Surrender my Heart E-Book

Lois Greiman

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 435

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 1993

Beschreibung

"Lois Greiman delivers!" –Christina Dodd, New York Times bestselling author Tall, wickedly handsome and genteel, Southern gentleman Justin Stearns is shocked when he overhears a scoundrel offering to sell his sister for $700. Always the hero, Justin pays the rascal and saves the innocent waif… But that innocent waif turns out to be a sensuous, spirited, flame-haired seductress named Megan O'Rourke…who upon first meeting Justin, holds him up at gunpoint, steals his trousers and disappears into the South Carolina night! Enraged at playing the fool, Justin vows vengeance on the stunningly beautiful Yankee con woman…though he's not entirely sure himself if he's searching for revenge or another carnal moment with the voluptuous redhead… But Justin is skilled in the art of seduction too! And with passionate caresses and red-hot kisses, the plantation owner intends to show this sexy redheaded Yankee the error of her ways—and just how sweet surrender in his arms can be…

Leseprobe

Surrender My Heart

Lois Greiman

Copyright © 1993 by Lois Greiman

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Discover Lois Greiman

Praise for Lois Greiman

About the Author

Chapter 1

Charleston, South Carolina 1850

Megan O'Rourke paced the short length of her rented room, treading the same worn course she'd followed for the past several hours. If Michael was so set on using her as the lead idiot in his confounded schemes, he might, at least, be quick about it.

She paced again, her strides short and irritable. Mother Mary, he was as slow as a three-legged mule with a bellyache.

Voices sounded from the hallway. Megan's breath caught in her throat. Who was it? Hurrying silently to the door, she pressed her ear to the marred portal. The lone, bedside candle flickered unsteadily, casting wavering shadows across the room's sparse furnishings. From the hall, raucous voices swelled to a crescendo, then faded.

Drawing a heavy breath, Megan let her shoulders round with fatigue. She was sick of these damnable swindles, sick of the fear, the interminable wait, and her brother. She was God-awful, sure as death, sick of her brother. She should never have begun traveling with him, but to a frightened, knobby-kneed orphan, his devilish plans had seemed preferable to starvation. Now, however, she wasn't so sure, although the memory of abject loneliness still haunted her.

He was her brother, her only kin and he'd cared for her when there was no one else. She'd not forget that despite his shortcomings—but she was weary.

Glancing fleetingly across the room, Megan eyed the humble bed longingly. It was late. Perhaps it would do no harm to rest for a moment. After all, she'd already shown herself to the prospective pigeon. All she need do now was wait for their arrival, watch her Romeo fall into an insensible stupor, and help Michael tuck him neatly into bed.

In the morning, the sleepy fellow would awake to a slight headache, a vague memory of her face looming over him and empty pockets. But she'd been told by Michael who'd been told by a friend of a friend of another scoundrel that at least one of their victims thought his lurid memories of the night well worth the loss of funds. It made one wonder just what was in Michael's sleeping powder.

Pacing the bare floor, Megan scowled wearily at the sagging straw tick and tried to squelch her feelings of guilt. Any man who could be persuaded to buy a daft woman's favors was not worth her pity, she assured herself. And besides, the men were never hurt. Just robbed—and somewhat humiliated perhaps. Still, the swindle as a whole was far preferable to most of Michael's grand schemes, which generally put life and limb in dire danger and left Megan to pull them from the jaws of destruction at the last moment.

This was a simple swindle—nearly foolproof, Megan reminded herself. Lowdown, rotten, and immoral—but nearly foolproof. And that was as good as she could expect from her only brother.

She stared covetously at the down-filled pillows. Perhaps it would be good to rest, she deduced, for she never knew when she might need all her strength, and surely a few minutes of rest would ruin no monumental plans. She hesitated, weakened then sank slowly to the edge of the bed.

Smoothing her palm across the lumpy surface, Megan tested the softness of the thing. Wonderful. She sighed. Heavenly. Biting her lip, she studied the door with a scowl then with sudden decisiveness she kicked off her worn slippers, exposing her bare feet beneath. She should have purchased stockings, but she'd hated to part with the coin. Lying back against the pillows, she smiled. She'd rest only a few minutes. Just a few.

Below her in the smoke-filled saloon, Michael flashed his congenial grin across the table at his companion. The bulky, side-whiskered fellow had seemed to be the perfect pigeon but had, by now, consumed extraordinary amounts of liquor without reaching the necessary level of intoxication. Glancing about, Michael noted the quiet of the place. Only a few dedicated drinkers remained. Three hearty companions leaned their weight against the bar, while one large, dark-haired fellow sat alone, seeming deep in thought.

"Well, Mr. Gregory, you ready for a night ofcarnal pleasure?" questioned Michael, grinning lopsidedly and employing his best southern accent.

Gregory, who was far past sobriety, returned the leer with a chuckle. "I was born ready, boy. And I'm primed for action."

Michael threw back his head and guffawed, slapping his sagging companion on the back and watching as his loose-muscled body lurched with the stroke of his hand.

"That's what I like to hear, Gregory," he admitted, then leaned closer with a whisper. "Suzanne likes her men primed."

"Hell, I been rearing t' go fer over an hour," complained the heavy man.

"Yes well, she likes to get herself..." Michael paused, grinning again and allowing Gregory's imagination some time to heat up. "She likes to get herself good and ready." He raised his brows. "She lives for this you know. She needs a man." Michael nodded sagely.

"Yeah?" Gregory all but drooled. "And her so young and fresh, too."

"Shhh," admonished Michael, letting his eyes skim the room as if fearing they'd be mobbed. "We don't want to cause no ruckus," he whispered, "but I have to admit, she's a pretty thing."

"Pretty ain't the word," whispered the other in return. "Mouthwaterin' would be more likely. But tell me, why don't you set the girl up in a proper house somewhere? Make a real business out of it?"

"Well," Michael began, leaning back in his chair, "the way I see it, it wouldn't be fair."

"Fair?"

"Sure. A woman like this comes along only once in a lifetime. It wouldn't be fair f keep her for a select few. So we keep movin' around."

Gregory nodded loosely, narrowing his eyes and seeming to understand the entire theory before another question sparked in his slowing brain. "Tell me though, how can you bear to share her? Her being what she is?"

"Well..." Michael bent forward, his red hair glowing in the lamplight as a modest blush stole across his freckled features. "I won't lie to y', Gregory. I ain't enough man fer a woman like her. Not half enough. But you..." He paused, clapping the other on the back again. "You're the type she was made for."

Gregory accepted this in silence for a moment before he said, "Are you sure she's quite right in the head? I mean—not that I ain't memorable, but she didn't say nothing when she come down."

"I tell you Gregory, she ain't a big talker," confided Michael, not admitting that she refused to simper and was notably lousy at acting daft. And southern men, in his own opinion, liked women they could easily outthink—women not like his sister Megan. "Some say she's daft," Michael lied with well-practiced ease. "But if you ask me, a woman's got no need for brains. Not if she looks and acts like Suzanne anyhow."

"Amen,” breathed the man. "Amen to that." He took another gulp of his beer. "My wife—real smart woman. Orders me about most the day. But she don't want to..." He waved a beefy hand about vaguely. "Well, she don't want to donothin’more than once a month hardly."

"No! And with a stallion like you in her stable," said Michael in disbelief, leaning aside slightly to avoid the man's fermented breath. "Don't hardly seem possible."

"No, it don't," agreed the other, gloomily scratching his drooping belly.

"Well, never mind that. I'm bettin' Suzanne's bout ready if you are."

Gregory licked his lips. "If I was any readier, I'd bust."

Michael laughed, sliding his chair back and rising to his feet. "Good man, but hold your pants on. I'll get us one more drink."

"I don't need no—"

"A toast to your good fortune," explained Michael, patting the man on the arm with a grin. "Only be a minute." With that Michael marched quickly off to the worn length of the mahogany bar where he casually dropped a fractional gram of drowsy powder into Gregory's brew. Swirling the stuff about, he smiled at his own cleverness and sent up silent thanksgiving for men of Mr. Sidewhiskers' ilk.

"Here you are then," beamed Michael, handing the final drink to the bleary-eyed planter. "To Suzanne."

"Suzanne," intoned the other with a sloshy grin before hefting his mug and gulping the beer.

"To women with sense enough to be silent," prompted Michael, taking another swig of his own brew.

"Here, here." Sidewhiskers burped enthusiastically. His words were already slurred almost beyond comprehension while his thick neck was barely able to support his oversized head.

"Good," said Michael with his most benevolent smile. Once again his magic powder was combining beautifully with the liquor in the man's system. "I'll want a full report in the morning—if you're done by then."

"Y' mean," grunted the man, his eyes wide, his head bobbling slightly. "Even in the morning?"

"And all day," assured Michael, quieting his faded sense of guilt for lying so shamelessly about his little sister.

" 'Nough talk"—the man belched—"show me to her."

"Thata boy. Wonderful. Well, I guess we're ready then." It was a very delicate matter, choosing just the right moment to begin the sojourn upstairs. The prospective suitor had to remain mobile while being inebriated enough to assure his collapse upon the journey's end.

"Up we go," Michael urged. Taking the heavy man's arm in a firm grasp, he endeavored to raise the hulk to his feet, but the southerner's balding head was now drooping sideways while his beefy legs did nothing to assist Michael's efforts.

"Finally agreed on a price?"

The question came from behind them. Michael jerked about, half-dragging his victim from his chair as he strained to see the intruder in the dimness.

It was the dark-haired man. His chair now stood empty as he leaned his solid weight against the nearby wall. He was built like a thoroughbred, tall and well-proportioned, with hawkish, inscrutable eyes that seemed to pierce the haze without undue difficulty.

Hell's bells, Michael groaned in silence. What made him pop up now? The imposing fellow had obviously imbibed a bit of liquor. Yet there remained an unwelcome sober intelligence on his sharply chiseled features. Michael scrambled for words.

"I'm sorry, sir, but this conversation is exclusively between Mr.Sidew...I mean, Mr. Gregory and myself." It was the best he could think up on a moment's notice. But glancing down at the mentioned fellow, he realized with a scowl that his companion was far beyond coherent support.

"Gregory here seemed quite taken by the girl. I'm sorry I didn't see her myself. What's a fresh, young girl worth in ready cash these days?" asked the interfering gentleman nonchalantly, showing no expression on his impenetrable features.

"What?" gasped Michael, seeming shocked by the stranger's blatant assessment of the situation. "You misunderstand, sir," he argued, doing his best to sound indignant while fighting to keep Gregory from plopping face first onto the hardwood. "Mr. Gregory here has asked—ahhh tocourtlittle Suzanne."

"Really?" the stranger drawled. "And how would Mrs. Gregory feel about such a proposition?"

"Mrs—ahhh—Mrs. Gregory?" Michael gulped. He'd been grooming Gregory for a good two hours. It was too late to change pigeons now and even if he were so inclined, this big stud was not the kind he would care to pit himself up against. He preferred his gulls to be slow, both in gait and wit. This man looked to be neither. "I was unaware there was a Mrs. Gregory," Michael lied speedily, hoping the other had heard only a small portion of his condemning conversation.

"Disappointed?" asked the stranger.

"Well, certainly. It's so difficult to find a proper match these days, what with all the scoundrels about." Michael was sweating profusely and praying he wasn't digging himself a deeper grave.

"Are you some kin to the girl, then?"

Oh Lord, how was he to answer that? How much had the stranger heard? How much did he suspect? "Why—ah—yes. I'm um—her..." Michael paused, trying to read the man's expression, but it was no use. "Her brother."

"The devil you say!" Suddenly the man had jerked away from the wall, all sign of nonchalance gone as his fists clenched and muscles tightened. "What kind of man would sell his own sister!"

"Selling her!" squawked Michael, bolting back a step and letting Gregory's head bump unconsciously to the table.

Justin Stearns remained motionless. Anger welled within him. Had the south sunk so low as this—going beyond the degradation of slavery to allow a man to sell his own sister for a few dollars a night? Lord help them all. He clenched his fists and rethought his options. He'd heard enough of the conversation to know the little redheaded weasel wasn't worthy of alligator bait. The solution seemed simple. He'd merely threaten the rapscallion with a visit from the sheriff if he refused to let the girl go. Justin himself would pay the girl's fare to find a better way of life.

But the weaselmustbe the girl's brother, for who would admit to prostituting his own sister if it weren't true?

Justin glowered. Kinship created all kinds of problems, for a brother had a legal right to do most anything he willed with his sister. It was a kind of ownership by blood.

"I'll buy her from you." Justin's low words were as hard as granite.

"What?" Michael drew himself up behind Gregory's table, trying to find some expression of indignation and hoping he'd live through the night. "I can't sell my own sister."

"Seven hundred dollars to get her out of your grimy hands!"

"What?" repeated Michael squeakily.

"Seven hundred. And you'll not show your face in these parts again."

"See here. She's my sis—"

"Not anymore!" growled Justin, pulling bills from a thick roll and slapping them against the smaller man's chest. "Now she's mine. Get out and don't come back cause if I ever see your face again you'll wish I'd killed you the first time. You hear?"

"Seven—" Michael backed away, trying not to grin. "Seven hundred!"

"It's not too late to kill you now," warned Justin darkly.

No. Indeed it wasn't, Michael thought. And why die when he could have the seven hundred and Megan too. After all, the girl was sharp as a whip and twice as dangerous when riled. And she was likely to be riled. "Take care of her," he said merrily.

"Get out of my sight!"

Michael smiled happily. "All right then." If he wasn't mistaken, Mr. Congeniality here meant to do the honorable thing—had actually paid seven hundred dollars to see that the poor girl was no longer mistreated.

It would be a particular pleasure to witness the meeting between the gentleman and Megan. But, he reasoned, one couldn't have everything and now that he had a choice—he'd take the money. Lifting his hat from a nearby hook, Michael tipped it onto his head and left.

Justin watched the door close behind him, then turned to walk slowly to the bottom of the uncarpeted stairs. His movements were fluid despite the whiskey he'd consumed. Stopping short of the lowest step, he glanced upwards for a moment, pausing with a hand on the rail. Placing one booted foot on the bottom step, he frowned then pivoted, returning to his seat to consider the situation.

Seating himself, he glared at the half-empty glass before him. What had he done? He hadn't come to town to buy himself a half-witted white girl. He'd come to town for another purpose entirely.

Justin took a sip of whiskey, not quite able to dim the thrill of his success.

He had bought Manchester's stallion. True, he'd had to send Zeke to actually make the purchase. True, they'd lied like fiends to convince Manchester to sell him the animal. And true, the man was going to be madder than a hornet when he found out the truth, but Justin owed him a trick or two. Horace Manchester had been a rival ever since he took Emmylou to the barbecue.

Justin chuckled quietly. The entire episode had gone like clockwork. Zeke had used his little known Christian name, Benjamin Ezekial Willard. He'd dressed like the successful plantation owner he was not, proclaimed he'd heard of Manchester's outstanding walker stallion, and insisted he needed to buy the horse and was ready with cash. It had taken less haggling than Justin had anticipated. Manchester had even escorted the horse to Charleston himself, after which Zeke had returned to Justin at the inn and formally made Justin the rightful owner.

It'd been quite a day. The stallion was safely in the livery stable, Zeke had returned home to his family, and Justin's herd of horses looked a damned sight better. He took another drink and smiled outright.

Zeke had played the hand perfectly—even agreeing to breakfast with Manchester in the morning. Of course Manchester was in Charleston for his Saturday night poker. Perhaps it was even the man's impatience to get to that game that had prompted him to sell Sure Gold. Or perhaps it was simply because he no longer needed the stallion, for surely he had a pasture full of the horse's get by now.

Whatever the reason, the stallion was now Justin's and tomorrow morning he could leave this sorry inn, which he had chosen for the express purpose of avoiding Manchester. He would meet Horace at a posh eating establishment and gloat, bill of sale in hand. Life was good.But...

Justin's smile faded. What about the girl he'd just purchased? Justin glanced toward the intended suitor who dozed peacefully, his fat cheek squished against the tabletop as he snored out an annoying tune. Lord help them all when people could be bought and sold like so many cattle. The poor girl was probably no more than a child, abused and neglected by her brother. But he'd set the matter right. He'd send her wherever she wished to go. He hoped she had enough wits to tell him her name and the address of some friend or relative who might care for her.

Justin scowled at this new thought. He hadn't considered that she might not even be coherent. The brother had not said just how daft she was. But it was too late to change his course now. Luck had been with him when Manchester accepted Zeke's offer for the stallion. It was only right that he be willing to help another with the money saved. And help her he would.

Bolstered with the sure knowledge that right was on his side, Justin rose from his chair and mounted the worn steps in search of the poor child he'd just rescued.

Chapter 2

Shifting his weight and knocking a bit louder, Justin considered how best to inform the girl she had just been sold by her brother. Even having grown up around the use of slave labor, Justin had rarely encountered such a cold-hearted act. But what else could he expect from a system that for centuries had enslaved its fellow humans? The only difference here was the color of the poor girl's skin.

Frowning at the unopened door, Justin wondered if the girl was asleep. It was, after all, very late. Easing the door open, Justin peered into the dim interior.

A single, stubby candle stood upon the bedside commode. Its flame wavered, spreading a fitful tide of shadows and light across the back of a peacefully slumbering figure. There she was. She lay on her side, oblivious to the foul goings-on of her kin, curled away from him like a small, helpless kitten with no defense save her own innocence.

Justin's jaw hardened. He hated the injustice of the thing. Judging by her size she was no more than a child, far too young to hear the news he was about to deliver. And yet he couldn't wait; the words needed saying. With tension stiffening his gait, he strode across the bare floor to the bedside.

"Suzanne..." he began in a gentle whisper, but as he touched the girl's arm his gaze fell past her shoulder to the swelling softness of her breasts, half-freed from the emerald velvet of her gown. Suzanne! Justin's breath caught abruptly in his throat. Good Lord, for a child she certainly had large... She certainly was mature. Could this be the poor waif he had imagined so clearly only moments before?

Releasing his trapped breath with a conscious effort, Justin forced his gaze from the girl's luscious bosom to her delicate face. With slow thoroughness he studied each feature—the slightly parted lips, the satiny skin.

Seating himself beside the neat little form, Justin leaned sideways to better view her.

Upon the aged pillowcasing, the girl's hair flowed like rivers of flaming honey, framing the small, angelic face that defined perfection. Dark forests of lashes lay against the slight flush of her silken cheeks, and between the drowsy lids and petal soft mouth resided a slightly upturned nose. There was something about her nose, some pixie-like quality that made Justin smile, despite the awful circumstances.

Drawing his gaze from her stunning face, he allowed it to fall on her half-exposed bosom. The two tantalizing mounds were pressed gently together, as soft, firm, and round as twin melons. Framed by a heart-shaped bodice of lace, they rose and fell slightly with each breath she took.

Justin let his gaze drop lower, noting the steep decline from her ribs to her waist.

She was perfect, he thought, slowing his breath with an effort. But then he scowled. She was perfect physically but what of mentally? Blast it all! It wasn't fair that such a wondrous creature was deranged and sullied.

She was a lovely, defenseless creature at heart. Anyone with eyes could see that.

With slow tenderness, Justin reached out, lightly touching the feathered glory of her flaming hair. It was as soft as thistledown, as bright as firelight. What kind of animal could possibly desert such an innocent angel? Surely the brother was the one deranged. Who knew what kind of horrendous treatment she had endured at his hands?

But perhaps Justin could make things right. Perhaps it he took her home with him, he might show her enough kindness to heal her.

With this new thought, Justin was filled with titillating anticipation. Leaning closer, he smoothed back a strand of the girl's auburn-gold hair. He'd give her the news gently for it was clear she was a delicate creature, all soft curves and gentle, drowsy sighs.

"Suzanne." He called her name softly, doing nothing to frighten her. "Suzanne." This time the single word was slightly louder but no more forceful. She certainly slept with the innocence of a child.

"Suzanne," he repeated, raising his voice and leaning closer.

Megan stretched, pushing her arched feet from beneath the warmth of her hem and drawing a deep, contented breath. Her dreams had carried her far afield, causing her to lose all recollection of the here and now. She opened her eyes sleepily.

"Who—" She gasped, pressing herself back into the tick. "Who are you?" Had her dreams materialized into flesh and blood?

Justin drew his thoughts together abruptly. Now was not the time to besmirch her brother's name. Now was the time to win her trust.

"I've come to take care of you, Little One," he said quietly.

Megan's mouth fell slightly ajar. Take care of her?

Justin watched her. Her eyes were the color of emeralds. Wide and deep and utterly entrancing. Suddenly he could think of not a single thing to say and the only thing that seemed worth doingwas...

His lips touched hers without a second's thought. They were soft lips, sweet and yielding, drawing him out of himself. She smelled of lavender. Her full breasts pressed up against his chest, sparking flames from her warm body into his.

She hadn't awakened after all, Megan deduced foggily. Her dreams had just heated to a new and wondrous degree. And surely one could not be condemned for one's dreams so she might as well enjoy them.

She opened her mouth to her dream lover, feeling the entrance of his tongue, thrilling at the sensation of his hard chest against hers. He was strong and tender and had come to care for her. He was not like the men Michael found, not the pawing, sweating lechers who soon fell in a sloppy heap at her feet but a gentle, hot-blooded lover.

She tentatively touched her tongue to his, feeling a jolt of ecstatic excitement and arching up to meet him.

Justin felt her stir beneath him. She was just a girl, he reminded himself, but never had he felt such arousal, such a need to touch and be touched.

"Suzanne," he murmured. "Suzanne."

Megan froze. Suzanne?

Feverishly she pressed against his chest, pushing him away. Their eyes met again. She shook her head once, clearing her mind.

"Who are you?" she whispered in confusion.

Justin scrambled for his senses. He shouldn't have kissed her. He needed to show her a new kind of man.

"I'm a friend of your brother, Suzanne. There's no need to fear."

Megan's eyes narrowed as memories rushed painfully back to her sleepy mind. A friend of her brother? A friendof...She shook her head again, slowly now. Michael's friends generally drooled and rarely had all their teeth while this manhad...

She let herself absorb every stunning detail of his face. This man had everything, she thought dreamily; then snapped her brain into reality and reason. He was no friend of her brother.

"I've come to take you home." His words were a whisper of seductiveness.

Megan mouthed a reply, but the alarm bells drowned her answer, convincing her of her dangerous vulnerability. With one desperate effort she shoved him back and lunged from the bed, fleeing the short distance to the wall. "Get out of my room," she rasped. He may be beautiful. He may be desirable. Holy Patrick, he may be Adonis himself come down to tempt her. But he wasnotthe man Michael had intended her to meet, and therefore he was dangerous.

"Listen to me, sweetness," Justin crooned, doing his best to keep from frightening her. She looked terrified, her eyes as wide and bright as a fawn's. "I won't harm you." With slow, deliberate movements he rose from the bed, watching her as he did so. "I can't imagine anyone wishing to harm something as lovely as you."

"Don't come any closer or you'll suffer the consequences," Megan warned abruptly.

Justin froze in place, mulling over her threat. Suffer the consequences? Her words were smooth and succinct although they were tinged with a northern accent—an accent herbrotherhad not had. So perhaps they were not kin. And perhaps her thinking apparatus was a bit healthier than Justin had expected.

"Relax, Little One," he soothed, nearly trembling with the possibility that her mind might be as perfectly formed as her body. Without conscious thought he noted the accelerated rise and fall of her breasts, the wild, scattered mass of her hair. "There's no need to rush things. We'll spend the night here if you like." Even across the dim room Justin could sense the girl's increased wariness.

It was the statement that they would spend the night, apparently together, that decided Megan's next move.

"Stay where you are," she ordered. From her pocket appeared a small, weighty weapon. "Stay where you are."

Justin frowned, cautiously eyeing the deadly cylinder pointed directly at his heart. So shewasderanged! "I won't hurt you," he assured her again as his gaze shifted from the weapon to her sparking green eyes. "I know you don't understand me, Suzanne. But truly, you're completely safe with me."

Perfect white teeth gleamed from the girl's angelic face. She seemed to find something amusing about a man who would assure her safety while she threatened his with the open end of a firearm. Her fine-boned hand remained unmoved, causing Justin to frown as he realized his predicament. The brother had said nothing to suggest a violent nature.

"If you'd drop the pistol, sweetness, we could sit and talk things through."

"I'm hardly likely to succumb to that old ploy," Megan said, realizing the bed was the only available seat.

Justin frowned again. She was suspicious far beyond her tender years and for a half-wit appeared to be surprisingly quick. Perhaps she had moments of lucidness, he decided, nodding mentally at his own clear thinking.

"I'm sorry if you've been taken advantage of in the past, Suzanne," he reassured her gently, believing he understood her distrust. "But honestly, I won't hurt you."

He watched her smile again. The expression was chilled and knowing. "I know you won't hurt me, mister, not so long as I hold the gun, at any rate."

Justin absorbed her words then tried again, keeping his tone smooth and patient. "Listen, Suzanne, why don't you put the pistol down so we can talk?"

"Why don't you keep still and let me think?" Megan countered irritably, pacing the narrow confines of the room, and focusing the small pistol on her visitor as she did so.

Justin remained still, watching her fretful movements. She was little more than a child, misused and neglected, he reminded himself with some difficulty. "I know you're frightened,but..."

"Take off your britches," she interrupted suddenly.

For a moment Justin was stunned to silence. His britches? "I beg your pardon."

"Take off your britches," she repeated, nervously waving her pistol at him.

Wait a moment now. Just wait. Was it his imagination, or was she requesting that he disrobe? Justin's whiskey-befuddled mind scurried to unravel the mystery of such an evening. It had begun so peacefully, after all, with just a drink or two to celebrate the purchase of his stallion. How was it now that he found himself threatened by a ravishing beauty who demanded that he undress? Her brother had indicated she needed a man but really... Certainly a deadly weapon was unnecessary.

"Relax sweetness," he said again, handling her much as he would a skittish filly. "I won't hurt you. Lower the pistol."

Megan's hand remained unmoved. "I don't think you'd truly care to have me aim at lower regions, would you?" she asked. Her small chin dropped fractionally, her enormous eyes studying him in the near darkness.

Justin scowled, trying valiantly to believe his original assessment had been right. Surely the girl was mistreated and needed saving.

"Unbutton them," she ordered nervously, her lace-encircled wrist jerking slightly as she indicated his trousers.

Undress? His brows rose skeptically. For a damsel in distress she had mighty strange requests. "I don't mean to find fault, sweetness, but I don't believe this is quite the proper way for a lady to conduct herself."

"Huh!" Megan spat an expletive. "Look who's telling me the proper way to live my life!"

Justin frowned. "I've meant you no harm, Suzanne. Infact..."

"Don't you dare tell me your honorable intentions, not after buying me for your own depraved purposes."

She knew!

Justin stared at her in mute disbelief but the truth was obvious now. She knew her brother had sold her and therefore she was a…

Anger sparked within Justin's soul. "You're not only a whore," he determined stonily. "You're a thief as well."

Megan felt the quiver of fear creep up her spine and stiffen her arms. "T--take off your britches," she sputtered.

"And what if I refuse?" He canted his head slightly, causing the candlelight to make dusky kaleidoscopes of his eyes. "What then, love?" he asked, casually crossing his arms over the tight muscles of his chest.

"Then I'll shoot you." Megan's voice sounded shockingly steady, at least to her own disbelieving ears, but her visitor seemed unimpressed and watched her silently, like a large cat might survey his lunch.

"Wouldn't my dead body be a nuisance?" he asked thoughtfully. "All that blood." He shook his head with a distasteful expression, as if he could imagine the scene. "Very messy. And how would you explain it to the authorities?"

Heavenly saints, he was arrogant! It would serve him right and proper if she did shoot him. But whatwouldshe do with the body? It was so large, and…

"A lady's got a right to protect herself from the drunken vermin who come slinking into her room at night," she said, fighting to clear her head.

"That's true." Justin nodded solemnly. "A lady does, but there's no lady here, my love, just you and me."

"You're a snake!" How dare he slander her, when he was the one who had forced himself into her room? Well, perhaps 'forced' was not quite the proper word.

"Snake, am I?" Justin laughed, showing a generous portion of white, even teeth as he watched her.

"What kind of man would buy a woman's favors from her own brother?"

"Well now," he answered slowly, "that depends on the quality of the woman in question, I suppose." Leisurely his eyes roamed from her face, traveling with slow, skin-tingling heat down the length of her body, then upwards to finally settle on the fullness of her breasts. "For a woman like yourself, I imagine any man could be convinced to buy."

Megan could feel the flame of embarrassment lick her face.

"Give me your britches." Her voice quivered, whether from anger or fear even she was uncertain.

In the dimness he studied her until she felt the fire of his scrutiny sear through to her backbone. She felt as if he was looking into her very soul, but refused to lower her gaze. "Give them here," she demanded shakily, but he only smiled again and in that moment Megan was absolutely certain she faced the son of Satan. Battling an impulse to cross herself, she warned, "I'm counting to five, then I shoot." How it was that her voice still functioned, she had no idea. "One." Oh God! Dear God, please make him give up his pants. "Two." He wasn't going to do it. She could feel sweat prickle her palms and longed to run screaming from the room. "Three." Silence stretched for a timeless eternity between each number she spoke. Her body felt like petrified lava while his appeared as calm and relaxed as if he did this sort of thing each day before breakfast. "Four."

Justin's nod was almost imperceptible, but his hands finally dropped to the buttons of his trousers. "All right, sweetness, if you insist." He smiled as he said it. "You know, your brother said you were desperate for a man, but I can assure you, there are more pleasant ways to go about it."

The muzzle of her weapon waved slightly and she grasped it with both hands now, praying he had not witnessed her weakness. "Keep your mouth shut."

"As you wish, my love," Justin said evenly, "but what I had in mind is much more enjoyable with our mouths open, as I'm sure you know."

"Keep still," she panted. "Unbutton your pants and get on the bed."

"Yes, ma'am." The anger was gone from his face now, replacedby...

Holy Patrick, she thought in horror. He was laughing at her. "Hurry up," she squeaked, then winced at the tone. Please, oh please hurry, she wanted to plead but he did not. Instead his hands moved with exaggerated slowness on the buttons that bound his trousers. Against her will her gaze was drawn there.

Beneath the fine fabric of his pants a broad, heavy bulge pressed against the white cloth of his undergarment. Megan's eyes widened to enormous widths then snapped back to her prisoner's face, her own burning like fire. Hail Mary full of grace, she began in a panic. "Hurry up," she ordered again, made frantic by the sight of his overwhelming masculinity.

"Your impatience is very flattering. But why not enjoy the show?" Justin quipped.

Enjoy the Hail Mary fullof...

"What do I do with my boots?"

"Wh—what?" It couldn't possibly be that he was talking about his boots at a time like this. She was sure of it.

"My boots," he explained. "I can't get my britches off until I take off my boots." He canted his head at her, scowling a little. "Would you mind helping?"

"I—you—I most certainly will not," she sputtered.

"Are you sure? It might be fun. I could sit on the bed there and youcould..."

"I will not," she gasped.

"Well." He sighed. "As you wish. But would you mind if I sit down?"

"No. I mean yes. You can't sit down. You can do it standing up."

There was silence for a moment, then, "Do you think so?" he asked. "Your faith in me makes me very proud, Little One."

Was there a double meaning in that? she wondered. She hated double meanings.

"Just—just get it done," she sputtered. Sweat now trickled down her back and her hands ached, proof of her petrified grip on the pistol.

It took an eternity for him to pry the boots from his feet. But the worst was yet to come, for his trousers were loath to leave his form and needed to be practically peeled from his body.

Megan licked her suddenly dry lips as his steady hands pushed the trousers from his lean hips. Her face steamed as her uncontrolled gaze remained riveted on him. Was he deformed or was all his 'bulk' normal? Eternity passed as, inch by inch, his trousers lowered, pressed down his corded, endless legs and finally falling in a heap at his feet.

"Now get on the bed," she ordered. She was having difficulty forcing enough air into her lungs.

Kicking aside the discarded garment, Justin grinned before leisurely complying. Resting languidly on his back, he laced work-hardened fingers behind his head and graced her with the full force of his dazzling smile. "What now, sweetness?" he asked, not showing an iota of decent embarrassment for his near-nudity.

What now indeed, Megan questioned silently. Merciful Mary, he had a body like a marble god! "Now you stay precisely where you are," she improvised, whipping her imagination into submission. "Cuz, cuz," she explained, shakily retrieving his trousers from the floor and edging around the bed toward the door. "If you come into the hall before I count to fifty, I swear, you'll regret meeting me."

"Surely you jest," Justin commented, his voice filled with an emotion she failed to interpret. "How could any man regret meeting you? And I doubt you can really count to fifty. I noticed you had difficulty just counting to five."

Megan could only assume he meant to insult her but found she was far past caring. "You'll regret it," she repeated, fumbling around his britches for the door latch. Her hands trembled. She was nearly free and turned now, but his voice stopped her.

"Suzanne. Have you ever heard of justice? No? I thought not, but I believe in justice and I feel it's only fair to warn you that justice will be served. So I'm giving you one chance and one chance only." He sat up, resting his hands on the bed and holding her gaze with his own. "If you give me the gun now and return my possessions, I'll not press charges." He paused, studying her in the silence. "But if you don't, I swear I'll find you and when Ido...justice is not always a pretty thing, my love."

HailMary...HailMary...HailMary...Good Lord, she couldn't remember the prayer and here she was, face to face with the devil himself.

Trembling like a windblown leaf, Megan jerked the door wide. "You won't find me!" she said, stumbling on his pants and hurrying to right herself and her aim. "You'll never find me.

His laughter filled the room with eerie reverberations. Megan felt the chill of his humor like the howl of a ghost and crossed herself hurriedly, still gripping his trousers like a souvenir of war.

"Don't fool yourself, little girl," Justin growled, dropping his laughter. "I'll find you and when I do your questionable soul will be left without a body to encase it." He laughed again, savoring her terrified expression and stopping her exit with another warning.

"Beware of strangers. I'd hate for another to enjoy my revenge before I get the pleasure."

Eyes locked, green on brown, causing Megan's small neck hairs to creep upward as the threat came home to her. If it weren't for her pistol, she thought, he'd kill her, without regret or the slightest bit of trouble. Breaking free of his spell, she jerked the door open wide and escaped into the darkness of the hall where she gasped for breath.

She was free. She was alive. Trembling relief shook her, but she calmed herself as best she could. She should wait there and make sure he stayed put, she thought, but what if he didn't? What if he came charging through that door after her?

With one wild glance down the hall she fled, her bare feet noiseless against the wooden floor.

Chapter 3

Michael was the picture of contentment, seated before a cheery flame as if he had not a care in the world.

"Didn't have no trouble finding me, huh?" he asked, rising leisurely to stretch the kinks from his back.

"No." Megan remained astride for a moment, still holding her stolen treasure, as she watched him from her mount's back.

"What's that you got in your hand?" he asked.

Kicking her feet from the stirrups, Megan slid to the ground before rounding the fire to face him. "His britches," she stated flatly, lifting the stolen garment high as proof of her statement.

Michael stared in disbelief, seeming stunned by her possession. "Whatever for?"

"What for?" She smiled. "You want to know what for?"

He nodded but in that moment she dropped the trousers to slam her small fist into his abdomen. Air whooshed from Michael's lungs, hissing with its exit.

"Hell's bells, Meg," he scolded from his doubled up position, glancing upwards at a crooked angle. "What'd y' do that for?"

"What'd I do that for?" Megan mimicked in a shrill tone, her arms akimbo. "I'll tell you why. I'll tell you!" Her words were a shriek of inarticulate anger. "I did that cuz you sent some big, ornery bull moose into my room without so much as a warning, that's why. And you never considered he might kill me, did you? Did you? I could be dead!" she raved. "Or worse."

Straightening gingerly Michael ventured, "Worse than dead, Megan?" There was laughter in his tone as if he were attempting to imagine how one could be worse off than dead.

"It's not funny, you low-bellied wart hog," she fumed, taking a threatening step closer. "You sit here nice and safe by the fire while I nearly getmyself..."Her breathing was erratic, her memories terrifying. "Killed!"

"Now listen, Meg," Michael soothed, backing away cautiously. "I didn't want to send him up. But he overheard more than he shoulda heard and started causin' a ruckus. And Mr. Sidewhiskers had fallen asleep and that big stud wasn't gonna take no fer an answer. Not after hearin' Sidewhiskers spoutin' how pretty you was. And you was specially pretty tonight, Meg. Did I tell you that?" he asked with all the charm he could muster.

Having backed him against a tree, Megan paused for a moment. He was her only brother, she reminded herself. Blood kin. All she had left.

"Honest Injun, Meg. I did my best to get him outta there, but he wasn't havin' none of it. Besides," Michael added quickly, "I knew you could outwit him. Never doubted it fer a minute. I sure wouldn't have let him go up if I hadn't a know'd you could handle him."

"And no thanks to you," Megan said, steaming mad. "You should be slow-roasted over that fire instead of sitting there so cozy."

"What do y' mean? I'm here, ain't I? Just where we said we'd meet? And we got double the money," he lied, seeing no reason to tell her the extraordinary sum he had received.

"You..." She glared at him, her mind scrambling as she tried to understand him. "It's not even the money, is it Michael? It's just the thrill, isn't it? It's like one big game of chance."

"What're you sayin'? Course it's the money. We need it to buy them farm—"

"Don't bother sayin' it," she warned. "It's all just a game to you. Only you're not risking money. You're risking my neck."

"Nah, Meg. You take it so serious."

"Itisserious!" she stormed. "It's my life."

"Where's your sense of fun?"

"Senseof...You're just like Uncle Chester, aren't you? Ma knew. She knew ever since that time you put the snake in her copper kettle. She knew when you hung yourself up by your toes in the outhouse just to hear her scream. And when you wagered Billy Swaggert a peppermint stick that I could best Suzie in a footrace, and I won and you got the peppermint—then she knew for sure. She said there was one in every generation."

"One what?" asked Michael dubiously, planting his own hands on his hips and staring at her.

One no-good, she thought. One man who would never do an honest day's work in his life. One man who would never walk the straight and narrow "One man like you," Megan said. "But she loved you anyhow."

They were silent for a moment before he said, "That's me." He grinned, his freckled countenance splitting into an irresistible expression. "Y' can't hardly help but love me."

"You're a toad," she said wearily, knowing he was right and knowing she was a fool. "A toad," she repeated and stomped stiffly off to her mare.

The gray nuzzled Megan, her solid presence soothing the girl. "Rain," Megan crooned, addressing the mare as she stroked the delicate equine face. "I almost got myself killed back there." Without the slightest effort she could remember the man's eyes, narrowed with hate and cold as a north wind. He could have killed her. And what had her ninny-hammer brother done to prevent it?

"Ah, Meg." Ninny-hammer approached, carrying the purloined trousers. "Whydidyou take the fella's pants?"

Mother Mary! Why did she put up with him? Why? Loneliness? Fear? Loyalty? The usual answers no longer seemed sufficient, for the terror of being alone was far less threatening than the terror of the man at the inn.

"And how did you expect me to get out of there without him following me?" she asked, snapping open the carpet bag that contained her extra clothing. "Sweet talk? I'm sorry sah," she began in a sugary southern soprano. "I know we duped y'all, but little ol' me has gotta go now, so would you mind stayin' put for a spell so I can leave town with your money?"

"Meg." Michael laughed appreciatively. "That's real good. Your drawl's comin' along real good. Couple more months down here and you'll be able to do some talkin' next time we meet your men friends."

Men friends! It was like Michael to put such a harmless term to the devil himself. "I'm going to tell you something, Michael Shane O'Rourke," she began. "I won't be pulling any more swindles. Do you hear me? Not if I have towalkall the way to Indiana and strap the plow to my own shoulders."

"Now, Meg. You're just wore out. You know this is the best scheme we ever hit on."

"Best? Best for what? For getting me killed?"

"You're talkin' outta your head. Them southern boys ain't gonna hurt y'. What do y' think that big stud back there is gonna do? Challenge y' to a duel? And with no britches?" he asked, hefting the stolen garment.

There was silence for a moment then, "He was real mad, Mike," she said, her anger weakening. She was tired, too tired to hide the fear in her eyes.

"He was just a man," Michael said, his tone dismissive. "Just like all the rest. You know them southern gents; they wouldn't hurt no lady if their cotton depended on it."

"Not a lady," Megan murmured, remembering the man's words. "But me, he'd hurt me."

Tilting his head sideways, Michael scowled, hearing the fear in her tone. It wasn't like little Megan to get so jittery. Even when Pa's old mule had gotten a wild hair and gone bucking circles around the corn field with her hanging on his back by the harness leather—even then she'd kept her head. "What?" he asked, trying to figure the change in her.

"He was different, Mike," she said, not able to stop the quiver that shook her. "You should have seen his eyes. He looked at me like he didn't care if I shot him or not."

"Now Meg, really..."

"I'm not fooling, Mike. He was burning mad."

"Well, a little tiffed maybe, but he weren't—"

"A little tiffed?" Megan asked slowly. "A little tiffed, Mike? We stole his money, his britches, and his pride, and you think he's going to be a little tiffed?"

"Well, what do you think he’s—"

"I'll tell you what I think," Megan answered, her tone measured. "I think he's going to give us what we right and well deserve. I think he's the devil himself, sent to make us pay for our sins. I think he's going to track us down and feed us tothe..."

A noise sounded from the nearby brush. Megan froze in her tracks, her heart as heavy as lead within her chest. Sweet Jesus, she prayed, don't let it be him!

The bushes rustled. A deer stepped out, antlers raised, nostrils distended. And then he was gone, back into the woods behind him.

Megan lowered herself weakly onto the log beside her. Every limb trembled as her blood pounded along its burning course. "I'm not doing any more swindles, Mike," she said, her voice barely audible.

"NowMeg..."

"No." Her brows lowered above her narrowed eyes. "I'm not."

No more swindles? Michael stared at her in mute disbelief. What would he do for sport? Things were just beginning to go so well. For three years he'd cared for his skinny little sister. Perhaps he hadn't kept her in quite the style some might have thought proper, but he'd kept her alive. And then it had happened—she'd blossomed like a rose. Almost overnight. She'd bloomed into a flower too delectable for men to resist. And suddenly the pickings were juicier, the purses fatter.

He glanced at her again, studying her in the firelight. In the past months she'd developed into a woman, a woman with their father's quick temper and fine looks. And yet she failed to realize the change, still seeing herself as the knobby-kneed orphan he'd dragged from their mother's grave beside that run-down corn field.

"Get some sleep, Meg. We'll talk about it in the mornin'."

Her face lifted from the fire, as somber and still as the night itself. "No more swindles, Michael."

Damn. "I know you're tired, but we need money. We can't hardly work the farm without some cash, can we?"

"I'll find a way."

"Don't be a goose, Meg. Listen, I set up a little scheme a couple months back. Just a simple thing, but real sweet. And I can collect any time now. Tomorrow if you like. It'll just take a half a day and it'll bring in a bundle."

"No."

"It's my best plan yet. There was this pretty girl in Charleston. Looked somethin' like you. Hair just your color. Ain't that somethin'. Well, she and I took a shine to each another right off and she knew of this rich planter fella see. So I thought—"