A Promise of Roses (6 page)

"Oh, yes. Yes, sir. Your wife ... she, uh, likes rose soap, does she?"

"Loves it.
She says the scent reminds her of better times. I think she believes that if she uses enough of it, it will wash away the touch of the outlaws."

Another terrified gasp.
Lucas
winced,
afraid he'd gone too far trying to convince the maid to keep her distance from Megan.

"They didn't ... harm her, mind you. She wasn't violated. It's just that sometimes she can still feel their presence, their threat."

"Here, sir,” she said, producing a much-used sliver of soap from a hallway closet. “Not much left of this bar, but I'd be happy to buy some more for your wife, if you'd like. I mean, if that's her one luxury after such suffering, I wouldn't mind spending a bit of my own pay."

"Thank you very much,” Lucas said, touched by the woman's compassion—and her willingness to believe his trumped-up tale. “That won't be necessary. I'll go out and buy her some new things this very evening. Do you think you could have our clothes laundered, though?"

"Sure thing, Mr. Campbell."

Lucas smiled. Good. News did travel fast on the hotel grapevine. This maid already knew who he was—or, more precisely, who he'd said he was when he checked in mere minutes before.

"I can pick up the bundle a little later.” Her eyes bugged out, and she stammered to correct herself. “After ... after you get back, that is. I wouldn't dare bother your wife while you're gone."

"Yes, that's wise of you. I'll gather our things for you, and why don't I just set them outside the door? Would that make you feel more comfortable?"

"Yes, sir.
Sad to say, it would."

"All right, then. And, miss?"

"Sir?"

"I probably also ought to warn you that, well, in her agitation my wife sometimes has to be restrained."

"Restrained?” the maid squeaked.

"She becomes delusional at times, and I have to tie her down. As barbaric as it sounds, it's the only thing that keeps her from hurting herself or others. Don't be worried if you see her like that. And don't pay any mind to her
rantings
. She sometimes says strange things."

"I understand, sir. I'll tell everyone the circumstances."

"Very good,” Lucas said, turning to head back to the room. A smile tickled the sides of his mouth, begging to be let loose, but he wouldn't allow the grin until he was in the deserted privacy of the hallway outside the door.

He paused, listening for any sign of movement from within.

Nothing.

Lucas twisted the key in the lock and stepped into the room. The sight that greeted him froze him in his tracks.

He had never seen anything as sensual, erotic, and arousing as lithe Megan Adams drowsing in the yellow-trimmed porcelain tub. Her head rested against the back, her hair cascading over the rim in a fall of black and auburn, sparkling in the light that filtered through half-drawn draperies. In some dim recess of his mind he remembered that he hadn't closed the door, and he reached back to do so silently.

His breath caught as his eyes traveled lower, to Megan's bent knees. One leg was folded inside the tub, but the other was draped over the edge, tiny droplets of water sliding off her toes to form a wet circle on the rug. A twin spot grew beneath the slim, elegant fingers that brushed the soft carpeting.

Heat shot through Lucas's body, firing an almost painful hardness between his legs. And then his gaze caught on her breasts, bobbing just beneath the surface of the water, their pink tips appearing with each intake of breath that raised her perfectly formed chest.

Jesus, if you don't get out of here—and soon—you'll pull her out of that tub and have your way with her in a matter of seconds. Get out!
his
mind roared. Yes, he had to get out, get away from such a desirable display of womanly beauty, and clear his head.

Lucas swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to conjure an image that might erase Megan's from his mind. Nothing seemed to work.

Don't bother, man. Cuff her and get the hell out!

He searched the room for his saddlebags and rummaged around inside for the cold metal he knew had to be there. He went back to Megan, kneeling to fasten one end around the clubbed foot of the tub—she'd never manage to lift the full tub and slip it off—and the other iron ring around Megan's limp wrist.

There. Let's see her get out of this, he thought, rising to his feet to examine his handiwork. He took in Megan's elegant, milky-white skin, the clear water encasing her, caressing her,
then
fought the groan welling up from his gut. He looked at her dainty wrist and the heavy metal weighing it down.

With a rueful half smile, he set the sliver of rose soap on the pile of towels beside her and walked out. He was glad he would be gone when Megan awoke and found herself handcuffed to the tub. No doubt she'd bring the walls down around her, cursing him to eternal hell.

Lucas plucked a plain white cotton shirt in his size off the pile and laid it on the counter with a polite nod to the pinched-faced proprietor's wife. Then he moved down the aisle to the stacks of trousers. He chose a pair in sturdy denim and slung them over his arm.

He wanted to get a change of clothes for Megan, too, but he had no idea what she would wear. She'd been dressed like a man for the past two days, so he didn't figure she could be too particular about her wardrobe. But somehow it didn't seem right to hide the gentle swells and curves that Lucas now knew lurked beneath her baggy shirt and pants. It wouldn't kill her to wear a dress, at least while they stayed in town. She could change back to her wayward-urchin look later.

With that determined thought, Lucas headed for the racks of ready-made feminine apparel. It was only as he flipped through the dresses that he realized he didn't know what size Megan wore.

He turned to the proprietress and cleared his throat, giving his most polite smile. “Do you think you could help me pick a dress for my wife, ma'am?"

She pursed her lips, and for a moment Lucas thought she might refuse to leave the relative safety of the counter. But then she crossed her arms over her chest and moved toward him.

"What size is she?” the woman asked.

"I'm not sure,” Lucas said, frowning. “Her waist is about like this,” he said, making a circle with his hands. “I'd say her hips are an inch or two wider. And her breasts would just about fill a man's hands.” His mistake hit him like a brick to the stomach when the woman narrowed her eyes and gave him a freezing glare.

"It's odd that you don't know your wife's size,” she said.

He shrugged, hoping to smooth over the blunder. “We haven't been married all that long. And we've been traveling, so I haven't learned all her little secrets yet. She would have come herself, but she's plumb tuckered out. I left her alone to bathe and rest before dinner."

The woman gave a disbelieving snort. “Maybe you would be better off getting her a skirt. The buttons can be adjusted if it doesn't fit just right."

Lucas nodded.
“Sounds good."

"What color does she prefer?"

"I'm not sure.” He had only seen her in a brown and red plaid shirt made for a man. “She's very soft and feminine,” he said, wondering if God would strike him dead for such an outrageous lie.

The woman held up several choices. “This pale yellow is nice, but it gets dirty easily. The light blue is just as bad. Then there's this forest green, but it draws the heat like an iron skillet."

Lucas had half a notion to ask why the hell the store bothered to carry any of the garments if they were so troublesome. Then the flash of another color caught his eye. Tiny blue and yellow flowers danced around on the fabric of a red skirt, and Lucas knew the combination would suit Megan much better than any of the other, plainer prints.

"What about this one?” he asked.

The woman inhaled so deeply, her buttons threatened to pop. “Red is a shameful color, meant only for trollops and ladies of lesser morals."

"I like it,” Lucas said. He could already picture the skirt on Megan. “Give me the yellow one, too,” he said to appease the woman's sense of propriety.

"Will you
be wanting
unmentionables to wear with them?"

"Huh?” Lucas could have sworn the stodgy old lady blushed.

"Unmentionables, sir.
Undergarments."

"Oh, you mean drawers and such.” Yep, the old lady definitely
blushed
three shades of red.

"Does your wife need them or not?” she snapped.

"I suppose.
A couple of blouses, too."

Lucas watched the woman fold the two skirts and add them to his pile on the counter. Then she picked two blouses, one plain with no frills, the other ruffled from neck to waist and around the wrists.

He smiled and dug into his pocket to pay for the purchases. But she wasn't done yet. She seemed to take great pride in building the stack of clothes until it wobbled precariously. Then she simply started another. He ended up buying drawers, chemises, camisoles, stockings, garters, and something that looked like a bear trap, which the woman insisted no decent female should be without.

Too stunned and out of his element to argue, Lucas simply handed over the money, asking to have everything wrapped and delivered to the hotel. At the last minute, he remembered that he'd wanted to get Megan some rose-scented soap or perfume or the like, and he started digging into his pocket again. Whatever she could find would be fine, he assured the woman. He scooped up his things—a mere pittance of the full order—and started down the street for the bathhouse.

Lucas let out a long sigh as he lowered himself into the steaming water. Nothing eased the aches and pains of the trail like a hot bath. It would have been nice to take advantage of the privacy of the hotel room, but he didn't think Megan would appreciate his presence.

Of course, he didn't much care what Megan thought. At least, he shouldn't. He was still fuming over the expense of kidnapping a woman. A man never would have cost him so dearly or given him so much trouble.

A man's leg never would have looked so damn good hanging over the side of a tub, either, he reminded himself.

And that had been one damn fine leg.

Lucas cursed and forced himself to relax, letting the heat seep through his stiff, tired muscles. He lathered his hands with a chunk of the brand-new soap he'd paid extra for and scrubbed every inch of his body. When he finished, the water was nearly as dark as his boots. He felt ten pounds lighter as he walked next door to the barber shop.

Half an hour later, Lucas had a hard time recognizing his reflection in the mirror. With a clean-shaven face and neatly trimmed hair that barely brushed the collar of his new shirt, he looked almost human again.

He paid the barber and started for the Eat ‘n’ Sleep, humming an old tune his mother used to sing. In the hotel lobby, a bloodcurdling scream stopped Lucas in mid-stride. The young man behind the desk blanched, and Lucas's stomach clenched. He cast an apologetic smile toward the hotel clerk and quickly made his way up the two flights of stairs.

People were gathered in a tight group outside his room. The
mobcapped
maid he'd spoken to earlier crouched in front of the door, talking through the keyhole in soothing tones. “Hush, now, Mrs. Campbell. All's well. Your husband will return directly, I'm sure."

A frightfully calm voice drifted out of the room. “You'd better hope to hell he doesn't come back, because when he does, I'm going to rip out his liver and feed it to him for supper.” Less than a second passed before Megan started screaming again. “Lucas McCain, you bastard, let me loose!"

"I warned you that she gets confused,” Lucas said, annoyed that she'd used his real name when he was trying to maintain a modicum of anonymity in this town.

The maid whirled around. “Oh, Mr. Campbell, your wife's been hysterical for nearly an hour now. We've tried to calm her down, sir—told her you'd be back in a wink—but nothing seems to work. She must be out of her mind again, Mr. Campbell, calling you horrible names."

He could imagine. A high-pitched screech sounded, followed by the
most foul
language Lucas had heard in a long time. Where had Megan learned to talk like that?

"Thank you for trying to help,” he said, pulling the room key out of his pocket. “Some packages should be delivered soon from the mercantile. When they arrive, will you please bring them up? And I think it would be best if my wife and I remained in our room this evening. Could you please send two steak dinners up within the hour?"

The onlookers remained, wide-eyed, waiting to see what he would do.
“If you don't mind.
I'd rather not deal with this in front of an audience,” he said.

"So sorry, sir,” the maid said with an amateur curtsy, waving the others away. “I'll make sure you get your meals and parcels. Just leave your dirty laundry in the hall, and I'll take care of that, too."

Lucas turned the key in the lock, took a deep breath, and opened the door. He wasn't sure what he thought he'd see, but he sure as hell hadn't expected Megan to be standing in the middle of the room completely naked. Her position was awkward, hampered as she was by the handcuffs.

"You son of a bitch!
How dare you lock me up like some rabid
cur!
"

He didn't respond. The carpet was soaked from the water that had sloshed over the sides when she'd tried to move the heavy tub. She had obviously jostled it considerably more than he'd expected. His gaze drifted from the wet rug to the handcuffs attached to Megan's arm. Her wrist was red from her struggle to get free.

He tried to keep from looking at the rest of her, but it was damn hard to avoid doing so. Her veil of hair didn't cover even a portion of what he shouldn't be seeing.
Hills and valleys of creamy flesh.
The slight scent of roses drifted in the air.

With a low oath, he crossed to the bed and ripped off the coverlet, throwing it at her. “Cover yourself."

She flung the quilt aside, standing as straight as possible. “Unlock these damn cuffs."

He turned to face her, his body buzzing with unleashed tension. “If you're smart, you'll wrap up in that bedspread before I forget I'm a gentleman."

She glared at him, her maple-syrup eyes shooting daggers.
“Gentleman?
Hah! You'd better sleep with one eye open, Lucas McCain, or you may wake up dead."

He cursed and stalked over to the discarded bedspread. He draped it around her, pulling it about her neck. “Hold this,” he said, bringing her free hand up to the bunch of fabric. He kept her fingers in place and retrieved the key to the handcuffs, holding it up as a peace offering.

She set her jaw, and Lucas crouched to remove the cuff from the tub.

Megan straightened, and he released her wrist from the shackle. Rather than rubbing at the marred skin, she gathered the bedspread about her and regally stalked away.

Lucas watched as she climbed onto the bed and propped herself with wounded dignity against the pile of pillows. “I'm sorry about the cuffs,” he said. “I didn't want to give you a chance to escape."

"What makes you think I would
ran
away?"

Lucas dropped into one of the armchairs. “It's been my experience that criminals will do almost anything to keep from going to prison."

"I'm not a criminal."

He chuckled. “Funny. Most of them say that, too."

"So what does that mean? You don't believe criminals when they say they're innocent, because they all claim to be. But you don't believe innocent people, either, when they say they've been wrongly accused."

"That's what judges are for."

"I'm guilty until proven innocent, huh?"

"Yep.
Don't forget, I saw you with those outlaws."

"I saw
you
with them,” Megan said.

"I told you, I was masquerading to capture the real culprits,” he said.

Suddenly Megan became aware that they could go around in circles with this argument until Armageddon. Lucas believed she had been the mastermind behind the payroll robberies, and his opinion wasn't likely to change. She would have to try another tactic.

"All right,” she said, shrugging. “You were masquerading, and you caught me red-handed.” Lucas met her gaze. At least she had his full attention. “You've got me, Lucas McCain. I'm guilty.” Megan thought she saw a spark of surprise in the blue depths of his eyes, but his face remained impassive.

"I admit it,” she said. “I planned the whole thing. And I would have gotten away with it if it hadn't been for you.” Megan couldn't believe her own ears. But Lucas's cocky I'm-right-and-you're-a-criminal attitude had finally gotten the best of her. Maybe if she confessed, made up a story so ridiculous that
no one
could fall for it, he would finally come to his senses.

"Do you want to know
how
I did it? It was brilliant, if I do say so myself.” She didn't wait for a reply. “I met Evan one night on my way home from work. His horse had thrown a shoe. It was late, so I invited him to stay the night. We had a quiet dinner and made small talk until neither one of us could deny our urges any longer. We didn't even make it upstairs; we made love right there on the steps.
Hot, sweaty, passionate love that left us both gasping for air."

Megan lifted her gaze and looked at Lucas. His eyes gave nothing away, but the muscle in his jaw jumped.

"I didn't go to the Express the next day, and Evan didn't take his horse to town. We stayed in bed for hours, pleasuring each other. A pounding at the door woke us late that afternoon;
Dougie
and Tom had spotted Evan's horse in the corral and wanted to know what was going on. That's when he told me they made a living by robbing stages.

"The timing couldn't have been better. I wanted to get back at the railroad for trying to put me out of business, and these boys could help me. It's just like you said—even if the Adams Express did go under, I'd have the payroll money to keep me comfortable for the rest of my days.

"I explained my plan to Evan, and he convinced the boys to make me a full partner. I wasn't going to split the booty with them evenly, of course; that would have been downright stupid on my part. After all, without me telling them when the payrolls would be on the stage, they wouldn't have been able to steal a dime. I convinced them to keep all the money stashed away until we could sit down and divvy it up. Then we would go our separate ways.