Love of a Cowboy 1 Page 49

  Not that she intended to go down that road without a fight.

  “This is the master suite—it’s our finest accommodations,” she was using her best hostess voice, as if he was a guest rather than a robber, a murderer and her potential rapist. “There’s a private lavatory through this door. My room is downstairs, but if you’ll just pull this bell, I’ll bring you anything you need.

  He hadn’t said anything, but made a tour of the room, looking at the locks on the window and opening all the doors, then he began to take off his vest. That was Mary Rose’s cue to walk firmly to the door. “If there’s nothing else—”

  “Shut the door. And don’t try to do it from the outside, little missy.”

  He threw out orders as casually as he undressed. And how had he known that she was going to do just that—go outside into the hall and then close the door, putting it firmly between the two of them to provide herself with some small modicum of safety, flimsy though it would be.

  Mary Rose stood there for a long moment, struggling with herself. Should she be courageous and try to thwart him at every turn? Or would that just end up making him madder?

  Her inner turmoil was heightened by a piercing scream that issued from the floor below.

  Penny’s scream.

  Mary Rose’s blood congealed icily on the spot. She knew she would probably be the next to scream in that hopeless, helpless manner as this ruffian had his way with her—whatever that meant.

  Rafael Black had shucked down to his union suit, which he by habit kept unbuttoned to the barest minimum of buttons. His clothes were neatly piled on the occasional chair in the corner, a remnant of a loving but fanatically fastidious mother as well as time in the military. He was keeping a weather eye out on the staunch miss by the door, and would have stopped her in a second if she’d made any sort of move to escape, which he knew she couldn’t help but be considering. He would have, if he were in her place.

  But her friend’s cry—of pain or degradation, he didn’t know, most probably both if he knew Hernandez’s habits any, and he unfortunately did—had frozen her in her tracks. She wasn’t even holding onto the doorknob any more, just standing there huddled in on herself, staring down at the floor with a totally shocked look on her face, as if she could see through it to what Hernandez was doing to her friend.

  Rafe sighed. This was just what he didn’t need. Why couldn’t the place have just been abandoned, as he’d hoped when he scouted it out earlier in the day, sneaking in through a carelessly open side door while they chatted obliviously in the saloon? Instead, he had two women to deal with on top of the mess with—

  He clamped down on his thoughts and forced himself to think of the here and now. While she was still staring, mesmerized, at the floor, he got up and lifted her up into his arms, carrying her to the bed they would share that night, whether she wanted to or not.

  As soon as he laid her down, she thawed and popped back up, until he lay down fully on top of her.

  This seemed to put her back in shock. She stared up at him wide-eyed, all of her fears telegraphed plain as day on her face. But he watched her, with not inconsiderable admiration, as she marshaled those fears and said plainly, in a small but strong voice, “I want to go to my own room.”

  The thought struck him at that moment that she was truly beautiful. When he’d first seen her, he’d pegged her for the disdainful debutant type, too light for heavy work and too heavy for light, bundled up to the neck in her starched white shirt, untouchable and uncaring as he categorized most women nowadays. But her hands weren’t those of a pampered lady—they had the beginnings of calluses, and nails were ragged. She hadn’t dissolved into tears or had a panicked fit when confronted by three mean outlaws, and had kept her composure better than most women would, alone in this room with him. He almost smiled. Hell, most of the women he grew up with would been having out and out hysterics at the merest thought of being alone in a bedroom with a known outlaw who was undressing himself in front of her.

  Why, he bet everything he owned—which granted wasn’t much right now—that this was the first time she’d ever been in a bedroom with any man who wasn’t a close relative, much less someone such as himself.

  Someone like himself.

  He grimaced, not liking that mental picture of himself, and refusing to confront it too closely. He didn’t need to—he knew exactly what he was doing. Besides, what man could think reasonably when there was such a lovely bit of fluff lying still as a doe beneath him?

  Rafe shifted just a little, firmly, but not hurtfully, insinuating both of his legs between hers, his ears detecting her fearful, fervent “Ah—ah!” but his brain not registering it.

  God, it had been such a long time—too damn long. Days and months full of nothing but a hard saddle and a sweaty horse, endless miles of desolate brown desert, his gun never far from his sun-browned hand, wearing the same blood and guts stained clothes week after week. At least he’d taken the chance to bathe in the creek and put on his only other clothes while he washed the others. His two companions had looked at him as if he was plum crazy when he’d done that, but he just couldn’t stand the smell of himself any longer. They, however, didn’t seem to have the same concerns about themselves.

  She smelled of wildflowers and sunshine, and Rafe let himself relax—really relax—for the first time in a very, very long time, burying his nose against the side of her neck and just breathing in the clean, innocent scent of her.

  His body, however, was busily reminding him that it had been a very long time since he’d had a woman—especially one as sweet smelling as this one—several lifetimes, at least.

  Chapter 3

  Raphael Black was born into a privileged family in the South—despite the fact that he had what was considered to be a disgraceful amount of Indian blood flowing through his veins. He really should have been born to someone like Cochise, since he is lineage was Apache, but instead he ended up in the middle of a genteel Georgia family with roots back to some of the kings and queens of England and France. His full name was Raphael Luis Conrad Black—his mother was from the wealthy Conrad family out of Boston, and his father was … well, his father was not nearly so well connected as far as society was concerned. But Angel Black—who was often referred to by the reversal of his name—Black Angel—was at least as proud of his own heritage as his wife was of hers, trotting out the fact that one of his grandfathers was a full blooded Apache warrior in the middle of a stuffy dinner party, just to see the shocked looks on his guests’ faces. The way his wife would shake her head and frown prettily at him in complete consternation was the icing on that particular cake because he so enjoyed needling her about having married down.

  Angel’s ancestors might not have been quite as illustrious as his dainty wife, Marguerite’s, but he had certainly done well for himself. His fingers were in a lot of pies now, but he’d made his money in the railroads. Although he was not nearly so well off when they married, he was determined to keep Margie—a nickname her parents loudly despaired of—in the manner to which she was accustomed, and had managed to exceed his expectations in a matter of a few years.

  When Raphael came along, the Blacks were already set for life, and he was born in a huge classic colonial style mansion that Angel had had to drive his workers like slaves to get finished so that they could move into it before he was born. He had the proverbial silver spoon, but was educated in areas that most men of his age and privileged status weren’t necessarily—his father taught Rafe as his father had taught him: how to track and hunt and survive in the wilderness, how to shoot and ride like he was born with guns blazing at a full gallop.

  Angel certainly hadn’t considered that his beloved son would end up like this.

  Mary Rose was trying to keep from having hysterics. A nearly naked, strange man—a known killer—was lying on top of her. There was nothing between them but her clothes and his union suit, and that wasn’t anywhere near enough for her comfort. He was so big he completely
dwarfed her, and she was having a hard time drawing a full breath. But, despite her bone-deep fear, she repeated her statement in a smaller, less firm tone this time. “I want to go to my room.”

  Rafe’s lip drew into a grim line that had her eyes going wide. “Lady, if you set one foot outside that door, do you think that Hernandez and Toze are going to hesitate to grab you?”

  It was plain on her crestfallen face that she hadn’t thought that far ahead. All she was trying to do was get away from him. It was literally the only thing in her mind, beyond stark terror.

  Oh, God, she was wiggling beneath him. He couldn’t stop himself from arching forwards into her, the nearly unfettered ridge of his manhood blindly, rhythmically seeking the warmth between her legs.

  Mary Rose had no idea what he was trying to do, but it didn’t seem proper in the least. Although she was fairly well immobilized, she glanced at the bedside table and noticed a silver letter opener. Without a second thought to the possible consequences of her actions, she grabbed it and began to raise her arm as high as she could to stab him in the back.

  But Rafe had spent too much time sleeping with one eye open to fall for something like that. Almost carelessly, he used his left wrist to knock the makeshift blade out of her hand, sending it skittering across the room, now well out of reach. Within seconds, Mary Rose found herself lifted up and over his lap, her bottom presented obscenely in the air like some naughty schoolgirl’s—not that she would have known; Mary Rose had been extremely well behaved in school at just the thought of the cane. His muscular legs were hard and unyielding beneath her as she struggled to get away from him.

  Rafe had to hand it to her—she certainly was resourceful. But he wasn’t about to let her get away with behavior like that. He couldn’t—not in this situation. So he wrapped his left arm around her waist, dragging her tight up against him. She wasn’t going anywhere until he was finished with her. With his right hand, he found the hem of her skirt and pulled it up and over her back, exposing her frilly white bloomers.

  No one had ever seen Mary Rose’s knickers. Even her doctor examined her through her dress—why, he never even asked her to unbutton it! It was just not done. Yet this ruffian had manhandled her over his lap and lifted her skirt as if there was nothing to it! She began to struggle with all her might, not that it got her anywhere. He just took a better hold of her and rendered her completely immobile.

  “That was not a smart move, little missy. Not smart at all,” he was lecturing in that deep, threatening voice of his. “Now, not only are you going to share this bed with me, but you’re going to have a sore bottom to boot.” With that pronouncement, he lowered her knickers.

  Mary Rose’s face turned beet red and she renewed her struggles, but she quickly realized how futile her efforts were. What was worse was that she felt his rough fingers slipping into the waistband of her bloomers, felt them slowly, inexorably being lowered to just beneath her bottom. Her scream of outrage surprised him, although it shouldn’t have, but he held her still as she bucked and writhed and twisted herself back and forth—all within the confines of that damned strong arm of his.

  But Rafe was getting darned sick of having to hold her still. His arm was beginning to hurt. Luckily—but not for her—he knew how to get her to cut it out, lickety-split.

  Thwack! Her struggles ceased immediately, her body becoming rigid as a board as the sting of that one swat sank into her flesh and her brain. “Take your filthy hands off me, you—you outlaw!” Mary Rose had never felt such a murderous rage. Generally, she was a very easygoing sort. But this man, who had barged into her place of business brandishing a gun and had essentially taken her hostage just by virtue of lying on top of her, was going to drive her crazy with fear, yes, as well as sheer indignation.

  Another hard swat imprinted itself on her flour white rump. “My hands are cleaner than Hernandez and Toze’s. Would you prefer that I bring you down to them? Would you like to join that particular party?”

  Her lips clamped tightly shut, but the shudder he felt run through her body was answer enough. “What exactly do you think is going to happen if you go wandering around the inn? That they’re just going to ignore your temptations?”

  Mary Rose frowned—she’d never thought of herself as a particularly enticing woman. Most men didn’t like her—of course, that might have had a lot to do with the way she and Uncle Shep manipulated them when they tried to date her.

  “Hernandez, especially. He wants you, woman, and I’m the only one who can keep you safe from him.” He was angry—she could tell by the way his breath bellowed down on her. “Do you think that he would have waited any more than five seconds after you got into this room before he had you naked beneath him?”

  Mary Rose gulped hard. She didn’t want to feel grateful to this brute, just because he was saving her from another brute. But she had to agree, he appeared to be the lesser of the two evils in some ways.

  “Answer me!”

  “N-no,” came the tentative, obviously reluctant reply.

  “Damn straight I’m right. And what do I get as a reward for my efforts?”

  Her blush burned even brighter as he painted her as some sort of ingrate.

  “I nearly get stabbed in the back.” Rafe adjusted her on his lap so that her bottom was raised obscenely high, then accented his statement with six sharp slaps that resounded nearly as much as her out and out shrieks.

  She hadn’t been spanked since she was a very young girl. Mary Rose had learned early that she didn’t like being spanked, so she either behaved as she knew she was supposed to, or made sure that whatever she did that her father would consider wrong wasn’t discovered by either of her parents.

  But to be bare bottomed over this scoundrel’s lap was unimaginably shameful. Even her father had had the decency to spank her over her undies—over her skirt more often than that. Her father had some propriety.

  Mary Rose had to shake her head at herself. How could she be thinking that this man would even know what the word meant? When he began to spank her in earnest, she was sure that he didn’t know how to do anything beyond hurt and humiliate women, because he was certainly doing both to her now.

  His huge hand felt like a plank of wood whenever it connected with that tender, never-before-touched flesh. “Stop—this—right—now!” she was barely able to get out between squeals and wails.

  “Honey, I’m just gettin’ started,” he replied, stepping up the pace, cracking his hand down in a flurry of hot, peppered swats.

  She had forgotten how much a spanking hurt—although she would hazard a guess that her father had never spanked her this hard, regardless of the provocation. Although she tried not to give into the impulse, Mary Rose ended up throwing her head back and giving vent to her deep frustration and pain by letting go with a full-throated scream fit to bring the house down.

  It didn’t faze the oaf that held her in the least. He continued to brighten that beautiful bottom with openhanded smacks that set it to wobbling beneath the impact. Rafe did interject with complete calm, “You might not want to do that again, unless you want to set your friend to worrying about how you’re faring up here.”

  Mary Rose’s mouth clamped shut immediately, and through the remainder of the spanking she emitted nothing but the occasional grunt or moan, although it was killing her not to let loose with a stream of invectives at the top of her lungs, aimed squarely at her captor.

  He used his palm to emphasize the last couple words of his lecture. “Since I’m the one putting himself in harm’s way to keep you safe, I expect that you’re going to obey me and do exactly what I tell you to do. And you’re most certainly never going to raise your hand to me again. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

  She was too busy grinding her teeth together to answer him, choking back sobs and screams and a very lethal rage.

  Five more sharp cracks rang out in the almost silence of the room. “Are you listening to me?”

  “Y—yes, I am,” she
nearly yelled at him after gulping in a breath of air quickly, her bottom stinging abominably, especially from that last volley. She desperately wanted to reach back and rub the assaulted area, but her left arm was prevented from doing much by his muscular bulk. Her right wrist was held maddeningly close to her rear, but, despite repeated attempts to do so, she could not break his hold on her.

  “Well?”

  Mary Rose had never hated anyone in her life. She disliked some people—few people could go through life without finding someone they simply could not abide. But when she had found someone like that, she had simply sought to avoid the person, and therefore preventing herself from being annoyed. But it was a little hard to avoid this man, and she had definitely developed a distinct distaste for him.

  “Well what?” she snapped back, wishing she could find a part of him that would be vulnerable to an attack by her snapping teeth.

  “Do I need to send you to go find my belt?” It wasn’t a threat; it was a promise, delivered in a deliberately soft, almost gentle voice. But she also knew from that tone that he wouldn’t hesitate a second to have her do exactly that, and then he’d use the awful thing on her already tenderized nates.

  “No! No! I’ll do anything you say, I will!” Mary Rose’s heart sank into her already churning stomach. What had she just agreed to? Why couldn’t she be stronger and spit in his face before she acquiesced? Why was she such a weakling?

  He didn’t let her go immediately, as she’d expected. Instead, he sat stock still, and she knew—she just knew—that he was staring down at her derriere. The letch!

  She was right. Rafe was staring down at that rosy pink perfection and it was all he could do not to drool on her. As it was, he couldn’t keep himself from using the very same hand that had pinkened it to caress it slowly and gently, which set her to wiggling and twisting almost as badly as the swats had.