Once A Wolf (5 page)

At least that was what she believed.

Now, as the train approached the Kansas-Colorado border, she occupied herself in gazing out

the window at the passing scenery as if it fascinated her. Tomás knew from experience that her

goal was more to avoid him than observe the landscape.

He settled back in his upholstered seat and studied her out of the corner of his eye. Even near

the end of a long train journey she managed to keep herself stiffly upright, her back seldom

touching the seat. For the past several days she'd remained detached, regal, unfailingly polite

and distant as the moon.

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The fact that they shared a berth in the sleeping car had done little to encourage her to speak

to him, except to inquire further about her brother. Fortunately, he knew just enough to hold

her at bay. And her long silences gave him every opportunity to recall in detail what she'd been

like in England.

Of course he'd known her then under different circumstances, when she'd been forced to

extremes by her elder brother's expectations. And "know her" was too presumptuous a phrase.

He'd left England before her escape to America.

Here, at last, she considered herself safe. Safe to be the proper human lady. Safe from the

werewolf heritage she refused to accept, because Cole MacLean had convinced her that he

shared her revulsion for the shapeshifter's way.

Tomás laughed silently. How well MacLean had deceived her. He'd revealed only that side of

himself he wanted her to see.

And what had she revealed to MacLean? That took a bit of imagination. The lady was scarcely

an exhibitionist, either of form or feeling. If she ever let that gorgeous hair fall about her

shoulders, Tomás was not privileged to see it. Each night she retreated behind the curtains of

her lower bunk and, for all he knew, slept fully clothed, corset and all.

But in the long, idle hours traversing the civilized East, changing trains in Chicago, and setting

out at last across the open plains, he amused himself with quite a contrasting vision.

Lady Rowena Forster. How shocked she'd be if she knew what he was thinking.

In his imagination, she was no statue but a soft and passionate woman. She was neither prim

nor proper. Instead of the close-fitting basque and corseted skirts, she wore a white

embroidered blouse, short-sleeved and loose about the shoulders. The faint outline of her

nipples lay like a shadow beneath the cloth. Her skirt was full and richly colored, falling just to

her ankles. Her feet—currently shod in dainty boots—were bare.

She looked at him, her eyes laughing. There was fire in her cheeks, the fire of a woman on the

brink of arousal.

Ah, yes. Now her eyes were becoming heavy with sensual invitation. Slender fingers brushed at

hair that was unbound and disheveled as a gypsy's. She bent toward him, and her breasts

pushed against their loose confinement.

"Tomás," she whispered.

Her lips were lush and moist, half parted. He moved to seize her in his arms, but she backed

away with a teasing smile. With a twist of her hips she unbuttoned her skirt and tugged it down

until it fell in a puddle at her ankles. Her legs were long and shapely. Only the long camisa

covered her, ending at her upper thigh.

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Her motions then were deliberately seductive. She ran her hands over the pliant cotton of the

camisa, molding it to her body. Slowly she began inching the blouse up over her thighs, her

hips, her waist. The curls that guarded her womanhood were as golden as her hair. She lifted

the bunched fabric above her breasts, revealing taut nipples of dark rose.

With a final dramatic gesture, she pulled the blouse over her head and flung it away. Moonlight

caressed her curves like a hungry lover.

Tomás knew she was about to Change, and when she did, she would deny him what she'd so

clearly promised. He lunged toward her. She skipped back, showing her teeth in challenge.

"Catch me," she said. "If you catch me, I am yours."

"Mi flama," he said, matching her smile. "You'll surrender to me—"

"Are you unwell, Mr. Randolph?"

Tomás started out of his pleasurable dream to the sight of Lady Rowena's deep blush. He

became aware of two things at once: that he was profoundly aroused and uncomfortable, and

that he'd been staring at her hard enough to draw her away from her implacable examination

of the countryside.

But no. It couldn't be his stare that produced that color in her cheeks and brought such alarm to

those cool eyes. He shifted in his seat and recalled his fantasy. If she had been privy to his

musings, she might have reacted so. The way any ordinary woman not made of ice would do.

Was it possible that she had guessed his thoughts?

"Mr. Randolph?" she said, a little catch in her voice.

He considered possible answers. Alas, I am quite unwell, my lady, but you have the cure to my

illness. Shall we repair to the baggage car?

"I was merely admiring the scenery and became… distracted," he said. "You seem disturbed,

Lady Rowena. May I fetch you some water?"

She looked away sharply, her hand at her collar. "I am just eager to reach my brother."

"Of course," he said. To see her truly eager about anything would be most gratifying. But her

brief moment of vulnerability had passed. Once again he was left to watch her pretending she

didn't notice him. He sighed and attempted once more to summon up the wanton lady of his

imagination.

But she had fled, bound up in her corsets and confining skirts. What will it take to transform

you, my Lady Ice? If a kiss were enough, MacLean would have tried it. He'd never buy the wares

without testing them first.

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The image of MacLean kissing Rowena shattered Tomás's lazy amusement. For an instant he

saw, too explicitly, his enemy invading his waking dream, standing between him and the Lady of

Fire. It was MacLean who seized her in his arms, MacLean who covered her body with his own.

Demonio. Cole would never have her, Fire or Ice. If anyone were to quench that fire or melt the

ice, it would be El Lobo.

The small hairs tightened on the back of Tomás's neck, and he found himself on his feet,

standing over the lady in question. His fingers were curled to grab her in full view of every other

passenger in the car.

And she was staring up as if at a monster.

Something within him snapped. The grim, jealous creature that had possessed him let go, and

he fell into his seat again. In the same moment Rowena virtually leaped from her place and slid

past him.

"If you will excuse me," she said, "I must…" Her sentence went unfinished. She hurried away

down the aisle, past the curious and pointed gazes of her fellow travelers.

Tomás met the stares one by one until every voyeur found something better to do, and then

had a good laugh at his own expense.

Ay, Dios! He could hear Sim Kavanagh's voice now: "Caballero, if you're going to lose your head,

never do it over a woman."

His head was still in place, but his mind was another matter. Or perhaps a more southerly part

of his anatomy was to blame.

He relaxed and closed his eyes. Why fight it? Rowena was hardly his kind of woman, nor had he

ever been required to beg for a lady's favors. In this case it might actually help to imagine her as

his Lady of Flame, lest reality douse the very first ember. She'd take her own life rather than

admit to a werewolf's passion.

If MacLean managed to steal her back before Tomás was finished with her, he was likely to

discover his privates frozen between the sheets.

His mouth twitched between a smile and a frown. Let that horse be saddled when he caught it.

And catch it he would. There was nowhere for Rowena to go until they reached La Junta, which

should be in a handful of hours. The end of the journey, and the beginning of a new one. Lady

Ice was in for quite a surprise.

For the first time he noticed that she'd left something of herself behind in her haste to escape.

The white satin fan lay half open and forgotten on her seat, absurdly delicate. A careless move

could crush it.

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It's an unusual marble statue that needs cooling, he thought. Or were you just beginning to

thaw? On impulse he snatched up the fan. The pristine folds carried Rowena's unique

fragrance.

There was no denying that she owned an intoxicating natural perfume under all her feminine

armor. Lady Ice would never let him near the source of that bouquet, but the Lady of Fire…

He moved to her seat to stretch out his legs and was idly fanning himself when he registered

the first hint of an entirely different scent.

Danger. It rose above the odors of someone's recent meal, bodies closely mingled, and ever-

present smoke. His body snapped to attention before his mind could focus. The porter who

obstructed his view of the aisle came level with his berth, and he recognized the man who

stood at the opposite end of the car.

They called him lucky, the men who followed him. But no luck of his brought Weylin MacLean

to this train on the very day that would see the start of the MacLeans' ultimate humiliation.

It was beyond belief that Weylin had tracked him to and from New York. He was sure that the

younger MacLean had never set foot in the city; he'd have acted immediately if he knew Tomás

was on board. He couldn't have recognized Lady Rowena.

That was as far as Tomás's luck held. At any moment Weylin would catch his scent and look

across the car, and then there'd be hell to pay.

The Randalls had already paid their debt to hell.

Lady Rowena would know nothing of his sudden alteration in plans, but that would be

remedied soon enough. He tucked the folded fan in his coat. Enjoy your freedom while you can,

my Lady Ice. This is not good-bye, but simply adios.

He rose casually, taking the porters arm and using him as a shield to block Weylin's view.

"There's a man at the other end of the car," he said. "Tall and light-haired. It's very important

that you don't let him come any further into the car. If you do, there will be trouble. Do you

understand?"

The porter blinked and nodded. "Don't let him come in."

"Excelente. And now I will be going." He patted the man's arm and started for the rear of the

car.

He didn't know what drew him to glance back as he reached the door. Weylin looked directly at

him and stilled in midstep. His gray eyes narrowed. The porter hurried to confront him, but

Tomás didn't wait to witness the outcome of such an unequal contest.

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He had long since determined the most convenient exits for a possible hasty departure. No one

saw him jump from the train, more cleanly than any human could manage, and roll among the

prairie grasses unhurt. He stripped out of his fine suit of clothes, and Changed.

The world changed with him, becoming a place of myriad smells, sounds, and sensations that

only un hombre-lobo could appreciate. Warm wind ruffled his brown coat. He nosed the pile of

discarded fabric as if it were the bleached skeleton of another life, left for some wayfarer to

discover.

On four feet he began to run—not the steady ground-eating lope of ordinary travel, but a dead

gallop that would see him to La Junta before the train arrived.

Rowena stood on the railroad platform in La Junta, Colorado, her trunks at her feet, and uttered

a very ladylike curse.

The dusty town bustled, oblivious, all around her. This was the railhead, the end of the line

while tracks were being laid across the empty prairie to the somewhat more established town

of Trinidad, near the New Mexico border. So she had been told.

She'd also been told that the next single-car passenger train to the end of the line, a few miles

northeast of Trinidad, would not depart until dawn tomorrow morning. And there was no

telling if Trinidad was to be her final destination.

She remained in ignorance of such details—including where in this Godforsaken place she

might find a dish of fresh tea, not to mention her brother—because Mr. Randolph had

disappeared. Once the train had reached the station she'd fully expected him to turn up,

apologizing for his dreadful manners.

He had not, and she couldn't account for her inexplicable reaction toward him a few hours ago,

or his peculiar behavior afterward. Certainly she'd caught him staring at her—it wasn't the first

time—but until that moment when he'd looked ready to pounce, he hadn't given her legitimate

cause for concern. She'd been the one to ignominiously flee from him, as flustered as a