Wild Burn (23 page)

“Oh.”

“But I should’ve come to see you before I went to Denver. I’m sorry.” Contrition laced his rumbling voice.

“I thought…” She shrugged helplessly.

His other hand came up, and he framed her face between his rough, warm palms. “You thought I didn’t like making love to you?” He stepped into her, bringing his body flush with hers again, and bent slightly to whisper in her ear, “I can’t eat, because the only thing I’m hungry for is more of you. I can’t sleep, because it’s fundamentally wrong not to have you lying next to me in bed. I haven’t even been tempted to shoot anything in the past two days, and that’s entirely your fault, you little pacifist. Being inside you…you’ve ruined me, Moira Tully.” He sank his teeth gently into her earlobe.

“Well, y-you’ve ruined me too,” she managed to retort, even as her hands lifted to clench around his necktie. She was breathless, dizzy.

“Good.” His lips, smooth and full, trailed nipping kisses down the side of her throat. “Now that we’ve established that I still want you…” he thrust his hips against her briefly, letting her feel his unrepentant hardness, “…that I
always
want you, we’re going to Denver.”

His honeyed Georgia twang did little to mask his authoritative tone, leaving her no choice but to say, “All right,” and allow him to hand her up into the wagon seat.

Less than a minute later, he’d settled his hat low on his brow and pointed the horses down the south road. They were on their way to Denver.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The moment he met U.S. Marshal Alonzo Hood, Del hated him.

Hood met them at the door to the newly constructed Black Rose Hotel, which had evidently been designed and financed by some Yankee upstart with too much time and money on his hands. Moira’s deposition was to take place in one of the small private parlors in the rear of the elegant structure, where she’d be interrogated by the marshal and her statement recorded by a judge’s secretary, who had made the long trip from Massachusetts for just this purpose. The secretary Del had met yesterday morning, when he made inquiries concerning today’s events, and he could find no fault or undue bias with the slender, mustached man. Hood, on the other hand…

The marshal was large and looming, at least three or four inches over Del’s own six-foot height, and likely outweighed him by thirty pounds. He had fists like anvils, and when his long arms crossed over his chest, his muscles strained against the coat sleeves until Del thought the seams would burst. He was built like a man who broke people’s arms for a living. To top it all off, he was a handsome brute, with short black hair combed neatly away from his temples and dark eyes that tilted rather exotically at the outer corners.

Those eyes were currently locked assessingly on Moira as Del escorted her up the front steps of the hotel, his dark gaze running over her from head to toe and taking a far-too-leisurely stroll through all the landmarks in between. Del’s jaw was already clenched tight when Hood smiled slowly, silky and catlike, but it was when she smiled in return that Del decided to kill him.

Introductions were made, with the marshal barely sparing Del a glance. “Miss Tully,” Hood said, a hint of the monied East in his low, smooth voice. “Thank you for coming today. I know this must be difficult for you.” He reached out a big paw and took Moira’s hand. “If it’s any consolation, you’re doing the right thing.”

Moira slid her arm from Del’s in order to give her full attention to the marshal, and Del gnashed his teeth, choosing to lay a possessive hand at the small of her back in recourse, mollified only when she leaned into his touch.

“I hope so,” she said softly, and Del could hear the nervousness she was trying to conceal. “I’ll admit I was surprised to hear my testimony was needed.”

“The government is doing its best to see that all atrocities from the war, including the ones that didn’t occur on the battlefield, are prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law, Miss Tully. That includes the crime against you.”

To Del, it sounded as if Hood were reciting from a handbook, and he tamped down a surge of irritation. “I think we’d be better off finishing this conversation inside the hotel, don’t you?”

Hood threw him an annoyed glance but released his hold on Moira to step back, gesturing toward the frosted-glass double doors. “My apologies. Of course Miss Tully would be more comfortable inside.” He followed them through the doors and then led them past a marble-topped reception desk.

Their footsteps echoed on the gleaming stone floor as they made their way through the two-level lobby and into a central atrium with plush seating, a statuesque fountain and a shining grand piano. Five floors of hotel suites surrounded the atrium on all sides, forming a rectangle, each level bordered by gilded wrought-iron railing to protect patrons from a lethal fall. The hotel’s restaurant occupied the left half of the atrium’s tiled floor, and the clinking of cutlery against fine china echoed in evidence of the approaching midday meal.

As they passed the curved archway ostensibly separating diners from hotel guests lounging in the atrium itself, Moira leaned close to murmur, “I’ve never seen a place so magnificent.” Awe colored her breathless words.

He slid his hand to the curve of her waist, tucking her into his side, and smiled at her. “I was in a Catholic cathedral once, you know. This is nothing.”

She laughed quietly, the sound drawing the curious attention of Hood. “Here we are.” He came to an abrupt halt as they reached a heavy oak door, stained dark, on the opposite side of the atrium from the lobby. “Mr. Finnell is already inside,” he said, naming the judge’s secretary Del had met yesterday.

As Del made to follow Moira inside the private parlor, Hood placed a hand on his chest. “You can’t be in there, Mr.…” He trailed off, raising a brow in question. The ass had forgotten his name.

Del realized there was a certain irony in that, as it had been a long time since anyone who’d met him hadn’t immediately known who he was. “Crawford. And what do you mean, I can’t be in there?” He pushed the man’s arm aside, squaring his shoulders as he faced the larger man.

“I mean,” Hood said slowly, as if explaining to a halfwit, “you can’t be in there during Miss Tully’s deposition. Her statement can only be made in front of myself and members of the court.” He crossed his arms over his burly chest again. “Is this going to be a problem?”

Just as Del opened his mouth to say that hell yes, it was going to be a problem, Moira peeked around Hood’s massive shoulder. “Delaney? What’s wrong?”

“Marshal Hood says I can’t be in the room during your deposition.”

When she lifted her questioning blue gaze to the marshal, he had the decency to look chagrined, even as he shrugged. “I’m sorry, but those are the rules. I can’t allow Mr. Crawford to be present during your testimony.”

“What if I told you Mr. Crawford was my fiancé?”

As every cell in Del’s tired body suddenly zinged to life, Hood asked pointedly, “Is he?”

Moira turned to face Del, and their eyes met in a moment of acute awareness. There was a tug of something from right in the center of his stomach, a heart-wrenching pull screaming his need to touch her, hold her, press his mouth to her ear and whisper all the ways in which he belonged to her, battered body and tarnished soul. But the charged silence between them grew, and eventually she shook her head. “No. He’s not.”

Hood’s stern mouth twitched, as though fighting amusement, and he indicated the parlor with an open palm. “Rules are rules, Miss Tully. We all have to abide by them, each and every one of us.”

Moira glanced furtively at Del from beneath a fringe of dark auburn lashes, and he took a step closer, ignoring Hood when the other man made as if to move between them. He took her hand, held it in both of his as he vaguely noted the cool, slender lengths of her fingers and their fine-boned elegance. She rarely seemed fragile to him, with her curt tongue and her grace under pressure. She was so fiery, so physical. It struck him through the chest to realize he couldn’t protect her from this.

Her obvious uncertainty in this moment made him want to clutch her to him and also pull his gun on Hood and, yes, the mousy secretary. He settled instead for telling her, “If you need me in that room, nothing will keep me out, you understand? Not the rules, not City Boy here. Nothing.”

Hood
harrumph
ed, but Moira gifted Del with a small smile and curled her fingers around his. “I know.” Her faith in his ability to do so was apparent in each syllable. “But what sort of example would I set for my students, flouting the rules?”

He responded to her teasing in kind. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

She lifted onto the balls of her feet and dropped a swift kiss on his cheek, chaste yet rife with meaning and promise. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

“If you aren’t… If you need me…” He struggled to find the right assurance, forcing himself to let go of her hand as she drew back. “I’ll be right outside. I’ll be
right here
, Moira.”

She gave him one last, long look, then entered the parlor. As Hood moved to follow her inside, he turned and said, “Crawford.”

Del shot him a glare, but he heard, finally—unfortunately—the recognition in the marshal’s tone. He’d made the connection between Del and the newspapers’ famed Dog Man Killer.

Hood nodded. “We’ll talk. After.” The last thing Del saw before Hood closed the door was Moira pulling free her hatpin, the fitted bodice of her burgundy jacket stretching snugly over the slim, supple curves of her breasts with the movement.

A pent-up sigh escaped him, and he stumbled back to lean heavily against the wall opposite the door. Everything in him was in turmoil and had been since he’d slept with Moira. He felt as though his entire identity was being refashioned into something new, sometimes with a rusted hatchet, at other times with the shaping strokes of gentle hands.

Every centimeter of him was reaching for Moira, inside and out, and he didn’t know how to persuade her to take hold of him without drowning her in these feelings of his. He wanted to dominate her, brand her—more, he wanted her to brand
him
. There were claims that must be made, and she’d come so close only moments earlier to discovering what he intended…

His hand drifted over his chest to dip into the inside pocket of his coat. His fingertips brushed the lid of the velvet ring box, the contents of which he’d purchased yesterday on his trip to the city, along with his finer clothing.

How had she known? He shook his head at his foolishness. He should have said he was her fiancé, but damn it, he wanted to actually propose to her, in a way that would’ve made his mama proud, God rest her romantic soul.

But now he knew—or he thought he knew—how she might respond to such a proposal, and the idea sent a flash of pure heat straight to his groin. His ring on her finger, her “yes” in his ears… Indelible, undeniable brands, binding them together.

She had ruined him, beyond hope, beyond shame. And as soon as he got her back to that cozy cabin of hers, he was going to let her ruin him all over again. And again. And again.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Moira was exhausted.

A mere half hour after she’d entered the private parlor of the Black Rose Hotel, she felt as though she’d been dragged behind a horse from Boston to Red Creek. Perspiration dampened her brow and the creases at her elbows, yet her mouth was beyond parched. She wanted nothing so much as to strip her jacket from her body, having long since shed her shawl, but she didn’t fancy undressing in any manner in front of Marshal Hood. The man made her nervous—the way most men who weren’t Delaney did—though she could tell he meant to put her at ease with each reassuring smile he sent her way.

It was just that he was so…big. He took up too much space, and the questions he’d asked her, while necessary, were uncomfortable. The only element in his favor was that, though she hated reliving the night of her rape over again, the marshal made her feel relatively safe.

When they’d finished and the secretary, Mr. Finnell, was scratching final notes onto a sizable sheaf of papers, Hood turned to her with a solemn nod. “You did well, Miss Tully.”

She stood, tugging determinedly at the hem of her jacket, then on her cuffs. She could put her appearance to rights, at least, if not her emotions. “What else was I to do, Marshal? I told the truth.”

“I meant only that you…are a very strong woman.” His harsh, handsome features relaxed somewhat as he gave her a self-deprecating grin. “I’m not sure I know of anyone whose composure could match yours today, myself included.” Then he sobered. “I’m sorry to have had to put you through this.”

She picked up her reticule from a small side table and slid it over her wrist, dropping her gaze from his fixed stare as she did so. “It was necessary.” She paused, fingering the brim of her hat. “What will happen to Sergeant Flock?” she asked, unable to decide if she would dread or relish Hood’s answer.

“Your attacker? He’ll hang.” The words were succinct and deadly serious.

“I see.” She
did
see, of course, but it was difficult to reconcile her past and present with the thought of that man’s future. “Because of my testimony today?”

“Because of what he did to you, and to seven other women, during the course of the war,” Hood countered quietly. “That’s why he’ll hang.”

With that morbidly comforting reassurance in mind, Moira collected her hat and shawl and headed for the door. She wanted to see Delaney with an intensity that staggered her. Though not a weakling by any stretch of the imagination, she had to admit it was poignantly gratifying to have someone on whom she could lean in times of hardship.
I’ll be right here, Moira,
he’d said, and she heard in his words the vow he’d made. He would be right there, no matter what, and that knowledge had kept her spine straight and her eyes dry of tears during the entirety of her grueling deposition.

“Miss Tully, a word before you depart, please.”

Her hand inches from the shining brass doorknob, she froze. “Yes?”

“That man, Crawford. How well do you know him?”