Caine's Reckoning (31 page)

“They offered one thousand in gold, which explains Carpenter’s efforts.”

“Fuck!” Tucker muttered.

That about said it all.

“But why the hell shoot her?”

Sam set his glass on the table beside his wing-back chair. “The answer to that isn’t going to make you happy.”

Caine held up his hand. “Wait.”

He didn’t want to hear this without something to take off the edge. With a flick of his fingers he demanded the bottle back. Tracker walked it over, naturally blending with the shadows. As Tracker poured, Sam released the rest of his news.

“They don’t care if she’s dead or alive when she comes in, just identifiable.”

That information explained Carpenter’s trigger-happy efforts. “Shit, we should have just slit their throats and been done with it the minute we saw them,” Caine muttered.

Tracker’s hand didn’t even twitch. “I’ve been wondering what to get you as a wedding present.” He jammed the cork back into the whiskey bottle. The smile that spread his lips was feral, primitive and promised someone’s death. “Looks like I just found the perfect gift.”

“The bankers have definitely outlived their right to exist,” Caine agreed, “but until we know why they put a bounty on Desi, they’re going to get to live.”

Tucker fingered the blade strapped to his ankle. “But not James?”

Caine raised his glass and let the raw burn blend with the razor edge of his rage. He recalled James’s arrogance. The way he’d shot terror through Desi with a look. The satisfaction on his face when he’d seen her reaction. Caine twirled the whiskey in his glass, watching as it caught the light. “No, not James.”

“Good.”

Caine looked up, pinning Tucker with his gaze. “It’s my woman he touched. My woman he hurt. My woman he threatens, so it’ll be my hand that ends his miserable life.”

“Damn it, she’s Hell’s Eight, Caine,” Tucker argued. “We should all get a piece of the bastards.”

The fury flowed through Caine, so cold it burned, so complete it took over the calm behind which he tucked all emotion, ruling that out. “He’s mine.”

Sam dropped back into his chair. “Tell me at least you’re not going to make it quick and clean.”

“No.” There’d be nothing clean about it. The bastard would suffer. “The punishment will fit the crime.”

“Good.”

“We still don’t know why. It doesn’t make sense they’d go to this much trouble to replace a whore.”

Caine placed his glass on the table with a soft click and got to his feet. Tucker arched his brow. “I’m not insulting your woman, just talking from their view.”

Caine didn’t care. “Find another way to put it.”

“Lay off, both of you,” Sam said. “We need brains, not temper right now.”

Caine sat down and took another pull of whiskey. The burn did nothing to settle his rage. His wife was working herself into the grave trying to prove something he didn’t understand, people were trying to kill her for reasons he didn’t know and, until he figured out the why of it all, he had to lay low and do nothing. He wasn’t used to laying low. “So, what’s everyone thinking?”

“There’s money involved somewhere.” Tracker resumed his seat.

“Always is when there are bankers involved,” Sam agreed.

“But why not care if she’s dead?”

That was the part that bothered Caine. “It could be inheritance. Desi all but said she came from money. Her folks are dead, but she has a sister.”

“Think she’s involved?”

“No.”

“She any place we can ask?”

Tracker shook his head, his long hair falling in his face, emphasizing the harsh planes of his cheekbones, reflecting off the wicked scar on his cheek. “No.”

“Hell.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Sam groused. “Money is inherited. If Desi and her sister are wealthy, why wouldn’t one of the bankers just marry up with her and take control of her portion?”

“Maybe the will forbids it?” Tucker suggested

“Don’t see how it could.” Sam shrugged. “A man automatically takes control of everything his wife has the day he says ‘I do.’”

Caine sighed. “Which would mean it would make more sense for the bankers to dispute the legality of my marriage to Desi than to kill her off.”

“Could be they haven’t tried that ’cause everyone knows what a possessive, stubborn son of a bitch you are and knows any move to court action would end in you eliminating the source,” Tucker suggested.

“Maybe.” But it wasn’t likely. “I want everyone who we’re not sure of escorted off Hell’s Eight, and I want the others called back.”

“It’ll take me a few days to find them and get them here.”

Caine nodded at Tucker. “You handle that.”

He put his whiskey aside. “I’ll leave immediately.”

“Sam, you still got relatives back east?”

“A few.”

“Any chance you can wire them and ask them a favor?”

“Uncle Mark has connections. You tell me what we need, and he might be able to get the information.”

“Good, but hold off finding a telegraph until the others get here.”

“Wouldn’t think of missing the fun.”

“Good. And one more thing.”

As one, they looked at him. “No mention of this to Desi. At least until we’ve got some facts. She’s got enough on her plate.”

“It’ll be hard to keep her safe without her knowing.”

“We’ll just make out I’m in the habit of worrying.”

“Won’t be a lie in that.”

Caine flipped Sam an obscene gesture. “And in the interim, I’ll try to find out discreetly if Desi has any more information that can help.”

Tracker’s bark of laughter wasn’t appreciated. “Now that I’ve got to hang around to see. Caine Allen practicing subtle.”

“A stampede would have a better shot at it,” Sam chuckled.

Caine snarled a “fuck off” and polished off his whiskey. The warm glow took the edge off his need to act, but did nothing to mute his anger. A nod from Tucker caught his attention. He glanced over his shoulder. Through he door he saw a flash of white. “Desi?”

No response. He turned, and she appeared in the doorway, the thin nightgown doing nothing to hide her shape beneath, considering the lantern on the hall table was right behind her. “Is something wrong?”

Her head turned. She stared vaguely in his direction and started walking. He made it halfway to his feet before she slid into his lap. Her arms went around his neck as she snuggled in on a sigh.

“Gypsy?”

“She awake?” Tracker asked.

Caine tipped her chin up. Her eyes were open but unfocused. “I don’t think so.”

“She’s wandering in her sleep?” Tucker asked.

“Yup.”

“Why?” Sam always wanted to know why.

Caine sighed. “I don’t know.” He eased her away. Desi shook her head, wrapped her arms around his neck. Her nails dug into his nape as she clung.

“No.”

He let her pull herself back in. Her cheek rubbed against his chest. Her whispered “Safe” came out on another sigh.

The next little sigh she gave heated his skin. Caine cupped her head and tested her cheek with his thumb. Her skin was cool. She was getting chilled again. “Pass me that throw, would you?” he asked Tucker.

The blanket was tossed over. Caine wrapped it around Desi and stood. “So we’re agreed on what we’re doing?”

The other men nodded, their hard gazes locked on Desi. The set to their mouths reflected the same seething anger he felt inside. “Good. As soon as I get Desi back in bed, we’ll hammer out the details.”

He brushed his lips over her hair, breathing in the scent of sweet lilac and soft woman, pulling her a little closer as he did, and whispering, “I’ve got you, Gypsy.”

And he was never letting her go.

O
ne of them was coming. Desi eased the hairpin out from the lock. She got to her feet, holding the chain so it wouldn’t rattle, inching away from the sliver of light and back to the bed. With the utmost care, she tucked the hairpin into a tiny slit in the mattress, smoothing it down so there was no evidence of the hiding place. With almost desperate panic, she checked the lock in the shackle around her ankle. There was the barest of scratches on the surface, but unless he looked closely, suspected something, he’d never attribute it to anything more than normal wear and tear.

Desi stroked the lock. Hope battling with despair. She was close to figuring out how the mechanism worked. If she could only do it before they tired of her or things changed, she’d be free. She just had to figure it out in time. The footsteps got closer. For a moment she didn’t recognize them. Were they sending someone new?

And then she heard it, that slight drag on the other step. Oh, God, it was him.

She’d thought he’d forgotten about her, maybe moved on. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears. The door handle lifted. The latch clicked. She made it to the appropriate spot beside the bed just in time. She dropped to her knees and bowed her head just as the door creaked on its hinges.

He was in the room. She could feel his presence, but unless she lifted her head, she couldn’t see him. She wasn’t lifting her head. If she lifted her head, he’d kill her. He’d told her so and she believed him. She’d never met anyone so lacking in human warmth. Whenever he entered the room the temperature dropped. Like now. Several moments passed with the only sound her terrified breaths. A sulfur scratched and light flared. The stench of kerosene stung her nostrils. Light filled the room.

“This is how you greet me?”

The question was delivered in a quiet voice, rich in culture but devoid of inflection.

Was he pleased? Displeased? She mentally ran a list of what she was supposed to do. Her head was down, her hands on the floor, her knees spread. He had to be pleased. She was doing everything right. A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room and her naked state shook her from head to toe. Three steps and he was in front of her. The black, polished tips of his fine leather shoes filled her vision. They didn’t move, just rested there. After a minute, he sighed. A quick glance up revealed no bulge in his pants. Maybe he hadn’t come for that.

“I can see your training has been neglected.”

He’d caught her looking. She snapped her gaze back down. Nausea gathered in her stomach, and deep within, the shaking started but hope hung on. Maybe it was something else that had upset him. Maybe he really hadn’t caught her breaking her position.

His foot moved forward. The hard sole of his shoe covered her fingers, pressed on the knuckles and bore down. Pain exploded up her arm. She bit her lip on the cry that welled. Noise was a protest. Protesting was not allowed. If she wanted to save herself from further pain she had to be quiet. No matter what, she had to be quiet.

His foot lifted. Her hand throbbed. Had he broken her fingers? She didn’t dare move to find out. Maybe, if she was very lucky, he’d consider that punishment enough.

He reached over her head, his shadow stretched with the move, encasing her in darkness. Icy terror swelled deep inside. All of her senses strained for a sign of what he intended. The soft rustle of cloth sliding across wood was as loud as a scream. Not the hood. Oh, please, she thought. Not the hood. Heavy cloth fell over her head. Three tugs and it was fastened and her world turned utterly black. Her breath grew more labored as she struggled to get air through the material. She was suffocating.

“Please.” The useless plea broke from her lips.

Retaliation was swift. A hand fastened on the hood and yanked her up, wrenching her spine as she was thrown facedown on the bed. She turned her head to the side, struggling for breath through the fabric of her pain and terror.

She measured time in the pounding of her heart. One, two, three, four, five…on six, her arm was jerked above her head. On seven she felt his shirt against her back, his pants against her thighs and his semihard cock against her pussy.

“I can see they’ve been too soft with you.” His grip shifted to either side of her right wrist. The mattress dipped as he took his weight on his elbows. “You need another lesson.”

The statement was as straightforward and as calm as his twisting on her wrist. Each hand going in a different direction, straining the joint, slowly, steadily.

And she began to measure time in her ability to withstand the agony. It wasn’t long before helpless whimpers slipped past her determination. His cock hardened with each cry she couldn’t control until she was openly sobbing, and he was penetrating her. And still he twisted, delivering his lesson with the methodical precision he always used, until she was screaming without end, mindless from the agony. Screaming and screaming, drowning out his orders, his perversion, with the sound of her own voice, holding on to her sanity because of that tiny, fragile hope she’d secreted away. Holding on because there wasn’t any other choice. He’d never break her.