She loosened her hold on the blanket, enough to let it slide down her shoulders, slowly, to her waist. She trembled at the touch of the air against her wet skin. She was still soaked, hadn’t had the chance to towel herself dry. And her thin cotton camisole wasn’t much in the way of clothing.
Everything would be all right, she told herself nervously. All he could see was her back.
On the other hand, she thought a second later, he was taller than her. Which meant he could probably see over her shoulder.
“Move your hair out of the way.”
His voice had shifted again, gotten deeper. Softer.
She reached up with one hand and lifted the sopping mass of curls off her back, pulling her long hair around in front of her, glad that it offered a bit more coverage than her damp camisole.
“Now move this out of the way.” He touched the bottom hem of the garment.
Take a breath, Annie ordered herself, the brush of his fingertips against her spine sizzling through her like a lightning bolt. Take a breath. It took a moment for the command to travel from her brain to her lungs.
With trembling fingers, she tugged her camisole up, just far enough to expose her rib cage.
He swore, vividly.
Annie knew why: because he could see her bruise, the ugly black and purple and yellow mark that stretched halfway around her. “It only looks bad because it’s healing,” she told him. “At least, that’s what Daniel says.”
He didn’t reply. She heard him unrolling the bandage.
And a second later, she couldn’t form another rational thought.
Because he had leaned closer, reaching around her to start wrapping her ribs with the long strip of white fabric. She couldn’t move a muscle, vividly aware of the rough feel of his wool shirt brushing against her back. And his hands. And every droplet of water sliding down the curves of her body. And his breath soft against the nape of her neck.
And his hands.
She had never experienced his touch this way before—strong and yet gentle, so careful of her, so... tender against her skin.
“You all right?”
“Yes,” she lied, her voice a breathy whisper. She inhaled and exhaled in shallow, unsteady little gasps. And not just because it was always a bit painful having her injuries tended.
Annie shut her eyes, her heart thumping wildly as he continued working, smoothly and efficiently. She wished she had opened the curtains. The room felt too enclosed, enveloped in heat and darkness and silence. Like they were the only two people in the world.
She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her vision, her thoughts. How was it that Lucas McKenna could render her so addle-brained?
How could he stir her blood as no man ever had?
“Never seen broken ribs heal up this quick,” he commented, sounding perfectly calm, cool. Not the least bit addled. “Your señorita friend must put some magic ingredients in that potion of hers.”
“Maybe.” Desperate to fill the silence, Annie tried to think of something more to say. “Being a marshal must be dangerous work, if you and your deputies get injured a lot.”
His only response was a noncommittal grunt, which she couldn’t interpret. Did he mean it wasn’t really all that dangerous?
Or he didn’t care about the danger?
“The papers say you’re one of the best.” After a moment, she added, “Marshals.”
“I do all right.”
That sounded modest. Odd, she thought, for a man she had considered arrogant.
“Where do you live?” she asked impulsively. “In Indian Territory?”
For a long moment, he didn’t reply. The crackling of the fire on the hearth and the spattering of the rain against the windows made the only sound. She thought maybe he wouldn’t tell her. Maybe it wasn’t his habit to reveal personal information to anyone.
Especially not to an outlaw in his custody.
“I keep a few things in a rooming house thereabouts.”
“Oh.” That didn’t sound like much of a home.
In fact, it sounded rather... lonely.
Annie batted that thought away, reminding herself she shouldn’t—didn’t—care about the man who held her prisoner. She looked around the room, trying to think of something else to talk about. Something neutral and safe.
Her attention settled on the mirror that filled the opposite wall.
She blinked, her eyes widening as she stared at their reflection, at the two of them in the firelight—sitting so close together, his hands so large and dark and strong against her pale skin, her body almost naked except for the skimpy camisole and the blanket bunched around her hips.
A quiver went through her. He lifted his head.
And their gazes met in the mirror.
Chapter 8
He’d made one hell of a mistake coming in here.
Lucas’s heart thundered louder than a Comanche war drum as he stared at their reflection. Antoinette remained utterly still, her back as straight as one of the iron bars on her cell door, her eyes wide and dark.
A bead of sweat slid down his temple. Damn it, he never should have let himself help her. Or touch her. Should’ve left her lying on the floor. Should’ve left once he made sure she wasn’t seriously hurt.
He should leave now.
But he didn’t.
He didn’t move a muscle, the roll of bandages gripped in his hand. Her breathing had become rapid, shallow. His whole body felt heavy and hard. God Almighty, he had been trying to do something considerate, something right.
Instead, everything had gone wrong.
Until this moment, she hadn’t even seemed to understand the effect she had on him—sitting here within his reach, half-naked, all soft curves and wet skin.
And sweet, tantalizing scent. He longed to bury his face in her damp hair, kiss the nape of her neck, her shoulder. Wanted to let his other hand slide beneath the blanket, to find out if those pantalettes were the kind with a slit in the center.
He wanted to pull her back against him and let his fingers seek her soft, feminine heat. Touch her breasts through the damp fabric of her camisole until her nipples beaded against his palm and her slender spine arched with the pleasure. Ease her down onto the chaise, shift her body beneath his...
Lucas shut his eyes and tore the bandage. Why the hell had he offered to wrap up her ribs in the first place? He should’ve gone for the doctor. Why hadn’t he just gone and gotten the damned doctor?
But as he tucked in the frayed end securely against her side he knew why: because part of him was glad she hadn’t wanted to see Holt. Not just because he suspected the two of them were cooking up an escape plan... but because he didn’t like the way he felt every time he saw them together.
He didn’t want to think of her with Holt. Or any man.
Except himself.
Lucas glared at her back, resting his hands on his thighs, his fingers digging into the rigid muscles through the fabric of his trousers. The realization was stunning, unforgivable. Undeniable.
He wanted her, in a way he didn’t entirely understand. Wanted Antoinette all to himself. All of her. All...
“All done,” he said, his voice low and sharp.
“Th-thank you.” She stood up, wrapping the blanket around her like a cloak as she moved away from him, her steps wobbly.
He almost rose to help her but didn’t trust himself to touch her again. If he dared move one muscle, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from putting his heated thoughts into action. He would have her on the bed and out of that camisole and pantalettes in about ten seconds flat.
You’re not that irresistible, Antoinette.
A lie. Even when he’d said it, he’d known it was a lie. So he stayed right where he was, keeping himself absolutely still. She took a seat on the chair beside the fire, turning so her back was to him. And he sat there. Trembling with unsatisfied hunger.
Damn it, she actually made him tremble.
The blanket now concealed her fr
om neck to ankles, but it did nothing to lessen her attractiveness. If anything, she only looked more... sweet. Small and sweet and vulnerable, with her hair all in tangles and her bare feet peeking out of the blanket. He couldn’t take his eyes from her, this delicate brown-haired elf.
With a savage bruise on her side. He had felt like a mule kicked him in the gut when he saw that.
Lucas tore his gaze from her. Why should her pain matter to him? He wanted her to suffer.
Didn’t he?
Yes, of course he did. She deserved to suffer for what she had done.
For God’s sake, she had murdered his brother.
He glanced around desperately for something to take his attention from her. His gaze settled on a plate of fried chicken and peach pie that sat on a low table beside the chaise, left over from her supper. He grabbed a piece of chicken and bit into it.
“Are you... staying?” Antoinette asked warily, peeking at him over her shoulder.
“When I go,” he said, trying to sound cold and remote, “the fire goes out, too.”
She muttered something he couldn’t quite catch. After a moment, she added, grudgingly, “Fine, then stay.”
Lucas slouched back against the plush pillows on the chaise. He wasn’t as worried about her setting the place on fire as he was about leaving her with a hearth full of firewood—since a log would make a mighty fine weapon if she ever took a notion to whack him over the head when his back was turned.
Yet he didn’t want to deprive her of the fire’s warmth.
Narrowing his eyes, he tossed the chicken bone back on the plate, not sure where this new habit of indulging her had come from.
He would only stay a little while. Everything would be fine, as long as he remained where he was and she remained over there. Antoinette picked up one corner of the blanket and used it to start drying her long, tangled curls.
Lucas picked up the pie.
“Rebecca didn’t make that for you,” she complained, not looking at him.
“I’m hungry,” he growled.
Maybe she caught his true meaning, because she didn’t offer another peep of protest.
“And I don’t have a regiment of women cooking daily feasts for me,” he added, wolfing down the pie and reaching for another piece of chicken. “I’ve been making do with whatever old lady Kearney serves at the boardinghouse.” He licked his fingers. “And Travis’s coffee.”
“Travis makes your coffee?”
“Almost the worst I’ve ever tasted.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “You could make it yourself,” she suggested dryly.
“My coffee is the worst I’ve ever tasted.”
A hint of an amused smile curved her mouth before she turned back toward the hearth.
He had made her smile. Lucas fought the small feeling of pleasure that curled through him. Forced his attention back to eating.
But he kept noticing the scent that clung to his hands—the scent of the herbal soap from the bathwater that had made her skin wet. It was fresh and earthy and tantalizing.
Thoroughly annoyed with himself, he dropped the half-empty plate on the rug and rubbed his palms on the sides of the chaise, trying to get her off his hands, off his mind. Damn it, he wasn’t going to do this—let himself feel desire or concern or pity or anything for this woman. He would not betray his brother’s memory.
Or make his brother’s mistake.
James had been taken in by Antoinette’s charms—and ended up with a bullet through his heart.
“I suppose none of this is new to you,” he said bitterly.
She turned her head, looking at him over her shoulder again, her expression quizzical.
God, she was beautiful. He didn’t think he had ever seen a woman quite that beautiful. The firelight behind her made her hair shimmer, gave her cheeks a dusky glow, made her brown eyes look impossibly soft and luminous beneath the fringe of her lashes...
“The food,” he snapped. “You’re probably used to daily feasts. And fancy accommodations.” He flicked a hand at the various furnishings. “Velvet curtains, feather pillows, lots of leisure time. Spent on your back.”
She lowered her gaze and didn’t reply.
“You liked it, didn’t you,” he accused. “The clothes and the luxurious place to stay and the trips and the—”
“I like not being hungry.”
That took him by surprise. Especially since her voice held no defensiveness—just that flash of steel he had noticed before.
“If you were hungry, Antoinette, there were other ways you could’ve made a living.”
“Were there really?” Her head came up, those dark eyes flashing. “And who would hire the daughter of the town whore to work in their shop? Or to watch their children, or even clean the dirty floors of their house?”
He held her gaze, but couldn’t think of an answer.
“And yes,” she added, not flinching from his stare, “I liked the food, and the clothes, and having a place of my own. I never had anything like that before. Anything...” Her lashes lowered as she seemed to search for a word. “Nice.”
Honesty was the last thing Lucas had expected from her. It surprised him even more than her grit. And stole the fire from his anger.
“James always took good care of me,” she continued, more softly. “He protected me. Men in St. Charles used to stare at me and make comments, and some of them would... do more than make comments.”
Lucas could easily imagine the type of men who would have come sniffing around her, making all sorts of lewd offers. Somehow it angered him.
“But after I became...” She turned, staring into the fire. “After it became known that I was McKenna’s woman, they stopped. It was... at least a little respect. More than I had ever had before in St. Charles.”
Respect?
Lucas looked away, raked a hand through his hair. That was what she had wanted? Respect? He had pictured Antoinette as a greedy, money-grabbing female strictly interested in her own profit.
But if he could believe what she was saying, that wasn’t what she had sought from being his brother’s mistress. McKenna’s woman. James McKenna’s woman.
A sudden image shot through Lucas’s mind: James and Antoinette together. In bed. A fierce, unnerving emotion tore at him.
Jealousy.
Brutally, he forced himself to hang on to that image. To picture the two of them together. Burn it into his brain, so it would sear away all the thoughts and feelings she stirred in him. “Tell me, Antoinette, what was it like?” he bit out. “Did you see him every day, once a week? How did it work?”
She regarded him with wide, shocked eyes.
“I want to know.” He pierced her with a hard stare. “Did you only entertain him at night? Did you slip into his office during the day? Did you know about his family? Did you care?”
“We... we didn’t talk about our families. It was part of our agreement.”
“So you had an agreement. How cordial.”
She turned toward the fire again, gathering the blanket more tightly around her. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Well, I do. Tell me more. So you had an agreement—but you knew he had a family, didn’t you? You knew he had children.”
“I-I knew he had children, and three sisters. And a brother who left home long before James and I... met.”
“And how often were you with him? How much time did you spend in my brother’s bed?”
“I only saw him now and then, all right? Why does it matter to you?”
Lucas folded his arms across his chest. Why did it matter? This wasn’t helping him at all. No matter how he peppered her with harsh questions, no matter how he tried to brand painful images on his mind, it didn’t help.
Didn’t change how much he wanted her in his own bed.
“Now and then,” he echoed coldly. “Does that make you any less a whore?”
That arrow-sharp barb found its mark, as he’d known it would.
<
br /> She turned to glare at him. “Apparently you’ve already made up your mind about that.” Her dark eyes glittered with anger. And hurt. “But maybe you’d explain something to me, Marshal—how can you call me a whore and still hold your brother in such high regard? James knew he had a wife and family. James was the one who took vows and broke them.”
Lucas looked away, regretting suddenly that he’d brought this subject up.
She persisted. “Why is it that a man can take a mistress and still be considered admirable, but the woman is considered dirt? By the very same people who admire him. Why is that?”
“It’s a matter of right and wrong.”
“And men are always right, no matter what they do, and women are wrong?”
“No—”
“That really is how you see the world, isn’t it? Right and wrong. Saints and sinners. Well, James was no saint.”
Lucas got to his feet. “I really don’t want to hear any more of this.”
“He was the one who came to me. I didn’t go and knock on his door one day and say, ‘Good morning, sir, I’d like to be your mistress.’ He knew what he wanted—”
“Antoinette,” he warned, “stop it—”
“And he didn’t offer to put a roof over my head because he was starting some kind of charitable home. I was seventeen when he came to me. He was twenty-nine. Think about that while you’re busy sorting people into neat rows of ‘good’ and ‘bad’—”
A noise at the front of the hotel cut her off. The noise of the door banging open.
Lucas spun toward the sound, his hand on his Colt.
“Marshal?” It was Travis’s voice, shouting. A second later, he came running into the sitting room. “Marshal McKenna, sir, we need your help!”
“We who?”
The kid grabbed the bars of the locked cell door. “There’s a ruckus over at Fairfax’s Saloon—”
“I didn’t sign on to be the town marshal, kid.” Lucas shook his head and let go of his gun. A lawman could get shot real easy breaking up a saloon brawl. “It’s none of my business—”
“But it’s Valentina, sir—Miss Lazarillo! There’s drifters givin’ her an awful time and her pa’s down in Leadville and—please, you’ve got to help!” The boy shook the cell door, his expression frantic. “Please!”
After Sundown Page 14
