Once A Wolf (31 page)

dinner this evening, but I wish you good sleep. Hasta mañana, my lady."

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Esperanza appeared for dinner at the usual time. She might as well not have been there at all;

Rowena's cheerful comments and careful questions were met with averted eyes and a bowed

head. Something was most definitely disturbing the girl—someone by the name of Kavanagh—

but she also seemed to have lost her trust in Rowena.

The explanation was simple. Rowena had failed to protect her. Why should she be surprised

that Esperanza, who had suffered such abuse from her own people, should draw away from a

near-stranger who'd broken her most solemn promise?

It was not Rowena's only failure. What, after all, had she accomplished? Since coming here

she'd broken nearly every resolve she'd made: to escape, to protect Esperanza, to remain

indifferent to Tomás's blandishments. The single one that remained intact was her

determination never again to become a beast. How did she dare think she could help anyone

else when she could scarcely help herself?

Deeply ashamed, she took her own refuge in the painful silence. Esperanza remained at the

table just long enough to swallow a few mouthfuls of food, and then slipped from the house as

quickly as she'd come. Rowena felt for the glass of wine beside her plate.

She was not like Quentin to lose herself in drink, but she had taken a glass or two every night

during Tomás's absence. She finished the first glass, allowed Nestor to refill it, pulled a chair to

the window, and watched as the sunset stained the cliffs with red and gold and the canyon

filled with shadow. A pleasant lassitude settled over her.

"I think this wine is past its prime, Nestor," she said, frowning vaguely at the dregs in the

bottom of her glass.

He emerged from his corner and took the glass from her hand. His nose twitched. "I did not

realize. I'm sorry, señorita."

"Please do not be. It was… adequate." She leaned her head against the hard, carved back of the

chair. "Thank you, Nestor. You've been a good friend."

He bowed. "Sleep well, Lady Rowena."

Sleep well. She'd be lucky to sleep at all, but if she did… If she did, she was going to dream of

Cole instead of Tomás. Yes. She'd had quite enough of Tomás Alejandro Randall, waking or

sleeping. She would banish him from her dreams entirely.

"Cole," she murmured. She fixed her mind on his image and worked her way unsteadily into the

bedchamber. Was she so dizzy because of a scant two glasses of wine? The prospect of

removing her blouse and skirt was daunting. After a moment of indecision, she toppled

facedown onto the bed fully clothed.

"Cole," she said. How odd the named sounded. How alien. I am going to think only of…

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Her thoughts unraveled. She let herself float away on a gray cloud of indifference.

Sometime later, faint noises stirred her awake. A figure moved beside her bed. "Esper… anza?"

she mumbled.

No. The figure too large. Male. Tomás. Tomás was coming into her room. He wanted to seduce

her. He wanted to make her beg him to… to…

A hand closed over her mouth. Not Tomás. Kavanagh. Sim Kavanagh.

The cloud of indifference remained wrapped about her like a muffling shroud. Someone far

away was urging her to fight; her arms and legs made halfhearted attempts to resist as he

dragged her from the bed and tied her hands together. Then she was out of the room, moving

in fitful jerks through the night. Concentration was impossible. She forgot who it was that half

carried, half shoved her across the open space beyond the door and pushed her face-first

against the warm body of some smelly animal. The man, or the animal, grunted as she was

thrown over a broad, hairy back. Her head dangled just above the ground. More grunts, and

then her nose was in the stiff mane of the animal while her legs straddled its barrel.

That was the last she remembered of how she came to be outside the canyon. She regained her

senses in darkness, lit by flickering light that pierced her eyes like a knife. Her mouth tasted

foul, and her head ached; there was no soothing haze to shield her from the reality of her

situation.

She was lying on the bare earth, bound hand and foot, at the base of a low pine. From this

ignominious position she could see that the light came from a small fire a few feet away.

Around the fire sat five or six men, strangers, whose faces held the remorseless brutality of

hardened desperados.

One of the men was Sim Kavanagh.

She struggled into a half-sitting position, wincing at the discomfort in her arms and legs. Several

pairs of eyes fixed on her with hungry interest. Kavanagh got to his feet.

"So you're awake," he said. He crouched beside her, a cigarette dangling between his fingers.

He examined it as if it were of far greater importance than she was. " I thought maybe she gave

you too much."

Her mind was finally working well enough to grasp his meaning. "I was drugged," she said

thickly. "The wine—"

"Yes, the wine." She heard the expected contempt in his voice. "A local concoction I picked up

from an old curandero. He said it would kill with a strong enough dose, but I wasn't taking any

risks with a werewolf."

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Werewolf. He meant her. He'd drugged her to make her compliant when he snatched her from

the bed and took her… to this place. She made a swift appraisal of their surroundings, glad for

once of her ability to see in the dark. The camp was in a clearing, surrounded by a low forest of

piñon pines and junipers. They could be anywhere in this harsh country; she knew she wasn't in

the canyon.

"How long have I been asleep?" she demanded.

"A night and a day."

So the situation was as bad as she feared; it must be well past sunset.

"What have you done with Esperanza?"

"Nothing. She served her purpose, like a good little girl. Who do you think put the drug in your

wine?"

"Esperanza would never—"

"She did."

"Not willingly. Now I understand what has been bothering her these past few days." She

clenched her fists, all too aware of her helplessness. "You are a monster."

His eyes reflected the firelight, glinting with infernal amusement. "If you want me to untie your

hands, you'll keep your mouth shut."

She considered a retort and bit it back. He finished his cigarette, ignoring her completely, and

tossed the butt to the ground. After another long and deliberate delay, he twisted her about

and worked the ropes free from her wrists.

The bindings had numbed her wrists and chafed them raw, but she wasn't about to complain.

She levered herself upright and rested against the trunk of the pine. Kavanagh got up and went

around the fire. There was a murmur of voices; he returned with a dented tin cup of water and

a plate of beans.

"Drink," he said.

She gave him her iciest glare. "I don't suppose it will do any good to ask you where I am."

"Not much."

"Who are these people?"

"Don't recognize them? You met them before. Some of the men from Rialto's gang." He

snickered. "Lucky for you Bill Hager ain't here. He took quite a fancy to you."

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Bill Hager she remembered—the man Tomás had negotiated with when he'd sold the stolen

MacLean horses. The other men were only so many unfamiliar faces, Anglo and Hispano both.

"Do I take your presence here to mean that you've changed your allegiance from Tomás to

this… Rialto?" she said.

"You don't know a damned thing about it."

"Then just what am I doing here?"

His eyes narrowed to slits, giving his face a fiendish cast. "I warned you," he said. "I told you to

stay away from Tomás. Now I'm making sure he's rid of you for good." His smile chilled her.

"You're poison, and I'm the antidote."

She kept her voice admirably level. "You once implied that you would kill me. Is that your

intention?"

"Not as long as you're worth something to MacLean. We have a deal." He spat into the fire.

"You should be grateful, Lady Rowena. I'm taking you back to your fiancé."

His statement was so unexpected that she laughed before she could stop herself. "Taking me

back… to Cole?"

"You heard me."

"He would never bargain with a man like you."

"Sooner me than Tomás."

This was all happening too quickly. "Is Cole paying you to do this?"

His voice took on a strained, almost defensive tone. "I'm getting rid of you and giving Tomás

back his freedom."

He spoke as if she were a weighted chain that would drag Tomás inevitably into some

unspeakable captivity, or worse— as if he were the helpless victim of her wiles and not the

reverse. It was ludicrous, but Kavanagh believed it. He truly believed she was dangerous to his

friend.

His friend. For all his evil, Kavanagh was capable of a twisted loyalty. But it was a mad sort of

loyalty that betrayed the friend in an effort to save him.

"And you think," she said, "that Tomás will thank you for what you're doing, after all the trouble

he took to kidnap me?"

He turned his face away.

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"He will come hunt you down when he discovers I'm gone," she said.

"I arranged a little distraction for him," Kavanagh said. "If that doesn't work, Rialto's men owe

me a favor. They'll make false trails and slow him down. He won't catch up."

Obviously he had the whole thing well planned. She was the one at a crippling disadvantage.

Her mind was still muddled, her once-solid principles turned upside-down. Instead of feeling

satisfaction at being on the verge of escape, however unlikely the means, she was angry on

Tomás's behalf and outraged that his supposed friend had betrayed him. Her irrational instinct

was to fight Kavanagh tooth and nail and ride straight back to the canyon.

Back to Tomás.

She swallowed hard. Hadn't she proven her mastery over mere instinct, time and again? She

could turn this entire situation to her advantage. All she need do was let Kavanagh take her to

Cole. Tomás would come to no harm, and she'd be safe from him at last.

And safe from herself.

"Very well," she said. "You have what you want, Kavanagh. You're giving me what I've sought

since the day I was kidnapped." The words caught in her throat. "There's no reason to keep me

tied."

One of the men behind him said something in Spanish; he laughed. "You'll stay tied up until we

reach Las Vegas and Cole pays me for delivering you."

"Then you are doing this for profit—"

"Just like MacLean." He leaned closer, resting his hand on her bent knee. "You shouldn't hate

me, Lady Rowena Forster. MacLean and I are the same. We both take what we want, and we

don't give a damn about anyone else."

"Mr. MacLean has nothing in common with you."

"Wrong." His hand slid higher, pushing up her skirt. "There's just one difference between us. I

use a gun. He uses the power he was born with. He makes people like you believe he's a fine,

upstanding gentleman while he steals everything they have."

She'd heard and dismissed slurs like this before—in New York, from envious rumormongers

who implied that Cole's wealth and influence came from questionable business practices, and

again from Tomás himself. His words remained etched in her memory: "Didn't you know that

your fine Cole MacLean has many enemies? Of course he would not tell you. The stories would

hardly be to his credit."

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He had never elaborated on his accusation, nor explained his reasons for preying on the

MacLeans. He'd let her believe the worst of him, even as he tried to seduce her. And yet… it

had become more and more difficult to think of him as a villain.

But if he were not…

"I wonder what MacLean sees in you," Kavanagh said. He stroked her leg from thigh to knee.

"He uses women like everyone else. You must have more than a little money, or he wouldn't

want you back." He shrugged. "If he knew the way you acted with Tomás, he'd leave you to rot.

Unless he found a way to use you as bait. I'm making sure that never happens." "I believe

you've been out in the sun too long." His fingers dug into her skin through the cloth of her skirt.

"Tomás is too proud to tell you what MacLean did to him. He pretends he doesn't care what

you think. But you're going to know what you're going back to. Cole MacLean killed Tomás's

father."

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