Wild Sierra Rogue (32 page)

Pilar lifted a penciled brow; her pale amber eyes snapped. “I understand you are the mistress of
El Aguila Magnífico.”

“What do you know of him?”

“Why, what an absurd question.” The painted mouth bowed. “The master stud has been gracing my presence since he was but a yearling.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Oh? What about the time he called on me to get the herbs to prevent pregnancy? I assume they were for you.”

Margaret slammed her eyes closed. What did she really know about him? What kind of man had she given her all to?
Damn you
,
Rafe Delgado!

Her heart warned her head not to make too much of this vile creature's word. Rafe deserved her faith.

“Take her on to the room,
niños.
” The madam slapped the riding crop against her leg. “I will be with you in a minute, Señorita McLoughlin. I will strip you, make you ready.
El Grandero Rico
grows impatient.”

Fear. Anger. Sheer cowardice. All these emotions tumbled end over end in Margaret, when the duo of Arturianos dragged her down a lengthy and crooked hallway, toward Pilar's fourth room. She refused to give them an upper hand by displaying her terrors.

The older thug spoke. “Martín, do you think the señorita would enjoy a look around?”

“Why not?”

Glad that Pilar had removed the gag, Margaret jumped in. “I am perfectly capable of speaking for myself, and I don't—”

Cantú interrupted with,
“¡Basta!”
Stopping at the first doorway, his fingers cut into her wrist. “Take a look, pretty peach.”

“No thank you.”

From behind, she felt sturdy hands grip her head. “Watch,” said a man, neither Cantú nor his conspirator.

With the fascination that ofttimes accompanies repugnance, Margaret saw a hooded man chained spread-eagle to manacles on the wall; he hadn't a stitch of clothes. Her back to the door, a big woman wearing a flowing black robe ran her hand along his thigh. He cried out. “Be quiet, young man! Or I will be forced to paddle you.”

“Ready for more?” asked the stranger.

Not waiting for her reply, Cantú shoved Margaret to the next room, where a bound and gagged woman moaned when an unclothed, aroused man snapped a bullwhip over her behind. Margaret made a face.
She ought to kick his privates, just as soon as he sets her loose.

Next, Margaret was forced to witness—she had some private-kicking of her own to do, that she did!—a large arena with a row of men seated on ice-cream parlor chairs along one wall; smoke wound through the air, the smell redolent of hashish.

The men ogled a pair of roosters. Their feathers swirling like small tornadoes, the cocks battled amid coins that had been tossed near their sharp spurs. “You people ought to be shot for being cruel to those dumb roosters.”

“Shhh,” ordered Cantú.

“I will not. This is an awful place.” One rooster prevailed as she said, “A sick circus with two rings, stinking to high heaven of animal, sweat, and decay. And dissipation!”

“¡Ole!”
roared the crowd, and closed in to gather their cockfight winnings.

Hugging the second ring, cheering men observed a woman, wearing leather and little of it, circle a donkey while she scratched his ear and chanted to him as she went.

“Do you know what she'll do with the donkey?” asked the stranger who held Margaret's head.

“I don't want to know.”

Her eyelids slammed down, she closed a mental trapdoor on her ears. To think—Rafe had visited this den of iniquity, and lately. It disgusted her to picture him enjoying the attractions.
How bored he must get with my inexperienced—and basically conventional! —lovemaking.

He'd had lots and lots of experience. Most of it with loose women and in dens such as Casa Pilar, if gossip was any barometer. The McLoughlins would never have known Rafe Delgado existed if he hadn't gotten drunk in a Nuevo Laredo whorehouse. Gotten drunk, then had gotten in one of those chains-and-shackles carousals with a couple of felonious Mexicans!

“Penny for your thoughts,” spoken by the stranger, yanked her back to this house of harlotry and hell.

“Who are you?” she asked.

No answer. But his hands let go their vise.

The ruffians yanked her onward to the next doorway, then pushed her inside the dimly lit, windowless room. No furniture. Satin pillows littered the wooden floor. A tray of bottles and glasses sat in the middle, inviting entrance and indulgence. That unpleasant scent of roses lingered here. She knew that to her dying day, she would never again abide the smell of them.

From behind, the small sound of a door clicking shut drew her attention.

Terrified at what might happen to her if she didn't escape, Margaret, nonetheless, squared her shoulders and schooled her voice. “Stay away from me, Pilar. I am not taking my clothes off.”

“I am not the proprietress.”

It was the man who had held her head. She suspected his identity. He wasn't a comforting thought. And she was trapped. Trapped! What should she do? Which way should she turn?
You'll have to bide your time, think through the situation, before you can get control.

With as much hauteur as her shackles and circumstance would allow, she struggled to a sitting position, then turned her nose up toward the doorway. The light poor in that direction, Margaret tried to get a good look at the man who leaned back against the jamb, one ankle crossed over the other. He wore a white shirt and dark trousers.

She demanded, “Don't just stand there. Cut these bonds and be quick about it. I am quite uncomfortable.”

He started to comply, but checked the instinct. “It seems, Miss McLoughlin, you are a young woman of your own mind.”

“How do you know my name?”

“We've met before. Do you not remember?” He took a step into the faint stream of light. Crouching back on his heels, he rested a wrist on a knee and bent his face closer. His was a handsome visage, resembling Rafe's face. She recognized him way before he said, “I am Arturo Delgado.
El Grandero
Rico. The uncle of your paramour.”

The urge to spit in his eye got quelled. If she wanted the advantage, she had to fight fire with fire. At least she hoped this strategy would work.

She blew a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “What took you so long? We've been expecting you for weeks.”

His left eyebrow jerked up and down, twice. “The tigress doesn't back down. I like that.”

“Where is Rafe?”
Please let him be all right!

Arturo moved to the tray of drinks, crouching down to pour a snifterful, then sat back on his heels. “Evidently you don't know your man as well as a bride-to-be ought to.”

“Whether that is so or it isn't, it's my business. And since he is my business, I demand you tell me where he is.”

“He's next door. In room five. Don't bother to scream. He can neither hear nor help you.” Arturo took a sip, then set the drink aside to plump a couple of pillows. He snuggled into the softness. “I should imagine Rafito is doing what he's done a hundred times in this emporium of variety. Oh, that's right. You wouldn't know . . . We never got to door number five.”

“The last I saw him, your thugs—no doubt they are your thugs—had rendered him senseless.”

“He's recovered.” Arturo swirled the contents of his snifter, then held the rim to her nose to sniff the bouquet. “Tell me, beauty. What do you see in a worthless cripple like my nephew?”

“Anything bad, I equate with you.”

He tipped the cognac to her lips. Rather than choke, she took some onto her tongue. “That's a good girl,” he cooed.

“What are you about,
El Grandero Rico?”
By halves she didn't feel as bold and calm as portrayed in the content of her discourse or in the tone of her voice. “What game do you play that you would have your own flesh and blood shot down first, and now bludgeoned? And why did you stalk us to the Sierras in the first place?”

“You know the answer as well as I do. At least where Rafito is concerned.”

Forcing the emotion from her voice, she replied, “You want to avenge your son's death. And you would like to get rid of any reminders of your stolen fortune.”

“I stole nothing.” His expression betrayed his denial.

“Ah. What does it matter? Anyway, no one could blame you for looking out for you and yours. That's one of mankind's most basic instincts, wouldn't you say?”

He grinned. And Margaret was taken aback at his handsomeness. His nephew really did favor him. Too bad so much beauty was spoiled by so much greed and insensitivity.

“Arturo—you don't mind if I call you by your given name, do you?—what was the point in killing Father Xzobal? He, a simple parish priest, couldn't have done much to hurt a man as powerful and as revered as
El Grandero Rico.”

A chuckle, low and dry. “He isn't dead.” Margaret hid her sigh of relief, and Arturo went on. “We only made it look like the rabble-rouser had died.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Did you not recognize the priest? The big Swede Helga wears his holy robes, and is as we speak”—Arturo sniggered, smacked his lips—“she is giving him a blessed sacrament.”

Poor, sensitive Xzobal. First attacked by the piranha Natalie, and now to be violated by that ghastly Helga. Yet Margaret forced a laugh. “That Helga, isn't she amazing? A man of your stature, I should think you'd be attracted to a woman who can go heads up with you.” Margaret paused. “Unless you prefer shrinking violets.”

“I prefer fauna to flora.”

Getting some ideas of his character, Margaret said, “Have you given Helga a go?”

“Never gave it much thought. But now that I do, yes, I find her interesting. She rather reminds me of my late wife. Yolanda enjoyed being in charge.”

Uh, huh.
He does like to be bossed around.
“Pour me another splash of that cognac. And be quick about it.”

Arturo hastened to oblige, then Margaret asked, “If Xzobal isn't dead, who is in that fresh grave? Or did you turn up dirt for show?”

“There's a proper corpse.” Stretched out on his side, the side of his head cradled in one palm, Arturo reached for her hand with his free fingers. “The Count of Granada . . . what do you think of him?”

“Very little.”

“Then we have something in common. I found him sly and patronizing.” Arturo flashed a smile. “Your brother-in-law has gone to a greater reward. Or to his just deserts. Whichever way you prefer to look at it.”

Leonardo. Dead. There is a God! Should she take everything Arturo said as fact, though? “What assurances do I have that you speak the truth? That grave could be anything or nothing. And what reason did you have for killing the count?”

“I didn't kill him. Nor did my minions.” Indignation laced Arturo's words. “I don't regret his death, you can be assured. Actually, I find it amusing. A dozen peasants—several of them old enough to remember the first of his family in Mexico—clubbed Lord Hapsburg to death when he tried to enter this village, Helga at his side.”

There was no playacting on Margaret's part when she uttered, “The earth has just become a more genteel place for the loss of Leonardo.”

“Yes, yes.” Arturo laughed. “We should hang a warning on posts in our ports. HAPSBURGS, ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK.”

Violence always lurked just beneath the surface of normalcy in this god-awful country, and it sickened Margaret to realize she'd gotten caught up in her own glee. Would Mexico sap all her honor and conscience?

This is the life you've committed to. Are you sure you can deal with it?
New York City, after all, was a civil and respectable city. And it was home, home, home.

“Would you like another sip of cognac, tigress princess?”

“No.” She shot him a stern look. “I want you to loosen these bindings. I want you to tell me where I can find Rafe. And don't hand me that fifth-door nonsense.”

His eyes brightened. “All right. I'll be honest. He escaped. No more than five minutes before you arrived here at Casa Pilar.”

“I don't believe you. He couldn't have recovered so quickly. He was unconscious at the cemetery, which wasn't that long ago.”

She had to get out of here. On her own. Under her own steam. And rescue Rafe and his brother in the process. But how to escape? This for all intents and purposes was a cage. It was a long way to the entrance.
You'll have to outwit Arturo.

He sipped cognac, his eyelids falling to half-mast. He lifted a hand to scrape his fingernail across her chambray-covered breast. “Would you like to know why I've brought you here?”

“The thought has crossed my mind.”

“I want you for my mistress.” His fingers moved to the front of his trousers; he ran his fingertip on the elongated outline. “I want to pound you until you cry for mercy.”

When Rafe said these sort of things to her, they aroused her. When his uncle said them, they fell on deaf ears.
Don't show it, not if you want to get the best of him.
“This pounding. Do you intend to do it while my hands are tied behind my back?”

“Why not? At least until you get broken to my saddle. I will take you to my hacienda . . . if you please me. I know you will. Tonight makes me certain of it. And if you bear me a boy-child, I shall make you my wife.”

A child. A fist closed in her chest, a lump kept her from swallowing. For weeks she'd suspected but refused to acknowledge, not even to herself, that she'd soon be holding Rafe's child in her arms.

She'd blamed her faintness on her lungs; the Fountain had returned her strength, though. But her flow hadn't come since before leaving Texas. What else could it be, but the obvious?

She couldn't, shouldn't, and wouldn't. She would trust no one with Rafe's precious babe.

Though her hands were bound, she cuddled her abdominal muscles around the tiny precious life. “If you mean to make me your mistress, I must insist on my rights. I refuse to allow you to touch me when I am restrained.”

“What a tigress.”

He lunged for her, but she rolled away. Rolled to her knees. Recalling Yolanda and Helga along with her own conclusions, she gambled. “Did you not understand my Spanish? Must I repeat what I said? Or . . .” Her eyes welded to his hips; she widened her eyes, drawing in a deep breath of supposed interest. “Get up from there.”