Once A Wolf (10 page)

Her attempt at violence shocked her, and yet she despised her failure to fight him.

She wanted to fight, but in that very wish the wolf lay waiting.

Her hands went limp in his, and she closed her eyes. "Let me go."

"I cannot." Impulsively he bent forward to breathe in the scent of her hair. "Rowena, Rowena. It

is a beautiful name." He brushed hair from her face and let his hand linger there. "Sir Walter

Scott, is it not? She was the lover of a great knight."

"She was faithful to her betrothed."

"Even when she doubted him."

"You have no power to alter my beliefs," she said. She stepped back, freeing her hands. "You

have no power at all. Good night." She turned her back on him and retreated to her blanket,

her cold dismissal hanging between them like river mist.

But it was not the coldness that stayed with him as he gathered up the remaining food and

wrapped it up for the next morning. It was the fire in her eyes when she'd threatened him with

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the knife, and the bold wordplay she employed to defy him. It was the many contradictions in

what she was and what she believed herself to be.

Above all, it was the promise of what she could become.

How much would it take to push her to the very brink of her control, to that border where she

would have no choice but to accept the wolf within herself? How would she react when she

was forced to choose between passion and principle?

MacLean wanted Rowena, but it was not for that tantalizing hidden ardor. He must control her

as he controlled every other person in his life. He would want her to be the perfect hostess, an

ornament, a trophy to add to his prestige. He would pretend to be what she wished only until

she was bound to him for all time. He would never let her become all she could be, and in his

keeping she would never be tempted. He would make her believe he could provide exactly

what she needed to be safe.

Unless another man made her want something more than safety.

A man like Tomás Alejandro Randall.

He sat down against the wall opposite Rowena's and gazed at her elegant marble profile.

Suddenly the work he had set for himself did not seem quite so arduous. To seduce the lady, to

see her come willingly to his bed to spite Cole MacLean… that had been an end in itself. But his

interest was becoming much more personal. He had never been able to resist a challenge.

Rowena would be one of his greatest. She would surrender, not only to him, but to her own

Lady of Fire—embrace the wolf within him… and within herself.

Until he had truly been alone with Rowena, he had not been able to see the obvious. He

wanted her. His loins ached with the images that rose in his mind, the same that had obsessed

him on the train. Her passion, when he awakened it, would be incandescent. They would burn

together. No matter if the flame consumed itself quickly. It would be glorious while it lasted.

He laughed silently. Ah, my Lady Ice, you'll sigh my name with desire soon enough. I won't win

you with stories to rouse your sympathy and righteous sense of justice. That would be too easy.

You'll accept me as I am, as you believe me to be—outlaw and thief and scoundrel.

And Cole MacLean would lose again.

Tomás shook out his own blanket and prepared himself for very pleasant dreams.

Five

Rowena was already awake by the time Randall came to rouse her. She imagined that she'd

slept a few hours, at least; her body was stiff and creased from the confinement of her clothing,

but she was perfectly alert.

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She had to be.

They rode south out of the abandoned village before dawn. Randall sat his mount easily,

occasionally glancing her way but offering no further conversation. He allowed Rowena to guide

her own mare—and left her to her unwelcome thoughts.

Again and again, scenes from last night came back to haunt her. His peculiar gentleness. His

mention of his mother. The way he'd brushed her hair so intimately, when she'd done nothing

to resist. His utter lack of anger when she'd threatened him with the knife. The way he'd called

her a shrew. The way he'd called her beautiful.

In England, he had been a gentleman as Don Alarico. He'd defended her brother, fought for

him. And it had all been part of his revenge.

She did not know his reasons for hating Cole MacLean. She had told herself she didn't wish or

need to know. Why, then, did she feel almost ready to beg him for an explanation?

Why did she shiver with the memory of his touch?

God help her if she were so weak, so depraved as to fall prey to the crude charms of a man like

Randall. He was merely playing games with her, goading her because she was here and Cole

was not. He had no interest in her as a person, only as an object to be used. She must treat him

likewise, as an unpredictable enemy.

Yes, enemy. If he was Cole's, he must be hers.

But there was no point in thinking of Cole. He was too far away to help her. She forced herself

to consider the landscape as they ventured closer and closer to the mountain pass. For some

time now, twin mountain peaks had been visible on the western horizon. Soon more mountains

came into view to the south, presided over by a flat-topped peak which Randall identified as

the marker for the pass that would lead them into New Mexico. Rowena was relieved to see an

end to the prairie.

Randall circled the bustling town at the foot of the mountains and cut back in at the southern

outskirts, joining a well-worn trail that crossed a bridge over the Purgatoire River. This was

clearly a main route over the mountains; Rowena saw both single riders and merchant caravans

with laden wagons and trailing livestock. Randall rode as if he had nothing to fear, as if daring

Rowena to call for help.

And if she did? How many other innocents might be dragged into this conflict? It was not a risk

she was prepared to take. There must be another way, a better time.

So she held her peace as they began to ascend, leaving the slower wagons and conveyances

behind. At one point the trail turned to pass a ranch in a small valley, where several wagons had

stopped at a chained gate to pay a toll. Randall pushed the horses across country until they

were well beyond the toll gate.

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For many miles they wound upward on the road, through canyons and dells and gorges and

over hill upon hill. On every side, scattered like the spots on a leopard, were dwarf cedars that

gave off a pungent scent, mingled with equally short pines. Plants with leathery, spearlike

leaves grew among the grasses, unlike any that thrived on the moist slopes of England. Stunted

oaks, taller pines, and groves of trees not yet in leaf appeared as the road climbed higher.

At last they reached the summit. New Mexico Territory lay spread before them, flat-topped

mesas and buff-colored plains blotched with darker patches of foliage and the meandering

silver stripe of a river. It appeared to be every bit as much a desert as the one they had left

behind in Colorado.

New Mexico was where Braden's wife, the former Cassidy Holt, had lived during the latter part

of her childhood. Rowena almost wished she had Cassidy by her side now, to advise her with

that clear-eyed innocence unsullied by her own pain and struggle.

But wasn't it Cole she needed, Cole who would tell her what she should do?

A lovely and simple melody insinuated itself into her thoughts, carried by a rich baritone voice

in a language still new to her, mysterious and enchanting.

"Les encargo a mis amigos

antes de acabar de hablar;

Unos son los que las sacan,

y otros las van a gozar."

Rowena found herself so lost in the flow of music that she was startled by the sudden silence

when it came to an end. Randall was gazing at her, lips pursed in a soundless whistle.

"You choose a peculiar time for singing," she said.

"Don't you ever sing for the sheer joy of it, Rowena?"

"I sing when it is appropriate to do so."

"Of course. Appropriate. In church, or at those gatherings of the fine and proper ladies in the

drawing room." He guided his horse so close to hers that their legs nearly touched. "Don't you

want to know the meaning of my song?"

"I am entirely indifferent."

"I'll tell you anyway. It's called 'La Calandria'—The Lark." It is the tale of a lark who promises to

marry the sparrow if he will help free her from her cage. But when he does, she flies off and

leaves him." He sighed. "Such is the way of women. At the end, the sparrow sings:

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"I should like to warn my friends before I end this discourse; Some come to rescue them, but

others will enjoy them."

Rowena felt her face grow hot. He was baiting her again, quite deliberately. Was he suggesting

that Cole, when he recovered her, would not "enjoy" her?

Was he suggesting that someone else would do so?

"Do you see Mr. MacLean as a sparrow, señor Randall?"

"El buitre befits him better—the vulture. I might call you La Calandria, if you sang a little more

sweetly."

"I should call you a bantam cock for your arrogant crowing."

"But you could not play gallina to my gallo."

"I do not speak your language."

"Gallina means coward as well as hen."

It was a most dubious compliment. "How strange that you find it necessary to compare me to

some animal or other. You would take great satisfaction in making me every bit as disreputable

as you are."

"Under the right circumstances," he said. His voice dropped to a husky whisper. "In a candlelit

room with a comfortable bed and the stars shining outside the window—si, luz de mis ojos, I

would like that very much."

His meaning was insultingly blatant. In all her time with Cole, she hadn't thought beyond their

marriage and the children she would have one day. The necessary method of producing those

children had simply not been of importance, or a subject befitting speculation.

Randall's words did what Cole's presence could not. She tried to quell the images that assailed

her mind: a room, just as he described, smelling of flowers, and dark save for a handful of

candles, with a large bed in the center. The bed was occupied. El Lobo lay on it, bare to the

waist, and in his arms was a woman with golden hair, as naked as he…

"Stop it!" she cried.

"Rowena?"

He knew. He was doing this to her. He was planting these images in her thoughts—using the

werewolf power of influence their kind possessed. She'd lived as human too long to fight him

off.

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She swayed in the saddle; he caught her arm. An incredible sensation swept through her in that

moment, an ecstatic pulsation that began and ended in the most intimate parts of her body. It

left her breathless and weak and terrified.

"Let… go," she gasped.

His unexpectedly swift obedience made her focus on his face. The pupils of his eyes were huge,

and he looked as if someone had given him a hearty knock alongside the head. She only wished

she had been the one to deliver the blow.

Oddly enough, he had no glib words ready for her, even when his gaze cleared and he seemed

to see her again. Instead, he muttered something about hurrying the pace and set his horse at a

trot down the sloping trail, scarcely glancing behind to make sure she followed. Her arms and

legs shook so badly that she never considered the possibility of riding in the opposite direction.

At noon, without having shared a single word in many hours, they reached the foot of the pass.

Rowena saw the crude buildings of another ranch, well attended by travelers, but Randall

brought them to rest in a narrow canyon just off the road. He watered the horses and offered

her the remaining bread, cheese, and fruit. She found herself too hungry to resist, even on

principle, but she made very sure not to touch him in the exchange.

The one thing she wanted more than anything was a bath. Her skin was sticky, and dust filled all

the wrinkles in her clothing and her hair and her mouth.

A rivulet of brownish water flowed down the center of the canyon, but she knew perfectly well

that she had no choice but to persevere without such civilized luxuries as cleanliness. Bathing

anywhere within several miles of El Lobo was out of the question.

Fortunately, he was preoccupied with his own concerns. Instead of riding on, he kept them

concealed in the canyon and watched the road expectantly. Just as afternoon began to wane, a

party of riders approached from the south.

Rowena immediately recognized the two Spanish men who had first accompanied Randall. They