Wild Sierra Rogue (21 page)

But she took a wary step backwards. “Tell me, Rafe, why did you buy this ranch?”

The distance she put between them was measured in more than a couple of feet.
She's still like water for chocolate.
He couldn't blame her for being mad about his running out on her, but he would do his best to make up for it.

At last he answered her question. “I bought the property for a place to breed bulls for the ring. And for the quiet, to develop plans for the revolution that is yet to be.”

“My father said your hacienda was a nest of activity, with so many toadies surrounding you, it took days of waiting to gain a ten-minute audience.”

“Is he usually so talkative? What else did he say?”

“That you'd assembled an army of misfits. That the little dogs swarmed by the hundreds. That”—her expressive eyes clouded—“beautiful women waited with bated breaths to see to your every whim.”

His hands going to his hips, Rafe laughed heartily. “All true,
mi soldadita.
All true.”

“Why do you call me little soldier?”

“Would you rather I call you witch?”

“Little warrior will be fine.”

She turned as if to look for their brothers, and lifted the hair from her nape, shaking it. Somewhere along the way, she'd lost hair paraphernalia, leaving her unable to fashion a severe chignon.
Thank you, sweet lady of Guadalupe.
Margarita's hair flowed long, dark, and free down her back. It softened her appearance, made her seem younger to Rafe. Younger or older didn't matter. To him, she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

“Yip! Yip, yip, ruff!”

Rafe turned to the racket. Something black and minuscule darted from behind a clay flowerpot. “By the ghost of Hidalgo, what have we here?” A sentimental tug in his chest, he stooped to pick up a palmful of half-eared, eager-for-kisses Chihuahua stud. “Look at you. Aren't you a mess? Where did you get these gray hairs on this muzzle? Only
old
hombres have gray hair. Hello, Caballo.”

Margarita clapped her hands with the enthusiasm of a girl. “My goodness! What a day! An old friend to welcome you home.” She scratched behind Caballo's mangled ear. “But how do you know this is
Horse?”

“I recognize the ear.” Rafe accepted a slobbering kiss to the wrist. “He's Frita's son.” Holding Caballo up for inspection, Rafe turned him one way and then another, receiving yips and ruffs and blatant bids for cuddling. “If man were endowed in proportion to these
perritos,
the ladies of this earth would know heaven on earth.”

“I don't know about that. Your endowment is—Well, goodness.”

“Yes, goodness.” The erotic energy that had pulsated between them in the past went into full power. Rafe absorbed her blue eyes, the lustrous hair, the tiny bead of moisture illuminating her lower lip, and his heart skipped a beat for the want of his willowy Margarita.

To break the spell, she lifted a finger to the scar at his mouth. “How did this come about? From a bull?”

“No
toro
got the better of me, ever. Tío Arturo did it.”

“Why?” she asked, horror in her expression.

He didn't want to talk about it. He wanted to make love. Well, he'd grant her
some
time. “There were rumors I should have inherited from my grandfather. I told you about the stipulation in his will. Everyone said Constanzo Delgado wouldn't discriminate against me. I felt the same. My
abuelo
and I were close. Anyway, I called Tío on the document. I think he produced a forgery for the courts.”

“He is treacherous,” she commented.

“Yes, he is greedy. But you asked about this mark. My uncle tried to break my neck with a whip. He succeeded in splitting my mouth.”

Rafe watched as gooseflesh trailed up and down her arms.

“Enough morose talk,” he demanded. “Let's discuss you and me. Let's get comfortable, shall we?”

“Um, isn't it delightful, Caballo recognizing you?” She talked fast. “Pets are such precious joys. And shame on me. I haven't thought of my Deniece or Denephew in days.”

Rafe didn't like to think of his warrior-woman going back to New York. Not at all. What was Attila without the Hun? “What have you thought about?” He got closer to her, close enough to remind her of a few pertinent things. “Shame, shame, Mamacita, if you haven't recalled the two of us together, as man and woman were meant to be joined.”

“There's nothing wrong with my memory.”

“Or mine.” And there was nothing wrong with his
pene.
It was eager to frolic.

Margaret wasn't so eager for the frolic. She inched away. “I can't forget you abandoned me.”

He lessened the gap between them. “Will you forgive me?”

“I—I don't know. There are other things . . .”

And if they got into them, there would be no loving tonight, Rafe figured. He offered the black mite. “Would you like to hold Caballo? He's shaking from nerves and needs warmth. Unfasten your shirt a button or two, Mamacita. Make him a nest.”

“I will not. That is . . . That's warped.”

“You overreact. A little dog seeks comfort. And it's a nice warm place at your breast.” Rafe fastened an interested leer on the place of mention. “I remember quite well the joy of it.”

She blushed but reached for Caballo anyway. Tucking him into the semblance of a cleft of breasts, she cupped her hand under Caballo's chambray-covered hind legs. “Don't get any ideas from this, Rafe.”

“Oh, I won't,” he lied and envied the dog. A mouthful of . . . Nuzzling his nose against . . . Pressing hard flesh to soft and womanly places . . . Clearing his throat, he motioned toward the house and enticed her into his web. “Shall we find our brothers?”

“We do need to hit the trail—Oh, Rafe, what will you do with Caballo?” She cuddled the dog tighter. “You can't leave him here.”

“He's survived alone for eight years.”

“But he's
shaking.”

“All right. We'll take him along. But only to find him a good home.”

“I'll take him home with me. He'll love New York.”

Rafe doubted that. No Mexican hombre would fit into that city, he knew. He'd been there. He didn't see New York in the future for either Caballo or Margarita. “We'll see.”

She walked toward the front door, but stopped by a yucca plant and looked down into the snake hole beside it. She leveled a mischievous gaze at him. “Hmm, this reminds me . . .”

“It's been said, back in the old days, that you caught rattlesnakes for pagan enjoyment.”

“Ridiculous.” Which it was. But Rafe got uncomfortable. Areponapuchi, he would not explain. “A lot of things have been said about me. The rattlesnake story is a, uh, a fable.”

“Did you know Charity began to solve the mystery of your identity through the rattlesnake story?” A pause. “I've heard other things about you. Charity's friend, María Sara, she—Well, she said you took her to bed.”

“Surely you aren't wanting details.”

“She said there was another man in bed with the two of you.”

“I never touched him, and he never touched me. We were there for the little lady's pleasure.”

Margarita exhaled a puff of relieved breath. “Thank heavens. Well, anyway, all that seems so very, very long ago.”

He wanted no reminders of those long-ago days. Today was for the present, for him and the woman he loved. As of yet, he hadn't mentioned his feelings. Tonight would be the night. Here at his old home. In his bed, if it still stood in his bedroom. If not, he would improvise. He had plans for several soft places . . . “If the wine cellar hasn't been ransacked, shall we share a bottle of wine?”

“I'd rather get going as soon as possible. And you did want me to see the Santa Alicia mine.”

“Sometimes you are too practical, my darling.” Rafe led her into the grand
sala.
A closed-up, dusty smell hit him. The furniture, most of it, had been removed. A few pieces remained with canvas drapes over them.

“Tex,” she called out as they stepped onto the patio. “Tex! Father Xzobal! Where are you?”

“Shhh.” Rafe put his fingertips to her lips. “My brother left a coded message. They won't return until nightfall.”

“You sons of Soledad Paz are well-versed in coded messages”—her mouth got pinched—“I'm beginning to understand.”

Rafe didn't care for the edge that had wormed into her tone, nor for the distrust moving into her eyes. He started to quiz her on the source, but decided against it. This was not the afternoon to ask for trouble. He offered an elbow, saying, “May I have the honor of escorting you on a tour?”

Straightaway, Rafe led her to his old bedroom. To his delight and relief, the bed was there. So were the accoutrements of a matador; faded and dull they had become, though he could have cared less for these remembrances. The corrida might have been in another lifetime.

Margarita walked over to a cape that hung from a peg. Running her fingers along the material, she said, “I would have liked to have seen you, back then.”

“No, Margarita. We weren't ready for each other, back then.” He closed the door and rested his shoulders against it. “But now . . . come to me. I'm weary and you are, too. Let's take a short siesta, hmm?”

“I—I don't think so.” She started easing toward the other door, the one that led to the patio. “Not interested.”

“Oh, 'Rita, my queen, my warrior-woman, my darling love, I think you protest too much.” He went to her, drawing her and Caballo close. “Let's make love.”

Passion spooled in her eyes, urging her to yield, cautioning her not to do it. The expert took over. Rafe took Caballo from the nest-shirt; his hand dipped to the soft breasts. A nipple hardened when he grazed it with his finger. Rafe had a hardening of his own.

“I want you, my love.” He blew a warm stream of breath into her ear, receiving the shiver he sought. The scents of the church—beeswax candles and incense—clung to her, as well as bits of Caballo and Penny. But the womanly scent that was Margarita eclipsed the others. “It seems as if a year has passed since we made love.”

He knew she was weakening. He saw it in her face.

Yet she gave him her profile, and retreated anew. “You insult me, bringing me to this room where you have had your wicked way with scores of women.”

“You insult, presuming the worst. Many women have visited El Aguilera Real. Many women have lived on the premises. But you're wrong about scores of women. I have had my wicked way with hundreds at this hacienda, not scores. But neve—ever—in this bedroom. This I swear is true. On the graves of my sister and father and cousin, I swear it.”

Her eyes, winsome and wide, looked into his expectant ones. An imp's grin tickling her lips, she moistened those lips with the tip of her tongue. “Why didn't you?”

“A bedchamber is the most private of places in a residence. I have bathed here, and dressed here. It is here that I have dreamed and have experienced nightmares. This is where I retreated to think, and to strum my guitar and dream of the special woman who would change me for the better. To be in this room is to see a window into my soul.”

Margarita had been scratching Caballo's brisket. Her fingers stilled. Those eyes, so blue, like the sky outside, glistened when he said, “I want you in my soul.”

As if embarrassed, she perused the room before turning her attention to the capes, the caps, the silk stockings. The jeweled bolero jackets. The empty bandoliers, the vests and britches, and a leather floor-length duster. Her scrutiny moved to the shelves of dust-coated black slippers and the boots of a vaquero. Matching shelves held swords and darts, a bullwhip. Guitars. Many guitars.

Caballo whimpered, then scratched her foot.

“Rafe, I can't”—she blushed—“I won't make love with a dog in the room.”

He put the dog out.

“Will you have your wicked way with me, 'Rita? Right here, right now . . . in my bed.”

She laughed at his audacity and cockiness. Many names described
El Aguila Magnífico,
few of them beautiful. Liar, lover, betrayer. Matador, revolutionist, deserter. Murderer. And he loved her sister. She ought to run screaming. Ought to.
“My
wicked way? Isn't it the other way around?”

“Don't split hairs,
soldadita.”

In the memoir-festooned room where he had gone about the business of living in years past, Rafe pulled her even closer. He smelled of grass, horse, fiesta marigolds. And she caught a more seductive aroma, the slightly salty, slightly sweaty scent particular to Rafe. It might be crazy, foolish, and stupid, but Margaret wanted her wicked way with him, wanted it with every fiber of her being. She didn't understand this complicated man and didn't know if she needed to, but she wanted his body.

He took Margaret's hand, leading her to the massive bed. The style reminiscent of an earlier time, it might have appealed to
El Cid
or to bygone kings of Castile or Aragon. The bed was all man, all mighty man. He removed the dust cover, and red—lots of red decadence—flashed before her eyes, for a satin bedcover gleamed in the waning light of afternoon.

Red satin.

He brought her hands behind his waist, his lips to her eyebrow, and the gentle rush of his breath caressed her right eye, as he said, “Will a simple siesta be enough for you?”

She shivered, enthralled. Bending back from the waist, she watched his reaction as she replied, “Rest is my last desire. You are my first.”

A smile—wide, bright, and enthusiastic—split his face, and his whoop of delight might have reached the Sea of Cortez and the Gulf of Mexico. Never had she seen such unabashed joy in his expression. Never had she considered his blatant good looks “handsome,” but at this moment, he was the handsomest man ever to draw a breath.

“Are we going to stand here all afternoon?” she joked.

“Generalissima.
That's what you are, the general, giving orders to her foot soldier.” He sat down, his muscular legs spread wide at the edge of the bed. He pulled her into the
V
. His silver gaze lifting slowly, he cupped his hands over the fullness of her hips. “Warrior-woman, how will you have us start our lovemaking?”

“The veteran asks the recruit for strategy?” Her soft scold went along with touching the tip of his nose; he played like he'd bite her finger. “Should I remind you of our train trip? You ordered me to respect your authority. And now you back down. I'm disappointed.”

“You are, are you?” Caressing her behind, he countered, “Then listen closely to the sergeant of the corps. If you do not listen, you'll be punished severely. With a thousand kisses.”

“Put that way . . .” She laughed. “Maybe I should desert.”

“Oh, no, you will not. A good leader stays put.” Rafe's hands moved to pick and pluck at her clothes. “Look at you. You are worse than our friend Caballo. He's let gray into his muzzle. And you wear too many clothes.”

Brassy as a monkey, she asked, “What would happen if you took them off me?”

“Let's find out.” He peeled her blouse away, his fingers lingering on her shoulders.
“Dios.
Your skin is so smooth and soft. I love the feel of you.”

The feeling being mutual—except for smooth and soft being solid and fit in his case—she lifted her hand to his mouth and traced the rich outline of his lips, stopping at the scar.

“
Señorita Generalissima,
do you like fraternizing with an underling?” he teased.

“I could get used to it.”

They kissed, and she couldn't decide who initiated it, but it was hot and challenging and as luscious as a big piece of chocolate fudge. What was it about a simple tongue, long and lean and flexible, that made it so handy for more than communicating or for passing food and drink to the gullet? The Creator had done a marvelous job, especially with Rafe's, for he was a master at South of the Border versions of French kisses. By the time this particular kiss ended, her knees were spongy and her insides heavy with desire.

He moved a finger to the top button of her britches. “When you step out of these, I want you to lay your arms on my shoulders, where my mouth can reach you. . . right here.”

If not for the hold she took of his athletic shoulders, she would have collapsed from the luscious tricks his mouth played on her breasts.

His silver eyes conveying an age-old message, he wrapped his fingers around hers. “Would you, sweet 'Rita, brush me here when you reach down to toss your britches aside?”

He groaned when she did more than brush the hot, hard, denim-covered extension of him. They both shook from the next moment's promise. “Unbutton my shirt,” he ordered, and pulled her hand to his chest. “And my britches. I'd like it if your hand lingered awhile.”

“For how long?”

“Until I am very long.”

She giggled. Her fingers lingered. And it pleased him.

Afterward, in her glow at seeing the stark magnificence of him once more, he said, “I'll finish undressing you now. Slowly. Soon you'll be naked on all this red satin. I want your legs spread, your arms wide for me. I want to kiss each inch of you.”

His fingers captured the binding of her unmentionables, then drew them down her legs. He smiled at the naked sight of her, his hands stroking her legs and belly, before his fingers moved to the inside of her knees and smoothed all the way upward.

“You, oh my, Rafe . . . something . . . what about kissing?”

“And you had the nerve to call me a satyr.” He chuckled wickedly. “It's time you felt the silk in the red satin.”

One arm slipped around her back, the other braced her knees, and he lifted her to the bed. He stood above, watching as she squirmed on the cover and savored the cool slick feel of the lustrous material. But she craved the heat of Rafe, and opened her arms. He eased onto the satin, slipping his hand under and up her back; his hard, hot presence evoked “mmmmm.”

“I love the decadence of this fabric,” she admitted in a husky whisper. She'd never known anyone to use such a coverlet. “Wherever did it come from?”

“From the same bolt a seamstress cut the cape I wore during my greatest triumph in the ring. That was the afternoon I became
Magnífico
instead of plain
El Aguila
.”

“Oh, I'll bet you were never considered
plain.”

“Whatever the case, I'm glad you approve of the way the satin feels on your skin.” His big toe massaging her calf, he promised, “I'm going to kiss your face and your lips and your throat and your breasts and your tummy and your legs and your foot. And then I'm going to kiss your other leg . . . before I touch my tongue in the place where I'm touching”—he gentled his forefinger against her most sensitive area—“right now.”

It was magic, his prelude. Dazed at the thousand tingles in her blood, at the hundred thousand urges and surges of herself, she thrashed about, disturbing wads of satin. If this was a sin, she loved being a sinner.

“Ah, yes, my ravenous little soldier. Buck against my hand. Ah, yes.” He blew a gentle stream of breath into her ear. “My lips need your kiss. Kiss me.”

She obliged, happily and without hesitation.

But he took the aggressive role anew. His tongue moved past her teeth, tangling with hers. When he plowed his fingers into the hair at her temple, his thumbs pressed into the soft flesh beneath her ear. “Are you ready for more kisses?”

“Oh, yes. Please.”

“Don't move a muscle. Just enjoy.”

His lips, hot and warm, and his tongue, talented and steady, began the promised assault. She reveled in each and every emotion, each and every spasm that shook her body.
Rafe, praise be to you! You've shown me a little bit of heaven.

Or was it hell?

Or was it heaven!

Somewhat after she'd screamed in ecstasy, Rafe slid up her body. His lips brushed the corner of hers, and a tangy scent filtered to her nose.

“Did you enjoy that?” He picked a strand of long hair that had tangled into her mouth, moved it over her shoulder. “Or must I start again?”

“No! Don't start again. It would be torture. Splendid torture. I want
you.”

Adroitly he rolled over, taking her with him, until she lay sprawled atop him. Squirming against his erection, she held tight to the dense black hairs under his arms, asking, “What do you mean to do?”

“It's what you will do, that's the subject. Would you like to ride your workhorse, my general?”

She grinned and blushed. “You silly. You're no workhorse.”

“Believe me, I will work like a horse to satisfy you.”

The idea had much appeal. Yet, recalling how she'd loved having the weight of him on and above her, she replied, “What if I'm not tired of the old way?”

“Then I shall”—he nuzzled her throat—“work like a horse”—he licked her ear—“to bore you with monotony. For now I'm wanting you whatever way I can get you. But you will ride me before we leave this room. I
will
be had that way.”

 

 

All the while he teased and taunted and aroused his Margarita, Rafe knew he'd never grow bored with her. Once more he turned her, until he had her beneath him. Her legs—those long and lovely legs!—lifted and wrapped around his buttocks. His rod found its way to the place it yearned to be, and he surged forward, deeply, waiting for her reaction. She gasped. And he marveled, Dios mio,
she's tight and sweet.

His hands slid under her behind. He tilted his hips into hers, loving the heat that clasped him. All sincerity flooded his words when he confessed, “All my life I've looked for you.”

Pangs of pleasure spiraled in his lower back when her legs tightened. And he might have died, he so loved the milkmaid sauciness of the learned Margarita. It beat at him, the yearning to pound her until there was no him or her, until they were one, until he was a part of her that could never be torn asunder.

Don't forget. She's still new to this.
Knowing he must find her rhythm, he forced himself to take it slow and easy. He knew when to wait, to tease, to dare, and he knew she liked his considerations. He loved her trembling responses, the husky way she moaned, then the wordless entreaties signaling she needed more.

Her fingernails dug into his back, and he smiled. With all his might he plunged. Again and again, he pounded his darling love. And she responded with all the vivacity he remembered from last time. Wildly and without reserve, they mated until she had reached her peak time after time, and he was on the verge of spilling his seed into her hot hold.

He held back. He could wait. He had been trained to hold back. When he'd satisfied his mind that her needs were fulfilled, he released into her. So
good . . .
Never had he felt such calm in completion.

In his floating state, he slid his hands beneath her shoulders and brought her face to his. “I love you,
querida,
love you so much it hurts. I love you until death do us part. I'll love you for a thousand eternities. Stay with me, 'Rita. Stay here in Mexico. Be at my side, no matter what happens.”

Her dark hair a fan across red satin, she squirmed beneath him. “Let's don't clutter this with avowals of love.”

What? Taken aback, he lay stock-still. Never in his life had he confessed love, and
this
was his reward? The euphoric spell broken, he slid free and rolled to his side. “A woman isn't supposed to say things like that.”

“In whose book?”

“It's just not done.”

She met his glare. “Until now.”

“You've always been the exception to rules.”

Offended—hurt!—that she hadn't backed down from her ornery stand, he vowed she'd admit to undying love. Soon. In the meantime, why should he argue with the things he loved about her? If he'd wanted acquiescence, there were a million women of that persuasion.
But you should take care in your wishes, lest they come true.

Kicking her legs over the bedside, she pushed to stand, then reached for her clothes. He stopped her. His hand fastened on her knee. His kiss centered on the side of her thigh. “My book says you mustn't rush from all that is glorious.”

“But I'm
starving.
Do you think we might find something edible in your larder?”

It had been a long time since they'd eaten, yet he pulled her back into bed. “I'll do the looking.”

 

 

Hair still mussed from their lovemaking, he returned with his arms filled with cans. “Canned figs and strings of jerky,” he said. Crawling into bed, he leaned against the prop of pillows Margaret had made for him.

“Mmmm.” Her stomach growled for the delights he popped into her mouth. One after another, he fed her. “Who would have thought those figs would last so long? Aren't you going to eat any? Oh, no. No more!” She raised a hand to ward off shavings of jerked beef. “That stuff looks horrid.”

“How about this?” He kissed her.

“Very wicked.”

He chuckled and she gawked at him, really took her fill of her lover. He was nicely formed, amazingly free of scars, all muscles and sinew. His skin held the brown patina of sun and almost forty years of living, though the elasticity remained. His face held her spell-bound, for she loved the sight of black, black stubble against the sun-cured skin of his face. Caballo and his master had something in common. Rafe, too, had sprouted silver hairs, his at the temples.