Fair Is the Rose (21 page)

But now there was another Macaulay Cain beside her. A man who didn't think at all the way she did, and from whom her only protection was a wall of silence.

"Don't treat me like a stranger, Christal," he said, his words a deep rumble. "I know you've been through a lot, but—"

"But we
are
strangers," she interjected. Desperately trying to distance herself from him, she said, "We went through some very difficult days, but now they're over. We can get on with our lives. I'm anxious to see that Overland coach and be off." She turned and faced him, needing to be honest one last time. "But you'll never know how relieved I am that you weren't killed. I'm
^l
^-I'm glad you're a marshal. I couldn't bear to have seen you hanged."

There was an edge to his voice, as if he wanted to shake her. "You care for me, so let me care for you too. Don't pull away."

"I'm not—"

"You are." He looked at her face in the mirror. His hand came up, and he caressed one cheek. "I need to know about you, Christal—where you're from, who your husband was, where you were headed that day in the coach."

"My life is dull. My past would bore you."

"You've never told me anything—"

"There's nothing to tell."

His hand grasped her chin and forced her gaze to his. "If there's nothing to tell, then why won't you tell it? I thought you wouldn't talk about yourself because you thought I was an outlaw—a man who kidnapped you. Now I wonder if it's not something more than that."

"We're strangers who shared a bad experience," she said, closing her eyes and willing
herself
to be strong. She wasn't going to let him see inside her. Not while she was determined to flee at the first opportunity. "We've just got to go on with our lives. I'll be going my way and you'll be going yours—"

"No."

Her breath caught. Her eyes flew open. A small stab of fear sliced through her heart. "What did you say?"

"You heard me. I said no. We aren't going our separate ways. Not yet."

"You have no right to hold me any longer than—"

"I have every right."

She stared at him. The blood thrummed in her head. "Why?" she asked, her voice barely above a sigh.

"You know why." He turned her to face him. He ran one finger over her lips. "You know it," he whispered.

The words died on her lips.

They stood there, neither of them winning, neither willing to surrender. Finally, he nodded to the window, and the cavalry still going through maneuvers in the dust. "You're back in civilization, girl. It may not look like much, but civilization's rules apply here just as they do in Fort Laramie, or San Francisco, or Denver. You're a woman alone and tonight you'll sleep in this room, protected from any man who might want to bother you . . . like me."

A lump came to her throat. She didn't want him to continue. He was bound to make something out of their time in Falling Water, and she couldn't let him. If he gave it meaning, then it would be difficult to leave him.
Even more difficult than it already was.

He lowered his voice; his eyes became shadowed. The words to stop him wouldn't come to her.

"I won't be with you tonight," he whispered. "I won't feel your softness against me, or hear you breathe deeply in slumber. I can't ruin your reputation because the rules apply now. You're
what's
known as a lady, Mrs. Smith; I'll treat you like one. But I want you to know I curse the rules. Whatever happened between us back in Falling Water shouldn't have happened, but sayin' that doesn't change the fact that it did. Tonight you should be in my arms. And you know that, just like you know your heart beats . . . right here." His knuckles grazed down her collarbone, then his palm opened and he laid it against the top of her left breast, where they both could feel the drum of her heart.

She looked away while tears welled in her eyes. His words scorched her with veracity. He'd said everything she prayed he wouldn't. His words made her soul weep. They made leaving him excruciating.

For the first time in years she felt one hot tear trail down her face. It had been appropriate that she'd met him dressed in mourning. For six long years she'd mourned the loss of her childhood, the loss of her former life. But mostly she mourned her loneliness, a curse that doubled as she became a woman, because now she wanted flesh not fantasy with her at night. In Falling Water she'd been taunted by the hope that she might have found someone she could be with. There'd been moments she'd looked at Cain and could almost see staying with him. He was not the man she pictured in her dreams, but dreams were for foolish young girls who could afford them. And the outlaw she'd slept with, talked to, kissed, was flesh and blood—substance not shadow—and just enough on the other side of the law to understand her.

Now he was gone.
As dead as if he'd been shot by Kineson.
Macaulay had often wondered about her husband. Suddenly she discovered the one she'd mourned for. It was Cain.

"Why are you doing this?" she finally whispered, angered that he'd pushed her so far.

"Because I want you" was all he said.

She closed her eyes. Whispering, she countered, "If I whore for you tonight, is that how you think you might rid yourself of me?"

"I don't want you to whore for me. If I had, I would have had you already. I could have taken you a dozen times in the days we've been together."

"It would have been rape."

"I could have had you, nonetheless."

She began to tremble.

He encircled her in his arms. "I want you to tell me about yourself." He lifted her hand, the one with the rose-shaped scar, and traced every lush petal burned into her palm. His touch was like wildfire, consuming her. "What are you hiding, girl?"

She moaned, refusing to talk.

He gently cupped her jaw, and she was forced to meet his steely gaze. "Answer me," he said.

She looked away.

"What are you afraid of?" he whispered urgently.

"Nothing," she gasped.

He forced her gaze back to his and looked deep into her eyes, for minutes, it seemed, as if he was assessing her answer. Then, with unexpected passion, he thrust her away. "You're lying."

"No," she answered desperately.

"I can see it in your eyes. They're the color of the sky, so beautiful, so blue. . . ." His tone grew ominous.
"So clouded.
You lie."

Frightened, she turned and stared out the window. Her bosom heaved with a show of indignation. "You accuse me of lying, but you're the one who's lied. Who are you really? Are you one of the Georgia Sixty-seventh or are you a U.S. Marshal? Are you a Yankee or a Reb?
An outlaw or a citizen?"

His expression became rock-hard. "If I ever
lied
to you, I did so to save your life. But when I did tell you about myself, it was the truth."

"It must be very convenient, then, to possess such divided loyalties." She knew she was stomping on hallowed ground, but in her fear and anger she didn't care.

"If you're referring to my part in the
kidnapping, that
was my job. But"—his words became low and angry, like the rumble of a distant drum—"if you're referring to my part in the war, ma'am,
then
let me tell you, I'm a Rebel, and I'll always be a Rebel. And make no mistake, if it
were
up to me, Georgia'd be ruling you and this whole goddamned country."

She suddenly began to cry. Why had she wanted to hurt him? All she really wanted was to get away from him, not be cruel to him. He'd been torn apart by the war. He'd said there'd been no honor in it, but there was honor. He'd stood by his country. And when that country was no more, he folded his Confederate flag and laid it respectfully to rest rather than let it become any more tattered and dirtied. He'd gotten on with his life despite the heaviness in his heart, and even then he'd done the honorable thing, by fighting his own Reb guerrillas gone
bad
in the lone prairies and hills of the West.

"Don't," she heard him whisper at her tears, his voice surprisingly gentle.

In unwilling surrender, she laid her head against his chest. He wiped her cheeks, her tears slick beneath his thumbs; she trembled, burying her face in his shirt. He'd bathed, his clothes were clean. He should have smelled like a different man. But beneath the starch and bay rum, his scent was achingly familiar, and she secretly reveled in it, wishing he could hold her forever.

Several practice rounds were fired by the cavalry outside the window, shattering their intimacy. Still without raising her head from his chest, she spoke the words she knew she must. "When is the Overland coach arriving?" Her voice was hoarse with emotion.

"Overland can't send one for two days," he answered woodenly.

Her shoulders slumped. She didn't know if she could last that long.

"Christal," he said, his hands tightening on her, "don't think about getting away right now. We've got two days. Let's have that at least."

"Two days is a very short time ... or a very long time, depending on how you see it," she answered, her mind wild with the need to escape, her heart wild with the need to stay.

She wiped her tearstained cheeks with the back of her hand. His silence verified her words.

He said, "I came here to ask you to dinner. The other passengers have inquired about your welfare. I know they'd be relieved to see you at the table tonight in the mess."

She stepped from his arms to the bureau, effectively shutting him out by presenting her back, but when she looked in the mirror, his gaze captured hers and would not let go. For one short pause in eternity, her eyes spoke to his with naked emotion. Then, forced to save herself or drown, she tore away and pretended the moment had never happened. "I'd love to go to dinner. Let me pin my hair."

"You have beautiful hair. I never told you that."

She closed her eyes, fighting the ache for him to run his hand down her hair as he had in Falling Water. She again met his eyes, and in those frosty depths she could see longing, perhaps even hurt. To him, the hardship and dishonesty were over with.