by Lee Savino
Her eyes widened. The driver had no love for her. He probably wouldn't hesitate to accuse her along with her fiancé, now husband.
"Do you promise you won't scream?"
She muttered assent against his palm.
He took his hand away. "Now, let's have some lunch, and decide our business like proper—"
"Help!" She rushed to the door, fumbling at the latch and then pounding on the wood. "Please—"
Arms like iron bands pulled her away, and another hand slapped over her mouth, muffling her cries. With his arm wrapped around her waist, her new husband dragged her back as if she weighed no more than a feather pillow.
"Wrong move, Susannah. Now you've made me angry."
The baggage glared at him as he tied her wrists to the headboard. He ignored her, and stepped back to admire his handiwork. He did so love a woman trussed and bound to the bed. And his bride was lovely, even with hair disheveled and mouth stopped by a handkerchief. Jesse couldn't resist stroking away a few strands of her blonde hair.
"You lied to me, Susannah. You broke your promise." He tilted his head, reading the expression in her fierce blue eyes and flushed cheeks. "I can almost hear you protesting. You think a promise isn't a promise when it's made to a man like me? You'll find, I'm a man of my word."
Her forehead wrinkled, and he almost chuckled at the unspoken commentary. "It's true. What I say, goes. You can bet your life on it." He leaned closer to be sure she heard the next part. "Our marriage may not last long, but if you ever lie to me again, you'll be punished."
Her eyes widened.
"That's right, little baggage. You remember how I bared your behind on the trail? That spanking was nothing compared to how hot your bottom would be right now, if I wasn't inclined to be gentle. You've had a warning now. Cross me again, or lie to me, and suffer the consequences."
This time, her nostrils flared and cheeks flushed further at the threat. His new wife was an alluring mix of fear and anger, and Jesse hardened at the thought of touching her, using all his skill to punish and pleasure her helpless body until her fight turned to passionate submission. He could do it. Underneath all that bluster, she was attracted to him, he was sure of it. Her scent called to him, scent of lavender mixed with the sweet, heady smell of her arousal. Little Miss Prim and Proper probably didn't know it, but her body was excited to be tied up at his mercy. Her desire was intoxicating—and that was dangerous for a man like him, who dallied on the edge of honor. His cock was already hard and wanting, but he couldn't lose control.
Abruptly, he left her side and strode to the fine spread of food Mrs. Marsh had laid out. Stabbing a slice of ham with the ready knife, he ate it right off the blade. It was so good, he started loading a plate, grateful for the distraction.
Some soft sounds of protest drew his attention back to his delectable little bride.
"Hungry?" Susannah growled at him from behind the gag, and he chuckled. "Suit yourself."
If he couldn't satiate one hunger, he'd satisfy another. Using the knife, he cut cold ham and venison, smearing it with mustard before stuffing it between good thick slices of bread. He sauntered back to the bed. His wife was twisting a little in her bonds, but they held fast. "Careful, baggage. Don't harm yourself."
Jesse sat on the bed far enough down to avoid her kicking feet, and ate his sandwich. When he was finished, he licked fingers.
"Delicious. A pity you lied to me, and now I don't trust you unbound. You'll have to deal with an empty stomach."
She refused to look at him, glaring at the wall instead, her face proud and beautiful in profile.
Digging in the frothy folds of her gown, he found her ankle and gripped it. That got her attention, and she bucked and kicked until he let go of her leg. "You're a spirited little thing, I'll give you that. Too bad things didn't work out differently. We could've had some fun." He chuckled, and went to make another sandwich. When he turned around, she was staring at him, but averted her eyes quickly. She couldn't hide the growl from her belly. He wished for a moment he could ungag and feed her, but a few hours of hunger wouldn't overly hurt her, and would probably make her more compliant.
When he was done eating, he pulled up a chair next to the bed, all business. "Now that I've fed my hunger, let me tell you a tale." Her expression didn't quite soften, but he could tell she was listening. Jesse took a deep breath, readying himself to do something he rarely did: explain his actions. "There's a whoremonger named Doyle who has done all sorts of evil in this territory. He has a claim to my sister-in-law, a lady named Rose. She and my brother are very happy, but Doyle's a powerful man, and he can stir up trouble for them. He's already sent men to take her once. My brother and I put them down." Susannah made a small noise, and he paused, wondering how it must sound to his bride, learning that he had killed not just one, but many men. In his mind, it had been a matter of justice. The men came to take what wasn't theirs, he'd shot them, and not thought more about it. But now he found himself trying to explain it to Susannah, this code of honor he followed as law in the lawless West.
"I've spent the past year and a bit gathering information, getting closer. I've stolen Doyle's own gold to make him desperate for funds. I aligned myself with evil men for the purpose of gaining Doyle's trust. And I'm this close." He held up his scarred hand, holding finger and thumb less than an inch apart. "No one will ruin this for me. The fate of my brother and my sister-in-law lies in the balance."
Abruptly, he stood, pacing a little and running a hand through his hair. "Doyle will never stop coming for them. He's a spider, spinning a web. He might wait a week, or a month, or years as he's waited so far. But he will never stop planning his revenge, even if he takes it out on their children."
He forced himself to stop and look back at his bride. She was watching him with unblinking eyes.
"Here's the truth, Susannah. I don't owe you an explanation. I don't owe you anything beyond a fare back home and an apology for wasting your time. My business is my own." He paused. "Perhaps, if our marriage continued, it wouldn't be," he muttered almost to himself.
Sitting back down, he continued in a softer tone. "I never meant for you to be in the middle of this. I do apologize for that." He sat for a moment in silence, rubbing the scar on his right hand, wondering why he was pouring his heart out to a pretty piece of calico. Was he afraid he might die tonight? There must be some part of him who wanted to share the whole story, in case Boone or Doyle got the better of him, and he didn't survive to share the truth of what he'd done. That must be it, because he'd never had the urge to go to confessional before.
His bride was still watching him, silent, of course. Was there a little bit of understanding in her big blue eyes?
"You know the rest. I robbed a stage. I killed one of Doyle's guards, a man wanted for evil deeds in twenty counties. No one stands up to Doyle, and his men go and do what they want. Innocents suffer. And while I live, I'll not stand for it." He stood. "So am I a thief? A murderer? Or a man with a cause? You decide." With that, he started for the door.
Once she realized he was about to leave, Susannah cried out behind her gag. Jesse paused with his hand on the latch.
"Don't worry, little baggage. I'll be back. Or, if I'm killed, eventually someone will come to free you."
Tied to the bed, Susannah waited in the darkness. Night had fallen, and her wrists were raw as she twisted them in the scarves he'd bound her with. She'd twisted and pried with her fingers but the knots held fast. After hours of struggling, her binds only felt stronger. She wanted to cry, but the handkerchief stopping her mouth was so stifling, she was afraid she'd choke.
Besides, she was too angry. As soon as her new sham husband had left, her fear had gone, leaving a cold, sick feeling of humiliation. She was supposed to be a new, blushing bride, and here she was, tied to the bed by her husband's hand, and then he abandoned her. She couldn't have imagined a worse situation if she tried. And if anyone ever found out—the thought was too horrible.
&nbs
p; She wanted Mr. Oberon to die in a thousand painful ways. She wished she was a man, so she could do the deed herself: punch his rugged, handsome face, put her hands around his thick neck and choke him. Tie him up as he did to her and fill his gut with knives. Or just eat in front of him—as he had—and let him starve for days.
Death was too good for him, she thought, jerking at the bed frame. The worst of it was how if she closed her eyes, she could still see his green eyes lit with amusement, and feel his hands on her.
She had to escape before he came back. No one had come to check on them, and a part of her was grateful; she didn't want anyone to see her like this.
Redoubling her efforts, she ignored the cutting pain her wrists. She would not be bested by a scoundrel—not again. Of course, this rogue had such pretty excuses—the words of his speech still were ringing in her head. All this talk of a man called Doyle and his sister-in-law Rose, it was just ridiculous. How dare he add insult to injury by spinning his insidious tale!
She had to admit, in the deepest part of her heart, that she hoped he was telling the truth. But, struggling against her bonds, it was hard to defend his actions as right and just. Better to believe him to be a lovely liar, whose eloquence extended beyond the letters.
How could her friend Carrie know such an evil man? Susannah regretted not writing her friend sooner; perhaps Carrie would've warned her sooner of Jesse Oberon's character. She'd sent a letter but heard nothing back before she'd left Boston.
Her arms twisted in the scarf, and she had to pause, gasping with the biting pain. She'd pulled her body up, at least, so now she leaned against the headboard. From her place she could see the table a few feet away, laid out with a delicious spread. Mrs. Marsh had given them enough food for days.
She was so hungry.
And then she saw it, gleaming dully, half hidden by one platter of meat: the knife! Angling her body, she slid as far off the bed as her tied wrists would allow. It was a strain, but she finally hooked the table with her foot. Triumph surged through her as the table drew nearer.
Kicking at her boots, she worried the laces until they were loose enough for her to toe them off. With stockinged feet, she reached and used them to clamp on the knife. When she was a girl, she'd spent some of the long, lonely hours in her room amusing herself by picking things up with her feet, and apparently she still had the knack. She did drop the knife a few times, but fortunately it didn't clatter too far for her to reach, and after a few careful attempts, she got it onto the bed. From there it was a matter of drawing it closer using her legs, body, the blanket and anything she could to convey it. Finally, she had the knife in her fingers, and could stab and saw the scarf.
It took forever, but finally she was free. She stumbled to the chamber pot and the water pitcher in that order. Then she stood at the table, eating with her hands and planning her escape.
She had to get out, now. The rogue might be back at any minute. She also had no intention of telling Mrs. Marsh, or anyone, and risk them not believing her tale. They might force her to stay with Jesse Oberon; they might even be in league with him. And if she linked her new husband to the stagecoach robbery, the driver and sheriff might claim she was an accomplice.
She was on her own.
Crossing to the water pitcher again, she lit a lamp so she could begin packing. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she winced. Her hair was mussed; her eyes red rimmed from angry tears she couldn't hold back.
All she could think about was her return to Boston, a trip of shame. Her aunt would wag her finger, and all her acquaintances would say kind things to her face and then whisper behind her back. Poor Susannah, twice engaged, twice disgraced.
Perhaps she could run off to the woods and live with the wolves, as befitted an outlaw's wife.
Susannah gnawed on bread and meat until she decided. Tonight she would have to find a place to stay, and tomorrow pay for a ride out of town. She would leave the trunks and take only a small bag and some food. She'd have to get them later, if at all.
Changing into a dress of deep purple, demure and plain, with less fabric, she stuffed a bag with a few clothes and essentials, and tucked her money pouch into her corset. Pulling down the sleeves to cover her raw wrists, she wished could loosen her corset stays. Hours of discomfort had her cursing the fine whalebone frame. But, with no one there for her to call, she'd just have to wait until she found a hotel room that could provide a maid to assist her.
Her bedroom was on the second floor of the establishment. There was a staircase inside, of course, but rather than risk being seen, she opened the window and climbed out to the porch roof, edging along. The last time she'd done this, she'd been a girl, angry and bitter about being confined to her room for an afternoon. That escapade was a long time ago, and now, in the dark, finding her footing was a bit trickier. She paused, but the only sound in town were crickets, drunken calls from the seedier establishments, and from a nearby open window, Mrs. Marsh's unknowing snores.
Lying down on the roof, she let herself slowly down to the ground. The final jump sent her sprawling in the dirt. Her ankle twisted a little under her, and she ignored its painful protest. Scurrying into the shadows, she limped a little and tried to keep from crying.
Here she was sneaking out of her room and running from town like an outlaw, or rather, an outlaw's wife.
This was not the way she'd expected to spend her wedding night.
Across town, Jesse was climbing a roof of his own, and grateful for the cover of darkness. Otis Boone had a room in a rickety building Doyle owned. No window—which is why Jesse didn't just stake out with his Whitworth rifle and shoot him from a distance. Boone was too careful to be caught alone, either, and he'd never accept an honorable challenge, which is why Jesse had to go to him.
The room stank of dirty clothes, whiskey, and tobacco, but Jesse didn't plan on being there long. Pistol in hand, he set up to wait for the man who wanted his sister-in-law dead.
He didn't wait long. Midnight or so, the door opened, Boone walked in, bottle in hand. Setting the bottle on the dresser, he shrugged off his coat and then, as Jesse held his breath in the dark, his holster. After lighting a candle, Boone lifted the bottle again.
From his corner, Jesse smiled.
With that second sense that kept Boone alive, his head snapped around and he stared at the intruder. Dropping the bottle, the man reached for his gun, but Jesse stepped closer, waving his. "Not so fast, Boone. Hands up."
"What the hell?"
"I'm here to settle a debt."
The man's eyes darted around the room. "You're in league with Rosie May." The man guessed. "Lyle Wilder?"
"Not Lyle. His brother," Jesse said, and watched Otis' face settle into the expression he'd likely wear for the short remainder of his life.
The building stank, but advertised a vacancy. Susannah was dead on her feet. It had to be after midnight, and she'd had no luck in finding help. In fact, she hadn't seen anyone respectable at all.
Mostly men roved the streets, drunk and looking for fun. More than once, Susannah had been the object of catcalls, and frightened, had darted down an alleyway. Before long, she was well and truly lost. She pulled a shawl over her hair and shoulders, and crept along the streets like a shadow, until she could go no longer.
She didn't like the look of the two-story building, but the sign said there were rooms available. Biting her lip, she pushed the hotel's door open. A man looked up in surprise as she limped forward.
"Please, I need a room for the night," Susannah said. Only pride stopped her from lurching forward and leaning on the man's counter in exhaustion. "The sign said you had vacancy."
"It's not a room we're advertising. It's a work position." The man's eyes narrowed and swept up and down, leaving a greasy feeling on her skin. "Doyle send you?"
Susannah blinked at the familiar name, and hesitated. If she said yes, would they give her a room?
"If he sent you, sweetheart, you better hurry up th
ere. Boone will be waiting. Knock once, and go on in and shut the door. Boone will take care of you."
"Thank you," Susannah said.
"Don't thank me, darlin'. It's up to Boone whether you stay or go, though I don't see any reason he'd turn the likes of you away. Get on up there." The man nodded to a staircase, and Susannah hurried up, wrinkling her nose at the dirty floor and walls, the smell of booze and urine. The hall was narrow and dark, but she followed it easily to the door. She could hear voices murmuring and hesitated, then did as the man said: knocked and entered, shutting the door carefully behind her.
The room was dimly lit and Susannah peered into the murky depths before she could make out the tableau.
Otis Boone was an older man, grey hair mixed with brown. He stood with his back to the door, near a dresser. For some reason, he was holding his hands in the air, arms spread away from his body.
Beyond, a tall, black-clad man stood in the shadows, a gun trained on the first man.
"Jesse?" she gasped.
Everything had been going splendidly. He had Boone in his sights, and was about to give him an honorable death—a chance to duel and die with pistol in hand—when the little blonde baggage burst through the door. She was a sight dirtier than he'd left her, and in a change of dress with a shawl hiding her shining hair, but he'd recognize those big blue eyes anywhere.
After all, he had married her.
As soon as she saw him, her mouth fell open, and his gut tightened. Had she been in league with Boone all along?
Boone took advantage of the surprise to whirl around, grabbing Susannah around the neck. Jesse raised his gun too late; Boone had a knife to the missus' throat.
Hell and damnation.
"Let her go, Boone. She's got nothing to do with our quarrel." At least, she better not, or a roasted rump would be the least of her worries.
