Touch the Wind (17 page)

The unwelcome reminder of his presence chilled some of her pleasure in the moment. She glanced back at Laredo. Determination shimmered in her eyes.

“We can dance whether we have music or not,” Sheila declared.

“You’ll remember.” Placing her left hand on his
head in disagreement, the firelight glistening over his brown hair.

“You’ll remember.” Placing her left hand on his shoulder, she forced him to take hold of her right hand and began humming a ballad.

Hesitating for a fraction of a second, Laredo smiled a crooked smile of amused indulgence and rested a hand on the curve of her waist. His initial, leading steps were awkward and out of tempo, but Sheila persisted until he found his coordination.

“See!” She smiled at him, pausing in her humming of the familiar tune. “You haven’t forgotten.”

“I guess not. At least you still have all your toes.” He grinned. “You were taking quite a chance, dancing with me barefoot. I could have stomped all over them.”

“I wasn’t a bit worried,” Sheila assured him.

They circled the small open area of the main room. The swirl of her skirt flamed scarlet in the firelight. The flickering light lent a magic atmosphere to the room, blocking out reality. Laredo whirled Sheila around in a tight spin, his hand shifting to the small of her back as she laughed and clutched him for support. He slowed his steps, smiling down at her.

“And you were trying to convince me you had forgotten how to dance,” she teased.

“I guess I was wrong.” He shrugged briefly.

“I guess you were.”

“It’s crazy, but do you know what this reminds me of?” Laredo held her in his arms, his steps slowing to an absent swaying.

The arm around her waist tightened and Sheila let herself be drawn against him, contentedly nestling her head against his shoulder. His strength was comforting.

“No. What?” she questioned, smiling against his shirt.

“The dances—the proms I used to go to.” His hand absently caressed her back. “Holding you like this, it doesn’t seem so long ago.”

Sheila tipped her head back to see his face, handsome with an engaging boyish charm. She saw his downward
gaze slide to her lips. She only had to make the slightest move to invite his kiss. But that wasn’t what she wanted.

His reference to home and the way things were swept away the few moments of enchantment. Suddenly the new clothes didn’t matter to her at all. She wanted only to get away, to go back to her home, and to safety. Perhaps Laredo might provide the way and means, after all.

“When is my father going to pay the money for my release?” she asked.

Laredo stiffened. “I don’t know.”

“Who’s going to get it?” She tried to make the question sound casual and unimportant. “It will probably be split, I suppose, with each of you getting a share.”

“I imagine so.” A mask stole over his face, but Sheila knew it was fragile and could be broken.

“That’s too bad. For one man, it would be a lot of money.”

“Yes,” Laredo agreed curtly.

“You know you could have it all, don’t you?” murmured Sheila.

His muscles contracted, rejected what she was saying. He would have withdrawn, put some distance between them, but Sheila remained pressed against his length.

“Sheila—” he started to protest, but she interrupted.

“No, listen,” she insisted. “You could have it all, every penny. You could take me home. The money would be waiting. My father would see to that.”

“It’s no good.” Laredo shook his head firmly.

“Yes, it is. We both would be home, where we want to be. We could go out for a walk here one afternoon and never come back.” She hurried to convince him of the feasibility of her plan. “You could have a couple of horses waiting for us and we could ride off and be miles away before anyone knew we were gone.”

“I can’t go back. I explained all that.”

“But you can this way. Don’t you see?” Sheila argued persuasively. “You’d be a hero. You would have rescued
me. Your family and friends would be proud of you and my father would be grateful. He knows a lot of influential people. He’d find some way to make sure you’d never have to come back here.”

“I—” He was frowning, his resistance appearing to weaken.

Sheila touched her fingers to his lips, silencing his protest. Then she let her hand slide along his strong cheek to the silky brown hair near his temple. She ran her fingers through it lightly in an obvious caress. The arm around her waist tightened automatically, drawing her upturned face closer to his.

“You’d have a small fortune for bringing me back—plus my father’s gratitude and help.” She let her voice grow husky and soft. “And mine, too, Laredo. I know you find me attractive. And I wouldn’t mind spending the rest of my life repaying you for taking me away from here. Money, respectability, and me,” she promised, “all three, if you want them. All you have to do is take me away, take me home.”

“No!!” Ráfaga’s voice, low and ominous, like rolling thunder, ripped them apart. He was facing them, cold fury darkening his eyes. “You will not seduce him to do your bidding with words,
Señora,
nor with deeds. Laredo knows the punishment for leaving here without my permission. And he knows that if he takes you with him, I will find him and kill him. When a man has to choose between money, a woman, or his life, he will choose his life. Laredo will take you nowhere until I say you may leave!”

The color drained from her face. Sheila stared at him, her mouth opened with shock—not because of what he said, but because of the fact that she had understood every word of it. He had spoken in flawless English.

“What . . . how?” In her confusion, she couldn’t even word the questions. “You speak English,” she managed to say lamely.

“Yes, I speak English,” he agreed coldly.

“You could have told me.” Sheila recovered some of her poise.

“Would it have stopped you from calling me a bastard?” Ráfaga taunted. “Or from wishing to carve out my heart with a knife and slice it into thin pieces? I think not.”

Sheila recalled too well the insults she had hurled at him when she believed he could not understand what she said. She burned at the discovery.

“No, it wouldn’t have made any difference,” she agreed angrily. “So why didn’t you tell me? Why did you pretend that I needed Laredo to translate anything I wanted to say to you? Did you enjoy making me look stupid?”

“I had no wish to talk to you, nor to be expected to answer your questions. Also”—an eyebrow lifted in cold accusation—“if you had known I understood English, you would never have spoken to Laredo in front of me as you did just now.”

Her gaze darted to Laredo, standing quietly to the side. He had known Ráfaga spoke English fluently and had made no effort to warn Sheila of her foolishness. Her anger broadened to include him, too.

“You could have warned me,” she accused.

“It wasn’t my place.” Laredo shrugged.

“No, that’s right,” Sheila agreed caustically. “You’re with him, aren’t you?”

“I told you that from the very beginning,” he answered calmly.

Hatred and contempt coursed through Sheila. “I don’t know which of you I despise the most.” She glared. “You, Laredo, for being a traitor to your own kind, or you . . .”—she flashed a venomous look at Ráfaga’s saturnine expression—“. . . for being . . .”

“I do not care what your opinion of me is,” Ráfaga interrupted coldly. “I only wish you to understand and believe that attempts such as you made tonight will not succeed. No one here will help you escape.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Sheila tossed her
head defiantly, her darkly golden mane of hair glistening in the firelight. “Money can buy a lot of loyalty.”

His obsidian gaze narrowed. “You are very rash,
señora
. You speak without thinking. I will learn of any future attempts you make. And if you persist—” He let the unspoken threat hover in the already charged air. “I should not like to deny you the little freedoms you now have.”

“Freedoms? What freedoms?” Sheila took an angry step toward him. “I am a prisoner here against my will!”

Ráfaga was unmoved by her anger. “I have permitted you the freedom of this house and certain liberties outside of it under guard. Would you prefer it if I confined you to your room?”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Sheila gasped, trembling with the turbulence of her emotions.

“I may”—he faced her calmly, his expression hard and unrelenting—“if your wagging tongue proves to be too much of a nuisance.”

There was no thought to what she did. Instinct alone guided her hand toward his cold, patrician features. It was seized in mid-air by his iron fingers. Reflex lifted her left hand to complete what her right had started. It, too, was imprisoned in his grip before it reached its target.

“Let me go.” Sheila refused to struggle, letting him hold her hands in front of her, as if manacled by his grip.

Ráfaga gave her a menacing look before he shifted his attention to Laredo. “You may go,” he told him. “I think
señora
’s celebration is over.”

At the sound of an obedient footstep, Sheila turned her head, seeing Laredo walking to the yellow rain slicker hanging near the door. A desperate anger filled her at the thought of being left alone with Ráfaga.

“No, don’t go, Laredo!” she protested, calling him back. “You can’t leave me alone with this beast—this sadist!”

Her cries fell on deaf ears. Laredo didn’t even hesitate
as he pulled on his slicker and walked out the door.

“What kind of a hold do you have over him?” she hissed, straining her wrists against his unyielding grip.

“He owes me his life,” he replied unemotionally. “To you, he owes nothing.”

“And how long are you going to make him pay? For the rest of his life?” Sheila accused.

“He has only to tell me he wishes to go and he may leave,” Ráfaga informed her. “He stays of his own choosing. He gives me his loyalty of his own choosing. He can leave anytime—as long as he does not take you.”

“Yes, you swore you would kill him if he tried.” The bitter taste in her mouth coated her voice with the same acidity.

“It was a promise—one that every man here knows I will keep. Take my advice,
señora
, and do not try to persuade someone to help you leave here. I do not think you would like his death on your conscience.” Unexpectedly, he released her and walked away. “Go to your room, Señora Townsend.”

The compulsion was to defy his order. Sheila trembled with the force of it. With a whirl of her skirt, she pivoted and walked stiffly and proudly to her room.

Thunder rattled through the house, the elements matching Sheila’s own stormy disposition. As she lit the candle beside the bed, the room seemed to grow smaller.

It grated on her that what little freedom she had was only at Ráfaga’s sufferance. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror and turned. Staring at the flame-colored skirt and the embroidered blouse she wore, Sheila remembered the way she had rejoiced at receiving them and now felt sickened by them.

Ráfaga had given them to her. Suddenly she couldn’t bear the feel of the material against her skin. She stripped off the clothes and grabbed the blanket she had discarded earlier.

Wrapping it around her, she picked up the clothes and wadded them into a careless bundle. With head held high Sheila walked into the main room.

Ráfaga stood beside the fireplace, staring into the flames. His hand was braced on the mantle, his left knee bent to rest a foot on the wood box. The shadows
cast by the firelight accented the angular planes of his face.

When Sheila entered, he slowly lifted his head. The hooded darkness of his eyes gazed at her impassively, noting the blanket she wore and the bundle in her arms. His aloofness stung.

“What is it now?” Ráfaga asked blandly. Then his mouth quirked in irony. “Have you thought up new insults to tell me since you have discovered I can speak and understand your language?”

“Here are your mistress’s clothes. You can give them back to her.” Sheila tossed the bundle at his feet. It landed half into the fireplace. “I don’t want them.”

He rescued them from the greedy flames and held them negligently in his hand. “They pleased you earlier.”

“Earlier.” Her voice trembled. “I didn’t realize how much I abhorred anything remotely connected with you.”

An ominous gleam entered his eyes. With deliberate slowness he walked toward her, pausing to drop the clothes on a chair, then continuing. Inwardly intimidated, Sheila held her ground.

“Since that is the way you feel, the blanket is mine.” A smooth thread of complacency ran through his voice. “Give it to me.”

“No,” she denied with a frowning start. Her hand instinctively clutched the folds of the blanket, as if she expected him to tear it from her.

“But it is mine,” Ráfaga pointed out again. “Since you do not want anything of mine touching your skin, I want it back.”

“Very well.” Sheila was having difficulty breathing naturally. It made her voice lack strength. “I will change into my own clothes and then bring it to you.”

Before she could turn away, he said firmly, “I want it now.”

“No,” she denied, the chill of fear coursing through her veins.

“Why not?” he reasoned mockingly. “Because you wear nothing underneath it? But I am familiar with
your nudity. I have seen you several times. I know the upward thrust of your round, firm breasts, the slimness of your waist, and the way your slender hips were made to receive a man.”

Her cheeks flamed hotly as Sheila pivoted to run, terrified of the situation her rashness had provoked. His hand grabbed her arm just above the elbow, his fingers digging into her soft flesh to spin her around. The blanket slipped from her shoulder, aided by his other hand pushing it aside. Sheila barely managed to keep it from falling to the floor.

“I know these things that Laredo could only guess.” Ráfaga slowly drew her closer to his muscular length, his voice husky and smooth like velvet.

Yet beneath it, Sheila sensed a ruthlessness. Holding the blanket over her breasts, she was able to use only one arm to try to push him away. It would have been just as futile with two. His head bent toward her and Sheila twisted hers back and away.