by Cait London
Escaping the mound of lace and silk held in MacGregor’s large hands, her silk pantalettes slithered to the rough-hewn floor. For a moment MacGregor stared at them as though they were venomous snakes ready to bite through his boots. His rough features shifted, a reddish tint rising beneath the darkly tanned skin.
“Fancy women’s things. Wouldn’t hold in a strong wind,” he muttered uneasily, carefully placing the clothing next to her. A shred of lace clung to his large dark fingers and MacGregor ran his thumb over it slowly, reminding Regina of the gentle way he had touched her cheek.
“They tossed all your things from the trunks into the bushes. I gathered what I could along the way.” He rose and turned toward the fire. “The men... soiled them.”
In a moment of panic, Regina remembered the hard blow to her cheek and the way the three men had run their greedy hands over her breasts and thighs.
“I wanted to study a flock of Navajo sheep, and Lord Covington arranged for the men to take me on the expedition. With crossbreeding perhaps they could toughen my strain. Suddenly the men were tearing at my clothes... forcing me to run after the horses until we reached here—”
She closed her eyes and the horrible scene came crashing back at her....
~**~
“It’ll just take a minute, Sam. I want to taste that prime English meat.... Me first....”
“Nah. We’ll keep her here, then come back after we get rid of that duke. From the looks of her, we wouldn’t get back for our money soon enough. We’ll wait.... then we can take all winter breaking her.”
“But, Sam—”
“Plenty of time later. The duke wants us back now, and he’s paying hard dollars—”
“He’s a mean seven-sided son of a bitch, killed that good horse for getting snake-scared. That buzzard is done with her—so why can’t we poke her a little?”
Dazed and lying on the cabin floor, Regina had heard the bone-shattering blow and a man’s weight hit the floor. “What I say goes, Krebs. We’ll have her fancy bones all winter. She can be your maid, old man. Wash your drawers.”
Sam’s fiendish laughter rang out before the cabin door slammed.
~**~
Regina shook her head to dislodge the nightmare and thought she heard someone speaking....
“I cooked a haunch on the spit,” MacGregor was saying, crouched at the fireplace. “Made some broth and some hot water for tea. English ladies like tea, don’t they? I got some at the settlement store when I bought drawers for Jack.”
“There’s a settlement near here? Oh, please—”
“No, ma’am. Big Hawk’s Grove is in the other direction. We’re headed for north country across the Sangres and the flats to my place... you and me... and Jack. There’s nothing to the south or the east but trouble.”
She shivered, fighting against her tears. She had planned and come so far.... “I’d rather die here,” she whispered carefully.
His lips pressed into a straight line. “You just might. Comanche, Sioux, Kiowa, Cheyenne are fighting soldiers, settlers, and miners for the whole territory. A woman like you would be prime blanket makings for red or white.”
MacGregor’s long hard fingers tightened on his thigh. “You’ve got the night to decide. Why don’t you rest now?”
His question was darkly ominous, and Regina breathed quietly as she met his gaze. The mountain man could only be pushed so far, and in his way he was warning her....
With the jewels in her hands, she could pay for safe passage.... Tucked into her saddle, they would pay for her new life. “Did you collect my saddle from the men?”
“No, ma’am. That fancy bit of leather wasn’t with them. You’ll be needing a proper saddle.”
Tiredly she cuddled the baby against her breast and closed her eyes. She rubbed her throbbing temple with slow, circular motions, wishing the nightmare would dissolve. She’d planned so carefully, storing the jewels in her pommel and tormenting Alfred into the hunting trip into the wilderness.... She needed that saddle, and then she would be free. “MacGregor,” she began warily, “I have to get my saddle—”
“You want to count coup—take your revenge, I’d say by the look in those stormy eyes,” he murmured in that low, soothing tone he used for Jack. “Give you a day or two, and you’ll be right back up to the fighting spitfire.”
Her lids flew open. How could the mountain man possibly know anything about her?
MacGregor pilfered through a large sack, dragged out a clean cloth, and placed it over his broad shoulder. “Do you want me to take Jack? He needs his back rubbed now. Cries if his stomach hurts. In just a minute he’ll be asleep, then we can take care of you.”
“What? What do you mean, ‘take care of me’?” She’d had enough of men’s rough hands pawing at her; she’d fight him with her last breath.
MacGregor shrugged, then rubbed his shoulder slowly. “I like the way you don’t flutter about. Speak your mind plain.... You’ll be needing to eat and clean up some. Then you can sleep all you want. You’ll need the rest for our trip—when you decide to live.”
Regina’s fingers tightened on the baby. Her father and Lord Covington had criticized her for speaking her mind and because she didn’t “flutter about.” Yet a crude mountain man admired those traits?
MacGregor leveled a dark, serious stare at her. “I’ll wait until you see it my way—”
“What?”
“Females have their ways of letting men know when the time is right, that’s all.”
Sputtering a moment before she found the right words, she snapped, “How crude! You can wait until Doomsday. I shall never... never—”
MacGregor tucked the cape over Regina’s cold feet and held each foot with his hands, warming her. He rubbed her arch with his thumbs, following the high arc slowly as though scouting new territory. Placing her foot on his hand, he studied the contrast.
“Small, narrow—like a child’s.... Mating comes natural, ma’am,” he offered easily, patting the robe. “It wasn’t necessary for them to take those little fancy shoes of yours. They weren’t any good anyway.”
When Jack began to squirm, Regina raised him to her shoulder to run the flat of her hand up and down his small back. “Mating, indeed. As if I’d—”
She looked away from MacGregor’s dark eyes, the wrinkles deepening with humor as she blushed wildly. Thoughts of his large body moving over her slighter one caused her to shiver. MacGregor would be whipcord lean and hairy and hard and....
She ran her tongue along her suddenly dry lips, forcing herself to stare back at him. His finger strolled down her hot cheek, testing it again, and she jerked back.
“I reckon we can manage the mating part fine, once you’re back in prime and feeling sassy,” he said in a low, husky voice that caused her to shiver.
Regina stared at him, her heart pounding. Something hot and dark gleamed beneath his thick lashes, a look of stark desire that no man had thrown at her.
Something just as stark and wild went scooting down her body, heating it. Regina swallowed, fighting the urge to move into the safety of his arms.
She shivered, fighting the impulse of her body to press against his, to savor his lean strength. But the reality of her emotions were based on the simple need of human contact, the aftermath of her trauma. It was only natural that she would respond to the first kindness offered. But MacGregor was a hunter and a taker, and she was in danger of falling into his grasping hands. She would be no more free than in England.
“I’m not going with you, sir. But you are welcome to rest for the night here,” she managed evenly. “Please reconsider my offer to look after Jack until we reach civilization.”
Jack burped and she nuzzled his black hair, cuddling the warmth of his small body against her.
“Civilization,” MacGregor repeated bitterly. “The countryside is red with blood. I told you, my boy is half Indian.... That’s why I’m taking him into the mountains—to keep him alive until he’s learned enough to survive
by himself. If something should happen to me, there are folks that will keep him. Right now I’m doing the best I can—getting a woman like you.”
He breathed deeply, spreading his hands and studying them intently. “We’ll palaver again, when you’re feeling better. I expect I’ll have my hands full with you and Jack. He’s about worn me out.”
MacGregor deftly arranged a woolen blanket into a pallet near the fire. He folded several other blankets, carefully forming them around the pallet. “Keeps the cold air off Jack,” he explained as though he hadn’t been talking of “mating” a moment ago. “He’s sleeping now. Let me have him.”
Placing Jack on the pallet, he began to change the baby’s wet cloths. The tender, clumsy way MacGregor’s dark hands patted cornstarch on the tiny buttocks entranced Regina. She watched quietly as he covered the baby and gave him a gentle pat on the glossy black head.
“Old Jack likes petting,” he explained almost shyly. “I didn’t get any loving when I was a youngster, and I want my boy to know how it feels—the touching.... Do you know what I mean?”
He hesitated, gauging her reactions. As though he weren’t used to revealing any part of himself.
Oddly, Lady Regina Mortimer-Hawkes knew exactly what the rough frontiersman meant. She’d had little or no tenderness in her life, following the strict social codes of her set—a miniature lady with perfect manners.
“I’ve got water heating... for baths. There’s plenty of good soap for you and Jack this winter.” MacGregor foraged in another bag and carefully extracted her china cup and saucer. He placed them on the floor and poured the hot broth into the cup.
The sight of the dainty violet-patterned cup sliced through her uneasy control. She’d packed the china set for high tea during the expedition. Suddenly tears heated her lids, oozing through her lashes.
MacGregor breathed harshly, kneeling by her side and wrapping his hand around her neck, smoothing it. “You’re like Jack... you’ll feel better with something in your stomach.”
Regina found herself leaning against his hand, the tears coming faster. The silvery trail slid across the back of his hand before he lifted it away. Rubbing the damp spot slowly, he cleared his throat, looking out into the night. After a moment he held the cup and saucer up to her. “Broth. You can have meat when you’re feeling stronger.”
He placed the saucer on her lap, taking care to see that she held it firmly. “Drink up, Lady Hawkes.”
Easing her fingers around the cup, MacGregor cradled her hand to lift the rim of the cup to her lips.
“How do you know my name?” she managed after a burning sip of the broth. The nourishing taste curled around her tongue, and she savored the warm slide of the liquid down her throat.
Her stomach contracted instantly and she grimaced. MacGregor reached beneath the cape to rub her sunken stomach as though he were tending his infant son. The broad warmth of his palm traveled slowly across her body until it brushed her breast.
He paused, staring down at her pale face. Then slowly, his palm covered her breast, resting warm and heavy over her flesh. “You’re small,” he whispered softly. “Your heart is beating like the wings of a trapped bird.”
Unable to move, Regina inhaled sharply. MacGregor’s lean fingers tightened slightly, cupping her softness, his thumb rubbing the inner perimeter in a slow caress.
“It’s been a long time—soft,” he said in a low, rough tone that caused her heart to pound heavily.
Stunned, Regina breathed lightly, watching the dark flickering gaze holding hers. MacGregor’s thumb ran quickly across her breast, leaving a taut nub in its passing.
Something live and hot passed between them, MacGregor’s features hardening instantly. Inside her, a fierce need to stroke his hard cheek rose, her body trembling with an excitement she didn’t want to feel.
She looked away, easing her body from his hand, and heard him inhale sharply.
When she looked at the mountain man again, his expression was grim. “There wasn’t enough of you to start with. They should have left you food.”
“There’s no need to fondle me like a cow on the auction block,” she said, trembling as his fingertips found her again with that soft gentling touch. No man had dared touch her until she had been kidnapped. Regina breathed in sharply, fighting the urge to hold his hand flat on her stomach. “Take your hands off me.”
His fingertips slowly circled the perimeter of her breast, then slid away. “You’re touchy. That’s good. A man likes to know his woman hasn’t been on too many blankets.”
“Good Lord, man,” she hissed, a sudden heat moving through her body. “Don’t you know anything about gallantry and chivalry? A gentleman doesn’t—”
“Gallantry and chivalry?” MacGregor’s rugged face caught the firelight, a muscle contracting high on his cheekbone. “Saw plenty of that in the war when the officers—gallant, chivalrous gentlemen—raped a countryside and killed harmless people.... I told you flat out that I don’t know much about sweet talk. That’s why Jack needs you. So he can mix with your kind. And have some of me in him, too.”
Between her teeth Regina said quietly, “The first thing you must learn, MacGregor, is that a man doesn’t talk about a lady... being on blankets.”
In the shadows his eyes gleamed. “Huh. How does she know when he wants to?”
“Do what?” she finished, realizing as the words left her mouth that MacGregor was speaking of his “mating.” Regina had images of MacGregor’s hard body moving over hers—she swallowed, helpless as the hot blush rose from her neck to her cheeks. “There are other ways, I presume.”
For a long moment their stares locked. Then MacGregor stared at the rapidly beating pulse in Regina’s throat. He placed a fingertip over it, and she jerked away, still staring helplessly at him.
“They’d be slow ways to please a man,” he said roughly. Taking her rag-covered feet between his hands again, MacGregor massaged warmth into her. When Regina weakly tried to draw her legs free, MacGregor circled her ankles within the span of his hands, gently shackling her.
In a low tone that reminded her of a wolf defending a fresh kill, he said, “You wanted to know.... I’ve been scouting your trail for three weeks, Duchess. Started right after I heard that the English would pay anyone to kill you and make it look like an accident. I don’t hold with wasting a woman anyway.... If they didn’t want you, I did. What there is of you... you’re not much but a pile of bones,” he added after mulling the thought over. “And dirty as a well-used whore.”
“A whore!” Her open hand slashed toward his face, and MacGregor’s fingers wrapped around her wrist.
He eased her arm down and covered it with the robe. “I’m not calling you a whore, ma’am. Those are just words,” he murmured quietly, watching her.
“I’d be a whore if I went with you,” she shot back hotly. “A gentleman doesn’t use the word when he’s with a lady.”
She hated the tears trailing down her cheeks, the need to curl into a ball and force the world away.
MacGregor nodded solemnly, his thumb wiping away her tears gently. “See? Those are things I want my boy to know.... I’m offering the marriage bed and a house, not a soiled dove’s crib behind a saloon,” he said quietly, huskily. “We’ll be married as soon as we can find someone to say the words. We’ve talked enough, go on to sleep now,” he said gently in the tone he used for the baby.
Regina tried to stare back at him, but her lids closed slowly. “By Jesus, you look like a scrap of a half-grown girl,” he muttered roughly before freeing her.
She wanted to lash out at him, but the warmth of the meat broth had filled her, the smoky scent of the heavy robe drawing her down into its depths. Unable to keep her eyes open, Regina slipped deeper into the lush folds.
MacGregor tugged gently at the robe to cover her face. When she snuggled in the luxurious warmth, MacGregor chuckled and patted her bottom as affectionately as he would his sleeping son.
Unbidden, her fin
gers slipped out to find his hand. She touched his calloused palm, then drifted into sleep.
~**~
Chapter Three
MacGregor leaned against the cabin wall, stretching his long legs before the blazing fire. Jack slept and made suckling noises as the wind howled outside the cabin.
The thin dog nestling against the woman had come scratching at the cabin door two hours ago. Catching the scent of her mistress, the sleek English greyhound had followed MacGregor at a distance. Inside the cabin she had cowered against the woman’s sleeping body, whining when MacGregor placed the pan of cold broth and a deer leg bone nearby. He had talked quietly to the dog, noting the long whip marks crisscrossing the thin body. The dog rose shakily to lick the broth, her eyes watching him fearfully.
Now the dog snuggled to the woman’s side, a pitiful creature watching MacGregor with distrust, jumping at the slightest sound. The bitch had the look of a captured, tortured soldier, MacGregor decided, settling his back against the log wall.
He grimaced, the pain reminding him of the bullet lodged just beneath the skin. Turning his shoulder carefully to protect the new injury, MacGregor sighed deeply. One of the men he’d wounded had managed the shot before MacGregor’s slug slammed into his other leg.
Probing the painful area, MacGregor frowned. He’d carried lead before; the bullet would work itself out. And if not, then later, when his boy and the woman were safe, a friend would cut it out.
The fire crackled and the dog jumped, watching him for a long moment before settling her muzzle over the woman’s legs. MacGregor recognized the look of wild-eyed fear in animal or man as they fought sleep; he’d seen it often in the war.
MacGregor stared into the fire. War would always reach out bloody tentacles, snagging his thoughts. Before Jack, MacGregor’s sleep ended in nightmares of cannon shot and missing limbs, of the human vultures ripping away at the dead’s clothing and jewelry.
