Wild Sierra Rogue (15 page)

Rafe.

Finally

Relief washed over Margaret.

“I thought you were never going to get finished chatting with Pancho Villa.” Hers was a partial tease, uttered in the room lit by the moonbeams spilling in two high windows and by the kerosene lamp. “I'd begun to wonder if you'd abandoned me.”

His silence became a palpable thing. Shucking his vest and shirt, Rafe kept his back turned. His impressive shoulders drew her attention, yet she closed her eyes, confused at his problem. Finally, the sound of him crossing the tiny bedroom, sitting down on the crackling mattress of ticking-covered straw, then jerking his boots from his feet, served as an answer.

When he stood to pull his britches off, she spoke. “Did I touch a chord, Rafe?” Her shoulders pressed to the mattress. “Were you planning to abandon our task? Are you?” She paused. “I guess you're still mad, because I spoke my mind about Cuba.”

“And about Mexico. And about hungry little children.”

“I admitted I have a lot to learn. What more can I say?”

“Try nothing.”

She tried. Seeking to mollify, she couldn't just sit mute. “I've been thinking.” She hadn't, but—“I think I've come up with a plan for feeding those little ones, if what you say is true about their plight. When I was in Spain, I—”

“¡Silencio!”
He yanked the top sheet up and stretched out on the bed. He didn't touch her. In the dim light she saw he rested his neck on his wrist, his line of sight centering on the ceiling. His was not a relaxed pose; tension radiated like spokes of the blistering sun. “Just don't say one more word about Spain or the Spanish,” he ordered. “Not one damned word. Understand?”

“Pouting is not one of your more attractive features.”

For a moment she feared he would charge out of bed as well as from her life, so angry was his string of rapid-fire Spanish curses. Her ears singed, she at long last kept quiet. After a few weighty moments, though, she placed a tentative and calming hand on his arm, meant to relay friendly support.

He expelled a harsh breath and patted the back of her hand. “Forgive my temper. And I wasn't pouting. I've got a lot on my mind. It's got to do with—My brother is in trouble.” Rafe gave a thumbnail sketch of his half brother's fight for human rights, yet she suspected he left quite a bit out. “The Federales are after Xzobal.”

“I'd think your brother would have the Delgado family, if not the church, behind him,” she said. “Forgive me for being personal, but don't the Delgados stick up for each other?”

“We aren't like you McLoughlins. And he is not a Delgado.” Rafe explained his mother had remarried after his father, Venustiano Delgado, had suffered an untimely death. “My brother and late sister were fathered by Agustín Paz.”

“I see.”

Margaret tried to conjure up his family, unsuccessfully. She started to ask him about his uncle; he moved to sit up. She placed a hand on his shoulder. Her fingers trailed to his neck, and she felt the surge of his pulse, yet he lay all too still, as if he purposely wouldn't move a muscle to acknowledge her touch.

Believing his brother had fouled Rafe's mood, she said, “Everything will be okay. Once you put me and mine on a ship out of Tampico, you can do something to help him. Think how fortunate you are to be in Mexico already.”

“That's one way to look at it.” Rafe rolled to his side, giving her his back. “Good night.”

“Good night?”

“Yes.” He wiggled and settled in. “Good night.”

Her mouth dropped; his cold shoulder made her downright indignant. “Rafe, I understand you're upset about your brother, but is this all I get? A simple good night?” He didn't answer. “Pardon me,” she said, “but I thought you had different ideas for the rest of tonight.”

“Go to sleep.”

Never one to leave well enough alone, she crabbed, “When my brother was out of pocket, you expected me to go about my merry and cheery way. When it comes to
your
brother—”

“You've never been merry or cheery.”

His turning hot then cold had all the makings of a cruel game, yet this mean turn shouldn't come as a surprise. He was a man hurting from the conflicts of life. But she did her own share of hurting. She'd had a winter's worth of his cold shoulder between Juarez and here, and she wouldn't roll over and feign sleep. “Don't you know your legions of adoring lady friends would be shocked to see you now. Rafael the First, king of
la cópula espléndida,
fails at his specialty.”

Rafe angled his taut body to gather her upper arm in his harsh and ruthless grip. His breath, tainted with lingering cigar smoke, spilled over her face. The heat of his annoyance was a scorching thing. “You're a smart woman, so don't act ignorant. I
can
make love to you. What I have been trying to tell you is, I don't
want
to!”

She went numb. Determined to gather some shred of her pride, she became like her mother: she made excuses. “You've been under a strain. We'll talk about it another time.”

“There's not going to be another time. I've decided to”

“Just a dad gum minute. You were doing everything in your power to seduce me. Whether it's because you were smitten, or just because I'm a female of the human race, or maybe because I have some resemblance to Olga, I don't know or care.” She slapped at a tear that threatened to fall. “But what does concern me is . . . you've broken a gentleman's agreement.”

“What?” Incredulous described him. “You thought we'd formed some sort of proper pact?”

“Of course, I did.”

“Margarita, don't you know the man is supposed to take the aggressive role?”

“Blow me down. Knock me over with a feather. I'm poleaxed.” She got to a sitting position. “Why am I surprised that Rafael Delgado, master stud, wants to do all the wooing? After all, he found a certain butter-doesn't-melt-in-her-mouth Spanish countess attractive. So much so that his libido overtook any sort of sensible or practical consideration, when he raped her!”

“I thought we settled that. Anything I ever got from your sister was given freely.”

“How do you explain torn clothes and a bruised lip?”

“I can't explain something I know nothing about.”

“A likely excuse.” Margaret flipped to her side, giving him her own version of the back treatment. “Why should I believe a has-been rabble-rouser over my esteemed sister?”

“
Jesucristo
, you are a shrew.”

The soft mattress became an uncomfortable place. And she saw the picture of Margaret McLoughlin clearly.
You are a shrew.
A shrew and a desperate old maid, spread out on Pancho Villa's bed in nothing more than pantaloons and camisole, willing to go to any lengths for a few crumbs from a sexy Mexican.

The same moment that she made up her mind to gather herself and her clothes and make an exit, it happened. Happened as it had happened thousands of times over the past five years. Her lungs began to close, her throat to constrict.
Not now! Not now!
But the cough grabbed hold. Wracking, wracking, wheezing. Breath—she battled for a draft of it. Fought in vain. With a resounding thud, she tumbled to the floor.

“ 'Rita? Aw, damn. Oh,
ca-ca!
You'll be okay You'll be okay. You'll be okay.” Rafe bent over her, fanning her face with his hand. “I'll get some water.”

“No,” she choked. “Elixir. In valise.”

Minutes passed. Pulled together, thanks to the sedating syrup and sheer will, Margaret sat on the earthen floor, her back against the mattress edge. Rafe hovered. She wiped her face with the cloth he'd wet in the pitcher on the washstand.

Concerned, he sniffed from the bottle's neck. “What is this stuff? Laudanum?”

“No. It has an alcohol base.”

While she had refused opiates during her illness, she now had a wretched thought: if she could get her hands on something to dull her senses, she would. The alcohol helped. Something fuzzy began to expand her veins.

“Lie down.” Rafe crouched next to her. “You need rest.”

Rest? How could he know her need? But her coughing spell pointed out the reason she'd gone this far with Rafe. Without pride, without dignity, without anything except the desire for experience, she leaned toward him, a lock of her hair falling forward. “Rest isn't what I'm wanting,” she said huskily, the elixir giving full effect. “It's you I want.”

“I wish you wouldn't gaze at me like that.” Shaking his head, he looked downward. “I can't fight the witchery of your big blue eyes.”

“You toy with me. Is that fair?”

“ 'Rita, accept that we weren't fated to be lovers. My mind is elsewhere.”

How plain did he have to make it? But . . . well, gosh! In one last bid—she wasn't certain if she begged for Rafe or for what—she confessed, “Be it known, Mr. Fickle Pickle, I want you
only
because I think you'll be my last chance. Margaret the Sickly Old Maid needs a man. I don't want to die a virgin.”

She thought he'd laugh. Or at least defend himself against the fickle-pickle insult. Yanking her to him, he clamped her in a grip that sent pain through her arms. “Don't degrade yourself. You are Margaret. Daughter of riches, sister to royalty and the famous. Margaret, the scholar and author. Margaret, the bravest woman I know. Margaret the Glorious.”

Gallant praise, unbelievable yet sweet in the ear. “Watch out, Rafe. Or I'll take your words as a compliment.”

“You should.”

Her wish was to leave him so satisfied that he'd never notice her faults, weaknesses, and failings. Later, when she tried to recall this evening, she couldn't be quite sure when the intensity shifted. Likely, it occurred when the tip of her forefinger brushed the corner of his mouth, and she asked, “It must have hurt, the getting of this scar. Did you cry?”

Disbelieving, he didn't move, then a grin lifted that whitened slash. “No.”

“Why not?”

His brutish grip turned to a caress of her wrist. “Men don't cry.”

“Men are humans.”
Believe it or not!
“It's okay to cry.”

“I have enough against me without turning into a crybaby.”

“I cry,” she admitted. “I cry a lot. I'm no crybaby.”

“I know.” His fingers closed around her hand, and he brought the center of her palm to his lips, to touch it with the tip of his tongue. The molten metal of his eyes plated to hers. “You deserve better than a coupling in some
bandido's
hovel with an hombre like me. That's what I've been trying to tell you all evening. I'm no good for you.”

She leaned to drink in the warmth of his body and the reluctant passion of his gaze. “Let me be the judge of that.”

Was his a laugh or a cry? While she knew his height would top hers by no more than two inches, were they to stand in stocking feet, he had the grace of a cougar and the strength of Hercules, as he lifted her into his arms and brought himself to a standing position. At the same moment the lantern flickered out, he murmured, “I wonder if I'll ever win an argument with you?”

“Not a chance.”

Laughing once more—moonlight slanting over his shoulder—Rafe lay Margaret on the bed. He knelt by the bed, bracing an elbow on it, and lifted her hair to twine a strand around his wrist. Rubbing the lock against his cheek, he said tenderly, “I've never met anyone like you. You are one of a kind.”

“I could say the same about you.”

“Could you now.” He straightened. Unbuttoned his britches. Sliding his fingers behind the waistband, he pushed the denim down his legs.

“Good gracious,” she marveled. “No wonder they call you magnificent.”

He winked. “Undress for me, brazen virgin.”

Suddenly reminded of her painful thinness, she crossed her arms over her camisole-covered bosom. “I'm too thin,” she said, hating herself for sounding as though she fished for a compliment. “I wish I were different.”

“You are too skinny, but it all comes together nicely. And I like you skinny.” He slid under the sheets and nuzzled her nose. “I would also like you fat as a little barnyard sow.”

In light of his behavior just minutes ago, she wouldn't delude herself into believing him. She chuckled nonetheless. “I thought you were supposed to have the tongue of a flatterer. Little sow doesn't measure up.”

“Then I'll tell you exactly how I feel.” He was all seriousness. “I've wanted you so much, I've thought of almost nothing but you. And having you under me. I would beg for you. I would crawl across brambles to have one taste of your lips. If you turned away from me right now, I would humiliate myself with tears of pleading.”

What loving lies, how easily they flowed over and into her. So mad for him was she, that nothing mattered save for the moment. She inched closer, until he singed her with the furnace of his flesh. “No need for pleading.”

“Thank God. I'm no good at it.” He nipped at her earlobe. “You need to be ravished and often, vamp.”

She smiled.

Layering his body half atop hers, he took both of her hands in one of his, and maneuvered them above her head. His mouth dipped to her throat. She squirmed as he alternated kisses and nips all the way to her temple, then retraced his journey.

“You are a learned woman, but there is only so much that books can teach.” He gripped the back of her knee, drawing her leg over his thigh. “Do you realize what will happen to you?”