Katherine O’Neal (22 page)

He watched her, arrogantly certain of his
ability to overpower her. Hadn’t he done so once before? But
instinct told her that could work for her. Catching him offguard,
she seized the rifle and swung hard, cracking it across his head.
He howled, stumbled back, tottered to his knees. Sputtering, he
swore viciously as he struggled for consciousness.

Saranda turned and ran. Racing for her horse,
she mounted in one swift leap and galloped through town. Her plans
forgotten, her life shattered once again, she headed with all speed
to the one safe haven that, incredibly, leapt to mind.

Mace.

A storm was brewing, one of those sudden
prairie storms that come from nowhere. Dark clouds eclipsed the
sky, and there was the tang of rain in the air. Yet the wind was
balmy, as caressing as a lover’s breath.

Saranda came upon him walking across the
grassy plains. His coat, thrown over his shoulder, was flapping in
the breeze. He carried the bag she’d forgotten in his hand. His mop
of curls was wild from the wind. From a distance, he looked small,
dejected, like a boy who’d lost his pony and had no hope of getting
home to supper.

She’d ridden so furiously that the horse was
dripping foam. Yet, on the threshold of her destination, she walked
the gasping animal to him cautiously, anticipating his next move.
He looked up at her dispassionately, as if he’d expected her all
along. If he was angry, nothing in his features gave it away.

She drew rein and waited for him to come to
her. Her hair blew about her face like a shield. When he came even
with her, he kept on walking, passing by. She sat there, her back
to him, listening to the rhythmic crunch of his footsteps in the
dry grass.

“I didn’t believe you,” she said without
turning.

“I didn’t expect you to.”

“I saw Lance.”

He heard the tremor in her voice. The
crunching stopped. Only the moaning of the gale remained.

“McLeod hired him to bring you in.”

“To kill me, you mean.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“You’ll forgive me, I’m sure, if I choose not
to believe that. I know your brother better than you think.” She
dismounted. “I’ve decided to take you up on your proposition.”

“Which proposition was that, Princess?”

“If those papers are handy, I’m ready to
sign.”

Slowly, he bent and laid the bag on the
ground. It disappeared in the sea of grass.

He struggled to control his coat, took the
papers from the pocket, and brought forth a pen. She dipped it in
the inkwell he provided and put it to the fluttering paper. On the
verge of signing, she hesitated. “What name should I use?”

“Saranda Van Slyke.”

He was watching her closely. Taking a deep
breath, she scrawled the unaccustomed signature. Her hand shook,
and the pen scratched like a witch’s fingernail across the
paper.

When she was done, the pen fell from her hand
and blew away. She bent to retrieve it, but his hand, large and
warm, took hers and held it fast.

“Why are you shaking?”

“It isn’t every day I see a man return from
the grave.”

“And having seen my brother, you decided I
was the—lesser of two evils. Is that it?”

She looked up into his eyes. They were
piercing, dark as a moonless night. In their depths, she thought
she saw a certain vulnerability. A question he wouldn’t ask.
He’s in love with you. But he doesn't know it.
Could it
possibly be true?

“How do I know when the path grows rocky, you
won’t choose Lance over me?”

His gaze searched her face. “I can protect
you without harming my brother.”

“And if you’re forced to choose?”

“I won’t be.” He said it adamantly, as if
believing it hard enough would make it come true.

“I need a guarantee,” she said softly.
“Promise me you won’t let Lance take me.”

His eyes narrowed at her choice of words.
After the slightest of pauses, he said, “I promise.”

She looked at him intently, trying to read
his thoughts in his face. “Who are you?” she asked.

“You know who I am.”

“I doubt anyone’s ever known who you really
are.”

Looking up at the sky, he considered his
response. It was slate grey by now, uncharacteristically close. A
droplet of rain splashed across his cheek. “I’m your only hope. In
a battle against my brother, I’m all you have.”

“Don’t say that,” she said, snatching her
hand away.

“Why shouldn’t I say it? If it’s the
truth.”

“Because you—”

What? Because he made her hope for the first
time in her irremediable life? Hope that he’d rise from the ashes
of his family flames, reborn as her personal avenging angel? That
he hated his own kind as much as she did? That together they could
join forces and put an end to the Blackwood tyranny for all
time?

“What did Lance do to you?”

She turned away.

“What did he do to make you shake at the
sight of him? At the very mention of his name?”

She took a step away, but he caught her
fingers once again. The touch of his hand stopped her. “Whatever it
was—”

She turned and looked at him. The sympathy
she saw in his eyes was real. She had to believe it. Just for now.
Just for this one night. That someone cared. That someone would
protect her.
That someone would fix it
.

“Tell me what you want.”

His voice, uttering the old familiar words,
gave her an exquisite sense of peace. He still held her hand,
although the length of their arms separated them. What she really
wanted was to cry. To pour out the whole tragic story—the truth of
what had happened with Lance—to someone who would listen without
judgment, and understand. For someone to reassure her that she’d
done the best she could. That it
wasn’t
her fault. That the
outcome would have been the same no matter what.

But she knew that was a lie.

Of course, she’d never tell him. Not him, of
all people. She couldn’t confess that for the first time since that
horrible time, she wanted someone else to carry the burden of her
guilt. That she wanted his strength, his protection. That she’d
never wanted—never needed—anything more.

Images flashed through her mind that were too
painful to face.

“I want you to love me,” she said in a
trembling voice. Then amended hastily, “
Make
love to me. I
want to stop seeing Lance’s face.”

Wordlessly, he urged her closer and brought
her hand to his lips.

“This doesn’t mean I’m going to trust you,”
she warned.

He pulled her to him so her breasts were
crushed against his chest.

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“I do need you. To help me out of this. I
shall accept that. But no more.”

Except that, tonight, she needed him more
than he'd ever know.

“No more than I need you.”

She couldn’t tell how he meant that. He bent
his head and ever so gently pressed his lips to her temple. She
felt the contact all the way down to her toes.

“It’s—a business proposition,” she
insisted.

“Business. Naturally.”

Her blouse seemed to open magically beneath
his hands. When he let go of it, it sailed some distance on the
wind. She felt the strangely warm air circle her, making her aware
that he was stripping her clothes from her beneath a rain-heavy
sky, in the middle of nowhere.

“Two professionals,” she continued
breathlessly, “joining forces for a common goal.”

“I should hardly call what we’re doing
common.
”

“I just want us to understand each
other.”

He took the waistband of her skirt in his
hands and opened the fastenings with a tug.

“I suspect we understand each other just
fine.”

The skirt fell to her feet.

By the time he was naked, the rain began to
fall. Like the wind, it was warm, bathing them like a cleansing
tonic. As one, they fell to their knees. Her hair, wet now, whipped
his face. He took it in both hands and drew her closer, kissing her
with a tenderness that put to flames the images in her mind.
“Forget,” he murmured against her lips, holding her head close.
“All that exists is this.”

His lips against hers, he lowered her to the
ground. The grass was high around them, covering them from view. It
scratched at her back, her shoulders, but squandered against the
onslaught of emotions, she barely noticed it. For he was kissing
her with all the tender devotion any woman could ever want. For
once, he didn’t speak. He stroked her face, kissed her cheeks, her
eyelids, her hair. His hands gentled her, stroking, soothing, then
igniting a passion that flowed so effortlessly, one emotion into
another, that it was a seamless trek. He palmed her breasts, grazed
her thighs, and became one with her with such flawless ease that a
sort of radiance seemed to emanate from them. Coming together was
like discovering the true and hidden self. Moving over her, his
skin anointing hers, he held her like a treasure, conveying, with
his lips, with his hands, with a body like a citadel, that she was
safe from harm. That nothing and no one could touch her while she
lay in his arms.

Bathed in spring rain, rising to meet him as
he offered his power and his strength, she’d never felt more
cherished in all her life.

Even if she knew it wasn’t real...

Saranda lay contentedly in Mace’s arms, more
relaxed than she could ever remember feeling. Their lovemaking,
like the rain, had washed away her fears. Her heart beat a
slumbering rhythm. Her mind floated in a dreamy sea of colorful
mist. Without emotions. Without thoughts.
Without words
.

It was a rare occasion when her mind was
silent, and she could just
be
.

“Ready to face the dragons, Countess?”

She raised up on her elbows, looking down
into eyes that twinkled like a starry sky. “How did you know?”

But it was useless to ask. He just knew. He
knew where she was going, what she was planning, even as she
planned it. As if he had a direct link to her brain. Was it any
surprise that he knew she’d donned the disguise of a countess?

“We should go,” she said, rising to her feet.
“Bat says Dodge is swarming with badges. The sooner we leave—”

“Not so fast. We have unfinished
business.”

For an instant, she thought he intended to
make love to her again. “Unfinished
business?
”

He must have read her thoughts, for his mouth
crooked in a knowing smile. “In Dodge.”

He rose, too, and she stared at him in
disbelief. “You don’t mean we’re returning?”

He winked at her. “I always did admire a
clever woman.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said? It’s too
dangerous—there are lawmen everywhere.”

He reached for his shirt, which was strewn,
like the rest of his clothes, in the surrounding grass. “All the
more reason to go back.”

“Tell me you haven’t lost your mind.”

“You tell me something. What is it you’re
afraid of? Being detected by a badge? Or running into Lance?”

It wasn’t a question she cared to answer.
“Why is it necessary?”

“Because there’s one last thing I have to do.
We’ll check into the hotel under your established disguise—”

“Am I to understand that you’re giving me
orders?”

He turned and fixed her with a steely gaze.
“Let’s get one thing straight, shall we? There can only be one
leader.”

“I agree. And it’s me.”

“You?”

“Naturally. I’ve been on my own for years. As
successfully, I might add, as you. I have no intention of having
some Harry-come-lately waltz into my life at this late stage and
tell me how to conduct my business.”

“
Your
business? I’m the one saving
your bloody neck!”

“Surely you’re not suggesting I take orders
from a Blackwood? One of the same Blackwoods who so poorly botched
their last big con that they—”

He lunged at her, taking her neck in his fist
and pressing his thumb into her throat. “Don’t you—
ever
—talk
to me like that again. Do you hear me?”

She wrenched his hand from her throat. “And
don’t you ever presume to make a fool of me. I shall be watching
you, Mace Blackwood. And if I get so much as an inkling that you’re
lying to me, tricking me, or duping me in any way, you’ll regret
it.”

He dropped his hand. “So much for the
truce.”

“What do you expect?”

His gaze met hers. “I expect you to do what I
say when I say. Or you may get us both killed.”

“Oh, why didn’t you say so? You expect me to
trust you. Aren’t you forgetting one minor detail? It’s not part of
the deal.”

* * *

Back in town, they plunged across the muddy
street and entered the lobby of the Dodge House. Saranda had
thought to replace her brown wig, but her clothing, like Mace’s,
was soaking wet. The proprietor eyed their bedraggled state in
surprise, but only said, “Why, Countess Lynderfield, we figured you
left us.”

“I did, Mr. Cox,” she said in her best
aristocratic accent, “but I’ve returned, as you can see. I shall
require my old room back.” An impulse seized her, born of her
annoyance with Blackwood. So he expected her to take orders, did
he? “And a room for my—steward,” she added with a vicious
smile.

She caught the flash in Mace’s eyes as they
locked with hers.

“Your what?” asked Mr. Cox.

“A sort of valet, if you will,” she explained
a bit too sweetly. “Except, of course, that he’s not a gentleman’s
gentleman, but rather a lady’s.”

By the time the proprietor had turned wide
eyes to him, Mace had already masked his reaction. So smoothly no
one but a professional could detect it, his face altered into the
subservient lines of one born to serve. A corner of his mouth
turning up was the only sign of his sarcasm as he gave a slight bow
and introduced himself. “Jenkins—at her lady’s service.” She almost
laughed. He was quick, she’d give him that. Then his next words
showed her she couldn’t put him down as easily as she’d imagined.
“We shall require adjoining rooms, my good man,” he announced in an
excellent imitation of a majordomo’s stuffy English tones. “In case
the countess should need me to draw her a bath.”