The Taming of Shaw MacCade

by Judith E. French

  "I hope not." He rolled onto his back and pulled her on top of him. They lay breast to chest, and belly to belly. "Did I hurt you? I'm sorry, I..." He broke off. "I think I went a little crazy there when you—"

  She made a small sound of amusement. "No, you didn't hurt me. Or, if you did..." Sighing, she asked, "Am I sufficiently deflowered?"

  "Hmmm," he replied. "I'm not sure. Maybe we'd better try the whole thing—"

  "I am." She smacked him playfully on the collarbone. "I am. I am no longer an innocent maid."

  "You liked it."

  "Hmmm," she teased, imitating him. "I'm not sure."

  "You did. You're far too much for an ordinary man. And you're very lucky that I decided to make an honest woman of you."

  "Cad."

  He pulled her head down and kissed her, sliding his tongue between her teeth provocatively. She squirmed against him, rubbing his partially relaxed sex with her knee, and felt it harden. "I see you're not prostrate with pain," he said, his voice thickening.

  "Maybe we didn't do it right," she suggested. "Maybe I'm still a virgin."

  "I gave it my best, you witch. If you're still intact, it will take a better man than me to break—"

  "You!" She tapped him again with a balled fist. He retaliated by tickling her in the ribs, and they wrestled until he was on top and Rebecca pinned beneath him.

  "You're mine, woman," he declared. "Roped, branded, and corralled. Admit it."

  "I admit nothing. Except..." She rubbed her toes against his knee. "Can we try it again? In the bed?"

  He groaned dramatically. "Tell me I'm not dreaming. The best lay of my life and—"

  "You've done this before? With who?" she demanded playfully. She supposed that Shaw had known many women in the past, but she didn't care. He belonged to her now. "I want all of their names," she teased, "so that I can hunt them down and—"

  "Too many to count. Ouch! Careful with that knee."

  "Get off me. You're an ox. If we can't do it again, I want to be fed. I'm hungry."

  He laughed and dropped onto his back beside her, capturing her with one arm before she could wiggle away. "We can and will do it again, naiad. Just not in the next quarter hour. Even I need time to recover—"

  "All those women, you've worn it out."

  "I lied. You were the first."

  She laughed merrily. "Tale teller."

  He kissed her again. "Food. Your wish is my command, Mrs. MacCade."

  "Where will you find us something to eat?" she asked. "Surely the kitchen—"

  "Leave it to me," Shaw said as he rose and tucked the sheet over her. "A Missouri man who can't find dinner in a kitchen deserves to starve. You stay where you are, and I'll fetch you something to keep up your strength."

  Once Shaw had dressed and left the room, Rebecca got up and recovered her shift. It lay in a puddle of water, so she draped and tucked the damp garment around her waist and walked to the mirror. Now that the immediate physical thrill of their union was fading, she felt suddenly shy. And yes, she had to admit that there was some soreness deep inside.

  Rebecca laughed aloud. Whatever discomfort the loss of her virginity had caused, it had been a drop in the bucket compared to the pleasure Shaw had given her. "No wonder women are tempted into sin," she murmured aloud.

  She stared at her reflection, wondering if there was a change in her that others could see. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes dancing with excitement, and her lips swollen and pouty.

  Curiously, she touched her inner thighs and found a slick stickiness. If it wasn't for Shaw's childhood mumps, they might well have created a child with this night's loving. Now, there was little or no chance. She should be relieved, rejoicing. Theirs was only a temporary union, not one that could welcome a baby. So why did the thought fill her with such sadness?

  Hugging herself, she paced back and forth. "I should be grateful for the time we have together," she murmured aloud. She loved Shaw enough to want to keep him alive at any cost. So long as there was no child, she could always go home. Poppa might suspect that she had been with Shaw, but he wouldn't be able to prove it.

  Knowing Shaw would be back soon and wanting to be clean for him, she went to the bath and climbed inside. The water was tepid but not uncomfortable, and she quickly washed herself with the sweet-smelling soap.

  By the time he returned, she had convinced herself that the odds of not getting pregnant were in her favor. She'd wiped up the puddles of water with a towel, put on a lacy nightdress she'd found in her valise, and remade the bed. She opened the door at his knock, and the sight of him, so beautiful in the lamplight, made her heart swell with happiness. Laughing, she flung herself into his arms.

  "Miss me?" he asked.

  She laughed, tilting back her head for his kiss. "Maybe a little."

  One kiss led to another, and Rebecca discovered that she was hungrier for her new husband than for the food he'd provided. And it wasn't until they had made love a second time that they sat cross-legged on the bed and shared bites of bread with honey and slices of cold ham.

  "Is it always like this?" she asked him dreamily as she licked a drop of honey off his finger.

  "Lord, I hope so," Shaw answered.

  They slept, finally, wrapped in each other's arms, and woke just after sunrise to taste the sweet rewards of marriage before running yet another bath.

  "Mrs. Baker was quite clear. One bath per room, per day," Shaw said. "That means that if I have a bath, there'll be none left for you."

  Rebecca averted her eyes and giggled. "I'm already in trouble. I used the tub a second time while you were gone last night."

  "So," he mused. "We're already bath rustlers. There's only one solution."

  She rolled over onto her stomach and propped her chin up with her hands. "And I'm sure you'll tell me," she teased.

  "We'll both have to get into the tub together."

  "Shaw!" She laughed. "It isn't big enough. We'd have to..."

  "Exactly." He caught her hand and trailed a line of kisses up the underside of her wrist. "I'll get in first, and you..."

  Disbelieving that such a thing was possible, and being from Missouri herself, nothing would do but that Shaw prove it could be done. And the results, they concluded, the better part of an hour later, were quite satisfactory.

  * * *

  Somehow, they missed Mrs. Baker's breakfast in the inn dining room and had to find nourishment at one of the many eating houses in the busier section of the city. After they had eaten their fill, Shaw insisted on taking Rebecca to an establishment specializing in ladies fine apparel.

  "This isn't the right store for me," she protested when they reached the display window in front of the shop. "These clothes are too expensive. I have some money, and I'll go to—"

  "We 've had this discussion," Shaw said firmly. "We're in Saint Louis, and I intend to see it while we're here. I want to take you to a fancy restaurant, maybe even a cotillion. You're my wife, and I don't mean for other folks to look down on you for how you're dressed."

  "I'm not a lady," she answered. "I'll never be one, no matter what I wear. And you promised me that you'd help me find Eve. That's what's important."

  "To me you're a lady," he declared. "And none finer. I said I'd find your sister if she's still here, and I will. But we don't have to do it first thing this morning." Taking her arm, he said, "Don't begrudge me what time I have with you, Bec. I mean to have you shine, darlin', and put all these city gals to shame."

  "But the expense?"

  He grinned at her. "I told you, I brought back a little dust with me from California. You let me worry about the money. This is your time, and I want you to enjoy it." There would be time enough to tell her about the dust he had hidden in the cave near his father's home. Bec being Bec, he wasn't sure how she'd take the idea. And she'd given him so much happiness in the past twenty-four hours that he didn't want anything to spoil it.

  "But I won't be able to wear these things at home," she argued,
bringing him back to the subject of her wardrobe.

  He shook his head. "We'll worry about that later. Now, inside with you."

  "I don't know anything about fashion."

  "If I've got the money to pay for it, you can be certain someone will know what you should have."

  And he was right. Once he told the clerk that he wanted three complete outfits for his wife, the entire staff became sweet as brown sugar. One girl found a chair for Becca, another ran to fetch her a cup of tea, and the manager began to select dresses for Becca's approval.

  Leaving her in the capable hands of a haughty Miss Phillipa, he went to hire a horse and chaise from a livery stable. He planned to stay here in the city until they tired of it, and the thoughts of giving money to a stranger to haul them back and forth didn't sit well with him.

  It was midafternoon before he finally retrieved Bee and convinced her that they ought to eat again before searching out her sister. Proudly, he took her into a fancy hotel dining room. Bee was all decked out in blue, and the other men at the table couldn't keep their eyes off her.

  After asking a lot of questions and taking a few wrong turns, the two of them found their way through the streets of Saint Louis to the address that Eve had given them. High Street was a rough one in a poor neighborhood, but after asking for directions twice, Shaw finally reined in the hired gelding in front of a lot littered with charred beams.

  "This can't be right," Becca said. "There must be some other High Street."

  "Well, we've been up and down this one," he said, casting a glance at the dark clouds overhead. The temperature was sweltering, the air thick with moisture off the river, and thunder rumbled far in the distance.

  "I don't understand it."

  They'd passed two saloons, a tannery, a brickyard, and a gentleman's club in the last two blocks, but no private houses. "Maybe Eve didn't tell you the truth about where she was living."

  "She had to. How else would she have gotten my letters? Mrs. Brown's boardinghouse. And that's where I sent mail and got it back from her."

  Shaw noticed a boy throwing sticks at a cat in an alley between the brickyard and a disreputable establishment bearing the sign Keelboat Tavern. "Hey, kid!" he called.

  The boy's aim went wild. The cat escaped through a hole in the foundation of the building, and the youth uttered a foul obscenity.

  Shaw pulled a coin from his pocket and tossed it in the air. "I need the answer to a question."

  "Yeah?" The child, a dirty-faced pup no more than eight years old, approached the carriage warily. "What you wanta know?"

  Shaw motioned toward the ruins. "You know this part of town?"

  "Should. Lived here all my life."

  "We're looking for a boardinghouse, run by a Mrs. Brown," Becca said hopefully. "A Mrs. Thelma Brown. Do you know where it is?"

  The boy grimaced. "Gimme the money first."

  Shaw shook his head. "Answer first. If it's the right answer, you get the two bits."

  The kid spat on the ground beside the chaise wheel. "That was it, right there." He pointed to the vacant lot.

  Shaw tossed him the money. The boy caught it in midair and ran back across the street, then paused and looked over his shoulder. "But you're too late, lady. Church folks burned down Miss Thelma's whorehouse two months ago. Guess you gotta look someplace else fer a job."

  Chapter 19

  "How will we find Eve?" Rebecca asked as Shaw stopped the horse in front of the Macintosh House. As he got out, the first drops of rain began to spatter the carriage. Rebecca paid no heed to the coming storm. The thought that her sister or the baby might have been injured or killed in the fire was overwhelming, chilling her more than the drop in temperature. "I still won't believe the worst of her," she insisted. "I know Eve."

  Shaw took her hand to help her down as a stable boy dashed out to take the horse. "Best get inside, Bee. It's gonna pour cats and dogs any minute."

  She stepped clear, taking care not to tangle her wide skirts in the carriage wheel. "Eve might have allowed some man..." She trailed off and glanced up into Shaw's eyes. "When I started out from home, one of my reasons was to find out the truth about Jamie's birth. I still want to know who his father is, but I know it isn't you. I should have realized that from the moment Eve told me. If you'd been responsible, you would have stood by her."

  "Isn't that what I told you all along?" Thunder cracked, and a bolt of lightning illuminated the gathering dusk. The harness bells jingled as the horse danced nervously in the traces. "Get under cover," Shaw said. "I'll get the packages."

  Rebecca clung to his hand, wondering if she'd always thrill to his touch as she did now. "Find them for me," she begged. "I'm counting on you."

  "I will. If Eve's in Saint Louis, I'll find her." He gathered up their purchases, and the two hurried to the side porch, reaching it just as the rain began in earnest.

  "I'll help you look," Rebecca said. "The two of us—"

  Shaw shook his head. "Where I'm going, you'd be in the way. You might even get me killed, tryin' to protect your good name."

  He didn't have to tell her that he intended to search the saloons and houses of ill repute. As much as she hated to admit it, she was afraid that he was right about her being a liability. "If I can't go with you, I could check the town records," she suggested. "Ask at laundries and boardinghouses—"

  "All right. You can take the horse and carriage. I'll hire you a driver." He raised his voice so that she could hear him above the rain drumming on the tin roof. He opened the door for her. They crossed a gray flowered carpet and passed through a hallway to the main stairs.

  "I can drive my own horse," she said when he paused to unlock their bedroom door.

  He went to the bed and dropped the bundles. "At Angel Crossing, maybe, but not here. Saint Louis is a big place. I don't want anyone to get the idea that you could disappear without somebody knowing about it. A driver adds to your respectability. There's money here in this town and reason for scoundrels to gather like buzzards over a dead buffalo."

  "I'll take care," she said, removing her hat and gloves and laying them on a chair. "But you do the same. You're dressed like a man who might be carrying money on him."

  Although who could look into those fierce black predator's eyes and not back down, she wasn't sure. Shaw's hair was neatly cut, his coat and pants store-bought and stylish, his boots expensive leather. But no one would take him for a town man any more than they would mistake a prairie wolf for a lapdog. The way he had of watching everything, the quiet, yet deliberate manner in which he moved, shouted back off or pay the consequences.

  Shaw was a big man, lean and lithe rather than bulky, but hard muscle backed up his bravado. Even without the pistol hanging snugly inside his coat, she had little doubt that he could take care of himself if the odds were fair. But she'd seen enough of life on the river to know that some attacks came from the back, and not all men were honorable. She wanted to find Eve, but not at the risk of losing Shaw.

  Rain beat against the windowpanes that faced the street. The room felt overwarm and far gloomier than it should at this time of day. Something akin to fear made her uneasy.

  Shaw ran a hand through his damp hair. "What are you lookin' at?"

  "You." Her heart swelled. When had Shaw MacCade become the center of her world? She knew that they had no future, that the time would come that she'd have to give him up. But the cost to her would be dear. Letting Shaw go would hack away half of her soul. There would never be another man for her.

  "I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you," she said, fighting back an image of him shot in the back or knifed and bleeding to death in some shadowy alley along the riverfront.

  His eyes crinkled with amusement, and he rested one hard fist on his hip. "Glad to hear it. I'm kind of partial to my skin myself."

  Her mouth went dry. She didn't want him to go, didn't want him out of her sight. "The storm," she stammered. She wanted him to hold her. She wanted to curl against him
and shut out the world.

  "It's a thunderstorm, darlin'. It will pass."

  "You said it yourself. Saint Louis is a dangerous—"

  He chuckled. "I'm a big boy, Becca. I can take care of myself." He took her in his arms, brushed her lips in a quick goodbye caress, and then turned toward the door.

  She ached for him. "Shaw..."

  He glanced back and gave her a slow, sensual smile. "Darlin'?"

  Nameless dread, a feeling that if he left she'd never see him again, made her reckless. "Stay with me," she pleaded.

  "Becca, what's wrong? I'm just going—"

  She flung herself at him, desperate to feel his body against hers, clasping his face and pulling it down to kiss his lips. Shaw's arms went around her like steel bands. She touched his face, tangled her fingers in his hair, and raised to meet his mouth with hers.

  "I need you." Trembling, she fumbled with the buttons of his shirt and slid her fingers under the cloth to touch his bare chest. "I'll die if you leave me tonight," she whispered. She reveled in the feel of him; soft, smooth skin over hard, coiled muscle. For a dark-haired man, Shaw had little body hair. The sprinkling on his chest tickled her fingertips and made her smile.

  He groaned and kissed her again, then pushed her away so that he could remove the shoulder holster and place the pistol on the mantel over the fireplace. "Come here, woman," he growled.

  Her breath caught in her throat as she ran to him. Encircling his neck with her arms, she covered his face with kisses and murmured his name over and over. She stroked his cheek, feeling the faint bristle of his beard, and thrilled to the touch of his lips.

  Their kisses deepened, and he forced his tongue between her teeth, penetrating deep. She welcomed him, opening for his thrusts and arching against him.

  Shaw's breath was sweet and intoxicating. His kisses—his caresses—made her giddy with pleasure. Her bones turned to water, and she wrapped herself tighter against him.

  Shaw kissed her mouth and her throat. She moaned softly and pushed his head lower. His fingers clenched, tightening on the shoulder of her gown. With one hard yank, he ripped it away.