Once A Wolf (19 page)

He thought he had power over her, did he? He thought that with a few caresses he could

undermine the habits and training of a lifetime, that he could unleash the beast with a single

kiss, like a prince awakening a bewitched princess?

The Lady Rowena Forster was not so easily broken— neither with threats nor seduction. She

would teach him that lesson once and for all.

His mouth fitted itself over hers as if it belonged there. She felt his firm masculinity, the heat of

his body, his breath spilling into her mouth as she opened it to draw in a gasp. She didn't fight,

for to struggle would prove he was right.

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But as his arms came around her and his tongue teased the edges of her lips, she began to

forget her purpose. With an effort she tried to focus on the memory of Cole's last kiss, when his

usually restrained good-bye had become something much more passionate and possessive.

Cole's kiss. It was really no different from this. She could simply pretend it was Cole kissing her

now. Accept it, just as she accepted Cole's liberties with her person as the privilege of a

husband-to-be.

Yes. Remember what it was like when Cole kissed her. How he'd held her, how his lips had

worked over hers and demanded entrance, but didn't push beyond when she resisted.

Before Cole, only one other man had kissed her, her first human beau in England. His kisses had

been chaste. Tomás's kiss was anything but. And as he pulled her closer still, she became aware

that she was not feeling what she'd always experienced in Cole's arms. There was none of the

detachment and sense of obligation she'd believed was a woman's part in such exchanges.

Instead, she found her breath coming short, and waves of heat coursing through her body.

Tomás's hands spread across her back, kneading and rubbing until her spine felt soft as butter.

Her breasts were remarkably sensitive where they pressed against his chest, as if her bodice

and corset and chemise were no protection at all.

None of this had happened with Cole. It was as if a stranger had taken over her body—a

stranger who willingly opened her mouth to accept Tomás's gentle invasion, who began to

tremble with strange excitement when his tongue stroked hers. And this other Rowena did not

wait passively for the kiss to end. She arched her back and responded, returning the pressure of

his lips, her own hands stealing about his broad back.

The other Rowena had been waiting for this moment ever since she met Tomás Alejandro

Randall. Ever since the train and the vivid, shameful, enticing images that invaded her thoughts.

Ever since she had felt the ecstatic jolt of sensation when he'd touched her on the way to Rito

Pequeño, and when he'd stood over her bed in the village and joked of sharing it with her.

It wasn't a joke. His kiss told her so. She had not the slightest urge to laugh.

She felt, absurdly, like crying.

Abruptly he let her go and rocked back onto his knees. The pupils of his eyes were dilated and

his nostrils flared with every breath. She scrambled away, hands flying to her hair as if by

putting it in proper order she could as easily tidy her emotions.

If he had not stopped it first…

"Well?" he said.

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"Are you asking for my opinion?" she said, fighting to keep her voice level and dispassionate.

She balanced on unsteady legs and found the wall's support. "It was an… interesting

experience."

"Interesting?" He shook his head and laughed. "You are the first woman to use that word."

The nerve of the man. She glared down at him. "I have higher standards than your usual female

companions."

"And Cole, I assume, met those 'standards'?"

Her immediate response was to snap out an agreement, but the words caught on her tongue.

Until now, she wasn't sure she'd ever seen a truly smoldering gaze. His fit the description

perfectly.

"Cole would never treat me as you have," she said.

"Like a clever, spirited, passionate woman?"

He countered her every statement with yet another question, each one meant to bait her. " I

thought this was to be a test of my convictions. As you see, they have not wavered."

"I think you are not being honest, Rowena." He stood up to face her. "It was more than merely

interesting to me."

A warm flush started from the base of her neck. She should be insulted, not pleased, that he

found her kiss more than merely interesting. Kissing was nothing novel to a man such as he. She

was an absolute amateur by comparison.

God help her if she accepted such a compliment. If she allowed herself to think that it might

ever be repeated.

"I don't think it likely that I'll be able to give you a more accurate rating of your abilities," she

said, straightening her skirts with a twitch.

"No?" He slipped up beside her and brushed her ear with his lips. "Here we have a saying: 'Con

el tiempo se maduran las verdes.' It means, 'In time green fruit ripens.' "

"I doubt," she said, refusing to retreat so much as an inch, "that this fruit will ever be to your

taste."

"Only time will tell. And now I think it is time for you to rest." He started for the door.

"You do mean to leave me here."

"Just for one night, while your lodging is being prepared."

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If she said anything more, he would guess the depth of her unease. She'd be a fool to give him

ammunition. He might even offer to stay with her.

"The furs and blankets are soft," he said, "and the night is warm. Unless there is something else

you require?"

"Nothing that you could provide."

"Then I wish you a good sleep." He opened the door and paused. "If you open your heart,

Rowena, the earth and the ancients will speak to you. Listen, and you may learn how to live."

Tomás came for her the next morning when the canyon was still in shadow and the thickets of

trees and shrubbery along the river rang sweet with birdsong. Rowena tidied herself with the

water and her few personal belongings, determined not to let Tomás see how poorly she'd

slept.

It hadn't been because of the primitive accommodations, or the temperature of the air, or even

the confinement— for the door was latched, she'd found soon enough. She had lain awake all

night, listening for the voices Tomás had promised, half afraid she could hear them calling.

Telling her that she must let go. Give in to that other Rowena. Submit to the wolf.

Surrender to Tomás Alejandro Randall.

But when dawn broke, she was still herself. The figures on the wall had not spoken. She met

Tomás's searching gaze with a raised brow and faint smile.

"Good morning," she said.

"Buenos dias." He looked around the cave room, as if he expected to find some manifestation

of his mysterious ancient voices. "Your casa is ready. If you please?"

She avoided his extended hand, went to the open door, and started down the ladder before

Tomás could offer to precede her. A single horse was waiting at the bottom, side-saddled for

her use; Tomás helped her mount, took the reins, and led the animal onto the path.

Nothing about the canyon would have been familiar to her a week ago—not the red-and-gold

earth and rock, nor the stunted pines, nor the birds that called from the water's edge. She had

little reason to appreciate its sere beauty. And yet she found herself drawn to it against her will

and all recent experience. Spiny cacti unpredictably sprouted fruit and blossoms; wildflowers

clung to the most unlikely crevices; the tall cottonwood trees with their bright, rustling leaves

marched along the stream, towering above undergrowth as thick as any in an English wood.

Birds kept up a ceaseless melody.

"So this is the place you call home," she said.

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"It has its advantages," he said, glancing up at her. The sun, just clearing the top of the eastern

mesa, gave his skin a rich, warm glow. "Do you like it?"

His eyes were so very striking in this particular light, she observed. Had she noticed the height

of his cheekbones before, or the curling hair behind his ears, or the way his lips…

"You seem overly interested in the judgment of a prisoner," she said hastily.

"Not a prisoner, but an honored guest. As you will see."

And, indeed, as they approached the little village Rowena had her first glimpse of the welcome

awaiting her. In the dusty square formed by the five or six adobe houses, a small crowd had

gathered. At first glance it appeared to be made up largely of children, ranging in age from

babes to gawky adolescents. They darted forward in a flock like eager birds, their arms filled

with wildflowers.

Behind them came the adults. With a start, Rowena recognized the men of Tomás's outlaw

gang: Mateo and Carlos, bereft of their guns and clothed in the simple garments of farmers,

and three others similarly disarmed and dressed. They looked like ordinary villagers. With them

was an older man with a sun-seamed face and hair white with age.

And there was Esperanza. She ran toward Rowena, stopped, and ducked her head shyly.

"I told you she'd be well cared for," Tomás said. He helped Rowena dismount and called out in

Spanish to the crowd of children.

They formed a ragged row before Rowena and began to sing, voices earnest and slightly off-

key.

"They are singing a song to welcome you," he said.

Rowena bit her lower lip, completely at a loss. Children were the last thing she'd expected to

see in a den of thieves. They appeared healthy enough, and cheerful in their singing, but she

was very much afraid this was all a plot to charm her. A plot that was succeeding.

"Did you arrange this?" she hissed to Tomás.

"I told them about you," he said. His mouth quirked in a wry smile. "We do not have many

visitors here."

"Do they believe I am an honored guest?"

"Of course. Do you wish to tell them otherwise?"

Esperanza crept up beside Rowena and took her hand. Moved by the girl's trust, Rowena

wondered that she felt so, so…

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Needed. Wanted. Accepted, utterly without question. All because of a mute girl, a chorus of

barefoot cherubs, and the winning words of a smooth-tongued scoundrel.

The children finished their song and two of them, a round-faced girl of ten and a sturdy boy

some years older, came forward to present Rowena with a handful of yellow flowers.

"This is Enrique," Tomás said, "and his sister Pilar."

Rowena accepted the flowers gravely. "Thank you, Enrique. Pilar."

Pilar grinned, showing several crooked teeth, and spoke in a whisper.

"She says you're a very beautiful lady," Tomás translated.

"Gracias," Rowena said to the child. "Do they not speak English?"

"They seldom leave the canyon." He beckoned the other children forward. One by one he

named them for her:

Aquilino and Gita, the son and daughter of Mateo, and Miguel, Gertrudis, and Catalina, the

children of Carlos. Gita was the smallest at two or three years, and Enrique the eldest, on the

brink of young manhood. They were wide-eyed with curiosity and bubbling with questions

Rowena couldn't understand or answer.

She had a number of questions herself. "Where are their mothers?" she asked.

"Mateo's wife was very ill and died a year ago. Carlos lost his woman before he joined us.

Enrique and Pilar are huerfanos—orphans."

It explained much. She studied Pilar and noted the ragged hair, undoubtedly cut with the dull

edge of a knife, and the too-large baggy trousers she wore under a boy's shirt. She was every

bit as dusty and unkempt as the boys, whose clothing was streaked with dirt from rough-and-

tumble play. The other girls were in much the same condition. How long had it been since

they'd enjoyed a woman's personal care and instruction, or worn anything resembling a dress?

This was what came of children living among thieves. At Greyburn, Braden's estate in England,

the children of tenants and laborers had been assured of regular medical care, good sturdy

clothing, and a basic education. Rowena had helped distribute charity to needy families. Even at

Rito Paqueno the children had complete families and a stable life. What could these children

expect? The girls, especially, must suffer in such a place.

But Tomás did not seem in the least concerned. He knelt among them and shared a joke that

sent them into gales of laughter. He was hardly more than a heedless boy himself. With a roar

he made a frightening face and raised his arms as if to pounce on any child too slow to escape.