. Maybe she was a lonely, unloved girl whom men had always used.
"Don't go," he murmured, smoothing back her hair. He pressed a kiss to her temple. "Sit here with me a spell."
"Why?"
"Because I like holding you."
She peered once more over her shoulder. The look on her face was a cross between resignation and disgust. "You want to hump me on the floor?"
"No."
She pursed her lips. "You're backing out of our deal, aren't you? I knew you would. I knew you didn't have it in you."
Cord smiled without humor. Here he was, trying to be tender, and she was doing everything in her power to rub his patience raw. What was wrong with her, anyway? He couldn't believe she preferred harsh treatment.
"Shh. We have all night, remember? Just be still and watch the fire."
She hesitated, eyeing him narrowly before she turned to face the hearth. He waited for her tension to ease and her head to sink back against his shoulder, but many minutes passed, and she still refused to relax. If not for her hammering heart and an occasional, shuddering breath, he might have thought she'd turned to stone.
Sighing, he closed his eyes and rested his cheek against her hair. Its clean, sweet scent helped lull him into a less guarded state of mind. She really was beautiful. He preferred women with wheat-colored curls and doelike eyes, but there was something wild and free about Fancy. It stirred his spirit. As loathe as he was to admit it, he worried that the reformatory would break her.
Gradually, Cord realized he was rocking her. He didn't know when she'd leaned back against him or when he'd begun strumming her ribs with his fingers, but her slower pulse and measured breathing led him to believe she'd started to trust him. He touched gentle lips to her cheek.
Casually his hand roamed higher. Slipping beneath the ties of her bodice, he cupped one firm, ample breast. His thumb stroked and rubbed until the nub at last jutted into his palm. He heard the tiny catch in her throat and kissing her again, he wished he could feast on the trophy that overflowed his palm. Since he doubted whether he could stop himself there, he settled on a consolation: the hollow behind her ear. She sighed, letting her head drop back against his shoulder, and he pioneered new territory, his lips eager as they explored the arch of her neck.
Slowly, leisurely, he pushed her gown higher. He trailed his hand along her thigh, pausing every inch or so to massage the goose-pimples from her flesh. Only when he was poised to explore the inner side of her leg did he feel her first real stirrings of disquiet. She reached as if to repair her gown, but he caught her hand and raised it to his lips.
"Shh," he murmured again, drawing her middle finger deep inside his mouth. He sucked and licked, and slid and sucked. He felt a tremor ripple through her, and his hand dipped once more between her thighs, his lips and tongue promising above what she might hope for below. She wore nothing to protect her from his finger's wooing, a
nd he felt her legs quiver, as if torn between resistance and surrender.
"What... are you doing?" Her voice sounded hoarse as he courted his goal.
"Loving you, sweetheart."
"But that wasn't part of our deal. We agreed that I would make love to—"
She gasped as his forefinger snaked past the velvet entry he'd been seeking.
"Let me pet you," he murmured, ignoring the hand that tried to push him away. She was wet. She was ready. And her efforts to end his explorations were feeble at best. He slipped his tongue inside her ear, and her spine arched hard against him. Her hips strained upward; her legs trembled wider. He rewarded her submission with gentle, plunging strokes.
"Damn you, Rawlins."
"Slide off the top of your dress," he urged huskily, searching for that tender spot that he knew she'd like best.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because it's—" she made a strangled sound as he found her swollen pleasure bud, "it's my turn."
"Not yet, sugar. The night's still young."
She turned her head away from his lips, but she still hadn't told him to stop. In fact, she was putting up even less of a fight now, if that were possible. He propped himself against a nearby armchair, reclining her farther against him. He plumbed her depths with a slower, more serpentine rhythm, and she squirmed. Finally, reluctantly, her hips began thrusting to meet him.
A sense of exhilaration flowed through him. Beth had never let him woo her like this. In fact, Beth had considered sex a repugnant chore. She'd encouraged it only after she realized it could lead to babies. Of course, by that time, he'd been so scared of the consequences that he'd refused to touch her.
"Cord," Fancy panted, "you said you... wouldn't... take me on the floor."
His breaths were coming more raggedly too. Whether she'd intended it or not, her rocking was nudging his pecker. He tried to ignore the sensation, but a familiar, pulsing heat surged through his loins. He bit his tongue on a moan.
God, he wanted her. He wanted to press her down into that feather mattress and plunge into her creamy core until they both collapsed into a panting heap. But he didn't dare.
He cursed himself for agreeing to her terms. At the time, he'd figured Beth had made him a master of self-restraint. Now he feared he'd be hopelessly out of control if Fancy got her hands on him.
"Let me turn down the bed," she groaned.
"Can't do that, darlin'," he whispered, surprised to hear how throaty his voice had become. "I'd have to stop, then." He dipped a second finger inside her moist heat. "You wouldn't want me to stop, would you?"
She made an animal sound. He figured she must be very close. Her fingers wrapped around his wrist.
"That's it," he murmured. "Show me. Show me what you want."
"I hate you for this, Rawlins."
"I know," he said soothingly, and obliged her, sliding deeper. Faster.
She gasped. He felt her tiny, trembling shiver. It built to a shuddering quake, and he cradled her closer, stifling another moan. His loins throbbed in time to her careening heart; his rasping breaths echoed her own. He wanted so much more of her, he ached.
He pushed down the neck of her gown. Her breasts were flushed and swollen when they spilled into his hands. He longed to suckle them, but he couldn't risk the change of positions. Not when his need was so great. With a growling, frustrated sound, his mouth fastened to the tender hollow where her neck and shoulder joined.
"Cord, stop."
He hardly heard her plea above the pounding in his temples. Hungrily, he feasted lower. Her shoulder was a poor substitution for the places he longed to taste, but it was all the satisfaction he could take.
"Ow!"
She flinched, and he opened his eyes, blinking back the mists. He couldn't imagine what he'd done to hurt her. A heartbeat later, he was too stunned to find out.
"Fancy, my God. Your back."
Her hands froze in their efforts to pull up her gown. His heart twisted. Pushing aside her hair, he warned himself not to believe his drunken eyes, yet as she knelt there, trembling before him, those long, crisscrossing scars didn't fade away. He touched an incredulous finger to one.
Good God. She'd been whipped!
"Fancy, who did this to you? Santana?"
A shudder rocked her. For a moment, he thought she had given in to a sob until she rounded on him like a boxer in a prizefight.
"What the hell difference does it make?"
Hatred stabbed at him through the unshed tears in her eyes. He winced. Only then did he notice the ugly purple bruise where her neck and shoulder joined. A second blue-green stain marred her abdomen. No wonder she'd been flinching from his hands and lips!
He sickened as he remembered Wes's story:
"But Miss Fancy wasn't afraid of going to hell alone. She jumped right in front of Slade's rifle. When she tried to wrastle it away, he hit her with the butt. He hit her plenty hard, too, in the belly and the shoulder. Miss Fancy never cried, though. She never said nothing, but I reckon she was hurting pretty bad."
"Fancy, I..." Cord choked, swallowing hard. "I've made a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake. And I'm sorry."
Fancy gazed into Cord's haunted eyes. She saw his remorse, but more clearly than that, she saw his aversion. She realized then that she, too, had made a mistake. How could she have been so eager to let him love her? And how could she have been so careless? She'd revealed her secret ugliness after staking her freedom on their deal! Hadn't Diego warned her?
"No other man will want you now," he'd jeered as he'd towered over her, his riding quirt, still wet with her blood. "I am all you have. All you will ever have. And I will not be so understanding the next time, muchacha, if you disobey me."
Fancy fought back tears. Drunk or sober, Cord would never want her now. In fact, he looked as if his stomach were turning. She flushed to realize just how grotesque she must appear.
"Quit staring!"
"I didn't mean to," he whispered. "It's just that—"
"You feel sorry for me?" Her chin trembled as she raised it. "Don't pity me, Cord Rawlins. Don't you dare pity me!"
He paled. Averting his eyes, he staggered to his feet. She guessed that only a miracle saved him from keeling over.
"Cover yourself," he said hoarsely.
Her tears threatened once more at this newest evidence of his disgust. She jumped up, shredded the remaining fabric from her body, and threw it in the fire.
"There! I'm upholding my end of the bargain, see? You want me? I'm ready."
He shook his head as if clearing away a thick fog. "I won't—"
"Then you forfeit!"
He grimaced, clenching his teeth. "Keep your voice down."
"I'll shout this house down around your ears if you don't give me that key."
"Fancy, for God's sake, I can't—"
"Yes, you can! You gave me your word. Are you going back on your word?"
His eyes were glazed and confused as he backed for the door. "No! I mean... I don't have to. Nothing happened. Not like we agreed."
"That's because you wouldn't let it happen. You refused to let it happen!"
"No." His shoulder blades struck the door. "Your stakes were too high. I just... withdrew."
"You probably do that to all your women!"
Even that insult couldn't shame him into renewing their wager. He turned the knob. She panicked and charged for the door. She didn't consider her nakedness; she thought only that she must dash past him so he couldn't lock her inside.
Cord lunged into her path, though. Their collision drove him backward. He grunted, his spine ramming the door shut again, and she sobbed a curse. Desperately she tried to push him aside, to grasp the knob and break for the hall, but his arms had closed around her, and she found herself pinned to his chest.
"Let me go!"
"Fancy, stop." He dragged her hips hard against his own. The strategy saved his groin from her knee.
"Damn you." She writhe
d futilely, feeling his arms grow tighter and tighter until she could barely struggle at all. "You owe me, Rawlins!"
"Fancy, you don't want to be taken this way. I promise you."
He was right, but he'd seen her scars, so what choice did she have?
"I don't want your promises. I want my freedom!"
"Honey, listen to me. You can't keep running. Somewhere, someday, another Slade will come along. You have to take the price off your head. You have to turn yourself in."
"No!"
"It's the only way."
"They'll lock me up until I'm old and gray and no man will ever want me again!"
"That's not true," he whispered thickly.
"It is true! Diego stopped wanting me. He said I was getting too old. Now you don't want me either. You just want to lock me away for years and years. How can you do this to me when I saved your brother's life?" She broke off on a sob, her fists clenching great handfuls of his shirt.
"Fancy?"
Squeezing her eyes closed against the threatening tears, she sagged, trembling as he stroked her hair.
"You're wrong," he said softly, so softly that she could hardly hear him above her ragged breaths. "I do want you, but not like this. Not when you're in pain. Blazes, girl, why didn't you say something? Why didn't you tell me Slade beat you?"
She winced as his hand skimmed lower, massaging the knotted muscles in her back. She was so ashamed that she could hardly bear for him to touch her there, where she was so hideous.
"Would it have mattered?" she said brokenly. "You didn't believe Wes's story. You would never have believed mine."
His arms tightened around her again. In that instant—and perhaps for the first time in her life—she felt safe. Protected. It was strange to feel that way about one's enemy.
Yet as his breathing matched the rhythm of hers, as their heartbeats mingled, pounding as one, she could summon none of her old malice. He held her for what seemed like the sweetest, most fleeting minutes she'd ever known. And when he sighed, she felt the sensation move through her, shaking the very foundations of her world.
"I reckon I do owe you," he murmured at last, resting his chin upon her hair. "I owe you a sight more than an apology."
Tin-Stars and Troublemakers Box Set (Four Complete Historical Western Romance Novels in One) Page 51