“You look like you’ve been in a war.”
“I feel like it.” He winced as he took another step toward her. “I’m getting too old to use my body to turn a table into kindling.”
“Did you?” she asked, startled.
He gave a low laugh. “It broke my fall. Somebody threw me.”
Rather hastily she took his arm and led him to an overstuffed leather armchair. “Sit down before you fall down.”
“I’ll live, lass.” He sank into the chair, wincing again.
She stared down at him, and her curiosity shifted belatedly into gear. “I gather your brothers were in that fight as well?”
“Certainly. Delaneys always stand together—or fall together, as the case may be. I think I took the worst of it though. I usually do,” he added philosophically.
“Don’t you know how to duck?” Maggie demanded, half laughing.
Rafe looked mildly insulted. “Duck? As Burke constantly reminds me, fighting is a science. One does not duck. Bob and weave maybe, but never duck.”
“You should have bobbed and weaved more then.”
“When fists are coming at you from all directions, it’s a bit difficult to know which way to weave.”
She lifted a brow at him. “You know, it sounds as if you were in a barroom brawl.” When his expression turned slightly sheepish, she choked back a laugh. “You were? Really?”
“My Irish blood,” he murmured.
“In Hell’s Bluff?” It was more statement than question, but Rafe nodded confirmation. Maggie was hardly gifted with second sight, but something about his expression prodded her to question further. “I thought it was a mining camp. There’s a bar?”
He shifted a bit uncomfortably. “Of a sort.”
“What’s it called?”
He sighed. “The Soiled Dove.”
She gazed at him for a long moment, then said bluntly. “Sounds like a cathouse.”
Rafe seemed to have become fascinated by his scraped knuckles.
Maggie wanted to laugh. Or hit him with something. “You were in a brawl in a cathouse?”
“Don’t leap to conclusions, please,” he requested, pained.
“What conclusions could I possibly leap to? I’m just surprised that a Delaney has to pay, that’s all.” Her voice was terribly polite.
He stared pathetically at her. His fingers probed his nose. “Do I look as if I enjoyed myself?”
“Yes.” Maggie was perfectly aware that it was ridiculous for her to play the part of enraged girlfriend—ridiculous and dangerous—but she was utterly fascinated by the picture of Rafe looking sheepish and uneasy.
“I was only there because I had to help York—”
“He needs help at his age?”
“That’s not the kind of help I meant!” Rafe thrust fingers through his black hair and briefly gazed heavenward. “Look, the truth is, York needed help, so Burke and I went up there. We just happened to wind up in a brawl, and it just happened to take place where it did.”
Maggie bit her tongue to hold back giggles. “That’s a likely story,” she managed to say, albeit a bit unsteadily.
“It’s the truth!” he said, indignant.
She believed him. She didn’t know why, but she believed him. And his injured expression finally cracked her control.
“You may well laugh,” Rafe said, “but actually we were forced into the fight. Sort of.”
“Forced? From what I’ve heard, you like to fight. You probably jumped at the chance to brawl!”
His black eyes gleamed at her. “Well, I’ll admit I didn’t hesitate. Fighting lets off steam, you know. And I’ve had a problem lately with…excess energy.”
Deciding that her nerve wasn’t quite up to probing that remark, Maggie turned quickly toward the shelves by the door. “These steins are fascinating. Did you collect them?”
Rafe laughed quietly behind her, but accepted the change of subject. “Yes, I did.”
Stepping to the shelves, she picked up the heavy silver mug, and her finger traced its well-defined crease. “I bet they each have a story to tell. Right?”
“Right. York gave me that one. He came across it in Mexico.”
She looked at Rafe, indicating the crease in the beaten silver. “This looks odd.”
“Bullet. York was…uh, running for his life at the time. That mug saved him from a nasty wound.”
Maggie blinked, then replaced the mug. “Oh. I see.” She decided not to probe that either. She picked up the beautiful porcelain stein. “And this one?”
She thought she saw humor in his black eyes, but his expression was grave. “That one came from Burke. A German baroness gave it to him, hoping to remind him of a night they spent together. As you can see, he didn’t want the reminder.”
She replaced the stein on the shelf, not daring to ask about another. “You and your brothers certainly lead…interesting lives.”
Rafe frowned a little, anxiety suddenly flickering in his eyes. “Sometimes too interesting. Sometimes downright dangerous.”
She looked at him searchingly. “Sometimes?”
He brooded, seemingly far away. “Sometimes,” he murmured, “being a Delaney makes you a target.”
Her heart lurched. “You—you’re a target?”
He shrugged suddenly, as if he were casting off unwelcome thoughts. “Me? No. But Burke is at the moment.” Then he went on, his voice casual, anxiety shuttered away in his eyes. “Anyway, only my brothers lead interesting lives. Mine’s as dull as ditchwater.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The lady doubts my word, I see. Well, that’s nothing new, is it?” He shifted in the chair, wincing slightly.
Maggie forgot about his past, and about the nebulous dangers of being a Delaney. She looked at him, at the wry expression and the dark eyes that had gone curiously bleak, and her heart turned over again. His light talk aside, he seemed both tired and defenseless, and nothing in her could stand against her concern for him.
“You should be lying down,” she said.
“I was,” he said, adding, “but I got lonely and came looking for you.”
Maggie told her heart to stop lurching. “Well, you found me,” she said as lightly as she could. “Why don’t we move to the den? You can take the couch. By the way, where’s Kathleen?”
Rafe had gotten to his feet, and now gazed at her with a comical wariness. “I’ll tell you if you promise not to suspect my motives. I’m too tired and sore to fight today, lass.”
“Where,” she asked carefully, “is Kathleen?”
He sighed. “Hell’s Bluff. York needed her, and I could hardly keep her from going, could I?”
She wanted to suspect his motives. She really did. But—dammit—he looked so vulnerable! Sighing, she murmured, “I see. I gather you don’t know how long she’ll be gone?”
“It depends on how long York needs her.” Rafe was tentatively hopeful, presenting the absurd image of a spaniel in desperate need of a pat on the head.
Maggie resisted the urge to pat him. Leading the way to the den, she said over her shoulder, “I’ll fix lunch, then. And dinner too.”
“You don’t have to, Maggie,” he said, obviously uncomfortable. “Like I said, I didn’t hire you to cook, and besides, it’s your day off. We can make do today, and I’ll get someone else in tomorrow—”
“Never mind. It’s no bother, Rafe.”
“If you’re sure…”
—
They spent the day together. Maggie wanted to keep her guard up, some deeply buried instinct warning her that Rafe was far more dangerous in this vulnerable mood than in any other. But no matter how hard she tried, her voice refused to emerge briskly, and she couldn’t bring herself to leave him alone.
They played Scrabble and watched an old movie on television. And they talked. As the afternoon wore on, she found herself relaxing completely in his company, even to the point of touching him casually and without thought. Touches that he accepted with a cur
iously endearing boyishness.
Occasional stray thoughts told Maggie that Rafe’s humility coming hard on the heels of relentlessly seductive teasing was just a bit suspect. Just a bit. She ignored the thoughts.
And she ignored the alarm bells jangling in her every nerve when she and Rafe somehow wound up sitting close together on the couch. She was, she decided with detachment, certifiably out of her mind. There were, after all, certain things sane people avoided. Taunting bulls. Attack dogs. Hurricanes.
Vulnerable rakes.
Rafe drew her unresisting blody close. “Such a tiny lass,” he murmured, his black eyes soft.
She watched her arms slip up around his neck with a vague sense of great-oaks-from-little-acorns-grow. She should have run, she knew, when she’d had the chance.
His various injuries didn’t seem to bother him as he feathered kisses along her jaw. He explored her face with a touch so light, she barely felt it, yet every sense came alive beneath his lips. She could feel her bones melting, feel the last shreds of willpower slipping away.
“So lovely,” he whispered, his mouth just a breath away from hers. And then he was kissing her with a sudden urgent desire, branding her. It was more than a demand. It was a stark and primitive possession.
She felt heat sweep over her, and a dizzy weakness that drained away any thoughts of resistance. There was nothing teasing about his touch now, and she was as lost as she had known she would be. She couldn’t have stopped him if saying no had been her ticket into heaven.
As it turned out, she didn’t have to.
Her eyes opened, heavy-lidded and reluctant, when he finally raised his head. Boneless and quivering, she couldn’t summon the will to do anything but stare helplessly at him.
He touched her face with a gentle hand, his black eyes burning. Then, even as she watched, the devil eyes began to dance wickedly. In a flashing instant he was somehow transformed from a vulnerable, yearning man into a triumphant rake.
“Who did you say could claim the superior cunning?” he murmured.
Chapter 6
For a full minute Maggie could only stare up at him. Her sluggish mind struggled with his question until she finally remembered the day in the tackroom and her method of getting away from him. She’d challenged him, she remembered him saying, because she’d claimed the superior cunning.
No Delaney could resist such a challenge.
Rage gave Maggie the careful control she needed to disentangle herself from his arms and get to her feet. She smoothed her clothing, giving the task her full attention for a moment, then finally looked at him. Looked at the sneaky, underhanded devil who had conned her so neatly that she’d forgotten the danger in him.
“You—”
“Don’t say it,” he interrupted, his eyes laughing at her. “No lady would ever use the words I can see practically leaping from your tongue.”
“Proud of yourself?” she asked shortly.
The laughter was extinguished from his gaze, and he looked up at her for a long moment before rising to his feet. His expression was more somber than she’d ever seen it before. “Not particularly.”
The answer surprised her, and she didn’t want to be surprised anymore by him. “Then why?” she demanded fiercely. “Just to make your damn point? Just to win? Because a Delaney can’t bear to lose?” She rushed on before he could respond. “Well, you won! And I won’t give you the satisfaction of hearing me lie about it!”
He caught her wrist when she would have turned away. “What did I win, Maggie?” he asked quietly.
She glared at him, furious with herself and more than enraged at him. He made her lose control of herself, and that apalled her in more ways than one. “You know what you won,” she said, her voice shaking in spite of all her efforts. “We both know I wouldn’t have—wouldn’t have refused if—”
“If I’d carried you off to my bedroom?” His eyes held an expression she’d never seen before, something indefinable that caught the breath in her throat. “Yes, I knew that. But I didn’t carry you to my bed, Maggie. I could have, but I didn’t.”
“You were making a point,” she said hotly.
“Yes.” His voice was very quiet. “But I think you missed the point, Maggie.”
She wanted to fight the grip on her wrist, but it was a gentle yet inescapable hold. “I missed nothing!”
“Didn’t you?” He sighed a bit raggedly. “A few minutes ago there was only one thing I wanted more than to make love to you.”
She refused to ask, and he sighed again.
“Lass, the rake you think I am wouldn’t have hesitated to carry you off to his bed in triumph. And, Lord knows, I want you badly enough to forget almost anything else. Except that. Except what you think I am. I can’t forget that. And I was hoping…” He shook his head and released her wrist with a defeated shrug. “Well, I was obviously wrong, wasn’t I?”
She rubbed her wrist absently, even though his grip had not hurt her. She stared at him, bewildered, wondering if this was just another role he’d assumed. “You…I don’t know what you mean,” she finally murmured, her rage, strangely enough, gone.
“I think you know, lass. If I wanted only another ‘scalp,’ we’d be in my bed right now.” His mouth twisted oddly. “Self-denial isn’t the trait of a rake. To be honest it isn’t one of my strongest traits. There have been very few desires in my life that were beyond reach.” He turned abruptly and wandered toward the fireplace, gazing down at the logs awaiting only a chilly night and a match. “Only one, in fact,” he said in a low voice. “Only you.”
She tore her gaze from his profile to stare down at the wrist she was still massaging, vaguely surprised that there were no marks of his hold on her skin. She could still feel his grip. And her heart was choking her because it was pounding in her throat. “That was what you proved,” she managed to say. “I’m not…beyond reach. You could have…I wouldn’t have said no.”
“You wouldn’t have said no,” he agreed. He looked at her and his eyes held again that indefinable expression. “And in the morning—or before—you’d have been even further beyond my reach. I know that as certainly as I know my own name.” He was silent for a moment, watching her, showing her yet another reflection of himself, an intense and brooding reflection she couldn’t tear her gaze from. Then his mouth twisted in another painful smile.
“If I were a rake, Maggie, I would have snatched that opportunity to hold you in my arms for just a night. And in the morning, when you said goodbye, I would have promised you a glowing recommendation for your next training job—and we both know you’d have left. And I would always be a rake to you, and a bitter memory.
“But I’m not a rake, Maggie lass. My cursed reputation wasn’t earned by a trail of fallen bodies and broken hearts. I have never in my life slept with a woman only to satisfy an appetite or chalk up another point on some imaginary scorecard.” He sighed heavily. “And now I don’t know what else I can say to you. Maybe I made the situation worse by playing the rake, but I’d hoped you’d realize how absurd it was. I won’t say I didn’t enjoy it. There’s a bit of a rake in every man, I think, and your laughter was worth the price I paid for it.”
“Price?” she whispered.
“Sleepless nights. And the fear that I’d push too hard, and you’d be gone.”
Maggie knew her emotions were ragged and her thoughts confused. She tried to tell herself that this was just another role, another ploy. But the inescapable fact was that he could have carried her to his bed—and hadn’t. She swallowed hard. “What do you want from me?”
He hesitated, then walked over to her, his eyes fathoms deep. “I want your trust, Maggie,” he said huskily. “I want you to look past a reputation I didn’t earn and see me. I want you to see the man I am, not the name I possess through an accident of birth, or the employer you work for.”
“And then what?” She stared at him, aware of hot tears lodged somewhere in her throat, aware of a nameless fear.
&nb
sp; His eyes searched hers. “And then…I hope you’ll learn to love what you see.”
She felt the tears burning, and refused to shed them. “It won’t work, Rafe,” she said flatly.
“Maggie, I—”
“It won’t work. I’m sure you’d play King Cophetua with grace, but I’d make a lousy beggar-maid.”
He gazed at the delicate face that was masklike in its stillness, and at the violet eyes that looked hot and shimmering. “Forget my name, Maggie,” he said intensely. “We’re two people, a man and a woman who feel something for each other. That’s all that matters.”
“Is it?” She laughed softly, the uneven sound a substitute for the tears. “No. You said it yourself: We can’t escape our pasts. Or who we are. You’re Rafe Delaney…and I work for you. What you own, I couldn’t earn in a lifetime.”
“What I own,” he said, “was virtually handed to me, Maggie! Through an accident of birth, I was granted the kind of wealth and power that’s vanishing these days because it took generations to build. I’ve built Shamrock into a name ranch, yes, and I’ve worked hard to do it. But I didn’t start from nothing. If I had, we’d still be on unequal terms, you and I, because I wouldn’t have gone a tenth the distance you have!”
She drew a shuddering breath. “Kind of you to say, but—”
“Kind, hell!” His voice was suddenly harsh. “It’s the truth, Maggie. You’ve worked all your life, these last ten years alone, with the kind of strength and determination I doubt I could find in myself.” His hands lifted, grasping her shoulders, his thumbs probing her collarbone. And his voice, when he went on, was suddenly gruff. “You amaze me, lass. You look as frail and delicate as a china doll, yet there’s steel underneath. You handle animals and people with firmness and kindness and compassion, yet have a guard over yourself as if you’re afraid to be touched. You’ve set your sights on a goal, and nothing is allowed to get in your way.”
“Rafe—”
“Listen to me!” He took a deep breath. “It isn’t wrong, what you’ve done. If I’d begun as you did, I like to think I’d have done the same. But goals change, Maggie. I’m asking you to think about that. There’s no shame in turning from one goal to another. There’s no lessening of yourself in becoming part of a team.” The black eyes danced suddenly. “And we’d make a hell of a team, lass!”