The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1) (22 page)

The squeak of saddle leather and the plod of horses' hooves to his right sent a jolt of reality through Reese. Grace sensed the men too, and went tense in his arms.

"Hey," called one of the men, stopping mere feet from him and Grace.

A bead of sweat formed between Reese's shoulder blades and he forced himself not to look up. Instead, he deepened the kiss, hoping to appear oblivious to the world around him.

"Hey, you!"

Reese waved them off, and gave a drunken lurch, catching Grace with clumsy skill as she clung to his shoulders. Pain shot through his side. His grunt was muffled against her mouth. Almost at the same instant, Grace gave a seductive chuckle, one worthy of a trollop's best efforts, and slid her hands saucily down his biceps toward his chest, covertly, helping him up.

The second man's voice came again. "We're lookin' for a feller, tall, maybe hurt. He's travelin' with a kid, a boy, fourteen, fifteen years—"

Grace nearly choked.

"—and an old man. Seen anybody like that 'round here?"

"No," Reese said, not looking up, then caught Grace's mouth again with passion. Again, he waved them off, a signal any healthy male would understand.

"Aw, hell," grumbled the first one. "He don't know nothin'. Let's go."

"But what if he—? What about what Sanders said?"

"That ain't him, Tobins," the first insisted disdainfully, yanking his horse around. "He's too short."

Short?

"Besides," the man continued, "Donovan ain't gonna go prancin' drunk right under our damned noses. How do you think he's managed to hide from us this long? By bein' stupid?"

The second muttered something under his breath and nudged his heels into his horse's flank. As they disappeared down the road, Reese broke contact with Grace's mouth, but didn't release her. Their breath mingled in the foggy night air as he watched the men retreat. Glancing down, he met her wide and excited eyes. Not scared, he realized with a lightness he hadn't felt in a long time.

A smile crept to his mouth. "You did good, princess. And the laugh—it was bloody brilliant."

"It was?"

"Aye," he answered softly, glancing at the retreating horses. He started to let her up.

"Wait," she whispered urgently, pulling him back. His eyes met hers and she blinked twice. "Uh, are you sure they're gone? I mean, maybe we shouldn't rush off, in case they're, you know, watching."

He glanced in the direction of the men again. Their forms were vanishing into the fog. His gaze returned to Grace, moving from her eyes to her freshly kissed mouth. He was fully aroused, and didn't mind the delay in letting her go. It would save him embarrassment. He couldn't imagine what she had in mind, but he was willing to play along.

Danger for the moment past, a tremble had worked its way up her spine and revealed itself in the shiver he felt now beneath his hands. "Well, now," he said slowly, "it could be a trick. They might double back."

"Yes," she murmured, her tongue darting out to moisten her bruised lips. "Or, there could be others. Perhaps," she gulped, "perhaps you should kiss me again, just in case."

Her words not only surprised him, they sent a painful tightening to his already aching lower regions. He focused on the dampness of her lower lip and the way it glistened in the moonlight. This was hardly the time to dally, he thought, glancing at the retreating men. Then again, she could be right. "You think so?"

"Well, maybe just to be safe. Of course," she managed, "it's all for—"

"For what?" His gaze roamed hungrily over her mouth.

"—that is, it's all for appearance's sa—"

His mouth covered Grace's, cutting off her transparent, wanton lie. With her heart pounding in her ears and her breath an ache in her throat, she wondered what on God's green earth had possessed her.

He answered that question as soon as he shifted her in his arms, flattening her breasts against the hard planes of his chest. This time, he didn't have to tutor her lips apart, or coax her tongue into a dance with his own. This time, she knew what to do and, brazenly, she did it. This time, the sound came from her throat, not his. Along with it came an out-of-control feeling that sent heat spiraling through her. For a moment, she
was
Lorna Lee Goodnight, reckless, afraid of nothing, welcoming experience with open arms. And she knew, for a glorious instant, what it must be like to be a woman.

Then, abruptly, he lifted his mouth from hers. Even in the moonlight, she could see the frown of confusion that bisected his eyebrows. For a moment, she imagined that for him, too, the kiss had been much more than appearances. Indeed, he looked as if he'd just been poleaxed. Then the familiar wall dropped down over his eyes with a clang, and he straightened, setting her purposefully away from him.

"They're gone now. We'd better go."

His angry tone deflated the euphoric feeling she'd had only moments ago. She touched her mouth with a two trembling fingers. "Are you sure?"

"Grace," he said tightly, closing his eyes, "don't ever tempt me to do that again."

"Kiss me, you mean?"

"Aye, kiss you."

Disappointment and mortification rumbled through her. Then she understood. It had been
her
kissing Reese Donovan, not Lorna Lee. And somehow, she'd disappointed him. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Ah, Grace"—he raked one hand through his hair—"you kissed me back."

"You mean, I wasn't supposed to?"

"No! I mean, yes. Ah, damn it." Something between hope and terror lingered in his eyes. "It was all for show." Wasn't it? his eyes asked.

All for show. If she told him the truth—that his kiss had unlocked something inside her so frightening and wonderful she didn't know if she could ever tuck it back in its hiding place again—he might just bolt through the night, never to be seen again. Donovan didn't want involvements or emotional ties. And he was right. She and Donovan had nothing in common. She meant nothing to him. He'd told her as much this morning. And again just now with his question.

"Of course it was all for show," she replied as coolly as she could, tucking in a wisp of hair that had come loose from her chignon. "Our lives were in the balance. We had to convince them, didn't we? It was only a bit of theatrics. I have a talent for it." Chin raised in the air, Grace started off down the road, leaving Reese staring after her.

It was a lie and Reese knew it. In his gut, he knew it. She wasn't experienced enough to fake the response he'd just felt when he kissed her. He should have known better than to have kissed her a second time. The first one should have warned him that he was playing with fire. Because even now, he wanted to pull her back in his arms and kiss the lie out right of her.

Oh,
ballocks
, he thought, pushing away from the well and following in her wake. It didn't matter. She was a ripe little piece of fruit, ready to be plucked. Any man lucky enough to take that first tug would have elicited the same response. It just happened to be him.

Still, James's words came back to him.
Don't hurt her, Reese. You'll have to answer me and Evie if you do.
Brewster's warning to him had been eerily similar. What was it about Grace Turner that turned normally sane men into protective idiots around her? The best thing, the smartest thing he could do, was to stay the hell away from her.

La Cantina del Rio was, indeed, crowded with men. Light, music, and laughter spilled from the doorway. A dozen or more horses stood dozing at the hitching rail, and a mongrel hurried toward them wagging its tail. Grace bent to pet it, but Reese grabbed her arm, steering her toward the shelter of the cottonwoods along the shoreline.

Ahead, a stooped figure emerged from the mist shrouding the nearby docks. It was Brew. Two pairs of saddlebags were slung over his shoulder. James had given them to the old man earlier in the day at the stable. Brew lifted one arm, waving them closer.

Grace rushed ahead, colliding with the old man in a fierce hug. "I was so afraid for you," she said into his shoulder.

"I'm fine, Gracie, just fine." But his skin had an unhealthy pallor to it and his eyes were edged by dark bruises. He looked at Donovan and extended one hand. "Glad to see yer on your feet, Donovan. It woulda been trickier if ya weren't. You still look like you had the tar whipped outta you."

And suddenly, he felt like it, too. Reese nodded, wiping the beads of sweat from above his lip. In the distance, thirty feet down the rickety dock, shrouded in fog, stood the ghostly outline of a conveyance that might, generously, be called a boat. "Whose is that?"

"Feller named Lyle St. John. Trader. He don't know about you two yet. Thinks it's just me. I fingered it would be safer that way. The docks are crawlin' with Sanders's men."

"We saw two of them," Grace said.

"They see you?" Brew asked with a frown.

"It's all right. We distracted them," she said, flicking a glance at Donovan. Awareness sparked between them. Even Brew could hardly have missed it.

Brew arched a brow. "St. John says he'll take me as far as Bagdad. I figgered he didn't need to know where we're headed."

"Bagdad?" Grace repeated.

"It's a small outpost for trading on the Mexican side of the river at the delta," Reese explained. "It had its heyday during the war in cotton smuggling. Now, it's not much to talk about."

They turned at the sound of footsteps coming down the dock. The man who emerged from the mist was short and stout as a barrel. He had an open face and a full beard that grazed the brass buttons on his dark double-breasted coat. Reese breathed a sigh of relief that he didn't know the man. That could have been sticky.

"Lyle St. John." The man extended his hand to Reese and cast an appraising look at Grace. "I reckon this is the extra cargo you mentioned," he said to Brew.

"That's right."

"You didn't say it was passengers."

"Is that a problem?" Reese asked.

"It'll cost you." The boatman smiled. "I charge by the body. Greenbacks or silver. No shinplasters."

"Greenbacks it is," Brew replied.

Tugging on his beard, St. John's gaze traveled to each of them in turn. "Well, Lizzie don't care what she hauls, but she is particular about seein' where she's a-goin'. I weren't expectin' this fog."

"Lizzie?" Grace repeated.

He pointed up the dock at the sad-looking flat-bottomed keel boat bobbing there against the current. "It'll cost you an extra gold eagle if you still want to shove off now."

"We had a deal," Brew argued, taking a step closer. "I already paid you extra to go at night."

"Sure, sure you did. But that was before the fog. Might run aground, hit a snag, damage her belly. Then where'd I be? Wait till morning and—"

"That ain't possible," Brew argued, his ire rising.

St. John folded his arms across his chest, "What's yer hurry?"

Reese took a step toward him. "None of your—"

"We're eloping!" Grace blurted.

Reese turned on her, trying to keep his mouth from falling open.

She threaded her arm through his. "You see, my parents don't approve of this marriage. And, well"—she glanced at Reese—"Melvin and I, we're desperately in love. Aren't we, dear?"

Reese could do little more than smile frozenly back at the man.

"And waiting could prove rather... awkward, if you know what I mean," she continued. "If they catch us—well, you can understand our dilemma, can't you?" She batted her eyes at the river pilot in the moonlight.

St. John's eyebrows went up. "I, uh, see. Well, that bein' the case, it'll still cost ya extree."

There was little doubt in Reese's mind that Lyle St. John could pilot this river blindfolded in his sleep, but he didn't want to do anything more to raise the man's suspicions about them than he had already.

"Pay the man," Reese told Brew. Without thinking, Reese bent to pick up the saddlebags. Pain hitched his side and he stopped halfway up, then straightened slowly. He started to sweat.

St. John's eyes narrowed. "You feelin' poorly, son? You look a mite peaked, even in this light."

Donovan tightened an arm around Grace, hauling her close. "Prewedding jitters. Isn't that right, sugar plum?"

She gulped. "W-why, yes, sweetums." She gave St. John her most sugary smile. "We're both a little nervous."

As he counted and pocketed the money Brew handed him, St. John's gaze swept the surrounding area briefly. He rubbed a hand across his mouth. "All right then. Let's shove off. My deckhand, Tom, will show ya where to stow yer things."

Brew exchanged a look with both of them before following the captain up the planked dock. Grace had managed two steps before Reese dragged her back to him.

"Mel-vin?"
he said.

"It was the first name that came to mind."

"Melvin
was the first name that came to mind?"

She chewed her lower lip. "Poindexter was my second choice."

Reese grinned in spite of himself. What a corker she was. "Melvin'll do just fine, thank you very much," he whispered against her ear. "But fair's fair, after all"—he slapped her backside, sending her bolting forward up the dock—"Drucilla."