Wild Dawn

by Cait London

  She shivered, trying to force her thoughts away from the mountain man.

  Picking up his huge hunting knife, MacGregor spit on the stone and caressed the shining steel across it. He ran his thumb across the blade, testing it. As though feeling her questioning gaze, he said, “Eat. Then sleep some more. It will heal you.”

  Licking her dry lips, Regina suddenly remembered Venus. “Could you spare your salve for my dog?”

  For an answer he scooped a flat tin from his saddlebags and rolled it across the floor to her. After finishing her meal, Regina carefully placed her china aside, then pried open the tin. She wrinkled her nose, the pungent odor filling the air. “What on earth is in this?”

  “Good enough for man or beast—grease, sulfur, leaves. Your dog will heal fine,” he answered without looking up from his task of sharpening a long, thin knife. He moved, settling his shoulder more comfortably against the wall, then settled back down to his task.

  After rubbing the ointment on Venus, Regina tried to stay awake. She dozed and then the big man eased her to the floor, settling her within the fur robe gently. Drowsily she touched his hand. “You can’t really expect to keep me, MacGregor....”

  Again he patted her bottom as though she were his favorite mare. “You’re mine and Jack’s now. You’ll do just fine,” he answered just as she slid off the velvet edge of sleep.

  When Regina awoke next, the afternoon light was dying, the shadows slipping around the cabin. Venus nuzzled her hand, urging Regina to pet her.

  MacGregor stood in his stocking feet, studying the fading day from the window. He’d shed the leather shirt, and the red woolen material outlined his powerful back as it tapered into the blue trousers that cupped his buttocks.

  Regina’s fingers smoothed the dog’s pelt as she watched the mountain man. Thick glossy waves rippled down the back of his neck, and the heavy muscles padding his broad shoulders slid beneath the red cloth. She wondered briefly how his skin would feel on her fingertips; how his muscles would slide beneath her touch.

  She hadn’t touched a man’s body in her lifetime, exploring it. Yet MacGregor’s tall body reminded her of the beautiful Greek statues standing in her father’s sculptured gardens.

  He placed a heavy cloth over the thin skins covering the open windows, a protection against the cold. “You’re awake, then,” he said without turning from his task.

  “Yes, I am.” Luxuriating in the fur, Regina continued to pet Venus. The cozy cabin locked the howling, fierce winter outside. Steam rose from the pot hanging over the fire, and an assortment of food tins and sacks of flour and sugar were neatly arranged on a shelf. Covered by a large cloth, a pan rested on a flat rock near the fire, and the soft bulge beneath suggested rising bread.

  Her washed clothing dried on pegs placed into the log walls, and he’d cut wood. Her teacup and saucer perched on her heavy traveling chest.

  She yawned and stretched, feeling better than she had for days. “You must think I’m quite lazy, a lie-abed, sleeping like this,” she ventured, slowing rising to her feet.

  Brushing the wrinkles from her skirt, Regina tried to arrange her hair and her scant dignity. The rest and food had strengthened her, yet she knew she couldn’t match a man who wrapped danger around him like a shroud.

  Except when he looked at his son, there was a flat look to his face. As though he’d faced hell and it had claimed his soul. When he didn’t answer, she padded to the fire, watching the orange flames lick at the blackened stone. The sight reminded her of the family kitchens—

  England. A continent and an ocean away. How stupid of her to trust Covington after shaming him. Wrapping her arms about herself, she glanced at the sleeping baby, whose plump cheeks moved rhythmically as he dreamed of his milk.

  MacGregor loved and would protect his child, however rough his methods...

  ~**~

  In England the Marquess of Fordington, Nigel Mortimer-Hawkes, crushed the colored glass covering his desk with the butt of his pistol.

  In a sweep of his large hand he sent the glittering prisms sailing to the Persian carpet. His amethyst eyes darkened beneath their blond lashes, his handsome mouth pressed into a thin, cruel line. “So, my proud beauty. You’ve finally proved me right. Thievery runs in your blood. So much for promises to wed an honest Englishman. I shall have to teach you a lesson once more, Pagan.”

  He folded a thin strip of morocco leather and struck the teak desk, causing the remaining crushed glass to dance within the black velvet. Pulling a bell rope, he summoned a servant, then told the man, “I’m taking a trip to the Colonies.”

  After a quick list of needs, Mortimer-Hawkes dismissed the man with a flourish of his hand. He splashed stout Irish whiskey into an elegant glass. “So, Pagan. You’re making a run for it, are you? Just like your mother tried and failed. I always brought her back. I owned her in every way and made certain she knew that flesh, bone and soul, she was mine to do with as I wished. I broke her finally, as I will you, my loving daughter....”

  He studied the amber liquid in the glass, thinking of the legend Mariah had whispered to him long ago. The man who holds the woman of the Mariah Stone will have the power of kings as long as she lives.

  Scanning his great estate, built after his marriage, Mortimer-Hawkes knew that he could not let his daughter escape him. He had thrown weak suitors at her, knowing that he alone would rule her power. Covington could be easily managed and cast aside if necessary.

  But Pagan and her Mariah-Stone power were his.

  ~**~

  Watching the sleeping baby, Regina decided she needed rest... then she’d leave, claiming her jewels from Lord Covington’s camp.

  Suddenly the skin on the back of her neck seemed to lift, like Venus’s hackles rising when danger approached. Regina straightened, refusing to show the fear racing through her as she sensed MacGregor standing behind her. She shivered beneath the light shawl, knowing that he could easily strangle her with one large hand. His heat warmed the length of her backside, the fire crackling before her.

  “You’re thinking about running from me. About how to count coup on the duke,” he drawled softly.

  “He is an earl,” she answered flatly, angered that he had tracked her thoughts perfectly. “My father is a marquess,” she lashed at him, then closed her eyes.

  “Is that so, Duchess?” MacGregor asked after a sound that could have been a chuckle.

  Nurtured in the wilds, MacGregor had no concept of nobility, nor the savage games they could play. She’d escaped her father as she would the mountain man. But first she needed one thing from her old life. “I need my saddle.”

  His hand rested on her arm, and Regina shifted away from his light touch. “Hate can eat a person’s insides,” he said darkly. “Turn them into what they hated. There are other saddles—”

  “Revenge?” she interrupted sharply. “I can manage that myself, thank you, Mr. MacGregor.”

  Gripping the shawl tighter about her, Regina opened her eyes to stare at the flames. The coals glowed like the rubies, the sparks like a shower of tiny diamonds... her payment for freedom.

  Taking her shoulders in his hands, he urged her gently aside, then bent to stir the thick soup with a wooden spoon. Replacing the cloth covering the bread with a heavy lid, MacGregor placed the pan into a corner of the fireplace. Scooping coals onto a flat board, he placed them carefully on the lid.

  She wanted that raspy low voice to curl around her loneliness. “You’re baking bread,” she remarked, prodding him to speak.

  After a moment his silence grated. She nudged a stick with her rag-covered toe. “Of course you’re baking bread. You’re obviously engaged in making a meal,” she snapped.

  MacGregor nodded. “Sourdough. Not hard if the starter doesn’t die.” He reached for a large pan and settled it on the floor. Then he took a bucket filled with Jack’s soiled cloths, dumped them into the pan, and poured another bucket of hot water over them.

  This man had shot three men and
provided for her needs while she slept, then he laundered the baby’s things. How nice, she thought—a henchman and a maid and a nanny, all rolled into one tall, rough-looking man. When she tried to smother her nervous chuckle, MacGregor turned on his haunches to look up at her.

  Covering her smile with her hand, Regina offered, “Well, it is strange to see a man like you tend a baby.”

  MacGregor rose slowly to his full height. When he stood near her, Regina stepped back to meet his eyes. “No one has laughed at me since I was a boy. I don’t like it,” he stated slowly. “You’d do well to remember that, Duchess.”

  Refusing to give way to her fear, Regina pressed her lips together. “I’ve been threatened all my life. You might as well kill me now, MacGregor. Make short work of it, if you will. Because I intend to laugh as I desire.”

  Beneath his beard, his jaw shifted. The deep-set eyes warmed, traveling over her proud stance from head to toe and back. “You’re a fiery little broody hen,” he said slowly, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Jack will need that.”

  “You said that before. What Jack needs is—” Regina could feel the wild temper she’d kept stored for years begin to simmer. Keeping a leash on her anger, she said between her teeth, “I am trying to be pleasant.”

  “Pleasant,” he repeated slowly, as though tasting the word. “I watched you whip a man to his knees.”

  “I was deeply angry—” Regina frowned. “The only time I touched a whip to a man was when Covington.... You saw?” she gasped, realizing now how he had scouted the hunting camp and witnessed the scene.

  “Already told you I’d been watching you. We’ll eat soon.” MacGregor folded his arms across a chest that blocked the rest of the room from Regina’s vision. He shifted his weight over those long legs as though he could wait until Doomsday. “You’ll feel better with a full belly. The book says females and babies are like that.”

  “Book?”

  He nodded slowly, moving his long legs apart and tilting his head to one side. “I can read. A Black Robe... a Spanish priest... whipped it into me at the mission.”

  His lazy drawl caused her to want to rip into him. Regina wrapped her fingers in her shawl, straining for control. “Of course you can read. And your book... what does it say about women? That the only way to get one is to waylay her?”

  “Haven’t read it all, ma’am. Just some parts to help me with Jack.” He shifted again, rubbing the flat of his hand across his upper arm.

  “And women?”

  “Yes, ma’am. When I decided to go woman hunting for Jack, a settler’s wife gave it to me. Has recipes you’ll be needing, too. Cooking and such. She wrote me how to make bread, the loaf kind with fresh butter and honey melting on it. Soon as we reach my place, you might get started on it.”

  Tethering her growing anger, Regina swallowed, gripping her upper arms tightly. Her head went back, the cords running along her neck tightening with tension. “You can’t treat me like your son, MacGregor. Telling me what’s best. You may choose what’s best for your child. But not for me.”

  The wrinkles radiating from his eyes deepened, a sparkle beginning in the depths of the dark eyes. “That’s what a man does—tell his woman what’s best for her,” he answered easily. “The way I figure it—about raising Jack—is we’ll have to work at it, like two mules pulling in harness.”

  “Oh!” Regina stamped her rag-clad food. “Perhaps if I give you a good thrashing, you’ll come to your senses.”

  “Yes, ma’am... anytime you’re ready. I reckon as your husband, I’ll have to take the edge off that temper a time or two. If you don’t beat me too hard,” he agreed easily. “Better eat. It’ll settle you down some. Go on now, take care of yourself outside, and then we’ll eat.”

  Regina’s cheeks burned, her fists knotting in her skirt with the urge to fly at him. She’d managed to slide through threats smoothly in the past years, untouched by the savage anger she’d suddenly discovered with Covington. This mountain man could bring temper writhing out of her like a viper from hell.

  “I want you to know,” she began slowly, picking each word and sliding it between the edges of her teeth. “It wouldn’t serve you to anger me. I could be dangerous when aroused.”

  “Uh-huh,” he agreed too easily, dismissing her threat as though it were a clinging leaf. “But the bread will be done soon, and we’ll eat then. I like hot bread with my meal.”

  For a moment Regina glared up at him. “I hate you, MacGregor,” she stated slowly. “And if I were you, I’d add a measure of soda to Jack’s wash. From the stench of it, it needs sweetening.”

  Later, after the savory venison and barley stew had warmed her, Regina was still angry. MacGregor’s smug look, that of a hunter who had caught his quarry, nagged at her.

  Satisfied, was he? she stormed silently, fighting the impulse to dump the remainder of her stew over his head. But he’d taken her advice, setting the wash aside to soak as they ate. Venus gnawed on a bone near the corner, and Jack awoke, wailing in hunger. MacGregor was instantly alert, placing his tin cup of coffee aside to prepare Jack’s milk.

  Tall and dominating the small cabin space, MacGregor was lean and muscular, a certain grace touching his movements.

  She’d seen sharks before, almost admired the leisurely manner they approached their prey. MacGregor had that same grace. He was dangerous, possessed with the idea of having a wife and mother for his son. When he settled Jack in his arms, the tenderness in MacGregor’s expression tugged at her emotions.

  Feeling better, she examined the contents of her traveling chest. Delving inside, she traced the small bump hidden in the satin lining. Her ruby eardrops were still safe; they were the only part of her inheritance her father had let her keep. He wanted to torment her, dangling the rest of the jewels in his grasp.

  Regina smiled—the jewels weren’t tucked away in the family vault.... If she could just manage to escape the mountain man and get back to her saddle—

  The small sewing box lay within the trunk, and Regina inspected her drying clothing. Her linens had been torn, the fine French lace damaged, the buttons loosened.

  The dark, lonely feeling came stalking her like a cat seeking a plump mouse. In the trunk a velvet riding jacket was torn at the sleeve, a reminder of when Alfred had slapped her. A loosened ruffle streamed from her best blouse, worn for teatime on the American plains. Her French silk pantaloons were tattered, the lace and ribbon shredded.

  Suddenly chilled inside, Regina threw the clothing to the floor. Covering her face with her hands, she shuddered, fighting for control. How her father would have loved to see her frightened, cowering like the helpless female he wanted her to be!

  Swallowing the last of her quiet sobs, she straightened her shoulders. Clutching the shawl around her, she thought of her father.

  Hawkes tried to create his daughter, an only child, into a malleable woman. Through Regina, he would have his heir and control over his dead wife’s jewels—her marriage dowry, and a legacy from her grandmother. But Regina had refused his selection of suitors. When she took a husband, it would be on her terms.

  Her jaw ached, her teeth clamped together tightly. Warmth slid along her side, seeping into her chilled flesh. “Go away, MacGregor.”

  ~**~

  Chapter Four

  “I’m tying your hands now, ma’am,” MacGregor said quietly beside her.

  Regina’s heart jumped frantically when she looked up into the shadows, meeting his quiet stare. Her fingers twisted in her skirt, bunching the dirty fabric. What was he planning to do to her? Was he like the men who had kidnapped her? “Why?”

  MacGregor lifted a heavy eyebrow at her before answering too patiently. “Jack’s needing a bath. And you might take a queer notion into your head. He might get cold while I’m messing with you.”

  Regina’s eyebrows shot up, her expression indignant. “Messing with me?”

  “Mmm, you might get some silly female notion—”


  “I have had enough of your ideas of women needing to be led and tended like sheep. You sweep in here and decide to claim me whether I want to marry you or not.... Oh, of course I have several choices ranging from tribal squaw to being used in a trader’s back room. Or I could choose dying here in this cabin.”

  She tapped her forehead. “I have what is called a brain and a soul... I use them just as any man would. Do... you... understand, Mr. MacGregor?” she asked slowly, spacing her words.

  MacGregor’s low chuckle filled the cabin. “I savvy, but you’re still getting tied.”

  Regina stepped back to gauge MacGregor’s size. “You have my word of honor, MacGregor. I will not run into the wilds just yet. But you will not tie my hands. I will fight you—”

  “Females,” he muttered, then bent and in one smooth motion picked her up, carrying her to the fire. Before Regina could lash out, her wrists were neatly tied by a leather thong. MacGregor wrapped a fur about her, tucking her feet beneath a fold. Crouching beside her, he grinned at her furious expression and tapped her on the nose with his finger. “Stay put.”

  Blowing a strand of hair back from her face, Regina glared at him. “You realize this is quite unbecoming of a gentleman, MacGregor. I should call you out for damaging my honor. But I’ll forgive you if you untie me... now.”

  She thrust out her tied wrists.

  When she raised her arms higher for his inspection, the torn edges of her sleeves fell back, and his expression stilled. Taking her wrists in one hand, he turned her pale arms gently until the bruised inner sides were exposed to the firelight.

  MacGregor’s large thumb ran across the purple mottled patches, lightly testing them. Watching his hand skim across her skin, Regina held her breath and gathered her strength to fight.

  His thumb slid slowly along her wrists as he studied the pale flesh and the reddened nail scratches put there by harsh hands. The brush of his skin chilled her, made her ache to scream, the gentle touch more frightening than the rough, determined hands.