Christmas Male (22 page)

He squeezed his eyes shut, moaning low in his throat. That woman was going to be the death of him. He was never going to forget tonight or what it had been like to be with her. Even now, the danger of tender feelings lurked inside him, ready to take over his heart. He couldn’t let them.

He dropped onto the edge of his mattress, listening to the bed ropes creak. There had to be something wrong with him because he wanted nothing more than to head right back down that hall, break into her room and have sex with her one more time. Maybe two more times. Maybe for the rest of his life. Filled with need, he almost got up, imagining himself crawling into her bed and not caring about the consequences.

But if he did that, then he would be in danger of losing his heart to her. He'd given his heart to a woman twice—once to a woman who confessed she was already pregnant when he'd taken her to bed as a "virgin" (he'd been too inexperienced to really know the difference) and Bethleigh who'd only cared about landing the richest man she could catch.

So he hesitated, sitting there in the dark. Outside, the wind gusted hard, whipping violently against the siding and windows. At a loss, he shrugged out of his shirt and denims, pulled back the covers and stretched out on the sheets. Since Maggie had exhausted him, sleep claimed him in an instant.

A man's shadow crept around the north side of the McClintock's house, checking windows as he went. Well, tonight the house was locked up good and tight. He grimaced, anger propelling him forward through the driving snow. That's what being overeager yesterday night had cost him, although finding her in the tub had been a bonus. He swiped snow from his eyelashes, cornering the house, lost in the remembered image of her standing there with water sluicing off her full breasts and ivory skin. Pure innocence, and his for the taking.

Lust beat through him like a tribal drum in his blood. Soon enough he could take her, rough and violent, just the way he liked it. Smiling beneath his scarf, he stopped at the next window, tried to jimmy it open, but it wouldn't budge. Well, that wouldn't stop him. This house was big enough he could break a glass pane in the kitchen and no one would hear a thing.

Determined, he backed up through the snow, stumbling as the wind knocked against him. He peered up at the bedroom windows where the men slept. Yep, they were all dark. Everyone was asleep. Good. He circled back around the house to the back door, pulled a little hammer from his coat pocket and struck one glass pane. The window square shattered and he draped his scarf around his hand to protect against any shards of remaining glass. Once he had his forearm through the windowpane in the door, he groped around for the deadbolt, turned it and reached down to grasp the doorknob. It was as simple as that.

The kitchen was silent. The fire in the stove banked. The faint scent of chicken and dumplings and snickerdoodles hung in the air. He imagined little Maggie at the stove, cooking away, trying to impress her hosts, maybe having dreams of making supper for her husband one day.

That was never going to happen. A woman that pretty would make him a bundle, after he used her for his own pleasure, of course. He would sell her to a friend farther up the rail line. Claus had a hard time keeping his whores healthy and alive and was always in need of new flesh to sell.

Careful to stay quiet, he crept up the steps, feeling his way in the dark, taking his time. No need to rush face first into a wall or step on a creaking board. That would bring Miles running to the rescue. That would be a complication. He patted his revolver. The notion of having to use it brought a little thrill, and he unbuttoned his coat to give him better access to his holstered gun. Just in case.

He was inching down the hallway now, turning the corner, moving from one part of the house to the other. So many closed doors stretched out in the black hallway, visible in the darkness now that his eyes were beginning to adjust. That helped as he moved along, although he already knew where he was going. It had been smart to do a little spying in the woods, watching Maggie in her bedroom. He'd had to leave Chester in charge of the bar for a while, but it was worth it. He knew which door to open.

He hesitated, reached for the bottle in his coat pocket, uncapped it and shook out a folded handkerchief. The stringent scent of chloroform filled the air, and he turned his head to keep from breathing it in. He poured a few dollops into the cloth, tightened the cap on the bottle and turned the doorknob. He was ready to claim his prize.

Maggie stirred from her dreams, not bothering to fully wake when she heard the pad of a man's step entering her room. She'd taken her time drifting off, changing into her nightgown and trying to stop thinking about all the wonderful things Miles had done to her. Her body strummed happily, as if it remembered too and it wanted to do that some more. She did, too, listening to the pad of footsteps crossing the carpet. Clearly, Miles hadn't been able to make it through the night without her. That put a smile on her face and she stretched, made a satisfied
hmmm
low in her throat and turned toward him.

A shadow hovered over the bed, but there was something wrong about it. It was cold, radiating ice as if he was part of the night and the dark. This wasn't Miles. She tried to sit up, startled, but it was too late. A hard, beefy hand clamped across her forehead, shoving her roughly into her pillow. Fear beat through her and she fisted her hands to fight, but a cloth covered her nose and face, before she could shout. She breathed in a medicinal-alcoholic odor and her stunned brain couldn't fight. Her body went heavy. Her mind faded into black until there was nothing.

Nothing at all.

The next thing she knew, there was an ache in her head and cold creeping through her body. She felt sick to her stomach. It was dark when she opened her eyes. She blinked painfully, her skull pounding with each breath she took. Dazed, her thoughts foggy, she realized she couldn't move her body. The cold creeping up her arms and legs felt excruciating.

Was this real? Or a dream? She shifted, confused. Something kept her in place, held her arms and legs when she strained against it. Rope, she realized vaguely, feeling the hemp bite into her flesh. She was tied up. She wasn't in her bed at Miles's home. She tried to sit up, but her head banged into something hard, something wooden, like a rafter.

Was she in an attic? No, that wasn't right, she realized, remembering the man's shadow looming over her bed and the cloth over her face. Tears rose in her eyes and she let them fall, shivering against the ground—the frozen ground. Why had he done this to her? She must be in a basement or something, maybe a cellar with a low ceiling just above her head. There was no light, no heat, nothing. Just dark, silence and the oppressive cold.

Her mind was clearing now, making her aware of just how cold she was. Her hands and toes were numb. Her skin felt frozen. Hard, violent quakes wrenched through her mid-section and her teeth chattered. She was still wearing what she'd changed into to go to sleep—a pair of socks and her nightgown. She had to get out of here. She had to fight the fear quaking her and think. She was alone for now—there was nothing but silence—but that might not last for long.

"Hello?" she called out, listening to her voice echo in what sounded like a small, enclosed space. "Someone help me! Please. Help me!"

But there was no answer, just her own words resounding and dying away in the pitch black. Wild panic clawed through her, but as much as she thrashed, she couldn't move much, not with the sturdy ropes at her wrists and ankles. She blinked at the tears burning her eyes, but they streamed down her face, starting to freeze on her lashes. There was no escape and no way out.

What was going to happen to her? All kinds of terrible, horrifying images popped into her head—rape, torture, death. She broke out in a terrified sweat. No one knew where she was. And what about Miles? She'd never had the chance to say goodbye to him. All the secrets she'd kept in her heart ached there, the words of love and devotion she hadn't said to him.

Now there was no way she ever could.

Miles woke with a headache, thanks to the scotch. Too much alcohol had been his first mistake last night, he thought wryly as he tossed back the covers and sat up, feet on the floor. Having his way with Maggie was the second (and gigantic) mistake of the night. He raked his hands through his hair, too hung over to be genuinely mad at himself—yet. That would come later.

Right now, he needed his slippers, his robe and some pickle juice. That worked every time, and he wanted it to work before Pops and Pa came downstairs. He had enough problems without his family commenting on his obvious attempts to drink away his strong feelings toward Maggie.

Maggie. He hauled on his slippers, grimacing. After last night, what exactly was he going to say to her?
Sorry, I wasn't drunk last night but my inhibitions were low enough that when you grabbed me like that, I lost control.
Or, maybe,
sorry, I ruined you. Hope your future husband doesn't mind.
No, he thought, rolling his eyes and reaching for his robe. Those excuses were only excuses, and not even close to the truth. The truth was one place he was not prepared to go.

Maggie's door was closed tight and he almost stopped and knocked, but decided to let her sleep. He'd kept her up really late last night. He winced at that, helpless against the memories rolling through his mind—of Maggie climaxing with abandon, of Maggie pressing butterfly kisses to the underside of his jaw, of Maggie settling against his side, her head on his shoulder, giving a sated sigh of contentment when he hugged her closer.

Not that he'd wanted to hug her close, he told himself sternly, as if attempting to correct his own thoughts. It had been a habit, an ingrained reaction. When he was in bed with a lady, he liked a little closeness afterwards. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.

The clock knelled the hour as he hopped down the last two stairs, the six bongs echoing down the hallway. While the sun hadn't yet dawned, the gray light of pre-dawn chased away enough of the shadows that he didn't have to light a lamp. Strange that it was so cold, he thought, shivering beneath his warm clothes as a gust of wind smelling of snow and the fresh outdoors blew against him. He broke into a run, realizing something was wrong. The kitchen door stood wide open, a window pane broken out in the door, shards of glass scattered on the floor like newly fallen snow. His jaw dropped, momentarily paralyzed as his mind put it all together. The first break in, Maggie caught in her bath, and now this—

Maggie.
He didn't remember running, only that he found himself at her door, turning the knob, panic
rat-tat-tatting
through his veins. He burst into the room, saw the shadowed bed empty and covers drawn back, Maggie's clothes from last night draped neatly on a nearby chair. He didn't have to look around to know she was gone. Her things were still here. She'd been taken. Black fury roared through him and he was like a wild animal, a dangerous, predatory beast. An enraged growl echoed in the room—dark and lethal. Likely it was his. He turned around and stalked down the hallway, threw his door open and hauled on yesterday's clothes.

"What's going on?" Pops rubbed his eyes sleepily, standing in the doorway in his flannel nightshirt. His gray hair stood up on end. "Is that you, Miles? For a moment there, I thought a grizzly had gotten into the house."

"Well, I feel like one." He yanked open the top drawer of his bureau and hauled out a holstered Colt .45 and strapped it on. "I'm going over to have it out with Chester, and I'll tell you this. It ain't gonna be pretty."

"What do you mean?" Now Pa padded into sight wearing his slippers and robe. A pillow mark creased his face as he blinked groggily. "What did Chester do now? Don't tell me he and his brothers broke in and stole more of your grandfather's liquor."

"No, he stole something much more valuable than a bottle of scotch." Far more. Miles stormed out the door, pushing his way into the hall. "Maggie's missing."

"What do you mean she's missing?" Pa rubbed his drooping eyes, looking like he needed another hour of sleep.

"I mean, she's not here," he growled out frustrated, stamping down the hallway. He didn't have time to waste. He had to get to her before—well, before Chester made good on his threat, the one Miles had overhead in the saloon that first day. "I mean it. Pa, race in and fetch the sheriff. Pops, you stay here in case she comes back."

"Have you searched the house for her?" Pops gestured toward Maggie's open door. "Maybe she's down in the cellar or somewhere else in the house. Did you think of that? Don't think I don't know what you were up to last night."

Miles skidded to a stop at the top of the landing, turning to gaze down the hall at his grandfather. "What does that mean?"

"It means I came down last night for a nip of scotch for my insomnia and overheard things I'm too bashful to repeat." Pops arched his brow. "Maybe after having your way with her, Maggie is keeping her distance from you, and considering how you treat her, rightfully so."