Scotsman Wore Spurs (12 page)

“You're going to have to do better than that, Gabrielle,” he said in a deceptively gentle tone. “You tell me, or you tell Mr. Kingsley.”

Her face went white, and she actually shrank away from him, as if fending off some kind of an attack. “He wouldn't let me stay,” she said desperately.

“Probably not,” Drew agreed.

She looked up at him with her eyes pleading. “Please don't tell him.”

“Why?”

“I won't have any place to go.”

Drew heard a crumb of truth in what she said. But only a crumb.

“Who is after you?” he asked again.

Her eyes clouded and for a moment he didn't think she was going to answer. Shivering slightly, she reached for a piece of wood and put it in the fire. Then, as if she'd reached a decision, she replied, “A man. He and my … father arranged a marriage.”

Her lips were trembling slightly. So were her hands. Desperation edged her voice. But arranged marriages had gone the way of slavery; a woman could always say no.

He must have looked skeptical because she continued slowly, almost jerkily, the way a person sometimes did in revealing an awkward truth—or a lie.

“I … refused,” she murmured. “He was much older than me … and ruthless. He swore if he couldn't have me, no one would.” Tears misted her eyes. “Someone tried to help me leave St. Louis … but he was attacked, almost killed. Everyone who's tried to help me …” She faltered.

Warning bells rang inside Drew's head. A part of him—that new, protective instinct he seemed to have unwillingly acquired—wanted to take her and hold her, assure her that no one would harm her, not as long as he was around. His arms itched to do just that, his fingers tingled with the need to touch her face. But a louder, more persistent part of him, the part that had guided him through many a cutthroat game of poker, the part that had become adept at measuring people as a means of self-preservation, kept him from following through on the impulse. Something about her explanation didn't ring true. Oh, he believed that she was desperate, and it was clear that she was afraid of
something
. But the rest of her story? Bloody unlikely.

“He hired detectives,” she continued haltingly. “I thought I could lose him on this trail drive. They would never think to look for a boy.” Shadowed by the flames, her face looked earnest, hopeful. “Don't tell Mr. Kingsley.”

“Why not?” he said. “I think he would help a damsel in distress.”

“I've read about cattle drives,” she said, her hands now clenched together. “No women allowed.”

She had the right of that, anyway. It was undoubtedly true that Kirby would send her packing to the nearest town the instant he found out who—and what—she was. And if she really was in trouble, she would be easy to spot. Those vivid blue eyes were a certain giveaway. He'd never seen any like them.

“I don't like liars,” he said coldly, trying to put some distance between them. Every time he looked at her, his body reacted in extraordinarily rebellious ways.

She bit her lip, but he gave her credit. Her eyes met his directly. “I had no choice,” she said simply.

“Who is this man?”

“A banker from St. Louis,” she said. “My father was very successful, but then his business failed. He owes … a great deal of money.”

Drew raised a skeptical brow. “And he was willing to sell his daughter?” Something flickered in her eyes. Anger? Denial? But this time she did look away and said nothing.

Drew sighed. What kind of desperation would drive a young woman to cut her hair, don some of the most uncomfortable—not to mention downright ugly—garments he'd ever seen, and bear the hardships of a cattle drive? He might consider the particulars of her story to be pure fiction, but he didn't doubt for an instant the reality of her fear.

And parts of the story
would
explain her incompetence at cooking, something most women had at least a passing familiarity with. Most Scottish peeresses knew little more than how to order meals. He imagined the same might be true of well-to-do American families.

“You
won't
tell Mr. Kingsley?” she said, her voice genuinely shaking.

“I'm not sure,” he said. “He has a right to know. If anything happens to you …” He cut himself short and ended with a shrug.

She drew herself up, the set of her chin determined. “I may not be able to cook very well, but I can take care of myself.”

“Oh, yes, I see that you can,” he drawled. “Just as you took care of yourself crossing that creek.”

She looked at him in reproach at being reminded, and he had to grin at her gall. Her frown deepened, but at the same time, her lips twitched a little, then a little more, until a beguiling smile of utter mischief spread across her face. He felt his blood warm again, realized his breath had suddenly become ragged.

“I really can take care of myself—most of the time,” she said earnestly. “And I'm learning. I just need a chance.”

Her words struck a chord inside. If the story about her father using her to pay his debts
were
true … well, he himself had experienced the pain of a father's betrayal, as well.

There were other kinds of betrayals, though. Such as the betrayal of a friend. His friend, Kirby Kingsley, had wanted him along on the cattle drive because someone had tried to kill him and whoever it had been was still out there. The possibility that Gabrielle was connected in any way to the three brigands who'd ambushed Kirby was preposterous. Still, her presence
was
odd and, if nothing else, would certainly be an unneeded diversion.

She was sitting there, large blue eyes regarding him hopefully, as if he were her last chance.

“Why Kingsley's drive?” he asked suddenly, watching her face carefully.

He saw her swallow before she replied. “I read about it in the paper. The article said Kingsley needed hands, and I thought … well, it seemed like the perfect place to hide.”

Her fingers were twisting nervously in her lap. Drew noticed the blisters on her hands, hands that he was sure had been smooth until a week ago. Yet he'd never heard her complain, not on the long ride to Willow Springs nor on the exhausting return. Most women he'd known wouldn't have lasted half a day.

Bloody hell. He'd never been one for rules. He'd never followed any and had, in fact, taken pleasure in breaking them. So why should he respect some rule about women not being allowed on trail drives? It went against his grain to deny a fellow renegade the help she needed.

Besides that, he respected gumption. Grit, they called it here. And she had more than her share of that.

“I won't say anything … for now,” he said, vowing silently to keep a close eye on her.

Her eyes closed briefly, and relief flooded her features. When she opened her eyes, she met his gaze directly. “Thank you,” she said softly.

He uttered a short laugh “Don't thank me yet. I admire a strong instinct for self-survival and I admire your, shall we say,
inventiveness
. But”—he lifted a eyebrow in warning—“although I might concede you your tale, or at least part of it, I don't like lies. They offend me. And you're very handy with them.”

She started to say something, but he cut her off. “Neither do I like disloyalty, and you're placing me precariously close to that,” he added grimly, all amusement gone. “If I feel, at any time, that it's important for Kirby to know about you, I
will
tell him.”

Her fingers were locking and unlocking again. He wished he knew what was going on inside that devious mind of hers, but she was very good at hiding her emotions. Too good, he thought again. Something was not right. He knew it.

Yet the bare truth was that she interested him in a way no woman had before. He wondered how she would look in a fine dress, her hair washed and coiffed. Probably not any more appealing than she did in his much-too-large shirt, short curls drying around her face, a tentative smile on her lips.

He lifted a hand to touch her face, his fingers caressing the skin. She stiffened, her eyes widening a little in alarm. Yet he saw something else in them, too, and when he felt her shiver, he sensed that it wasn't all cold or fear.

“It's a crime to hide your body under those clothes,” he said.

Her lips parted, and she started to speak, but before she could, he leaned over and touched his mouth to hers lightly, lightly enough that she could move away if she wished. Her breath caught, her lips trembled slightly under his, hesitating. Then, with a quiet whimper, he felt her yield, her lips turning soft and pliant beneath his.

What had been meant as exploratory suddenly became something else. Need burned straight through him with stunning force. And suddenly he was lost in something far more, far greater, than anything lust could explain.

The moment the Scotsman's lips touched hers, Gabrielle knew her world had changed forever. Oh, she had been kissed before, more than once. but she'd never felt this … magic. It was as if she'd been asleep all her life and only now was being awakened.

His arms went around her, and she felt a warmth spreading through her like rays from the sun on a clear summer day. And with that warmth came something else, something new and mysterious and irresistible. His lips teased hers, rocking back and forth, twisting first one way, then the other, and she found herself responding with wanton abandon. Swirling eddies of desire rippled through her. She felt his body tense and his hands tremble as they touched her hair, her shoulders, moved up and down her back, and she knew he felt it too, this barely restrained passion.

Her arms crept around his shoulders, her hands instinctively stroking the back of his neck. He made a low, growling sound deep in his chest, and his mouth opened over hers, coaxing hers to do the same. The sensation of his tongue teasing the corners of her mouth was wildly exciting, but exciting didn't begin to describe the way she felt when she let her lips part beneath his and his tongue enter her mouth.

Shocking. Exhilarating. Electrifying. It was all those things. And it was also a little frightening. His arms tightened around her, and his mouth grew hard and demanding. And suddenly fear overwhelmed her, fear and confusion over the bewildering ache that was building in the deepest part of her—a longing for something she didn't understand. She needed something. And the strength and power of that need terrified her.

With a small cry, she jerked back, fighting for breath and for control. He released her immediately, though he kept one hand on her shoulder, his fingers playing with a short lock of hair.

“Gabrielle, are you a virgin?” he asked.

She was glad it was too dark for him to notice the heat creeping into her cheeks. She felt hot all over, on fire with passion—and with shame. How could she have been so intemperate? So
wanton
.

Apparently taking her silence for assent, he swore softly, oaths she'd never heard before. When he was through, he sighed, then said in a much resigned voice, “Ah lass, has no one ever told you not to play with fire?”

She wished she had a sharp retort, but she didn't have it in her to think of one. She longed only to reach out and touch him again. Gratitude, she told herself. What she felt was gratitude. After all, he had saved her life today.

At least, her shame wasn't compounded by the thought she might be kissing her father's murderer. For Drew Cameron could not be the man who had done it. If he had, he would have seen her picture on the playbills posted all around San Antonio, and he would have recognized her by now—he wouldn't be sitting here kissing her, much less rescuing her from drowning. So, no, he was not a murderer.

But he
was
Kirby Kingsley's friend.

She shivered, remembering the Scotsman's comment about loyalty. And she wondered again about his relationship to the cattleman.

“Gabrielle?”

She looked toward him. She didn't want to. She didn't want to see the disdain she was sure would be plain on his features. She
had
been wanton. But she'd never lacked for courage and she never made excuses.

His mouth was set in a rigid line, his golden eyes glowing like a jungle cat's. Then he surprised her again. “That was inexcusable of me,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

Then to her amazement, he rose and walked away from the fire, seeming to fade into the shadows.

Utterly bewildered, Gabe pulled her knees up and hugged them with her arms as she stared at the fire, her body still hot and needy … and lonely

Drew walked for what seemed like hours. They needed more wood, he told himself. The night was cool again, and they had only his two dry blankets between them; hers were soaked through. But when he picked up the first piece of wood, he stared at it in the darkness, then tossed it away. Gabrielle could use both blankets. He could use a bit of a chill to tame his internal heat.

He groaned. He heartily disliked being honorable. But despite his frequenting of disreputable taverns, his reckless gambling, his open flouting of convention with actresses, he'd never knowingly taken advantage of a woman. He'd never seen the attraction of bedding a woman who didn't return his enthusiasm for the act of lovemaking. Nor had he ever bedded a virgin. He'd left that vice to his father, who'd made his life hell for being a bastard but who had created a village full of them at Kinloch. The late earl of Kinloch had made no distinction between willing and unwilling, but he went to any lengths to keep his noble friends from knowing about them, dispensing money to keep mouths shut. Dispensing money, Drew thought bitterly, that should have been his inheritance.

The familiar hatred for a man long dead, for the hypocrisy and lies that were his heritage, welled inside him. He had tried to conquer that particularly destructive emotion after wasting his youth in harboring it. Still, it came back to nip him now and then.

That was one reason he'd left Scotland. To get away from hating. He didn't want to hate anymore.