Keegan's Lady (24 page)

He stepped around the end of the table to survey her back. Her rose-colored dress was splotched here and there with crimson. The goddamned nails had stabbed her. Silently vowing to take a strip out of Esa's hide for not hammering down all the points as he'd been told to do, Ace reached to lift Caitlin's curly red hair so he might better assess the damage. She wasn't going to bleed to death, that was the best he could say. Luckily, the nails were all newly purchased and hadn't been exposed to the elements long enough to rust.

Bracing himself for the battle that was sure to come, he left her to lock both the doors and draw the makeshift curtains over the front windows. Just in case his brothers came home early, he didn't want any of them looking in until this bit of business was concluded. As he walked back by the table en route to the kitchen, he noted that Caitlin was busily trying to repair the damage to her dress, apparently concerned that her shoulder was exposed.

He clenched his teeth again, with steely determination. Whether she liked it or not, a whole lot more than her shoulder was about to be uncovered. He wasn't about to lose her to a nasty infection just to spare her a few minutes of embarrassment.

He rummaged about in the kitchen cupboards until he found the whiskey and some clean rags. She eyed him askance as he returned to her. Avoiding her wary gaze, he set the jug and rags on the table behind her, then drew his knife from the scabbard on his belt. Not hesitating long enough for her to guess what he meant to do, he slashed the back of her gown from neckline to waist.

"What are you—!" She gasped and grabbed frantically to hold up her dress. "Mr. Keegan!"

Ace curled his fingers over the top edge of her corset and hauled her back toward him. "Be still, Caitlin. I don't want to cut you." He inserted the blade under the edge of her chemise and tightly laced corset, whereupon he began sawing downward. She screeched as the whalebone and cloth gave way with a popping sound. "I said be still. This is no time for nonsense."

"But—what do you think you're—oh, my God!"

"You have cuts all over you," he told her in the same gruff tone as he pushed the stays and cotton aside to survey her bare back. He slipped his knife into its scabbard. In her present frame of mind, he was afraid she'd plunge it right through his heart if he laid it where she could get her hands on it. "Someone has to clean these so you don't get an infection, and since you can't, I'm elected."

"But my clothes. You've ruined them!"

"I'll replace every stitch."

In truth, Ace would have preferred letting her remove the clothing herself, but given her wariness of him, he figured there was about as much chance of that as a blizzard in hell.

When he touched her skin, she flinched and reared away from him. Clamping a hand over her uninjured shoulder, he drew her back again.

"Caitlin," he said more gently, "you're apparently mistaking my intentions. I'm not going to force myself on you. I give you my word."

"You aren't?"

No longer afraid she might be seriously injured, Ace bit back a grin at the incredulity in her voice. Uncorking the whiskey jug and grabbing the rag, he said, "I rarely lose control of my baser urges over a woman who is streaming blood. Call me squeamish if you like, but the sight dampens my ardor."

"Oh."

That one little word, uttered with ill-concealed dubiousness, made him smile again. For the second time that night, Ace had cause to wonder what it was about this slip of a girl that made him feel so ... He wasn't exactly sure how she made him feel. Sort of warm inside, he guessed.

"You needn't sound so disappointed. Without the blood, I'm sure yours is a very lovely back. Under other circumstances, I would undoubtedly be overcome."

She threw him a glance filled with equal parts puzzlement and wariness. Ace deduced by the look that he wasn't behaving quite as monstrously as she had expected. That conclusion led him to wonder just what manner of men the girl had known in her lifetime. Degenerates, evidently. No stranger to depravity, growing up as he had on the
San Francisco
waterfront, Ace knew the world was filled with all manner of scoundrels. He just found it difficult to fathom how any man who called himself a man could look into Caitlin's luminous blue eyes and still bring himself to hurt her.

Since he knew it was unlikely that he could continue to conceal the disfiguring paralysis at the left side of his mouth, he abandoned the attempt and allowed himself to flash her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Her gaze immediately shifted to his lips.

His guts tied into knots again. His smile was grotesque, he knew. Even so, he couldn't very well go around with a matchstick between his teeth constantly to camouflage the flaw.

Dragging his gaze from hers, he concentrated on dabbing at a puncture wound. She hissed air through her teeth at the sudden sting of alcohol.

"I'm sorry. I know it hurts like the devil," He swallowed and glanced up again. She was craning her neck to look back, her small face a pale oval above the torn dress. "I'm sure you're wondering what happened to my face," he said with a nonchalance he was far from feeling, "so I'll put your curiosity to rest. When I was a boy, I was struck with a rifle butt. The blow laid my cheek open, shattered the bone, and damaged some of the nerves. My cheek and the left corner of my mouth are paralyzed."

Even as rattled as she was, Caitlin couldn't mistake, the pain and humiliation she heard in his voice, and for a moment, she forgot everything but that. He obviously thought she found him ugly, which was about as far from the truth as he could get. In her estimation, the scar along his cheekbone lent his dark, chisled features a rugged appeal, and his crooked grin was extremely attractive.

Staring up at him, she found it difficult to believe that women didn't make fools of themselves over him on a fairly regular basis. His smile was enough to make even her feel frittery, and that was saying something.

Her gaze drifted from the thick, glistening black waves of hair that fell over his forehead to his bladelike nose, high cheekbones, full mouth, and the stubborn thrust of his square jaw. He had skin the color of strong coffee lightened with cream. Where his collar fell away at his throat, she could see a furring of black hair that she suspected fanned downward over his muscular chest. The rolled back sleeves of his black shirt revealed tanned wrists and forearms that were roped with steely tendons and lined with popping veins.

As if he felt her staring, he glanced up again and their gazes locked, his almost challenging. Not quite able to believe her eyes, Caitlin watched a flush creep up his neck. He truly was embarrassed about his face. The realization made her view him in a different light, if not as someone she could like, at least as someone with feelings.

Without taking the time to consider the ramifications, she heard herself say, "You have a very nice smile, Mr. Keegan, and anyone who told you that scar on your cheek makes you less than attractive was either blind or jealous."

Even as she spoke, Caitlin wished she could call back the words. She had to be mad to make a friendly overture, especially one that might lead him to believe she found him attractive. Her biggest downfall, that— feeling sorry for anyone or anything that was helpless or in pain, including her retarded cat Lucky and the hapless insects she carried from the house to set free.

The flush on his neck deepened and spread to his face. Lowering long, dark lashes that Caitlin and most of her female friends would have happily killed for, he pretended to be completely absorbed in cleaning the scratches on her back. "Is that a compliment, Mrs. Keegan?"

His use of her married name had the effect of a fist in the stomach. When her lungs finally began to work properly again, she hauled in a quavery breath. "No, Mr. Keegan, I was simply stating a fact. I'm sure many women find you extremely handsome."

"But not you, of course."

His lashes lifted, and his twinkling brown eyes held hers for several endless seconds. She felt like a bug pinned to velvet.

"No, not me," she said thinly. "It's nothing personal, just that I—" She broke off, not certain what she'd meant to say.

"Just that you what?" He returned his attention to her back, setting another scratch on fire with alcohol. "I have a feeling you don't care overmuch for men."

"Not especially," she admitted.

His gaze flicked back to hers. "I guess it will be my job to change your mind about that, at least as it pertains to me. Otherwise this marriage of ours will be a difficult row to hoe."

"Which leads me back, to my request for an annulment. It would save us both a lot of trouble if you'd put a stop to this travesty before it's too late."

His mouth quirked at one corner. "I don't run from trouble, especially not when it comes wrapped in such a pretty package." His dark eyes met hers again. "As for an annulment, perhaps it's a subject we should discuss in more depth. I had you pegged as a woman who stood behind her word."

"I do."

The instant she spoke, Caitlin saw a gleam of satisfaction enter his eyes. She realized almost instantly that she'd been had.

"If that's so, then how could you possibly try to run off in the dead of night?" he challenged. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought I heard you vow to love, honor, and obey me until death do us part."

"I had no choice. It was that or see my brother shot."

"The why and wherefore don't matter. What does is that you gave me your word, and now you'd break it without batting an eye. As I recall, your sire didn't honor his word, either. Like father, like daughter?"

"That isn't true." The heat of anger raced up her neck. She made tight fists in her skirt, striving to regain control. A smart woman didn't argue with a man, especially not when he outweighed her by a hundred pounds, nearly every ounce of which appeared to be muscle. She'd learned that the hard way. "There are extenuating circumstances, and you know it!"

"To hell with the circumstances," he shot back. "You made vows to me before God, and if you're truly a woman of your word, you'll live up to them."

Caitlin felt her pulse pounding behind her eyes. It was as if he'd stripped away the layers and seen deeply inside of her, as if he'd watched and waited to find the one bit of leverage he could wield against her. Her word. To her, it was everything. For years, she'd seen her father lie and cheat and steal. To her shame, she'd always felt his lack of character was a reflection on her and her brother. To combat that, she'd made a vow long ago. A far more important vow than the ones she'd made to Ace Keegan. To be nothing like Conor O'Shannessy, not in thought, word, or deed. Somehow this man had sensed that, and now he was using it against her.

Mingled with her rage was an awful helplessness, for Caitlin realized he had maneuvered her into a trap of her own making, one far more confining than any he could have sprung himself.

Though she knew it wasn't wise, and anticipating a good cuffing the instant the words passed her lips, she said, "You, sir, are a manipulative bastard."

Braced for a blow, Caitlin was amazed when all he did was throw back his dark head and laugh. The sound was a deep, rich rumble of sound that took her completely off guard. What he found so funny, she didn't know.

"You're probably right," he said as his mirth subsided. His expression gave no indication that he bore her any animosity for having spoken her mind. "I'm also the luckiest bastard you'll probably ever meet." He gave her a slow wink that made her heart lurch. "Just look at the reward I get for my efforts, a lovely wife."

"Are you that desperate?"

He shrugged, the gesture conveying that no matter how she viewed the situation, he was pleased with its outcome and wasn't about to change his mind. "The way I see it, I've been dealt a few incredibly lucky hands in my time, but this one beats them all. As much as I regret my behavior toward you a few weeks back, I can't feel sorry for the way things have turned out. The idea of being married is starting to grow on me, I guess."

"This isn't a game, Mr. Keegan. I'm not the ante in a poker game."

Setting aside the whiskey and cloth, he straightened and chucked her under the chin, "Oh, yes, Mrs. Keegan, it is a game. For very high stakes. And I'm winning." He bent again to examine the scrape on her shoulder. As he peeled away the cloth, he whistled through his teeth. "When you take a tumble, you don't do it halfway, do you?"

Caitlin was so upset, she felt separated from the pain. "Don't change the subject. You're twisting things to make me feel obligated to stay here."

He arched a dark eyebrow. "Is it working?"

It was, and they both knew it. She glanced quickly away before he could read the truth in her eyes. "You're not being fair."

"That's why I'm so successful at gambling. I cheat."

Her stomach lurched at the lighthearted way he said it. He clearly had no conscience to which she might appeal. "Please, try to understand. I cannot stay here."

"Oh, but you can, and what's more, you will," he replied with absolute certainty. "You gave me your word, and I intend to hold you to it."

With a sudden jerk, he pulled the material of her dress farther down her arm. When she gave a reflexive leap, he slanted her a mocking glance. "Relax, Caitlin. For the moment, at least, you're perfectly safe."