Once A Wolf (41 page)

and heart as she lay in Tomás's arms. Thoughts were irrelevant; feeling was everything, and

sensation—the scents of earth and man and woman, the sounds of insects in the grass and

brush, the rustle of a cool evening breeze, the sight of stars emerging through the wash of

fading color that was the sky above them.

But the bodies they wore were human. Human reason worked its way into Rowena's mind,

insidious at first, then shouting at her to listen.

What have you done? it demanded. What have you become?

She tried to ignore it, burrowing deeper into the crook of Tomás's arm. He shifted to

accommodate her, his eyes closed as if he, too, were fighting some inner command.

They are after you, Lady Rowena whispered in the she-wolf's ear. Do you think you can lie there

like a whore and escape the consequences of your actions?

The wolf bristled and growled in defiance. Beast and lady confronted each other on the

battlefield of her soul, neither willing to retreat. In the end, the wolf was the first to look aside.

But she did not slink away to hide in some hidden corner. She watched and waited with animal

patience for another chance to emerge.

And Rowena, too, waited—for humiliation and self-contempt to send her spinning into despair

once again. It had come after her attack on Sim Kavanagh, paralyzing her with horror at what

she'd done. And it had gradually consumed her heady sense of victory when she and Tomás fled

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Las Vegas, feeding on the memory of the frenzy that had driven her to raise a weapon and

attack Cole's men in violent defense of El Lobo.

It might hold her even now, if not for Tomás's challenge. "… why didn't you run to Cole when

you had the chance?" he'd said. "He is exactly what you want."

She still wasn't sure what had happened, or how the wanton she-wolf was set free by his

words. She'd desired only one thing then: to prove Tomás wrong, whatever it took. To show

him exactly what she did want.

She had succeeded. Her virginity was lost, her self-control abandoned, her devotion to

propriety turned into a farce.

But the shame didn't come. That was the frightening part, that she looked at Tomás lying

beside her, his face relaxed with sleep, and felt not humiliation and anguish but a bittersweet

happiness. Happiness she did not deserve.

She disentangled herself from his arms, careful not to disturb him, and gathered her clothing.

She shook grass and dirt from the dress and put it on. It should have made her feel more

human, but it only reminded her of what she'd chosen to throw away.

Yes, chosen. However much she might wish to blame the wolf in her soul, she wouldn't be such

a coward as to hide from the truth.

The truth was that her body ached and her heart turned over in her chest as she watched

Tomás sprawled naked on his back, oblivious to his danger. She wanted to lie down beside him,

wake him, begin the caresses and loving all over again. In this instant of crystal-clear

understanding, she understood herself.

For so many years she'd fought her werewolf blood, standing rigid against all threats to her

resolve. Instead of bending, even a little, when flexibility might have eased her way, she held

firm against every challenge to face her bestial nature. And just like the proverbial tree in a

storm, she snapped when the stress became too great.

Tomás was her storm. He'd blown so gently that she hadn't realized how close she was to

breaking. Once shattered, a brittle tree could never be restored to its former strength. At best it

might be mended.

But only if she fully accepted her failure, and that the wolf was part of her. She could not cage it

without facing the same risk of losing control. If she acknowledged her dual essence at last,

kept the wolf tied within view rather than behind hidden bars, she could learn to tame it. She

need never be taken by surprise again. There was still hope of saving her humanity if she

refused the final degeneration into wolf's shape as well as wolf's nature. And, in time, the wolf's

nature would be mastered.

All she needed was time.

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Slowly she walked back to Tomás and knelt beside him. Her fingers trembled as she touched his

brow. How quiet he was, still without a care in the world. How far she'd come, from regarding

this man as a contemptible enemy to lying in his arms. From despising all he stood for to all but

embracing it. From hating him to…

Loving him.

She didn't flinch from the word. Kavanagh had forced her to speak the truth when he'd asked

her if she loved Tomás. She'd told herself then that she'd lied to satisfy the outlaw, but the joke

was on her.

Somewhere along this rash and fateful journey, she'd fallen in love. When had it begun—that

first night in the adobe ruins, or when he'd rescued Esperanza, or those heart-stopping

moments by the waterfall? What about him had captured her in spite of all her resistance? His

irreverent disdain for propriety, his laughter, his unexpected kindnesses and generosity, his

roguish gallantry, the wild spirit that no danger could break or tame—the very fact that he was

the opposite of everything she'd ever believed herself to be?

It made no difference. The deed was done, irrevocable, signed and sealed by their loving under

the wide desert sky. This love was not the idealized emotion she'd once felt for an upright

young man in England, or her respectful admiration for Cole. It extracted a much greater price.

It stripped her of her complacent ignorance, and made each decision a test she might fail at

terrible cost.

But love had also given her a new kind of courage—not the arrogant bluster she'd used to

shield herself from Tomás's threat to her heart, but the fortitude to accept what had been and

what must be.

She brushed the thick hair away from Tomás's forehead. Even if she had the choice to undo

what had happened in Las Vegas and afterward, she wouldn't. And if she could go even farther

back in time, and never meet El Lobo at all…

She might have been content. Content, married to Cole, ignorant of passion, unsuspecting that

her husband wore a mask of refinement and gentility over a criminal's soul.

But of that she still had no proof. If he'd had a role in the death of Tomás's parents, she would

find out. And if Tomás had murdered Cole's father…

God help her. Once she'd asked him how many men he'd killed, and he hadn't answered. She

could no more believe he was a killer by nature than she was. The black-and-white certainties

that ruled her life had faded to shades of gray, distressingly ambiguous. Could she love a

murderer?

She was sure of but one thing: She couldn't bear the thought of a world without Tomás

Alejandro Randall.

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She stretched out beside him and closed her eyes. She would make peace with herself one day,

even with her wolf and its savagery. But there would be no such reconciliation with this love,

for she knew that Tomás did not share it.

He'd set out to seduce her from the moment they met—as a challenge, revenge, amusement.

He'd found her beautiful and desirable. He had protected her as he did any of his dependents.

She thought he'd come to feel genuine affection for her, in spite of their constant sparring.

But the emotions she had discovered weren't for the likes of El Lobo. Anything else he might

give with his whole heart, but not this.

Love, they said, made everything possible. Without it, the vast gulf between them was

insurmountable.

She could swallow her pride and ask Tomás to abandon his quest for revenge and… what? Run

away with her to a place where they were both unknown? Ask him to give up his freedom and

settle down to the life she had always wanted— raise their children as human and grow old in a

stable home with four real walls and civilization on every side?

Or she could go with him and become an outlaw's woman, forever hunted, watching the wolf

engulf the woman until Lady Rowena Forster ceased to exist…

Love had made her surrender her convictions and principles. Love had urged her into Tomás's

arms, in spite of her vows to another man. But not even love dared demand the sacrifice of all

she had ever been or could be. Nor could she demand that of Tomás.

There could be no shared future for Lady Rowena Forster and Tomás Alejandro Randall.

But, for a few more stolen moments, there was now. She drew closer to Tomás and rested her

cheek on his shoulder. He sighed into her hair without waking, and his arm curled around her in

unconscious possessiveness.

I cannot be yours, she thought. Not because I love another, but because it is the only way to

give my love for you some meaning.

Cole filled her mind's eye, as she'd last seen him— sophisticated, elegant, exuding the supreme

confidence and self-assurance that drew everyone to him. Everything had changed since that

day in New York. She'd heard tales that made her doubt she'd ever known Cole at all. Tales she

still couldn't bring herself to believe. For, if they were true, her fragile plan would collapse.

She had no doubt that Cole and his brother hated Tomás, and would kill him on sight. Her

abduction would only have hardened their resolve. But, no matter how dangerous the chance

she took, she knew what she had to do.

"Tomás," she said. "Wake up."

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He murmured sleepily and tried to pull her atop him. She braced herself. "Wake up, Tomás. I

must talk to you."

His eyes opened to slits and his lips curled into a seductive smile. "Talk?" he said. "Why talk,

when there are so many more interesting things we could be—"

"Not any more." She looked away. "Tomás, I must go back to Cole."

Tomás came fully awake in an instant, as if a gunshot had gone off beside his ear. He was on the

verge of laughter when he saw the look on Rowena's face. She backed away and sat with her

arms wrapped around her knees, avoiding his touch.

"This has been a mistake," she said, "and there is but one way to correct it."

He sat up and pulled himself into a half-curled posture that mirrored hers. "A mistake?"

"Yes. You know that as well as I do. But there is still a chance that it can be made right—if I

return to Cole immediately."

He heard her words clearly enough. They acted like whips on his bare flesh: He wanted to howl

and dance like a true lunatic, to Change and run for miles and miles to the very ends of the

earth, to caress Rowena again and again until she gasped his name and begged him to take her

flying over the moon.

He did none of those things. He merely stared at her until she met his eyes.

"You wish to return to Cole," he said.

"I must." She held out her hand and let it fall. "What has happened between us was an error in

judgment that can lead nowhere except to more suffering. If I go back, there is a chance to end

it—the feud, the hunt for your life, the threat to those around us. Can't you see that it has to

end?"

Tomás closed his eyes. It has to end. He'd known that, hadn't he? He'd known it all along.

The curse of understanding had come to him when the loving was over, when they'd lain side

by side, avoiding the words that might shatter the miracle. Understanding fully what he'd done

to her—and to himself.

He'd never felt before what he'd experienced in Rowena's arms, in her body. She'd given herself

fully, with no thought to the consequences, just as he had done. And though he had lain with

many women, not one had ever given him reason to walk away with regret.

Rowena did.

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He had wanted her. Perhaps if he'd won her that day at the pool in the cañon, it would have

been easy to regard it simply as a most pleasurable revenge against Cole MacLean. Today, so

close to death, he'd thought that losing himself in her body would give him the release he

sought, release from the unwanted burden of guilt and anger and too-powerful emotions.

There was no release. Not when he knew what must happen when she woke and realized what

she'd sacrificed.

What had he told her that day by the pool when he'd nearly taken her? "When I am done, you'll

never go back to what you were. You'll be free.…"

Free. Free to risk her life in defense of his… free to lose all she'd ever known.

Or free to return to Cole MacLean.

Oh, her pleasure had been real enough. She had touched him and accepted his caresses with

true passion, even abandon. She was everything he'd wanted in his Lady of Fire.

But the Lady of Fire was not Rowena. She was a figment of his fantasies; she would never force