My Desperado (11 page)

"Sweet heaven," Katherine whispered, honestly feeling she very well might faint.

"Just keep out of their reach," Margaret advised, leading her toward the door. "Keep singing. Show them a little leg." She cocked one of her own well-turned, fish-netted calves. "But don't show too much. Keep them begging for more."

"Begging for more," Katherine repeated, trying to prod her bodice up her neck and feeling a decided draft blowing down the scandalous back of the ungodly garment. "But there is no more."

Margaret laughed again as they stepped into the hall. "Don't worry so, honey. Want to stop in to show your man?" she asked, but even through the veil she could see Katherine's eyes go wide. "No? All right, but no reason not to tease when you got yourself a captive audience I always say. Still..." She stepped back a pace, eyeing each of Katherine's tightly bound curves. "You're probably right. There's only so much a fellow can bear, and I'd guess yours has just about had his limit."

The other women swarmed out of their rooms now, each dressed in a red, frilly garment that barely reached the top of their thighs, where it met the course weave of black fishnet stockings. With faces rouged and bared arms. Katherine tamped down her stomach and thanked God for her comparably decent satin gown.

Her wooden body was prodded down the hall. The raucous noise from below swelled up toward her, seeming to blow her back a step, but the girls urged her on. Bernard's lively pianoforte music coached the erratic beat of her heart.

"Come with me," Katherine urged, but the others wagged their heads and hugged her efficiently.

"Lacy says you're to be all alone."

"You'll be fine."

"Splendid."

"Chin up."

Lacy hurried through the scarlet curtains at the bottom of the stairs. "Finally." Her voice was clipped and tough as usual, but her brows rose when her gaze stopped on Katherine. "Katy, lass," she said, then nodded once in self-satisfied certainty, "give 'em hell."

Back through the curtains Lacy went. In a moment Katherine heard her speak, but she could no longer make sense of the language, for her brain was scrambled with fright.

"Now."

"Go on," the girls whispered, and abruptly she was nudged onto the stage like a fledgling on reedy wings.

"Princess Charmaine," Lacy announced.

Katherine's stomach roiled like a storm cloud threatening destruction. Hundreds of faces stared up at her through the smoky dimness. Bernard picked up a melody she vaguely recalled.

Sing. Keep out of reach. Don't let them see your face. Her mind rumbled with advice. Bernard paused, and Katherine realized she'd missed her cue. Panic swelled anew.

"Picket fence," came Daisy's whispered reminder, and Katherine swallowed once, finding the words to "Sweet Genevieve" were still planted somewhere in her boggled mind.

Her voice came, creaking hoarsely on the first notes.

Above stairs, Travis heard the song and gritted his teeth. So it had begun. He'd known they were planning something, of course. But what about after the ballads? Clenching his fists, he sawed the ropes against the wooden bed frame again. He'd been left in relative solitude since morning, and by now the bonds were frayed and weakened.

He had little time. Half an hour—maybe less. Her songs couldn't last longer, and once the last husky note had faded, she'd be swarmed by the mob. He was certain of it, for what healthy man could hear that voice and not crave her?

He sawed harder. A little more. The rope gave way with a final snap, and he rolled quickly to his feet, the stiffened fingers of his left hand frantically working at the remaining knot.

Voices! He worked faster, jerking at the knot, but in his haste he bumped the bed against the floor with a muffled clump.

"What's..."The door swung open."Oh! Girls! Help! He's getting free!"

They swooped down on him in a horde of feathered boas and jiggling bosoms.

He fought like a madman. A madman with a conscience—for they were women, after all, and not to be hurt.

Unfortunately for him, they failed to share his sympathetic view and grabbed roughly at his person, pulling him down.

"Don't let him get away."

"Princess will be crushed. Grab him!"

He bucked them off his scathed back. They tumbled to the bed and sprang lightly at him again, seeming to come from every direction, bumping his healing wounds and sending shivers of pain scorching through his system.

He growled aloud, tossing Margaret to join Garnet on the bed and yanking at his bound hand. Almost free. Almost. The rope was giving way, and once he was loose, there would be no stopping him.

The hemp slipped over his knuckles and...

Travis felt the crack of the pitcher's porcelain edge against his skull and twisted slightly. Daisy stood behind him, pitcher raised, eyes round as her reddened mouth.

He reached for her, clearing a path through the vacuum of darkness with his hand. Voices echoed in his head. Faces dipped then he was gone, greeting oblivion with a curse.

Chapter 11

Men cheered, standing on chairs and tables to hoot their approval of her performance. Katherine disappeared behind the curtain and into Daisy's arms.

"You did good."

"Wonderful."

"Oh, Princess," crooned Garnet. "Just beautiful." She swiped a tear from her eye. " 'Greensleeves.' So sad."

"It was lovely," Margaret said briskly. "But we had a little trouble."

Katherine's heart lurched. "Ryland?"

"He's fine," assured Dory, and Daisy bobbed a quick nod, though Katherine did not fail to notice her wince.

"What happened?" Katherine asked, not realizing the weakness in her limbs was now caused more by worry for him than terror over her just finished performance.

"Well, it just... It happened so quick."

"Like lightning."

"He tried to get away."

"So..." Daisy gulped and wring her hands. "I 'ad t' 'it 'im—with a pitcher. But it's just a—just a little bump."

"And then we..."

"Well, we..."

"We gotta go," chirped Daisy. "Bernard's playing our song."

"Yes," gasped Dory. "Gotta go."

And suddenly the small area was empty except for Katherine, who stood like a sun-dazzled quail, her mouth slightly opened as she tried to assimilate the facts.

"Ryland," she whispered, but no sound was heard as the girls kicked their slippered feet to the first notes of Bernard's music. "Ryland," she said again, and sped up the stairs to his room.

He was propped on his elbows when she popped the door open. His eyes were like daggers and his face was naked—and beautiful.

"Who shaved my beard?" His voice was low and threatening.

"I..." She turned her head woodenly toward the door, mouthing a silent response. “They..."

"Who?" he snapped, and she jumped, bringing her hands rapidly forward to clutch them to her nearly bare chest.

"Me!" she squeaked. "It was me."

One corner of Travis's sensual mouth lifted to a crooked angle. "Astounding how you can be everywhere at once, Princess Katherine," he said. "Almost unbelievable. Or could it be..." He thrust forward slightly, stretching his bonds tight. “That you're protecting someone else...again?"

She backed away a step, wondering frantically if he knew the truth about George Patterson. "You shouldn't have tried to get away. You could have gotten hurt."

"Could have gotten hurt?" he raged, glaring at her from beneath gathered, sun-bleached eyebrows. “The little English tart cracked me with a pitcher. You think the blow speeded the healing process?"

"I'm sorry." She literally wrung her hands as she paced quickly forward to gently touch the crescent-shaped bump on the side of his skull. "Does it hurt?" she asked quietly, but he failed to answer, instead remaining as he was, his gaze directed toward her person.

"What the hell are you wearing?"

Realization of her scanty attire blazed its way to her consciousness, bringing with it warmth she could not account for—a warmth that crept from her fingertips to her breasts, where his gaze lingered.

History told her that the old Katherine Simmons would draw away, would retreat to a safe and respectable distance. But this was not the old Katherine, and she stood her ground, her body tingling with his nearness. "Margaret said men would like it."

His eyes had lifted to hers. His nostrils were flared again, his bare chest as hard and taut as a hunting beast's. She felt his emotions like a brand upon her senses.

"Do you?” she questioned softly. "Do you like it?"

The quiet between them stretched against the backdrop of the music from below, and her hand slipped, seemingly of its own accord, down the side of his skull to his shaven jaw, to the jagged scar that marked his chin.

She could see the quick pace of his pulse thumping a speedy rhythm in the center of his broad throat. Her fingers fell to that pulse point and then down, between the packed mounds of his chest.

Every inch of her felt warm and glowing. Every inch of him felt hot and feverish. She moved her hand to the right. His muscles leaped beneath her fingers, and she lifted her brows and found his eyes with hers. "Do you?" she breathed.

"Jesus!" he rasped hoarsely. "Don't toy with me, lady! You'll regret the outcome."

"Will I? Maybe I'm not what you think I am," she murmured. "Maybe I'm not what anyone thinks I am."

"And maybe I'm a saint," he retorted. "But I wouldn't bet my ass on it."

"Maybe you don't know what you are."

"Don't go looking for good where there ain't any," he warned darkly. "It's a fatal mistake."

"I think it's your mistake," she breathed, and then breaking every rule she knew, she kissed him.

His lips were firm and hungry. His skin beneath her fingers was hot, scorching her senses on contact.

For a lady, she could really kiss, Ryland thought raggedly, his body aching with unquenched need. Maybe he'd been wrong all along. Maybe she was indeed a soiled dove, but only a high-class version of the breed. Maybe she had done this all before. Maybe... Maybe, he reasoned blearily. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe there was nothing he could do to hold back the desire he felt for her. Maybe she was entirely in control of the situation, and he had no need to fight the attraction—since he could not do so much as touch her. Her jerked at his bonds, half growling in aching frustration against her mouth.

"Untie me, Katherine," he rasped, realizing that for the first time he had no intention of dragging her to safety, but instead of doing the very thing he'd vowed not to do. "Untie me."

Reality slipped slowly through the cracks in Katherine's desire. Regret followed more quickly, and she blinked. "I'm sorry." She drew her hands away, staring at them dizzily. "I cannot," she murmured, and spun away, fleeing to the safety of Dory's room.

The night was long and slow. Katherine lay on the floor of Travis's bedroom and wondered what was happening to her. She had become as brazen as a hound in heat. Perhaps it was the atmosphere—simply being exposed to such blatant carnal lust that made her act as she did. And perhaps she should flee this place before there was no turning back. But what about Ryland? She could hardly leave him here—which meant she'd be traveling with him.

She closed her eyes, the truth obvious even in her bedazzled condition. It wasn't the environment that was affecting her so adversely. It was Ryland's raw sensuality. It was his size, his masculinity, his vulnerability. Sweet heaven, it was everything about him. And now, to confuse her already flaming senses, his face was fully exposed to her gaze. And he was beautiful.

Even though his face was scarred and weathered, there was a primitive appeal about him, something that called to her most basic instinct and melted her good sense and ignited every primal need she'd ever denied having.

In the darkness Katherine laid in silence, listening to him breathe, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that he too lay awake and listening.

To her absolute surprise Katherine found her voice much easier on the second night. Every chair was taken, and remembering Lacy's urgings, she wandered down from the stage, keeping a careful distance from the men as she wound her way through the mob.

The songs that best suited her husky voice were sentimental ballads, which happened to be the same songs that now most suited her mood. She lost herself in the emotion, forgetting the crowd, to let the music lift her from her problems.

The end of her performance came surprisingly soon, and in a moment she was behind the curtain again. The other girls waited only a few minutes and then rushed onto the stage for their high-kicking line dances.

Katherine stood in silence, watching the performance from backstage, delaying her return to Travis's room. Being near him was becoming too dangerous. Too tempting. And yet she couldn't set him free, for he had vowed to take her away with him when he left, and the proximity of his person was the very thing that threatened her most.

There was only one thing to do. She must convince him it was her wish to stay. She must send him safely on his way.

She planned quickly, scowling down at her silver slippers and moving rapidly down the darkened hall, lost in thought.

The man came from out of nowhere. One moment she was hurrying toward Dory's room, and the next she was crushed up against a body that reeked of indistinguishable odors.

His hand covered her mouth, while her body was pressed back against his. "Hello, Princess," he crooned. "I've been waitin't' meet you. Saw you last night. Couldn't wait no longer, and now I won't have t'. Look at that empty room just fer us." He had captured one arm behind her back and prodded her toward Dory's room.

Katherine felt panic rise like putrid bile in her throat. Dear God, no! Her legs felt like wooden spikes, barely able to bear her weight. Her heart pounded a chaotic message of terror.

"You ready, Princess?" her captor ground in her ear, and she whimpered, the broken sound escaping weakly between his filthy fingers.

"Can't wait, huh?" He chuckled wickedly. "Just a little longer." He pressed her toward the door.