Chapter 2
The night had been strange, indeed. He was usually such a temperate drinker, but due to his very black mood, he had been sunken into a chair, halfway through his whiskey bottle, when his door suddenly opened and closed.
Frowning, his fingers instantly resting upon the Colt sidearm he had placed on the occasional table next to the chair, he stared at his unbidden visitor.
It was night; he had lit none of the lamps.
The pleasant brocade drapes at the windows had been shut.
The fire burning low in the hearth provided the only light, casting the room into a great deal of shadow.
That there was very little light, however, only served to enhance the exquisite and stunning beauty of the woman who had come to him.
She leaned against the door, eyes closed.
Her hair was glorious—dark, rich, waving down her back, over her shoulders.
Her face, framed by the layers of thick tendrils, was an ivory oval, cheekbones high, mouth generous and defined, beautifully shaped.
Her brows were arched, adding to the very regal perfection of her face.
Her lashes, thick and dark and as lustrous as the full fall of her dark hair, flicked open.
She was alarmed. At the sight of him, he thought.
Because he was Sioux. He thought that she must be Loralee’s new “beauty,” just in from the East. She was wearing an elegant white robe with chaste and virginal white lace at the collars and cuffs.
She hadn’t quite tied the garment, though, and it hung open to reveal white hose, pantalettes, and corset.
Even taking into consideration the effect of a corset, she had to be the most incredibly curved female he had ever seen, elegantly slim but endowed with voluptuous breasts and enticingly rounded hips.
He had been drinking, but she was still exceptional.
He’d been in a rotten mood; he’d been drinking with a purpose.
But he was alive and breathing—and thus, aroused at the sight of her.
He’d never been quite so swiftly and completely affected by a woman. So he had told her to come in.
And, he admitted dryly to himself now, if he hadn’t been drinking quite so much, he might have realized that her reluctance to do so was rather unusual for a whore.
But he had been drinking, and so he had told her more harshly to come in—if she wanted to be there.
And if not, he wanted her to get the hell out.
But she wouldn’t leave....
She’d been nervous, but he had assumed that to be natural, since she was new on the job.
He just didn’t know how new.
And though he didn’t feel that he carried any chips on his shoulders, he was damned aware of his blood. So he had asked her, “Do you have a problem with Indians?”
“Are you an Indian?” she’d queried in reply.
His brows shot up, and he stared at her incredulously. “Do I look Norwegian?” he asked slowly.
She extended a hand, indicating the cavalry jacket he had throw across the foot of the bed. “I—thought you were an officer.”
“I wonder about that myself,” he murmured. He stared at her again. “I ask you once more, do you have a problem with—”
He broke off. She wasn’t listening to him. Again, she seemed to be paying attention to whatever was going on in the hallway.
The hell with it. War drums were pounding in his head, coursing through his body—loud, hammering, demanding. Sheer forgetfulness was at hand, appeasement for the thunder pulsing through him.
And that was how it had happened. He lost patience and drew her into his arms and kissed her.
Brought his mouth down hard upon hers. Her lips were rich, provocative.
He wanted more of them. He drove his tongue between her lips, drawing her hard against him.
Her breasts rose lush and tempting against his chest, bared now as his shirt slipped farther open.
Again he felt the rise of an almost overwhelming desire, stronger than anger, irritation, impatience, bitterness.
The deeper he kissed her, the deeper his desire became.
Her hands were on his chest, pushing free.
He groaned deeply, unwilling at first to let her go, his desire suddenly so strong that he was tempted to throw her down upon the bed with the brutal force firing its way into his being.
He forced himself to free her. “Damn you, go!” he shouted, shoving her toward the door.
She reached it; her fingers fumbled at the bolt. He thrust past her, opening the bolt.
He heard the voices again. A man was speaking. “If I can find the younger girl first—”
She refused to go. She asked for a drink, and then another.
And another. And she began to sway, and he took the glass from her, determined that he wasn’t going to let her pass out, not at that point.
She was far too tempting, exquisite, and elegant.
An incredible whore. He had never wanted a woman so badly.
He pulled the satin ribbon on her corset.
The garment fell loose. Another ribbon held her pantalettes.
He tugged at it, then jerked the lacy garment down from her hips.
The robe clung to her shoulders, but the rest of her lay naked beneath it.
She was enough to rob him completely of breath.
No matter how beautiful, she was a whore. All the tempest, anger, and passion in him was now directed on one object—this girl.
She never screamed or cried out. Only her blue eyes betrayed her fury and her pain, when it was over.
Yet he had been angry as well, totally irritated that she hadn’t thought to mention to him just how new she was at her craft.
And still, despite his very curt anger, she had refused again to leave—despite her apparent misery.
And they had slept together through the night, and in the morning…
In the morning, he had awakened beside her, instantly made hungry by her nearness, her scent, the brush of her flesh against his own.
And he’d determined to make her realize that her chosen profession could have its enjoyable moments, and so he had very slowly and sensually awakened her, arousing her from sleep, seducing her before she could fully come to her senses.
And it had been damned good—amazing, actually…
Until she had a chance to talk, to tell him just what she thought of him—and storm out.
And he hadn’t seen her again, until Dillman’s men had been attacking her wagon when she had started out for Mayfair with Hawk’s attorney.
“Sloan?”
Hawk’s voice dragged him back to the present.
Sloan kept staring into the hearth, fascinated by the flames.
“The strange thing is that I really did want her to leave when she behaved so strangely, but—I couldn’t talk her into leaving,” he told Hawk, then hesitated, realizing that he had wound his fingers around his brandy snifter with such force that he was about to snap the glass.
He eased his hold and forced his gaze from the flames, focusing on Hawk’s eyes.
“Naturally, as it happened, the woman I assumed to be from Loralee’s was in truth Sabrina, and she had run into my room to escape being discovered by her stepfather—who was talking with a few of his henchmen in the hallway of the Miner’s Well.
She might have just asked for help—but she didn’t.
She didn’t know me, she didn’t trust me, and she was terrified of discovery—which, of course, having had the pleasure of meeting her stepfather before his own demise in his attempt to murder us all, I do completely understand.
But she said nothing that night. Nothing.
Not even after…well, after. I was angry even then, still thinking, of course, that she was a newcomer to the West, determined to make her living indulging in the sins of the flesh—and that she or Loralee should have told me that she was brand-new at the game.
But that night…she wouldn’t leave, and she didn’t leave until the next morning when she ran out, furiously spouting out her true opinion of me.
So, you see, the child she is carrying is very definitely mine. ”
“She never said anything, anything at all, to Skylar or me,” Hawk said. He finished his brandy with a swallow, went for the bottle, and poured more into their snifters.
Sloan lifted his glass, drank deeply, and set it down, shaking his head with a twist of dry amusement.
“When I saw you again, Dillman’s men were attacking, remember?
If you’ll recall, we stopped them from attacking the wagon that was bringing Sabrina to your house.
She kept trying to tell you that I was one of the men attacking the wagon, and I kept trying to tell you that she wasn’t your sister-in-law, she was a whore.
Except that we both realized the truth before actually managing to say anything.
Then we all became embroiled in the showdown with Dillman; he was killed, and it appeared that life might be somewhat normal again.
At that point, what was she going to say?
She wanted to pretend it never happened. ”
“From what you said, it wasn’t really your fault.”
“Maybe that’s why she can’t really forgive me,” Sloan said with a shrug. “Then, of course, there is the fact of my tainted blood.”
“She has accepted me.”
“Circumstance sent her west; I don’t believe she even likes the plains, and I promise you, she sees you quite differently.
You are her brother-in-law, salvation in the flesh.
And until David so recently returned from the dead, you were Laird Douglas.
There is a difference when you compare such respectability to a bastard half-breed. ”
“I’ve never heard you sound so bitter before. Perhaps there was no mention of a title to your name, but your grandfather is an exceptional man who has—”