Keegan's Lady (34 page)

"What if Patrick is still drunk when you go over there?" she asked.

"What if he is?"

"He might try to pick a fight with you."

Ace moved his hands on the hay bale. "I've never walked away from a challenge in my life, Caitlin. But for you, I will. I promised you this morning that I won't lift a hand against your brother. Unless he hits you again or somehow threatens my life, I won't break my word to you again."

Caitlin wanted to believe him. Oh, God, how she wanted to believe. Experience told her not to be a fool. He'd broken his word once, without batting an eye. He would again. It didn't matter that Patrick had deserved the licking. If she were honest, she had to admit she'd wanted to light into him herself. But, then, she hadn't sworn not to. Ace had. And he'd broken that promise without one second's hesitation.

"What if—" Acid rolled up her throat, forcing her to swallow. "What if he pulls a gun on you? You could end up killing him. I'm not sure your going over there is a good idea, as much as I appreciate the offer."

"I'm good with a gun, Caitlin."

"I realize that, which is why I'm worried."

"I didn't get my reputation slapping leather without knowing how to place my bullets. If Patrick draws on me, I won't kill him. You have my word on it."

She wasn't willing to bet her brother's life on Ace Keegan's word. "I'd really rather—"

"Caitlin, you're just going to have to trust me," he cut in. "I can handle your brother. We have enough problems without borrowing trouble, and talking about Patrick isn't the only reason I came up here."

She hated to ask what his other reason was. Given his kindness last night, she supposed it was silly to think he might have joined her in the loft with nefarious plans in mind. But, then, men had been kind to her before. She'd learned the hard way just how treacherous some members of the opposite sex could be, smiling one moment driving the knife between your ribs the next. Oh, yes, she knew...

He puffed air into his cheeks. "I came up here to talk to you about a couple of other things. First off, I’ll apologize again. I'm sorry our conversation got off trail out there. I meant to calm the waters. Then the first thing I knew, we were quarreling."

That he would sit there and apologize for something he'd done deliberately caused a sudden whirlpool of rage to surge in Caitlin's stomach, its heat mixing with the acid as it came up her throat. She was fed up with him toying with her. Frightened by it. A person couldn't have her wits about her every single second.

"You goaded me into quarreling with you." She kept her voice carefully calm. "You were trying to dig information out of me."

She expected him to deny it. Instead he chuckled, a deep, warm sound that curled around her. "I must be losing my touch. Was I that transparent?"

"Maybe I'm just smarter than your average victim”

"Victim?" He shook his head, his grin turning wry. "That's an odd choice of words, Caitlin."

"Is it?"

"You're still upset with me."

She refused to dignify that with a reply. He went back to studying her, his dark gaze giving hers no quarter. After what seemed an interminably long while, he apparently grew bored with the pastime and shifted his attention to her body. With her knees drawn up, she knew he couldn't see much, but he made her feel as if he could. She curled her toes inside her shoes.

"I'll tell you what," he said, the sudden sound of his. voice making her jump. His gaze drifted slowly back to her face. "I'll stop playing games and come straight out with it. How does that sound?"

"Straight out with what?" Her voice sounded tinny.

"Questions." His eyes locked with hers again. "And understand before I ask them that I want answers. Honest ones."

Caitlin's face felt stiff. She thought of Patrick and the egg-white facial mask, and the next thing she knew her eyes were stinging with tears. She determinedly blinked them away. "You can't force me to answer questions I don't want to answer, Mr. Keegan."

"So we're back to 'Mr. Keegan,' are we?"

He laughed again, soundlessly, the slight shake of his shoulders and chest the only sign of his mirth. Then his mouth twisted down at the corner as a smile flitted across his lips. A crooked smile. A smile that, despite the disfiguring scar on his cheek, managed to charm and disarm. She wondered if he'd practiced it in front of a mirror. He bent his head for a moment, moving his boots back and forth as though to check the shine.

"As for my not being able to force you to answer my questions, you're dead wrong. I have a couple of trump cards up my sleeve, and they're whoppers. My advice to you is to fold before I play them."

Caitlin pressed her back more firmly against the wall. "Are you threatening me?"

"More or less." Even in the dimness, his eyes twinkled when he looked back up at her. "But my intentions are good."

She wanted to jerk her gaze from his but found she couldn't. "What exactly are you threatening me with?"

"You're my wife. Go figure."

Her knees were going to break. She tried to loosen her arms from around them, but her body seemed frozen in that one position.

He shifted his feet again. "The way I see it, Caitlin, I don't have a lot of choices. I married you, and somehow or other, I'm determined to make the marriage work. Somewhere along the line, that means no secrets can remain between us. It also means that, sooner or later, I'll want to make love to you. I've already gathered that the thought of my doing so is a little less than appealing to you. Fact is, I'd say you're terrified."

She said nothing, just stared at him with her heart knocking around in her throat.

"Since I'm your husband now with certain inalienable rights, I think it'd be a real smart move if you told me why you're so afraid. Otherwise, I'm left guessing. That puts me at a hell of a disadvantage, and it isn't really fair to you. If there's a problem, I need to know it. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

Her lips had stuck together, and her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth. When she said nothing, he heaved a tired-sounding sigh.

"You're not helping me out much here."

"I think," she said shakily, "that you're giving me an ultimatum."

He folded his arms, the fingers of one hand thrumming on his shirt sleeve. His patience was obviously growing thin. "I prefer to think of it as giving you a chance to avoid unnecessary heartache. I'm not an unreasonable man. If you're frightened and you have good reason to be, then it's time to acknowledge the corn. If not, I will assume I'm dealing with an ordinary I case of bridal jitters and proceed accordingly."

"In other words, either I tell you whatever it is you're wanting to know, or you'll force your attentions on me?"

He held her gaze. "Force. That's a real favorite word of yours, isn't it? You used it just a second ago, too." He regarded her thoughtfully. "I have a hunch there's another word bouncing around inside your head right now. A real similar one." He paused, as though for emphasis, then said very softly, "I think that word is rape."

Caitlin had a sudden and painful urge to vomit. Her stomach twisted, then lurched upward. The knifing cramps that followed would have bent her double if she hadn't already been in that position.

"Last night you told me you were compromised years back. I don't think 'compromised' was exactly the right word. Was it?"

She clamped a hand over her mouth and squeezed her eyes closed. While she battled with the spasms attacking her stomach, he sat there, watching and waiting.

"Caitlin . . ." He said her name gently, making it sound like a caress. "Don't misunderstand me. I'm not asking for a detailed account. Just a simple yes or no. I'll even settle for a nod or shake of your head. If something like that happened to you, honey, you have to tell me. It isn't the kind of secret a woman should keep from her husband."

With a lurch, she twisted onto her knees and bent forward. "I'm going to be sick."

For just a second, Ace thought she was faking. Then he saw her retch, the veins along her throat distending, her face contorting. He came up off the bale so fast it made him dizzy. As he slogged toward her through the hay, several thoughts raced through his mind, the first that he had an answer to his question, the last that he was the stupidest son of a bitch who had ever walked.

He'd expected his frontal attack to upset her. But nothing like this.

She retched again, the sound making his throat crawl. She didn't seem to be getting anything up.

Dry heaves. He'd had them a few times, and he knew how they hurt. Only in his case, they'd been just reward. He'd always been drinking when he'd suffered such attacks. Caitlin hadn't touched a drop of liquor.

Concern filled him. He dropped to one knee beside her and looped an arm around her waist. "Jesus H. Christ."

She batted weakly at his arm. "G-go away. Don't w-watch me!"

She followed the plea with another mewling sound that nearly made him lose his own breakfast. He'd been there a few too many times not to feel waves of sympathetic nausea. He gulped and fixed his gaze on the back of her head, trying a little frantically to think about something else. It was a trick he'd learned to combat his weak stomach years ago when his brothers got sick, getting his mind off the vomiting and onto something pleasant.

Only with Caitlin the method didn't work. Every time she retched, he felt it clear to his toes. The noises had that tearing, ripping kind of edge, and she seemed so fragile. He couldn't help but worry she was going to hurt herself. Along the side of her neck, he could see the veins popping out. It felt as if every muscle in her body was straining.

Thinking back, he knew she hadn't had supper last night, and she'd skipped breakfast. Now it was mid-morning. If she'd had an early lunch yesterday, that meant she hadn't eaten in twenty-four hours. On top of that, she'd been tied into nervous knots ever since he cornered her at the social last night. Little wonder her stomach was rebelling.

He heard her gulping convulsively and dragging in deep breaths. He knew she was trying to regain control. Only with dry heaves, it was seldom quite that easy. Soon, he could almost feel her exhaustion.

Worry for her helped him ward off his own nausea. Cupping a hand over her brow, he supported her head and took more of her weight against him. When the retching finally subsided, he twisted, putting his back to the wall and sitting in the hay so he could draw her onto his lap. Though she tried, she was too weak to resist. When she ceased struggling, she did so with a defeated sob, turning her face against his shoulder.

He curled his arms around her and rested his cheek atop her head. She was crying, softly, heartbrokenly.

Impatience. All his life, it had been the bane of his existence. He wanted everything accomplished yesterday, if not sooner. He'd never been able to stand cooling his heels. It was that way with work, that way with play, that way with revenge. And now he was behaving the same damned way with this girl, charging in, not thinking first. They'd been married roughly twelve hours, and already he was trying to pry secrets out of her and make her trust him. She needed time, dammit. Any idiot should have been able to see that.

Back home in
San Francisco
, pianos had skirts, for Christ's sake, not for decoration, but because revealing the piano legs was considered to be risque. People referred to trousers as inexpressibles, and called their asses "sit-down-upons." Respectable women pretended not to have legs or arms, referring to them instead as appendages or limbs. Their breasts and private places were touched by their husbands only in the dark of night behind locked bedroom doors, never to be mentioned in the light of day.

Ace knew all that. He did have a mother and sister, after all, both of whom were models of ladylike behavior. Neither of them would say "shit" if they had a mouthful, and he doubted they'd scream "rape" even if they were being attacked.

That was the way it was in polite society. Things weren't quite so straight-laced around No Name, but close. Yet he had confronted Caitlin, expecting her to not only say the word "rape" but to discuss the experience with him? He had to be out of his goddamned mind.

Part of the problem was that he hadn't lived at home in years. Rooms above saloons. Suites in fancy hotels. He'd been rubbing elbows with sporting women for so long, he'd evidently forgotten how to treat a real lady. A gentleman didn't give ultimatums, and he sure as hell didn't try to engage a female in conversations about indecent topics, rape being high on the list.

"I'm sorry," she whispered against his shirt.

Ace closed his eyes. "No, sweetheart, I'm the one who's sorry. I shouldn't have brought up the subject."

He felt her body grow tense, felt her hands tighten into fists on his shirt. "No, please. I'd like to answer your question. I—I don't want—you to proceed accordingly."

For a moment, Ace couldn't figure out what the hell she meant. Then he remembered saying that if she didn't acknowledge the corn, he'd assume hers was a mere case of ordinary bridal jitters and proceed accordingly. He nearly groaned at the memory, and on the tail end of that urge came another, even stronger one to go get Joseph and have him take over. For all his brother's rough edges, he'd probably handle this girl with a hell of a lot more finesse than Ace was. Joseph hadn't spent quite so much time in saloons and gambling houses.