Keegan's Lady (5 page)

"Anything?" he asked softly. "All I have to do is name my price?"

With slowly dawning terror, Caitlin realized what he was hinting at. When she'd made the offer of "anything," she'd been referring to money, that she would happily compensate him, not only for the cost of his bull, but for his projected losses next year. She and Patrick would even sell the ranch, if necessary, to get their hands on the funds. Losing everything they owned was preferable to seeing her brother killed.

Keegan was clearly not thinking along the same lines.

"I asked you a question, Miss O'Shannessy. Anything?" he repeated with a frightening softness.

Caitlin knew exactly what he was suggesting, and everything within her cried out with revulsion. Wanting to scream, she released her grip on his boots, sat back, and curled her hands over her bent knees, digging in hard with her fingernails. The pain provided a tenuous link with reality while her mind was a jumble of horror.

Patrick. She could still hear him sobbing softly. Unless she agreed to do whatever Keegan suggested, he would hang her brother. Hang him. Compared to that, nothing that might happen to her seemed important. Nothing.

Catching the inside of her cheek between her teeth, Caitlin forced herself to nod. It was the most difficult thing she'd ever done in her life.

Keegan's eyes, she noticed inanely, were not obsidian black, but the deep, dark brown of chocolate, her favorite sweet. Unfortunately, there was nothing sweet in the look he gave her. His gaze seared hers, then dropped with insolent slowness to take inventory of her body. Caitlin felt shame burn a path up her neck and set fire to her cheeks.

"You put a mighty high price on yourself, Miss O'Shannessy," he said in that same dangerously silken voice. "It remains to be seen if you're worth it."

He bent to grab her arm. She expected his strong fingers to bite into her flesh. Instead his hand was like an iron manacle, his grip relentless, the only pain being in the rub, and that more to her sensibilities than her skin. She was so ashamed, she kept her head bent, a posture almost as foreign to her as being on her knees had been. Irish pride. All her life, it had been her biggest strength, and now it seemed to have completely deserted her.

As Caitlin turned to follow Keegan, her feet got tangled. There was no question of her falling, though. Not with his hand on her arm to catch her. Off balance, she bumped into his shoulder, which was so hard it felt more like rock than flesh and bone.

Oh, God, she almost wished she could fall—and hit her head while she was at it. Unconsciousness at a time like this would be a blessing. But, no. She had to stand there, fully awake and cognizant, while Keegan curtly instructed his men to haul Patrick down. Then, after slanting her another searing glance, he added, "Stand ready to string the little bastard back up if his sister, in true O'Shannessy form, decides not to honor her word."

The implication that there was no honor in her family was almost more than Caitlin's stung pride could take. No matter what her father had done, she was nothing if not honest and she had never broken her word in her life. She had no intention of starting now, not because she felt obligated to deal fairly with a man who clearly had so little honor himself, but because her brother's life would be forfeit.

"Boss?" one of the men standing near Patrick's horse said uncertainly.

His tone drew Caitlin's attention to the group of men as a whole. Unlike her and Keegan, they stood almost directly under one of the lanterns, their faces well] illuminated. Upon every countenance she saw either stunned disbelief or disapproval. Their reactions were small comfort. Before she had time to completely assimilate them, Keegan released her arm to commandeer one of the lanterns and then nudged her into a walk ahead of him down an aisle toward a brace of empty stalls at the back of the barn.

Feeling like a bit of flotsam carried on a wave, Caitlin approached a fate that was to her far worse than dying. What made it even more awful was the man behind her. His rage was clear in his brisk strides and the jerky splashes of lantern light on the plank walls.

With each scrape of his right boot heel on the packed dirt, she wanted to scream. The unmitigated insolence in the sound was unmistakable. With a numbing sense of unreality, she concentrated on that uneven rhythm. Step, shuffle—step, shuffle. A slight limp, perhaps? Though it seemed inconceivable that a man so fierce might have a physical flaw, she couldn't discard the notion.

The acrid smell of manure and musty hay burning her nostrils, she peered ahead into the gloom. It was so dark back there. So horribly dark and forbidding. Keegan had made his intentions clear, and she had no doubt he was scoundrel enough to carry through on them. Never in all her life had she seen such fierce, glittering eyes.

By the time he curled a hand over her shoulder to steer her into a middle stall, she was trembling violently. If he sensed it, he gave no indication. She regarded him with growing apprehension as he hung the lantern on a nail. No trace of remorse. No hesitancy whatsoever. It made her wonder if he made a habit of doing things like this.

The lantern hung lower now than it had at the front of the barn, revealing his face in minute detail. A shock of black hair had escaped from beneath his Stetson to trail in a lazy wave over his high forehead. Deep set beneath bold eyebrows, his chocolate brown eyes were lined with thick, sooty lashes. Only a full, sensual mouth saved his chiseled features and square jaw from severity.

Enhancing his dangerous edge, he had a heavy shadow of beard, a straight but slightly off-center nose, and the jagged scar along his left cheekbone, which appeared to be more prominent than his right, indicative of a badly mended break. That explained the twist of his lips when he smiled, she thought dazedly. The nerves and muscles on the left side of his face had apparently been damaged.

Caitlin imagined him brawling in a rowdy saloon and getting his cheekbone shattered by some burly drunkard's fist. Her sympathies all lay with the drunkard.

At the left corner of his mouth, he'd thrust a piece of straw, which he held clenched between strong, white teeth. As a consequence, the right side of his mouth seemed more mobile when he spoke. "Well," he said slowly.

Seeing that piece of straw was nearly her undoing. Not that there was anything particularly sinister about straw; she'd nibbled on a piece herself plenty of times. While watching the sun go down. Or while taking a break out in the fields. But never at a time like this. His doing so was harshly eloquent of his contempt.

When she failed to respond to his drawled prompting, he added, "If you plan to stand there staring at me all night, I have a hanging to supervise, Miss O'Shannessy. The choice is yours."

Caitlin didn't need to be told what he expected of her. She hugged her waist to hide the violent trembling of her hands. “W—would you at least turn out the lamp?"

"I don't think it's too much to ask that I be allowed to see the merchandise."

The merchandise? She squeezed her eyes closed for an instant on a scalding wave of humiliation. "What kind of man are you?"

"The kind with a long memory. Start stripping or renege on our bargain, I don't give a damn which. But don't test my patience. I can assure you that at this point, I have none."

She saw the truth of that. Indeed, judging by his relentless expression, he would settle for nothing less than complete nudity. With the lamp pulsating brightly a mere two feet away, Caitlin couldn't imagine anything worse.

Why she was incredulous, she didn't know. Except for Patrick and Doc Halloway, No Name's only physician, practically every man she'd ever met, including her father, had been a lowdown skunk. It stood to reason that Keegan would be as well. Of course he wouldn't be satisfied with merely using her. Oh, no. He wanted to degrade her while he was at it.

Looking over his shoulder toward the front of the barn, she could see shadows still dancing in stark relief against the weathered walls. A silhouette of the empty noose swung slowly to and fro. As Keegan had instructed, Patrick had been released.

For an instant, she considered running. But she quickly discarded the idea. It would be a simple thing for hint to have his men string her brother back up, and she didn't doubt for a moment that he would do just that.

"Having second thoughts?" he asked, disgust evident in his voice. "I didn't figure an O'Shannessy would keep her word. Like father, like daughter?"

The comparison cut Caitlin to the bone. Keegan turned as if to leave. Her heart went into her throat. "Wait!" She grabbed his sleeve. "Please—I just—don't go yet, please."

He turned back slowly, one dark eyebrow lifted in an unspoken challenge. "Don't play games with me, sweetheart. Trust me when I say I've played with the best of them. You don't stand a prayer."

Caitlin had never hated anyone as much as she did Ace Keegan at that moment. Tears gathered at the back of her eyes. What remained of her pride burned them away. The bastard. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

The smell of hay and horses closed in around her. Determined now to meet his gaze without flinching, she applied herself to the simple task of untying the sash of her wrapper. Only, of course, the task wasn't simple since her fingers had gone numb with terror and her hands were shaking.

As if to better enjoy the display, he nudged his hat farther back and went to stand against the opposite wall. Caitlin almost wished he would move back into the stall doorway. Maybe then she wouldn't be tempted to bolt. But, oh, no. It was almost as if he wanted her to run.

Loosely folding his arms, he crossed his lean legs at the ankles, the toe of one gleaming black boot buried in the straw. With an expression of such bored disinterest that she wondered why he had suggested this proposition in the first place, he awaited the unveiling.

Frustrated by the stubborn knot she'd tied in her sash, she finally had to break eye contact to look down, and even then, her fingers refused to cooperate. She gave the sash a frantic tug.

"Would you like some help?" he asked drily.

Caitlin tried to speak, but her voice threatened to quaver so badly she decided against it. By digging in hard with her fingernails, she was finally able to loosen one loop. Seconds later, the tails of the sash finally slipped apart. Not allowing herself time to think and keeping her eyes averted from his to lessen the shame of it, she shrugged her shoulders and sent the garment sliding down her body toward the dirt.

Now all that remained was the nightgown. With shaking hands, she began unfastening the row of tiny buttons that ran from just under her chin to her midriff. Acutely conscious that Keegan stood there watching her, she tried not to think about the moment when there would be nothing left to shield her from his dark gaze. Tried and failed. Her treacherous mind conjured awful images—of him laying those brown hands on her body, taking her, hurting her. She didn't know which would be worse, the pain or the degradation.

She had no illusions. Life had stripped her of those long ago. Gritting her teeth, still unable to meet his penetrating gaze, she resolutely worked her way down the row of buttons. As the last one fell free from its hole, her heart fell with it. There was nothing to do now but draw the nightgown off over her head.

For Patrick. She would do it for Patrick. The words became a litany inside her mind. She crossed her arms over her body and grabbed handfuls of the unstarched cotton. Cool air touched her ankles, then her shins. Oh, God. As the material inched upward toward the apex of her thighs, she squeezed her eyes closed again. To her shame, hot tears spilled down her cheeks. She ducked her head, hoping he wouldn't notice, that God would grant her at least that much.

With no warning, hard, calloused fingers curled over her wrists, effectively halting the upward path of her arms. Startled, she forgot all about hiding her tears and looked up to find Keegan's dark face hovering only inches above her own. Every bit as unyielding as his grip, his coffee-colored gaze held hers. For just an instant, she thought she glimpsed regret in his expression. Then the frosty mask fell over his features once again.

His right jaw muscle bunching with what she could only assume was anger, he said, "This little preview has been delightful, Miss O'Shannessy, but regretfully, I've decided to take a raincheck." He gestured toward the front of the barn. "It occurs to me that my brothers and three of my hired hands are standing out there, all within earshot. I think I'd like to wait until we have a bit more privacy."

Caitlin felt as if the ground had disappeared from under her feet. His brothers? A rain check? She blinked, trying to clear the swimming sensation from her head.

Releasing her wrists, Keegan tipped his hat to her, the hooded expression in his eyes unreadable. Then, without another word, he turned and exited the stall, leaving her standing in the flickering lantern light, her hands still bunched in her nightgown.

Dazed, she listened to the rhythmic shuffle of his receding footsteps. He definitely had a slight limp, she decided inanely. As if that mattered. Shock. That was why her brain seemed incapable of focusing on anything important—why she couldn't seem to gather her composure. Because she was in shock.

Seconds later, she heard Keegan barking orders in front of the barn. There followed the squeak of saddle leather as seven men swung their weight into dangling stirrups and wheeled their horses to depart.