Bound for Sin

by Tess LeSue

  “And while we travel, I can win her and the children over, you see.”

  “I don’t see,” Matt said grimly.

  “You’ll have to grow back your beard and act more surly,” Wendell instructed.

  “He can get more surly?” Deathrider sounded surprised.

  “Just watch,” Matt said under his breath.

  “It’s perfect!” Wendell said.

  “No. It ain’t.”

  Wendell pointed the pistol straight at Deathrider and squinted one eye. “There’s an awful lot of people who’d like to know your friend here ain’t dead,” he said in a singsong voice. “And I cain’t see that it’s a huge inconvenience to you to go along with my plan. Especially to save his life.”

  “I hate to admit it, my friend,” Deathrider said regretfully, “but he’s right.”

  “What?”

  Deathrider had a malicious twinkle in his eye. “Surely not getting married is the least you can do to save my life?” he said.

  “You won’t even have to do anything!” Wendell assured him. “Just go about your business and let the lady think you’re acting as a shield. She won’t know I know. It’ll give her time to relax and get to know the real me.”

  “I bet the real you is a delight,” Deathrider said.

  Wendell didn’t seem to register his sarcasm. “And once we get to Fort Hall, you get to go off like you never even met us.”

  “And what if the lady doesn’t like you by Fort Hall?”

  Wendell shrugged. “What’s it matter to you? You can still call off the engagement, and I’ll escort her to California.”

  Matt felt a stirring of unease. He felt like they were playing with the lady’s life. It didn’t seem right. But it gave the lady what she wanted. And it kept the idiot quiet about Deathrider. All things considered, it was the path of least resistance.

  “Go on,” Deathrider said. “Shake on it.”

  “What in hell was that?” Matt raged at him when they’d ironed out the details and the idiot had finally left.

  Deathrider shrugged. “You didn’t want me to kill him.”

  “There’s a middle ground between not killing him and going along with his insane plan!”

  “It’s not so insane. Stupid, yes, but not insane. There’s a dumb logic to it.”

  “Is there?”

  Deathrider had the ghost of a smile. “At the very least, it will give us some entertainment on the trail.”

  “Us? You planning to come along after all?”

  Deathrider shrugged again. “Until I get bored.”

  “At which point you’ll leave me tangled up in this mess.”

  “Looks like it.” He winced as he lay back on the bed. He was chalkier than ever and shaking from the effort of staying upright as long as he had. “Where are you going?” he asked as Matt headed for the door.

  Matt didn’t answer.

  “Can you get some water sent up?”

  Matt slammed the door on him. The meddling, no-good horse’s ass.

  11

  “YOU LOOK LIKE you’re celebrating,” a honeyed voice crooned as a warm hand slid across the back of Matt’s neck.

  “Oh no,” Matt tried to say, but he was drunk and it came out as nonsense. No whores. Especially not this one. How had they ended up at a whorehouse? The last thing he’d known, they’d been at the saloon.

  He was only there to see Seb. They’d gone through their bookings and made lists for the next day. Then they’d had a few drinks. Josiah Sampson had found them sometime around the third or fourth drink, and then there’d been some more drinks. Matt wasn’t usually a big drinker, but he’d had a hell of a day.

  And now, somehow, he was at a whorehouse.

  “I knew you’d come find me eventually,” Seline purred as she lowered herself into his lap.

  “Matt’s getting married,” Seb told her cheerfully.

  “Not you too!” Seline pouted as she threaded her fingers through the hair at the base of his neck. She pulled on it just enough to direct his line of sight to her cleavage. It was magnificent cleavage, and it made Matt mighty uneasy. He could see the dark thrust of her nipples through the thin white cotton of her chemise.

  Matt felt a surge of panic and reached up to pull her fingers off him.

  “Yep, him too,” a third party chimed in. It was that idiot Wendell, who’d joined them at some point earlier in the evening and had started congratulating Matt loudly on his impending nuptials. Only he kept calling them nutshells. Because he was an idiot.

  Before Matt had been able to stop it, a group had gathered, and soon everyone was buying him drinks and congratulating him on “landing a big fish,” “roping a fresh-looking filly” and “bringing down the doe.” They all made it sound like he’d been out hunting.

  “Who are you marrying, honey?” Seline’s hands seemed to be everywhere now that he’d managed to unwind them from his hair.

  “That widow in the advertisement!” Joe Sampson crowed. “Can you believe it?”

  The group cheered again and made another toast.

  Matt winced. He couldn’t believe he was lying to Joe. He and Joe went way back.

  “The one from the jailhouse today?” Seline tilted her head. “Well, good for her.”

  “You mean good for him!” Pierre LeFoy slurred. “You hear she has a gold claim?”

  “Lucky boy.” She rubbed the flat of her hand over Matt’s nipple, and he felt a bolt of lightning run straight to his crotch. “You boys ought to buy him a send-off,” Seline suggested with a sly look. She jiggled in Matt’s lap and they all hooted.

  “That’s a great idea!” Seb yelled and started going through his pockets. “C’mon boys, let’s all chip in. How much do you cost, Seline?”

  “No.” Matt caught her hands, which were too close to his swelling crotch for comfort. “Not for me, thanks.”

  The crowd hooted again.

  “Don’t want to spoil your appetite, eh, Slater?”

  “Who can blame him! Have you seen her?” Some guy Matt didn’t know cupped his hands in front of his chest like he was cupping enormous breasts.

  Mrs. Smith. Blunt. Whatever her name was, she did have enormous breasts, Matt thought thickly, through the haze of booze. Incredible, round, high enormous breasts.

  He bit back a pained moan as Seline rubbed against him. He had to get out of here now.

  He lifted her up and set her aside. “Thanks for the offer, but I can’t take you up on it,” he mumbled.

  “Aw, honey, why not?” Seline cozied up to him and rested a hand on his chest. “Might be your last chance . . . and I have been longing to have a taste of you.” She lunged and was kissing him before he could sidestep her. Her tongue poked wetly at his closed lips. He turned his head away. “You sure, honey?” she whispered, disappointed. “Your brother was the best I ever had, and from the look of you, I reckon you’d be even better.”

  Matt winced. He didn’t want to think about his brother.

  “I’m going back to the hotel,” he said, trying to find his hat. He seemed to have lost it somewhere, in one of the saloons.

  “She waiting for you?” someone cackled.

  “I’d be rushing back too if a woman like that was waiting for me.”

  Screw his hat. He’d find it tomorrow.

  “Don’t wear her out before the wedding,” some fool called after him as Matt waved them off.

  Vaguely, Matt registered Wendell’s black look. Good. Let him stew in his jealousy. It was a hell of his own making.

  * * *

  • • •

  HE COULDN’T GO in the front door, Matt realized as he stumbled toward the hotel. Mrs. Bulfinch didn’t hold with drunkenness, and he was well and truly drunk. Drunker than he’d been in a good long time. Drunk enough to still be thinking about the w
ay Seline had felt in his lap.

  The thought sent a bolt of shame through him. There was something wrong with him. He should want to take her up on her offer. His body was certainly keen to. Most men would have no compunction about slapping their money down on the table and following Seline upstairs. But Matt couldn’t think of anything worse.

  He’d tried it once. It hadn’t gone well.

  No. He wasn’t going to think about that. It didn’t do any good to go dwelling on it. It was what it was, and he was fine going back to an empty bed. More than fine. He was glad of it.

  It was well into the early hours, but there were still men sitting around on the hotel porch, the tips of their cigars glowing orange in the night. Matt veered around the side of the building, feeling low as a bug. He fought his way through the hackberry bushes and round to the yard. He cursed when he saw there was a lamp burning in the lean-to around back of the building. Didn’t that Bulfinch woman ever sleep?

  He steadied himself against the wall of the building and momentarily considered sleeping in the stable.

  But it annoyed him to think that he’d be paying through the nose for a brass bed that he wasn’t using. Irritated, he ran his hands through his hair and brushed down the front of his shirt. He could probably get past her, if he was careful. He’d just have to try and look sober.

  Matt wasn’t too steady on his feet as he approached the lean-to. A wooden screen blocked his view into it, but he could see the back door, which was open. He kept his eye on the door as he tried to walk as quietly as possible. As he got closer, he could hear the sound of water sloshing and wood crackling in the stove. Someone was doing laundry. In the middle of the night.

  Of course Mrs. Bulfinch was the type to keep a laundry maid chained to the coppers day and night. That woman had an intense aversion to dirt, at least judging by all the extra cleaning fees she tried to charge. And she’d be too cheap to pay for the laundry service in town when she could have some girl slave for the cost of her room and board. Poor girl.

  Matt peered around the screen.

  Hell. It wasn’t a laundry girl. And it wasn’t Mrs. Bulfinch. Instead, standing over the steaming coppers, her face flushed and her dark curls damp against her neck, was Georgiana Bee Blunt. Her simple dark dress was unbuttoned at the throat, and she was pink with heat from the stove and from the exertion as she struggled to stir the clothes in the copper with a big wooden paddle. She wasn’t a tall woman, and she had to stand on tiptoe to manage. It made her movements awkward and slow.

  As Matt watched, she used the paddle to slop some of the clothes into the washtub, so she could swap wrestling with the paddle to wrestling with the washboard. Matt’s gaze lingered on the swell of her breasts as she bent over the tub. She was unbuttoned far enough to give him a tantalizing view of plump and creamy skin.

  She was even prettier without the sparkling dress and fussy hat. Matt hadn’t thought it could be possible for her to be prettier, but she was. Her cheeks were pink, her skin glistened, and her hair was tumbling from its pins in wayward curls. Without the enormous hoops of her silly dresses, her figure was revealed, in all its neat curves. Hypnotized, Matt leaned his head against the wooden screen. Still unsteady on his feet, he wobbled as his weight shifted, and he knocked the screen. It teetered alarmingly, and Georgiana looked up, startled. Matt struggled to keep the screen upright, swearing under his breath.

  Vaguely, he realized she’d been crying. She quickly swiped at her face with the backs of her hands. He felt like a heel. He’d been ogling her and here she was crying. Seriously crying. Now that he’d torn his gaze away from her figure and up to her face, he could see she was puffy eyed and red nosed.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

  She kept her face averted, and he heard her try to sniff surreptitiously.

  “Go ahead,” he said, “sniff if you want to sniff. I don’t mind.” He hadn’t spent much time around women in his life, not until his sister-in-law had moved into the house. And Alex wasn’t as ladylike as Georgiana. She would have just had a big, loud cry and sniff. And then she would have railed at him for barging in on her.

  Watching Georgiana’s embarrassment, he guessed proper ladies didn’t sniff in front of people. And, from the way she wasn’t meeting his eye, he guessed they didn’t cry in front of people either.

  In that way, it seemed proper ladies might be like men.

  “You must really hate doing laundry,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.

  It didn’t work.

  She looked up at him, and her gaze was full of mute misery. In the lamplight, her eyes were the color of ink. And then, as he watched, she seemed to pull herself together. He saw her give herself an imperceptible shake, purse her pretty lips and take a deep breath.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Slater,” she apologized, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead and brushing away a stray curl. “I didn’t realize anyone would be about at this time of night.”

  He flushed as she gave him a once-over. He knew what conclusions she must be drawing. He kept a hand on the screen, mostly to keep himself from swaying, but no matter how sober he strove to look, he was sure he looked exactly like what he was: a drunk.

  “Well, I think you’ll find there are a lot of people about this time of night,” he said, concentrating on speaking clearly. “Just not anyone you’d care to associate with.” He pulled a face at the sound of his own slurring. It was too hard to talk. He didn’t think he’d do it again.

  “Is that so?” The misery was melting from her, replaced with wryness.

  He nodded, sticking to his no-talking resolution.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she said, shrugging, “and I had all of this to do . . . ” She sighed and went back to the washboard. “It seemed a better idea to come down and do it, than lie there and fret.”

  Matt had a sudden image of her lying in bed. He wondered if her nightclothes looked anything like that getup Seline had been wearing. Filmy thin white cotton not-much-of-anything that showed the warmth of skin beneath.

  His gaze ran over her body as she bent over the washboard. She was standing side-on to him now, and he could see the curve of her breast every time she moved her arm. He had an urge to reach out and cup it. He wondered if it would feel firm or soft, if it would give beneath his hand or press back.

  Hell. What was wrong with him? He hadn’t been this randy in a long time. He was half-swollen and itchy-achy with lust.

  He was just drunk. And still all wound up from Seline pawing at him. That was all. And his mind kept drifting back to the idea that he was supposed to play Georgiana’s husband-to-be for the next few months. He’d be spending a lot of time with this woman and her blue, blue eyes. Not that she knew it yet.

  He needed to sober up. Food. That would help. He wondered what Mrs. Bulfinch had lying about. Abruptly, he headed for the kitchen.

  “What are you doing?” Georgiana called anxiously, when she heard the bang of him walking into the kitchen table. It wasn’t his fault. It was dark.

  “Getting some food. Want any?” He stood and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  “It must be two in the morning!”

  “No wonder I’m hungry.” He tried to find the icebox and kicked something over. It made a loud clatter.

  He heard a sigh. “Do you need a light?” She appeared at the back door with the lamp. God, she was pretty.

  “Thanks. I won’t take a minute.” Mostly because just looking at her made him itchy as hell. The sooner she went back to her wash, the better.

  Matt poured himself a glass of milk and fetched the fixings for sandwiches. He cut the bread as thick as planks of timber and piled on leftover boiled mutton, salted butter, mustard, cheese and tomatoes. The mutton was probably stringy as an old boot, judging by his previous experience of Mrs. Bulfinch’s cooking, so he lather
ed on the butter and mustard extra thick.

  He caught Georgiana’s look of astonishment. “What?”

  “Are all of those for you?”

  He looked down at the six sandwiches. “Why? Did you want one?”

  “No, thank you.” She watched him clamp one down, so the filling didn’t fall out. “But perhaps a glass of milk . . . ” She left the lamp on the table and went to the icebox. Matt found his gaze following her. He couldn’t seem to look away. She moved like a waterbird gliding across a river.

  He stood at the table and ate, watching her heat the milk in a saucepan. After a couple of sandwiches, he felt a little steadier.

  “Warm milk is supposed to help you sleep, ain’t it?” he said helpfully. “That’s what my ma said when I was little.”

  “I’m afraid I won’t be able to sleep until I finish the laundry.” She directed a rueful look at the laundry room. “I made the mistake of leaving some clothes in the copper overnight last night, and Mrs. Bulfinch blistered my ear. I have to get them done and hanging on the line before I go up.”

  “You’ll be up all night,” Matt said. “Laundry work ain’t quick.”

  “So I’m discovering,” she sighed. “I thought it would be quicker than this.”

  “You must have done laundry before.” How did she make stirring milk so damn sexy? It was something about the way she tilted her head as she did it. It drew attention to the line of her jaw, the long, vulnerable length of her neck, the slope of her breastbone as it led down to the curve of her . . .

  For the love of God. Stop looking at her.

  “No,” she admitted. “Not really. I had to dismiss the servants in January, but there was always a laundry service I could call on.”

  “There’s a laundry in town.”

  “I’m conserving money,” she said quietly. “And I suppose I thought that I should learn. I’ll have to do it on the trail.”

  “It won’t be like this,” he warned her. “There won’t be no warm water. You’ll be doing it in the stream.”

  She looked startled. “Oh. Of course.” She poured her milk into a teacup and joined him at the table. “I suppose there’s much I haven’t thought of.” She sat down.